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as we sink into the open sea

M/F, Gen | QPR MicNight | 1720 words | Selkie AU CW: Depiction of Suicide Attempt (non-graphic)

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On the eve of his nineteenth birthday, Yamada Hizashi walks into the ocean and comes back with a wife.

Please understand, that wasn't his intention. Yamada Hizashi is not the kind of man to believe in tales of sirens and sea wives, and he is especially not the kind of man with dreams of snaring one for himself. He is, in point of fact, not a man of any dreams at all. Not anymore.

So he walks into the ocean, figuring that if he can't find the will to keep dreaming, then he can at least find some peace at last. He finds a wife, instead.

Or rather, she finds him.

She finds him as his body hits the sea floor, at the very moment the first wave of doubt rolls over him in one fell, unrelenting swoop, much too late for him to do anything about it. He's so overcome with it he doesn't think much of the figure that glides out of the ocean murk and sidles right up to him. Wide, shark-bright eyes peer at him, so close they fill up his entire swimming, pin-pricking vision, and all Hizashi can think about is how soon he's going to die, and how he’s not so sure he wants to die after all, and how little what he wants matters in this final moment, as in all the rest before it, and then the figure places one cold hand on his colder cheek and kisses him. She's all Hizashi can think of, then.

She's dark-haired and beautiful. And strong. And a good swimmer, too, but that's to be expected. She drags him back to shore, lips locked tight over his the whole way, and she doesn't let go until his lungs are clear of ocean brine.

Hizashi lies there, alive and silent on the cold, wet sand for a good while after. Long enough for the first hint of morning blue to blush over the horizon. The sea maiden lies with him, just as alive, just as silent, and infinitely more at ease. Cozied right up to his side, as if she belongs there, seemingly content to remain there for however long Hizashi has left on this Earth now that she's saved him. Try as he might, he can't figure out whether he's grateful or not. He does, however, remember his manners, on occasion, so when he finally finds his voice again, he uses it to thank her.

"You're welcome," the sea maiden replies. There's laughter in her voice. Hizashi doesn't know what there is to laugh about, though he finds himself wishing she'd actually done so, just so he could hear it. He used to love laughter. Impossibly, he still does.

Yamada Hizashi had a knack for making people laugh, once. It was all he knew how to do, really. He doesn't know much of anything now, least of all how to make the sea maiden in his arms laugh, so he says nothing.

The sea maiden in his arms says nothing either, at first, for just long enough Hizashi startles when she does speak: "Is that it?"

"Pardon?"

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"... Is there more I should be saying?"

"There must be." There it is again – the laugh in her voice. "You don't strike me as the quiet type in the least."

That's what it is – she's teasing him. It's much too familiar to do anything but rankle. "Listen, Miss –”

She snorts. "Nemuri."

"Listen –” his face burns as he realizes that's her given name, and he refuses to say it "– listen, I'm grateful to you for saving me and all, but you don't know anything about me."

She peels away from his side. "Liar."

"Pardon?"

"You're not grateful at all," she grunts through an impressive stretch, current-strong arms flung upward and out towards the heavens. She's wearing a sealskin cape and nothing else, and is so unembarrassed by it Hizashi can't muster up any on her behalf. She winks at him. "But you will be," she adds. Then: "Take off your clothes."

"Pardon?"

This time she does laugh – seagull-like – loud and sharp and to the point. "Well, I don't know much about land folk, but it's my understanding you don't handle being wet all that well."

Hizashi wraps his arms around himself, scowling. "I'll be fine."

"Suit yourself."

The sea maiden stands – or at least tries to. She heaves herself upward in a motion that would probably be fluid underwater, then loses her balance, toppling backwards onto the sand, rump first. The sight of her glaring down at her legs is almost enough to pull a laugh out of Hizashi.

"Stupid things," she grumbles, kicking up sand.

Hizashi does laugh, then, which is a mistake. The sea maiden stands, suddenly sure-footed in her indignation, and uses her newfound mastery over her lower appendages to kick sand in his direction.

Hizashi cannot stop laughing. He laughs until his new companion loses interest in burying him under sand. He laughs until the sun finally frees itself from under the weight of the horizon. He laughs until he almost forgets he just tried to kill himself.

When he's all laughed out, the sea maiden is still there. Sitting across from him, hands and feet planted firmly in the sand, peering at him with a smile so dry it's a wonder she doesn't hail from land herself.

Without a word, she stands again, solid and steady, all remaining traces of sea legs gone, and hauls Hizashi to his own significantly less steady feet. While he's still reeling from... all of it – the strength of her hands around his, the seafoam-salt smell of her filling his impossibly pumping lungs, the laughter still clanging through every hollow part of him – the sea maiden takes her sealskin cape and drapes it over Hizashi's shoulders.

It's soft and musky and so warm it feels more alive than he does, but, most of all, it's heavy.

Hizashi tries to shrug it off. "Thanks," he says stiffly, "but I said I'm fine."

"I heard you," says the sea maiden, rearranging the cape around him.

"I don't need it."

"I know."

She fastens the cape closed around his neck, patting his chest firmly. It's so long it covers Hizashi all the way down to his shins. On her, it must have just brushed over the sand at her feet. The uncanny warmth of it doesn't seep even as the seafront breeze hits it, makes it flap and flutter around him in a heavy, even bump-bump, bump-bump beat. Nothing could ever hope to reach him past that beat and that warmth.

"I don't want I, either," he lies, because he has to, because he's never known what to do in the face of so much want, because he's always wanted too many things, and he's wanted them too much.

"Neither do I," says the sea maiden, breezy as the morning. "Maybe we should leave it here, lying around. I'm sure no one else would find it, if we hid it well enough."

Hizashi blanches at the thought. He may not be the kind of man to believe in tales of sea wives, but he has heard enough of them to be wary of the kind of man who does. He fumbles for the clasp at the base of his throat. "Just take it back. Go home."

"Hm, I don't think so." She sidesteps his attempts to foist the cape back onto her, walking away backwards, hands clasped behind her head. "I think I'll stick around here for awhile. Explore the land realm. It seems exciting."

Hizashi chases after her, cape held out like a net. "It isn't."

She twirls away again. "Liar."

"It's too exciting, then. Dangerous."

"So is the ocean – didn't stop you from walking into it."

"That was –" Hizashi falters, loses his footing "– different," he finishes lamely, hands fisted in the sand-soiled cape caught under his knees.

The sea maiden stands over him. "You're right," she says, "that was different – I'm not going into this trying to die. I'd say that alone makes my odds of survival look pretty swell, don't you think?"

Hizashi stares up at her, looming tall against the dawn sky, so tall she dwarves the rising sun itself, and has no doubt she'd survive even the drying of all seven seas if it meant she got to live.

"You're naked," he says, because he's running out of arguments, and the will to keep making them.

"I wouldn't be if you gave me your clothes,” she shoots back, “I gave you mine, didn't I? It would only be fair."

The cape is velvet-smooth as Hizashi slides it out from under himself, warmer still from the heat of his body and the sun-washed sand, which slides off of it like ocean spray from mossy seaside cliffs. His sea maiden – Nemuri – takes it from him and helps him back to his feet. She folds it over her arm, as if merely holding on to it for the moment, and arches an expectant eyebrow at him.

Sighing, Hizashi shrugs off his coat. "Yes,” he relents, “I suppose it would only be fair."

On the dawn of his nineteenth birthday, Yamada Hizashi walks into town with nothing but a sealskin cape on his back and a wife.

Or so the townsfolk like to tell it, because the townsfolk love a good fairy tale romance almost as much as they love to pity him. In time, they will come to pity him even this moment and his sea-wild wife, as outrageous as she is beautiful, as the very ocean itself, and Yamada Hizashi will do what he has always done in the face of undue pity, which is to laugh in it and continue loving whoever and whatever he loves, in whichever way he sees fit.

But that will come later. For now, in the rosy light of a dawn he never planned to see, Hizashi walks into town beside Nemuri, the sea maiden who saved his life – the woman who will be called his wife and be so much more – and is content enough to have finally figured out he’s grateful, even if he has yet to figure out much else. The rest will follow, he’s sure, in good time and – even better – good company.

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I passed a building that was a combination mechanic shop plus flower shop just split down the middle and that’s an AU I didn't know I needed until today.

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Currently obsessing over the idea that every time Zagreus dies the Styx has to piece him back together. So yes the time between death and rebirth is instant for US as a player but HE has to sit in some form of limbo while his body heals. The worse the killing blow the longer it takes.

This is the closest he gets to sleep or rest.

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One of them will have to get finished eventually, right???

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I got halfway through writing "stubborn as a mule" but ZAGREUS DOESNT KNOW WHAT MULES ARE

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kiss prompts

1. PALM KISSING.

2. Sitting next to someone, hands in one’s lap, leaning against them and kissing their shoulder

3. “The eyelid kiss is said to produce a unique sensation of an un-wordly nature, running from the base of the spine to the knees”

4. A kiss on the temple

5. Laying opposite directions on a couch, or with someone’s legs in their lap, kissing the knees or shins

6. Randomly while holding hands bringing joined hands together to kiss the back of the hand

7. Topless and face-down, a kiss on the shoulder blade

8. The playful kiss on the tip of the nose

9. Laying on someone’s chest and kissing their sternum

10. Kissing the crown of the head

11. A kiss on the inside of the wrist

12. Behind someone who’s sitting down, leaning over to kiss the forehead (and potentially block their eyesight with hair falling in their face)

13. Kissing scars either shortly or long after they’ve healed

14. Standing behind someone, hugging them around the arms or the waist, and kissing the top edge of the shoulder

15. Kissing someone to stop them blurting out a secret/something they’ll regret

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Fictober fic for "I never said that."

Fandom: the witcher (tv)

Warnings: vague mentions of violence

Length: <1k

The tent he’d found her in was filled with incense. He kept having to sniff against the onslaught of faintly shimmering smoke, and she smirked every time he blinked the colorful stuff out of his eyes. 

It was always like this, though, with her. 

He knew just enough magic to make him dangerous. Enough to add strength to his arms and keep himself alive. It was a supplement to the arsenal of his skillset. Her, though? Magic made her lethal. Magic made her a weapon. 

"How long have you been tracking them?" 

It was the first time she’d spoken since they’d traded their greeting barbs, since he’d handed over the map. She was still looking over where it was spread between them. 

"The Brotherhood took the job two months ago. I took it last week." 

"Hmm," long fingers trailed across the depiction of the Cintran border. "You were correct about there being magic involved. They're hiding themselves as they move. And they're not staying in one place for very long." 

"Can you track them?" 

“Can I- Of course I can track them.”

“Hmm.”

“Of course I’d prefer to not have to work miracles for free, did you bring me anything at all to work with?”

His face stayed carefully calm only due to years of exchanges like this. It used to rile them both up, the way the other communicated, but now he digs into his bag and feels only affectionate amusement for her impatience. 

He handed over the torn cloak, ruddy with blood, and raised an eyebrow when she practically preened.

“This will do nicely. So you do listen when I tell you what spell components I need.”

“I know what I’m doing, Yen.” 

She was already walking away, but at that she let her head fall back and laughed. “I never said that.”

“Hmm.” He watched as she walked towards a tent flap, component in hand and sharp smile aimed over her shoulder.

“This is going to take a while. Come back in an hour and I’ll have a tracker on your runner. In exchange you can tell me about what has that lovesick look on your face, since it obviously isn’t me.”

With that she disappeared. 

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Tactical Retreat

Fictober fic for “What are you doing?”

Fandom: The Hobbit

Warnings: None

Length: <1k

"What are you doing?" 

There’s sunlight spilling through his large front window, and beams of it catch in the silver of Thorin's hair. There is more of it now than there was when they met, mithril running along his temples and shot through his beard. Even after years and years, the sight has a way of stopping him in his tracks. 

Of course, normally his royal-raised husband isn't hunched below the windowsill, glancing at the peaceful Shire like a warg was about to charge through the opening. 

"Making a tactical retreat."

That's when he catches sight of Lobelia stomping down the path. She has a letter in her hand, and Bilbo would bet his brass buttons that it was the letter he'd sent some weeks ago. 

"Uncle is hiding from Auntie Lobelia." 

That’s when Bilbo notices Frodo hunched in front of Thorin, little hand covering his mouth to muffle his tiny giggles. 

Thorin sends his nephew a look of mock-betrayal, giving up his hiding spot to scoop the tiny hobbit up into the air, tossing the laughing child above his head. 

"We were allies in this endeavor. I see how it is." 

"Down! Down!" Frodo yells, squirming like a puppy, but he's laughing the whole time. Thorin lets him fall only enough so that he is caught safely in his arms, and Frodo giggles ring bright as bells. 

Something bright and light and warm breaks open in Bilbo’s chest watching them together. 

“I’ve known you to face down fiercer enemies than my cousins, dearheart.”

“I never had to take tea with my enemies.” Thorin sets Frodo down, who wastes no time in plowing directly into Bilbo’s waist. “Besides, after trading barbs with hobbit society I understand how you played Thranduil like a golden fiddle.”

He can’t quite keep the grin off his face, despite himself. He’s known for a lot of things, but that particular piece of peacemaking is something he is very, very proud of. 

It is, of course, how they all managed to live and live happily, after all. 

“Uncle isn’t as good at pretending to like people as you are.” Frodo says, all big blue eyes staring up at him. 

He barely holds in a snort, and has to bite his lip when he catches the pinched expression on Thorin’s face. 

“Thus the tactical retreat, my dear boy,” he says, smiling down at his nephew. 

He meets Thorin’s eyes over Frodo’s curls, blue eyes soft and warm as wool as he looks at the little bit of peace they’ve carved out. He winks as he ruffles Frodo’s hair. 

“You’ll just have to show him how it’s done, next time.”

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Delicate Touch

Fictober Fic of “It’s my name on the line.”

Fandom: The Witcher

Warnings: Gun mention, description of knives.

Length <1k

The party around then is in full swing. There's more people than the Brotherhood's intel suspected, and it has gotten more rowdy than any royal banquet Geralt has ever attended in his long long life.

He's not a social person by nature. Add that to the mounting bad circumstances, and this is a job straight from the depths. 

"Let me handle this one.” 

Dandelion's voice comes from by his shoulder, and only decades of training keeps him from starting. Instead he just raises his eyebrows at him.

“My name is also on the line here, and this party requires a more… delicate touch." 

There's no reason for a man that ostentatious to move that silently. 

"I thought you specialized in firearms."

"Oh, my aim never disappoints. But you're not the only one that can adapt. And guns can be far too loud for this kind of work." 

That's when Dandelion uncovers a set of twin blades from his sleeves. They're small and sleek and Geralt can tell they're razor sharp. He can't sense any magic on them, and the acrid-sweet smell of poison is absent from the air.

His eyebrows raise without his consent. It's impressive. Most people in their line of work use more than just their body and their wits. This man is walking around with just his impeccable aim and his audacity. It's as impressive as it can be incredibly annoying. 

He gestures toward the dance floor, and the sparkling marks he'd been dreading mingling with. "They're all yours."

Dandelion grins. Like every other smile he has graced Geralt with, it is as sharp as the tips of his twin knives, but the look in his bright eyes is confident and full of unknown promises. 

The knives disappear back into those colorful sleeves, and Dandelion slinks away into the crowd. Geralt is only able to keep up with him because the outfit he chose for this outing shimmers like a thousand stars. Despite his eye-catching attire, he moves like a snake through a den of rabbits. 

Geralt catches sight of their mutual set of targets before Dandelion gets to them, but Dandelion isn't far behind. 

He watches, entranced despite himself, as the couple goes from standoffish and rude to open and laughing. He knows, deep in his gut, that he wouldn't have been able to get them alone this easily. 

It should rankle, but instead he's just impressed. 

The trio starts to make their way towards a hidden hallway that Geralt had scoped out before. He isn't surprised that Dandelion knows of its existence, and the leer he's sending the couple as he ushers them toward the secluded area makes something twist in his gut.

He knows it’s part of the game. He knows what an awful idea it is to feel things for someone else in the game. What he knows doesn’t make a difference. 

Then Dandelion looks over one shimmering shoulder and nods toward the door, winking as he opens it for his unsuspecting marks. Geralt can see his showman smile clean across the room, and he can also see the second it shifts from innuendo-laced playfulness to razor-edged satisfaction. 

Dandelion aims the second of the two at him, over the heads of the crowd, and winks as he tilts his head toward the door. 

There was never any doubt Geralt would follow. 

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songbirds

fictober fic for “Do you remember?”

Fandom: The Hobbit

Warnings: None

Length: <1k

He loves it here, now. If you had asked him ages ago if he could have seen himself in this position, he would have had even sharper words than he had had for Gandalf, on that fateful morning. But it has been years and years, and he loves it. 

And it’s springtime, besides. Thorin might not make it up to the brighter side of the mountain as much, but there’s never a day that goes by he doesn’t at least go out to look over the mountainside, take in the view of Dale-rebuilt, and breathe it all in. 

There’s pale sunlight on his face, the dirt beneath his feet is damp and rich, and the sounds of birds returning sweeps in on the wind. It’s a colder wind than he remembers from the Shire, fiercer, and the landscape he has grown to love so much is harsher, but then he has grown fiercer and sharper with it.

Keep reading

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songbirds

fictober fic for “Do you remember?”

Fandom: The Hobbit

Warnings: None

Length: <1k

He loves it here, now. If you had asked him ages ago if he could have seen himself in this position, he would have had even sharper words than he had had for Gandalf, on that fateful morning. But it has been years and years, and he loves it. 

And it's springtime, besides. Thorin might not make it up to the brighter side of the mountain as much, but there's never a day that goes by he doesn't at least go out to look over the mountainside, take in the view of Dale-rebuilt, and breathe it all in. 

There's pale sunlight on his face, the dirt beneath his feet is damp and rich, and the sounds of birds returning sweeps in on the wind. It's a colder wind than he remembers from the Shire, fiercer, and the landscape he has grown to love so much is harsher, but then he has grown fiercer and sharper with it.

Besides, the tunic he wears is thick and warm, and the walls of the mountain are sturdy. He has very few reasons to miss his smial.

The sound of a door closing behind doesn't so much startle him as alert him, and the sound of heavy boots is as unmistakable as it is amusing. 

He has so many many reasons to stay. 

"It's cold, ghivashelê. How long have you been out here?" 

"Not long," he says, even though the points of his ears and the tips of his fingers are cold. "The songbirds are returning."

"An occasion worth an audience." 

Warm, rough hands envelope one of his own, and he turns away from the view to face Thorin fully. 

"Do you remember…" he trails off, and Thorin squeezes his cold fingers. "Do you remember the first spring?" 

"We opened the first of the mining halls. I remember barely sleeping. I remember you and Balin almost coming to blows in the middle of weekly council over the library. I recall the exact day Dis returned to the mountain, and the days Fili and Kili were given a clean bill of health. But, my heart, I don't know if I recall what you're referring to." 

He leans up on the very tips of his toes to rest his forehead against Thorin’s, and Thorin uses their intertwined hands to pull him even closer. The motion sets the single bead he wears swaying, the mithril and sapphire bumping into Thorin’s mass of hair. 

"I love you" he says, and leans away to look back out over the mountainside. 

"That first spring… there were wildflowers growing out of the desolation. Whole swatches of them, growing out of the ash. I'd known for months this was my home, you were my home, but that was when I quit missing the Shire."

Thorin wraps his arm around him, pulls him close. "You have made this kingdom my home again, ghivashelê."

In the distance, the songbirds continue to sing. 

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Tall Tall Tales

Fictober Fic for “How would that even work?”

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death

Warning: None

Length: <1k

"You came back from the 'dead'." Here Olu puts finger quotes around the word that Stede doesn't think are quite necessary, but he doesn't interrupt. "Only to convince everyone you've ever known you're really dead this time. How'd that even work?" 

"I may have been attacked by a leopard." He says, and grins at the shocked looks on the crew's face. He hasn't gotten to tell this tale yet. It seems like he's going to enjoy it more than he anticipated. 

"Where did you find a leopard in the middle of town?" 

"Oh, rich people keep all kinds of things lying around. That was the easy part."

"There's no way you pulled something like that off." 

"I dare say I did. The cheetah wasn't even the best bit. There was a lovely cab driver in on it, and between him and a beautiful piano we sacrificed for the performance, no one will think I survived that encounter." 

"But what about a body? You can't know someone is dead until you see the body, my mum always said."

He grins at Wee John and the curious expression on his face. This was one of the best parts, in his humble opinion, and even in the tense first telling had made Ed throw his head back in a laugh. 

"Well, my body is safe with me, but Mary is good friends with someone who could acquire a, ah, fitting corpse. I don't believe anyone will suspect a thing."

At this he glances away from the crew and over to Ed. Ed's heard all this, of course, but it was so much more rushed, suffused with urgency and regret with none of the drama he's adding now.

And now, on the second telling, Ed's grinning that small, soft grin that makes Stedes heart flutter like a hummingbird. His eyes are locked on Stede, and when he catches Stedes gaze he winks. It makes something in Stede spark like gunpowder. 

He turns back to the crew, but he's talking to Ed. 

"No, the only thing left of Sir Stede Bonnet now is the Gentleman Pirate, I would think." 

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Skill Sets

Fictober Fic for “Adaptable, I like that.”

Fandom: The Witcher

Warnings: Guns, Canon Typical Violence

Length: <1k

He could hear something approaching behind him. It had a dragging, metal-over-stone kind of gait that made every hair in the back of his neck stand up. 

Unfortunately, the spider-like creature in front of him had most of his attention. 

He knocked it back, sent it sprawling into the wall a couple feet behind it. It gave him just enough time to breathe. The time it took for it to get its bearing back was enough for him to bury his sword hilt deep in on of its many shoulders.

The metal-over-stone was still approaching, close enough to be a problem. 

He whirled around, sending an igni out before his sword arced down. There was a wretched scream, and it fell in a heap at his feet. 

"Adaptable," There was movement and color out of the corner of his eye, and he spun once again. "I like that." 

The marksman from before was leaning against a wall in the mouth of an alley, unused gun still in his hand and entire outfit an eye catching robin's-egg blue. Even lounging like a cat in the sun, he moved with confidence, and Geralt knew he was all too aware of his every move. 

"Are you following me?" he asked. It was a little concerning, considering how little time had passed since the last time he’d seen the man. 

The marksman laughed, a bright, clear sound that rang out louder than Geralt would have been comfortable with. It seemed to shock him that it was genuine. 

"No, very fine sir. I'm not, though I wouldn't mind to, if you catch my drift."

He stood from the wall, raising an eyebrow as he sent a sharp smile. Geralt almost missed the way he used all that movement to tuck his gun away into his distracting jacket, and couldn't help but be impressed. ‘Look at me’ says the right hand of the left handed thief. It reminds him of this man. 

"Who are you?" 

"I'll give you my call sign, since I like you so much. I go by Dandelion. You're gonna have to work for more than that, handsome."

With that, he disappeared into the chaos of the street. 

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Fictober fill for: "No, anything but that."

Original fiction

Warnings: None

Length: ~100

The mid-hour bell tolled, and something like panic shot down Rose's spine 

"I have to go."

All the brightness, all the burgeoning hope, seemed to gutter out of Cam's eyes as Rose said it. 

"Okay. Okay. Be careful on the road." 

"You should come with me." 

"You know I can't. I was assigned as guard of this house. You should go. Go see the stars, and the sea, and all the things we talked about. But Rose, I'm stuck here." 

"No," she reached out and took Cam's hand, squeezing rough fingers between her own. "Anything but that. I'm coming back for you." 

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Best Intentions

Fictober fic for “That wasn’t my intention.”

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death

Warning: canon typical language

Length: <1k

“That wasn’t my intention.”

He can't stop thinking about it. Can't stop thinking about the look on Ed's face as he said it, at the anger wrecking his voice around each word. It makes him want to curl up in shame like no other personal failing ever has. 

“What wasn’t your intention?” Ed's voice still isn't the soft, affectionate thing he remembers (misses like he would a limb) but it has lost its hard edge.

“To, ah. To leave you alone. I meant to sail away with you.” Now the urge to tell him the whole wretched tale came rushing forth like a tide. "Except, well, Badminton found me first." 

Ed's eyes widen, but he's on a roll now. The whole story comes out, a flood he can't stop now that Ed is in front of him and that look of betrayal has fallen off his face. Now the look of rage is directed at Badminton, and it spurs him on. 

"I loved you then. I didn't have the words for it. But what he said, and everything I'd done, I really believed you'd be better off if I went back to my life before. Half the sea has said it, Ed, I'm the worst pirate there's ever been. I ruin everything I touch. 

Ed looks thunderstruck for a moment, lips parted in surprise or anger or both. Then he takes a step forward and there's a hand cradling Stede’s face, warm and rough. Everywhere their skin touches lights up like lightning.  

"The best fucking thing that ever happened to me was being ruined by you."

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Caught off Guard

Fictober 2022 Prompt: “No one warned you about me?”

Fandom: The Witcher (TV)

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Guns

Assassin AU

He'd been running through the muck of the alleyways for half the afternoon when he ran into the man the first time. The Brotherhood of the Wolves had been tracking a single target for over a month, and this was the closest he'd gotten to a substantial lead. Of course, like most missions since all this began, he wasn't going back home without half an angry mob on his tail. 

It was the first time he met the man. He never forgot it, and it would not be the last.

The sharp crack crack crack of gunfire rang out so close his ears rang with it, but when he had a moment to look away from his attackers the only people around were fleeing townsfolk. The crowd was a riot of color, every face a picture of fear and distress, people pushing and shoving to get out of the town square. 

Whoever they were, they’d downed one of his enemies, so they were low on the list of priorities. For now. 

He ducked behind an abandoned food stall and surveyed the area. 

The group after him was closer now. He’d been limited by range and the press of the crowd before, but he could open up now that they were in reach. He’d always been better at close-range anyway. 

The first man fell to his sword before he could even be decently acquainted with it. The second didn’t get so lucky. Geralt could see the glint of anger in his eyes as he stepped forward, practically overtop of his companion, and how that anger made his knife swipes wild and erratic. 

He didn’t recognize the uniform they were wearing, but he would the next time he went out. 

The second man fell just as another deafening crack split the air behind him. He ignored the oncoming attacker to whirl and find the marksmen. 

And there he was. Tucking a gun away into a jacket, stood a man dressed as an entertainer and an aristocrat. His hair was still perfectly styled, his jacket bright and neatly fitted. 

When he caught Geralt’s eye, his smile was wide and sharp.

“No one thought to warn you about me, did they?” 

He grunted. No one had thought to warn him about any new players in the field. More than that, this one seemed like he was going to stir up trouble. Before he could say anything to the man,he had to duck out of the way of a war-hammer blow from the third companion, and by the time he could look back, the marksman was gone.