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mopeymi · 11 months

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You Have Terrible Morals and Obligations - Ghost/Soap

Official Part 7

Soap bit against the refusal that bubbled in his throat. Price had just finished discussing the mission plan in it's entirety, explaining everyone's role. Price and Gaz would serve as over watch while Soap, Ghost, Konig, and Horangi would move towards building infiltration. Once inside, Soap and Ghost would head West in the building to sweep and gather intelligence, Konig and Horangi doing the same in the opposite direction.

Soap chimed in, claiming Ghost was their best Sniper and would be best serving over watch, but Price assured him Ghost's hand-to-hand and close quarter fighting achievements were essential.

They had intel that a car would be delivering important documents detailing Makarov's dealings within the last few months around 8 pm, so the boys were to wait inside the building for the cargo to pull up and deal with it accordingly. Gaz suggested Ghost and Soap wait inside of the lower levels to catch the men who entered the building off guard while Konig and Horangi made their way to the roof to provide high support and a better angle than Price or Gaz would be able to from their distance.

Soap cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself. Konig shifted at his side, pressed a little too close but Soap enjoyed the warmth. He could sense Ghost glowering across the table, but he refused to look at the Brit instead looking towards Price and Gaz. Horangi looked over at him from the other side of Konig, leaning forward for a better view.

"Wouldn't it be better for us to stay together? 2 men versus whatever gets out of the car... doesn't seem fair to me." Everyone regarded him carefully, and then Price snorted.

"You and Ghost are not only some of my best operators, but you make one hell of a team. I believe in your abilities." Soap blinked unbelieving. Had the last few weeks just been forgotten? Did Price forget about him collapsing onto his office floor and sobbing about Ghost's non-dead death? Or literally avoiding the man as though he was plagued with some infectious disease?

Words formed in his mouth in the shape of a protest, but he felt a solid hand on his knee. He looked down to see his thigh dwarfed by Konig's large hand, warmth flooding through his body. He snapped his mouth shut and gave a sharp nod.

Over the time that Konig and Horangi stayed at the base - It was only two days. - Soap already considered them close friends of his. Horangi wasn't really the talking type, but he didn't appear swayed from Soap's constant jabbering, even seeking the man out during lunch and free times during the day. Konig on the other hand was simply shy in the beginning, choosing not to talk. Once Soap had broken through his shell though? The man was as talkative as a scientist defending their thesis from a skeptic.

Price went back to explaining the plan, but Soap's mind was elsewhere. Was pairing Ghost and Soap together some type of forced proximity to get them friendly again? Did Soap's emotions on the situation simply not matter? He supposed not, considering he was just supposed to be a good little soldier without thoughts or feelings.

Ghost was perfect in that way; Emotionless, detached, withdrawn. Everything Soap wasn't. It’s probably why Gaz was so shocked when Soap drunkenly admitted his attraction for their superior officer. It felt stupid in hindsight, considering half the base already assumed the two had something going on. Especially after Soap went a little off the rails at Ghost’s apparent death.

“Alright, that’s the plan. Good to go?” Price asked the group.

“Good to go.” Soap responded.

“Yes, cap.” Gaz.

“Ja.” König.

“Yes.” Horangi.

Soap quirked an eyebrow as he waited to hear Ghost’s response. Lifting his gaze, he saw Ghost standing across the room, his arms crossed and gaze unwavering from König. The large Austrian shifted uncomfortably next to him.

“Yes, sir.” Ghost grunted out, and then abruptly left. Soap couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he stood, grabbing his phone and slipping it into his pocket. He took his leave soon after, beckoning König to follow. He extended the invitation to Horangi, but the man simply shook his head and motioned towards Gaz and Price who remained talking about mission plans. Soap merely nodded as he started making his way to the common room.

“I don’t think Geist likes me too much…” König said with a sigh. Soap snorted as he pushed open the doors, slumping down in the nearest lounge chair. The other was quick to follow, sprawling out in the next best seating option.

“He doesn’t like anyone too much.” Soap responded, picking idly at his nails.

“He seems to like you, Seife.” His tone sounded completely honest, a small hint of curiosity laced into it.

“Tolerates seems more appropriate.” Was how Soap chose to respond. He crossed his ankles as he rested his head back and closed his eyes. He could feel a headache beginning to bloom.

“Did something happen between you two?” Soap knew the question was going to come eventually. He opened his eyes and regarded König carefully. The man had leaned forward onto his knees, hands holding up his head. Recently he had stopped wearing the sniper hood around base, opting for a plain balaclava similar to one of Ghost’s. It made his eyes more visible, a pretty green-blue.

“I suppose you could say that. I think I assumed I was more important to him than I actually was. They really mean it when they say don’t fraternize with superiors.” König eyes flew wide open, body language exuding shock.

“Y-you and… Geist, you…?”

“No! No.” Soap snorted and then straightened himself up. His tone became serious, “Nothing like that, König.”

“Why not?” König asked, looking around cautiously for any prying eyes.

“Honestly… we’re too messed up. Our lives aren’t made for the personally complicated things.” Soap’s tone had a sad edge to it, yet he sat stoic. His face showing no emotion.

“Who says lust is complicated?” Soap paused at the words. His brows furrowed in confusion, thinking he may have heard him wrong. Perhaps it was the man’s accent; Lust?

“I- Don’t think I understand ya, big guy.” König laughed lightly at that, relaxing back into the chair.

“The tension, Seife. It’s suffocating. I’m sure the two of you can figure something out? To relieve it and in turn, yourselves?” König had said it like it was commonplace. As if the mere mention of Soap fucking his superior officer wasn't bad enough to get them reprimanded.

"First- First of all," Soap began, stomach fluttering uncomfortably, "He's my SO. I don't know what they do in your mercenary groups, but that doesn't fly in the SAS. Second; Ghost?! Mr. 'Emotional capabilities of a rock who flinches at a mere fist bump'? That isn't happening." Konig belly laughed at that, slightly shrill. Soap was surprised that a man that size could make a sound like that.

"Maybe it's being on the outside looking in," Konig said after catching his breath. A few recruits had looked their way, but Soap gave them a quick glare and they turned back to their own conversations, "But I don't think Geist would be very opposed to a more physical relationship with you." He shrugged. His eyes glanced above Soap's head and he could see the man smile beneath his mask.

"Horangi and I planned on going to the shooting range for some quick practice. Wanna come?" Konig offered as he stood, beginning to walk out. Soap only shook his head and said a small 'Thanks, but no.'

That conversation stayed in his head the entire rest of the night. Soap tried to think of instances where it seemed Ghost was interested in some way, but it really only felt like the man indulged him in all honesty.

Talking over comms in Las Almas? That was just so Ghost had peace of mind his responsibility was still alive.

'Of course, no? 'No-' 'Yes. No one fights alone.' Easily translated into "I had a job to do and you just fell into my line of duty."

No one knowing (Except Price) that Ghost was alive as a way of protecting both them and him? Nope, just another selfish ploy so the lone wolf guy would have a few weeks of peace. Not having to worry about Soap's constant talking or his management - Hell it was a damn paid vacation.

That's what Soap had convinced himself. All of that among other things that painted Ghost as some sort of villain and Soap as some misguided civilian caught in line of fire.

The plane hit a bout of turbulence, shaking him out of his thoughts. He was surprised Ghost had sat as close as he did, only a seat between the two of them. Soap looked across from him, seeing Konig and Horangi talking quietly.

"Been a bit since we've worked with mercenaries." It was quiet, rumbly. Soap gave Ghost a sideways glance.

"Yep." He popped the 'p', sitting up straighter in his seat.

"Getting along with the large one, then?" His tone was even, yet Soap couldn't help but smirk at the thought of Ghost being jealous.

"Yeah." Is all he answered with. He really hoped Ghost would stop talking. It was already bad enough their proximity and then being stuck basically glued to his side on the mission? A form of emotional torture.

"Just remember to keep it tactical, Sergeant. Don't want another Graves situation." Soap's jaw tensed at those words. A rebuttal was on the tip of his tongue.

"Landing in 2." Cut through their comms. A chorus of acknowledgements flooded through.

Mission focus.

It helps that I remembered what I wrote, I just needed to fill in the little bits. How we feeling abt this?

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dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night · 8 months

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You can't Follow Your Heart if There's a Stake Through It part four

TW: claustrophobia, panic attack, death threats, nudity, touch aversion, captivity, mild sexual abuse, referenced death of a mother, referenced stalking, vampire hunter whumper, creepy whumper, vampire whumpee

Rurik refused to get back in bed with Jacob, despite all reassurances he was offered. Eventually, Jacob gave up on trying to convince him. What was the point, anyway? Rurik would come around soon enough.

After some time spent watching Rurik huddle in the corner with his head pressed to his knees, Jacob offered him a blanket. Vampires didn't produce body heat, rendering blankets rather useless, but Jacob figured it would still be comforting.

"Thank you," Rurik said quietly. He wrapped himself in the blanket, still looking incredibly nervous. "I do not understand."

"You don't understand what?"

"Woman talking. She confuses me."

"The woman's name is Angelique," Jacob explained. "She's in charge here. I know that conversation was confusing, but she agreed that you could stay here as long as you behave and I keep an eye on you."

"Why? I am vampire. She is vampire slayer… in charge."

Jacob enjoyed it when Rurik's voice got all quiet and sad like this. The colors invoked by listening to it matched Rurik's hair, reminding Jacob of the family of little brown mice who lived in the church he attended with his mother.

"She isn't that bad, just dramatic." Jacob grabbed Rurik's hand. "I would never let anyone hurt you. All you have to do is behave yourself so they don't feel threatened. You can do that, can't you?"

Rurik pulled his hand away, clearly not wanting to be touched, and hid himself behind the blanket. "She feel threatened," he said, struggling to pronounce the word. "I feel threatened. We are threatened."

Jacob fought the urge to correct Rurik's grammar, understanding that he was in a terribly stressful situation. But his improper sentence structure and lack of articles were really starting to get on Jacob's nerves.

"How's this?" Jacob asked. "I'll show you around, and let you see where you're going to be living from now on. No one will hurt you, and you won't hurt anybody. It'll help you a lot, I think."

"Can I return outside?" Rurik asked hopefully, moving the blanket to look at Jacob.

"Soon," Jacob lied. "Just not yet. I need you to be calmer so you won't try to run away."

"I need forest," Rurik said pleasingly. "Not… rock- cave. Inside hurts."

Jacob knew full well that Rurik had lived out in the woods, without so much as a house to call his own. He has always seemed so happy, picking flowers and jabbering at the animals in Russian. Out of place and out of time, stuck in his own little world.

But as much as Jacob truly wanted Rurik to be happy, he couldn't risk him escaping. Keeping him in the stronghold for at least another week was a necessary evil.

"I'm sorry," Jacob said. "Really, I am. But this isn't permanent. I won't live here forever. I already have a pension lined up, so getting a house in a few years should be easy. Don't worry, I'll take you outside plenty as soon as I can trust you not to run away."

Rurik seemed beyond tears, staring off into space, unable to truly comprehend his fate. It was only now that Jacob finally realized how drastically he had underestimated how badly a change of scenery would affect Rurik. His inside twisted themself up in guilt, and the knowledge that he couldn't do anything to fix his mistakes.

"Come on." Jacob stood up. "I think you need a shower, and I have some clothes for you."

"Shower?" Rurik asked.

Jacob sighed. He hadn't expected Rurik's lack of English to be this extensive, or this annoying. "A bath, you know? To clean yourself?"

"I know bath. And clean."

"Good." Jacob stood up and grabbed a duffle bag off his desk. "Come on then. I'll show you around, and you can take a shower. It'll help you relax."

Rurik tentatively stood up, draping the blanket over his shoulders and hugging himself tightly. Jacob put a hand of Rurik's arm to guide him out of the room, opening the door for him so he wouldn't burn himself again.

Rurik's orange eyes darted nervously about the hall, not daring to linger on anyone. To Jacob's delight, Rurik stayed close to his side as they walked, clearly trusting him to protect him from the other vampire hunters. Finally, they were making progress.

Jacob tried to ignore the whispers as they walked down the hall, but they sent Rurik into a panic. He froze in the middle of the hallway, not even putting up a fight as Jacob wrapped his arm around him.

"Is that a vampire?"

"Holy fuck…"

"We should tell Chandler."

"This isn't normal. What's going on?"

"Is Amity going to kill that thing or what?"

Jacob couldn't take it anymore. How dare they? Idiots, all of them, unable to understand the most simple of situations. And Rurik was only growing more panicked by the moment, hyperventilating and biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Fuck off!" Jacob snapped, rounding on his coworkers. "Angelique said it was fine if I kept him here. If any of you hurt him, I'm going to fucking kill you. Now get away from us before he has another goddamn panic attack."

Most of the figures in the hall left, some intent on questioning Angelique on what the hell was going on, and others coming up with answers to suit their questions. Maybe Rurik was a spy, informing on his fellow vampires. Or maybe he was someone who had known Jacob in life, and they were desperately trying to stick together after a tragic death. Whatever the case, they would have gossip fodder for weeks.

"See?" Jacob asked, smiling at Rurik. "They won't hurt you. Not when I'm around to protect you. Just stick with me."

Jacob gently kissed Rurik, shocked that he was no longer making any attempt to struggle. Sure, Rurik didn't kiss him back, seeming to not know how. But he also didn't wrench his head away like he had a few hours ago.

Maybe Jacob really had proven himself. And all it took was showing Rurik how safe he was with him. Vampires really did see the world through a lense of violence and bloodshed, and how best they could instigate or evade it.

Rurik silently walked alongside Jacob until they reached a set of concrete stairs going downwards.

"Going underground?" he asked nervously.

"Um… we're already underground," Jacob said. "This whole base is."

Rurik looked like he was about to cry. "I hate here. I hate cave- base. I want to return home. Please, Jacob Amity."

"Eventually. I already said so. When I can trust you."

"When can you trust me?"

Jacob sighed, trying to speak his mind without breaking Rurik's heart still further. "When you calm down and really start loving me back. I need you to be happy first."

"I will not be happy here," Rurik said stubbornly. "Small and- and tight. No wind or plants. I hate underground."

"Rurik," Jacob said slowly, "are you Claustrophobic? I mean, are you afraid of tight spaces?"

"Yes." Tears welled in the corners of Rurik's eyes. "I am… afraid."

This revelation explained everything, as far as Jacob was concerned. He still remembered the claustrophobia induced panic attacks his mother used to have, and how much worse they got if anyone touched her. She had slept in the backyard, staring up at the stars, until the night of her untimely death.

Rurik had always reminded Jacob of her, and more similarities kept cropping up. Even their voices, as different as they were, conjured the same shades of brown and gold within his mind. Jacob wished they could meet, but after every horror his father had put him through, he had never gotten to bring any boy back home to his parents.

But all that was beside the point. Rurik really did love Jacob, he just hated the situation Jacob had forced him into. The feelings of powerlessness. The shock of being surrounded by vampire hunters. The horrific pain caused by being trapped in an enclosed space for hours on end. No wonder he was having such a hard time showing affection or accepting it from Jacob.

"I'm getting you out of you as soon as possible," Jacob decided. "But you have to understand that it's going to take a while for me to find a house. I'll find somewhere nice for us, far away from here. Maybe in the woods. You've just got to be patient, okay?"

Rurik actually smiled at this, and Jacob would have swooned if his heart weren't collapsing in on itself from regret. How had he treated Rurik so horribly? They were so very in love, so he should have been much more caring. Well, everyone lived and learned through their mistakes. He was no different.

"Come on," Jacob said, gesturing down the stairs. "You'll feel better after a shower. Then I can go shopping for a house."

Rurik slowly followed him down the staircase, which was thankfully free of people. As much as it pained him, Jacob tried to keep a little distance between them so Rurik wouldn't have another panic attack. Maybe he would be down for cuddling when they were outside together.

Jacob lead Rurik into one of the shower rooms, locking the door behind them. How he wished the rooms down here were bigger. But Rurik didn't complain, only biting his lip nervously, so Jacob didn't bring the subject of claustrophobia up again.

"Where is water?" Rurik asked, turning in a circle and looking around the room.

"Here." Jacob twisted the handle to the showerhead, standing out of the way so he wouldn't get wet. "It's like a… waterfall, I guess. You can change the temperature with the handle here. I know you're used to rivers but I hope this is okay."

Rurik nodded. "I understand."

"Sorry that I have to be in here to keep an eye on you."

This was a lie, obviously. Jacob could stand outside the door and wait until Rurik was done. But this wasn't the first time he had seen him bathing, and it sure as hell wouldn't be the last. Besides, Jacob was too prone to boredom to stand around doing nothing, and Rurik always captivated his attention.

Rurik didn't respond to Jacob's awkward apology, too busy getting undressed. His complete lack of modesty confused Jacob. Why wasn't he the least bit embarrassed about getting undressed in front of a man he barely knew? The decades, if not centuries, spent on his lonesome in the woods must have eroded Rurik's sense of social niceties. A pleasant surprise.

As always, Jacob found Rurik's undead body exactly to his taste. It appeared to be in the early stages of decomposition, with waxy purple-gray skin befitting an actual corpse. His female form clashed with his broad shoulders and tall stature. Almost contradictory, and very inviting.

Rurik set his clothes on the shelf and stepped under the showerhead, immediately drenching himself in water. He fiddled with the handle, changing the water to freezing cold, then to burning hot, switching back and forth before finally settling on lukewarm.

"Here." Jacob rummaged in his duffle bag, and found a small container of body wash and a hand towel, which he handed to Rurik. "I don't know if you've seen liquid soap before, but it's basically like normal soap just… liquid."

Rurik took the towel and body wash from Jacob. "Thank you."

After some trial and error, he figured out how to get the towel soapy and wet enough to effectively clean himself. Jacob enjoyed watching Rurik bathe all the more in close quarters. Though he struggled to keep his hands to himself.

After nearly half an hour spent enjoying the water, Rurik figured out how to turn it off. Jacob handed him a towel to dry himself off with, still very much enjoying the view of his body. He knew he really shouldn't be spending so much time staring at Rurik's breasts, but he really couldn't help it. How lovely that Rurik had no qualms about casually showing off his body.

Jacob snapped out of his thoughts when he realized Rurik was staring at him. "Um, I have some more clothes for you if you want to get changed."

Rurik shook his head and grabbed his old clothes, the same outfit Jacob had always seen him wearing. A green button up shirt and brown work pants, with never a pair of shoes or piece of jewelry in sight. Rurik looked nice, of course, but Jacob did have to wonder why he never wanted variety in his clothing.

Jacob wrung out the towels and threw them back in his bag with the soap. Rurik wasted no time following him out of the room, relieved to be in a slightly less constricting space.

A man Jacob didn't recognize watched them come out of the shower together. He winked obnoxiously at Jacob, clearly fighting down laughter. Not wanting to cause Rurik any more distress or confusion, Jacob walked him back to their room as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately for him, someone was already there, standing in the middle of the floor with his arms crossed and a scowl deepening the lines on his face.

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visitfox647 · 2 years

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spindogs · 7 years

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i love how bc i've had this blog so long my name has changed like,, three or four times and so i have a shitton of personal tags

#personal #alex announces #jas jabbers #sam says #trans #ftm

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tarydarrington · 3 years

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This is the third time this week.

The Archmage of Civil Influence sits slumped over her pristine, deep red desk with her head in her hands. She can handle Ludinus. The man gives her a long enough leash, so long as she gets the right things done with it. She can even handle Professor Widogast, absurd as his new name might be, tiring as his constant pushing of the line between acceptable lesson plans and light treason might be. No, it’s not him. It’s his friend.

“Hi, Astrid!”

She presses her fingertips into her temples. Twenty-five words feels like more than one might think. Twenty-five and then twenty-five more and twenty-five more and on towards infinity feels like an eternity. Occasionally, for a while after Ikithon’s trial, she had received a friendly hello from Ms. Lavorre. That had been irritating enough. But from what she understands, the tiefling and two others are now at sea dealing with their own issues.

Veth Brenatto, on the other hand, seems to have absolutely nothing else for which to use her spells.

“How ya doing? Just checking in about that little get-together we talked about.”

Talked about is a generously mutual way to put it. There is an event planned for the end of the week at the dance hall she and Bren used to frequent. Brenatto is of the persistent opinion that she ought to attend with Professor Widogast. As his date.

Ridiculous, as she had snapped to Eadwulf last night, because if anything he would be her date - but that is beside the point.

“I know Caleb is waiting to hear a ‘yes,’” the voice in her head continues in its usual overly chipper tone.

Astrid does not believe for a second that “Caleb” is doing anything of the sort. They pass one another in the halls of the Soltryce occasionally, and their interactions are always a coin-flip between professional and very awkward. The only other time they see one another at all is when he’s dragged into her office for going on one of his famous little tangents in class, and he hardly seems interested in her authority, let alone her companionship.

“Good afternoon, Frau Brenatto,” she says smoothly, thankful that the woman can’t see her face. “As I have previously informed you, I would be happy to discuss this with Bren himself. Do have a pleasant day.”

She hopes it sounds sufficiently final, but allows herself a sigh as the halfling’s voice filters back into her mind a moment later.

“Caleb is very shy,” she says. “I think you intimidate him - which is silly, because he’s extremely powerful - but if you could just give me your answer--”

Astrid cups her face in her hands, fingers splayed. Only three more days until the dance has come and gone, and then she won’t have to deal with this anymore. Until the next time, of course. Or until Brenatto comes up with some other pretense to push them at each other.

“As I have said,” she says pointedly, “I would like to be sure that this invitation is coming from Bren. If he wishes to speak-” and he will not- “then we may.”

The next message is almost immediate this time, and Astrid resists the urge to bang her forehead onto the desk.

“Why don’t we go visit him together?” Brenatto asks with renewed enthusiasm. “Have some lunch, talk a little… I can leave you alone, if you two lovebirds are getting--”

Never before has she been so grateful for the limits of a Sending spell. She clears her throat, eyes falling on the stack of paperwork waiting in front of her. There is actual work to be done. Actual important work that does not involve a halfling jabbering in her head all afternoon. And, well, if confronting Bren directly about this nuisance could put an end to it?

“Very well,” she says on a sigh. “When shall we meet?”

Astrid wants to groan out loud at the ecstatic tone of the next message. They plan to meet tomorrow evening. Brenatto is already in town, for some reason Astrid doesn’t bother remembering, and they’ll arrive together at Bren’s little residence on the outskirts of the capital at sunset. Ostensibly, Veth will treat them all to a meal at Bren’s favorite establishment - but Astrid suspects things won’t get that far.

At least she can finish her paperwork, now.

She buries her face in Eadwulf’s shoulder that night and groans, “Why does she never do this with you?”

The following evening, she finds Veth Brenatto on the road outside Bren’s place, waving on her tiptoes with a wide grin splitting her face. Astrid gives her a tight, mirthless smile in return. Better to get this over with.

“I’m so happy that the two of you are getting some proper time to get to know each other again,” Brenatto says as they approach the door together.

Astrid will ignore the suggestive tilt of her eyebrows.

Bren’s place is smaller than those of most of the Academy’s faculty. He is one of the only professors who has chosen to live outside of the city center, opting instead for a little-travelled section of Rexxentrum to the northeast. The house itself is small and nondescript; she would never have picked it out, if she didn’t already know it was here. Astrid wonders sometimes about the secrecy, but she will let him have his privacy. She owes him that much, at least.

She shakes herself from her thoughts just in time to notice Brenatto reaching for the doorknob, but not soon enough to stop her from opening without a single knock. By the time she’s reached out to stop her, the door is already wide open.

And oh, this is rich.

“Caleb! I brought--” And then Veth sees them, too.

The man in question - Caleb or Bren or the physical manifestation of regret, whichever he pleases just now - has just fallen off the couch. Brought tumbling down with him is the drow with whom he’s intimately tangled up, face twisted into such a comical mix of shock and mortification that Astrid actually cracks a smile.

“Ah,” Bren says, pulling a blanket from the sofa to wrap around his partner’s shoulders, “Hallo, ja, come right in.”

The drow, for his part, has already waved a hand and magicked them both some clothing. Brenatto, for hers, has begun sputtering incoherently - which, after the week of endless pestering Astrid has had, sounds about like music. Astrid gives her a smug look, and gestures with one hand towards the two men hastily righting themselves.

“I believe this settles the matter,” she says coolly. “Thank you for the invitation.”

She gives Bren a knowing look, and he gives her a tired nod back. She doesn’t envy him the interrogation he’s about to endure. With a parting glance at the drow, who has retreated toward another room with his real clothing clutched just a bit too tightly in his hands, she turns on her heel and steps back out into the dusk.

That explains the secrecy, then. She hopes he’s good for Bren, whoever he is. He deserves something good.

Just as the teleport whisks her away, she hears Veth Brenatto screech, “Him?!”

#this has been kicking around in my head ever since the week of the finale #very silly but hey #shadowgast #astrid beck #veth brenatto #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #mine #mine:fic #also i feel like i should say: yes i am aware astrid and essek were in the blooming grove together for a While #but astrid was pretty preoccupied so i'm playing with this anyway #astrid #veth #caleb #essek

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failedintsave · 2 years

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I'm sick and feeling loopy, so it's soft skwistok hours, I don't make the rules

Talking to the Moon

The silent vacuum that followed end of year revelry was always the seasonal hallmark Toki detested most. His issue wasn't the cold; he could withstand the chill better than most. Winter's icy tendrils grasped and choked, and frost spiraled across the windows in fractals, encasing every branch and blade of grass in a sparkling chrysalis ready to shatter. There was an eerie beauty in the monochrome sterility.

What Toki took umbrage with was the quiet that pervaded the grounds as though they were a cemetery, black pines dotting the landscape like towering headstones, desolate and lonely. He'd had his fill of silence at an early age, and now he insulated himself against it, filling the hours with loud games and trailing after his bandmates, keeping up a constant line of jabber. When they weren't available, he'd fall back on Rockso. The clown was always a reliable source of noise. Anything to fill the oppressive quiet.

He reclined against his headboard one evening, scrolling endlessly through his phone, when rapid fire knocking preceded his door being flung open.

"You gots to come looks at dis!" Skwisgaar barged in, practically tripping over his own boots in his haste. He grabbed Toki by the elbow, tugging for him to follow. "Hurries up!"

Toki allowed himself to be dragged along behind, stumbling an extra half step for each of the taller man's strides. "What?! What happened?!"

"Just come wif me, quick!" He was seldom this excitable, and Toki was glad of the distraction.

The wound through the corridors, careening around corners until finally Skwisgaar threw aside the door leading onto a balcony high above the main courtyard. He skidded on the ice, finally releasing Toki to catch himself against the rail and snapping off a cascade of icicles that tumbled to break on the ground below.

It was a clear, crisp night and the grounds were bathed a silvery blue under the nearly full moon, faint divots and trenches buried under fresh powder marking the trails of the patrolling yard wolves. Paying the ground no mind, Skwisgaar pointed to the sky.

"Look!"

Though there was no cloud cover, the pinpricks of distant stars were still faint, the sky muddied by the light pollution of Mordland's various outposts and the red glow of the Haus itself. Squinting, Toki followed the line of Skwisgaar's outstretched hand. Beyond the tip of his finger there was a brief streak of light, followed by another, and another still.

"Do you sees dem?"

"Ja."

They were pretty, of course, but he'd seen meteor showers before. Growing up so far from city lights meant his view of the heavens had been mostly unobscured; he'd witnessed aurora and wheeling nebulas, and had even been terrified the first time an eclipse darkened the woodland around him.

Skwisgaar's reaction was far more interesting than the meteorites themselves. With each miniscule flash of green and white his grin widened further.

"De Geminid shower came t'rough last month, but it was too cloudies to sees it den." He exclaimed as another whizzed across the sky. "You sees dat green tail behinds it? Dese pieces ams composed of a lots of mangks-nesium and it ams boirning up when dey enters de atsmosphere."

Toki looked again, Skwisgaar's enthusiasm kindling a new appreciation for the falling stars. Skwisgaar gestured expansively at the cosmos, mapping out the sky. Calaeno, Orion, Rho Persei, Pollux; he traced constellations on the air. Toki couldn't help his growing smile.

"Wowee, you sure knows lots of stars names, huh?"

"Huegh, ja, well. I loirned dem eventchkuallies, but befores dat, I used to makes up my own names to call dem. And, euughh…" He rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck, his voice dropping to a mumble. "Talks...to dem."

"To de stars?"

Skwisgaar huffed a laugh, stirring the wispy strands of hair that framed his face as he looked down into the yard. "I, erm, was by mineself a lot as a kids…" He folded his arms over his middle, gripping his elbows. "So I woulds name dem and makes pretend dat dey was friends who came to visits me."

Keeping his eyes averted skyward, Toki was careful not to snicker at the idea. Rare were the moments when Skwisgaar volunteered personal information, especially something that could so easily be weaponized as teasing fodder. There were some things that were off limits by unspoken agreement though, and Toki understood coping mechanisms.

"Dere sure ams a lot... always made me feels small when I looks for too long." Toki murmured, eager for Skwisgaar to share more.

"I kinda likes dat, 'dough. When I was alones, I always t'oughts about who else am lookingk at dese same stars. Space ams so deep, maybe someone just like me ams watching even from anudder worlds. Some of de stars might be brighter to dem, or in a different parts of de sky, but still ams de same stars. Helpsed me for to not feel so lonesome."

A wolf howled in the dark, its solitary voice a feral aria echoing across the frozen barrens and shattering the silence. It was soon joined by the chorus of its pack mates as they rambled through the forests surrounding Mordhaus, invisible from where they stood on the balcony. Toki could almost imagine the grounds as one of the countless alien worlds Skwisgaar had mentioned, a fallow asteroid or tiny satellite caught in the orbit of their shared yellow-dwarf.

"Wasn't a whole lots in mine life den dat was constant besides dem. Ams stupid, I knows, but euughh." Skwisgaar shrugged one shoulder, seemingly reaching his word limit for the day. The quiet returned.

Raising his eyes again, Toki gazed at the bright ovoid moon, waxing towards full. He could recall many nights he'd spent huddled on the moldy straw floor of a root cellar, kneeling in the pool of light provided by the moon shining through the barred hatch overhead. The pits and craters of its surface looked like a face to him then, and in the darkness, he'd imagined that maybe it was someone kind peeking in on him. Someone that cared and could see his hurts, even if they couldn't fix them, could bear witness. It had given him comfort at a time when he'd been afforded none.

Toki turned to Skwisgaar, the taller man's features glowing pale in the dark shadow cast by the building at his back. "I don't think it's stupid at all." Maybe neither of their make-believe had been too farfetched.

Skwisgaar's smile was small but nonetheless radiant when he looked back at Toki standing at his elbow. A chilly gust swept over the rooftop, sending snow billowing in a glittering spiral around them, like frozen stardust in the wake of a comet. Skwisgaar jumped as the ice dusted his head and shoulders.

"Holy shits! Okej, it ams too cold for dis, we can goes in now."

Wrapping his arms around him from behind, Toki leaned hard against Skwisgaar's back, trying to press some of his own warmth into him. He nuzzled into Skwisgaar's neck, inducing a shiver of a different sort.

"No, we can'ts yet, you hasn't properly instroduced me to your friends!"

He felt more than heard the chuckle rumbling in Skwisgaar's chest, as well as the shift of muscles when he once again raised his arm to point out specific blips of light.

"So dat bright one ams Sirius, and it's part of Canis Major—which am a big dog and ams my second favorites—but down here you can barely sees Canis Minor. And he's a puppy, hueghuegh."

Skwisgaar chattered on about pulsars and antimatter, displaying an unexpected depth of knowledge and lamenting their lack of a telescope (Toki filed that tidbit away for later). Toki nodded his encouragement each time Skwisgaar checked in, but truth be told he would have let him list out his favorite brands of cuticle oil in alphabetical order so long as he could keep listening to his voice, so warm with passion, filling the otherwise silent night air.

#skwisgaar skwigelf #toki wartooth #skwistok #metalocalypse #look guys they aren't just laying around in bed this time

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randomlyjay · 2 years

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Ja! jabbering jots jolly justifications Joyous jigging jacksnapes jaysomely Jay jingling jouneys juggled jocularly

#this is jay #who did a #jaypoem!#writerscreedchallenge #starting with the letter J!

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lovepreserves · 6 years

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anyone in this bih speak japanese

#jabbering #ajksflKLJSBFVLJDFV I CANT FIND ANYTHING HELPFUL #i just wanna say im writing a letter to my school abt conserving water but all i get is 'how to write a letter in japanese' and 'how to #write a formal letter in ja #ksjnkfv BLARGHHHH #gonna wing in babes jkdfvkld

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cringeghostking · 3 months

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guys i love a slowburn as much as the next person, and i know annabeth canonically had a crush on him since she was 12, but their dynamic is v much enemies (for like 2 seconds) to friends to lovers. and sidelining the friendship for the romance, esp so early, robs the arc of it’s foundation tbh.

they are best friends. they are mutually pining for their best friend. when they are dating they are still best friends annabeth takes a knife for her best friend percy carries the damn sky for his best friend annabeth is giving a eulogy for her BEST FRIEND grover isn’t a third wheel they are ALL BEST FRIENDS grover’s reduced to 3rd wheeling by the fandom and that’s so sad for us!

the slowburn romance we hold so dear? is a slowburn specifically because they were best friends first.

im so tired of people reducing a relationship to “omg wait until they kiss” when there is such richness and depth in the friendship. the platonic is just as important as the romantic—and without that friendship as a foundation, the romance we love wouldnt exist.

they dont stop being friends when they start dating they are, in fact, best friend-ing HARDER

#and they dont stop being friends when they start dating #you judo-flip and pin your best friend for disappearing #like. that’s bestie behavior #stop treating friendships like theyre secondary im TIRED #pjo #percabeth #jas jabbers #percy jackon and the olympians

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pluviophile-bookworm · 1 year

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If I had a nickel for every time I’ve made a wonderful friend through their fanfics...

I’d have two nickels

which I’d just give away because, let’s be honest, with friends like these I’m practically filthy rich

don’t mind me, just using a meme format to make an appreciation post for @pinkmilkyblue and @redlyncentral

#love you so much #sending giant hugs to both of you #jas jabbers

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puppy-prose · 4 years

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How about jaskier is a dragon and determines that Geralt is very much his mate. He wants to make it official by fucking on the summer solstice, as dragons do to get married/bond. Geralt, not knowing that he's Jaskier's mate, is v. Confused when the bard starts pawing at his clothes and whining for his cock and that talk about "make me yours Geralt" but is Very Into It once he realizes just what's going on

ahh my first request!! thank you so, so much!! i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!!

Geralt was a witcher—a very good witcher. He could sniff out a bruxae from a mile away; he could track down a wyvern from only a few drops of blood. He knew the differences between rotfiends and ghouls and alghouls, he knew how many spikes were on a manticore’s tail, he knew how to identify and defeat hundreds of monsters, creatures, and beasts of myth.

So, logically, Geralt knew he was a dragon. Jaskier was sure of it. Right?

He didn’t do a very good job of hiding it. How anyone thought he was human baffled him. He hoarded songs and scents, with his precious lite at the center of it all. Notebooks filled to the brim with lyrics and lines—not all of them his. Bags, once he had settled in with Geralt enough to trust him with it, that were always packed with oils, bath salts, and ointments. His temper, too, easy to flare, but easy to forgive. His affinity for shiny, pretty things. And perhaps the most damning of it all, the way he didn’t always act human. The half-raw meat that he never had a problem devouring; the way he always managed to find his way back to Geralt every spring without fail, no matter where on the Continent the witcher was. His unchanged youthful looks, years and years after they met.

So, Jaskier was reasonably certain, Geralt knew what he was. He’d simply not said anything because it was easier—because Geralt disliked honest and open conversations like that. So Jaskier didn’t bother to bring it up either, content in his companion’s silent acceptance.

But truth be told, Jaskier wanted more.

So he asked for it. Subtly, of course. Geralt wasn’t an emotional man—going to him and declaring his love wasn’t exactly an option. So Jaskier started slow, poking and prodding, testing his interests through his kind’s courting traditions. And when his first gift—a pair of gloves made from his own scales, the proud jeweled red dulled and dyed purposefully to keep Geralt safe when he was out stalking beasties—was accepted with a huff, a tiny smile, a roll of the eyes, and Geralt taking awfully good care of them, Jaskier knew his affections were accepted. Perhaps even returned.

More gifts, more rituals followed. Ointments of his favorite scents, carefully diluted for a witcher’s nose, to sooth his dry hands. Intricate braids done during baths, telling stories in his hair; Dutch braids for devotion, crown braids for loyalty, fishtail braids for patience, lace braids for fidelity, with all of them begrudgingly left alone until the next time he desperately needed a bath. The vernal equinox celebrated together by getting awfully drunk on honey wine, procured from the fae themselves.

And lastly, a final gift that could be an equivalent to a human’s engagement ring, he offered to Geralt a plaited bracelet made up of his lute strings, worn and representative of himself, a piece of his prized treasure and a piece of himself practically along with it. And Geralt? Well, Geralt accepted. He wore that bracelet every day, even if he pretended, quite transparently, to be only humoring Jaskier and nothing else. And that was that.

They were mates.

And today was the summer solstice.

Jaskier was antsy. Then again, Geralt was of a mind that Jaskier was always antsy. Fidgety and twitchy, always moving. Like a hummingbird, he thought. It was as if Jaskier expected himself to die if he fell still for even a single minute. But no. This was a different kind of antsy. He’d been extra energetic all day. It was as endearing as it was annoying--though he’d never admit to it.

He’d been whining about leaving the city all day, too. The little bird, always ready to fly away when bored. Gods, Geralt had a hard time hiding his small smiles as Jaskier went on about the boring foods, as he tried to bother him into heading out to the next town as soon as possible. But he’d had to hunt, unfortunately; the city had been plagued with a manticore on its outer regions, and Geralt needed the coin. So he’d had the bard wait for him at the tavern, taken care of the issue, and came back in need of a bath. Jaskier, never one to turn down a bit of pampering whether it was for himself or other people, was happy enough to do so, and they left the city on Jaskier’s insistence in the late afternoon, Geralt’s hair pulled back into a dragon’s braid.

While he’d expected Jaskier to calm as they got further away from the city, the opposite quickly proved itself true. He became more agitated, more twitchy. It prickled at the sense of amusement and content that generally followed him when Jaskier was involved, and as the sun was setting, Geralt finally pulled to a stop, leading them off into a copse of trees. “Go get wood for a fire,” he told Jaskier, hoping getting the man to sleep early that night would fix the issue. “I’ll find us something to eat.”

Together, they set up camp. Geralt had a rabbit caught quickly enough, roasted it over the open fire, and the two of them ate. All throughout the meal, Jaskier jabbered as usual--but his foot kept tapping, his fingers kept rubbing together, his words kept stumbling over themselves. And as the sun disappeared beneath the trees, Geralt caught a whiff of burnt rosemary and sweat. For whatever reason, Jaskier was getting himself worked up.

With a frown, concern marring his brow, Geralt used the tip of his boot to push into the meat of Jaskier’s thigh. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, leaving no room for argument. He wasn’t going to allow the bard to wriggle out of this--not when he’d been acting strangely all day.

Cornflower blue eyes turned up to his. “What? Oh--s’nothing.” Jaskier smiled. “Just a bit nervous, I suppose.”

The witcher’s brow arched. “Nervous?” he repeated. Yes, he could smell that. But he hadn’t expected Jaskier to give that feeling up so easily. “What about?”

“Oh, you know.” Jaskier waved his hand at the sky, his eyes catching--glinting--in the rising moon’s light. “Today was the summer solstice.”

Geralt wasn’t following. He blinked. They’d spent many solstices together. Not winter ones; not yet. One day… But plenty of summer ones. “Why?”

Whether it was the right or the wrong thing to say, Geralt couldn’t tell. It drew a laugh from his bard, slightly hysterical though, and he suddenly found himself with Jaskier’s full attention. He didn’t have that very often. The little bird flitted about here and there; he paid attention to Geralt, all the time, but to put all of his focus on him? To see those blue eyes turn focused and determined, to feel Jaskier staring into his very soul? Yeah, that was a bit intimidating.

“Silly witcher,” Jaskier replied. “This is why, of course.”

In the next moment, too quick for even Geralt’s senses to catch it--though that was likely due to surprise more than anything else--Jaskier was right before him. His breath got stuck in his throat--and then they were kissing.

Gods, Geralt had dreamed of Jaskier’s mouth on his for years. He’d wondered what it tasted like--sweet like the wine he was so fond of? Fruity and full from his dietary preferences? Deep and heady as the forest that Jaskier continued to force himself into with dogged determination? But no. He’d been wrong. It was, somehow, all of those things, and more.

He drew back a little for breath at one point, hardly registering that he’d lifted his hand to cup the nape of Jaskier’s neck, that his precocious little bird had pushed his way between his legs, on his knees before the log Geralt was sitting on. But Jaskier didn’t let him go for even long enough to open his eyes, dragging him back into another kiss. It was searing and hot, really hot, and he gave a soft, involuntary groan.

Finally, though, Jaskier moved back. It was only so he could tug and pull at the leather of Geralt’s armor, swearing under his breath as he pulled at the stubborn closures, swaying close to him and interrupting his own progress. But even with Geralt’s head still reeling from the sudden makeout session, even with him bemused by Jaskier’s usually smooth seducing capabilities turned into him fumbling with a jerkin, he didn’t miss the fact that Jaskier did not look like Jaskier.

Two horns, ivory, ridged in a spiral growing pattern, protruded from Jaskier’s head. They curved back and downwards towards his skull, before turning back up towards the night sky, the tips deadly sharp. Red scales were slowly emerging from his skin to smatter over his cheeks like rouge, like a glamor being revealed bit by bit, Geralt’s medallion not so much as twitching--ancient magic, powerful magic that slipped by even his detection. And he was fumbling, the witcher realized, because his nails had sharpened, those same jewel-toned scaled stretching up the backs of his hands, disappearing up the pale blue of his doublet.

“Dammit,” Jaskier whined, impatience thick on him, the nervous scent already beginning to fade away. “Just want you to fuck me, and this stupid--this--fuck!” He turned his eyes up to Geralt, cat-slit pupils just like the witcher’s own blown in the dark of the night, wide with his desire. “Geralt, please,” he begged, leaning in for another kiss--a kiss that Geralt didn’t refuse. And not just because he was caught off-guard by the novel sensation of being kissed with a newly forked tongue. “Please,” he continued when they broke apart, rubbing his cheek against his like a cat, like he was scenting him, the scratch of the scales not at all painful, instead kind of… Nice? “C’mon, help me, please, need you in me so bad…”

A lot of things clicked together in that moment.

Jaskier’s quick loyalty. His ability to walk hours and hours every day, nonstop. His music, the notebooks that he filled and then sent back to Oxenfurt to be kept safe. The bag of oils and creams that Geralt had not been allowed to so much as touch until two years ago, while they’d been traveling together for over a decade.

The gloves. The vernal equinox. The braids.

Fuck, the bracelet.

Jaskier saw him as his mate. And he’d been courting him, quietly, without drawing attention to it, for months now. And here they were--Jaskier believing him to have accepted his claim, Jaskier looking to seal their relationship by bonding on the night of the summer solstice, tying them together by the ancient magics of the earth for many, many centuries to come. No wonder the poor bard had been nervous.

Geralt was sort of glad he only realized now what was going on, because he knew he would have been nervous, too.

The revelation settled under his skin with surprising ease. Vesemir, should he ever catch word of how long it took him to identify a dragon that had been living side by side with him for years, would tan his hide. But all Geralt could feel was relief. His little hummingbird--or, he supposed, his little dragon, now--wasn’t going to suffer a mortal’s tragically short life. He’d live for hundreds of years more, thousands even, if he didn’t get himself killed first. And Geralt? Geralt could have every single one of those years if he accepted this. If he chose to become Jaskier’s mate.

It wasn’t really a choice at all.

Geralt’s calloused hand took Jaskier’s chin between his fingers. He dragged him up into another kiss, swallowing down the keen that fell between them, and nipped at Jaskier’s bottom lip as they pulled away. “Needy,” he huffed, a smile twitching at his mouth. He dropped his own hands to his armor; it got tossed to the forest floor quickly, Jaskier’s hands immediately setting upon the pale, scarred skin of his soon-to-be mate.

Feeling a bit vindictive for the years that Jaskier had never outright told him what he was, Geralt got hold of the bard’s doublet. He jerked the edges of it, eyes twinkling in satisfaction as the buttons popped off, no chance against his strength. “Hey,” Jaskier reprimanded, the seriousness he intended to put in his voice severely undercut by the breathy way it came out. “I liked this doublet.”

“I’ll get you a new one,” the witcher replied.

It brought a smile to his wicked, wicked mouth, and Geralt dove in for yet another bruising kiss. He pushed the doublet off Jaskier’s shoulders, the satin dropping into the dirt with as much care as his armor had gotten, and he managed to wrestle his chemise off between wet kisses. His mouth was red and wet when he pulled back; Geralt didn’t resist the urge to cup his cheek, to drag his thumb over the abused bottom lip. Jaskier, eyes dark, quickly sucked his thumb into his mouth. He had fangs now, Geralt noted absently, pressing the pad down onto his tongue until Jaskier was forced to open his mouth wide. He rubbed a small arc over the muscle, the dragon obediently still. It didn’t stop him from whimpering when drool pooled and dripped from the sides of his mouth, though.

His thumb was soaked when he pulled it from Jaskier’s tongue. He looked gorgeous--pupils dilated and wanting, chin glistening from the spit, the red of his scales seeming to bleed into the rest of his face for the way his skin was flushed with lust.

“Geralt,” Jaskier begged. “Please.”

So Geralt went.

He wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s middle and pushed him back, back, supporting his weight to keep him from slamming into the ground, but none too gentle otherwise. The roughness seemed to excite Jaskier; he moaned and wrapped his legs around the witcher’s waist, those clawed hands finding purchase behind his shoulders. Geralt didn’t mind the sting. He licked his way into Jaskier’s mouth yet again, and then let his mouth trail down, exploring the other parts of him. His scales were rough against his tongue and he had to be mindful of the direction he went to avoid getting scratched; his jaw and throat were velvety soft and tasted of sweet orange and a deep earthy musk. Jaskier’s pulse fluttered under his lips, and he paid special attention to the edges of the scales that had appeared along his collarbone as well, the dragon shivering with delight.

“Fuck me,” Jaskier pleaded. Geralt reached down between them; his hand was hot over top of Jaskier’s trousers, palming his cock underneath, making the bard’s babbling turn into high pitched whining, hips rocking up.

“Be patient,” he scolded, biting into his throat, watching a bruise blossom there. What was the use in having a dragon as a mate if he didn’t indulge in his own more animalistic urges? Yes, by the end of tonight, he’d have Jaskier claimed just as thoroughly as Jaskier had claimed him.

The bard stammered, bereft, when Geralt moved his hand. He forewent telling him to be patient again, instead hooking his fingers into Jaskier’s trousers and yanking them down, shifting until he could get them and his boots and his smallclothes off all in one go. More ruby scales wrapped around the outside of his thighs, dipped into the hollows of his hips--and his dick was definitely part of pieces of him that hadn’t quite stayed human.

Thick, red, ridged, and with a pointed tip, Geralt couldn’t help but smirk as he drew it into his hand. His little dragon cried out and he watched, fascinated, as a pearly few drops of precum beaded at the slit. It wasn’t anything like he’d fantasized about, when he’d taken himself in hand in his weaker moments when the bard was asleep, imagining what Jaskier’s cock might look like. But it was good, better than good, better than anything he could have dreamed of. Smearing his thumb into the wetness, he spread it down Jaskier’s cock, dragging his hand up and down the shaft. A few more drops appeared from the attention, and he did the same with those as well, slicking him up nicely.

He dropped his hand away, then, to get rid of the rest of his own clothes. Most people didn’t like to see him without clothes. Certainly, they enjoyed his figure, but the scars--the crisscrossing of monsters’ marks, the hunts that had gone wrong, the people that had hunted him instead painting a gruesome picture across his skin. But with Jaskier, it had never been like that. He’d never been bothered. And, considering he was about to fuck a man with scales all over, horns, and a dragon dick, Geralt supposed he wasn’t bothered, either.

Bare at last, Geralt dragged Jaskier’s hips up close. He wrapped his hand around them both, only just managing it really, and the both of them groaned at the sensation. Heat flourished between them and he jerked them off, stretching out over him to bite his stomach, his chest, his shoulders, his neck. Yes, Jaskier would be a patchwork of bruises come tomorrow morning, and by the way he jerked into each one of them, Geralt had no doubt that he was just as enthusiastic about that prospect as he was.

But as good as this was, it certainly wasn’t what either of them wanted. So he let go soon, smirking again as he wiped the sticky precum on his hand onto Jaskier’s thigh. “Knees,” he commanded, leaning back onto his own so he could reach for Jaskier’s bag. Might as well use what he had there, after all. Being his mate meant being privy to his hoard.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Jaskier listened to him. He keened but turned over, propping his hips up onto his knees. His shoulders pressed low, nearly to the dirt, and he rested his forehead on his wrists, the upturn of his horns just barely above the ground.

Geralt came back to him with a vial of lilac oil. It was one of the ones he’d begun to create for Geralt--that was to say, the scent was heavily diluted, only just strong enough for a hint of smell in consideration of his nose, and perfect for their purposes. He uncorked the vial and used his knees to open Jaskier’s legs wider; his free hand pulled one side of his ass away, leaving him free to get at his puckered hole, where he then dripped the oil down onto. Jaskier gasped and lurched, the liquid no doubt cold, but the witcher held him firm. He lathered up his own fingers, set the glass to the side, and leaned over top of him, licking and kissing the dragon’s scaled shoulder blades as he slowly, slowly sank a finger inside him.

“Geraaaalt!” Jaskier cried. Gods, if he was already this desperate, panting into the dirt and shivering with a single digit, Geralt couldn’t imagine how he’d be once he actually had his cock inside him.

“Lucky this is what it is,” he huffed, dragging Jaskier’s ear into his mouth and relishing the cry that came from it. “Otherwise I’d gag you and tie you down, make you learn some patience.” The dragon’s response was to moan wetly, shoulders shuddering, his tapered cock twitching.

Geralt pressed in a second finger, then. He kept his attention with those bites, scissoring him open, loosening him up. A third joined swiftly after; gods, they were mating, not just fucking. He was going to make sure this was good for Jaskier.

Finally, finally Jaskier was loose enough. He pulled his fingers out and grabbed the vial again, using the rest of it to slick up his cock, the subtle scent sweet between them. His hands found Jaskier’s hips; the dragon’s stomach dropped down further, ass staying in the air. “Breathe,” he said kindly. He waited until Jaskier drew a shaky breath in, out, and then in again before lining up his cock and pushing inside.

The cry of Geralt’s name was more broken syllables than anything, too loud and desperate to pronounce much of it correctly. “Fuck,” Geralt himself said, bending over the dragon. “Fuckin’ tight, Jask. Godsdammit.” He was so fucking tight, so hot around him, his body giving way each inch to the witcher’s intrusion. Jaskier could only mewl in return, his nails clawing into the rich earth, his sides heaving with each panting breath.

He bottomed out, and stayed there for a moment. Being inside Jaskier was dizzying, wonderful; he swore he could feel the air turn lighter around them, easier to breath, sparks flickering underneath his skin. Was this the ancient magic, readying to bind them? Or was this just Jaskier, was it just the fact that finally, he could give in to the feelings he’d ignored for so long, the urges he’d repressed, now that he knew not only did Jaskier feel the same way in return, but that he wouldn’t have to face his demise in what would be, for him a blink of the eye? He wasn’t sure. And, well. Quite frankly, in this moment, Geralt didn’t really give a shit.

“Fuck me,” Jaskier finally managed to say. “Geralt, my mate, please, please! Breed me, fill me up, wanna be yours!”

The words shot through him and what little patience he had left quickly fled. “You want to be bred, little dragon?” he asked, fingers tightening, bruising Jaskier’s hips. “Fine.”

A single kiss to his throat, and then Geralt pulled out to just the head of his cock. In one smooth, brutal motion, he slammed back into Jaskier. It sent the dragon rocking forward a few inches--it sent him roaring, the mighty sound seeming to shake the very trees around them. It was fucking hot, Geralt had to admit, and he groaned before he did it again, and again, setting a merciless pace. He’d never been much of a talker during sex, but he found himself rambling now, bearing his weight down on Jaskier, driving into that tight, wet heat.

“Like it, don’t you, Jask?” he asked, breathing too hard himself to properly bite for the moment, little strands of hair come loose from his braid and before his face, making him look wild, animalistic. “Wanna be bred like the bitch that you are. Fucked in the dirt. Look at you. Such a noble, proud beast. Taking every inch of a beast-slayer’s cock.” Jaskier sobbed, the sound wet, but he kept rocking his hips back into every thrust. They’d traveled together far too long; after the nights Geralt had been forced to listen to through thin inn doors, he knew better than anyone how rough, cruel words could reduce the bard to putty in any man’s hand. The best part? Now they were his hands. And there would never be anyone else.

The thrill of the thought shot through him. Geralt wrapped his arm tight around his middle; his other hand reached up, grabbing onto the base of one of Jaskier’s horns. He used the leverage to haul him up, going back on his own haunches and making the dragon sit on his lap, his cock driving in deeper, brushing against the bundle of nerves so far inside him. Jaskier thrashed, his nails digging into Geralt’s arm, drawing blood; the witcher didn’t mind, holding him through it, keeping his head still even as he fucked up into him, unforgiving and fast. “You’re mine,” he growled. “All mine.”

Jaskier nodded quickly, gasping for breath, only just getting enough air each time to expel it in some noise or another. The tingling under his skin got stronger--definitely the ancient magic, then. Especially considering he watched as sparks of golden light glittering below Jaskier’s skin, barely noticeable, like the chaos was struggling to burst free at any moment. Geralt suspected he looked much the same.

“Gonna breed you,” he promised, tightening his arm around him. “Mate you. Make you mine forever.”

Without warning, he shoved them both to the ground once again. His cock drove into Jaskier and the dragon roared again; Geralt’s hands moved to grab his wrists, push them into the dirt. He used his weight, every inch of their bodies flush together, to keep Jaskier down. And, with the both of them getting closer and closer, he gave in to the beast side of himself. His teeth, sharp and pointed, sliced into the back of Jaskier’s neck. Blood welled up in his mouth immediately, copper and sharp, but he didn’t let go, Jaskier’s pained moan doing little but encouraging him, pinning him against the earth.

It was too much. Jaskier’s sounds got louder, more desperate, more unhinged, before he screamed, his whole body quivering with the force of his climax. His cock pulsed as he came, streaks of white painting the dirt below and flecking onto his stomach above, too. It made his walls tighten around Geralt--and that was it. He was done for. The witcher growled and bit down tighter, his thrusts growing erratic, wild.

With a snarl, he came. He rocked his hips down into Jaskier as he filled him, splashing hot cum inside him, the dragon whimpering. The tingling grew in intensity for just a moment--and then it faded away, leaving him feeling whole in a place in his very soul he hadn’t realized he’d been empty beforehand.

A few more little thrusts and then, with care, he slid his teeth from his neck and pulled his softening cock from Jaskier’s tired body. He grabbed a rag from one of the bags and wiped them both down, pausing for a moment to watch his own cum leak out of Jaskier’s red, loose hole and down his thighs, before getting them clean and, with effort, transporting them both into one of the sleeping rolls.

Face to face with Jaskier, the poor bard blinking slowly, languidly, he couldn’t help but smile and lift his hand. His fingers brushed over the scales on his cheeks, utterly gorgeous.

“Mm,” the dragon hummed, forcing his eyes to flutter open. “My mate.” Nothing could change that now. Not a mage, not a spell, not even destiny herself. Geralt was his, and he was Geralt’s. End of story.

The smile Geralt gave in return was soft, genuine. His golden gaze was gentle, and he gave a tiny nod. “Yes,” he confirmed, barely a rumble in the night air. “Sleep, now. You deserve the rest.” He let his hand fall to Jaskier’s side instead, holding him close. Jaskier gave a gentle hum, shifted a little bit closer, closed his eyes--and slept.

#geraskier #devilkin-kink #my writing //#filled requests //#lemons //

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