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yourfatherlucifer · 9 months

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To Die For (Hongjoong)

Orc Leader!Hongjoong x afab!Reader

Summary: You were at the wrong place, at the wrong time. You were captured by orcs and brought to their leader, being offered as a meal, but you didn’t want to die, so you made a new offer.

AU: LOTR/Historical

Genre: Smut

WC: 1.9k

Warnings: NSFW MDNI, monster cock, heavily inspired by LOTR, rough Hongjoong, mentions of breeding, choking, marking/biting, blood, seven foot tall HJ,

@kithsune for the banner

( @minkysmilk )

It was getting closer to colder days so your village was preparing by having everyone who was able to gather wood to stockpile. Crops were being dug up so they wouldn’t shrivel up.

Children weren’t playing outside anymore, their parents afraid of their children getting sick. Cattle and livestock brought into their respective spaces.

The village of Bree was quite peaceful, humans and hobbits lived in peace together. They shared their resources and chores. The fall and winter time was hard for both species, especially having to rely on each others techniques. Many people died due to cold related illnesses, more due to raids on the village.

"Y/N, could you be a dear and help me with this?" An older hobbit approached you with an arm of wood.

You had chuckled at your neighbor, "Of course, Magnus." Bending down, you took the pile from his arms and followed him to his home.

You glanced at your brother Wooyoung gathering your family's cattle, he was struggling with one particular cow, it was pulling back away from him, trying to break free of the lead. Wooyoung was equally pulling back his way, but the cow just stopped its force, causing Wooyoung to fly back into the dirt.

You laughed at the sight, no idea why that cow always teased him.

After you placed the wood inside your neighbors home, you returned to yours.

Your mother was cooking a nice stew over the fire, "Hello, Y/N, did you have a finish your chores?" You nodded and stepped beside her.

"I did, but Wooyoung seems to be struggling with the cow again. You glanced out the window to check on your younger brother, who was scolding the cow and dragging her off.

Your mother had shook her head before pulling the pot away from the fire, “Isn’t he always? That cow is a stubborn one, we should just sell it.”

“Go tell your brother to come eat.”

As you laid in your bed, shivering, you had thought about leaving to go get more firewood. However with it being so late at night, you could easily be attacked and killed.

Possibly kidnapped by bandits and sold for a profit.

But the night air was just so cold and the fire had burnt out long ago.

So, you decided against yourself and the obvious risks. You gathered your shoes and cloak made of wool, not the finest, but it shall do.

After carefully sneaking past your sleeping mother and brother, you made your way outside. All was quiet, your hobbit neighbors were fast asleep.

You had quickly run into the woods, grabbing a hatchet on the way. You knew you couldn't cut down full trees, so you'd settle for limbs.

After walking for a solid fifteen minutes, you had found the perfect tree limb to cut down.

But as you were preparing to swing down the mini axe, you heard growls, yells, feet pounding in the distance. That wasn't good.

Was it a group of bandits, orcs, goblins?

It was so close you knew you wouldn't be able to make it home, you had no clue how to fight, but you had the hatchet with you, so maybe, just maybe you could defend yourself.

You couldn't though, you knew you'd die trying. So you ran as fast as you could to the village area of Bree. Your home.

It was a poor attempt anyway, not even two minutes of running you could hear the snarls of Wargs and yells of the Orc Riders. You were screwed, so screwed. You didn't want to die so what you could you do? You could try to run faster but your energy was depleting rapidly, your legs were trying to give out beneath you.

It was all for nothing, you had been surrounded by three orcs, each one snapping their jaws at you. The Wargs behind them looked even hungrier.

One had cackled at your frightened state, "She looks so yummy! Don't you agree?" He licked his lips, well if there were any. You couldn't exactly tell, didn't matter anyway. You were to worried about being eaten alive by these three orcs.

Another stepped to you, "Y'know, Hongjoong would love to eat this pretty little human. She smells just like his favorite kind." Your jaw was gripped by its clawed hand, your face squished between its disgusting fingers.

"Oi, tie her up, we're bringing her home for the leader."

You yelped as you were grabbed and pulled around. A tight rope was wrapped around your torso and ankles.

An orc swung your body on top of a Warg, face down and jumped up behind your body.

You had arrived in Isengard, beneath the Earth's soil, beneath the two towers of Saruman. The orc who had captured you, dragged your body behind him, the holler of fellow orcs and goblins resounded around the dirt walls.

You could hear them laughing, mockingly, at your state. Another human captured to eat.

"Leader Hongjoong! We brought you a present, its your favorite." Your body was thrown in front of a massive orc, body rolling on the dirt ground.

You cried and groaned at the way you were being handled. You knew you were going to die, you knew you'd never see your brother Wooyoung or your mother ever again. Would they even look for you? How would they find out you were eaten by orcs.

The giant orc bent down to your body, his gray skin and black eyes scared you. You had never seen an orc so large. A whopping seven feet tall.

He moved your hair out of your face, "She smells delicious, boys. Fantastic job, I haven't had a meal that smelled so good, in so long."

You quickly scrambled yourself away from him, "W-wait! Please! I don't want to die! I will do anything! I'll offer my body in other ways!" You cried out, wanting to rub your hands together to beg but you couldn't. Your body was still well-tied together.

His evil grin splattered his face, "Oh really, human? In what ways can your body serve a purpose to me, other than being food?" He was mocking you, he knew what you meant.

"Anything! Please, I'll be your personal pleasure outlet! I-I know how orcs plunder humans for a quick fuck, but I just don't want to die!" You were stumbling over your words at this point, it was pathetic to him, but your offer. Your offer was very exciting for him.

His shit-eating grin was still on his face, "deal."

Hongjoong yanked you to your feet, grabbing the rope on your chest, he pulled you behind him, "You cannot back down now, cause if you do. I will eat you. Understand?"

"Yes! I understand!"

Hongjoong brought you to his quarters, shoving you inside.

After he ripped the rope and clothes from your body, he shoved you down to his makeshift bed.

You fell down with a yelp, staring up at him. He was just so big. You took this time to relish in his brown mullet hair, the split eyebrow, the piercings that lined each ear. He was beautiful in a way, didn't look like an orc much at all. He had more human tones. But his height, skin, and ears represented the orc features.

As you lay bare on his bed, you noticed his loin cloth covered nothing, instead it was pushed out of the way by a monster sized cock. The size and girth were both size of your forearm, if not more. Just how were you gonna take that inside of you? It could rip you apart.

Hongjoong noticed you staring at him, then his fat cock, "You'll take it no matter what, don't worry."

His massive body climbed on top of you.

He trapped you beneath him and leaned down to whisper in your ear, "Your body is mine now."

His gray hand gripped your waist, "I suppose I shall prepare your fragile human body to take me."

He moved down to your already wet core, he smirked, knowing how you felt about his cock. Greedy human.

He licked a long stripe down your wetness with his large tongue, your body arching itself in response to the newfound pleasure you were receiving.

He took one of his thick fingers and forcefully plunged it inside.

As he pumped it in and out, your moans echoed throughout the dirt room, you were sure the other orcs could hear you, "ah, ah, this feels so good." You cried out.

He pushed another finger in, "You haven't felt anything yet. Just wait till I'm fully inside you."

Minute after minute of him pushing several fingers inside of you, constantly, he deemed you were ready for him.

He removed his loin cloth from his body, you were terrified, just how badly was this gonna hurt? Could you take every inch of his? Would it kill you?

Hongjoong pulled your chin to look at him, "look at me while I am taking you, human."

He bared his canines and bit into your shoulder, drawing blood painfully. You screamed, you were definitely sure the orcs could hear you now.

He slowly pushed his massive cock inside of you. The stretch burned so bad that you started full on sobbing, but it felt so good at the same time. A very large stomach bulge appeared on your stomach, he was fully sheathed inside of you.

He pulled you to his chest by roughly grabbing your neck, pulling you up like you weighed nothing to him.

"I want to breed you so bad, but I cannot. Our species cannot mix. Orcs are only created by pure evil and corruption, so instead I'll just fill you with my seed." The evil glint in his eyes scared you, but you couldn't stick to the thought much, as his fat cock rested within you.

Throwing you back down to the bed, he began his rough pounding, nothing but your moans, his groans, and the repeated skin slapping filled the room.

The grip he had on your waist was sure to leave large and dark bruises.

You were already cock drunk with his thrusting. The stomach bulge was moving so fast, it felt so good, you weren't even sure how far he reached inside of you. You didn't care though, his cock felt so good.

Hongjoong brought him self down and bit into your breast, not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave marks. He repeated this action with the repeated thrusting below. He took his fingers and pinched at your clit, "Release on me, human, now." He was striving to bring you to your orgasm, he didn't care if you did or not, he just wanted to feel it on his monster cock.

"Gonna fill you up so much."

He growled in your ear as his thrusting became sloppy.

Soon, his cum filled your walls, his cum filling your stomach, creating the illusion of you looking pregnant, instead you were filled to the brim with orc cum.

When he pulled out, his cum flowed out so fast like a river, there was just so much of it, it seemed never ending.

Your body was so exhausted and sore you could not move.

Hongjoong laughed at you, "I knew this would happen. So rest, for this is your fate now, you are stuck here forever to be my cumdump."

Now you knew your family would never find you.

#cultofdionysusnet #pirateeznet #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong smut #ateez #ateez x reader #orc hongjoong #lotr au #monster fucker #monster smut

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potat0bag · 9 months

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the cold-blooded bandit, Shiver

#artists on tumblr #splatoon #splatoon fanart #splat 3 hype #splatoon 3 #shiver splatoon #shiver #shiver hohojiro

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mollywall-e · 7 months

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WIP - Imodna Date In Whitestone (inspired by the NYCC Q&A)

“Mind if I join?” Imogen calls out softly, stepping out onto one of the many balconies of Castle Whitestone.

Laudna turns at the sound. A smile creeps onto her lips as her eyes meet Imogen’s. It’s a stark contrast to the too-wide smile Imogen’s grown fond of these past few years, often used for scaring off nosey guards and would-be bandits. This smile is softer, content. It pulls the air from Imogen’s lungs.

“Imogen,” Laudna sighs, the same quiet contentment seeping into her voice. “Of course you can, dear. You know I always love your company.”

A smile tugs at Imogen’s lips as she joins Laudna at the edge of the balcony, placing her hands next to spindled ones along the iron railing. The space between their hands, no more than a few inches, buzzes with an electric heat. The smile still lingers on Laudna’s lips for a few moments more, even more breathtaking in this newfound closeness, before it dulls ever so slightly.

Too soon, Laudna turns back, eyes drawn to the sweeping vista of the city of Whitestone that stretches below them. In a comfortable quiet, they linger side by side. Laudna stares at the city, and Imogen stares at Laudna.

“Copper for your thoughts?” Imogen nudges Laudna gently with her shoulder.

“Oh, it’s nothing to worry yourself over.” Laudna utters dismissively. She glances over at Imogen, and sighs. “It’s just - strange.”

“Being back here, you mean?” Imogen reaches over, covering Laudna’s cold hand with her own.

Laudna nods. “I’m still getting used to it. Seeing this place, like this.”

She gestures to the city beneath them, warmly illuminated by the late afternoon sun. The clocktower towers above the clusters of homes surrounding the market square. An enormous tree stands guard over the city center. Families shuffle along the cobblestone streets, baskets filled with goods from the market. Children dash to and fro amongst the side-streets, chasing each other; their shrieks of laughter echo between the buildings, audible all the way from the castle. From this height, it all appears so perfect.

“Yeah, I reckon it is a bit strange, all things considered.” Imogen gives Laudna’s hand a squeeze.

Laudna flips her hand palm-side up, spindly fingers tracing the scarred ridges that line Imogen’s. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s lovely to see the city thrive, bursting with so much life and promise.”

Imogen turns from the cityscape to look at Laudna, brow quirked. “But?”

“But,” Laudna hums. “I’m a bit envious, I suppose. Seeing how beautiful it is now, remembering how it was then…” An involuntary shiver ripples along her spine, muscles remaining clenched even as the chill fades.

Imogen leans over, planting a soft kiss on the knob of Laudna’s shoulder, smiling against pale skin as she feels her relax ever so slightly. Rather than step away, Imogen nestles her head onto Laudna’s shoulder, finding a strange comfort in its boniness.

“I’d change it for you if I could, baby,” Imogen mumbles, pressing an additional kiss onto the fragile skin of her clavicle. “I already tried to, actually.”

“You did?” Laudna pulls back, gazing at Imogen with a curious glint in her eye. “When?”

“Last time we were here, actually. In her version of this place.” Imogen can feel her blood begin to boil as she remebers that twisted town of shadows. “I saw you, a lot. Before we got to the tree, I mean. I saw you as a little girl, playing with little straw dolls all by yourself. I saw you and that asshole, the one who threw dirt at you. I saw you getting dressed up for dinner, with your parents by your side. I wanted so desperately to fix things, to keep that boy away from you, to keep you from going to that dinner, to keep you away from her.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Ashton kept tellin’ me to stop. That it wouldn’t actually change anything, that it wasn’t actually you. And it didn’t, it wasn’t. But I still had to try, you know?”

“Oh, Imogen,” Laudna sighs, squeezing the hand interlocked with her right. She reaches her left hand forward, gently cupping Imogen’s face. “That’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“So far.” Keeping her eyes on Laudna, Imogen grabs the hand on her face, pressing a kiss to the palm. “I got more where that came from, baby.” Imogen wiggles her eyebrows at Laudna playfully. “Gods, I think I’ve been hanging around Chetney too much.”

Laudna bursts into a fit of giggles before collecting herself, shy smile still clinging to her lips.

Imogen’s breath stutters in her chest at the awestruck look in Laudna’s eyes. It’s almost overwhelming, the sheer amount of warmth in her gaze. Directed at Imogen, for Imogen, because of Imogen. She needs more.

“You got any plans tonight?” Imogen blurts out. “I mean, after we talk to the Lord and Lady?”

Laudna hums to herself, pretending to think for a second. “Nope!”

Imogen clears her throat. “Would you like to go on a date with me? A proper one? We can forget about all of the -” Imogen gestures her hands towards the sky, “ - moon stuff that’s been going on. We can forget about my mom, and Ludinus, and Delilah. It’ll be just you and me.”

Excerpt from a WIP, hopefully will be published before the episode airs :)

UPDATE: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50940406

#imodna #imodna fic

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dokidokitsuna · 8 months

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The Cold-Blooded Bandit

As you can see, I’ve refined her design a little further already~. I think the kimono-sleeves are a much more solid way to give her the dynamic silhouette I was aiming for, while staying true to her cultural inspiration. And although I was initially trying to avoid having the characters’ secondary colors take over these designs like this…it looks REALLY good here; I hope I can make it work this well with Frye. ^^

Anyway: one of my earliest ideas for this re-concept was that, when you fall into Alterna, Shiver and Master Mega would catch you before you land in the water, making for a super-cool introduction to the character(s). And while swimming over to Future Utopia Island (Master Mega is now in charge of transport between islands~), Shiver would introduce herself and explain what she thinks Alterna is, and what she and her friends are doing there. For that first area of the game she would be your sole mentor, teaching you the basic mechanics of the single-player mode in a harsh but caring manner, and discovering O.R.C.A. and the beginnings of the plot alongside you.

Part of me can’t help but think that giving Shiver this role is a little unfair, since she’s already so popular…but let’s be honest here-- she IS basically the ‘leader’ of Deep Cut, isn’t she?? I mean, based on everything I’ve seen, heard, and read about the character set, she’s the one who makes most of the decisions, and she generally has the strongest personality. To me, it feels very natural to have the player meet and learn from her first. =T

However, in order to be a little more fair, what I might do is section off certain weapon and gameplay mechanics-- like, for example, weapons in the first area would be limited to shooters/stringers/chargers/splatanas; the next area (where you meet Frye) would introduce blasters/brushes/splatlings, and the next area (where you meet Big Man) would introduce sloshers/rollers/brellas. And similar ‘sectioning’ would apply to different Octarian types, specials, and even level types (like the ride-rail challenges [Shiver!], or the sub-weapon-game challenges [Frye!], or the “art” challenges [Big Man, definitely~]). Y’know, so it matters less who comes first, because each member has their own ‘curriculum’ that they get to be in charge of.

Hopefully, this will allow the player many chances to form fond memories of going through a tough challenge with Shiver trash-talking them, or Frye hyping them up, or Big Man offering kind encouragement. ^^ And then in the later areas they’ll start advising together on the more complex levels, and/or switch out depending on which weapon you choose.

#if i’d gotten to spend this much quality time with Deep Cut in the real game I might actually care about them…#like damn I feel kinda sad now #oh well...#splatoon 3 #re_rise #shiver #master mega #new agent 3

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thedreamlessnights · 11 months

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Accismus - pt. 5

{previous chapter} || {next chapter}

Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: You meet Yennefer and Ciri, learn more about the location of a djinn, and have a painful realization.

Warnings: Brief descriptions of plague/sickness, fire, blood, and being choked (not sexually).

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you all so much for your patience as I got this chapter out. It was a rough one while I figured out everyone's dialogues and characterization, but I think I got it in the end. Thank you all SO much for the beautiful response I've gotten for this fic, from art to comments to asks, it's kept me so inspired and excited to get this out to you. Without further ado - enjoy!

The word danger has many a meaning to you.

All your life, you’ve known danger, and all your life, the danger has been different. When you were little, it was the wolves howling in the forest outside your door. Tales of plague maidens, thirsty for blood. Bedtime stories of whispering spirits locked away in trees, and evil women that ate up children like treats.

As you grew, so did the number of dangers; growing with you, their shapes ever-changing. Danger began to mean plague, bandits, and war. Adult words that came with painful memories. A woman shivering with fever, her face crimson and splotchy, breaths coming strained and painful. Fire, red-hot, eating away little by little, and black smoke that smothered the senses, blinding and burning and choking the lungs. A pair of ice-cold, bleeding hands that gripped your neck. Tight enough to bruise. Tight enough to kill.

All of those dangers have brought you fear, and never anything else. But today, you find that is not the case. This danger chills you to the bone, carries the scent of lilac and gooseberries, and she fascinates you just as much as she frightens you. The type of danger you simply can’t seem to look away from, no matter how you try - the way a lightning bolt is paralyzingly beautiful as it strikes the earth.

And so, seeing as you’re in danger, your brain does what it does best. It turns to one of its three engrained paths of action. Fight or flight, of course. Or freeze. The first two are more well-known, because they’re actually helpful. Better to take on the danger, or get yourself away from it as quickly as possible.

Freezing only happens when the brain realizes it can neither fight nor flee. Essentially, when, for lack of a better (and less crude) term, you’re shit out of luck. And, staring up at the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, knowing that she was Geralt’s lover? Knowing that in about two minutes, this woman is going to hate you?

You are shit out of luck.

As she approaches the table, Yennefer shakes her glossy, dark curls over her shoulder and observes the scene. She says nothing, but her shimmering, intelligent eyes speak volumes as she scans over the lot of you. Her gaze contains warmth for some and ice for others. A mixture of the two for Geralt.

When it lands on you, it bears nothing but a silent, curious question. A question that wants to know who you are. Well, you think to yourself. If I knew how to answer that, Geralt and I wouldn’t be here.

Following behind her is the ashen-haired girl - Ciri. You know it must be her. She’s carrying two swords on her back, and even resembles Geralt, with their white hair and matching scars. But she and Yennefer share a similar elegance in their stride, a silent authority. An authority which melts away when she takes two steps in, sees Geralt standing next to where you’re sitting, and leaps straight into his arms.

“Geralt!” she exclaims, clinging to his shoulders and laughing as he spins her around. “You’ve no idea how I’ve missed you!”

“Think I have a clue, actually,” he says, setting her back onto the floor. He’s smiling, and not the muted smile he usually gives, but a wide one with white teeth and a flash of sharp canines, gaze warm and so very fond as he watches her. Geralt, truly happy… is this the first time you’re seeing it?

“Ciri!” Dandelion exclaims, jumping to his feet. You really shouldn’t be surprised that the two of them know each other. “How are you? It’s been too long!”

As Ciri greets Dandelion, Priscilla and Zoltan - clearly friends of hers, too - Yennefer lingers toward the doorway. Geralt’s gaze fixes on her, and when she raises a brow, he smiles.

“Hey, Yen,” he greets, leaning back against the table. The words are more casual than you’d have imagined them to be. You’d expected stiffness. It’s not there.

“Geralt,” Yennefer replies. The ghost of a smile brushes across her lips as she gazes at him, violet eyes shining in the light. “My, what a surprise. I’ve just gotten information that claims you’re in Skellige.”

Geralt shrugs. “Had a… change of plans.”

That’s certainly one way to put it.

“Naturally,” Yennefer says. Her gaze turns toward Ciri, and something flickers over her expression for a moment before it’s shut out. You know it, though. You’ve seen enough people in agony to know the sight of pain, even just a flash of it.

“Dandelion says you were looking for me,” Geralt continues, crossing his arms over his chest. “Mentioned some kind of curse?”

“And you decided to come running to the rescue?” she muses, not bothering to expand any further. Geralt’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t press her. Instead, he follows her gaze over to Ciri, who is now carrying a bottle of spirit from Zoltan and making her over to the table.

“Let’s celebrate, shall we?” Ciri says, spurning a round of cheers. “A reunion!” Her eyes land on you, and she flashes you a bright smile. “Hello! I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Ciri!”

The room’s commotion almost drowns out her words. Dandelion is opening a bottle of wine, Priscilla is pulling up more chairs, and Zoltan is already on his second pint of Mahakaman spirit, crooning out an old drinking song. Still, she steps closer to you, holds out a hand, and you gladly shake it, introducing yourself loud enough to be heard.

“Very nice to meet you!” she says. “Are you a friend of Dandelion’s?”

You’re not sure how to answer. You’re more acquaintances. Can you even be considered Geralt’s friend? “I’m not sure,” you finally respond. “I just met him yesterday.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Geralt tells you. “He’ll be hurt.”

“Who’ll be hurt?” Dandelion asks, returning to the table. His cheeks are already flushed with drink, and he plops back into his seat from earlier.

“You,” Ciri answers playfully.

“Me?” His eyes widen. “Was someone talking about me?”

Geralt jerks his head in your direction. “Just said the two of you aren’t friends.”

Traitor.

“That’s - Geralt!” you exclaim. “That’s not true!”

His shoulders shake with silent laughter, and you lightly swat at him - a movement he dodges easily, grabbing his pint and gulping it down.

“I can’t believe this!” Dandelion cries, looking wounded. “I’m being insulted in my own establishment!”

“No, no!” you exclaim quickly, sending Geralt, and now Ciri, into another round of laughter. You send a kick in Geralt’s direction (and miss again), then adamantly shake your head. “Dandelion, I swear, I only said that I wasn’t sure if we’re friends because we just met.”

“Of course we’re friends!” Dandelion says. He sets a glass of wine in front of you, flashing you a charming smile. “And, of course, you’re the subject of my new ballad.”

“Is that so?” Ciri asks dryly. “And what’s this new ballad about?”

“Nothing,” Geralt firmly interjects. “C’mon, Dandelion. Already told you-”

“Yes, I know, I know,” Dandelion says. “But say I just took inspiration-”

“As much as I hate to interrupt,” Yennefer cuts in, arms folded tightly across her chest, “I’m afraid this cannot wait any longer. Geralt, I must speak with you. Privately.”

Silence slowly falls over the room, stifling the conversation as every one of you aside from Ciri and Yennefer gradually realize the same thing.

“I, uh… can’t,” Geralt finally says.

Shitty choice of words, Geralt, you think. Every trace of warmth leaves Yennefer’s expression, and you instantly shrink down in your seat, frantically gulping at the wine Dandelion placed in front of you like it might save you from her wrath.

“You can’t,” she repeats coldly. “In that case-”

“Yen, hang on,” Geralt quickly interrupts, expression pained. “Not trying to argue. I can’t.”

Something about his tone must get to her. She exhales sharply, raises a brow, and stares at him for a long, agonizing moment. A silent communication. Then she finally gives a soft smile.

“I see.” The chill in her voice is gone, suddenly replaced by a light, teasing tone. She must have read his mind, you realize. How much did she see? Placing her hands on her hips, Yennefer fondly gazes at him, then shakes her head. “I assume you’re going to remedy this… predicament?”

“Yeah. Working on it,” Geralt replies.

The whole room relaxes as she pulls up a chair and sits next to him. “Very well,” she says. “In that case, I’ll cast a shielding incantation around the two of us so we may speak. Alone. I’m afraid the matter is urgent.”

She speaks some words you don’t understand, then raises her hands. Immediately, a shimmering blue shield surrounds the two of them - making it impossible to see them or hear what they’re saying.

Ciri, looking bewildered, stares at you. “Is… is there something I’m missing?” she asks. You let out a sigh, trying to think of what exactly to say, but there are just never enough words to properly explain.

“Wait!” Dandelion says, hiccuping. “Let me - my ballad!” He reaches behind him and pulls out a lute, and you can’t help shrinking down in your chair again. Oh, gods. Surely there’s no way he’s already written something, is there? But your question is preemptively answered when he strikes out a chord and begins to sing:

A dangerous thing is the truth of a wish

For the future we ne’er can see

And djinns have been known to twist things amiss

Tainting with mischief and cruelty.

He pauses for a moment, hiccuping again, then claps his hand against his forehead. “Oh, blast it! I just can’t figure out the next line.”

“That was… really lovely, Dandelion,” you tell him. To your surprise, you don’t have to fight to make the words sound genuine. You’d actually liked it. The melody he’d chosen is no common earworm, but a haunting, beautiful tune, bound to leave a mark on whoever hears it. When he’d mentioned a ballad, well… that wasn’t what you’d pictured. And he’s right about wishes being dangerous - maybe the story can serve as a cautionary tale, discouraging one from repeating your mistakes.

Then again, a cautionary tale requires you to talk about the things you’ve done and the consequences you’ve suffered, and you’re not quite ready to tell anyone about that, much less the whole of Novigrad. As for the current, most prevalent consequence - being trapped with Geralt… you can see it now, whispered among crowds of giggling women, flushing at the thought: who wouldn’t want to be trapped with a handsome witcher?

“Aha! I knew I’d win you over,” Dandelion says brightly, giving a little bow over his lute. “Now Geralt will have to let me write it!”

A glance in Geralt’s presumed direction shows that the bubble around him and Yennefer is as prominent as ever. You can’t help wondering what they’re talking about.

“Oh! I need the details!” Dandelion exclaims suddenly, his gaze fixing on you with bright interest. “I can hardly write a story when I don’t even know the beginning, can I?”

Reaching for the last bit of your wine, you anxiously thumb the stem of the glass and manage a weak smile. “I… I’m not sure about that. I don’t think it’ll make for a good story. Maybe you could just make something up?”

“Oh, nonsense,” Dandelion says. “I can make anything into a good story.”

“He truly can,” Priscilla chimes in. “Don’t worry at all.”

But a terrible headache is coming on. Your skull throbs, and your throat squeezes as you try to speak. “But… it’d - I mean, I’ve…” Your words trail off, but all of their eyes are now fixed on you, waiting for you to go on. Curse it all. “Awful things happened because of me,” you say flatly. “It’d ruin the story.”

With that out in the open, you finish the rest of your glass and wait for the inevitable. Only… Dandelion doesn’t look phased in the least. Neither do any of the others.

“Well, surely you haven’t been sitting here thinking we’re all saints?” he asks. “No one is perfect - that’s what makes the story engaging, relatable!”

You shake your head. “Of course I don’t think you’re saints, but-”

“And… what’ve you done that’s so terrible?” Zoltan inquires, interrupting your words. His mouth is full of some kind of cake that he’s chewing, his cheeks are pink, and he clearly doesn’t believe you’ve done anything bad at all.

You’re not in the right mind for this. The wine is making you lightheaded, your head is still pounding, and it all feels like a far off dream. “I - I killed someone,” you blurt, feeling sick to your stomach. And thirsty. Very, very thirsty.

Silence takes the table, but just for a moment. “Did you have reasoning?” Priscilla asks. “Was this person going to hurt you?” You give a single, sharp nod and swallow hard, wishing you had more wine. As if reading your mind, Dandelion pours you another glass.

“Well, then. I don’t think you’re awful,” Priscilla says.

“Nor do I,” Ciri agrees.

Stinging tears are brimming at your eyes. You fiercely blink them away. None of this makes any sense. How can they all admonish you from your guilt without even hearing the full story?

“But you don’t understand,” you protest. “It was my fault I was in that situation in the first place. And that isn’t the only awful thing, I - I’ve done other things, too.”

“Well, I’ve done many things I’m certainly not proud of,” Ciri tells you. “I think all of us have.”

You quickly wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your arm, avoiding her gaze.

Priscilla reaches over and gently pats your hand. “Let’s put it this way. The things a person wishes for says a great deal about them. And, for your final wish, you wished for protection. That sounds like someone who’s afraid. Not greedy. Not evil. Just trying to be safe.”

“You’re clearly torn up about it,” Dandelion adds. “Believe me, I’ve met my fair share of truly horrendous people, and they aren’t capable of a shred of remorse.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and your futile attempts to blink them away don’t work very well. Soon, they’re coursing down your cheeks, and you could die of embarrassment right here and now. Thank the gods Geralt isn’t here to see it.

Ciri soothingly rubs your back. “I understand,” she says gently. “It’s never an easy thing, having to kill. Even in self-defense. I’ve found that speaking about it with people I trust helps.”

“Aye,” Zoltan agrees solemnly. “Geralt’d know how it feels - take a moment when ye can, discuss it with him. Might surprise you, even make you feel a bit better.”

“He already knows,” you reply gloomily. Admittedly, he doesn’t know all the details.

“And?” Priscilla asks. “Surely he didn’t call you an awful person?”

“No,” you confirm. “He told me that… that I don't seem like a cold-blooded killer.”

“That’s settled, then,” Ciri says brightly. “If you were awful, Geralt certainly wouldn’t have any problem telling you.”

You swallow hard, wiping quickly at your eyes again. When you speak, your words are no more than a whisper. “Even if he can’t get more than ten steps away from me?”

Her answer comes with no hesitation. “Even then.”

Feeling as though an enormous weight has been lifted off your shoulders, you gratefully gulp down more wine and attempt a smile. “Thank you,” you tell them, even though you’re not entirely convinced. None of them know the full story, and you aren’t in any state to deliver it to them. But if they’re looking to see you comforted, you’ll gratify them. At least now you know that Geralt hasn’t been hiding some secret animosity for you.

“Of course,” Priscilla says, her tone balming as she speaks. “Poor thing. Are you still hungry? Can I get you anything else? You look as though Geralt’s been dragging you around all day.”

You shake your head. “No, I’m alright.”

“Forgive me for the change of subject, but I simply must ask,” Ciri exclaims. “Was I hearing right? You used a djinn to ask for protection, and - and now you and Geralt can’t be more than ten steps apart?”

“You heard right,” you confirm. “I… I asked for protection to always be with me. So we can’t be apart. Gods, I feel awful for him.”

“Ah, dinnae worry about Geralt,” Zoltan says, chortling. “Lad’s not suffering any more than Dandelion in a brothel.”

Your cheeks burn.

“Excuse me,” Dandelion protests, narrowing his eyes. “I am a changed man. I’ve mended my ways, which you very well know!.”

“Wait,” you say quickly, “Wait, Geralt and I - it’s not like that.”

“No?” Dandelion asks, eyes twinkling.

“Oh, hush,” Priscilla says. “Don’t mind these boys. They’re only fooling around.”

“And truly, don’t worry about Geralt,” Ciri says. “He’s gotten himself into things much worse than this.”

Then a bright flash of light interrupts the conversation, and Geralt and Yennefer appear alongside you once more.

Geralt surveys the crowd, gaze landing on you. You barely have the time to hope that your cheeks are fully dry, that he won’t somehow be able to see that you’d been crying with his witcher senses. He’s on his feet now, leaning against the table. “Hey,” he says. “Hope they weren’t too rough on you.”

“Don’t worry,” Ciri says cheerfully. “Only a few tears were shed.”

Geralt does a double-take, then straightens. “That a joke?”

“Relax, old friend,” Dandelion croons. “The tears were only over the brilliance of my ballad, which was so lovingly received by all that you’ll have to let me write it.”

“Dandelion,” Geralt grumbles, running a hand over his eyes.

Your gaze, however, has turned to Yennefer - who seems calmer than before, but still vaguely out of place. You can’t help thinking about the way Dandelion and Zoltan had spoken of her yesterday. And Lambert, for that matter. Can so many of Geralt’s friends and loved ones dislike her? And does that speak to her true nature, or is Geralt seeing something the rest of them aren’t?

In some strange way, you feel sorry for her. You’d hate to be in a room of people that dislike you. Hate to be surrounded by the loved ones of your lover, and have them all hate you.

She meets your eyes, and a sense of immediate panic rises in you. Gods, please don’t read my mind, you think. She’d see everything you’ve done, see everything you want - and, gods, you know she’d hate you for it.

But as she looks at you, a strange sensation falls over you. Something buzzes faintly under your skin, tickles at the back of your neck, and your head feels heavy and strained. And then… nothing. It fades away, and Yennefer is left with a strange, unidentifiable expression on her face: brows pinched, lips pressed together, but none of the icy rage from earlier. Just something empty. Another question.

“Changing subjects,” Geralt says pointedly, “Yen’s heard of the djinn Priscilla was talking about. Yen, mind explaining?”

“Very well,” Yennefer replies, her expression instantly shaping into a mask of coolness. Calm. Composure. She’s a master at it, wielding it at will, and you envy that about her more than you can say. She folds her arms over her chest, fingers gracefully tapping against her arm, then slowly starts to speak.

“A few months ago, a powerful source of magic appeared north of Loc Muinne, somewhere in the Blue Mountains. Very powerful - an aura strong enough to disrupt teleportation within fifty miles, even.”

She pauses and looks around, as if confirming that all of you are listening, then continues. “When a series of mages went to investigate the source, they found a newly unearthed passageway of elven ruins, and an unfinished notebook - kept by a prestigious, well-regarded, and now-missing sorcerer. His disappearance seems to have coincided with the appearance of the aura, and, according to his writings, this magic had been the main subject of his recent studies. It carried a presence that had evolved new plant and animal life in the caves, unlike any he’d ever seen. And he’d been experimenting with the new forms of plant life, testing for various reactions on different species.

“He then went on to say that he’d recently discovered a djinn, that he believed it was some form of… sign that was on the right path. He hoped to use it to harness the power of the ruins. But the day after he mentioned it in his writings, he disappeared. His notes end abruptly, as if he’d vanished into thin air while writing them. And, his last entry was dated for the same day the aura appeared.”

She swallows, then goes on, all of you hooked on her every word now. “Some suspected foul play, of course - that the djinn had been taken from him and he’d been killed. That, when it was unleashed, it caused the activation of the aura. Others believed he’d been killed by something in the ruins. A search party was taken up to look for him, but he was never found. Unfortunately, everyone who’s gone in the caves to look for him has neglected to return, and… I’m afraid that’s all I know.”

Her words sit in the air for a long moment as you all process what she’s saying. She pours herself a glass of wine and drinks it down, and you numbly take her words in. No one’s come back. When you bite the inside of your cheek, you taste blood.

“Ah… shite,” Zoltan says, scratching awkwardly at his beard. “Not very encouraging.”

“No,” Geralt agrees. “It isn’t. Dangerous journey to get there, too. ”

“And I don’t know how to fight,” you add. “So I’d be putting both of us in danger.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Dandelion says, cheeks still ruddy with drink. “Geralt’s taken me along plenty of times.”

“Times where you could run and hide if there was too much danger,” Geralt points out. “This is different.”

“And,” Yennefer chimes in, “as I said, the risks are too great to teleport anywhere near the area. Even for Ciri.”

Ciri? you think. She can teleport? Is she a sorceress? But no - hadn’t Geralt said that she was a witcher? All of this bouncing conversation is making your head hurt again.

“Luckily,” Ciri announces, “I happen to be headed to Ard Carraigh as it is. Two witchers will be more than enough protection for the journey, don’t you think?”

Geralt’s brows pinch. “Sure you don’t mind?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she affirms, grinning. “It’s been ages since we last rode together! I’d love to accompany you - and, of course, hear the story of how you two met; in more detail, preferably.”

Geralt mulls it over, frowning. “Be happy to have you,” he finally says, relaxing. “Just gotta be careful. Thanks, Ciri. Yen?”

“I’m afraid I can’t join you,” Yennefer replies. “I have urgent business to attend to. You’ll manage, I’m sure.”

Geralt nods. “Appreciate you telling us about the djinn.”

“Mm. Of course.”

The room is silent for a moment before Dandelion pulls out more wine - an expensive vintage, apparently - and the table instantly comes back to life, returning to their debate about Gwent decks.

Ciri gets up to grab another drink from behind the bar, but you stay where you are. It’s clear that Geralt and Yennefer aren’t done talking, and you have a terrible habit of eavesdropping. Pretending to be absorbed with a flyer for The Chameleon, casting an occasional glance at them, you listen in. It helps that Geralt can’t get very far away.

“Never did tell me what that curse was about,” he says.

There’s a brief pause before Yennefer answers. “Clearly, you were busy. I didn’t want to pull your attention away from more… important matters.”

“Yen,” Geralt says. “You know I’m happy to help. If you were looking for me, if there’s something you need-”

“- but there isn’t,” she interrupts. “It was a complicated curse, yes, but I’ve managed. Istredd assisted me, since you were nowhere to be found.”

You don’t know who Istredd is, but you get the gist of her words. Particularly from the fact that, when you quickly glance over, Geralt looks as though he’s been slapped. Pain again, even just for a moment. If Yennefer sees it, she says nothing of it.

“I must be going,” she announces instead, gaze fixed on Geralt and Ciri. Then it softens. “Be safe. Both of you.”

“You’re going?” Ciri asks, rushing to give Yennefer a hug.

They cling to each other for a moment, and Yennefer strokes Ciri’s hair and holds her close. It’s very clear how much they care for one another.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Ciri tells her.

“Never. I’ll contact you once you’re in Ard Carraigh,” Yennefer replies.

After Ciri’s gone back to her seat, Geralt lingers near Yennefer. “Won’t let anything happen to her,” Geralt says softly.

Yennefer smiles. “I know you won’t,” she replies. “I know you.” For a moment, her mask of composure slips - she hesitates. Then, she smooths down his shirt, leans up on her toes, and kisses his cheek. “Goodbye, Geralt.”

With a final squeeze of his arm, she’s gone, exiting out the door. Leaving you and Geralt staring after her.

You recover faster than he does, tuning back into the conversation at the table - which has turned into some story revolving around Dandelion and a sword. Geralt, though, stands frozen in his tracks for a good minute or so.

When he returns to his seat, he’s silent. In fact, he hardly says another word until the two of you have turned in for bed, bidding everyone good night. It’s planned that the two of you will leave with Ciri tomorrow morning, after getting some supplies for the journey. You don’t know if you’re relieved, or scared.

One one hand, the two of you will be actively moving toward the solution, and that saves you from the anxiety of sitting still. On the other hand, it means a long, dangerous journey which ends with you and Geralt being parted.

When the two of you are back in the room and you’re finally able to breathe, you slump onto the bed. Geralt sits next to you, lost in thought, and as you eye the protruding lump of a bandage under his shirt, you suddenly remember the scratch you left this morning.

You sit up with a start. “How’s your arm?” you ask.

The words rouse him from his thoughts. Geralt’s brows rise - clearly he’d forgotten, too - and takes off shirt in a fluid moment that makes your heart skip a beat (which you pray he doesn’t hear). Of course he’d need to take off his shirt to access the wound. Calm down, you tell yourself. Don’t stare.

When he pulls away the bandage to show completely healed skin, you sit there, stunned. It’s just as he said. It’s gone. Completely gone. The scratch hadn’t been that bad, but it’d still pierced the skin and very much should still be visible, at least for a few days. But there’s not even a hint of scarring, anything to show that it’d been there. It’s fascinating. And you really should have believed him, but it’s one thing to hear it, and a completely new thing to see it.

You can’t help yourself. You run your fingers over the area where it should have been, and find it completely whole.

Geralt’s skin is surprisingly soft and warm. He stays still as you touch him, the sound of his breathing soft and even. Then, slowly, he places his hand over yours, trailing his thumb down your wrist. His fingers enclose over yours, callused fingertips and strong tendons that gently wrap around your hand.

“Dandelion’s ballad really make you cry?” he asks softly. His eyes are warm and fixed on you, and you draw in a sharp breath. For a moment, you consider Zoltan’s words. That you might feel better, if you’d just tell Geralt everything. But given all that’s happened today, it simply doesn’t seem like the right time.

Maybe one day, but not now.

“What can I say?” you tell him, smiling weakly. “The lyrics got to me.”

He frowns. “Could tell him to stop,” he says. “If he’s pressuring you-”

You cut him off with a shake of your head. “No, he… he isn’t. Really. You have some really great friends, Geralt. And Ciri, she’s wonderful, and… and just like you.”

He smiles a little and raises a brow. He’s still holding your hand, gentle but firm. “Think so?” he asks.

You swallow hard. “I do. And don’t think I’ll be forgetting your little jest with Dandelion, master witcher. That was very rude.”

His smile widens into a boyish sort of grin you haven’t seen before, and his thumb rubs over your knuckles. Your heart starts pounding in your chest. You know he can hear it. There’s that sharpening in his gaze again, the way his eyes trail down to your lips, the way the smile turns into the hint of a smirk. You gingerly tug your hand from his grip, not trusting yourself, and start pulling out your sleep clothes.

“All that walking wore me out,” you tell him. “I’d better get some sleep for the journey.” It’s a poor excuse, but he takes it - or, at least, doesn’t argue. You can feel his eyes on the back of your neck.

If you hadn’t seen him and Yennefer the way they were, maybe you’d… well, it doesn’t matter now. Starting tomorrow, the two of you will be with Ciri for weeks, and it’s too complicated for you to consider anything outside of the trip. No matter what you want.

Even if he might want it, too.

You’re so unfamiliar with the concept of romance that, for just a moment, you start thinking that you might have imagined it. The look in his eyes. But you really do know better, and it’s time to stop fooling yourself.

There’s something between you and Geralt, something that’s been there longer than you’ve wanted to admit it. Since you sat at the river and he caught you staring at him, thinking about how handsome he was. Since he bandaged your hands with careful touch. Told you he could hear your heart beating, that he could tell when you lied.

Like a deafening wall of glass, it’s lurked between the two of you, getting simultaneously bigger and frailer with every day. Ready to shatter at any moment. You’ve pulled away from it, but you’re less and less able to deny that it’s there. Or that you want it to break.

That’s your real crime, isn’t it? The one you’ve held guilt for as long as you’ve known. The one that’s poisoned your fate from birth. You always want for things you can’t have. It’s exactly why the djinn was so dangerous, why you’re being punished the way you are. He must have seen straight into your soul when you were making that wish, and gave you the exact retribution that you deserved.

Because you’re afraid. You’re afraid that if you ever got what you really wanted, it might rip you apart. You’ve never been built for good things. You’d just ruin them. Like you have with everything. And it might have been one thing to ruin your own life, but you know you wouldn’t survive it if it was Geralt. If he ever hurt you, or you hurt him…

No. You couldn’t. And, even though it’s ridiculous, you cling to that wall. Even despite your conflicting emotions, you shut yourself off. Because it’s better than the alternative.

You’ve tried to halt yourself from wishing for anything ever since you got that djinn, because you really should learn from your mistakes. But as you get into bed, you allow yourself a single, mindless wish - safe because you know it won’t come true.

You sit there in silence, chest aching, and wish that Geralt would wrap his arms around you.

More bad dreams come that night. You sleep feverishly, trading off between visions of hands on your throat and the mouth of a cave, summoning you in with a sweet song you can’t resist. When you finally wake, you find Geralt already up, organizing your things. If you’ve overslept, you don’t feel an ounce of that rest.

“Hey,” he says. “Sleep well?”

You shrug and smile at him wordlessly. Your throat feels tight and the ache in your chest has only gotten worse overnight. Your silence already betrays your emotions to an extent, but if you speak, you’re afraid everything might actually start pouring out of you. That if you open your mouth, every fear, every secret and guilt and want might come slithering up your throat in a single, slimy mass and give you away.

So you don’t talk. And you pray that you won’t have to any time soon.

It doesn’t take long for you to dress or pack your things. Your stomach has just started growling when there’s a light knock on the door.

“Ready, you two?” comes Ciri’s voice. “Breakfast’s just been finished, and we’d better eat before it gets cold - it might be our last good meal for some time!”

“Coming,” Geralt says. He hoists his things over his shoulders, and you follow straight behind him.

“Good morning,” Ciri says brightly. “Dandelion’s prepared a farewell meal for you two. I think he’s written more of that ballad.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Hope he doesn’t play it while I’m eating.”

“It’s Dandelion. Of course he will,” Ciri says. Then she looks at you. “How’d you sleep?” she asks. “Feeling any better this morning?”

Geralt stares at you, concerned, but you avoid his gaze. “I… I slept well,” you tell her. “And, yes, I feel alright now. Thank you.”

Both of those things are lies, but Ciri just smiles. “We’d better head down before Dandelion loses his head. He’s been strutting around like a peacock ever since you complimented his ballad. Can hardly wait to show you the new parts he wrote.”

That makes you laugh. A real, genuine laugh. “Should I start writing my apology for bolstering his ego?”

“Yeah,” Geralt says. “Make it short.”

“Short and sweet,” Ciri adds.

“Alright. Dear Novigrad citizens - and all others affected,” you drawl. “I’m deeply sorry for bolstering Dandelion’s ego. How’s that?”

Geralt rubs his chin. “Dunno,” he says. “Seems a little long.”

You playfully narrow your eyes at him. “Fine, then: I’m sorry, Novigrad.”

“Perfect,” Ciri says. “I’m already envious of the response it’ll receive. Come, let’s head down.”

Eskel and Lambert are at the main table once more, clearly enjoying the partakings. They both look tired and a little worse for wear, but alive. “Morning, Wolf,” Eskel says. “Hear you’re heading out again.”

“Mhm. Eating breakfast first, though,” Geralt replies, taking a seat. You sit next to him and grab a plate, mouth watering.

There’s more food here than you’ve ever seen served for a single meal. Fresh bread and butter that fills the air, spiced sausages, apple tarts drizzled with honey, plates adorned with grapes and pears and plums, perfectly ripe. Sweet buns coated with sugar and roasted ham and tiny, colorful candies that litter the table. And, judging by how full the three witchers have stocked their plates, not a bit of it will go to waste.

You fill your plate and dig in, so ecstatic that you almost don’t hear Dandelion greet you. “Good morning,” he says, laying another plate on the table. “Oh, good, you’re hungry! Eat up, eat up!”

Priscilla strides up next to him, tsking as she looks over the table. “Good morning, everyone,” she greets. “As you can see, Dandelion’s gone a bit overboard with breakfast. Are you sure you three won’t stay any longer? We’re happy to have you.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Sorry. Wish we could. Might come back here afterward, though. If not…”

“If not, then Dandelion, Zoltan, and I will see you at Yule,” Priscilla says sternly, taking a seat. Dandelion sits next to her, and you watch the two softly chatter with each other, imagining how it might look - Yule with Geralt and friends. Sparkly, you think. Shiny and warm.

You’ve never had much of a Yule. Not that your parents hadn’t tried. But for some reason, seeing their gifts - gifts you knew they’d slaved away hours of their life for - only made you feel worse. The year when their gifts turned into coin for Oxenfurt Academy had been a relief if only to not feel their eyes on your face, praying they wouldn’t see disappointment.

“Oh, yeah,” Eskel says suddenly, turning to Geralt. “We wintering with you at Corvo Bianco again this year?”

Corvo Bianco? you think. You aren’t familiar with the words.

Geralt raises his brows. “Yeah. Be glad to have you.”

“Then we’ll see you there,” Lambert responds. “Can’t fuckin’ wait.”

“Still miss Marlene’s cooking,” Eskel agrees.

In the midst of their conversation, there’s a striking realization that they must be talking about Geralt’s home. You’d never thought much about it - mostly, you’d assumed he lived from place to place, never staying anywhere long. You wonder briefly about this Marlene, heart sinking down to your stomach. There’s so much you don’t know about him.

“So - you three are really off to find a djinn?” Lambert muses. “Good luck, I guess.”

“Thanks,” Geralt says dryly.

There’s a moment of silence before you surprise yourself. “You know, Lambert, I think that might be the most genuine sentence I’ve ever heard.”

Eskel, Geralt, and Ciri laugh, to your delight, and Lambert scowls. “Ah, fuck off,” he says, but he’s hiding a begrudging smile.

“Alright. Before I forget,” Ciri starts, her gaze fixing on you. “You and Geralt. How did you two meet?”

Your cheeks go warm. Maybe because everyone is now staring at you, and you hate the attention. Maybe because you hate talking about this subject. “Well… he fell out of the sky.”

Geralt huffs, smiling a little. For a moment, you hope he’ll say something, but he doesn’t. He just waits for you to go on, along with everyone else.

“Um. Well, I made the wish,” you continue, “and for a while, it seemed like nothing was happening. So I wandered around, thinking about every possibility of my wording, wondering how the djinn had taken it. I hadn’t really - thought about it when I made the wish. It just… came out. I wanted to believe it was some invisible protection, but everything just felt… off, and I knew deep down that it wasn’t the case. And then a portal opened up, and he fell out, and I saw the two swords on his back and realized what it meant.”

“Yeah. Djinn dragged me out of Skellige,” Geralt adds. And now they’re all waiting for you to speak again.

“Anyway,” you proceed, “once I realized who he was, I asked him to move away from me, to see if anything would happen. And he wouldn’t - he didn’t really trust me, then. So I did it instead. Once I was a certain distance away, we both felt it. I actually don’t know how it feels for him, but for me it was like… like something was ripping me apart. Squeezing my skull in. I couldn’t fight it at all.”

“Yeah. Felt like that for me, too,” Geralt agrees.

You nod. “So after that, I explained to him what had happened, and he said we should come here, see if anyone knew anything. And… now, we’re here.”

“And we’re very happy you are,” Priscilla tells you.

“And?” Dandelion exclaims. “Was there any danger on the way here? What was it that made you wish for protection? And the other two wishes - I’ll need to know those for my ballad.”

Your heart drops to your stomach at the thought of telling anyone at this table about those nights, about what happened. No, you’re not ready.

Time to attempt one of your old tricks. If anyone is a sucker for flattery, it’s Dandelion.

“It was a little dangerous, yes,” you answer, trying to keep your voice even. “Geralt and I ran into a foglet. But he killed it, and I didn’t even get a scratch on me. It was very impressive, honestly.” Now for the important part. “Oh - Dandelion, speaking of your ballad,” you lead in, adding a little sweetness to your tone, “Ciri told me you wrote more of it. Will you play it for me?”

“Of course I will!” Dandelion says, eyes lighting up. “But don’t let me distract you - I want to hear about this djinn. Was he made of red mist? Were you ecstatic when you found him? Do you still have the seal?”

Shit. You hadn’t really minded his questions before, but with how standoffish you feel, they’re becoming incredibly invasive.

“Dandelion, quit pestering,” Priscilla interrupts him, but not quickly enough.

You shut your eyes at the stream of memories that come pouring in at the sound of his words. The exact images you’ve been trying to block out. “I was scared.” The words are shaky, unstable. You suddenly feel sick, placing down your fork. “I wasn’t ecstatic, wasn’t happy. All I remember is being scared.”

Dandelion pulls out a parchment and begins scribbling on it. “Scared… foglet… not a scratch…” he mumbles. “Perfect.”

Your body has started trembling. Maybe it’s because it’s more than you’ve ever revealed about that moment, but your stomach is churning and you’re shaking, and thank Melitele, Geralt notices.

He clears his throat. “Priscilla - you already started on the plans for Yule?” he asks. “Anything I should bring? Might not get to that djinn for a while.”

Under the table, he places his hand on top of yours - a small, reassuring action. Not entwining with yours, but there. Comforting. Then his thumb brushes over your pulse point. Taking in a deep breath, you give his hand a gentle squeeze.

Thank you, you think.

Priscilla takes the bait immediately. “Well, I’ve not started the plans exactly, but I have been considering some loose ideas,” she replies. “Dandelion and I were thinking about writing a new show, getting people into the spirit and such. Using the funds we make as donations for some form of charity. Of course, nothing’s been settled yet. As for what to bring - just bring yourself and anyone you’d like to invite. Though, a bottle of wine from your vineyard would never be turned down.”

“Mhm. Our first year producing wine,” Geralt tells her. “Harvest finally came in. BB says it ought to be a good one.”

“Really?” Priscilla asks. “All the better. I can’t wait.”

The conversation has given you time to manage your emotions. Geralt might be able to hear your heart thundering in your chest - and, now that you think of it, Eskel and Lambert might, too - but no one else has anything else to off but your face, which you hope is in a mask even half as collected as Yennefer’s had been.

A quick look over shows that Eskel and Lambert are glancing at you curiously, but they return to their breakfast as soon as they see your gaze on them. Well, that answers that question. No wonder Geralt had been able to tell you were lying so easily. If Eskel and Lambert, sitting several seats down from you, can hear a change in your heartbeat - and be able to tell that it’s yours they’re hearing - then… frankly, you’re horrified to think about what else he might hear.

And, thinking even more, did you just hear that right? Geralt owns a vineyard? Corvo Bianco. It’s all piecing together.

“I didn’t know you owned a vineyard,” you tell him. His hand shifts a little on yours, and blood rushes up to your face. You’d somehow forgotten it was there - as if his touch had melted into you, was so natural that it became a part of you.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Got it as part of a contract from the duchess of Toussaint.”

You’ve never been to Toussaint. You’ve certainly never met the duchess. Somewhere in all this chaos, you’d nearly gotten used to the fact that a large number of the people in this room are famous. But not anymore.

You don’t even know where to begin to imagine a vineyard. Miles of grape vines? A hot, baking sun, fruit stinking in the heat? You can’t picture Geralt in it. The two images are disjointed, as if they couldn’t possibly mix.

You don’t know why this guts you. Maybe it’s the reminder that you don’t really belong here - among all these people, Geralt’s friends and family, knowing basic things about him like where he lives.

You suddenly can’t eat another bite, but the sight of your half-filled plate makes you just as sick. How many times would you have killed for food like that, only to let it go to waste? Almost all the others have finished their food.

“Are you still hungry?” you ask Geralt, pushing your plate toward him a little. “My eyes were bigger than my stomach.”

“He’s always hungry,” Ciri answers.

And Geralt shrugs and takes the rest of your food, looking more than happy to finish it off. Thankfully, he moves his hand back to his thigh, and you force yourself to take even breaths when he does, because he surely can hear you. You try to remain calm, but overstimulation is rising in you like a growing tide. You’ll miss this place fiercely, but you can’t wait to get away from it.

“What’ve you got there?” Geralt suddenly asks, and you realize the question is directed at Lambert.

Lambert, who was bent over a paper, snaps up defensively. His arms cradle over the paper like he’s afraid Geralt will somehow lean over half the table and read the contents, and he scowls. “None of your business,” he says.

“Better not distract him,” Eskel snorts. “Lambert’s writing a letter to his girlfriend.”

Lambert’s scowl deepens. “Shut up.”

“Meant to ask - how’s Keira doing?” Geralt asks. “You two fighting again?”

“No,” Lambert snaps. “We aren’t.”

Eskel’s expression sombers. “Keira, uh… she went to check out a magical surge. Hasn’t come back yet.”

You suddenly feel like ice has run down your back. As if something has gone terribly, irreparably wrong.

“Where?” Geralt’s tone is intense, demanding in a way you haven’t heard it before, and you can tell that the sudden shift is making Eskel and Lambert uneasy, too.

“Kaedwen,” Lambert answers.

“The Blue Mountains?”

“I don’t know, maybe. She didn’t exactly say. Why?”

Geralt doesn’t seem to know how to answer.

“Yennefer was here last night,” you tell them, even though the words feel like glue on your tongue. “She said that… that somewhere in Kaedwen there are some ancient elven ruins spreading a powerful aura of magic, and that some mages went to investigate, but everyone who’s gone in there hasn’t come back out. It’s close to that djinn Priscilla was talking about.”

Lambert pushes out of his seat, looking furious. “Fucking what!?”

“She’s fine, Lambert,” Geralt assures him. “ Yen is Keira’s friend - if something happened to her, she would have mentioned it.”

“Save your bullshit,” Lambert hisses, pacing back and forth frantically. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Geralt is right,” you say - even though you’re a little out of your league here. “Yennefer said that the magic was affecting teleportation within fifty miles of the caves. I’m sure she’s probably just trying to find a way back.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Lambert asks. “She teleported over there!”

You feel as though you’ve been slapped. You snap your mouth shut, anger simmering in your chest - anger directed toward yourself. Why had you gotten involved? You’d only made it worse.

“They’re right,” Eskel says, but his tone is more convincing, more soothing. “Yen would’ve told us. Losing another sorceress from the Lodge? That’s a big deal.”

Lambert slackens, draping a hand over his face as he takes it in. Then sits down, grabs his mug, and pours himself a drink. The tension in the room feels thick enough to suffocate.

“We’ll keep an ear out for her,” Geralt says. “Ask around. See if anyone’s heard anything. Soon as we learn something, you’ll be the first to know.”

Lambert gives an almost imperceptible nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”

There’s a moment of silence. “We ought to head out,” Ciri announces. “I’ll help clear up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Priscilla scolds. “You’re our guests! We’ll take care of this.”

But Ciri gathers up the nearby empty plates and neatly stacks them anyway, and Geralt adds his old plate and the newer, now-empty plate that used to be yours.

Priscilla sighs. “You two,” she murmurs, smiling to herself, “are far too similar.”

You’d have turned in your dishes, if you’d had any. But you don’t. You’re grateful when Geralt stands, gathering his things.

“You’re going?” Dandelion asks - he’d been in the middle of more writing. “But I haven’t even gotten to play the next lines of my ballad for you!”

Geralt looks down at you where you’re still sitting, a brow raised. You know he’s giving you the option - that you can leave, if you want.

But then you think about what Ciri had said earlier, that Dandelion was so excited to show it to you. Strutting around like a peacock, giddy on the compliment. You think of his kindness at the table yesterday - how kind they’d all been, even to a stranger. Reassuring you that you weren’t awful without even being asked.

“I’ll gladly hear it,” you say.

Dandelion beams and pulls out his lute, and Geralt returns to his seat to listen. And then Dandelion strums, and in that haunting, lovely melody, he sings.

A dangerous thing is the truth of a wish

For the future we ne’er can see

And djinns have been known to twist things amiss

Tainting with mischief and cruelty.

With a trifle of words, our tale must begin

An uttered request, humbly made

Beseeching protection from the ‘fore-mentioned djinn

Protection for always, they prayed.

The answer received came up from the land

Where resided a lone witcher of yore

And the foul, ruthless djinn locked the two hand in hand

And he bound them for evermore.

tags: @henryownsme @madamemelancholysstuff @fullmoonshadowwrites @darkscrossfire @beforethepen @julijal @ailynyan @ivuravix

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #game!geralt #geralt x you #geralt/reader #geralt of rivia x you #mywriting

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lizardshock · 9 months

Text

Who would be the best leader? Would it be Shiver, the cold-blooded bandit? ~

#shocks art #splatoon #splatoon 3 #splatoon fanart #splatoon art #shiver #fanart #splatfest

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cozy-mp3 · 2 years

Text

worries

ellie x female!reader

you can't help but worry when ellie is out on a long patrol. when she gets home, she fucks your face.

word count: 5.8k (ish)

warnings: smut, cunniligus (not reader receiving), dom!ellie, dirty talk? maybe?, you're very in love, ellie still calls you honey, ellie is hairy bc i say so, an exorbitant amount of fluff, a complete disregard for whatever jackson's actual plumbing situation is.

a/n: hi! i'm back and this time ellie gets to cum. tysm for all the love on messy girl i didn't expect it and i really appreciate it! i aimed to have this posted a couple days ago but i decided i hated half of it and had to rewrite it sigh. this isn't beta read and probably has punctuation errors, i'm sorry, anyway i hope u enjoy <3

MINORS AND MEN DO NOT INTERACT OR I'LL CRY

it isn’t often you find yourself worrying about ellie while she’s out on patrol. she’s strong and smart and more than capable of taking care of herself, but you love her and loving someone often comes with a whole lot of worry. you worried when you heard her get out of bed when it was still dark, you worried when you’d gotten up a few hours later to see rain coming down in sheets and you’d worried when you’d gone to pick up lunch and overheard people talking about an uptick in attacks from bandits recently. by the time dinner was over and she still wasn’t home, you were well on the way to pacing a hole in the floor of your shared home.

so, when you hear the muffled sound of footsteps outside of the front door you startle out of your worried train of thought before dashing over and practically pulling the door off its hinges. you pause at the sight of your girlfriend, she’s soaked with rain and shivering, you’re almost certain she’ll have caught a cold being out like this. her clothes are caked in dirt and blood, there’s dark smudges under her eyes from lack of sleep, an irritated red ring around her face from a gas mask and she’s holding a wad of bandages over her left hip.

“careful, honey, we only just got the hinges to stop squeaking,” ellie says, lips turned up in a half smile at the sight of you, openly laughing at the annoyed look you give her and suddenly you don’t know why you were so worried at all. here she is, in one piece, looking like shit but still feeling well enough to poke fun at you. you can feel yourself practically deflate, your shoulders relaxing a little and your mind beginning to clear of it’s anxious fog.

“come inside, ellie,” you huff, gently tugging at the coat sleeve covering her forearm, “you’re gonna get sick standing out in the rain like that, we need to get you warmed up, there’s enough water in the tanks for a bath.” you tell her, making quick work of helping her lift the backpack off her shoulders before she shrugs off her sodden coat.

ellie is quiet as you help her out of her wet shoes and socks, not commenting as you scold her for wearing canvas shoes in autumn when she knows damn well it’s going to rain and how the last thing she needs is blisters from walking around in wet socks. when you finally look up at her again she’s watching you with a worried little furrow in her brows. she opens and closes her mouth once, twice, three times before she reaches over to place the bloodied bandages she was holding onto the beat up coffee table, holding a hand out to you afterwards so that she can help you to your feet.

“you know i’m always gonna come home to you, right honey?” she asks, looking into your eyes and cupping your cheek with one of her dirty palms. you can’t bring yourself to care that she’s probably spreading grime over the top of your cheek when she brushes her thumb over your skin, “you don’t need to worry about me when i go out on patrol, i’ll always come back to you, i’m never gonna make you do this alone, i promise,” she says in that self assured way of hers, you wish you could be as sure as she is.

“you can’t promise that, els,” you sigh, heart aching at the way her brows pinch more and her mouth opens to protest before shutting again in defeat. you know she knows just as well as you do that that’s an impossible thing to promise, childish even in the world you both live in.

“i love you,” she tells you instead, resting her forehead against yours and watching as affection warms your features, “i love you so much,” she says, kissing the corner of your mouth when you offer her a little smile, pulling away to show you her own. it’s different than her little half smiles or smirks, different than her big toothy grins, it’s her soft, sweet i love you to the moon and back smile that’s just for you.

“i love you,” you reply, bumping your nose against hers and kissing her again before you pull out of her embrace, “c’mon els, we gotta get you cleaned up, you’re filthy.” you say, pinching her cheek just to annoy her before you walk the short distance to the bathroom so you can start filling the tub.

“you wanna help me take my clothes off?” ellie asks from behind you, closing the bathroom door and raising her brows suggestively when you turn to look at her. you sigh with put upon frustration before turning to help her undress, not exactly looking forward to getting your hands covered in whatever is covering her but any squeamishness is outweighed by the want to take care of her, to get her clean and safe and wam.

“can you lift your arms with whatever you’ve got going on down there?” you ask, gesturing to her injured hip and reaching around her shoulders to gently tug her hair free from its half ponytail. you run your hands through the damp, tangled ends, kissing her nose when it scrunches at your slight tugging.

“it’s fine, honey, just a scratch,” she hums as she lifts her arms above her head so you can pull her shirt off, “some bandit thought he could get the jump on me, it took care of it though, he’s way worse off than i am,” she tells you, confident as always. you kind of hate how attractive you find her self assuredness when you see the wound. it’s more than a scratch, it’s a cut from a knife just above the waistband of her jeans. to your relief it looks clean, no jagged edges or stitches and it isn’t bleeding anymore, it’s just raw and pink and sore looking against her skin.

“that isn’t a scratch, els,” you tell her with your brow quirked and she has the decency to look a little sheepish about it, “you been to see the doctor about it?” you ask as you work on getting her belt off, using less force as you help her peel off her wet jeans so you don’t irritate the wound.

“i did,” she sighs, tucking some hair behind your ear, “no major damage, no stitches, three days no patrol, two weeks till it’s completely better. we gotta stick a dressing on it now it’s stopped bleeding and i have to go back to the medbay if it starts looking gnarly” she huffs, all but pouting at the prospect of being stuck inside the walls of jackson while she recovers. you know it’ll be hard for her, not only because she wants to help but because she gets all pent up with excess frustration and needs something to channel it into. patrol is by far the most productive option since she can’t keep you pinned to the bed all day, you’ll make her stick to it though, you’ll pin her to the bed if you have to.

“you’ll survive, baby,” you say once you’ve worked her jeans off her legs, standing up so you can kiss her pouty bottom lip, “it’ll be just fine, it won’t be too bad hanging out with me, right?” you ask, sticking your own bottom lip out into an exaggerated pout and trying not to laugh at how fast her expression shifts, her head shaking quickly.

“‘course not!” she exclaims, cupping your cheeks to press kisses all over your face, “it’ll be nice to spend more time with you,” she tells you, kissing your nose one last time, “i didn’t think about it like that,” she admits with a blush, only going redder when you chuckle fondly at her and her one track mindedness.

“ok, ok,” you laugh, reaching forward to help her pull her sports bra over her head, “let’s get you into the bath before it overflows,” you say as you throw her bra in the direction of her other patrol clothes, they’re so dirty you’re sure you’ll have blisters from scrubbing out the stains. you’re curious about how she got so dirty, it’s worse than normal, but you won’t ask, it’s easier to let her tell you patrol stories in her own time. you’ll take the sore palms and raw fingers on laundry day though if it means having her here now, breasts rising with each breath and skin slightly dewy from the condensing steam of the bath.

“stop drooling, baby,” she chuckles at you, bending to take her own underwear off before she steps into the bathtub, “you’re supposed to be taking care of me, your strong, intelligent, handsome girlfriend gets wounded on patrol and all you can do is stare at her tits, it’s unbelievable, honey, i thought you were better nurse than this.” she playfully admonishes, smirking as your face heats up.

“ellie,” you whine, covering your face with your hands so she can’t see your embarrassment, “stop it,” you whine again, kicking the side off the tub and crossing your arms, “i’m your favorite nurse, stop lying,” you mumble petulantly, getting to your knees beside her and giving her a playfully grumpy look. your face cracks and your lips twitch into a smile at the lovesick look she’s giving you, it’s as soft as she ever gets and you love it.

“you’re right, honey, you’re my favorite,” she agrees easily, pulling herself to the edge of the tub and resting her chin on her forearms so her face is level with yours, “you gonna help me clean off?” she asks, ever hopeful. she’s so pretty like this despite the grime still on her skin, your eyes drift to her tattoo and the mottled skin of the burn hidden underneath it, to the little scar above one of her elbows and the freckle on her shoulder you like to kiss from time to time before they settle back on her face.

“sure i will, els,” you say softly, leaning forward to press your lips to hers, you’d meant for it to be a brief kiss but she deepens it. you moan as her tongue brushes against the seam of your lips and let her take control, her hand cups your jaw and you can feel water drip from her arm onto your pajama pants, eventually forming a mark so big you pull away, “you’re making me all wet,” you mumble against her spit slick lips, only leaning more into her palm despite your complaining.

“oh, really?” she smirks, glancing down towards your lap and huffing out a laugh when she sees the damp patch on your thigh, “if you’re already wet you might as well get in with me,” she says with an expectant look on her face, “there’s enough room, besides, wouldn’t it be better for my nurse to monitor me closely?” she asks, grinning all triumphant when you stand and begin to pull your pajamas off.

you aren’t wearing a bra and it takes willpower not to squirm when ellie continues to openly stare at you as you undress, watching the way your breasts press together as you reach down to pull your fuzzy house socks off and they way your nipples pebble from the change in temperature. your toes are cold on the tile of the floor and you hurry to pull your pajama pants and underwear off, holding your arms across your middle as you look back down at your girlfriend.

“you’re so beautiful, honey,” she tells you softly, reaching over to trail her damp fingers over your hip, leaving a little wet trail that makes you shiver with cold, “come on, get in, sweetheart,” she says, scooting forward so there's room for you to get in behind her. you step in gingerly, not wanting to slip on the slick interior of the tub, and settle in behind her, letting your legs bracket hers and resting your chin on her shoulder as your arms wrap around her waist.

“hi,” you smile, kissing the side of her jaw and squeezing her midsection gently.

“hi,” she smiles back, turning so she can kiss your bicep and then scooting down into the water so she’s floating, her head coming to rest comfortably between your breasts and her bruised knees bobbing out of the water as she bends her legs. they’re covered in a mottled mix of newer purple bruises and older yellowing ones, you squeeze her lightly again in sympathy.

“you gonna let me clean you off now?,” you ask, looking down at her all soft and fond as she closes her eyes and sighs happily. she seems to fully relax now, the weight of the day finally slipping off her shoulders as she rests in your arms. it’s nice to see her face smooth out completely the way it does when she’s totally content, no little furrow between her brows or downward twist to her lips. you stroke the soft skin between her breasts, kissing her forehead and laughing quietly when she sighs happily again. “you gonna answer me, els?” you ask, already moving one of your arms away to reach for the bar of soap.

“you can do whatever you want to me as long as i don’t have to move,” ellie mumbles, turning her head to kiss the side of your breast and then shifting around to get comfy again, “you’re all soft ‘n warm ‘n i can hear your heartbeat like this, it’s nice,” she continues as you dunk the soap into the water so you can lather it in your hands, being careful not to jostle her too much, “being pressed up against your tits is nice too,” she smiles, teeth peeking between her lips as she opens one eye to look at you.

“of course you would say that, perv,” you chuckle, reaching around her to start rubbing your soapy hands over her arms, “you’re gonna have to move if you want me to clean you off properly though,” you tell her as you work over a particular stubborn patch of dirt just above the place where her tattoo begins. her skin is soft beneath your hands, she’s lithe and slender for the most part but her arms show her strength, her muscles firm as you massage soap into her skin.

“i’ll just stay dirty,” she replies, sounding like she's made her mind up already, “honey, would you still love me if i decided to never let you clean me properly again?” she asks, almost cutting herself off with a groan as you rub your hands into her shoulders, she’s done it for years but carrying around a backpack from dawn till dusk takes a toll.

“you’re dirty most of the time already, els, and i love you very much right now,” you hum, pretending to sound thoughtful as you run your hands down her sides, careful to avoid the wound above her hip, “i’d still love you but i’d probably stop fucking you,” you say, smiling to yourself when she immediately frowns.

“ok, fine, honey, i’ll move but you’ve got to fuck me afterwards,” she tries, opening an eye again to look up at you and gage your reaction. she’s so damn predictable and the feeling of fondness that takes root in your chest is so big and warm it needs to be acknowledged somehow. so, you lean down to press a clumsy kiss to her forehead, giving her another when her face scrunches up and her eyes close again to avoid any badly placed kisses.

“sure, baby,” you agree, shaking your head at her and trying to hide your smile. you shift around in the water so you’re sitting up straighter now able to reach down lower and wash her front as she smiles all satisfied with herself, “can you give me your hands?” you ask, rinsing your hands off in the water and then grabbing the bar of soap again. it’s a travel sized one that one of you had grabbed from an old hotel at some point, it was probably considered fancy in the past but now it wasn’t anything too special, only the lingering lavender scent making it an improvement from the unscented stuff that’s more readily available.

ellie doesn’t speak as she hands you her left hand first, letting you rub soap into her wrists and over the backs of her hands, gentle on the broken skin of her knuckles. she seems to have perpetually damaged skin on her knuckles, no matter how many times you tell her to wear gloves or wrap her hands to protect them she doesn’t listen but that’s just her, your stubborn girl. you carefully rub her calloused palms and the lengths of her fingers before using a little brush to scrub the dirt from under her nails, gently squeezing her hand when you’re done.

“i love your hands,” you whisper to her, kissing the top of her head as you rinse the soap off her skin. you rub your thumbs firmly into the back of her hand, massaging away the aches and pains you know she gets in her joints sometimes. she would never admit what she considers her insignificant pains to anyone else, she hesitates to even admit it to you sometimes so it feels like a little bit of a victory when ellie squeezes your shin beneath the water with her free hand in thanks, letting out a lungful of air and turning so she can kiss your breast again.

“thank you,” she mumbles against your skin, “i think your hands are magic,” she adds quietly as you tap her wrist to indicate she should give you her right hand, “you’re so good at those massages, honey, it’s like your hands know just where it hurts,” she continues, smiling a little at the amused sound you make as you clean off her other hand.

“maybe they are,” you whisper, not wanting to displace the relaxed quiet that’s fallen over the both of you as you clean the dirt from her hand. you work your thumbs into her cleaned skin, resting your chin on top of her head as you work, “we should keep it a secret though, i don’t wanna do this to anyone but you,” you tell her, pulling her hand up to your mouth to kiss her poor bruised knuckles.

“you better not do this with anyone else,” she huffs, tilting her head back so she can look you in the eye, “you’re my nurse,” she says in that serious way of hers, narrowing her eyes at your amusement, “i’m serious, honey, you’re my girl,” she tells you, leaning up to kiss your chin, still unwilling to sit up enough to reach your lips.

“Of course, els,” you smile, trying to ignore how your face heats up and your thighs ache to press together at her words, “will you let your girl wash your hair now?” you ask, only half teasing. you sit up from your slightly slouched position, trying to pull her deadweight into a sitting position in front of you, “if you wash your legs while i get your hair done we can get to the fucking part faster,” you suggest to her, concious that the water will only remain warm for so long and your fingers are already starting to go pruney.

“i don’t wanna move,” she groans, turning over and pressing her face into your chest, her breath hot against your damp skin, “you’re so comfy ‘n i’m tired,” she says, giving you an exaggerated pout which seems so out of place on her face you almost laugh, instead bending down to kiss her before using residual soap on your hands to clean off her cheeks. there’s a streak of dirt on her nose which you wipe away and blood on her hairline that takes a bit of a firmer hand, the red ring from the gas mask she’d had to wear looks more shocking on her clean skin but you aren’t too worried, it’s happened before and it’ll be gone in a couple days.

“i know you’re tired, baby, you look like you’ve got two black eyes,” you say, using your finger to gently trace the dark smudges beneath her eyes. it’s a bit of an exaggeration but she does look exhausted and your heart aches a little, she always pushes herself, sometimes a little too hard. you’re glad she’s going to be stuck at home for a few days so she can rest up and you can make sure she gets three hot meals a day. you still think she’s pretty though, as she looks up at you with eyelashes clumped by water, a little flushed from the hot bath and a frowny furrow in her brows that you smooth over with your thumb. “the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get into bed, sweetheart,” you remind her, leaning down to kiss both her freckled cheeks.

“ok, ok, let’s get this over with,” she sighs after a moment, sitting up and taking the soap from you so you can grab the shampoo. it’s the kind that smells like artificial apples, it’d been the highlight of your day when ellie had brought it home a few weeks ago. you lather up your hands with the pale green gel and begin to wash her hair, rubbing the pads of your fingers into her scalp to remove the grime from the day. true to her word, ellie quickly begins washing the parts of her body you couldn’t reach, only stopping briefly to arch into your hands like a cat when you scratch her scalp.

“see, it isn’t that bad, baby,” you practically coo at her, still lightly scratching her scalp as she reaches down to clean between her toes. you take a moment to watch the muscles shift in her back, the way water drips down her shoulders and into the divot of her spine before you drag your eyes back up to your task, “c’mon, tilt your head back,” you instruct her, scooting so your back is pressed right to the wall of the tub and she can lean back far enough for you to rinse out her hair without getting soap in her eyes.

you scooch closer to her again when you’re done, wrapping your arms around her and kissing her shoulder. she’s still slick with soap in some places so you run your hands over her to wash it off, lingering on her chest in a way that makes her laugh and turn around in your arms to look at you.

“you gonna make me cum now, honey?” she asks, raising her eyebrows at you expectantly, “‘m all clean, i did exactly as you said,” she says, crowding you against the back of the tub and raising her arms to hold herself up over you with her hands placed either side of you. you can see her biceps flexing with her weight either side of you, water droplets catching on the bulge of them before continuing down her arm, it flows in little rivers from her collar bones down to her tits, and drips down onto you from her hair, “look at my face, honey, i asked you something,” she tuts, leaning down to nudge your forehead with her own.

“yeah, i’m gonna make you cum now,” you say softly, your face heating up as ellie’s lips quirk into a little smirk, “i wanna eat you out,” you tell her, leaning up to kiss her so you don’t have to look at her face anymore, she makes you feel so flustered sometimes it feels impossible to do anything other than kiss her.

“sounds good, honey,” ellie says with a wider smirk that tells you she knows exactly how you’re feeling. she presses another brief kiss to your lips and stands up quickly afterwards sitting herself on the edge of the bathtub with her legs spread a comfortable distance apart. you follow her out of the bath, pulling your towels from the rack beside the tub and stand on the bathmat in front of her, biting your lip as you stand in front of her. you try not to be shy but it’s so hard when she’s looking you like she wants to eat you up, her pupils blown with arousal.

“c’mere, baby,” she whispers, taking your wrists in her hands and pulling you to stand between her legs, “you want me to dry you off?” she asks, already taking one of the towels from your hands when you nod. she smiles at your timid agreement, leaning up to kiss your cheek before she starts patting you dry, her hands gentle over the curves of your body though the towel is a little scratchy.

it’s a small act of service but it feels good as she pats down your chest and sides. her hands briefly cup your breasts through the towel and she looks up at you with a grin on her face, less sexy and more teasing as she squeezes briefly before continuing to dry you off. she directs you to hold onto her shoulders and lift your legs up one by one so she can get your shins and feet and it’s all so sweet and domestic it makes your chest feel warm and fuzzy.

“lemme do you,” you request when she’s done, looking down into her eyes and wrapping the dry towel around her neck, smoothing it over her shoulders. she consents with a silent nod of her own, resting her hands comfortably on the edge of the tub and leaning back a little so she can watch you as you dry her off. you do it gently but quickly, mindful that she’ll get cold sat naked and dripping wet in the bathroom. you try not to linger too long when you dry her legs but the way the plush of her thighs gives under your hands is distracting and you blush when she smirks down at you knowingly.

“give me that,” she instructs gently, taking the towel from your hands and using it to quickly dry her hair enough that it isn’t dripping before draping it over the edge of the bathtub. she takes your towel and folds it up into something softish that you can kneel on before placing it on the floor between her legs. you kneel on it when she gestures at the ground between her legs, she’s more obviously manspreading now, slipping into the role she plays in the bedroom easily. you rest your cheek on her thigh when you’re both comfortable and look up at her.

the thatch of hair above her cunt is still a little damp though it’s dry enough to curl a little and it tickles when you lean over to kiss it. ellie laughs at the way your nose wrinkles to get rid of the tickly sensation and moves one of her hands to stroke the side of your face not already pressed to her skin.

“you’re so pretty,” she tells you, using her pointer finger to trace the features of your face. she trails over your jaw and chin, up to your cupids bow and the bridge your nose, your brow and the edges of your hairline, “is my pretty girl ready to eat me out?” she asks, laughing softly again at your quick nod and the way you sit up straight, if you had a tail it would be wagging as you look up at her, all wide eyed and full of adoration.

your arms reach up to wrap around her thighs before ellie tuts and pushes your hands away, “i’m gonna fuck your face, baby,” she tells you, holding the back of your head and pulling you back towards the apex of her thighs, “i’m not gonna let you tease me, i’m gonna take what i want,” she tells you, one of her hands leaving your hand to grip your jaw, strong and demanding, “you’re gonna let me, right, honey?” she asks, raising an eyebrow at you and really, you’re helpless to deny her, pressing your thighs together and swallowing the spit pooling in your mouth.

“yeah ‘m gonna make you cum, els” you nod, trying not to sound too eager and hoping you don’t look too much like the bobble headed figures some people keep in their trucks. seeing her above you like this, her grip still strong on your jaw and at the back of your head, her pussy not an inch from your face and the little happy trail she takes effort to groom leading your gaze up her flat stomach to her chest, it all makes you feel a little lightheaded. she isn’t a particularly tall woman by any means but on your knees, looking up at her like this when she’s so undeniably in control, it makes you feel like she’s six foot tall.

“alright, honey,” she says, smiling down at you like she knows exactly what's going through your mind, you wouldn’t be surprised if she did, you’re sure that despite your best efforts it’s written all over your face, “such a good girl,” she mumbles, more to herself than to you, she gives your jaw a little shake before she lets you go, caressing your cheek as she speaks, “stick your tongue out, baby,” she tells you, smiling again when you obey her, “good girl,” she tells you again before she’s pressing your face into her pussy, groaning at the feeling of your tongue against her.

she tastes the way she usually does, clean and a little musky, her skin smells a little like lavender from the soap but your senses are predominantly overwhelmed by ellie. her thighs closed tight around your head, her hand firm and demanding on the back of your skull, her clit bumping against your nose as she rolls her hips against your face, your jaw working hard to keep up with the pace she’s set. her pubic hair is soft and a little wiry against your skin, the feeling of it only makes you wetter and you feel yourself blush though you’re sure it’s impossible to tell.

“open your eyes,” ellie pants, already looking down at you when you open them to look up at her, “fuck, honey,” she groans, a furrow in her brow as she works her hips faster against you, her other hand leaving the edge of the tub and reaching for her breast. you watch as she plays with herself, rolling her own nipple between her thumb and pointer finger in a way you know feels amazing. she’s rougher with herself than you ever would be, digging her nails into her skin hard enough to leave little crescent moons and moaning.

“need more, honey,” she tells you, almost sounding whiny but you’d never tell her that, she would pout for hours and you’d probably end up over her knee. she stands up from the side of the bath, hand leaving her breast so she can hold both sides of your head tighter against her as she circles her hips against your face, your tongue pressed up against the soft skin of her cunt. you can just about get in enough air to stay conscious as she continues to use your face to get herself off, the edges of your mind feeling a little fuzzy in a way you’d be embarrassed to admit you adore and your eyes watering, lashes clumping with tears.

your chin is wet with her arousal and your spit, the slide of her hips only being made easier by how slick everything is becoming. you let your eyes flutter open again to watch ellie’s face twist in pleasure above you, the mounds of her breasts obscuring your view as she throws her head back but you can imagine the look on her face, the way her neck strains as she groans and the way her jaw clenches as you bump her clit.

“i’m gonna cum,” ellie moans above you, “move your mouth up just a little, honey,” she instructs, an almost frantic edge to her voice and you hurry to do as she says, pressing your tongue flat against her clit, “shit, honey, fuck,” she moans, her hips bucking hard agaisnt you and her thighs shaking. you move your head up just a little more and suck firmly on her clit and her moans turn higher pitched as she comes closer to her orgasm. her thighs tense as she cums, her release coating your mouth and chin. she grinds against you firmly as she rides it out, her hips twitching as she groans, eventually letting go of the tight grip she has on your head when she’s done with the aftershocks.

her fingers come to stroke over the sides of your face and cup your cheeks as you look up at her, face all shiny with spit and her release, a content little smile on your lips. it makes her feel sated on some deep primal level she’d rather not linger on, her girl covered in her cum after she’s taken everything she’s wanted from her. it makes her tummy heat up again and her cheeks burn red, she’s glad you can’t tell since she’s still flushed from her orgasm.

“good?” you ask, panting a little, you’re still a bit short of breath and your jaw is sore but it’s worth it to make her feel good, to know that you’re the source of all her pleasure. your hands reach for her thighs and she doesn’t bat them away this time so you take your time stroking her warm skin. she’s got soft, sparse hairs on her legs and you really shouldn’t be endeared by it but you can’t help it, you love her and you love her body, you don’t think you’ll ever get over it.

“so good, honey,” she sighs happily, leaning down to kiss you, “made me feel so good, such a good girl,” she smiles against your lips, kissing your cheek as she pulls away and reaching for a towel to wipe off your cheeks. her grip on your jaw gentle this time as she tilts your face so she can get you all cleaned off, she’s got a concentrated furrow in her brow and it feels so good to have all her attention directed at you, all her affection and tender touches, you feel like you might burst if you don’t let her know.

“hey,” you call softly, butting your head against her hands for attention, “i love you,” you tell her, not able to stop yourself from smiling when her face goes all soft and warm at your words. “i love you, too, honey,” she replies, bending down to kiss your forehead. she looks exhausted now, and you’re sure she’ll be complaining about her ‘scratch’ come morning but she’s here and in one piece and smiling her soft, happy, i love you smile so you can’t really find it in yourself to worry about anything at all.

#ellie williams imagine #ellie x reader #ellie williams #tlou2 #tlou x reader

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gingerlurk · 9 months

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Lovers' Crest | Chapter 3: The End

Din Djarin x f!Reader

Summary: You and the clan of two regroup.

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, slow burn, non-canon (the Razor Crest never gets destroyed, it also gets upgraded with a cabin), canon-typical violence, eventual smut/filth, post season 3, canon-typical violence, Reader is: a rich runaway, a badass, hinting at being force-sensitive. uhhhh please advise if there's more to add here thank you

A/N: The end??? (It's not the end.) Chapter 1, Chapter 2, A03. Thank you for reading!

You don’t get far before colliding with another platoon of bandits, who descend from a different grate to land in your path out of there. This time though, Mando doesn’t try to shove you anywhere or order you to stay back. He simply nods to you and moves into motion.

It’s kind of hot. And you let that soar through your blood as you move side on to a trio and make a violent dance around them. You drop one after the other, finishing the third just as he’s shouting a frustrated slur into your face.

Looking for the next opponent, you spot something and your blood runs cold.

From the corner of your eye you glimpse a huge foe advancing on Grogu, who has hung back from the fray. The child has a tiny arm raised with his eyes shut tight, afraid and defenceless. You don’t even check what Mando’s doing, just surge toward him.

‘No!’ you cry, throwing yourself forward and spear tackling the hulk away from him. In your haste you miscalculate. The two of you tumble a few times. You manage to kick his blaster away. But before you can right yourself, the attacker has pinned an elbow under a gargantuan knee. Agony shoots up your arm. He grabs your other hand and gives it a harsh twist. You clumsily try to kick to connect with head, with chest, with anything.

The man on top of you snarls and draws a vibroblade, moving to hold it to your throat. You have a fraction of a second to panic about it carving into you. But the man’s weapon never reaches your neck. Instead, he gives a yelp of fear and lifts his whole body off of you before careening to the side, slamming into the wall.

You’re dumbstruck for a second, sitting up and spotting Grogu again, arm outstretched toward you. Then you roll across the floor and straddle your opponent’s hips, taking up his dropped blade and making to ram it into his chest.

His arms shoot up and grab your wrists, pushing back with incredible power. You lock your knees into his sides and lean all your weight onto the hilt. He grunts in pain but just keeps the shivering tip above his sternum. You’re losing strength. Your torso starts to rise as he pushes you away from him and you feel him planting his feet on the floor, about to throw more weight around than you know you can withstand.

You’re about to give out, exhaustion dragging at you. But then you feel it; the smallest touch at the back of your mind. It feels like something tender and strong is making connection with a presence at the edges of your consciousness, awakening it and nudging it into action.

It spreads without your volition, swimming into your limbs and you barely have to push yourself as the blade begins to sink again. Your prey’s eyes widen in shock, then terror. Mirroring yours. Then the blade drives home. He shudders and falls still.

The presence pulls back, back up into your skull and fades from your awareness. You turn behind you, as if it had taken a path there, and once again see Grogu. Calm, attentive, watching you like he’s seeing right through you.

You stare back, thoughts racing and chest heaving.

‘Grogu!’ Mando’s voice. ‘Ahead!’

Grogu looks past you and you whip your head around to see a goon not ten steps away, pointing a blaster straight at you. Your cry of ‘N--!’ is cut off when the weapon flies from his hand and skitters down the hallway. He has enough time to make a ‘Huh?’ of confusion before you’ve wrenched the blade from the chest below you and hurled it straight into his neck. He paws at it as he topples over.

The blaster lands within arm's reach of Mando, who takes it up and quickly finishes the final two squad members, who’d been in the middle of trying to bind him with lariats.

The tunnel is still again.

Your mind, on the other hand, is a cacophony of questions and fears. What the… fuck?

Dazed, half coherent, you watch Mando move to Grogu and kneel by him. ‘Great job, kid,’ he’s saying. ‘You did great.’

‘What?’ you gasp. He turns to you and freezes. You realise you’re still astride a dead man and quickly rise on shaking legs, relieved to only stumble a little as you make the few steps to the two of them. Mando stands as well, lifting the child in his arms.

You look between the two of them. And, unable to think past it, say again, ‘What?’

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, though his voice is strained, like he’s barely keeping it under control.

It focuses you though, and you shake yourself before looking up. A huff of relief.

‘Yeah, think so,’ you say, rubbing your elbow. ‘But uhh…’ you look back at the site of your little skirmish. ‘Can’t really explain what happened there, to be honest.’

Din hums, seems to be gathering himself as well. ‘Grogu…’ he holds the child comfortably in one arm. ‘He’s very special. I can explain more, but we should get moving again.’

Can you explain what I felt? You think. Explain how Grogu helped bring something into me?

‘Right,’ is all you say. ‘Let’s go then.’

The rest of the path is clear. When your party gets back to the ship, you’re expecting Mando to power up and head back to the base, unleash an assault, chase down his bounty. But as you all pile into the cockpit, he immediately starts engaging protocols to break atmo. You lean forward.

‘Aren’t you going back for Cephalopod, or whatever his name is?’ you ask.

‘Cephlate,’ he spits. ‘And no. This was a mistake.’

‘But—’

‘I said no!’ You can’t help your recoil, it’s so harsh and he’s so furious.

After a moment, you sense him schooling his anger, growing calmer as the Crest swings around to meet its course across rocky ridges, which fall away to become tiny wrinkles in the landscape.

‘Another day for that leech,’ he says. Again, you can’t tell if he’s addressing you or not. But then, ‘I’m sure there will be a puck for each of those brutes,’ he gestures behind you to the two goons, still laid out on the landing, groggy and subdued. ‘We’ll head to a nearby outpost I know and I’ll take them in.’

You just nod, feeling a little petulant that he should be angry with you. You’d helped.

But you lean back and watch the planet fall out of view, noticing the smallest tilt to the Crest’s yaw. That’s something you can help with at least.

The two thugs you’d single-handedly taken down did find a tidy reward, and the local law assured Din they’d communicate any intel they gleaned about Cephlate and his doings. It’s little enough to satisfy his simmering frustration.

When Din spots you on his return to the ship, his jaw actually drops. He cranes his neck up, then further.

‘What--?’ He calls. He doesn’t know what else to say. You’re hanging from the underside of the starboard wing of his ship, having jerry-rigged some sort of harness and strapped yourself into it. A panel hangs open and your arms are reaching into the load columns.

‘What!?’ He calls again, louder.

You lean your head back, push a pair of goggles – where did they come from – up and look at him upside down, braid dangling.

‘Oh hey!’ you call, unperturbed. ‘Sorry, I thought you’d be longer and I could get this done for you before you got back. It won’t take much more t—’

‘What are you doing?’ He barks.

You look at him like it’s bleeding obvious.

‘That traction port threw out the alignment – didn’t you notice?’ He had noticed, and it wasn’t that bad. He’d made a note to take the Crest in when he could; she’d still fly, dank farrik. You watch him as he broods on your question. Then you turn back to your work. ‘Well, it was driving me nuts, so I thought, why not? Plus, another way to thank you.’ You look back over your shoulder at him.

Thank him? She doesn’t have to thank him. It was his fault. His arrogance and idiocy almost got her ki—

He cuts off his thoughts. You’re looking at him still, now a hint of uncertainty in your brow. To be fair, he’s standing stock still with irritation radiating off him – it’s not directed at her but how would she know that? He lets his shoulders drop, sighs.

‘How long will you be?’ he asks. You brighten instantly.

‘About another half an hour?’

‘Fine.’ He marches into his ship.

He slumps in his chair. Everything about you is burning him up. He stews in silence until Grogu joins him. The kid hops onto the control bank and turns to look out at you, visible from the window, higher up and facing away, engrossed in your task.

Din glances over and then back at his console.

Without really giving it too much thought, his hand nudges the console’s screen. It lights up and the view of the cockpit’s camera angle winks to life. He hesitates, wondering if he’s violating your privacy, then dismisses it – it’s his ship – and scrubs through the recording.

He leans in to watch.

She’s settled on the floor at the rear, the control pad for the door in her hands as she fiddles with it. (Din glances back over his shoulder, it’s in its rightful place. He’ll have to find out what she did to it.) He scrubs forward to a point when she stands and fits the pack of wires and circuitry back into place. Then she freezes, poses as if listening intently, and lunges to the front to look outside.

(From this view, he can see her face clearly, and it conveys fear. His hand clenches into a fist where it sits next to the screen.)

She moves back to the door and punches at the button, presumably bringing the emergency lock online. (Smart.) And then she waits, standing tall and breathing evenly. Unfortunately, as they learned too late, the Crest’s lockdown was no match. (Why had he been so fucking foolish. He’s glaring at the screen, waiting for the inevitable invasion.)

The first to enter is a tall brute. He appears alone and his stance shifts from ready-for-a-fight to downright lecherous the moment he clocks her. He crowds into her space, wasting no time attaching a gnarly hand onto her upper thigh. He’s talking and leaning right in her face, squeezing the hand and shifting it to her ass. (The fist by the screen tightens so hard that knuckles crack and the leather glove groans.)

But she seems to be letting him get close, shifting her feet to be aligning with his and allowing herself to be pulled in. Then (to Din’s utter disbelief) she reaches her arms up to grasp his shoulders and climbs him like so much rigging. She lets his groping hand balance her as she leaps up to plant both feet at his hips, raise her torso over his head and swing forward, tipping over his shoulder in a breathtaking flip.

She lands at his back, hands still dug into shoulders, and converts the momentum into a throw across herself. Completely taken off guard, the guy ragdolls, somersaults and lands hard on his ass. He doesn’t get a chance to right himself as she meets his jaw with a savage kick that snaps his head back. He flops backwards and is still.

A second figure rounds the corner a moment later, hurling what looks to be a bolas. It flicks around her wrists, jerking her body sideways. But she doesn’t even break momentum as she spins around to meet his outstretched arms.

She makes use of the confined space to shift and twist around him, he flails and recoils as his shoulder and knee joints are assaulted and his head is bashed against walls and panel edges. Only one blow from him manages to connect, a sloppy backhand hitting her face (that explains the cut lip) but she doesn’t slow for a second.

The grunt finishes collapsed against the rear landing. She steps through the cockpit door and stands in front of him, saying something. The lolling figure talks back and she pounces on him, straddling his hips and drawing back before landing a ferocious double-fisted smack to his face. His hands fly up and he shouts something at her. She strikes him again and he goes limp.

Glaring at the screen, Din watches you somewhat clumsily bind the hands and legs of the two invaders before dashing out of shot, on your way to intercept with him. To free the Crest.

He cuts the feed. Something potent and searing that he can’t put into words gnaws away inside him.

Not long later, you step back into the hold, wiping grease from your hands and arms. You look surprised to see him waiting there, leaning against a storage locker. Coming to a stop in front of him, you offer a small, unsure smile. It pokes at the embers and Din straightens up, readies his few words.

‘I… have to apologise,’ he says. ‘For putting you in danger.’

The surprise returns, you start to shake your head but he pushes on.

‘And here,’ he holds out a small stack of credits. ‘The reward. You earned it.’

Your gaze softens as it drops to his hand, held out and wavering slightly. He wills you to move before he goes and blurts out something stupid. Just in time, you raise a hand. But instead of taking the credits, you push his hand back towards his chest, stepping into his space a little.

His lungs seize and he hopes you can’t hear his strained exhale of surprise.

‘No need for apologies,’ you murmur, looking up at him, eyes tender and yet boring straight into him. ‘And you don’t have to give me this.’ You look down at the credits. A moment so taut stretches between your stilled figures, Din is afraid what will happen if it snaps.

But you step away just in time, again. He makes to protest, huffily going to push the bundle back to you.

You hold up both hands, then let one rest on the wall of the ship.

‘Spend it on the Crest,’ you say, smiling wide. ‘She deserves it.’

Din’s whole body is set alight. It’s all he can do to bring the stack of metal back into both hands to finger nervously at their edges while regarding you steadily.

‘Okay,’ he finally says. ‘Thank you.’

You nod, expression turning a little sad. He’s unsure why until you say, ‘So, what happens now?’

Oh, it’s time to move on. He doesn’t want to, not for anything.

He looks around. ‘I need to reorganise a few things here before we make the jump to your home system. Is that okay?’

You once again give him your warm, small smile.

‘Of course.’

In the golden light of dusk, you both stand facing out onto the shimmering landscape. Mirages form and fade as the sun of this moon system rapidly sinks into the horizon. A swirl of breezy air makes its way into the entrance of the Crest.

It had been a genuinely companionable few days. Mando had moved quietly about his vessel, doing god knows what but letting you adjust and tune whatever you wanted to lay hands on. He’d let you take his small cabin to rest in, insisting he was just as comfortable in his cockpit.

You visited the nearby settlement for meals and he’d made surprisingly casual conversation as you and Grogu slurped broth and crunched on kabobs.

He’d also told you more about Grogu and the Force, mystical and mysterious powers you’d scant heard of in your rich schooling. The kid seemed shy to share it with you again though, and you don’t broach what you’d felt down in that tunnel with either of them, fearing its meaning.

Instead, you’d opted to teach the kid an old game from home – defend this ‘home tree’ and spot your opponent before they snuck up and stole a branch. His giggles of delight, shrieks of triumph and burbles of outrage soon became your favourite sounds.

But now there was no more prep to do and it was time to get going. Home.

You shiver a little in the evening air but don’t make to move anywhere. You can’t seem to will yourself out of this moment.

Mando doesn't move anywhere either, but for once, while you are the one who is content to stay in silence, he seems to be willing himself to speak.

And sure enough, eventually, ‘I could use someone like you on the Crest.’ He says it quietly, maybe hoping you won’t hear, but you turn an ear to him and he sighs. ‘I do not get the time to work on her like I used to, with—’ he gestures to where Grogu’s little hatch sits open and the kid snores away inside.

You stay quiet. You don’t know what to say.

‘And I now know you could take care of yourself, and even, even defend him, if it ever came to it.’

For some reason, that really cuts you deep.

‘I would pay well,’ he pauses. ‘Well, not like what you are used to probably… Uh, I am more offering a chance to see around a bit. That seems to appeal to you…’ He trails off.

You don’t know what to say. You know what you want to say. But you know what you actually have to say. It makes you abjectly miserable.

And gods, his nervousness is so charming.

Giving into the chill a little, you wrap your arms around yourself. You order the words in your head carefully before speaking.

‘Have you… perhaps neglected to consider the extremely large payday awaiting you on my return home?’ you say, staring hard at the last slivers of light on the horizon. Golden shards piercing the encroaching blackness.

‘I can find other lucrative work,’ he says. ‘Especially with a dedicated ship mechanic keeping her true.’

He’s missing your point. Another beat while you assemble more words.

‘Perhaps then, consider what such a large payday implies of my Uncle’s want to have me returned? By any means necessary, if I recall?’

He actually goes to speak again, like there’s any argument to be made.

‘And besides,’ you barrel on, now ready to rip the plaster off for good. ‘It’s my family. I’ve put them through enough. There’s, there’s stuff there I should be taking responsibility for. People I, I owe it to, to be present there. Gods! He actually wants me back--’ You stop with a choked off gasp. Breathe, compose yourself dammit.

‘Don’t, don’t get me wrong – that all sounds so wonderful. But I just… I have to go back.’

To his everlasting credit, Mando simply straightens, gives you a nod of acquiescence.

‘Okay then, we should head in. It will become cold soon.’

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#the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mandalorian and grogu #mandalorian fanfic #starwarsedit #pedro pascal #themandalorianedit #the mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you

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writing-fanics · 1 year

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Little Taste of Humanity [Part IV]

Millions Knives x [Reader x Vash]

masterlist > previous part > next part

[warning: blood : knives being a creep: implied torture]

[summary: it’s been a couple of days, and knives is suddenly being nice to y/n?]

[Y/n] hated every second of every minute that they were there. They didn’t feel safe around Knives. He creeped them out and the things he said about humans disturbed them.

How he called them parasites and how he’ll exterminate every last one of them. It sent shivers down their spine who someone hated, humanity so much. Yet, he keeps one as his prisoner one that means the world to his younger brother, and if he killed them, it might possibly send younger brother over the edge. He keeps them alive, and feeds them and makes that their needs are met.

For some reason for the past couple of days, Knives has been increasingly nice to [Y/n]. Which made them sick to their stomach, what was he playing at? Why is he being so nice all of a sudden?

“What’s going on?” [Y/n] wondered, seeing the present at the end of their bed. Opening it, revealing a book and some new clothes.

“Clothes? And a book?” Raising their eyebrow the looked at the book. Titled SEEDS, and [Y/n] remembered hearing about this when they were a kid.

‘Wanna know what Vash truly is?’

The letter read, they opened the book and began reading about the Seeds program. As well about Plants, they knew a little bit about Plants. Basically, the life force needed in order for people to survive on Gunsmoke. Without it, humans wouldn’t be able to survive on the desert planet.

“Hm, I figured Vash wasn’t human.” They mumbled, already having some ideas. Cause no human is that good with a gun, and can move that fast and switch while in a fight. And take the damage he takes, and basically walking it off. Until it’s up to [Y/n] to patch him up.

Closing the book, their eyes drifted towards the clothes inside the box. They looked nice and seemed brand new, raising their eyebrow they titled their head to the side. “What’s all this about?” They said, looking at the clothes.

[Y/n] didn’t know what Knives was up too, why was he being so kind all of a sudden? Giving them gifts, and theses books. All they wanted to do is leave, and return to Vash. Who they know is worried sick about them.

They couldn’t stand the thought of how much pain he was in, and how worried to death he was. Probably, tossing and turning in his sleep. Waking up in a cold sweat, unable to even sleep at times as well.

It pained their heart, they cared about him so much. Hell, more than cared they loved him. And didn’t have the courage to tell him how they felt. Whenever they were around him, their heart would be pounding against their chest. And occasionally would stammer on their words, especially when he became protective of them.

They remembered when a bandit, held a gun to their face. Vash immediately went from goofy to serious, pulling them out of the line of fire. Even though, they could handle themselves there were occasions where Vash would have to step in.

. Time Skip .

“Why’re you being so nice all of a sudden?” They asked, looking at Knives who smiled seeing them in the new clothes he gave them.

“Shouldn’t I treat my guest with the upmost hospitality?” He asked, smiling and they raised their eyebrow. Folding their arms across their chest and scoffed.

“Guest? Pfft, more like prisoner.” They said, shaking their head as they glared at Knives.

“You keep me here against my will, you’ve injured my leg, you’ve threatened to torture me.” They listed off, glaring at him.

“Oh, I’m being tested with the upmost hospitality here surely.” They said sarcastically, Knives then swiftly appeared behind them, a sadistic smile on his face. A chill went down their spine as he breathed against their neck.

“You know…” He says, leaning in closer almost whispering into their ear.

“You look rather nice in theses new clothes.” He says, and their eyes widened immediately turning around to punch him from getting too close.

But his knives chains wrap around their wrist, and they yelp in pain as he tightens the grip. Digging into their flesh and drawing blood. He then lifted them off the ground with the knives, and threw them against the wall.

Causing them to fall onto the ground, they tried to lift themselves up to only fall back down with a thud. Knives slowly walked over to them, his knives scrapping against the ground.

[Y/n] didn’t realize Knives was was in front of them before it was too late. He smiled, tilting his head to the side and grinned. “Let’s see what my little brother will think of you after this.” He says, raising the knives into the air and before they could even scream.

#yandere!knives millions x y/n #yandere!knives millions x you #yandere!knives millions x reader #yandere!knives millions #yandere!knives million #yandere #vash the stampede x you #vash our beloved #vash the stampede x y/n #vash the stampede x reader #trigun vash #vash x reader #vash the stampede #x reader #fanfic #angst #headcanons #fluff #romance

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just-a-silly-little-whumper · 2 months

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Another side story! Based off of this piece by @crash-bump-bring-the-whump because I couldn't get the idea of a vampire party out of my head. This is (loosely) for @whumpril Day 12: Weak Pulse.

Lord Denholm hosts a party. All of his guests are enamored with Elze'ith. This ends wonderfully for Lord Denholm, and terribly for Elze'ith.

Contains: Vampires, intimate whump, captivity/gilded cage, blood drinking, bloodbag whumpee, blood loss, multiple whumpers, briefly referenced prior noncon, dissociation, dehumanization, mind control, lots of complicated emotions

~~~

“And where did you get this one, Milord?”

The noblewoman, dressed in a fine silk gown and ornate golden jewelry, regarded Elze’ith with a hungry look in her piercing red eyes. Elze’ith couldn’t quite meet her gaze, instead shifting barely closer to Lord Denholm and looking somewhere over the woman’s shoulder. The way Lord Denholm’s grip on him tightened in response was almost a comfort. Almost.

“Oh, he came to me,” Lord Denholm said, dark and pleased. “Was fleeing some nasty bandits, but they didn’t survive the journey into my Valley. My light, on the other hand, did, and decided to stay with me after I gave him a bit of help.”

The words grated against Elze’ith’s soul. It wasn’t a lie, and Elze’ith knew firsthand the way nobility danced around the truth the same way they danced around the ballroom floor. But hearing Lord Denholm tell his story, leaving out so much detail and context, not even mentioning Altair, just made his heart twist with so many emotions in a way he hadn’t quite expected. It shouldn’t have meant anything; that part of his life was over now, gone and abandoned, nothing but a memory of something beautiful but ephemeral. What did it matter if it was misrepresented, if he couldn’t tell his own story? What did it matter if the man who never came for him was treated as beneath acknowledgment?

His eyes slid to the young woman at the noble’s side. She was slight, and pale, and shaking. There was an emptiness to her eyes that haunted him with its familiarity. The fang marks in her neck stood out starkly against skin that clearly hadn’t seen sun in ages. Elze’ith wondered what she saw when she looked at him. Wondered, if he smiled at her, if she would afford him any response at all.

Not that he would have the chance, because the noblewoman’s gloved hand came up to grip his chin, forcing his eyes up to meet hers. The intensity there made Elze’ith swallow instinctively, feeling like a cornered animal despite the abundance of space in the ballroom. “Well, he is quite the catch, Milord. I hear he is magically inclined as well, is he not?”

“Indeed. My light’s healing abilities are unparalleled. He is extremely impressive in many regards, even beyond his magical prowess.” Though he couldn’t see it, Elze’ith could feel delight radiating off of Lord Denholm, completely unconcealed. “Watching him work is something I never tire of.”

“Beautiful and talented.” All Elze’ith wanted to do was shrink away from the predatory gaze, but he couldn’t, trapped as he was between Lord Denholm and his guest. “I can see why you like him so much, Milord. I have to say, I envy you. My current attendant pales in comparison.”

The pale, shaking woman flinched, shrinking in on herself. Elze’ith felt bile turn in his stomach as Lord Denholm laughed, dark and cold enough to send shivers down Elze’ith’s spine. He was sure Lord Denholm could feel them. “Oh, you flatter me, Lady Hawthorne.”

“I only speak the truth. He seems absolutely delectable.”

��He is indeed.” Lord Denholm’s hand ran up and down Elze’ith’s arm in what could have been a soothing gesture, had it not felt so possessive and ensnaring. “And I would hate to let you leave without sating your curiosity. It is what he is here for, after all.”

Blood turned to ice in his veins as Lady Hawthorne grinned, her fangs glinting in the magical lantern light. “You really are too kind, Milord.”

Somewhere deep inside him, the instinct to flee rose up, warring with the deeper urge to stay still and unobtrusive and compliant. Any decision was taken from him, as it always was, by Lord Denholm’s weight pressing against his back, and his voice, low and smooth in his ear. “Go on, my light. Hold out your wrist for our guest. Let her see how impressive you are.”

His arm rose of its own volition, extending out towards Lady Hawthorne like a humble offering. Gloved hands took his, and for a moment her thumb just traced over his wrist, right under the seam of his own glove and right over his pulse point. He wondered if she could feel his heartbeat pounding away frantically under his skin— wondered if she could hear it. She probably could; Lord Denholm always could, after all, and she was just like him.

Was she gentle in slipping off his glove and rolling up his sleeve because she wanted to be, or was it just because Lord Denholm was watching her intently? Elze’ith didn’t think he wanted to know. He almost wished she would be rougher; maybe then he would find the strength to fight back. Maybe then Lord Denholm would allow it.

But there was nothing he could do to stop her from lifting his wrist to her lips. He barely winced as her fangs pierced his skin; it was a familiar pain, after all, one he had felt countless, countless times. She drank slowly, as though he were a glass of wine she were savoring. He sank back into Lord Denholm, trying not to show his discomfort at the slow pace and unfamiliar fangs and the sensation that wasn’t quite right. The entire time her sharp, keen gaze never left him, as though she could learn everything about him by studying him in this moment. Somehow, it was better and worse than the feedings he was used to.

In the smallest of mercies, she pulled away before Elze’ith even began to grow dizzy. Her tongue swiped one last time over her red-stained lips, and it was only the fact that Elze’ith had seen his blood coat Lord Denholm’s mouth in such a fashion so many times that allowed him to keep his composure.

“Exquisite.” Her voice was awed, almost reverent. “Why, if he wasn’t yours, Milord, I would take him for myself. To think, you can have that whenever you like.”

“Mm, and more than that, too,” Lord Denholm hummed. “Like I said, he has many talents. A shame that you can’t experience all of them. He is so deathly shy, after all.”

Elze’ith’s face burned in mortification. That was the last thing he wanted to think about, and to have Lord Denholm bring it up so casually, to have him brag about it… All Elze’ith wanted to do was vanish back into his chambers and never come out again. Especially when Lady Hawthorne laughed, mirthful and vicious, and looked him up and down like she was imagining what was hidden underneath all of his layers. Elze’ith shuddered. “Oh, I can only imagine, Milord.”

It was a relief when she left. As soon as she was gone (and with Lord Denholm’s permission) he healed the punctures on his wrist, and though it still ached, at least he no longer had to hold it gingerly to avoid spilling blood on his clothes or the ballroom floor. Lord Denholm pressed a kiss to his temple, murmured soft words of praise for how good Elze’ith was at impressing his guests, and the gesture made Elze’ith feel warm and cold at the same time. He didn’t want to be impressive. He wanted to be safe. And he knew that was impossible here.

Because whether by conversation or the scent of blood or just the unquantifiable aspect of Elze’ith that drew so much unwanted attention, more and more of the guests were turning their gazes to him. He could catch whispers of conversation, spot eyes scrutinizing him completely unabashed. The party was continuing on as normal, and yet it wasn’t, because everyone had a new subject for their curiosity. Even despite all of the people in the ballroom, the familiar sounds of clinking glasses and shuffling feet, Elze’ith had never felt so out of place, so exposed. He would do anything to leave the party early, to find a corner to hide in, to be anywhere but here, but Lord Denholm’s grip on his arm and his mind was firm. And it only grew firmer as another man, dressed in ornate robes and flanked by two vacant-eyed servants, approached the two of them.

He and Lord Denholm might have exchanged pleasantries, but Elze’ith didn’t really hear them. The fear rushing in his ears at the way this man’s gaze kept flitting to him, keen and wanting, drowned out the conversation. It was going to happen again. And if it happened a second time, then…

A command settled over him, and Elze’ith was pulled from his frozen thoughts as his arm once again extended to the new guest. There was no precursor of gentleness in the way the nobleman’s cold hands grasped his wrist, nor in the wicked smile that exposed his fangs before he sunk them in. Though he bit his lip, the smallest of whimpers still left him at the burst of pain and the deep ache of being drained, this time meticulous and thoughtful and deep.

Neither of the servants that had accompanied the nobleman met his gaze. Elze’ith couldn’t blame them. He didn’t know if he would be able to stomach the sight, if he were in their position. That didn’t make it hurt less, didn’t stop him from craving even that slightest bit of connection, but he did understand.

When the nobleman pulled away, a drop of blood rolled down his chin. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. Elze’ith had to avert his gaze from the sight. “I thank you, my good Lord Denholm. This truly was a treat.”

Lord Denholm laughed again. More words were exchanged that Elze’ith didn’t hear. He just cradled his hand close to his chest, as though he could shield any part of himself from more pain. As the conversation continued, even though he knew it was risky, he took the opportunity to heal over the wound. He was sure Lord Denholm noticed, but there was no immediate reprimand, no order to stop, so he had to hope that it was okay. At the very least, he felt a vague sense of satisfaction from Lord Denholm, an emotion he clung to as he tried to collect himself.

Soon enough, the nobleman left. Vaguely, Elze’ith berated himself for not catching his name. It was so rude of him, to be so ignorant to a guest, even though he knew it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t the host of this gathering, and he would never get the opportunity to use the name anyway.

“You’re doing wonderfully, my light,” Lord Denholm murmured into his ear. Elze’ith’s shoulders rose towards his ears as he flushed. Just as before, the praise ignited a mix of emotions, yearning and disgust and contentment and fear all swirling within him. “Keep doing what you’re doing. We have many more guests to entertain.”

That promise, and the sight of a leering couple approaching them, made Elze’ith’s heart knot definitively with fear. Not even the soothing, coaxing presence of Lord Denholm in the back of his mind was enough to keep it at bay.

The night became even more of a blur than it already had been. Elze’ith lost count of the number of guests Lord Denholm took him to meet, the number of eyes that looked at him like they wanted to take him apart, the number of times he was made to hold out his arm in offering. Each time a stranger’s fangs pierced his wrist it somehow became more difficult, more painful, more humiliating. No one spoke directly to him, instead talking about him as though he couldn’t hear, even as those sharp smiles and keen eyes held him in their full focus. He had never felt less like a person and more like a curiosity, an exhibit, a bottle of wine being passed around.

And even though no one took all that much of his blood, even though he was used to being fed from, it grew harder to stand and move and focus as the night wore on. Was the dizziness Elze’ith felt because of blood loss, or because of the incongruence he felt at being treated so callously? Was it both? Did it matter? Either way, he was being used for the gratificationt of people who didn’t care for what he felt. Even Lord Denholm was savoring how he flinched every time someone new approached, how he wavered in Lord Denholm’s firm, all-encompassing grasp.

If he could speak, he might have asked to retire early. He could tell that he was approaching his limits, as the world spun and his magic flickered and his fingers grew cold. But even if he could have, Lord Denholm wouldn’t have listened. Not when he was enjoying his party, and Elze’ith’s role in it, so very much.

He almost swooned as another set of fangs retracted from his wrist. It was so hard to keep himself upright; without Lord Denholm there, he was sure he would be on the ground. The idea was surprisingly tempting as exhaustion weighed down his body and mind and soul. He even thought he heard the noble who had drank from him commenting on it, a mention of low supply and weak pulse filtering in through the dizziness and sludge in his mind. Elze’ith could almost let himself hope. The party had to be over soon, right? He just wanted to be done. Wanted to rest. Wanted not to have to give any more.

That hope only surged as Lord Denholm pulled him to the side, away from the center of activity in the still-full ballroom. All he could do was hope Lord Denholm understood the pleading in his expression through the haziness he was sure clouded his eyes. He felt so terrible, drained and wrung out and exhausted. He just wanted to go to sleep.

But instead of offering any reprieve, any solace, Lord Denholm took Elze’ith’s still-bleeding wrist (had he forgotten to heal it? How long had it been?) and lifted it to his lips. There was no hiding the whine of pain and fear that escaped from deep within his soul. Even though Elze’ith had nothing left to give, Lord Denholm still took. His eyes fluttered and his body shook and the world tilted dangerously, but Lord Denholm drank anyway, long and careful as though he were relishing every moment, as though each drop of blood was an effort to extract. It was agony, so much worse than anything earlier in the night had been. His lips parted, instinctively wanting to beg for it to stop, but instead his whine only got louder, more insistent, more pitiful. And all Lord Denholm offered in comfort was a squeeze of his hand, as though that meant anything at all.

Elze’ith didn’t even get the mercy of passing out. Lord Denholm pulled away just as the darkness began to close in. His thumb pressed against the wound; Elze’ith barely had the strength to wince at the painful pressure. At least the sight of his blood on Lord Denholm’s face was familiar, even if it wasn’t any less horrifying than the first time he had seen it.

Maybe. Maybe now, Lord Denholm would be satisfied. Maybe now Elze’ith could rest. Surely Lord Denholm had to see...

“Come dance with me, my light,” Lord Denholm said, and though Elze’ith barely heard the words, his fluttering heart clenched in fear as the command washed over him. “Let us give our guests one final show.”

#flicker in the dark #flicker in the dark side stories #silly writes #whump #whump writing #elze'ith sylrel oc #lord soren denholm oc #vampires #blood #blood loss #dissociation (whump)#dehumanization #intimate whump #captivity #whumpril2024 #Whumprilday12 #weak pulse

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