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awlfan · 5 months

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Getting to Know the Valley- Gustafa

It was really kind of Takakura to introduce her to the residents of Forgotten Valley, Melody thought to herself as she combed her hair… but she had yet to meet everyone. She didn’t blame the older man, of course. She had been exhausted yesterday and there was only so much socialization she could handle in a day anyway. But today was a new day, the farmer mused as she placed her ponytail back in, and she needed to socialize further. If she was going to do this whole starting fresh thing properly, she would have to make some friends. Smoothing out her clothes, the new farmer pondered who she should approach first. Should she try to meet someone new… or get to know someone from the other day better? Perhaps she should visit that agricultural farm. It could be beneficial to befriend those who know what they’re doing when it comes to crops… Making her decision, Melody stepped outside her house and made her way onto the path. Before she could make her way to the bridge, however, the faint sound of a guitar caught her attention. Looking into the distance, she saw a man strumming away under a tree near a colorful yurt. "Oh, the guy playing guitar? That’s Gustafa. He’s a real character, always strummin’ some tune or another." That’s how Takakura had described him the other day. The musician hadn’t seen them, so they had passed him over. While she had been tired, Melody still felt guilty for skipping him. She should rectify that…

Deciding she could visit the agricultural farm later, Melody made her way down the path to Gustafa’s yurt. As she drew closer, the farmer got a better look at the man. He wore a large green hat adorned with a single flower and a dark pair of sunglasses sat atop his large nose. His attire reminded him of an old sixties hippie while his long hair and beard only furthered that comparison. Seemed Takakura was right about Gustafa being a character. Melody gave the man a wave and he gave her a single nod in return. She reasoned he was too busy playing his guitar to wave back. “Through the leaves and amongst the flowers We see a magical stream Whose water holds mystical powers Making it glisten and gleam”

She could hear Gustafa sing as she approached. It was a pleasant little song, so she did her best not to interrupt it. “Hey there, sister,” the musician greeted, lifting his head to address her. So much for not interrupting his song… At least he continued to strum the rhythm. “You must be the new farmer. Melody, right?” Gustafa inquired with a smile. “That’s right,” Melody nodded. “Right on. I love a good melody,” the man chuckled, “if it wasn’t already obvious.” “Oh,” Melody laughed with a hint of nervousness. “We should get along then.” “Right on,” the musician smiled. “I’m Gustafa. I didn’t catch you the other day.” “Sorry,” Melody frowned, averting her gaze as a light blush took over her features. “I didn’t want to interrupt you when you were busy with your music. I wasn’t trying to ignore you or make you feel left out or anything.” “Hey now,” Gustafa responded with a soft smile, “It’s all groovy, man. I didn’t think you meant anything by it.” “Oh,” the woman sighed into an awkward chuckle. “Do you mind if I sit here?” “Go right ahead,” he welcomed as he continue to strum on his guitar. “Did you just want to groove to my tunes or…?” “I was actually hoping to talk to you,” Melody scratched behind her ear and averted her gaze again. “S-since I’m new here, I was hoping to make some friends… n-not that I’m insinuating you have to be my friend or anything! I just meant it would be nice to have- I mean…!” Gustafa couldn’t help but chuckle at the poor woman’s display. The poor thing was blushing immensely and it was completely unnecessary. He wasn’t bothered. “No need to worry, my friend. We can chat as much as you want. What’s up with you?” “Oh,” Melody let out a sigh of relief, placing a hand to her chest. “Not much, really.” She stopped and shook her head. She shouldn’t try to end the conversation so quickly. “I mean… actually a lot is going on. With the farm and everything. B-but I don’t want to bother you with my life story or anything.” Gustafa chuckled as he strummed away. “Like I said, there’s no need to worry. Talk to your heart’s content. As long as I can keep playing, everything’s groovy.”

“O-oh. Okay,” Melody managed to smile a little. The other seemed genuine. “Well, my dad used to tell me about a farm he ran with Takakura way back when. I’ve always been curious about it, so after Dad passed and I had a bit of trouble, I figured I’d start fresh here. I already have a cow and a puppy!” “Sorry about your troubles, but I’m glad you have your animals. Animals are far out. They can have a better appreciation for music than humans sometimes.” Melody chuckled. “You reeeally like music, huh?” “Mm-hm,” he hummed with a nod. “Me too!” the new farmer chirped. “Really?” Gustafa looked up to her with a wide smile. “Groovy, man. Groovy. So, what do you think of my music? Is it your scene?” “It’s really relaxing, actually. It’s like… calm with a little bit of bounce. Not a boring kind of calm or anything, just calm… Sorry. I’m not that knowledgeable on the technical aspects of music, but… I like it! I listen to different kinds of music based on what I’m doing or feeling or just have stuck in my head, so I guess I’d say it’s my scene sometimes… Like now!” “I’m glad to hear that. I really dig relaxing music the most. Nothing like zoning out and letting the music take you away.” “It is a nice feeling,” Melody agreed with a smile. “Your music definitely has that vibe.” “Thanks, man. I try to make music that people can lose their worries to.” “Well, it’s certainly working for me,” she informed. “I think I’m having an easier time talking to you than most.” The young woman paused with a frown. “I hope that’s not too weird for you or anything. I just have autism and talking to people can make me nervous sometimes.” “Nah, man. I’m glad I can help out. Feel free to listen to my tunes as long as you like.” “I’ll take you up on that,” Melody smiled and listened as Gustafa resumed his singing. As he sang, Melody found herself swaying just slightly as the calming effect took hold. She waited until his next song to end before speaking up again. “Hey, Gustafa?” “Yeah?” “I think I should probably get going. If I stay here all day, I won’t get to know anyone else,” she chuckled.

“Not a problem, Melody. Thanks for taking time to chill with me. Feel free to stop by again anytime.” “I will,” she chirped, standing up and waving him goodbye. Hopefully her other interactions can go half as well!

#harvest moon #story of seasons #a wonderful life #gustafa #fan fiction

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howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 7 months

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Boonville – “It was a very complex set of manipulations”

Extracts from Deanna Durham's book:

Early the next morning we were awakened by the strumming of a guitar, and the enthusiastic chorus of “Red, Red Robin.” I jumped out of my bag and was dressed before most of my companions were even out of their bags, because my reflexes were quite finely honed after two years in the cult. We were ushered outside to participate in physical exercises which varied in tone from Air Force training to yoga. After the calisthenics, we were divided into groups and introduced to our group leaders and their assistants. This entire process, I was later to learn, was a finely geared machinery of indoctrination. It appeared that active cult members were in at least a two-to-one relationship to new people. I also noticed that the new people were carefully flanked at all times by a cult member, so that there was no opportunity for the new people to affect one another.

We were given granola for breakfast with some orange juice, and I again noticed that most of the cult members did not eat. I realized that they must be fasting to pay indemnity to help the new people to join. During breakfast, all of the cult members shared how wonderful their lives were, and how very fulfilled they were by their lives in the group. Most of the new people’s testimonies were quite paltry in comparison.

▲ The Chicken Palace

We had lectures all morning, with intermittent group discussions to reinforce the teaching. After lunch we engaged in a rowdy, and at times, even a violent game of dodge ball. Afterwards, there were more lectures and group discussions. During dinner, we were commissioned to create a song or skit within our individual groups to be presented to the overall group. These presentations were to be based on themes from our experiences and teachings that day. This encouraged a tremendous feeling of kinship with the other members of our groups. It was an enjoyable evening, and we subsequently fell into our sleeping bags completely exhausted.

The next morning was a repeat of the previous day, in that the lectures were basically innocuous. They were nothing like the ones I had originally heard. I could see shadows of the “Divine Principle’s” teachings in them, but there was not really anything that anyone could take exception to. I noticed that there was much activity among the cult members during these lectures; they seemed to anticipate everything the lecturer was saying with great expectation and exclamations of affirmation. There was a fair amount of clapping for particular points brought home by the lecturer, and much nurturing of the new people during the whole presentation.

Toward evening the pressure and expectancy mounted noticeably. It was at dinner that each person tried to convince the new person he had been taking care of to commit himself to staying for a week. Some of the newcomers could not agree to it fast enough, but some of them had to be taken aside by the group leader before they assented. A large number of the new people agreed to stay, to the delight of the cult members, and those who did not agree to stay were contacted daily in most cases in an attempt to convince them to return for another weekend.

At the end of the day on Sunday, I actually found myself sad that I could not stay for the week, but there were many details which had to be attended to in Berkeley.

As the summer passed, I spent more time than ever in the training sessions. On the weekends, I always functioned as assistant to one of the group leaders, and during this time I developed a great respect and love for these people who were giving everything to their ideal. It was terribly difficult to give up everything for the group the way these leaders were taught to do. It was a matter of subjugating and overcoming all personal needs and desires by sheer willpower. It did not seem to be a matter of really changing people inside, but of blotting out all individuality in favor of conforming to the mold dictated by the group.

This was an often painful and humiliating process, yet a great desire was kindled in me to come to a point of personal sacrifice where I too could give of myself in this manner. It was also a tremendously invigorating experience to go through these training sessions, because there was an incredible energy created by the routine. There was always a rigid program to be followed, and the success of the entire process seemed to hinge upon whether or not the plan was followed perfectly or not. The schedule, the music, the lectures, the attitudes of the cult members, and the group meetings were built upon precise timing. Ironically, there was a great effort to make everything appear to be relaxed and easygoing, but in truth it was anything but these things.

A great deal of the success of these sessions was attributed to the expertise of the cult members in manipulating people from the “outside” with music and group dynamics. There was singing at every opportunity in the schedule, and this singing was a major source of energy and enthusiasm for everyone. I found that I especially fed on these times of group singing as well as on the lectures. I would get “high” in much the same way I had gotten “high” on drugs a few years before. Sometimes it almost built up to a point where I thought everyone would literally explode with energy. It was not a refreshing kind of energy, however, but rather more like the peaking of a surge of adrenalin.

I found that there was a real art to manipulating the groups. For example, the leader had to have an exact sense of timing, and to know just how and where to lead the discussion after each lecture. He always had to have an answer for every question that was in accordance with the “Divine Principle,” or if he did not have an answer, he had to be able deftly to lead the discussion around the question without anyone suspecting that the question had not really been answered. It troubled me that these long-term members of the Oakland group did not seem to have a particularly deep grasp of the entire “Divine Principle,” but seemed to have certain aspects of it which they emphasized greatly. I could not argue with their success in recruiting new members though, so I ignored their lack of deep knowledge and understanding of the “Principle.”

The more I experienced their training methods, the more impressed I was with their complexity and thoroughness. I found myself anticipating the weekends and beginning to think in terms of what must be accomplished in them.

I could sense that the time was coming when I would literally live my life through these training sessions. It was a feeling of meeting my destiny, and although I could not explain this feeling, it grew stronger with each passing day.

I often sat beside Micah’s office doing my work while he had the new members in for his pep talks.

The overriding purpose of these particular talks was for Micah to find out what monetary resources the new members possessed, and to talk each new member into turning those resources over to the group. It was all done very diplomatically. The new members, for the most part, never knew what had happened because Micah somehow gave them the impression that the giving over of their money and possessions was their own idea. It was really quite fascinating to hear these little chats and to observe how Micah was able to achieve his goal with the vast majority of new members with whom he talked.

I was beginning to get a good idea of what had to be accomplished with each new person. It was a very complex set of manipulations, but when done within the context of the group, it all seemed very natural and right. A deep feeling of belonging to this “family” was beginning to grow within me.

Life Among the Moonies: Three Years in the Unification Church By Deanna Durham (March 1982)

For a longer extract from the book see:

Life Among the Moonies – Deanna Durham

Other testimonies: Moonwebs by Josh Freed (the book was made into a movie)

Peter from New Zealand visits Boonville – My Time with the Family

“Socialization techniques through which the UC members were able to influence” – Geri-Ann Galanti, Ph.D.

UC/FFWPU Recruitment – The Boonville Chicken Palace

The “sophisticated honey of 1960’s counterculture jargon” by Mose Durst

Moon: “… you must know the knack of holding and possessing the listeners’ hearts. If there appears a crack in the man’s personality, you wedge in a chisel, and split the person apart.”

Moon’s ultimate truth is … absolute obedience – Allen Tate Wood

Cult Recovery information

Repairing the Soul – Janja Lalich

Take Back Your Life: Recovering From Cults & Abusive Relationships

Papasan Choi and Boonville’s Japanese origins

Writings of former members Many recount their experiences in the organization or their journeys out of it

#unification church #moonies #sun myung moon #hak ja han #manipulation #Deanna Durham #Boonville

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needs-a-lil-spice · 8 months

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Arijon, the Mephisopheles Tiefling bard. A small reference collage for people to know what he looks like and as a quick reference for myself for rough reminders or even art. There's a few small extra features I imagine on him, like extra piercings and markings/scars, but overall that's my boy <3 Also found on AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/49580941

Images - Physical Description - Story about his person Images : https://i.postimg.cc/TY4VF7ks/Arijon-Ref.png

Physical Description : Arijon is a Mephistopheles Tiefling with long, white hair, ending just past his shoulder blades. It’s usually kept in a ponytail, which reveals the neatly kept undercut. His skin is dark with just a hint of blue or purple, adorned with the Tiefling-typical ridges on his skin and speckled with freckles; most prominently on his face and shoulders but you will find them all over his body. His nails are dark in color and usually pointy, almost claw-like; on occasion he files them down. His horns in comparison are much lighter, almost white. In Tiefling-typical fashion, he of course also possesses a long tail with a half-arrow tip, which is quite flexible. His good, left eye has the Tiefling-typical black sclera while his iris is a softly glowing yellow. His fake, right eye would have been indiscernible from a regular one if he had been a more human being, but against his striking left one, the white sclera and blue/brown iris stands out.

If you reached his eyes, you wouldn’t have missed the scars on his face. Funnily enough it’s actually not one scar but two he got at separate occasions. The one branch that goes up his nose bridge a bit was from a broken lute string snapping into his face in his early years of becoming a professional Bard. Those were simpler times. The larger branch however was from an unfortunate fight he had with some thugs who decided to pull a knife on him one day outside a tavern. They just didn’t expect him to pull a sword in return. There are smaller scars on his body from other fights, which are less memorable to him, however. He decorates his body with piercings of all sorts, most noticeably on his pointy ears, however there’s also one on his belly button and two rings on the base of his tail. (Latter ones not in the pictures) He sometimes thinks about tattoos but he never was able to decide just what he’d want to permanently put on his skin. Once he starts brainstorming, he will muse about it all day and night and never come to a conclusion.

His overall physique can be described fit from a life spent running errands from one place to another while more often than not having to defend himself. While definitely muscular, he’s more on the lean side.

—

You hear a pleasant, familiar-sounding tune, which softly fills the strange place you’ve found yourself in. How did you get here? What were you doing? It’s not known to you. Curious. It’s just a dark void with a small stage, illuminated by a single beam of light. As you follow the melody, you find a Tiefling Bard sitting in a chair on said stage, skilled hands strumming the strings of a beautifully engraved lute. He’s utterly lost in the music and doesn’t stir as you approach.

The song ends, and he finally seems to have noticed your presence.

“Oh! Welcome! Forgive me, I was so focused I haven’t heard or seen you come in. My name is Arijon!” (…?) “Haha, no no, not Arjun . Ahh-Ree-John!” (…!) “Yes, that’s it, you got it! But you can just call me Ari if you prefer, that’s fine, too.”

He gently leans the precious instrument against the chair he’s sitting on.

(...!) “Hm? Oh yes, it’s a very pretty lute isn’t it? I call her ‘Merryweather’~ The first proper lute I ever bought for myself when I started out as a Bard. She’s definitely my favorite, but I am well-trained in many others! Rhythmic drums, elegant violins, joyful flutes and divine lyres~”

He waves his hand towards a nearby table, which displays said instruments. They all look pretty, definitely worth a price but also well-used.

[Perception Check: Successful] The lyre is especially beautiful. Adorned with similar, beautiful carvings as the Bard’s Merryweather, but there’s also something engraved on its body. From where you sit, however, it's not legible. It's too long to be a name, maybe a phrase?

“Obviously I can also call my voice a proper instrument, though, haha. I pride myself on being a versatile Bard. Life hasn’t always been kind, but art and music has always made those heavy steps just that little bit lighter. Some might describe me as kind and soft-spoken, a sensitive soul; true by all means, I’d say, but do not underestimate my silver-tongue; I once convinced a demon to kill— Ah, but that’s a bit graphic for a first introduction, no? Haha.”

He smiles warmly at you.

[Insight Check: Successful] You noticed the small tug on his face before he shrugged the story off and smiled; the brief moment in which a wicked grin could have formed. Whatever graphic thing had happened, he clearly was very proud of it.

“A lot has happened on my journeys. Big adventures like that rarely leave you as the same person you started at. My body and soul can tell you all about it, but I believe it made me stronger.” (…?) “If there was hardship? Oh… why of course, but there always is, isn’t there? You just have to keep on trying and move on in the best way you can, especially if you have people who can support you!” (…) “I take it too lightheartedly? Haha, maybe~ But a positive outlook is a good outlook!”

Once again he smiles warmly at you.

[Insight Check: Successful] At first glance it seems genuine. He seems to be kind and positive. The smile even reaches his eyes but that’s where the facade fails. They mirror sorrow back at you, things untold, burdens unshared. He likes to keep the appearance of a man who can go through life without a care and being able to handle any situation no matter how difficult while wearing a bright smile… But even he is just a person. Even he can only take so much. His eyes don’t lie. They speak the truth he hides.

“Looks like you are quite an observant one, hm? You’re not wrong. We sometimes go through difficult times in our life and we all handle it differently. Sometimes all you can do is put on a brave face and hope it will be fine in the end. … Urgh..!” The Tiefling seems to yelp briefly in pain, rubbing his organic eye. “Ah, apologies, it looks like something got into my eye, heh. Where were we?”

[Arcana Check: Successful]

A bizarre, unknown magic seems to radiate from his good eye, making it briefly appear silver and distant before it returns to its original color. You feel it so distinctly, yet you just can’t place the type of magic that might be at play here. A hex? An evil being’s curse? The gods’ divine intervention?

(...?)

“Heh… my, you really are observant. Fine, since there’s no hiding from you… I have a gift. Or… a curse. It really depends on how you want to see it. I can’t even decide myself which direction it leans towards most of the time. But this… power… It allows me to not quite see the future fully but peek at glimpses of possibilities. Thingy yet to come but I don’t stare down a straight road, rather I stand at a road that forks into oh so many directions. Say I’m in a really dicey situation, I might get visions of what is to come. Depending on that I might be able to steer into a more desirable outcome! Practical, no? Well… It’s not always helpful, however. Sometimes it’s just a faint premonition of what’s to come. And sometimes the possibilities of events already past still haunt me in my dreams…

But! Let’s forget about that for now, yes? Do you have a favorite song?”

(...) “Ohhh, yes, that’s a good one, I love that one, too! Especially with a nice flute and violin accompanying you. I even have a music box that plays it. But for now, just a lute will do.”

He reaches for the pretty instrument again and positions his fingers in preparation.

“Sit down and relax; me and my trusty Merryweather will make sure we all can just forget hardships and curses and whatnot for a while and let our minds drift gracefully with the music.”

He smiles softly at you.

[Insight Check: Successful] It’s genuine. The smile reaches his eyes and his good eye practically radiates joy. He loves music with a passion. He means every word he says when he wants to let people get lost in pretty tunes and forget their sorrows for a while.

So maybe, you decide that staying just a little longer will be fine.

[Perception Check: Failed] Before the Bard starts his tune, you feel like an extra pair of eyes are on you but when you turn around you see nothing but darkness. While your mind is convinced something red and shiny was eyeing you, you quickly forget about it when the first strings were strummed and the Tiefling’s soft voice lured you back in.

“*~Down, down, down by the river…~*”

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate spoilers #writing #baldur's gate oc #tiefling #arijon the tiefling bard

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rhyme-the-rhyme-well · 3 years

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Beastie Boys performing at Exit Festival, 2007

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versadies · 2 years

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‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ YOU HAVE RECEIVED A LETTER, LET’S SEE WHAT’S INSIDE! ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

salutations: life’s no dress rehearsal ( @bumbleklee’s tevat top school collab !)

addressed: childe, kaeya, kazuha, eula, zhongli, itto, diluc, jean, thoma, xiao, and raiden shogun

content: fluff/no-angst, slight crackfic ?

note: tysm for letting me join the collab bea ! i had fun in writing this :DD

the ones with the best promposals — tartaglia, kaeya, kazuha

you could only watch in embarrassment as CHILDE sings an ed sheeran song with his whole heart while strumming a guitar in hand below your window, his smile never fading away from his face. you prayed to celestia above that no one around the neighborhood is currently sleeping due to how loud he was— especially when he suddenly yelled out “DO YOU WANT TO BECOME MY PARTNER FOR PROM?”

you could only admire the look of your boyfriend’s face as KAZUHA starts reciting another poem that he wrote just for you under the maple tree of his yard, feeling relaxed from your surroundings — until there was one phrase from the poem that made your eyes widen in surprise. the man above you lets out an amused chuckle when you pointed the certain line out. “yes, i was asking if you want to go with me to prom… i do hope you’re planning on saying yes.”

nothing is as shocking as the sight of many roses that forms a phrase “be my date to prom, y/n?” in the schoolyard. you could care less about the fact that your schoolmates are seeing such a surprising sight, how could you say no to your boyfriend, KAEYA, who’s standing a few steps from his work with a grin etched on his face?

the ones with the best dance moves — eula, tartaglia

you could watch in awe as you watch EULA dancing on the center of the dance floor as though no one is watching her (in reality everyone else was watching in amazement). your awe expression immediately turns to shock when she suddenly came up to you and reach her hand out towards you, gesturing you to come dance with her as a slow song starts playing.

you and TARTAGLIA were simply swaying in each other’s arms as an ed sheeran song in the background, enjoying each other’s presence throughout the song. it wasn’t until the song suddenly changed to a dubstep when your boyfriend suddenly switched up from being whispering sweet nothings to you into challenging a nearby dancer with a smirk on his face. “hey you! come and have a dance off with me!”

the ones with the food — raiden shogun, itto, and zhongli

in comparison to slow-dancing and sit with the one and only RAIDEN SHOGUN, you pretty much prefer sharing each other’s tricolor dangos with her as the both of you watch people dance in the dance floor, listening as your prom partner talks about whatever comes in her mind and let you get to know her as more than the cold and mysterious student of your batch.

you honestly wish that you take back what you said when you told ITTO that it’s impossible to eat ramen upside down as you currently watch him trying to prove you wrong. unnoticed to you both, some people around you were watching the scene as well in surprised, only for them to cheer loud when itto actually finished the ramen upside down. you could only watch him with your mouth agape as he sends you a proud smile. “what’s my reward for proving you wrong?” my heart it seems, you thought to yourself with a smile.

you paid no mind to the fact that your meal is growing cold as you continue to listen to ZHONGLI ranting about history, nodding and adding comments here and there to let him know that you’re listening attentively and definitely not simping for his super nice voice. your cheeks then warmed when he suddenly grabbed your meal and scooped some of them towards your mouth. “as much as i appreciate you listening to me unlike most people, i wouldn’t want you to starve on such a peaceful night, hm?”

the ones with the crown — jean and diluc

you immediately cheered when your girlfriend is announced as the prom queen, watching as her jaw drops down to the ground in shock and became unsure on what to do. you couldn’t help but feel amused when everyone started chanted JEAN’S name much to her embarrassment as she continues to stay on her seat and not take the crown. it wasn’t until you offered to escort her there when jean had the courage to go up to the stage with you on her side.

when DILUC was announced as the prom ruler, you could only laugh your ass off from the look of his tired face. however, your laughter only lasted for such a short time when you too was announced as the other prom ruler, causing his mouth to twitch upward from the turn of events. it truly was a sight to see you and diluc defeatedly accepting the crowns.

the ones with the getaway car — thoma, itto, xiao, and albedo

you weren’t sure if your palms was the one that’s sweating or THOMA’S as the both of you run down the stairs towards his car, grinning from ear to ear from the fact that you dipped out from the school’s prom night party. your smile could only grew wider when the both of you thought out loud of going to the same place together. as thoma starts the car and instantly drives away to the night, you could only hope that the school didn’t choose you or thoma as the prom rulers right now.

when you and ITTO have grown bored of tonight’s party, you casually asked him if he would like to visit your place and order some pizza together, only for him to immediately accept and offer to drive you there. it’s safe to say that you did not regret spending the whole night watching rom-com movies with itto instead of partying with your schoolmates.

you immediately said yes without a second thought when XIAO asks if you want to ditch the party and come with him to a nearby arcade place that he found while driving his way to the school. you later on found out that your classmates did not lie when they said that your prom partner was a god in games. by the end of the night, you and xiao walk out from the place together with prizes in hand and feelings perhaps.

you honestly don’t know how you ended up talking to ALBEDO about your experiments in your laboratory in the corner of the gymnasium— you don’t even know the guy much and yet here the both of you are; talking to each other as though you two are old friends reuniting. you then realized that you automatically said yes when the mysterious man asked if you wanted to see some of his experiments, feeling your cheeks warmed when he suddenly grabs your now-sweaty palm and head towards the exit of the gym, ranting about the experiment that he’s planning to show you, not noticing how his mouth suddenly twitches upward that his plan on talking to you worked.

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works-of-fanfiction · 3 years

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“He’s the Best.” - 90s!Graham Coxon x Reader

Summary: Graham struggles with his self-esteem within the band and the reader tries to cheer him up.

Requested by: Anon. I hope you like this <3

Warnings: Swearing (literally once).

Word Count: 3.3k - a bit of a longer oneshot from me! I didn’t mean for it to be this long.

A/N: I’ve been writing this and putting it off for days because I just don’t know if I like it, but I don’t want to restart it. Argh… I hope someone enjoys this cheese fest.

* Gif credits to the linked creator

_______________

No one in this life is born ‘better’ than anybody else. It’s not a competition or a game of comparison. Every single human on this planet has their own unique qualities that make them interesting and most importantly, worthy. However, humans sadly aren’t wired to see those qualities in themselves. They spend the majority of their lives obsessing over others; wondering if they’re as talented as the next man, or if they’ll ever look as good as whatshername. Sometimes, it gets to a point where even the deepest of friendships can become strained due to one or more parties comparing themselves to another’s achievements.

And seeing Graham go through exactly that, has been killing me. There was a time when everything Graham and Damon did together, was truly that - together. Every single melody, riff, lyric - it was theirs. Neither one did more work than the other, neither was more musically talented. They were both kids crammed inside a Portakabin with their very first instruments, strumming and plucking and making probably rather bothersome noise. They had no idea what was to become of their lunchtime jam sessions and after school practices. Both were just excited to have a friend that liked the same things as them, and enjoyed the noise the other was making.

But Graham has since become a shadow of who he once was around Damon - he’s become Damon’s shadow. Or so he thinks.

Being in a band with a boisterous frontman like Damon was bound to become hard work for the other members at one point or another, but I never thought it would affect Graham like this. It’s getting harder to communicate with him, and I know it’s not his fault but I’m running out of things to say to fill the silences. There’s only so many times I can ask if he wants a cup of tea, or tell him about the encounter I had at the bus stop earlier that day. I’m sick of hearing my own voice, so I can’t imagine how he must feel. The silence seems to be the only thing he wants; he doesn’t write anymore, he hardly plays guitar outside of work commitments, and he hasn’t picked up his sketchbook in weeks. He just seems to stare at the TV or sit on the sofa with his head buried in a book that’s stuck on the first chapter. I watched him the other day and in forty-five minutes, he turned the page once. I bet if I asked him about the story he wouldn’t be able to recall a single character’s name, never mind the plot.

Watching him struggle with his self-esteem is crushing, and I don’t want him to live another second feeling the way he does. I know it may take a while for him to find himself again, but if I can do anything to help move things along, it’s worth a try. I’d drop everything for Graham in a heartbeat.

“I dropped those music stands off today. Did you get them?” Dave asks, his voice a little crackly on the other end of the phone.

“I did, thank you!” I chime, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear as I assemble the very same stands.

“Oh, good. I was a little worried about leaving them outside. I thought somebody would take them… What do you need them for anyway?”

“That’s something for me to know and you to find out, Dave.” I laugh, tightening one last knob on the second stand and straightening it out. I stand back and admire my handy work, smiling at the prospect of what they are to become.

“Alright, alright. Well, I hope they come in handy! I’ll see you later.”

“Thanks again. See you next week!”

We both hang up and I grab the stands, climbing up the stairs and into the spare room, placing them in their desired places. Grabbing two pieces of sheet music, I slot them onto the stands neatly and adjust them until they’re perfect. With one last thing to check, I turn on the projector I borrowed from an old university friend and let the film play out on the blank wall opposite. I mess with the sound a little, making sure it’s loud enough before rewinding the footage to the beginning and turning it off until later.

Standing in the middle of the room, I turn around and admire everything on the walls. Everything from lyrics to old album art concepts, to still life paintings from Graham’s time at Goldsmith’s. Beside the music stands, there’s crates filled with records, decorated with lyrics scribbled onto scraps of paper, some in Graham’s handwriting and others in mine. I of course, couldn’t resist writing them out in various colours and covering them in star-shaped stickers. The finishing touch is a large beanbag against the wall for us to sit and watch the projector from. I fluff up the beanbag for the thousandth time before heading downstairs to wait for Graham to get back.

It takes around two hours for Graham to arrive home. As soon as I hear his taxi pull up outside, I jump up from the sofa and head into the kitchen to flick the kettle on. Nerves bubble through me as I anticipate his entry. It’s impossible to predict how Graham’s going to be feeling on any given day. He could come through the door and speak to me as normal, or he could disappear into his studio until he’s tired enough to head to bed. Through the rumbling of the kettle I listen out for the door, fingers impatiently tapping on the counter as my gaze fixates on a magpie outside, shakily balancing on the washing line. A second joins it and I smile, muscle memory taking over as I pour the boiled water into two cups, not taking my eyes off of the birds.

“Hi.” Graham’s voice peeps behind me. Putting the kettle down, I turn around with a warm smile on my face. Despite everything Graham has been going through, seeing him come through that door every day is still my favourite sight. Having him come home to me will simply never get old. I don’t know what I’ll do when he has to go out on tour again in a few months.

“Hey.” I breathe, the sides of my face already beginning to feel sore from the ridiculous grin stuck on it. He smiles back, the expression not quite reaching his eyes but I know he means well. He’s trying. “You go and sit down. I’ll bring these in.” I gesture to the brewing teas on the counter and he nods, hanging his bag on the nearest kitchen chair and leaving the room without another word. I finish the drinks as quickly as possible, grabbing the stack of takeaway menus from the junk drawer and bringing them with me, the pieces of paper clamped between my teeth as I concentrate on carrying the two steaming hot cups in my hands.

Setting the cups down on the coffee table, I toss the menus onto the sofa next to where Graham is very aggressively, trying to pull his Docs off. “Need a little help?” I ask, laughing as I kneel down and bat his hands out of the way. “It would help if you untied them.”

“It’s easier to leave them tied.”

“Oh, really?” I scoff, gesturing to his feet still stuck in the cherry red boots. The laces are a complete mess with three bulky knots in them. I sit down cross-legged on the carpet, carefully plucking and unravelling each knot whilst Graham buries his head in the takeaway menus. “How do you even - “ I struggle, pulling at the frayed shoelace whilst trying not to damage it further, “- get these things on?” With one last tug, the first lace loosens and I’m able to slide the boot off with ease. Graham’s face pops out from behind the menu, a side-smile plastered onto his lips and a cheeky glint in his eyes. I know he wants to laugh.

“Shall we get Indian tonight?” He changes the subject, flipping over the tatty piece of bright orange paper as he squints at the options. He always orders the same thing, yet still insists on reading the whole menu front to back. He does it for every restaurant.

“Indian sounds good.” I nod, pulling the second boot off and shoving them to the side. “I’ll call them now.” Jumping up to grab the phone, I type the number in from memory and hold it up to my ear.

“What’s the rush?” Graham mouths and I hush him when somebody answers. I order the usual along with some extras and give them our address, despite them not even really needing it anymore. The phone call is no longer than a minute and Graham sits staring at me, nose scrunched in confusion. “Are you going to tell me what’s going - “

“Follow me.” I blurt out, stretching my arm towards him and rising onto my tiptoes out of excitement. He stands slowly, shrugging off his jacket and leaving it on the sofa. “I was going to wait until we’d had our food, but I have to show you now.”

“Show me what?” He asks as I grab his wrist and drag him up the stairs. We squeeze up the narrow staircase, almost tripping each other over a couple times until we stop on the landing, feet overlapping one another’s on the small square of carpet.

“I know you haven’t really been yourself lately.” I start, my fingers slipping from Graham’s wrist to entwine with his. He looks down, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. His eyes watch our hands as I lightly stroke the back of his thumb in an attempt to relax him. He has a habit of tensing up whenever I broach the subject. “So I wanted to remind you just how great you are.”

I watch his face intently, the corners of his mouth twitching and trying to smile. With my free hand, I open the door and flick the light on, pulling Graham into the room with me. His hand slips from my grasp and I back up to stand against the wall, watching as he takes in the room around him and everything in it.

He walks to the music stands first, fingers tracing the notes on the pages, flipping them over then back again. He walks towards the canvas on the back wall - a woodland painting he’d won a prize for back in college - running his hand over the textured patch of paint that forms the trees. I nervously bite the back of my thumb as he kneels down to sift through the records in the large black case below, flicking through every Blur album and single released to this day. My favourite lyrics are scattered on sheets of paper all over the ground, and he picks up the second verse from Coffee & TV. “You’ve always loved this one.” He says, turning to me and smiling.

“I happen to really like the guy who sings it.”

“He must be pretty good then.”

“Oh, he’s the best.” Resting my foot against the wall, I kick my body forward and stand straight, joining Graham beside the projector.

“What’s this for?” He asks, hands hovering near the buttons but not daring to touch anything. I take his hands in mine and give them a loving squeeze.

“Sit down and I’ll show you.” I chirp and he sinks down onto the beanbag. I mess with the projector until the sound starts to creep in, stretching over to switch off the light. Graham shuffles to the side to make some room for me on the beanbag and I flop down beside him, nestling into his side.

The image from the projector is surprisingly clear against the wall, although could’ve been improved had I borrowed a screen from somewhere. A variety of different clips play out in front of us, ranging from Graham performing onstage to snippets of his band members talking and praising their guitarist. I try my hardest to focus on the film in front of me, but I can’t help glancing over at Graham to see his reactions. His brows are furrowed, but not necessarily in a bad way - he’s focused, fully concentrating on everything he’s seeing and hearing.

I fidget with my hands, twiddling my thumbs and quietly cracking my knuckles. Graham notices this and grabs my left hand, squeezing it tightly and bringing it over to rest in his lap. Laying my head on his shoulder, I press a kiss onto his sleeve, rubbing my head against him and breathing in his familiar scent. He lays his head on top of mine, but never looks away from the video playing on the wall. Absentmindedly, his fingertips dance on the back of my hand, the drumming following the beat of Song 2 as it plays from the projector. I too can’t help bopping along to the beat, my foot tapping softly on the carpet.

The video closes with one final clip, a message I recorded for Graham. Too embarrassed to watch myself, my focus stays on him as I squeeze his hand a little tighter and snuggle up as close as possible. The picture begins to fade and the sound plays out until there’s no footage left, and the whirring of the projector becomes background noise in the room. Graham doesn’t say anything at first, but as I try to stand to turn the projector off, he pulls me back down onto the beanbag and rotates his body to face mine.

“Hey.” I whisper, my right hand supporting his cheek as he leans into me, his eyes closed and lips pressed into a line. Our bodies slot into one another’s on the beanbag, the very little space between us growing warmer by the second.

Graham releases a deep breath, his eyes slowly opening again with a small smile spreading across his face. It’s hard to see him properly in the dimly lit room, but I could never mistake those big brown eyes staring at me. “I can’t believe you did all of this for me.” He says, his voice low as he leans in close to speak like we’re the only two people who matter inside a crowded room.

“I wanted to show you how incredible you are. You’ve been so hard on yourself and I just - “ As I speak, tears start to well up in my eyes and I look up to the ceiling to try and stop them from falling. I’d already told myself earlier that I wouldn’t cry, because I don’t want Graham to think he’s upset me. I press at my eyes lightly with my fingertips in an attempt to push the tears away. “I can’t stand seeing you this way because you don’t deserve to feel like this. If it wasn’t for you, Blur wouldn’t exist! Everything you’ve all achieved wouldn’t have happened.” My voice begins to shake and I feel Graham’s hand on my arm, rubbing it gently to try and calm me down.

“Y/N.” He starts, before reaching up to turn on the light. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, before my gaze falls to the ground to avoid his. If I look at him properly, I know I’ll start bawling. “Look at me. Please.”

“I can’t. I can’t because I’ll cry, and then you’ll get upset and I don’t want to make you feel any worse than wha - “

“You won’t upset me. Y/N, I’m sorry I’ve - “

“No, Graham. Don’t apologise.” I grip onto his shirt tightly, my fingers tangling in the fabric. Graham bows his head and nudges it against mine, edging closer until he pushes my head up with his and our noses are almost touching. We both open our eyes, our faces too close that my vision is distorted and I’m seeing double. I pull back, sniffling once and dabbing at my eyes again, still not allowing any tears to actually emerge.

“I’m sorry,“ he starts and I sigh at his words, but he hushes me by holding his finger up to my face, “for putting you through this. I was so caught up in my own head that I didn’t realise how it was making you feel.”

“Graham, this isn’t about me.”

“But it affects you. Bloody hell, if I had to live with this miserable twat - “ he points to himself and I scoff, slapping the back of his hand playfully. “ - I’d have given up by now.”

“I would never give up on you.” My voice is barely above a whisper, the lump in my throat making it difficult to speak. Graham goes silent again, staring down at our joined hands and moving his thumbs around. I nudge his head with mine in the same way he did previously and he sniffles, his chest rising and immediately falling again. “Graham?” I bring my hand to his chin and push his face up to find his eyes watery, and cheeks significantly more red compared to a moment ago.

“God, look at me. What the hell are you still doing with me, ay? I’m a bleeding mess.” He sniffs, roughly wiping tears off of his cheeks with the backs of his hands.

“Because I wouldn’t want to be with anybody else.”

“Not even - “

“Ah! Stop right there. There’ll be no more of that.” I take his hands away from his face, holding onto them loosely. “Graham Coxon, you are the best thing to ever happen to me. And I’ll give you a free pass to slap me silly for being so cheesy.” I laugh, his grip on my hands tightening as he awkwardly slides closer on the beanbag, his body sinking into it at a strange angle and pulling me with him. “I love you.”

Within a second, Graham’s hands are on both sides of my face, pulling me in for a kiss; the kind of kiss that feels like the person is pouring their entire heart out to you. Like the kiss between the main characters of a movie, when they’ve just ran across a field or a busy road to collide with another at the centre. His lips messily press against mine and I can feel the stray tears running down his face as they dampen my cheeks. My hands rest on his legs, holding on firmly as his thumbs dig into my face a little. It doesn’t hurt, but he soon pulls away and swipes at my face softly as if to apologise for it. He uses his sleeve to dry my face and I do the same for him, small gasps of laughter exchanging between us.

“Thank you for doing this. If you can’t tell, I really love it.” He says sincerely with a genuine smile, the biggest smile I’ve seen from him in weeks. The expression is infectious and I can’t help mimicking him as I grin back like the Cheshire Cat. The faint sound of knocking from downstairs pulls us out of our romance film-esque daydream and we both clamber to our feet.

As we approach the stairs, Graham stops and spins me around, pulling me into him. I land against his chest with a huff, before adjusting my hair and looking up at him. “After we eat, can you show me the film again?” He asks, his hand meeting mine to help me fix the loose hairs falling in my eyes.

“We can watch it as many times as you like.”

#graham coxon #graham coxon x reader #oneshot #blur #request #anon request

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shes-a-gryffindor · 3 years

Text

I'll Stay With You

A bit of Angst, lots of fluff and a just a touch of smut 🤭

James looked frantically around, dodging the rubble exploding around him, flashes of red and green flew past his head as he tried desperately to find Lily. It must have been their hundredth raid by that point and yet they were no more prepared for the onslaught that had been waiting for them and even less for the Death Eaters - as they called themselves - to be waiting alongside Voldemort himself. Following her voice through the thick haze of the battle he was sure he’d find her being tortured or worse… until finally, too riddled with adrenaline to feel any relief, he found her mid duel, two against one, her face scrunched up in determination. Almost blind with rage, he shot at the cloaked figures curses a younger version of himself had probably once sworn against and even as they lay unconscious on the ground in front of him, the curses continued to explode from his wand, until Kingsley’s voice came, barely audible through the fight raging around them, ordering them all to retreat. Without thinking twice he pulled Lily closer, apparating straight back to the safety of headquarters.

Worse than the attack itself perhaps was the aftermath… Time seemed to move excruciatingly slowly in these moments when they could do nothing but wait anxiously for their friends to return, to see who else had managed to get away, thinking dreadfully of who might not have and whether they should go back.

Relief like an enormous tidal wave flooded through them at their friends’ safety; heavily outnumbered and surrounded on every front, it was by some miracle that they’d managed to get away with their lives. Despite their elation at everyone’s miraculous survival, on days like these and especially now, what James wanted more than anything else was Lily, and home. He’d never been very good at keeping a poker face and his body language always gave him away - the anxious tapping of his foot or the strum of his fingers at his side - at least that’s what Lily had always told him and it was perhaps for this reason that after sharing a knowing look with Sirius, she took James’s hand in her own, smiling ruefully at him before nodding slightly as if to say ‘let’s go.’

Landing with a crack in a quiet lane in Godric's Hollow, they made the short walk home in stony faced silence, their hands inconspicuously gripping their wands, James with an arm wrapped protectively around Lily, looking over his shoulder every so often.

The familiar smell of home seemed to ease some of the tension they’d been carrying since apparating from the fight; grateful to be out of the cold and within the safety of the cottages protective spells and enchantments, they closed the door behind them, shaking off their coats and kicking off their shoes they made for the kitchen; there was almost nothing a cup of tea couldn’t make even a little bit better and it had become something of a tradition that this was the first thing they did upon returning home from a particularly gruelling mission. Lily pottered about the kitchen in silence, making their tea - she found at times like this doing it the muggle way was almost cathartic. It wasn’t until they were both sitting in the nook, their hands cupped around mugs, that they finally spoke.

Lily could feel the tension radiating off of him, “That was too close… “ he said quietly, frowning down at his tea.

Knowing exactly where this was going, she sighed, “It could’ve been any one of us James…”

Scrunching up his eyes he shook his head as if trying to rid his mind of a particularly unpleasant thought, “yes but it wasn’t anyone, was it? It was you, There were two of them Lily, if I hadn’t found you in time-“

“But you did,” she reassured him. “James…” she continued, reaching out to place a hand over his, “it’s o-“

“Don’t say it’s okay” He interjected, standing so abruptly the loud scrape of his chair against the hardwood made her jump. “I’m sorry,” he added quickly, pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed, jaw tense.

“Obviously none of this is okay,” she said, frowning up at him, “I only meant that we all made it back, I’m fine, we’re fine.”

He paced aimlessly around the kitchen before stopping to lean against a bench. Looking at her for a moment, he took a breath as if to brace himself, “If you would please just consider-“

“No” she cut him off coolly, “how many times do I have to tell you, I’m no less capable than I was before.”

“You’re a right side better than half the bloody Order on a bad day Lily, it’s not about-“

“We’ve spoken about this,” she said frustratedly, “I told you, I won’t sit on the sidelines while you all go out and risk your necks!” She was standing now too, “we made a commitment, I won’t back out,” she finished stubbornly.

“People will understand if we just tell-“

“Yes that’s exactly how I wanted to break the news,” she scowled, “hey everyone, oh, sorry can’t come along, I’m up the duff,” her tone dripped sarcasm, “besides it’s not about that! Do you honestly think I could stand it? Sitting here waiting for you every time, not knowing what’s going on?”

Throwing his head back he ran his hands through his hair in exasperation, “I’ll stay with you,” he told her, looking utterly defeated. It was at this - his willingness to sit out with her at the expense of not fighting alongside his friends, a prospect so out of character for him - that she understood how genuinely desperate he was to protect her; the vulnerability in his expression, so misplaced in comparison to the usually confident, bordering on cocky, grin he often donned. James, so unyielding in his principles, found it incredibly hard to swallow that he was so utterly powerless over something he considered, however outdated Lily told him the concept was, his duty, the safety of his wife, his unborn child, his family. “Please,” he said thickly, “I’m no good to anyone like this… If something were to happen to you, or the baby…” he trailed off, his eyes flickering briefly down to Lily’s stomach, not far along enough for it to be obvious she was pregnant.

Softening a little in her resolve she sighed heavily, walking over to where he was standing to weave her arms over his shoulders and around his neck; looking up at him, her eyes darted back and forth between his own...“Do you honestly think you could stand it?” she said, quietly.

And he thought of his friends…she was right, he knew it.

“No,” he admitted despondently, “you’re right, I couldn’t.” Trying to repress the thought of what might have happened had he found her only minutes later, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer before burying his face at the crook of her neck.

“Imagine if I’d said yes,” she sniggered, “you’d have had to tell Sirius he might be paired up with Peter on missions from now on,” making him smile involuntarily against her neck; Pushing gently away from his embrace to look up at him again, she cupped his face, kissing him swiftly, “I’ll go and run a bath,” she said, before stalking out of the kitchen

He felt a small, irrational pang of anxiety as he watched her disappear into the hall, out of sight. Pouring their half finished tea down the drain, he dropped their mugs into the sink before trudging up the stairs, pulling his shirt up over his head as he went.

Along with his glasses, all fogged up and useless, their battle-worn clothes lay discarded in a heap on the bathroom floor, and steam rose curling up off of their skin, as they sat in the warm, soapy water. It was much easier to forget the dark thoughts that crept unwanted into his mind when he could focus instead on the weight of Lily’s body against his as she lay with her back against his chest, skin on skin… to think instead about how much he loved her hair this way, piled up into a messy knot, strands falling haphazardly out over her neck.

“Feeling better?” She asked.

“Much,” he responded, lowering his lips to press them gently against her shoulder.

“Mhm… thought you might,” she said, raking her fingers across his leg; he felt himself tense beneath her and she grinned with satisfaction at his reaction.

She was teasing him, his stomach lurched excitedly, this was a game they played often, one he enjoyed immensely. “You know,” he said, through a smirk, trailing kisses across her collarbone, “if we’re not careful, we’ll end up with our second baby before we’ve had our first.”

Chuckling softly, hands tracing higher still, she responded, “reckon we’ll have a whole quidditch team on our hands at this rate.”

“Reckon you’re right,” he grinned, now painfully aware of her hand on his leg and the way she was laying across him, she relished in his increasing impatience to have her closer still.

Sliding his arms around her waist he let his lips trail past her collarbone to her neck, grazing her ear, the barely stifled sigh that escaped her made him grin widely again.

“Okay,” she said, suddenly, her voice low.

“Okay what?” He responded, still peppering kisses up her neck.

“No more raids,” she responded.

He chuckled, “I’d have gotten you in the bath a lot earlier if I knew that’s all it’d ta-”, he tilted his head back to look at her, “… you’re serious?” He asked, brows furrowed, “what’s changed your mind?”

“Well...” she began with a sigh, “much as I don’t want to admit it, I have been feeling a little...off, lately, it’s hard stuff y’know, this growing another human,” making him laugh, “anyway,” she continued, “ I suppose it’s not just about me anymore…besides, can’t have you running ‘round after me like a lunatic… get yourself killed.” She rolled her eyes at James’s barely disguised glee, feeling like an immense weight was being lifted off his shoulders and sounding much more like his usual self he laughed heartily.

“I have conditions!” Lily quickly added.

“I’d have expected nothing less,” he said, through laughter, “go on.”

“I’ll still be at headquarters before and after every raid, and I’ll still continue to do all the other stuff I’m doing now, and if Voldemort shows up again you’re to apparate straight back, no questions asked.”

“Okay,” he said, still grinning.

“James, I’m serious…that’s three times we’ve crossed him now, and each time’s been an even closer shave than the last.”

“I know… understood,” he said, wrapping his arms tighter around her, “I promise.”

“So… we’re telling people then?” He asked, his grin widening to its full extent, unable to contain his excitement at the prospect of finally being able to share with everyone the best news of his life.

She was laughing now too, “yes,” she said, twisting her neck to grin up at him, “we’re telling people.”

Her lips were only centimetres from his before he happily closed the gap, kissing her, both their mouths still tugging up at the corners, smiling against each other.

Any lingering anxiety from the events that had transpired earlier had now vanished and James was once again painfully aware of her body on his. Her fingers now dug at his neck and with a gradual intensity he could feel her need for him just as intensely as he felt his own, losing himself in how completely she overwhelmed all his senses… the feel of her lips against his, her tongue sliding across the inside of his lip every so often, the smell of her hair, sweet and hot in the steam floating around them, the tiny sounds she made, her heavy breathing drove him wild and he ached to have her as close as was physically possible.

Giving into the carnal passion that threatened to overwhelm him, gently as he could, he twisted her around, hands gripping the underside of her thighs he hitched them up to his hips so that she was straddling him and lifted her easily out of the tub, eliciting from her a gasp, "Eager are we?" she laughed, making him grin against her lips and she wrapped her legs around him, tightening her arms around his neck as he carried her to their bedroom; and soon, they were laying tangled in damp sheets, their legs entwined, chests heaving up in down in the same rhythm, sheepish grins plastered on their faces.

Heavy eyed and almost drunk with happiness, they lay wrapped up in each other still, talking and laughing into the evening, guessing at their friends’ reactions to their news, musing over names and who he or she might look like, which of their traits he or she would inherit, making jokes at each other's expense about which ones they hoped wouldn't be inherited... until eventually, safe in their momentarily indestructible bubble of bliss, they succumbed to exhaustion, drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

#jily fic #jily #jily love #jily fluff #jily smut #fluff #mild smut #harry potter fanfic #james potter x lily evans #angst with a happy ending #marauders era

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amethystpath-writes · 3 years

Text

P2 Loving A Villain

Part 1 here

******

“I would have never done this to you.” Hero cursed under her breath for the tear that escaped her eye. She wasn’t supposed to cry. Being so broken up about this was ridiculous, she thought.

“Well, that’s the difference between being a good guy and a bad one, huh?” As if to reinforce the idea, Villain gave Hero a shove. “Walk faster.”

She would- if she hadn't just woken up from the sedative Villain injected into her neck. Her legs were hardly existent and her eyelids were rocks in the ocean. "I don't understand," Hero said, her voice cracking.

Her toes failed to lift off the ground and she stumbled, only regaining her balance because Villain caught the back of her shirt. A rip slightly sounded, making Hero wince at the idea of her shirt falling to tatters. It better not.

Hero opened her mouth. “Villain...” She trailed off, not knowing what to say. Her feelings were hurt, but it was more than that. It was an ache so deep that Hero hardly felt she could walk- not just from her grogginess; it was from the betrayal, like a knife in the back of either knee.

“I never imagined you would truly believe this little ploy,” Villain laughed from behind, once again pushing Hero’s shoulder, as if to constantly remind her for another time that he was the one in charge, that he would continue to hurt her anytime he wished. And he would. “And even accepting the fact that you did believe it, I am still”- Villain searched for the word, licking his lips- “bewildered that you were- are- so hurt by it.”

He continued, “I mean, even I thought you were stronger than this. Just look at you.” Villain laughed.

Hero’s shoulder was clutched and she swallowed, eyes screwed shut as she tried to maintain a sane balance. Where was Supervillain in this mix? Hero would have much rather been grabbed by him than Villain. Villain’s hand was supposed to be loving and- and caring, anything but what it contained now- so malevolent and hot with the greatest fires of Hell.

Villain turned Hero’s shoulder, forcing her to, in a stumblesome way, face him. She kept her eyes shut. It was easier to pretend she was lucid dreaming, like she was controlling a dream and was only wanting to experience...what? Why would she ever choose to have the man she loved betray her, to- to trick her into thinking he was actually capable of decency?

“Please let go of me.” Hero shook her head. Weak.

“Now, why would I go and do that?”

Because you love me, Hero thought stupidly. Because I love you and you wouldn’t jeopardize that. She shook her head- again. What a fantasy world she lived in.

“How could you?”

Fingers tugged at Hero’s eyebrows and she shuddered, squeezing her eyes tighter. “Well, that had the opposite effect I was wanting. Open your eyes for me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Fine. She opened them. “Why?” Hero wasn’t sure if she was asking herself or Villain. The question could have swung either way, couldn’t it have?

To herself, ‘Why were you so oblivious?’

To Villain, ‘Why are you so cruel?’

To herself, ‘Why did I ever think you could change?’

To Villain, ‘Why couldn’t you have changed?’

“Kiss me,” Villain whispered.

Hero’s eyes widened in an instant as she tried to step back. “What?” This time she knew the question was directed towards Villain.

“I know you still love me,” he said. “I know you’ve wanted to hold my hand, to hug me, and have me tell you everything will be alright- that you’re safe in my arms. I know you’ve craved that”- Villain sighed, a thumb strumming across Hero’s cheek- “protection of sorts.”

“You’re the reason I’m here,” Hero spat, this time having the sense, or perhaps continued stupidity, to yank away, although it only caused her to fall on the ground, bashing her tailbone on such a harsh floor. She gasped- a gasp most certainly different in comparison to Villain’s own.

Villain only rose a brow at her from above.

“You’re going to tell me to stand,” Hero croaked from the floor. She watched Villain nod. “And you’re not going to give me a moment to recover from temporary paralysis.” He nodded again.

Hero clenched her jaw. Never once in her life had she ever felt so capable of murder until now.

She was hurt.

She was angry.

She was vicious.

But nowhere near vicious enough. As capable as she felt of murder now, it wasn’t the truth- nowhere close to it.

“Why are you keeping me here?” Hero asked, still on the floor. Stall, she thought. Stall until my nerves aren’t being targeted by every archer on the universe. “Why go through all this trouble just to- to obtain me?”

With a hum, Villain told her, “It was no trouble at all. You were a delight.”

The smile he gave told Hero that he wouldn’t mind making her fall in love with him all over again...just to break her heart, over and over, for the rest of her life.

What was the worst part of it all? Hero didn’t trust herself not to fall in love all over again. After all, if it could happen once, why not again?

******

Part 3 here

@whatwhumpcomments

#NOT A PROMPT #noncon touching #nonsexual #continuation #hero x villain #hero x villain story #hero x villain snippet #hero x villain drabble #betrayal #fake love #hero whumpee #villain whumper #good hero #evil villain #drugged #drugged whumpee #drugged hero #whump #whumpee #whumper #Loving A Villain #It is insanely late because I accidentally started a show- well continued it after I decided I didn't want to watch it #and now I'm several hour-long episodes into it and my eyeballs are screaming at me to let my eyelids finally fall shut for longer than a-#*deep breath from the long sentence*#blink.#If I said all that out loud I'd have an asthma attack.#Probably should wait to post this for a time of more noticeability but eh #might as well post it now- and then post the ask with a link later as a reminder to those who haven't seen :p #alright #goodnight/morning/day/evening/you-get-the-gist

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sirthisisa-wendys · 3 years

Text

Acquainted Part 1: Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: After avoiding Geto for three weeks after your kiss on the training field, he confronts you while out with a group of sorcerers at the club. (definitely inspired by “Acquainted” by The Weeknd ლ(́◉◞౪◟◉‵ლ))

words: 1,670

tw: nsfw (drug use and drinking)

We’re just blowing off steam. As you fluff your curls and adjust your green, slinky minidress, you try to come up with any good reason to not go to the club with a group of jujutsu sorcerers. And Geto Suguru.

You had skillfully avoided him after kissing in the training field; part of you was nervous, the other was absolutely baffled about how someone so powerful and dangerous could possibly be interested in you. You spent the majority of your time ducking into back hallways when you saw his powerful figure rounding the corner, or avoiding his stare as you passed by. It had been difficult, but your insecurity felt heightened now that you knew you had the eye of one of the strongest men in Tokyo. There was no way that you wouldn’t hear about the comparison if anyone found out about what happened that day.

Yesterday, Shoko had intercepted you on the way to class and grabbed your shoulder, fixing you with a hard stare you didn’t think could come from her. “We’re going out to the club tomorrow, and I want you to be there.”

You click your tongue against your teeth as you press a nude eyeshadow into the crease between your upper and lower eyelid and contemplate faking sick. As if the universe had heard you planning to back out, you hear the unmistakable hiss of your door sliding open. The sound of heels clicking against the floor makes you turn around and come face to face with Shoko, who places a hand on her black denim-clad hip and looks you over once.

“You ready, y/n?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re riding with me and Gojo.” There was no mention of Suguru, but you reason that’s only because Shoko knows. She hadn’t said a word to you about the incident, but the way she accosted you yesterday told you that she was obviously aware.

As you both make your way to the parking lot, you gain a feeling of comfort when you see the sapphire-eyed sorcerer patting on the steering wheel of his SUV, the bass reverberating from the stereo system. When you open the door, the words “bitch, sit on my face, I attack that” hits your eardrums and you cringe before climbing into the back seat.

“Gojo!” you yell over the music, but the sorcerer only deviously smiles at you from the front seat.

“Come on, y/n! It’s a vibe,” Gojo replies, then cranks the music up even more. Shoko sits on the passenger side, lighting up a joint before inhaling deeply and passing it to Gojo. The car pulls out of the parking spot and speeds off to the club. “Here.” Gojo passes you the blunt and you carefully take it between your fingers, inhaling as deeply as you can. You’ll need all of the calming agents you can get your hands on tonight.

Two passes later, the bright lights of the downtown area slide into view and your nerves are much less frayed than before. Gojo makes a few turns, then finds a parking lot where you all smoke your last before extinguishing the joint in the car’s ashtray. The white sorcerer opens your car door, coaxing you out of the seat your legs stuck to, and you follow the two past the long line outside of the club and to the front doors. The bouncer smiles at Gojo, nods at Shoko, and eyes you carefully before opening the door without so much as a word.

“Sometimes being a sorcerer pays off.” Shoko tosses over her shoulder, winking at you. The thumping bass and low-lights remind you of the times you would spend weekends with your friends from college, getting drunk and seeing how many men you could kiss in an evening. Tonight, however, you would get cross-faded and see how many men you could avoid.

The bar was full of people watchers observing those who chose to dance, and your eyes roam the crowd to see if a certain man would appear out of thin air to accost you. When you were certain he had not yet made his appearance, you relaxed against the cool metal of the bar, thinking about what you want to drink. You don’t have to think for long when Gojo slides a glass of clear liquid your way, passing another one to Shoko.

“First round is on me, ladies.” You toss the shot back and grimace as the fire of vodka slides down your throat, leaving a burning sensation in its wake. You wait for the numb feeling to take hold, hoping it would arrive before the raven-haired sorcerer did. But as soon as Shoko pulls you onto the dance floor, the urge to worry slips away on the heels of a catchy tune.

It isn’t long before your hands are in your hair as you swing side to side, the thrumming beat of the music making you close your eyes and release your inhibitions. Yes, this was it. The bliss that comes with the numbness washes over you and you forget all about --

“Oh, hey, we got a VIP section!” You turn your head slowly to look in the direction Shoko pointed, and you could see a few sorcerers you knew in passing seated behind a red velvet rope. Gojo was among them, tossing back another shot, and laughing obnoxiously, and when you scan to the left of them, you catch the black eyes of Geto Suguru. “Come on.”

You timidly follow your friend to the VIP section and smile nervously at the group, who greets you excitedly. Well, everyone except for Suguru, that is. He’s seated off the side of the large booth, fingers pressed to his right temple in a show of boredom.

“Take another shot!” Gojo encourages you, and you obey, if only to focus on something else. “Hey, Suguru, are you going to drink or will I have to give your shot to y/n? She’s already pretty tipsy, but I’m sure you won’t--” A shot disappears from the table in a flash, deposited quickly into Suguru’s throat. Gojo cheers childishly, and turns back to his other friends, striking up a conversation about the time he goaded Suguru into drinking seven shots in a row without stopping. You glance over to the pensive man, who’s clad in an expensive looking dress shirt and black pants. His hair is also up in its usual bun, but he’s not looking at you, instead preferring to stare out into the crowd. You turn away again, but realize a little too late that a second-year is backing up right into you.

On the way down, you consider your fate.

A broken ankle was the worst outcome. A bruised ego was the best.

However, neither of them occur, and you feel a pair of strong hands firmly holding your waist. You look up to see none other than Suguru holding you upright, and the second-year begins his apology, stammering about his mistake as he quickly backs away.

“You alright?” The feeling of Suguru’s hands against your skin makes you shiver, and for a moment, you’re grateful he can’t see the color of your cheeks in the dim light.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” There’s something about the way he looks at you, the way he doesn’t let go of you that breeds that familiar nervousness in you. But you can’t pull away from his grasp… because you don’t want to.

“Dance with me.” The words fall from Suguru’s mouth easily and you nod, earning a half-smile from him. You make your way to the dance floor again, and once you find a spot that isn’t taken, Suguru turns you around and pulls your hips flush against his. You wrap your arms around his neck after he dips low enough. Suguru presses a kiss to your temple before whispering huskily in your ear.

“You’ve been avoiding me for too long, y/n.” The apology that falls from your lips is automatic. “I’m a very patient man, but this? Tell me what I did to push you away.”

“You didn’t do anything.” You answer, and you feel his grip on your hips tighten.

“Then why in the world have you been dancing around me like this?” A strangled noise escapes your mouth and he presses a hand against your bottom, swaying back and forth to the beat of the music.

“I…”

“You don’t have to answer that right now. Just dance with me.” You continue to dance with him, feeling the world blur around the edges as the vodka shots settle into your bloodstream. Suguru’s lips press against your temple again, then he removes his hand from your back to cup your chin. Your lips meet his tenderly, the quick kisses seeking and searching for more. Before long, he deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue into your mouth with ease. Your teeth click together, dragging across each other’s taste buds, while his hands grope you over your dress.

“Su…” you moan as he pulls away, and he tilts his head, eyes lidded.

“I have to get you out of here.” Suguru pulls you off the dance floor and out of the club, and you suppose everyone inside is much too occupied to see the two of you suddenly depart. You hang onto him as you exit the club into the crisp night air… much like the air the night you two met for the first time. He opens the door to his flashy two-seater, letting you slide inside before he presses the start button and pulls out of the parking lot. His right hand grips your thigh as he drives in silence, the only sound between you the revving of his car and the tires on the pavement. You want to explain, you want to address your feelings, but as Suguru strums his fingers along your bare leg to some unheard tune, all you can do is think about his lips on yours and the way he touches you.

#geto x reader #jjk geto #jujutsu kaisen getou #geto suguru #shoko ieiri #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru

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contemplativepancakes · 3 years

Text

not if it’s you

4k post mountain hurt/comfort fix it with gratuitous eskel for @witcher-and-his-bard . read on ao3 here!

Jaskier strums his lute idly, drumming his fingers on the base. He clears his throat before he starts tapping his foot on the wooden floor. Geralt is sure they can hear it four days down. He knows that if he prods Jaskier, he’ll just clam up and spend another three days working towards whatever he wants to say, though, so Geralt just lets him fidget.

To Geralt’s frustration, Jaskier doesn’t broach whatever topic has him worked up that day, or the next, or the one after that, and eventually, Geralt doesn’t think about it anymore. It must not have been important, never mind the fact that anything Jaskier says is inherently important to him.

Geralt lets himself get swept up in the wave that is Yennefer, in that someone like her could ever desire someone like him. Geralt doesn’t know what she sees, still doesn’t even know why Jaskier sticks around, and he at least has a little more to offer him than he does to Yen.

And so, when Yennefer pushes him away, he pushes right back, on the one person that’s still convinced he isn’t completely full of shit. It won’t take long for Geralt to right that wrong; it’s not like he deserves that anyway. The words tumble from Geralt’s lips, each one making Jaskier’s face twist more and more.

Geralt thinks it might be the most he’s ever said to Jaskier all in one go, and that—that thought hurts.

Geralt turns his back so he doesn’t have to look at Jaskier.

“Right. Right, then.” Jaskier clears his throat, says something about the others. “I’ll... see you around, Geralt.”

There’s hesitation on the tip of his tongue, and it sounds like there’s something else he wants to say, but he doesn’t, he just turns and goes.

It must not have been important, Geralt thinks.

Geralt barely makes it to the winter. He’s about felled on three contracts that normally would have been nothing to sneeze at, but he just…can’t think. He can’t focus on what he’s doing, now that this is all he’s good for again. Just someone to slay monsters for people who don’t appreciate it, with no one to even limp back to at the end of the day.

Geralt combs a hand through Roach’s mane, determined not to bring her down with his melancholy mood. Besides, he’ll be at Kaer Morhen in a few days, and he’s sure everything will look brighter around his family and with his belly full. There’s something about a pitiful looking witcher that doesn’t inspire very much generosity by those setting the contracts, and Geralt can’t muster the will to argue with them about it.

He takes what he’s given. It’s when he got greedy and wanted too much that things started to fall apart, after all.

When he makes it to the keep, Vesemir comes out to greet him, concern twisting his face as he walks with Geralt to the stables. Geralt is sure he reeks; he hasn’t taken a bath in weeks and the emotions wafting off of him can’t be of the pleasant variety, but Vesemir doesn’t comment, just begins to brush Roach down as Geralt takes off her tack.

They stay silent all throughout finishing Roach’s care, until Geralt is triple checking that there’s nothing stuck in her hooves because he’s trying to delay any uncomfortable conversations.

Vesemir clears his throat. “Supper should be ready. You need to eat more.”

Geralt breathes a sigh of relief and follows him into the keep.

The warm air hits him in the face, oppressively stuffy, as he trails behind Vesemir to the kitchen. When he was still young, they used to sit in the dining room, laughter and chatter drifting through the crowded hall and drowning out the clink of cutlery, but now there’s only silence that does nothing to ease Geralt’s nerves.

He hadn’t realized he was so nervous to see his brothers until now. He’s not sure if he wants them to say something or nothing at all; each is its own special brand of depressing. Maybe Geralt is typically so morose anyway they won’t notice anything is amiss.

Geralt forces himself to eat, each bite turning into sawdust in his mouth, but he swallows it down despite that. Eskel gives him a scrutinizing look over the rim of his glass, but he doesn’t say anything. Lambert is too distracted in kicking Aiden under the table, and he’s barely said ten words to Geralt since he got here.

Geralt sighs.

Later, Eskel finds him.

Eskel comes into his room without knocking, and Geralt turns around to give him a half hearted snarl. Eskel rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Who says anything is wrong?”

Eskel wrinkles his nose. “You stink.”

“Well, no one asked you to be in my room. You’re welcome to leave at any time.”

“Was it some villagers? Because I can go back and show them what an actual scary witcher looks like, gods know you’re too soft to get anywhere approaching intimidating.”

Geralt attempts a half hearted grin and hums. Eskel flops back on the bed, his hand coming up to itch at his face. “Not villagers, then. Your humans?”

Geralt grunts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“So it is, then. Yennefer?”

Geralt walks over to the bed and shoves Eskel over to something resembling just one half before dropping down beside him. He kicks at Eskel’s legs to get them out of his space.

“Triss? Jaskier?”

Geralt rolls over and buries his head into a pillow.

He tenses when Eskel’s broad hands land on his shoulders. Eskel pauses, waiting for his permission, so Geralt relaxes his muscles, softening under Eskel’s touch. He rubs the knots out of Geralt’s back, digging in with his thumbs, until Geralt is a motionless pile of goo. He’s not sure he could move even if a monster came crashing in through the window.

“Ready to talk yet?” Eskel murmurs.

“It’s—nothing is going right.”

Eskel hums. “Welcome to the life of a witcher. I hadn’t realized this was new for you.”

Geralt rolls over onto his back, looking over at Eskel to where he’s splayed out beside him. He considers the way Eskel’s mouth is turned down and reaches out to trace Eskel’s scars with his fingertips. Eskel turns his head away, but Geralt presses closer to him and plants a kiss on his jaw.

“Geralt,” Eskel says in warning, but Geralt would really like to just not think right now.

“Please?”

Eskel softens. Geralt so rarely lets himself ask for anything, and he knows Eskel understands the significance. Eskel turns towards him and wraps his arms around Geralt, tucking Geralt’s head under his chin. He pokes at Geralt’s chest. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

Geralt presses kisses along Eskel’s collarbone, not saying anything beyond a grunt.

Eskel sighs and lets Geralt kiss him, their mouths meeting in something soft and sad.

Eskel opens to him, and Geralt lets the desire lick its way up his belly to settle somewhere in his chest. Eskel tugs Geralt's shirt off, and Geralt does the same for him, rubbing a hand across Eskel's torso and admiring how solid he is, his thumb tracing a jagged scar across Eskel’s pectoral.

Eskel just looks at his ribs protruding through his skin and frowns, so Geralt does his best to distract him. "Come here," he mutters, pulling Eskel into another kiss.

Eskel's hands slide their way up his torso, brushing across his nipples and landing on his biceps and squeezing. Geralt knows that's one part of him that hasn't wasted away, at least. The soft layers are always the first to go when times are lean. Geralt's largely used to it, but it hasn't been this bad in a while. Certainly not since Jaskier had started traveling with him.

Geralt attempts to force his brain to stop thinking about Jaskier out of sheer willpower, but it evades his best efforts.

He drags his fingertips over Eskel's skin, trying to ground himself. He slides them from the smooth expanse of Eskel's forearms to his calloused palms, remembering how Eskel's rough hands feel around his cock.

He does not make any comparisons to Jaskier's clever fingers.

Geralt rolls them over, positioning himself on top as he deepens the kiss, making it as sloppy as he can and trying to lose himself in the sensation.

Unfortunately for him, witchers aren't meant to lose themselves in anything, their senses too sharp to ever truly be able to focus on just one thing. Geralt can hear Lambert and Aiden arguing three doors down, and he can smell the contentedness dripping off Vesemir at having them all there, mixed with just the slightest bit of sour worry. Geralt tries to ignore that last part.

"Hey," Eskel whispers. "You okay?"

"Mm," Geralt says, burying his face in Eskel's neck. "Peachy."

"Liar," Eskel replies, but it's without heat, and he coaxes Geralt back out of his neck and into another kiss.

Geralt slides his hands down Eskel's torso, unknotting his trouser ties and tugging them off. Eskel does the same for him, stripping them both out of their small clothes until his half hard cock is pressed against Geralt's bare skin.

Geralt reaches down between them and takes Eskel in hand, stroking him to full hardness and enjoying the sound of the rumbling coming from Eskel's chest.

Eskel raises a gentle hand to frame Geralt's face, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone before moving on to tucking a strand of hair being Geralt's ear.

Geralt swallows hard at the tenderness of it all. There's a burning in his chest, climbing up his ribcage and threatening to consume him, that he doesn't want to examine too closely.

Geralt jacks Eskel faster, but Eskel puts his hand on Geralt's and slows the movement. "We have time," he says.

Geralt lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment. They have time. Frankly, too damn much of it, if you ask Geralt.

He's distracted by Eskel moving away from him, sitting up to rummage through the stand next to the bed. He comes back with oil and settles back on the bed, slicking his fingers and reaching behind himself.

Geralt shuts his eyes for a moment, trying not to let himself be dragged down by the overwhelming scent and sight of Eskel this close to him and opening himself up for Geralt.

"Fuck, Eskel," he moans.

"Like what you see?" Eskel asks, turning his head away.

Geralt puts his fingers on Eskel's chin and tilts his head back. "Yes."

Eskel’s eyes dart down, but Geralt's gaze stays fixed on him, tracking the microexpressions of pleasure on Eskel's face until he leans forward to kiss him again, Eskel's lips warm and soft on his own.

Eventually, Eskel puts a hand on Geralt's chest, and Geralt pulls away in question.

Eskel pushes Geralt back, guiding him to lay down before wiping his hand on the bed spread. Geralt makes an indignant noise. "You doing my washing?"

"It's going to get a lot dirtier than that, don't worry," Eskel says with a wink.

Geralt gives him an exasperated eye roll, but it's lost when Eskel grips the base of his cock and sinks down on it.

Geralt inhales a sharp breath, letting the waves of pleasure wash over him as Eskel starts to ride him.

"Just let me take care of you," he whispers, so Geralt does.

After, Eskel rolls off of him, laying on the lumpy mattress beside Geralt. They stay in silence for quite a while, until Eskel finally says. “So it’s Jaskier, then?”

Geralt grunts and shoves at Eskel’s shoulder, but Eskel just gives him a self satisfied smirk before sobering again. “Neither one of us deserves second best, Geralt.”

“So you’ve...you’ve found someone, then?”

Eskel shrugs. “Maybe. For now.”

There’s a knife digging under his rib cage. Eskel’s never had someone serious before, at least not that he’s told Geralt about. It hurts more than Geralt can explain, and he wonders if Eskel feels this way about him. Neither one of them have any claim to the other, but—they do, a little. It’d been just them for so long.

When Geralt couldn’t even find a whore who would touch him because no coin purse could ever begin to outweigh their fear and disgust at witchers, Eskel had been there, waiting for Geralt at Kaer Morhen. And now, who knows if Eskel will even return next winter. Maybe he’ll bring his lover. Geralt feels sick.

Eskel must be able to sense Geralt’s thoughts spiraling because he tugs him closer, combing his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Geralt lets the motion soothe him to sleep.

Geralt spends the rest of the winter keeping everyone at arm’s length. No one moreso than Eskel. He pretends not to see the hurt looks Eskel gives him, but Geralt just—he can’t. At least he had pushed Yennefer and Jaskier away all by himself. Eskel left him of his own volition.

Logically, Geralt knows that isn’t fair, that he’s holding Eskel to a higher standard than he holds himself, but he can’t help the way it feels like someone ripped an arrow right out of him, the head catching on ragged flesh as it comes out and makes everything worse.

By the time the snow in the pass has melted, Geralt is practically climbing the walls. He makes himself seek Eskel out before he leaves. Eskel looks surprised to see him, and Geralt’s sure he thought Geralt was going to leave without so much as a goodbye. Geralt gives Eskel a rough hug. “I’m happy for you,” he says.

When they pull away, Eskel looks at him closely. “Take care of yourself. I’m gonna kick your ass at gwent next winter.”

This startles a laugh out of Geralt. “Keep dreaming.”

As he mounts Roach to leave the keep, he looks to the horizon. He pats Roach’s neck and resolves to make it to next winter, for Eskel, if no one else.

And so, irony decides to slap him in the face. He agrees to take a contract for a graveir that has been terrorizing the woods just outside of a village. Geralt makes his preparations, but he’s not too concerned about a singular graveir. Sure, they can be dangerous if they get the jump on him, but he’s not going to let that happen.

Famous last words.

The first problem is that it’s not a graveir; it’s a leshen. Geralt curses as he scrambles back from it, rotting flesh peeling away from the deer skull that it calls a head. Geralt’s not sure how the villagers managed to skip this little detail, and his mind is coming up blank for ideas on how to get out of this. Leshens are ancient and not easy to kill at the best of times. Unprepared and on the defensive is hardly an ideal circumstance.

Geralt knows he’s not going to be able to kill it, but he might be able to reason with it. Leshen are intelligent, so Geralt steels his nerves and sheathes his sword, holding out his hands.

“I’m sorry—” is all he gets out before the leshen lashes out with one of it’s branched arms and catches him hard in the side.

Geralt hisses in pain and drops to his knees, clutching at his side. He looks up at the leshen, trying to think of something, anything, that’s going to get him out of this predicament alive, but he draws a blank.

The leshen bludgeons him again, and he doesn’t think about anything else for quite a while.

“Geralt? Gods, Geralt!”

When Geralt wakes up, he thinks he must be dead. It’s the only reasonable explanation. If he had survived his encounter with the leshen, he would be lying on the hard ground with no less than four tiny rocks or twigs digging into his back, but he’s on a soft mattress. And it smells like...Jaskier?

Yes, this definitely isn’t real.

Geralt keeps his eyes shut as he registers the details and slowly fills in the world around him.

Jaskier is picking at his nails in a chair next to the bed, and there’s a clock slowly ticking on the wall. Jaskier sighs and tugs at the blanket covering Geralt, pulling it from his shoulders to rest just beneath Geralt’s chin.

Geralt finally surmises that he must not be dead, because if he were, all of these sounds and smells wouldn’t be grating so much on his senses.

He lets Jaskier’s fidgeting go on for three more minutes before he finally darts out a hand from underneath the blankets to take hold of Jaskier’s hands. Jaskier’s pulse ratchets up, and Geralt draws his hand back like he’s been burned. Jaskier has been drenched in the scent of fear ever since Geralt had gained enough consciousness to register the smell, and Geralt hates it.

He never wants Jaskier to smell like that, and the thought that he’s causing it? Well, it’s not a pleasant one. Jaskier had never been frightened of him before, but Geralt supposes he can’t expect everything to simply go back to the way it was before, even if desperately wants it to.

“Stay still, please,” Geralt scrapes out finally, and Jaskier stops his fiddling immediately.

“Oh, I’m,” he drops his voice to a whisper, “sorry. Your ears must be very sensitive right now.”

Geralt grunts in vague agreement, and some of the fear scent mellows out into something more resembling worry. Honestly, in this state, Jaskier could probably fight him off without too much of an issue, so he’s not sure what exactly he has to be worried about.

Jaskier stares at Geralt’s peaceful profile. The lines on his face have smoothed out in sleep, and his chest rises and falls at a steady rate. Jaskier lets out a deep sigh and scrubs his hands over his face. He was never enough for Geralt the first time around, so he doesn’t know why he thinks this time will be any different.

Just because, what? Because he saved Geralt this time instead of the other way around? Well, only about eleven more times to go and then they’ll be even.

Jaskier pulls out his notebook and flips to a page near the beginning. He runs his fingers over the words that have been smudged by age and tears, tapping his nails on the curves of the letters. He bites his lip as he looks back up at Geralt before closing the book again. Geralt wouldn’t have wanted this then, and he sure as fuck doesn’t want it right now.

The best thing Jaskier could do for him would be to leave, but Jaskier is selfish, and he needs to see that Geralt is going to wake up again for himself.

He’d been scared out of his wits earlier; sure that this time he’d finally lost it and he’d started to hallucinate while he had stumbled around in the woods. There had been a resounding crash, so Jaskier had gone to check it out, and he could almost hear Geralt berating him for his nonexistent survival instincts.

Jaskier had found Geralt, his white hair haloed around his head and still convinced he was seeing things. When he had sunk to his knees beside Geralt’s still form and reached out a hand, Geralt was solid and real and bloody, so Jaskier had panicked.

He didn’t know what to do, so he flitted his hands over Geralt until he found where the blood was sluggishly seeping from and pressed down hard. He tried to ignore his shaky hands, but it was hard to do when the bottles he fumbled from Geralt’s pack clinked together incessantly.

He almost dropped one, and upon closer examination, it looked like the one Geralt always took when he would come back wounded. Jaskier knew he shouldn’t try to make an unconscious person drink anything, but Geralt was looking dangerously paler by the second, and he didn’t see any other options. He lifted Geralt’s head up and pulled him into his lap, supporting his head as he tipped the bottle’s contents between Geralt’s lips.

Somehow, Jaskier had flagged down a cart that was passing not too far from where they were on a trail and had convinced the driver to help them. He’s sure he looked quite the sight, Geralt’s blood all over his doublet, but there must have been enough genuine panic in his voice to get the point across.

And now they’re here, Geralt taking rattling breaths as he sleeps. Geralt had wanted destiny to take him off his hands, but Jaskier…

He must be a glutton for punishment, because he can’t bring himself to leave Geralt’s side.

Geralt wakes again to a soft humming, and he cracks his eyes open to be surprised that Jaskier is still here. He allows himself to hope for a moment that maybe all isn’t lost before he quashes it. It’s more likely Jaskier was just waiting for him to wake up so he could tell him off to his face.

Geralt heaves himself to a sitting position, and Jaskier rushes over to him. “Easy!”

Geralt leans back against the headboard and prods his side. It feels slightly tender, but not anywhere near as bad as it was before.

“How long have I been asleep?” Geralt croaks.

Jaskier shrugs. “A day? Not long.”

“Healed up well.”

Jaskier eyes him. “Well, you have a stunningly handsome nurse to thank for that.”

“Well, where’s he at?” Geralt asks, before he can’t help himself and a chuckle escapes his lips.

Jaskier shoves at him, and for a second, everything is right again, exactly back to the way things were before. But Geralt can’t stop the tightening of his features after the jostling, and Jaskier takes immediate note. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you alright? Do you need anything?”

“Fine,” Geralt grits out. Jaskier’s already spent too long taking care of him as is.

“Oh.” Jaskier sits back down in the chair next to him.

Geralt waits for the beratement, the anger about why Jaskier wasted years of his life on him, but it doesn’t come.

And so Geralt is forced to make the first move. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did. It was cruel, and you didn’t—you never deserved that.”

Jaskier looks over at him in surprise, and it twists Geralt’s insides to see Jaskier looking at him like that over a simple apology.

“It turns out bards aren’t very successful when they’ve lost their muse,” Jaskier finally says, and Geralt stops to look at him.

Jaskier’s clothes hang off of him, and their once vibrant color seems muted. In fact, Geralt thinks he recognizes that shirt, and it’s certainly not like Jaskier to wear the same clothes season after season.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says again. He’s not sure how to say anything else.

Jaskier puts one of his hands over Geralt’s, and Geralt shakes his head. “Jask, you deserve someone who’ll treat you like you deserve.”

Jaskier straightens up and arches an eyebrow. “You’re not up for the challenge?”

“Witchers, we can’t—”

“Bullshit,” Jaskier interrupts.

“What?”

“Bullshit. Whatever you were about to say, that you can’t feel, or whatever. Bull. Shit.”

Geralt’s taken aback. He clears his throat. “You’re right.”

Jaskier was clearly expecting more resistance, so he deflates a little at Geralt’s words.

“I missed you,” Geralt says.

“Like a sore thumb, I’m sure.”

Geralt huffs. “No, I really missed you.”

Jaskier looks at his hands, picking at a hangnail. “I missed you, too.”

Geralt’s not quite sure why, or what exactly there was to miss, but he won’t ask any questions and risk Jaskier changing his mind.

“I wrote you a song,” Jaskier blurts. “Before. All of this. But. I still mean it.”

Geralt’s heart breaks. “Will I have heard it anywhere?”

Jaskier clears his throat. “No, no. It was just for you. I haven’t played it for an audience.”

Geralt hums. “Well, I can’t imagine I won’t like it.”

“You haven’t even heard it yet, Geralt. Whatever happened to a fillingless pie?”

“I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry,” he says again.

He’ll say it however many times Jaskier needs to hear it. A flush rises to Jaskier’s cheeks. He takes a page from Geralt’s book. “Hmm.”

“If it comes from you, I’m going to like it. Even if it’s terrible.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “That makes no sense.”

“It’s a gift,” Geralt says. “What’s not to like?”

Jaskier huffs and shakes his head in exasperation. Geralt is no clearer now than he was before.

He pulls out his lute and tunes it, even though it was perfectly tuned just two nights ago before he performed. He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him, and he resolutely ignores them. Finally, he begins to play and sing along. He hasn’t let himself play this particular song in months. Everytime he tried, it was like ripping off a scab and pouring white gull on the wound.

Which, yes, he got to experience once when Geralt was convinced a nasty gash on his leg was infected. Jaskier maintains Geralt was just being an over concerned brooding hen, but he can’t say the attention wasn’t nice.

His voice is a little rusty from the disuse, but it quickly flakes off with the way Geralt is looking at him. It’s a measured look, one Jaskier’s not used to. Attention is fleeting when he performs, with people flitting back to talk to their companions, or eat their meal, but Geralt hasn’t taken his eyes off of him.

Jaskier stumbles over the next line, cursing himself, but he quickly recovers and goes on to finish the song.

When he’s done, he chances a glance back at Geralt. He licks his lips, finding them suddenly terribly dry. “Three words or less?”

Geralt gives him an impossibly soft look. “I loved it.”

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel #fanfiction #contemplative writing

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saphirered · 3 years

Note

I just found your account recently! I love your style of writing, and you portray the characters so well! Can I please make a request (if it suits you!!) for Dorian, Opal and Dariax with a reader when they take a watch together by the fire and the reader tells them they look pretty in the light? Just some soft feelings, words, maybe a kiss...?

Welcome and thank you! Hope you like this one just as much as the others! 😘

(Dorian)

The sounds of the night are accompanied by the soft strumming of strings and a hummed lullaby just quiet enough as to not wake the fast asleep companions, save for you and the bard himself. Someone had to take first shift and neither of you were opposed so you were put in charge of keeping the fire going and assuring nothing would succeed at brutally murdering you all. The latter seems to have become a serious concern you could do without. But at least it gives you evenings like these. Who wouldn’t appreciate a private concerto from your favourite genasi bard?

There you are, seated comfortably on a log staring over the flames, captivated by the melody, the nimble and practiced fingers plucking at the strings with an airy grace, staring into the night. The firelight hits Dorian just right. He reminds you of the sunset, right before the last light leaves the sky, that mix between the blue fading dark, with hints of reflected orange and gold; an image of true beauty. Were it not for that beautiful song keeping you grounded, you might as well have drifted into the ethereal and forgotten your task entirely. You find yourself humming along.

You’re pulled out of your trance by Dorian himself whispering your name. By the looks of it you had missed the first few times he called for you, the song coming to a close shaking you back to reality. Dorian had been a little louder than he intended to and you watch some of the others’ steer. Both of you share a look and hold your breath until you’re sure they’re still fast asleep. He beckons you over, something to say and not willing to take the risk of speaking just a little too loud again so you step over the sleeping bodies and find your way to Dorian’s side of the fire, sitting down next to him on the makeshift bench of a fallen tree.

“Hey, everything alright? Not to offend but you looked a bit out of it. Copper for your thoughts?” Dorian whispers as he absentmindedly plucks at the strings.

“Just deliberating wether you’re some sort of siren in disguise enchanting those who’s eyes fall upon your dashing looks and hear your angelic melodies or not.” Dorian’s very glad it’s dark but the fire still allows you visual of the lovely shade of purple he’s turning at the cheeks. He stops playing and puts the instrument to the side, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you into his side. His plan to prevent you from seeing him so flustered fails as you only get a clearer view looking up at him with a smug grin.

“Is that your way of saying I’m pretty?” The first words may have been a bit more high pitched than he wanted to. You chuckle and feel Dorian’s knuckles jab playfully into your side. It doesn’t deter you from that smug sense of accomplishment remaining.

“Do I have to spell it out for you or would you prefer it in song?” You lean in, grabbing his chin and angling his face down closer to yours.

“I certainly wouldn’t be opposed-“ That’s all you need to hear before you close the distance, placing your lips on his. Dorian’s very happy you can’t see the blush grow or he might never hear the end of it. Your ability to get him all hot and bothered is something he both enjoys and fears but then there’s moments like these where he’s reminded exactly why he likes your occasional smugness.

(Dariax)

Dariax sits by the fire to preserve as much warmth as he can. The night is colder than expected and he had given you his blanket to stay warm yourself. He doesn’t regret the decision because you’re warm and comfy and that’s all worth suffering the cold but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish for some more warmth. Clutching his spear tightly to keep the blood flowing he stands sentry like a valiant guardian. Little does he know you’re still awake, or rather, awake again.

You hear the deep breaths being taken, sounds of movement; pacing. You open your eyes and there you are met with a sight you could wake up to more often. The gentle light of the flames highlight and shadow as they move in the breeze giving Dariax the appearance of a protector watching over you with an air of radiant divinity. There’s even a sense of grace. But you also see him shivering lightly.

Dariax watches you sit up and stretch your arms, blanket still in your grasp. You make eye contact and he offers you a smile. You pat the spot next to you on your bedroll and not one to question, Dariax does as suggested, sitting down next to you. You engulf him in the warm layers and feel Dariax relax just a little at the change of temperature. You lean your head on his shoulder and cuddle up against him as much as you can. He puts the spear aside and wraps one arm around you, the other holding the blankets close against himself. While he continues to keep watch you begin to drift off, not fully asleep, but more daydreaming of the divine sorcerer sitting next to you.

“You know you look real pretty, especially in the light of the fire, right?” You mumble and Dariax has to do a double take if he heard that right. Not that he’s not used to people calling him handsome or any variant of the term but more so you speak so openly and unrestrained.

“You sure you’re not still dreaming?” Dariax pushes back a laugh as he leans his head against yours. You’re cute when you’re sleepy and compliments like this from you are definitely something he could get used.

“If I am, it’s a damn good dream but I don’t think I am. You tell me oh-radiant one.” You smile leaning your chin on his shoulder and kissing his cheek feigning innocence and obliviousness. It’s definitely moments like these that have Dariax completely smitten by you and he’s not ashamed to admit it.

“One way to find out?” Dariax pinches you and you gasp. The audacity. You’re clearly awake now. Game over? Not yet. Dariax looks very proud of himself as you swat his arm but put your ‘dreamy’ face back on.

“Hmm. I don’t think I’ve been convinced.” Dariax does not like the mischievous grin peaking through. It’s a look he’s seen many a time and it’s always an omen for something you’re plotting. He fears for what he might have set in motion if you’re seeking revenge.

“Need me to pinch you again?” Dariax asks somewhat hesitant. Sometimes he’s really oblivious and it’s sweet but you might just have to take the lead here or you won’t get anywhere just yet. While Dariax is a very good flirt, being on the receiving end it may just take him a second longer to process. Don’t worry. You’ll help him out.

“I’ve got something else in mind.” You softly place your lips on his. That’s all the explanation Dariax needs. arm around you finds your back and pulls you just a little closer to deepen the kiss.

(Opal)

Opal is tossing and turning. What does she have to do for a nice and comfortable bed? The life of an adventurer is fun and all but she would really appreciate a soft mattress that doesn’t smell of grass, dirt or whatever other surface she has use as a base. Homegirl’s used to the fineries of societies so the life on the road is not and will never be her comfort zone no matter how many times she’s in the situation. She’s used to it though and she likes this life so she’ll accept and embrace every part of it.

Your attention shifts to the human at the sound of moving covers and groans of discomfort trying to find a more suitable position to fall asleep in as you keep watch. With a huff Opal sits up scrunching and readjusting, more like beating her makeshift backpack pillow in annoyance. She tries it one more time, putting her head down but still she doesn’t deem it right. Another huff and she sits up meeting your eyes. You offer her a nod and she grumbles, gets up and places herself next to you.

Grabbing a stick on her way Opal prods at the fire, the flames responding in a small burst of embers but you’re in safe range. Opal relaxes a little having found company in you and something to focus on rather than wallow in annoyance. She doesn’t say anything but the half smile she offers you is enough to make you feel appreciated for just being there.

Opal returns her focus to the flames staring into them getting caught up in her own wandering mind you watch. You can’t help but notice how the flames enhance the opalescent… everything to her, through a beautiful glow. She looks like a living breathing jewel. Just simply breathtaking. Don’t get this wrong, Opal is pretty no matter what. This is simply another angle you had never seen before, the way the light of the fire hits her features just right and how the flames reflect in her eyes, the sparks of ember changing that flow every so often, she’s a true visage.

“Hey, Opal?” She looks at you. “I just wanted to say you look lovely.” Opal lights up at the compliment with a warmth akin to that of the fire in front of you both. She knows damn well she’s gorgeous and looks aren’t everything but that doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy the compliments you offer her. If anything, she really enjoys it coming from you and makes her feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“Why thank you. I have to say you look amazing yourself. What can I say, this light does great things for us gorgeous people.” There’s a hint of jest in her voice as she brushes a hand through her hair, pursing her lips with a wink. You hold back a laugh at the joking self-obsessed tone she uses.

“Even the light of a fire dulls in comparison by the shine of the Gem of Byroden.” You hold the back of your hand to your head as if you’re about to swoon. The gesture sends Opal into a muffled giggle fit as you quickly cover her mouth.

“Shhh. Let’s not wake the others.” You whisper. Opal pulls your hands away, checking over the others as she kisses your palms and making sure the others are still asleep. Luckily they are. Unsatisfied with just your hands to kiss she pulls you closer and kisses your lips instead silencing your surprised squeal.

#critical role x reader #critrole x reader #exu x reader #exandria unlimited x reader #dorian storm x reader #dorian x reader #dariax x reader #dariax zaveon x reader #opal x reader #critical role #exu #exandria unlimited

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moonlights-inkwell · 3 years

Text

I’m Weak, My Love (And I am Wanting)

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 5,525

Summary: After a night of drinking, you dance with a stranger. Jaskier is jealous. Jealous enough to do something extreme

A/N: Two Fics in one day? Who is she? I have no idea.

This fic is dumb and super unbeta’d but oh well, sorry for any bad writing and junk. I’ve mentioned Jaskier being jealous before and wanted to write something to go with it.

Title from Her Sweet Kiss.

Warnings: Public Sex, slight degradation, Reader is drunk, Jaskier is insecure.

You feel the eyes on you before you even really understand what they are, hairs on the back of your neck standing up on end. It’s distracting as all hell.

“Fuck!”

The word comes out loud and slurred as you stumble over your own feet mid-dance. You’re drunk, or if not drunk then tipsy enough to know that you soon will be- the feeling is more than welcome. Working, fighting as you have been, it leaves little time these sorts of festivities, the kind that reminds you of home. The rush from guzzling down tankard after tankard of sickly-sweet apple cider is unrivalled in its ability to make you feel girlish and giddy. And so, you’re dancing. Or were, as it may be, before you tripped.

Your compatriots don’t join you, but you rather expected that before abandoning the table. Geralt seldom allows himself to indulge in such luxuries- like smiling, or engaging in pleasantries, so you assume that dancing is far beyond his capabilities. He doesn’t even tap his foot when Jaskier performs catchy, often bawdy songs, in his honour, so this music, pretty but lacking in lyric or any type of familiarity is unlikely to rouse him to his feet. Besides, crowds are hardly something the White-haired man enjoys, standing out like a sore thumb amidst all of the mundane people of the village you’re staying in.

Jaskier, however, Jaskier staying at the table is a little odder. The bard adores crowds, feeds off of the energy that a group of people exudes and is able to talk to anyone, a trait you find intriguing and intimidating in equal measure, but he's sat. The tavern has a band of bards, all playing in unison to form something overwhelming and beautiful, so there is no chance for him to perform, to wink and sashay about while strumming his lute and lapping up attention. That had rather taken the wind out of his sails when he realised, souring his mood to a point where he isn’t even trying to dance with you. It had been upsetting at first, how he had essentially ignored you in favour of scowling and fingering the frets of his lute like the strings will make the other musicians disappear.

Ever since meeting the bard, you’ve thought him beautiful. Not beautiful, beautiful isn’t quite the right word. He's amazing. The kind of person for whom a natural sort of charm radiates from them, who would be attractive from personality alone, even if he wasn’t one of the most attractive men you have ever laid eyes upon. Ever since the two of you began... whatever it is the two of you have been doing, he's done his part to act as if you’re the only person in tge world to him, but right now? He only has eyes for the band. The coin that he could have earned would have been a godsend, but you don’t care about that right now, all you want is to dance with the bard. He's just. Sat there, scowling and sitting instead if dancing with you.

It’s such a simple thing to bring so much pleasure; dancing, especially when coupled with somewhere to do it, and this tavern certainly feels like an appropriate place for it. It’s heaving, overrun with people you assume must b locals, all laughing and chattering like they haven’t a care in the world. Perhaps they don’t, their only troubles coming in the form of what ale to drink and who they should dance with. You envy them that. Truly, you can’t remember a single one of your concerns from before you packed up and abandoned your life go travel with a wandering Witcher and his Bard. Logically, you know you must have had them, but not a single one is important enough to linger in your mind. Any domestic issue pales in comparison to fighting beasts, arguments about corsets and how near you may go to the woods forgotten in lieu of how best to fell a Wyvern or exactly where to hit any man who means to do you harm. It’s selfish to envy these people their lives when you know that you wouldn’t trade the life you have chosen for all the gold in the world. Mid-stumble, you catch yourself, and stand upright once more, bringing your tankard to your mouth and draining it before moving to place it on a table, only to fall over your feet once more, flinching for fear of impact with the ground. But it never comes, instead a pair of arms wind about your waist and tug you up to the body of one of the boys who had been dancing around you. He’s a pretty thing, a mop of blonde curls hanging about wide green eyes that stare at you like you’re a prize that’s fallen into his lap, and you grin up at him gratefully. It takes less than a second for him to tug you closer still and begin another dance, hand on your waist and the other gripping your hand; it’s nice, nice to feel wanted, even if it’s only for a night, a dance- there are worse ways to spend a night than hanging off the arm of some pretty stranger. Serves as a nice distraction from the bard as well. Well, it would be nice, if not for the feeling that you’re being watched, that has you craning your head to see who it is that is staring. Then, your eyes meet a gaze all too familiar.

Jaskier.

His eyes are narrowed into slits, brows knitted together and mouth downturns in a look that you don’t recognise on his face, but know all too well. A scowl. Jaskier doesn’t scowl, that’s a look used by Geralt or yourself, but right now he's scowling at you, glaring daggers into you and gripping the neck of his lute so tightly it looks as if it might break.

“Something wrong, Pretty Lady?” The blond asks playfully, making you turn your gaze away from the glowering man across the room to meet the eyes looking down at you.

“Oh. No. No, I just. Thought someone was looking at me.”

“The man in the red?” He asks, looking straight at Jaskier before chuckling, spinning you about and causing you to fall against his chest once more. “I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“What?” You ask incredulously, eyebrow raising. It's such a weird thing for him to say about a complete stranger, and you can’t really understand what he means. Jaskier is scowling, yes, but you assume it’s because you’re able to enjoy yourself while he cannot perform.

“He looks like he might murder me.” The boy tilts his head and leans his head in, mere centimetres from your face in such a way that has you thinking that he might kiss you. “Your husband?”

His question flusters you, only serving to make your cheeks flush bright red and a nervous laugh to escape your lips. Jaskier? A Husband? The idea of him being wed is so alien, even when applied to you. You spend too many nights with him curled about you, but you aren’t even courting, never mind being anywhere close to marriage.

“No!” You say the word a little too forcefully, and your dancing partner grins. “We're traveling partners, he is not my husband.” You don’t know what you are. You kiss, settle in his arms like it’s where you belong, spend far too many nights with him bucking up into you and swallowing down your moans, but you aren’t courting. He isn’t your gentleman caller. Your lover, yes, your friend, always, but you have no clue how to articulate that to this stranger, and so don't.

“The look on his face has me thinking he might wish to be more than traveling partners, Pretty Lady.” He says teasingly, lips brushing against your own with each word. You are more than that, but the alcohol has you tongue tied. You want to kiss this stranger. Well, that’s not entirely true, you want to be dancing with Jaskier and to drag him down into a kiss, to lean in and close the gaps between your lips, but you'll settle for trying to forget the man behind you who cares far more about music than spending time with you. He seems to have the same thought as you seeing as he kisses you suddenly.

Its soft, sweet, but... felt like nothing. It’s just skin on skin, no different from how his hand on yours feels, and you can’t help but feel disappointed. You’ve only ever kissed one man before, never felt a need or want to either, only ever really wanted a bard who is too tied up in himself currently to kiss you, but every kiss with Jaskier is a world stilling experience, the sort people write songs and poetry about and this feels like absolutely nothing at all. No sudden surge of desire, no need to fling your arms about him, no want for anything at all. It’s deeply disappointing to say the least; like something inside of you is broken, or at least dampened by the alcohol raging through your system. The man kissing you, however, seems to feel something if the quiet moan he lets out is anything to go by, and pulls you closer, but you remain still. You can’t bring yourself to kiss him back, so instead just stand there stock still. Well, stood stock still until you feel a hand firmly grasp your wrist and tug. Hard. The pull sends you stumbling blindly backward, barely able to realise what is going on when you see Jaskier pushing the blond man backwards.

“Get your bloody hands off of her!” He says, words dripping with poison, audible above the music. The people dancing around you stop their movements and stare at what is going on, at the Bard standing in front of you like a guard dog.

Your dancing partner opens his mouth to argue while surging toward Jaskier who clenches his fists into balls, but stops when you quickly say Jaskier's name. This is the closest you have ever seen him to a fight, watching hands that daily cradle a lute clenched to punch someone is so unnatural.

It’s embarrassing, to say the least, to be gawked at by such strangers and turned into a spectacle, and so you reach out to the bard, hand brushing against his back.

“Jask-” You begin, and he turns to you quickly, eyes initially full of anger, but softening slightly when they meet your own; his hand flies out once more and grabs your arm, painfully tight.

“Come on, Little Miss,” He says coldly, walking towards the door to the pub and dragging you along behind him. You drag along behind him, and hear the music start up once more, making you scowl at the prospect of missing out on dancing. There goes the chance at nostalgic bliss you had been enjoying. You’re in the street before you really know what is going on, and Jaskier curses under his breath into the darkness of the evening.

“Shit. Where is the fucking inn...?” He mutters, craning his head about to try and get his barings once more. This isn’t where you recall entering, and assume that you must have left through a side entrance, you’re in some side alley, not the main street. The iron grip on your arm is growing painful and you try to pull it free, Jaskier's grip doesn’t falter. The air is uncomfortably cold, especially against your warm cheeks, and standing like this is doing little to warm you.

He’s trying to work out where you go from here, and you’re wondering the exact same thing; just not about how to get back to the inn. He’s gripping you like he wants to bruise you, wants to leave his mark on you and you don’t know what there is you can say to make his jaw unclench or his hands soften. There are no words. Though you aren’t courting, it’s been quite implicit between the two of you that whatever it is you have, it’s exclusive; he and you are not to be... toying about with other people. You don’t flirt with men hoping for free drinks or cheaper rooms anymore, Jaskier doesn’t bed or even flirt with other women, and between the two of you? You fell at the first hurdle, he has remained loyal to whatever this is, and you let some stranger kiss you. Famous flirt and serial seducer, Jaskier, has not tried to romance anyone but you but with a little ale in you and the high of dancing rushing through you, you let a stranger kiss you; not just kiss you, but kiss you in front of Jaskier. There’s nothing you can say that will change that.

“I’m weak, my love, and I am Wanting.” The lyrics come from your mouth unconsciously. You don’t sing, it’s not something that comes readily to you, but with the ale and discomfort around you, it’s a that you can think to do. Singing is Jaskier's skill, and while drunk you can hardly carry a tune, but you simply need to fill the silence and a song will do. His song too. It feels like an insult, but he turns to you with a smile- all teeth and gums. Like a wolf, a beast, and it’s exciting. Jaskier doesn’t look like a beast, he’s all sweetness and light but given what he’s seen, you suppose it makes sense. You blink slowly at him, and feel him tug you toward him once more, body making contact with his chest and driving all of the air from your lungs.

“What the bloody hell was that all about?” You ask, a little more harshly than you expected it to come out. “I was having a good time-”

“A good time? Is that what you call letting a little toad like him near you?” He seethes, towering over you in such a way as to make sure you must look up at him. You feel like a child being chided, not someone talking to a man who had until this night been seen as your equal.

“We were only dancing, Jaskier. I fail to see how he was taking advantage of me by dancing. You and Geralt were hardly going to stop your brooding and be my partner.” You try to argue, but your words come out stilted and unnatural. Arguing with him isn’t natural: Geralt you can argue with until blue in the face, everything said is forgotten within an hour or so, but Jaskier? He remembers everything, pulls it out at a second’s notice and is a wordsmith. He knows how to build up or tear someone down with nothing more than his words, and well at that. Your argument is childish and nonsensical too- acting as if you were only dancing is an obvious lie. You know what happened, he knows what happened. You cannot deny what he's seen with his own eyes and to try is to insult his intelligence.

He pushes you, and the rough brick of the inn presses into your back, rough and painful enough to warrant a noise of complaint, which dies on your tongue when Jaskier's hands bracket you in place. You let out a gasp, from the sharp pain of the bricks and the fact that he's pushed you and is so near. With him so close, you can smell ale on his breath that you hadn’t seen him drink. Is that your breath? The proximity of your lover so close combined with the alcohol has your head spinning in a way that makes you worry you might just sink to your knees. He looks beautiful. He always does, but somehow, now with chestnut locks falling into his eyes and glaring at you in a manner that is just on the right side of feral, he has your knees shaking. You've never been attracted to dangerous men, but in this moment, with him having all but punched a man over you, you understand how so many women can fall over themselves for men like Geralt.

“You weren’t just dancing, were you, Little Miss?” He growls, leaning in until his face is but a centimetre away from your own. “You let him kiss you.”

“He kissed me.” You attempt to correct him before realising you've basically said the exact same thing he did. Jaskier growls at that, and slams his mouth into yours. It hurts a little, his kiss pushing your head back into the hard wall, mouth working harshly against your own and tongue prying its way into your mouth, world’s away from his usual way of kissing- all sweetness and light replaced by something darker. Almost possessive. You try to move your hands up to grip the satin front of his doublet only to have them pinned to the wall at either side of your chest. His lips leave your own to move down to the column of your throat, not quite kissing but more nipping at the skin.

“You let him kiss you.” He says darkly against the skin, warm breath fanning against cold skin to make you shiver.

“I didn’t kiss him-"

“You didn’t stop him either.” The words are almost a snarl, and your heart all but stills in your chest.

“I didn’t know how! And I didn’t kiss him back, Jaskier, we both know I wouldn't...”

“I don’t believe in sharing.” Funny statement. He’s made a name for himself by bedding married women, but the woman he isn’t courting being kissed is somehow a punishable offence? What’s the difference, you ask yourself, while his lips ghost across your neck, how is some man kissing you any different from what he used to do? Teeth graze sensitive skin and you bite back a moan when a thought enters your mind. Those women weren’t his. They were another man's wife, not someone he shares a bed with, spends his days beside. He hasn’t ever needed to concern himself with the aftermath of adultery, save for running from nobles- never been jealous of who looks at a woman that he cares for.

At once, everything falls into place. All night makes so much more sense, how he had tried to keep a grip on your hand as you slipped from his grasp to the bar, never to return as you joined the fold to dance, the constant watching, the scowling at your dancing partner. No sign of his usual animated chatter, no annoying Geralt, just watching. Unending watching. He wasn’t angry about the other musicians. No, no, it was something completely different all together.

“Are. Are you jealous?” You stammer out which only makes the Bard growl and all but bite your neck, sucking on the skin in such a way that has you certain that there will be a bruise there in the morning. A strange concept indeed. Jaskier is all lover and no fighter, so the thought of him bruising your skin even through kisses is something else.

“Am I jealous of some ugly prick?” He raises an eyebrow and slowly raises to his full height once more, his knee slotting between your thighs and grinding oh so slowly against your sex. “No. What I am, is fucking angry. That some bastard is touching My Little Miss, that you would let him-"

“Y-Yours?” You stammer out as the meat oh his thigh rubs against your clitoris.

“I spend my days singing to you.” He nips at your neck. “My evenings holding you.” He laps at the bite with the flat of his tongue. “My nights fucking you.” His hands release your wrists, one moving up to grope your chest while the other moves down to tug your skirts up past your waist and slides into your undergarments to press the tips of his fingers to your sensitive pearl, letting out a ghost of a laugh upon feeling your fluids covering his digits. “I kiss you; I sleep with you, I live and breathe you and use my mouth on you until you can't even breathe. I think that rather makes you mine.”

He says it in a manner that is so matter of fact that it makes your head spin. His. Logically, you know you should be angry at him for being possessive- you aren’t his partner, not his wife, not anything more than a bed partner- but the way he says it has you dripping, walls clenching around nothing at all while his leg grinds against your cunt. His. It leaves no room for argument or discussion, just a claim of ownership that can’t be disputed, not that you would if your traitorous mouth would allow you to form words. You like that, as much as you know you shouldn’t. It makes you sound like a pet or some kept whore, and the affectation in his voice only serves to remind you that he must be some rich cunt and you should slap him for implying he could ever own you, but really, all you want is for him to breach you with his calloused fingers, make your thighs quake. To be owned by him, at least right now, sounds perfect- to be filled with him until you know nothing but his name and how his cock feels within you.

“You're soaking.” He mutters, dragging his nose against your skin. “Is this for me? Or that prick?” He sounds so smug, but there's an undercurrent of anger running under his playful tone.

“Please... Please.” You whine out, biting your bottom lip so hard you taste blood. He chuckles, fingers deftly circling your clit without ever moving further.

“Please what, Little Miss?” He asks, his smile all teeth. “Please...? Please stop touching you? Please let you go and be touched by that disgusting little-"

“Finger me.” You cut him off earnestly, back arching off of the wall and pressing your chest into his. Melitele, it’s sad how wanton you’re acting, begging to be touched in a place where anyone could walk past the two of you. Quiet is needed, discretion to keep prying eyes away, but you don’t care who hears you as long as he stops playing these games and does what you both want him to do.

“Me or-"

“Gods above Jaskier, please. Please, Jaskier.”

He smirks at that, and you force yourself forward to slam your mouth against his. The vibration against your lips lets you know he has more to say; always has more to say, is never silent. Normally, his voice is something you revel in; how it manages to make even the most mundane thing sound melodic, but if kissing him will keep him from talking more about the man inside then you can deal with him not speaking. Thankfully, though, he ceases his circling to instead push what feels like two fingers into you and your eyes water at the sudden movement. It’s not the first time he’s done this but it is the first time he’s done it with such intensity, thrusting his fingers with such force you're almost afraid it might bruise your cunt, the worry is short lived when the pleasure of it hits you all at once. He’s good with his hands, you’re reminded when you notice the neck of his lute bobbing with each movement of his arm. Musicians’ fingers, calloused from the fruits of his art and not labour, play you like he plays his lute and you bite down on your bottom lip to keep from making a sound, just to spite him. He loves it when you make noise, said once that it makes him sure that he's actually pleasing you, and it’s normally a sign that you two can afford the privacy to be so- there is no privacy here, in an alley outside of a busy tavern where one loud moan could alert anyone of what the two of you were doing. It’s embarrassing how much the proximity makes you want to moan, and almost definitely why he's doing this here. Wants everyone inside, but mostly the blond man, to know how little it takes for you to fall apart for him. That travelling partner definitely isn’t the right term for what he is to you, even if you don’t know what the right words to describe him are.

“Come now, Little Miss.” He coos quietly, fingers on the hand not currently working you into a stupor tracing the visible edges of your teeth. “Sing for me.” His face shifts to your neck and presses a soft kiss to it, before nipping at it, nipping turning to biting and sucking as soon as it had started. His fingers gather more momentum when a third breeches into you and then crooks into a spot that has you seeing stars. A noise that verges on a scream, masked by a sudden burst of loud music and cheering within the pub, escapes you which makes Jaskier grin and peck your lips before retracting his fingers all together.

“Jaskier-" You hiss, eyes narrowed to slits, but stop when he drags your hand to his trousers and places it on top of his cock. The dark had done enough to conceal it from you, but with it beneath your hand you can feel it, hard and throbbing beneath the fancy fabric. It’s good to know that, jealousy aside, he isn’t angry enough to not want you. Dark lashes brush against his cheekbones and his head slumps to the wall beside your head as soon as you touch him, letting out a wanton little moan. “Oh Jask.” Your voice turns tender and your grip on his member tightens as much as it can through his pants and you work it up and down the shaft, feeling how it twitches with every movement of your wrist. The first time this had ever happened, both of you drunk on ale that tasted like piss and hidden away in some cupboard in an inn, he had chuckled at how gentle your touch had been, going so far as to grab your wrist to guide your movements into something more pleasurable: but now he chokes out a moan of something that sounds like your name, hips stuttering in staccato thrusts to chase your hand. You drop your grip of him after a pump or two more, turning your head to press a gentle kiss to the exposed underside of his jaw. It’s little by means of an apology, but you see his lips turn up in a smile while he heaves out a sigh, hands sliding down to his trousers and unlacing them at a speed that reminds you of his strumming.

“Part your legs.” It’s spoken like a request, but you know it’s a demand and even if it wasn't, there was no way you could deny him. With an awkward sort of shuffle, you push your undergarments down to step out of them best that you can before leaning back against the wall and letting your legs part. The skirts still cover you, but you feel so exposed like this. In the near pitch, you can hardly make out anything save for how his arms move to shove his trousers down. Darkness hides too much, you think, as you can’t even make out how his member even looks in this light, but Melitele you feel it against your thigh when he steps closer to you. A cold hand slides your skirt up once more and Jaskier steps between your legs, holding onto your thigh and guiding it onto his hip.

“Can I-"

“Fuck me, Jaskier, or I shall scream.”

The moan that escapes your lips is louder than you would like, but he chuckles and it’s enough to make your heart swell: lips landing on your and moving gently against them as he thrusts into you. He's big, big enough to make your cunt feel full to bursting point each time he enters you, and you can’t help but make noises when he does.

“There we go, Darling.” He murmurs against your mouth, making you wonder how he can string together a coherent sentence in moments like this. “Gods, you’re so tight.”

Thrusts grow faster and with each movement your moans grow louder even against his lips, you can feel them curl around yours. He tugs back from you after a little while and rests his forehead against the wall, breathing heavily.

“You’re so good to me, Little Miss.” He breathes, grip turning to iron on your thigh. “You’re... perfect. My Little Miss.” He speaks so much that his words feel so much more natural than silence, more natural than anything in the world; bird songs, trickling streams, Jaskier’s words. “You’re beautiful, and he wants you... everyone wants you. I can’t lose you...”

“...You know I want you, don’t you?” You ask, voice cracking. The noise that he makes is somewhere between a moan and a sob, breathing shakily against the skin of your throat. “I can't imagine being without you, Dandelion. You... You have no need to be jealous of some stranger who tries to kiss me.” He whimpers, hips stuttering. He's close, far closer than you, but in this moment, you don't care at all. This isn’t about you. This is about him, and letting him know how much you care. Care in such a way that words alone will never be able to express.

“You want me now.” He sighs, thrusts slowing and hand moving to rub your clit once more. “I know that. But you'll change your mind, Little Miss. Everyone does. I ought to savour the time we have...” He thrusts hard at the word savour, and you see white as his cock head hits that spot deep within that makes you weak. “But I know you’ll soon change your mind.”

Oh. That, that was not what you anticipated at all- you had expected some sort of talk about how he wants you too, but this self-depreciation is new. Jaskier is always so confident and this is alien to you. There isn’t a time you know when he isn’t self-aggrandizing, preening and strutting like some fancy song bird, all too aware of how wonderful he is.

“I'll always want you.” You whisper and his head rises from the wall once more and instead rests his forehead against yours. “You. Just you. Wonderful, amazing you.” You mean it too. He'll probably believe it to be drunken ramblings come morning, but you mean every word. You love him, love him, love him.

You love him. Have for far too long, really, far longer than is right to go without saying. It’s impossible not to love him, he’s a breath of fresh air, a beacon of light in a doublet, a lullaby you didn’t know you had forgotten, nostalgia for a life you've never known before. Jaskier. Wonderful, foolish Jaskier, who sings away each day and talks to you like he cannot imagine speaking to another soul, and does his best to stitch up your wounds while chiding you about how you worry him so. Jaskier, who has carried you on his back when he thinks you're limping behind, and sleeps with his arms wound around you and head burrowed between your shoulder blades. You love Jaskier. The thought overwhelms you, and you have to bite back the words to keep them from coming out. You seek his lips out once more, kissing him chastely.

“I'll always want you too, Little Miss.” He admits, he thrusts hard into that spot and presses on your clit and your vision blurs as you moan so loudly your voice cracks, pleasure overtaking you and ensuring you can’t feel anything but pleasure and the rush of his seed flooding into you.

“I mean it, you know.” You say when the world settles once more, Jaskier pulling himself free of you and tucking himself back into his trousers. “About wanting you, I mean.” I mean it. I shall want you till the day I die, till each star burns out and the nights no longer follow the day, till spring doesn’t come. I want every part, every facet and secret, every regret and mistake and treasured memory- and to make a million more. I want to show you each scar and hear every song. I love you. I have never loved anyone as I love you, I will never again love as I have loved you. You make a poet out of me, steal my senses, my very soul; and I want you to keep them until the day you are no longer mine to keep, and then keep them a thousand days beyond so I cannot feel your absence. I love you. I want you.

“You mean it now, Little Miss.” He says simply, hand taking yours. “Now is enough.” He continues and squeezes your hand.

Now is enough, you think, but forever is all you want.

#jaskier x reader #jaskier imagine #jaskier smut #jaskier x y/n #jaskier x you

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thesleepy1 · 4 years

Text

Death’s Imminent Door

A/N: I need more Eskel fics. That’s all. Also, writing prompt from @whumpster-dumpster “Kiss with bruised lips”. There was also, “Dying breath kiss,” and, “Kiss with trembling lips,” but I thought we’ll go for something more light hearted today. I thought, but let this be a warning that I’m not good at fluff. Unbeta’d as always.

Pairings: Eskel x Reader

Summary: You’re injured in a fight defending Eskel’s honor.

Word count: 1651

Warnings: Violence, blood, injury, language, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, suggestive language, whump,

To be fair you shouldn’t have even been there. Eskel had long retired for the night and was peacefully sleeping in the room upstairs. You on the other hand wanted another drink. That was a mistake.

Everything was fine for the most part. You enjoyed a tankard, a drop of ale sliding down the corner of your mouth. There was a bard, not Geralt’s, singing in the tavern. Some song about sleeping with a goat or some sort of lucid dream the man had. You weren’t sure and at the time you didn’t really care.

“Just like that witcher!”

You sobered instantly at the mention of your partner in hand and trail. “What did you just say?!” you slurred, slamming your almost empty tankard down. A tremble shot up your arm but you shook it off, standing as tall as your drunk self could allow. “Say that to my face, bastard!”

“Oh it’s the witcher’s bed warmer.”

“With a dick as big as his, gladly!” You took large strides to the equally drunk man who had dared to taint Eskel’s honor. To your surprise he was the same height and of a smaller build. All talk and no bite. This fight will be easy...unfortunately for you, it was not.

“Oh, so you admit you spread your legs for that goat fucker!” the man yelled, spit flying out of his mouth. He stank of ale and week old hay, likely a local stable man.

“At least he’s not the one letting the horses outside fuck his ass open,” you shot back, an audience growing. The bard was strumming a tone played at debates and tense scenes in plays. He would have gotten on your nerves if you weren’t focused at the scum of the continent in front of you.

“What did you just call me?”

“Sorry, do you still have horse cu-”

Before you knew it a fist came in harsh contact with the side of your face. Too drunk to stay afoot you fall back onto the table behind you. A couple enjoying their date lept in surprise at your semi conscious figure on their dinner.

“Too busy getting fucked to learn how to fight?”

“No,” you stumbled out, standing on wobbling feet. “Just too busy riding your h-” Another punch came your way but this time you blocked it, twisting his arms and slamming his body on the floor. He groaned and choked out a sob, grabbing onto your unsteady leg. Pulling it forward he brought you down onto the floor with him.

Out of the corner of your eye as you fell, a barmaid scurries upstairs to where Eskel rests. “Already cheating on that witcher with the pretty barmaid?” the man brought your attention back to himself.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you roll yourself on top of him, straddling his torso and sending fist after fist to his face. Your knuckles were bleeding and he was screaming, bloodied face such a beautiful sight. It was a joy before someone roughly pulled you off of him.

“Get off of him, you bastard!” a different barmaid shouted, tugging at your arms and for some reason your clothes.

“Hold the fucker down,” the man on the floor ordered, slowly pulling himself together with whimpers. Blood was trickling down his neck and his clean shirt was red with it all. You couldn’t help but smirk at your handiwork.

“What are you smirking at?”

“I saw a big stallion in the stable earlier. You were brushing his coat awfully well. One could only think why-”

With the new barmaid holding you down and the man on his feet you really should’ve shut up but you couldn’t help it. His fists were smaller than yours but packed the same amount of force. While you enjoyed watching as blood coated his face, smiling even. He was getting angrier and angrier. Each punch was worse than the one before and that was prior to when he brought his booted foot into the mix.

Your groans began to fill the tavern but were mostly drowned out by the cheers of the crowd. The bard began a quicker tune, leaping up onto a table to dance. He twirled and sang like you weren’t being beaten to a pulp. The couple whose date you ruined joined the man in the fun, trading hits and cheers.

The ale in your system helped with most of the pain but you could feel your body going slack. Unconsciousness was edging it’s way into your mind. Sleep seemed like a blissful option in comparison to the beating, but waking up wasn’t guaranteed.

Oh wouldn’t that be a sight, Eskel waking up to take a new contract the next town over only to see your unmoving husk of a form on the floor. Dried blood coating your barely recognizable face, your clothes torn and ripped from your still body. You weren’t sure what the barmaid wanted with your clothes but she would probably take them off if given the chance.

He would be angry, livid really. Sobbing in the dead of night where no one could judge him. The two of you weren’t the type to constantly tell each other you loved them throughout the day. You showed that with actions. Helping him sharpen his swords, setting up camp, defending his honor in a bar fight.

Unable to bear to see his grief stricken face, you hesitantly opened your eyes. They were swollen, that was obvious even without a mirror. And the rest of you wasn’t fairing all that well either, but you were alive. That was something to be proud of.

“Oh look, the bed warmer is awake,” the man taunted, taking your tankard and pouring what remained over your head. The ale against your open wounds stung and you gasped, biting your tongue to suppress a scream.

“What are you stopping for? I want to mark up this pretty skin,” the barmaid snarled behind you with a grin. The tavern suddenly grew quiet. Even the bard stopped playing, stepping down from the table, his eyes never left what was behind you.

Your movement was limited but you managed to look over your shoulder. Eskel in all of his shirtless, disheveled glory was at the foot of the stairs, a glare and the remanence of potions evident on his face. His eyes were a dulling dark gray, the black veins faded but still present. Gods and whoever was listening you wanted him to stare you down as he took you against the wall. Unrelenting in his haste to finish and rough with need.

“Lovely evening isn’t it, love,” you greeted nonchalantly, unable to feel your legs.

“Care to tell me what happened?” Eskel asked in fake calmness. You have been with him long enough to know when he was seconds from stabbing the nearest person in the heart.

“Oh nothing much, love. Just some imbecile, horse fucker, baby killing, grime under my foot, bastard decided it was wise to call you some ill choice words in my presence,” you explained, your eyes drooping in an attempt to stay awake. You were alive, you told yourself. Eskel will be fine. You will be fine. Just a night’s rest and you will be as good as new the next morning.

“Would you like to tell me who?” his dark gaze swept across the room. Everyone was frozen in their place, smart enough to know when they were at death’s imminent door.

“Just her, him, and those two,” you gestured with your eyes but was unsure how much Eskel was able to catch. He could always smell the blood from their bleeding knuckles, so really you had no need to keep your eyes open. “That annoying bard had something to do with it but I can’t remember.”

You didn’t have the energy to keep your head on your neck and just let it fall. The barmaid dropped you immediately, but Eskel was quick enough to catch you. He grabbed onto you, his grip a little too tight in sensitive areas but he lightened his hands when he noticed the spike in your heart beat. A growl was building deep within his chest from the sight of your injured form.

“I recommend you run while you can,” Eskel spoke to the people in the tavern, already having memorized the faces and scents of the people you pointed out. He’ll give them mercy, a night before he ripped their spines from their backs and their egos from their groins.

“Can you stay awake for me, darling?” Eksel whispered to you, his arms underneath your legs and chest.

“Only If you’ll have me against the wall,” you mumbled, barely able to sense what was happening. Before you knew it you were in the inn room, a still warm bed underneath your aching body.

“Just open your eyes for me, darling,” Eskel forced out a timid chuckle. An ache grew from your chest, and not due to the beating. Your poor witcher was afraid you wouldn’t wake up when the sun came up. He had nothing to worry about. You could still feel the upper half of your body. That was something.

“Can’t get enough of my beautiful orbs?” you joked, your voice much weaker than you realized. Some job you did reassuring him, he sounded like he was about to cry.

“Never enough.” He planted a soft kiss onto your bruised lips. So caring in your injury, he made sure to not apply too much pressure onto the wounds.

Before you woke the next day, because you did, although a bit late into the noon, Eskel had gone out to hunt. Not for food, oh no. For sport.

Five bodies laid in the stables for the stable boy to see; the stable man, a couple, a barmaid and a bard with the neck of his gittern through his own neck.

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