#like every song is the same and he just rhymes the same word with itself constantly

[shitboy96]

Listening to bastille bad blood bc my bf has the vinyl and god I’m so embarrassed that I was a Bastille Stan back in 2014 this shit fucking sucks. I had the lead singer on my desktop blog for ages!!

[verbenaa]

opus 4 (nothing compares to the sighs that fall from your lips)

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:

“Have I mentioned how absolutely divine you look, darling?”

“Well, you did make the gown.” Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing him closer as you arch into him. He buries his face into your chest, kissing and licking at the skin bared to him above the low neckline.

“It’s quite easy when you have such a lovely muse.”

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𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: Astarion/Reader

𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: smut, 18+

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 6.9k

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: exhibitionism, frottage/thigh riding, clothed sex, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, vampire bites, blood, soft dom astarion, tailor astarion strikes again

𝑎/𝑛: if larian can't give us a masquerade, then i will! welcome to my current fixation which has been this masquerade ball fic. idk there is no rhyme or reason to this, its just fun and indulgent and glittery. i hope you enjoy and please like/comment/reblog etc ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

MDNI, 18+ CONTENT

ao3 here

masterlist

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The chandeliers twinkle brightly from the cavernous ceiling above as you float across the polished ballroom floor, slippered feet moving swiftly as your dance partner twirls you around, an arm wrapped tight around your waist while the other grasps your hand as he leads you through the elegant steps of a waltz. 

Wine burns through your veins as it sings a siren’s song, the sanguine liquid slipping down your throat with ease this evening, the vintage aged to perfection. Melted wax drips from the tapers decorating the room, their flames no more than whirls of shining light as you spin around and around, gown fluttering with every elegant movement.

It wasn’t often you attended these sorts of events, despite the amount of invitations you’ve received over the years. Being the most recent hero of Baldur’s Gate had its occasional perks it would seem, and this ball was certainly one of them. 

It was the same routine every time. You would open the frequently ostentation envelopes, perfect calligraphy written with expensive pots of colored ink on the front and oversized wax seals in golds and reds and blues on the back. Inevitably, after a passing glance at whatever solicitation lay inside you would feed it to your hearth, letting the fire gobble it up as it burns to black.

This particular invitation, however, had caught your eye. The envelope itself was nothing of particular elegance, though the black of the envelope and silver lettering did stand out among the others in your post box that day. The matching silver wax seal on the back opened easily with a quick flick of your letter opener, and a singular word on the thick vellum piqued your interest in a way that few ever did on these inane things.

Masquerade.

You can easily recall the way the word made your heart jump, mind moving to the imagined scenarios of your younger years, the adventures of storybook heroines always featuring stories of flowing gowns and glittering masks.

Your own gown flows around your form as you dance the steps, soft fabric laying perfectly against your curves as braided straps of silk rest over your shoulders. The skirt flows down around a high slit up the thigh, velvet the color of the deepest ivy brushing against the marbled floors with every movement. 

The metallic threads glow in the candlelight, embroidered designs of liquid silver cascade in small clusters down the bodice and onto the skirt like little groups of stars falling from the sky. The low back of the dress leaves you uncharacteristically bare, almost everything above the line of your waist exposed, though the air is warm against your skin with all the bodies present this evening.

Your dance partner cuts a dashing figure, a vision of velvet and quicksilver in his own right. He looked made for the part—like some dark hero from a storybook come to life in front of your eyes.

Gods, he looked so handsome. 

Your cheeks flush as you watch him, following his lead as his hands tighten around you, that familiar knowing smirk decorating his elegant features even with the dark mask he wears obscuring the top half of his features, claret eyes framed with black and silver.

You pull yourself closer to Astarion, filling your senses with his familiar and comforting scent as he continues to lead you through the steps with sleek perfection, footsteps confident and head held high under his disguise.

The dance ends, orchestra moving on from the dreamy waltz you had just turned about to on the floor, a lilting concerto taking its place after a brief respite. Astarion leads you to the side of the dance floor, a hand poised on your waist as you walk to the fringes of the room. 

You touch his velvet-covered shoulder, the intricately embroidered doublet matching the color of your own gown to perfection, down the same argent threads. The two of you were certainly coordinated this evening, if nothing else.

It had taken little to convince Astarion to agree to join you, his own love for overdramatic and lavish debauchery too much to deny something like a masquerade ball. He had certainly wasted no time designing outfits for the two of you, spending extra moments throughout his evenings constructing and embroidering them until every detail was as perfect as he had envisioned.

“Astarion!” You whisper into a delicately pointed ear, an emerald earring glinting in the candlelight as you rest your hand on his bicep, leaning your weight into him. “Go get us more wine!”

“You absolute lush.” His smile is fond as he leans over to press a kiss to your forehead, careful not to disturb the delicate lace mask resting over your eyes, satiny ribbon tied behind your head in a pretty, perfect bow.

It was hard to deny his comment, especially when there was that delightful fuzziness that occupied your every sense, clouding everything in a wonderfully warm haze. You had easily lost track of the number of glasses you had imbibed over the evening, though you are fairly certain you simply misplaced some still half full goblets on the random trays of servers who wandered through the space.

Your thoughts swirl as he walks away from you in search of more spirits, his retreating figure a vision. He really was too handsome, dressed in his finery like this. Maybe you were wrong all these years to give your regrets to so many an occasion, if seeing Astarion dressed in the rich velvets and silks he deserved to wear was to be your prize.

A hand on your shoulder draws your attention, and you turn a moment later, reactions slowed by the alcohol still dancing in your veins. Behind you is a man, handsome enough—if only in a rather ordinary way—his warm brown eyes looking out at you from behind a mask of bright crimson as he gives you a friendly smile.

“I must ask how such a lovely gem such as yourself is simply wandering around alone on a night like this?” The words are meant to be suave and charming, though you ignore them, as uninterested in the man now standing before as you are in his words or the meaning behind them. Your eyes draw instead to a overflowing vase of flowers on a table behind him, a downright gaudy display of cultivated blooms bursting from an equally ostentatious vase.

“Do you happen to know what type of flowers those are behind you?” You point at them, not addressing the man’s prior words to you. He turns to look behind him with befuddlement, taking in the large arrangement with barely a blink of his eyes before he turns back, scanning up and down your velvet-clad figure.

“I’m afraid flowers aren’t my specialty.” His answer is short and no-nonsense, he was clearly a man uninspired and uncreative if that was the best he could come up with, the roll of your eyes mostly obscured by the lace covering your face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting you before, may I ask your name?” He sidles ever a bit closer, and you take a measured step back in response as you cross your arms casually in front of you, head tilting to the side as you observe him.

“How could you know? We are masked, after all.”

“It would be my honor, my dear mysterious Lady, to have your next dance?” His words are polite, even with such blunt forwardness. 

You are saved from having to answer by an arm wrapping around your waist from behind, that wonderfully delicious scent of bergamot and brandy filling your senses with his presence.

The man across from you looks affronted at Astarion’s arrival, eyes falling to the arm wrapped tightly around your body and the angular face pressing against the crown of your head.

“Darling, won’t you introduce me to your new friend?”

“Oh! My love, you’ve returned!” Your smile is beatific as you turn towards him, eyes meeting his own you look for your promised goblet of wine.

“You never mentioned you were…partnered.” The man—what was his name again?—says before you two, a frown etched onto his features. 

“Well, you never asked. This is my—” Astarion cuts you off before you can finish.

“Husband.” There’s a prideful possessiveness to his words that strike your interest, though you fight the urge to roll your eyes all the same. You and Astarion may be life partners, but married you were not.

“Here you are, my sweet.” He holds the full goblet towards you as it dangles between his elegant fingers, wine threatening to spill from its silvered edges. “Now, let us continue our fête elsewhere, hm?”

You give the man a bored look before turning away, downing your wine quickly before moving to place the empty silver on the table behind him, the overlarge bouquet towering over you. Without a second glance, Astarion takes your hand in his, pressing a kiss to the back before stepping away with you into the crowd beyond.

He leads you to a secluded corner, the area obscured by the shadows of the lofty space. Astarion’s footsteps finally slow as you near the wall and he notices your raised brow, an expectant expression on your face.

“Married, Astarion? When exactly was our wedding day, just so I don’t forget the anniversary.” You speak wryly, an amused smile on your lips. “I’d hate to not get you a gift.” 

“Well, we may as well be married. Don’t you agree?” 

“I certainly don’t see a ring on my finger.” You make to look at your hand, a playful smile old your lips as you tease him. Astarion’s frown deepens, a look of childish petulance crosses his features, obvious even with the mask hiding his expressive eyebrows.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous that another man was simply talking to me?”

“Darling, I think he would have done more than simply talk to you if you’d let him,” He rolls his eyes, exhaling a huff as his hands come to rest above the swell of your hips, bracketing your waist with those talented, nimble fingers.

“Besides, he wasn’t talking, he was flirting with you.” You could swear he was pouting, amusement building with every passing minute as you bite your lip to hide your growing smile.

“I hadn’t noticed, honestly.” Your shrug is a touch too put on, the casualness of the action at odds with the finery you wear as the smile you try to hide escapes, painting your features with a certain cunning that Astarion knows all too well.

“Oh, I think you knew exactly what you were doing, darling, letting that man flirt with you.” Astarion’s hands on your velvet covered waist tighten as he walks you backward, not stopping until your back meets the intricately wainscoted wall, the two of you partially obscured by the heavy drapery of a nearby balcony.

“You’re far too smart, my sweet, to be so unaware.” The rest of ball swirls on obliviously around you both, dizzying in its opulence as music from the orchestra begins its climb to a rousing crescendo.

A coy smirk is the only answer you give him, the incline of your head daring him to continue as the lace covering your eyes only adds to your mystique tonight. The wine running through your veins turns your body hot, your confidence brimming with the help of the alcohol.

“And so what if I did, Astarion?” His ornate mask does little to hide the spark flaring to life in his crimson irises, thumbs tracing circles dangerously high on your ribcage as he steps closer into your space, the flowing skirt of your gown brushing against his own finery as he pushes close.

“Then I suppose you leave me no choice but to give you a little lesson, dearest.” 

One of the hands at your waist skates up, passing over your breast before brushing up the column of your neck, hand wrapping lightly around your throat as you lean your head up to look at him. His fingers brush over leftover scars from feedings past, and the sudden pressure on your throat has your body on high alert, heat licking at the bottom of your belly as you inhale a shaky breath.

Astarion’s mouth crashes down onto yours, stealing your breath as he kisses you with abandon. You answer his kiss with your own hunger, opening your lips to welcome his tongue. Your free hand comes up to brush against his chest, fingers tightening in the fabric to pull his body closer as your lips and tongue move against his own.

Your back is pressed hard against the wall behind you, the molded wood cool as Astarion crowds you, his chest pushed tight against your breasts. You widen your legs slightly and he quickly fills the space, a covered thigh coming to rest in between the slight spread of your own.

Astarion’s lips move to your jaw, your head tilting for him as the hand on your neck gives one last squeeze before brushing down your side until it finds your hip. The thigh between your legs presses in harder, and you thank the Gods that Astarion had the wherewithal to design a gown with such a high slit as you feel the fabric of his pants against your bare skin of your upper thigh.

The hand on your hip pushes you slightly forward and your covered center makes contact, the hard muscles of his leg rubbing deliciously against your core. You choke on a moan, and you can feel his smirk against your skin as his lips caress that spot behind your ear you love so much. 

“Do you think you can do it? Ride my thigh with all these people milling about?” His words are spoken low into your ear as your eyes fall shut at the tone of his voice, the devious lust that permeates every word sending a shiver through your body.

You bite your lip as you tug him closer, burying your face into his neck. You move your hips, starting with a slow movement, barely enough to provide any relief. But you feel it, all the same, cheeks flaming as you focus on Astarion and his leg, the alcohol drowning out the noise of the rest of the ball around you. 

What must you look like, you wonder, to anyone who happens to look on? You hope that the image of you together is only that of a pair of lovers embracing closely, too lost in their own world to care about anything else.

You can feel your wetness growing with every pass over his thigh as your hips undulate in soft motions, Astarion’s body pressed as close as possible to your own, shielding you with his form as much as he can from your place in the shadows. 

The feeling is wonderful, enticing in such a public arena, but it is far from enough. Your arousal grows, the dampness seeping through your underwear and onto the dark velvet of his pants as his cock twitches against you, his length hard as it strains against the fabric.

You feel his hand come down from your waist to brush against the slit where it falls against your thigh, his fingers tracing up and down your skin in teasing passes.

Those fingers slide inside the skirt of your gown, grazing the outside of your thigh as they make their way towards your ass. Your skin is hot where his cool fingers touch, a blazing line of heat marking every movement they make as he caresses the flesh barely hidden by your underwear.

“How wet are you, darling?” His words are sinful as he whispers them in your ear, hand easing under the line of your panties to rub against your bottom, his fingers creeping ever closer to the place where your aching cunt connects with his leg. 

“Astarion,” You whine in his ear, hand gripping the collar of his doublet. “Please.”

You don’t even know what you are begging for, but as Astarion’s fingers finally find your wetness you are unable to conceal the moan that falls from your lips. His fingers move, just enough to gather evidence of your arousal on his fingertips. 

“Oh, you sweet thing. You like this, don’t you?” You can hear the smirk in his voice as his hand trails away from the center of you, brushing back past your underwear and out of your gown. He brings the fingertips up to press against his lips, tongue sneaking out to lick at the slight sheen that coats them. 

Your mouth goes dry at the sight, your breathing hard as your eyes trace his features.

Astarion’s hand covers your own where it grips at his collar as his other adjusts himself in his pants, hiding his erection as best he can from sight. He pulls away from you, helping you adjust your dress with quick fingers. Your eyes catch upon the sight of your arousal on his pants, catching the light as he turns. You cheeks burn at the sight, your swallow audible.

“Follow me, love.” You don’t question him on where he is heading as he makes a line for the closest set of ballroom doors, pace quick as he weaves the both of you through the sea of bodies that make up the cities’ finest members of society. 

“Are we going home?” You whisper quietly as you follow, unsure if you were ready to commit the incandescent aura of the evening to memory alone quite yet.

It had taken hours to get ready, time spent bathing together before pampering each other—applying scented oils on skin and through hair, Astarion helping you pin your hair into its complicated updo this evening taking almost an hour alone, his fingers applying the rouge to your cheeks and lips with care as he admired your features with the utmost affection. No, you certainly weren’t ready to leave quite yet.

“It would be a shame to end the evening so early, don’t you think?” Relief and joy spills through you in equal measure at his words, eager to continue tonight’s festivities, whatever they may be.

You walk through the main hall, hand in hand with Astarion, the wine still buzzing in your head as he draws you up the large, elegant staircase of swirling marble. Your presence goes unnoticed as you pass others dressed in their own finery, shimmers of glitters and gems, silks and tulles flowing past as you climb step after step.

You make it up the rise of the large staircase, skirt twirling as you spin around momentarily to take in the scene of the party now beneath you. Its a world of luster that takes your breath away, everything filtered with the heady glow from the candelabras and wine flowing aplenty. 

With a tug on your hand, Astarion leads you away from the center of the room, breaking off to go down a smaller corridor to the side before cutting aside on one or two more until you are isolated, the noise of the orchestra below now faraway and faint.

The hallway feels hushed and hidden away, safe from the prying eyes of society as the candlelight sconces adorning the walls flicker, dancing fragment of light illuminating the narrow corridor. Astarion walks you back with hands on your waist until you feel the half-paneled wall against your uncovered back, the wallpaper ornate with scrolling vines and berries, vibrant reds and greens contrasting against the darkness of your gown. 

Astarion’s head bends to your chest, pressing a tender kiss onto the swell of your breast, over the place your heart beats in three-quarter time.

“Have I mentioned how absolutely divine you look, darling?” 

“Well, you did make the gown.” Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing him closer to your breasts as you arch into him. He buries his face into your chest, kissing and licking at the skin bared to him above the low neckline.

“It’s quite easy when you have such a lovely muse.” His nose nuzzles at the flesh of your breast, breathing in your scent as he groans against you, pressing his hips against your own so you can feel the evidence of his prominent erection.

Astarion bites down into the flesh of your breast that rises above your gown without warning, fangs piercing the tender skin that heaves with your breath as he drinks in the sweetness of your blood. It flows thick in brightly colored streams, a surprised moan ripping from your lips at the sudden action.

He sucks from the swell above your gown, blood dripping to stain the bodice as he licks and tastes the rich claret of you made all the sweeter from the wine, his hand drawing down your belly before dipping lower. 

He finds that slit on your thigh, hand working its way underneath before moving to cup around your wetness as you cover your mouth with your hand, hiding your moans behind a palm as your eyes flutter shut.

Astarion moans at the dampness he finds there, fingers quick to push aside the gusset of your underwear to run his fingers through your slick folds, collecting your arousal on his fingertips, spreading your wetness up and down the expanse of your center. You can feel his erection pressing against you, still hidden by his pants as he relishes your body’s reaction to his actions, lips still licking and sucking at the skin of your breast.

The fingers at your core move to rub your clit, the light pressure a relief as you bite your bottom lip to keep quiet, eyes glancing to the side quickly before closing once more to indulge in the feeling, his mouth not letting up as he savors your lifeblood.

“Astarion, what if someone sees us?” Nerves make their way into your soft voice, barely a whisper as your body tenses slightly with unease at the prospect of being seen by another. Astarion’s head lifts away from your breast, fangs leaving twin pinpricks on your chest, blood pulsing from the wounds in time with your heart as his eyes draw up to your own.

“No one will recognize us, my dear.” A finger circles your entrance, and your knees threaten to buckle under the pleasure. “Though we can stop if you want to.”

You hesitate and Astarion’s fingers pause to give you time to think, his mouth still drinking from the blood leaking from your breast, tongue licking at any stray drops.

“No,” You shake your head, needing little time to ruminate on the decision. “Please, don’t stop.” You let the desperation you feel run into your hushed voice as you give him your consent to continue, your hands in his hair brushing through the strands as you buck your hips into his hand.

“Thank the Gods.” His finger pushes in, working its way into you with sinfully slow movements, your head hitting the wall behind you as you let out a hiss at the feeling. You can hear your wetness as his finger dives deep, the sound of it obscene in the otherwise silent hallway.

“Gods, you’re so wet,” He kisses against your collar bone, nuzzling into the skin there as he breathes in your scent. “Who knew you were such an exhibitionist? Absolutely filthy of you, sweetheart.”

You whine at his words, Astarion coaxing more quiet moans from your lips as his finger pumps deep inside you. His free hand trails up to your shoulder, pushing off the delicate strap of your gown before moving down to pull at your bodice. 

Taking care not to rip the velvet, Astarion succeeds in freeing the breast he had fed on, hand coming up to weigh it in a palm as his mouth licks at the exposed nipple. 

He sucks on the hardened peak as his finger pulls out of you only to be joined by a second a moment later, the stretch barely noticeable with your wetness aiding his smooth thrusts in and out of your cunt.

His fingers curl against your walls as his tongue licks at your nipple, laving the peak as he finds that special place, deep inside your body and presses into it.

He’s relentless as his mouth works your breast and his beautiful fingers fuck you, his other hand squeezing the breast still covered, fingers working underneath the fabric to brush at the nipple.

It would be so easy to come like this, a fact Astarion does not miss as he can feel your body’s reaction, the telltale tension building inside you. Slowly his fingers leave your heat, brushing up against your clit with slippery motions as you whimper at the loss of them. He presses one last kiss to the tip of your breast, still wet with his lingering saliva, before he lowers to his knees in front of you.

“Astarion, what are you doing?” Your words are breathless as your hands run through his hair, the mask on his face slightly askew.

“I still seem to be a bit peckish still, though for a slightly different taste.” Warmth rushes to your cheeks as they flush, the alcohol still floating through your body painting everything in that same warm haze that has surrounded you through the night.

Astarion’s hands glide up your legs, brushing over soft thighs as he grabs at either side of the underwear where it rests low across your hips. His eyes flick up to yours as he pulls it down, guiding the thin, lacy fabric down your legs. He’s unhurried, clearly not worried about being caught or seen as he takes his time while his eyes never leave yours. He steadies you as you step out of the panties, pocketing the damp lace with a roguish smirk and raise of his brows.

His hand wraps around your thigh, pushing it up and pinning it against the wallpaper as he holds you open to his gaze. Your pussy is absolutely dripping for him, the sight of his otherworldly beauty as he stares at the center of you, open for him, takes the breath from your lungs.

There would be no mistaking what was happening if someone were to come upon you now—Astarion kneeling before you, supplicant, as he bares you to himself—unmistakable to anyone gifted with eyesight.

Astarion leans in to press a kiss to the thigh he has pinned, lips moving across the smooth skin with the lightest of touches before skipping over your weeping core to kiss the opposite thigh. You whine at the blatant misdirection of his mouth, hips bucking in indignation with as much motion as you can manage.

“Oh, I’m sorry—did you want something, darling?” He moves his face away from your body to shoot a look upwards, his features smug as he sees the abject desire in your gaze tempering the glare you shoot down at him.

“I thought you were still hungry, dearest.” You keep your words sweet, not letting the aching want you feel bleed into your voice as your eyes narrow. 

“Patience, sweet thing. I’m sure I’ve taught you about it once or twice before, have I not?” His head dips forward once more, breathing in the scent of your essence with a performative sigh. “Now, ask nicely. And do use your words and tell me what you want.”

“Astarion!” You start, exasperation building as you contemplate the words to say to appease him. He could be so demanding at times like this, a trait you found yourself caught between loving and hating in equal measure, though ‘loving’ did usually win out in the end.

You briefly debate making him wait for your words, watching his own impatience grow as you play coy, but this certainly isn’t the time or place for what could be a long, drawn out battle of wills on who would break first.

“Fine. Pretty please, Astarion, will you do me the honor of licking my cunt until I come? Preferably before we get caught?” Your frustration mounts as you say the words though you find the strength to keep your tone as breezy and unaffected as his own, despite the slight embarrassment beginning to creep in as the elusive power of the wine fades ever so slowly with every minute that passes.

Astarion grants you your wish with a wide, feline smile, licking a stripe up the center of you, his tongue running through your folds before brushing lightly against your clit as he savors the taste of you.

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

His tongue laps at your folds, taking his time to move up and down in languid strokes, never focusing on any one place. It’s a maddening feeling, a whine slipping from your throat as your hips roll, asking for more.

His tongue dips into your entrance, whorling around the opening as he tastes you, his moan against your cunt matching the one that leaves your mouth. Your hands tighten in his hair, hips writhing as his tongue thrusts inside you.

Astarion is eager to taste your essence, tongue flicking deep in your waiting wetness as hushed cries fall from your lips with every brush against your walls. You could sob from the feeling of the lightning hot pleasure that works through your body in time with every push of his tongue. He eats you out like a man starved, his mouth moving against your entrance as he works to plunge you closer towards ecstasy.

His motions are fast-paced, quicker than normal as he works to bring you to your peak, and you whine once more when he tongue leaves to lave at your folds instead. Two fingers are quick to replace his tongue inside you as he circles your clit instead, flicking the pearl simultaneously with perfectly timed thrusts of his fingers, curling up into that special spot.

“You really are so good when you set your mind to it, love.”

Your pleasure ratchets higher, a tremor running through your body as the leg supporting you grows weak with your impending orgasm, muscles in your thigh shaking slightly.

“Astarion, please don’t stop,” Your begging only serves to spur him on, tongue moving faster and his fingers curling faster with a repetitive motion that has your body tightening around him.

“That’s it, darling, come for me.” Astarion’s words are reverent, and you embrace them as you hurtle over the edge, euphoria rushing through your body, the feeling enhanced by the leftover wine as your fingers grip tight in his hair.

You come on his fingers and tongue, Astarion working you through the waves of your completion as they flow through your body, your cunt spasming tight as his tongue doesn’t stop licking at your clit. You bite the flesh of your lip, the delicate skin splitting under your teeth as you keep the sounds of your orgasm at bay, tiny dots of red spilling over your lips.

You uncurl your fingers from his hair, smoothing out the curls as your breathing evens out and your orgasm leaves you in a sense of pleasant euphoria. Astarion presses soft kisses against the skin of your inner thigh as his fingers finally slow inside of you before pulling out. He places one last kiss to your entrance, licking up the remnants of your come before he leans back and places your leg back down onto the ground.

He rises from the floor with a graceful motion, hands skating up your curves as his mouth crashes against your own. You can taste yourself on his lips and tongue as he kisses you, the flavor of your own blood and come dizzying. 

Astarion licks at the blood on your lip, sucking on the mark as it bleeds. You open your mouth to him, his tongue tangling with your own as he deepens the kiss. Your hands work in a frenzy with his own to loosen his pants, the button finally coming free in your rush to free his cock from the confines of his clothing.

Astarion pulls his hardness from his underwear and you pump him, the velvety feel of his shaft warmer than normal as your blood courses through his veins. He moans into your mouth, hips pressing closer to you as you work his cock up and down, his precome shining in the light of the sconces as you spread the fluid on the heat of him.

His hands move down from your hips, brushing over your bottom as he grasps under the curve of your rear, squeezing.

“Up.” You are quick to obey, eager to feel him inside you as you jump up, Astarion catching you as his hips pin you in place against the wall, his hands supporting your weight in a tight hold against your ass. 

The half paneling of the wall presses into your back as you push your dress out of the way, the skirt easily parting around the slit as you guide his cock to your waiting cunt, still wet with your come. Astarion stares at your mouth as you lick at the precome that coats your fingers, pupils blown wide as you take a finger into your mouth and suck.

“Like the taste, darling?” Astarion’s erection finds your entrance, your wetness coating the crown of his cock as he bucks in shallowly, the head barely pressing inside you.

“Always. I think I’d like to have a little more.” Your arms wrap around his neck as you roll your hips against his cock, taking him slightly deeper inside your waiting warmth as you lick at his lips.

Astarion lets out a low growl as he pushes inside you in a single thrust, gliding home as hips meet your own. You both moan at the feeling of him inside you, the satisfaction of Astarion finally filling you euphoric as you wrap your legs around his waist. 

“Did you design this dress thinking about how you would fuck me in it?” Astarion sets a steady pace as he moves his hips, your own meeting his thrusts as best as you can with such a limited range of motion.

“Of course I did,” He licks at the blood drying on your lip. “I thought about how beautiful you would look coming on my cock wearing it, too.” 

He pumps his cock harder, hips rutting against your own as your arms around his neck tighten, bringing him ever closer to you. Your lips meet once more, pressing against one another’s to silence the noises of pleasure breaking from your throats with every thrust. 

“No one can make you come like I can, can they?.” His words come on an quiet exhale of exertion, tinged with the smallest bit os what sounds like possession, his lips brushing against your own with each syllable that leaves his mouth.

“Don’t tell me you’re still jealous, Astarion?” You can still feel the leftover fog from your orgasm, hands playing the hair at the nape of his neck, the strands soft against your fingers as you try catch your breath in vain, every thrust of his cock making it harder and harder to breathe.

“I want to hear you to say it.” The hands on your ass squeeze, cock hammering harder into your center. “Say: ‘No one can fuck me like you’.”

There’s a familiarity to the veiled desperation in voice, though its been years since you’ve heard it. You would know the sound of it anywhere, the cadence of his longing to be wanted and loved and cared for burned into your mind for eternity, settling there like a haze over your vision.

Your heart grows tender at his words, and you hold onto him tighter, pressing a kiss to his lips before giving him the words you know he needs to hear from your rouged lips.

“No one can make me come like you,” A kiss to the tip of his nose where his face rests close to your own. 

“No one can fuck me like you,” A kiss to one cheek, then the other. 

“There is no one for me but you, Astarion. Only you.” Finally, his lips—your love and passion pouring out onto him with the simple press of your lips against his, a hand coming to brush his cheek.

“Gods, I love you.” His thrusts grow sloppy as he grips your hips harder, mouth falling open against your own as his pleasure builds.

“I love you too.” You lips part with the tilt of your head backwards as Astarion hits a particularly deep place inside you, fingers curling hard into the fabric covering his shoulders. He thrusts faster, making sure to hit against the same spot on every push forward.

Astarion’s hand sneaks from behind you to press against your clit, rubbing quick circles as his thrusts grow frenzied, losing their rhythm as he chases his impending high, intent to bring you with him over the edge.

“Will you come inside me? I want to feel you.” You press a kiss onto the shell of his ears as you whisper the words, your tongue darting out to tease at the sensitive skin of the elegant point.

“Is that what you want, darling? My come?” His hips stutter at your words spoken so intimately as you clutch at him, the warmth of your cunt drawing him closer and closer to his peak.

“Gods, yes. Please!” You aren’t afraid to beg as his fingers strum fast on your clit as his thrusts hit deep, your vision clouding over as another orgasm nears.

“Then take it, love.” Astarion buries his face into your neck as he comes, hot spurts of his spend spilling deep inside your body as you ride him through his completion. The feeling of him coming is exhilarating, and his fingers don’t stop until you crest over with him, the contractions of your cunt drawing him in tight as you take all you can of him as he hides his moans into your skin.

You roll your hips on his still hard cock as you work yourself through your orgasm, Astarion still pumping his own shallowly inside you as he comes down, breath hot against your neck. 

Slowly, the world settles back down, both you coming back to yourselves from where you stand against the wall, breathing slowing. 

Astarion’s cock is soft as he pulls from you, his come sliding out with it to make a mess onto your thighs. Astarion watches as his come collects at your entrance, the fingers on your clit moving downwards to push it back inside you with a gentle motion.

“Waste not, want not, my love.” Astarion’s finger curls one last time to press against your walls as you squirm, your body overly sensitive in the aftermath of your orgasm.

He presses a kiss to your forehead before removing his finger, moving his hands to help you stand back on the floor with steady feet. 

He pulls your panties out of his pocket, bending down onto a knee as he helps you back into them, gently lifting one ankle after the other as you still catch your breath, before he raises the ruined lace back up your legs.

He adjusts the skirt of your gown, making sure the velvet falls perfectly before he presses a soft kiss to your covered stomach. He rises, fingers tracing your form as he does, dragging the long forgotten silk shoulder strap back where it belongs as you work your breast back into the bodice.

“Astarion.” You touch at his cheek, capturing his attention as he looks back at you. His gaze is clear as his eyes meet your own, the beautiful crimson red of them soft as he searches your face.

“You really are the only one, Astarion. You are the only one I will ever love, until my dying breath. There will never be anyone else.” You watch as your words settle over him like a balm, the love you feel radiating into him as he accepts them into his own heart.

His features soften even as he scoffs at your words, his hand coming up to cover your own on his face despite himself.

“Oh, I know. Maybe I just wanted to hear you say it.” You let him lie, willing to let him keep this facade in tact.

“I’ll say it as many times as you wish.” Astarion’s hand takes your own where it rests on his face, pressing a kiss into the palm before lowering your joined hands.

“I’ll be sure to let you know, darling.” Astarion adjusts his own finery, settling the velvet back to rights as his eyes draw to the bodice of your ruined gown.

“Did you account for potential bloodshed when you designed the dress too?” You remark as you eyes follow his own line of sight, looking down at the blood staining the velvet dark with wet, sticky blotches. 

“Let’s just be thankful that blood and wine look similar.” 

“Nothing we can do about that bite mark though.” You sigh as you attempt to pull up the neckline slightly higher to no avail.

“Everyone will simply have to be left to wonder, then, won’t they?” Astarion bends down to press a fluttering kiss over the marks decorating your chest, squeezing your hand.

“Think you have another dance in you?” You squeeze at his hand back in response.

“I suppose we still have a few more hours before sunrise to wile away.” Astarion walks, gently pulling you after him as the pair of you make your way back to the glittering ballroom below. “Let’s go have some more fun.”

[chaifootsteps]

Log Anon here

Now, usually when I talk about other anons I act like some sort of god. Case and point that unending search threat. But now, I’ve been inspired to use my shitty writing skills to make lyrics about how much that anon’s song sucked.

———————————

ANON! Let’s start with the fact that this Rapper thought he was a genius.

Sitting there on a chair hoping that Viv would touch their penis.

Man, the whole thing is unreadable, agreeably irredeemable.

I’m filled with laughter that they didn’t think that grammar matter, making it damn unappeasable.

Here’s a lesson, never randomise where capitalise letters, it doesn’t make it better, make sure you fix this error.

Anon coming in here thinking their Chai’s terror, but you’re a joke so just give up the endeavour.

The damn block you wrote makes you a damn dope

As well next time you write keep the swears out or do you need some bloody soap?

Here’s things you should’ve realised before you started to theorise.

Chai speaks about Viv because Anon’s bring it up most of the time.

“to Survive or to live”, yo, Mr Potatohead, that line should’ve been cut in half since they don’t rhyme so I’m charging ya for this lyrical crime.

The irony of bringing up witch when you fail to spell.

The hell Chai getting caught for? Revealing pedophiles and workplace abuse?

I hope you know what you’re doing because hating that has no excuse.

You’re the damn fool, you drooling tool, for getting all blue because someone can live both on and off the wifi.

Honestly your likability is so low that when you visit, all of South Africa cry.

I’m seeing lines so unrefined, so horribly designed, that would make Shakespeare want to die.

I think the real freak is the one posted a mediocre rap to defend a bad show.

Every argument you bring up blows and annoyingly disrupts the flow.

Poor attitude? At least be brave and show your true account if you gonna diss.

You tried your shot at internet fame but too bad that by next month no one will know this exists.

The reason no one leaves the hate is because there’s still people who still need to learn.

Now where’s your next burns, oh wait, you playing favourites this turn?

Aw man, this is weak, you think you’re making them meek, you’re one weird freak.

Rhyming must be tough for a kindengartener, butthey know how to rhyme different words.

The logic you bring for Scienceservant name is worse than the smell of a pile of turds.

I ask the same question, is it worth it to do this when you’re nothing but absurd?

Damn, only a cuck can bother someone while trying to suck off another.

ANON! Why the fuck can’t you write?

You say Chai’s hiding but you are too, coward.

You act like you’re the best when your personality, scent and everything else are soured.

Boy, you’re the ending of Danny Phantom, bad, confusing, and an insult to creation itself.

Now go put on your diaper before you go pee yourself.

———————————

At least this won’t the worst rap on this blog

From the ballpit we come and to the ballpit we will all return.

[hiphopncountrychick]

"Karam": KSHMR's Latest Album is the Best Project in Desi Hip Hop

When global EDM, Trap & Bass pioneer KSHMR, born Niles Hollowell-Dhar, announced his the most anticipated debut Desi hip hop album ‘Karam’, which he took almost 2 years to complete and it breathed fresh air into India’s thriving Hip-Hop scene. While millions of KSHMR’s avid listeners see his album as the biggest rap album of the year in India, for many artists and record producers, ‘Karam’ is the much-needed cultural push which might go down as one of the best Hip-Hop albums in history.

In ever-growing Indian Desi Hip-Hop scene, where every beat tells a story and every rhyme narrates an experience, KSHMR dropped his the most anticipated Desi Hip-Hop album "Karam" on November 3rd, 2023. And I have to say this is not just a musical creation; it's a testament to the enduring power of hip-hop when one SuperProducer wielded with the artists in the scene along with some new and upcoming thriving talented faces for a story to tell.

KSHMR collaborated with many artists those who are the OG faces of DHH like Ikka, Raftaar and Krsna alongwith some new and fresh heavyweight talents brewing up in today's scene like a morning Coffee as such Rawal, HanumanKind and only recurring artist from this album Yashraj who has 3 features in album.

This album is not just a collection of beats; it's a sonic odyssey that navigates like a classic Bollywood crime drama movie from the 90s. Let's embark on a detailed review and breakdown of this masterpiece.

The Prelude: Setting the Movie Tone for an album

"Karam" isn't an album you merely listen to; it's an experience that begins with the very first beat. The album opens a portal into KSHMR's creative movie, where each track is a distinct scene. The tone is set, and the listener is invited into a sonic movie journey that begins with some deep philosophy.

The cover art: The Infinite Ouroboros

"Karam" album Cover Art

The album cover art of "Karam" is simplistic but it hits the mark. It is perfecty alleigned with name, theme and plot of an album. The whole album talks about the law of karma. In simple words, "The deeds(Karam) you do will turn around and come back to you". This cover art is inspired by one ancient Symbol called "Ouroboros", a circular symbol that depicts a snake or dragon devouring its own tail and that is used especially to represent the eternal cycle of destruction and rebirth.

The Ouroboros

The Infinite Ouroboros

Here In this art too, you can see a raging snake like figure eating its own tail in anger and hunger, but here making an infinity symbol instead of a circular representing "The Infinite Ouroboros". Which explains that Karma is an infinite loop. If I'd have to explain this with an example then you can suppose if someone did something bad and hurtful to you, you'll do the same to them, by that, they will do even worse to you and you'll do even worse to them, and this cycle will go on and on and will create an infinite loop of Karma. Remember this example because this same thing happened in the album twice on two different occasions. Colour scheme used in the cover is dark and hauntingly red which also support the plot of the album that you will be experienced, and it also represents that your Karma will always Haunt you no matter what.

This Album is spans for more than 50 minutes. It has totally 24 tracks, 10 Interludes and 14 songs. Now let's dive deep into the album and explore every songs and Interludes with the story of an album itself.

1. The Beginning - Interlude

Album opens with our protagonist as a kid who has an alcoholic and abusive father physically abusing his mother. When he tries to confront him, his father forced to get him out of his home along with his mother. Now that he's homeless, one thing he does that to start aspiring and dreaming for getting out this poor circumstances. Where, the first song of this album "dream"comes into play.

2. Dream (feat. Ikka & Karra)

This is the perfect opening track for the album. It's an upbeat and inspiring song about the power of dreams. The lyrics are simple but effective, and the beat is catchy and uplifting.

In this song, the protagonist is wandering in streets of Mumbai having one dream in his eye that he wants to own this city no matter what situations he has to go through.

Ikka penned his very strong, highly aspiring and gangster vibe giving two verses with impeccable flows, witty rhyme schemes and some awesome references. He talked about being self motivated and driven by dream so blindy that he's not seeing whatever he's doing it's good or bad.

3. The plan - interlude

Our protagonist seems frustrated and exhausted from his low life and decided to do something big, so he planned a robbery with his brother in arms and setting a stage for upcoming song "Bhussi".

4. Bhussi (feat. Seedhe Maut & Karan Kanchan)

This track is a bit darker and more atmospheric. It's about the struggles of everyday life, and the lyrics are raw and honest. The beat is also dark and menacing, but it's also strangely hypnotic.

In this track, Protagonist robs a bank because he was tired of not having money in his life. That's where he first stepped in in a crime and underworld scene of Mumbai.

5. The money - Interlude

The Robbery was successful and now the protagonist has so much money in his hands that he's going to buy that club where his friend was refused to enter before. This interlude a subtle callback to Ikka's one bar "I'll buy that land where I'm not supposed to put my feet".

6. Zero after Zero (feat. KR$NA & Talay Riley)

One of the standout tracks on the album is "Zero After Zero" featuring Krsna and Talay Riley. This song perfectly blends Indian influenced elements, creating a unique and captivating sound. Krsna's powerful and dynamic vocals combined with Talay Riley's smooth and soulful voice add depth and emotion to the track. The production quality of this song is top-notch, with KSHMR's signature attention to detail evident in every aspect of the music.

The only con of this song is also standing out of the plot of an album, because in this track, KR$NA was more talking about his own things and deeds. So this song has zero to next progress in storyline.

7. Upar Hi Upar (feat. Yashraj & Rawal)

It features Yashraj and Rawal, two of the most popular upcoming rappers in India. The song starts with a catchy melodious 808s that is reminiscent of versatile capabilities of KSHMR. The beat then drops, and Yashraj and Rawal start rapping. Their lyrics are about the importance of staying true to your roots and celebrating your culture. They also rap about the power of community and how it can help you achieve your dreams.

In the progress of the storyline, the protagonist is going up and up on his own way achieving everything he had dreamt of one by one.

8. Godfather (feat. Nazzz)

This song is one of a kind when nobody expected to see Nazz feature in KSHMR's album. And where Nazz is and there are no punchlines, it cannot be happened. So this song is so Nazz being Nazz, full of punchlines and hardcore Desi gangta vibe giving.

In this song, the protagonist now at top of his game ruling the underworld of city and becomes a Godfather now.

9. Bhasad - interlude

This interlude makes an appearance of the antagonist of an album, His name is "Raja bhai".

And Raja bhai is not happy with our Protagonist because, he is doing business in territory of Raja bhai. So the antagonist warns him saying that his actions will cost him one day.

10. All fall down (feat. Yashraj, Raja Kumari & Riar Saab)

This very song can be labelled as "Certified Banger". KSHMR went out of realm with his bombarding beat. Raja Kumari dropped the Sickest Hook of the entire Album. So big Props to Raja Kumari for this. Yashraj and Riar Saab dropped their energetic verses talking about everyday normal life of a gangster and then went back and forth at the outro verse. The hook is played 4 times in this song and also main Highlight of this track, because it happens very rare when the chorus outshined the actual verses and that's exactly what happened here.

In progression of storyline, Protagonist's gang has some little feuds and shootings with Raja Bhai's gang, where protagonist lost his few gang members. So protagonist felt like his new empire is falling down.

11. B.I.G. (feat. Harjas & PUNA)

This is a calming and sit-back giving vibe track that showcases the rapper's raw talent and lyrical prowess. The song opens with a catchy low beat that immediately grabs the listener's attention, and Harjas's confident delivery adds to the song's intensity.

The lyrics of "B.I.G." are introspective and thought-provoking, as Harjas raps about his struggles and aspirations. He speaks about overcoming adversity, having maturity and achieving success, and his words are both relatable and inspiring. This song has mixed reviews, low retention value and maybe not favourite song of anyone from this album. Some things just didn't work out in this song. But still, it's a really good song.

Our protagonist seems to have some maturity and realisation about his crime life.

12. La vida (feat. Dabzee & Vedan)

This is the song where KSHMR went into "Despasito" mode and threw a really vibey song with having two south indian rappers which I never heard of them before, rapping in 2 distinct South Indian languages. As I'm not familiar with any south indian languages, i haven't understood anything in this song, and yet I was vibing with it all the way long. This is one those songs where you don't need to worry about lyrics and just vibe with the song.

13. The Girl - interlude

As I said before, this is not just an album, it's a Bollywood movie. And movie is not complete without having a heroine. So here comes a female lead in our story, where the protagonist saw one girl on pathway at night looking for taxi and finds her very attractive.

14. Hath Varthi (feat. MC Stan)

Now that a Girl arrived in the scene, now it's time to hit the club and play a "Club Anthem" of this album which is Harth Varthi. The Best beat production by KSHMR in Karam. And it features MC Stan so you couldn't care less about lyrics. But still he delivered his funky verses where he talked about a girl he's hitting on and about his fame and everything. Overall it's really good song just made for playing in parties.

After seeing that girl, maybe our protagonist hits the club and partied all night.

15. Nasheeli Raat - interlude

That girl he saw at that night now is distracting the protagonist so bad that he can't be seeing anything but her face. He realised that he's in love with her. And what time is it? It's time for a "love song".

16. Mere bina (feat. PropheC & Talha Anjum)

This track is a love song about the importance of staying true to yourself. The lyrics are heartfelt and romantic, and the beat is soft and melodic. Anjum's verse was short but yet so effective. Showing that the protagonist is really serious about this one.

17. The Argument - interlude

In this one, we can see that our protagonist is with that girl and showing her a beach-side luxurious villa which he just bought for her. But the Girl is in concern about his gangster life. She doesn't want to live in a luxury bungalow which is made by rivering bloods. So they both have some arguments about it. In the end the girl asks him to quit his gangster life and said "your gun will take my life one day"

18. Maula (feat. Munawar)

In here, we are seeing a Standup Comedian is rapping about deep and serious things about life. This is an introspective track that showcases Munawar's unique storytelling ability and his raw talent. The song opens with a haunting melody that sets the tone for the track, and Munawar's heartfelt delivery adds to the song's emotional depth.

The lyrics of "Maula" are deeply personal and relatable, as Munawar raps about his struggles with faith, doubt, and the search for meaning in life. He speaks about his struggles with self-acceptance and his search for a higher power, and his words are both honest and vulnerable.

Our protagonist is now thinking about what consequences he will might face in the future if he quit his life now and starts living peacefully with his love interest, he's scared of his past and his karma if ever might hurt her too. So he was praying to God and asking for some help to show him right way.

19. The Call - interlude

Our protagonist was spending happy times with the girl when he gets a call from his sidekick friend who went to have some deal in Raja Bhai's area without even telling our protagonist. The deal Turned out as a trap of Raja Bhai where he shot dead the Protagonist's friend and he died on call. We can see the protagonist crying and screaming in pain on the other side.

20. Khoya sab (feat. Yungsta & Lisa Mishra)

Now that our protagonist lost his friend and second in command of his gang, he's feeling like he lost everything and everything is falling apart around him. It's perfect time for a sad song.

This is really powerful track filled with full of emotions that showcases Yungsta and Lisa Mishra's unique talents. Opening with a haunting beat and captivating lyrics, the song immediately draws the listener into its world of introspection and self-discovery. Yungsta's verses are filled with raw emotion and honesty, while Lisa Mishra's soothing voice provides a counterbalance, adding depth, resonance and melancholy to the song.

The lyrics of 'Khoya Sab' explore themes of loss, regret, and the search for meaning in life, with Yungsta and Lisa Mishra sharing their personal experiences and struggles. The song's title translates to 'Lost Everything', reflecting the feeling of being adrift and searching for a sense of purpose.

Considering the best track from this album, it's many people's the most favourite song. Overall, this is very impacting and moving song that will leave a lasting impression on the listener. It's a must-listen for fans of hip-hop and anyone who has experienced the depths of loss and the search for meaning in life.

21. The Revenge - interlude

Now our protagonist is all set to take revenge of his friend's death from Raja Bhai. He's well prepared for going on to full pledged gang war.

22. Enemies (feat. HanumanKind & Yashraj)

This is a "Gym Song" energetic track that showcases the raw talent and lyrical prowess of HanumanKind and Yashraj. The song opens with a hard-hitting beat that immediately grabs the listener's attention, and the confident delivery of HanumanKind and Yashraj adds to the song's intensity.

HanumanKind and Yashraj deliver their lyrics with a confidence that is both impressive and captivating. They command the listener's attention and make their words resonate.

This song gives you a feeling of action packed fight scenes from movie playing BGM exactly like this.

In the long outro, our protagonist seems like winning the war but he's injured, filled with bullet holes and slowly dying.

23. Legacy (feat. Raftaar)

Now that our protagonist is dead, it's time to talk to the legacy he sets. This is a tribute giving and motivational track that serves as a fitting finale to KSHMR's album "Karam". The song opens with a soaring melody that immediately sets the tone for Raftaar's inspiring lyrics. The song's production is top-notch, with a blend of drill elements that perfectly complement Raftaar's confident delivery.

Raftaar's lyrics in "Legacy" are both personal and universal, as he reflects on his own experiences and aspirations while also offering words of encouragement to others. He speaks about the importance of hard work and dedication, the power of dreams, and the legacy that one can leave behind. His words are both relatable and inspiring, and they are sure to resonate with listeners who are striving to achieve their own goals.

The production of "Legacy" is equally impressive, with a beat that is both driving and uplifting. The song's overall sound is polished and professional, and it perfectly complements Raftaar's message of perseverance and success.

Overall, "Legacy" is a perfect finale closing album track on "Karam". It is sure to made to inspire listeners to chase their dreams and leave their own mark on the world.

24. The end - interlude

The narrator voice says "in this life full of ups and downs, you finally get to your end, and nothing else comes with you except your Karam"

Conclusion

Overall, "Karam" is a must-listen album for fans of both electronic music and hip hop. It is a well-produced album with a star-studded lineup of artists and a variety of different styles. The album is also a celebration of Indian culture and the power of dreams. KSHMR really have done something never like before in Desi Hip-Hop scene. Undeniablly, the best project of 2023.

So, if you're looking for an album that is both upbeat and inspiring, then I highly recommend checking out "Karam" by KSHMR. It's an album that will stay with you long, maybe for entire lifetime after you've finished listening to it.

Peace out, and see you next time!

Honorable mentions:

@rap

@hiphop

@desihiphopofficial

@todayinhiphophistory

[swallowedthestars]

thoughts on khiphop as a genre?

khiphop is more defined by the indie-esque music system than the genre itself. a lot of artists who start in khiphop like making music in general rather than being committed to staying within a genre so its super common to see an artist go through the tight rap to pop song pipeline. this stuff performs way better with the public than classic hiphop anyways (re: b'eo counting stars, ash island melody, imjmwdp flex) re: its way easier to make money off of

i think ive ranted about this before but while there are gems within the genre, its always going to be held back in some ways by how derivative it is, which causes (imo) the following common issues:

its easy to pick up which artists an artist is inspired by (common ones include mac miller, xxx, kanye, kendrick, asap, etc), and while thats not inherently evil its not like people are often outdoing their inspirations. for every great khiphop song you can probably pull an american hiphop song doing the same thing but better. american hip hop has just been around longer and had more time to develop which i think contributes to this. artists can evolve though, i think kid milli used to sound like an asap clone but now he has a more distinct color.

i see a number of gang/drug/hood/trapper references in peoples lyrics. it comes off as corny at best, racist at worst (with occasional exceptions. eg. there are some rappers who are very pro weed legalization who rap about weed).

khh artists often have an inability to be normal about black people. its common for a korean person to go to the US, see a black person, comes back with a story about how it changed their life and inspired them to put out shitty music (queen wasabi is the prime example of this). its also common for khiphop artists to way over-romanticize black suffering or think because they're "hiphop" that they can do shit like say the n word (eg. loopy). even justhis has pulled a "yellow skin/black soul" line in his music before

The other factor that makes a lot of artists kind of cringey to me (but is definitely not limited to khh) is artists with rich families flexing their wealth and doing the whole "I made it even tho I had haters because my family is insanely wealthy" type of song and dance. A lot of korean rappers start by taking rap classes, which are even offered at some universities now (superbee started this way, killagramz is now a rap professor. lmao). flex culture is rlly disingenuous seeming when its coming from people who did not start out poor.

ok so aside from that here's what I like:

my #1 favorite thing about khiphop is the producers. producers rarely limit themselves to a single genre or sound and this allows for really experimental and cool beats. code kunst/giriboy/boycold/etc are the true stars of the genre. in general I think korean production favors a lot of transitions rather than repeating motifs like in western production which is also fun. a number of producers like Flip_00 have had a lot of success getting work in and out of korea

korean has its own unique flow to it and allows for wordplay/rhyming that would be harder to do in english

korean music taste inspires a lot of fun songs. koreans love for ballads inspires a lot of really good krnb. you can find khh songs with trot influences. I also think the popularity of fun indie Bolbbalgan4-esque songs inspires a lot of really light and dreamy beats and songs. korean music as a whole tends to do sad/emotional music well and khh isn't an exception

[mywifeleftme]

53: Camp Lo // Uptown Saturday Night

Uptown Saturday Night Camp Lo 1997, Profile

There’s an old Donald Glover bit about how people who rave about ‘80s hip-hop need to go back and actually listen to it, because it’s mostly just guys saying shit like, (in a Melle Mel candence) “Well I went to the hat store todayyyy / and I got myself a hat / ha HA!” I think of ‘80s rap as equivalent to ‘50s rock: it’s raw and exciting stuff, but for the modern listener it’s bound to feel a little primitive because you’re hearing a genre before its techniques and technology have fully matured. And that makes the ‘90s hip-hop’s equivalent of rock’s ‘60s, the first decade when artists had a fixed foundation to build upon, and the genre exploded into a psychedelic variety of styles that has continued to expand to this day.

Camp Lo had as idiosyncratic and unprecedented a sound on their debut Uptown Saturday Night as Wu-Tang Clan, OutKast, Digable Planets, or the Beastie Boys did. Released in a year when Juicy Couture velour defined urban style, Camp Lo’s emcees were duded up like Blaxploitation-era pimps, spitting a thieves’ argot studded with references spanning 70 years of New York culture. Their beats, largely provided by DJ Ski, were sparkling boom bap that pulled as much from Roy Ayers as James Brown. According to Ski, Geechi Suede and Sonny Cheeba talked to each other in the same impenetrable slang they rapped in, bringing to mind the phenomenon of twin language:

Check the queen bee, Lady Ree digging Grace Check the place 3 o’clock. Shot? No, we ain’t Fret and cock, bring it in the paint? No such thing Flash the dynamite, sing my superfly to the Cleopatra in the casino with gold sugar Dig my harlequin and drench you in my Donald Goines (from “Coolie High”)

Short of discovering some remote enclave in the Bronx where people talk like this, it’s safe to assume Suede and Cheeba had developed a mutually-reinforcing linguistic bond, where (to pull a quote from that twin language story) “words are invented and abbreviated or restricted codes are used because full explanations are redundant.” Though there were a few emcees with more variable flows, nobody in the game sounded slicker than Camp Lo.

As fly as the rhymes are, Uptown Saturday Night is a producer’s showcase. Though he doesn’t get touted as frequently as Pete Rock, DJ Premier, or Large Professor, DJ Ski is as great a producer as New York has ever produced. Dusty literary journal The Kenyon Review, of all places, published a great (and uncredited?) piece on Ski’s beats for Camp Lo a few years back that’s worth reading. Here’s the writer on Uptown closer “Sparkle (Mr. Midnight Mix)”:

“Appearing at a time when boom bap beats were at their peak, the song has no drums, but somehow still has a very high nod factor. Extremely low in the mix are what sound like the original drums, so low that they might only be audible because of headphone bleed in the vocal track. But it is really the flow of Geechi Suede and Sonny Cheeba that retains the rhythm of the original, heavily swung drums. The vocals thus carry a ghost rhythm propelling the track forward, even as the vibes and fluid, filtered bass and piano lines lazily rise and fall, cresting here, submerged there.”

Great shit. Uptown covers a lot of stylistic ground, though high-rolling party tunes are the order of the day, like “Luchini (This is It)” with an irresistible trumpet loop launching itself off a thwacking snare hit. Nearly every beat on the record is indelible, from the kaiju-sized horns of “Krystal Karrington” to the cooing, vibe-chilled “Coolie High” (a preview of Ski’s 2010s work on Curren$y’s classic Pilot Talk trilogy). And, on the warped Twilight Zone-sampling “Negro League,” Ski even seems to have an ear on the off-kilter underground sound El-P was creating with Company Flow.

Various forms of fuckery on the part of Camp Lo’s label conspired to prevent the band from following up on Uptown Saturday Night till 2002, and by then it was too late to recapture their former momentum. They’ve had sparks of inspiration in the decades since, but we’ll never know whether the magic of their debut would’ve been reproducible under better circumstances. Regardless, Uptown Saturday Night has a place among the greatest records of rap’s first golden decade.

53/365

[rizka-san]

Dear...

Hey, I just want to talk to you.

Not as chalk on the board but as a person.

You know he loved you, he sent all his secrets in his songs to you.

Words and melodies he's a mockingbird to you, just a little poetic song until you sleep.

Now you know he's going at it, climbing a dangerous ladder, a steep hill.

Trials and tribulations just to have a quick meal then it's back to hurting and working.

A sacrifice just to have you like his voice, he knew he didn't have much of a choice.

But to sin but when he wins, he'll get you in and you don't have to spend a penny.

Every tear comes piling across many years but for the sake of you he'll make it his life.

Night and day he'll write and play it back just to cry and hate it, because he wanted it perfect.

But if you like the track then it's worth it, if you see the work ethic he pulled then you'd respect him more.

Because he'd open your doors, kept the light open even though it's dim, kept you full even when he's slim.

He may not hustle through conventional means, but he still struggled to make a meaningful song to him.

Now he's no true gentleman but he's a gentle man, know the difference and that'll make the biggest significance.

Giving you a song about his past and more shows, out with the braggadocios, and the casket of his futures.

Talk about murder and on his knees around chalk like he witnessed a murder, golden tears you can hold them here.

There's nothing to fear when he's singing, feel the emotion behind the cracked voice and then you see that boy.

Not a teenager, we change backwards back to the boy who died inside him, that childishness now is his adult-self.

That boy didn't care about health but how to match words to a beat, sit down and go bezerk until he's asleep.

Sometimes he wouldn't listen to you, just keep sitting through then he'll be fitting his conversation ears to you.

But I'm not going back in time, God changed him for the better and now he's cold inside a sweater.

He wrote a letter to you, let me read it.

"Hello can you read me, can you see me, feel me but that's not important.

I'm writing this because if I die then you'd be seeing and reading this mash of words.

And I just want to say thank you for standing me, handling me, and being friends with me.

I wasn't strictly a good friend, never intended to be but I've changed my course for yours.

I could keep writing about my thanks but it'll take a little more of your time, so I'll keep it short.

It's about time I talk about suicide contemplations, now you and I know what I'm facing.

For a long time and a few off-and-on rhymes I've said that I wanted my head dead on the street.

Just a piece of cold meat on the pavement, because I lost the key to happiness locked in my basement.

I'm just making a statement, I can't take this abuse anymore, I need to let loose some more.

So why not I'll lose my life, no worth in it anyway because everyday those same words get to me.

On the fifteenth I'll be leaving, lifting my soul high up just to drop it low, gifting you all the freedom you need.

My seeds are rotten, best lost and forgotten, I've been robbing your lives as long as I'm alive so you'll be free.

Shifting pace I know, because because of this race I've been feeling real low, like I don't know where to go.

Every opportunity is leaving me like a one-way roundabout so I decided to drive it off the cliff and crash.

Now you may be thinking how to get me to forget it, you can't, the pain ingrained itself inside this brain.

This letter is getting long, I doubt you are strong enough to read it all and want to see the end faster.

Like my life you just want to pass the boring parts and get to the pouring of gold onto my heart.

There's no glamour to this planner, nothing else but the ender, so I'll be the pallbearer and get out your hair.

I just want to say I love you and I get it, you want to see me alive this minute.

But instead you can have this life to keep moving, another chapter ends another begins.

I love you so and I'll be gone."

Now you see who this letter is meant for.

There is no metaphor just a poor soul who've met a poor demise to his life.

He wanted to have a slice of the nice pie of life, but instead he sliced his life.

The pie is apple red like his blood on the after end, what I'm reading is true.

Because he did everything he wanted to do, even leaving you alone was a wish come true.

He knew he was bothering you, like an annoying brother he knew you wished he'd be gone.

He planned it and wish granted, he doesn't even have his casket, too expensive to grasp it.

He lasted and was forever stranded, what's a win to him other than a game win to his name.

He always wanted to be a rapper, now he is being under a wrapper and lowered into the dirt.

I marked his words so you can read them carefully, you can see them clearer than a mirror reflection.

I sparked this verse so you can hear it and maybe you'd can see his imperfections to a perfection.

You were always a complexion to him, try to project some theory just for you to see that he likes you.

His friends and family tried to reach him but he was too far away, it's a war everyday inside too.

That suicide wasn't metaphorical too, that was a true event but the death was never recorded.

Took the risk and come up short, tried to afford a car to drive late nights but he was deported.

Guess it's best that I introduce myself to you, my name is Rizka nice to meet you.

I'm what's left of him because I know he loved you and wanted to cherished every moment with you.

But the lavished soon turn him famished, starvation carved a place in his heart, that's my fault.

I shouldn't have let him go, now he'll let me know about this guilt about how he felt about me and you.

There's not much time to touch nice rhymes, this is pure emotion and there's no stop to the notion.

So now I'll say goodbye and let me remind you.

There may be oceans and seas but he is across a river and he's ready to give you the biggest hug.

As of now, He has passed away and here I say.

Thank you for this life.

[incarnateirony]

Talking to another true aged Thoth dedicant is fascinating. One, he believes every word of what I've told him, because it falls into what he experienced, but also is aware how this falls into much larger motions.

While ironically I am, within a roving egregore, in a moving demiurge state, I'm not even the only person doing that. Shit, people been doing that since the dawn of time. But when I say these are generational damages across metempsychosis/transmigration, I mean it. Shea's shit is rotten several lifetimes deep, and impacts very widely as a result, and is a Peak Whore Of Babylon type to be eradicated tis cycle, but she's like, not the only one, and this dude is both aware of that but also, after talking to me, fully cognitive on why she's fucking me up so bad.

Like, yeah, that tracks. Hard enough to keep your hat on through and after that, and this cycle has a helluva setup going on asrologically that would probably make you boogaloo all on its own, but add in the world's dumbest stalker--what'd you call her, crackbear lilith?--and yeah, someone made the Universe snap on them.

Yeah. And now the universe is processing her out if she refuses to budge this time.

He's sooo much like me, defines as a Khaote, avoids formal lodges.

Meanwhile crackbear's out here clinging to my old romance playlist for roleplay mixed in with my new great hits and her emo pining, to draw variants of my shit, mostly my shadow block, to hump as a coping body pillow for what she can't face she chose to lose, and refusing to read any books, cuz they will also point out the same things, and it's better for her to hide her eyes from the truth, in her head. Like goddamn it took 2 solid weeks to pull her off the anime octopus jibberish halfway, at least on her blog title, and then she ran to be crackbear. She has no direction, path, reason, method, nothing, she just has what she wants to play barbie in now.

She's been fucking people up for her own ego since Vesuvius. And earlier probably. Not sure why Hermes tried to have faith she'd change now.

Did you know the greeks believed volcanic eruptions came from Tartarus? Funny story.

There were over 111 earthquakes in yesterday's 24 hour period alone, not counting what the eclipse will bring. Our realistic Schumann Resonance with appropriate magnifier is at almost 300 and expected to climb. We're under intense solar winds, only half generated from the sun itself and large portions appearing opposite, coming from Somewhere Else. Radiation is peaking, the aurora is having a disco, the world is shaking, prophets are singing my song that I've never met, and she's still picking her nose and denying everything going on around her when it reads like a fucking book narrative, just deadass able to be followed point to point. One she should even remember, from internet breaks, chat GPT and other AI screams, to our entire solar and other astrological configuration and events. But if she acknowledges that, then she has to acknowledge the other shit.

Yeah man, you made Coyote hate you, and it's all your own fault, process it. Now be honest. All the way. And let us go. All the way. If he decides to return to you then so be it, but let's not pretend he'll fly right back to your window after all this heartless caging. Much less if you continue to refuse the work.

It's time, Shea. You're not a little girl anymore, stop acting like a witch who just found her first "turn into a cat" mewmew rhyme spell on webcrawler.

What you are experiencing is the horrifying realization that for all those years, I was right. And it takes work, effort, and learning. I never force anyone down one specific path, but you tried to force yourself down mine without wanting to actually do it, just ride on my back. I've learned enough to teach dozens of paths, even if they aren't mine, to send people on their way, and you won't even be assed to learn a single one, just play "I'm special cuz I talk to spirits (shadows)" and "om nom nom reeses cups for the gods" with a touch of "feeling nostalgic, gonna pretend I'm not roleplaying to my ex's top jams on his face trying to recreate him." and like. that's it sweetie. That's what you've got.

You literally have to unpack that. You do that? You'll be more powerful than you'll ever know. Give yourself ten years uninterrupted on that path and you, too, may be possessing random idiots like your current self to holler about your shit into the internet because they open door themselves like you do. But right now, you can't even cast a beginner spell. Not really. You can put together parts you read in a recipe but understanding and thus willing its function, no you fuckin don't, miss "tried to summon an archangel and just threw a tiny aaron shadow @ aaron--why is he just laughing and throwing it back at me??"

Because you have no power here. Your heart is in nothing you own, and it certainly isn't with YHVH's path, and you lead people from the path to providence, and there is a millstone reserved for you with him, especially as you cling to your shadow serpents. That's why, Shea.

Your words give life meaning and shape. And until you reach attainment, you can't copy my words. You don't understand them or the state of being or the path that rendered them. You have zero actual UNDERSTANDING, just antithetical mimicry. So, those words give me meaning in your life. Those portraits you convinced others to draw, or drew yourself, those give me power in your life. Every compulsive prayer or offering--frankly every stubborn attempt to reblog hermes to prove something. Am I Hermes? No, but you've wholy attached him to me in your head, hence the renderings you convinced others of, so like. Cool, you reblogged a classic Hermes, I see you're still on your shit with no individual vision?

Your words. Give. Life. Meaning. And if you want to have a meaning in life that isn't defined by me, my shadows, or you spinning in circles of denial, your first words need to be to yourself, and to that shadow lady. And to apologize. To Athena. And reach out and take her hand, and help her out first, and say you're sorry. "You're me." But you gotta understand it Shea. And she's just part of that screaming lady. To be honest, to Mark and anyone else you've fucked up with this. And to apologize to at least Hermes, since I'm still convinced you'll never apologize to me no matter what you've done to me, you've thoroughly dehumanized me in your head to the point transphobia is free.

We've done what we can to help Athena but you have to do SOMETHING. YOU HAVE TO MOVE THE BOX, SHEA.

Hey. Shea.

...Ever wake up from a dream with real weird narrative consistency?

I know you like centering yourself in all things, and while it is literally applicable to you, I do actually mean it about myself.

I did. Took a few dozen bullets to the head and zipping through timelines to find a hat I could save, but I did, okay?

That's what you're fucking off with and refuse to admit.

I really like it here. I just want to be in the game, in peace, but you won't let me, so now we're ending it.

It's time to start facing how deep over your head you are, how large the workings against you are, and how committed I am. It's time to face that this is real. And it's time to cough up my fucking Air Jordans. Because I just need one fucking person to believe me. And that person is you. The metaphorical shoes, madam.

I swear there's some books somewhere about what happens when someone that completes a mystic path dies but doesn't die. IDK, you probably never read any of those. Maybe imagine Jack sparrow in Davey Jones' locker, and when he comes back all the other Jacks are still there, and summarily fuck up anybody else in the locker, and the real secret is, you're all in the motherfucking locker. We're off the edge of the track-map mate, did you think I was kidding?

[ericleo108]

02/17/2023 Click here for Spotify or Apple Music. This is my 31st official release. “Atheist Raps” is a rap about perspectives from an atheist. It’s an intellectually meditative track with an energetic beat. I’m sure Christians would think it’s controversial but it’s really about how Christianity doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been an atheist since 2005 although I went to a Catholic school.

The reason I don’t believe in Jesus is that it’s stupid and makes no sense. I guess I should say it’s illogical and not based on reason. They know this which is why Pastors will tell you it requires faith, which is the belief in something despite the lack of evidence. I don’t see blind faith in something that doesn’t make sense as a good thing, which is why I think Christians are stupid or at least have a purely emotional attachment to Jesus. 

Check out the video above if you want to know and understand how we ended up with the myth of Jesus. It’s based on old myths of the sun like Horus and Dionysus who also was born of a virgin, died on a cross, and was resurrected. I talk about this in the context of today’s word of the day rhyme, to give further context. The truth is, Christians are atheists too. Christians deny the existence of other gods although they have devoted followers and just as many believers and “evidence.” Atheists just take denying god's existence just one god further.

Christians also have an heir of superiority. They think they are more moral because of the Ten Commandments and heaven and hell. The truth is if you're only doing things in your life because you're avoiding punishment rather than empathy, you're not acting morally. The Ten Commandments have nothing against rape, and the Bible not only contradicts itself but (at least) condones slavery.

If your religion makes you a better person that’s great, but it doesn’t mean you’re right. It requires faith because it doesn’t make logical sense. Just look up “the problem of evil.” And Pascal’s wager only justifies your belief in Christianity because you assume god exists with no evidence, otherwise if Jesus wasn’t god, you’re wasting your life. Conditions like these are why it takes religion for good people to justify doing evil.

“With or without religion, you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion.” - Steven Weinberg 

The state religion of ancient Rome was Roman mythology. It only changed because emperor Constantine changed it. Christians were persecuted before that, and Christianity was relatively unknown. Constantine did more for Christianity than Jesus or his disciples ever could. The video I left linked here is of a Christian scholar that turned atheist after realizing he couldn’t prove God’s existence and instead found there was no evidence for it. 

I highly recommend you look into the story of Socrates' death who was made to drink hemlock by the state for corrupting the youth. It is similar to Jesus’s dissent without the sensational and subsequent blood cult and claims of divinity.  Read “the trial and death of Socrates” By Plato. This song compliments “Bo Peep” which is why they came out in the same month. I bite a lyric from “Read 108,” specifically “ conscious magnetism, imagine the field” as I work in the reasoning at the end of the verse.

The beat is from KeyAnobeat.com. The cover art was made by godzgfx from fiverr. The track was professionally recorded, mixed, and mastered by La Luna Recording Studio in Kalamazoo Michigan. You can stream or download the track wherever music is sold. Thank you for your support. Be sure to follow because new music is released every week.

Lyrics:

This beat gon’ bang from hear to Ibiza Tell me can you feel me coming out your speaker Solo Dolo, I am my own feature Autodidactic, I am my own teacher This is what it like when an atheist raps Big talk, provoked thought, no gimmick, just facts Bigots tryna distract, but it’s really a trap Cuz religion used to justify oppression and detract The Bible is a myth, Jesus never lived  And he definitely wasn’t god even if he did He’s really more like your imaginary friend He’s just like Santa, those that believe are still kids

I got it and they get it I’m the one that they mention Kind of a menace  But I’m kind and value friendship  Like Plato’s republic I do it cuz I love it Make you contemplate the best way to run it “The Death of Socrates” is more important than Jesus’s But tell me how you’re cultured and what the reason is Just don’t use blind faith, cuz that’s what it takes  To believe Jesus loved you, the bible condones slaves Jesus was a liberal, hippie blowhard That defied that state and loved with his whole heart He was probably gay, hanging with twelve disciples He probably did anal while writing the bible  I’m just kidding, the Bible wasn’t written For decades after Jesus was living  It contradicts itself within it’s own bindings But big cuz Constantine embraced the findings

This beat gon’ bang from hear to Ibiza Tell me can you feel me coming out your speaker Solo Dolo, I am my own feature Autodidactic, I am my own teacher This is what it like when an atheist raps Big talk, provoked thought, no gimmick, just facts Bigots tryna distract, but it’s really a trap Cuz religion used to justify oppression and detract The Bible is a myth, Jesus never lived  And he definitely wasn’t god even if he did He’s really more like your imaginary friend He’s just like Santa, those that believe are still kids

I’m smooth, cool, calm, and contentious  They’re fools, tools, stark and capricious  Christian ethics are morally inept  Yeah gay conversion therapy really isn’t best  You know me, I got the baddest bitch The spiritual name of what the planet is Gaia is the name your should stamp it with Get to know Blue and go campin with him  Zeus is Jupiter, Aries is Mars Celestial consciousness is written in the stars And in the history of god, bring the story along  There’s billions of stars, Monotheism is wrong  Conscious magnetism, imagine the field The sun provides energy and crops to yield That’s more of a god than Jesus will ever be Cuz The results are provided self-evidently

[ericshotwell]

27 Christmas Songs I Hate

(My annual expanded list, updated for 2022.)

First let me say that I love Christmas music. I've been known to play Christmas music in the summer or at other odd times of the year; Traditional, classical, pop, even "novelty" songs. But there are a select few songs that I cannot stand, and which the radio stations all seem to bring out every year. I find it hard to believe that there are people who actually like some of these songs.

So... welcome to my annually-updated list of Christmas songs I detest. This list has grown significantly over the years. If I'm in my car, I change the station the moment I hear any of these on the radio. How about you? Read on... I bet you’ll find at least a few we can agree to hate together.

1: John Lennon, Happy Xmas (War Is Over). The rhymes are as forced as they can be. I know there are people who revere John, but the horrible lines "And so happy Christmas / For black and for white / For yellow and red ones / Let's stop all the fight" prove that he wasn't always a great song-writer. And the Harlem Community Choir can't cover up Yoko's screeching, either. Right now, this is the #1 song that gets me to change the station. Yes, I appreciate the sentiment and believe peace on earth is a worthy goal. I just don't want this song to be the anthem.

2: Paul McCartney, Wonderful Christmas Time. What a horrible song. The very first note makes me cringe. And it will stick in your head, which makes it worse. In 2012 he went on SNL and played it live. It was just as bad. Why do people like this crap?

3: Whitney Houston, Do You Hear What I Hear? With all due respect for the departed Miss Houston... first off, the song is supposed to be reverent, not a belt-it-out blockbuster. Second, the phrase she sings "Pray for peace and people everywhere" is not how the song goes. The line is "Pray for peace, people everywhere." Totally changes the meaning from being a call to prayer for all people, to being a prayer *for* people. It's a fine semantic point -- almost trivial -- but it drives me absolutely crazy.

4: Beach Boys, Little Saint Nick. I hate the Beach Boys. But I hate their faux-Christmas music even more. This comes on, radio goes off. Same with any other Beach Boys Christmas song. See also #18 on this list.

5: James Taylor, Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. OK, here's the biggest offender in the "I re-wrote a classic song for no apparent reason" category. James sings the line "Have yourself a merry little Christmas, may your heart be light..." which is okay even though he substitutes the word "may" for "let" which I think is a subtle change for the worse -- and I realize that's pedantic of me -- but THEN he kills the song completely with "In a year, our troubles will be out of sight." Wait a minute, in a fricking YEAR? The song is supposed to be "from now on." Apparently James is so bummed out by this Christmas that he's waiting for the next one instead. From now on our troubles will be out of sight is so much more hopeful. James wants us to put up with crappy troubles for another year. (And after the last few years,I don't want to wait another year for my troubles to be out of sight.)

6: Hall and Oates, Jingle Bell Rock. It's Hall and Oates. Although if you ever get a chance to watch the video for this, do it. It's so cheesy that it actually improves the song.

7: Michael Bolton, White Christmas. If he strained to hit that note any harder, he’d be having a brown Christmas.

8: Trans-Siberian Orchestra, Christmas Canon. Their "Christmas Eve Sarajevo" is okay since it sounds so ominous, but this one is the song where they put words (sung by a children's choir) to Pachelbel's Canon. The music is wonderful by itself but the choir makes it unbearable.

9: Backstreet Boys, The First Noel. Or maybe it's 98 Degrees, or NSync, or New Kids on the Block. Regardless, it's just painful.

10: John Cougar Mellencamp, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus -- I can't stand the country-pop twangy sound of this one. I'd say more about this but I don't think I've ever heard the song all the way to the end.

11: David Bowie with Bing Crosby, Little Drummer Boy. It's not as bad as the other ones on this list, but I don’t like this one either. Bing sounds weak and frail at this point in his life and that just makes me sad, plus the idea of David Bowie just "stopping by" his house to visit a neighbor and sing an insipid song about peace is a little contrived and silly.

12: Carpenters, Sleigh Ride. Who let that one dude sing? You know who I mean. He's the one with the terrible voice singing the two lines "There's a birthday party at the home of Farmer Gray", and "There's a happy feeling nothing in the world can buy." Like nails on a chalkboard.

13: Andy Williams, The Holiday Season (Medley). I’m convinced one of the reasons Andy never made it big was because he wrote the line “so whoop de doo and hickory dock, and don’t forget to hang up your sock.”

14: Gloria Estefan, Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Did someone get her a cheap electronic drum machine for Christmas? Her voice is great, but it's the "band" I have a problem with. The chorus should be "Make It Stop! Make It Stop! Make It Stop!"

15: (2011) Dan Fogelberg, Same Auld Lang Syne. Come on, it's not even a real Christmas song! Plus, the narrator meets his ex-girlfriend in a grocery store and basically entices her to drink a six-pack of beer with him in his car. Did I mention that she's married? Nothing says Christmas like some beers in your ex-boyfriend's car. When I hear this song, I have to wonder how her partner would feel if he knew she split a six-pack of beer with her ex in an empty parking lot on Christmas Eve. Then she *drives* away... Doesn't that also imply she was probably over the legal limit, too? This is a train wreck of a song.

16: (2012) Josh Groban, The First Noel. Oddly-paced and overwrought. Just when you think it can’t get any more pretentious, a choir starts singing too. So overdone it almost makes Michael Bolton's song sound good by comparison.

17: (2013) Justin Bieber. I switched this off before I even caught the title of the song. Hopefully one day people will read this list and say "Who is Justin Bieber?" From the one time I heard it, this doesn't even seem like a Christmas song.

18: (2014) The Beach Boys, The Man with All The Toys. Please stop allowing The Beach Boys to sing Christmas songs. Just no.

19: (2015) Most (but not all) versions of Baby It’s Cold Outside. Because they usually sound creepy at best, or forced… especially the version sung by Lady Gaga and Joseph Gordon-Levitt (yes, really). However, there is an argument to be made that the song is actually meant to be empowering (for its time), by implying that the woman who is singing is making up half-hearted excuses as to why she should leave, while actually *wanting* to stay. So that means her “say, what’s in this drink?” line was actually saying that precisely *nothing* was amiss with the drink at all, not even a hefty dose of alcohol, but that she is wanting to avoid being judged or chided by her family for staying the night by basically saying she must have had too much to drink and has to stay as a result.

20: (2016) Michael Bublé and Shania Twain, White Christmas. This is such a poorly-done cover of "White Christmas" that it is a travesty. It is over-produced, the duet doesn't seem to be in sync half the time, and it has none of the wonderful playulness of the version by The Drifters. And Michael Bublé over-pronounces all the lyrics. It's like listening to Christmas music in an English as a Foreign Language class.

21: (2017) LeAnn Rimes, Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. She pretty much cut-and-pastes her way through this song. Zero character, all belched out like heartburn. Every line sounds the same... “ROCKin’ aROUND...”

22: (2018) LeAnn Rimes, I Want A Hippopotamus for Christmas. Apparently nothing is sacred anymore... not even novelty songs. The cadence of this is terrible. And that’s the nicest thing I have to say about this song. I shouldn’t pick on her so much but she could learn a lot from Martina McBride on how to not butcher a cover song. Two years in a row of making the list!

23: (2019) John Tesh, Carol of the Bells. You say you hate Mannheim Steamroller’s Carol of the Bells? What if we added flamenco guitar?

24: (2020) Eartha Kitt: Next Year’s Santa Baby. Santa Baby, the most popular Christmas Song of 1953 (which was banned in the Southern United States because it seemed too suggestive!) had a sequel. Did it need a sequel? It did not. (Also, any other singer’s version of Santa Baby isn’t worth listening to.)

25: (2021) Taylor Swift: Silent Night. Ah, Taylor Swift's 2021 ear-splitting rendition of solemnity. They obviously lost the sheet music to this one before recording it. The music is not Silent Night. But it is tone deaf.

26. (2022) Train: Shake Up Christmas. “C’mon y’all, it’s Christmastime!” Oh my God. I couldn’t hate the chorus to a song any more than I hate this one.

27. (2022) Chicago - Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree. A late addition to 2022, and for this one, I’m violating my own rule of only one song I hate per year. I would rather listen to the LeAnn Rimes version a dozen times before I’d want to hear this one again. When I first heard this I thought it must be Kidz Bop doing a cover version of a Smashmouth Christmas cover song.

By the way, did you know that Billy Idol released a Christmas album in 2021? It’s nearly as bad as REO Speedwagon’s truly awful Christmas album I mentioned a few years ago.

Now, lest anyone think I am a total Grinch, here's my additional list of traditional and non-traditional Christmas songs and albums that I think are worth including in your playlist because they're exceptional:

Traditional:

1. Johnny Mathis, Merry Christmas (CD)

2. Frank Sinatra, A Jolly Christmas (CD)

3. Bing Crosby, The Voice of Christmas (CD) (or any other Bing Christmas CD)

4. Nat King Cole, It's Christmas Time

5. Perry Como, Greatest Christmas Songs (CD)

6. The entire White Christmas soundtrack. Except, of course, for 'Choreography.'

Non-traditional:

Martina McBride, White Christmas (CD): I am not a fan of country music, but her renditions are ultra-traditional and she does the only version of 'Do You Hear What I Hear' that stays true to the Bing Crosby version.

Chris Isaak, Winter (CD): Quirky, with a bit of a California or Hawaii feel to it.

Barenaked Ladies, "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen / We Three Kings medley": This song is with Sarah McLachlan, and is pretty cool even though she overdoes the whole "solemnity" thing a bit.

Diana Krall, "Jingle Bells": Jazzy and sultry.

Harry Connick Jr., When My Heart Finds Christmas (CD): Harry sounds a lot like Sinatra on this CD, but his version of 'Ave Maria' is exceptional.

Jewel, O Holy Night: Totally brings a tear to my eye every time I hear it. The rest of her 'Joy' CD is mediocre (and the version of Rudolph is almost un-listenable) but O Holy Night is pure and beautiful.

Leon Redbone/Zooey Deschanel, "Baby It's Cold Outside" (from the Elf Soundtrack): Something indescribably cool about Leon's voice makes this song better than the Dean Martin version. Dean's rendition seems a little more like coercion than romance. (See above notes on this song.) And despite the flaw in grammar in the group’s name, Zooey Deschanel’s vehicle “She and Him” provides some more acoustic Christmas cover songs that aren’t half bad.

That's it for 2022. More next year! Let me know in the comments if you agree or disagree. Or if you know of any I should consider adding to my list.

Hope you have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6iTguNQlmcQHZuWIRmqXQq?si=X82RUCBkTg6NAh8UxvIEAA

[sleepylixie]

3.1k words, Angst, Fluff (Romance), Non-idol AU

Kim Hongjoong X fem! Reader

Inspired by Love you Like Me- William Singe ( Playlist here )

Beware of Profanity, Heavy themes of infidelity, implied sexual activity 

The studio was loud, bustling with murmurs and movement, lighting being fidgeted with and artists putting in the final touches to the simple, neutral toned set. A shiver traced down your back as you watched people walk this way and that, preparing everything to be perfect just in time, just before the cameras begin rolling and the star of the show settles in front of the camera-

The steady buzz of your phone in your hand interrupted your train of thought. Took him long enough, you thought to yourself as you watched the name flash across the screen. Hongjoong. 

Not a couple of months ago, his contact’s name had been ‘loml’ with a red heart- how quickly things change. You knew he would call you before you were to go on-air, a tradition that he had unfailingly kept alive over the last 3 years. This particular call however, was different. Special. 

Because it was going to be the last. 

You would miss his calls, you mused as you accepted the call. His smooth, lilting tenor always greeting you with- 

“Hello, starlet.” 

The amused endearment didn’t make you smile like it used to. You used to shy away from it when you had initially started dating Hongjoong. Over the years, however, you had truly grown into a starlet in your own right so the inside joke was now laced with adoring truth. 

“Hello, my love.” 

Your voice was soft, mellow, the perfect replication of how you would respond to him in better times. Funny how a relationship you’d valued as much as your career had come down to pretence and secrets- 

“Are you ready?”  

The real question is, are you ready? The response was heavy on your tongue but you swallowed it down, letting a sardonic smile curl up the edge of your lips as you hummed into the phone, a show of contemplation.

“I think so.” 

If only he knew what you were talking about. 

“I’m sure you are, you spent so much time in the studios with Chris. Trust yourself, darling. You’re going to do amazing.” 

There had been a time when his reassurance would’ve given you enough motivation to rule the world- now though, it felt like nothing but a sham. Pretty, deceptive falsities that he kept up only for the sake of his promise to you. A game of make-believe he seemed to be amusing himself with. 

He was going to find out soon enough, you convinced yourself. He was going to find out soon enough that you were no game to be trifled with. 

The producer caught your eye, motioning to the set – it was time. 

“It’s almost time, I need to go.”

What a glorious double entendre this conversation was. 

“Good luck, my love. I’ll be watching the live.”

You hummed again before hanging up, coughing into your hands as you made your way to the set. The producer flashed a smile and thumbs up at you as you took your seat on the stool meant for you. 

“We’re going to be live in 3 minutes. Ready?” 

Between your makeup artist doing some final touches on your face and the sound technician checking the wires and mic-set for your in-ears, you returned the producer’s thumbs up with a confident smile- more confident than you were truly feeling, you were sure. 

“Ready.” 

All too soon, the 2 minutes had passed and you were sat alone in front of the camera, nothing but a mic in your hand as the producer did a countdown- Rolling in 3,2,1-

The first strains of the backing track flowed through your in-ears, your grip on the mic tightening as the repetitive, building melody washed over you like the tune of a haunted nursery rhyme. With the melody came the memories, a barrage of feelings tinged angry red and melancholy pink. 

After all these years, it seemed your love really had to end the way it began- mic in hand, lyrics at your lips and leaden heart in your chest. This time though, he wasn’t the healing balm, he was the twisted knife itself. 

Kim fucking Hongjoong.

“He never calls this late at night, no… But I can tell he’s been drinking all night long.” 

The studio was pin-drop silent except for the soft, dragging lilt of your voice. The track Chris had made for you could catch a listener’s attention all too easily- the magic your voice brought with it soon afterwards only served to hook the listeners more. 

You remembered slipping into the studio one rainy 2 a.m, scrawled sheets of paper feeling heavy and hot in your pocket. Chris had been rightfully concerned with your deceptively put together appearance, knowing exactly what had brought about the torrent of words you had thrown onto the table. 

Chris had always been safe, warm comfort for you- from the days of pulling all-nighters before graduation to the sleepless nights spent recording and producing in your shared studio, your friendship had come a long way.

But you’d shaken your head at him, urging him to look at the sheets. The memory of your pen slicing into the sheets was still burnt onto your fingertips, your vision almost blurring with tears as you scrawled every word that came to mind. Fiery, sensual, vengeful words seared onto the paper, a clear reflection of everything that had silently plagued you every night, every sunset, until you broke.

 “He sounds upset, I’m asking baby where you at, I called you earlier but you didn’t call me back…”

You met Hongjoong a little more than 4 years ago in a dive bar- him, the tired university student looking for a break and you, the evening’s entertainment. Your set had been entirely covers of moody love songs, reminiscent of your own sentiments- all you wanted to do was write your own music but it seemed all rookies were destined to be stuck with small gigs and other artists’ music. 

But for some reason, this one man with electric blue hair that contrasted- clashed, even, with his formal outfit had approached you after you finished your set. Only when he sidled closer to you did you noticed the paint splatters on his cuffs and the tiny earring dangling against his neck. The first thing he told you was that he had fallen in love with your voice and would love to get you a drink so he could hear it more. 

Even in the heartbroken haze you were in, you knew there was something about this odd patch-work quilt of a man with a sparkly smile that you couldn’t shake. Conversation had been uncannily easy after that-

Falling in love with Hongjoong however, hadn’t been a cakewalk by any means. 

 “He’s breaking down, I’m about to lose it… I’m screaming who the fuck were you with…”

Falling for Hongjoong was walking through fire and hail and ice; it was always expecting the worst out of each other but somehow ending up with the best too; to see each other as flawed humans before possible targets of affection. It took a good part of a year for the both of you to acknowledge any sentiment beyond friendship for each other, even more time to consider dating. 

He’d been hesitant at first- so had you. But as Hongjoong murmured to you that fateful evening your relationship began, the thought of not knowing how you’d be together was one he could not digest. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t agreed- but to disagree would’ve been a regretful lie. 

Over the years, it had always warmed your heart to have known without a shadow of a doubt that he would walk through all the world’s calamities for your hand in his.

Kim Hongjoong was perfect, after all. 

The perfect son of a perfect family, the visual arts graduate with a perfect score, the perfect fit for a job as an art gallery’s curator- Surely, his love was tinted with the same shade of perfection as the rest of him?

You were wrong. 

 “I grab my keys you better tell me where you at… he said he fucked up but there’s no taking it back...”

Kim Hongjoong was fickle as a wayward breeze where the matters of the heart were concerned. It was easier for him to let people love him, feel the adoration for him rolling off people’s eyes and bodies than be the person to love freely. Love was vulnerability to him, but gods, did he make vulnerability look gorgeous. 

Maybe the very reason he began to love you at first was because you didn’t care for his perfection.

His words still echoed in your ears sometimes, especially in nights that were woefully sober or afternoons that were hopelessly unproductive. There had been a time when the only things you remembered of the honeyed rasp was from your best dreams, promising you forever in every day- 

Not anymore. All you remembered now was the way he had sounded that night, alcohol and regret mixing badly in his veins, voice rough and stilted and broken as he asked you for forgiveness, for space in your heart despite his mistakes.

 “I gave everything to you and this is what you turn around and do…”

You wish you’d never driven to him after his teary confessions, hoping against hope he was pranking you and had only drunk too much to cater to common sense. You wish you hadn’t walked yourself to his best friends’ night club and have to witness the look of pity Seonghwa and San cast upon before handing Hongjoong over to you. 

You wish you hadn’t put yourself through the utterly tragic ordeal of picking up after him. Especially now, that you know how the future would look after that night. 

The memories steeled your voice through the smooth notes, the music rising and falling as the backing track began to build. You’d struggled to record this section of the song- your breath always seemed to catch and hold when you sang the words, your chest feeling too heavy, tongue too leaden to mouth the next lines. But today, the tune was like second nature to your lips, the sentiment almost easy to express. 

Surely he was watching now, wherever he was, the lyrics’ meaning sinking into his skin with every word. Some tiny, savage part of your brain hoped he felt the same cold terror and sense of unfairness you felt all this while- you hoped he would drown in it until it consumed him, soul and all. 

 “Did she have it all, all that you wanted for you to go and break your promise?”

He’d crawled into your bed with you that night, holding you closer than he had ever held you in 3 years. Soothed your tears of pure disappointment and cried way too many of his own, your shoulders shuddering as you pulled each other closer. Murmured apologies a million times, over and over again against your skin as he curled his body around yours, until you fell into a restless sleep. 

You still remember the time-dampened images of the nightmare you had that night, the shadows laughing at you for being an inadequate girlfriend, an unfit person, that he probably cheated because you weren’t doing enough for him. You’d awoken a mere couple of hours after the both of you had nodded off, Hongjoong’s grip on your body still tight despite his state of slumber. 

Was he worried you’d wake up and walk away?

He would find you in your kitchen in his old shirt when he woke up anyway, tired eyes and tired limbs and enough coffee for 2 in the French press. 

 “I wanna know, every secret you’ve been hiding…I wanna know just how long have you've been lying…”

A mistake, he’d called it. One-off error in judgement, a single moment in time he had chosen not to listen to his better sensibilities. It had happened once, entirely because of his lapse in judgement, he said. It would never happen again; he swore to you. Promised to you with your hands in his, earnestness in his gaze that you had never been subjected to until now- then again, he’d never given you reason to mistrust him until now. 

You’d asked for a promise from Hongjoong that day- a no-closed-doors policy on your relationship. It should’ve been a no-brainer as far as you were concerned, but it seemed that people like Hongjoong needed the reminder that not all people lived the way they did. That love wasn’t reckless free fall to everybody, a spark that burns fast and bright and fizzles out just as quick. 

 “I wanna know, does she fuck you like I did…I wanna know, and will she love you like I did…”

You wish you’d been less mature about the whole affair. 

Singing the words aloud only made you wish you’d thrown the words at him the first time it happened, instead of now, behind the safety of two screens and physical distance. You should’ve allowed yourself the sheer meltdown that the situation warranted, allowed the rage to take over your system even if it was for those few unfiltered seconds.

Hongjoong’s actions hadn’t deserved the maturity you afforded them. But you couldn’t blame yourself- in those fleeting moments, the primary emotions you had felt was that of inadequacy. You should’ve trusted yourself more.

 “Boy this ain’t how it’s supposed to be...Dancing between someones else’s sheets…”

After the burning hurt from the fiasco died down, it felt like Hongjoong had taken it upon himself to prove to you how special, how important, how absolutely irreplaceable you were to him. In the haze of it all, you ended up loving it. 

The once almost stoic man was now making an effort to be more to you, less of the disappointment he had caused you. He made an effort to talk to you, open up about his frayed relationship with love – hesitant at first and then naturally. 

I care about you. I love you; he’d murmured to the ceiling one night. You were silent, body resting against his as he arranged the sheets higher around your bodies. I wanted to know what we’d be like together and I haven’t regretted a second of it. I can’t imagine my days without you around.  A soft kiss planted against your hairline that you returned against the crook of his neck as sleep claimed you.

 “I can’t believe this is really happening, your guilty conscience is going to be the death of me..”

The next few months were a daily reminder of how much Kim Hongjoong had come to know you over the years of your relationship. Your favourite flowers turned up like clockwork at your desk every Tuesday, accompanying a note in his quick, scratchy handwriting – a new tradition of mid-week dates at experimental restaurants with oddly planned menus. Voice notes of his raspy morning voice sending you sweet affirmations that rung in your ears late into the afternoon. 

Even the way he touched you felt softer, more… reverent. Like he’d had a taste of what he stood to lose and never wanted to think of it again. As each day passed, you found yourself resting easy, basking in the attention and adoration and soft romance of it all.

Looking back on it, you should’ve known. What was it they say about a cheat?

They expect you to be loyal to them despite their faithlessness.

 “You got so caught up in the moment...But she’ll only love you when she’s lonely…”  

The second time it happened, the only thing your heart felt was a wildfire doused in rage and an almost crippling sense of treachery. A fellow artist in the same recording company as you had slipped into the studio late one night, just as you were packing up to head home. She’d pulled you to the couch on the side, holding your hands in hers as she hesitated before asking her questions- Are you sure your boyfriend is faithful? He keeps leaving the club I perform at with other girls?

Your fingers curled tightly around the mic, trying your hardest not to let your other hand clench the fabric covering your legs. You would give the world neither the privilege nor the misfortune of knowing how much truth this song really held. The world didn’t- no, Hongjoong didn’t deserve it. Not anymore.

 “This ain’t a game you better tell me where you're at, No boy, you fucked up and there’s no taking it back..”

You’d dropped by Hongjoong’s apartment that night, hands shaking in your coat pockets and head spinning from the rush of emotions. You had a spare key, and it was only a matter of dropping him a quick text before letting yourself in. Betrayal? Rage? Frustration? Disappointment? It was the disgusting cocktail in the pit of your stomach that led you to snoop through his phone while he was in the shower-

You wish you hadn’t but oh, you’d be damned if you weren’t glad you had.

He’d brought girls to his apartment at the end of so-called club hopping nights with Seonghwa. Every Friday. Ever since he’d made his ‘promise’ to you.

Every single Friday.

He’d bedded some random chick from the clubs and then turned up at your doorstep every weekend like nothing had ever happened.

Every. Single. Friday.

 “I gave everything to you …and this is what you turn around and do..”

You remember slipping out of Hongjoong’s apartment as quickly as you had turned up, faking an emergency at the studio to dash out the front door. Stubbornly holding your tears at bay as you drove back to your own neighbourhood, out of the car and into your apartment. Collapsing on your couch in a daze just as the breakdown began.

You still don’t know if the tears you shed that night were of anger or sadness- with the urge to destroy everything Hongjoong stood for, the only thing you wanted to do was never see him again.

For a second, you were transported back to that disaster of a night, the studio melting away into the familiar walls of your apartment, closing in on you as the despair and bottomless rage set in. There was an edge to your voice as you sang now, more angry than sad like before. Was he listening? Was he able to hear your farewell in the lyrics?

Was he panicking that you found out? Or worse, did he not care at all?

 “Did she have it all, all that you wanted for you to go and break your promise?”

The next morning, you’d woken up with puffy eyes and a heavy heart, but with one clear motive seared into your mind- revenge.

You’d allowed him into your heart, let him build a home there for years and years. You had loved him every way you knew how to- broken at first, unconditionally later. You’d given him trust, a currency you were known to be stingy with- and he turns around and does this to you.

Maybe that was childish of you; maybe a more mature person would’ve broken it off that day, wallowed in heartbreak and made efforts to move on. But no, not you.

If Hongjoong had found it acceptable to take girls home while being in a relationship with you, he would definitely find it acceptable if you aired some of his dirty laundry yourself.

 “I wanna know every secret you’ve been hiding…I wanna know just how long have you been lying..”

Chris had been concerned when you walked into the studio, looking almost entirely functional and not worse for wear at all.

It made sense, your best friend’s worry. It had only been 3 days since…since the incident and besides an update message, you had burrowed yourself at home and entirely unreachable. But here you were today, sheets of paper filled with your scrawl covering the table in front of you- lyrics.

Read them, you’d muttered, shoving the pages towards him- your hands shook slightly, the first crack in your façade. They’re a bit of a mess, but they mostly make sense.

Only you would remember being drunk off your mind on whiskey and later, wine the whole time. Alternating between feverish writing and heartbroken sobbing. Pretending to be completely fine to Hongjoong, telling him to not ‘interrupt your creative process’. Staring out into the starrless night skies and wishing that one day soon, Hongjoong would feel the hell you were feeling now. One day, you would look a camera in the eye and sing these lyrics out loud, for the world to hear, for him to hear. And you’ll be damned if that day, Kim Hongjoong didn’t get his final taste of who he’d just lost.

 “I wanna know…does she fuck you like I did, I wanna know,  will she love you like I did..”

Getting the right feel to the lyrics while recording the song had been all too easy, waving off Hongjoong’s curiosity about your newest project easier so.

It was a surprise for him, you would smile, dropping fleeting kisses against his cheekbones and jaw just the way he liked. He always smiled and dragged your mouth to his own, letting his smile slide against your own, murmuring that he was going to follow you into the studio to take a peek for curiosity’s sake. 

Talk often fizzled out at that point, because god, it was so difficult to stay away from each other’s bodies and out of each other’s arms after the long days of being your own people, strong and resourceful and adult and independent. It was easier to let your muscle memories take over, touch and sense and feel every single wretched thing that Hongjoong was so capable of making you feel.  

 “She won't do you like me, she won't love you like me, baby…she won't touch you like me, she won't love you like me, baby…”

You would be lying if you said you didn’t get a wild sense of pleasure singing those lines, your eyes not leaving the camera pointed at you. Was it revenge well served? A broken heart being healed?

Over the weeks of preparing for the song, you’d realized how true those words were. The burning sense of betrayal and hurt hadn’t faded in the least- you still woke up every morning feeling lesser than, but never again. Never would you let anybody feel like this again.

Nobody would love Hongjoong like you could. It was about time he realized that. Pity, though, that you wouldn’t be around to witness it. 

“She won't love you like, she won't love you like me.”

The music fizzled out into silence, the producers counting down as you stayed still- 3,2,1 cut! In pursuit of the feeling of reckless freedom, Hongjoong had lost the one person he claimed made him feel like he belonged. How unfortunate for him, you mused, as the studio erupted in claps, the producers grinning widely and everybody smiling at each other. In the middle of the chaos, the door swung open- His eyes were wide, short blonde hair a windswept mess against his forehead, the single stalk of your favourite flower hanging limp in his hands. Surely there were paint marks on his cuffs, and the tiny earring would jingle prettily when he moved, but as his gaze met your dead ones, you could only think one thing-

She won't love you like, she won't love you like me.

Thank you for reading! Do let me know what you think~ xoxo, Elliana.

Network Tag: @kpopscape​

[paradisoperdita]

"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons"

'The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock' T.S Eliot

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Simeon X MC Fluff

MC is gender neutral

I wanted to write something about both Simeon and my favourite line of all time. Just trying to stretch my writing muscles again. Hopefully somebody out there enjoys this 💜

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amber light embraced the café as the sun lingered just above the horizon. Flecks of refracted particles drifted through the sunbeams. The intricate dance capturing the air’s ebb and flow. Hushed conversations babbled effortlessly accompanied by piano music and the occasional squeaking of chair legs. In one hand, you held a pristine manuscript of a yet unpublished collection of poetry. In the other, a cup of coffee crafted by their poet. Both filling you with a warmth unique to Simeon.

Each poem carried a quiet intensity, much like Simeon himself. To read them aloud they appeared perfectly mannered: the meter, rhyme scheme, and cadence all in perfect harmony. Yet hidden in these lines were subtle oppositions. Certain words with the wrong number of syllables that tripped you up and stopped you in your tracks. Simeon gave you the poems to ask for your opinion, but he hadn’t told you that they were all love poems. Every poem was about the same subject; someone who had successfully captured the heart of an angel. Simply by reading these poems, you too found yourself falling for them a little. Your heartbeat quickening to match the rhythm of Simeon’s iambic tetrameter.

His voice plays out in your mind as you read, as well as reaching your ears as he greets his customers. For whom had Simeon written these poems? You watch him working behind the counter. His smile was wavering as the evening rush was nearing its end. None of these customers at least seemed to be the one he admired. His eyes meet yours across the room. The corners of his lips softened and his shoulders relaxed, yet the gold in his eyes shines brighter in the sunlight. He turns to tend to the espresso machine, covering his mouth with his hand; a habit of his when he’s trying to stifle a laugh. What did he find so funny?

You were completely oblivious. You had been holding an empty cup to your lips whilst staring at him for a solid minute.

With a freshly brewed pot of coffee in his hand, Simeon walked over to your table. He skilfully poured your drink, adding just the right amount of cream for your tastes.

“What do you think of them?” Simeon asked as he placed the pot down on your table.

“They’re really good! I didn’t know you could write poetry like this.” You said.

“Neither did I until quite recently.” He smiled cryptically and leaned over you to read the manuscript over your shoulder.

There was an unspoken question on the tip of your tongue, but would it be rude to ask it? Your eyes were glued to the page in the hopes that the answer would make itself known to you. That just maybe you could find it with a little more searching. A lover’s name concealed between the lines of an incomplete sonnet.

Simeon edged toward you. A hand slid from the back of your chair to your shoulder. Even through the fabric, he could sense your warmth. There were too many barriers between you and he needed to bring you closer still. A question played on your lips. A glimmer of hope twinkled in your eyes. Yet you dare not speak and you avoided meeting his gaze. Would he dare disturb the universe? His breath hitched in his throat. He brought his lips tantalisingly close to your ear.

“Wouldn’t you like to know who they’re for?” He spoke tenderly. A shiver shot down your spine. The heat rushed to your face. Completely flustered, you tried to move away to compose yourself. Your nose brushed against his. When did he get so close?!

And yet, despite the intimacy of your position, neither of you were inclined to move away. You saw none of Simeon’s usual mask; it had completely melted away with his question. A question you were too afraid to ask, with an answer he was too nervous to give you. Before you was Simeon: the real Simeon. A Simeon free from performance and pretence. Every line of his poetry was written on his face as he looked at you. You knew the depth of his feelings for you as well as you knew your own for him. The mutual recognition delighted you both. A comforting smile adorned your countenance.

“I think I might have an idea.”

[flowercrown-bard]

For the writing prompts #14. Can’t make move because other person is a rival/enemy (please!)

Thank you so much for the prompt! So...I'm not 100% sure if this still fits the prompt but oh well, I tried

pairing: Eskel/Jaskier

word count: 5k

from this prompt list

summary: Jaskier finds anoynmous poetry that talks about how witchers are unwanted posted on notice boards. Of course he makes it his goal to find the mysterious poet and make them stop. It's too bad that as time goes on and the poet's verses change, it becomes really hard to hate them (new fic with Eskel‘s POV to this)

content warning: self-deprication, angst

Jaskier was known for many a thing. Some people knew him as a talented bard. Others thought of him only as the idiot they had seen jump out of a window to escape a scorned lover’s wrath. The list could go on forever, Jaskier had made sure of that.

But the one thing, everyone without fail would know him for, is that he was fiercely loyal to witchers.

For years he had sung about the White Wolf and his heroics, but lately, ever since that fateful day that he had finally met Geralt’s brother, Jaskier also sang about a different witcher. One who had promised to show him his collection of old poetry that scholars everywhere would kill for. The witcher that was kind and sweet despite what his appearance might suggest. The witcher whom Jaskier couldn’t stop thinking about ever since they had parted.

Briefly, Jaskier had been worried that Geralt might disapprove of Jaskier writing songs about one of his brothers. After all it had just been the two of them for so long. But Geralt didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he smiled a little wider whenever Jaskier crafted verses for Eskel. In fact, he looked at Jaskier as if there was more to it than just professional interest. Which was absolute nonsense, of course. Singing about another witcher was only profitable. It expended Jaskier’s repertoire and what better way to help all witcher-kind than to spread tales about more than just the most famous one of them?

So yes, Jaskier was first and foremost known as a friend to witchers.

Another, lesser known fact about Jaskier was that once he developed a grudge, he would hold onto it for the rest of his life.

Which is why Jaskier was seething with fury when he caught wind of some unnamed poet who apparently made it their life’s work to destroy witchers’ reputations.

What made it even worse that on the day Jaskier found out, he was in high spirits. He had been travelling alone for the past month and had just heard of Eskel – who Jaskier had been looking forward to meeting again since forever – being somewhere in the area. Of course, Jaskier had dropped everything and gone to search every notice board he could find for any clue as to any contracts close by that could have attracted the witcher.

What Jaskier found instead was enough to make his fists tremble with barely suppressed rage. Right there, in the middle of the notice board hung a piece of poetry on some cheap paper.

That in itself wasn’t too bad. Jaskier remembered well the days when he himself had been too shy to openly present his poetry and had resorted to anonymously posting it onto boards, but this – this was the worst thing Jaskier had ever read. The verses spoke of what it meant to be a witcher, of how life one the Path could look like. Some of the words and metaphors used were clear references – or even plagiarism – to Jaskier’s songs about his witchers. But where Jaskier praised and celebrated, this poet snarled and spat at witchers.

At the very least, the handwriting wasn’t too easy to decipher, as if the poet – if one could call them that – hadn’t had much time to write this. It was a poor consolation.

Jaskier read through the poem again and again, his mind catching on the words unwanted and mutant. And those were the most harmless insults.

The entire poem read as a collection of all the horrible things that were spat at witchers. Not only was it a clear rip-off of Jaskier’s work – describing the life of a witcher – but it dared to twist it into something ugly and loathed.

To make the insult worse, underneath the poem, in the place where normally the poet’s signature would be, was a clumsy sketch of a goat – clearly meant as another insult to Jaskier. Dread pooled in Jaskier’s stomach, as his eyes raked over the lines one more time and an even more horrible conclusion dawned on him.

The poet didn’t just made references to Jaskier’s works in general. It used imagery Jaskier specifically used in his songs about Eskel. The kindest soul Jaskier knew. A man so selfless that he had even saved a baby goat and had against all odds managed to take care of her while on the Path.

And now this poet spoke about Eskel’s bad experiences and posted them openly on the board for all the world to see.

Without thinking, Jaskier tore the paper with the offending poem from the board. It nearly crumbled in his fingers, but he forced himself to keep his hand steady. He would need the poem to ask people if they knew who had written it, even though the thought of showing it to more people churned Jaskier’s guts.

His search ended abruptly, when instead of finding out who the poet was, Jaskier heard about Eskel being driven out of the town.

He gritted his teeth and left the town to resume his search of Eskel. But even as he left the town behind, he swore to himself that whatever he did, some day he would find the poet and he would make sure they would never write another harmful word about witchers again.

-

Not a week later, a couple of towns over, Jaskier found another poem. The same handwriting, the same sentiment of witchers being resented outcasts.

After that, Jaskier doubled his efforts to sing the witchers’ praises.

Apparently, the unknown poet took that as a challenge. Wherever Jaskier went, it was only a matter of time before the next piece of offending poetry appeared.

The poet should have been easy to find. Poets of all kinds had the convenient habit of making themselves known – Jaskier could attest to that. And yet, this one alluded him time and time again. They were impossible to find. For a brief moment, Jaskier considered the possibility of Valdo Marx being the one writing these horrible things just to spite Jaskier, but even he wouldn’t stoop low enough for such a thing. Valdo had his place in Cidaris and he would never become a travelling bard for such a petty thing. Because that was clearly what this mysterious and hated poet was; travelling, just like Jaskier and yet always one step ahead, always out of reach.

There was no hint as to where the poet would go next. The only pattern Jaskier could find was that they always showed up in towns that remembered a witcher with scars running down his face.

For whatever reason, the poet was targeting Eskel specifically.

So Jaskier did the only thing he could do. If he wasn’t able to tell the poet off face to face, he might answer in the best way he knew how: With his own verses.

Every single poem he came across, Jaskier would reply to with poems of his own – pinned to the boards in the place where the stranger’s poem had hung before Jaskier had torn it off. For good measure, Jaskier would also sing his verses in taverns and market squares, just in case the poet would be able to hear him.

When the stranger that had quickly become Jaskier’s worst enemy, spoke of ugly scars in his lines that twisted every smile into a snarl, Jaskier answered with tales of a witcher’s laughter that was more beautiful and joyful than any coy giggles one would hear at court.

When his enemy talked about witchers being alone and scorned wherever they went, Jaskier sang about how wonderful it felt to call a witcher his friend, how loyal and protective witchers were of those they loved – this of course was underlined with a barely hidden message that Jaskier in turn was very protective of his witchers and would bring anyone down who dared insult them.

This warning evidently wasn’t received, for the next poem Jaskier found spoke of lonely nights and averted eyes.

And the thing was…the more Jaskier read those poems, the more he found that they were true. What could he say to disprove those words that he hated so much? He had seen first-hand how people scuttled away in fear as soon as they sat eyes on a witcher. He knew that right now, without his company, Geralt and Eskel would spend their nights alone, possibly hurt and feeling like they didn’t belong.

As much as Jaskier despised the poet for perpetuating the public’s opinion of witchers, Jaskier had to admit that somehow they had a deep understanding of what a witcher’s life was like, even if they used their insight to do harm.

Jaskier didn’t know how to feel about that revelation. Whoever that poet was, he knew. He understood. Maybe even felt the same way.

But that didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

This person was hurting Jaskier’s friends and there was no excuse for that. If he ever met the poet, no word about this irrational fascination would come past his lips. He would make sure that they stopped writing such terrible things and nothing more. They didn’t deserve anything more.

--

There was just one problem…the poetry was good. Brilliant, even. If it weren’t for the horrible subjects, Jaskier might even admire the craftsmanship of the verses.

He couldn’t for the life of him figure out where the poet had learned to write like this. Certainly not at Oxenfurt. Some of these rhyme schemes were similar to ones only found in old elven poetry that had been nearly erased entirely and there were references to some of the poems to literature that had been almost completely lost for ages.

Jaskier almost wanted to sit down with this poet and talk about their craft. Their verses were more expressive than anything Jaskier had ever read and as loath as he was to admit it, some of them brought tears to Jaskier’s eyes with how beautifully worded they were.

It was such a sharp and painful contrast reading those wonderful metaphors and rhymes describing the Path as something gruesome, ugly and hated.

It made Jaskier long for his friends. He wanted to make sure they weren’t alone anymore, that they didn’t have to see only the ugly parts of the Path.

But it also made him want to know more about the poet. Wanted to find out why they sounded so hurt in the way they wrote. He wanted to console and comfort them.

It was an ugly thought and one that Jaskier was ashamed to admit to even himself. So he pushed it into the far back of his mind. This person, whoever they were, wasn’t the one Jaskier should comfort. They were the very reason why Jaskier’s friends felt lonely.

Jaskier would never betray Geralt’s trust by befriending someone like that. Even more, he wouldn’t betray Eskel like that. Beautiful Eskel who was afraid to smile for fear of people flinching back in disgust. Who had been shy and yet excited about talking to Jaskier about poetry.

Jaskier froze and ice spread through his chest. Eskel.

All this time Jaskier had been so fixated on finding the poet that he had completely forgotten that he couldn’t have been the only one who had found their poems. If Jaskier had seen any of them, he would be crushed. Poetry was one of the few things Eskel found enjoyment in while on the Path and this could ruin that for him forever.

That thought was enough for Jaskier to regain his earlier determination. Not a hint of affection for the poet was left in his heart.

--

Except that, as the months dragged on and Jaskier kept replying to the poet’s words, the hint of affection or rather fascination flickered back to life. At some point, the poet had started to respond to Jaskier’s responses. Not openly, of course, but it was obvious in the way they wrote that they were referring to some of the things Jaskier spoke of in his newest songs.

What had started out as a passive-aggressive way for Jaskier to tell the other poet that he despised them, slowly turned into something much different. Jaskier wasn’t sure if he liked it.

Ever so slowly, the subjects of the poet’s verses shifted. True enough, overall they were still about the Path in one way or another, but now the poems about hatred and scorn were interspersed with ones about flowers and occasional appreciation and strangely enough, the joy of knitting. The last one elicited a startled laugh out of Jaskier when he read it and he quickly stopped himself. He couldn’t however keep the smile off his face as he read through that poem again.

Hadn’t this been what Jaskier had wanted all along? It would appear that the poet had finally started to see reason and change the way they thought about witchers.

And now that Jaskier found those other, happier poems, he couldn’t help but see the beauty in their verses. He still kept all of their poems, but now he no longer did so to vanish all traces of them off the earth, but so that he could read them when he felt his own loneliness creep up on him.

Time and time again he let his eyes wander over a poem that talked about the happiness that came with unexpectedly meeting family again that had been longed for. It made Jaskier think about his witchers, about Geralt who had been his best friend for years and about Eskel who Jaskier wished more than anything to meet again someday. And strangely enough, he also thought about the poet, about meeting them and talking about the beautiful things they wrote about.

More than once, Jaskier reached for his quill to put a hidden message about a possible future meeting in his next poem, but every time he stopped himself. He couldn’t do this. Not for as long as he wasn’t sure whether this person had destroyed Eskel’s happiness and the last bit of his already fragile self-esteem.

But then, there was another change, one Jaskier hadn’t expected and that made his heart beat painfully fast in his chest. No longer did the poems speak about vague occurrences of joy and beauty, but of the joy Jaskiergave the poet. About how his voice and his words could make the poet feel like maybe life wasn’t as bleak as they had been told. About how Jaskier’s responses gave them hope. About how they made them feel less alone.

The sincerity and almost admiration in these words startled Jaskier. This wasn’t what he had wanted to do when he had started to respond to the poet. And yet…he couldn’t deny that he too felt a strange sense of companionship whenever he found another one of the poems. As strange as it sounded, but the poet had become the closest Jaskier had to someone he could talk to. Jaskier had no idea where his friends were, but no matter where he went, sooner or later, the poet’s words would reach him again. And damn him, it was nice having someone think of him and craft beautiful verses just for him.

Guilt gnawed at Jaskier’s insides and he wished it would be different, but he found himself looking forward to finding the next poem, always praying with all his might that it wouldn’t be about witchers.

It was nearly autumn when Jaskier found the poem that made his chest tighten with a strange emotion he couldn’t place.

The poem was so full of longing that it became hard for Jaskier to breathe. It was about yearning to meet Jaskier, of seeing his smile and feeling the gentleness of his hands. It was about the soul-crushing knowledge that they would only disappoint Jaskier if they ever met.

Jaskier’s hands trembled as he took that poem off the notice board. He caressed the small picture of the goat that had gone from being a hated mockery to something that made Jaskier smile whenever he saw it.

That night he got so close to telling the poet where to meet them.

The song with the directions was already written and he was already gathering his nerves to prepare himself to sing it the next day, when a sudden gust of wind made the stack of the stranger’s poems Jaskier had kept flutter through the air. Pages upon pages about how witchers were despised, about how they were fated to be alone and how no one would ever be able to see past their hideous scars landed all around Jaskier, accusing him of the betrayal he had almost committed.

His heart dropped like a stone and he forced himself to read through all of the poems again. Every verse, every line, every word that reminded him why he had sworn to himself to never forgive this poet.

When he was done, he stuffed the papers into the bottom of his back, telling himself he didn’t care about them crumbling and tearing.

When he left town, there he left no reply to the poet’s last poem. He only continued reading the notice boards to make sure the poet was still writing about things other than witchers, but Jaskier never responded anymore.

After a while, the poet too stopped writing.

His last poem was but a line, asking whether Jaskier was alright. It was so simple, so obviously worried that it took all of Jaskier’s will power not to respond and let the poet know that he was still there.

By the time it had become clear that no more poems would be written, Jaskier had almost convinced himself that he was happy about never having to hear from them again.

--

Though the thought of the poet didn’t leave Jaskier’s mind, no matter how hard he tried, Jaskier found someone far better.

Not a week after he had severed his connection to the poet for good and was back to performing his old songs about witchers, the door to the tavern Jaskier was playing at opened and a familiar figure entered.

Jaskier’s heart gave a jump and his fingers nearly fumbled when he recognised Eskel. The smile that spread across Jaskier’s face at the sight of the man he had longed to see again faltered, when he took him in more closely. Eskel was guarded most of the time, but now there was something more than that in his expression. He looked almost dejected and he had heavy bags under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days.

Jaskier’s chest clenched and he had to fight to keep up his happy performance persona. The Path must have been especially unkind to Eskel. Dread clawed at Jaskier’s heart and his voice trembled.

Was this the poet’s doing? Had their words reached Eskel after all and taken away any peace he might have had?

Jaskier’s eyes followed Eskel as he scanned the crowd before his eyes landed on Jaskier. For a heartbeat, something akin to fear flickered across Eskel’s expression, but then his eyes lit up and his shoulders slumped in relief.

As quickly as he could, Jaskier brought his performance to an end, claiming that he needed a break to give his voice some rest. He hurried over to Eskel and practically fell into his arms.

For a moment, Eskel stiffened at the touch, but then he returned the embrace almost desperately and pressed his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck.

“You’re alright,” Eskel breathed, barely loud enough for Jaskier to hear.

“Of course I am,” Jaskier said as brightly as he could to ease Eskel’s worry and pulled back so he could properly look at Eskel. “Contrary to popular believe, I can go some time without getting into trouble.” He made no effort to try to be subtle about checking Eskel over for injuries. “Out of the two of us, I’m not the one who risks his life every day. What happened to you?”

Eskel stiffened slightly and his eyes shifted to the side, evading Jaskier’s gaze. “Nothing. I was just worried I had lost … a friend.”

Something in Jaskier’s chest softened and as they sat down at a table, Jaskier made a point of sliding in right next to Eskel instead of sitting down opposite of him.

For some inexplicable reason, Eskel still seemed hesitant to touch Jaskier as if he was worried Jaskier might withdraw if Eskel got to close, but his eyes raked over Jaskier as if he wanted to commit every inch of him to memory.

Jaskier scooted closer to Eskel until their thighs touched. He reached for Eskel’s hand and brushed a strand of hair behind his ears while talking about the thing Jaskier had seen since they had last met.

Ever so slowly, Eskel relaxed and leaned into the touch.

What had started as hesitant replies to Jaskier’s numerous questions about the Path quickly became a comfortable conversation, just like they had had when they had last seen each other.

The easiness with which words flowed almost reminded Jaskier of the easy exchange of words he had had with the poet.

He banished the thought as quickly as it had appeared.

He put his attention back to Eskel where it belonged and listened intently as Eskel told him about the monsters he had fought, about the places he had been and about the fact that for some reason, Eskel had been paid in knitting lessons from the very same old lady that had paid Eskel by giving him Lil Bleater a year ago.

As Jaskier laughed at that story and warmth spread through his chest, Eskel too smiled at him. It was a timid, gentle thing, barely enough to lift the edges of his lips properly, but it was big enough to twist the scars. And for once Eskel didn’t seem to mind.

The sight did something strange to Jaskier and suddenly he was filled with the urge to trace these beautiful lips with his thumb.

Eskel must have seen something shift in Jaskier’s expression, for he suddenly stopped talking and his eyes drifted down to Jaskier’s lips.

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier whispered. “I love the way you talk. It sounds almost like poetry.”

The hint of a blush crept into Eskel’s cheeks. “I…I could never write something as beautiful as your songs, but…” His lips twitched upwards and he lowered his head slightly. “You are very inspiring Jaskier. The way you talked about poetry…it made me pick up a pen too, after we parted last time.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “You write poetry?”

“Not very well.”

Jaskier knew that his eyes were full of fondness for this wonderful, beautiful witcher, but he didn’t care if he saw. He was too relieved to hear that the poet hadn’t been able to take Eskel’s love for poetry away from him after all.

So fixated on that last piece of bitterness that Jaskier had carefully kept alive to remind himself not to contact the poet again, he couldn’t help the next words from slipping past his lips.

“Whatever you’re writing, I am sure it is better than those horrible poems I have had to read lately.”

Eskel froze and his eyes darted between Jaskier’s.

“What…what poems did you have to read?” His voice sounded strangely thick.

Jaskier’s brows knitted together and he waved his hand through the air dismissively, even as his chest clenched painfully. “Just someone who thought they should post their poetry on notice boards. It’s a good thing no one will ever have to read a word of theirs again.”

Eskel’s face fell and he drew back just enough that he wasn’t touching Jaskier anymore. “You really hated it that much?”

Jaskier huffed out a bitter laugh. “You would have too, if you had seen the things they wrote.”

Even while he said it, Jaskier knew that something was wrong. Eskel’s expression shuttered completely and he turned away from Jaskier.

Jaskier’s insides grew cold. For an uncomfortable moment that seemed to stretch on forever, he sat silently next to Eskel, wrecking his brain trying to figure out where he had messed up. Whatever it had been, it was clear that his presence made Eskel uncomfortable.

A half-hearted excuse left Jaskier, something about having to continue his performance.

Eskel only replied with a silent nod as Jaskier left the table to resume his playing. And when Jaskier risked a glance at their table during a song, he found that Eskel had already left.

Uncaring of the disappointed shouts of his audience, Jaskier’s voice broke off and he hastened back to their now empty table to gather his things.

Whatever he had done, to chase Eskel away, he needed to fix this.

He grabbed his cloak and dropped a couple of coins on the table to pay for the meal he had had earlier, when his eyes fell on something lying on the table. A slip of paper with some flimsy excuse for why Eskel had to leave on it.

For a heartbeat Jaskier only stared at it, uncomprehending what he was seeing.

But there was no two ways about it. The writing that now stared back at Jaskier was the same handwriting he had been reading for the past months. It was the poet’s handwriting.

Without a second thought, Jaskier bolted out of the tavern and after Eskel.

“Wait!” he called out to him when he caught sight of him disappearing into an alleyway.

His breath came heavy and his lungs burned from the sudden sprint, but Jaskier didn’t stop until he caught up with Eskel who stood with his back to Jaskier, obviously unwilling to face him.

“Eskel,” Jaskier said helplessly. “I-“

“I’m sorry,” Eskel interrupted and his shoulders tensed. “I didn’t know – If I had known how much you hated the poems I would have stopped.”

For the first time since Jaskier could remember, he found no words. His mind was racing, connecting memories to his knew knowledge and making connections where before there had been nothing but false conclusions.

Jaskier’s uncharacteristic silence must have been reply enough for Eskel, for he half-turned to him, just enough for Jaskier to see his scars.

“I didn’t mean to make you hate me,” Eskel said quietly and his voice was tight. “I am sorry I made you miserable with my poems all these months. I’ll stop. I promise, you won’t have to read anything like that again. You won’t even have to see me. I just…after I didn’t hear from you again, I needed to make sure you were still alive.”

“You didn’t,” Jaskier said, voice breaking. “You didn’t make my life miserable. But they sounded….Eskel, why did your poems sound like yourlife was miserable? Why would you say such horrible things about yourself?”

Eskel flinched and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I didn’t know what else to write about. There wasn’t much else. Until…” Eskel’s voice trailed off.

“Until you wrote about flowers and knitting and family,” Jaskier ended softly for him.

Eskel nodded and Jaskier felt tears pricking at his eyes. “I loved them. And knowing that they came from you, that you are the one who found happiness out there, you have no idea how much that means to me.”

Without meaning to, Jaskier reached out for Eskel’s hand and before he knew it, Eskel had threaded their fingers together and turned to face Jaskier fully. They were so close. Jaskier could see every speck of gold in Eskel’s eyes as they flickered down to his lips.

“Jaskier.” His voice was hoarse and he looked like it took all his strength to say the one word. Slowly, Eskel leaned forward, and Jaskier could feel his heart skip a beat and his breath hitch. Eskel’s eyes widened and he drew back abruptly.

“I am sorry,” Eskel blurted out.

Jaskier’s brows drew together and he tried to follow Eskel’s movement and close the gap between them again.

“Why? Eskel, what could you possibly have to be sorry about?”

An unreadyable expression flashed across Eskel’s face. “About this.” He gestured vaguely between them. “And about my last poems. I didn’t think you’d ever find out they were from me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

It took Jaskier a second to understand what he meant, but when he did, his heart broke for the poet who had longed to feel Jaskier’s touch; for Eskel who had been scared that he would only disappoint.

Carefully, Jaskier lifted his hand, giving Eskel time to refuse the touch. When his hand settled on Eskel’s skin and gently caressed Eskel’s scars, Jaskier could feel Eskel’s shuddering breath ghost across Jaskier’s skin and Eskel closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.

“You could never disappoint,” Jaskier whispered. “Never you.”

“Does that mean you didn’t mind those poems?” Eskel’s voice was filled with barely restrained hope.

Jaskier let out a huffed laugh. “Oh, I did very much mind them. For so long I had wanted to punch my poet in the face for what they wrote. And those letters…they made me want to kiss them.”

Eskel’s eyes snapped open. “You-“ he broke off, a bittersweet smile on his face. His next words were so quiet that Jaskier couldn’t be sure he was even meant to hear them. “At least I could make you want me as someone else.”

Jaskier tilted his head to the side. His fingers slid down Eskel’s face, before they came to rest at the corner of Eskel’s lips.

“Oh Eskel,” Jaskier breathed, stepping impossibly closer. “The one thing holding me back was the thought that it wasn’t you.”

“Jaskier…” Eskel came no further. Before any more words of fear or self-doubt could leave him, Jaskier pressed his lips against Eskel’s.

Eskel let out a soft gasp, before returning the kiss, only interrupting it for long enough to whisper words to Jaskier that were simpler and yet more beautiful than any poem could be.

For the first time in what felt like too long, Jaskier responded to his poet’s words, with the same simple words that made Eskel’s face light up in a way that made Jaskier doubt that he would ever write about loneliness and feeling unlovable ever again.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Moe Moe Mallekei Kyun~

In which Malleus and Cater go to a maid café, and shenanigans ensue.

... I’ve been wanting to write this for a long time.

***Warning: mild spoilers for Malleus’s PE Uniform personal story!***

Imagine this...

“Lilia-sama.”

Two bodyguards fell into line, saluting simultaneously to their vice dorm leader.

“We just finished combing through the prime gargoyle locations around campus,” Silver reported. “Unfortunately, there was no sight of Malleus-sama to be found. The accounts of the various students we interviewed also corroborate that the Young Master has not recently been spotted in the area.”

“I see. Thank you, Silver.” Lilia sighed, cupping his cheek in one hand. “Hm, this is a bit odd. Wherever could he have wandered off to this time?”

At that moment, a ping! sounded off. Lilia fished his phone out of his pocket and, with one glance at the screen, his expression softened.

“You don’t suppose some dastardly villain has… kidnapped the Young Master and is holding him for ransom, do you?!” Sebek’s eyes nearly bulged out of his skull at the thought. “If that is the case… THEN WE HAVE FAILED AS MALLEUS-SAMA’S KNIGHTS!!”

“Now, now--let’s not jump to conclusions. Even if that were true, I’m certain that Malleus would be able to easily fend off assailants on his own. Perhaps he has simply lost his way, or headed off campus to run an errand.”

“... Without warning us in advance?”

“I would have happily accompanied the Young Master wherever he went--EVEN TO THE ENDS OF TWISTED WONDERLAND ITSELF!!”

“Kufufu. Malleus is still young at heart. Let us allow him this moment of independence, just this once. He will find his way home eventually.”

“Welcome home, my masters!!”

Malleus skidded to a stop in the doorway—for beyond it laid unknown territory. The interior sported cream walls, with fairy lights, streamers, and paper flowers strung up. A number of tables and chairs, populated with people, were set against flowing white curtains.

Young ladies flitted about, balancing trays of food and drinks, cameras, and microphones. Each wore the same outfit, consisting of a frilly headdress, an apron, and a black dress with lace trim and ribbons.

And now, one of those uniformed girls extended a hand to him and a warm, welcoming smile.

Malleus frowned and turned to the orange haired young man beside him. “... Diamond. What is this strange establishment you’ve brought me to?”

“Mm? It’s a maid café,” Cater chirped, glancing up from his phone. “You said you’ve never been before, right?”

“Well, yes… However, when you invited me to join you for an outing, I did not expect this to be our destination.”

“It’ll be fine~ We’re already here, so let’s get seated!” Cater insisted cheerily, ushering the fae through the door. 

“Right this way, my masters!” The greeter giggled and led the way, eventually stopping at a vacant table set for two. As the duo slipped into their seats, she handed them menus and moistened towels. “We have a wide selection of special services and delicious dishes for your enjoyment!”

Malleus hesitantly flipped open the (very pink) menu and ran his eyes down the page of available items. Along with the expected offerings of desserts, savory foods, and beverages were odd listings: massage, ear cleaning, karaoke, game, arts and crafts, picture, spoon feeding, live song and dance...

He stared quizzically at Cater, who seemed to be taking everything in stride.

“I’ll take a plate of omurice! How about you, Malleus-kun?”

He stared back at his menu, trying to make rhyme or reason of the unique names. What in the Great Seven was a Pyon ❤ Pyon Sunshine Bar…? Or a Lucky☆Happy☆Cookie? Malleus’s brows furrowed in both concentration and confusion.

“I… I shall have the local specialty, whatever that may be,” the fae prince declared at last.

“Excellent choices! And would you like a bunny, or a kitty?”

“You hand out animals at this eating establishment? Is that not a health code violation?”

“Aaah, Malleus-kun, she doesn’t mean real rabbits and cats. Look--you’ll see when she brings them, okay?” Cater laughed awkwardly. Then, turning to the waitress, he held up his index finger. “One of each, little lady~”

“Of course!” She scribbled down a few words on her heart shaped notepad before prancing off.

“... Diamond. Are you certain this is the fabled maid café of which you spoke of?” Malleus asked, folding his arms. “I find it difficult to believe that every patron here is descended from a high class lineage. Furthermore, the servers are wearing attire entirely unlike that of a traditional household servant.”

Cater blinked once, twice—then chuckled.

“Maid cafés are like normal cafés. Anyone can go to them to play pretend and chill for a while! The difference is that the waitresses are dressed cutely and offer fun services. Singing, dancing, playing games—that kinda thing!”

“I do not understand.” Malleus swept a hand at their surroundings. “The purpose of this establishment is merely for… amusement?”

“Yup! People get tired of the daily grind sometimes, so they go to places like this to see cute stuff and just take a load off.”

“I… I see.” Malleus tucked his thumb and forefinger under his chin. “We do not have anything like your maid cafes in the Valley of Thorns.”

“You don’t? What sort of things do you do back home for fun, then?”

“I was not allowed to venture far from the palace grounds. Most of my time was spent indoors, studying spells or honing my magical abilities.”

Cater inclined his head. “Oooh, right! Because you’re a prince and all, you weren’t able to do much—but hey! Things are different now! You’ve got Cay-kun to show you a good time!”

“Ah, yes. A ‘good time’...” Malleus attempted at a smile, which came out more wary than he had intended.

“Thank you for waiting!” a girlish voice chirped—their waitress had returned, wearing a tray of food in one hand and two headbands in the other. “Here is your omurice and Nyan ✨ Nyan ✨ Kitty-chan Parfait, plus one pair of kitty ears and one pair of bunny ears!”

She handed Cater his dish—a bed of ketchup flavored fried rice, sealed by a wobbling omelet and garnished with a sprig of parsley.

“Mm! Smells delicious. Thanks a bunch~” Cater grinned, winking at his server.

The maid giggled and placed Malleus’s dessert before him, along with the headbands.

“Would you like me to draw or write something special for you on your meal, master?” she asked, gesturing to Cater’s omurice.

“Sure thing! Could you write ‘Mallekei’? Oh, and a couple of hearts would be cute, too!”

“As you wish!”

As the maid set to work, Malleus marveled at the sight of his parfait.

Colorful scoops of ice-cream, granola, and sliced fruits were layered inside of a tall glass cup. A generous crown of whipped cream and a drizzle of strawberry sauce topped it off. Sticking out from the whipped cream were two wafer triangles and dots of chocolate candies, forming a cat-like face.

How adorable.

… But not adorable enough to be spared.

“Thank you for the food.” The fae raised his spoon to demolish the poor parfait kitten—

“Stop, stop, Malleus-kun!!” Cater cried, frantically waving his arms. “N-Not yet!!”

Malleus lowered his spoon with a frown. “Food is meant to be consumed, Diamond. Is there an issue you have with my table etiquette?”

“Well—no, but…” Cater played with a lock of his orange hair and sighed. “There’s certain rituals we need to do first!”

“Rituals? Oh, my apologies. I was not aware. Please proceed with your regularly scheduled… rituals.”

“Ahaha, you’re a quick learner! First thing’s first, let’s put on our headbands!” Cater swept up the cat ears and passed them over. “Here, to match your parfait! I’ll take the rabbit.”

Malleus gingerly nestled the cat ears on his head, copying Cater’s movements. It was a bit tricky maneuvering around his horns, but somehow, he managed.

“Oh!! Those ears suit you so well!” the waitress said, glancing up from decorating the omurice. Carefully placed splotches of ketchup spelled out ‘Mallekei’, hearts and little sparkles littering the space around the boys’ combined names.

“... Do they?” Malleus doubted it.

“They do!!” Cater reassured him with a laugh. “Ne, ne, miss! Can you take our picture so my friend here can have a souvenir to take home with him?” 

“Certainly!” She replaced the bottle of ketchup and hurried off, returning shortly after with a polaroid camera. “Are you ready, my masters?”

“Ready, Malleus-kun?”

“Hmph. Of course. I will have you know that my posing abilities have improved considerably since our last encounter. Do not underestimate me.”

“Oh, that’s great! You’ve been practicing! Then… on the count of three, we nyah, okay?”

“... What is ‘nyah’?” Malleus inquired, his confidence suddenly waning.

“Eh?” A blip of surprise crossed Cater’s face. “Like, y’know… nyah!”

The influencer curled both of his hands into balls and made a pawing motion at his friend. “Now you try!”

“Like this?” Malleus mimicked him. He was more stiff—definitely not as practiced—but the general motion was still recognizable.

“Very good, master!!” the waitress gushed, raising the polaroid up. “On three?”

“1, 2, 3… Nyah!”

A flash went off, sending stars into Malleus’s vision. As he rubbed the daze out of his eyes, Cater’s voice called out to him.

“Are you okay there?”

“I am well. There is no need for your concern,” the fae insisted. “This ritual… it is more confounding that I took it to be.”

“Eeeh? It’s not meant to be hard or anything. Just relax, relax!” Cater paused before adding, “It’s part of the ritual’s requirements! You need to be nice and loose for the last step!”

“What is this last step?”

“We need to cast a magic spell to make your food taste extra tasty!” the waitress declared cheerily.

“Hoh?” A smirk found its way onto Malleus’s face. “That can easily be arranged. Allow me to do the honors.”

He put his hand before his parfait, an eerie green glow emulating from his palm. The sinister light engulfed his dish and Cater’s, sending them floating midair. Radioactive ice-cream and omurice hovered above their heads, causing both Cater and their maid to recoil in shock.

Other customers stared at the spectacle from their own tables. One man’s jaw dropped, the forkful of spaghetti bolognese in his mouth clattering onto the floor.

“You, who provides sustenance to the masses, become that which is delici—“

“H-Hold on a sec, Malleus-kun!!” Cater practically leapt over the table to seize his friend’s glowing hand. “Not that kind of spell!!”

Eyes wide with surprise, Malleus allowed his magic to settle down. The parfait and omurice gently floated back onto their table, and the maid sighed with relief.

“Is there a different spell needed for this occasion? I assure you that I am well-versed in practical magic—you need only speak its name, and I can conjure the proper…”

“No, no! It’s—“ Cater casted a look at their server and nervously chuckled. “Ne, Maid-chan~ Think you can give us a demonstration of the right spell?”

“Yes, master!” the girl, ever professional, flashed a perky grin. “Please watch carefully!!”

The maid set down her polaroid on the table. She then arched her fingers into C-like shapes, thumb extended straight. Pushing her hands together, she formed a heart and aimed it in the direction of the boy’s dishes.

“Moe moe kyuuuuuun!”

“What an odd spell. In all my years, I have never heard of such an enchantment…”

“Well, there’s a first for everything, right?” Cater flicked one of his floppy rabbit ears. “Plus, it should be no problem for the great Malleus-sama to pull off this spell, right?”

“This is child’s play,” Malleus’s laugh was like the earth itself rumbling. His lips quirked into a small smile. “You will join me in performing this sacred ritual, will you not, Diamond?”

“Of course~”

“Very well.”

They made hearts and thrust them upon their meals. And together, they uttered those three magic words.

“Moe moe kyuuuuun!!”

“Welcome back, Malleus,” Lilia greeted. The vice dorm leader nonchalantly hung from the ceiling, his raven and magenta bangs suspended midair. “Did you have fun on your outing?”

“Lilia. You knew?” Malleus slowly shut the door behind him, chasing away the cool air of the night. He spoke softly, knowing that sounds carried in the dusty hallways of Diasomnia and could disturb its residents.

“The wonders of modern technology,” Lilia trilled, expertly landing beside his young master. He brandished his phone in a gloved hand, a text message displayed on the screen.

hey hey lilia-chan! gonna steal malmal-kun for the day~ he’ll be back later, but do me a solid and keep it a secret from s&s til then, ‘kay? thnx!! (✿˶˘ ³˘)~♡

“It looks as though I have been exposed.”

“There is no shame in making new friends. In fact, I’m proud of you for expanding your horizons.” Lilia beamed. “Though what a shame it is that I was not present to grab a few pictures. Hopefully Cater fulfilled that task for me.”

The ancient fae tilted forward in his toes and peered up at his prince. “Soooo? Where did you sneak off to?”

“Fufu. Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“My. Is that any way to treat the man that kept Silver and Sebek from hunting you down?” Lilia teased, wagging a finger.

“Such loyalty,” Malleus smirked, hands on his hips, “deserves to be rewarded.”

He produced a polaroid photograph from his breast pocket and presented it with a flourish. The image, forever captured in time, was that of Malleus and Cater—the former with cat ears, the latter with bunny ears—with hands balled to resemble paws. Cater cheekily winked, while Malleus looked slightly bewildered.

The edges of the polaroid were dotted with stickers—smiley faces, flowers, and hearts. Marker had been used to scrawl on whiskers and blushes over both boys’ cheeks.

Overall, cutesy—overwhelming so.

But the Malleus and Cater in the picture were happy.

Their eyes shining like jewels.

Nyah-ing their hearts out.

[drowningbydegrees]

This prompt from the  Music Prompt List wouldn’t leave me alone, so have Geralt being awkwardly kind of fluffy. <3

incidental music background music for a play, movie or television show. It sets the mood and illustrates the action for a play~unnoticed

Read on AO3

Does anyone ever mean to fall in love? Geralt doesn’t. It doesn’t happen like the ballads say, with flowers, and sonnets, and grand gestures. It happens in the in between, the quiet moments that Jaskier’s songs never touch on. Love creeps like a vine on a building, sneaking in and sprawling out so slowly that by the time it covers the wall, you can’t remember a time before it was there anymore.

It starts, at least, in things that make sense. It’s a lopsided little smile Jaskier gifts him with when he catches Geralt listening to him play. It’s the soft hum on the other side of the campfire one night when Jaskier knows Geralt can’t sleep. It’s warm hands patching up Geralt’s torn shoulder with a tenderness he doesn’t really require.

But then the feeling strays so unfairly, into the ridiculous and sometimes thoroughly obnoxious. It’s Jaskier looking hopelessly disheveled, his hair sticking up in strange directions from a hand absently run through it, a splotch of ink on his cheek where he tapped his quill against it, deep in thought. It’s listening to him complain off and on for two miles because he can’t think of a rhyme for bloedzuiger. It’s coming back late from a contract to find Jaskier has fallen asleep curled up in the entirety of the bedding in their room. These aren’t precisely lovable things. They’re messy, irritating even. And yet. And yet. And yet...

For so long, Geralt does not think they are things he loves. They’re just things that are, like the din of conversation at an inn. They’re the suggestion of something distant in a painting, smudges devoid of details that exist all the same.

***

Much like affection, winter sort of ambushes Geralt. Rich green foliage goes red and gold until all the world is ablaze. It’s beautiful in the way that these fleeting moments so often are, a riot of color that withers away even more abruptly than it arrived. There’s a chill in the air that promises snow will soon cover the dead leaves crunching under their feet, a sign Geralt can no longer ignore.

It doesn’t matter. They flit in and out of each other’s lives all the time, and already Jaskier has traveled with him almost nonstop since the spring. Geralt most certainly doesn’t need the company. To go their separate ways is as reasonable in this moment as it has been every other time they’ve done it over the last decade. Somehow this time it leaves Geralt feeling inexplicably hollow.

Geralt has always been at home with silence. It’s a quality that lends itself well to the life of a witcher, this ability to find peace instead of loneliness in the quiet of his own company. But they spend that night in their room’s single bed and Geralt lies awake wondering when the warm press of Jaskier’s face tucked against his neck became such a welcome thing, when his fingers tangling in the bard’s hair got to be so instinctive. When did Jaskier get to be so wrapped up in his life as to leave Geralt dreading the absence?

None of that chases away the sunrise, or the silence that promises to follow in its wake. They break apart the way they always do when their plans take them in different directions. Could be a week, a month, a year even. They’ve done it a hundred times, and they do not belong to one another, so Geralt doesn’t know what to make of the unexpected urge to look back.

He lets the Path carry him away as it always does, and it’s fine, really. A day passes, and then another, and a third. At this pace he’ll easily reach Kaer Morhen before the snow really starts in. It’s fine, as it should be… except when it’s not.

There’s no familiar face smiling at him from the other side of their fire. There’s no strumming of lute strings. There’s no endless, exhausting conversation. What he’s faced with now is everything his life was ordained to be, everything Geralt has been used to for decades, and yet this time it feels all wrong.

Maybe he’s always been lonely, but it’s the first time Geralt recognizes the feeling for what it is. Loneliness is a stone’s throw away from grief, and this is grieving in some strange, subdued way. It’s a hole in the shape of another person’s life and for a strange, fleeting second, he lets himself wonder if he ought to have gone to Oxenfurt with Jaskier.

That’s an absurd thought. He always goes to Kaer Morhen and Jaskier nearly always goes to Oxenfurt, and they’ve never broached the idea of any alternative arrangement. It’s only a few months, probably. Maybe. They always find each other again eventually don’t they?

Geralt sets out for Oxenfurt before the sun comes up.

***

He does not know, Geralt realizes, what Jaskier does in the cold months where they part ways. He knows the bard teaches when he's not entertaining in some court or another, but that's a sorry excuse for an answer. It's as paltry as it would be to sum up Jaskier's life in Geralt's company with the performances he gives in inns along their way. Both of these things are true, but neither of them are whole.

Does he sit in crowded spaces to soak up the atmosphere? Does he luxuriate in having a place that is his own and a roof over his head for a few months? Geralt has no idea, but he wants to.

Oxenfurt turns out to be less straightforward than he had hoped. He tries the college first where a young woman waxes poetic about the bard until Geralt finally manages to interrupt long enough to ask what classroom he’d be in.

“None today, I’m afraid. He’s probably- Oh, you must be the witcher.” The words hold an unexpected warmth. He’s not sure what to make of it, but before Geralt knows it, she’s rattling off Jaskier’s address.

The house is lovely from the outside. A gabled roof sits atop the gray stone exterior, not nearly so ostentatious as Geralt might have expected. It’s also further off the beaten path than he’d anticipated from someone so keen on being the life of the party.

But Geralt doesn’t even get as far as knocking before one of Jaskier’s neighbors spots him, a smartly dressed academic of some sort. “I doubt the professor is home yet.”

It’s so strange to hear anyone call Jaskier that, an uncomfortable reminder that the bard has a whole life beyond the time he spends with Geralt that the witcher doesn’t know about. Likely because it’s never occurred to him to ask, but Geralt finds himself sorely wishing he had now. “Where would I find him?”

“Are you a friend of his?” The man’s eyes narrow a little like he’s waiting for Geralt to slip up and give himself away as a thief or something.

“I’m his…” Geralt sighs. “Yeah.”

“The witcher, then.” The neighbor smiles in that absent, polite way that villagers tend to smile at passersby. It’s not a response that usually applies to him. Geralt has no idea what to make of the shift in demeanor, but the man does point down the road. “There’s an inn down that way. I’d check there this time of day.”

“Right...” It just figures, even in his absence Jaskier manages to be exhausting.

There’s a creak of hinges on Geralt’s left, and the neighbor smiles and waves. “I guess he’s home after all.”

Not entirely exhausting, then. Geralt forces his expression to remain neutral. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier lights up when he meets Geralt’s eye like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. It’s such a tiny, inconsequential thing, but wonderfully, terribly, the world feels like it’s slid back into its proper place. The warmth that takes up residence behind Geralt’s breastbone is just further confirmation of the ruin he’s courting.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you… don’t you have some witchery thing to run off to? It may shock you to know, but the Kaedwani mountains are that way.” As Jaskier ushers Geralt inside, he points in… well, it’s definitely a direction.

“No.” Geralt shakes his head. What a pair they make, the both of them completely ridiculous.

“No what? And will you please sit down already?” Jaskier clears some of his papers away, as if what’s on the side table has any bearing at all on Geralt’s ability to sit in the armchair beside it.

Too restless to actually sit down, Geralt leans against the doorframe as he takes in Jaskier’s slightly ruffled appearance. There’s no doublet. Just trousers and a chemise rolled up to his elbows. It shouldn’t be so hard to look away, and yet he has to force himself. “The mountains are that way.”

Jaskier follows the length of Geralt’s arm where it’s pointed north. He purses his lips as he turns back to the witcher. “Okay fine. I got a bit turned around, but nevermind that. They are… wherever they are, but you are here. Why?”

Fuck. Geralt had been so focused on the coming back and finding Jaskier, there wasn’t much consideration to what reason he’d give when he got here. What can he possibly say? That it was too quiet without his endless chatter? That Geralt’s world was somehow less for Jaskier’s absence. It’s too vulnerable, so he gruffly replies, “Didn’t think I could beat the snow.”

“I see.” There’s a sweet, uneven quirk to Jaskier’s lips. The minute Geralt meets Jaskier’s eyes he knows he’s been found out to some extent, but Jaskier responds in the least Jaskier-like way he’s ever seen. There’s no gloating, no teasing. Jaskier doesn’t even acknowledge that they both know he’s lying through his teeth. Most strangely of all, he’s quiet. “Well, it snows here too. You’ll probably want to think about taking a break somewhere until the weather clears up.”

Right. He hadn’t quite gotten that far either. On the road together, it’s just a given that they’ll share a room, but that’s quite a bit different from inviting himself into a space that is Jaskier’s. Not willing to admit that he’d sort of hoped to go back to the normalcy of that, Geralt sticks to answering vaguely. “I’m sorted out.”

“Are you? Because I thought you might just stay with me.” He’s seen this a thousand times. Jaskier has a knack for offering things the other person is too proud or afraid to ask for for themselves. It’s just Geralt usually isn’t the one subjected to that particular talent. “Unless I’ve got this all wrong and you didn’t come back because you missed me. Well, no. You could stay with me either way. It’s just that the appeal probably isn’t the same.”

“I could do that.” Geralt replies quickly to the offer while making every effort to sidestep Jaskier’s more dangerous insinuation. It’s kind of Jaskier to tolerate this thing Geralt can’t quite get to settle, but the witcher harbors no illusions that it’s anything more than tolerance. He tries for nonchalant and has no idea if he succeeds, but Jaskier’s lopsided smile suggests that no, he really doesn’t.

“Perfect.” Jaskier offers Geralt a hand. “Let me show you around.”

***

“Well, I guess there’s no backing out now,” Jaskier says as Geralt walks him to class. Well, no. That’s definitely not what this is. It’s just that he had an errand to run, and the college is in the same direction, so not walking together would be weird and awkward.

“What?” Geralt’s brows knit in confusion, and he watches Jaskier try to catch a snowflake on his tongue as if that will somehow give him the answer.

Jaskier smiles at Geralt, a little toothy. It’s the kind that makes Geralt feel pinned like a butterfly to a board. “It’s snowing.”

Oh right. He had said that. He knows Jaskier hadn’t bought the excuse when Geralt turned up, but the bard hasn’t said anything about it since. It was probably foolish to think that meant he’d gotten away with it. There’s nothing he can that won’t give himself away further, so Geralt opts not to say anything at all. That, at least, is normal.

And for a little while, it seems like it works. Jaskier prattles on about the weather and how beautiful Oxenfurt is at night when it’s snowy and the moon is out, and Geralt just immerses himself in the comfort of how normal this is.

At least until it’s not. The silence that falls between them is abrupt, and draws out so long that Geralt looks over at Jaskier. It’s a terrible mistake though, because Jaskier is looking right back, entirely too expectant. “Sooooooooooo. Are we going to talk about this?”

The question is oddly free of dramatics, but it doesn’t make the subject matter any less terrifying. Clinging to whatever balance they’d found since he got here, Geralt insists, “Nothing to talk about.”

“Okay.” For a second, Jaskier is quiet. His expression is thoughtful, teeth dragging enticingly along his bottom lip. “But just… It sort of seems like there is.”

He could maybe leave, say he forgot something at the house. Jaskier would probably even let him go, but they’d both know it for the retreat that it is, so Geralt doubles down. “There isn’t.”

Geralt doesn’t really know when he learned to recognize Jaskier’s ‘you are being exceedingly difficult right now’ face, but he knows the tightness at the corners of the bard’s eyes and the flat line his mouth pulls into. Yet, there’s no mockery or sign of irritation when Jaskier insists on pressing the issue. “Alright, but see there’s this one thing. Here’s what I know about you on account of traveling with you for a decade. You are generally consistent and you have never once in the entire time I’ve known you passed up an opportunity to tell me when I was wrong, or to poke fun.”

Geralt knows exactly where this is going, but arguing such an obvious truth would just bolster Jaskier’s point, he thinks. Silence isn’t really better, but it’s what Geralt sticks to as Jaskier keeps talking.” So, when you don’t tell me I’m wrong to assume you came back because you missed me… It’s hard not to assume that you came back for more than just a roof over your head.”

“What do you want me to say?” Geralt replies irritably, because if this is Jaskier’s idea of softening a rejection, it’s not helping. If he’s lucky, Jaskier will just laugh it off and Geralt will swallow everything back down, and they can move on to something less embarrassing.

“I don’t know.” Jaskier is biting his lip again, and despite the nervous tumult in his stomach, Geralt has never so badly wanted to kiss anyone in his life. “I just want you to say what’s true.”

What’s true. For the first time since they set out, Geralt pays attention to what’s there beside him. Jaskier’s heartbeat has picked up somewhere along the way, and when Geralt looks over, the bard’s cheeks are flushed from more than just the cold.

What’s true is that there are a thousand ways to tell a person you love them. Sometimes it’s a fond smile or a gentle touch or… oh. Geralt swallows and does not look at Jaskier anymore as he says, “Life is… quiet when you’re not in it.”

He knows that self-deprecating laugh he gets from Jaskier and regrets being the one to cause it. “I thought you preferred the quiet.”

“Me too.” It’s hardly more than a whisper. “But it’s not the right kind of quiet.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what that means,” Jaskier says and Geralt sort of hates that he’s the one struggling to say what he means and yet Jaskier is the one being apologetic over it.

“It’s like… fuck. I don’t know. When you think about the woods being quiet, it doesn’t mean silence. You still hear the wind and the birds and all that, but it belongs there, so it’s not noise.” Somehow, this doesn’t feel like what he meant to be saying at all either, but he’s committed to this ill advised analogy, so that’s a thing. “If those things stop, it’s not a good kind of quiet. It just means something’s wrong.”

“Geralt. Are you suggesting my company provides some sort of ambiance to your travels?” Jaskier’s eyes light up with some sort of mischief and Geralt scowls because he can’t decide if he’s being encouraged or teased.

Actually, Geralt supposes that is what he’s suggesting, but it doesn’t feel like a clear enough conveyance of what he means. Geralt might not need words, but Jaskier does. Sometimes ‘I love you’ is digging up the courage to admit, “The world around me feels wrong when you’re not in it.”

“So your solution was to drop the routine you’ve kept to for, actually I don’t even know how long to come back to me?”

“Obviously not. I-” With no small amount of horror, Geralt realizes that’s actually exactly what he’s done. He’s honestly very relieved that it’s still quite early and the streets are still largely empty, because Jaskier stops in the middle of the street and the witcher strongly suspects he’s about to make a very embarrassing scene. “Is that a problem?”

“Why would it be a problem? It’s absurdly romantic. I didn’t even know you were capable of that.” Sure enough, Jaskier is suddenly very close, a hand lifting to cradle Geralt’s cheek. Jaskier doesn’t say anything, but he signals his intent, giving the witcher plenty of time to pull away. As if he possibly could.

Geralt’s throat is suddenly dry, and when he finally manages to say something, it’s quiet. “What are you doing?”

“Well, you came all this way to get back to me.” Jaskier presses his forehead to Geralt’s. “I figured I could meet you partway.”

Geralt isn’t actually sure which of them closes the last couple of inches between his mouth and Jaskier’s. It’s just warm, liking what he imagines coming home would be like. Jaskier’s arms wind around Geralt’s back between his shirt and his cloak, and Geralt’s fingers tangle in Jaskier’s hair, and actually it turns out that he doesn’t care in the slightest if they’re making a scene.

Everything runs a little bit together after that. There is only the solid presence of Jaskier pressed against him and the snow coming down around them in fat, fluffy flakes that are just beginning to stick to the ground. Distantly, he thinks maybe they could just go home. It’s not as if there’s any reason to be out in the cold, except… With a disappointed groan, Geralt mumbles between kisses. “Don’t you have class?”

“Class… oh bollocks.” Jaskier pulls back, flushed and glassy eyed and Geralt wants nothing more than to pull him right back in. But there will be time for that later and the flustered way Jaskier stumbles back and looks around like he’s only just remembered they’re in public is terribly endearing. “Yes, well just… we’ll come back to this.”

Geralt laughs with unexpected ease at Jaskier’s reluctant efforts to get moving again. It’s another minute or two before Geralt remembers the one other thing that keeps crossing his mind. “When I was trying to track you down, people knew who I was.”

Jaskier’s mouth turns up, and it’s clear from the sheepish way he ducks his head that he hears the question Geralt isn’t asking. “You’re not the only one who prefers life when we’re both in it together.”

“You talk about me?” And sure, Jaskier talks about him all the time in songs and stories, but this is different.

Jaskier shrugs like it doesn’t mean anything, but they both know better. “It’s what I get to hold onto, what I get to keep when you’re not here.”

“Well, I’m here now.” Their fingers thread between each other’s and Jaskier hums the song he’s been working on. Geralt allows himself the faintest of smiles. Sometimes, love is choosing to share your existence with someone else and taking unexpected refuge in the background noise.

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

[lady-amethyst18]

I'll hear you sing

Emma paced back and forth in her room. On her bed laid a black choir dress, a fake pearl necklace, and a compact of blush. She was getting ready for her choir concert this evening. But today was more nerve-wracking than ever. Because she was chosen as the lead singer for the last song of the show. She got lots of praise from her teachers and peers, saying that she had a beautiful voice and was perfect for the solo act. She even practiced the song every day to herself and memorized the lyrics all by heart. But when the day finally came, she felt like she was going to melt into a puddle of goo.

What if she froze out there in front of everyone? What if she messes up and forgets her cue? What if she hits a wrong note? What if the audience doesn't like her singing? What if she completely embarrasses herself out there? She started pacing faster. She held her cheeks in her hands, and her stomach started flip-flopping. "Stop stressing, Emma." She said to herself. "Stop stressing!" She repeated. She looked into the mirror, looking at her nervous face. She shook her head and groaned loudly. "I need to go for a walk." She said as she started heading downstairs and out the door.

She walked through the neighborhood, trying to clear her head of the nerves of singing solo for the first time. She still felt butterflies in her stomach, and she could swear she was starting to sweat. Perfect... She was going to look like a mess by the time she gets to the concert. She wondered if she had enough time to take a shower by the time she got back. She brushed her hair out of the way, closing her eyes while still walking. "I have to pull it together. Maybe I can just tell the teacher that I can't be the lead singer. Or perhaps I can just pretend to lose my voice and they'll get someone else to sing. Or-" She was so lost in thought that she bumped into someone. Her eyes shot open as she finally snapped back to reality. "Oh my! I'm so sorry! I-I wasn't paying attention." She apologized. "It's ok. No harm done, dear." Said the voice.

She looked up to see who she bumped into. She followed the red and white pants up to the white and gold cloak until finally, her eyes reached the top of the person's head. A white top hat with a red strap pulled over his eyes. "Balan?" She called. Balan smiled widely upon seeing the young girl. "Emma!" He exclaimed. "What a pleasant surprise! I didn't expect to be bumping into you out here."

"I should be saying the same thing." She pointed out. "What are you doing out here?"

"I was just checking up on one of the latest visitors. Their hearts are healing just fine." He looked at the girl, who started to avoid eye contact with him. "But what about you? Seems like your heart could use some cheering itself." Emma rubbed the back of her head. "I just wanted to step out for a moment to clear my head. I've got too much on my mind." She said.

Balan focused on the girl's eyes. They had a look of apprehension and the glistening sweat on her brow added to his suspicion. "Emma," He called out softly. "I'm saying this with love, darling. But you look like you're about to have a heart attack. Why don't you come back with me to the theater? Tell me what's bothering you so much." Emma looked around the corners. The theater is nowhere to be seen. "Uh... Where is the theater?" She asked. Balan smirked as he held Emma's shoulder and snapped his fingers. "Right here!" He announced. It was in the same place where Emma initially found the theater. A brightly lit alleyway through the overgrown vegetation. She couldn't help but roll her eyes at Balan's goofiness. "Now then. Ladies first." Balan humbly opened the door and gestured her inside.

He leads her inside to the lounge area. The room was quiet and well decorated with a dusk color pallet that painted the walls. The chairs and couch had plush red velvet seats with golden buttons as decoration. A water pitcher with a few glasses stood on a tray with several tea flavors and what looked to be a bowl of miscellaneous fruit. "I don't think I've been to this part of the theater. It's nice." Emma complimented. "Why, thank you. Lance and I decorated it ourselves. Why don't you sit down and relax? Take a seat wherever you want." Balan said, taking a seat on the couch. Emma decided to take a chair that was sitting away from the table.

"Now then," Balan spoke, crossing his legs. "Why don't you tell me what's going on? Why is it you look so nervous?" Emma once again avoided eye contact. She clasped her hands and held them in her knees. "I've... Got a choir concert to go to... And I got the part as lead singer for the final song." She replied. "Oh, how wonderful! This must be a big moment for you." Balan cheered. But Emma shook her head. "It's too big!" She exclaimed. "I've never sung solo ever before in my life! I get my teachers and choir classmates like my singing, but what about everyone else? I feel like there's so much riding on this moment!" She stood up and started to pace around again.

Balan just nodded as Emma continued her tangent. "Nervous sweating, fast heartbeat, tense posture, thinking about how the performance could go wrong. Yep. Seems to me you've got a terrible yet common case of stage fright." He spoke up. "You think!?" She yelled back. "What if I hit a sour note?! Or what if I miss my cue?! Or what if the audience doesn't like my singing?! There's too much pressure; I can't stand it! I don't think I can do it! If I have to sing lead, I think I'm going to pass out and die!" She sat back down in the chair, fanning herself and hyperventilating. "Ok, ok, relax. Freaking out isn't going to help. You're going to give yourself an aneurysm, and then what will you do?" Balan stood next to the girl, handing her a paper bag to breathe into. To which she snatched it out of his hand and began huffing and puffing into it.

She continued this for about a minute before she finally caught her breath. The maestro thought this was ultimately a good time to get a word in edge-wise. "Emma," He started. "What if I told you I, too, get stage fright?" Emma paused and looked at him with wide eyes. "What? YOU get stage fright? The maestro of positivity himself get's stage fright?" She asked. Balan nodded. "Yep. Sweating, tensing up, thinking about how it could all go wrong, even getting butterflies in my stomach." Emma looked doubtful. "You do NOT get butterflies."

"No, no! I really do get butterflies. See?" He pounds his stomach and spat out a butterfly. Emma watched in amusement as she watched it flutter away. She tried her best to hide a giggle. "Balan... Th-that's not funny." She said, restraining her laughter. "Oh, come on! You're laughing. Look, I'll do it again!" He pounded his stomach again and spat out another butterfly. A few bursts of laughter left her. "Balan, stop! This isn't helpful!" She laughed. Balan laughed along with her.

"Alright, all joking aside." He said at last. "I used to get terrible stage fright when I was just starting out at helping people restore their balance. I was about... Oh, 300 years old until I finally grew out of it." Emma cocked her head to the side, wondering where Balan was going with the story. "So... How did you grow out of it?" She asked. Balan shrugged. "Oh, it wasn't easy. I could barely get through the introduction without my knees knocking. Sometimes I would get so stressed I would stop rhyming. But you know, after all that time, I was finally starting to enjoy it. The longer you're on stage, and the more you do it, the thought of being afraid kind of dies. I also had a secret hack that could help with my nerves."

"And what was that?" Emma asked.

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Uh, sure."

Balan looked back and forth before kneeling down and whispering in Emma's ear. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but I always had someone cheering me on in the audience. And do you know who that was?" Emma shook her head. "It was none other than Lance." Emma's jaw dropped. She knew that Balan and Lance had a sibling relationship, but they were never two peas in a pod. "No!" She exclaimed. "Really? You're pulling my leg." Balan smiled. "It's true. This was back when we were going easier on each other, quite long before the bouts. For some reason, it comforted me knowing he was there. Now, obviously, our relationship has changed over a few millennia, but I never forgot how much he helped me." Emma smiled. It made her heart grow knowing that Lance still had a heart in there somewhere despite being a negative maestro.

"Now, don't tell Lance I said this, ok?" Balan pointed out. "He doesn't want anyone to know he has feelings. He says it will kill his stoic reputation." Emma zipped her lips and held out a hand, telling him that she promised. "I think it's thoughtful that someone would always be in the audience cheering you on." She paused for a second, thinking about what the maestro was talking about. "... Balan," She started. "Would you... Watch my concert tonight?" Balan smiled widely. "Aha! You finally picked up what I was putting down! Of course, I would love to hear you sing! What time does it start?"

"It starts at 6:30."

"Oh, that's an hour and a half from now. We better get you there quick!" The maestro looked at the girl, seeing that she still had sweat on her brow and her hair was messy after panicking about the show. "Hmm... But first, let's get you dolled up before you go to that concert."

The maestro snapped his fingers, making Emma's choir dress, necklace, and blush appear. He draped the dress and necklace over his arm while holding the compact in his hand. "Head to the bathroom and clean yourself up, dear. You still have time to clean up before you go on stage." Emma smiled as he leads her to the bathroom. He handed over the dress and compact as he waited outside for the teenager to finish up cleaning. A few minutes had passed, and Emma took a shower, blowdried and brushed her hair, put on her dress, and applied her makeup.

Balan looked over as she opened the door. "Why, Emma!" He cheered. "You look lovely! Though something is missing." He looked closely at her, trying to pinpoint what was missing. "Oh!" She announced. "My necklace! All the girls in the choir are meant to wear these fake pearl necklaces." Balan dangled the necklace with his fingers. "You're meant to wear these?" He asked.

"Yeah."

Balan scoffed. "You're not going to wear this! The star doesn't deserve FAKE pearls. Come here; I have something better." He tossed the fake necklace aside. He clasped his hands together and rubbed them firmly. When he opened his hands, a real pearl necklace appeared. Emma stood in awe. "Wow! Is this real?" She asked. Balan smiled with pride. "It's the genuine article. May I?" Emma nodded as Balan put the necklace around her neck. "There you go!" He said. "Now you're perfect!"

Emma's smiled widened. She already began to feel much better. "You promise you'll be there when it's my turn to sing?" She asked. "Cross my heart." The maestro promised as he made an X mark around his heart. "Now, go on. Your teachers and peers will want to see you. I can't wait to hear you sing." He said as he leads her to the door. "Thanks, Balan. I hope to see you there." She said as she left, hoping the maestro would keep his word.

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The concert was nearly over. It was time for the final song and Emma's lead role. She scanned the audience, looking for the top-hatted being. "Emma!" Called out a voice. It was Emma's choir director. "Are you ready for your solo?" She asked. The girl looked away. She felt her chest get tight, and she felt butterflies in her stomach again. "I'm... Expecting someone. In the audience. They promised they'd hear me sing. I can't find them." She continued to scan the audience, hoping to find her friend.

The director knelt down to her level. "I know you're nervous, Emma. But I'm sure that your friend, whoever they are, are out there in the audience right now, just waiting to hear your voice. And I know you'll be the brightest star out of anyone tonight. Have confidence in yourself, sweetheart." The whole choir group started going on the stage. "Take your place, Emma. Don't be scared. You can do it." The teacher held up two thumbs as Emma climbed up on stage.

As the curtains pulled away, the audience clapped their hands. Emma took a silent but deep breath, trying to maintain her composure. As the music started, she heard a slight sound. Her eyes wandered the auditorium until she looked in the front row. A man with seafoam green hair and a handsome white face with purple eye shadow. It was Balan! He undid the glamour for her. Seeing him, her heart instantly lifted as she started her song.

Emma could feel every ounce of nervousness melt away as she sang the lyrics. The more she carried on with the song, the less she noted the people in the auditorium. Dare she say it, she was enjoying herself. When the song was over, the crowd stood up and cheered. A single rose was thrown on stage. Emma picked it up and looked at the man in the front row. Balan clapped his hands and winked at her. Silently telling her, he knew she could do it. The teenager held back her tears of joy and smiled widely as she bowed for the audience.