#and then they mentioned bards and tales go well together

[writingrock]

the tale of two lovers [4]

pairing: barbarian! katsuki bakugou x reader (female) summary: a bard approaches a lone barbarian in search for a story to tell. Who could have known that the barbarian end up being such a romantic tale.

notes: fantasy au, fluff, strangers to lovers, slow burn, bakusquad, barbarian bakugou, violence, mentions of spiritual creatures, mentions of discrimination

word count: 8.3k

part list

part one: chapter list

a/n: we're finally in the damn woods. this part took way longer than needed.

Despite your frequent clashes with Bakugou, the bond within the group had deepened over time. Each of you had gradually adapted to the others' habits and idiosyncrasies. The journey started off rocky with Bakugou and you locking horns. But this leg of the journey had been surprisingly pleasant, filled with laughter and shared stories that knitted the group closer together. Sure, you and Bakugou bickered now and then, but it never escalated to anything more than heated words— at least, not yet. 

Now, as the group finally reached the last stretch before Niniel’s Veil, a sense of quiet anticipation settled over the camp. Tomorrow, you all would descend into the maddening forest. A place none of you could fully predict or prepare for. All of you are sitting by the campfire, the warmth of the flames cast flickering shadows on your faces. The night was calm, but you could feel the unmistakable worry around the group. Wrapping around each of you like the darkening forest surrounding the camp.

The group huddled close. Low chatter drifted through the night air, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or a solemn comment about the day ahead. The conversation circled around the forest that awaited them— the cursed thicket known as Niniel’s Veil.

Denki, absently poking at the fire with a stick, broke the silence. “So, anyone else feeling a bit uneasy about tomorrow?” His golden brown eyes focused on the fire, carrying an edge of nervousness.

“Tomorrow’s the big day,” Kirishima replied, his fingers fumbling with the fabric of his tunic. The idle movement showed a small part of his restlessness. He grabbed a stick and poked at the fire alongside Denki, sending a few sparks crackling into the night air. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. But we’ve faced worse, right? We just need to stick together.” There was a mix of excitement and apprehension in his voice. 

Mina was sitting cross-legged next to you with a thoughtful expression. There’s a pause before she nodded in agreement. “They say the forest shifts and changes its paths. You can go in with a map and still get hopelessly lost. We’ll need to stay sharp.” She shuddered, remembering the tales she’s heard about the Veil.

Denki leaned back against a tree, casually tossing the stick he’d been using to stir the fire aside, letting it roll to a stop near the flames. He let out a heavy sigh as he verbally recounted the horror stories told about the thicket. “And the creatures that live there—supposedly, some of them are more dangerous than anything we’ve faced before.”

Sero grinned and added, “Well, if nothing else, it’ll be one hell of a story to tell. Assuming we make it out of there.” A part of you wondered how Sero could always be so pragmatic. He seemed to be the most relaxed in the group. Or was he simply hiding behind a calm exterior? You couldn’t really tell. 

You looked down at the flickering flames, their light reflecting in your eyes. “It’s not just about surviving,” you said, your tone more serious. “It’s about navigating a place that seems determined to trap us there. We need to be prepared for anything.”

Mina glanced over at you, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “You’ve been through Niniel’s Veil before. Got any advice for us?”

Advice? That wasn’t something you could offer lightly. You hesitated, the weight of your previous journey through the Veil lingering in your mind. After a moment, you spoke slowly, choosing your words carefully.

“Advice isn’t easy to give for a place like that,” you began, eyes flicking to the evening sky as if it might help you find the right way to explain. Squinting at the night sky, focusing on the stars for guidance. “But… Do you guys actually know the story behind Niniel’s Veil?” Slowly, you lowered your head and looked at the group, studying their expressions. 

They exchanged glances, a collective shrug rippling through the group. Denki leaned forward slightly, intrigued, while Kirishima scratched his head. Bakugou, arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. It seemed that the history of the Veil piqued his interest. Though, it wasn’t just him. One by one, they all shook their heads. You could tell everyone was at least slightly interested. 

“Nope,” Denki said, letting out a resigned sigh. “Can’t say I do.”

Kirishima chuckled nervously. “I’ve heard the horror stories, but not much else.”

Bakugou’s eyes looked at you. “I’m guessing it’s more than just some foggy forest, then.”

Mina leaned forward, clearly eager to hear more. “Alright, mapmaker. Lay it on us.”

You leaned forward slightly, the firelight casting shadows across your face as you began to explain. “Niniel’s Veil wasn’t always this mysterious, cursed place. A long time ago, it was home to a powerful elven kingdom. Hidden away deep in these enchanted woods, the elves used their magic to shield themselves from the outside world. But they were… Well, they were elves.” There was a trace of disdain in your voice as you delivered that last part, the words carrying more weight than intended.

The group’s attention was locked on you now, each of them watching as you continued.

“The elves of Niniel didn’t stay within their kingdom. They pillaged and colonised other lands, stealing relics and treasures from the places they conquered. They weren’t satisfied with just wealth— they wanted power. And the more they took, the more they craved. But they were greedy, and greed doesn’t go unchecked forever.”

You paused, glancing around the fire, letting the weight of the story sink in before continuing. “Eventually, their power was usurped. The lands they’d pillaged banded together, turning on the elves. Niniel’s kingdom crumbled. But the elves… they didn’t go quietly. In their final moments, they cursed the very forest they once called home. As revenge, they scattered the stolen relics throughout the woods, using powerful magic to ensure they would never be found or returned to their rightful places.”

Mina’s eyes widened as you spoke, while Denki shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the dark woods surrounding your camp. Even Sero straightened up, leaning in closer to listen to your tale.

“And the forest itself,” you said, your voice lowering slightly, “became part of that curse. The elves wove their magic into the land, warping it. Niniel’s Veil is designed to trap people— to lure them in, twist their sense of direction, and keep them lost. The trees shift, paths disappear, and you see things that aren’t real. It’s a labyrinth, alive with ancient magic, and it wants to keep anyone who dares to enter.”

The fire crackled softly, filling the brief silence that followed. 

“So, let me guess,” Kirishima spoke in a hushed tone. “Those relics are still out there?”

You nodded. “Yep. Hidden throughout the Veil. Some say finding them all could break the curse, but no one’s been able to gather them all. At least, no one who’s made it out.”

Kirishima let out a low whistle, leaning back as the weight of your words sank in. “So, we’re walking into a cursed maze with no guarantee of getting out, huh?”

“You’ve got me, that’s plenty of guarantee,” you said, your voice brimming with confidence as you glanced around the group. A small, reassuring smirk graces your lips. But deep down, you knew the danger that lay ahead.

Denki chuckled nervously, though the unease in his voice was hard to miss. “Yeah, I’m just going to cling to that optimism, because the alternative sounds pretty terrifying.”

Bakugou, who had been quiet up until now, crossed his arms and let out a questioning scoff. His brow raised at your confidence. “Talk’s cheap. You sure you’re up for this?”

You met his stare without hesitation, your voice steady. “I’ve made it through it and mapped that forest. Trust me, I’m ready. The real question is— are you?”

His eyes peered down at you. Why do you keep challenging him? He wants to be mad but he’s amused. By now, he’s gotten used to you provoking him. There’s a faint smirk that threatens to surface, but he very quickly concealed it. “I’m always ready. Don’t slow me down.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Slowing you down? You’re more likely to charge ahead and get yourself lost.”

Kirishima laughed from his spot by the fire. “Yeah, maybe stick close this time. We can’t have you lost.”

Bakugou shot him a sharp look, snapping at his friend. “I’ll do what I need to. The Veil won’t stop me.” Kirishima chuckled at his words for he could see there’s no real anger behind that cutting gaze.

“You might want to rethink that,” you said, your tone turning serious. “Niniel’s Veil isn’t exactly forgiving. It’s not just about getting lost; the forest has a way of messing with your mind. It twists paths and shadows, plays tricks on you.”

Bakugou snorted as he leaned back against the rock. “Tch. I’ve faced worse.”

Sero raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Like dealing with you guys,” Bakugou muttered, finally releasing the smirk he had been holding back.

You caught the exchange with a half-smile, the tension of the upcoming challenge momentarily eased by the banter. Despite the seriousness of the situation, there was a growing sense of unity within the group. Each member brought their own strengths and quirks to the table, and as you prepared for the forest that lay ahead, it was clear that this shared journey had already forged a deeper bond among you.

As the night deepened and the conversation drifted to lighter topics, you couldn’t shake the feeling of anticipation. Tomorrow, the real adventure would begin. Despite the danger that awaited, there was a sense of resolve and readiness in the air.

You watched the fire crackle, the warmth against the chill of the evening offering a small comfort. “We’ll make it through,” you said, trying to inject a bit of confidence into your voice for the group. In truth, you knew how dangerous those woods were. It was hard to say for certain if it would be smooth sailing all the time.

Bakugou huffed, a rare, soft chuckle leaving his lips. “I hope you’re right. I don’t plan on letting a bunch of trees outsmart us.”

As the night wore on, you could feel the suspense building for the journey ahead. The campfire’s warmth was a fleeting solace before the uncertainty of tomorrow. For now though, it was enough to keep the chill of apprehension at bay. Eventually, the conversation dwindled as exhaustion seeped into the group. One by one, your companions bid each other goodnight, surrendering to sleep.

But sleep had evaded you. You lay awake in the darkness, the stillness of the night amplifying the restless thoughts swirling in your mind. Insomnia wasn’t something you usually struggled with— at least, not recently. But tonight, it tightened its grip on you. It was suffocating. You tried to push those thoughts away, but it was easier said than done. With each toss in your bedroll, those plaguing thoughts only grew more persistent.

Out of all nights, it had to be tonight. But it made sense that you couldn’t sleep the night before entering Niniel’s Veil. You knew exactly what that forest meant for you. With a quiet sigh, you slipped out of your sleeping bag. Deciding that perhaps a walk might help. From your experience, a walk did usually help make you sleepier. 

Carefully, you slid your feet into your boots, moving with deliberate quiet. Reaching into your bag, you retrieved three items: a book, one of your quills, and a dagger. Whenever you found yourself unable to sleep, working on some lazy sketches of the scenery helped you unwind and gave you something to focus on. So for you, a book paired with a quill became a staple for your late night walks.

The dagger spoke for itself. You never knew what could jump out in the night. As you prepared for your walk, you took great care to keep your movements as silent as possible, tiptoeing past your sleeping companions. A few of them stirred slightly, but you held your breath, not wanting to disturb their rest. Once you were far enough from camp, you exhaled softly, feeling the tension ease.

Being a cartographer, you knew most areas well. After all, drawing out those maps tended to etch locations into your memory. Especially if you particularly liked the place. As you walked through the forest, you recalled a nearby spot that had always brought you peace. Confident in your sense of direction, you walked through the darkness. Your sight at night being no issue.

The nocturnal world around you stirred as you stepped through the quiet woods, the sounds of night creatures blending with the soft rustle of leaves underfoot. There was a calmness here, a solitude you had always found comforting. As much as you had grown to appreciate the company of your party, you couldn’t deny the pull of the silence.

Perhaps it wasn’t that you preferred being alone, but that you had simply grown accustomed to it. Cartography was a solitary profession, one that few could endure for long. But for you? This is the path chosen for you from the moment you were born. 

Your only true companion on these journeys had been Kyrah, your golden eagle familiar, whose presence had been invaluable in your work— a reliable partner who needed no more than a summons, carrying no extra weight. Kyrah is a familiar you manifested with the help of your father. She aids you in your mapping endeavours. You can seamlessly merge with Kyrah’s vision, often shifting your perspective to hers as she soars above, giving you a bird’s-eye view of the terrain below. Besides that, she’s a silent companion that helps quell the lonely journeys you go on. 

The sound of flowing water reached your ears, and you quickened your pace, heading toward the source. Soon, the sight of a waterfall came into view, illuminated by the soft light of the moon. It wasn’t a grand waterfall, but there was a serene beauty to it, a simplicity that had always drawn you in. You settled down by a rock, the moonlight washing over you as you gazed at the waterfall, its steady flow soothing your restless mind.

The frogs croaked softly in the background as you prepared you to sketch. When you couldn’t sleep, you’d draw. Sometimes, the act of sketching was enough to lull you to sleep— the rhythmic scratch of the quill against paper, the quiet ambiance around you. You opened your book and began to draw, letting the scene before you pull you into its tranquillity.

A sudden snap broke the stillness. Your heart jumped, and you could feel a large presence behind you. What the hell was that? Sure, things might go bump in the night, especially in the forest. But this was different—a heavy snap, the kind of sound only a beast could make. You weren’t about to wait for the beast to strike first. Instinct kicked in as you twisted your upper body. Ready to make the first move, fully expecting to face the threat head on.

You could have sworn you had grabbed your dagger, but instead, you found yourself holding your quill.

And it’s pressing into a rather familiar throat.

Bakugou had leaned in close, his breath warm against your skin, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked down at you. His eyes glinted with amusement, the sharpness in them betraying how much he was enjoying the situation. The distance between you was almost nonexistent, the tension palpable. His Adam's apple bobbed slightly under the quill’s pressure, a subtle reminder of how precarious the moment was. Yet he seemed unfazed, confident even, as if daring you to make the next move.

Bakugou raised an eyebrow at your choice of weapon. A shit-eating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. You wanted so badly to rub that smirk off. “A quill? Really?” There was a mocking edge to his tone. “You can try, but it won’t do much.”

You narrowed your eyes, clearly unamused by this situation. “Could’ve sworn I had a dagger.”

He responded by waving the dagger in front of your face, the blade catching the light before he dropped it carelessly to the ground. “You mean this one?” his voice dripping with condescension. “You ought to be more aware.” 

You scoffed, pressing the quill harder against his throat, the tip leaving a faint mark of ink on his skin. “What are you doing here?” Your voice was steady, but the rush of adrenaline still coursed through you. As the question left your lips, you retracted the quill and leaned back against the rock, letting your body relax. The immediate sense of danger faded, but the tension between you and Bakugou lingered. 

He didn’t move, his gaze locked on you as he slowly lowered himself onto a nearby rock, keeping a deliberate distance. “I could ask you the same,” he replied, his tone more measured now. “You woke me up. Care to be less noisy?”

He was a light sleeper—not a surprise there. You’ve learnt that during the time you’ve spent with this group. “Could’ve gone back to sleep,” you retorted, your tone dismissive. “What’s your deal?”

Bakugou glared at you, his expression hardening. “My deal? You’re the one sneaking around in the middle of the night, waving a quill like it’s some kind of weapon.”

You let out a short, dry laugh. “You stole my dagger, you imbecile.”

He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “Whatever. So what? You couldn’t sleep, so you decided to wander around and wake everyone up?”

You shrugged, avoiding his eyes as you looked out into the forest. “Just needed to clear my head. Walking helps sometimes.”

“Hmph.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Not the best idea out here, alone.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” you muttered, half to yourself.

There’s a silence falling between you, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. The tension from your earlier confrontation lingered, though it had softened, replaced by something almost... tolerable. It was strange— how the two of you, so different in temperament and approach, could share a moment like this. You never would have expected to be sitting here with him, of all people, in the middle of the night. You studied his profile, the sharp angles of his face softened by the dim light.

Bakugou finally broke the silence, his voice quieter, less abrasive. "You worried about tomorrow?"

You’re caught off guard by the unexpected question. Was he worried too? "A bit. Niniel’s Veil isn’t exactly a stroll in the woods. But you’re all a strong bunch, so... we’ll manage."

He grunted in agreement, his gaze fixed on the darkened trees. "We’d better. There’s no room for mistakes."

You nodded, the weight of his words settling in. There was no room for error in a place like Niniel’s Veil. A pause followed, a moment of silence where neither of you said anything. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad that he was here. You needed to talk to him about the artefact he was searching for. You never did get the specifics. Taking a short breath, you looked at the barbarian.

“This artefact you’re looking for… do you know where it is within the Veil?” you asked, the weight of the question hanging in the air. As their guide, it was crucial you had this information, and you were kicking yourself for not asking sooner. But the right moment had never seemed to come until now. In all fairness, you could blame it on Bakugou. From the beginning, holding a decent conversation with him was nearly impossible— constant arguing, back and forth. Now at least, you’ve both learned to deal with each other.

Bakugou’s eyes flickered to yours, wearing a mask of gruff determination. “I’ve got a lead,” he said, his voice rough but edged with a hint of irritation. “A place deep within the Veil, near the heart of it. But don’t get your hopes up too high. I heard the Veil shifts around like it’s got a personal vendetta against anyone trying to navigate it.” He’s not wrong about the Veil. 

With a deep breath, Bakugou recited the riddle. His tone as if he were delivering bad news:

“In the forest’s heart where shadows loom,

Find the place where night flowers bloom.

Beneath the boughs where moonlight glows,

The artefact rests where the dark wind blows.”

You raised an eyebrow, struggling to stifle a laugh. “Seriously? That’s the hint? Sounds like a poetic way to say ‘good luck.’”

With a frustrated sigh, he squeezed his eyes shut. His hand ran through his hair as he recited the riddle internally. Bakugou didn’t have any other hints besides this riddle. “Better than wandering around aimlessly, right? Just don’t get lost yourself.”

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. “We’ll have to be careful then,” you said, your tone matching the seriousness of the situation. “No reckless moves.” You most certainly weren’t referring to a certain blond hothead. 

Bakugou’s eyes snapped back to you, looking rather annoyed. Seems like he’s caught on that you were referring to him. “Tch, don’t tell me what to do,” he barked, his voice edged with irritation. “I don’t need you hovering over me.”

He crossed his arms, clearly not thrilled by your little jab. “You focus on keeping yourself out of trouble. I don’t make reckless moves— I make results.”

Was he offended? You smirked, holding back a laugh. “I’ll be the one pulling your ass out of there when things go south.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed, but there was an underlying smirk under that scowl. “Tch. We’ll see about that.”

The exchange lingered in the air, a mix of challenge and mutual respect. Whatever lay ahead in the Veil, you both understood the risks— and neither of you was backing down. Silence settled over the two of you, a comfortable quiet that neither felt the need to disrupt. You returned to your sketch, the soft scratch of your quill against the parchment a calming rhythm. Bakugou, seated beside you, methodically sharpened his scimitar. The metallic scrape of the blade meeting the stone punctuated the night air, creating a soothing harmony with your drawing.

“You don’t like elves,” Bakugou observed, his tone curious but cautious.  His words cut through the quiet, catching your attention. You slowly turn to look at him. He noticed your tone when you were reciting the tale of Niniel’s Veil. He was trying to piece something together. He was curious as to why your tone held such detest for elves. A species that you’re related to by blood. 

“My perspective on elves are complicated,” you replied, your voice steady but held a lining of spite within. “Besides, most of the continent don’t really like elves.”

“Right, but you’re a half-elf,” he pressed, trying to make sense of it. He hadn’t dealt with many elves before, only knowing them by their reputation— proud, conceited, and, in his limited experience, annoyingly uptight. A prudish bunch, as he calls it. But you’re a half-elf, an extension of their kind, so why do you hate them?

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “Most elves hate half-elves, you know,” you said, the weight of the truth heavy in your words. “They call us Biir and N' Tel' Quess.”

The Elvish language slipped smoothly off your tongue, the sharpness of the words hanging in the air between you. The fluency of those words caught Bakugou off guard. He wasn’t used to hearing you speak the language, and even though he didn’t understand the words, he could hear the bitterness beneath them.

Bakugou raised an eyebrow, waiting for the translation.

“Garbage,” you said plainly, meeting his gaze. “And Not-People, that’s how they view us.”

For a moment, there was silence. Bakugou’s expression didn’t soften, but you could see a shift in his eyes. A flicker of understanding, maybe even anger at the idea. Bakugou couldn’t stand hearing that. Most would assume dragonborns were fearsome and overbearing, but in reality, they were often tolerant of all races. Extending their courtesy for even the most despised. For him, this was unacceptable. Sure, Bakugou berated most people who crossed his path, but it was more out of indifference rather than malice. He simply couldn’t be bothered with them. To hate due to blood was foreign to him.

It didn’t make sense to him— judging someone for something they had no control over felt pointless, even absurd. In his eyes, strength, character, and actions were what truly mattered, not the circumstances of one’s birth.

It reminded him of the situation with Mina. Being a tiefling in this world wasn’t easy. The hatred toward her kind stemmed from their demonic ancestry, creating a deep-rooted wave of mistrust and fear. Tieflings were often judged before they even spoke, their horns and eyes marking them as something to be wary of, something dangerous. To be one of the most hated races was a heavy burden, and Mina carried it with a grace that most wouldn’t expect.

“Those stuck-up bastards,” he muttered, his hands tightening into fists. “Calling their own that? Figures.” 

You shrugged, the casualness of your attitude not quite matching the weight of the conversation. “It’s nothing new. That’s just how most of them are. Especially if they've not travelled outside of elven lands.”

Bakugou's eyes darkened, his jaw tightening. “So they just… call you that like it’s nothing?” 

You nodded, a trace of bitterness creeping into your voice. “To them, it’s not a big deal. Half-elves are reminders of what they consider impurity and grief. That our blood is tainted. We don’t fit neatly into their perfect little world.”

The dislike for half-elves is often a complicated mix of prejudice and resentment. You could dive into the history, recite what your father told you growing up, but that would keep you here all night. Half-elves symbolise something uncomfortable: the idea that elves and humans can cohabitate and create something together. To many elves, it’s a bitter reminder that their kind— whom they see as superior— could stoop so low as to bed a human, a race they often view as fleeting and inferior.

But the resentment runs deeper than just arrogance. Elves live for centuries, and their ability to reproduce is rare and sacred. Their culture involves tight-knit communities and communal child-rearing, with children being raised by the collective village or family over generations. Half-elves, however, live only slightly longer than humans, which more often than not, means the elven parent suffers.

The elven parent must watch their human spouse and child age and die before they've even reached the prime of their own life, by elven standards. For every half-elf born, there’s an elven parent who will grieve long after their family has turned to dust. To them, half-elf serves as living proof that bonding with other races, no matter how deep the connection, is temporary— and that loss comes far too soon.

So while some elves can look past it, seeing half-elves as a bridge between worlds rather than crude blood. Others see the inevitable grief, the reminder that friendship— and love— across races comes at a cost that some are not willing to pay.

Bakugou grumbles under his breath, the disdain clear in his tone now. “What a bunch of self-righteous assholes. Fucking hell.”

You couldn't help but chuckle softly at his bluntness. “Yeah, well, most of them are. It’s a complicated issue but it doesn’t excuse their treatment towards us. ” You take a deep breath from this conversation, continuing quietly. “But I don’t let it bother me. There are still a good bunch of elves that don’t have that terrible view.”

Bakugou grunted, crossing his arms. “Tch. Still doesn’t sit right with me. Doesn’t matter if it’s a few or most— people who think they’re better than everyone else just because of blood? Sounds like a load of crap.”

“Agreed,” you nodded, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “But it’s not that simple. Some of those elves are deeply entrenched in their ways, raised to believe they’re the highest form of existence. They don’t even see it as arrogance— they see it as fact.”

Bakugou's expression hardened, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes. “Fact or not, I think they deserve a reality check just for using those words.” 

You gave him a small, appreciative smile. “Trust me, I’ve handed out a few of those in my time.”

Bakugou smirked at that, the familiar edge of his cockiness creeping back. “Good. ‘Cause if they try pulling that shit while I’m around, they’ll get their ass handed to them.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I can imagine. But you’d be surprised— some of the elves that look down on half-elves would probably never confront you openly. It’s all under-the-surface jabs, subtle insults. They’re too proud to start a fight.”

Bakugou’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with challenge. “I’m good at starting fights when it’s needed. And ending them.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” you said with a grin. If there’s one thing Bakugou can do, it’s fight. “But like I said, not all of them are bad. Some have moved past those old prejudices. It’s just… a slow change. Too slow, honestly.”

He glanced at you, his expression softening slightly, though his usual fire was still there. “Well, whatever they think, they’re wrong. You’re better than all of ‘em.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, the weight of his words hung between you, and it felt more real than anything you had expected from Bakugou. You smiled softly, your tone quiet but genuine. “Thanks..”

Bakugou shifted awkwardly, clearly not used to moments like this. He grunted, scratching the back of his neck as if trying to brush off the vulnerability that had slipped through. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Right. Wouldn’t want to ruin your tough guy act.”

After a few moments, Bakugou shifted in his seat, the sound of his movements breaking the silence. He stood up, brushing off his pants with an unceremonious gesture. “Get some sleep,” he grumbled, his tone carrying a rare hint of concern. “We’ll need everyone sharp tomorrow.”

You nodded, pushing your sketchbook aside. “Fair point.” You began packing away your sketching supplies. “I’ll hit the hay. Just try not to snore too loudly. Some of us actually need our rest.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed playfully. “As if you’re one to talk. I’ve heard the way you mumble in your sleep.”

With that, the two of you headed back toward the camp. The mood was lighter, though it was more than just a shared understanding of the challenge ahead. Your relationship with Bakugou was more akin to a "strained alliance," an uneasy truce bound by necessity rather than genuine rapport.

But you can’t lie, you’re almost starting not to mind him as much. Bakugou’s not that bad. Especially after you opened up about your experience with elves. It was rather warming to see him care. As you both settled back into your respective spots, the night took on a lighter tone, if only slightly. 

The tavern was a far cry from the stillness of that night, but the firelight flickering against the walls reminded Bakugou of the campfires they had shared deep in the forest. He leans back in his chair, his scowl softening as the bard, a curious sort with an annoying penchant for digging into people’s thoughts, strummed a gentle tune on his lute. The tavern was buzzing with quiet conversation, but the bard’s attention was squarely on Bakugou, eyes gleaming with interest.

“It sounds like you and your companion have had quite the journey.”  the bard said, his fingers deftly dancing across the strings. 

Bakugou leaned back, crossing his arms, a hint of annoyance flashing in his eyes as he regarded the bard. “Yeah, well, it’s been a rough ride, but we’ve managed. Gotten used to each other’s ways, I guess.”

The bard’s eyes shined with mischief. “Oh? From what I hear, it sounds like you two have grown quite close. Almost like... friends, dare I say?”

Bakugou’s scowl deepened, though a hint of a smirk almost could be seen. The bard wasn’t exactly wrong but he wasn’t going to admit that. “Don’t get any funny ideas. We’ve had our share of disagreements. It’s more like we’ve learned to tolerate each other.”

The bard chuckled, clearly enjoying Bakugou’s discomfort. “Tolerate, you say? Sounds like there’s more to it than meets the eye.”

Bakugou’s gaze drifted to the fire, his thoughts returning to the journey. The memory of the initial tension with you was still fresh in his mind. It’s a shocking contrast to the relationship you both now had developed. He remembered the bickering and stubborn clashes, the way you both were constantly at each other's necks. But the forced cooperation in the face of danger and necessity, had brought the two of you closer. Close enough to know there was more beneath the surface than either let on. And close enough to know that both of you were skilled in your own ways.

“She’s smart, I’ll give her that,” Bakugou continues, his gaze shifting to the other end of the tavern. As if he could still see her sitting across from him, sketching with that damn quill of hers. “Knows her stuff. More than I expected, to be honest. Thought she’d be dead weight, but… she pulled her own.”

The bard’s fingers pause on the strings, catching the slight shift in Bakugou’s tone. “Sounds like she earned your respect.”

Bakugou huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Respect’s a strong word. She’s competent, that’s all. Doesn’t take shit from anyone, and I can respect that much. But she’s also a pain in the ass. Always has to have the last word, always poking where she shouldn’t.”

“She’s not what I expected. That’s all. She’s got guts, I’ll give her that. But the Veil—” He trails off, his thoughts drifting to the dense, dangerous forest. “The Veil isn’t a place for anyone who isn’t serious. She’s not just a mapmaker. She’s… stubborn. Determined. Like she’s got something to prove.”

“Well then,” the bard asks, his voice softer now. “Did she prove it?”

Did you prove yourself? Bakugou leans back in his chair, his mind drifting to the treacherous journey through Niniel’s Veil. The tales weren’t just stories; they were warnings wrapped in the guise of myths. The forest was alive in its own eerie way, shifting and twisting the paths like a serpent coiling around its prey. One moment, a well-trodden trail would be beneath their feet, and the next, it would vanish, swallowed by the creeping undergrowth, leaving only an expanse of unfamiliar trees.

The canopy overhead was dense, allowing slivers of light to filter through, but it was never enough to guide the way. The forest itself seemed to breathe, each exhale rearranging the landscape, turning known routes into mazes. More than once, they found themselves doubling back, only to be confronted by a landscape that had entirely changed. It was a place designed to ensnare even the most experienced adventurers, to make them doubt their every step.

But you— well, you were the wild card. The mapmaker who had spent years navigating the labyrinthine trails of Niniel’s Veil, sketching its hidden secrets and charting its treacherous paths. 

The moment the group stepped into the forest, it was as if the air itself shifted. The dense canopy overhead seemed to close in, casting an ethereal glow that made the forest feel alive, almost sentient. The ancient trees whispered secrets with every rustle of their leaves. The ground beneath was a patchwork of shadow and light, where every step seemed to echo with a haunting resonance. The forest was beautiful in a way that was both mesmerising and unnerving. Its beauty tainted by an ever-present sense of foreboding.

Bakugou had learned the hard way that these woods weren’t just any ordinary enchanted forest. They were alive. The moment the group entered the Veil, you took the lead cautiously, moving slower than usual. You would stop now and then, listening carefully, scanning the trees for any signs of change. But Bakugou didn't get it. He was growing irritated, impatience festering with each step. To him, it felt like you were wasting time.

“You’re taking too long,” he muttered, frustration clear in his voice as you paused once again to survey the surroundings. This felt like a familiar conversation. 

You shot him a look over your shoulder, keeping your voice low. “There’s a reason we’re moving carefully. This forest isn’t what it seems. Don’t rush ahead.”

Bakugou’s scowl deepened. “You’re being too slow. We’ll never get anywhere at this pace.” It’s almost as if he’s said these words before.

 

You sighed, feeling his impatience radiating off him in waves. “This isn’t about speed. If you push too far ahead, you’ll—”

“Whatever,” Bakugou cut you off, stepping forward, brushing past you. “We don’t have time for this.” He marched ahead, determined to lead, his movements quick and brash.

You watched him go, letting out a frustrated breath but deciding not to stop him. Fine, you thought. If he wanted to lead, let him. He’d figure it out soon enough. 

The group followed Bakugou as he charged forward, the dense trees swallowing them up in winding paths that twisted and turned unexpectedly. The deeper you went, the more the forest seemed to close in, the air growing thicker, the sounds of birds and insects fading into an eerie quiet. 

Bakugou’s frustration only grew as the terrain became more difficult to navigate. What had seemed like a straightforward path quickly revealed itself to be a maze of dense underbrush and looping trails. He stopped abruptly, looking around as if trying to piece together where he had gone wrong, his jaw clenched tight.

 

“Tch,” he growled, his hands tightening into fists. What the hell is this? His head swung around at the environment, scanning the area. “This doesn’t make sense.”

You hung back, casually following along with no rush. Your expression calm despite the increasingly tense atmosphere. You had known this would happen. The forest was designed to confuse those who didn’t understand its nature, and Bakugou, with all his confidence, was falling right into its trap. 

“Having fun up there?” you called out, unable to resist a smirk as Bakugou’s head whipped around to glare at you. 

“Shut up,” he snapped. “This damn forest keeps twisting around.”

“Imagine that,” you said dryly, still not speeding up. “It’s almost like there was a reason I told you to slow down.”

Bakugou huffed, visibly irritated but too stubborn to admit he was lost. His eyes darted around the trees, looking for anything familiar, but the forest had swallowed up any trace of the path you had entered on. His frustration grew with every step.

“Keep going,” you said casually, still following at a distance. “I’m sure we’re almost there.” 

Bakugou shot you a withering glare, knowing full well that you were letting him stew in his own mess. “Don’t think this is funny.”

“I don’t,” you said, trying to hide the amusement in your tone. “But maybe next time, you’ll think twice before charging ahead.”

Bakugou was visibly agitated now, his annoyance clear in every sharp movement and muttered curse under his breath. The deeper he ventured, the more disorienting the forest became. The trees seemed to close in tighter, their branches tangling above like a web that blocked out the sun. The path— if you could even call it that— had long disappeared into the twisting undergrowth. Every direction looked the same, and Bakugou could swear that no matter which way he turned, they weren’t making any progress. It was as if the forest itself was looping endlessly.

His frustration mounted as he realised he couldn’t find anything that might resemble an exit. But the only thing that greeted him was the endless stretch of green. He stopped abruptly, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, kicking at a nearby rock before turning back toward you. You were still a few paces behind, walking leisurely as if the forest’s tricks didn’t bother you in the slightest. It grated on his nerves even more.

He finally snapped. “Alright, fine. Take over.” His tone could barely contain his frustration. “You’re the one who thinks you know this place.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms casually. “Only if you admit you were wrong.”

That ticked him off immediately. Bakugou’s eyes narrowed, the refusal already forming on his lips. “What?”

“Simple,” you said, a small smirk playing on your face. “Admit you messed up, and apologise for not listening. Then, I’ll get us out of here.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened, his pride practically oozing out of him as he struggled to keep his temper in check. “Like hell I’m apologising,” he growled. “We’re in this mess because we’re moving too damn slow, not because of me.”

You shrugged, unbothered by his anger. “Alright, then keep going. I’m sure we’ll find a way out… eventually.” You glanced around the dense forest with a mocking innocence, as if the overgrown labyrinth wasn’t a problem at all. “Or not.”

Bakugou’s knuckles grew white, his frustration reaching its peak. He turned away, muttering curses under his breath, refusing to give in. But with each step, the forest only seemed to become more twisted, the trees looming larger, the path disappearing further into the shadows.

After a few more agonising minutes, he stopped again, exasperation etched across his face. He glanced over his shoulder at you, the words sticking in his throat.

You raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Bakugou gritted his teeth, his voice a low growl. “Fine. I was wrong.”

You tilted your head, pretending not to hear. “Sorry, what was that?”

He shot you a glare so sharp it could’ve cut through the trees. “I said I was wrong. Now, will you stop screwing around and get us out of here?”

You smiled, finally stepping forward to take the lead. “Was that so hard?” you teased, earning another growl from Bakugou. But this time, he stayed silent, begrudgingly following as you began to lead them out of the forest’s confusing maze.

“Don’t worry,” you added over your shoulder, still wearing that smug grin. If you weren’t the guide, he might have wiped that grin off with a punch. “Next time, you can leave the leading to me.”

Your last words grinded his gears. Bakugou clenched his jaw tight as if physically restraining himself from barking back. He could’ve sworn he was going to snap you in half right then and there, but he held back. As infuriating as you were, a nagging realisation settled in his mind: they were lucky you had tagged along. Begrudgingly lucky, but lucky all the same.

You paused for a moment, surveying the dense woods with a practised eye, before you began guiding the group through with an effortless ease that made Bakugou’s earlier confidence seem laughable. 

Somehow— and Bakugou still couldn’t wrap his head around it— you led the group to a completely different section of the forest. It wasn’t long before the forest’s suffocating maze seemed to lift, and the trees thinned. Bakugou watched as the scenery changed in disbelief. Unable to figure out how you’d managed to navigate a forest that had him twisted in circles. You just had to be a smart ass didn’t you? 

The air felt lighter here, the trees taller and less oppressive. The sunlight trickled through the branches in a way that felt oddly peaceful. It was as if you had simply known the right path all along, and Bakugou couldn’t deny that it both impressed and annoyed him.

“You got the forest in your head or something?” he grumbled as they walked, trying to mask his grudging respect with irritation. “Or just dumb luck?”

You shot him a sidelong glance, an amused smirk plastered on your mouth. “Nah. Some of us just pay attention.”

“Tch,” Bakugou scoffed, folding his arms. “Like I don’t pay attention.”

“Not to the right things, apparently,” you teased, your voice light with sarcasm. “But hey, can’t blame you for getting lost. It happens when you’re too busy charging ahead.”

Bakugou’s eye twitched, his pride bruised, but he refused to let you have the last word. “Yeah, well, next time, don’t take so damn long, and maybe I won’t have to charge ahead.”

You chuckled, enjoying the banter far more than you should. “Or maybe next time, you can just trust me from the start and save yourself the headache.”

Bakugou shot you a glare, the fire still in his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. “Trust? You?” He huffed, shaking his head. “You wish.”

“Come on, you know I’m right,” you said, grinning. “If I didn’t bail you out, you’d probably still be wandering around in circles.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened again. He wasn’t going to admit to that. “I’ll get it next time,” he growled, his voice low. “Give me a day and I’ll figure it out.”

“Right,” you replied with a chuckle. “Like how you ‘figured out’ the forest back there?”

He was tempted to send a fireball flying your way. “Shut up.” But deep down, he couldn’t deny the truth of your words. You had saved them time, even if it bruised his ego to admit it. Bakugou might not like relying on anyone, but he knew now that you weren’t just dead weight on this journey. Even if he didn’t say it out loud.

“Well,” you said after a moment, glancing at him with a smirk. “Apology accepted.”

Bakugou glared at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re pushing it.”

You laughed again, and for a brief second, even Bakugou couldn’t help the slight curve of a smile that tugged at his lips, though it was gone as quickly as it came. Despite his frustration, Bakugou couldn’t deny that you had proven yourself. Maybe, just maybe, there was something to be said for listening to you every once in a while. Only maybe. 

You weren’t the only one who had to prove themselves on this journey. Bakugou, despite his rough exterior and temper, had shown you that he was far more than some brash barbarian. When it mattered, he actually listened to you. You remembered how shocked you were when he considered your advice for the first time. That alone was impressive, though not entirely surprising. You have always known that he had a sharp mind behind those fiery eyes. He was someone who knew when to comply for the sake of the mission. But what did catch you off guard was how unexpectedly soft he could be.

Bakugou was guarded, always projecting an imposing figure, a man who never let his guard down. But you noticed the small moments when that armour cracked. In the way he bantered with his friends, how his laughter turned genuine when he was with them. He wasn’t just their leader; he was their friend. No matter how many times he’s complained about needing to take care of such a hopeless bunch. He truly cared.

You saw it when Sero got scratched by a dryad— Bakugou had lunged in without a second thought, his only concern being his friend’s safety. Afterwards, he chewed Sero out for being careless. And when Kirishima had tripped and hit the ground hard, Bakugou was the first to reach him, his hand outstretched, his voice stiffened with concern. Admittedly, he also made fun of his dragonborn companion for tripping but there was warmth in it. His care always came with a bite. 

There was a softness to him, a deep-seated loyalty and care for his companions that he kept hidden beneath layers of bravado and aggression. It’s as if his tough facade sometimes melts away in their presence, revealing a side of him that’s rarely seen. It was something you hadn’t expected from him, and it left you wondering just how much more there was to Katsuki Bakugou than what he let on. 

This softer side of Bakugou was revealed in the midst of battle. As you fought off a group of thorn wolves, you found yourself preoccupied with one particularly vicious beast. Your focus was on fending off the thorn wolves in front of you, but a sudden growl from behind warned you of a new threat. 

Before you could react, Bakugou’s figure appeared, crashing into the fray. His greatsword swung at the thorn wolf. Sending the wolf sprawling before he then turned to face you. 

“Watch your back!” he snapped, his tone was clearly irritated with you. But there was something softer underneath. 

You glared at him. Fine, he saved the skin of your back right there but you rather not be indebted to him. You probably could have handled it. “I had it under control.”

Bakugou huffed, eyes flashing with annoyance. “What did you say about us being in over our heads in this again?” 

You raised an eyebrow, dodging another swipe from a thorn wolf. Did he really remember your words from the first meeting? “Didn’t realise you were so invested in proving me wrong.”

He let out a grunt. His expression remained focused on the fight, but there was a glint of something like amusement— or was it satisfaction?— in his eyes. “Just trying to keep you from getting yourself killed. We need you to get us out of this mess.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the chaos of the battle. “Good to know you care.”

Bakugou snorted, shoving another wolf away. “I don’t care about you.”

You nodded, falling back into the rhythm of the fight, Bakugou's presence a reassuringly fierce force at your side. Even amidst the danger, his unexpected softness was a reminder that there was more to him than met the eye. While you’d always been confident in your own abilities, it was oddly reassuring to know that he’d be there, watching your six, just as you’d be watching his.

After the fight, the group busied themselves with tending to the light scratches and wounds they’d sustained. The injuries were minor, nothing that wouldn’t heal in a few days. Especially with your healing hands. You leaned against a tree, studying the compass in your hands, trying to keep your focus off the persistent, prickly sensation of being watched.

When you finally looked up, you found Bakugou’s gaze locked on you. It wasn’t the kind of stare that made you uncomfortable— he wasn’t leering. Instead, his eyes were sharp and focused, scanning your body with a meticulous intensity. It was clear he was checking you for any signs of injury, a gesture that was surprisingly thoughtful coming from him.

“Worried?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Bakugou’s face flushed slightly, his irritation evident as he snapped his attention away from you and back to the rest of the group. “As if.” he huffed, his tone gruff but carrying a hint of something softer underneath. 

You watched him retreat into his usual brusque demeanour, a faint smile tugging at your lips. It seemed like he had his own way of showing concern, and as much as he tried to hide it. The journey was far from over, and the Veil still held its secrets. But in that moment, you understood him a little better. Whatever lay ahead, you’d face it together, even if you had to drag Bakugou kicking and screaming the whole way.

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a/n: personally, i loved the lil midnight chat with bakugou wbu? @chocogoldie @l0kisbitch @devils-adversary @miikii0 @onlyisaa @sleepisfortheweakpooh

border credits: @/enchanthings & @/adornedwithlight

[parvulous-writings]

can i request karlach, jaheira and shadowheart x dhampir bard gn reader headcanons? maybe also platonic headcanons for astarion.

Warnings: Mentions of blood/gore/flesh, descriptions of eating blood/gore/flesh

Notes:  So I didn't want to go entirely with like, typical dhampir straight off the bat, so I rolled a d8 to see what reader would hunger for! The reader thirsts more for flesh/raw meat than blood, but can be sated with either! I was SO stoked to write this! Sorry if I focus more on the Dhampir side of things, I just... LOVE the idea <3 They might be a bit uneven! My requests are currently open! My pinned post (found here) contains both a list of characters I write for, and a masterlist!  Original character list - please request for these too!

Karlach

Initially, Karlach didn't really notice anything out of the ordinary with you. Sure, you had a... slightly offputting aura to you, but who in your little rag-tag team didn't? You seemed so funny to Karlach - your dark humour complimented her own very well, and she loved that about you. The fact that you were a bard made it all the better; when you weren't regaling the group with various tales, Karlach was making suggestions for insults you could use against opponents. You also taught her an insult or two, mostly because her delivery is always amusing to you.

She knew that you had a few... better than average abilities, but you often dismissed them if anyone tried to bring them up; your speed, your strength - and especially your rather uncanny ability to charm almost anyone to your cause. It's a very helpful skill for you to have, and since you don't want to talk about it, Karlach leaves the topic be.

As you spent more time on the road together, and grew closer, Karlach began to notice a few things about you. Your songs would often dwell on the gore of a tale, and even add it in - like it was something that you couldn't take your mind off of. She brushed it off though - bards always seemed to have something that they would focus on in their songs, perhaps the violence was just your thing, rather than the victory or the romance that other bards tried to emphasise. Even if you weren't the typical lovey-dovey bard that she was used to, she was definitely not complaining when you serenaded her in the evening.

That was her perfect evening - quality time with her lover, snuggled together in her tent, with you quietly playing and singing to her. Even if your songs can be a bit morbid, she loves hearing the sound of your voice.

She also noticed that you didn't often eat with her and the rest of the group - in fact, it was more like you never did. She didn't understand why, though - you always seemed so eager to eat. It was like your appetite was never really satisfied. It took her having to stalk you out into the woods one evening to discover your rather... Unsavoury appetite. The shock she felt at first made her freeze; how would someone rationally react to the sight of someone they loved eating flesh? How would someone react at all, let alone rationally?

Karlach ended up just standing there, unable to take her eyes off of you as your teeth tore into the meat in your hands. Things were starting to make sense to her - your songs focusing on gore was like the mind of a hungry person focusing on food. You were halfway through your meal when you saw the barbarian standing there, and you couldn't help but freeze too - your hunger, or rather the sating of it, was one of the only things that you had actively tried to hide.

"You'd seen us with Astarion - why didn't you tell us? Why didn't you tell me?" You thought Astarion's affliction was... Rather simple, in comparison to your own. A vampire, people knew about - a mortal, turned undead by another vampire, fed by blood. When you thought about that, you felt... Worse - your hunger couldn't be sated by blood alone. You had to have flesh as well, you craved it.

And, furthermore, your origins weren't exactly conventional; perhaps for Dhampirs, yes, but in general, not really. Having one vampire parent wasn't brilliant when talking to, well, anyone.

Thankfully, Karlach just about takes it in stride - though she doesn't appreciate secrecy between the two of you, she can kind of understand why you'd wanted to keep it that was for a while; no more secrets though. Lovers don't keep secrets, in her book.

Jaheira

Jaheira's wisdom had immediately set off quiet alarms about you after knowing you for a little while; seeing how you act around people, your constant noticeable hunger, the lot. She never brought it up, however. When your back is against the wall, you need as many allies as you can get, and you were certainly a favourable one, despite your oddities.

She had further inklings when you decided to entertain those taking shelter at Last Light. Your playing was divine - but that wasn't what irked her. What is was, was the more prominent canines that she could quite clearly see when you sang. She tried to blame it on the wine, but deep down she knew it wasn't so. She just didn't want to think that one of her currently most trusted allies was undead. Another reason she pushed it aside for the time being was because she knew it would be foolish to push away what seemed to be her best hope of getting out of the Shadow Curse alive. It was more than foolish, it was downright stupid - in times such as this, you must take every little blessing that you can.

It was during the battle at Moonrise that her suspicions started to be proven correctly. Your speed was unmatched by all but your pale elf companion, your blows hit just as hard as your barbarian friend. Not just that, but she had seen you bite one of your foes whilst in a frenzy of hits.

During the night-long celebration that followed the battle and all it entailed, Jaheira decided to confront you. You had stalked off to some mildly secluded area, just out of sight of the campfire, and Jaheira pursued. There she found a sight, that despite her suspicions, she had not expected. What she had expected was the amount of blood that had managed to smear itself round your face; what hadn't crossed her mind was the sheer amount of flesh that accompanied it. The way you tore into it, fangs first, was near feral - it was certainly a gruesome sight, and the druid was at least glad it was her who had found you, and not anyone else.

"I understand the necessity to hide such a secret from the masses, however, you're not exactly subtle with, well, any of it." Her words were not meant to chastise, but more to guide - she actually wanted to help you a little bit. You were valuable to her - both as an ally and a companion, and she would do near anything to help you. The world was unkind to many beings, dhampirs of course being one of them. She knew she couldn't shield you from all of the adversity you may face, but she could try and help you.

And so she does - or she tries her best, as you all head to Baldur's Gate. She doesn't exactly approve of your tastes now that you've entered the city, but understands that sometimes, needs must. She encourages you to resist if you can, and only take those who truly deserve death if you need to feed.

Shadowheart

Shadowheart didn't think there was too much out of the ordinary with you at first. To her, you were... Just a bard. A bard who mainly sang about violence, battles, and gore. Though, every bard has their gimmick, so she didn't think much more about it. She supposed it was a nice break from the norm of love and ancient legends.

Despite being fairly learned in things that lurk in the night, it took Shadowheart a while to figure out that you were a dhampir - though, she blamed part of that on her memory suppression. But, when she did finally figure it out, she wasn't entirely surprised. The fact that there was also a Vampire and a Warlock in the party... There was little left that would surprise the Sharran.

"I suppose I should have seen it coming... Your ballads about the innards of your foes, your sneaking off during supper... Not to mention your preternatural speed and strength, and those sharp canines of yours... All the signs were there, even if somewhat contradicted by the fact that you're alive. A pity I couldn't see it sooner. Then again... I suppose having two supernatural allies is better than having one, hm? That being said... No more secrets. I can't trust you if you hide things from me."

Despite your... Condition, she's actually very comfortable around you. She was quite perturbed when she caught you mid-feed- "I thought Dhampirs only fed on blood?!" You had to try and explain that in fact, there were many kinds of dhampirs - some had sanguine hunger, similar to their undead counterparts, others like yourself fed on the flesh of a victim, but there were even those who fed on more abstract energy, such as dreams. It was quite a shock to Shadowheart, but she kept her questions to a minimum.

As your journey continues, she asks you to sing to her more and more - often requesting to hear about your favourite things; your home, where your favourite haunt was before the mindflayers, but often, she likes to hear of your finest kills, and the feast that ensues after. She'll often jokingly muse, "Do you ever wonder what my flesh would taste like?" "Sometimes... Though I try not to dwell on the thought for too long... I think you'd taste sweet - aromatic, even... A true, refined delicacy."

She'd laugh quietly, and then ask you to sing to her again as she leans against you. The longer you spend journeying together, the more she comes to trust you. She finds it easier and easier to open up to you, knowing that despite your neverending hunger, you would never turn your fangs towards her... Unless she asked, of course. She likens your struggle to resist to her struggle with her faith to Shar; it's a long, inner struggle that often, you cannot speak to anyone about.

When you get to the city, she does make jokes akin to "I'm sure no one would miss him... Do you think he'd taste good enough?" And wouldn't say no to the idea of you potentially eating members of her cloister, now that they are somewhat after her.

Astarion (platonic)

This man nearly outs you on more than one occasion. He says each time that is it "Merely an accident, a slip of the tongue, if you will... It won't happen again..." But, I can guarantee, it will. It's a near daily occurrence.

This is because that, being a vampire himself, Astarion knows what to look for, when it comes to being around someone like himself. Sure, you don't have the trademark paleness that a vampire often possesses, but you have nearly every other feature. After one full day of travelling with you, observing your behavior, seeing your prowess in battle, and hearing your ballads of blood, guts and gore... He knows. He saunters right up to you, and says it nearly loud enough for the whole camp to hear. You clasp your hand over his mouth, begging him to stay quiet. The last thing you need is to be ousted to your party, when you have no idea how to react.

To begin, Astarion tries to give you tips on how to hide your true nature. After a while of staring at your frankly disinterested face, he realises that there's no point. So, instead you start to discuss the... Finer points of your diets - what tastes good, what doesn't; it's a brilliant bonding point for the pair of you. It's what a lot of your friendship is built upon, and you can't complain about it - it's nice to finally have someone who can understand the insatiable hunger, the need to hide, all of it... Even if he does constantly criticise your ballads for being "inaccurate" when it comes to the descriptions of the blood and the gore. He truly can be a stickler for being right, sometimes. You eventually learn to ignore him, though.

[commander-krios]

The Things We Do For Love

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Pairing: f!Tav/Rolan/m!Tav (@barbwillbrb's Rackal) Rating: Teen Summary: The Blushing Mermaid, a raunchy song, and a pair of troublemaking lovers keep Rolan on his (clawed) toes. Words: 2654 Additional Tags: Bard Tav, Polyamory, Tiefling Tav, Half-Drow Tav, Post-Canon

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The Blushing Mermaid had become a spot they frequented often since the defeat of the Netherbrain. It was nothing like the fancy taverns in the Upper City, places where Rolan fit in better as the Master of Ramazith's Tower, but Juniper and Rackal preferred this place to most others in Baldur's Gate. The amount of headaches he'd gotten in the last few months was astronomical.

Even now, he was surprised by the type of things he did for love.

“Why are we here?”

The tavern was overcapacity, that much was obvious as a throng of bodies pushed against one another, the scent of body order and alcohol overwhelming his senses. Covering his nose, he tried to follow Lia and Cal but the patrons kept halting him to congratulate his new post as Master of Ramazith’s Tower. Which would’ve been appreciated in any other context, but all he wanted was a cup of wine and quiet after the week he’d had. Rebuilding a city from the ground up was long and arduous work, after all.

“I told you. Juniper is debuting a new song and we are here to support her.” Lia said with a grin, grabbing his arm and hauling him past his newest admirers. Their shouts of disappointment were drowned out by raucous laughter further ahead.  “Unless you want to disappoint your girl?”

The use of ‘your girl’ sent his pulse racing. He was prepared to make a blustering fool of himself, a common situation he found himself in whenever his relationship with Juniper was brought up in conversation, when a gruff voice came from the table beside him.

"Don't you mean 'our girl'?"

With a sigh from deep in his chest, Rolan turned to find Rackal blinking up at him, one milky white eye paired with a deep and shining blue, a blue almost as beautiful as the Chionthar, or so one of Juniper's ballads claimed. Still, despite the embellishment of the bard's tales, Rackal's eyes were mesmerizing to behold.

"Are we going to have an immature dispute over such a trivial matter?" Rolan asked pointedly, only to receive a toothy grin from the half-drow. "What's so funny?"

Lia nudged past him before he could respond and plopped down in one of the chairs opposite of Rackal. "Can you tell Master Grumpy-pants to stop complaining? He's been at this all afternoon."

Rackal leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight and Rolan swallowed at the sight of his strong thighs flexing beneath snug trousers. He was tempted to mention how Rackal was also his, but decided better of it. Best not to give the man more reason to gloat. 

"I am not grumpy." He opted for instead, settling into the empty seat beside the half-drow. "There are many other things I could be doing, important things."

"Wizarding things?" Lia asked sarcastically, her eyes rolling to the ceiling that Rolan only just noticed was terribly dirty and cracked. How could people sit beneath it and not be afraid of it falling on top of them?

"As a matter of fact-"

The cacophony around them fell to a hush. Lia waved her hand at him, a motion that was meant to shut him up, but that only further incessed him. As he opened his mouth to argue, intending to tell his sister exactly what he thought of her incessant teasing, Rackal nudged him with an elbow. Of course they'd work together to bother him tonight. 

Rolan glanced at his boyfriend, finding that the man had raised an eyebrow at his reaction. A challenge, if he ever saw one. They stared at one another for the span of a few seconds until Rackal nodded towards the front of the room where a small stage was set up. There, a tiefling woman stood, a familiar lute held in her hands.

A lute with a metal forged brooch embedded in the wood. A brooch that he knew as well as the back of his own hands: a juniper tree surrounded by sapphires that glittered like stars in the sky. 

Rolan swallowed nervously as her brilliantly blazing blue eyes found their small group in the crowd, her face changing from stoic concentration into a spectacular grin that took his breath from his chest, leaving him both dizzy and elated.

"There she is." Rackal said, leaning against the table, settling his arms against the top. His eyes were only for the bard, so taken with the tiny tiefling in a colorful tunic, complete with a fishtail hem and bells. Rolan still had a difficult time coming to terms with the damned bells, but for some reason, Rackal found them endearing. "Doesn't she look fantastic?"

Rolan suppressed an eye roll, trying to remain the dignified wizard he was. Yes, his girlfriend was beautiful and smart and talented and there were times she thought she was hilarious even though he knew better-

Lia nudged him aggressively with her hand, reaching over the table to shove him and immediately breaking through his rambling thoughts.

With a pointed glare in his sister's direction, he whispered harshly, "What was that for?"

"She's starting, you idiot. Pay attention."

With a growl, Rolan intended to give her a piece of his mind, how dare she talk to him like that?, but Rackal slipped a hand beneath his, entwining their fingers together before giving his a gentle squeeze. Rolan glanced down at their hands, Rackal's much larger one dwarfing his, rough and scarred by war while his were much softer. Not soft like a man of Gale's station, a person used to a life of studies and finery, but a man who lived a tougher life, even if his nose was buried in a book more often than not. Despite their differences, they fit together perfectly. And for a fleeting moment, he felt calm, rested, content. Sighing quietly, he leaned into Rackal, feeling the man's strong body against him, an anchor that kept him from reverting to his former self: a person he was not proud of.

"I'm glad you're here." Rolan muttered, low enough that Lia and Cal wouldn't hear him from the opposite side of the table.

"Of course you are." Rackal said with a grin, throwing his arm across Rolan's shoulders, fingers brushing the fine embroidery on his collar. It took everything in the wizard not to shiver at the touch. "It's a good thing I quit adventuring. You'd be bored without me around."

Rolan waved at the bard standing on the stage, strumming the beginnings of a ballad. "I would agree with you, but then, we have her."

Rackal chuckled affectionately. "And how lucky we are."

Juniper stood there proudly, her voice carrying a beautiful melody over the quiet crowd, when her eyes flicked to him, lips twitching in a soft smile. She was gorgeous, her raven hair spilling over her shoulders in gentle curls, the purple streaks nearly hidden in the dim lighting. Her eyes glowed a cool azure, outlined by the darkest charcoal, and even in the dimness of the tavern, his natural darkvision allowed him to see the details of her face easily: a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, the slight blush on her lavender-grey skin, the scar that rang along her left cheek, the septum ring that matched the one Rackal wore. Every day, whenever he opened his eyes to see her dazzling grin aimed at him, he wondered how it was he deserved her. Deserved them both, if he was honest.

Two large as life heroes and here they were, with him of all people.

Clearing his throat nervously, Rolan averted his gaze and searched for a distraction, deciding to pour himself a drink. All he managed in his clumsy and awkward attempt to fill a cup from the wine carafe on the table was spilling said wine on the table.

Rackal's hand closed over his, lowering the carafe to its spot on the table, steadying him more assuredly than anyone or anything ever had. "Rolan?"

"What?"

The reply was more forceful than he meant it to be, but the half-drow must've seen the way his hands shook because he only smiled. "Look at her. Tell me what you see."

Reluctantly, the tiefling glanced at the stage, watching as Juniper spun around, the magic she pulled on as she sang glittering in the air around her. Butterflies like little shooting stars circled her in brilliant flashes of light, blues and purples and greens. Every time one passed in front of her face, it left a colorful glow against her skin.

His breath caught in his chest, mesmerized by the sight. 

"I see the woman I love doing what she loves. What else could I possibly be doing?”

If he glanced in Rackal's direction, Rolan knew he would've seen a wide grin aimed at him. Deciding to save himself a little dignity, he kept his gaze on Juniper as she finished her song, bowing to the applause that followed the lute's final note. 

When the noise died down, her eyes swept the crowd, landing on him again. At first, he thought it was her naturally being drawn to him; they'd all be through so much together. He, Lia, and Cal with Elturel and the long trip to Baldur's Gate... and Lorroakan. Juniper and Rackal with the mindflayers, the worms in their brains... the Netherbrain and goddamned devils. 

And goddamned Gods.

They'd found each other in the midst of tragedy and uncertainty and somehow managed to make a life full of love, scraping together whatever happiness they could.

As much as he pretended otherwise, Rolan was the happiest he’d ever been in his entire life. 

"This next song was written by me with a little help from one of my favorite people in all of Faerun." She sent a wink in Rackal's direction. He lifted his drink in response, and for a brief moment, Rolan wondered what in the nine hells they were conspiring on. Alone? They were trouble. But when they put their collective brain cell together, they were formidable. 

"What did you do?" He asked, raising an eyebrow at the laugh the half-drow let out.

"Me?" Rackal had the audacity to look offended. "Why do you assume the worst?"

"Because I know you both as well as I know myself." 

"Shhh." Lia hissed, looking ready to push him off his chair if he continued to speak. Rackal bit his lip in an attempt to keep his laugh contained, but it slipped out anyway.

Rolan rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and leaning back into chair, ignoring the bewildered look on Cal's face as he glanced back. He was glad everyone was so amused. When he returned his attention to the stage, Juniper was watching him with her eyebrows pulled together, a wrinkle in the center of her forehead as she watched them argue. His mouth pulled awkwardly in a comforting smile, but by the look on her face (a twist of her mouth that wasn't quite a frown, but close enough that he felt guilty for being such a grump), it did the opposite of what he intended.

Rackal's hand brushed against the back of his neck, twirling a piece of Rolan's hair around a finger. "Relax. You deserve a break as much as the rest of us."

Rolan shivered when nails scraped against his skin. He supposed that Rackal was correct in his observations. As much as this wasn't his choice of venue, Rolan would be here for Juniper. 

He felt some of the tension in his neck and shoulders ease as Rackal massaged his muscles gently. With a contented sigh, he slipped down slightly into the seat. Juniper lifted her lute, seeming satisfied with his new position, and began to strum the notes of a song he'd never heard before.

With a sweet smile and a nod of her head, Juniper began to sing:

The Master of Ramazith's Tower

A man of great attributes, is he

A thundering amount of power

From the tips of horns down to his feet

His tale, it does the masses empower

For who would not see

How delicious he would be to devour

To hear the sounds he would make in sweet plea

Rolan felt his stomach drop out of his body and through the floor, perhaps it landed somewhere in Avernus, sizzling among the flames. People in front of him turned to stare at him and he felt his cheeks flare in embarrassment. 

What was she doing?

The song only got worse. There was an entire section talking about how pretty his eyes were and things that Juniper probably should've never been allowed to speak of in anything but private conversation. The crowd began to laugh by the end, realizing that this was most likely making fun of Ramazith Tower's new master, not a tale to take seriously.

He met Juniper's gaze once more during the song and from the smile on her face, she very much meant each word.

His ears were still burning when the show ended, many patrons stopping to congratulate him on having such a rousing song written about him. All he could do was stutter a thanks before he was whisked away on Rackal's arm backstage where Juniper was waiting for them.

As she turned to greet them, Rolan immediately launched into his tirade.

“What possessed you to write such a … song… about me? And I use the term ‘song’ very loosely.” Rolan pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to get angry. Because the fury would only fuel Juniper’s antics more and he was catching on to her games. 

“You can’t tell me that you haven’t noticed your admirers, Rolan.” Lia piped up, a grin as wide as the river that flowed not far from where they stood and he realized that she knew about this. She and Cal both. He walked right into another trap of theirs and now they were using Juniper as a weapon. And what a weapon she was.

"I'm perfectly fine with the ones I have." He waved in the direction of Rackal and Juniper, both who were watching him blush from his horns to his toes. "Although, they are standing on thin ice after this stunt."

Juniper rolled her eyes playfully, bumping her shoulder into his, rocking him gently with the motion. “Oh, come on. You know I would never pass up a moment to tease you.”

He cleared his throat, ignoring the knowing looks his siblings threw him. “Well, if you would please resist for five seconds-”

“You’re asking a lot-”

Rolan frowned, raising his eyebrows as if waiting for her to finish her thought, but she only smiled at him sweetly. He was in trouble with her, there was no doubt about it, but when she grinned at him like that… he found he didn’t care. But he would never let her know that.

"Why do I put up with this nonsense?"

"Because you love me.” She had a point, as usual, but he refused to give her the win. Not when he was still annoyed at her using him in a song of all people. Her hand slipped into his, warm against his palm, and she leaned closer, dropping her voice an octave. “And because you love the things this mouth does-”

With flaming cheeks, Rolan hurriedly covered her mouth with his free hand, glancing around to make sure no one heard her. Thankfully, both of his siblings were busy conversing with some of their friends, their minds occupied by other things. “By the Nine Hells!”

Rackal let out a laugh as if he couldn't hold it back any longer. Throwing an arm around each of his lovers, the half-drow kissed one's cheek before moving onto the other. "Let's take this home before Rolan gets other ideas into that head of his."

His cheeks only burned hotter.

[verai-marcel]

Your Hearth Is My Home (BG3 Fanfic, Astarion x Female Reader, Part 5 of ?)

Summary, Notes, Tags, & Part 1 are here.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

AO3 Link is here, my dear.

Word Count: 2110

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Act I, Chapter 5 - The Visitors

The new campsite was a small peninsula, with a waterfall feeding the stream that curved around the site. A small bridge of rocks led to a ruined building, the stones worn by time and covered with moss. There were rocks and boulders surrounding the area that would be a great defense in case of danger. Wyll had mentioned that at least one of them would be staying with you at all times to patrol the campgrounds, so you felt safe. 

However, your companions had warned you against wandering too far from camp without one of them coming with you, as there could be goblins roaming around. 

Setting up the tents with Wyll and Karlach was actually a fun experience. The two of them, despite you telling them to rest, went ahead and built their own tents. You had an inkling that they just wanted to pick out a good spot at the campsite. When you found them helping with each other’s tents, you smiled to yourself and left them alone. 

As you finished setting up everything else, you had an epiphany. Going back to Karlach's tent, you found her laying on her bedroll outside, dozing. She opened one eye as you approached. 

"Could I test something on your tent?"

"Sure." Then both her eyes sprung open and she sat up excitedly. "Are you going to make it cooler?!" 

You winked at her before walking inside. Within the dim confines, you reversed your warmth cantrip. Stepping backwards carefully, you sang the spell softly, moving your hands, weaving the coldness into the air. Light blue lines appeared, threads of magic coming from your fingers, until you finished the cantrip and clapped twice. Snowflakes burst from your hands, and you felt the air cool immediately. 

Sticking your head out from the tent, you waved her in. By now Wyll had joined her, and together they stepped inside. 

"Oh my days," Karlach squealed with delight. "It's lovely in here, just perfect!" 

Wyll grinned, looking happy for her. "A bit too cold for me, but I'm glad you're enjoying it." He looked over at you. "Thank you. You're very thoughtful."

You smiled. "Just trying to keep you all comfortable," you replied. "Oh, but if something goes wrong, please let me know so I can fix it," you added as you left them to enjoy the results of your test. 

***

When the others returned, you were not at all surprised to see a man coming with them. He introduced himself as Volo, claiming to be some kind of bard.

Is he…? He couldn’t be…?

“Are you the Volo of ‘Volo’s Guide to Waterdeep’?” you asked.

The man’s eyes lit up and his smile could not be broader. “Why yes, I am that Volo!” He came up to you, grabbed your hand with both of his, and shook it vigorously. You were glad you were still wearing your gloves; you had the feeling that you would have been overwhelmed by his excitement at meeting someone who knew his work.

“Tell me, did you enjoy the guide? Which version did you read? What was your favorite part?”

Overwhelmed by his rapid fire questions, you pulled your hand out of his and held it up to stop him. “I found it, erm, entertaining,” you said neutrally. It was full of shit, but it was amusing to read. “I read the second edition when it came out. My employer had one in his library.”

You saw Gale glance over at you. Shit. Now he knew you spent time in Waterdeep as well. Dammit, he’s probably going to ask me about it later. I might as well just give away my entire life’s story while I’m at it.

After hearing Volo’s self-aggrandizing tales for a minute too long, you eventually got out of the conversation by using your chores as a way to flee. 

Guess we have another mouth to feed. Better send someone to hunt something big.

***

One by one, more visitors came. In the early evening as supper was winding down, a white dog came by. It sniffed the adventurers, wagging its tail and lolling its tongue happily as everyone took turns scratching his head and patting his side.

Then the dog looked at you. He tilted his head.

You took a mostly eaten rib from the boar that Karlach had brought for you to roast, and knelt down, holding it out to him.

He came up warily, sniffed the bone, then took it from your hand and started gnawing away.

“Have you all decided on a name?” you asked the group.

They glanced at each other and shrugged.

“You can name him,” Karlach said. “He’ll probably be staying with you most of the time, after all.”

Oh, thanks for the added responsibility. But you weren’t actually annoyed; he was a charming dog. Wondering what to name him, you idly reached out to pet his head.

Scratch.

You blinked. You weren’t sure who said that, as the voice was faint and unfamiliar. As you looked back at the dog, he was staring up at you.

Scratch.

“Scratch?”

He barked and wagged his tail.

“I guess that’s his name now,” Shadowheart said.

You got up, but kept your eyes on the dog, who was gnawing the bone again.

Curious.

***

The next visitor triggered your tripwire late at night. The bell chimed softly until you awoke, pushing yourself up.

Your heart stopped.

A creature came crawling out of the brush. You couldn’t tell what it was at first, but as it came closer to the campfire embers, you saw the feathers, the beak, the round body…

What the hell is an owlbear cub doing here? Where is its mother? Oh gods, what do I do?

You stayed stock still, watching it slowly approach you. Then it paused. And turned back towards the path out of the camp. Your eyes followed, and you saw Astarion returning from his night hunt.

The owlbear cub went towards him instead.

No, little cub! He’ll drink you!

You moved to stop the cub, but you stopped when you saw Astarion kneel down and speak softly to it. Then he led it towards the camp rations, pulled out a piece of dried meat, and tossed it at the cub, who ate it ravenously.

The soft look on Astarion’s face gave you pause. Is this a shapeshifter? Who is this man?

Unable to stop your curiosity, you got up and quietly tiptoed over to them. Though you tried to be careful, the owlbear saw you approach and suddenly fled back into the darkness.

“What was that?”

“Hm? Oh, we rescued him from some goblins. Karlach convinced everyone to let it sniff our hands so it could find its way here.”

“But what about its mother?”

“It’s dead.”

He didn’t elaborate on how or why, and quite frankly, you were too damn tired to ask. You just shook your head and went back to your bedroll.

How many more visitors will we have?

***

“Want to come to the druids’ grove with us?”

You had just finished the morning chores, so it was perfect timing. You readily agreed to Wyll’s suggestion. Although some of the party didn’t seem too keen on you getting closer to possible danger, especially with some of the druids acting uncharacteristically hostile, Wyll convinced them that overall, the grove was safe.

So he, Astarion, Karlach, and Gale took you to the grove so you could trade for supplies and get out of camp for a little while.

As they continued to comb the area for information, you talked with the vendors and bartered for supplies. You even took a turn at cooking, even if it only turned out to be just barely edible. You could only do so much with whatever the lady had put together. You weren’t a miracle worker, after all.

As you explored the grove, you heard singing off in the distance. Following the sound, you came out of the caves and into a sunlit cove by the water. A small boy was walking towards the song, seemingly entranced.

You quickly realized that he was entranced. 

Sprinting towards the water, you reached out for him. “Wait, come back—”

A shadow flew overhead, and a figure landed before the boy on the shoreline.

Harpies.

You furrowed your brow. You could turn back, get help.

But then the boy would be alone.

Dammit.

You only had a dagger you didn’t know how to use and a few herbs in your bag.

The harpy on the shoreline looked at you and grinned. Then she opened her mouth and sang.

You covered your ears, but it didn’t cancel the effect. It was a beautiful song, so much so that you nearly succumbed. But you resisted, even as your nose bled with the effort.

Suddenly four bodies flew past you. The party had arrived just in time, firing arrows and spells at the harpy in front of the boy, distracting her long enough so that you could run up to the boy and pull him out of harm’s way. As you ran back towards the cave with him, tugging on his hand whenever he started to stray, you could hear spells being thrown, splashing and fighting. And through it all, one of the harpies kept singing. Your nose kept bleeding, even as you got further away.

When you finally got the boy back inside the cave and out of range of the harpy’s song, you rushed back, despite knowing how dangerous it was. Wiping the blood off your face with your sleeve, you analyzed how the song worked. There was power in song, magic in melody. You didn’t have the skill to fight.

But you could sing.

When you returned, you could see that the others were beginning to fall to the harpy’s harmful harmonies. You hoped that you had figured out enough. Furrowing your brow, you took a deep breath.

And you sang the song in counterpoint.

The others shook their heads as the mental hold on them came undone. They looked back at you in shock for a moment, surprised by your return. Then they realized that they could think clearly again, and charged the last two harpies, taking them down with a vengeance.

With victory came looting, and with looting, came a gift. Gale came up to you with a small bag of gold.

“Thank you for your help. Here’s your share of the spoils,” he said, handing it to you. Then he put his hands on his hips and frowned at you, looking very much like a stern disciplinarian. “Although it was very foolhardy and you should never get close to danger again.”

You rolled your eyes. “I wasn’t that close.”

Karlach joined Gale. “Close enough. We wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

You turned to Wyll, who just nodded in agreement. You fumed at being treated like a child, but part of you knew they were right. After all, you really didn’t know how to fight.

“Alright,” you said glumly.

Wyll and Gale patted your arm as they walked past you, back into the cave. Karlach just gave you a thumbs up and a grin.

Suddenly you felt a warm body behind you.

“You fool,” Astarion breathed into your ear.

You turned to him, anger firing through your veins. “I came back to help!”

“You’re no help if you’re dead,” he countered. “Besides, you’ll make everyone else sad if you get hurt.”

You gritted your teeth. You knew he was right, and you also knew he was using your emotions against you to do what he wanted.

For a moment, you hated him for it. 

You finally let out a defeated sigh. “I got it. I won’t put myself in danger again.”

“Good.” He glanced at the blood on your sleeve where you had wiped at your bloody nose. “I can’t have my sweet snack losing any of her precious blood, after all.”

You glared.

He smiled airily as he stepped back, gesturing for you to follow the others. As you turned and stomped away, back into the Hollow, he fell in step beside you. At first, you thought he was keeping an eye on you.

“You don’t have to stand so close,” you bristled.

Astarion shrugged. “Someone has to make sure you don’t do anything foolish.”

He didn’t leave your side for the rest of the trip, all the way back to camp. As the rest of the day went on, you noticed that his attention wasn’t on you, but around you. Almost as though he was looking out for danger.

Was he… protecting me? No, that can’t be right.

Can it?

-------------------------------

Chapter End Notes: Oh hai, this campsite is the one from the game, the wilderness one that you mostly see in Act I. Also, let me know in the comments if you’re okay with longer chapters. I’ve been breaking these up into about 2,000-ish word chunks, but I have some chapters later that will be closer to 3,000.

[illistyn]

Claws of Desire: Part 1

Kiral ran through the dark forest, heedless of the low-hanging branches that scraped her face and legs. The brambles tore her clothes and cut her fair skin, yet she barely noticed. Her wide brown eyes frantically searched the darkness behind her for signs of her relentless pursuer as she fled, stumbling over roots and rocks. Luck was with her that she had kept her footing along the treacherous ground this long, but her luck wouldn’t hold out long. A howl split the darkness that made her blood run cold and she faced forward and ran faster; it was still coming. And I thought they were just a myth, she thought as she tried not to cry. Her small frame ducked under a low hanging branch as she skidded around a fallen tree. Kiral’s dress was barely hanging on at this point—only held together by a tattered bit of cloth—from the branches and thorns of the bushes and trees of the forest.

Kiral Asaroth was an apprentice wizard and had seen twenty summers. She had wandered deep into the forest to gather items to surprise her master, ignoring the old wizards warnings. He had warned her of the Shifters—a race of humanoid creatures able to shift into bestial form that had a primal code of lust and mating—but Kiral had waved the tales away, believing them myth and fables like the rest of the land. Even the bard’s tales mentioned the shifter’s ruthless taking of human women for breeding and slaves, but were always made to be romantic and sexy. Kiral had often daydreamed of being taken by these mythical creatures and most of the journey into the forest was spent thinking of that very act; she had been quite aroused by the time the sun had started to set. Then a growl from the high ridge brought her back to reality and sent her running for her life. The man atop the ridge had started to turn into something else and Kiral did not wait to see what. Shifters had always been fairy tales and myth...until now. Now, one of these creatures was coming for her and it seemed that she was going to die rather than have wild passionate sex.

She tried to cast another cloaking spell as she ran, but it was useless. She just couldn’t concentrate enough to command what little magic she knew. Another howl—closer still—made tears spring from her eyes as she bolted through the trees. She could hear the footfalls of the beast behind her now as it broke through the branches and brush in its pursuit and she risked another look back. She caught a glimpse of something large and furry, but her foot snagged a root and sent her sprawling down a steep slope before she could discern anything else. Over and over she tumbled downward, her clothes being snagged and torn away on thorns as she slammed through bushes. Kiral finally stopped when her body hit a fallen tree, the wind knocked clean from her lungs. Gasping uselessly for air that refused to come, Kiral crawled up with bloody hands and tried to pull herself to her feet using the fallen tree. After a few agonizing seconds the air returned as well as a sense of dread. Get up...get up! she thought frantically as she tried to focus. Her head was spinning still and she had no balance. Standing on wobbly legs she looked down and shook her head. Her shirt was in tatters, leaving her breasts showing as blood ran from several cuts and scrapes. Her dress was gone altogether leaving her in just panties, high white stockings, and shoes.

“There is no escape, girl,” a growling voice shouted from above. “You will give in to me.”

Adrenalin surged through her and washed away the dizziness. The fall down the long slope had given her some distance, but it wouldn’t be enough; this thing was fast. She stumbled on and slowly gained speed once more, plunging deep into the woods. Kiral had no idea where she was or where she was going. She only knew that If she could concentrate she could hide with a spell, yet her fear ruled her now. Master Falisan always said to train for these moments, and I ignored him, Kiral thought as she ran on. The shifter was getting closer again, breathing loudly behind her and gaining fast as it crashed through brambles and broke through branches. Kiral risked another glance back and screamed at the sight of the ferocious beast in what moonlight was peeking through the dark canopy overhead. The shifter was indeed humanoid, yet it ran on all fours. It looked very wolfish, with almond shaped eyes and large canine teeth. It’s powerfully muscular body was covered in short black fur and its hands ended in small claws that dug furrows in the ground as it sped after her.

[myfanfic-urfantrash]

On A Scale Of One To Wine How Are You A Venti?

Diluc X Venti

CW: Mentions of alcohol. THIS IS AN UNFINISHED PIECE

A/N: Title make no sense but it’s funny to me so we keep it. Is this set in the same universe as my fic “Sea Foam and Lava Rock”? Nah not in the slightest. Is does still DiluVen? Yes! :D

Under the read more cause it’s a mess

------

One of the things Diluc plans for is theft. His family wine and fruit are famous for their quality, that many rival brands or even those desiring to make a quick buck would try to steal.

The problem was that his thief had good taste. Another was that they left all sorts of odd...treasures in place of the stolen goods. Pearls, gold, jewelry, and more that must've been found on the sea floor.

Of all the things Diluc expected to be pilfering through his merchandise, he didn’t expect it to be a mermaid of all things.

Rats? Sure.

A stowaway? Possibly.

A mermaid? Not a chance. 

Mermaids weren’t real and if they were they must have kept well hidden and steered clear of human activity, especially if those legends of humans hunting mermaids had any merit.

But here they were anyway, with a pale thin webbed hand holding a rather expensive bottle of grape wine and a half eaten apple in the other. The light of his lantern reveals their iridescent teal tail, half dipped into the sea below the dock.

Now he doesn’t know much about mermaids- again they weren’t real so why would he bother- but clearly- and he’s making a guess here- but he could definitely be wrong.

Mermaids live for thousands of years if he remembers right, so despite them looking so young they could be anywhere from twenty to a thousand years plus.

Their confidence though admirable is foolish. Diluc knows that even if he's not the sort to capture or harm a creature - again they didn't exist until just now- if those tales were true shouldn't they be more careful?

Diluc’s eyes scan the docks, quiet as usual this time of night, not a soul except for the occasional light from the look outs. His eyes look back down at the mermaid- merman? He doesn't know if human gender terms even apply at this point.

Their curious yet mesmerizing teal eyes glimmer in the lanterns light as they chew their stolen apple slowly.

He needs to deal with them, mermaid-merman-whatever, he might not be strapped for cash but profit loss is profit loss.

-------- End

Thanks for reading! Not sure if I’ll ever continue this piece but if I ever do here’s my notes below I guess???

______

OG Idea:

Little merman Venti gets caught in Diluc’s net after stealing one apple too many from his ship, Diluc let’s him go only to be stuck with a merman who keeps flirting with him poorly...but is it really poor flirting when it’s working even with the language barrier? (if this ain’t a cute comedy I will riot and fight you(me))

Of course this did not happen but this little thing inspired “Seafoam and Lava Rock” and honestly I just wanted to see some cute merVenti and Diluc that’s really why I wrote those.

vvvv what I wanted to write to continue the current fic but didn’t cause brain hurty for a whoooooooooooole year+ D:

< What Happens Summed Up: Venti confesses to not having enough to eat because the sailors have fished far too much/are too close for comfort and how he's been hungry for a while and saw that the humans eat these fruits and such and diluc is like ugh I guess I'll feed you now can you like transform or something or is that a- o holy shit you have legs and are very naked oh my god...then they stay together for a while as venti decides to be a singer for his ship since he does work part time as a bard for some ships but got thrown over for insulting the captain for being a buffoon and braggart with no actual claim that or just make it him irritating Zhongli cause that’s funnier and then it’s just cute fluff forever I just want them to be happy and hold hands very softly at the end with like a cute promise or something I’m not crying you(me) are every second you’re(me again) not writing this aaaaaaaaaaaa ;v; >

<A line that’s suppose to be in the story vvvv

Curse my bleeding heart-

"Alright you can stay”

And he begins to cheer [insert bard talking grumpy bird man here]

-----

If I ever decide to finish this well...you’ll all know cause I will make a nice post :D

[galesdevoteewife]

BG3 Tav Backstory Bash

This is a challenge to help people flesh out their Tav’s backstory by exploring their past. It is organized into four sections with seven prompts. You can treat this as a monthly challenge or a general project. You can write headcanons, fics, or share art based on the prompts! You can interpret the prompts however you want. If you want to share use the tag #bg3backstorybash @kelandrin's original post

Thanks @fantasyfictionfables for the tag! Yeah traumatized-sinister-sweet Menzoberranzan drow baby, here we go!

Zilvera | Lolth-sworn runaway drow | Rogue/Sword Bard | Neutral

[WARNING] This content contains slightly dark adult themes including incest, sex, murder, drugs, child abuse... Please read with caution. They're only slightly mentioned though!

Baby

| Birth | Born 4 Alturiak, 1460 DR. | Parents | Her biological mother was a soldier from the church, her father's identity was unknown even to her biological mother. She was carried as a means of entertainment [1], and was an outcome of debauchery. Zilvera doesn't have any memory of her biological mother. She was told that her biological mother was killed on a mission when she was little, but it's not like her biological mother spent even a day nurturing her. She was fed and taken care of by the church's slaves, taught and trained by the soldiers and priests, just like many other children in the church.

On the other hand, Chessintra, a high priest of the Lolth church, whom she addressed as both her mother and her mistress. Chessintra was the one who shaped her morals and ways. Later on, Chessintra even took Zilvera into her nightchamber.

| First word | "Elliya Lolthu" — "Test me, Lolth." She didn't even understand what the meaning was; it was just something that she heard again and again. And the adults seemed pleased when she said it so she would repeat the words for that reason.

| Tantrum | After witnessing adults putting spiders into other crying kids' open mouths, she learned at a very early age to subdue her needs, do as she was told without making a beep. She also learned that she could, and was even encouraged to, let out and play shenanigans on the slaves.

| First sickness | Poisoned, of course. It was fed to her for building immunity, but it was awfully painful.

Childhood & Teenager

| Friends and Siblings | Zilvera grew up with many children in the church. The number of peers decreased to less than 20% as they reached adulthood. They were friends and good rivals — when their assignments didn't collide. They all knew too well that their time spent together being silly, gossiping, and comforting each other would not provide even a moment's hesitation when the death orders came.

| Getting Into Trouble | Not because she was being a teenager or naughty, but trying to save her own skin from sticky life-and-death missions. It was more than enough to wear down any rebellious tendencies she might have had. | Games |

• She doesn’t kill or do evil for sport. It always comes with a reason and addresses a problem to be solved.

• Enjoys lizard riding contests.

• (Almost) never loses at hide and seek.

• Casual gambling and thievery for fun

| Work | She worked as the church’s soldier and spy, mainly collecting intelligence, carrying out assassinations, capturing and training slaves, and occasionally defending the city from various dangers: including mind flayers, duergars, and countless types of nightmare beasts. | Learning Something New | As a church agent, she often had to infiltrate or deal with merchant companies and clans, which are often led by males. Therefore, she held relatively less gender discrimination towards males compared to others in her matrilineal society. She heard many rumors, tales, and ballads from there, and knows more about the surface world and other races than most of her people. | Trauma | Too many to know where to start, lol.

• She scarcely escaped a death trap trial by Chessintra, very luckily, by accidentally overhearing the content beforehand.

• She was ordered to kill her childhood caretaker, who was a well-trained slave yet made a critical mistake, to butcher and feed to the driders.

• It didn't take long for her to realize that having something nice makes her a target for stabbing, and holding something dear means having it taken away. One should always grab as much power as they can, but how to conceal and keep secrecy was of the utmost importance.

• Too many close death experiences led her to paranoia. She was always terrified, and that was how she survived. Couldn't know enough, couldn't prepare enough, couldn't be careful enough. She only felt safe and relaxed when she was absolutely alone, and had been very sensitive to sound. | First Love | It was her pride to be chosen by Chessintra and become one of her lovers. Zilvera developed a submissive kink with her impressive, glamorous, strong will and sweet-tongued mistress. She loved feeling wanted and protected. A night of pleasure was a treat which could only be earned by being extra useful to her mistress. Though others might call her a fool and say she was merely being puppeted, she believed she saw adoration in Chessintra's eyes and became addicted to it.    She was madly in love and loyal to Chessintra, her mind was fixed on how she could complete her assignments outstandingly and win her smile. Zilvera never succeeded in harboring anger within herself; it was snatched out in her early childhood and replaced with loss and fear.

Adulthood

| Leaving Home | She was saved, sheltered, befriended, accepted, and even somewhat romanced by a myconid king named Yoseles (Ya-soth). It called her 'sweet lullaby' (in the myconid's way, more like a tune than words). It commanded a spore zombie to teach her how to play the lyre and the comfort of music, so she could play and sing to feel their connection when she was out of reach of the spore. The taste of harmony and serenity generated doubts within her. Her fight began to wane as she started questioning Lolth’s teachings. It didn't take long before jealous Chessintra found out and sent her on a sacrificial death mission. She managed to escape and fake her death, yet she could no longer risk staying in the city or leading the assassins to Yoseles's circle.

She left and fled into the vast, dangerous, unforgiving void of the Underdark, and was luckily snatched by the nautiloid before long. Otherwise her chances of survival all by herself would have been desperate.

She was tired of life and became somewhat self-destructive and hedonistic. Death and threats no longer held much significance for her, as she felt like a walking ghost with nothing left to lose. However, her weariness and emptiness created room for curiosity and an open mind to flourish within her, leading her to see things differently and learn much in this rediscovered world.  

| Their “first time” | Unlike many of her kin, she thought the risk of engaging in sex was too high, not to mention her submissive kink, which was one of the utmost embarrassing and definitely deadly preferences a drow woman could have. Since she couldn't relax nor be satisfied by doing things 'properly'—dominating, whipping, bossing, tying people up, abusing, or murdering—she retreated into celibacy and preferred to satisfy her needs on her own. This also deepened her dependency on Chessintra since her mistress was the only one who was taking care of her. She mostly attended orgies as a bodyguard for Chessintra, who enjoyed watching her biting her own fingers in envy.

| Serious Relationships | Then there was Yoseles, who taught her the myconid's way, pacifism and natural laws, music and unity. She felt acceptance that she had never experienced before. She had always been a misfit in her society. She lacked the ambition, grudge, hunger, or strength that her society praised. She managed to survive but never felt like she belonged. For the first time, she no longer needed to hide or pretend. She was loved—and the spore weed mind sex felt so good, lol.

The relationship ended with her escape from Menzoberranzan. Later on she came to the surface and became completely enamored with the wizard after some unplanned bondings, which were thrust upon them by chance. She was captivated by his resilience, abilities, intelligence, courage, knowledge, ambition and tenderness. He showed her a life beyond mere survival, one that transcended Lolth’s teachings, beyond darkness and caves. An eye that seeks for beauty even in the darkest of his time. It was because of him that she began to learn about the connection with the weave and became a bard. Through his words, she learned the existence of endless worlds and possibilities, countless joys in life such as delicious food, stars, magic…comfort, beauty, and wonders. She was drowned in love, his voice becoming her favorite music, his scent her comfort, his loving gaze her reason to live.

| Aging | By the year of BG3 (1492DR) she was 32. Her life had only just begun as a drow. She freaked out that Gale, being human, would have a way much shorter lifespan than her own. Until she later learned that aging wouldn’t wear him out as he is Mystra’s chosen. They exchanged a great service for a favor from Mystra, to share that lifespan with her. (My canon route in Gale romance was dating -> moving back to Waterdeep -> Married -> Happily ever after!! I know I know so childish and tasteless but I need it XD)

*update may 11/2024* Have to figure out something to make happily after forever possible, just found out after spellplague the chosens aren't immortal anymore, they simply age slowly. Great read about Mystra's chosens: Now I have to read Death Masks & Elminster: Enraged XD

| Finding Your Place | Finding her place was difficult for her. For so long, all she did was either follow orders, execute requests or solving problems. She didn’t know how to be free. As of now, my brain's rendering progress hasn't processed to the part where she figures it out and settles down. She had been trying various things, being careful not to stain even the tiniest spot on Gale’s reputation. She wanted to make him proud, to impress him, and to make him love her more. However, she was a bit of a wartime hero since she thrived best in combat and murder.

| Starting a Family/Found Family | The concept of family is alien to her. She doesn't understand, trust, or like the idea. She sees any addition to the circle between her and her lover as an intrusion. She would consider giving birth to as many children as Gale wants, but she already holds grudges against those don't-even-exist-yet beings, seeing them as nothing but distractions of her lover's attention. Gale knows this and would never want to put that stress and risk on their relationship. Tara held many doubts about Gale choosing her as his partner. Zilvera was too unstable and power-hungry in Tara's eyes. Tara worried that she will once again drag Gale away from home and safety—and Tara wasn't wrong.

NOTES [1] Ehem, yeah, so, apparently drow women experience foetal cannibalism orgasms during pregnancy. Check the 'Bloodied From the Birth-Sac' section here. [2] Good read about alignments. It's a bit different from the regular 3x3 [3] Most of my world building references came from D&D 3.5 - Drow of the Underdark, realmshelp and Forgotten Realms Wiki. I will make a post another time to put together my finding about Menzoberranzan drows and my own narrative theories. Hope that will help anyone who needed some storytelling material.

Ahh it was fun trying to puzzle out all the pieces. I will come back and edit if my further DnD study made me change my mind on things <3 If you read all the way here...you have my most sincere thanks for staying with me while I rambling through my absolutely overly invested Tav story <333

[mothwingedmyths]

I present to you...

Wandergrim! (title kinda subject to change but for now it sounds super cool, and yes, it was named by the same person who named Wanderbloom) (ft. my ability to draw Miriam having significantly improved overnight, and too much blank space)

It's basically Wandersong but dark fantasy, Eyala is the main antagonist, and I went too far developing the characters/locations/etc

...I love dark fantasy okay

I don't really want to say too much since I have every intention in the world of putting it on AO3 since I love it, but I do want to slap some notes and stuff here:

Kiwi has mild vampirism (I'm probably going to make a post explaining it sometime in the near future, it's a lot to unpack)

Also they aren't actually willing to use their spear, it just makes them feel safer having a weapon with them

I had a little too much fun coming up with abilities and such for Miriam and I'm way too excited to show them all-

I think my favorite is- wait no that's a spoiler aaaaaaaa help hsdfjkagsdhdgh

Instead of shooting lightning, Audrey's sword shoots black fire looking stuff, and it's basically topaz dragon breath from D&D lol

Also this goes completely without saying but she is extremely done with literally everything and needs sleep

[abyssruler]

archons ft. reincarnation

venti, zhongli, raiden ei x gn!reader

summary: you were dead—until you appeared again hundreds of years later, that same smile on your lips that made them fall for you centuries ago.

word count: 4.6k

note: first time posting my work on tumblr!

warning/s: spoilers for venti’s story quest and raiden shogun’s story quest act i & ii, angst, brief descriptions of past character death (reader)

part 2

VENTI

Venti’s fingers glide through the strings of his lyre, the perpetually gloomy weather exacerbating the melancholic undertone of his song.

“The outside world…” you muse, sitting beside your bard of a friend, watching the towering castle in the distance where your possessive god resides. “I wonder what it’s like.”

Small, melodic bells chime from your shoulder. You turn your head in order to face the wind spirit you call a friend. His little face is scrunched up, as if he’s regaling you tales of the scenery beyond Mondstadt. You don’t understand him, none of you do, but you indulge him with a smile anyway.

“Mhm. Oh, is that so? Yeah, I think so too. That seems lovely!” He bobs his head in agreement with your words, and you laugh at the adorable sight. You return your gaze to the castle by the distance, a wistful look in your eyes. “I’d like to see it one day. I bet the sky is so blue and the lands stretch on for miles and miles until you lose sight of the other end. The weather would be warmer too, because the sun would always be out.”

The little wind sprite lets out a tinkling sound. You don’t know what he’s trying to tell you, but you pretend that you do.

“Yeah. I wonder if the grass is greener outside of Mondstadt. It must be. There wouldn’t be constant rain over there so the plants won’t always be so damp and mushy. The sky must be full of birds, all of them just flying freely without a care in the world.”

Your bard of a friend listens quietly to your musings, now playing a softer song with his lyre. In contrast, your little spirit friend circles around your head, chiming something and pointing to the castle in the distance with his little hood.

For once, you think you understand what he’s trying to say. “Lord Decarabian, huh?” Something in you brews uncomfortably as you mention your god, so you try to lighten the atmosphere, “I don’t think he’ll agree even if we ask very nicely.”

Your little friend lets out a series of bell chimes that somehow lets you know what he thinks about your little joke. It’s only when Venti suddenly stops playing his lyre that the wind spirit quiets down.

You turn to him questioningly, finding him already looking at you with those blue eyes of his, always so bright despite being born in a perpetually gloomy city. There’s a contemplative frown on his face as he moves his gaze from you, to your little friend, to the castle in the center of the city.

Finally, he opens his mouth.

“Then let’s not ask,” he says, his eyes fixed on the looming castle. “He keeps his people in this city and forces us to call it freedom, but what is freedom if demanded of you by a god?”

“Venti…” you say in warning. Somehow, you get the feeling you’re not going to like what he’s about to say.

Somehow, you get the feeling you’re going to agree anyway.

He smiles at you and the wind sprite you call a friend, bright and optimistic. “I want to see the outside world too, so let’s fight to see it. Together.”

“Together,” you repeat, looking at him and your little friend. “A bard, a warrior, and a wind sprite. Sounds like the beginning of a long tale.” You gaze at the castle in the distance once more. “I wonder how it will end.”

Venti laughs. “It’ll be a happy ending. I’ll make sure of it.”

Bell chimes ring in the air as the small wind sprite circles the air in front of you, exclaiming his agreement to Venti’s words.

A thought occurs to you.

“Well, a tale isn’t complete if one of the main characters is nameless,” you say, offering your palm for him to rest in. Your little friend hops into it, sighing little happy bells.

A name. What name would suit him, you wonder. Looking up at the sky above, nothing sparks any inspiration. There’s only dark clouds holding the threat of rain. If you look closely enough, you think you can peek through those clouds and see something resembling the blue sky of the world outside. Wishful thinking, of course, the clouds in Mondstadt are thick enough to cover miles in the sky.

But if you squint an eye and tilt your head to the left, you think you can see a hint of a silhouette, something floating far above—

Then you avert your gaze back to your friend resting in the palm of your hands. A gust of wind blows past you. Maybe it’s premonition, or maybe you just wanted the best for him, but in that moment, you imagine that out of the three of you, it is this little spirit in your hands who will achieve the greatest of things.

A name pops up in your mind and begins to take root. “What do you think of the name Barbatos?”

He immediately zips up, twirling in the air in front of you and nuzzling your cheek affectionately. And just like that, the moment is broken, and he is back to being just your little friend.

“You like it, huh?” His answer comes in the form of a series of tinkling bells. You smile. “It’s a pretty name, isn’t it?”

✧

Two thousand and six hundred years later, the wind spirit turned archon stands on a raised platform, a lyre in hand and performing a song he hasn’t sung in five hundred years.

A bell chimes, signifying an entry to the door of the tavern, such an innocuous sound for the impending tragedy he is about to relive.

The last chord is strung. The crowd claps, disperses and thins. A lone figure makes their way to the front.

Someone clears their throat.

He looks up.

And suddenly he is back to that day millennia ago, just a little wind sprite tinkling bells in the palm of your hand. An apple for breakfast, lunch and dinner, your teasing remarks about how he isn’t going to be able to fly anymore if he keeps gaining weight. The song of the friend he embodies resonating with his soul.

How simple life had been, back when dreams of revolution and gods were just that: dreams.

Hushed talks of freedom between each round of song, the wistful look on your face as you mused how vast the outside world must be. Full of plains and lush grass, you imagined. And when Barbatos left the ruins of Old Mondstadt, one third of a whole, he made your dreams come true as he flattened mountains and brought warm winds to fend away the cold.

He only wished all three of you had been there to see it, instead of just him alone.

“What a lovely song! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you perform here in Angel’s Share before. What’s your name?” You smile at him, all soft and lovely with a hint of nostalgia in the corner of your eyes. As beautiful as the day he lost you.

He never realized how much he’d started to forget what you looked like until you appeared right in front of him, a ghost from two thousand years past.

Do you remember him? Do you miss him as much as he’s missed you? Will you forgive him for not letting go of the past, for taking on the appearance of your beloved friend? Have you been well? Do you have many friends? Any family?

Is there someone you hold dear to your heart already, someone who holds you close, who would never let you fight alone. Someone who won’t kneel helplessly as you died in their arms, smiling amidst the numbing pain from the gaping wound in your chest. Have you already found someone who will protect and care for you, because if not, then—

In this life, will you finally love him the way he loves you?

What’s your name?

His name, the name you gave him, is on the tip of his tongue. Barbatos, it’s a pretty name, isn’t it? And he was never able to tell you how much he agreed with you, how much he loved the name you gave him. He wants to tell you how he’s made Barbatos more than just a little wind spirit, wants to ask if you’re proud of him for achieving the freedom you once sought for—but most of all, he wants to tell you how much he loves you for giving him his name, his identity.

When the drinks become too much and his mind muddles the distinction between himself and his friend—is he Venti, or is it someone else?—he tries to remember you and the way his name rolled off your tongue. Barbatos. On his worst days, when everything becomes too much, when he tries to remember the way your voice sounded only to realize that he’s starting to forget, he says it to himself.

Barbatos.

Barbatos.

Barbatos.

It’s a pretty name, isn’t it?

And he smiles to himself and says yes out loud, and the other patrons will think he’s had too much to drink again, and he’ll shrug off their judging gazes and ignore the bartender’s disapproving look because finally, he remembers what you once sounded like as you spoke his name.

He wants to tell you how much you’ve done for him, even if you weren’t here with him.

But he bites back his tongue and puts on a well practiced smile, ignoring the twinge in his heart at the lack of recognition in your eyes.

“The name’s—” Barbatos “—Venti! And who might you be, oh beautiful stranger?”

The sound of your laughter soothes two thousand and six hundred years worth of pain within the span of a few seconds. He keeps the memory of it locked in his chest. It is ridiculous, the ease with which you burrow yourself back into his heart with just a laugh—though in hindsight, perhaps it isn’t so ridiculous after all. You never really left his heart even after thousands of years.

As your name falls from your lips, Venti decides it’s alright if you don’t remember him, that it’s alright if the name you call him now isn’t the name you gave him long ago.

Just being able to see you again is enough.

ZHONGLI

“I am thinking of retiring.”

You lean your elbows on the wooden railings, resting your face in the palm of your hands as you looked up at him. “Retiring? I don’t think Hu Tao would approve.”

“No, no,” he clarifies, “Not in Wangsheng Funeral. I have…another job that I wish to retire from.”

“You have two jobs, Zhongli? Never would have guessed with how relaxed you always are.” He cracks a faint smile at that.

“My other job is not very demanding of my time. Nevertheless, it holds an important role in Liyue.” The wind blows against him, his hair billowing in the breeze as he stood above the harbor. Somehow, you imagine him in white, a hood pulled over his head and a spear in his hand as he gazed down an imaginary foe in the sea.

The image leaves a strange feeling in you, so you quickly shake it away from your thoughts and focus on his earlier words.

“Are you some kind of big shot? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?! Here I was talking to you so casually—” Your eyes widen in realization. “Ah! You were undercover this whole time, weren’t you? Are you gonna report me to the Tianquan for disrespect—” You’re interrupted by the sound of Zhongli’s soft laughter.

He gazes at you with such soft amber eyes you’re almost half-inclined to believe it’s the sun playing tricks on you.

How mesmerizing. How familiar. You think you’ve seen this sight before, you just can’t put a finger when.

“My work is not that kind of work. It is…complicated, to say the least. You need not worry about any perceived disrespect, I don’t mind at all.”

Your shoulders slump in relief. “Oh, thank Rex Lapis. I thought I was about to face the wrath of the rock or something.”

He stills, hands clenching against the railings for the briefest of moments before relaxing. It goes unnoticed by you. “Wrath of the rock… I don’t believe I have spoken such words in your presence before.”

“Really?” You turn to him with furrowed brows. Now that you think about it, you don’t think he’s ever said that phrase before. How strange, where did it come from then? “Must’ve been something I read somewhere. You talk like an old man so much, Zhongli, I’m starting to confuse words from old books with your ramblings.”

Looking away, he stares past the railings and into the harbor below, something almost melancholic in his eyes. “Perhaps.”

“So,” you say to distract him from whatever caused that look to form in his eyes, “Are you really retiring?”

He looks at you, still with those sad, sad eyes that makes something in you churn uncomfortably. So you place a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the way his eyes widen at the gesture, and you give him the brightest smile you can muster.

“Well, whatever you choose to do, I’ll support you all the way!” And maybe your words got through to him, or maybe he saw something in your smile, but Zhongli chuckles, deep and rumbling. You once said it sounded like a dragon’s, and his face twisted into something you couldn’t quite read.

“Ever the optimist,” he tells you, fondness replacing that melancholic look in his eyes. “It is one of the many aspects that I admire about you.”

Your face heats up. Looking away from that affectionate look, you attempt to make light of his words. “H-Ha! Don’t go falling for me now, Zhongli. I’ll break your heart if you do!”

(You already have, Zhongli thinks, his heart beating a painful yet nostalgic tune in his chest.)

He waves your words away.

“Of course, such is to be expected of you,” he says idly, almost cryptically. You’re tempted to ask what that means, but he has the frustrating habit of pretending to be oblivious when he doesn’t want to answer a question, even though you can totally see through the act.

“Now back to the original topic!” You’re back to leaning your arms against the railings. Zhongli follows your actions by resting his gloved hands on the polished wood. “So, retirement, huh?”

He hums. “I was uncertain this morning, but our conversation has been quite enlightening. I have you to thank for solidifying my decision.” You watch him look over Liyue’s harbor, at the people down by the docks all working together like pieces in a cog. There’s something like pride in Zhongli’s eyes as he stares at the people. “Liyue is in good hands, is it not?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, I guess you’re right. Lady Nigguang’s a real scary one, but she’s the best at her job. The Yuheng can afford to take a break now and then, but Keqing’s great at whatever she puts her mind in. Captain Beidou’s not exactly a government official, but she’s a known figure of the people, and she’s got a real good head on her shoulders—not to mention, real fun to hang out with!” You snicker at the memory of getting into a drinking contest with her. You lost, obviously, but the experience was worth it.

It’s then that you realize you haven’t mentioned the most important person in all of Liyue.

“And Rex Lapis…” Zhongli seems to straighten at the mention of your archon. “He only comes down to Liyue once a year now in the past few centuries. Well, that’s to be expected since Liyue’s at peace now. I guess even gods need to rest every now and then.”

(Something in his chest twists at your words.)

“Yes, they do, don’t they?” he agrees, his voice solemn.

You nod. “He’s probably over in Celestia partying with the other gods. You think he’s shacking it up with his partner up there? Heh, at least one of us is getting some.”

The reaction you receive is unexpected, but pleasantly surprising nonetheless.

Zhongli lets out a full blown laugh, head tilted back and shoulders shaking, eyes closed with mirth. You stare with your jaw open, unable to take your eyes off him even as his laughter begins to die down. It looks just like—

A man in white robes, veins of gold running down his arms as he held his stomach. His head tilted back, the ground shaking with the force of his laughter, his hood falling down to reveal familiar amber eyes gazing at you with mirth, fondness lurking beneath his smile—

“Ah, I truly have missed this.” Missed you, he doesn’t say, but you hear it all the same.

You decide that critical thinking really isn’t for you, so you brush away the strange not-memory and the feelings that rise up when he looks at you like that.

Teasingly, you grin at him. “Aw, Zhongli, it was only a week yet you missed me that much? Don’t worry, I missed you too.”

The quirk in his lips seems to tell you that he expected such an answer from you.

He then turns his head up, gazing into the mid-afternoon sky, your teasing forgotten.

“Once I retire, allow me to invite you for an afternoon of drinking osmanthus wine. I recently discovered a merchant selling top quality wine, and once i acquired a taste, it truly was—as per the merchant’s words—as if you have been taken back to a thousand years ago.”

There’s a quip waiting to to be said at the tip of your tongue, a joke at how he’s secretly been an old grandpa this entire time, but you swallow back the urge to let out the lighthearted joke.

There’s a fragility to this moment that you can’t quite put a finger on, so you hold back your usual retort and mull over your decision.

“I’d like that,” you say after a few heartbeats.

Zhongli smiles, and this time it’s less delicate, more sure of himself.

“I look forward to it.”

✧

You nearly barf once the liquid enters your mouth. All those drinking contests with Beidou has made your stomach weak. But the sight of Zhongli serenely sipping his own osmanthus wine reminds you to have enough tact not to mention how bad it tastes for you.

To delay your second sip, you decide to ask, “How is it?”

Zhongli places his cup down, the procelain making a soft noise as it meets the saucer. He then looks up, sees you holding your own cup of osmanthus wine and trying not to look constipated at the taste, and he smiles at the familiar sight.

“It tastes the same as I remember.”

EI

“Oh my, Your Eternal Excellency! It’s an honor to have your most exalted presence in the Yae Publishing House!”

Her entire world stops, suspended in a haze, narrowing down to this little booth in a random street in the city of Inazuma. Time stretches on for eternity, while the god chasing it is stuck staring at the sight of a familiar, beautiful, ephemeral mirage.

There’s a friendly smile on your lips, not a hint of nervousness at being in the presence of a god such as herself. You’ve always been so fearless. Brave and courageous and stupid and self-sacrificing. Ei loved and hated that attribute of yours, back when she was still capable of loving someone without ruining them.

“Ei? Are you alright?”

For a moment, she lets herself believe it was your voice that spoke those words to her. Soft, soothing tones that once lulled her to rest after a day of training non-stop to improve her martial skills, back when a kagemusha like her was still granted the luxury of rest.

Sleep, Ei. Even gods need some shut eye.

But this is one of the many flaws of ephemerality—the moment for engaging in selfish delusions ends far too soon.

It takes all of her willpower to tear her gaze from you in order to face the Traveler.

“Yes, just a little surprised.” Years and years of experience has taught her to control her voice. It will not waver, not even in the presence of her once-dead lover.

“You sure? You kinda spaced out for a while back there,” the floating pixie who calls herself Paimon remarks.

“Yes, I am quite fine,” she says.

Although, is she truly? Perhaps not, but five hundred years of solitude has hardened her. Had this been before, perhaps she would have wept upon seeing you again, alive and whole and not painting the grass with a pool of your own blood.

Ei directs her attention to the Traveler. “Now, what were you saying about those light novels?”

For the rest of her time in the Yae Publishing House, she spends it dutifully avoiding your curious gaze. Even going so far as to wait by the railings as the Traveler picked a light novel for her to read.

She heard you speak to the Traveler once, making a suggestion regarding the selection.

“I think she’ll like this one!”

You were right, she did like it.

✧

Ei tries not to, but every time she ventures out of Tenshukaku to see more of her people, she passes by the Yae Publishing House that you, more often than not, watch over.

✧

The leylines near the roots of the Sacred Sakura Tree are being strange.

Walking with the Traveler after the disappearance of Furuyama, the blind tea-brewer, is solemn. The path they’re traversing in is painfully familiar. She tries not to remember what the scenery would have looked like five hundred years ago.

A twig snaps. She and the Traveler whirl at the direction of the noise—

And Ei is once again faced with the ghost of her past.

“Ei, is it really you?”

She has seen you in this era, wearing a kind smile and modern clothes. Always so welcoming despite the strangeness of the Raiden Shogun visiting a light novel store every other week. No, your appearance is not what makes her stumble, makes her breathless and teary-eyed as she closes the remaining distance between you.

It is the way you are looking at her. Because finally, finally there is recognition in your eyes.

You are solid beneath her touch, not an apparition, not a mirage. Your armor digs into her skin as she embraces you, her heart the lightest it’s been in five hundred years.

You’re sweaty and dirty and a little bit bloody, but Ei has seen you in the worst state possible. Dirtying her immaculate clothing is a small price to pay for this brief moment.

The Traveler watches with wide eyes, reconciling the image of the warrior in worn, outdated armor with the kind, cheerful editor of the Yae Publishing House.

“I was starting to lose hope,” you tell her, voice low with a quiet sort of relief. The smile she receives makes her feel young again, a kagemusha who fell in love with one of her sister’s retainers. “Now that you’re here, I’m sure everything will be alright.”

The future you speak of is nonexistent. The moment you died—her last hope, the only remaining light in her life after the death of her sister and companions—everything became a far cry from alright.

But Ei will tell you none of this. Your current self is safe in Inazuma City, living in the future she created with her own hands. But you of the past, the one she loved dearly, you know nothing of this future, of what will happen—had happened—to you, and she will keep it that way.

Perhaps this is just her way of attempting to alleviate her guilt upon your death, but she wants this ghost of you to move on with the knowledge that everything will be fine, even if all of it is a lie.

This time, it is her that prompts you to rest your head on her lap, stroking your hair and watching you be lulled to sleep.

“Rest now. I will handle the rest.”

Your eyes flutter closed for the final time, taking her hand in yours. You leave her with parting words that will resonate deep within her soul for the rest of eternity.

“You don’t have to do everything alone, Ei.”

✧

One would think that after battling herself for five hundred years, her first words to her dear friend would be to ask how Inazuma is, but perhaps five hundred years has made her a bit more selfish. So instead, she asks about you.

“How is…?” Ei doesn’t need to mention your name for Yae to know who she’s referring to.

“Oh, still delightful as ever, that one. Asks about you often, though. Far too often, in my opinion. Why, if I didn’t know any better I’d have thought I was only being approached so I can be the relayer of any news relating to you.” Yae shakes her head fondly. “Even without memories of your time together, that little one is still so smitten with you.”

Ei’s cheeks turns a light shade of pink. At the sound of Yae’s snicker, she turns a frown at the devious kitsune.

“Miko…”

“Oh, come now. Can’t a girl have a little bit of fun? Although, none of what I said was untrue.” Yae’s tone softens just the slightest bit, knowing the delicacy of anything regarding you. After a moment though, a sly smile makes its way to her lips. “If you have any tips on how to woo someone, be sure to tell me, Ei. Authors these days just have no imagination for romance, always so dry and boring.”

It’s a simple teasing remark, one of many that Yae is prone to saying. Ei shouldn’t respond to it, but she can’t help but say the first word that comes to her mind.

“Gifts.”

✧

“Your Eternal Excellency!”

The genuine surprise in your face leaves her amused. You quickly attempt to fix your messy hair and rumpled clothes. Had it been anyone else, she would have thought them lazy for being so unkempt, but you manage to make even the smallest of things endearing.

She supposes some things stay the same, even in a new life and a new era.

“I came to bring you a gift,” she says, holding out the Raiden Shogun statue that was sent to the Tenshukaku that morning.

You stare at the object with wide eyes, like you’re unable to believe that your archon is giving you an actual gift instead of the other way around.

When she set out in search of you that afternoon, she thought giving you something would be a good gesture. Although, in hindsight, gifting you a statue of herself may come off as conceited of her. Ah, she really should ask someone for advice before she approaches you next time.

Before she can apologize and return the statue, you’re already taking it from her hands, a look of wonder crossing your face as you inspected it.

“This was sold out hours ago! I was planning on buying one but I got there too late!” Casual. You speak so casually, as if the person you’re speaking to isn’t the Almighty Narukami Ogosho, God of Thunder.

As if the person you’re speaking to is simply her, Ei. Not the Raiden Shogun. Not the Electro Archon. Just Ei.

You give her your best smile. “Thank you.”

Can a person still be the same person even without their memories?

Ei doesn’t know, but perhaps she’ll find out soon.

part 2

[tomaytow]

and the birds will sing and wedding bells will ring

— afab reader, fairy tale retelling (kinda), cursing, self–indulgent

in which: all fairy tales (apparently) happen in mondstadt.

Once upon a time, in the city of song and wind, a woman, not older than 30 and definitely not younger than 20, sighs at her desk frustratingly. 

She drums her fingers over the paperwork. [Name] lifts her head to examine the beautiful girl in front of her – she has a crown perched on top of her combed hair (she’s definitely one of those princesses), she has skin white as the clouds outside (she wonders what her skincare routine is), and she has lips a stunning shade of red (where’d she get that lipstick?). Right now, said beautiful girl is sitting in front of [Name]’s desk, and has her fingers intertwined together in concern. Wow, even though her eyebrows are scrunched, she still looks pretty. 

How unfair. 

“So let me get this straight,” [Name] starts as she checks the details of the commission again, before turning back to the prettier girl. Yep. It’s definitely not the time for [Name] to deprecate herself. Definitely not the time to compare her haggard appearance over a ten. What’s important is that she doesn’t stutter or slur her words or else there will be miscommunications. She needs to be professional, after all. “You have a, uh, a friend—”

“A very, very nice friend—”

“Who’s stuck inside a lair—”

“Inside Stormterror’s Lair, no less—!”

“And I’ll have to save them through—”

“A kiss! A true love’s kiss,” The girl finishes for her, and [Name] narrows her eyelids. She’s supposed to do the talking here but unfortunately Miss Drop Dead Gorgeous won’t shut up. Well, understandable – the girl’s commission has been way overdue due to the endless commissions flooding their way. And yep, it’s definitely the reason why [Name]’s stressed 24/7. “And only you can save my friend. With a true love’s kiss!”

Of course, this is nothing new in [Name]’s field of work. She’s fought a crazy wolf dressed up as a grandma before, or even a powerful sorcerer over the custody of a lamp, so this may be a piece of cake. Though, she can’t help but think how familiar this is. 

“Riiiiight,” She stamps the paper and shoves it to the left – where other messy folders and binders are scattered. There are still more commissions that she has to do, and it’s not going to be finished soon. Good archons. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Snow White,” the pretty girl answers, and now it’s all making sense. “Princess Snow White, and please, help my friend, please—”

She’s starting to wail. [Name] watches in astonishment when birds suddenly approach her. Are they comforting her? Wait, where did the rabbits even come from? Goats?! Turtles?!

“It’s been weeks now, and I–I’m worried! Please, oh please! Save my friend!”

“Alright, alright, alright! Please tell your squirrel pals to lay off my drawers!”

In this line of work, anything can be possible.

In Mondstadt, where literally every mythical creature resides, magic is abundant. There are a thousand tales waiting to be told, but also a thousand requests to be done.

[Name] didn’t plan on working in Ms. Lisa’s business. Even more so, she did not ask to be one of the heroic saviors; she doesn’t know what to feel anymore whenever she visits the taverns lately, when the majority of the drunk men chant the adventures of the Unparalleled Knight with the bards. At first, [Name] thought how nice the tunes were, until the lyrics slowly sank in and she realized that the song was all about her. 

It was embarrassing.

But at least the pay is good – it’s enough to feed her Sweet Madames every night. Not to mention how she has connections now! Like Dorothy and her dog. Rapunzel and her strange chameleon. (Also, Rapunzel paints with the notorious Calx on Dragonspine. [Name] loves visiting their annual art exhibitions.)

And yet, she can’t help but admit how sometimes annoying the clients are. It’s their fate; they can control it, they can fight it, they can beat destiny up and write their own story. Why does [Name] have to be involved with their issues?

“It’s fun,” her boss, Ms. Lisa, had said one time, when she was sipping her usual cup of tea. There were books all over the floor and [Name] was in so much fear. She wouldn’t be coming home tonight like she had planned because she knew that Ms. Lisa would leave all the cleaning to her. “Aren’t you glad that you’re given a chance on venturing into the unknown with this job?”

[Name] was glad. But it was draining, when she couldn’t even take a fucking break. 

“Cutie, you just need someone to accompany you. Or rather, you should acquire your own happily ever after soon!” Ms. Lisa winked, and sent her a finger gun, as if she was shooting bullets right through her heart. [Name] blocked it with a nearby book. “Though dearest Jean doesn’t recommend a significant other, I’ll be giving you a pass.”

[Name] doesn’t recommend having a “lover” either. It’s a waste of time, and it will definitely distract her. She appreciates Ms. Lisa’s treatment of her, but what she needs is a week off. Not… happily ever afters. They sound stupid, and even if [Name] wants to yell that she doesn’t believe in that junk, she can’t—because it’s literally everywhere.

Fucking princesses and princes and their extravagant weddings.

Anyway. Back to reality. 

Right now on her right hand holds a piece of paper that she’s sure is perfumed (she wants to cough) and is so damn pink. This is supposed to be clues for the friend’s whereabouts but why does it look like a love letter?

According to Princess Snow White, a spell was cast onto her friend because he ate the apples her evil stepmom—who was disguised as a creepy old woman offering free fruits; the Case of the Poisonous Apple was insane—left on her cottage. [Name] rolls her eyes in exasperation, because of course this little bastard friend of Princess Snow White will eat those toxic apples.

(Those fucking lazy dwarves of hers didn’t even bother throwing it away after they got invited to her wedding and honeymoon. Like seriously though, who invites those mofos in your most intimate night or week with your husband???? Ew.)

My friend loves apples, so there’s no hesitation in munching them once sighted. Okay. So the friend has an apple obsession? Also, the perfume really, really hurts her nose.

And I do not know how my dearest friend got to Stormterror’s Lair, and [Name] doesn’t either, but hey, this is Mondstadt – things are not supposed to make sense due to the magic lingering in the air. Due to the magic lingering everywhere. Or even the happily ever after trend.

Also, does her friend even have a name? Why is the princess being fucking redundant? But my animal friends told me that they were informed by the winds that my friend is in there. So please, save my friend! Save my friend with a true love’s kiss!

True love’s kiss my ass, [Name] grimaces when she sees the kiss mark left on the paper, so she crumples it before hiding it in her pockets. There won’t be any kissing involved. Not gonna waste my first kiss for this. 

Stormterror’s Lair being huge is an understatement. It’s freaking big. Though, she’s thanking the archons above (no matter how unjust they are), for finally blessing this location. There are no more storms anymore, so what’s left is just the peaceful soon–to–be–setting sun penetrating her skin. No one really comes here anymore, because who will even visit the ruins, when there’s a lot to explore in Mondstadt? Like digging up cursed treasures, fighting off evil wizards, and eating delicious meals cooked by a former frog. 

Ah, Tiana. [Name] should definitely head to Good Hunter after this to devour some of her delectable beignets. 

The wind will guide you if you ever get lost, [Name] recalls Princess Snow White’s advice, as she starts to trek the broken bridge that leads up to Decarabian’s Tower. Broken debris and splintered rocks are everywhere. The plants seeping through the cracks are full of life. It’s mother nature taking its course.

She adjusts the belt of her heavy armor. 

[Name] thinks she got this. Despite being a human, Ms. Lisa still calls her extraordinary. She doesn’t have any magical powers, but she does have a huge headache due to sleep loss. And she’s still alive.

Ah. She can hear music being played already, and – oh. 

Oh.

She halts in her tracks and bends down, meeting the gazes of the unknown creatures before her. If she’s not mistaken, these are anemo wind wisps, and man, she can’t understand a thing what they’re saying. All she knows is that they’re really lively, they’re all jumping up and down, as if excited to see her. Again, she can’t understand what they’re trying to convey because all she can hear are the tinkling of bells.

[Name] yelps when five? No, seven of them rush in front of her, and thankfully, with her fast reflexes, she manages to gather them meticulously in her arms.

Wow, they’re all soft and fluffy. It’ll be nice to have one (that is, if it’s allowed…?) 

But her ears are ringing due to the continuous noises they’re emitting. The princess said that they may be able to aid her in this mission but she doesn’t speak wind wisp.

A wind wisp nuzzles with her finger affectionately. Adorable. And oh, it seems another wisp wants that too. And another, and ano–

“Hey, hey, calm down, everyone. I’m not going anywhere.” And surprisingly, they’re all obedient, because they all went quiet. Now there are pairs of dotted eyes staring at her soul, waiting for her to utter something. Great. The attention is all on me now. Also, it’s fascinating that they understand human language, considering that they listened to her. “Can you take me to the uh…”

Wait a minute, what is the role of the princess’ friend here anyway? Moreover, who even are they?

“To the uh… I don’t know, to the someone who’s in need of saving?” 

Thankfully, they do. They all gleefully glide and pull each part of her body with their own little dark blue feet(?), and she wonders why they’re all so enthusiastic upon her arrival. It’s evident that they’re not strong enough to make her move, but she entertains them anyway by walking again. One wind wisp attempts to tug her by the sheath of her sword, but gives up in disappointment when it can’t lift it up.

[Name] suppresses an amused chuckle. She opens her palm, and said wind wisp sends her a closed eye smile after dropping its form on her hand. It doesn’t have any lips but it’s safe to assume that it’s smiling. 

The trip to Decarabian’s Tower is a disaster.

At first, [Name] asks the wisps why they’re surrounding her figure, until she realizes that they’re all trying to carry her upwards. But it’s futile. Their wind powers aren’t enough, so after five minutes, the exhausted wisps rest in her satchel for a well–deserved break. They get tired easily, it seems.

“You did great, guys,” [Name] pats one of them, who just rubs itself more with her tender touch. Really affectionate beings, huh. She lets them be after a while and assesses the situation. The wisps were helping her get up, since the staircases are damaged. 

[Name] thanks the wisps mentally, because that means that the friend is upstairs, since they’re all trying to lift her up there. She doesn’t have to find the friend anymore.

But… there are no damn fucking stairs, so how did aforementioned friend even get there?

As always, there are a lot of things in Mondstadt that don’t make sense.

Like the faint elemental energy engulfing this area.

[Name] considers stripping off her armor because it’ll hinder her ascension, but since she doesn’t have any superpowers or knowledge regarding spells for defense (damn you, fairy godmother), she has no choice but to still wear it as she climbs the walls of the tower. 

She just hopes she’ll have enough stamina to reach the top.

And good archons, of course she does. Thank archons that she has mini supporters or else she’ll question her sanity for choosing the wrong decisions that has led her in this scenario.

When she lays on her stomach on its cold floors, [Name] observes the chamber while panting for air. Why the fuck does it reek of alcohol in here? It’s so gross!

But the wind wisps chirp in delight. [Name] watches them go and approach the gossamer curtains.

Oh, right. Here it is.

The climax. 

[Name] gets up, dusts off the dirt she accumulated, and saunters close to the bed. She can discern the sleeping silhouette, and there are lulls of true love’s kiss entering through her ears. 

She draws the curtains. 

There’s a boy. There’s a beautiful, ethereal boy lying supine on the bed sleeping peacefully, with his hands attached to a bouquet of fresh cecilias placed on his chest. Which is strange, because they haven’t wilted even though it’s been weeks. Said boy’s chest heaves up and down as he breathes. 

So the apple did indeed put him in a deep sleep. 

[Name] inches closer to the boy. He has porcelain soft skin—it’s unblemished and flawless. It almost rivals the Princess Snow White’s.

There’s another cecilia on the left side of his hair. And he has ombre twin braids on each side of his head. 

And he has too many bows on his outfit. The outfit looks comfortable enough, and it’s absolutely a Mondstadt clothing—the white ruffles on his button up shirt? Hah. Mondstadt.

Also hm. Shorts and stockings? [Name]’s never seen a male wear those before.

[Name]’s guessing that Princess Snow White’s friend must be a prince. The bows look high–priced…

[Name] inhales. She doesn’t mean to take a whiff, but he smells like petrichor. He smells like fresh flowers. But he also smells like wine. 

Oh, the combination of those scents is fantastic—

Ah. Focus. Now let’s get this over with.

[Name] brushes her locks behind her ear, puts a leg on the mattress (making it to squeak), a hand beside the boy’s pillow, and slowly ducks her head down. The wind wisps start to squeal in anticipation, and giddiness, and

She pokes his cheek. Her finger dips from his squishy it is. “Wake up, it’s time to get up.” [Name] ignores the stunned stares of the wind wisps. She grunts and pokes his cheek again twice. “You’re not fooling me. Wake up, or I am going to smack you instead.”

A loud, mirthful giggle escapes from his throat, and [Name] resists the urge to click her tongue in irritation. Finally, the young man reveals his turquoise eyes, mesmerizing her for a second. Holy hell, why does everyone look so fucking nice in Mondstadt!? “Aww! Do not do that, please. Moreover, what gave it away?”

Breaking out of her dazed stupor, [Name] scowls at the smirk, “You were playing an instrument, weren’t you? I knew I wasn’t hearing things. It wasn't just the wisps, but it was you, too. And are you serious? There are lotsa bottles of wine on the floor. Who would even drink them? Unless, I don’t know? Maybe the one who’s pretending to snooze?” Then, she pokes his round cheek, again, making him snicker from the contact. “You also puckered your lips—hah! True love’s kiss? You ain’t getting that.”

“Eh! I was just playing the part! You’re not supposed to be acting like this—where are the declarations coming from your heart? You’re also supposed to sweep me off my feet, rescue me from the dragon, and take me to my happily ever after! For it is such an important matter!” [Name] blinks when arms hook around her neck, and she feels breath ghosting on her lips. He whispers in a low voice and with half–lidded eyes, “Though, I’m so glad it’s you—you’ve come at long last. My warrior, you’ve worked so hard. Please allow me to conquer those lips of yours for your reward?”

[Name] increases the distance almost immediately, making him whine from the abrupt withdrawal. She really can’t stand Mondstadt people and their wild fantasies. “In your dreams,” Then she searches around for the basket. The princess did add about the retrieval of her basket—it was probably important to her. “Where are the apples? What happened to the apples?” It’s for protocol, so this won’t happen again.

“Why don’t you come here and find out?”

“On second thought, please shut up,” [Name] picks up the wooden material after discovering that it hung on a stand. Now it’s time for the next agenda: the treasure. She needs the treasure because this is her payment for this commission. 

She spins around to meet eyes with the young lad once more, but he’s too occupied cuddling with the wisps on the bed. 

“Thank you for bringing her here,” he muses, and the wisps respond in chorus with their bell sound thing. Wow. So he can understand the wisps. “Yes, she’s really unprecedented, but that’s what makes her so dear.”

[Name] is confused, but shrugs it off anyway and approaches him again. “Hey, you.”

“I have a name, my fair maiden,” He looks up at her, still with that mischievous grin. “But my children here have names as well, so do not be mistaken.”

“Children? You have children? The fuck? Wait. The wisps have a name?” The wisps reply with tiny bobs of their head. Now this is something [Name] did not really expect. Mondstadt, what the hell? She’ll never get used to this. “Okay, okay, sure? I’ll ask later, um. What’s your name, then?”

“Venti the Bard, at your service.”

So he’s not a prince? He’s not part of any royal status? He’s just a normal person? That thought is comforting, anyhow. But the bows? (Maybe he saved up for it?)

“If you’re still wondering about the apples, they were already consumed by I,” Venti says, and leads one wisp on his shoulder. “They were absolutely yummy, and it is no lie.”

[Name] squints at him. She doesn’t know if she’ll be worried or relieved – so the apples have no effect on him? “The apples were poisonous. It contained chemicals. And they were from the princess’ evil stepmother.”

“Ah, indeed. The wench who initiated all this – but fear not, for she already would be punished for her greed.” Venti summons his lyre, and plucks its strings casually. He’s not a normal person. He can use magic. “Is my warrior troubled that I would get sick? Maybe you should come close and take a quick peek.”

“There’s no need for that,” [Name] swings the basket over her arm, and yanks him, making him stumble. He chuckles—”forward, are we?”—the wisps produce anxious rings, but she ignores them yet again. “I am impressed by your rhyming, but I think you should stop now.”

Venti smiles with his eyes closed. The lyre in his hand disappears, and he takes both of her hands in his own. “I would comply with your wishes, but you must give me something in return.” He opens his eyes again, and they’re sparkling. Okay, the sun is setting, and how can they look so enchanting? (Wait, did she just rhyme? Shit.) “One true love’s kiss, for it is urgent, so then the barriers shall burn.”

Archons. Mondstadt people really make no sense, and [Name] ponders if she should move soon. It’s too much romance. “Urgent? Barriers? And again with the true love’s kiss? I am not your true love. We’re just strangers. I implore you to keep that retained in your memory,” She tries to separate from his grasp, but she’s appalled when Venti shakes his head. He has a tight grip? How, with that lithe body of his? Or maybe because… “Venti—”

The chambers quake when a shadow passes by the windows—darkening the room for a moment. Venti hides his lips behind his fingers, whispering a “he’s here,” and [Name] gives him a questioning look. He? Who’s he?

The loud roar that vibrated the stone walls is enough of an answer.

[Name] facepalms. Of course, the damn dragon he mentioned is real. Of course of course of course.

She unsheathes her sword, but the wisps quickly come together to stop her from wielding it. Before, they were all joyous and victorious, but now, the wisps are apprehensive and adamant. They’re all shaking their heads disapprovingly, like their… father(?) from earlier. “…What?”

Clingclingcling. But it’s Venti who interprets for her, “Dvalin is a dear friend of mine, and he’s here to check if I am fine.” Dvalin? He means the so–called dragon of the four winds? One of the survivors of the archon war? What the fuck. And he’s friends with the likes of this bard? 

Venti places his hands on his hips and raises a brow smugly. “Unfortunately, Dvalin hates trespassers, especially when they bring something that can be harmful. I can just tell him that you and I are acquainted, or better yet, each other’s one true love! But you did say that we are strangers, right, [Name]?”

He stopped the rhyming. Venti’s dead serious though it’s obvious from his tone that he’s clearly enjoying this. [Name] groans. She wants to ask how he knows her name but—

Why. Why must she live like this? 

Out of all the things in the world, the possible cause of her death is because of an ancient dragon.

Well. At least she dies with honour. This will be a great story for the bards. Sigh.

“I hate my life.”

Then she casts her sword aside, grabs a startled Venti by the waist (“huh, w–wait—“) and then crashes her lips with his.

There’s a gush of wind outside Decarabian’s tower when Dvalin finally senses that the curse has been lifted.

[reinvent-and-believe]

48 from dialogue prompts + 50 from wordless i-love-yous for geraskier?

Dialogue Prompt 48: “You make me want things I can’t have.” Wordless I-love-you 50: buying them a special treat when you go out shopping

--

It catches Geralt’s eye while he haggles over an outrageously priced jar of alchemy paste with a none-too-impressed herbalist on the outskirts of Novigrad, a buxom widow with thick-braided auburn hair by the name of Irmina.

“This for sale too?” He picks up the brooch from the countertop where it rests in a beam of golden light streaming through a dingy window. He examines it. It’s simple enough metalwork, a brass oval with a scalloped edge, but inlaid in its face is a single pressed yellow flower framed by tiny white blooms encased in resin.

The herbalist’s dour demeanour brightens immediately. “It is indeed!” she answers, her brown eyes shining in a plump, suddenly pleasant face. “Made it myself just last week. It’s something of a hobby of mine, making pretty knick-knacks from the flowers we can’t sell. Got plenty more like this if you’d like to peruse ‘em, master witcher! Forget-me-nots and arenaria, hellebore, violets, any flower you might like.”

A buttercup, he realizes belatedly. That’s the yellow flower in the center.

“No.” He sees Irmina’s brow furrow in offense, so he hastens to appease her. “No need, I’ll take this one. I...I’m partial to buttercups.”

Her freckled face breaks into a sly, knowing smile. “Oh, aye, I’m sure someone is partial to buttercups.” She winks, waving away his stammered attempts at an answer. “Never you mind, I know a man besotted when I see one, and it seems a witcher’s not so different. Tell you what. Fifty crowns for the paste and I’ll throw the brooch in for only ten.”

-

Leaving the herbalist’s shop with an overpriced paste, a lighter purse, and a useless trinket, Geralt curses himself for a fool.

He’s not sure why he bought it.

He knows buttercups are Jaskier’s favorite, of course. “None but the noblest of flowers for my sobriquet!” Jaskier had squawked indignantly when Geralt once made the grave mistake of referring to the pesky things as weeds after he’d stopped Roach from chomping on a patch of the bright, poisonous blooms.

They are weeds, buttercups. They serve no function. They can’t be used in any of the potions, decoctions, or oils Geralt brews, nor do they have any particularly helpful curative properties for humans.

“As ever, my dear witcher, you have no sense of poetry,” Jaskier had sighed in a most put-upon voice when told as much. “Their function is they’re pretty. Their function is to enrich our lives through the beauty of the natural world.” He’d looked to the sky, tip of his tongue between his teeth showing through his frown as was his custom when puzzling through the right way to turn a phrase. “From a strictly utilitarian perspective, perhaps the buttercup has less value than, say, moleyarrow, or verbena, or chamomile, even. Some plants provide nutritional or medicinal or alchemical qualities of various sorts. But some exist to make life worth living! To transform the banal into the sublime.” He’d plucked a buttercup from the roadside, twirling it between his long fingers. “It’s graceful and balanced, effortlessly beautiful. It’s vibrant, bright like...like sunlight, on a summer afternoon! And when you see it growing alongside the various and sundry flora, it fills you with the loveliest burst of warmth, like a lover’s smile.”

“So...it’s a pretty weed.”

“You’re incorrigible, witcher, that’s what you are.” Jaskier had huffed dramatically before tucking the buttercup behind Geralt’s ear, his face alight with a delighted grin.

Like sunlight on a summer afternoon.

-

The Kingfisher Inn is crowded when Geralt arrives. He goes to the bar, orders an ale from Olivier, and leans against the counter to take a look at the stage.

Jaskier loves playing the Kingfisher. In many of the inns he plays across the Continent, he’s relegated to a corner to try to sing over the clang of dinner, his only option to win the common folk over a raucous drinking song or a filthy ditty. And while the bard doesn’t shy away from such vulgarities, the patrons of the Kingfisher tend to be of a more artistically inclined ilk, responding with appropriate gusto to the virtuosic art songs that he rarely performs outside of competitions or Oxenfurt.

Or so he’d explained to Geralt when he’d suggested they meet up at the inn.

Jaskier sits atop a tall stool on a rather large stage framed by crimson curtains, his sky-blue doublet a vivid contrast. The audience, enraptured, listens to his ballad, a melancholy tale of a fair maiden who’s violently killed before she can profess her love to a farmhand in her village, a beautiful, strong, kind man whose hair shines like a blaze of pale fire in the sunlight. Her love for him tethers her to this world, and her spirit—bitter, weary, and endlessly yearning—calls the men working in the fields to join her dance at midday, when the sun is in its zenith, hoping against hope for the chance to finally confess to her beloved.

In the end, the brave, noble farmhand sacrifices himself, hoping to stop the spirit’s killings by listening to her song and joining her as she beckons. And as they are reunited, as she finally kisses the lips she’s longed for in a blinding blaze of sunlight, they pass on together, their spirits becoming one.

It’s a contract Geralt worked a few years ago, a noonwraith outside Oreton—or at least something close. As ever, Jaskier has taken artistic liberties, romanticized the actual events (“Sometimes, in our pursuit of Truth, we must sacrifice the facts,” Jaskier loftily explained on more than one occasion. He seemed quite taken with the profundity he seemed to find in the statement. Geralt called it pretentious once and Jaskier hurled a chunk of bread at his head). Once it might have bothered Geralt, but he’s grown accustomed to Jaskier’s rather malleable relationship with veracity in his ballads. There’s no denying the impact of his storytelling: when Geralt glances around the inn, he sees several patrons discreetly dabbing at their eyes.

It’d been an ugly case, leaving him feeling empty, drained. Noonwraiths haunt his thoughts far longer than most the monsters he dispatches. They’re victims of circumstance more than anything, young women who’ve been transformed into bloodthirsty, violent spirits through no fault of their own, through the violence inflicted upon them. Nearly forty men had fallen prey to her before the farmhand distracted her with his kiss—though Geralt would hesitate to classify his grotesque, gruesome sacrifice as such—so the witcher had a chance to strike her down with silver. Jaskier has spun the miserable tale into something beautiful, moving, something that clearly resonates with his captivated audience, that speaks to a greater force at work than the chaotic, banal evils the witcher sees every day, and Geralt thinks he understands, for a moment, what the bard had told him of Truth and facts.

(Geralt doesn’t know what greater Truth is served by changing the beloved farmhand’s hair from the dull brown it really was to “a blaze of pale fire,” but then, Geralt’s not a poet.)

The final notes hang in the air, all eyes fixed on Jaskier for a rapt, breathless moment before the room bursts into wild applause. Jaskier stands and bows deeply, once, twice, a third time, surveying the room as he offers his thanks. When his gaze catches Geralt at the bar, his expression of showman’s grace vanishes, a flash of something that looks almost alarmed for a split second before it’s replaced by a small, gentle smile.

Geralt nods and raises his mug toward the stage in cheers, draining the remainder. Jaskier is quickly swept into the swarm of captivated fans, accepting their praises with a gracious, if distracted, smile.

The witcher turns back to the barkeep to order himself another ale along with a glass of wine.

“Geralt!” Jaskier swerves to avoid a near-collision with a frenzied barmaid on his way to join his companion at the bar. He grabs the wine glass with a groan of appreciation, taking a swig before asking, “Is this for me? Gods, but you’re a marvel, darling, I thank you.” He takes another sip and sends a disarming, roguish wink to a pair of girls staring at him and giggling to each other. “I wasn’t sure when you’d arrive, but it wouldn’t have mattered, I suppose, they only had one room to let when I checked in and it hasn’t cleared out since. You’ll share mine, of course, but I’ve been here a week so, you know, best brace yourself, I’ve quite made the place my own.”

Geralt snorts. He’s stayed in enough rooms that Jaskier has made his own over the past decade to predict with some certainty what mess he’ll soon venture into.

(Doublets draped over furniture after they’ve been discarded; crumpled sheets of paper tossed near, never in the fireplace; a few near-empty bottles of wine; a shirt hung to dry over the modesty screen between the sleeping and bathing areas; bottles of a dozen oils and perfumes and soaps scattered haphazard near the tub; an unmade bed that may well contain an abandoned undergarment or forgotten stocking left by some well-satisfied guest.)

“Have you eaten? Shall we? I’m starved, felt jittery all afternoon and didn’t eat a damned thing which was all well and good until I got onstage and suddenly wished for a fainting couch. Or we could take your things up to the room first, of course. Oh! We could have them bring our dinner up to us, it’s awfully crowded down here tonight and I’m not sure I’m up to socializing all evening, to be honest, I’ve been dreadfully out of sorts, did you notice, Geralt, that I’ve…”

Jaskier continues his ramblings, and the witcher can’t help a twinge of worry for his friend. It’s not unheard of for Jaskier to be in a heightened state over a particularly important performance, but usually afterwards the nerves dissipate and he seems more himself. Not to mention, why would playing in an inn prompt such anxieties? Even if the Kingfisher clientele trends toward the more refined than the country folk he often plays for, it’s still rather a low-stakes environment to trigger such stress.

“New song?” he asks casually. Jaskier always beams when he notices such things, when he makes an effort to ask about his music.

Instead, Jaskier blushes, looking away with an expression that almost seems guilty. “Ah, yes, well, I wasn’t certain when you’d be arriving, of course, I thought I might try out something different, a sort of test audience, as it were, to feel out the piece before I use it for anything important.” The look he’s fixed on Geralt seems almost wary. “Did you...like the song?”

Geralt shrugs. “Not quite how it happened,” he grumbles, out of habit more than anything.

A smile, genuine and rueful, breaks out on Jaskier’s face. “Gods, I’ve missed you, my friend,” he says, shaking his head and looking away quickly.

“Hmm.” He reaches quickly into the coin pouch at his side, thrusting the trinket from the herbalist into Jaskier’s hand with a brusque, “Here.”

“Whatever have we got…” He cuts off as opens his palm. “Oh.”

There have been so few times over the years that Geralt has seen Jaskier speechless that he begins to worry he’s offended him. He turns the brooch over in his hands, once, twice, his thumb swiping gently over its smooth enamel face. He doesn’t look up.

Even in the crowded room, Geralt can smell the shift in his demeanor, the muted sickly-sweet anxious smell becoming something sharp, metallic, pained, like he’s been stabbed. “You’re upset.”

“I...no.” Jaskier shoves the brooch into his trouser pocket, a tense smile on his face, not at all reaching his eyes. “Thank you, Geralt, it’s lovely. Shall we take your bags to the room now?”

“I didn’t...I didn’t get it to upset you.”

Jaskier laughs, a broken thing, and Geralt grows even more alarmed. “You didn’t, it isn’t that, sometimes I want things I can’t have is all.” He grabs the saddlebag sitting at Geralt’s feet, not meeting his eyes as he rushes past him up the stairs to the last bedroom in the hall.

Geralt follows after a moment, giving his companion a respectful distance. There’s a tightness in his shoulders, a knot in his gut that only grows as he watches Jaskier’s hand tremble on the key as he unlocks the door.

It was a stupid idea. He knew it was stupid when he bought it, yet he bought it anyway, somehow ruined everything anyway.

“Here we are.” Jaskier’s voice is filled with a forced cheer as he sets the bag down, hand never leaving the doorknob. “I’ll go fetch us some supper. Or, actually, you know, now that I think of it, I’ve a few errands to run before it gets too late, meant to do it earlier but you know how it goes, lost track of time…”

“Jaskier.” Geralt moves toward him but stops himself, helpless. “Please. I’m sorry I upset you.”

Jaskier stands in the doorway for another moment. He takes a deep breath, closes the door, and walks slowly to the writing desk in the corner. He pulls the chair out, moving the doublet strewn across it before sitting. He doesn’t look at Geralt.

“You didn’t.” Every word is calculated, deliberate. “What kind of ungrateful wretch gets upset over...over an exceptionally thoughtful gift from a friend after a time apart?”

Geralt sits on the edge of the bed. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers locking together as he stares at the floor. “You’re not a wretch. The fault is mine.”

“Dammit, Geralt, there isn’t fault, I only—why did you bring me a gift?”

Geralt frowns. “I’ve bought you things before,” he says slowly.

“Things, yes!” Jaskier vaults from the chair, pacing listlessly about the room, no longer trying to mask his inexplicable distress. “Lute strings when I broke a string and I was low on coin. The lute is my livelihood, it made financial sense for you to replace the string so I could pull my own weight, help you when we pass through several towns in a row with no contracts. Boots when you noticed the hole in the heel of my old pair, because I slow you down limping about in footwear that’s falling apart. Room and board, sometimes, because you know I’m good for it, I’ll cover you the next time.” He’s stopped pacing, stares silent into the fireplace.

“Wasn’t keeping a tab.” Geralt’s voice is quiet. “You needed strings and boots and food and a room.”

Jaskier doesn’t turn to face him, but Geralt sees his hand slip into his pocket, pull out the brooch. His head bends, studying it.

He’s not offended or annoyed or angered by the gift. He’s hurt. But why?

Except...

Jaskier looked guilty when Geralt brought up the song. Like he’d been caught red-handed. Did you like it? he’d asked. Incredulous.

The noonwraith singing her song in hopes that her beloved hears her confession. That he’ll hear her song of longing and come to her.

Hair like a blaze of pale fire, not dull brown.

Sometimes I want things I can’t have.

“Geralt?”

The witcher snaps back to attention, eyes fixed on Jaskier, finally facing him.

“Why did you get it for me, Geralt?”

Geralt frowns. “It’s...pretty,” he starts lamely. “I thought you might wear it when you play. You wear gaudy things.”

Jaskier snorts, a small, crooked grin on his lips.

“It made me think of you,” he confesses quietly, his eyes tracing the wood grain of the floor. “Sometimes...things don’t have to have a function. It was a buttercup and it was pretty and it…made me think of you.”

When Geralt dares to raise his eyes, Jaskier’s staring at him, brows drawn together and mouth slightly agape. After a moment, he walks toward the witcher, sitting carefully beside him on the bed. He reaches his hand towards Geralt’s and presses the little brooch into his palm.

“Will you pin it on me?” he asks softly.

Geralt nods.

His fingers feel thick and clumsy as he fumbles with the delicate clasp. The top few buttons of Jaskier’s doublet, as ever, are undone, but it closes neatly just beneath his exposed neck. Geralt slips a finger beneath the satin fabric to pull it away from his throat, cautiously piercing the fabric with the thin pin and sliding it into its slot, locking the clasp with shaking hands.

His hand doesn’t move from Jaskier’s chest. A sword-calloused thumb, seemingly of its own volition, grazes lightly over the bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Geralt.”

He looks up, almost pulls away but for the flushed cheeks, the tongue that darts out to wet pink lips, the hooded eyes beneath dark lashes fixed on Geralt’s mouth. Jaskier’s breath is warm against his face. When did they draw so close?

“Are you going to kiss me, Geralt?” The breathy whisper is laced with wonder.

And he didn’t...didn’t buy the brooch to entice Jaskier into anything, didn’t mean to solicit any sort of reward, and he opens his mouth to tell him so, yet as his rough hand moves to gently cup the back of Jaskier’s neck the words that tumble out instead are, “I’d like to.”

And Jaskier throws back his head and laughs, a euphoric, intoxicated sound, as his lovely hands cradle Geralt’s face. He brings his forehead to rest against Geralt’s as they still, breathing each other for a moment before Jaskier surges forward to capture his lips.

His kiss tastes like sunlight.

[mollymawkwrites]

Eskel/Jaskier: AU where Jaskier met Eskel instead of Geralt and wrote Toss a Coin for him instead - scar kissing/appreciation - "guess love is a response/of the body it haunts"

This took me longer to write than I would have wanted, so thank you for waiting! This is... pure fluff. Hope it’s worth the wait, thank you for the lovely prompt!

CW: mildly horny towards the end, but otherwise it’s only fluff!

"I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood."

Eskel raises his head from where he’s been staring at his spit flavoured ale to meet a pair of twinkling blue eyes.

The bardling can't be more than eighteen, fresh-faced and smelling of arousal as he looks at the Witcher appraisingly. Eskel expects him to recoil at the sight of his scars in the low tavern light, but the bard's eyes only widen with interest, and he slides into the opposite empty seat, leaning his lute against the table.

"Oooh, you're a Witcher, aren't you?" He asks with barely restrained excitement. "I could tell from the other side of the room you were filled with stories. How about I buy you an ale, and you tell me some of them?"

Eskel snorts. "And how are you planning to pay for that ale? Stale bread?" He nods towards the bulges where the bard stuffed the food thrown at him after his less than appreciated performance.

"Well, no," the man deflates, but not for long, his carefree smile returning along a flirty wink, "but I'm sure we can find an arrangement."

The Witcher rises from his seat, leaving his untouched ale and a couple of coins on the table. "I do not bed teenagers."

That earns him an offended splutter from the bard, who doesn't take the hint and follows him through the tavern. "I'm not… I can assure you that I am a man. An adult man." His voice breaks a little on the last syllable and Eskel smirks.

"Want to try that again?" He asks, but before the bard has a chance to reply, a man interrupts them. There is fear in his voice when he asks for Eskel's help with a so-called devil haunting his fields, and the way his eyes keep going back to the Witcher's scars shouldn't make Eskel so uncomfortable, but it does. He still accepts the job.

*

After the whole debacle with the elves, Jaskier follows Eskel back to the inn, strumming his lute with a spring in his step despite the bruise on his forehead and the tears in his doublet. Eskel informs the man who hired him of his deal with the elves, collects his meagre pay, and immediately spends half of it for a warm meal. He sits in the same corner as this morning, and forgets all about the whole ordeal for the time it takes to fill his stomach.

His peace is temporary, as Jaskier takes back his place in the middle of the room, undeterred by his earlier flop, and starts strumming the same melody he’s been composing on their way back to Posada. And then he starts singing.

The song is… embarrassing. Jaskier doesn’t pay attention to the first hollers and insults from the patrons who recognize him, his eyes rarely leaving Eskel, who sits still, mortified, as he discovers the lyrics at the same time as everyone else.

By the end, the complaints have turned to cheers and stomping, and Jaskier’s cheeks are ruddy with exertion. He accepts to play the song a second time, then follows with popular jigs and bawdy tales that have the drunks singing and the others getting drunker. His attention strays from Eskel, though he still spares him smiles and winks when he happens to pass by his table.

Eskel should leave, he knows. The sun will go down soon, and he still has to find a place to set up camp. But he’s stuck to the bench, people throwing coins at him, clapping him in the back. The bartender even slides a free ale in front of him, with a grateful though reluctant nod. It doesn’t even smell of spit.

A warmth spreads in his chest that has nothing to do with the alcohol, and it only flares brighter every time Jaskier sends a smile his way. It takes him a while to identify this emotion, practised as he is at ignoring them. It’s gratefulness. Not for the people thanking him for ridding them of the elves, though that is a nice change. No, he is the one being grateful for the bard who met an old, grumpy Witcher and decided to see a hero worthy of ballads instead.

Eskel knows the bard benefits from it too, his pockets clinking with coin, knows the friendliness of the villagers will only last as long as alcohol fogs their stereotypes and superstitions, but he can’t help but revel in it, hoarding warmth and comfort as much as he can before he goes back to the cold loneliness of the Path.

Just after the sun sets, but long before the impromptu party is over, Eskel slinks outside, stomach full, a little tipsy on ale and joy. He doesn’t want to wait until alcohol makes the mean ones meaner and pushes them to try starting a fight with him. The bard has earned his success, Eskel won’t be the one to ruin it. He meets Scorpion on the outskirts of the city, caresses his velvety nose as the horse sniffs at his pockets for some treats.

“That was a good day, boy,” the Witcher tells his horse. “We shouldn’t get used to it, though. That’s how you get disappointed.”

Traveling with a human is a change Eskel struggles to adapt to, though it is admittedly nice. The boy is a smart one, cultured and quick-witted, but he doesn't know anything about life. His noble upbringing quickly becomes obvious to Eskel, the lack of basic knowledge like making a fire or cooking food revealing themselves on the first evening of their acquaintance. Eskel doesn't mind teaching the boy. It seems like the thing to do to thank the bard for the song, and for the company. 

Before he finds himself maudlin longer, Eskel swings a leg over the saddle, and directs Scorpion to the South. Rapid footsteps echo behind him, and he turns to find the bard running in his direction, lute banging on his back and pockets heavy with the night’s earnings. The warmth that had bloomed in Eskel’s chest in the tavern buries itself deeper.

*

He doesn't expect the boy to stay long, maybe a week or two, until he's tired of sore feets and sleeping on hard ground, or he finds another "muse*, like he insists on calling Eskel.

But he stays, following Eskel everywhere, unless the Witcher insists he stays back at camp while he goes on a dangerous hunt, or he finds something of interest in a town they go through and decides to stay a couple more days. He always catches up, though, finding Eskel in whatever clearing he's set up camp and sitting at his side like they've never parted. It's nice, Eskel admits to himself. To have someone to talk to, about everything from music and art to monsters and magic. He finds himself brooding less and less, his mind focused on the colourful bard chatting next to him rather than on his own dark thoughts.

It comes slowly, he thinks, it buries itself under his skin, filling his every crevice without him noticing, but it's like falling from the edge of a cliff when he finally realises: he's happy.

He's been happy for a while. Since the ridiculous, optimistic, flirty bard entered his life.

He thinks about running, leaving Jaskier behind, before the inevitable happens and Eskel is left with a heart emptier than it was before. He could survive the loneliness when he had nothing else to compare it to; he's not sure he can go back to it now.

But he's not like his brothers, running from his feelings or translating all of them into anger. He takes the time to think about it, and decides that he'll take the risk. Jaskier doesn't look or smell like he has any intention of leaving Eskel's side for the moment, and Eskel has no intention of letting anything happen to the bard.

So he stays, and gets used to the company. It's surprisingly easy.

*

Winter is close, and Eskel finds himself feeling maudlin. Soon, Jaskier will head towards Oxenfurt to spend the season in warm lodgings, between some pretty girl's thighs, and wait for the sun to come back. Eskel will depart for Kaer Morhen, if he wants to get to the pass before it gets snowed in.

They've talked about it, and agreed to meet in the spring, but it doesn't keep Eskel from wishing they could stay together. He won't keep Jaskier from his plans, though, the bard sounding happy every time he mentions the friends he has at the Academy and his favourite inns to play at, where everyone, even the lowest drunkard, knows how to appreciate good music and poetry. 

He shouldn't ask for more, he knows. The bard already gives him so much; his friendship and his songs and his smiles.

The day before they part, they pay for a room in an inn close to the crossroad where they’ll have to say goodbye to each other, and Eskel spends the afternoon knees deep in murky water to rid the local pond of a particularly aggressive bloedzuiger. It’s not dangerous, just long and damp, and his already foul mood sours even more. Back at the inn, Eskel leaves muddy puddles on the way to their room.

Jaskier hasn’t moved from the bed, where he is writing down his latest composition in the leather bound notebook that never leaves his side, along with his lute. He raises his eyes as Eskel enters the room, nose scrunching up at the Witcher’s state.

“I asked for a bath,” Eskel grumbles, unbuckling his armour and putting it close to the crackling fireplace to dry.

“Oh, good,” Jaskier chuckles. “Everything suits you, my dear, but I can’t say I like the smell of dead fish on you.”

Eskel snorts, but doesn’t reply, as the innkeeper’s daughter knocks on the door and sets to filling a modest tub with tepid water. He thanks her, and waits for her to close the door behind herself before undressing completely and stepping into the bath. It’s not Kaer Morhen’s hot springs, but it does soothe the ache in his bones that always settles when it gets cold. He sighs, relaxing after the frustrating contract, and doesn’t notice Jaskier has moved until he’s right behind him.

It should unsettle him that the bard can sneak up on his Witcher senses, but it has become a recurring occurrence, and Eskel doesn’t mind it so much. He likes being able to lower his guard with someone who’s not his brothers or Vesemir.

Nimble fingers thread in his hair, and he suppresses a shudder at the pleasant sensation. “What are you doing?” he asks without opening his eyes.

“Helping you clean that mess,” Jaskier replies in a low voice, almost a murmur.

Eskel hums, not seeing a reason to refuse the offer. The bard’s fingers on his scalp feel divine, and a purr builds in his chest as he slowly melts into a puddle. “That feels nice.”

Jaskier doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t stop either, even when he’s done with Eskel’s hair. His hands trail down to the Witcher’s neck and shoulders, digging into the muscles there with both strength and care. Eskel’s hard prick bobs in the water, but he doesn’t do anything about it. He knows the bard would accept enthusiastically if Eskel were to proposition him; he hasn’t stopped smelling of lust and ogling Eskel even after all these months, but that’s not what the Witcher wants at the moment.

The hands on his shoulders have traded their massage for featherlight caresses, trailing down old scar tissue and up again, teasing and tickling the sensitive skin. Touch purely for touch’s sake. Eskel hums again and Jaskier chuckles, a puff of air brushing the damp skin of Eskel’s neck. “What are you thinking about?”

“Come with me to Kaer Morhen,” the Witcher says before he has time to talk himself out of it.

The silence that follows is short but Eskel has the time to regret everything that has led him to that moment, until a pair of soft lips caresses the curve of his shoulder, where a werewolf bit out a chunk of flesh thirty years ago and left only a jagged silver scar. Jaskier follows it from one end of the half-moon to the other, then breathes against Eskel’s skin, “I’d be honoured.”

And the warmth in Eskel’s chest makes itself a home there.

[volterran-wine]

Night at the Opera || Aro (HC)

Requested by Anonymous: "Hello, could I please request some headcannons about Aro taking his mate on a date ? You mentioned he'd take them to the opera and now I'm curious, how would it play out ? What kind of other dates do you think he'd want to share with his mate ? Thank you a lot, reading your writing is a very nice break in a busy day! I hope you have a good day!!"

Hello darling Anon! I will gladly elaborate on Aro's love for the theatre and how this date night would progress. At the end I have tacked on a couple of suggestions to other dates our dear king would enjoy with his mate. I'm happy to hear that my writing gives you a little break in your everyday life. I hope you have a stellar rest of your day as well sweet Anon.

𝐀𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰.

First off, it's not necessarily easy for Aro to go on dates with his significant other. He is a leader of an entire race, that always complicates things. Between security details and Caius' fussing there needs to be a lot of planning done when Aro wants to take his mate into the 'normal' world. At least this gives him the luxury of making sure said outings are nothing short of perfect.

Now, Aro loves the theatre; it compliments his personality quite well. And opera seems to combine all the things he loves the most into one single event. It is a nice escape for him to disappear into the little world the theatre provides him.

Going to the opera is quite the event in itself. There is a certain drsesscode that needs to be adhered to (At least the places where Aro demands to bring his mate to). So Aro himself would pick out his finest suit and coat, draped in colours of gold, black and emerald. Making sure to also wear a fine pair of gloves for the occasion. Paying special attention to his appearance for such a evening that was ahead of him.

Likes the ritual of watching his S/O get dressed up for their date. There was something exceptionally intimate about seeing them put on clothes or jewellery he had gifted them.

Aro takes them to one of his favourite opera houses in the world, (It's the one in the header, called "The Margravial Opera House" in Bayreuth, Germany. It has one of the most beautiful interiors in existence.) having purchased seats in his favourite box. Some of his own guard had been strategically placed around the venue, out of the way for the humans also gathered in the hall.

Depending on how well versed his mate was with opera, Aro would pick one out to watch accordingly. It was important that his S/O was able to enjoy themselves.

If S/0 is new to Opera Carmen or La Bohème, both are fairly well known opera's with music most would recognise if played to them.

If S/O is interested in Opera: Orfeo ed Euridice (Orpheus and Eurydice) a beautifully tragic tale about our dear bard Orpheus who is on a quest to save his beloved Eurydice from the underworld itself; only for tragedy to befall the lovers once more.

When things get emotional, Aro removes a glove, placing his hand on his armrest palm up. An open invitation for his significant other to share their feelings and thoughts with him if they pleases. They of course grab his hand and lace their fingers together without hesitation, letting their emotions run through him.

Ah, Aro was ever grateful that his mate had no qualms about letting him in to see their innermost thoughts and desires.

Their mind was his favourite place to be, others felt so... invasive. But here, here he felt at home. A small but genuine smile would grace his features, looking over at his mate with soft eyes. They really did look divine in the golden glow of the surrounding lights.

Gently he would pull them closer to him, leaning over to leave open mouthed kisses against their throat. His mates breath would hitch, and Aro would see his chance to let his hands begin to wander. No one paid attention to the private box cloaked in darkness.

"The performance is not done-" "I would much rather lavish you with my attentions αγάπη μου" "Aro..." "Beloved, I believe I can make much more beautiful sounds escape your throat." "... Make me sing then." "Gladly."

𝐀𝐫𝐨'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐬: Museum dates, Private study dates in his vaults, Slow days in the garden, A short stay in a foreign country when he can afford the time.

𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬: αγάπη μου: My love

[jaskierswolf]

Hello so this was inspired by this art by @little-piece-of-tamlin.

Geraskier - friends to lovers

____________

Jaskier was flitting around the room, humming to himself in between ramblings about everything and nothing. He folded clothes, and sniffed at perfume bottles, glancing back and forth between the selection of fine silks on the bed and where Geralt was sat on a stool in the middle of the room. He felt incredibly out of place, whereas Jaskier, with his brightly coloured clothes, softly tousled hair and flawless soft skin, clearly belonged. The castle belonged to a local lord, some relation of Jaskier’s, if Geralt had understood correctly. But the bard had brushed it off and had successfully diverted the topic of conversation every time Geralt tried to ask about it.

Now that Geralt thought about it, he really didn’t know Jaskier very well. It was all superficial. What colour he liked, his preference in perfumes… and that he played music?

Geralt frowned. The man called him his best friend, and Jaskier had done a truly remarkable job of immortalising Geralt’s own life in poems and ballads. He had an annoying knack of getting Geralt to open up, even when he didn’t want to… particularly when he didn’t want to. When they were stuck alone at night in the middle of the forests, it was easier to give in and tell Jaskier stories of his past, the earlier hunts he’d undertaken, the loss of his family and home before the humans had come. It all came tumbling out of Geralt’s mouth, and Jaskier remained silent, the scratching of his quill on the parchment being the only sound in the camp.

It almost felt like talking to Roach when Jaskier listened like that, only occasionally asking questions if he didn’t understand something.

When the songs came out they were just far enough away from the truth that it didn’t hurt. The epic retelling of the sacking of Kaer Morhen hadn’t mentioned the keep by name, and instead of witchers it had been a settlement of human warriors, knights, that had been attacked by villainous and greedy monsters.

Only Geralt knew the truth, he recognised the tale underneath the web of lies, and he was finally beginning to understand Jaskier’s trade. He was a storyteller, not a gossip. If asked, Jaskier could pledge that the tales were fictional, only inspired by Geralt but not necessarily a truthful account of his nature.

It allowed Geralt to keep his precious privacy intact.

But… what did Geralt really know about the bard?

He’d studied at Oxenfurt, graduated with the highest degree in the seven liberal arts, whatever the fuck that meant. He… he had blue eyes?

Geralt wasn’t even sure he knew how old Jaskier was, or when his birthday was?

He frowned, his eyes trailing after Jaskier as he danced around the room, an enigma dressed in silver and gold. Geralt cleared his throat. “Why did you become a bard?”

Jaskier finally stopped, hands freezing above a selection of wildflowers. The sudden tension in the room was palpable, swirling around them in a fog of emotions. There was a sinking feeling in Geralt’s gut, only getting worse the longer Jaskier remained silent but finally he was caught in a flash of cornflower blue eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re my friend.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Well, yes. I know that, but… why do you ask now?”

“Curiosity?”

“Hmm…” Jaskier peered back at him as they fell back into an uneasy silence. Eventually, Jaskier gave up. He smiled brightly, the kind he used in his performances. “Music, poetry, stories. They are the fabric of society, Geralt. Everyone needs to escape sometimes, and bards provide the means.”

Geralt cocked his head, “What were you escaping from?”

“Oh, you know, this and that. I wanted to see the world, Geralt, and now I do, with quite honestly, the best man by my side.”

Flattery. Diversion.

“The Lord was your family.”

“Was, yes. You’re my family now, Geralt.”

Geralt sighed. He wasn’t going to get any information from Jaskier tonight, but maybe if he continued to show an interest the bard would lower the walls that he was so good at hiding behind. Geralt wanted to see the man behind the mask. Instead, he sat in silence as Jaskier dressed him and braided his hair. The gentle tug at his scalp felt good, helping release tension he hadn’t even realised he’d been carrying. He stood when Jaskier asked, swatting the bard away when he tried to help him into his trousers, only relenting when he’d finished with the fastenings and Jaskier insisted that he turn around.

Jaskier’s fingers brushed against his arse, a sensation that almost felt more intimate than the massages and the chamomile oil. Geralt was just thankful that Jaskier couldn’t hear the way his heartbeat picked up, couldn’t smell the waves of affection that he knew were rolling off him. He licked his lips, and fingered the braids in his hair. They felt strange under his fingertips, thin ropes of hair on either side of his head, twisting around into his usual half-up style. In the back, there were flowers. Geralt sniffed his fingers… buttercups.

Jaskier had weaved buttercups into his hair.

He was about to question it when he caught sight of his arse in the mirror. “Jaskier what the fuck is this?” A large bow was tied neatly at the base of his spine, just above his butt.

“A gift from the gods, Geralt,” Jaskier said, winking at him with a mischievous smile. The bard’s tongue flicked out, running along his lips in a way that was so utterly entrancing, and Geralt was momentarily stunned until Jaskier spun around and wiggled his own arse. Geralt blinked, his gaze dropping to ogle the bard’s butt. “And look, we match!”

And they did, Jaskier also had a bow tied less neatly on his own trousers. It wasn’t fair though, Jaskier had put so much effort into making Geralt look presentable for the evening, he shouldn’t look anything less than perfect. So, Geralt reached out and untied the messy bow, making Jaskier whine.

“Sh, bard,” Geralt hummed, his nimble fingers took the loose silver silk ribbons and deftly tied them into a bow, neater than Jaskier’s efforts. “There, fixed.”

“Oh.”

Their eyes met as Jaskier spun around, and Geralt felt lost in the sea of blue. Jaskier’s eyes always seemed to cut straight into his soul, piercing his heart. Gorgeous, enchanting and beautiful, just like the rest of him. Suddenly it felt like the whole world had shrunk around them, leaving only the two of them. It was hard to breathe and Geralt felt like his heart was trying to escape his chest. Jaskier’s gaze flicked down to his lips, and it was all the permission he needed. He cupped Jaskier’s cheek in his hand and pressed their lips together in a kiss.

[samstree]

The One with the Coastal Customs

Geraskier, 1.8k, Fluff, Crack, Secret Relationship, Kaer Morons at their best, humor, Jaskier takes one for the team

Inspired by Friends. Read on AO3

Breakfast at Kaer Morhen is full of chatter as always. With Ciri and Yennefer joining them a few days ago, loud arguing and laughter always fill those once empty halls.

Jaskier picks at the rye bread on his plate, not paying attention to Lambert’s clearly exaggerated monster story, though Ciri seems completely entranced, prompting him to go on with anticipation.

His mind is still full of last night’s visage of Geralt pressing him against the wooden door and kissing him senseless. The witcher had to come to his bedroom after everyone else turned in so no one noticed. After the whole mountain incident last year and Geralt’s following apology, they thought it wise to keep their blooming relationship in secret for a while.

Let’s not tell everyone in a rush. Geralt was the one who proposed the secrecy. Whatever we have here is ours, Jask. I don’t want them to interfere or mess it up. You are too important to me, He said. Besides, what could go wrong?

Jaskier, at the time, agreed to it whole-heartedly. The witcher was so sincere that day, his golden eyes flowing with adoration and vulnerability that Jaskier could not deny him anything.

Despite some inconveniences, Jaskier has to admit it does make things excitingly hot. He almost feels like a naughty student sneaking out of class to make out with a lover again.

Jaskier’s hand comes up to touch the skin on his neck, the same spot where Geralt nibbed and sucked gently last night and left him a sobbing mess. Next to him, Geralt catches his motion with a look before a faint smile quirks up the corner of his mouth.

“Grape juice?” the witcher passes him the pitcher with the most unaffected tone in the world but his other hand travels up Jaskier’s thigh teasingly.

He has to choke in a gasp.

“…and bam! The third wyvern drops dead.” Lambert ends the story proudly, “And that’s why I’m the best witcher at this table. You have a lot to learn from me, princess.”

Ciri giggles as Geralt and Eskel chime in to call out all the lies in that tale. The room erupts in jabs and loud arguments.

Yennefer is the only one who remains silent throughout the whole meal. Her violet gaze only falls on Jaskier once, piercing with intent, before looking away like nothing happened. Even though their exchanges are a lot more amicable these days, the sorceress tends not to acknowledge Jaskier’s existence very often.

From the corner of his eyes, Jaskier sees Vesemir leave for the library. The older witcher still has work for him to finish today.

“Right, duty calls.” With a screech of chair, Jaskier stands so he can leave too. “I’ll see you later.”

He rests his hand on Geralt’s shoulder and leans in for a kiss. Geralt’s lips taste like the sweetness of grape juice and Jaskier revels in it for a moment before pulling away.

Everyone at the table is staring at him.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Jaskier freezes on the spot, a million thoughts going through his mind. Is it time to announce it to the world? They are ready for everyone to know and get involved, aren’t they?

But with one look at Geralt, he abandons the thought. The witcher has gone pale, and stiff as a statue. Panic starts to creep into those beautiful honey eyes, so subtly anyone else would have missed it.

Geralt is not ready.

Jaskier swallows. Well, there’s nothing to it.

He turns to Eskel, who’s holding a spoon mid-air and studying him with confused surprise.

“Eskel. See you later too.” He cups the older witcher’s jaw and presses their lips together. Eskel, the sweet man, even holds on to his wrist by reflex. He ends it with a pop before going around the table, careful not to trip over a chair.

Lambert can only be described as dumbfounded when Jaskier leans in, and incredulous afterwards.

“Have a nice day, Lamb.”

Yennefer looks at him with the same scrutiny. Wait, why is she looking smug? Fuck, the mage is looking scarier than the day they met. This one he might regret the most later.

“My favorite witch. It’s so good to have you here.” Jaskier opens his arms dramatically before going in, the familiar lilac and gooseberries filling his senses. Oh, her lips are so much softer.

When he stands to straighten his doublet, the whole table is still looking at him in silence. Geralt is tense as a statue while Lambert’s mouth hangs slightly open.

“Right.” He pats Ciri on the back and runs away from the scene, keeping his footsteps as steady as possible.

 *

Ciri is the first one to break the silence.

“What the hell just happened?”

“Language.” Yennefer berates her, seemingly unfazed.

Geralt swallows a lump. If Jaskier is willing to go such length to keep the promise, he can try to look inconspicuous for a moment.

A blush is creeping up on Lambert’s face, but he tries to hide it with biting words. “Geralt, what the fuck is wrong with you bard?”

“Watch your language too.” Eskel’s voice is steady with amusement. “Why do you mind it so much anyway? He’s being friendly. It was nice.”

If Eskel wipes his lips casually with a pleased look, nobody mentions it.

“In what world is that friendly?” Lambert scowls.

“It’s –” Geralt clears his throat, “He went to the coast last year. In the south. Must have picked up some local customs. That’s…um…how they greet each other. In the south.”

Lambert stares at him. “Doesn’t feel southern to me.”

Geralt gulps down all the juice in his cup. When he puts it down, Yennefer is studying him like a predator might a prey.

“Interesting custom.” Her violet eyes sparkle with curiosity.

Geralt has never been more grateful for his witcher trials for allowing him to remain calm under extreme pressure. His heart still beats slowly without revealing anything.

They are fine as long as it doesn’t happen again.

 *

It happens again.

Jaskier sucks at Geralt’s lips with heated passion, drawing a soft moan out of the witcher. Neither of them pays any attention to the flurries of snow falling into the empty courtyard around them.

“I’ve missed you today.” He moves down to Geralt’s jawline, and then his neck. “Where’d you go?”

“Had to repair the wall at the back, or the whole keep crumbles.”

“Hmm. Should have let it.”

Jaskier captures those lips again just when he hears people entering the courtyard, and pushes Geralt away with force.

It’s too late.

Eskel and Lambert stare quizzically at Jaskier, their training swords in hand. Behind him, Ciri is also in full gears, ready for lessons. The way she tilts her head in bewilderment is such a spitting image of her dad.

“Well.” Jaskier pats Geralt on the bicep. “Thanks for helping me clean the stable. That’s…nice of you.”

Roach snorts in the stable behind them.

He walks towards Eskel and kisses him again, and then Lambert. Boy he’s just noticing how tall the younger witcher is. Jaskier has to tiptoe a little bit. “I’ll be off then.”

When he passes Ciri, the girl just moves out of the way like he’s the plague. “See you, uncle Jask!”

Jaskier nods at her, carrying himself as naturally as possible, and enters the building.

 *

The gwent is going great. It seems that Geralt is going to win again.

Jaskier yawns. He’ll never see the appeal of the game, so he just reaches over Lambert to grab the lute. Maybe a little practice will be good–

“Okay, bard. You need to cut it off.” Lambert stops Jaskier’s motion with a hand on his chest.

Jaskier blinks.

“I don’t care whatever–” Lambert gestures around Jaskier’s whole being. “– coastal customs you picked up from the south. It’s not…how we do things around here. We are not in the south and it’s fucking weird. So quit it.”

“Okay?” He blinks again.

“I know you like witchers more than the average man out there,” Eskel adds, “and you want to show us. I appreciate it, Jaskier, but it might not make us the most comfortable.”

“What now?” Jaskier looks around the room. Yennefer and Ciri are sitting by the fire with some magic book spread out between their knees, watching the situation unfold.

“Quit the kissing, bard.” Lambert scowls.

Eskel smiles politely. “Yeah, it’s best if you did.”

Oh.

Jaskier can see the two witchers are clearly not at ease. Lambert’s face is a ripe tomato and Eskel is acting way too formal with all the niceties.

“Okay. Of course.” Jaskier raises his hands in defeat. “I will stop assaulting you with the overly familiar foreign customs. Message received.”

“Thank the gods. It was disgusting.” Geralt deadpans.

Jaskier looks into those golden eyes he loves so much and wonders if he can express ‘I’m gonna put a pillow over your face tonight’ with a neural glare. The bastard only raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“If you do need to let it out somehow, Jaskier, maybe your friends at that fancy academy of yours are open to it.” Yennefer says, chill as the winter sky, “Or some of your lovers.”

Maybe Jaskier’s eyes are deceiving him, but he swears the sorceress glanced in Geralt’s direction when she said ‘lovers’.

The ladies resume their discussion about spells and magic, and the gwent game continues. Geralt does end up winning.

Jaskier plucks his lute, imagining a million ways for his witcher to make it up to him later.

Oh the sacrifices he has to make for this ridiculous man.

 *

“The sacrifices I have to make for you, my dear.” Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder, cuddling up to his witcher’s warm body.

“What sacrifice? I thought you were enjoying it.”

“They are quite good kissers though, especially–” He cuts himself off. It’s best not to discuss your lover’s brothers that way, or ex-lover, for that matter.

“Then what are you moaning about?”

“But my reputation!” Jaskier protests, “My name will be tarnished forever. Jaskier – barker and molester of witchers. None of you will ever let me sing your heroism anymore.”

“Hmm. Don’t you forget about Yen.” Geralt’s voice rumbles deep in his chest.

“Oh yeah. I’m surprised she didn’t turn me into a toad on the spot.” He plays with Geralt’s long hair. “By the way – I just have this inking – do you think, perhaps, Yennefer might know? About us?”

“Oh she knows.”

Jaskier bolts upright, looking at Geralt incredulously.

“Since when?”

“The day she arrived?” Geralt guesses, “I’m sure she took one look at us and figured it out. It’s not my fault she’s so smart–”

Jaskier picks up a pillow and throws it at Geralt’s smug face.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

Geralt finally breaks out laughing. He catches the bard’s feral attack and pins him into the mattress. Jaskier’s angry little pout is too adorable Geralt has to kiss it away. Uninterrupted this time.

“Is it worth it though? All the sacrifices?” Geralt's breath ghosts over the skin at Jaskier's throat.

The bard only glares at him for a moment, before letting out a sigh long-sufferingly.

“For you, my dear. Always.” He pecks Geralt’s soft lips one more time. “As long as no one turns me into a toad.”

[bamf-jaskier]

It’s the Little Things

Geralt has built his life around a false narrative. He is not from Rivia, there is no Witcher’s code and he loves to talk about philosphy and the arts but no one ever asks. 

So when the people in his life know him, the real him, it shows him that he is loved. 

His family, Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir have known him his whole life, he feels comfortable around them and there is no need for pretense because they were there when the pretense was built. It is nice to not have to ever explain because they understand. 

When Ciri came into his life, she saw past every pretense at once. Perhaps it was because he brought her to Kaer Morhen where he let down his walls. Perhaps it was the magic inside her or destiny itself. Ciri felt like family immediately and Geralt knew that he would protect her and she knew him in return.

Yennefer first knew him after they met for the third or fourth time, in some small town in the Northern part of the continent and she watched as he turned down a contract for a dryad’s keep nearby, citing the code. 

“There isn’t such a thing as a Witcher’s Code, is there Geralt?” She had asked. 

Geralt had shook his head and she had thrown back her head and laughed, that lilac and gooseberry scent floating over to Geralt as she moved her hair. From then on, Yennefer didn’t ask about the Witcher’s code or why Geralt had created it. The answer was the same as why she presented herself as a heartless mage. It was easier to let them think they knew you. Yennefer understood this. 

She would ask Geralt what he dreamed of and what he liked to do. He would tell her happily and they would dream together. Yennefer knew that Geralt did not like the taste of rabbit and honestly hated mushrooms but would eat both if necessary. Yennefer knew that Geralt honestly loved fighting with his swords but wasn’t half bad with a crossbow if you gave him the chance and above all she never asked him for anything but simply accepted what he gave. 

Yennefer knew him. 

Triss knew him too. Triss knew Geralt was not a morning person and would let him sleep in until the afternoon when she could. She knew to avoid talking about Cintra but that Geralt loved to hear tales of courts from long ago and that he was a more deft hand at politics than many people suspected. Triss told Geralt stories and he listened, drinking them in and sharing his own in return. 

After the fourth or fifth time he came to her to get patched up she had his favorite tea ready for him and let him borrow one of her books on the history of politics in Novigrad. This is when Geralt understood that Triss knew him. 

For the longest time, Geralt thought Jaskier didn’t understand him at all. He thought the bard believed him to be a brutish Witcher, only good for killing monsters and gaining glory. 

Jaskier never affirmed Geralt’s likes and dislikes like Yennefer. He didn’t offer up gifts to Geralt like Triss. Geralt assumed that Jaskier saw in him what everyone else did: A ruthless monster. 

Then, Geralt began to notice things. Small things, but important. Jaskier never once asked Geralt about Rivia. Even when they went through it for a contract, Jaskier didn’t ask. Jaskier never asked Geralt questions in general. Jaskier would talk for hours about songs he was writing, people he met or stories he heard from others about Geralt but he never asked Geralt questions directly. 

It took Geralt a long time but he finally understood. Jaskier was waiting for him. When Jaskier would speak, sometimes he would pause, as if waiting for a reply that wasn’t there before continuing. Yet he never asked Geralt for his input he was waiting for Geralt to offer it freely. It was a strange quirk for such a normally intrusive man so Geralt tried to understand it. 

Jaskier was talking about his latest composition. 

“And you know, I was thinking throwing in a quicker beat here would rouse the audience-”

and there was the pause, short sure but a few seconds too long to simply be on accident. Geralt took this opportunity to speak up. 

“That sounds like a good idea.”

The smile Jaskier gave him could have lit up the night sky. 

“You like that idea?” He said, “well I was also thinking of adding in a repetition at the end of the chorus so the audience could join in as well.”

Geralt took this as further invitation to join this talk, “Perhaps you could repeat only the last few lines, make it easier to remember.”

Jaskier nodded, exclaiming that might just work and the two of them descended into conversation. Real conversation, back and forth, sharing and learning. 

This entire time, Geralt had been waiting for Jaskier to ask him questions, to show that he knew him, that he saw past the narrative he had built for everyone else and in the end, Jaskier was waiting for the same. Jaskier had been waiting for Geralt to feel comfortable enough to offer himself freely to Jaskier. What idiots they were, dancing around each other never realizing that they were each dancing to a part the other complimented. 

Once Geralt began to respond to Jaskier in those moments, Jasker in turn began to ask Geralt more freely, less hesitantly. Jaskier asked for Geralt’s opinion on the best place to stay and Geralt asked Jaskier’s on where they might go next. They began to share their lives instead of merely living paralells ones alongside each other. 

It was entirely different from anyone else because as Jaskier began to know Geralt, he began to know the bard in turn. He realized that Jaskier hated squirrel when his nose crinkled after Geralt made stew one night in the woods. He learned that Jaskier was born in the spring and hated the cold. 

Geralt didn’t even realize that this newfound closeness would result in Jaskier knowing more about him as well until Jaskier presented him with a new scabbard for his sword one night. 

“What’s this?” Geralt had asked. 

“You mentioned you were born sometime around Autumn and I didn’t know exactly when but I noticed your swords were pratically about to fall off your back so I elected to get you a gift now.”

It was a good feeling, to travel with someone who knew him, who understood him. Jaskier knew he wasn’t from Rivia, he knew Geralt sometimes made shit up just to leave people alone and also that he couldn’t stand the taste of parsley. It wasn’t just the words but the actions. 

They would sit together over fires, not saying a word yet Geralt could feel the knowledge of who Jaskier was within his heart, he felt like he had known the man forever and that in return Jaskier knew him. 

He could feel the connection in his heart and it made him warm. It made him loved.