#yeehaw x ye faithful

[inber]

Play Out - Jaskier x Reader OS

A lovely Witcherling contacted me and lit this fire in my brain with their spark; they are an opera singer and told me that ‘voice’ rivalry is totally a thing and I was like heck yeehaw and this is the result. This is for you, lovely! I mean, it’s for all of us. God I love me a hatefuck. I only have one taglist because HOLY SHIT I’m lazy, so I’m sorry if you’re tagged and you’re not about Jaskier; skip this one. Not my gif!

Summary: You steal Jaskier’s gig, and he’s unimpressed about it. In fact, he seems unimpressed with you entirely. Pairings: Jaskier x Reader, Geralt is here and he thinks you’re both stupid. Warnings: Rudeness. Socially and physically. Angry sex. MxF. Smutty smut. Word Count: 4567 eyyy sequential Tags: @persephonehemingway​ @xmother-mortemx​ @alwayshave-faith​ @alliyjane​ @stretchkingblog97​ @p3nny4urth0ught5​ @geeksareunique​ @didi0666​ @tigers-pat​ @asgardianangelo​ @thefangirlsblog​ @agniavateira​ @superkamigurudende​ @i-am-sarah​ @punkrogers-jerkbarnes​ @deansbbysblog​ @mary-ann84​ @khaleesi-provenance​ @locht3ssmonster​ @thatonesebstanfan​ @afterthenightprevails​ @saint-hardy​ @ayamenimthiriel​ @goldensilvan​ @hina-chans-stuff​ @salaveenas-personal-blog​ @elsassnowflake​ @msmimimerton​ @delightfully-anonymous​ @uncoolcloudyhead​ @buggy-blogs​ @magic-and-the-macabre​ @chook007​ - if you’d like to be added to my list, send me an ask please!

Masterlist is here. If you’d like to donate for my time, you can do so here if you’d like. Thanks for reading!

Jaskier is sulking. Geralt is finding it a refreshing change of pace, because the bard is brooding into his wine, his boyish features furrowed with a frown. If this keeps up, the Witcher thinks, then he’ll have time to think about the complexities of the upcoming route in peace, and–

“I can’t believe they wanted me to open for her!” Jaskier explodes, and Geralt sighs so softly that it’s almost imperceptible. “Do they not know who I am? What I’ve done for music? How I’ve ached and bled – I’ve literally bled, Geralt – for my work! What’s she done? Turned up with a harp – a harp, Geralt – and probably, I don’t know, flashed her bosom at the tavern-keep. If she’s even pretty, that is. You can’t be pretty and talented.”

The Witcher makes a quiet grunt.

“Except for me. And you, I guess. Except you’re more… regally handsome. And I’m… hmm. Youthfully dashing. Yes.” He’s become absorbed in that thought, now, and Geralt lifts his ale to his lips. It sloshes when Jaskier pounds the table with a fist, and the Witcher closes his eyes, trying to locate the remnants of his tattered patience. “I just don’t understand!”

“Maybe she’s talented and you should shut up and listen for once.” Geralt growls, and Jaskier places a hand upon his breast, the offence blazing in his vivid blue eyes.

“More talented than me?!”

“How should I know?” The Witcher barks, drinking of his disturbed ale, “I’ll never get to hear her if you don’t close your damnable mouth.”

Jaskier huffs, and slumps over his wine, toying with the cup. “I shouldn’t have to open for anyone.” He mutters, and is summarily ignored.

You’re nervous. Of course you’ve played many a small inn, and a few larger taverns, but this audience is massive as compared to other crowds you’ve faced. It’s a silly thing for a solo performer to admit, but sometimes you get stage fright. Waiting to be announced as the next act can feel like waiting for an executioner to call your name.

There’s also something of a disappointment; the tavern-keep told you that Jaskier – known in some circles as the bard Dandelion – might be playing before you. However, he’s sat in a corner table with the unmissable Geralt of Rivia, his back to the stage, occasionally gesticulating. There’s another bard of lesser repute warming the crowd, although he’s doing a rather poor job; everyone is talking over him, and you’re fairly sure at one point he rhymed ‘orange’ with ‘borange’.

This is going to be a hard gig, you think, clutching your faithful lap-harp.

“Our thanks to…” The tavern-keep squints at the poor bard, who mutters, and the man speaks again, “Talden of Kagen!” He applauds, and some of the crowd follows suit, although it sounds rather disinterested and short. “Next, for your entertainment…”

You stand as he introduces you, deepening your breath to try and find some calm, taking the stage with what you hope are slow, graceful steps. Much of the people begin to mutter amongst themselves; women are less popular as entertainment if they are clothed, and you see many backs already turning. You’re used to that.

Smiling at the tavern-keep, you take a seat, and settle your harp. You pluck a few strings, take a sip of the wine beside you, and launch boldly into your first song.

The whole place goes silent as a tomb under a midnight moon. Your voice, rich and soulful and precise, tells the tale you’ve written; a princess cursed to find unlikely love with a monster, who she meets in secret. It’s a song about misunderstanding, about perceptions of beauty, about hope and rebellion. It’s slow but powerful, and the last notes of the chorus linger in the air like expensive pipe-smoke, curling in twists to vanish into the rafters above.

For a heartbeat, the damn place is still quiet. You try not to let your body tremble, although your hands are gripping the edges of your harp as though it might be an anchor to ground you to the earth. And then the cheering begins.

The rowdy crowd stamp their feet and clap and howl their praise, and you feel yourself grinning, bowing your head in modest thanks, feeling the heat of pride and adrenaline nip at your breast. It’s actually difficult to begin your second song over the cacophony, but the men elbow one another with loud ’shh‘ing in an effort to properly hear you.

“Wow.” Geralt murmurs, in the corner the two have holed up in.

“Really?” Jaskier hisses, although he can’t tear his eyes away from the stage where you are performing, “You’re gonna give that a ’wow’? You’ve never ‘wow'ed at any of my songs, Geralt!” He tips the rest of his wine down his throat, and pours more from the jug. “Her rhymes are… they could use work, and did you hear that chord in the first verse? Totally off-key.”

“You sound like a jealous housewife.”

“I do not–” The bard trails off as you hit a high note with a thrilling trill, and a murmur ripples through the approving people. Every face in the joint is turned to you. He forgets his point as he listens to this, your third song. It’s faster-paced, a fun ballad about a girl who engages in a frisky romp with a stable-hand, forgets her knickers in the aftermath, and is caught in a windstorm on her way home. It’s always popular with men; Jaskier has to fight not to smile. But fight he does.

Even Geralt chuckles at the end, adding two beats of his hands as he claps with the audience, and the bard feels as though he’d be happier if the Witcher had punched him in the face.

“Why don’t you just travel with her, if you love her so much.” He pouts like a child, crossing his arms.

“If she knows the value of silence, maybe I will.” Geralt muses.

After your fourth song is sung, you take a break for wine, meeting those that would come and shake your hand and tip you with coin; it’s only halfway through your set and your pocket is heavy. You’re alive with gratitude and glee, thrilled that the patrons are taken by your tales. You’ve yet to eat a considerable meal, and so you try to kindly refuse the many offers of drink that are extended to you. Nobody wants to listen to a drunk crooner wailing off-key.

The rest of your set is flawless in the eyes of your audience, although you hear your mistakes and mentally catalogue them for inspection later, ever the perfectionist. As the last note of your last ballad – a song about the harshness of winter yielding to spring, told as a tale in which the seasons are personified as sisters – trills in the air, you’re given a standing ovation, and truly humbled, you curtsy as best as you know how. You’re not of noble blood, and it’s perhaps the clumsiest part of your routine, but after that voice, nobody really cares.

You collect your tips, and your evening’s payment, exhilarated; when you partake of drink now, the alcohol does affect you, the rush of performing ebbing from your blood-flow and allowing you to feel intoxication. Emboldened, you flirt back with men, laugh with women who have stories strikingly similar to your stable-hand’s tale, and nibble at food bought for you. You make your way through the crowd, and find yourself close to a man you’ve idolised for a time – and his rather enormous bodyguard, who doesn’t seem as fierce as the stories paint him to be. In fact, he looks contemplative, and you see something gentle in his peculiar eyes.

Jaskier, however, looks drunk.

Downing the remainder of your own cup, you approach the duo, and bow your head. “Well met, Geralt of Rivia, Dandelion–”

“My name is Jaskier.” He admonishes, squinting his beautiful blue eyes at you.

With a frown, you correct yourself. “Forgive me, Jaskier. I’ve heard so many of your songs. I wanted to tell you how deeply I admire your work.”

“Ohhh really?” He sing-songs, and you’re confused by the darkness in his stare. “Is that why you took my place on stage tonight? Admiration? Ow, Geralt–”

He’s clearly been kicked beneath the table. “Forgive him, my lady. What I’m sure he means to say is that you sing beautifully.” Geralt’s voice is the low promise of an avalanche, a gorgeous growl, and you feel the hair on your arms stand on end. The longer you linger there, the more you realise why they call him 'The White Wolf’.

“You are too kind, Geralt of Rivia” You accept, smiling, “I am pleased you enjoyed my work.” Your attention flicks back to Jaskier, who is pouring more wine. “I was unaware that you were to play… well, actually, I thought you were to play before me. I’m saddened that you did not.”

“Darling,” The bard purrs, “I don’t play before anyone. Don’t care how lovely she looks, don’t care how nice her rack—ow! Geralt, that’s my leg.”

The Witcher’s face reads I know, you idiot, and he looks at you with an apology in his cat-gold eyes. You’re uncomfortable and upset, fidgeting, and yet too nervous to simply flee. You hate the idea that you’ve upset Jaskier. “I-I’d no idea you had claim on this stage…”

“He has claim on fuck all.” Geralt rumbles, and you bite your lower lip.

“Well, he makes me wish I’d never come here.” You mutter, gripping your empty wine cup harder.

“I’m sure your father said something similar to your mother on the night of your conception, sweetheart.” Jaskier slurs.

The sound of your slap across his face is incredibly loud in the tavern, the force of it whipping his head; some people turn and chuckle, but you’re boiling with anger now, trembling.

“Good Witcher.” You bob your head in a bow, before storming off, pacing upstairs to your room. You cannot believe what an absolute dick Jaskier is, and the disappointment of it pricks your eyes with hot tears. You hate that you cry when you’re angry. It has been said that you should never meet your heroes, and now you understand why.

Geralt watches you leave, watches Jaskier stroke the side of his face that has a very clear red hand-print on it, and huffs in disgust. “That was uncalled for, bard.”

“You’re uncalled for!” Jaskier retorts, unable to access the part of his brain that allows for wit; he picks up the wine jug, stumbles into the elbow of a working girl dressed in red silks, and takes the both of them upstairs to his own room.

Well, Geralt thinks to himself, nursing the rest of his ale, least it’s quiet now.

—————

It’s months before fate sees fit to cross your paths again.

Your name is spreading, the humour and depth of your ballads second only to the tales of your siren-song voice, and you’re able to afford finer clothes and your own horse to travel. You stick to small inns at first, modestly, but they soon become packed out; in time, you play taverns and song-halls. The fame never gets to your head, though; you know that time changes all things, and that someone more talented will someday take the spotlight. For now, you try and enjoy yourself.

With your cloak-hood up, you enter a smaller establishment to simply have dinner and some wine alone, stabling your horse outside. Once you’ve secured a room, you turn to find somewhere to sit in the populated place, only to lay eyes upon Geralt – ever brooding in a corner, as is his wont. Jaskier doesn’t seem to be with him, and you recall his kindness, so you make your way over.

“Well met, Geralt of Rivia.” You bow your head as he looks up, surprised at the sudden company. “I’m–”

“The songstress with the harp. Yes, I remember.” He doesn’t smile, but there’s something about his mouth that is kind nonetheless.

“Forgive me, I hope I’m not interrupting. There are few places to sit.”

“Help yourself.” He gestures to the seat across from him, and with a thankful smile, you take it, placing your wine down.

“I’ve ordered food. I don’t wish to be rude and eat in front of you – may I order you something too?”

He grunts, quiet, and you don’t know what that means, so you catch the attention of a bar-maid and order him more ale.

“This man needs no introduction from me,” You hear a bar-keep speak behind you, and turn to the stage, “So what am I even doing up here?” He receives a pity laugh from the audience and, self-amused, he continues. “Please, a round of applause for Jaskier!”

As the bard takes the stage to various cheers, you feel your upper lip curling with disdain. Ah, fuck. Whipping your head around, you try to ignore the richness of his voice, and the clever way that he winds innuendo around words. The clear, practiced sound of his fingers on the lute-strings. He has such long fingers, you think, and then wonder where that thought manifested from.

Geralt is watching you over his new tankard, silent, and you begin to eat your dinner, trying not to stab the spatchcock too harshly with your fork. After a time, you meet the Witcher’s precious metal gaze in despair.

“Why does he hate me?” You whisper, and the Witcher hmms again.

“He doesn’t.” Is your reply, with no elaboration. You ponder that, recalling the last time you’d met, and work on your potatoes. Quietly, you offer one of the fat-roasted morsels to Geralt, who accepts it graciously, and you eat to the soundtrack of Jaskier’s song.

It’s such a nice background that you don’t even notice when he’s finished playing, until he’s at your table, hands on his hips. He’s staring at you with the same intensity as he did before, and you bristle, sipping your wine.

“You’re in my seat.” He remarks, and you raise your eyebrows.

“Don’t see your name on it.” You shoot back; Geralt watches the two of you like a tired parent.

Jaskier reaches over to your dinner, scooping up a fingerful of left-over gravy, and paints a 'J’ on the backrest of the wood. “There.” He declares, smug.

“Gross.” You hiss, standing, not wishing to get the mess upon your clothing. Triumphantly, he sits, and you roll your eyes. “You know, I thought–”

“It’s Y/N!” Someone calls, and you whip your head, the movement disturbing your cloak-hood enough for it to fall. So much for incognito. “Play us a song, darlin’!”

“Oh, I’m not here to…” You stammer, holding up your hands.

“No, go on,” Jaskier goads, nudging you, “Get on up there.”

You turn to glare at him, unstrapping your harp from your back. “Fine. Thanks for warming the stage for me.”

Stalking towards the steps that lead to the platform, you smirk as you hear him splutter behind you, and the quiet rumble of Geralt’s laughter.

“I like her.” The Witcher remarks, as you begin to play. He’s watching your performance, but you’re lost in the music as always, pouring your voice and soul into the song.

“I don’t.” Jaskier realises he has gravy on his sleeve, and tries to wipe it off.

“Yes you do.” Geralt notes, drinking more of his ale. He claps when you finish your tune, and you launch into another.

“I do not. She’s all…” He makes a wave of his hand, “You know? Better. I mean, she���s not better than me. But she acts like it. With her… ways.” The bard stares at the half-moon crescent of lipstick you’ve left on your wine cup, and wonders what your lips taste of. The thought makes him blink, hard.

“Her parents are dead.” Geralt mutters, and that catches Jaskier’s attention; all-too well he remembers what he’d said to you before.

“How do you know that?” He hisses lowly, feeling something that might be a stab of guilt tugging at his heart.

“The locket around her neck. Sometimes she toys with it absently, opens and shuts it. There’s a portrait of them in there.”

“So?” Jaskier dismisses, but his voice sounds weaker, “Maybe she’s just a daddy’s girl.”

“Listen.” Geralt directs, nodding at the stage.

The verse of your song is about loss, about suffering a shipwreck and finding yourself the only survivor atop driftwood in the centre of a merciless sea that toys and torments you. It’s about the harshness of salt and the sting of illusions that dance like phantoms on distant horizons. It’s about never quite reaching the shore. Some of the patrons are wiping their eyes, and Jaskier finds his own filling, his poet’s heart touched.

Alas, his idiot brain remains unscathed.

“People lose parents. How was I to know?” Hastily, he rubs his eyes as if he’s simply gotten something caught in them.

“You should apologise.” The Witcher suggests, and it’s the bard’s turn to grunt and lapse into silence.

When you’ve played a few songs and taken tips, you dip in your poor curtsy, and leave the stage. You don’t wish to return to Geralt – not with Jaskier present – and so you take your key from the keeper and go upstairs to your room.

Jaskier watches you ascend the steps, grits his teeth, and curses under his breath. After a few minutes, he rises, and follows. Smugly, the Witcher sinks back into his seat, and enjoys his precious silence again.

—————

The knock at your door is soft, so soft that you think you’ve imagined it. You’re removing your shoes, and only rise to answer when it comes again, barefoot on the hardwood floors. Perhaps a shy chambermaid is checking on you.

“I have everything I–” You begin, and are startled into silence when you see Jaskier standing there. His expression is peculiar, a mix of frustration and – anger? – and you cock your hip, placing a hand there. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to–” He starts, stuttering for the first time since you’ve known him, and you raise your eyebrows, “I needed to tell you…” His lapus-lazuli eyes meet your own, and he sucks in a sharp breath. “…Your curtsy. It’s awful. Were you never taught how?”

You square your shoulders and narrow your eyes, gripping the door handle tighter. “That’s why you came up here? To tell me how to curtsy?” Incredulity drips from your tone.

“Well, if you’re going to thank your audience, you shouldn’t do it so… sloppily.” He tells you, straightening his spine, his annoyance matching your own.

“I hate you.” You hiss, and his upper lip curls.

“I hate you, too.” He spits back, and for a long moment you face off like that, the tension pulsing between you, the echoes of your emotions grating together like bare flesh on sea-bitten limestone.

In the next instant, you’re in his arms, and he’s kissing you with such intensity that he robs your breath, but you aren’t even aware because you’re kissing him back, scratching your hands through his hair, licking up the heat of his mouth, trading groans as he bites your lip and you suckle his cupid’s bow. He slams the door in his wake with his foot, and your hands grip the collar of his fine jerkin, tearing. Buttons pop off like dried corn over a flame, and your greedy fingers rake down his chest, through the hair, leaving vivid red claw-lines. He moans, nudging you back towards the bed, tugging hard at the corset that cinches your waist until he tires of the exercise and jerks the bask open, bending metal.

You fall back onto the mattress and he’s upon you, unwilling to be away from your lips for long; he kisses you as though you’re the only water he’s ever drunk, the only way to slake his thirst, and you match his ferocity, gasping for breath each time you briefly part. He shoves the skirts of your dress up, plants dirty, open-mouthed kisses at your neckline, bruises your collarbone with a suckling pop of skin. You pant beneath him, feeling his fingers at the ties of your knickers, unlacing them to pull the wettened cotton fabric down your legs. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watch with half-lidded eyes as he fixates his gaze upon your own – a clear river at springtime – and runs the flat of his tongue in a hard stripe up from your cunt to your clit, tasting you. The whimper that spills from your swollen lips is the only encouragement he needs.

He fits his mouth around the pearl of your clit and runs his tongue-tip in circles, sealing the contact in a suck, as two of his long, calloused fingers enter you, stretching, curving upwards. Your head falls back and you moan, fisting the bedspread; there was definitely a reason you’d thought of his hands before. He finger-fucks you like you’re the most finely crafted instrument in the world, exploring your crying cunt with a musician’s delicacy, finding the chords inside you that make you really sing; he maintains the pressure and consistent attention at your bud as he strokes you, his arm not tiring. When he finds your rhythm and he’s nuzzling the nerves at your mons with the slant of his nose, you’re openly squealing and chanting his name, bucking, a sweaty mess of tremors. “Come for me, you little bitch.” He hisses at your cunt, and you absolutely do.

The pulse of your pussy is fierce, the wash of your juices soaking his mouth and dripping to settle like dew on his chest hair; he moans with you, playing the music of your orgasm out as you crescendo; he keeps you at the peak, mindless and shaking, until you’re so hypersensitive that he withdraws, kissing your inner thighs, your mound, your stomach. When the rush is over, you find yourself aching and needy, wanting more of him. You kick him away with bare feet and he stumbles back, his ass hitting the floor; he grunts with bewilderment, looking furious, 'til you stand and pull your dress from your shoulders, letting it puddle on the ground. You’re an absolute goddess nude before him, and he stares in wonderment; you let him enjoy the sight of you for mere seconds before you’re on him, straddling his lap on the floor, kissing him again.

You taste the salt of yourself on his lips and both of you moan into the filthy embrace, your hands making quick work of his belt and the laces of his breeches that are hindering your exploration of him. His cock is beautiful, fitting his size; it curves slightly towards his body, and you shudder in anticipation, aware of how you can play that delicious angle in your favour. Your lips leave his, as you stroke him; he’s already red and weeping precome, and he lifts his hips into your grasp, lowly groaning. When you sink your puffy fucked-out cunt onto his length in one hard downward thrust, you bite the delicate skin of his neck at the same time, marking him. He howls at the differing sensations; the vice-tight heat of you, and the sharp pain. His hands fly to your hips, gripping.

The way you ride him is merciless, a power-fuck; he raises his hips to meet the roll of yours, nuzzles the bounce of your tits, hisses his delirium in whorls of breath as you take your pleasure from him, and gift him his own in return. He feels amazing, the ridge of his cock rubbing your g-spot again and again as you rut on the floor, and your second climax begins to threaten your walls, a flutter, a tale of an incoming inferno.

He rolls with you, cradling your head with care as he pushes you into the fur of the rugs before the fireplace; he lifts one of your legs up high onto his shoulder, allowing him deeper entrance, and rubs his string-calloused thumb over your engorged clit. You’re wailing, open mouthed, and he’s snarling like some feral beast, fucking you into the rugs so hard that you’ll both have friction burn, but you can’t feel that, you can’t feel anything but excruciating ecstasy as he undoes you again, making you buck in uneven jerks beneath him, the rake of your nails leaving savage marks at his back. “Fuck, fu-uck, you–” You sob, “Fucking bastard, oh fuck!”

With a roar he hunches over you, holding you as close as he possibly can as the tail-end of your orgasm milks his own from him; he comes furiously, his teeth pinched pearly together until some semblance of sense hits him. With a gasp he pulls out, and spends the rest of his load on your belly and breasts, frantically stroking the pleasure from his throbbing cock as he stares at you beneath him, writhing. He is wracked with it, destroyed by it; when he’s drained, he’s still pulsing and shaking, and he’s forced to collapse at your side to catch his breath and recover.

In the aftermath, you bask, letting small fragments of memory return to the lust-haze you’re nesting in. Wincing, he pulls a silk scarf from his breast pocket, and begins to clean your come-marked body with gentle reverence.

“Well, that–” You begin,

“I didn’t mean–” He starts. You both pause, and nervously chuckle.

“I don’t really hate you.” He admits, looking so vulnerable that you are silent, listening. “I… Gods help me, I was so jealous. I’ve never heard a voice like yours. I wanted to make it mine so much that I think I just… rejected you entirely, because…” He places the scarf down, “Why would such a voice want anything to do with mine?”

You reach up to palm his face, gently, and smile. “I don’t hate you, either. I think you’re a jerk, but I don’t hate you.”

He sighs, and settles back down. “Deserved. What I said – what I’ve said – there’s no excuse. I am sorry for treating you so poorly.” When his baby-blues fix upon your eyes, you have no more quarrel; you melt.

“Forgiven.” You whisper, rolling to spoon into his side. “Hmm. Would you… perhaps… like to write a song together, sometime?”

His eyebrows raise in surprise, and he can’t hide the eagerness in his voice, one octave higher than usual. “Really?”

“Of course. Jaskier, I want everything to do with your voice. And the mouth that comes with it.”

The grin he gifts you is boyish and charming, whilst somehow hinting at all kinds of lust and fuckery. He’s a walking juxtaposition. “I’d love that.” Taking your hand, he presses his mouth against your fingertips, one by one. “And I’ll even let you sing first.”

[trenchcas]

episode origins p1

i was watching moriah earlier today and was wondering what the significance of the name moriah was, so i searched it up. i’ll explain it here in this. i wanted to learn which episodes have titles derived from pop culture, literature, etc. so i put together this list. it’s not complete, feel free to reblog with more!

why did i waste hours on my life on this, you ask? i don’t know. 

season 1

pilot: obviously, all the first episodes of shows are called pilots. nothing new here.

wendigo: they’re fighting a wendigo

dead in the water: the phrase means “unable to function, move”.

phantom traveler: the name of the demon they’re fighting

bloody mary: based off the legend

skin: shapeshifters, also there might be a meta about how it’s a metaphor for dean

hook man: they’re fighting a hook man

bugs: bugs

home: they go home

asylum: they go to an asylum

scarecrow: scarecrow

faith: the concept of god first comes into play here, i thought that was pretty interesting. that’s why it’s called faith, duh. dean + faith is explored.

route 666: racist truck yes

nightmare: sam’s visions

the benders: i think it’s based off of the bloody benders, a family of serial killers

shadow: meg’s stalkery?

hell house: it was literally a hell house

something wicked: originally chanted by WITCHES in shakespeare’s macbeth. the full line is “something wicked this way comes, open locks, whoever knocks”. obviously the shtriga is a witch and it refers to that.

provenance: painting provenances, it’s in the episode

dead man’s blood: they use dead man’s blood

salvation: being saved or protected, like the boys and john do with the family

devil’s trap: the devil gets them in a trap. and they built a giant devil’s trap too.

season two

in my time of dying: based off of the led zeppelin song [x]

everybody loves a clown: based off of the gary lewis song [x]

bloodlust: i think it’s for the vampires but they were also a band in the 90′s

children shouldn’t play with dead things: based off of the 1972 movie

simon said: the whole “you do what i say” thing with andy and evil andy

no exit: it’s a song by blondie and in the episode h.h. holmes captures blondes...? am i just clowning

the usual suspects: based off of the 1995 movie

crossroad blues: based off of the robert johnson song (fave!) [x]

croatoan: i like this one. okay, so you guys probably know about the whole roanoke/croatoan thing in the 1600′s. so there’s a theory that the settlers were wiped out by a disease (similar to this town). also, the town would disappear off of the map.

hunted: gordon hunted sam

playthings: dolls, but the little girl was the grandma’s sisters plaything

nightshifter: a shifter in the night

houses of the holy: based off of the led zeppelin song and album [x]

born under a bad sign: based off of this song [x] there are a bunch of others including jimi hendrix but...?

tall tales: yeah i think this one is self explanatory

roadkill: someone got killed on the road

heart: werewolf heart but also how sam gave his heart to madison aww also there’s a band called heart

hollywood babylon: based off of the book by the same name

folsom prison blues: based off of the johnny cash song!! [x]

what is and what should never be: based off of the led zeppelin song [x]

all hell breaks loose: yes it did

season three

the magnificent seven: based off of the pretty famous western go watch

the kids are alright: based off of the who song [x]

bad day at black rock: based off of the 1955 movie

sin city: there’s a bunch of songs but the city was sinning so

bedtime stories: they were bedtime stories

red sky at morning: the full phrase is “red sky at morning, sailors take warning”. with the theme of this ep it fits pretty well.

fresh blood: fresh blood yes

a very supernatural christmas: i’m not sure. i think it’s based off of a christmas album?

malleus maleficarum: a 1400′s book of witches. latin for “hammer of the witches”.

dream a little dream of me: i love this song! based off this: [x]

mystery spot: mystery spot

jus in bello: i can’t really explain it but here [x]

ghostfacers: g h o s t f a c e r s

long-distance call: long distance call

time is on my side: based off of the rolling stones song [x]

no rest for the wicked: a biblical quote that means “evildoers will face eternal punishment”. also, “one’s work never ceases”.

season four

lazarus rising: in the bible, lazarus is the righteous man, which makes dean the righteous man. and he rises. so. 

are you there, god? it’s me, dean winchester: based off of the judy blume book (maybe?), are you there, god? it’s me, margaret.

in the beginning: they go back in time

metamorphosis: with the rugaru but also sammeh

monster movie: monsters and movies

yellow fever: referring to the disease i think, but also there are a few songs

it’s the great pumpkin, sam winchester: based off of it’s the great pumpkin, charlie brown.

wishful thinking: yeah

i know what you did last summer: dean + hell, sam + ruby. is it based off of the shawn mendes song? i don’t think it is because this came out way before the song.

heaven and hell: opposite sides meet, dean’s hell experiences.

family remains: there are remains

criss angel is a douche bag: idk?

after school special: based off of the abc program? i think?

sex and violence: there was a lot of sex. and violence.

death takes a holiday: death took a holiday

on the head of a pin: i’m not sure but this article is interesting, maybe related. probably related. [x]

it’s a terrible life: based off of it’s a wonderful life? i love that movie btw

the monster at the end of this book: ughhh! yes!!! first of all there’s a sesame street book by the same title. also, chuck actually was the monster at the end of the book! that’s crazy. insane. 

jump the shark: “(of a television series or movie) reach a point at which far-fetched events are included merely for the sake of novelty, indicative of a decline in quality.“ probably the whole long lost brother thing.

the rapture: a belief that christians will rise to “meet the lord in the air”. kinda like jimmy does.

when the levee breaks: based off of the led zeppelin song [x]

lucifer rising: lucifer rose

season five

sympathy for the devil: based off of the rolling stones song [x]

good god, y’all!: cas goes to find god

free to be you and me: a marlo thomas album and the brothers split up

the end: yeah it’s the end

fallen idols: i think we get it

i believe the children are our future: a lyric from a whitney houston song

the curious case of dean winchester: based off of the short story, the curious case of benjamin button.

changing channels: channels were changed. the end.

the real ghostbusters: based on the 1985 animation

abandon all hope: the full phrase is “abandon all hope, ye who enter here” and that pretty much sums up this episode.

sam, interrupted: i’m not sure?

swap meat: meats were SWAPPED.

the song remains the same: based off of the led zeppelin song [x]

my bloody valentine: based on jensen’s movie. but also the band?

dead men don’t wear plaid: based on the 1982 movie

dark side of the moon: a pink floyd album

99 problems: that one jayz song whatever

point of no return: a 1993 movie but also the poto song hehe

hammer of the gods: based off of the 1985 book i think? it’s about led zeppelin so probably yeah.

the devil you know: means that it’s better to deal with a situation you understand than one you don’t.

two minutes to midnight: this phrase is commonly used as a countdown to a global catastrophe (i.e. the fucking apocalypse)

swan song: someone’s final performance before retirement (i think this is about both brothers because it’s sam last battle and dean’s last fight before living with lisa)

season six

exile on main st.: based off of the rolling stones album [x]

two and a half men: it was a sitcom? but idk if that’s where it’s from

the third man: based off of the 1949 noir thriller? maybe? but there were also three men so idrk

weekend at bobby’s: it was a weekend at bobbys

live free or twi-hard: based off of twilight and that bruce willis movie that i watched once way back when

you can’t handle the truth: truth goddess. soulless sam gets exposed ig

family matters: based off of the 1989 sitcom? maybe

all dogs go to heaven: based off of the 1989 movie? probably

clap your hands if you believe: i think this is an original title idk

caged heat: based off of the 1974 movie i think

appointment in samarra: probably based off of the 1934 novel of the same name

like a virgin: based off of the madonna song [x]

unforgiven: sam does unforgiven things

mannequin 3: the reckoning: not sure

the french mistake: just... just read this link [x]

and then there were none: based off of the agatha christie novel of the same name

my heart will go on: y’all all know what’s up [x]

frontierland: they went to yeehaw town

mommy dearest: based on the 1981 film? maybe?

the man who would be king: based off of the 1888 novel by rudyard kipling

let it bleed: based off of the rolling stones album/song [x]

the man who knew too much: shares a name with the 1956 film

season seven

meet the new boss: they met the new boss idk

hello, cruel world: sad sam

the girl next door: there’s a 2004 romcom with the same name

defending your life: a 1991 romcom! wow!

shut up, dr. phil: sam and dean became philanthropists idk

slash fiction: hahahahaha i think we know what it means but wHY is it called that?

the mentalists: they met a bunch of magic people wow!

season 7, time for a wedding!: more like season 7, time for a slightly r*pey episode and GARTH!

how to win friends and influence monsters: based off of the 1936 book how to win friends and influence people

death’s door: they were at death’s door idk

adventures in babysitting: based off of the 1987 movie by the same name

time after time after time: based off of the cyndi lauper song? [x]

the slice girls: prolly based off of the spice girls idk

plucky pennywhistle’s magic menagerie: yeah idk

repo man: it’s a 1984 film too

out with the old: they were fucking around with antiques

the born-again identity: obviously based off of the bourne identity which i haven’t seen in forever

party on, garth: hahaha

of grave importance: it was very important

the girl with the dungeons and dragons tattoo: probably based off of the movie/book the girl with the dragon tattoo. 

reading is fundamental: reading is fundamental. go read a book.

there will be blood: there was blood

survival of the fittest: everybody fought idk

okay i’m gonna stop here for this one because i’m tired asf and i’ll do part 2 later 

[spideyswebhead]

Loose Screw (Arthur Morgan X OC)

I don’t know why since seeing The Devil All The Time trailer I’ve been thinking of Red Dead Redemption 2 again, maybe it’s because I saw someone mention that was Tom’s “YeeHaw” voice. But anyway, Arthur and Emmaline are on my mind again. So enjoy this one-shot with these two babies.

Also this is a first with writing this type of scene, so be gentle on me for it!

Summary: Emmaline tries to talk to Arthur about Dutch plans.

Word Count: 2,224 (This became longer than I intended)

Warnings: Murder -♡- means it started and when it’s over if you need to skip. And slight spoilers to chapter 3 and 4

(1st gif by @river-the-fox and 2nd is @whitewolfofwinterfell​)

Arthur burst through the door of Angelo Bronte bedroom most likely. Instantly raising his gun to kill the guard who had been hiding behind the bed, but fell to the ground with a bullet wound in their head before they could do anything to defend their boss. “John! In here!” Arthur calls for Marston.

Bronte raised up from the bathtub which turned out to be where the lizard was hiding, aiming his gun at the two men but found he had no ammo left. Cursing in Italian that Arthur didn’t understand - nor cared to understand - and in panic threw his gun. Hitting John square in the face.

“AH! Goddammit!” John yelps in pain from the impact, his hand flying to his face.

Arthur probably would’ve laughed at the scene of John being hit in the face with a gun, but he was focused on getting Bronte. Who pleaded with the two men as he stepped out of the bath with his hands raised.

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry, friend, I... no, name your price! Name your price, every man has a price, eh?”

John had recovered from the blow of Bronte’s gun and advanced to the man before clocking Bronte in the face, knocking him out cold. “Should we kill him?” John asks Arthur, staring at Angelo Bronte with disgust.

“Nah, let’s take him to Dutch.” Arthur told him as he shouldered his rifle.

“You carry him. I ain’t touching this piece of shit.”

Arthur nodded wordlessly, walking to the unconscious man, feeling his pocket and coming up with $155, he hummed appreciatively at the find and would put it in the camp funds box once they return to camp and pocketed the money before he picked up the lizard. “I think Dutch wants to have a little chat, Mr. Bronte.”

Arthur could hear the whistle of the law coming to answer to their invasion “Shit.” John mutters.

“C’mon, Morgan! We’re getting the hell out of here!” Bill exclaims.

-♡-

Dutch woke up Bronte who looked at all the men in the boat looking ready to kill him, but let their leader speak to him before they would do anything. “Hey, big guy. We gonna ransom you or what?” Dutch said to him.

“You’re pathetic.” Bronte says, sliding further up the boat, not looking threatened or scared in the least despite the Van der Linde gang kidnapping him easily.

“Oh. I am?” Dutch challenged. “Cause from where I’m sitting...” He sat up straighter so Bronte could get a good look at all the murderous men holding their guns firmly. “You’re the one deserving of pity, my friend. All your men, all your money, it weren’t no match for a bunch of bumpkins.”

“You are nothing.” Bronte hissed. “You do nothing, you mean nothing, you stand for nothing. Me? I run a city and when the law catch up to you, you will die of nothing. I am this country! you...you...you are what this country is running from!”

Dutch had a stoned look on his face as he spoke with such a calm tone it would’ve sent a normal man into begging for forgiveness. “I possess things you will never understand.”

“You don’t even possess your own men! A thousand dollars to the man who kills him and sets me free!” Bronte promises and looked at all the men who didn’t move a muscle at Bronte’s promise, years of loyalty to Dutch and faith in him over weighing Bronte’s broken promise.

“What are you going to say now?” Dutch says in a taunting tone as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Bronte seemed loss of threats and broken promises to get him out of this situation like any other, his men dead at his house and law no where for them to find him. “They are even bigger fools than you. No doubt, the law will find you, already the dogs are on their way.”

“Oh yeah?” Dutch taunts, sitting up as he advances on their prisoner. “Oh, you’re right. You are so right” Dutch grips his shoulder and pushes him close to the edge of the boat. “They are good at smelling filth, huh? So filth has got to be disposed of!” He dunks the lizard into the filthy swamp.

Arthur and the others stand in the boat as Dutch forces Bronte’s head to stay under the water, a determined look on Dutch’s face, Bronte yelling as he tries to fight their leader’s strength to get some air in his screaming lungs. Arthur stood there in surprise on Dutch’s actions, never seeing hims react in such a way as he yells at the drowning man. This wasn’t the way Arthur was taught from Hosea and even Dutch. 

Revenge is a fools game.

“Your friends the Pinkertons gonna come and rescue you? You repulsive little maggot! You call them now, you call them!”

Dutch force Bronte to keep under until his thrashing body eventually settled and stopped moving. Dutch lets him go and stands up, seeing a alligator there waiting for one of the men to jump in to get their snack. Dutch without a beat kicks Bronte’s body into the lake.

“Jesus.” John breaths, the first to speak as the Alligator eats up Angelo Bronte. “What part of your philosophy books cover feeding a feller to a goddamn alligator, Dutch?”

“The part that covers weakness.”

“...I don’t know.”

“Well I do! It ain’t nice, I know it!” Dutch says as he steps off the boat onto the peer where Thomas had stopped the boat. “But it’s either us, or him! I figured it might as well be him.”

Dutch walks away to join the other men who go to get on their horses. Arthur and John step off together slowly and look at area where Bronte disappeared. A sick feeling in the pit of Arthur’s stomach.

Revenge is a fools game.

-♡-

Emmaline noticed Arthur didn’t return last night when all the men eventually did when Dutch finally got his revenge on Angelo Bronte, she didn’t know what happened but with the way Lenny and John acted it didn’t seem good.

“John, what happened?” Emmaline said as Lenny went to his tent, John coming up the porch of Shady Belle. John puffs out a sigh and plops into the chair that someone set on the porch at some point. Emmaline took the other to listen to John in case he would talk.

John took a second to double check Dutch wasn’t there so he wouldn’t interrupt and told the nurse of their camp of what happened with Angelo Bronte. Emmaline listened intently and didn’t say anything for a while as she processed the actions of Dutch Van der Linde tonight.

It wasn’t like they haven’t done brutal things in the past, murdering gang members, robbing banks, shooting up half a town in Rhodes before killing that old hag Braithwaite inbred sons before casting her manor on fire cause she kidnapped Jack and sold him to Angelo Bronte. The rage of the Van Der Linde Gang was vicious, but the way Dutch acted wasn’t the normal Dutch. He always talked about revenge being a fools game.

“It wasn’t right.” John said, scratching his chin. “Bronte is a bad man, but nobody deserves to be fed to a damn alligator.”

“No, you’re right.” she agreed. It was silent between her and John for a second before she spoke again. “Where’s Arthur? He should have returned by now.”

John just shrugged. “Don’t know, he might be taking care of something or laying low.” He tells her before patting her on the shoulder in a brotherly manner for getting up and heading into the house to probably get some sleep with his family. Emmaline stayed out to try and wait for Arthur, smoking a cigarette as she waited, but after she was done with it, putting it out with her boot, she returned inside the house.

She made her way up the stairs and went into the tiny room her and Arthur were given. She stripped down to her undergarments, stuffing her clothing in the trunk where their clothes were together, blowing out the candles before she snuggled into the rough cot. Slipping into a dreamless sleep.

Emmaline woke up when she heard rustling and she turned around from facing the wall to see Arthur finishing getting dressed, finishing up buttoning his black and red vest. Must’ve came to bed at some point in the night? She watched silently as he turned to the table where he had a map sprawled. His hat laying on the table next to the map. There was a streaming light of the sun rays into the tiny room from the early morning - Arthur always a morning person and up before Emmaline - the golden glow casting over her lover that somehow made him more handsome. She took a second to appreciate the view before she spoke. “Mornin’”

Arthur looks over to the woman once she spoke to him in a sleepy tone. “Mornin’” He returns.”Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“‘s okay.” She said, sitting up, holding the blanket against her as she sat up in the bed. Arthur had returned to looking at his map, his pencil in hand. “John told me what happened with Bronte.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. Arthur... Are you okay?”

“’m fine.”

Emmaline pursed her lips at that response, not believing him at all that he was ‘fine’ after seeing Dutch murder a man. “John seemed bothered by it and you didn’t return until late.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Arthur, can we please talk about this?”

“What is there to talk about? Bronte is dead.” Arthur says, keeping his gaze on that damn map. “Nothing there to discuss.”

“Just- can we please?” Emmaline tries again.

Arthur sighed as he shifted his feet, turning to his lover but avoiding her gaze as he seemed to stare into the corner of the tiny room instead of the half-dressed woman. He didn’t say anything. “Arthur, it wasn’t right for him to take his life like that and for that reason.” She bites her lip as she chooses her words carefully here. “Are you sure Dutch is right about this Tahiti thing?”

“What?” He spoke, now his blue eyes landing on her instantly from her words.

Emmaline had only been with the gang for two years and had listened to Dutch spoke about everything from keeping faith, the promise land of Tahiti where they could be free from everything, one more big robbery and they’ll be on their way to getting a boat to Tahiti and starting their life over. After listening to the same thing over and over and feeling like they were getting no closer to getting to this freedom he was speaking of, she was starting to question Dutch’s motives. But nobody dare question this grand plan of Dutch Van der Linde, but Emmaline was getting tired of this false promises and as she thought about Dutch’s plans of becoming farmers in Tahiti...it had a lot of loopholes and unrealistic dreams.

But also knowing her lover, who has had 20 years loyalty to Dutch, it was hard to talk about the flaws of Dutch and she had to choose her words carefully when talking about this.

“Killing Bronte just so we can rob this bank and than 2 months later become farmers in Tahiti? For 15-20 people to start a new life? It just...it seems unrealistic for this world now.” She said. “You always told us how revenge wasn’t a way to do things and it seems to me Dutch is believing that idea more.” Emmaline says, keeping her gaze on Arthur’s and not daring to look away. “Killing Bronte just seemed...reckless and could make this job bank job go really bad.”

“It’s just one more job and we’ll be out of here, Dutch knows what he’s doin’“

“Are you sure? Getting in the middle of a family feud, for what? Some rumor of gold?”

“It would’ve helped!”

“And what did it do? We’re always running cause of some plan Dutch had that backfires in our face, Arthur!” Emmaline argues. “Now he’s killed a man in cold blood and cause so much more trouble! I’m tired of running!”

“Dutch had to do what he needed for all of us to get us the money!” Arthur says, fuming at the thought that these past 20 years were for nothing.

“And this is the way to do it? Get the money to go to Tahiti that he doesn’t even know about! You heard him, he heard some one talk about it once and that’s it!”

“I’m not going to talk about this.” Arthur huffs, grabbing his hat and placing it on his head harshly and moving to leave the room.

“Arthur!” Emmaline calls for him. “You can’t just walk away!” She gets up, wrapping the blanket around her to conceal how undressed she is. Arthur ignored her as he went down those stairs. She glared at his hat, he was impossible to talk to about any of this. She heard a door shut and turned to see Dutch looking at her and narrowed his eyes.

They stare at each other for a second before Emmaline goes back into her room, shutting the door behind her.