#Anyways gn I'm just ranting in the tags now lol

[lil-cherubb]

I made 2 crochet snowflakes today as Christmas tree ornaments for my mom. Kinda sad I didn't work on the amigurumi stuff but I mean bro I'm getting fucked in the ass by school rn so ill just be a bit sad I'm not gonna be hard on myself

[leighsartworks216]

The Viper (Part 8)

Jaskier x gn!reader

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Nine - Part Ten - Part Eleven - Part Twelve

Sorry for taking a little break on this! But I'm kind of glad I did honestly because I think I have a sort of better idea where to take the story + it was fun getting to read all of my notes and stuff again lol

Warnings: a bit of fluff, a bit of angst, knives (no one gets hurt)

Word Count: 2594

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Hot water cascaded down your back. The warmth seeped into your muscles, easing any lingering tension being held there. Jaskier couldn't stop his eyes from studying the canvas of injuries your skin held - the long scar that spanned from your shoulder blade down your spine, raised skin from wounds that never quite healed properly, a freshly stitched up cut just below your rib cage almost gracing an old injury where a creature's claws appear to have nearly ripped open your side.

He allowed himself the briefest moment to imagine just how many more scars littered the rest of your body. How many swords and claws had torn at your chest to tear open your rib cage? How close to death had you come in the decades - perhaps centuries - you were alive? How many bruises and bumps were from villagers terrified of your existence alone?

"I can feel you staring."

His eyes snapped to look at the back of your head, dripping wet with water you poured over yourself with a cup. Blue met yellow, warm and twinkling with some sense of mischief and teasing, despite the red rimming them. It still shocked him how fast you went from wailing into his shoulder, weeping in his arms, to requesting he help you undress for a bath.

He cleared his throat and tore his eyes from yours. The words in his little journal filled his vision instead. “Sorry,” he muttered. He ignored the sloshing of water as you continued to wash yourself. He ignored the smell of sandalwood and vanilla that filled the air. Fingers tensed on specific chords, just barely tugging the strings that would release the notes into the air.

After being - he still didn’t know any better way to describe it than ‘abandoned’ - by Geralt, the bard had attempted focusing his song-writing energy toward songs that did not involve the White Wolf. This did not work out well. Despite several attempts to write about his long-time muse, the Countess de Stael, or his few adventures with you, his mind kept finding its way up the mountain.

Just as you dreamt of your stolen childhood, he dreamt of his lost friendship. Even when his mind wandered, he remembered the way Geralt yelled at him. His words…

He hummed quietly, no words as of yet filling in the sad melody he strummed. What would he even say to Geralt if their paths crossed now? Something within him withered at the thought of ever having to face his old friend.

“That sounds sad.”

You were turned in the tub, chest facing him but hidden behind the wall of the tub. He was grateful he could not see more of your injuries. One arm laid resting on the rim while the other, the one previously speared by a bolt, simply held your wrist for support.

He grinned weakly. “It is sad.” He plucked a few more strings, continuing the depressed melody that seemed to source itself from his soul, before sighing and resting his hand over the wires to silence it.

You hummed, thoughtful. “Who is it for?” It was almost a redundant question. Who else would a sad song from Jaskier be for? The rest of his repertoire (as much as you had heard, anyway) was upbeat and usually strayed toward scandalous topics. When his shoulders slumped inward, and his eyes dimmed, falling to his journal of late night rants, you were certain of the cause. “Geralt.”

A scoff suddenly tore from his throat, bitter and upset. “Of course it’s Geralt,” he bit. “It’s always Geralt. He’s the hero! He’s the one throwing himself in front of monsters and then yelling at me for trying to help. He always has to work alone, otherwise…” He growled in frustration, cutting himself off. His foot tapped the floor irritably, fingernails following a similar rhythm against the wood of his lute. “And I’m just the useless bard.”

“You’re not useless,” you defend immediately.

“Oh, really?” His eyes bore into you, full of distrust and incredulity. “And how have I helped you, hm? I can’t start a fire, I can’t tell a-a poisonous berry from something edible. I can’t even fight! I can’t even defend myself from the husbands of past affairs - Geralt had to save my ass, and now you probably will, too!” His eyes were glassy by the end of his rant. He panted, breaths ever so slightly shaky to your trained ears as he fought not to cry - not to be weak - in front of you. “All I’m good for, Viper, is sleeping around and writing songs.”

His fingers pulled on discordant strings. The harsh harmonies filled the air like the tangy iron of spilled blood, before stilling with a metallic twang that both of you winced at. He glared at his notebook as if it held all the answers. He wished, for the briefest moment, he could burn away all the memories hidden inside.

Burn…

With a frown, he tested a few more strings, softer this time. His voice hummed along like a whisper, before quiet words formed on his lips.

“Watch me burn,” he paused, more tears flooding to his eyes, “all the memories of you.”

Before he could recover, swallow the lump in his throat and wrap bandages around his heart; before he could write down the new lyrics he uncovered from the deep recesses of sorrow and betrayal he swam in, a dagger, handle held toward him, appeared in his vision.

Wide eyes followed the blade up the arm to its owner. Your yellow eyes were soft and mellow, like warm honey, or the flowers the bees collected them from. You were still wet from the bath. The clothes - his clothes, actually - clung to your frame, soaking up what leftover moisture stuck to your skin. You nodded toward the weapon, gesturing for him to take it.

Slowly, as if he was unsure this is truly what you wanted him to do, his hand that had previously rested on the strings of his lute wrapped around the handle, taking the worn and well-loved leather into his grasp. You let go of the blade and removed a second dagger from your waistband, before moving to stand in the middle of the room.

“If you want to know how to fight, I’ll show you.”

His eyes lit up. “Wh- Really?” He tossed his lute onto the bed as he got up, eagerly scrambling to meet you in the center. His gaze suddenly fell to your shoulder, still red, black, and blue as it healed. “What about your arm?” His shoulders fell along with his hopes.

You scoffed, holding your blade up defensively. He held his up, too, albeit with the wrong grip and with more uncertainty than you. “I’ll teach you what I can right now - just enough to defend yourself against vexed husbands and disgruntled bar patrons.” You lowered your stance and moved closer to correct his. “Now, hold it like this...”

-

The bard danced and pranced around the tavern, weaving between merry, drunk patrons with practiced ease. All the while, his fingers plucked and strummed every perfect chord upon his lute. His voice, warm and bright, belted out a tune all the patrons clapped along to. You were content to simply watch the display and sip your ale.

The folk of Crinfrid were welcoming enough. The people of Tridam were fine, at first, until they decided they didn’t quite like having a Witcher around so close to Blaviken. After a rushed breakfast, you practically lifted Jaskier onto Bayard, injured shoulder be damned, just to avoid the callous glares and prevent being chased out of town with stones to the back. The road still had not been kind. Two nights of heavy rainfall and three days of trudging through mud, to finally land here.

You simply hoped the villagers would not turn against you, as the last ones had. Though, perhaps, as a Witcher, it couldn’t be avoided. Even now, as tankards sloshed and patrons laughed with red cheeks, you could sense the glances sent your way, burning with distrust.

Jaskier finished his last song with a flourish, bowing deeply and circling the tavern with an empty mug to collect crowns. He plopped down across the table from you with a satisfied sigh and a wide grin.

“Have fun?”

His eyes gleamed, airy laugh filling the air as he reveled in the post-performance euphoria. “Like you would not believe!” he emphasized. Brought back down to earth by the cup in hand, he eagerly dumped it out onto the table. Crowns clattered against the already scuffed wood. His mood deflated, the joy leaving him with a sigh. Ten crowns. It was just enough to pay for your drinks. He scooped up the coins into his coin purse, tucking it away quickly.

“So,” he began, turning from his disappointing collection to a tankard of ale you saved for him, “where to next?”

You hummed, imagining the Continent’s layout in your mind to find the best route to Oxenfurt. “We could head for Troy, a three day’s walk from here, but from there we would have to make a week’s journey to Denesle…”

The bard seemed to think for a moment, and then winced. “Ah, slight problem. I may or may not have… gotten around… a bit, there…” He shifted uncomfortably under your yellow stare. “It would probably be safer to avoid Troy.”

“It truly is a wonder you have survived this long.” Before he could chime in with his offense, you sighed and pulled out an old tattered map. The paper was aged, ink writing over it in places where new towns had sprung up over the ages. Jaskier stared at the upside-down cartography with awe, tracing mountains and rivers with his eyes. “We could try to go to Vartburg,” your finger rested atop the town on the map, “but it would take us farther away.”

Jaskier leaned out of his seat, further over the map. His eyes followed your finger and studied the writing around it. “What about Tretogor?”

You considered the option. Sharp, snake-like eyes traced the invisible trail from Crinfrid to Tretogor to Oxenfurt, before lifting from the paper to consider your traveling companion. “It would be two weeks on the road,” you informed him. He sat back down in his seat, meeting your gaze. “Not to mention, the weather will continue to be… unideal as we slip into autumn.”

He huffed, reminded of the rain. For the most part, after his grumbling and complaining began, you allowed him to ride on top of Bayard. It didn’t stop him from being any less miserable, but it brought you peace from his constant whining about scraping the mud off his boots. Once you set up camp, though, there was no escaping his bellyaching.

For a brief moment you wondered how Geralt put up with it, but the thought quickly turned sour and was discarded. Despite the trouble Jaskier brought with him, you never wished to call him a burden. He was far from it, in any case. The thought that Geralt could travel on and off with the bard for years to simply discard him instead furthered your resolve not to become like the Wolf.

“If you think it’s the best path…” He stared at the map, frowning. Though, you knew his mind was only thinking of sleeping on the wet ground.

“Unless you wish to travel two weeks straight through the countryside to Rdestowa Laka, then yes, I think for now it is our best option.”

He sighed, but nodded. You spared the map no secondary glance as you began to fold it back up as you had a thousand times before when the bard interrupted you. “Can I look?” He gestured to the paper. You opened it back up and spun it around to face him.

Jaskier took in the entire page. The edges were singed in some places and torn in others. The ink itself had faded over time, kept alive by your own efforts to write over the original text. A few notes not originally written in also found themselves a place on the parchment. Most of which, he noticed, were reminders of locations to find rare ingredients. He found himself quite appalled at the age and state of the map, a question slipping from his lips before he even processed he was asking it.

“How long have you had this thing?” He winced at the incredulous tone in his voice, but when he looked up you seemed unfazed by the question.

It took you a moment to think about it. How long had you had it for? When did you get it? Who gave it to you? The questions all circled back to one place. “I think since I finished training,” you hummed. Your face was tugged into a contemplative frown. “Some of us stayed at the Keep - the Viper school - to study, but those of us who decided to leave and face the world were given maps.”

The Keep… Oh, Geralt mentioned something similar once, hadn’t he? A place for Witchers to rest for the winter. “Where is the Viper school?” His eyes traced over Nilfgaard. The large expanse of land took up half of the paper. At some point, he noticed as his eyes traced over the faded ink of words you wrote in yourself, it would have been the most detailed portion of the Continent. And yet, no matter how many times his eyes followed the rivers or mountains, he did not see anything at all resembling a school. “It’s not marked anywhere.”

You scoffed. “None of them are. The Schools were designed to be hidden away and kept secret. If everyone knew where they were, it would be chaos.”

Setting your ale aside, you leaned out of your chair and onto your elbows, hovering over the map. No matter how long you had been away from it, your eyes still followed the pass of mountains along the map’s edge as if drawn by an invisible force. Your finger landed where the feeling drew you in, to the unmarked location of the school.

“There,” you said. Your voice sounded at once dim and wistful, void of emotion and yet nostalgic. “Deep in the valleys of the Tir Tochair mountains.”

His eyes roamed the map, following an invisible path. “Would we be able to go there?” Bright blue eyes stared up at you, full of curiosity and wonder.

A frown morphed your face. Your brow creased, yellow eyes instantly dull at the mere thought. You swallowed thickly, falling roughly back into your seat. You did not look at him. Instead, the mountains you once called home held your gaze. “It doesn’t exist anymore.” It was barely a whisper, as if you were afraid to admit it to yourself. A heavy weight settled in your chest.

You quickly folded up the paper, tucking it back in its place. Jaskier did not stop you. He simply watched, eyes fogged over with concern, as you downed the last of your ale and pulled out a few coins to pay for the drink you ordered.

“We should leave soon, while the sun is still up. I’ll make sure we have enough provisions.”

Your chair scraped loudly against the floor, but no eyes were drawn to the sound, everyone too focused on their own company. The bard wasn’t spared a glance as you made your way through the patrons and out the door.

It was going to be a long week to Tretogor.

---

Tag List:

@kmuir1

@writeawaythepain

@sleepyqueerenergy

@lex-caspartine

[dootdootwriting]

Yooo, if you're open for requests and you feel like doing this one, could you write reader (possibly gn) comforting Zhongli and/or Thoma? Something both fluffy and hurt/comfort, hurts good kinda vibe.

Thanks in advance!

hurt/comfort my beloved.... anyway i made up some scenarios for this!! enjoy <3

pairing: zhongli, thoma x reader (separate) tw: theyre sad lol, mentions of past trauma in zhongli's type: hurt/comfort pronouns used: none! a/n: this took me three days and i had to rewrite it because i read the request wrong someone send help </3

ZHONGLI

being alive for so long will take its toll, especially on someone who's seen so much and been in the middle of so much war

normally zhongli is calm and collected, though there are times when he has to take a break and be by himself for a while

these are the days where he pretends to be sick and tags out of work

since he's met you, however, the memories eat away at him less and less

you're able to remind him to live in the present and enjoy the moments he's living through as he lives through them - especially now that he is for all thoughts and purposes a mortal

he still has his days, though, and since you're usually busy, he doesn't like to disturb you. by the time you get home, he's usually composed himself and is ready to receive you.

except for today.

commissions went quickly and you were feeling just a little bit lonely, so you decided to go home early

instead of tea brewing and zhongli intently reading the newspaper, or an empty foyer with a note reading "went out to watch the ships, be back soon," you found nothing.

and then you find zhongli sitting on the bed, head in hands, sobbing almost silently

your hand finds its way to his back, gently rubbing slow circles into the fabric of his shirt

when he finally turns his head to look at you, you expected to find him sad. instead, however, he mostly just seems very, very tired

and thankfully, you're exactly what he needs. after a few seconds, zhongli wordlessly places his head in the crook of your neck, allowing you to hold him

it's not often that you see him like this, and while it's a bit difficult to understand what to do, you figure he just needs some comfort

you stay holding him for a while before his breaths slow down, and he removes himself gently from your arms and kisses your forehead

"thank you, my dear... i apologize for the inconvenience. would you like to go make some tea?"

you tell him he doesn't have to apologize for anything, and he lets out a light huff and brings you in for a quick hug

tea turns out to be exactly the right thing.

THOMA

ah yes, inazuma's beloved fixer, always helping someone somewhere with some sort of issue

it seems that wherever he goes, someone has a problem in need of solving, and of course he is the one to ask

and he doesn't ask anything in return! thoma is Just That Kind, and unfortunately, this means people tend to take advantage of him.

it seems these days that he doesn't even have time to have his own problems

when you meet him for a nice dinner at the komore teahouse, taroumaru greets you eagerly, tail wagging as always. you expect to see your boyfriend in the same state, as he is usually.

however, when you enter the room where you're supposed to meet him, instead, you find him exhausted and slumped over his meal.

"hey, what's wrong? are you okay?"

and BOY DOES HE TELL YOU.

thoma erupts from his seat. his arms flail out from his torso and he rants for as long as he has the breath for

it's almost funny, the way he's frustrated with everything, his limbs flapping about wildly, but you can tell how much he'd had pent up inside, so instead of laughing, you pull him in for a hug

he sighs loudly and lets his head fall on your shoulder

"i just don't even have my own life anymore. i'm sorry for yelling. i'm not mad at you."

you reassure him you knew he wasn't angry with you, and pat his back, chuckling lightly

"how about we take a week off, okay? you can tell lord kamisato i have other plans with you."

"please," he says, and you can hear the relief in his voice.

you spend the night resting with him flopped on top of you, mumbling about the people he'd helped today

and you swear to yourself: if anyone even tries to ask him for something over his break, you were going to strangle them.

[lixxen]

i love ur little rant about wattpad in ur tags, cause like my spiderman fic from when i was like 12 got famous on there and people are BRUTAL in the comments like- i was a child please guys

Thank you lol. I rant a LOT in tags. But yeah,,, they really are brutal. I was like, 14-16 when I was posting on there lol. I turn 21 next month and I feel old

I had an x reader one shot book that was just Danganronpa characters I wanted to write about (plus like, a few other books others for a fanbase I won't name. I had a decent following for that one also, but not as big). After a year I started to take requests and literally had people constantly following me. But it wasn't until I stopped posting what was considered the "norm" and after I stopped writing for DR

It was especially when I changed from writing female readers to male readers. I was like, 14/15 and had been gender fluid/trans for about two years and decided I was tired of writing female readers/not seeing male readers. So I switched to GN/Male since people had requested it from time to time. Plus I've always been a self indulgence writer. But to this day I get shitted on for male reader fics and passive aggressive comments of "I'm changing this to female. I don't get why male readers exist". And just like, other hateful shit? A lot of homophobic/transphobic shit also

Thankfully I switched to AO3 and deleted everything besides my one shot book on Wattpad (since I've been told it's a comfort book for some people). I've gone back and deleted a lot that are like, extremely graphic or like... I can't even explain it... ones.

I also gained traction for a bit on AO3 and had a big(to me) MCU story that I hate now because it was based I oof'd it up and wrote it in a slightly ignorant way (I was 17). I'm rewriting it slowly because it makes me cringe and deleted two chapters at the end that got me literal hate messages because people didn't like it 😔✌️ which I understand why tbh- I go in great detail when I write

Wow this is very long I forgot how much I speak lol. Anyways, I hate Wattpad.

Here's the stats for the one shot book on Wattpad and then my AO3 story. Not bragging, but trying to show the dedication I had to them lol