#my hatred for this company continues to grow by the fucking second

[wishfuldivine]

Okay, I was strolling through my Twitter to find this? WHAT THE FUCK IS EVEN THIS? YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT THIS ISN'T ANY RACISM AT THIS POINT? REALLY? YOU INCLUDE MOST OF 141 AND LEAVE ONE IMPORTANT MEMBER OUT? THE ONE WHO IS THE FIRST CHOICE WHEN 141 WAS CREATED? THE ONE WHO IS THE MOST LEVEL-HEADED AND ONLY ONE TO GIVE VOICE OF REASON TO PRICE? IM FUCKING TIRED. ITS GETTING RIDICULOUS!

Not only is it racism, but it's like they're trying to go for the erasure of Gaz and Elliot Knight. It's genuinely fucking annoying and too much.

#kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #john price #task force 141 #task force #call of duty #cod #call of duty modern warfare #unbelievable #fuck you activision #my hatred for this company continues to grow by the fucking second

[plush-rabbit]

Yandere Bakugou Headcanons

Request: Hi Plush-sama! Whenever you find the time to do it, could I request a soft yandere Bakugou and female darling with a hummingbird quirk? Like, her arms are a mishmash of human and hummingbird wings and she’s got those pretty bluish-green and purple feathers that spread down over her back and shoulders, and Bakugou just adores making her wear lots of really revealing lingerie for him despite knowing how uncomfortable it makes her?

A/N: Plush-sama- I- Im gonna scream into my pillow, i love the term. Darling is just the cutest term too!! I hope you don’t mind headcanons!!

Under the cut

-

Katsuki isn’t the best at caring for you, but he can surely put up the act. His hands will clasp around your shoulders, and he’ll pull you close, his lips pressed against the side of your head as he joins in whatever you were doing. With his hands clasped around your shoulders, he’ll give you slight hints that it’s time to finish up whatever you were doing- his hands will tighten, a bit of his palm will swipe against your bare skin and there’s the faintest smidge of sweat that rubs against you. He knows who he is, he knows how much power words hold and he’s very capable at using words against you. However, he’s your hero and he’s your partner. He wouldn’t make you work for a second of the day, he’ll treat you as this prized possession that has to remain as soft as possible.

You have a beautiful quirk and while it may be pretty to look at- it isn’t much. Your wings are brittle compared to his strong hands. He’ll pluck a feather, raise it above his head and peer at it as the light creates a halo around it. To put it simply; you’re pretty to look at. There’s no reason for you to be so ashamed of how you look. He walks with confidence, oozes it at his very words and thrives in his setting. There’s no reason you shouldn’t feel the same way either. He’ll dress you, have you wear revealing clothing that tightens around your curves, a deep cut in the chest area, your clothes short enough that if you were to bend, the crease of your plump bum would be exposed.

If you really were to be against it, he’ll sneer at you. How could you be against a way to help you increase your confidence? Do you really not like what he buys you? Do the gifts that he gets for you really cause you such hatred that you would practically spit at him? He’s not one for any physical violence against you, but he’ll intimidate you. He’ll walk towards you until you’re against a wall, your wing clutched in his hand, and his eyes leveled with yours. His breath is hot, the hand on your wing tightening and when he pulls his hand away, feathers are fisted in his palm. You don’t have to wear the clothes he gets you, but you should at least wear the lingerie he does get you. After all, why would you have such a problem with that considering he’s the only one that can see you in such a promiscuous way. That night, he’ll hold you and he’ll tell you how bad you made him feel. You should know by now that you’re the first person he’s ever truly cared for.

Now, if you truly don’t want to wear the things that he gets for you and you aren’t intimate by his means, well, the only thing he can offer is that you leave him. He’ll scream at first, make you scared and even tear up a bit and then he’ll fall silent, throwing your clothes into a suitcase and telling you to leave. You have to return your credit card however, considering it’s a shared bank account. And you’ll have to return your phone considering it’s one that he had lent you. You’re free to leave with the clothes on your back and the few in your suitcase. He just hopes that you can handle the walk to the nearest thing that’s affordable seeing as he won’t call you a taxi. Surely, you can handle living on the streets. But of course you can’t. Despite how forceful he can be, he’s given you a nice life. He’s taken care of you and pampered you. You’d have to beg on your knees that you won’t pull any stunt like that again, bowing before him and promising that you won’t complain about the outfits he’s gifted to you.

To call him possessive, feels off. It’s not that he doesn’t want you around anyone, it’s just that he has to choose who you hang around with. Even then, it isn’t enough. He trusts those close to him and he knows that the last thing they’ll do is steal you away from him, but he can’t help but leave his mark over your body. It starts off small- bites here and there that mark against your thigh, bruised skin from his kisses or even just a bracelet with his initials. However, he grows more sadistic over the course of the relationship. There are few scars that litter your body, a pale color compared to your skin of where his sparks had touched and they disappear relatively enough but then it moves to marking you in areas that are clear for others to see. It isn’t until he brings out a collar that his exhibitonist is starting to show.

Everything with him starts off small. He’s smart in that way, to slowly push you into his life, to let you believe that you have autonomy over your life. But like everything else in the relationship, he wants more. He’ll hold you a bit too close in public, let his hands cup under a breast and slowly slide up, not daring to break his smile. His hand will slide down to your bum, slipping past the thin fabric that he made you wear and tease at your hole in a crowded train. He’ll shove you off to the side, press you against a wall and fondle you for a bit, his thumb in your mouth to quiet your sounds. He’ll have you suck on his cock in the elevator, telling you to hurry up before someone catches you. His hands are rough as pulls you aside before an interview and bends you over in his dressing room.

Sex isn’t contained in the just the bedroom, and while you two are having sex, he’ll neglect to tell you that company is coming over. He’ll purposely forget to mention that guests are coming until they’re knocking at the door while his cock is filling your hole. He’s nice to let you go without finishing himself, but that also means that you haven’t finished and now you’re flustered and a bit frustrated with pent up energy. The clothes that he lays on the bed for you will be those that he has chosen. He’ll have you seve his friends as you dress in something short, the only front cover that you have is a frilly apron that clings tight to your waist. A part of him thrives at how the eyes of his friends will wander to your chest or how your thighs pinch together when he has you sit on his lap.

If you were busy doing anything other than him, then he has you continue doing what you were doing without going to change your clothing. He wants to show you off to have his friends see your beautiful wings and how they shine under natural light and how far they seem to grow on your back, the way that the feathers begin to thin out the further down they get on your back. He displays you like a trophy, pulling you close to him and having you turn around, encouraging the others to touch your back. He wants them to see what he has.

While he does like to risk things, he’s also one to push it to the limits. He’ll leave your underwear that’s damp with arousal under the couch, or stuffed in a drawer that’s regularly used. Katsuki wants the others to know that without a doubt, you’re just as perverted as him. He wants for the others to see your dripping arousal darken the seats, to question if they really did hear your moans or not. If your beloved partner is even feeling a bit more risky, he’ll make sure that you wear something black, something where his semen will stand out.

Embarrassment is something that he doesn’t have, it’s all on you. You hide your wings and it’s so easy to exploit your insecurities and fears. You don’t want people to see you in such small clothing, to touch your body and see every bit of your skin. If he has people staying over at his home, he’s going to use that to his advantage. He’ll play a movie, pull you close and rest under a shared blanket as his fingers work their way in and out of your leaking hole. He’ll pull you into the kitchen while the others rest in the living room and proceed to fuck you there, telling you to keep quiet unless you want the others to see. If you catch him in a particularly heavy mood, he’ll even fuck you in the living room where the others sleep just inches away, have you ride his cock as he removes your shirt and stuffs it into your mouth.

#bnha #bnha imagines #bnha headcanons #bakugo katsuki headcanons #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo imagine #katsuki bakugō #dynamight x reader #bnha dynamight #dynamight headcanons #bnha dynamight x reader #hope you like it #i have a thing for like vouyerism #slash exhibionist #i cant spell

[finleycannotdraw]

Guess what? I’m re-binge-reading Good Omens. And here are some Obervations that I forgot about and some things I might put in fics. Also things I found funny. Basically my dumb commentary on the book.

Crowley actually flees Sister Mary. He doesn’t saunter vaguely away. He flees.

Ligur is rather more thoughtful than he’s portrayed in the show

Anathema likes to read about herself, and her teachers are confused because she spells words like Agnes Nutter

Crowley apologizes

By page 41, it is mentioned at least twice that Aziraphale and Crowley Do Not choose each other’s company for any reason other than that they are constants, that they have an Arrangement, and that they are Friends because being Enemies got boring.

Aziraphale blushes!!!!!!

The Drunk Scene is fuckin hilarious and it’s actually a lot longer than it is in the show, and really you ought to read it. (Book pages 47-50)

My mom (who has a PhD in human development) would probably like to talk to Crowley about upbringing because they seem to agree on how important it is

War has always looked 25, and had a vulture that died of fatty degeneration

Pollution is very cleverly compared to actual pollution

Warlock has Kermit the frog overalls, and Nanny Ashtoreth is described as someone who “advertises unspecified but strangely explicit services in certain magazines”. The tutors are present for about four paragraphs. Warlock is good at math and likes banana flavored bubblegum.

Crowley has a slice of angel cake. Aziraphale eats it. Aziraphale also eats deviled eggs. Hm.

Crowley calls Aziraphale angel casually enough to suggest he’s been doing it for a long time

Some girl at Warlock’s party calls Aziraphale a f*ggot

Crowley glares suspiciously at a gerbil. It is suggested that Hell has, in the past, sent hell-gerbils in place of hellhounds.

“Oh dear,” muttered Aziraphale, not swearing with the practiced ease of one who has spent six thousand years not swearing, and who wasn’t going to start now.

Adam and his friends play in a place called The Pit, where shopping carts go to die, apparently

Crowley is the first one to mention sides in the book!??!? Also Crowley goes on about how humans are more evil than Hell (but he calls himself evil—is he calling himself human already?)

Aziraphale yells “get off the road, you clown!”

“What’s a velvet underground?” *love confession???* “you wouldn’t like it”

Aziraphale is a bit rude to Crowley in the “flashes of love” scene and Crowley is less panicked about it

Crowley glares at the Bentley and it fixes itself

Anathema’s bike is called Phaeton

COULD THEY ACT ANY MORE MARRIED OH MY GOD

Aziraphale speaks like. Like ugh. “FlOUndeR on tHe rOcKS of inEquiTY”

“Thirty seconds later someone shot both of them. With incredible accuracy.” *cuts to a random pleasant story about Mary Hodges* *cuts back to where Aziraphale has fallen into a rhododendron and Crowley licks the paint before he knows it’s paint* dumbasses

Crowley does not slam Aziraphale into the wall

Crowley is actually pretty impatient and doesn’t argue with Aziraphale when he’s worried

“Nothing but dust and fundamentalists” “that was nasty” “sorry, couldn’t help it”

When the radio sings “Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me,” Crowley sings “for me” and then screams

Crowley asks Aziraphale if he’ll keep in touch, and Aziraphale doesn’t say tickety-boo, and then Crowley says “right” and feels very alone

the international express man is small and has glasses, and wears green woolen socks

The sword, which turns out to be Aziraphale’s, is described as having an aura of hatred and menace, which makes me think of how it could’ve gotten that aura from Heaven or from humanity or from War...

In the book Pepper has red hair and freckles, which makes it a cool comparison to War’s appearance and the defeat of War

Adam is excellent at slouching, apparently

Occasionally, as Aziraphale reads the book, he would very nearly swear

“He wouldn’t have said ‘that’s weird’ if a flock of sheep had cycled past playing violins.”

“If you had told him there were children starving in Africa he would’ve been flattered that you’d noticed.”

“...that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.” (151)

Wensleydale watches David Attenborough programs

Shadwell’s voice is described as “the color of an old raincoat” and seems to fake smoking cigarettes

Aziraphales cocoa is moldy and solidified by the time he calls Arthur Young, and has a thin layer of dust on himself too

Newt says that the walls look like nicotine and the floor looks like cigarette ash, and he suspects both are, actually, coated with these substances

Newt looks a bit like Clark Kent, and people seem to like Shadwell for some reason, much to his annoyance.

Aziraphale calls Shadwell “dear boy” on the phone

Agnes Nutter called God a daft old fool #goals

Adam is wayyyy too good at video games

Smelling Anathema’s perfume makes Newt uncomfortable

Adam suggests that Pepper ought to have Russia cause of her red hair (huh)

Anathema and Newt actually have decent conversations?? Like?? Show??? C’mon, man. The show kinda butchered their relationship.

Trees, apparently, make a ‘vvrooooommm’ sound when they grow very fast

“He suspected that Crowley was from the Mafia, or the underworld, although he would have been surprised how right he nearly was.” Shadwell also thought Aziraphale was a Russian spy. Wow, Shadwell.

Aziraphale calls Crowley and actually says “shut up” to him, and then when the answering machine beeps, he tells Crowley to “stop making noises” and then he swears for the first time ever.

The fuckin’ footnote on page 227

“A sleek computer was the sort of thing Crowley felt that the sort of human he tried to be would have.” I like the word choice here. He’s not pretending to be a human, he’s trying to be one. That’s a really important distinction.

It never actually says what Crowley does to his plants.

Crowley’s flat is very white. Wow, Crowley. It just looks dark because of the lighting. Heaven imagery and symbolism out my ears, goddammit.

Why does Hell say Crowley’s name so much when talking to him?? Honestly, I think that’s an intentional dig at his chosen name, using it in their speech to scare him. Wow, Hell. (And wow, Finn, excellent sentence)

Whenever the book says something is shaped like something, it definitely isn’t that thing. “man-shaped” “dog-shaped” “car-shaped”... makes it pretty obvious they aren’t men, dogs, or cars, huh.

The code to Crowley’s safe is 4004. The year he “slithered onto this stupid, marvelous planet”... and the year he met Aziraphale, of course. Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, Crowley, my dude.

Crowley consideres sticking Hastur into his car until he turns into Freddie Mercury but then decides even he isn’t that cruel

Actual text that I feel like nobody really agrees with: “Madame Tracy was by many yardsticks quite stupid”

“Do I look like I run a bookshop?” “...imagine me out of uniform, sir, and what kind of man would you see before you? Honestly?” “A prat.”

I’m crying. The fucking bookshop fire scene made me fucking cry. I’m literally crying.

“...on all fours in the blazing bookshop, Crowley cursed Aziraphale, and the ineffable plan, and Above, and Below.” “The police and firemen looked at him, saw the expression on his face, and stayed exactly where they were.” “...a crack of thunder so loud it hurt....” *the sound of Finley sobbing into their cat*

The shortest biker in the cafe thing is 6′2, what the fuck

War, Famine, Pollution, and Pop Trivia 1962-1979

“Pollution removed his helmet and shook out his long white hair. He had taken over when Pestilence, muttering about penicillin, had retired in 1936. If only the old boy had known what opportunities the future had held.” HMMMMMMMMMMM

“There were no bitches in Hell either.” I know it’s talking about female dogs, but I rather thought Hell was full of bitches.

“Why are you talking like a poofter?” “Ah. Australia.”

“gOsh, aM i on teLEviSiON?” (Basically Aziraphale gets passionate about stuff and likes to talk).

Crowley is actually an optimist and doesn’t dwell too much on how sucky the world is. He doesn’t go get smashed in a bar. He just finds Aziraphale’s notes in the book and heads to Tadfield. And also, his new pair of sunglasses just... materializes out of his eyes. And he likes to whistle.

“Death and Famine and War and Pollution continued biking to Tadfield. And Grievous Bodily Harm, Cruelty to Animals, Things Not Working Properly Even After You’ve Given Them A Good Thumping But Secretly No Alcohol Lager, and Really Cool People traveled with them.”

“on top of the pile a rather large octopus waved a languid tentacle at them. The sergeant resisted the temptation to wave back.” Honestly dude, if an octopus waved at me I’d wave back.

Wait Agnes was apparently talking to Shadwell and not God when she said yowe daft old foole. I dunno

Madame Tracy: You old silly. Shadwell: 

Aziraphale does not know how to get rid of demons. Canonically. “Had never done other to get rid of demons than to hint to them very strongly that he, Aziraphale, had some work to be getting on with, and wasn’t it getting late? And Crowley always got the hint.”

The road to Hell is paved with frozen door to door salesmen, apparently. The question is where it is, because the demons always seem to just stem out of the ground.

“Heigh ho,” said Anthony Crowley, and just drove anyway. I love this sentence during that scene. 

I bet Hastur gets really mad whenever he hears Aziraphale’s voice from now on

Crowley isn’t breathing the entire burning Bentley scene

ADAM. SAID. “But I reckon you can make your own side” AND WE FUCKIN IGNORED IT?

The temperature above the M25 was simultaneously 700ºC and -140ºC which makes me think of something I read about magenta not being real. The M25 is magenta.

I feel like “Agnes” is just going to become an inside joke between Anathema and Newt at this point, and it will drive Crowley insane because he knows who she is but somehow still doesn’t get the joke.

I’m six inches taller than R.P. Tyler, and apparently according to the back sleeve of the book jacket, I’m very similar in height to Neil Gaiman

R.P. Tyler thought Shadwell was a ventriloquist’s dummy, and then sees cows doing somersaults

“That’s terrific. Much obliged,” said Crowley. — “Funny weather we’re having, isn’t it?” “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” “Probably because your car is on fire.” .... Also the fact that Crowley looks like a young man which I find interesting.

“The Four Button-Pressers of the Apocalypse”

“Where is Armageddon, anyway?” “I’ve always meant to look that up.” “There’s an Armageddon, Pennsylvania”

Famine is the one that says “that’s one big avocado”, and also, I find it interesting that War, more than once, talks about love. (All is fair in love and war much?)

Anathema threatens the guard with a stick, pretending it’s a gun

Aziraphale, of course, asks Crowley to sort it out because he, Aziraphale, is “the nice one” and then proceeds to sort it out himself. Because of course he does. Because what else could he possibly do.

I just ADORE THIS BOOK OKAY

I’M PROBABLY GOING TO READ IT AGAIN IN A MONTH

Aziraphale and Crowley are so fuckin married I can’t

#good omens #finley rambles #finley reads #I reread good omens and this is the result #live commentary #not even kidding I was typing this all down as I read the book and I noticed a lot more #aziraphale #crowley #Aziraphale and Crowley are married thank you have a nice day #book omens #book aziraphale #book crowley #aziraphale/crowley #aziraphale & crowley #anathema device #newton pulsifer #shadwell #madame tracy #the them #adam young #brian good omens #wensleydale #pepper good omens #fuck I can’t even write a tag novel cause I had to tag so many characters #anyways enjoy my rambling #so long and goodnight #*listens to paramore moodily*

[king-finnigan]

these four walls (supposed to save you from yourself)

part 1, part 2, part 3. also on AO3. requested by @dibsonsmth

When Jaskier gets invited to play a few songs for the patients of the mental health ward his best friend Triss works at, he doesn't expect much of it. After all, he's just a music teacher with a guitar, the most he can do for these people is to entertain them for a short while.

But then he finds out about Geralt, who's spent the past few months in the ward without even leaving his room, and Jaskier realizes that he might still be able to make a difference, after all.

“It’s not too late to turn back, Jask,” Triss says softly, big, brown eyes regarding him with concern.

He sighs, carding his hands through his hair as he looks in the rearview mirror, trying to fix the tangled mess at least a little bit. Eventually, he gives up and leans back, hands falling limply into his lap where his fingers start drumming a quick staccato on his thighs.

“I know,” he says with a nervous smile. “But it’s just a little bit of stage fright. Nothing to worry about.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to.” He opens the passenger door, getting out of the car and retrieving his guitar from the backseat, carding his sweaty hand through his hair one last time.

It had been Triss’ idea to begin with. At the time, he’d wholeheartedly said yes. Now, though… now he’s not so sure anymore. After all, he doesn’t really know what he can do for these people. They’re all here because they form a danger to either themselves or others. And Jaskier? Well, Jaskier’s just a guy with a guitar.

But Triss takes care of these patients day in day out, surely she wouldn’t have invited Jaskier to come sing for them if she didn’t think it would help.

He sighs again and takes a leap of faith.

The mental health ward occupies the top floor of the hospital, and the lift ride up is quiet and uneventful, though the nervous twang in Jaskier’s stomach only grows as he fiddles with the strap of his guitar case.

Finally, the lift doors open and he and Triss step out into a bright yellow hall, two closed sliding doors separating them from the actual ward. He watches as Triss scans her badge and types in a code, and hurries forward when the doors slide open and she ushers him inside. He watches again when she closes the doors right away.

“Safety precautions,” she clarifies when she sees him looking. “To make sure no one who’s not allowed to leave actually leaves.”

“Ah,” he says sheepishly, shifting from one foot to the other as he turns around to look at the room.

It’s a large, round space, the walls painted yellow and white, large windows letting in the bright sunlight from outside, spilling over the grey linoleum floor and the green couches and chairs that litter the room in small groups, gathered around low coffee tables. There are people sitting here and there, some sharing a table and playing a board game together, others sharing a table as well but sitting in silence – merely enjoying each other’s company, and others sitting all alone, but seemingly content in their solitude. Some are younger, some are older.

And it’s… peaceful. Quiet. Comforting.

He knows that the image people have of mental health wards is quite different from reality, but still, it catches him off-guard.

“It’s still quite early.” He startles at Triss’ voice behind him, breaking the soft lull in the room. “The group therapy sessions start in a few hours, so you’ve got their attention for now.”

He turns back to the room. “And this is everyone?”

She crosses her arms, leaning her shoulder against his. “No, but it is almost everyone. There’s three people missing. Ciri, who’s been restrained because she keeps scratching open her wounds and we don’t have enough staff to keep an eye on her all day. Dara, her best friend – he won’t leave her side, so he’s in her room as well. And Geralt.”

“Right, I’ll pay them a visit as well afterwards.”

She smiles at him. “I’m sure Ciri and Dara would love it, but don’t waste your breath on Geralt, buttercup. Don’t take it personally, he’s not fond of people in general. And he’s quite stubborn in his hatred of others.”

“Really?”

“Hmm. He’s been here a few months already and he’s yet to join a single group therapy session.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do.” He nudges her, giving her an overexaggerated wink. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be the one to melt his frosty exterior.”

“Doubt it,” she deadpans. “Now go on, get ready for your performance, maestro. We’re wasting valuable time here.”

---

It goes surprisingly well, the whole thing. Some of the people gather around him as he sings, others content to just stay where they are and listen. He gets a few requests, even, which he is very happy to fulfil.

And before he knows it, two hours have passed, and people start to file out of the room to attend the group therapy sessions.

He doesn’t put his guitar back in its case just yet, though, as he remembers the promise he made to Triss to check up on Ciri and Dara and the ever-grumpy Geralt.

“Knock, knock,” he says, quickly rapping his knuckles against the doorframe, a big smile plastered on his face as he carefully inches into the room. “Am I interrupting?”

There’s a boy and a girl there. The girl is half-lying in bed, her back propped up with several pillows, blonde hair fanning out over the white linen. Her lower arms are wrapped in bandages, the restraints around her wrist binding her to the sides of the bed. The boy is sitting in the chair next to the bed, playing with the sleeves of his too-big shirt, face slightly sunken. Jaskier can’t help but notice how thin his wrists are, and he doesn’t doubt for a second that he could easily fit his thumb and forefinger around them.

Their eyes turn to Jaskier.

“No, it’s fine.” The girl – Ciri, presumably – is the first one to speak. “Are you a new nurse?”

He shakes his head. “I’m Jaskier, I’m…” he lifts his guitar “…I suppose ‘entertainment’ is the word that fits best here. I just played a few songs in the common room, but I didn’t want to leave you guys bereft. If you want, I can sing something for you.”

Ciri’s smile widens. “Sure! I would love that.” She turns to the boy. “Dara, is that alright with you?” The boy nods.

Jaskier pulls a folding chair from the wardrobe – something Triss told him he would find there – and sits down, gently strumming his guitar once to make sure it’s still in tune. “And what would you like to hear?”

She grins at him. “Happy Together by the Turtles!” she says gleefully, and God, she’s truly precious. Jaskier gets the sneaking suspicion he won’t ever be able to say no to her.

He starts playing.

---

Half an hour later, he finds himself in front of another doorway, this time leading to a darkened room, the sunblind pulled down completely to shroud the space in darkness, casting thin strips of sunlight across the walls and floor. Still, Jaskier can see well enough to spot the man sitting at the far end of the room, in front of a table with a chess board.

“Knock, knock,” Jaskier calls, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe. “You must be Geralt, right?”

The man doesn’t look up but simply lifts his hand to move a chess piece, slowly turning the board around afterwards.

Jaskier clears his throat to break the awkward silence, taking a few steps into the room. “I’m Jaskier. I’m uh… entertainment. I’ve got my guitar with me and I can sing a few songs for you if you want. You just need to ask.”

Now that he’s a bit closer, he can see that Geralt has stark white hair, falling in soft, barely-there waves down to his shoulders, tied back into a half-ponytail. Jaskier resists the urge to check if it’s as soft as it looks.

But from here, he can also see that the man doesn’t even grant him a sideways glance. Quite the opposite; Geralt even seems to turn away from Jaskier the closer he gets, giving him the cold shoulder.

“Are you sure there’s no song you want to hear? If you can’t decide, I can pick out something for you, perhaps.”

There’s no movement from Geralt, he’s as still as a statue as his eyes keep drilling holes into the chess board. It’s too dark for Jaskier to see the colour of those irises, but they’re certainly light, and in the back of his mind he ponders how splendid they would probably look in the sunlight.

The silence stretches on. Geralt moves a chess piece. Turns the board.

“As uh… charming as you are, my dearest Geralt, I do wanna know what type of music you like, so I can sing something for you.”

Geralt balls his hands into tight fists on the table. His shoulders grow tense.

He still doesn’t say a word, but Jaskier gets the message: Fuck off.

He laughs nervously, fingers drumming on the wood of the guitar. “Right!” he says, forcibly bright. “I see you’re busy, so I won’t continue to disturb you. I’ll be back next week.” He takes a few steps backwards. Geralt still doesn’t acknowledge his presence. “Alright… Bye, then.”

He turns around and walks out of the room, letting out a long breath once he’s back in the bright hallway. That really didn’t go well – but then again, Triss already warned him it wouldn’t.

Doesn’t matter. If Geralt wants to be a grumpy boor, then who is Jaskier to stop him?

But, as he teaches one of his students how to strum a few chords correctly that afternoon, he can’t help but let his mind wander back to that mysterious man with white hair, sitting all alone in that darkened room, playing chess against himself.

---

He’s back two days later. He knows the deal with Triss was that he’d be there once a week, but something draws him back to the place – whether it’s his captive audience, Ciri’s bright smile, Dara’s quiet gratitude, or Geralt’s unreadable silence, Jaskier doesn’t know. He supposes it doesn’t matter.

He takes the elevator back up, shooting Triss a quick text to ask her to open the door for him as he fiddles with the strap of his guitar case, letting his nail dig a path in the soft leather.

Triss greets him the second he steps out of the lift, arms crossed in front of her chest, eyebrow pulled up, eyes glinting with something annoyed and fond she saves especially for Jaskier.

“You know you’re not expected until next week, right?”

He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “I know, but I don’t have any plans for the morning, so I figured why not, you know?”

She purses her lips, narrowing her eyes at him before she sighs and relents, waving him inside. “Come on, mister Impatient. Let’s go, then.”

---

“Knock, knock.” He quickly raps on the doorframe, taking a tentative step into the darkened room.

Geralt is sitting at the table again, hunched in on himself as his eyes remain fixed on the chess board. Slowly, he lifts a hand, moving a piece before he slowly turns the board around, propping a fist under his chin, the other arm laid across his lap. Jaskier knows that, were he a drawer or artist of sorts, he would draw Geralt exactly the way he is now: sitting in a dark and empty room, still as a statue in front of the chess board as the sunlight filters through the blinds, painting him in black and white, casting dark shadows and yellow highlights on his face.

But he’s not. He’s a musician, and though he likes to consider himself quite good at what he does, he knows he could never do this image justice.

For now, though, he takes in every little detail and commits it to memory, imprinting it on his mind.

He takes another few steps forward. He’s halfway across the room now. “I know I said I’d be back next week,” he says softly – his normal volume too loud for the stillness of this room. “But I’m back now. Did you think of any songs for me to sing to you?”

Geralt ignores him. He moves a chess piece. Turns the board.

Jaskier sighs, leaning against the wall, idly plucking a few random notes. “Well,” he muses, “if you can’t decide, I suppose I’ll have to decide for you.”

Geralt’s hands ball into fists, his shoulders grow tense. Once again, he’s telling Jaskier to piss off without really saying anything.

This time, though, Jaskier decides to ignore it. If it angers Geralt more, then so be it – as long as he doesn’t outright tell Jaskier to go away, he’s not going anywhere.

He strums a few chords. “How do you feel about ‘Big Yellow Taxi’?” The man on the other side of the room doesn’t answer, doesn’t even deign him worthy of a sideways glance.

So Jaskier starts to sing.

And still, throughout it all, Geralt doesn’t say a word. He moves a chess piece once or twice, turning the board right afterwards, but his head doesn’t even incline towards Jaskier. He doesn’t give him any acknowledgement, any sign that he’s aware Jaskier is there at all.

Jaskier keeps on singing as if Geralt isn’t there, either.

And then the song ends. Jaskier strums the last chord on his guitar, eyes glued to Geralt’s silhouette, tracing the line of every highlight and shadow, following the movement of his muscles and tendons as Geralt lifts a hand, sliding a chess piece across the wood before turning the board again. His face is still, oh so still, the dim light and the bright rays of sunshine streaming through the blinds making it seem as if he’s been hewn from marble, as if he’s a work of art come to life, an ancient Greek statue from the hands of the old masters themselves that’s been granted a beating heart by the gods.

Jaskier could drown in the vision before him.

Light eyes quickly dart to him, the first acknowledgement of his existence since he stepped foot into the room, and suddenly his mind slams back into his body. He’s hyper-aware of every single little thing – of the frantic pounding of his heart, the rushing of blood in his ears, the breath that catches in his lungs when their gazes meet for a split second, the twitching of his muscles as his body desperately tries to tap out his nervousness on his guitar.

For only a second, the world stops spinning.

Geralt looks away again and Jaskier takes a few steps backwards, heat rising to his cheeks and ears as he swallows around the lump in his throat.

“R- right, then,” he stammers. “See you around, Geralt.”

He practically flees from the hospital room.

---

Hours later, his fingers are still trembling with the sheer force and weight of Geralt’s eyes on him, even if it was just for a second or so.

He retrieves the old, square box from the attic of the house his parents left him – it’s still where he remembers stashing it, years ago. He opens it on his desk, shaky hands setting up the pieces before he types the question on his phone.

How to play chess.

---

He’s back on Sunday.

Triss snorts when she greets him at the doors, rolling her eyes at him. “You know,” she says, “I won’t always be around to let you in, if you’re going to keep showing up all the time.”

He smiles sheepishly. “What can I say? I just really like it here.”

She narrows her eyes at him, smiling mischievously. “You like Geralt, you mean. I could see you last time, coming out of his room while blushing like a comely maiden. What happened?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. I just sang a song for him.”

“And he let you?” She huffs out a laugh. “Well, who could’ve seen that one coming? Come on, let’s get you inside, lover boy.”

He sputters a bit, but follows her through the doors all the same.

---

“Knock, knock,” he says, tapping on the doorframe a few times before he takes a few steps inside the dark room. “I’m uh… I’m back.”

He fiddles with the strap of his guitar case for a few seconds before pulling it over his head, setting the instrument against the wall.

Geralt is once again sitting on the other side of the room, still as a statue, eyes drilling holes into the chess board as he completely ignores Jaskier. But he won’t be able to much longer – Jaskier will make sure of that.

Whether his actions will anger Geralt enough for the man to start yelling at him, he doesn’t know. But as he looks at Geralt’s face, at the way the sunlight peeking through the blinds makes parts his hair shine in a white-golden halo around his head, he decides that it’s a risk he’s willing to take. If only so that Geralt will at least look at him.

He crosses the room in a few steps and snatches two pawns off the board.

And that does catch Geralt’s attention.

Light eyes flicker up to look at him, making his breath catch in his lungs with the intensity of that gaze, with the anger slowly budding on Geralt’s face. But Jaskier doesn’t step back or turn away. He simply puts his hands behind his back, switching the pieces around a few times before holding out his fists, a pawn in each one.

“Choose,” he says. Geralt’s eyes stay glued to his face, eyebrows slowly drawing together, hands curling into fists.

Jaskier sighs. “I’m getting tired of having to see you play chess all by yourself. It’s quite sad to watch, really. So, pick a colour and we’ll play together.”

The silence in the room is almost palpable, unmoving to the point where Jaskier can almost taste it on his tongue. His head grows light, dizziness setting in as he keeps holding his breath – his lungs won’t cooperate as long as Geralt’s still looking at him.

And slowly, ever so slowly, the man in front of him lifts a hand, eyes never leaving Jaskier’s face as he softly taps a finger on Jaskier’s left fist.

He opens it, presenting the white pawn to Geralt.

He sits down on the other side of the table, setting the pawns on the board, rearranging the black pieces into two neat, little rows. Geralt does the same, although more slowly, as though he doesn’t quite believe what’s going on. Jaskier watches the man move the pieces, watches sure and strong hands delicately hold those little, fragile things and put them on their assigned square. He imagines how Geralt’s fingers would twitch slightly as Jaskier would hold his hand palm-up, trailing his finger over his skin lightly. He imagines how those scarred fingers would curl around his, hand warm in Jaskier’s.

And then Geralt’s done. Light eyes look up at Jaskier, catching the sunlight streaming through the blinds, and suddenly he can see that they’re amber. A rich, deep amber that holds soft golden and brown flecks, the colour of sunflowers in a summer field, the colour of honey dripping down a finger before it’s licked up, the colour of ambrosia and the nectar of the gods.

It’s a colour Jaskier would gladly lose himself in.

“All yours,” he says breathlessly, feeling as though the words have been punched from his chest.

Golden eyes flicker down to the chess board and a strong, scarred hand moves up to slide a pawn across the wood. Geralt’s gaze shifts back up to him, and for a second, it feels like Jaskier might die from the intensity of it.

He swallows thickly, quickly looking at the board and moving his own pawn. He barely even remembers the things he learned about chess the past few days – hell, he barely even remembers his own name, as if Jaskier’s entire life threatens to wash away whenever those golden eyes look at him, as if every moment has been meaningless up until this point.

Geralt moves a chess piece. Jaskier follows suit.

Slowly, as the minutes tick by one at a time, Jaskier starts to relax bit by bit. His focus shifts from the man in front of him to the chess board and the soft melody that’s starting to build at the back of his mind.

After a while of having it stuck in his head, he starts humming it.

Golden eyes meet his.

“Oh, you don’t mind, do you?” he asks, concern knitting his eyebrows together. Because as much as he loves music and loves making it, he doesn’t want to risk shattering the fragile bond he has with Geralt, doesn’t want to lose this just yet.

Geralt’s gaze drifts back to the board. He moves another piece. He doesn’t say anything.

Jaskier takes that as encouragement and starts humming again.

He loses the game in thirteen more moves.

He grins up at Geralt as they both move the pieces back into place. “Well, that was a disaster. Forgive me, I’m not really that familiar with the game yet, but maybe I’ll learn if you give me a chance?”

He phrases it as a question, a gentle hope igniting in his chest. He probably won’t coax Geralt into talking just yet, but if he can just get a reaction – anything other than silent glances – it will make everything worth it.

Please give me a chance.

Geralt looks up at him, face as perfectly still and unreadable as ever as the silence stretches on between them. Eventually, he looks back down again.

He lifts a hand and moves a pawn forward, starting a new game.

Jaskier can’t help the grin that spreads across his face.

---

“Jesus, buttercup. Back again, already?” Triss asks him on Tuesday, furrowing her brows at him. “I think I’ll put in a request with the admin to get you your own badge. I really can’t be here to let you in all the time, you know.”

“I know.” He smiles at her before slipping inside the ward, blowing her a kiss as he walks backwards towards the hallway that leads to Geralt’s room. “I owe you one!”

“You owe me several, buttercup!” she shouts back at him.

---

“Hmm, what do you think is better, Geralt? ‘Gorgeous garrotter’, or ‘lovely garrotter’?”

Golden eyes flicker up to his, before looking back at the board. Geralt moves his bishop.

“Yeah, you’re right. Just ‘garrotter’ would work best,” Jaskier mumbles as he uses his knight to take Geralt’s bishop. He continues humming the melody, muttering lyric ideas under his breath, trying to find a good rhythm to the words.

Geralt moves his queen. Jaskier blanches as he realizes he’s been lured into a trap yet again, and knocks over his king.

“You win,” he sighs. “Again.”

He doesn’t miss it when the corners of Geralt’s mouth pull up in self-satisfaction as he starts to reset the board.

“Again, I suppose?” Jaskier asks. Geralt moves his pawn forward. “I assume that’s a ‘yes’,” he mutters.

---

What was supposed to be a once-a-week thing turns into an everyday thing as soon as Jaskier gets his badge from the hospital. Most days he doesn’t even play for the other patients – though he does reserve an hour for them at least twice a week and obliges whenever they ask him for a song – but spends his time in Geralt’s room, chess board in front of him, guitar in his lap.

He doesn’t know what it is about the room, but something there calms his mind down, makes him see things clearer and from a different angle, gives him the quiet and peace and inspiration he needs to finish the songs he’s been working on for years, now, and gives him the spark he needs to write new songs.

He supposes that the ‘something’ might be Geralt himself, but there’s a part of him that fears that if he admits that out loud, even to himself, it will become too serious – that it will become a riptide that will sweep him off his feet and push him under water.

He looks at Geralt, at the man sitting in the sunlight, the white halo around his head making him look ethereal, the bright light highlighting the scars and birthmarks and freckles on his skin – the tiny imperfections Jaskier commits to memory every time he gets the chance to see them. The past few days, Geralt’s begun to lift the sunblind up a little bit, the room suddenly not so dark anymore. It’s probably to see the chess board better, Jaskier supposes.

“So,” he says from the doorway an hour later, his guitar put back into its case and slung onto his back. “See you tomorrow, then?” It’s the same thing he says every day, and just like yesterday and the day before that and the day before that, he doesn’t expect an answer.

Geralt never answers.

He’s halfway out the door when he hears a soft “hmm” behind him.

He looks over his shoulder, golden eyes glancing away when he meets them, and he has to try his very hardest not to cry out his joy for the entire world to hear. Because Geralt just gave him an answer.

He nods once, and heads to the lifts.

---

“Young man.”

He startles slightly when he’s greeted at the doors by a woman in a doctor’s coat, her raven hair falling in waves over her shoulders, her violet eyes drilling into his.

He swallows thickly, fiddling with the strap of his guitar case, nail digging into the leather. “Yes?”

“I’m doctor Vengerberg,” she says, extending her hand for him to shake. He obliges before quickly letting go, wiping his sweaty palm on his jeans. “You’re the man that sings songs, are you not?”

He nods once. “That would be me, yes,” he mumbles, going over everything he’s done in the past week, trying to find what might have sparked her ire.

But her face softens, causing Jaskier to frown in confusion. “And you’re the one who keeps visiting Mr. Rivia, are you not?” He nods again. “What is it that you do in there all the time?” she asks him.

He swallows thickly. “Oh, we just play chess. And I sing to him. We don’t… don’t do anything… inappropriate, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Her lips curl upwards. “It is not, but thanks for clearing that up anyways-“ she squints at his badge “-Julian. But… is that really all you do in there? Play chess and sing songs?”

“Yes, doctor.”

Her brows knit together slightly. “Huh. Who would’ve thought?” With that, she pushes past him, out of the doors to the ward, leaving him confused in the common room.

He shrugs it away and turns around, heading to Geralt’s room.

The blinds are halfway up, but today there is no sun to illuminate the side of Geralt’s face as Jaskier goes to sit on the other side of the set chessboard. The rain patters against the window, the dim light outside projecting the rivulets onto Geralt’s skin – it’s a sight to behold, and Jaskier finds himself following every drop as its projection slides down Geralt’s cheek.

Amber eyes flicker up to his and Jaskier is shaken out of his reverie, plucking two pawns off the board, switching them a couple of times behind his back before he holds his fists out. Geralt’s gaze never leaves his as he lifts a hand, a single finger tapping Jaskier’s left fist.

He opens it. It’s the black pawn. He hands it to Geralt, before setting his own white pawn where it belongs, turning the board so that the right side is facing him. He waits until Geralt’s set his piece down before he makes the first move.

As Geralt contemplates his, Jaskier picks up his guitar case, taking out the instrument and setting it in his lap.

Geralt moves a pawn. Jaskier moves his knight. He leans back and idly starts plucking a melody, muttering lyrics under his breath. Golden eyes meet his.

“Oh, you don’t mind, do you?” It’s the same question he asks every day. Usually, Geralt will just ignore it and turn back to the game, but this time, as golden eyes flicker down to the chess board, he lets out a soft hum.

“Wh- what?” Jaskier stammers, guitar strings twanging messily as his hand goes limp.

“Hmm,” Geralt hums again as he moves a pawn.

“R- right. Of course, thank you,” Jaskier mumbles, excited blush rising up to his cheeks as he starts plucking the melody again.

---

He startles when he’s greeted by a mop of brown curls and two arms throwing themselves around his neck the second he opens the door to the ward. He laughs in confusion, returning the hug Triss gives him quickly.

“What did I do to deserve that?” he asks her. “Not that I mind, of course, but still…”

She holds him at an arm’s length, smile bright enough to light up the whole room even more than it already is, rivalling the sunshine streaming in through the windows. “Thank you,” she says. “I don’t know what it is that you do in there every day, but please keep doing it.”

“Wh- what are you talking about?”

“Geralt, of course!” she says, as if it’s completely obvious. “I don’t know how you manage, buttercup, but…” She shakes her head, and he doesn’t miss the light sheen over her eyes as she smiles at him. “He slept six hours last night.”

He blinks. “And… that’s not normal?”

She grins, her curls bouncing around her face as she shakes her head. “No, it really is not. Most nights he doesn’t sleep at all, and if he does, well… it’s only for a short while.”

She pulls him closer, rubbing their noses together playfully, just like they’ve always done since they were little kids. It makes him giggle, a wave of nostalgia washing over him.

“Thank you,” she whispers to him. “Whatever it is you do, please don’t stop.”

“Not planning on it. Speaking of, I should probably go now, he’s expecting me.”

“Alright. Oh, are you up for drinks this weekend?”

He nods. “Sure. The Kingfisher?” he asks as he starts walking backwards to the hallway that leads to Geralt’s room.

“Meet me at ten!” Triss half-shouts at him, making a few patients look up in annoyance.

Jaskier gives her a thumbs-up and turns around, practically skipping his way to Geralt’s room.

The blinds are halfway up and Jaskier takes a few moments to look at Geralt as he sits in the sunlight, hands folded in his lap, golden eyes drilling holes into the chess board. Now that Triss has mentioned it, Jaskier does think he notices that Geralt looks a little less tired – the shadows under his eyes aren’t as deep, his shoulders aren’t as slumped, his cheeks even hold a slight dusting of pink, their usual pallidness suddenly lost.

Golden eyes flicker to him, and Geralt lifts his left eyebrow slightly; he’s getting impatient with Jaskier standing in the doorway and staring at him.

Jaskier shakes himself out of his reverie and shrugs his guitar case off his shoulder as he crosses the room, quickly performing their little pick-the-pawn ritual – where Jaskier ends up with white – before he makes the first move, unpacking his guitar as Geralt stares at the board, the heel of his hand under his chin, his fingers resting against his lips.

He sets his instrument in his lap as Geralt makes his first move. Jaskier counteracts it by moving his knight, before he starts plucking at his guitar.

“Are you sure there aren’t any songs you want to hear?” he asks softly, afraid to break the peace and silence in the room by talking too loud.

Geralt moves a pawn. Shakes his head minutely.

Jaskier half-shrugs. “Right, guess I’ll have to pick something.” He sighs. “Don’t feel particularly inspired today, so I don’t think I’m gonna be composing much.”

He moves his bishop. Plucks a few notes. He looks out the window, at the trees in the parking lot and the city park that lies beyond, at the small, green buds on the branches and the crisp green-white of the grass as the night’s frost begins to thaw in the sunshine. He looks at the children playing in the field, at the man throwing a stick for his dog to fetch, at the young couple that sits on the bench, one of them getting up to pick a budding flower from the bushes, handing it to the other.

He imagines what it would be like to sit there in that park, to have the remnants of last night’s cold nip at his fingers and nose, to bask in the sunshine as it warms his back, to pick a flower from the bushes to hand to his lover. His lover, whose hair resembles the frost that coats the grass, whose eyes rival the brightness of the sun, who gives him a crooked grin as he takes the flower without a word-

“How do you feel about ‘La vie en rose’?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt quickly looks up at him before he looks back down at the board. “Hmm.”

He can’t help but smile softly at that, strumming his guitar a few times as he starts to sing. “Hold me close and hold me fast. The magic spell you cast. This is la vie en rose.”

Geralt moves a pawn. Jaskier moves his bishop.

“When you kiss me, heaven sighs, and though I close my eyes, I see la vie en rose.”

The couple outside stands up from the bench, holding hands as they walk through the park, disappearing from Jaskier’s view as they turn a corner.

“When you press me to your heart, I’m in a world apart, a world where roses bloom.”

Golden eyes meet his for half a second, and his breath catches in his lungs, heart beating in his throat painfully. He looks away, Geralt’s gaze too much to bear.

“And when you speak, angels sing from above. Everyday words seem to turn into love songs.”

He wonders what Geralt’s voice sounds like. Sure, he’s already heard him hum out a reply a few times, but it’s never loud enough for Jaskier to get a proper idea of what he might sound like. Maybe one day, he’ll hear Geralt speak. Or maybe he won’t. It doesn’t matter to him – as long as Geralt allows him to stay by his side, Jaskier’s content.

“Give your heart and soul to me, and life will always be la vie en rose.”

He finishes the last few chords of the song, his voice trailing into nothingness. Geralt moves a pawn.

Jaskier clears his throat, setting his guitar against the chair, leaning his forearms on the table. He moves his knight. Geralt moves his queen. Checkmate.

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Christ, how do you always manage to beat me at this? One day, Geralt, I swear that I’ll win one day.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth quirks up ever so slightly. He might as well be rolling his eyes at this point.

“Alright, fine, you’re right, I probably won’t. But that won’t stop me from trying.”

He starts moving the chess pieces back into place, Geralt following suit. Jaskier reaches for a black pawn that’s halfway across the board at the same time Geralt reaches for the white one right next to it.

Their hands brush.

Jaskier’s breath catches in his lungs, head spinning as the side of his hand grows hot, even as he jerks it back – as if Geralt’s touch has burned him, has left an everlasting mark on him whose heat Jaskier will feel for years to come, his touch a brand that’ll claim Jaskier for the rest of his life.

He clears his throat and ignores it.

“I, uh…” he says softly. “I won’t be able to be here on Sunday. I’m going out for drinks with Triss on Saturday so I will probably be too hungover to drive. And I can’t be here on Monday, either, since I’ve got a couple of older students who have class in the morning. But I’ll come back on Tuesday, if that’s alright?”

He looks up. Golden eyes drill holes into the chess board as Geralt moves a pawn. He doesn’t hum a response.

Jaskier sighs and turns back to the game.

---

“Thank God you’re here, buttercup.”

He stops right inside the doors to the ward on Tuesday, clutching the strap of his guitar case as Triss hurries towards him, eyes wide and filled with something he’s too scared to identify.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Geralt.” She grabs him by his arm, dragging him across the common room before he can even think to protest.

“W- wait, what? What’s wrong with Geralt?”

“He’s having an episode. A bad one.”

“An episode- Triss, what are you talking about?”

She sighs, suddenly stopping, pulling him to a halt as well, her hand around his upper arm like a vice. “The past few days, his mental health has been declining. Badly. He hasn’t slept, he’s barely eaten anything, and he just… sits there. Or he paces. It’s really not going well, buttercup.”

He feels something ugly and fearful claw at the inside of his chest. “Triss, I have to ask, what exactly is he having an episode of?”

“He’s got PTSD, buttercup. Hasn’t he told you?”

He shrugs, scratching at the back of his neck. “Well, no. We don’t exactly… talk a lot. But is there anything I can do to help?”

She sighs again. “I don’t know. Maybe. He’s been doing a bit better the past two weeks, ever since you showed up, so I don’t know what you do when you’re around him, but maybe it’ll help today as well. As long as he can get some sleep, buttercup – he really needs to sleep, he can’t go on like this much longer.”

He nods once. “Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” she says softly, pulling him into a quick hug before letting go. “Press the alarm button if anything happens.”

He snorts incredulously. “Like what?”

She levels him with a look, her eyes flat and tired. “There’s a reason why he’s here, buttercup.”

The words settle in his stomach like stones – even though he has a hard time deciphering what exactly she meant by them – but he nods again, turning around and setting off to Geralt’s room, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

The blinds are pulled down completely and he has to stand in the doorway for a while to let his eyes get adjusted to the darkness, slowly blinking as he starts to distinguish shapes and silhouettes.

Unlike all the other times Jaskier’s been in this room, Geralt’s not sitting at the table by the window, looking at the chess board. No, this time he’s sitting at the foot of his bed, hands resting loosely in his lap, eyes wide and unseeing as they stare at the wall in front of him – glassy and flat yet full of something Jaskier can’t bring himself to recognize.

Geralt’s hands ball into tight fists, blunt fingernails undoubtedly pressing crescent-shaped bruises into his palms, before they let go, uncurling until they’re relaxed again. And then it repeats. And repeats. And repeats.

Like waves rhythmically lapping at the shores, Geralt’s hands curl and uncurl, tighten and loosen, tense and relax. Over and over again, as his eyes never leave the wall in front of him, as his face remains perfectly still – but not still in the same way as it was when Jaskier first met him. Geralt’s face is not a perfectly sculpted mask he put on himself, not carefully blank and even as to hide any emotional response he’s having at that moment.

No, the best way Jaskier can describe Geralt’s face right now is slack. As if he’s not even aware he has a face to control, as if he’s far, far away from his own body, reliving things that are already in the distant past. As if there is no emotional response to hide.

He sets his guitar against the wall gently, kneeling by the foot of the bed, bringing his hands up to ghost over Geralt’s face – he can’t touch, he can’t. Geralt hasn’t said he’s allowed yet and Jaskier’s afraid he’ll never be able to let go if he does.

“Geralt?” he says softly. “Geralt, it’s me. Jaskier.” Golden eyes stare at the wall blankly, looking right over his head as if he’s not there at all. It’s exactly like the first time he met Geralt, except now it feels worse, because it doesn’t feel like Geralt’s doing this on purpose. It feels like he really doesn’t realize that Jaskier’s there.

“Geralt? Can you hear me?”

His hands curl into fists. Unfurl. Curl again.

He gets up slowly, walking over to the chess board and snatching two pieces from it, switching them behind his back before he goes to stand in front of Geralt, fists outstretched.

“Choose,” he says, ignoring the way his voice wobbles slightly.

Golden eyes stare right through him, unmoving, unseeing.

“Choose.”

Hands curl into fists. Unfurl. Curl again.

Jaskier puts the pieces back where they belong, opting to unpack his guitar instead. If he can’t coax Geralt back into his body with chess, he’ll annoy him into coming back.

He leans against the wall, a little bit to the left of Geralt, where the golden eyes don’t look right through him, but from where he still has a good view of Geralt and his blank expression. And he starts playing.

He plays everything that comes to mind, from half-finished songs to old lullabies to pop hits from the eighties. If it drifts into his head, it drifts into the room. He plays, and plays, and plays, until his fingers are aching and painful, until the callouses on his skin start wearing away, until his voice becomes raw and his throat dry.

He plays, as seconds turn to minutes turn to hours. It slowly grows darker outside, bit by bit, and he takes a five-minute break to drink some water for his parched throat and to lift the blinds. It’s raining. Big, heavy buckets of it pouring from the skies, fat droplets pitter-pattering against the glass.

Jaskier moves back to stand against the wall. He starts playing again.

And bit by agonizing bit, ever so slowly, almost imperceptibly, Geralt’s face turns from slack and empty to something entirely different, something Jaskier’s never seen before. He looks… peaceful. Calm. Content.

Golden eyes slip closed.

Jaskier keeps on playing. He remembers the park outside the window, remembers the couple and the flower one of them picked for the other, remembers the children playing and the man throwing the stick for his dog.

“I see trees of green,” he sings softly, smiling to himself as he remembers the song he used  to hear on his nan’s old radio, back when he was a kid. “Red roses, too.”

He looks up to cast a glance at Geralt. He’s still sitting at the foot of his bed, hands limp in his lap – but they don’t curl and uncurl anymore. They just lay there, calm and peaceful like the rest of him.

“I see them bloom for me and you.” He grins, looking down at his guitar as he strums the chords. “And I think to myself: what a wonderful world.”

There’s a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and before he can lift his eyes to look at it, his head hits the wall painfully, dizzying him, making him drop his guitar – which lands with a loud and dissonant twang – and he’s sure he would’ve fallen over if something wasn’t holding up.

Something is holding him up.

He blinks the fog out of his eyes, Geralt’s face growing into focus. Golden eyes – angry golden eyes boring into his, intense in a way Jaskier’s never seen on anyone before. The word feral shoots through his head at the snarl that bears Geralt’s fangs, at the quiet growl being pushed from the back of his throat.

Throat. Jaskier’s throat hurts.

There are two hands around it, blinding pressure pushing him against the wall – the thing, the thing holding him up.

And suddenly everything snaps into focus.

He gasps for breath, trying and failing to get air into his lungs as Geralt’s hands squeeze his throat shut, furious eyes glaring at him as Jaskier’s hands come up to pull at Geralt’s wrists, feet kicking uselessly against the wall.

“G-“ He gasps, wheezes as he tastes blood at the back of his tongue, heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Geralt-“

The golden eyes don’t recognize him.

“P- please, Geralt-“

He gasps and pants and coughs, a useless sob wracking through his useless chest, dark spots dancing across his vision, obscuring all but golden eyes as oxygen runs out. His hands abandon their attempts at pulling that merciless grip away from his throat and slap against the wall.

His fingertip hits something plastic, jutting out of the drywall. The emergency button.

He stretches his arm as far as he can, muscles aching and joints creaking in protest as his fingertips graze uselessly against the button and he’s running out of air and it won’t be long until his lifeless body hangs limply in Geralt’s hands and all he can see is angry, golden, unseeing eyes and the button the button the button the button the button.

He stretches his fingers as far as he can. He smashes the emergency button.

Nothing happens.

He cries out his frustration, though it’s nothing more than a pathetic, little whimper by now, and he smashes the button again. And again. And again. And again.

His head grows fuzzy. His heartbeat thumps in his ears. He can’t feel his fingers anymore. All he sees is golden eyes.

Shouting.

Screaming and shouting and someone is calling for help. Geralt’s hands jostle him around like a cantankerous child with a ragdoll as people try to pull his arms away from Jaskier.

Golden eyes. Golden eyes and Jaskier goes limp, hands hanging by his side uselessly as Geralt’s merciless hands around his throat hurtle him towards death with each passing second.

A needle glints in the light shining in from the hallway.

Geralt’s hands grow looser, bit by bit, and Jaskier desperately gulps in every bit of air his abused throat allows him to. He sobs. He can sob. The fact that he can makes him cry more loudly, face contorting as he grimaces, tears streaming down his burning cheeks. Parts of his world come into view again.

Golden eyes. Confused, golden eyes as eyebrows knit together slightly. Golden eyes, holding a glimpse of recognition.

Golden eyes, rolling into the back of Geralt’s head.

Geralt drops. Jaskier drops with him. Several panicked voices fill the room and there are hands on his body, turning him around, feeling his neck, his pulse and he lets them.

He closes his eyes as consciousness slips from his grasp.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #tw violence #requested #king writes #overuse of the words 'golden eyes' #also one or two very pretentious descriptions that i'm very proud of

[thenextchapter22]

Angel of the Three Realms

PART FOUR!!

Description: You were an Angel who went to the human world to escape punishment for loving Lucifer only to be brought back into his life, this time in the Devildom where you pretend to be human.

In this chapter: Simeon brings you back the medicine and some not so good news...

Warnings: Unrequited Love, Angst, WIP

Pairing(s): Lucifer/Reader

Link to my AO3: Click Here

Authors Note: It’s been a while again but here is a 2k chapter to make up for it?! Please check out my AO3 for my other works or my Masterlist on my pinned post :)

Part One Part Two Part Three

_+_

“Did Michael give you any problems?”

“He didn’t know I was even there. I was very discreet in my arrival, only one knew I was there.”

“That’s unlike you… but good.”

“Lucifer, why are you so mean to me…”

Simeon’s whine made you grin but you tried not to react too much. You were eavesdropping after all.

It was a private conversation obviously otherwise they would not be whispering. Simeon had come back from fetching whatever it was he needed from the Celestial Realm (you didn’t even think at the time to ask what it was from Barbatos or Lucifer, you were more worried about him stealing. He was an Angel and he was going to steal from the Heavens for you, a pitiful little thing that had broken wings). As soon as he came in it was like your body woke up in time and somehow you knew not to move or speak. Instinct of the Angels or something ridiculous, or maybe just coincidental. Either way you were glad you were conscious to hear this.

Lucifer had been watching over you while you slept and waited for the medicine. As the eldest brother, he was also the one who worried the most and had the most stress, but he hid it well. Not from you, though, and you could tell he was worried about you. If you got a sort of look in your eyes, Lucifer you distract you however he could. Mostly with stupid stories of his brothers but it worked for the most part. He kept you company and sane while you tried not to bite your nails off freaking out about what was going on.

When you actually did bite at them, though, he slapped at your hand and you gaped. “Lucifer—”

His nose turned up. “Do not nibble on your nails, it’s disgusting. Do you know what you’re putting in your mouth?”

You smiled. He was so cute. “Nibble? I never thought it’d hear that word from you.” You nudged him from where he sat beside you, and he was not prepared and wobbled. It was hilarious and you outright laughed.

He narrowed his eyes, playfully. “Behave yourself or I won’t bring you the strawberry sorbet that Barbatos made.”

Anything made by the Demon Butler was incredible, so you pouted and apologized, “Sorry, I’ll be good.”

He huffed. “No you won’t. But I accept your apology.”

You both laughed then, and he took your hand and squeezed it once. The hue on your cheeks was noticeable in the room but thankfully he was paying attention to the book in his lap.

The time you spent with him was always amazing. Be it in silence, reading together, or talking about his work or your schoolwork, or just teasing one another, every word and action or lack thereof, if it was with him… there was nothing more you could ask for. After so long without him, then seeing him but not being able to be who you were without repercussions, this was… nice.

A soft touch to your shoulder had your mind reeling but it was just Lucifer adjusting your blanket. You faced the other way so it wasn’t like they could see your face but you kept your breathing and heartbeat as regular as you could.

“She’s looking better than a few days ago. Her wings are beautiful. Well done.”

“Hm. Yes, but this will help considerably. What do we need to do with it?”

“Mix it into her tea or water. I’ve already crushed it into a powder. The effects should be seen within hours and she should be able to sheath her wings again and her strength with come back.”

A pause for a moment, and a sigh from Simeon. “Lucifer… while Michael gave me no trouble… there is something else I found out.”

Simeon sounded very worried. And you couldn’t help but inhale with worry, too, and it was apparent they both noticed as it was dead silent for a moment. You blew it. The gig was up, time to confess your sin.

“Sorry,” you said, turning your head and opening your eyes. “I wasn’t doing it on purpose… at first...”

Lucifer chuckled. “Of course not.”

Simeon half smiled. “No, little lamb, it’s all right. You need to hear this, too.”

You sat up with a little help, wings being curled behind on the bed, and folded your hands together on your lap. Switching gazes between Lucifer and Simeon standing before you, heart pounding, you felt so young again. The tension in the room was slightly suffocating.

Simeon sighed before he spoke. “I didn’t hear it from Michael but one of my closest friends keeping an eye on the Celestial Realm had information for me. He told me that he noticed Michael had been acting strange ever since I left to come to the Devildom. Which wasn’t odd, he didn’t want to do this at the start. He also found some terrible things out, something Michael did right after you Fell. From what was discovered, Michael came to Earth without our Father’s consent under the cover of an Ancient spell of cloaking used by Angelic spies millennium ago, and he… well, he sought you out.”

You were confused. “Michael came to find me when I… left…?”

Simeon nodded. He looked upset the more he spoke. “Yes.”

That made zero sense. Firstly, how did he know you left, and secondly… “I never… I would have known if Michael came to see me.” And you would have ran as far away as you could go.

Nodding, Simeon continued, “Yes, I know, my dear, but he didn’t come for conversation exactly. He came and went quickly after….” He looked at Lucifer, who was also patiently (not really) waiting. “…after he put a spell on you.”

You were rigid in your spot. Michael was crafty, so it wasn’t something simple, it had to have been very powerful and purposeful spell he cast. It wasn’t something like a prank spell, especially if he used such Ancient Celestial magic to hide himself.

“Simeon, what was the spell for?”

“Michael didn’t want Lucifer or his brothers to figure out you were still alive, why I am unsure. Maybe jealousy? Maybe hatred? It could be many things, but it’s all speculative. This spell… it only affected those on Earth, and in Heaven. So I, too, had been affected. He was the only exempt, along with Father, of course. He was out for weeks replenishing himself back then and no one knew why he wasn’t seen for so long… until now.”

Lucifer glared at Simeon. “Get to the point. Now.”

“Yes. Well, this spell was to block Sight, and alter Memory. Of you. He wanted you erased from our minds, as though you died when you Fell from Heaven. I am so sorry, my dear.”

Time itself stopped and you didn’t breathe for several seconds. You inhaled from your nose and grit your teeth. Lucifer sat at your side and tried to take your hand, seeing your reaction, but you pulled away and shot daggers at him. “No, don’t attempt to comfort me right now, Luci. This is fucked up for even him to do. I’m pissed off!”

“Please, calm down, you’re still healing and—”

“Shut up Simeon!” Your voice echoed in the room, both Angel and Demon glancing at each other and then to you. “He’s going to pay for this, I’ll make sure he suffers.”

You felt your magic struggling to start up but it was growing steady each second. You attempted to stand up, to do what you were not sure. All you knew was anger and it boiled in your veins like a volcano about to pop.

Michael never liked you, but this? What he did to you, and your family, and all of the world? It was horrific. If he could make the Celestial Realm forget you, what else could he do? He couldn’t reach the Devildom, thankfully, but you would find a way to reach him and tear his eyes out and shove them somewhere unpleasant.

But there were two obstacles in your way… Simeon and Lucifer. They each held you down by your shoulders, one hand from each, and kept you still on the bed.

“I understand your anger,” Lucifer said, “and I want to seek revenge just as you do but this is not the time. You need rest and we need to think about this.”

“Fuck. You. I hate him for this. What kind of monster just changes thousands of Angel’s memories? Of me? Me?! I didn’t do anything to him, Lucifer!”

Your body was burning. Lungs, eyes, muscles, all of it. Tense, ready to burst like before with your magic. He could do it again, couldn’t he? Make them forget you? It was so easy the first time, what if he could find a way here and do it again? You’d be alone all over… no home, no friends, and no brothers to tease or school to learn all about demon customs… No Lucifer for the second time.

The ringing in your ears was loud, but one voice rang louder, like a megaphone breaching through a thick wall. “Breathe deeply and relax your muscles. It’s all right. We know you, we are here for you.” Simeon. He gently squeezed your upper arm and you tried to do as he said.

Lucifer was next, his voice even louder, clearer. “I’ll never allow that wretched Angel to be near you. If I see his face I will rip his head off and burn it in Hellfire.” Lucifer’s words oddly brought you comfort more than Simeon’s.

You sniffled, wiped a few straggling tears, and dropped your head onto Lucifer’s chest, clutching his shirt. “Don’t. Just…” Stay.

He caressed the back of your head and let you be. Breathing him in, feeling him and his own magic curling around you like a dark blanket, and Simeon’s energy right beside you like a nightlight along with it. Several calming breathes and a minute later you were okay.

You blinked up at Lucifer, “Sorry. Thanks for that.”

His eyes softened and he brushed a few tangled pieces of hair out of your face. “You’re welcome, little one.”

Simeon had stepped away, messing with the water pitcher. The Angel walked to you with a glass in hand. “Here, while you’re awake you may as well take this.” Simeon handed you the cup, and it looked like it had dirt swimming around inside. “I know it looks unpleasant but it will help you heal quickly so you can finally leave this bed.” He smiled softly.

You downed it quick so you didn’t have to taste it for long. But what you did taste was like pee stained socks. You almost vomited it back. Why did medicine have to taste so nasty? Wasn’t this from the Heavens, and shouldn’t it taste better?

They both chuckled at you, and Simeon gave you clean water to wash it down with. Ice cold and delicious water.

After a moment of settling that stuff in your stomach, you asked in a quiet voice, “But you do remember me? Everything, right?” Just to be sure. You had to be sure.

“Oh, sweetheart, of course we do. I remember chasing your around in your diapers after you stole flowers from the Sacred Gardens. You fell into a patch of Lily’s and your butt was coated in pollen.”

You flushed. “S-simeon!” Why would he bring up such a memory? Your ears were burning you turned so red.

Lucifer chuckled. “Oh, I remember that as well. Do you recall her face? It was yellow with the same pollen.”

Simeon nodded and laughed, “Yes, I do!”

Groaning, you begged, “Please, no more, I don’t want to hear any other embarrassing stories right now.” They laughed but stopped at your behest.

You thought a bit more, and wondered… “But how did your informant remember me? Was he not present in either Realm when the spell was cast?” you asked Simeon.

“I had wondered the same, actually. He was in the Celestial Realm back then. But a few weeks ago he had been searching the private Library for all Top Level Angels on a task handed to him by God, and he found a secret doorway with stacks of books and papers and notes with Michael’s handwriting. Your name was there, so that must have triggered the spell to reverse. He told no one at my command until we find out why Michael did all of this.”

“But I told you all my name… And it was only when my wings showed themselves you all remembered.”

“That is true. But this was most likely from the original spells wordings, and thus it had the ancient magic connected to it. I can only assume however.”

Lucifer had some input as well. “Hm… It’s possible that the same could be said for your wings. It’s also considered ancient magic, you had not once used it around us before so that could be another possibility.”

You rubbed your head. This was too much at once. “Okay, I’m done with tonight. I couldn’t care less why you guys remember me or the circumstances behind all of this. All I know is this: Michael is a scheming asshole and I want him to pay.”

Lucifer sighed. “We know, dove, we feel the same way. Simeon?”

“Yes, I have to agree, Michael has done something that needs punishing, but until we find out more on why, I think it’s best to have you rest. Why don’t you go back to sleep? Hopefully in the morning you will be able to move around by yourself and put away your wings. I know how difficult this all is for you.”

“Thank you Simeon. You have no idea what this means to me, that you did that for me. I can’t ever repay you.”

Simeon smiled. “I just wish for your health and safety, little lamb, that’s all I want. So get some sleep now, and dream good dreams for me. Maybe of when you were young and wild.” He kissed your forehead, and left after bidding Lucifer goodnight.

With the help of Lucifer you were back under the covers. “I hope this is the last night I have to spend sleeping like this. I miss sleeping on my back and stretching my legs out.”

Lucifer smirked. “Yes, I do recall once you had come into my bed and stole it with your flailing limbs. You were no older than a toddler then so I can imagine the space you take up now.”

You chucked a pillow at him and he dodged it elegantly, his hair perfect still. How he did it, you wondered. “Jerk, I don’t have flailing limbs.” But wow, sharing a bed with Lucifer now sounded lovely.

You sighed and closed your eyes, shimmying into the bed and pillows. It was toasty warm. “Goodnight, Luci.”

“Sleep well, dove. In the morning you should be well again.” He smoothed his hand down your upper back and leaned in to kiss the top of your head, and then left to his own room now that he knew you were going to be okay.

Somehow, despite all the bad you had discovered, you found yourself dreaming of old days, of flying circles around the Angels in lower class than you, of jumping on your bed and Lucifer scolding you then making you snacks to make up for his scolding because you were spoiled. And, yes, you dreamt of the time you fell into the flowers and stained yourself yellow with pollen.

Barbatos said it right: “Our dreams are extensions of our conscious minds” and this time, the dream playing behind your eyelids was full of joy instead of pain. Memories, beautiful and exquisite times with your Angelic family. It was lovely recalling those days in your head.

When you woke up, you smiled. You had traded in one family for another, and although this family was full of demonic brothers and a Demon Prince and a few other strange beings (Solomon was the strangest possibly), family was not always blood.

You were ready to face anything the world gave you. Be it Michael or whatever else, to protect them.

As you lay there, your wings sucked into you with an influx of magic, and you barely even noticed. Too caught in your head remembering good times with the Devildom family you made.

#lucifer x you #reader x lucifer #lucifer x mc #obey me fanfiction #obey me fanfic #shall we date obey me fanfic #wingfic #obey me lucifer #obey me simeon #obey me mc #swd #swd om #om #my fics

[personasintro]

My Tiny Secret | 17; Wine & Pride

𝑴𝒚 𝑻𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝑺𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒍𝒆 | 17; Wine & Pride

⏤𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔; Pretty face doesn’t make it up for an ugly personality. And Kim Seokjin is the perfect proof of that.

⏤𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: seokjin x reader

⏤𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: angst, smut, mistress au, unexpected pregnancy au

⏤𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: strong language

⏤> 𝒇𝒊𝒄 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒙

buy me a coffee?♡

a/n: this is a continuation of the flashback from the previous chapter!

“Tell me something about yourself.”

You're done eating, empty plates already out of your sights as you hold a glass of red wine in your hand, the other one gently leaning against the table.

Curious is what you are. Curious, why the man in that expensive suit with bank account bigger than you could ever imagine, is so interested in you. The ordinary woman that gets to spend her free time with some rich CEO, who seems to be too good for everyone. He barely shows any signs of happiness or something that could make him look in better lightening. Is he doing it on purpose? Is he hiding himself from everyone, or is he just being emotionless man?

“Why? I'm not that interesting person to talk about.” Your frown is switched to a puzzled look that you give him, noticing him licking the corner of his mouth.

“I'm quite intrigued in you, Ms. Y/L/N.” he says slowly, your mind processing his words as you feel a weird lump in your throat.

“Is it because my father owes you money?”

Seokjin has grown used to your bluntness, even if it's been a short time since he had the pleasure to talk to you. Nobody has ever thought about talking to him this way. You give him an attitude, testing his waters with each sentence that flows out of your mouth so naturally. But he has seen it. Him talking about your father brought an emotion on your cold face. Even though you showed the hatred that you feel towards one of your parents, you still care.

So you turn cold, letting him know that you don't care about your pathetic father that turned out to be a scumbag. Not only a thief that had the audacity to steal money, steal from the one and only Kim Seokjin, but a scumbag that left his wife and daughter.

He sees right through you, and in a way he can relate to you. Although, he's pretty much aware how of a big asshole he truly is. You're both different, yet he can see himself in you. Not entirely though, you're much more pure even with your sharp tongue and look of distaste.

He chuckles lowly, shaking his head. “No,” he answers. “I've never met someone like you.”

Even if it's unattractive, you snort in front of him, obviously not believing him. “Are you saying this to every woman you lay your eyes on?” you bite back, noticing a sly smirk appear on his juicy lips.

“Not every woman's father steals my money,” he points out, noticing the way your eyes flutter, glancing away from him in shame. “So, be a good girl and tell me about yourself.”

You gulp, heart shaking at him calling you a 'good girl'. No one ever talked to you this way. Unsure whether he's just being cunning or if it's his very interesting dark persona, you take a sip from the red wine instead.

He watches you with full attention, eyes not fluttering even for a split second as he patiently waits for you to talk. He's very persistent without using an actual words.

“I'm just a woman, working in the office and in the coffee shop during weekends. Woman that's too low for your standards.” you wave your hand off, taking another sip as a bitter taste of it makes the connect with your tongue.

You're usually not a wine drinker, especially if it's bitter and sour, but this fine expensive wine tastes different than the ones that Hoseok buys.

“Let me decide if you're up to my standards, would you.” he chuckles, shaking his head at you once more while you raise a brow at him.

“I'm not going to be your plaything, Mr. Kim,” you tell him bluntly, not paying too much attention to a small smirk appearing on his lips at you putting some distance between you two. “I believe you've got much more suitable women for that.”

There's no way a man like him is alone during nights. He surely has hookers to make him some company during nights or whenever he pleases. If he's not taken, you don't believe he doesn't have the urge to have sex. Every man does.

He's young, in the best age to start or have something without commitment.

“Nobody said anything about you being my plaything. And I believe they're plenty of other women who'd much more appreciate this dinner but I don't blame you. But I think you shouldn't think about yourself that lowly.” he leans comfortably against the chair.

“Oh, how charming,” you scoff, not believing him a single word. “I don't think about myself lowly. You don't know me, I could have a husband at home.”

He chuckles, the same dark and mocking way only he knows. “You don't.”

The confidence behind his statement sparks a realization inside of you. He knows much more than you knew, starting from the way he knows where you work and know that you've no husband at home. Also, you've got your last name. Maybe you shouldn't think into it too much, maybe he's just smart.

Or, he was testing you.

A triumph grin stretches on his lips, noticing the way you hesitate before you stare in a silent shock at him.

“Maybe I've a fiance.” you murmur, growing annoyed that he figured you out that quickly.

“Hmm, maybe. I'm sure he wouldn't be very fond of you having a dinner with another man.” he muses.

“Don't flatter yourself, this is strictly professional.” you remind him, hinting of the whole purpose of this dinner.

Deep inside, even though this man irks you in many ways, you're enjoying it. One half of you is torn between you thinking this whole dinner was a bad idea, but the other one is enjoying this. You're intrigued with him. He's different than anyone you've ever met.

“I've never said it wasn't,” he responds, irking another wave of annoyance. “Although, I'm not sure if any man could truly handle that mouth of yours.”

One second you glare at him, the other one you're a coughing mess after you've choked on your spit. You straighten up yourself, ignoring his amused eyes dancing on you before you lick your lips.

“I can assure you, I've had enough partners that could handle me.”

You've this urge to prove him that you're not some lonely woman with no actual experiences. It's hard to guess what he thinks all the time, and you're not sure why you just told him what you did. Maybe it's the way he looks at you. As if you were just some innocent woman that is desperate for any attention.

Enough partners. Maybe your one ex-boyfriend that didn't last long, until he had decided to dump you. But he doesn't know that.

And again, he chuckles mockingly at you, digging a knife into your pride.

“What? You don't believe me?” you press, frowning at the man that seems to have the time of his life at your previous comment.

“It's not important what I believe, Ms. Y/L/N. I just don't see you as the type whose life involves around men. I don't think you let that many men get close to you.”

Whatever the fuck he means by that, your puzzled look is an answer for itself.

He doesn't know you and the basic information that his people managed to found out about you, are just that. Basic and plain. He has no idea who are you, yet he sees easily through you. Just as he told you, he doesn't think you're desperate for attention or men in general. Surely, you're both from another worlds with different priorities. Even the way you push him away from you, you're still sitting on the one side of the table, with him at the other one. You want to be here, not just because he's your drive home. You could easily catch a cab or something.

“If I want any man close to me, I let him.” you tell him eagerly, watching how his eyes trail down onto the table, eyeing the shining glasses before he looks back at you.

“Mhm, I'm sure you do.”

And there he is, back to his mocking tone that even stupid person could recognized as his way of meaning the opposite.

And you're going to prove him wrong.

Just as the young waiter comes to your table, asking if you're interested in desert, you politely decline. He looks younger than you, politely asking Seokjin the same thing with timid eyes. You know guys like him, freshly out of college wanting to commitments. He thought he's being subtle when he eyed you whenever he passed the table. His hungry eyes set on you whenever Seokjin's attention was elsewhere.

It's a great opportunity to show him that he's wrong.

But it's a fucking bad idea, considering it's your second glass of wine. You don't usually get this tipsy so quickly and easily. It makes you wonder what kind of wine that is.

However, you're pretty aware of what you're doing when you pull out a pen out of your purse, writing something onto the white napkin. You glance at Seokjin, just as you're putting the pen back into your purse, noticing his eyes settled on you in a slight frown. He can see the outlines of numbers, his gaze darkening as he watches you shooting a confident smile to the young waiter.

The guy's eyebrows shoot up, covered by his fringe as he eyes the napkin that you delicately hand him. His cheeks gets red right away, along with his neck as you open your mouth.

“Call me.” you tell him, licking your lips as he glances at Seokjin, but he's staring at you with hardened gaze at the other side of the table.

Still, he takes Seokjin's lack of reaction as a green light, nodding as an obedient child that's ready to yell in happiness. His mouth ticks as he tries to hide a huge grin, before he coughs.

“Is there anything you'd like to order?”

Even his voice flatters, trying to hide the enthusiasm that he just managed to score a woman, without actually talking to her.

Just as you're handing him your empty glass, you're ready to order another one when Seokjin cuts you off way before you can utter a single word.

“Yes, she'll have a glass of water,”

You frown at him, but he's staring at the younger male. “And I'd like to have that.” he adds, pointing towards the napkin that's clutched in his hand.

The poor guy looks like someone just slapped him into his face, hastily hanging the white napkin with your number on it. You watch Seokjin scrunching it, raising a brow at him before he quickly scurries away, not even glancing your way.

“You proved your point.” he tells you, tossing that crumbled napkin on the table.

“I wasn't trying to prove anything,” you grumble, knowing how fucking wrong you are. “And I'm not drunk.”

It's true. You're not. You're completely fine, although that wine definitely gave you more courage but you feel like you've been more riled up by Seokjin himself.

“Oh, I know you aren't,” he says. “But you'd slowly get there, if you continued.”

Rolling your eyes at him, you're not surprised when a different waiter comes to bring you your glass of water. You can't help it but glance at Seokjin when that happens, but his eyes are focused on you, showing no emotion or reaction. He's aware that he probably scared that poor guy.

The dinner is over, right after you drink all of that water with Seokjin looking at you. You barely put your glass down, before his voice resounds.

“Come on, I'll drive you home.”

And for the first time that night, you actually feel disappointment pang in your chest, for unspeakable and unreasonable reasons.  

taglist: <is in the comments> comment on the most recent chapter to be added to the taglist

#networkbangtan #bts smut #bts fluff #bts angst #bts au #seokjin x reader #seokjin smut #seokjin angst #seokjin drabble #seokjin scenario #Kim Seokjin au #bts drabble #bts drabble series #personasintro

[goatbi]

Vampiric

It's common knowledge across the Soul Society that your zanpakuto has an effect on you. Be it physical or mental, it's a part of you, and it effects how you live.

Hitsugaya and Rukia are two good examples, both being very cold to the touch, while Hitsugaya has ice scales down his back, along the edges of his cheekbones. Rukia has nothing physical yet, but she swears that it's going to happen as soon as she reaches bankai.

Sometimes you zanpakuto tells you those things.

Momo is burning hot to the touch, fever-like. Matsumoto seems to always have dry skin, no matter how much lotion she uses. Kurotsuchi has weird neck spikes that he switches on if he wants to hide or not ever other season.

You zanpakuto changes you as you learn more about it, as your bond grows, in many many ways.

Yumichika knows this, and knows it well. He's come to live in the burning hunger in the pit of his stomach as he goes about his life, that no food can really fill. Ruri'iro Kujaku hungers with him, and Yumichika smothers it down, pretends that he's fine, pretends the feathers are the only connection between him and his zanpakuto, and starves.

He's starving and he knows it.

It's not a pretty way to go out.

It's why he attacks Hisagi, that's why, he says it to himself again and again, that's the only reason. It's been so long since he's fed, and Yumichika is so hungry.

He's okay afterwards, he tells himself, and keeps moving forwards after the single bought of delicious spiritual energy that he so desperately requires. Yumichika keeps going, and pretends his stomach doesn't hurt even more now that he's fed once, that he's okay.

Ikkaku comments that he looks kind of tired one day, and Yumichika panics. Ikkaku apologies, of course, but he just thinks it's because Yumichika's vain, but that's not it.

Because Yumichika is. He's so tired, and he's just so hungry, it doesn't matter.

He goes to the world of the living alone a week later. Hollows have spiritual energy, not much in comparison to soul reapers, and it's bitter and burning, but it's something, and Yumichika doesn't want to starve anymore. Not until Ikkaku comes looking for him, which won't happen for at least three days. Ikkaku's gonna look for him, but won't think about the World of the Living until then.

So he hunts. Ruri'iro Kujaku purrs in the back of his mind, praises him and apologies all in the same breath, because despite their arguing, his zanpakuto understands why Yumichika hides. His hunger is so ugly, and Ruri'iro Kujaku is just as vain as Yumichika is.

Hollows fall to his vines and Yumichika gorges himself, and is so busy with it that he doesn't notice the Arrancar until far too late.

When he wakes up again, Yumichika isn't hungry. It's strange, but that leaves him able to focus on other, more important things, like that fact that it's night, that he's locked in white stone, and hidden away. His zanpakuto is gone, and Ruri'iro Kujaku growls in the back of his mind.

He's the only company Yumichika gets for awhile. He doesn't know how long, not completely sure, but he's hungry again, both ways that his body is, he's starving once more, and it's so tiring, it's exhausting to continue.

Aizen just smiles at him from the door, and Yumichika would spit if he didn't have his mind, if he wasn't still somewhat worried about how he looked in that moment.

This is how he learns Aizen's spiritual energy is immense, and oh so delicious. He hates being fed like this, but he's not hungry, he's kept full like a stuffed peacock and Yumichika begins to fall into it, fall behind Aizen, because no one hear questions the cannibalism esc feedings, because they're all hollows, they don't care, and Yumichika is just so hungry, even when he's not, because it's been so long since he's been able to eat this much this often, and he knows it's bad and that he has places to be, people that care for him, but Aizen keeps him fed.

Aizen keeps him fed and full until he doesn't, until Yumichika's locked away again and starving, he doesn't know how long, just knows Ruri'iro Kujaku is pissed and cawing out in his mind, and Yumichika's too far gone to care anymore, and he mimics it, mimics the noise laying on the floor of his cell as he starves again, staring with hazy eyes out the barred window. He's so hungry.

He doesn't know when the door opens. He just knows it is, knows and he crawls. It's ugly, and dirty but Ruri'iro Kujaku purrs and calls him to continue, louder and louder as Yumichika gets closer and closer, and he knows he's close, he can feel his zanpakuto vibrating, and his hands closes around the hilt and-

Shikai comes, unbidden, no call. He doesn't know why, but it's fine, he's so hungry, and the little Arrancar fall to his vines in seconds, the little ones he leaves drained, and probably close to death, and he stumbles along, because Aizen kept him fed up with his own energy, and it's not enough.

The little ones keep falling as he stumbles towards an energy he recognizes but can't place, he's too hungry to know, not until his vines wrap around someone already fighting, dragging them close to him, and Yumichika is basically eating the flowers off the vines as they bloom, and Ikkakus's voice comes slamming through his haze of hunger.

"What the fuck?"

Yumichika's eyes dart towards him, wide and terrified, and the vines go off, leaving flowers floating in the air around him, an Yumichika is so hungry, but he's staring down Ikkaku and the captain behind him, staring them down because they know now, don't they, and he's almost hungry enough not to care, but Ikkaku's looking at his vines, and Ruri'iro Kujaku wraps them up into a blade again for him, and Yumichika blinks at them, so so hungry still, but so so afraid that it doesn't matter.

"Yumichika?" Ikkaku's voice is almost quiet, but it's Ikkaku, and he's not really quiet. He's just... shocked. Not yelling for once, and Yumichika stares at him, shaking, and closes his eyes. He doesn't make a noise, doesn't say anything, but lets himself fall to his knees in front of the three, because he knows that Yachiru is clinging to Kenpachi's back as she does, and god they all smell so good, but Yumichika can't, not right now, not when it would be deliberate, instead of starving induced.

Ikkaku's arms are around him, Yumichika knows, but he just leans into it, leans into what might be the last comfort from his friend that he will ever get, and slips off into oblivion. The hunger burns, even in the dark.

---------------

The ceiling of Squad Four is bright white, a clean bleached white that Yumichika stares at in the middle of the day. He does not move, for he feels there is no reason. Ruri'iro Kujaku is silent in his mind, and it's a comfort and a burden at once, because it means the peacock has no comfort to give.

Ikkaku is outside. Yumichika closes his eyes, wants to pretend to sleep so that Ikkaku won't come in, won't see him. The hunger hurts again, but Yumichika ignores it. He's hungry, but he's trying to get used to it again, because he's never doing that again. Ruri'iro Kujaku gives no argument, just silence, and Yumichika hates it, because they both know it's a death sentence, but Yumichika thinks he deserves it.

"He's awake, but probably still tired. We haven't gotten him to... eat... this entire time." Lieutenant Isane is kind around the word, but it still burns in his soul, and Yumichika opens his eyes gain, since there's no use hiding now that she's given him away.

Ikkaku opens the door, and Yumichika does not, cannot, look at him, just keeps staring at that ceiling, and lets the hunger burn. Ikkaku has always smelled of spice and burning, and Yumichika has always wanted to know what he tastes like, but he won't. He can't.

A chair scratches against the floor as Ikkaku sits next to him, and Yumichika does not sigh, but he feels like it, feels the breath in him sit heavy, because he's so tired and so hungry.

"Why did you lie?"

It's a quiet question, as quiet as Ikkaku can be, and Yumichika closes his eyes again, squints them shut as tight as he can, and he knows it's an ugly expression, but he doesn't care anymore. Ikkaku has already seen him at his ugliest. It doesn't matter anymore.

Ruri'iro Kujaku purrs in the back of his mind, an attempted comfort, and Yumichika doesn't snap at him, no matter how he feels he wants to.

"Because I was afraid." It's the only answer that Yumichika can give.

"Of what?" Ikkaku's voice shakes, and Yumichika can feel the anger behind it. He doesn't open his eyes, ignore the tears leaking out the corners of his eyes.

"Of the Captain kicking me out of the Squad. Of the Soul Society hating me for what I am... Of being unable, rather than unwilling, to eat... Of you hating me." His voice gets quiet on the last one, and he turns his head away, because he's so sure it's going to happen, he's so sure of the anger, and hatred and-

"Bull fucking shit."

Yumichika turns, eyes wide, betrayed. Who is Ikkaku to tell him his own fears, how can he- and Yumichika pauses, because Ikkaku's teary-eyed too.

"You kept my secret, I would have kept yours. In a heart beat. Besides, if you're kicked out, I go with you, no matter what. It's been the two of us together this entire time, and you've been literally killing yourself to hide it from me because you're scared that that's gonna change?"

Yumichika pushes himself up, ignored the vertigo and the lurch in his stomach. "It's squad eleven, Ikkaku, I've heard what they say about kido users, about people with kido zanpakuto's, what cowards we are, that we can't even fight right. I know what they say, and no one says anything to stop it, or defend it. I starve because I know I will be shunned for existing like I do because of Ruri'iro Kujaku."

If Ikkaku's shocked at the real name of his zanpakuto, he doesn't show it, because he's too angry-worried. "So you decided to just die off? I know you, that's not a pretty way to go, and that's not the way that you've told me you want to go out."

"What else am I supposed to do in the face of that much hatred?" Yumichika asks, shaking and upset, but never at Ikkaku. He's upset at himself, as always, because he doubted Ikkaku, and now that's going to drive them apart, because Ikkaku hates being doubted.

"Turn to me! I'm not gonna just up and leave you, Yumi, not even now." And Yumichika looks up, must look socked, because Ikkaku huffs, and shakes his head. "Even now. You're my best friend, and I'm not gonna fucking abandon you because you zanpakuto is what it is. That's not gonna change, and I'd be stupid to when you keep my secrets."

Yumichika stares for a moment, before he slings his legs off the side of the bed, and collapses into Ikkaku's arms, shaking and so tired and hungry, but Ikkaku's there, he should have been since the beginning, and Ikkaku wraps him up in his arms and ignores the soft sobbing. Yumichika is not a pretty crier, and Ikkaku knows better by now.

Eventually, they have to separate, eventually Yumichika has to sit back in bed, because the hunger-vertigo hurts now, and he's too dehydrated to cry anymore. He knows he's ugly right now, face red and puffy and snotty, but Ikkaku doesn't comment on it, just smiles at him, and Yumichika smiles back, and wraps himself up in the blanket as Unahana comes in, eyes soft.

"I suppose that you're finally convinced?"

Yumichika knows what the captain means, but it's still terrifying, but he looks to Ikkaku, who doesn't blink, and Ruri'iro Kujaku purrs behind his ears, and Yumichika nods slowly, because the hunger hurts as it always has, and he's so tired of pain.

His zanpakuto sits in his lap when he does it, whispers the activation, watches the vines live and curl around him, but one, which reaches out and wraps up Unahana's arm, and leeches. She raises an eyebrow at him, and Yumichika shrugs.

"I figure... Get some now to get me out of here, then get some from my Captain... always wanted to know what he tastes like, and it seems like this might be my last chance before I'm forced to change squads, so... hopefully..."

Ikkaku says nothing but narrows his eyes at him, and Unahana smiles her kind smile at him.

They don't explode, because Yumichika does not want to hurt, but the flowers fall, and the vine pulls away when his lap is full of them, and reforms into a blade, and Yumichika picks up the flowers carefully, and eats.

She's like mint, but strong, far too strong, almost burning. It feels right, for her, and Yumichika eats almost too quickly, but refuses to allow the shame to replace the hunger. He's still hungry, but it's secondary now.

"How often do you need to eat?" She asks, and Yumichika hums, turns the question inwards, and Ruri'iro Kujaku answers for him.

"Once a week should be alright. This isn't like a normal hunger. I could even stretch it to once a month. I'm... rather used to the hunger."

Unahana nods, but something in her eyes tells him he's not going to get to push it.

She lets him go an hour later, and Yumichika walks out with Ikkaku at his side, and he feels small and too big at the same time, expects stares but doesn't get any, and he's waiting for the hammer to fall, before Ikkaku sighs.

"We didn't tell anyone." Yumichika looks over, and Ikkaku doesn't look to him, leading him out towards the barracks, towards Kenpachi's room. "Figured that should be your choice."

He nods slightly, and Ikkaku pushes open the door, doesn't bother to knock, just calls into the room, and Yumichika follows, tired and still hungry, but worried. Scared.

But Yachiru jumps on him, clings for a moment, and Yumichika hugs her tight back, because she doesn't know how to express the worry of losing someone, and Yumichika does what he can for her in that moment, before turning to face the captain, settled at his table.

His bells are out, scattered in front of him, and Yachiru bounces back over to help him put them back into his hair. Yumichika takes a breath, and moves over to sit in front of him, and stares him down, prepared to lose his life.

But Kenpachi just huffs, glares at him and goes "Don't die cause you're starving yourself, dumbass."

Yumichika bristles a bit at that, but accepts it. It's a correct statement, something understandable, and then Kenpachi tilts his head to let Yachiru fix a bell, and stares Yumichika down.

"When you gotta eat?"

He doesn't pretend it doesn't shock him, lets his eyes widen a bit, before looking towards Ikkaku nervously, letting the answer tumble out without thinking. He's hungry still, of course, but it's managable, and he can pretend-

"Unahana gave him some earlier, but he's stupid and didn't take enough I think." Ikkaku says, and Yumichika glares at him, before Yachiru bounces back across the table to smack him on the forehead.

"That's dumb! You gotta eat, you know!" And Yumichika stares at her, before Kenpachi leans forwards.

"Take what you need, and then you and I are gonna have a talk."

Yumichika's terrified of what that means, but he feels the order in his soul, and thus sighs.

Kenpachi tastes like burning and fire and spice, and Yumichika closes his eyes as he chews carefully on the flowers in his lap, the stabbing hunger pains ebbing away as he munches on the flowers, and Kenpachi leans back.

"So once a week, huh?"

"Doesn't have to be you." Yumichika mumbles around a flower. "But yeah..."

"And you hid it because?"

Yumichika fixes him with a look. "Captain, you're not deaf or stupid. You know how this Squad feels about kido."

Kenpachi blinks at him, then grins, because it's sass, and it's coming back, and Yumichika knows that's a good thing in their eyes. "Well, they say shit they can come talk to me. You're strong as hell without using your actual shikai, so what's the problem with you getting stronger?"

He has to give the captain that, so he doesn't reply, just looks back down to his flowers in his lap, and lets himself hope. Because he's not being kicked out. He's not being shamed, and he's not going to be so hungry all the time.

Ikkaku settles at his side, leaning against him, nudges his arm to keep munching on the flowers, that have always been so pretty, but now Yumichika can appreciate the beauty of them.

"So. How does that sword of yours work?" Kenpachi asks, and Yachiru grins at him, and Yumichika pops another flower in his mouth, and starts to explain, as the hunger finally ebbs away completely.

#bleach #yumichika ayasegawa #ikkaku madarame #kenpachi zaraki #starving mention #ed warning #kinda #feelings in various ways

[zeebeebirdy]

When Angels Fly

Summary: The Vault Hunters kill Angel, and Jack reacts as most parents would at the loss of their child. He doesn't expect however to take on her siren powers because...well, that's not how sirens work, right?!

(Alternatively: We were talking about siren Jack in a server and getting emo about Jack getting her powers after she dies and next thing I knew I was writing angst!)

[READ HERE ON AO3]

"Dad, I have to tell you something…"

Jack's panic is soaring through his veins like an unruly firework. He watches his daughter lay on the ground, staring up at the pixilated projection of himself, and tears begin collecting in his eyes finally. Her breath is laboured. Her eyes…

She looks too much like her mother.

"You're an asshole."

The scream rips through him involuntarily, full of rage and sorrow and regret. Angel falls limp, and Jack roars with such venomous hysteria, he threatens to tear his vocal chords beyond repair. He slams his palm down on the panel before him, turning off his projection into the chamber, and screams again.

He keeps screaming. His whole chest feels like it's shattering, the explosion of his heart having blown out the structure of his ribs. Every scream gets more hysterical, it burns so deep he imagines his lungs to be shrivelling up, turning black and crumbling as they weaken. Every coherent thought he might have been able to decipher before is now just tangled knots, taunting him.

This is a familiar pain, isn't it? He's known this before, this putrid, agonising darkness that consumes him, squeezes him until he's drained of any will to live. The thick melancholia infecting his senses, poisoning him beyond the point of death.

He didn't deserve it before. He didn't deserve to lose his chance at happiness. He didn't deserve watching his world be torn apart so easily after fighting for hope. 

I'm not an asshole.

I was defying fate of breaking me.

He punches one of the metal walls to the room he's in, then rests his forehead following. Tears pour from his eyes like he's some kind of geyser, and the inability to stop just fuels his anger more. He's used to feeling anger, even if it's simply lingering, keeping him company, but this is increased tenfold compared to what he knows. This is terrifying, it stiffens his bones, expands to form cracks. 

He didn't deserve it before. Did he deserve it now?

Did she?

She still sounds so close by. Her voice, infected in hatred, dripping with exhaustion, and it drowns his sanity. The sounds of her as an infant, babbling nonsense, they echo among her pained screeching. All her sounds, all his memories of her, they begin to blend together. They're blinding, they're deafening…

His arm is glowing. 

--wait, his arm is glowing?!

Jack sees the shimmering blue peeking out the sleeve of his jacket, and quickly whips off the clothing in a frantic haste. He rolls up his shirt sleeve and jumper in one, and there, plain as day...her markings. The spiraling, icey blue that lit up her ghostly complexion, drawing itself into his skin. There's no physical pain that he can tell, but maybe he's just too heartbroken to even tell.

Her voice gets louder. It echos, talks over itself, screaming abuse at him, whispering for help, begging for release. He holds his arm up and stares at the tattoo as it continues wrapping itself around his arm. He can almost see his wide, glossy eyes reflected in the glow. Then he hastily unclasps his vest, unbuttons his shirt, and throws both to the ground. He lifts his sweater up over his chest and sees the same glow leading down his shoulder toward the top of his pectoral. 

He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. He looks between his chest and arm, touches it with his other hand - it feels smoother than the rest of his skin, almost like flesh fused with marble. It's impossible, surely, he can't be a siren. There's only six sirens in existence at one time, and he knows three--

No. He knows two of them.

No. He is one of them.

No…

Then all of a sudden, an agonising pain electrifies it's way up his spine. He thrashes backward and slams his back against the metal wall, attempting to reach back, trying to touch whatever it is that feels like drills going through his shoulder blades. He shouts out like a dying animal, panting heavily when his lungs demand a break, and then he stumbles over and falls with a hard this on his knees. He braces his fall with both hands, and freezes in the undignified position.

More screaming. The pain is torturous. It feels as if someone is drilling right through the bone in his shoulders, angling the tool to expand the point of pressure. A burning chill shoots through his blood and punctures his heart, and he feels it then, the distinct fizzling of electricity. Small bolts rapidly shoot through his veins over and over and over again, it’s like he’s being drugged, being forced to overdose on adrenaline and fear. He grits his teeth, trying desperately to disrupt the pain. It doesn’t stop, it just grows more and more aggressive. The pain in his shoulders broadens, forces his bones to shift and break. It’s a nightmare.

Pain has always followed Jack around. Pain is his stalker, his ghost, the curse befallen upon his family. Pain knocks on every door he locks and walks in without a key. Pain isn’t a stranger, but neither is it a friend. It’s a visitor someone else invited over, and that leaves in their own time

When he tries to speak again, all that comes out are pained wails. His words like static on his tongue. He opens his eyes and gasps. The room is blindingly bright, and as he glances around, blurring trails follow his line of sight. It’s too much. His whole body is changing. Is he floating? It feels like it - he can’t seem to feel the support of the floor beneath him anymore.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it’s just white. All the pain disappears without any climax. It’s just nothingness.

Except for Angel. She floats before him, the emptiness almost swallowing her whole. She’s pale, and thin, and frail, but her tattoos are gone. The bluest thing about her now is the sickly undertone of her skin. All of Jack’s senses have been frozen, and all he has is sight. She has an angelic glow haloing her body, ironically, and he wants to reach out and touch her. He wants to acknowledge she’s real - he wants to stroke her hair, hold her face, kiss her forehead, squeeze her tight--

He tries to yell for her. He tries so desperately to scream, but there’s only absolute silence. His voice has been stricken from him. He can hear the pain deep in his core, the yearning that burns him up. 

I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY, ANGEL! SWEETHEART, PLEASE, COME CLOSER! YOU’RE MY BABYGIRL-- I’M SORRY! I’M SO FUCKING SORRY!

But nothing. He can feel, in the vaguest sense of the word, the ghostly trails of his tears from moments ago, but there’s nothing actually there. He reaches out, clawing at thin air, straining to grab her- grab anything! It’s just more nothing. Endless amounts of nothing but her presence haunting him.

She says nothing, barely does anything either beside stare at him with such wicked discontentment. It’s otherworldly, and confusing, yet somehow even in this plane of existence, where he can’t even feel the dull thumping of his own heartbeat in his ears, and he remembers the scorching pain from mer seconds prior, her scowl is the most painful thing he’s felt so far.

He wonders, in whatever consciousness he’s given in this non explicit realm of existence, if maybe this is a punishment for the things he’s done in his life. Sure, there’s no hellfire and brimstone, but the absolute absurdity of it all, and the suddenness of his depression crushing him without warning, it feels like torture. Maybe the shock of watching his only child - the only family he has left, as far as he’s been concerned for years - drove him beyond what he even knew to be insanity. He could be passed out, drooling on the floor, just vulnerable and waiting for someone to put a bullet in his head. Weird things have followed Jack his whole life, admittedly, so perhaps this is just another unexplainable alien entity.

He really hates not knowing. Worse though is not being able to ask.

Angel begins to move closer. The quiet is eerie, it unsettles Jack more so than he already was. She comes face to face with him, inches away from their noses touching. Her face hasn’t moved from it’s scowl, in fact it looks like it’s intensified. She stares deep into his eyes, and bleeds him of all his apologies, replacing those dark corners of his soul he tries to ignore with heavy, deathly guilt. She plagues him with the pain he gave her, attaches the tumour that was being a siren and let’s it possess him now. 

She looks too much like her mother.

Without a word, she gently lays herself down, and on instinct Jack catches her. She’s weightless, like air, but he doesn’t pull away. Her scowl falls away and she closes her eyes. He cradles her, almost akin to the days she was a new-born, afraid he’d break her if he moved too quickly. 

The next time Jack blinks, he finds himself plunged back into reality. There’s the broken hum of the control core, the creaking of metal all around, and looking down in his arms he sees Angel, completely void of life. Her limp body pours blood, covering his hands and clothes.

He can feel the electric wings sticking out of his back.

He can feel the electrical current pumping blood throughout his body.

He feels regret.

#borderlands #Handsome Jack #angel the siren #angel borderlands #borderlands 2 #borderlands fic #my fic

[jossambird]

Second Part of Halloween Collab!!

Here we have: Switch/Dom Pirate Axel x Female Reader Disguised as Male!

In previous post we have: Jealous Pirate Otto x Female Reade Disguised as Male!

The salty wind blew, the hot air of the Caribbean touching your face softly, the scent of the sea calling to you.

You weren't made for tight dresses and gowns. Sure, you loved them, but you wanted more, more than just the view of the sea out of your window, more than just the waves crashing against your feet as you stood in the beach.

Today was your day, you had made sure of it. You dressed slowly, wrapping the bind around your chest as tightly as you could, looking in the mirror.

Yes, this would be PERFECT.

Axel regarded his tall brother, wondering why he insisted on wearing such a hot ensemble. It suited him though, watching as the local prostitutes of the docks tried catching his eye, but failing, Otto’s disgruntled visage making them turn away to seek company elsewhere, or another man with coin.

Blue-gray eyes shifted, landing on a small thing, a lad, practically drowning in his oversized clothes, the black fabrics loose around his frame. How odd, he thought, watching as Oscar pushed the lad playfully, his coat opening-

Now, that wasn't a color a young lad like that should be wearing...

A deep navy blue sash hung against his hips, hidden under the lads jacket... hmm.

Men sang, drunk and happy, enjoying eachothers company as Axel made his way down ship, searching for the mysterious lad that had boarded upon his ship earlier. None other had seen him for a while, each man saying that the lad had gone to bed. All hammocks lay empty, expect for the few occasional drunkard snoring away.

“Axe- Captain, a word?” Oscar called to him a ways away, looking surprised and smug, never a good mix.

“What? Im busy.” Axel snapped at his younger brother, frustration at not finding the bizarre lad running through him. Why was he so taken-

“I- There’s a lass, onboard.” Oscar whispered, staring at his brother as his words registered, Axel’s eyes squinting at him.

“Excuse me?” Axel said, expecting it to be a joke, because how could a lass-

Of course. That's what he had felt when he had looked at her, the lad wasnt a man, he was a female, a lass, hidden in disguise to board a ship for who knows what reason.

He held up a hand to his brother and nodded, smiling a bit more honestly.

“Yes, the lad this morning, was that her disguise?” Axel asked him, pursing his lips as Oscar smirked, the little shit shrugging.

“I just found out, heard her singing. Figured the Captain should go uh, warn her.” Oscar whispered, smiling widely. He pointed him in the correct direction and made his way to her.

You bathed silently, humming a tune your mother had once sang, delicately washing your hair. You would have to get used to it, the salty water making it dry and crisp, sticking together and making you look like a poodle. Sighing, you continued slowly, untangling it until a sound rang out. A soft knock at the door, soft but demanding, god, someone had found you out.

“Yes, come in.” Old habits of being a proper lady died hard, making you speak, your hand rising to shut your mouth. Oh god, they were going to kill you, defile you even, knowing there was a woman onboard...

The Captain came in, face passive and silent, eyes on you in an instant, taking in your naked form over the basin. Would he throw you overboard? You regretted ever thinking this could work-

“You should be more quiet, next time.” He said, still observing you, eyes continuously roaming all of your form, landing on your breasts finally before raising to your eyes. You fought the urge to cover yourself, heat pooling between your closed thighs at his seeking stare. It took a moment for his words to sink in, eyes growing wider for a moment as you looked at him.

“I- Im sorry Captain- Oh I was so stupid, please don’t throw me overboard!” You whispered to him, turning fully and gracing him with and amazing view of your body once more, legs parted as you sat on the edge of the basin. He breathed in sharply, closing his eyes at the hauntingly delicious view. No, he couldn’t look, be a pirate he may, but not to the extent of harming a lass who might be unwilling. Axel cursed inwardly at the stirring in his trousers, willing his body to relax.

It was too late, you noticed, eyes roaming his form just as he had moments ago. An idea struck you, looking at him struggling to keep his gaze away, as if you were a mermaid, tempting him to succumb to your attentions. And that you would be, tempting a beautiful man to use you, fuck you into the hard wood of the basin, to have the Captain of a ship fuck you like a common whore.

“I apologize. I assume this was your bathing water, was it Captain?” You asked softly, his eyes opening and burning into yours, finally taking a step closer, his decision made.

“Yes.” Axel simply replied, steps heavy yet quiet, advancing on you like a hunter, your nipples hardening at his gaze.

“Then come, share it with me.” You muttered as he stood infront of you, eyes glacial and hot, his hand rising to move a strand of your hair from your face, his smirk making you squirm.

“You will be the one cumming, if I may be so permitted.” Axel whispered, his other hand untying his sash, throwing it on the floor amongst your discarded clothes. His play on your previous words made you close your eyes, his thumb entering your mouth softly, moaning as you sucked on it.

It took no time for him to withdraw and nearly tear his remaining clothes off before joining you in the now lukewarm water, pulling you down onto his strong thighs, a hand in your hair tugging it back.

“Tell me, what made you board my ship, dressed as a lad?” He asked against your skin, touching your body, enjoying the feel of your wet heat against his thigh.

You moaned, hands landing on his hard shoulders for support, adoring the rough way he held you, hand palming your breast.

“I wanted adventure, oh yesss- I wanted to run away from my life-“ you tried, Axel’s free hand finding itself between your thighs rubbing you. You had never felt any of this before from anyone, only your own hands had served you all these years, your father’s hatred for men too strong to allow anyone to approach you, even less try and touch you.

But here, now, an unknown Captain you barely knew rubbed your core, finger entering you slowly, holding your hair in tight grip, and you realized you adored it. You wanted this, eyes shutting tightly as he continued, watching your every movement and sound.

He must have known you were pure, the pause in his motions alerting you as he leaned forward, hand leaving your hair.

“You are... untouched.” He said, asked, his face finding itself against your neck. You nodded, holding him close.

“I want this, I want to be touched and used by you, please. I want you to be my first, Captain.”

Your words struck him, lifting his head to look into your eyes, finding no trace of a lie. He smirked as you came closer, hand on his hardness rubbing him.

“Naughty little thing, tell me your name before I ravage you.” He said, pulling your hips flush against him as you whimpered, his hardness so close to your center.

“Y/N, and yours, my Captain?” You replied, loving the way he pulled you up, placing himself correctly before pushing in slowly into your wet core, his rough hand over your mouth to prevent your loud keen from being heard while glacial eyes watched you.

“Axel, älskling. If you are to stay on my ship, from now on, you will only part your legs for me, understand?” Axel bit out, loving the way you rose off his length and came back down, water sloshing around the both of you, taking him all in as if you had done this a million times, breasts heaving infront of his face, licking his lips.

He would ravage you alright, the sounds of your love making resonated through the ship, not a soul daring to acknowledge out loud the female voice that cried their captain’s name over and over again.

Axel’s teeth met your skin over and over again as he rammed into you, whispering things in a language you didn’t understand, rough and strong, having his way with you until he had you cumming, hand in your hair softening as he pulled you closer against him, breasts crushed between the both of you.

Your lips finally met, swallowing your moans as you came undone ontop of him, his own noises muffled against your lips as you squeezed him and made him follow you, cumming deep inside you, your own hands holding his shoulders oh so tightly.

Axel, your Captain and lover, held you close, touch turning reverent and soft against your back, kissing you again and again.

“I meant what I said.” He whispered against your cheek as his eyes met your discarded male clothes, wondering if you would stay, or leave once they stopped at shore in the next town.

Now, Axel was never a liar, but he was definitely lying to himself when he told himself he wouldn’t care if you left, your soft pants against his cheek making him hold you closer for a moment.

You giggled, the noise surprising him just enough for him to look back at you, confusion melting as he met your gaze.

“I accept, Captain, or should I say, Axel, my lover?” You giggled, the both of you ignoring the knock on the door as Axel leaned forward in the basin of now cold water, kissing and licking each mark he had left against your skin.

#AHHHH ENJOY #tua swedes #tua axel #tua oscar #tua otto #the swedes #the swedes x reader #smut #NS/FW #ikea mafia #Ikea fam #umbrella academy Swedes #JossamBird Fic #pirate swedes

[amazingmsme]

Dandelions Don’t Die

AN: It’s finally here! The much anticipated(on my part at least) vampire!jaskier fic! Buckle the fuck in cause it’s a whopper, I really wanted to make this all one fic, so it stands at 12,714 words! Wowza, I think this is the longest oneshot I’ve ever posted! Too long for me to read through & no beta, I apologize if there’s any mistakes

WARNINGS: Jaskier’s a vampire, so there’s a few mentions of blood if that sort of thing upsets you. He also kills a deer, but that’s over fairly quickly so you can skip over that if you need to.

As much as Jaskier wished it could last, he knew it couldn't. It would have to end eventually, with Geralt and Jaskier going their separate ways. He only wished it had ended on better terms. Instead they split at the mountainside, with harsh words thrown in his face. It hurt more than he ever thought it could. He had traveled back down the trail at a slow pace, matching his somber mind. He felt many things, more than he had in a long time. Anger, hurt, jealousy, guilt and sadness all swirled like a whirlpool in his head, turning his brain into a sloshing liquid that splashed against his skull with each step he took.

He needed to take his anger out on something, anything. He knew he could not feed on humans. Not only would he feel immensely bad about it, but it wouldn't be long until word spread of a vampire lurking about. And where a monster was, a certain witcher was bound to show up eventually. So he journeyed into the woods in search of an unfortunate creature.

Hunting always helped to clear his head. It had been hard to do on his travels with Geralt. He always had to find a way to slink off while the other man was busy and clean himself up before he noticed his companion was missing. At least he wouldn't have to worry about that anymore. His chest ached at the thought.

Well Geralt would finally have what he wanted. To be alone. Truly alone, with only his horse to keep him company. As he thought about it, he began to miss Roach. He hadn't only grown fond of the brooding man, but his horse as well. Fuck, these next few years were going to suck. If he was lucky, he would be over this by the end of the decade. He hadn't been this down since he had first been turned. For 50 years he hasn't felt a steady beat in his chest, only the odd slow thump every five seconds or so. A stagnant muscle sitting in his chest just trying to resemble some semblance of normalcy.

He waited in the bushes, consumed by his misery. A twig snapped and he jerked his head up. He hoped beyond hope that Geralt had come to apologize, to take him up on his offer of escape, to invite him on his journeys. Instead he saw a buck enter the clearing before him. He licked his lips. He could smell the enticing scent of the deer's blood. It had been forever since he had had a real meal. He continued to eat human food to keep up appearances, but it did nothing to satisfy his hunger. It still tasted wonderful and he enjoyed the comfort, but his stomach and veins remained empty, longing for something more.

He pounced, and the poor animal didn't stand a chance. He let out a hum of relief as his teeth pierced through the pelt and flesh, sinking into the jugular. He sucked, not wanting to waste a drop. He felt himself grow stronger with each gulp. The blood was warm and thick, like syrup fresh from a tree. The satisfying tang of iron coated his mouth as he finished his feast. He wiped the remaining blood from his lips and continued on his way. To where, he did not know.

He wandered aimlessly from kingdom to kingdom, town to town. He was in every sense a lost soul. His songs were no longer jaunty tunes to sing along with, but emotional ballads that made the heart weep. People started to forget the bright eyed bard who sang the tales of the white wolf. He would hear others play them in taverns across the land, and it would always bring about a sad smile on his face. Those songs were popular, and good if he did say so himself. But they made him yearn for what once was. He couldn't have that anymore.

He heard whispers asking whatever happened to Jaskier, the bard who nobly followed Geralt of Rivia wherever he went. He sat alone in a booth, overhearing such a conversation. He himself wondered the same thing.

Everyone must die eventually, he thought to himself. He needed a fresh start, one not tied down to the ghosts of his past. It was commonplace for vampires to assume a new identity and create a fake death for their old persona. Now would be the perfect opportunity to plant the seed for his new life. He spoke up without turning to look at them.

"He died." There was a brief silence before they spoke up.

"Oh... that's a shame, he seemed like a good man. Talented too," the man in the booth behind him said. The woman at his arm chided in, "I suppose one of his journeys with the witcher didn't turn out so well."

"We'll never know I guess. At least the music will live on."

And with that, Jaskier was dead.

Word travels fast through a town, and faster by horse. It wouldn't be too long before Geralt would hear the news. Good, he wouldn't have to worry about running into him. What a mess that would be. He couldn't decide if it was bad that he hoped the man felt guilty. Make him feel as lousy as he does. He was always a little petty, and he saw no reason to change that.

He went by Amarant now. What can he say, he liked flowers. He still liked Jaskier much better, but he knew he would have to give up the name eventually. Perhaps in a hundred years or so he could take it up again. Surely Geralt will have forgotten him by then. If only he could be so lucky.

He still needed to change his appearance somehow. He had become slightly well known as the White Wolf's bard, and he didn't want to risk anyone recognizing him. The funny thing about vampires is that their appearance doesn't change... except for hair.

He really did have lovely hair. Thick and shiny and looking good in whatever style he chose. He decided to grow it out. Shoulder length was his limit, and he preferred to keep it slicked back away from his face, giving it a natural wind blown look. He also grew out some facial hair, keeping it well shaped into a handsome mustache and goatee.

He never stayed in one place for too long, always needing to find some way to fill the emptiness he felt inside, but never finding it. He enjoyed many nights with many strangers. And if most of them tended to be blonde and large in stature, well, he never mentioned it.

Amarant was making a name for himself as quite the hopeless romantic. He sang songs for the heartbroken, and lovers serenaded each other with his ballads. Even his peppier jaunts held a sad tale. He was currently between travels, resting in a poppy field as he wrote his newest song. The familiar weight of the lute sat against his chest as he strummed.

Laaa la la laaa lala laaa lala la laaa I once knew a man of such beauty He wandered from place to place. In search of life and fulfillment But nothing could replace his lovers embrace.

Ooo he had a secret. His face was fair. He only travels by night and escapes from his lair.

Laaa la la laaa lala laaa lala la laaa I once knew a man so empty, The life faded out long ago. What a sad and weary soul Who will never grow old.

Ooo he's lost in the night. And he hides from the light, of the day. And if they knew what he was, they'd all turn away.

He liked it so far. The chords sounded right and the lyrics came from the heart. Those were his best ones. His quill dragged along the parchment in his journal, leaving black ink in spiraling letters. He continued.

Laaa la la laaa lala laaa lala la laaa I once knew a man so heartless. 'Twas ripped from his chest With hatred and scorn And now owns a barren breast.

Ooo a lost love can kill you With heartbreak and blade. Because a steak through the heart can kill any maid.

She was as lovely as ever, Skin pale as snow, and red lips of blood, She stole him away. A bleeding heart left to drain.

Laaa la la laaa lala laaa lala la laaa I once knew a man so broken, Who just went through the motions, of a pointless life.

Ooo he was doomed for infinity. Until someone sets him free, He will rest in a coffin bed.

A dead bard sings no songs. Dead men tell no tales, And dead witches can't cast spells.

Laaa la la laaa lala laaa lala la laaa I once knew a man so hollow. So desperate for love, he would follow. Tailing behind until the end of time.

He finished the ballad with a soft series of strums. It was short, but good. The song was just as much about him as it was about Geralt. He just hoped that people wouldn't tire of his melancholy tunes. Of course he would take requests for songs and wouldn't mind singing ones other bards had written. Wherever he went, he still received requests for the songs of the great witcher's travels. And he would sing them as his heart ached, remembering a better time.

~~~~

He wasn't the only one who longed for the comfort of the past. About two and a half years into his travels with Ciri, he heard word of Jaskier's death. They were having a quick meal in a tavern, and Geralt nursed his mug of ale, idly listening to whatever Ciri was rambling about, but not giving it too much thought. He was tired after killing the silkie that had been drowning children in the nearby river and let his mind wander.

His enhanced hearing was able to pick up a conversation from a nearby table. They seemed to be talking about the bard stood in the corner. He was singing Her Sweet Kiss. Geralt couldn't help but note that Jaskier was much more talented. Apparently he wasn't the only one who thought so.

"He's butchering this song," the man said, staring at the musician with distaste. His friend nodded along.

"I know. Poor Jaskier's probably rolling in his grave."

That definitely caught his attention and his head whipped around to look. Ciri's brows furrowed with concern.

"Geralt are you-"

"Shh." He held his hand up to silence her as he listened more intently.

"It should be illegal to sing a deadman's song unless you can actually sing it."

"Cheers," the man agreed and clinked their glasses together. Geralt stood and made his way to their table. Ciri, not knowing where the situation was heading followed, ready to deescalate if need be.

"Sorry for for intruding but I couldn't help overhearing what you said about the bard, Jaskier." The men didn't seem to mind very much about his sudden appearance.

"Yeah, it's a real shame too. One of the most talented bards I've seen in my day." He looked Geralt up and down, as though just now taking him in. "Hold on a minute, you're that Witcher he was always singing about! Thought you'd be the first to know, seeing as well, y'know..." he trailed off, taking a drink from his glass.

"Mm. We parted ways some time ago. I hadn't seen him sense. Now I know why," he said gruffly. The two men shifted awkwardly, remorse clearly written on their faces.

"Well gee, I'm sorry you had to hear it from us."

"Hmm," he grunted, ready to turn away. Ciri stepped forward, asking, "How did he die?" Geralt shot her a warning look. One that she did not heed.

The first man shrugged, "Wish I could say, but no one knows. Not even sure if there's a grave."

"If there's no grave, is there a chance he could still be alive?" she asked.

"Ciri," Geralt's patience was wearing thin. With the news he just received, he was in a sour and rotten mood and just wanted to drink himself unconscious.

The other man tilted his head in thought, "I suppose so. Been hearing rumors of a traveling bard who looks strikingly similar. Apparently he sounds like him too. His songs aren't as upbeat though. More melancholy." Geralt nodded in thanks with another grunt, and grabbed Ciri to lead her back to their table.

He was even more silent than usual. Ciri began awkwardly, "I'm sorry about your friend." He didn't look at her. "Why did you two split up?" she asked, ever so curious.

"We had a fight, and I said things I shouldn't have." He stared into his empty pitcher, mind completely lost. He didn't know what to think or to feel. He needed to be numb. He waved at the bartender for another pint and nodded gratefully once he brought it to him.

"I'm sorry, I know how awful it can be when you're left on bad terms with someone close to you."

"Mmm."

"But I'm sure that despite whatever you said, he knew you still cared for him," she tried to comfort him.

"That's the thing," he said, tracing the grain of the table. "I don't think he did." He threw his head back, taking large gulps of the bitter liquid. He relished in the slight burn down his throat as his stomach began to feel warm. Ciri offered a sad smile and squeezed his hand from across the table. By the end of their meal, Geralt could barely walk straight, and Ciri had to hold him upright on their way to the inn they were currently residing.

~~~~

Amarant couldn't take it anymore. Constantly being on the road was too painful of a reminder of what he lost. Traveling was lonely, and he was not meant to be alone. Clearly that was more suiting for Geralt, seeing as how he made it clear how unwanted his company was. His feet were constantly sore, and he wanted nothing more than to find a place to settle down. Wherever it was needed to be remote. A place where he could still perform for people, but also have a decent meal without stirring suspicion of a vampire in the area. There had been too many close calls, a cow here, two or three sheep there, all drained of blood leaving angry farmers. He tried not to make a habit of feeding on livestock, but there were times when he was desperate and starving. And there were many nights spent with beautiful strangers that were all too tempting. The hot and fresh scent of blood hanging in the air after sex. He knew their veins were full; he could feel their pulse against his skin. The flush on their cheeks made them look as delicious as the ripest apple, just waiting for him to sink his teeth into it. But he always resisted the temptation.

Even after everything, he still felt the call of the sea. Everything about it just seemed so appealing. The seclusion, the serenity, the sirens... it was exactly what he needed. But traveling that far on foot would take ages. He needed a horse. He was a day out from the nearest town, he supposed he could start over and be there by noon tomorrow. He had enough coin saved up from playing to buy himself a descent mare.

He watched the sun's light fade out through the branches in the forest and decided to set up camp for now. He was still full from the badger he had drank from earlier, so he focused on building a fire.

It was funny: there were many things about vampires that he discovered were false, and others that held true. Sunlight: not a problem. Sure he'd grow a little more pink than normal if he stayed out too long, but that's what sleeves and hats were for. He could still see his reflection, thank the gods for that. He doesn't think he could live forever without seeing his own pretty face. Silver didn't burn all too badly, in fact the pain was almost nice. A satisfying sting that dug into his skin and left a small welt.

Then there were the things that were completely true. Garlic was awful. Vampires had an enhanced sense of smell and the potency of the vegetable damaged the sensitive nerves, and if it were to be consumed, it would act as a poison. So basically, he was allergic. Oh well he was never a big fan of it anyway. Vampires and werewolves really did hate each other. Enough said. Gods he hated those snarling fucks. He hasn't aged a day since his turning, and his skin grew paler. He definitely felt more lively at night, and his canines were sharper that the average human's. Despite all of this, no one has suspected him of being a vampire, to the best of his knowledge.

By now the sun had set, and the remaining orange of the sun's fleeting light melted into the purple of dusk. Between the leaves above him he watched as stars danced into view. The warmth of the fire kissed his chilled skin as he let his thoughts wonder. And just as always, his mind immediately went to Geralt.

They had just finished setting up camp for the night. Geralt had gotten a few deep gashes from the minotaur he had finished slaying, and sat silently as Jaskier patched him up. He didn't seem to be paying much attention to Jaskier's chastising words.

"You know bard, I would much prefer your singing than scolding right now."

Jaskier scoffed, "Oh would you now? That's a first." He held the needle in his hand close to the fire to sterilize it some before sewing the wounds shut. "Any requests?" he asked, his tongue poking out between his lips as he focused on threading the needle.

"Hmm. Maybe a new one?" he asked, watching as he brought the tool closer to his skin. Jaskier chuckled at that.

"Ohoho that's rich. Normally when I try to compose a new song you tell me to shut it."

"I'm not right now," Geralt stated. That made Jaskier pause in his movements, looking up to meet his eyes. They were still black from the potions having not wore off quite yet. He swallowed thickly.

"Right. Well then, I can, uh, come up with a new one," he said. He was still looking into his pitch dark eyes, feeling himself get lost. He was pulled back out when Geralt grunted and asked, "What?"

Jaskier cleared his throat. "Nothing. It's just that, ah, your eyes look very nice right now," he admitted with a hint of a smile. Geralt tilted his head, a frown etching it's way onto his face.

"What?"

"Yeah, I can see my reflection perfectly. They've never looked more lovely," he recovered. When Geralt let out a snort of amusement, he let out an internal sigh of relief. He couldn't let himself slip up like that again. As he continued stitching him up, he started singing about his latest battle.

Geralt closed his eyes, listening to his voice raise through the air over the crackling of the fire. The dim glow illuminated his features and cast shadows under his jaw. Jaskier didn't dare let his gaze linger for too long.

"There, all better!" he chirped, standing up to stretch. Geralt examined the fresh scar stretching across his chest before he laid down in the soft grass.

"Look at the stars," he said. Jaskier tilted his head up to do so, letting out a soft gasp. They were absolutely beautiful. He had never seen so many of them, all twinkling and dazzling in the night. The sky itself was a swirling array of colors, full of royal blues and purples with a touch of light blue and green. "Come. Lay down, you deserve to rest." He did as he said, laying next to him. They simply laid there, looking up at the sky, content in saying nothing.

It was Jaskier who broke the silence. "Y'know, one day I bet you'll have a constellation up there." Geralt raised his eyebrows with a hum.

"Oh really?"

"Yes, all the greatest heroes and legends end up there eventually. And with all the monsters you've slain, there's no doubt in my mind you'll join them," he said honestly. Geralt was quiet, not knowing what to say to that. Another bout of silence had fallen over the two. This time, it was Geralt who interrupted the quiet, surprisingly.

"Have you ever considered making a song about the stars?" he asked.

"Uhh, no not really," Jaskier admitted. "But now I think I might."

Geralt turned to look at him, tearing his gaze away from the universe. "I'd like to hear it when you do." Jaskier's lips upturned into a breathless smile.

"Alright."

Amarant wiped away his tears at the memory. He reached for his lute, and began his star song. He let all of his emotions surge forth in a beautiful melody. A rustle from the brush startled him, and his hand stilled. His enhanced vision allowed him to peer into the dark, and he scanned for the source of the noise. He could barely make out the outline of a dark horse and relaxed. He went back to his singing, and the creature wandered closer. He smiled as he played, seeing as it enjoyed his music. He sucked in a sharp breath upon seeing it step into the light.

She was tall and stout, with a shining black coat that glistened in the firelight. Her mane was long and wavy, and her tail draped to the floor, looking as soft as spun silk. But what really drew his eye was the grayish blue horn atop her head that held a pearlescent glow.

His knowledge of unicorns was limited, but he knew they could be dangerous if spooked. They were incredibly loyal creatures once they formed a bond, but the chance of ever seeing one in person was incredibly low. He supposed they acted like a normal horse personality wise, but that was just speculation. He slowly set his lute on the ground. The unicorn tossed her head with a small whiny, pawing the ground with her hoof. He held his hands out in front of him in a cautious gesture.

"Easy girl." His footing was careful, bringing him closer to the beautiful creature while still keeping a respectable distance. "My aren't you gorgeous," he said in awe. She hesitated before closing the distance between them. He let out a breathy laugh of disbelief and brought his hand up to pet her head. "I-I can't believe this... What on earth did I do to possibly deserve being graced with your presence, hm?" he questioned. He got no response. "Perhaps my life is finally getting back on track."

After petting her for another minute or two, she shoved past him not so gently and stood by the log he had been sitting on. His lute was propped against it, and she dipped her head down to inspect it. He nervously made his way over, neither wanting to scare her away or harm his beloved instrument, and carefully picked it up.

"Ah, so you like my tunes. Perhaps you'll stick around," he mused, and got a soft neigh in agreement. He couldn't help the smile that appeared on his face. "Say, what's your name? An animal as lovely as you deserves to have a beautiful name. How about Ember?" he asked. She let out a snort in apparent disgust. "Ok so that's a no... "Galaktyka?" He could tell he was closer that time by her silence, but still not quite there. He tried different names, getting varying degrees of disscontempt. He thought about how he was playing his star song when she appeared, and he lit up. "Gwiazda?"

She threw her head back, whinnying with excitement that rubbed off on him. "Gwiazda it is!" He settled in for the night, feeling much better than he had earlier. He wasn't sure if she would still be around by morning, but regardless it will have been one of the greatest things to ever happen to him.

He awoke in the morning to the feeling of soft nibbling at the back of his neck. He began to stir, a few tired giggles slipping out at the tickly feeling. His eyes fluttered open and met a pair of large blue ones. Before he could let himself be startled, be remembered the previous night.

"Good morning beautiful girl!" he greeted happily. She gave soft snort in reply and tried to press their foreheads together, causing Amarant to duck to avoid her horn. He chuckled and stroked the side of her head before standing up. "I don't suppose you plan on sticking around," he joked as he packed up his camp. There weren't many things to gather, so he was done rather quickly. He gave her one last pat before he went on his way. To his surprise, he wasn't alone.

"I'm just going to warn you now, I don't know what will happen if townspeople see you, but I can't imagine it would be good. And it's not like I can put a hat on you," he wondered aloud. She nipped at his sleeve to get his attention, and he watched in amazement as the horn vanished before his eyes. "Huh, problem solved. Now if you're going to come with me to the coast, which let's face it, you probably are, am I right? I'll need to buy a saddle and some feed. You're not too picky for plain oats, right?" The rest on the journey to the town was filled with more one sided conversations just like this. As was the rest of the journey to the sea.

~~~~

After about two weeks, they made it to the coast. Amarant sat atop Gwiazda as the vast expanse of blue stretched over the horizon. For the first time in forever it seems, things felt right. He leaned forward and patted her neck before pressing onward. Together they moved down the rocky cliff towards the shore until they reached the sand. The fine earth shifted beneath her heavy hooves, kicking up slightly with each step.

He took a deep breath through his nose, enjoying all of the fresh and earthy scents. Salt and dead fish mixed together to create an unpleasantly pleasant smell. The kind where you commented on how bad it is, only to take another whiff. He wondered to himself if he would enjoy fish blood as much as he enjoyed seafood. The tide pools were teeming with life, which would allow him to be able to feed whenever he needed. He would no longer have to worry about townsfolk catching him with their livestock.

Amarant dismounted Gwiazda, standing beside her as he took off his boots. He dug his feet a little into the sand, enjoying the feeling. It was soft and comforting. They walked closer to the water, watching the waves crash along the shore. Amarant purposefully walked so that his feet were in the water. The cool sea washed over his feet, sometimes up to his ankles, before retreating. The frothy foam barely had time to absorb into the sand before another wave brought forth more.

Ahead of him he spotted a cave at the bottom of a cliff, far enough away from the shore that it would remain dry during high tide. "I think we found our new home, girl," he said, patting her side. She tossed her head with a small neigh in agreement. After settling in and unloading his belonging into the cave, they went out to watch the setting sun. Amarant found a tide pool close by and sat on the edge. He kicked his feet gently in the water, dipping a hand in every once in a while and skimmed the top with his fingers. He watched the small ripples trailing after his hand, disturbing the peace.

Gwiazda was laying on the beach next to him, rolling in the sand. She was obviously enjoying herself as well. He watched as the fading light glistened on the water, spotting something in the distance. In a flash, it disappeared, followed by a splash. Who knows what it was, the ocean was full of creatures, and even more monsters. The sun was now resting on the horizon, beginning its journey to the unseen. Darkness would soon be upon them. That was when it was safest to hunt, and he was so very hungry.

A sudden voice startled him.

"You can't stay here." He jumped, turning to look at the owner of those words.

"Why? Is someone else living in that cave?" he asked.

"Well no-" she started, and he cut her off

"Then I see no reason to leave."

"You really shouldn't be here you know. It's not safe for sweet little boys so close to sea," she purred, propping herself up on her elbows at the edge of the tide pool.

Amarant scoffed, "Oh yeah, and what are you? An expert?"

She tilted her head in amused annoyance. "Considering I live here, yes I am." She raised herself up and sat on the edge of the rocks, putting her long shimmering tail on display. He couldn't help but stare.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you? Staring's rude." Amarant quickly tore his gaze away from her scales, only to find he had to tear them away from her bare chest. Not daring to look anywhere else, he locked eyes with her.

"My apologies, it's just- well, it's very beautiful." She gave a genuine smile before turning it into something more sly. More sinister.

"Why thank you," she said, and scooted closer. "We sirens are known for our beauty. Everything about us from our scales to our voices is exquisite. It makes it easier to lure our prey." She leaned in, "Does it scare you?"

"No." He easily held her gaze as she snarled, her spines sticking out of her back quivered.

"Why not? Do you not think that I could pull you under the water and keep you there until you drown?"

Amarant smirked, "I know you can, and I've no doubt that you've done it many times. But I've met many monsters. If anything, it's you who should be scared." She let out a laugh.

"What could you possibly do to me? I didn't see you unpack any weapons, and a human could never overpower a siren." She took a moment to look him over. "Especially not one who looks so... soft." She stroked a hand across his cheek as she spoke. Amarant put his hand atop hers.

"What makes you so sure I'm human?" This caught her attention, a spark of intrigue flashed across her pupils.

"If you're not human, what are you?"

Amarant figured, what the hell, it's been a while since he had a good night of fun. Not to mention he's never slept with a siren, and he very much wanted to change that. He gripped her arms, tugging her towards him a little roughly, but still playful enough to be flirty. She let out a giggly gasp as he growled and bared his sharp teeth.

"Guess." She stared at him with wide eyes before pulling him in, lips crashing together in a heated kiss. He returned it with the same amount of passion, gently guiding her down until they were both laying.

That night they spent it on the sand underneath the stars. The cool breeze brushed against their heated skin. She had transformed after crawling out of the water, and their legs were tangled together as she laid her head on his chest. His hand traced idle patterns on her back as he hummed. She looked down at him, "You're a singer?"

"Yes, and a good one if I say so myself. And I do," he joked. "Though I'm sure it's nothing compared to you."

She smiled, "Yes well, you're only human," she teased.

"I'm Amarant by the way," he said.

"Aquaria."

He looked into her bright blue eyes, "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Amarant hoped this would be the first of many nights. Thankfully it was. They didn't put a label on what they had. It was a relationship based on sex and the occasional friendly conversation. She had told him what it was like underneath the waves, the beautiful cities and sea life, the terrifying depths and monsters. In return, he told her about his travels and about the people on land. He even told her about Geralt, from their meeting up until their unfortunate departure. Aquaria offered sympathy and comfort. They made quite a few songs together, though there were some notes that he just couldn't hit. She was a good friend, and he enjoyed her company. Sadly, not everything lasts forever.

They were sitting on a rock in the cave, braiding Gwiazda's mane and tail. The seasons were beginning to change now. The leaves were warm vibrant colors instead of the lush green of summer, and they were starting to fall to the ground. Aquaria looked out of the cave's mouth with a heavy sigh.

"What's wrong love? You need me to fetch you a pail of water?" Amarant asked. Sometimes she got too tired or cranky when she was out of the water for too long. She shook her head.

"Thank you, but no I'm fine. It's just, I'm going to have to go soon," she said. Her voice was low, a sad weight clinging to her words.

"Oh." His face fell just the slightest. He knew all along that this would happen, but he wished it wasn't so soon.

"The water's getting cold, and me and my choir are are heading south for the time being. I'm not sure we'll be coming back." She looked over and him, and he quickly dried his eyes from the forming tears.

"Yes well, I hope you have fun, it sounds like it's going to be lovely." She reached out a hand to cup his face, forcing him to look at her. "Don't be sad, it was fun while it lasted. And besides, a vampire and siren could never make it work. Not really." He chuckled and met her eyes.

"Maybe not, but it made a damn good song."

"Indeed it did. One of my favorites."

"It also seems to be one of the town's favorites too." They shared a sweet, chaste kiss. When their lips parted, she asked, "Can we sing it one last time?"

"Of course," he answered.

"When a monster of the night Leaves his cozy cave. After the light of day Slowly fades away.

When a creature from the deep Rises from the sea. Up upon the sand Out of waves she creeps.

Ooooh his teeth graze her scales, She tries to pull him under. Under the waves, With her siren song.

He fights the growing urge To plunge his fangs into her flesh. So he stops short of his quest And pauses in his feast.

Upon the beach they lay Next to a dim cave. A deadly love Destined to kill.

Hurt by people And hurt by scorn. Hurt by witchers, Now they're left to mourn.

People love hard, But monsters love harder. You better hide darling, Before you become a martyr.

Hurt by people And hurt by scorn. Hurt by witchers, Now they're left to mourn.

Because monsters hate hard But people hate harder. You better hide darling, Before you become a martyr.

Hurt by people And hurt by scorn. Hurt by witchers, Now they're left to mourn.

A forbidden enchanted love Of magic and monsters. A beautiful siren And her charming vampire."

It was their song, meant for each other. It was all true: no matter how compassionate a monster or beast could be, the villagers always wanted them dead. But as soon as you put something to music, they all suddenly changed their tune.

"You need to go out more. Meet other people and share your music."

"I do that," Amarant most definitely didn't whine. She placed a comforting hand on his chest.

"I know, but you barely leave the cave. It's not good for you."

"Need I remind you that the sun hurts?" he raised an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes fondly and pinched his cheek.

"I don't see you complaining about it when we go swimming."

"That's because we're together," he said. Her smile turned a bit sad.

"I'm sure we'll meet again. It's a small world after all, and I doubt you'll die anytime soon," she teased.

"True. But I'll miss you all the same."

"And I'll miss you too." They kissed once more. When they broke away, she reached behind her back for her bag. She put it in his hands, and there was a substantial weight to it. When he moved his hands he could hear the soft jingle of clinking metal.

"I want you to take this. Buy yourself that lyre you were talking about." He opened the satchel and gasped. It was full of gold coin, some still covered it moss and wrapped in seaweed.

"H-how..." he trailed off.

"There's quite a few shipwrecks, and you'd be surprised at just how much coin gets lost at sea."

He looked at her, love and adoration clear in his eyes. "Thank you. Thank you so much," he wrapped her in a warm hug. "Every time I play it, I'll think of you."

"You better hurry before the shops close," she said. He hopped up, bag still in hand.

"Yes, of course. Gwiazda!" he called, and she trotted over. She mounted her in one swift easy motion. He held out his hand to help Aquaria up, but she remained where she sat. She gave him a look. "Oh," he said in realization. This was goodbye.

"We both know it'll be easier this way," she admitted. He nodded, knowing it to be true but not liking it anymore than she did.

"'Til we meet again," he said.

"Until then," she sighed heavily. She rose up, walking over to him. He leant down to share one final kiss. He rode out of the cave and into town, knowing exactly where he needed to go to buy the instrument. He was lucky that the small ocean side town had such a place.

He returned to an empty cave.

It was sadistically humorous, he thought, how everyone he had truly cared for left him in some way.

~~~~

Geralt was dealing with a lot of emotions. Emotions a witcher shouldn't have, yet he felt all the same. He truly was heartbroken at hearing of his bard's passing. Yet he didn't want to believe it. He was feeling incredibly guilty and angry at himself for driving Jaskier away. He made sure that he would not make the same mistake with Ciri. He saw much of Jaskier in her, funny enough. The two loved to talk, rambling on about anything that crossed their minds. They were bright and cheery, and their smile could light up a room. It was even able to warm his once cold heart.

Now he was angrier, less willing to engage in conversation with Ciri. She definitely picked up on it. He could smell it on her; the concern, the sadness, the fear for his well being. He kept assuring her he was fine, but the fact that he was doing so just proved he wasn't.

He worked more often now, taking fewer and shorter breaks between jobs. Ciri told him to slow down, to pace himself. He told her he knew what he was doing and didn't need to be mothered. She just scoffed and told him it wouldn't be the worst thing if was. She definitely reminded him of Jaskier, and it hurt.

They were on their way to their next hunt when Ciri spoke up. "When are you going to admit you're not okay?" she questioned. His head whipped around to look at her.

"I'm fine," he insisted through clenched teeth.

"You clearly aren't though! I know witchers aren't good with emotions, but I also know he was your friend. It's not healthy to keep it all in like this," she said.

"Well it's worked for me before. And it will pass. In time," he added.

"You know as well as I do that that's not good."

"Hm." And that was the last he'd say on the subject. Until she would inevitably bring it up again. However their attention was preoccupied as they approached the nest of sirens that had been bothering seemingly everyone in the nearby town. Singing at all hours of the night, letting no one rest, and drawing a few people away from their families and into the water where they drowned.

They both shoved cotton in their ears to be protected from their songs. Geralt could easily spot the signs that they had taken root in the river and readied his sword.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Witcher," came an unexpected noise from above. In the branches of a close tree, a siren laid wrapped in the entangled vines stretched across the limbs. Her large wings were spread out, basking in the sun the top of the canopy provided. "Me and my family have done nothing wrong."

Geralt slid his sword back into its hilt seeing that she was capable of reason. "The villagers seem to think otherwise." She had to laugh.

"Don't they always?"

"You've lured men and women down to the river to drown them," he deadpanned. She gasped in mock offense.

How rude to throw such accusations at me, I've done nothing of the sort!" There was a beat of silence in which Geralt looked extremely unamused. "Okay I can't say the same for the others, but it's what we're meant to do."

"What will it take to make you all leave without having to kill you?" he cut to the chase.

"Well I think just saying that will do the trick," she said, and both Geralt and Ciri could hear the tinge of fear in her voice. She flew back down to the water, propping her elbows on the bank. She rested her head in her hands, studying him. "You're Geralt, aren't you?" she asked. The questioned seemed to grab his attention.

"Yes. How did you know?" his voice was gruff one warning.

"I heard stories from a dear friend. He speaks quite fondly of you." She smirked to herself when she saw his entire frame stiffen as he took a step closer.

"What-" his voice was barely audible, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "What's his name?"

She studied him before deciding it was safe to talk. Amarant. Though it's not his true name, just what he chooses to go by," she explained. Geralt's heart leaped at the prospect of Jaskier still being alive.

"Thank you. You don't know how much it means to me." He bent down and shook her hand. "But you and your choir better find a new home before another witcher shows up and isn't as merciful," he warned. She nodded and swam off downstream.

Geralt and Ciri continued on their trek across the continent with a renewed vigor. Geralt began to talk a little more, and if you squinted hard enough it seemed as though there was the slightest pep in his step. He stopped acting rash and too bold on hunts, making more sensible moves and efficient kills. Just the faintest glimmer of hope had changed the man completely.

~~~~

Geralt wasn't the only one who had heard word of Jaskier's demise. Yennefer felt conflicted; while she was never close with the man and didn't particularly like him, she knew that he meant something to Geralt. And their bickering relationship full of teases and insults was a fun dynamic to play off of, and she was saddened to hear that he died so young. Humans were fragile beings and she would need to get used to hearing of the deaths of people she once knew.

She was gathering ingredients. Her inventory was growing low, and she needed to build up her stock. She had already been to the mountains and forests, gathering what she needed. Her tiresome journey had lead her to the coast. She would probably stay for a few more days to find what she needs and rest up in an inn.

She sat by herself at the tavern, enjoying her meal in peace. Music flowed through the room as people sang along with a bard in the corner, tossing their coin freely. She rolled her eyes, figuring it would be wiser for them to keep their money for their selves. Whoever was singing did sound good, she'd give them that, but people threw away their coin too easily. I mean, all they do is sing and pluck a few chords, it's not that hard. She tore off a piece of bread, popping it in her mouth to chew.

She finally raised her head, tearing her gaze away from her plate and scanned the room. People sat at tables, enjoying their meals while a crowd formed in front of a makeshift stage. She saw a flash of brown hair and blue eyes. She did a double take, squinting her eyes to peer above the crowd. A familiar lute sat in a chair near a corner, while the man swayed back and forth, strumming on a lyre. His song was sad and sweet, bringing a few patrons to tears. There was only one voice she knew that sounded like that.

Yennefer stood and worked her way through the people until she could see the man fully. Hair grown out to his shoulders, facial hair trimmed into a stylish goatee, and eyes as blue as the sky itself. He wore a flowing cream colored blouse with tights that hugged his body in all of the right places, and topped it all off with a purple hat. He looked different, but it was undoubtedly Jaskier.

He was singing a newer song, but one that she had heard all the same. People humming the tune from town to town, and a bard here or there performing it. She took her time to listen to the lyrics, and I mean really listen. Hearing each struck chord, processing the words and their meanings, watching his expression as he sang. She couldn't tell if the song was about himself or Geralt.

She saw him scan the small group, and it was easy for him to spot her. His nose scrunched you the slightest bit in disdain. She offered a small wave, and he nodded at her in acknowledgement, his hands too busy at the moment.

Towards the end of the song, he locked eyes with her, making sure she got the full brunt of his words as he belted, "A dead bard sings no songs. Dead men tell no tales, And dead witches can't cast spells." Okay, yeah, that one stung.

As he finished, everyone cheered, tossing their coin his way. He bowed, giving his thanks and blowing kisses to women and men alike. She called out trying to get his attention.

"Jaskier! Jaskier!"

His head immediately whipped around at the familiar name, knowing exactly who had said it. He feigned innocence.

"Yes, he was quite good. Perhaps one of the best in our time. This next song is dedicated to Jaskier!" The crowd practically roared their approval. He switched to his lute, putting the strap around his body. "How about O Gwiazda, eh? A star song for the man amongst the stars!"

Yennefer practically had to yell for her voice to be heard. "Why not one of his songs?" This seemed to be a popular idea as requests started flooding in.

He looked around nervously, tugging at his collar. "I-I'm sorry, I don't believe I can hit some of those notes," he started, only for her to interject.

"Nonsense! I think you'd sound just like him," she challenged. The smirk she wore could kill. Oh she was good.

Jaskier was quick though. "Now there's really no need to insult the dead," he joked, earning a few laughs. But as soon as she yelled the words "Fishmonger's Daughter," he knew he lost. Everyone joined her chant, asking him to play. Damnit, it was one of his most popular songs that no one could resist, not even himself. And so he performed. And he did so perfectly.

He weaved in and out of bodies as they all sang and clapped along. He sent a few winks, making a few ladies swoon. When he finished, he declared that he was parched and would take a break. He was lounging with a very giggly brunette when Yennefer approached him.

"Do you mind if I steal him for a second?" she asked. The girl raised a brow and looked her up and down.

"Depends. Do you plan on giving him back?"

"Yes," she assured. "I only wish to speak with him for a few minutes." The girl relented and let him go. She scooted off of his lap so he could stand.

"Don't worry love, I'll be back soon. She's just an old friend and we need to catch up."

"Don't leave me waiting too long," she said. He lead Yennefer outside of the door to make sure no one else was listening in on the conversation. As soon as the door closed, she started.

"You seem to have settled in quite nicely Jaskier," she said, putting emphasis on his name. He however, was persistent in his denial.

"That's not my name."

She tilted her head, "Oh? Then what is it?"

He rolled his eyes, "If you must know, I'm Amarant." He extended his hand for her to shake. "And you are?"

She looked down at his offered hand. "You already know." He chuckled, putting his arm down.

"I assure you I do not."

She sighed, figuring it would be easier to just play along. "Yennefer of Vengerberg."

"Ah yes! I've heard of you, and might I say that you are even more beautiful in person," he said with a flourish. He brought her delicate hand up to kiss it.

"Flattery will get you nowhere Jaskier."

"Look," he said, all charm leaving his voice. "I'm really not who you think I am. And I'm getting quite fed up with being mistaken for him. I'm my own person you know," he said pointedly.

"I would think you were too clever to believe I'd actually fall for that, yet here you continue to lie to my face," she stated. His mouth hung open a bit in shock.

"Okay what do you want you snake?" he hissed. She held her hands up in surrender.

"No need for names. I simply came here looking for ingredients, yet I found something better."

He glared at her, "I don't believe you."

"It's the truth," she said simply. There was a moment of silence before she continued. "Everyone thinks you're dead." Call him crazy, but he could swear he heard a touch of sadness in her voice.

"Good." He folded his arms over his chest, turning away. She touched his arm gently, prompting his to look at her.

"Why?" she asked. He scoffed.

"Must everything have a reason?" he pondered aloud. He turned to her fully. "I needed a fresh start," he said simply.

"I know there's more to it than that," she said.

"Oh there's lots more to it, but you have no right to be disclosed to that information!"

"I know it has something to do with Geralt."

He let out a high pitched, slightly manic laugh. "Oh do you now? Congratulations dear, you just scratched the surface!" He leaned in her face, making a show of clapping his hands in mock praise. "Do you want a medallion for your wit?"

She smacked his hands away, a small frown on her face.

"Not everything has to do with that boar headed idiot," he spat. She could tell she struck a nerve. His voice was full of hurt and hate, his eyes hardened, turning to ice, and his lips curled into a sneer.

"I know he hurt you," she said softly. He scoffed, "He did more than that. He broke my fucking heart."

Yennefer wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug that surprised the both of them. She whispered in his ear, "If it makes you feel better, you did the same."

He pulls away, shooting her a quizzical look. "I highly doubt that. He got his wish, he's rid of me. The bastard should be jumping for joy," he stated plainly. She gave him a look that he couldn't quite read.

"He's not."

Jaskier couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at his lips. He knew it was probably wrong for him to be happy about that, but he had to admit it felt good. "Nice to know." He pulled her away, holding her at arms length. "Well this little reunion was quite nice, but I have company to entertain. It was lovely to see you again, really, but please leave and don't bother me again. I made a new life for a reason." He started to leave, pausing in the doorway and looked back at her. "Oh, and don't tell Geralt about all this. The last thing I want is to dig up that mess of a past. It's already hard enough to forget about him as it is," he mumbled the last part to himself as the door shut. She was still able to hear however. And one thing was for certain: she was not planning on keeping this to herself.

She had no idea where he was, or when she'd see him again. But she knew that fate would bring the two of them together once more.

~~~~

Ciri had grown into a beautiful and powerful young lady under Geralt's protective wing. She had learned well and came into her full power. The lion cub of Cintra was now a strong lioness. Five years had passed since their brush with the mysterious siren, and that had been the last they had heard any word of Jaskier. Until chance to happened that they came across an old friend in the woods.

"Yen!" Ciri exclaimed upon seeing her, and rushed over to hug her.

"My, look how you've grown!" Yennefer said, looking her up and down. She beamed brightly.

Geralt was slower, more calm in his approach. "It's nice to see you again," he said as he dismounted Roach.

"I can say the same," she said as she walked over to him, greeting him with a warm embrace. They set up camp together, Ciri and Yennefer gathering firewood while Geralt hunted for their dinner. They had a nice meal of rabbit stew, and caught up while they ate. It was getting darker each minute as the sun slipped farther under the horizon. Ciri had gone to bed as Geralt and Yennefer continued to talk over the diminishing fire.

It was far into the night, ensuring the girl was asleep. Roach stood tied to a nearby tree, not giving them much thought as she too drifted off. An owl hooted overhead. She took a deep breath. There was no easy way to put this, but he needed to know.

"I saw Jaskier."

He froze, his cat like eyes bore into her, deciding if she was telling the truth. "What?"

"When I was gathering ingredients from the coast I stopped in Low View. I went to the tavern where I saw Jaskier performing, but he wasn't Jaskier," she explained. She could see the gears beginning to turn in his brain. Finally he spoke.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asked.

"I didn't know where you were, and it wasn't the right time." She subtly nodded over to Ciri's calm form. He only hummed.

"Thank you for telling me," he said.

"What're you going to do?" she asked, already knowing his answer.

"Ciri and I leave for Low View first thing tomorrow."

~~~~

It had been three years since Yennefer had been in the tavern. Amarant had first been on edge constantly, always expecting Geralt to walk through the doors. As time passed, that anxiety diminished. Perhaps she would do as Jaskier wished and simply not tell, but he highly doubted that. Or maybe she just hasn't run into Geralt. Or maybe Geralt just straight up did not care. Gods, do not let it be the third option.

Logically, he knew it was only a matter of time before their paths crossed again. It was honestly inevitable, they had done it many times before and it always ended with Jaskier leaving with him, ready to compose some new songs for the White Wolf. Only this time it was different. Geralt didn't want him, and he certainly didn't like him, that much he made clear.

And still, despite his best interests, he hoped he would see him. Wished for it almost every day. To see that familiar face and hear his voice. Longing for what once was. And then he'd immediately turn back around, scolding himself for wanting such a thing. Reminding himself of the hurt he had brought on. Remembering the fact that he was a vampire, and if Geralt knew... He couldn't bring himself to picture such a thing. But he knew what would happen.

The door had been opening and closing all night with patrons coming and going. Amarant had already made a good bit of coin, and he was only really just getting started. He belted out into the small space, singing his heart out and laying his soul on the line.

He didn't know when exactly he felt a change in the air, but he couldn't deny the shift in energy. It didn't take him long until his eyes fell on Geralt. He'd know those broad shoulders and white hair anywhere. His gaze hardened into a glare from across the room. They made eye contact, and Jaskier could see the recognition on the other man's face. After all, facial hair could only do so much to change his appearance. Perfect timing too. He was in the middle of singing I Once Knew A Man, now aiming the song directly at him and adding a fierce bite to his words.

Geralt sighed and watched him, knowing Jaskier was not happy to see him. The song was undoubtedly a jab at him, and he could feel guilt boiling up from years passed. It had been quite a few years since their fight at the mountain top, and he had been kept busy with work and caring for Ciri. They had been on the road for years, and never once heard word of Jaskier. Sometimes he would forget, until they found themselves in yet another tavern with no sign of the joyous bard. He would hear a familiar tune that got his hopes up until he realized it wasn't him. Then the terrible guilt and grief of hearing of his friend's death. His only true friend. And he had ruined it.

And yet there he was, alive and well. He saw another instrument propped against a corner. He recalls Jaskier once mentioning wanting to play the lyre. Good for him. A decent crowd was formed around him, dancing and singing along. His skin seemed to glow under the candle light and he wore a blue shirt with a purple vest paired with a matching hat. His blue pants hugged him in all the right places, flattering his figure quite nicely. He had grown his hair out too, and Geralt had to admit it was a good look on him. His goatee was well kept and accentuated his jawline.

"Are you drooling?" Ciri asked from across the table, her nose scrunching slightly. Geralt immediately jerks his head away wipes at his mouth. When his hand remains dry he shoots the giggling princess a look of annoyance. "Well you might as well have!" she teased and he gently kicked her leg to tell her to stop. She just smiled and watched as Jaskier played. He continued straight into another song, this time a peppy love ballad. Geralt couldn't help the simmering jealousy bubbling in his gut.

Each time he got to the chorus, he glared directly at Geralt. Hurt by witchers... Geralt knew he had been cruel and unfair. He had every right to hate him, but he wished he wouldn't. At least, hate him less once he apologized. His medallion rest warm on his chest as it did every time Jaskier was near. His mouth formed beautiful words, his voice like silk slipping into the air. As he sang, Geralt could see the tips of his fangs peaking out from under his lips.

After some applause and the throwing of money, he rose up with a flourish.

"It seems like we have a special guest in the corner, everyone say hi! I think we should dedicate this next song to him, a little tune we all know and love!" Jaskier's eyes burned with mischief and anger. He knew Geralt hated attention more than just about anything. And Jaskier was nothing, if not petty.

"When a humble bard," he began walking forward as he started the song, and people cleared his path. He was walking straight to Geralt. The witcher kept his features neutral. "With Geralt of Rivia, along came this song."

Fuck.

As the first verse came, he took a sharp turn right before he reached their table and ducked into the crowd, making his way through the room.

"They came after me, with masterful deceit," he stood on a chair, one leg propped up on the back as he sang. "Broke down my lute and they kicked in my teeth!" In a swift graceful movement, he leaned forward and knocked the chair down, easily walking onto the ground. He continued to dance and pull people from their seats. He stopped in front of Ciri, making a show of inviting her to dance, which she eagerly accepted. The look on Geralt's face was priceless.

Of course Jaskier was up on the tables. Hopping from one to the other, taking his time to show off a bit. He had been waiting for this. He's a performer, and he wanted nothing more than to put on a show. The song was nearing its end, and he made his way to Geralt's table. He was there for the last verse. He stood above him while he sang, winking down at him. For a moment, Geralt thought things were good. That he would apologize and everything would go back to normal. But the smell of pent up rage, hurt and resentment told him otherwise.

"Toss a coin to your Witcher O Valley of Plenty, O Valley of Plenty, a-oh Toss a coin to your Witcher A friend of humanity," he finished off by kneeling down in front of Geralt. He made it a point to look in his eyes, to make sure he knew what he did and that he sure didn't need him.

Everyone cheered, and the sound of coin being thrown in the air rang out, clinging on the hard floor. Amarant wore a bitter yet smug smirk on his lips, "Hello Geralt." His chest heaved up and down as he tried to regain the oxygen in his lungs. Beads of sweat were sprinkled across his forehead. And despite the venom in his words, Geralt couldn't help the small quirk of his lips as he looked up at the angry bard.

"Hi Jaskier." His voice was breathier than he meant it to be, but could you blame him? He had thought him to be dead for years and here he was, in the flesh, a mere foot away.

"Sorry, there's no Jaskier here," he said flippantly. Geralt blinked.

"Jaskier I have eyes, you're right here," he softly argued. He didn't come all this way to be dismissed so easily.

"The name's Amarant now. Jaskier died on that mountain top as far as I'm concerned," he looked at him with unamused eyes, lips curling into a sneer ever so slightly. "If that's all you came for, I believe your business is done," he said, gesturing towards the door.

Geralt stared, dumbfounded. "I- Jaskier please, I-I'm sorry," he started. Jaskier cut him off with a cruel laugh.

"It's much too late for apologies now. I have a new life now, one not tied to your name. You have no idea how hard it is to forget someone when people are constantly asking you where they are." Geralt looked down at his lap, avoiding his gaze. Amarant tilted his head. "Then yet again, maybe you do."

He hoped off from the table and started to walk away only for Geralt to grab his hand. The touch was gentle but firm, and Amarant could feel just how much desperation was in that one motion. He turned back around, but withdrew his hand from his grip. Open to hear what he had to say, yet signaling that he owed him nothing and could leave at any time.

"Please Jaskier. Let me apologize," he pleaded.

Jaskier let out a heavy sigh, placing his hands on his hips. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Ciri lingering in the diminishing crowd. She hung back, standing awkwardly, unsure if it was okay to approach them. He clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes and gestured for her to come over. When she hesitated still, he gently guided her back to her seat.

"It's okay darling, Geralt and I are just going to have a little chat." He wore a soft and kind expression aimed at the girl. She gave a small timid grin, and Jaskier flashed her his charismatic smile to reassure her that everything was fine. Gods did Geralt miss that smile. It could light up even the dimmest rooms and melt the coldest of hearts... After all it had melted his. It had only taken about a week if that before Geralt grew to miss it. The bright flash of teeth after a performance, a sly quirk of his lips when flirting, his tongue poking out between his teeth when he thinks of something funny. It was all so dynamic, just like him. That smile was always something he could rely on. It was there when he woke up after sharing a night in the woods or at an inn, after a successful hunt, followed by a night of drinking and laughter. It was always waiting for him when their paths would meet once more on the road. And it was gone from Jaskier's face as soon as he turned to look at him.

It had been replaced with a truly unhappy look. A frown etched its way onto his face and his brows drew together. From the angle Geralt sat, he could see the glisten of held back tears.

"Jaskier I know I hurt you. Not just with my words but, physically too. I- I know I wasn't a good friend. I was afraid of growing close to someone, so I did what I could to try to distance myself, and in doing so, put you at risk more than once. I really am sorry for everything I said. Not just on the mountain, but before that too. You really are a fantastic bard and a truly good friend. I admit I took your company for granted, and being apart for so long gave me a lot of time to reflect on that."

Jaskier didn't know what to say or do or feel. For years he hated and missed Geralt, wanted nothing more than to slap him across the face before bringing him in for a kiss. He had never felt more torn as he listened to the man speak. This was probably the most words he'd ever heard him say.

Geralt scooted back in the booth, making room for him to sit. Amarant eyed the seat before sitting across from him with Ciri. He didn't know if he could trust himself to hold strong if he were so close to Geralt. If he was able to hear his slow heartbeat close to his ear and smell the sweat and grime that never seemed to wash completely off his skin and hair. So he kept his distance, folding his hands together as he watched him. Steely blue eyes bore into every inch of him. Geralt shifted under the intense gaze, knowing Jaskier had every right and reason to hate him still.

"I don't want to be without you Jaskier."

"You don't want me, you just don't want to be alone!" he argued. Geralt cut in before he had the chance to say anything else.

"At first I thought the same. I'd gotten used to traveling with a companion, and when I found Ciri I thought things would be the same. But they weren't. I still wanted you." Jaskier couldn't help but to snap his head up at hearing those words. For years he had wanted nothing more than to hear Geralt say that. He only allowed himself to be hopeful for a second before he remembered everything all over again and rage filled him once more.

"That's funny, I remember you wanting something completely different! I was such a burden, such a nuisance to you so I did what you asked me. I got the fuck out of your life Geralt of Rivia, and gave you your life's blessing." The witcher flinched at the use of his full name, feeling much like a scolded child. Ciri awkwardly picked at her plate, avoiding looking at either of them but still obviously listening.

"I looked for you, you know. After our fight, but every time I thought I found you, you were already gone."

"Yes well, that's what a traveling bard does. We travel," he deadpanned. Geralt rolled his eyes at the sarcasm.

"It seemed like you were purposefully avoiding me."

"Glad to know my efforts were acknowledged," he quipped with a sneer. Geralt stared at him with something akin to hurt on his face.

"You didn't have to fake your own death." Amarant looked away, mouth hanging open slightly as he thought of what to say. He tilted his head and glanced back at him.

"I have my own reasons, and believe it or not they don't always revolve around you. Now if you'll excuse me," he made to stand, brushing himself off before turning to the door. Geralt followed, and Ciri trailed after him. Amarant made sure to slam the door in his face, but he easily caught it before it could close. They walked out into the cool night, a gentle breeze blew Geralt's hair in his face. He didn't care enough to brush it away.

"Damnit stop following me! Do you have any idea how hard it is to try and forget you?" Jaskier yelled at him. Geralt took a cautious step forward, as if he were a wild animal that would spook if he moved too quickly.

"Then don't." Another step closer. "I really am sorry for everything Jaskier. Now, you don't have to forgive me. But please, let me try to earn you back."

The tears that he had been fighting back finally won, and spilled over. "How? Where do we even start?" Geralt went out on a limb and reached up to cup his cheek, wiping away a single tear.

"How 'bout we start here?" he asked. Before Jaskier could question him, he leaned forward, pressing their lips together. Jaskier was taken aback, eyes wide before they fluttered closed and he found himself melting. He had wanted this for so long. Then he felt Geralt's tongue slip into his mouth, running over his fangs and he remembered why this could never work. His eyes flew open and he pulled himself back. Reacting on instinct, not even thinking, his hand collided with Geralt's cheek with a loud slap.

Geralt didn't even flinch. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"How dare you," Jaskier interrupted, "Waltz back into my life after eight years and kiss me like I've always dreamed of you doing, thinking it'll fix everything?"

"I know it can't fix everything, but it's a start," Geralt said, holding him by his forearms. His calloused hands felt wonderful against his smooth skin. Damnit why was he making this so hard? Jaskier tilted his head to the side, not wanting to look at him directly. He cast his gaze to the side, seeing the moonlight illuminate his features in a silver glow. "Please, I can't lose you again."

"Geralt, don't get me wrong I wish this could work, but it just can't. You're a witcher and I'm a-" he caught himself. Geralt cocked his head in that oh so familiar way of his. Unmistakable fear was clear on Jaskier's face as he realized the slip up he just made. If he had any blood in him it would've surely drained from his face. He had a sickening feeling in his stomach and he tried to turn to leave.

Geralt pulled him closer, not ready to let go. He lifted a hand and raised his chin so he could meet his eyes. His voice was the softest he had ever heard it. "Jaskier, I know." Terror now replaced by confusion.

"You- what?" Geralt could pinpoint the exact moment when his brain switched from autopilot to manual, trying to piece it all together. "How?"

"Like you said, I'm a witcher. At first I didn't know exactly what you were, scent is normally carried by blood and even though I could smell emotions and a few other small things, I couldn't place your scent. It was a strange, empty kind of smell. Then I noticed little things here and there. And your fangs aren't exactly subtle." Jaskier stood there dumbfounded by all of this new information.

"If you knew, why did you let me stay? Why didn't you kill me?" His eyes glistened, his mouth slightly agape. He subconsciously reached out, fists gripping tightly to the leather armor. Geralt drew his brows together at the question.

"You're my friend, I wouldn't do that. I only kill when it's necessary, you know that, and you posed no threat. When you first approached, I was skeptical, but then I learned better. I know you Jaskier, you're a good and kind man. And in all the time we spent traveling together not once did you try to feed on humans," he said.

"How do you know?" Jaskier asked. He was still afraid. Afraid of losing him again, afraid of himself, the uncertainty of it all.

"Because I just know." Jaskier was silent, not daring to say a word. Geralt's golden eyes shimmered with longing, and he held him closer. He needed to feel their bodies pressed together. "Don't go."

Jaskier bit his lip, looking at him through his lashes. "Okay. I'll stay." Geralt broke into a wide grin, the widest Jaskier had ever seen. "This in no way means you're off the hook," Jaskier made sure to set the record straight. "You have a lot to make up for."

"I know, and I will." He raised a hand and stroked it through Jaskier's hair, a soft smile on his face. "I've missed you."

Jaskier placed his hand atop Geralt's and leaned into the touch. "I've missed you too." Geralt slid his hand down, cupping his chin and tilted his head up slightly. They shared another kiss, this one slower and with more passion. When they pulled away for a breath, Jaskier asked, "So, where are we off to next?"

Geralt smirked, tugging him even closer so he was pressed flush against his body. His arms wrapped around him, hands resting at the small of his back. The moon bathed them in her silver shine. "I was thinking of maybe staying here for a bit. At the coast."

Jaskier was beaming. "That sounds lovely." And so the vampire, the witcher, and the princess settled in a cave on the shore.

#jaskier #vampire!jaskier #immortal!jaskier #geralt of rivia #ciri of cintra #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #the witcher #the witcher fic #geraskier #geraskier fic #geraskier angst #angst #angst with a happy ending #jaskier is bitter #ouc(original unicorn character) #sirens #witcher sirens #fake identity #original song

[cowboisadness]

Hang ‘Em High {Arthur Morgan x F!OC} Chapter 17

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC

Summery: Belle Hawthorne is high society looking to escape her mean husband. A robbery by the Van Der Linde gang could be her chance. Can she escape his cluches and possibly discover what love should feel like?

Warnings: Swearing. It’s that mission y’all.

.....

Chapter 17

Despite the warm and comforting words from the girls, I couldn’t bring myself to speak with him. A part of me wanted him to approach me first seeing as he was the one that kissed me even if we were both thinking it. But that wasn’t going to happen it seemed, given that he hasn’t even so much as looked in my direction the last few days.

Playing dominoes with Hosea was a welcome distraction and a grand change from the mundane chores. He asked me to share a few more stories from my childhood and younger days. He was always pleasantly surprised that despite growing up with more wealth than most and taking part in yearly spring and summer balls with everything that came with that lifestyle I was still a farmers daughter. Getting my hands dirty, not shying from a fight with the neighbouring farms’ boys and my girlfriends and I discussing such vulgar topics that would make any old dame practically recoil in disgust and disappointment. Young women had the same impure thoughts and desires just as much as men, we just had to keep that fact a secret. Sneaking out of our homes in the dead of night to share drinks with the local working girls as they shared stories of the many types of men and even women that paid for their company. Answering any questions we may have and even a few tips that would have us blushing. Hosea was winning, two rounds to him and one to me. I guess he could tell something happened after leaving me and Arthur to walk back to camp. He didn't ask, he didn’t need to.

As we sat, Dutch passed us calling out to those standing around his tent nearby. 

“You tell him, fat man” Micah called out to Pearson as they all congregated.

“It’s peace, Dutch. The O’Driscolls. I mean, I think there’s a way.” Pearson replied, ignoring Micah’s insult. 

This had both Hosea and I’s attention, both of us halting our game to listen in from the sidelines. Pearson continued, how he met a few O’Driscolls on the road and something about being a cornered Tiger when in a fight. Pearson couldn’t even win against a pot of meat and potatoes nevermind a group of rival gang members. He said they are willing to come to some sort of agreement, a parley...yeah right, like that would happen. Hosea seemed to have the same idea, “They want a parley?” He intervened, turning in his chair to give them his full attention. “It’s a trap.”

“Well of course, it’s probably a trap but what have we got to lose finding out.” Micah said, turning back to Dutch and stepping closer to him.

“Get shot.” It was Arthur's turn to air his views on the situation

“We ain’t getting shot because you’ll be protecting us. It’s a trap, you shoot the lot of them. If it ain’t a trap, that slim chance…” Micah put his hands in the air, trying to get them to listen to his sound reasoning no doubt. 

Dutch pushed past them, making his way over to where we were seated, “I don’t see the point in any of this.” The others followed behind before coming to stop around us. Dutch leaned on Hosea for his reasoning but Micah wouldn’t let up in trying to persuade him to seek peace. It didn't sit right with me, Micah enjoyed a good fight so I didn't understand why he wanted this feud to end. And as much as I wanted the O’Driscolls to be a distant memory after what they had done to me I could only see this as hopeless.

“It’s a chance we gotta take.” 

“I killed Colm’s bother, long time ago…” Dutch started, hesitating to continue, pain etched upon his face like he was trying to keep emotions at bay. “Then he killed...a woman I loved dear.” 

It was quiet around the table at that, Hosea standing so I did too regardless of me not needing to be part of this. But I needed to see if Micah could convince Dutch. The former leaned into the table “As you say, it's a long time ago, Dutch.” His voice was low and each word spoken slowly. Everyone looked to Dutch, but he had a faraway look to him, contemplating. And it didn't take long for him to make up his mind. With a slight nod and his brows furrowed he spoke.

“Let’s go. You and me, with Arthur protecting us no one else.” He stated as he walked off

Minutes ago it was the stupidest idea he heard with no doubt it would be a trap, but now, after only a few carefully selected words from Micah it seemed like he believed there could be a chance even after their history and burning hatred for each other. 

I looked at Hosea, I could tell he didn't feel hopeful about this, then I turned to Dutch, speaking without thinking. 

“I’ll come too.”

“No, just the three of us.”

“I want to make sure it's done either way,” I stepped closer to Dutch “After what they did to me...what they were planning on doing.” Before Dutch could speak Arthur appeared beside us, acknowledging me for the first time in days. “Not ‘appening. You’re staying here.”

“But - “

“I said no.” He scolded as he looked down at me with anger bubbling up in his eyes, just waiting for me to retaliate. I clenched my fists at my side, wanting to stand my corner but I knew it would be fruitless. What he says goes, it doesn’t matter what I want. 

Giving him one last look I huffed in irritation at being refused and scolded like a child. Pushing past Arthur to be anywhere else. 

I didn’t watch them as they left.

…..

It wasn't long until the thundering of hooves could be heard coming into camp. Helping to prepare the stew with Pearson in silence as we both awaited their return. 

Two horses came back with their riders. Both of them looking furious as they made their way to the main tent with speed. 

Hosea and Pearson made their way over, all of us realising it didn't go well. What a surprise. I followed behind them, but not before looking out to the direction they came in waiting for the third rider. No sight or beating hooves to be heard. 

“It was a goddamn trap!” I heard Dutch bellow, sat upon a chair in his tent, cigar in hand. Micah was hovering around him as usual, trying to calm the man. Hosea telling them he told them so. All of them arguing while Pearson couldn’t stop apologising from the sidelines, not being heard over the others voices. The volume and tone began to attract others, stopping whatever they were doing to watch and listen. 

During all this, I didn’t realise my feet took me to the centre of it all until I was there before them. 

“Where's Arthur?” 

Neither of them knew. He was set up as a lookout and after the meeting with Colm gave way to nothing but he failed to meet them at the agreed-upon spot. Micah said they couldn’t wait around in case any of them were hanging around to ambush them. So they left. They made no effort to check. 

I just looked at them, dumbfounded. 

“He's a big lad, he can handle himself. He will be fine.” Micah lectured, taking the few steps needed to stand in front of me. Uncomfortably close, his hands on his gun belt and a mocking tone as he spoke. I turned away from him, looking beyond the horses like he was to show up any second. But this didn't feel right. If they had a plan he would stick to it. Turning back the men diverted their attention away from me, expecting me to take it as my dismissal. 

“Are you not going to look for him? What if something happened?” 

It was Dutch’s turn to address me, standing to loom over me. “He’s fine. Probably taking a long route making sure he’s not followed here.”

“But you -”

“Enough. I’ve got more important things to deal with at present.” He turned his back to me

“More important? What the fuck are -” I strode over to follow. Anger present in my voice as I hissed out every word in disbelief. But I didn't get far, a hand gripping onto my arm and pulling me back. Turning to see Abigail. I didn’t even know she was nearby. 

Her grip holding steady as she pulled me further away from the tent. I could hear Dutch and Micah speaking again but I was too irate at this point to listen. 

She didn't speak, she just took me to my tent and waited for me to sit. Once I did I noticed the others watching. Some of them obviously worried. This didn’t feel right. 

@kashasenpai​ @fallout-cowgirl​

#hang em high #hang em high fic #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fic

[autumnalaries]

Ok so due to unforeseen circumstances that I just made up I’m gonna be making the FNAF AU I’ve had in my mind since 2015 a reality. May I introduce you to the G AU, or the GVerse. G is the girl you see pictured beside Vincent. I’m gonna try and give a brief summary since more details will come later! Basically G and Vincent have been friends since the neonatal ward and are completely inseparable, G is the heiress to a massive conglomerate and her mom is the only one raising her. G does a lot of work on the company island, she became mutated due to fucking with radiation and stem cells thus her aging was slowed and she fell behind Vincent age wise, her being permanently frozen at 18 due to the irradiated stem cells becoming hyperactive and constantly replacing themselves at record speed. Sounds outlandish but I’ll explain in detail more soon. She knows what Vincent did to his parents, she knows what he did to the kids, she caught him one night stuffing a kid in a suit and he threatened her calmly, thus she was basically forced to be silent for a while until Vincent made the mistake of leaving her at his apartment so she rushed to the police station. Vincent finds out and chases her down to the pizzeria where he’s caught by the cops. The cops tell her they’re going to institutionalize him but she finds out at the sentencing that they lied to her, and Vince was sentenced to death. This is important later on. Vincent grows a hatred of her thinking she sold him out and survives the electric chair then gets injected, this is important too. On the way to the morgue Vincent survived the injection and escapes to the pizzeria where he gets springlocked and becomes ST. G gets a job at Fright and Vincent’s ghost haunts her but by the 6th night they make amends in a huge emotional scene. G takes ST and Vince to the island and has the body removed carefully and all the spring locks gutted, reconstructing the body with the same cells she has, thus he’s frozen at 55 or so and given a second chance. G is a funny girl almost always acting like a goblin and feral child combined! I can’t wait to improve my style and continue, because this is going to be a lot different. I’m actually planning on making this a big thing with voice work and learning animation after I improve my style a bit, but I have a tougher skin than a LOT of people so I’m not going to allow it to get ruined by toxicity and stupidity this time around. Vincent was a huge comfort for me and August has always been a tough month because it was around this time I was in a very very bad place and I discovered the original AU and it became a huge comfort. I’m glad to say I wasn’t one of the people who ruined the AU, that being said I was also someone who was hit the hardest when it was ruined. It shattered me, but it had to happen, things were toxic, but hopefully now that some of us that are veterans have matured we can try again a little bit. Some things will be different, some things will be the same, but 2 things are for damn sure:

1: I will not allow toxicity to consume my AU or me, there will not be a rerun of what happened to the original. That being said I’m not saying I’m gonna gatekeep or rule with an iron fist, I’m saying I’m not gonna allow toxicity or the crazy shit that happened with Vincent’s voice actor and those creepy asks. I will not be afraid to say anything because this AU is to be enjoyed, not be a fucking warzone.

2: You toxic people who ruined it will NEVER TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME EVER AGAIN! I promise you this. ALSO ONE MORE THING: After this post I will no longer be using the hashtag #fnafrebornica I only used it to grab attention.

#vincentfnaf #vincentbishop #fnafvincent #fnafrebornica #purpleguy #purpleguyfnaf #fnafpurpleguy #fnafau #oc #gverse #gau #fnafgau #fnafgverse #0nyxart

[solari-writes-things]

Hello! Can I please request a Juice fic with Soulmate #1 off the prompts list? Thank you 💗💗

Of course!! Thank you for the request! This one’s gonna start out a little heavy so bear with me here!

Prompt - Soulmate 1: “It was a matter of time before we got together.”

Juice x Reader

Warnings: references to racism, language.

gif credit: @supervalcsi (bless your heart, doll, thank you for the phenomenal gif work)

tag list: @sazafraz @crimsonheart01 @thebookishfeminist (if you want to be put on the tag list, comment or message me)

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Thing have been startlingly quiet in Charming ever since SAMCRO had seemingly more pressing business. The bikers always had some event going on, sure, but these past few weeks had been increasing the amount of times that they were required to leave town. Most of the citizens took that as a sign of relief, some obscure higher justice coming and taking the outlaws away from the town that they seemed to have turned upside down since Zobelle had shown. The locals were nervous, so seeing the leather-clad men riding past the city limits had lifted a growing weight.

You took this as a sign of concern, albeit your ever-growing curiosity.

You knew them decently well, at least you had hoped, after meeting Juice some time before Zobelle had decided to turn the town on it’s head. You were pleased that Juice had considered you someone close, enough to put you in the lock down that they had scheduled for associates and family.

Ever since then, you two have practically been inseparable, practically conjoined whenever he had free time. He would frequently ask you to come to the clubhouse to keep him company, having a lot of wiggle room when it came to the clubhouse tasks.

Nowadays, it didn’t seem like the case so much. In fact, he seemed to have almost disappeared. Granted, you knew that he would get picked up for drug tests by Roosevelt. However, something about the timing of it all seemed so off. He would be detained for so long, to the point where his absences would leave you fearing for his safety.

He would go days without contact, sometimes. You weren’t sure if it was by his own volition, Roosevelt pulling more strings, or something of a fusion.

Both elements put a pit in your stomach, but you couldn’t blame him. You’d be strung out mentally as well, if you were in his shoes.

This week had been one of the times where he seemed to withdraw. No calls, no texts. So you spent your time at home, a movie thrown up as background noise as your increasing anxiety seemed to take hold. You’d be lying if you said the disappearing acts didn’t stir in your stomach.

There was a sudden sound to break you from your trance, a gentle rap on the door. Considering the hour, you had no idea who this could have been. At least, not in your dazed state. So you sluggishly rise from your spot on the sofa, moving quietly for the door. You put an outstretched hand on the doorknob, on autopilot as you turn the knob to the side and pull the door open wide.

There on the other side stood Juice, his head in the hood of his black jacket that he seemed to wear in times of anguish. His round eyes were solemn, his posture and expression despondent. It was as if there was a block weight sitting on his shoulders, and you could almost see him deconstructing right before your eyes. 

Immediately, you’re on alert.

“Hey [Y/N]...” is all he could muster, his tone hushed to match his disposition.

“What’s going on?” was your first response, your eyes intense.

“I just wanted you to know I’m sorry for pulling a disappearing act. Things have been intense, and I needed a bit to clear my head...” he tried to explain.

You push. just a bit, to show that you were concerned. “You look like you still need to, Juice. Please, come inside.”

His lips purse into a line, as if he had to think about how he was going to answer this. But he exhales in a quick defeat, knowing that it wouldn’t have gone well if he had declined. So in response, you step aside, and he slowly shuffles in.

You close the door behind him, putting a hand on his arm so you could guide him to your sofa. He’s reluctant to your touch, but obliges. His series of reactions had your head spinning, your mind fabricating situations that this conversation could have possibly been about.

You sit him down, placing yourself in the spot next to him and turn your full attention towards him.

He averts his eyes quickly, and you knew there that he was going to be doing something that he was going to be ashamed of. It’s why he showed up, as late as he did. He knew you could talk him out of it, and reading the expression on his face only encouraged you to do so.

“You know, Juice,” you begin, “you can talk to be about things that bother you. Right?”

You would hope that he did, after all the time you two had seem to spend together.

“I know, [Y/N], I just...” he exhales as he trails off, his eyes staying directed to the floor. “I just don’t know what to do. With the PD dragging me by the balls, I’m having a bit of trouble seeing through the dark. You know?”

“I know Roosevelt tossing you around has your nerves shot, Juice. Everyone would be if they were in your position.”

“It’s not just for the piss tests,” he burrowed his face in his hands, the weight on his shoulders seeming to crush him down.

“What else are they doing?” you press, your tone getting more stern.

Thankfully, Juice had entertained you with an answer. “They tried to cut a deal, [Y/N]. They know about the club. They know what we do, and the people that we’re rubbing elbows with just...” he lets out another sigh of frustration.

So you place a careful hand on his shoulder. “Keep going. I’m here to listen.”

It was like your touch had been the key to unlocking his head, his emotions pouring out all over your lap. “Clay got us into muling for the Galindo Cartel. 30 keys. We’re currently storing it, it’s why the guys have been leaving so much.”

You heart dropped, swelling with anger at the realization that Clay just put the boys on a war path. However, right now was not the time to voice your hatred. So you kept listening, as he inhaled sharply to begin his explanation again.

“They want me to pull a sample, [Y/N]... There’s this DA working with Roosevelt, and they’re trying to use RICO to take down the club. Trying to use me to bring them current history.”

He seems to unravel as he continues this story of twists and turns that you never expected, his big brown eyes lining with tears. You hear him sniffle, and instinctively wipe away the water works that seemed to escape.

You pull him into a hug, rubbing his back. “Shit, Juice... What do they have on you? Why did they choose you for this?”

“My dad... He’s black,” he chokes out.

The concept of it all just made you angrier. The idea that a colored man of authority was holding such information over Juice just made you want to go to the station and raise hell over it.

Taking action, however, would land Juice is a negative spot. So, for his best interest, you decided against your impulse.

“Why does it fucking matter if your dad’s black?” you ask him, leaning back into your seat with him still in your arms. He adjusted to lean against your shoulder, as a way to emotionally support himself as he got into the details.

“The club has these bylaws that I agreed to when I prospected...” he explained. “One of them was refusing to patch in black people...”

Right. You forgot the club had been established in a time where rules such as those could exist. The fact that they still did showed how much this club was stuck in the 60′s.

“The only reason I got in was because I had Latino on my birth certificate, but... if the club finds out, I’m gone and dead.”

He’s shaking at the idea, quivering into your hold. So you run your hand along his head, wiping away a couple of tears that peaked out when he sniffled.

“I don’t know what to do, [Y/N],” he reiterated, much more distraught about the statement than he was before. “You’re the only one I’ve told about this, you’re the only one I can trust.”

You decide to step over the line that you had st with yourself, planting a gentle kiss to his forehead. It seemed to pause the turmoil within him, his tears stopping. Even if it was only for a bit, it was worth seeing him in less of an emotional state.

You liked him. A lot. Seeing him, disheveled and emotionally beaten made you heartbroken. You just wanted it to go away. Juice didn’t deserve any of this. He only wanted something to call a family, and they were threatening to rip it away from him.

“Juan Carlos,” you state, deciding his full name would be much better to use to get your point across. “Why don’t you just bring it to the table? As long as you didn’t accept any paperwork stating a deal had been made, there is nothing to worry about.”

He sniffles a bit, looking up at you with confused eyes. “What do you mean?”

“How did they tell you that they knew about your father?”

“They... showed me a photo.”

“Then that’s all they fucking have. Your birth certificate says Latino, Juan, and that’s all the club can prove if they decide to dig deeper into this.”

He seems to perk up at the reassurance. Now that his life and his family weren’t on the chopping block, his mentality took a turn for the best. “Yeah... I guess you’re right.”

His attitude readjustment went one step further, as he lurched just a bit forward to press his lips gingerly against yours. Whatever chemistry he had built up with you was present at this very moment. Everything from your first meeting had led up to this, regardless of what avenue you took to get here.

He pulls back, after a couple seconds of electricity between the two of you, and presses his forehead against yours. 

“Thank you,” he said gingerly, his voice hushed again. It wasn’t with a distressed undertone, though, not this time. It was with an intense appreciation for what you have done, and it warmed your heart.

“Of course,” you return to him. “I would do anything to help you, you know that.”

“It was only a matter of time before we got together,” he chuckles, flashing one of his million watt smiles. “Bringing this to the club will be much easier knowing I have you in my corner.”

“Regardless of what it brings, Juan Carlos,” you begin, “we take it on together.”

#juan carlos ortiz #juice ortiz #juice imagine #samcro #soa #sons of anarchy #redwood-imagines

[zodiyack]

Trust Me

Requested by Anon: Can I make a request for a fic? I have this Idea where the reader was one of Bruce Wayne’s adopted teenagers but she hates Bruce so she runs away. She and Roman fall in love so she asks him to torture Bruce for her.

Pairing: Roman Sionis x Wayne!reader

Warnings: Mention of running away, torture/murder mention, fluff, swearing, suggestive word, random story that I’ll try to improve sometime

Key: Y/f/n = Your friend’s name

Note: I started out this story, thinking I knew what I was doing- but it turns out starting a story, sleeping, and then continuing the story just messes up your thought process- Also title doesn’t make sense, but yeeee

Taglist: @stardancerluv​ @matth1w​

Masterlist

Trust was not her greatest quality. In fact, she didn’t have much of it. Her adopted father was one of the reasons it shattered so quickly. When she was just fourteen, she cared for and loved the kids in the Wayne house, she loved Bruce Wayne, looked up to him just as a child would to their parent.

But the happy reality didn’t last long. It wasn’t so much of a reality as it was a dream. She discovered it on her own. At the age of seventeen. The batcave, her father’s secrets. What would happen to those kids if he died? A lot. What would happen to those kids if someone figured out his real identity? A lot.

That, sadly, was not the only problem. Sure, the children’s life could potentially one day be in danger, but the fact that he hid it and lashed out at Y/n for finding out was the final straw. He never apologized. She gave him an entire month but the silent treatment and the dirty looks finished it for her. If he was gonna act that way, she could to.

Over the next month, she grew to hate him. Her blood boiled at the thought of him. How he was willing to put the children’s life on the line and how he was so rude and ignorant to Y/n. She had enough and finally, she ran away.

Now, many years later, she was twenty-four and working at a place that was half bar half cafe. The easiest job she could get, plus she started working after she ran away. They hired her in the cafe side until she turned twenty-one, which allowed her to work in both parts.

Her shift was over and some friends she made at the job asked her if she wanted to go have some fun, to which she responded, yes. So they went.

Y/n’s friend spoke strongly about some place called The Black Mask, so of course that’s where they went. The doors opened and a woman on stage stopped singing.

“Fuck-” They just intruded on a rehearsal.

“We’re so sorry, we thought it was open. My bad, I told them about this place and I was really eager to s-”

A man stepped forward and smiled, opening his arms as a welcoming. “No, no worries, it’s quite alright. We are open, just letting her try some new songs while the company is still pretty low. No one has been interrupted, so feel free to stay.” His eyes scanned the group, spotting Y/n. “You- what’s your name?”

“I’m Y/n uh...L/n. And you are?”

“The owner. Roman Sionis. Have you not heard of me?” He walked over to her and grabbed her hand, lifting it and kissing it softly. She blushed and shook her head, averting her gaze from his intense and lustful eye contact. “Ah, how unfortunate. Would you care to sit with me?”

“Sure...can they come too?”

“Ehh...I suppose. But it’s you I’m interested in.” He grabbed her hand and led her up to his spot, sitting down and grabbing his drink. Roman didn’t know why, but she just grabbed his attention. Right of the bat, he wanted to know everything about her. He craved her.

The night went well, and they exchanged numbers. She kept returning, sometimes with and and sometimes without her friends. Roman was this mysterious man who made her go wild. He made her heart skip a beat. She had no clue to why or how, until her friend said the one thing she never thought of.

“You idiot, you’re in love with him! And if you used your fucking eyes, you’d see he’s in love with you too!”

Over some time, she took her friend’s words to heart and confronted him at the club. She’d been there many times, too many to count, so she shouldn’t have been this nervous to talk to Roman. But she was. As she walked over to him and sat next to him, as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, as he looked into her eyes...she swore she had butterflies, no, not butterflies, but giants. Giants in her stomach.

“Well well well, what do we have here?” Roman squeezed her shoulder and chuckled. He was poking at her distance, the way she didn’t speak as much and the way she zoned out often. She just seemed...absent.

“R-Roman. I need to talk to you...alone.”

Zsasz “Whatever you have to say to him, you can say in front of m-”

“Leave us, Victor. Take them with you too.” Victor halted, hesitating as if waiting for Roman to crack up into laughter and say he was kidding. It wasn’t the best choice, knowing Roman. “I said go!”

Victor and the men Roman was referencing scrambled up and left as quick as they could, leaving Y/n and Roman by themselves. He let out a heavy sigh of annoyance and turned to face Y/n better. He lifted her hand and kissed it softly.

“Roman...I don’t want this to change our relationship, ya know, since we’ve already become great friends...but...”

He pushed some of her hair behind her ear, smiling at her shyness. “Whatever seems to be the problem?”

“Roman. I think I’m in love with you.”

The man stopped and took a second. His face contorted a couple times, showing that he was in thought. He mumbled some stuff under his breath and then smiled. “I’m glad to know you feel the same way L/n. But the question is, do you think, or do you know?”

“I- ...I know. I know I’m in love with you.”

No response came from him until he leaned forward quickly and smashed his lips into hers. Y/n could’ve sworn she felt fireworks, and unknown to her, Roman had the same feeling. She stayed by him that night, discussing what was going to happen.

Months passed, the couple grew closer. She ended up quitting her job and moving in with him after some time. It wasn’t rushed, and Roman didn’t force her, she took her time and Roman was pleased. Y/n learned about his secret side later on, and he was the one who told her.

Just the mere fact that he chose to tell her rather than keeping it a secret, made her smile and filled her heart like she was falling even more in love with him. However, it also reminded her of someone. Roman, just as he noticed her distance before she confessed, noticed her sadness, no matter how well it was hidden. He tried everything to get her to speak, only proving successful when she gave into her pain.

“It isn’t completely true, that my last name is L/n.”

“It isn’t? Have you been married?”

“No...I was a Wayne for some time... I believe 4 years to be exact...”

Roman paused, confused and a bit jealous. “A Wayne? You were involved with Bruce Wayne?”

“No! God no! He...he adopted me when I was fourteen. Took me in, all that stuff...sadly, he only did one thing. Made my trust become my worst quality. I ran away. I couldn’t handle all of the trust that had been broken.”

Roman didn’t know what to say. Normally, he would go out and murder the person who caused his Y/n pain, but seeing as she was still hurting in that second, something needed to be done to comfort her. “W-what can I do?”

She cuddled into his side and sobbed quietly. “You k-know what you can do? What you can do, is what you do for your job. Torture him. Torture the fuck out of him so he can see what a fucking ass he is! Maybe then, he’d actually speak to me like I’m a fucking human.” Y/n sobbed even harder into his shoulder when she finished her rant. Hearing how much Bruce had pained her made Roman want to do exactly what Y/n asked...and more.

He planned it all out. Called over a group to kidnap Bruce and set up his idea of having Y/n get some revenge. He talked to her about it, and he told her that she didn’t have to if she didn’t want to, but this idea was one of the best she’d ever heard.

So there. There Bruce Wayne was, hanging upside down and looking as confused as ever. The confusion intensified when he saw Y/n and Roman walking over to him. A man ripped the tape off his mouth.

“Y/n? Is that really you? What happened? I thought you died-”

“Tut tut tut. You don’t get to speak to her. You lied to her, hurt her, broke her trust, and when she ran away, did you send anyone to look for her?” Bruce stayed silent. Roman’s breathing started to grow heavy, “I asked you a question! Did you fucking look for her!?”

“No.”

“And why not?!”

“Because I... I don’t know.”

Roman walked around Bruce. He stopped in front of him and crouched. “Look at you, so helpless. How do you think Y/n felt when you ignored her?”

“Y/n...I didn’t mean it. I was a bad parent, please, come back home. I’m sorry.” Bruce ignored Roman and moved his head to the side slightly. Roman rolled his eyes and moved in front of his view again.

“You’re sorry? Look at her! You hurt her! You broke one of the most important things to her! Do you know what that is!? Huh!? Tell me, what do you think you broke in her?”

Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but closed it. He closed his eyes and sighed. He didn’t know, and he didn’t think he would ever know. All he knew about the topic, was that he hurt Y/n a lot. He hurt her to the point where she ran away, and when he didn’t look for her, it hurt her even more.

Roman grunted angerly and punched Bruce in the nose. Y/n smiled and walked up behind her lover, crouching down with him and kissing his cheek. She looked back at Bruce and clenched her jaw, the hatred and memories finding their way to her brain just by looking at him.

“You broke my trust. Wayne. You brutally smashed it into a million pieces. So, my amazing boyfriend, who actually gives two shits about me, is going to be um...well returning the favor, but to whatever limbs or parts of your body he desires. Now, with that said, goodbye, father.”

She turned and walked away. Once she was out of the room, Roman turned back to Bruce and smiled. “Oh boy, we’re gonna have a lot of fun, aren’t we, Mr. Wayne?” He aimed his fist and swung.

#victor zsasz #roman sionis x reader #roman sionis x you #roman sionis imagine #roman sionis x y/n #roman sionis #ewan mcgregor #ewan fucking mcgregor #ewan mcgregor x reader #ewan mcgregor imagine #ewan mcgregor x you #ewan mcgregor x y/n #bop #bop movie #bop roman #birds of prey #birds of prey x reader #birds of prey imagine #birds of prey x you #birds of prey x y/n #birds of prey roman #victor and roman #victor zsasz and roman sionis #roman sionis and victor zsasz #roman sionis fanfiction #ewan mcgregor fanfiction #reader #reader insert #reader inserts #x reader

[riviae]

There it is again, Geralt thinks. That damn smile. 

It should terrify him—the echoes of safety and warmth that drift into his mind at the sight of too-sharp teeth. How the reminder of Regis’ inhumanness softens his gaze, slows his heart rate, relaxes the tension from his muscles. The enormity of emotion he felt whenever the vampire showed his fangs, all laughter and mirth, dark eyes twinkling at him with something akin to adoration. 

(Not that Geralt knew much about being adored—he knew what hatred looked like, what it meant when someone spat at him, called him a mutated freak with the stench of beer and bile on their breath. But love? The witcher did not know much about love except that it did not suit him; it couldn’t, even if he desperately wanted it to.) 

But nothing about Regis scared him anymore. Never had, really, if he was being honest with himself. 

“Is something the matter, my friend?” Regis asks, smile dissipating slowly until there is only the suggestion of a grin on his face, lips pulled into a thin line. It is a minuscule shift, but Geralt feels it in the way the vampire curls away, makes a wall out of his bended knees, pressing them close to his chest as he clasped his hands together. 

It was like Regis had closed a door between them. There had been a brief moment where the door had been left ajar, where Geralt had been given a glimpse into the sanctuary of Regis’ mind, a place where his monstrous features simply existed, no expectations or fears pressed upon them. His fangs were just fangs, a natural extension of himself, as benign as the crooked shape of his nose or the onyx color of his eyes. It was Regis allowing himself to be seen for who—and what—he was, no more self-imposed barriers between himself and the world. And then, just as suddenly as the door had been opened, the vampire had slammed it shut. 

Shit, Geralt curses to himself. How do I keep fucking this up? “Sorry. Just got lost in my head.” 

“Hmm… I do wonder what kind of profound thoughts plague the famed witcher Geralt of Rivia. Perhaps something about what our company will be having for dinner?” Regis smiled, but his teeth remained hidden even as he continued to speak, tone light. “I, for one, could most certainly go for soup. Perhaps fish again?” 

The witcher resists the urge to roll his eyes at the obvious teasing. Instead, he offers a small, crooked grin in return. He feels some of the tension slacken in his chest. Maybe he hadn’t scared Regis away—at least not completely. “It shouldn’t be a problem for a higher vampire to catch some fish, right? Something tells me that you’d probably be able to breathe just fine underwater.” 

At his words, Regis’ features twist into a decidedly unpleased expression. “Please, Geralt, you know better than that. I can’t breathe underwater—I’m no siren or mermaid. Rather, you know that I have no physiological need to breathe, except to, of course, talk, sing, or admonish our group whenever they needlessly put their lives at risk.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, vampire. Don’t get your fangs caught in a twist.” 

“That’s rather rich coming from a man who can see clearly in complete darkness.” 

“Now that’s the pot calling the kettle black, Regis,” Geralt drawls. “Huh, I don’t know how I never noticed before, but your eyes really do glow in the dark.” 

The vampire’s face brightened and Geralt immediately knew he was in for an impromptu lecture. “Ah, they actually glow due to the addition of a thin membrane that lies just behind the retina. The tapetum lucidum acts as a light reflector, allowing light to reenter the retina, thereby activating photoreceptors and relaying these external signals to the occipital lobe. This ultimately improves one’s ability to see in low light environments and it is why diurnal species, like humans for example, do not usually have the membrane because they are neither nocturnal nor crepuscular and would not benefit as much. Also, the color an animal’s eye shine differs from species to species, but interestingly, all vampires regardless of classification possess a silver to grey shine.” 

“That’s a long, fancy way of saying that some species evolved specialized membranes to see in the dark so they can hunt better at night.”

“Why yes, I suppose that is a rather fitting summary…” Regis trails, his curious gaze drifting to Geralt’s face. “Do you know that you, as a witcher, have an eye shine as well—a color that can be seen without the aid of a reflective light source?” 

The witcher blinks. “No… are you serious?” 

He hadn’t been too rigorous with his readings when it came to all the ways the trials had mutated his body. By the time he had left Kaer Morhen and its monopoly of scientific artifacts, Geralt had wanted nothing more to do with anything that reminded him of how truly inhuman he was. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious now, his years on the Path softening the trauma of the Trial of Grasses to a degree where he no longer woke up from nightmares where the overwhelming scent of sweat, blood, and tears seemed all too real. It was a trauma that weighed on the edge of his mind, quiet and sated with time, but existed all the same. 

“Yes. Your eyes glow a rather beautiful gold—quite fitting, given your eye color. It’s likely imperceptible to humans or even witchers, but it may explain why you seem to more readily cause people to keep their distance at night. There’s something about you that seems dangerous, but they’d be unable to name it as anything other than, perhaps, that you give off a threatening aura.” 

“And here I thought it was my ugly mug and charming personality that was driving people away.” 

“Geralt,” Regis begins, “While I’m usually quite a fan of your sarcastic wit, you are often entirely too harsh on yourself. There’s nothing about you that is ugly—neither in physical features nor personality. I mean it. You are so much more than a man who hunts monsters.” His serious tone brokered no argument. 

The witcher rubs at his neck, purposefully avoiding Regis’ stalwart gaze. What could he say? Self-loathing came as naturally to him as holding a sword. But, it was actually rather pleasant to hear someone speak otherwise. To find merit in him as a person rather than in his capacity as a witcher. 

“Thanks,” he eventually said, letting the dull hum of cicadas fill the night air. He heard Regis shift, the scent of herbs growing stronger, and then, suddenly, there was a hand at his shoulder. The vampire squeezed his shoulder gently, his nails only giving the briefest indication of their sharpness as they ghosted over the thin white fabric of his shirt. 

“You’re welcome, Geralt. I’ll always be at your side to remind you of your better nature—of who you really are.”

The witcher did something he had wanted to do ever since he saw the lone arrow pierce through the vampire’s chest. When he had thought for a horrifying few moments that Regis had been seriously injured, only to see the man sit up later, the wound closing almost immediately after the arrow was pulled out. When Geralt had felt the swell of genuine relief in the midst of the battle, he wished he could have hugged the vampire. 

When he pulls Regis into a hug, he feels the vampire stiffen for a brief second, his analytical mind likely rattled with surprise at the sudden gesture of affection, before he hugs back, wisps of grey-black hair tickling Geralt’s cheek. He leans into Geralt’s touch easily, a pleased chuckle leaving his lips, his hot breath fanning at the witcher’s neck. Regis closes his eyes in contentment, silent, letting his actions speak for him. Trust, Geralt realizes. Regis trusts me. A vampire trusts a witcher who, at one time, pointed a sword against his throat. The thought warms his chest in a way that he can’t quite explain, at least not now, not with the weight of Regis resting against him. But above all, he was pleased to have a vampire pressed against him even though he was unarmed and without his usual wolf-school armor. 

Geralt eventually clears his throat, arms still wrapped around the vampire.  “Also… you don’t have to hide your smile, Regis. Not around me. Sorry if I made you think otherwise.” He wanted to say more, to be as open and honest as he should be, but the words wouldn’t leave his tongue. Not yet. But he thought them all the same. 

And because we’re friends, because I care about you, I want to know you—all of you. Not the walls you hide behind. I trust you, Regis. Nothing will change that. 

In return, the vampire pulls away and smiles, showing off his sharp, pointed teeth. It made something in Geralt’s slow-beating heart flutter, but the witcher didn’t feel panicked or anxious. Instead, he leaned into the feeling—a feeling that he was not afraid to call love.

#geralt of rivia #emiel regis #geralt x regis #this is set sometime after baptism of fire btw #can't help but reference book events bc it's fun! & i love their relationship in the books #sorry if this is like... real bad lol. i have had a major writer's block lately ;v; but i'm trying

[user-name-not-found5]

Interrogation Techniques pt. 8

Whew! Sorry this has taken so long to update, I had to take a little break from social media. Anyway, I'm hoping to finish this up soon. Previous: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 , 6, 7

Kylo Ren is determined to get the map out of the Resistance Pilot. By any. Means. Necessary.

Even if that means exploring new ways to sexually psychologically manipulate his victims into getting what he wants.

AU where the map leads to Luke’s new Jedi Temple, where he is training the next generation of Jedi. Poe is a Resistance pilot, who General Leia Organa has put in charge of running the transport routes in order to bring force-sensitive younglings to the temple where they belong. The First Order is headed by Kylo Ren, a fallen Jedi just as Count Dooku was, and he is determined to end the Jedi for good.

Warnings overall: non-con, torture, violence, manipulation, smut, absolutely filthy smut, degrading language, abuse

Warnings for this chapter: Mild violence/references to violence, references to killing of the younglings in the original prequels, villain is convinced he's the hero

BB-8 rolled down the corridors, occasionally stopping to consult the holo-map he’d pulled from the base systems. The trooper jogged beside him, wheezing through his helmet.

“Come… on…. man…” BB-8 stopped at a door port, letting the trooper catch his breath as he docked into the system. Hands on his knees, 2187 yanked his helmet off, tucking it under his arm. “You’re going to need.... A retinal… scan… to…” He held up a hand. “Gimme a sec…”

I’m not sending a comm outside the base. I’m sending one from inside.

The trooper sighed, running his hand over his face. “I don’t. Speak. Droid!”

Well, I don’t speak IDIOT.

The door whirred open, and BB slid inside, 2187 close behind. He quirked an eyebrow at the array of glowing panels and buttons, placing his hands on the center console. BB docked into another port, navigating slowly through the system until he found what he was looking for.

“Alright, you do your thing, we’ll get your pilot, and then we’re out of here, okay?” He paced, running his hands over his short-cropped hair. “Stars, let the Captain be on… I don’t know, a lunch break? Blaster-cleaning? Disciple row? Anything but patrol right now.”

A panel across the room began to hum, and BB rolled over to access the new port. He turned his head towards the trooper, giving his best attempt at a reassuring beep. The half-hearted smile he got in response was encouraging enough that he didn’t feel so guilty turning back to his work. The pair sat in silence for a bit, the soft whirring of machinery keeping them company before BB slid back with a triumphant little ditty.

“You got it?”

Hell-fucking-yeah I did!

The trooper’s comm beeped, and he clicked the speaker, letting the automated voice play out.

“Attention all base personnel. Please route around the detention corridor. A hazardous chemical spill has made the area unsuitable for transversal. Repeat. Route around the detention corridor.”

He raised an eyebrow at the droid. “For a little guy, you’re really scary, you know that?”

Thank me later. Let’s go get Poe.

Ren sat completely still, his legs crossed in front of him, his back perfectly straight as he inhaled, and exhaled again slowly. His mind floated out, spreading like a dark cloud. Something was catching his attention, something drifting closer, ever closer. Something strong, something… He stiffened. Her face formed in the cloud, the darkness draining and replaced by blinding light until she blinked into view. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders, brown eyes full of sadness.

“Ben.”

“You know that isn’t my name anymore.” His voice came out as a low hiss, eyes boring into her, willing her to go away.

Rey shook her head. “I will always look at you as the man who used to be my friend. Not the man you have become.”

“Then you are weak. Blinded by foolish attachments,” He sneered. “Your Master would be disappointed in you.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat as she flinched back, barely perceptible, but he knew her well. Too well… they’d grown up together, in the temple. She had been one of his closest friends, for so long…

“Ben,” Her voice was soft, coaxing. “I understand your anger. Your pain. Luke has made many mistakes, but he is only one man. He is haunted by a past that we may never understand. I’m sorry that he pushed you so far.”

He inhaled sharply. A bitter laugh slipped through his lips. “I thought you were more than this- his feeble messenger. Rey, a noble Jedi Knight, has been reduced to a mouthpiece for a corrupt, mad old man.” He shook his head. “You excuse his actions so easily- no matter his past, I trusted him. I needed him, I needed his guidance against the darkness,” His voice caught in his throat as the familiar roar of anger pressed in. “And he tried to murder me. His nephew.” His fists tightened. “Who’s to say he won’t try to kill you? Or follow in his father’s footsteps, and end the Jedi Order, bathing it in blood once again? It wasn’t the Clones that ended the next generation- it was my grandfather, from the inside.”

He was surprised when she nodded.

“You’re right, Ben. What he did, it was unforgivable. You needed him, you needed his confidence in you, you needed his trust. I’m sorry that he failed you. Which is why I won’t,” She brushed through the mists, and he could almost feel her hand on his skin back in his quarters. “I won’t fail. I will bring you back where you belong. Together, we can fix this. We can bring peace, Ben. Your anger has guided you this far, but where does it leave you?” She wrapped her arms around him gently. “You traded one Master for another.”

Ben snapped out of his meditation, sweat pooling on his back. She had seen so far into him, looked at his anger, and hatred, and hurt, and had still asked him to come home. Rey had always been good at that- they had a deep connection, growing up so close together. Hers had been the shoulder he cried on when he missed home, his was the shoulder she leaned on when a nightmare about the desert sands plagued her. She never spoke much of her past- he knew that in the power vacuum left after the Sith destroyed each other, several factions of the former Galactic empire vied for power. Many people had died, and the carnage had continued until he’d risen. He rolled his shoulders back. She spoke of bringing peace, and yet the Resistance was the source of the continued conflict. He had reunited the Empire, shaped and molded and forced it into the form of the First Order. He had ended the needless battles of factions, quelled the bloodshed, using force only when those little scraps had failed to recognize his new rule. He was the son of a Princess, he was well-versed in the lessons of diplomacy that she had vested to him; where his diplomacy failed, the anger of his Master’s betrayal fueled him into battle.

“I have brought peace,” The words slipped from his lips, hanging softly in the air. “The Jedi are meant to be peace-keepers. They should be on my side.”

But he was a tyrant. His hands curled into fists.

He had a map to follow.

Poe groaned. He was hanging from his wrists, held in suspension as energy surged around him, occasionally hitting him with a pulse that left him gasping for breath. He wasn’t sure when he’d last seen Ren- a few times, he’d passed out from the pain, or exhaustion, leaving him to wonder how many hours he’d lost to darkness. He was alone, at least. A few times, he’d woken to the stares of a few troopers, muttering orders to each other and adjusting the dials on the console. He was beginning to lose his resolve, as much as he hated to admit it. It would be nice, really, to just let go. Give the map up, and at least he could die. He snarled, fire surging in his gut. What was he thinking- he wouldn’t be the only one to die. These were children he was talking about, innocent kids, born with a power through no fault of their own. They needed the Jedi, needed that guidance, and he wasn’t going to let them suffer just because he was hurting. He jolted again as another surge crested through his body. He’d almost rather be under Ren again…

He shivered, despite himself. The aphrodisiac had a lingering effect, creeping into his dreams with memories of the heat in his belly, the leather glove clasped around his mouth, fingers curled in his hair. The way he’d shaken beneath him, the hot breath against his ear as he’d been fucked into a daze. He’d enjoyed it, and that thought disturbed him more than the idea of further torture.

The door slid open as another surge hit him, and he gasped, his back spasming at the pressure. Chest heaving, he jut his chin forward at the trooper who hovered in the doorway.

“Come to turn up the pressure again? Shame, I was getting a bit bored of this method.”

His eyes widened as the trooper leaned back into the hall, and waved someone forward, ducking into the room. Rather than head to the console, he waited by the door, until a small ball of energy rolled into the room. Poe laughed incredulously.

“BB-8?!”

Thank the stars! Master Poe!

BB-8 whirred happily, docking into a port. Poe dropped, the trooper catching him carefully in his arms, and helping him to his feet. He fixed him with a confused glance, flicking his gaze back and forth from the white helmet to BB.

“He a friendly?”

As far as I can tell. Looking for a pilot to get off this hellhole.

He arched an eyebrow, cocking his head at the trooper. “You a defector?”

The trooper was quiet for a second before pushing his helmet up, and setting it to the side. Poe’s eyes lingered on his face. He had wide, dark eyed, short-cropped dark hair, and full lips. He was handsome. He shook the thought, tacking it up to the last of the drugs.

“I’m not going to kill for them.” His voice was firm, but he spoke quietly. Poe just nodded, and let him help him hobble towards the door. BB picked up the rear, and the trio moved quickly down the hallway, to the hangar.

#poe dameron #poe dameron smut #canon offshoot #star wars #star wars smut #tros #darkpilot #tfa #tlj #reylo #finnpoe