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moonlights-inkwell · 3 years

Text

Demand an Encore

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 6,958

Summary: anon said: hello! i see your requests are open...! could i maybe get a Jaskier x reader where the reader very shyly explains (maybe after an embarrassing moment?) that they are into spanking? and Jaskier indulges them and it is fluffy/smutty? if not, that's okay!! i figured I'd ask. thank you! 💜

A/N: Anon. I literally owe you my life, because Dom! Jaskier now literally lives rent free in my head. A fic from Jaskier's perspective? It shocked me too. Oops. Also. Clapping joke title on a spanking fic? I think I’m way funnier than I am

Warnings: Smut. Spanking. Oral (female receiving). Clothed sex? Sorta. Discussions of Sadomasochism. Canon complicit violence. A very bad take on Jaskier's perspective.

Title from Wild Blue Yonder

“Oh wank!”

The expletive draws his eyes from his lute and upwards, to you.

You’re busy, always busy, swinging that blade about and clashing it noisily into Geralt's. Parry, swipe, dodge, sword fighting is as boring a sport as Jaskier can even imagine, only marginally better than fencing because at least there’s some danger to sword fighting. Paint drying is a more interesting thing to watch, lectures less painful to listen to. Jaskier hates it. Sparring holds no interest to Jaskier, beyond when he tries to describe how sword fighting looks for a new song, but there are no new songs. The monsters have seemingly realised that Geralt is about, and have kept themselves to themselves, and so the well of songs about danger and adventure has dried up- like a brook during a heatwave. There’s no song about battles to be won, and if he plays Toss A Coin once more then he’s quite sure that Geralt will shove his lute up his arse sideways. All he wants is to work on a new melody and the clanging is quite possibly the worst thing he can imagine. The clanging, clanking, crashing of steel on steel is enough to drive him to distraction. All he needs is a new song, but no. He simply must be tormented by the sound of metal hitting metal. Needs must apparently, at least when it comes to sparring.

He’s sure Geralt is doing this to spite him specifically. Revenge for years upon years of songs and mindless chatter and taunting, wrapped up with the knowledge that the bard would never complain about your training- that your safety is paramount to him, even if it is noisy as all hell and infuriatingly distracting.

Cornflower blue eyes scan up and take you in, on hands and knees and holding your sword at such an angle to block Geralt’s swipe; face crumpled with effort and concentration while the Witcher above is as stoic looking as ever, bringing his blade down closer and closer until you slide to the ground and roll away from the sword. The buckles of your over-bust drags against the ground and knocks loose two of the buttons of your blouse, revealing an expanse of skin below the clavicle and to the dip in skin between breasts.

He wonders, not for the first time, how you manage to fight in a corset. When he was a lad, a little longer ago now than he’s quite happy to acknowledge, how a girl at a ball had collapsed because her corset was laced too tight and even after fetching a healer, the girl walked awkwardly until he left for Oxenfurt, probably long afterwards too. Yet, you can fight in one, swing that blade around with a relative ease that Jaskier can’t even manage if his trousers are tailored too high in the crotch. It’s strange. Watching you duck and twist, bend and thrust that blade around all while being held in place by tightly laced bones, it’s impressive- like watching someone dance. You aren’t a master swords-man but you’re skilled and it’s nice to watch. The exhilarated grin across your face, panting with heaving chest: it’s beauty. Pure, unadulterated beauty, even with a smear of dirt across your cheek, sweat beading about your forehead and a nick on your arm that’s letting out a small but steady stream of blood trickling down from your upper arm.

“Better.” Geralt says firmly, Jaskier watches as your face breaks into a grin and you just glow. A relaxed, genuine smile that makes you look younger than you are. You've mocked him before for how he just soaks up any validation, but even the slightest praise has your skin all but shining, cheeks flushed and mouth upturned. He understands entirely. Praise, acclaim, acknowledgement, it’s addictive; more so than any ale, any drug. Praise leaves you desperate for more, shaking and craving a next hit, almost insecurely hoping against hope that any second will bring that much needed praise. Bard's are like faeries, they require attention to survive while thriving on the energy people give, And Jaskier has been desperate for attention long before he became a bard.

Praise from the Witcher is a seldom given gift- one that Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever been given- but he praises you. Training is important, and Geralt seems to have realised that he’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar, so sparring is when he speaks most, even then it’s minimal though; but he compliments. Your form, your grip, the strength of blows. Praise from the Witcher is a seldom given thing.

Jaskier isn’t jealous.

He isn’t.

Jealousy implies that there’s something to be envied, like a possession that he wants. You aren’t a possession, he knows that, and even if you were, you wouldn’t be Geralt’s. His fingers fall from the frets of the lute, sending a sour note that makes him cringe out through the clearing.

“Gods, Dandy- if that’s a sign of what your new song sounds like then I don’t think I want to hear it!” You call over to him, head tilted as the sword twirls between your fingers. “I thought you were supposed to be a good bard.”

“You wound me, Love. Wound me.”

“No good bard would write Toss A Coin.” Geralt says, but there’s humour in his voice- well, humour enough for it to be noticeable against Geralt’s signature style of stoicism. Must be a good sort of day, for Geralt to be joking about and complimentary. These sorts of things don’t happen every day.

“Leave him be, Bully!” You swat at Geralt's side, grinning at Jaskier. “Don't you worry, Dear Heart, I love you- even with this brute insulting you.” It’s as if you don’t even remember that you started the insults, but that smile is enough to keep him quiet. That must be a sign of love, that Jaskier could be quiet for you: he’s never been silent for anyone before, even when he had himself half-convinced that he was in love with every person he's spent more than a night with, he’s never been able to keep quiet for more than a few minutes or so, he’s felt an overwhelming need to fill the silence. It’s pleasant to just bask in atmosphere that comes from being about you.

The swat at Geralt had not gone unnoticed, even if it took a moment or so for him to strike you. Geralt, facing Jaskier, lifted a hand to thump you on the back, too absorbed by the simple pleasure of retaliation to have perceived two very simple things with those enhanced Witcher senses: that the laces of your boots have come undone, and that you had bent down to tie it.

Time slows sickeningly, as Jaskier realises what’s about to happen only a second before the SLAP comes through the air at a volume none of you anticipated. Not to the lower back, a spot that while painful is little more than inconvenient when hit, but instead to your arse- angled upwards as you bent to fiddle with the ribbons of your shoes. The white-haired man had wanted something vaguely friendly but still running with undercurrents of the same energy that comes from sparring, but instead he had brought one enormous hand down onto your arse with some force. Unexpected, and completely out of nowhere as it is, it somehow is not the most surprising part.

The moan is.

A loud, broken moan- somewhere between pain and pleasure- which Jaskier knows all too well. That sound haunts his dreams. Jaskier would know it blind, dumb and senseless. Your moan, normally reserved for during the nights when his fingers slide inside of you, when his tongue breeches you. It’s weak, beautiful, and oh so very unexpected. Its a noise more beautiful than music, more beautiful than the sound of children’s laughter- always his , finally heard by another. Geralt looks horrified, cat-like eyes wide and filled with something akin to fear, but nothing like the unadulterated horror written across your face; sun-coloured skin turning red with embarrassment, lips parted wide but slowly contorting into a grimace, eyes wide but watering.

Jaskier forces himself up and towards you, while Geralt steps back, saying your name softly and apologetically,

“I am so sorry-"

“Little Miss-"

“I'm going to the stream to wash!” You say loudly, side-stepping around Jaskier to make a beeline into the thicket of trees, where a stream was hidden. Without any thought, Jaskier groans and looks up at the Witcher, eyes narrowed into accusatory slits.

“So much for those Witcher senses of yours.” It’s a ridiculous thing to be annoyed about. Geralt does not have any feelings for you beyond the platonic, and Jaskier knows that, knows full well that Geralt wouldn’t do something like that to you, least of all in front of your lover and a man far too willing to write humiliating songs about Geralt.

“It was an accident.” All stoicism has returned to Geralt’s voice, despite the still apologetic look written across his features. “She’s going to hate me. She sounded so pained.”

That almost made the Bard splutter with laughter. Moans like that are many things but not pained, at least not in a way that isn’t seen as pleasurable. Somehow, he manages to keep the laughter down and instead claps a hand to the taller man's shoulder.

“I doubt she hates you. Missy is a resilient little thing.” He tries to sound comforting, but some humour seeps through, making Geralt turn and squint at him.

“This isnt funny, Bard.”

“I’m well aware.” Jaskier nods. “I'm going to check on her though. To make sure she hasn’t drowned herself.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m not.” He trills as he walks along the step-worn path to the trees.

The stream is a pathetic little thing really, barely a foot in width and surrounded on all sides by the thickest section of trees which almost blocked out all light. It was easy to believe it was around dusk, but it couldn’t be much later than midday, the shade made it appear so much later than it was. And there was you, hunched over by the reeds and moss, scooping up water and splashing it in your face and onto the gash still trickling blood to try to clean it. Even in spite of the shadows, your flushed cheeks are still clear to him and he stops to take you in.

He’s had many lovers. Too many to list really, but not one of them holds a candle to you. Every girl before you was perfectly primped and polished, in fine clothes with perfect hair and made up faces, and they were beautiful but artificially so. Made that way by clothes and corsets and cosmetics. You though, you’re something else. Beautiful with the sun in your eyes, unkempt hair and rumpled clothes. Indescribably perfect cast half in fire-light, with bags beneath your eyes and blood across your cheek. Sonnet worthy while drunk and stumbling, singing out of tune to his ever songs. Godly in the dark, mouth open and back arching towards him as you stumble headfirst into climax. He loves you. He loves you, and it’s the first time he thinks he has ever really loved anyone: more than infatuation, more than lust, but actual love. Love that makes his head muddled and heart sore. He doesn’t deserve you. Wants you, needs you, but will never deserve you. Reckless, wild and brilliant you, willing to leave a life behind to fight monsters. A fool. Beautiful little fool, selfless and-

“I can feel you staring at me.”

“Hard not to stare at a goddess. Careful, I hear some gods will drown pretty things like you out of jealousy.”

“Fool.” You say softly, but there’s a chuckle in your voice so he comes closer to you, stepping behind you to twist your hair away from your throat to press a kiss to the crook of your neck.

“Your fool.” He breathes out shallowly, letting his chin rest on your shoulder while his arms wind about your waist. “Are you alright, Dear Heart?”

“Embarrassed, I suppose. My pride will recover though, Dandy.” The lightness of your words combined with your stiff posture makes sure Jaskier knows you’re lying.

“Little Miss-"

“Geralt must be embarrassed as well. I should have apologised to him before-"

“You moaned.” He cuts you off, making you shut up, stiffening even more. “And you may try to deny it, but I know that noise. I might just be the only person who knows that noise.”

“Jaskier.” It sounds like a warning, but he doesn’t care.

“If it’s because it was Geralt, I understand.” He says softly, feelings coming out unbidden. “I understand, of course, and I love you but I understand if I’m in the way.”

“I liked it. Be... being hit. Not Geralt.” You whisper.

It truly is a day of surprises. Jaskier can feel the grin slip onto his face and his hands move from your stomach to your hips to begin tickling.

“Is that so?” He asks softly, revelling in your choked-out laughter and how you lean back against him. “My Little Miss wants to be spanked. Well, darling, you should have told me earlier.”

“I didn’t know it was a thing!” You argue between laughs. Jaskier so often forgets that you were a virgin before he got his hands on you, so of course you hadn’t known. His tickling doesn’t stop as he pulls you backward, rolling you onto the ground and climbing on top of you to continue his assault.

“Would you like a lesson in masochism, Dear Heart?” He teases, head tilting to the side as he looks down at you.

“Maso-what?”

“The pleasures of pain.” He explains, and watches how your face turns pink once more. “Oh, she does!”

“Stop taunting me!” You argue, thrashing beneath him but not with any intensity.

“Taunting? Never. I’m just trying to work out if I need to rent two rooms when we next go into town.” He too easily grabs at your arm when you reach up to swat at Jaskier. “For your lessons, I mean.”

“You... weren't joking?” You ask lightly and he shakes his head.

“I never joke about teaching My Muse about what brings her pleasure.” He says lightly, climbing off of you to sit by your side. “If you want me to.”

“You Wouldn’t mind?” You ask incredulously, drawing out a chuckle from the bard.

“Darling-heart, don’t be a fool, of course I wouldn’t. You know how I like pleasing you, and having you know what pleases you pleases me. Besides, it’s hardly my first dalliance into sadomasochism; there was a countess I used to know who couldn’t achieve orgasm unless tied up, with wax melted on her and at least three people watching her-"

“Jaskier.” You say softly, and he stops.

“Sorry. What I mean is, liking someone slapping your perfect bottom isn’t something to be embarrassed by, darling. Alright?”

“Alright. Thank you, Jaskier.”

“No need to thank me, Dear Heart.”

It takes weeks for Jaskier's plan to come to fruition. Weeks of traveling and camping in the woods until the three of you are able to find a town in need of a Witcher and his services. It’s a simple job, just a few drowners, but the pay is good and there is a very decent inn more than willing to accommodate all of you, and with two rooms none the less- which is far easier to negotiate while the two of you are off to do what you do. The inn-keep is a pleasant, portly man in his middle forties who seems to appreciate Jaskier's way with words, and is more than willing to forgo payment on the rooms in return for a show- and who is Jaskier to disagree with a deal such as that?

His friendly demeanour is welcome too, means the Bard actually has someone to talk to while he awaits your return- but that plan dies a death when the job takes significantly longer than he expects. Normally, it only takes a few hours for something like this, but the sun is set and his songs just coming to an end when you finally return.

The crowds, cider-drunk and rowdy had sang along to every song they knew, and sang over these they didn't- but that was fine. Drinking songs were always nice to hear, but their song dies when the door to the inn-cum-tavern opens and you pad in, followed closely by Geralt. Both drenched from tip to toe and scowling, hair stringy and clothes dark with saturation. That explains a fair bit and even with how upset you look, Jaskier grins, grip on the lute loosening and stage persona rolling off of him. Wet and angry as the two of you are, the sight of you is enough to make the crowd let out a loud, drunken cheer before beginning an enthusiastic if out of tune rendition of Toss a Coin. For once, the Bard is uninterested in joining in and instead opens his arms wide for you, it takes less than a minute for you to run to him and wind your arms around his middle while the people mill around Geralt to interrogate him about monsters and the like. Jaskier sighs and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“You had me worried.”

“Almost drowned. But I’m fine.” You say apologetically against his jerkin. “Tired though.”

“I’ve booked our room. And I think my performance is over.” He says soothing, fingers carding through your wet hair. “Come on, Darling-heart.” He offers a hand, though it takes you a moment or so to reluctantly pull back from him you take it and follow him up to your rented room.

The room is tiny, little more than a box room with just a bed and small table but it’s clean and that is more than enough for you. Before even a minute can pass, you release Jaskier's hand to flop down onto the bed, moaning when you sink down into the mattress.

“Comfortable?” He asks playfully and you hum in agreement.

“I got you wet.” You reply after a minute and Jaskier chuckles.

“I don’t mind, now wait here. I’ve something to sort out for you.” The door clicks as he slips out of the room and you’re alone in the room, just you and the tingling sensation running through your body and making your brain feel as if a mist has descended over it, yet you don’t even realise it until the door opens once more and you lift your head up to look at the noise. It’s a girl, looking about fourteen or so, carrying two large buckets to the archway across from the bed which you had not even noticed, and in your drunken haze you consider why she would be taking buckets to another room through yours. Jaskier follows after her, buckets hanging from each hand and you notice how steam is billowing from the buckets until he disappears beyond the doorway. Confusion comforts your mouth into a frown, so instead of giving it much thought you let yourself sink back into the mattress, deciding it not worthy of a second thought. Water crashing against water echoes from the other room as your eyelids grow heavy and slip shut. Someone had told you once that the sound of water is enough to drive even an insomniac to sleep, you believe them in this moment, the sound of water is so relaxing to your dazed mind that you don’t question why you can hear it at all, so you simply shut your eyes and listen. You have no idea how long you lay there, listening and breathing, it could be seconds or millennia.

“Are you awake, Dear Heart?”

“hmm?”

“Come on, I ordered you a bath, you need it.” A bath. You smile and he grins at you. “Now, darling. Come along. You'll soak the sheets through.”

“I'll soak you through.” You retort tiredly, rolling off of the bed and toeing off your boots before following him into the bath's room. He watches as you walk through and is upon you within seconds, unlacing your corset and unlacing your chemise before you can move your fingers to do it for yourself. “Julian, I know you find me attractive but stripping me?”

“I don’t want you dying of cold.” He chides playfully, kissing the exposed akin of your shoulder as he pulls off the blouse. “Forgive me for loving you.”

“I love you.” You say softly and untie your trousers, pulling them and your underwear off in a single movement. He smiles at the sight and presses a hand to your lower back once you step out of the sopping fabric.

“I know, muse. Now in.” He says encouraging you into the bath, turning to fiddle with a few vials of scented oils. “Rose, Lavender or honeysuckle?”

“Lavender. It smells like you.” You say softly and sink into the water, letting out a loud moan when the heat overtakes you. He turns back to you with a smile and pours a little of the oil into the water.

“Oh, you like the smell of me?” He teases and moves around towards you.

“Of course, I do.”

He smiles at that and sinks down to his knees behind the tub at your back and picks up a rag, soaking it in the water and then moving it up to rub at your shoulders and the knobbles of your spine. The sweet floral smell is carried on the steam coming from the water, sweet and familiar and made all the better by the contented noises that come from you. He likes you like this, all pliant and sleepy and willing to let him help without complaint, it makes him feel useful in ways he never can on hunts. You shoulder so much, act so brave and mature and it’s so nice to see you just let him take control and look after you. He hums a little tune as he washes your back and feels your back move as you chuckle.

“Tickles.” You say, giggly and more awake than before. “What song is that?”

“It’s something my mother used to sing.” He says gently, scooping up some water with his hands and pouring it over your head before working out some of the tangles in your hair. “I don’t think it has a name.”

“It’s pretty.” You hum, head tilting into his hands like a kitten. “Why aren’t you in here with me?”

“I got the bath to warm you up, Silly Little Miss. I’m warm.” He says with a sigh and pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck.

“I want to touch you." You whine, twisting around to face him.

“There's time for that later, Dear Heart. “ He shakes his head affectionately and kisses the tip of your nose. “I have plans for you tonight.”

“Oh?” You ask, leaning up on your knees and allowing your breasts to lean against the lip of the tub. It’s a trick, trying to lure him in, and he knows it, but gods above it’s tempting. Far too much willpower is exerted to not reach out and take them into his hands. A siren, sent to toy with his heart and mind. He sighs and leans in to kiss you gently.

“You remember a few weeks ago? When Geralt slap-"

“Yes!” You interrupt quickly and he rolls his eyes, reaching up to smooth your hair down.

“And you said you liked the feeling?”

“I remember, Jaskier.”

He smiles and rubs his thumb across your cupid’s bow.

“Well. We have the room to ourselves, so I thought that we could experiment with that."

You blink at him owlishly before squinting at him. It would almost be enough to worry him, but he knows you too well to think you’re angry- you’re confused, but still very relaxed.

“Experiment.”

“Yes.”

“With you... hitting me.”

“With you letting me dominate you, spank you, and make you feel good.” He clarifies. It sounds foolish, and far too perverse when laid out so candidly to someone not well versed with this. You nod sagely.

“...And if I ask you to stop them you will.”

“Of course I will.” He says seriously and rests his hands on your shoulders, leaning in so you are eye to eye. “This is for your enjoyment, if you say stop, this stops. Just like always.” You smile and close the gap between his lips and your own. It’s soft and lazy, with no indication of proceeding any further than just chastely kissing, his hands still on your shoulders and your hands creeping up into his hair. It’s perfect, always is, and not for the first time, Jaskier considers that he could spend the rest of forever just kissing you and never be bored. Still, all too soon he pulls away, fetching a towel while you heave yourself out of the tub waiting for the bard and the towel. Even though you reach for it, Jaskier ignores your outstretched arms and instead swaddles you in it himself, drying you.

“I can do it myself!”

“You can, but you won't.” He says firmly, rubbing your skin. Beneath the soft fabric, he can feel you start to struggle which makes him hum and swat at your arse. It’s not enough to hurt, especially through the towel, but it serves as a good warning for who is in charge tonight. Dominance is nothing new for him, but he isn’t dominant with you. You were a virgin when he met you, all sex had to be approached with kid-gloved hands, even now that you are confident with it Jaskier has never felt any need to try and guide you towards that sort of thing. Submission, he had assumed, would be a difficult thing for you; you spend so much time fighting and fending for yourself during fights, asking you to hand over control never seemed to be a good idea. Control keeps you safe but you trust him. Trust him enough to give him control. It’s enough to rush to his head, that level of trust. Of course, it’s flattering when anyone allows him control, but it means so much more when someone who loves him, someone who is so dangerous would allow themselves to be vulnerable. He loves you, has since the second he clapped eyes on you, but this is more than love now, this is adoration. “Now, be a good girl and don’t argue.” Seldom does Jaskier have a need to be stern, so you doing as he says is to be expected. You go limp, eyes wide as he towels you dry. “There’s my good Little Miss.” He says once he finishes, folding the cloth while you stand stock still, pupils blown wide.

“Good.” You repeat back to him, starry-eyed and blushing, so he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before nodding.

“Well, you are my Good Little Miss, aren’t you?” He asks gently, watching the enthusiastic nod he gets in response with a smile. “I know.” He says with an air of finality, turning away from you and heading back into the bedchambers to sit on the bed. It takes a few seconds of silent sitting for you to finally walk to the doorway. You’re naked as the day you were born, wet hair hanging in snakelike tendrils around your face, skin glowing gold from the warm light of the fire reflecting off of the still damp flesh. You’re beautiful. Too beautiful, comfortable in your skin and his looking at you, pale criss-crossing of scars running across the planes of your body like gold holding formerly broken ceramics together. How Jaskier has ever gotten a chance to lay his hands on you is beyond him, why a bard such as himself can even look at you, never mind touch or kiss you. A goddess, battle-hardened and wise, intoxicating and intense but oh so soft and kind.

“You’re staring.” You laugh, leaning against the door frame and smiling at him.

“Yes. Yes I am.” Jaskier says simply and beckons you closer, which you do with a slight swing of your hips that he is entirely sure isn’t purposeful. You settle beside him, looking at him with a look somewhere between reverence and fear- like he's simultaneously the most beautiful and awful thing you’ve ever seen. He hates how much he likes it, the power it feels like he possesses in this moment. You look so small and defenceless, and he is too aware of how large he is by comparison. Usually, Jaskier feels slight- especially in comparison to Geralt and his hulking mass of muscle and manliness- but he’s suddenly far more aware of how big his hands are compared to your own, how he almost dwarfs you in height. You aren’t dainty, and he knows how much damage you can do with little to no effort, but you look so now.

You lean in to him slowly and tilt your head, taking him in before smiling with a raised eyebrow. Well? Your face seems to scream. I'm waiting. It’s all the encouragement he needs to put his hand between your shoulder blades and push your torso over his lap unceremoniously. Every jutting bone, every knobble of spine, outline of rib exposed when you let out a noise of mild confusion, but rest there with your stomach over his thighs. His fingertips, calloused from lute strings but still soft from the warm water, trail down your back slowly; his skin is colder than yours, leaving goose pimples in his wake as he moves towards the rounded flesh of your arse.

Pink and pert, the flesh juts out from the dip at the base of your spine, like a peach. Jaskier loves it. Loves all arses really. There is something so strangely enticing about them, likely the fact they’re so often covered that seeing them seems taboo in a way that seeing tits isn’t. Every inch of your skin that he gets to see is a luxury not afforded to others, and while his hands finally reach the plump skin, he had been moving towards he kisses your back, gripping one cheek firmly while rubbing soft circles into the other. A moan, airy and musical comes from you spurring Jaskier in his ministrations: shifting the cheek to the side, revealing a hole he had never paid much mind to at all, only to release his hold and watch as it bounces back into place. The jiggle is hypnotic, he thinks to himself wordlessly as he repeats the act on the opposite cheek, earning another moan from you in response.

“Jask.” You whine out and he hums in confirmation, feeling you push yourself back against his hand. “Don't tease.” He chuckles. Teasing is hardly what he'd call it. No, this is isn’t teasing, teasing is something gentler than this. This is preparation. He can hardly just start spanking you, especially when you've never done it before, but the whining makes him smirk. “Jask, if you don’t hurry, I’ll go to bed.” You insist and try to push yourself off of him, so he presses down on the middle of your back and brings his hand down on your arse harshly.

The sharp sound of skin-on-skin rings through the air, followed by a gasp. A tingle ran across his palm, and he snicks at the sensation.

“I thought you were my good girl, not a brat, Missy.” He says, voice low and on the verge of a growl. “I told you, I am in control tonight. Not you.”

Brat. You shiver at that, going still, and he smirks, grabbing the cheek he had just struck before tugging at it. He releases it before sliding his hand up your thigh.

“I. I can be good.” You whisper meekly. That isn’t enough though and he swats at the cheek once more, lighter this time.

“You will be good.” He corrects you, leaning in close to your ear and catching sight of your red cheeks and misty eyes. “I know you will be, won’t you Darling?” You nod quickly and he smirks. “That's my Princess.”

At that, your posture loosens and you relax against him. Praise. That’s good to know. Lazily, he rubs a circle against the curve of skin before striking it once more.

“I'm going to hit you ten times, and I want you to count them out loud for me. Can you do that for me?” He asks gently and you nod instantly. “I need you to use your words, Darling.”

“I. I can do that.” You say, tilting your head to look at him with a sweet smile. Jaskier smiles back at you, then brings his hand back down with a hard slap.

“One!” You say loudly, jolting forward and dragging your stomach across his crotch. He’s been so invested in planning and preparing that he hasn’t even noticed the hardness developing between his legs until it’s rubbed against. The moans from the bath had been enough to make him half hard, but seeing you like this, lips parted and the skin of your bottom turning an inviting shade of pink, it’s enough to have him fully hard.

“Two!” You shout out after his hand lands hard against your rear before two more swats come in quick succession.

“Three! Four!” The numbers are more moans than words, loud and needy. In the back of his mind, Jaskier wonders if the drunks downstairs are still singing and making noise, shouting and swearing, or if they too can hear the moans of pleasure. It’s sick, but he wants them to hear. Wants them to hear the pretty song that you’re moaning out, to look at you in the morning as you shift uncomfortably in your seat and know how you loved every second of it, see him smirk and know exactly who drew every noise from you.

He’s a bard. He knows how to make noises, but these might just be the prettiest ones yet. A hand rubs at the pinking skin and then, quickly as it comes it's gone and brought down, this time to the space where arse meets thigh.

“Five!”

He could listen to you moan all day. Sex, or at least sex while travelling, is normally a quiet affair. Quiet murmurs of affirmation, whispered begs and pleas, it’s not enough. Jaskier loves sex, loves the intimacy that comes from being as close to someone as humanly possible, but more so than the enjoyment of sex, Jaskier loves the theatrics of sex. Sex is like performing. Doing all possible to please an enthusiastic audience, listening to the sounds of enjoyment as it builds and crescendos, fingers moving faster, doing his best to not make a fool of himself.

“Six!”

Slap!

“Seven!”

He can’t help himself from hoping that this won't be a one-time occurrence. For a few stolen moments you can hand over control to him and give the both of you what you need.

“Eight!” Your stomach rubs against his cock once more and he chokes back a moan. You'll be the death of him. Ruin him entirely. It isn’t enough that he loves you, isn’t enough that you are the most beautiful person he could dream up, no you have to do things like this. Unintentionally ideal. Perfection given human form.

“Nine!”

His hand comes down one final time and you scream out a broken, “Ten!”, and Jaskier heaves out a sigh, rubbing the red skin as gently as he can to soothe you when you begin to tremble. Calloused fingertips slide softly across the abused flesh.

“Oh Darling. My good girl. My good, brave little miss.” He coos sweetly, gently guiding you up to sit on his lap, one hand still running the skin while the other threads itself in the hair at the nape of your neck. “You did so well.” Gently, he presses his forehead against your own, staring into tear filled eyes. “Oh, Dear Heart, did you not like it?” Worry washes over him suddenly. He should have reminded you that you could say no once more, that he wouldn’t be disappointed.

“Kiss me.” You breathe back against his lips and he sighs softly, hand shifting to your jaw to tug you into a chaste kiss. You tremble against his lap, but kiss back far more forcefully than he had kissed you. Gentle but seeking, tongue pushing between his lips to make its way into his mouth. He smirks slightly, but doesn’t open his mouth, feeling you rock against his lap- sweet nectar between your legs dripping through the fabric of his trousers while shaking fingers toy with the lacing of his doublet.

“Darling-"

“You're wearing far too much.” You whine pulling back to stare at him. “Take it off.”

“Take what off?”

“Everything.” One word has never held so much weight. He could look at you like this for always, so soft and desperate and wanting- it makes his heart beat faster and his cock jumps against the heat of your core. He wants to strip himself, rid himself of the offensive articles and just let you take from him all that he has, but he holds your jaw gently instead, using the warm skin as a means to ground himself once more.

“Ask nicely.”

“Jaskier.” You say with a slight scowl, but he narrows his eyes and tilts his head, trying not to laugh at your intent look. “Please. Please strip.”

“I think you can ask nicer than that, Dear Heart.”

“Julian, please take off your clothes. Please.” You ask softly and trail your hands along the chemise beneath his half-unlaced jerkin. “Please, Dandy? I want to touch you- can I?”

The pet name brings a soft smile to his face, hands moving to your hips to shift you onto the bed before undoing the rest of his jacket and shucking it off, to toss it to the side. Ducking down, he peppers a few feverish kisses to your thighs, toying with the ties of his chemise while you tug it over his head. Needy and half frenzied is unlike you, but he can’t say that it isn’t perfection. Shy, unsure sex has been too common, the occasional rushed shag when you two can spare a few seconds less frequent, but this magically manic need is sweet. Jaskier is a performer; performers preen under the watchful eye of attentive audience, need the knowledge of a job well done, which he normally gets from you in the form of moans and frantic rutting. This enthusiasm is perfection, especially while his face is so close to your cunt that he can smell the arousal dripping from it.

Nudity can wait, The Bard smirks, grips your thighs in a vice-like grip and widens the distance between them so he can get his mouth on your sex, tongue gathering slick and relishing that sweet, musky taste. Sweeter than any fruit, more addictive than any wine. Jaskier’s lips find your clit, that bud of nerves that might as well contain every breathless moan that you can fit in your body, and sucks, tongue flicking across it with the moans and curses that such an act wrings from you. Nose buried in the curls that cover your mount, cornflower eyes look up to take you in, writhing in ecstasy, breasts quivering with every stuttered breath. He knew that he had missed something while spanking you’d but it falls into place now. Your face.

Every emotion flit across it, as clear to read as sheet music to him. You have an expressive face at the best of times, but it only seems heightened by sex. He knows many men prefer not to face their lovers and, hell, in his more adventurous days had preferred it himself, but seeing how you feel written across your features is part of the joy of sex. It had taken a while to convince you to stop silencing yourself during intimacy, that those moans are his and hard earned, but those expressions mean even more. Miniscule twitches of the brows and lips that let him know that you enjoy what he is doing, he loves them. Loves you. Those noises are meaningless without that face, pink and contorted with pleasure. That face. He could stare at it all day.

He doesn’t miss Lettenhove, not for a minute, but he does miss paintings. Portraits, moments trapped in time, forever perfect. He wants a painting of moments like this; nothing pornographic, just your face, with not a care for anything but pleasure. To see him through those nights when hunting takes too long and he's long asleep by the time you return. A little painting to have with him always.

“Jaskier-" You whimper, fingers curled into his hair and tugging. “Please. Please.”

He hums softly and slaps your thigh, revelling in the sweet little gasp that comes from you before a gush of fluid hits his lips. The Bard pulls back and blinks in shock. You’re shaking, twisting in the blankets as he just breathes you in. Squirted. You just squirted on him. He was half convinced that such a thing was just A rumour but... you did it.

Blinking rapidly, Jaskier stares up at you awestruck and starry-eyed, trying desperately not to spill into his trousers.

Oh yes. This is going to be a regular occurrence.

#jaskier x reader #jaskier imagine #jaskier x you #dom jaskier #witcher imagine #jaskier smut

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fanficsandmoregalore · 4 years

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PopTeacher!Kylo Ren x Student!Reader

Boundaries and Apologies

Summary: Your training is going well but Kylo knows you can do better, you can do more, but only if you try a little harder. He pushes you over the top to see what power you are holding back but he goes a little too far.

Another hit from the fake sword, this time to your ribs. You already had bruises and welts forming elsewhere on your body and you couldn't help but groan in pain.

"Stop complaining, (Y/n) , and fight back." Kylo swung and hit you in the back. You fell into your knees and tried to catch your breath.

You had been snuffed out by Snoke and because the Rebellion hadn't gotten to you first, you were forced to train under Kylo Ren, who was just as or more than upset as you were about it. He hadn't taught you much about the force and it was frustrating you to no end. Your force sensitivity was very unstable and all you wanted to do was learn how to control the power within you.

"Stop it..." you pleaded quietly.

"Get up, we aren't done!" His harsh training sessions were too much for you. You thought him training you would be a little more helpful instead it was always him yelling at you and hitting you with either his hands or a fake lightsaber.

"No! We're not done until i say we are." Kylo was about to land another hit on you but you had enough. You growled and clenched your fist.

"I said stop it!" You shouted. The sword froze inches from your body and hovered. If you hadn't stopped his swing with your force powers, Kylo would've hit your spine. He pulled the sword away from you and huffed.

"That's better but still not good enough. Show me more." He demanded. You got up and glared at him.

"I dont want to train anymore today. Just let me take a break."

"Not until I know what you're capable of. If i dont know what you can do, I wont know what I need to teach you!"

You let out a frustrated groan and held your hand out away from you a bit. The sword flew into your hand and you got back into your fighting stance. As you and Kylo clashed swords, you felt yourself getting more and more irritated and exhausted. It was making you unable to focus and Kylo took this as an opportunity to sweep your leg with his. You fell on you back and laid there, not having the energy to fight back anymore. Kylo put his feet on either side of you and pointed the sword at your throat.

"Dead."

"I dont caaaareeee!!!" You yelled out and slammed the ground with your fist.

"Get up!" Kylo moved and you got on your feet. He was a considerably taller than you and when he went to get up in your face, he always had to bend down a bit.

"When you're fighting you need to focus and stay focused. And you also need to be more forceful and swift when it comes to wielding a lightsaber. You're sloppy! Now try to push me."

It took you a minute to register what he had just told you to do. You looked at him confused and he slapped his chest hard.

"Go on! Use the force to push me!"

You tried to concentrate and move Kylo but he only moved a little. He was clearly frustrated and you were as well.

"Well what do you want me to do? You are teaching me all this hand to hand combat and swordsmanship. Why bother with all of that when you can just teach me about the force and be done?"

Kylo flicked his hand and you fell on your butt and went flying backwards, hitting a wall. Kylo marched over to you and kneeled down to look you in the eyes and slammed a fist against the wall.

"To use the force requires energy and power and you need to learn basic combatics before you waste your energy on the force. You can't just take the east way out, (Y/n)!" Kylo stood and held his hand out, his hand began shaking a large rack of weapons began to float into the air. It took 6 or more people to lift that and carry it into the training room and now Kylo was lifting it without breaking a sweat.

"I want you to be able to do this but you have to have the mental power and that comes from your physical power. If you are weak on the outside, you are weak on the inside."

You grumbled and stood, brushing yourself off and looked at your master.

"Isnt there some other, more painless, way to do that?"

Kylo put the rack down and pinched his temple in annoyance.

"I suppose there is another way. The way I used to use the force before realizing how draining it was. We find the most emotional moment in your life and turn into a sort of alternative source of power that you can focus into your abilities."

Kylo stood in front of you.

"This will hurt a little, are you ready?"

You hesitated but looked up at him and nodded. He lifted his hand in front of your face and you felt yourself go numb and blacked out.

You opened your eyes to see yourself in a large, marble room with thin white, silk curtains that seemed to be hanging from nowhere and marble columns with vines wrapped around them, you on one end and on the other was a very elegant, yet unnerving, white and gold coffin. You were frozen in place and felt yourself begin tearing up, you knew that coffin.

"What is this place?"

"My mother's funeral. The only woman who wasn't afraid of what I could do, and one day she was just...gone."

You felt Kylo's presence and knew he was now standing next to you. You let the tears stream down your face but you kept your eyes locked on the coffin.

Kylo looked at your mother, then you. He put a hand on your shoulder and you gasped for air, blacking out again.

Kylo glanced at you.

"She was sick....there was nothing I could do." You began to slowly walk towards the coffin, Kylo following behind you.

"That day, my emotions got the best of me and I destroyed so much. I just felt so powerless and was so heartbroken, i didn't know it would make me so destructive. My father was so angry...and scared, I could feel it inside burning inside of him. But I'm his daughter, he shouldn't be afraid of me. My mother wasn't. So I ran away, lived on my own for a while and then you and The First Order found me."

You reached the coffin and looked down. Your mother looked as if she was sleeping peacefully and this made you feel calm but still filled you with overwhelming sadness.

"I didn't know what to do without her."

You opened your eyes, panting, and were standing back in the training room. Kylo scoffed.

"Say what you want about me, Ren. Break my bones and make me bleed. But do not, I repeat, DO NOT, speak about my mother like that!" You stopped the choking and made a throwing motion, tossing Kylo at the wall with all the force you could. You wanted him to feel the pain you felt. All the toment from losing your beloved mother, you wanted him to feel that physically. You made him fly across the room several more times, hitting the walls harder and harder, but then you felt weak and your body became exhausted. Kylo fell from the air and landed roughly, coughing up a bit of blood. You were huffing and glaring at him, he looked at you as well, in shock and disbelief. He didn't realize that you had so much power bottled up and why? Because you were scared of what destruction you would cause again? That's just what he wanted. That power, but imagine you being able to control. With power like that, you and him would be unstoppable. The Rebellion wouldn't stand a chance.

"You just ran away. They feared you and you just ran. Your mother would've been so disappointed in you. It's probably best that she passed away before seeing what a pathetic mess you became."

Of course, kylo didn't actually mean any of this. He was just trying to push your buttons to unleash what untapped power you still had hiding away inside you. And it worked, a little too well. You become silent and had a deadly look in your eye. There was a thick tension in the air. Kylo waited to see what was going to happen next. Suddenly, he was lifted into the air and being choked by an invisible force, he was caught off guard and couldn't fight back immediately. Your power was now fueled by nothing but rage and it made what you were doing even more painful. He had just learned about your weakest moment and then mocked you for it.

You got up on your feet and hobbled over to Kylo.

"Get up." You instructed firmly. He did and you both walked to the med center.

As he was being worked on, next to him, you were also being looked at. You glanced over at him. He was plotting an attack on the Rebels but you mistook it as him being upset that you injured him so much.

"I'm sorry, Kylo. I didn't mean to hurt you so badly. I was just so angry at what you said. I just wanted you to know what it felt like for me emotionally, but on the outside. " You spoke softly, feeling that anything louder would upset him. He heard you and looked over at you, then gave you a stern look.

"Don't apologize. I pushed you on purpose to get a reaction and it all went accordingly."

You looked away and began thinking about your mother. You felt yourself begin to cry and Kylo took notice. He did feel a bit bad for you. He cleared his throat and grumbled something.

"I'm sorry about your mother."

You turned to him, tears still streaming down your eyes, and looked at him with surprise. He had never been nice to you in any way so him showing sympathy was strange, but very considerate. You smiled a little as you looked away.

The bots finished their business and you and your master left the room. As you walked back to the training area, you looked at Kylo.

"So...what now?"

He kept his gaze forward, a stern look still plastered on his face.

"We go back and train more. Now that I know what power you are hiding, I will show you how to direct that into the force."

You sighed, of course it was back to training, but at least now he was going to teach you how to use the force.

You got back to the room and Kylo instructed you to stand on one side of the room and he would stand opposite. He gave you a sword and he took his with him.

"Now, you are going to be doing self defense maneuver. I want you to use your sword and combine it with a force push. Do you understand?" You nodded and he began his charge at you. You took and breath and thought about your mom watching you train. This was a calming thought and it motivated you. Kylo had gotten only feet away and swung hard and fast at you, you skillfully blocked it and you used your force to push him away. The rest of training went on like that. After all was said and done, Kylo approached you.

"That was very impressive. Your mother would be proud." That was all he said and then he left the room. You smiled, proud of yourself. Not only for learning quickly how to control your powers but also for proving to Kylo and yourself that you don't need to feel a bad emotion to motivate your abilities.

The next few training sessions were great and Kylo had lightened up a bit on the harshness of his training. You were finally in complete control of your power but little did you know the horrible things Kylo had planned to use them for.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren #star wars

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twotoned2marta22-blog · 7 years

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RESCUE! ==>

[[ logs and some daring events with @geminidoomed! end result: ???? ]]

geminidoomed II haven't 2een you on iin a few niight2, ii2 everythiing okay?

twotoned2marta22 > Is this one going to be as much of a hassle as The Ringleader. Please, goddesses, no.

hell0 artiifex, s0rry f0r taking s0 l0ng t0 get back t0 y0u megid0 is the name. snips is unavailable f0r the time being

geminidoomed Why ii2 2niip2 unavaiilable, and why are you on hii2 account?

twotoned2marta22 0n his acc0unt because his palmhusk was severely damaged and im transferring the data, i n0ticed tr0lls have been trying t0 c0ntact him it seems there was an accident inv0lving s0mething expl0sive! unsure 0f the details but hes quite alright n0w, luckily, m0stly hes been sleeping the sh0ck 0f it 0ff

geminidoomed oh man that 2uck2 a lot, II'm 2ure a lot of people are worriied about hiim be2iide2 me

> What a beautiful live connection to the computer sending these messages, you think you'll just pull up the view finder

twotoned2marta22 n0t really, which is a shame. he seems a nice fell0w

> Lie. Total lie. He tried to stab you in the throat with the broken handle of a teacup this evening.

geminidoomed 2ometiime2 people do head offliine for a few niight2 at a tiime. hey are you wiith tho2e friiend2 of hii2 II thiink he mentiioned before?

>You are now directly looking at her and the room surrounding her, and idly noting down the coordinates.

twotoned2marta22 g00d p0int, im rarely ever 0n myself. he was 0n his 0wn when i f0und him, d0 y0u have c0ntact inf0rmati0n f0r these friends? i w0uldnt want them t0 be w0rrying

> How many of these people that he's talked to are actually his friends. The Captor wasn't supposed to develop a social circle while isolated from society. > Aradia is in her own block, filled with ancient artifacts and a partially complete skeleton of an ancient lusii. The Peixes symbol can be seen in fuchsia over the door. There's mild burns visible on her face and arms.

geminidoomed II'm afraiid not 0n0 II've never 2poken wiith hii2 real liife friiend2.

>Yeah there's no way in fuck he'd be anywhere near a Piexes, volentarily. Sparks knows how he feels about the 'witches' >And the rebellion.

how diid you happen two be iin the neiighborhood..?

>He leaned on one arm, putting his chin in his hand and began to write a program, the code spinning into his mind's eye.

twotoned2marta22 well thats sure a pr0blem! ill ask him when he wakes up again

> You'll ask him when you damn well feel like it, sometime after he stops trying to murder you every twelve seconds. > What's a feasible story. Easy to remember, easy to stick with.

i was running a dig site s0me kil0meters away when we heard s0mething det0nate, s0 i went 0ver t0 investigate

geminidoomed >He released the code gently. all it was was a locator. Starting from her coordinates find his artifacts.

oh man cool, what were you guy2 diiggiing up way out there?

twotoned2marta22 a very specific 0ld civilizati0n, literally buried! but the specific part has t0 be a secret f0r n0w. s0me tr0lls w0uld rather hist0ry be f0rg0tten and i d0nt want their claws anywhere near my w0rk!

> When he tracks the artifacts down, he'll find that Snips is still wearing them. He'll also find that Snips looks beat to shit, and is in a large block with just. so much pink. so many pinks. It looks luxurious, though, and there's a mediculler currently checking up on him.

geminidoomed >Holy shit shes. Shes just so bad at this. Shes so terribly bad, why has she been allowed to actually try to fool people into anything?

2hiit II wouldnt want you two be caught 2ayiing 2omethiing you 2houldn't on the iinternet and gettiing your whole diig ruiined or liike. culled or anythiing.

>Holy fuck thats so much pink. Thats just. An obnoxious amount of pink. Hes going to spend a while watching the mediculler, and Snips. The one flaw is that there isnt any audio on this shitty thing. Maybe he ought to work on that..

twotoned2marta22 > Let her live dude, most of her attention has been taken up but your (justifiably) murderous alt down in the basement. > Also yeah, this generally isn’t her job.

im n0t t00 w0rried, snips here has apparently been telling every0ne and their lusus that hes a limebl00d and n0b0dy has c0me after him

> Except the "2talker Pyrope" of course. She almost chuckles at that.

> Snips doesn't appear to be saying anything, but occasionally he flinches and starts to turn on the mediculler like he intends to attack. The mediculler jumps away, Snips slumps back down, the process continues and repeats.

geminidoomed That2 true, but 2ometiime2 deviice2 have word triigger2 iin them you never know, yeah?

>He tapped his fingers against his chin, lips thinned out into a line.

twotoned2marta22 i supp0se anyways! is there anything y0u want me t0 pass 0n t0 snips f0r y0u? 0ther than the general "hey, s0 and s0 asked if y0ure 0kay"

> Aradia slumps back on the floor rug she's laying on. It was a mighty beast at some point. Now it's just fur.

> Snips gradually lashes out less and less. By the time the mediculler packs up their things, he looks barely responsive. He shuffles toward a recuperacoon when motioned towards it.

geminidoomed yeah let hiim know II've been worriied and II'm lookiing forward two 2eeiing hiim agaiin wiill you? -hey iit wa2 niice meetiing you Aradiia but II need two jet.

>To snips, he needs to jet to Snips, he grabs his armored coat and shrugs it on without doing up the buttons, and double checks to make sure his sword is in his strife specibus, before he relocates himself to the coordinates hes watching snips from. He wanted to grab him before he hit the sopor because the sopor would make things at least twice as more difficult than they needed to be.

twotoned2marta22 will d0. h0pefully hes g0ing t0 be right as rain and back 0nline s00n

> She doubts it. The kid has developed a stubborn streak since going wild, and he won't listen to reason until it breaks. Aradia is tired of wrigglers.

> Snips is unbuttoning his shirt slowly, fumbling with the buttons but hissing if anyone attempts to help. He can deal with this on his own, fuck you very much.

geminidoomed >The sudden appearance of a wild space pirate in the room cant be going completely unnoticed, he started closing the distance between them. "2niip2!"

twotoned2marta22 > The mediculler was just leaving, and upon witnessing the... sudden and very magical appearance of another troll, yanks open the door to shout for the guards. Two clowns and three blue brutes pile in as the mediculler makes their escape. > A door appears in the wall behind the recuperacoon, and through it steps a troll cloaked in black and fuchsia. The door disappears.

> Snips takes a solid five seconds to realize his name is being called. He looks up sluggishly.

geminidoomed >Man those guys are fucking fast, they appeared almost as quickly as he did. Did the mediculler already drug snips more? He wishes he'd had a better angle to see what he'd been doing.

>Sparks began to mentally map where everyone in the room was- including holy shit that fuchsia where the shit did she even come from??

>Time to try to scoop snips up. He obviously can't move fast enough right now.

>He was prepared to be bitten this is his life now.

twotoned2marta22 > They've been hovering in hopes of a chance to beat down the lime, honestly. They each have dead or hurt friends this week because of him. The mediculler had no drugs, this is plain old exhaustion, but they are fumbling to run and get a palmhusk out of their bag to contact Aradia.

> The witch hasn't moved from behind the coon yet, while the blues and clowns have already fanned out, blues already charging ahead while the clowns hang back. The air starts to feel thick and distorted from chucklevoodoos.

> Snips does flash his teeth, though it's hardly a threatening sight. Then he slips right out of Sparks' reach, the floor yawning open and closing the moment he's fallen through. Then he pops out of the wall and hits the floor winded, right next to the witch.

geminidoomed >Sparks's teeth were much more impressive as he bared them, half grin and half challenge, eyes blazing up bright his sword appeared in his hand and crackled with psionics. His reaction to fear was to primarily spin it into rage, to kill whatever he was afraid of, some of his panic attacks had been lethal or near lethal for people.

> - First deal with the trolls closing in, he whirled on them to engage while he let the rest of his brain calculate the exact position his friend was in relitive to his, because between kicking someone away from his sword, and turning to another he was going to dissappear and appear near snips again to take a chance and try to scoop him up even that close to the witch.

twotoned2marta22 > There's a brief second of confusion as they each realize that their opponent is a gold psion, and that he's clearly wielding magic. For a moment, the witch's snarl of outrage overrides the chucklevoodoos stuffing up the atmosphere with noise. One of the clowns decides to get into Sparks' head. With a lowblood, it's bound to be easy.

> Between magic and voodoos, Snips has completely frozen up in terror. He makes no attempt to move from where he is on the floor, aside from curling up on his side and covering his face.

geminidoomed >That tore a snarl out of him, the moment he felt an actual touch on his mind he mentally grabbed onto it and lashed his power back along the link between them wrecklessly.

>Snips is no help but he just has to get him up into his arms, and his psionics will help- it was just too hard to do the calculations to get them out of there with them seperate.

twotoned2marta22 > The first clown stumbles back with a shout, stunned, and two blues rush Sparks again while the third glances back in confusion.

> Manacles conjure up from beneath Sparks and cease his legs; the witch launches an orb of black something that hits Sparks' back hard.

geminidoomed He fell forward, caught by the legs and struck from behind, and came back up, eyes flashing, to make a gesture in the air with his hand, then slicing it toward the witch. Dramatics all of it, he gutted the part of her physical code that dealt with phenotype and replaced it with the typing for a rust blooded troll. - He was distracted momentarily with that. and when his attention tore back to the guards rushing in they were far too close, he struck out at a knee while he tried to get his feet back under him and away from the things holding him down.

twotoned2marta22 > The witch collapses, loudly groaning but already struggling to get off the floor. She's stubborn. One blue's sword clangs off Sparks' leg; the other brings a hammer down on his chest with full force.

> The witch has Snips fall through an open window in the floor. He's moved elsewhere in the room but unseen.

geminidoomed He felt the weight of the sword his his leg, and the force of it all the way through to the bone, though the edge was turned away.

There was a crack, and a shattering pain that went all the way through his body, his sword found the inside of the hammer wielder’s elbow and thrust, twisting it he was seeing white as the hammer came down on him, sword work too late to stop it, and arm too weak to block a blueblood's blow, a bubble of swirling blue force burst outward from him to throw everything near him away, while he struggled to breath, his chest was shattered and he was suffocating- he didn’t have long, he had to fix this in his code

twotoned2marta22 > The blue isn't going to be wielding his hammer again anytime, stumbling back and clutching his wound, then thrown with the rest by the burst of psionics. Sparks would have a reprieve, except the witch comes shrieking in with a last action, crafting a hammer of her own of the same inky black material as before and sending it to the hands of the second clown, who brings it down on Sparks with even greater force and rage than the blue. > Mostly rage.

geminidoomed The clawing desperate pain and pressure in his chest exploded - He saw white, and then black, his body was ruined and he was overwhelmed. The half dead god stopped breathing, his heart stopped beating, everything stopped, and he laid crumpled.

twotoned2marta22 > The fighting stops, and this is when Aradia arrives. A clown is unconscious on the floor, all of the blues are bleeding, the witch is keening on the floor while the other clown stands over her holding an magically constructed hammer, there's a strange corpse in the middle of the room, the Captor is gone--

> Oh, there he is. His head is poking out from the pile of blankets and cushions to one corner of the block, staring in shock at the body. He's weeping.

“Artiifex...? Artiifex?? Fex?!”

> Aradia brings her hands together in a loud clap, startling everyone silent and bringing the trolls’ attentions to her. The medicullers she ordered to follow warily peek into the room.

“Docterror, get these four to the medical ward immediately. Jolyre, send down a cleaning crew for this mess and then go make sure your brother’s pan hasn’t been fried, Sister, tell me right now why you’re hiding in your cloaks more than usual and why there is a dead body in this block.”

> The witch doesn’t say anything, just uncovers one now-rust eye and stares up at Aradia. She heaves a sigh.

“Go with the medicullers, explain everything to me later.”

“No.”

“No?”

> The witch gestures to Sparks’ crumpled body, face twisted in disgust. “The psion struck a deal with something. He still lingers.”

“Can you take care of it?”

“Of course I can.”

> The witch and Sparks disappear through doors that exist for a moment. Aradia stays in the room, staring Snips down until cleaners and a new batch of guards arrive. She doesn’t say anything when she leaves. Snips doesn’t say anything either.

#[[ W E L P ]]#logs #!npc #geminidoomed #Event: Hotel Fuchsiafornia #violence //#death //

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