#bard life is a hard life when things want to kill you instead of laugh at your terrible jokes

[dyrewrites]

Fuck Moonrise Tower.

That is all.

[tea-with-eleni]

A Quiet Moment

The stars are incongruously peaceful overhead.

You sigh. The view is familiar. The view is home. You know these streets… or had, once. You grew up here. You played with friends here. Maybe you even first heard the viol played by a bard perched on this very rooftop. How long ago would it have been? Ten years ago? Twenty? Thirty? How old are you? It doesn’t bear thinking about. It’s just one more thing your sister stole from you. It’s just one more thing you’ll never get back.

You brace for the fury to rise at that thought. You wait for the red to cloud the edges of your vision. You wait for your pulse to speed up, for the adrenaline to build, for the urge to kill her, again, in vengeance.

A guard walks down the street below you. You hear laughter from the square nearby. A breeze stirs your hair. You feel your companions sleeping below, their minds never completely separate from yours anymore.

You do not feel the urge.

You almost laugh with relief. Instead, you choke a little. It turns into half a sob and you sink against a pillar. You still can’t believe it. Today - gods, was it only today? - you rose full of gratitude that your friends, companions, and allies all survived the night. That your lover survived the night, risking everything to be near you. You know that some of your companions kept watch to protect against you, and you were still of two minds over whether you should thank them or try to kill them to prove a point. You did neither. You donned your father’s cloak over your armor. You’re still of two minds about that, as well.

Today, you became your father’s unholy assassin. You regret that, a little, but you know why you did it. You needed a way to avoid further bloodshed at all costs. You needed to end this little family feud, one way or another.

You asked your companions, the ones who followed you into the darkness, to never breathe a word of that particular title to anyone. You feel confident that two of them will take the secret with them to… well, perhaps not their graves, exactly, but it isn’t something they’ll broadcast. You’re equally confident that Astarion will use it to mock you and, in so doing, will completely rob the title of its power. Both suit you just fine.

Returning to the temple of Bhaal felt frighteningly normal. The attempt on your life outside the door - had that been your idea? It feels dramatic. It feels like it could have been you. The traps - that was definitely you. Disabling them felt familiar and a little embarrassing.

The altar where your sister, your blood-kin, mocked you. That, oh yes. That was familiar.

Your blood sang when you killed her. It was the most joyful and the most horrible thing you’ve ever felt. Not that it means much, to say that. You remember, what, a few weeks, if you really think back on it? It’s hard to believe. The nautiloid feels like a lifetime ago. For you, it literally was.

You don’t want to think of your father. Denying him to his face was the hardest thing you’ve done. It had been so easy, to discuss the idea of defying a god with Gale and Shadowheart in the comfortable rooms of this tavern. Doing it when you knew it meant your death… that was much harder.

You’re not sure if the glimmer of Orin’s nether stone was what gave you courage or not. It would be nice to think that one of your final thoughts was that you gave your friends a tool they could use to win the fight against the elder brain. That you sacrificed your life and knew they could carry on without you. You’re not sure that’s the truth. It’s equally possible you were struck by the exquisite beauty of your sister’s gore and never believed father would kill the creator of such a masterpiece.

You suppose that it doesn’t matter in the end. You’re alive. She’s a pile of viscera. You have her dagger. It’s stained with your blood. The wrapping on the handle may yet have bits of your brain matter embedded in the leather. Repulsive thought, that. You briefly considered passing the blade to someone else but… no. You want a reminder of what you were. Of who you could have been.

The trapdoor beside you creaks. You aren’t surprised to see the person who climbs onto the roof beside you. You felt them stir, notice you missing down below. You felt them look for you. You felt their worry and you smile a little to assuage it now. It’s a genuine smile. It isn’t the terrible blank smile you wore when the urge to kill threatened to overwhelm you. You can’t quite believe it yet, but you’ll never feel that way again. You are no longer your father’s child. The relief threatens tears and your lover’s face softens. They pull you close. The desire to berate you for scaring them fades. You apologize anyway. You have so much to atone for, so much that can never be forgiven, you’ll earn any scrap of forgiveness you can get. You would do anything for them.

They kiss the top of your head. You shift slightly to get even more comfortable in their embrace. They laugh softly at the way you melt against them. They stroke your hair and their hand comes to rest on the back of your neck. “For what it’s worth,” they say, after a while, “I’m proud of you. I can’t imagine what that took. How are you feeling now?”

You sigh. “I don’t know,” you say. “I didn’t think I could escape—what I am. I feel strange.” You unconsciously shy away from the word. Your lover knows what you mean.

“Good strange or terrifying strange?”

“Good. Definitely good.” You feel like you’re wrapping around them like an octopus and the mental image of the Emperor flirting with you comes to mind. You force it back. Some things really shouldn't be shared. They're too weird. You redirect your thoughts to the topic at hand. “I didn’t exactly want to be a bloodthirsty maniac.” You're pretty sure you're telling the truth. It's the truth that matters, anyway, because this you, whoever you are now, whoever it was that woke up on the nautiloid... this you never wanted to enjoy slaughter. You don't know about who you were before. You only have the unreliable accounts of murder-crazed maniacs to go on.

Your lover is either oblivious to your internal monologue or chooses to ignore it. Their fingers find the gnarled scar under your hair where Orin once tried to tear you apart. You try not to flinch away.

The conversation dies out. Both of you are too tired and, in your case, too battered to have the energy to continue. You know that you barely won the fight today. You don't know if you are enough for the fight that is to come. You're not your father's chosen. You're not even his child anymore. You're mortal. You could die. You came so close to death today.

But here and now, the stars are peaceful. You're not alone. You'll deal with everything else tomorrow.

[mrpenguinpants]

Spider’s Thread [Reverse AU]

Possessive Red Xiao x Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Commissioned for: @profoundwitchsalad

Art Credit: @ruoyeahs

Warning: Unhealthy relationships.

Prompt:

“You’ve ruined my life because I have a warped idea of what love is and I can’t live without you. But now you’re trying to leave me and I won’t allow that. You left me alive. You have a duty to live for me and by me. I’m not letting you go.”

---

Xiao Semi Series

[ Friendship ] [ Falling in Love ] [ Cuddles ] [ Protective ] [ Affection ] [ Jealously ] [ Opposites Attract ] [ String Of Fate (Soulmate) ] [ Fainting ]

Link to original posts:  [Red! Xiao.] [Reverse AU]

[Masterlist]

Alatus was once told a story by his Master. A sinner who falls into hell is rewarded for his only good deed, choosing not to kill a spider. As his reward, a thread is lowered down for him to climb out of Hell. In the end, the sinner remains in Hell because he kicks aside others and the thread breaks. Alatus doesn't remember why his Master told him this story but he still empathizes with the sinner. He would have done the same or asked for this 'saviour' to extend their hand down instead. That way he could pull them down.

"Xiao? Are you okay?"

He slowly opens his jade eyes to see you hunch over, peering down above him, eyebrows furrowed together in concern as you reach down and softly tap his temple. He allows you to take a moment to do whatever you want with his face before he reaches up to grasp at your wrist gently, holding back on his want to rub circles into your skin. His reminiscing can wait for now.

"What is it?" he asks curtly, sitting up and resting his elbow on his raised knee. You pout at his curt tone but shrug it off as you take a seat next to him and lean your shoulder against his. You dig into your bag and pull out slips of commission papers and hand it over to him to read through what needed to be done today. A few Hilichurl camps needed to be taken care of, sabotaging a slime balloon, all tasks that seem mundane to someone who fought in a war. As he's preoccupied, you take a moment to look at Xiao's face. He's just the slightest bit unnerved whenever you do this because you always seem to know what's bothering someone.

"Were you dreaming of her again?" you ask quietly. The silence is a good enough answer but you nod understandingly. You never knew his Master personally but you did fight a long strenuous battle against her. From one look you could tell she was a manipulative and cruel woman. While it may not be very kind to say, you were glad that with her passing, Xiao would be free from her physically. But mentally...there were still some things to work out. But Xiao was a very reclusive person, especially with his emotions, so pushing him any further would only make him irritated and closed off.

"Venti and Zhongli are joining our party for a bit if that’s alright. They'll help out a lot with our commissions and travelling. I like Liyue a lot but climbing mountains stresses my shoulders out," you laugh as you change the subject to something less depressing. Standing up as you dust your clothes off before turning to Xiao and holding your hand out for him to take. He stares at it hard for a few moments before huffing and reaching over to clasp your hands together.

It has been so frustratingly peaceful since the war ended. He's not used to it and he can still feel the lick of cutting winds and the heavy pressure of rocks against his body when he sees the bard and funeral parlor consultant just on the horizon. If it were up to him, he wouldn't play nice with these two Archons but they're important to you so he bites his tongue until he tastes blood. He knows the Archons do the same. As soon as the two of them spot you both, Venti is already rushing and tackling you to the ground in his excitement.

"Traveler! I haven't seen you in ages. You need to come and visit Mondstadt more," Venti cried into your shoulder as you awkwardly patted him on his back. Always with the dramatics but you cared about Venti all the same. Xiao scoffed before flicking his jade eyes to meet gold as Zhongli stared down at him cautiously. Since the war ended, everyone seemed to have this warped idea that Alatus had some vendetta against the Gods and Celestia but he was fighting because he was told to.

"Xiao. It's good to see you again," Zhongli said to him. Xiao just nodded in acknowledgement. Even with this new mortal form, Morax never bothered to change his eyes. His gaze alone held the weight of the mountains he had thrown. If Xiao hadn’t been under one of them before, he might have crumbled under the pressure.

"Alright alright, Venti. I promise I'll drop by sometime this month but we still have commissions to do!" you laugh as you haul the bard onto his feet and swat his cape down from the speckles of dirt. He grins cheekily at you, linking pinkies with you to seal your promise, before suddenly lighting up as if he just remembered something.

"Actually! Before we start anything, I need to speak to Mr. Zhongli and Xiao. Super important archon things, you know?" Venti nodded to himself as the two mentioned people stared at him with varying levels of confusion. But Venti just waved their worries off and linked his arms with both men as he dragged them off to a more secluded corner with a surprising amount of strength, “We’ll be right back!”

"Do what you need to do but don't take too long," you called after the trio as you trailed off to the side, messing with your bag of commission papers and gear. Xiao hated that. He knows that these two Archons are your...friends.. but shouldn't you be a bit more cautious? Just because they have mortal forms doesn’t make them human, it doesn’t make him human either.

"Hey, there's no need to look so scary. There really is something important I wanted to talk to the two of you about," Venti speaks up as soon as you're out of earshot. It still gives Xiao whiplash whenever he drops the persona and switches back to Barbatos. "Since Morax is the only Archon I trust with this information and, while I don't trust you one bit, you're the one that's with her all the time you should also know. She's ascending to Celestia."

Barbatos gauges both of their reactions. Morax seems visibly surprised, his eyes slightly widened a fraction, while Xiao has no idea what that means. His Master didn’t exactly give him a history lesson on Celestia or Archons, just pointed to who was his enemy and dealt punishments when he failed.

"And what the hell does that mean?" Xiao asks as he crosses his arms. Venti appears for a second as the bard pouts before continuing.

"It's like I said. A mortal who performs great, heroic feats can ascend to Celestia and achieve godhood. Where they will watch over their people from above. I've only seen this once before so it took me a while to recognize the signs. But 1000 years ago, I helped a woman named Vennessa with her ascension and with the traveler's recent actions with winning the war. Well, you don't need me to explain the rest," Barbatos finishes. Zhongli simply hums as he cups his chin and absorbs what's just been heard. He doesn’t seem troubled by the news at all.

"Have you told her about this?" Zhongli questions as he looks towards the direction that you left. Venti shakes his head. “That would mean that she would vanish from this world."

“I know she loves this world. Whether she wishes to ascend or not isn’t my choice but I want her to continue her travels with that beloved smile on her face. But if she does choose to ascend, she will need our help," Venti stares at the two of them in a mix of pride, sadness, and determination. "Can I count on you two for your help?"

It's a complete white noise in Xiao's ears as his surroundings fade out. He thinks he can see Zhongli nod to Venti wishes, the ever calm smile on his face to match the cheery grin on Venti’s. What, now you want to become a God? Leave this world behind? That’s not funny. You made him give up everything. While in your eyes, your blinded hero syndrome, you think you've liberated him from a soulless conquest but he still has nothing. You still took everything away from him and your only compensation was to have him by your side until he left himself. But now you want to leave without a warning? That’s not fair. You don’t get to take back what you owe. He won't allow you to leave him behind.

“Did something happen? Did Venti say something unnecessary again?” you ask out of the blue. Zhongli and Venti had returned to their respective regions once your commissions were all finished. Since the three of them disappeared to talk Archon business, Xiao had seemed even more tense and aloof than usual. As if he was out of it? You knew that everyone was still suspicious of Xiao and they were angsty to leave you alone with him, but you knew Xiao would never do anything to hurt you. When he doesn't answer, you slowly reach over and you subtly nudge his head up onto your lap and look at him curiously. Before reaching down and cupping his cheek. He leans into your touch before turning his face into your palm and leaving a soft kiss. It makes you giggle at the ticklish feeling as you look at him so softly. It annoys him.

"You were never connected to the war and yet you fought against us anyways. Even when I killed so many people, why did you choose to spare me?" he asked as you blinked at him before giving it some serious thought. He went on a rampage and almost destroyed the world. It was fun. He doesn't have any regrets at all because he hated humanity. His own Master was human after all. But then you appeared and stopped him. A random outsider that wanted to play the hero. He thought it was cute. Perhaps he had underestimated the lengths someone would go to to save the world they loved but when he fell defeated at your feet. He said that this wouldn't change a single thing. He would still scorn humanity and what they did to him. He was so sure he would die there but you chose to extend your hand down to him instead despite what your companions felt. Even when the war ended and he had nowhere else to go, you offered him to travel with you. Nothing changed about his mentality, every person that chose to talk to him was quickly scared away with piercing eyes. Every conversation started would end in silence. Every touch would be met by the tip of his spear. But you would link your hands together with his and smile brightly, and he would always end up forgetting his trauma for a moment. You’ve... become precious to him.

"I love this world and everyone in it. You are a part of that world even if you tried to destroy it. It...didn't seem fair to leave you behind when you've suffered just as much," you finish but it only seemed to spark a wave of deep anger inside of Xiao. He quickly lurched up, almost knocking your forehead with his, before grabbing the scruff of your shirt collar and yanking you forward.

"Cut it out with that "love of everything" crap. It's revolting. So you're saying the people I killed weren't worth avenging? Do you think I'm so weak that I need protection? It's one thing to try and please everyone but at least have some awareness would you?" he snarled as he pushed you to the ground. He knew he was being harsh on you and you had every right to walk out and abandon him but you didn't. Of course, you wouldn't. You needed him as much as he needed you. You just reached over and tenderly reached your hand and placed it next to his. Damn it, why is he always the one stuck worrying about you.

"Then you want to protect me, right? Then don't break your promise. You left me alive which means you have a duty to live for me," he takes your hand in his and squeezes hard. Digging his nails into your own until crescents appear and tiny specks of blood appear so you know he's serious. He doesn't care how you interpret his words, just so long as you never leave him.

"Don't die on me, Hero."

It's been a few hours since the conversation so it's pitch black outside but Xiao was never one to sleep. Even if he could, his mind is too loud to fall asleep too. He's startled when you melt against him fully asleep. Honey smooth as you curl up to his warmth and cling to him like moss to a rock. He can feel his cheeks start to flush as his heart begins to pound against his chest. He can't breathe as his world is filtered through each beat that drums against his ears. He's not sure if there's actually something wrong with him or if it's just been a while since someone got so close and his instincts haven't left.

He's just realized it. He's feeling pain. The feeling in his chest is black but he can't claw it away. It's strange in a way that he can't explain it, that he's never felt before, that he's never felt the need to experience. His life had been warped by battle and a constant push to submit to his Master. They are all things he knows but the gentle words that come from your mouth, the bright eyes that hold the world, the horrible ice-hot feeling inside of him is so foreign yet too easy. He doesn't like it.

It makes him feel...clean in a way. Enlightened perhaps? His Master is long gone and it's like you said. He's free now. Free to make his own decisions and live his life how he wants to. He carefully turns over so as to not startle you away as he really looks at you. You look so peaceful in his arms, eyelids shut without worry, face slack without nightmares, breathing so softly against him. If you weren't so close to him that he couldn't feel the rise of your chest, he wonders if he would think you were dead. He stares at the lock of hair swaying back and forth with each breath like a starved man. The strange feeling doesn't stop. He hates it. It's everything that goes against him and what he knows and everything he should want. He's supposed to be the villain in your story, he should kill you right now-

"Xiao..." he hears you mumble beside him as you lean further into his arm. Damn it. How low is he going to go?

“What are you thinking about now? You just need to think about me. Don’t think about anything else...but me” Xiao sighs before he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into him until you're snug against his chest. Close to him, where he can touch you, where you belong. Not with Morax or Barbatos. Not with humans but beside him. He closes his eyes and nuzzles his head into your hair and he stares off into the distance. The feeling never leaves him for the remainder of the night.

"Ah! There you are. I was running around crazy looking for you," he turns his hair to see your flushed form pulling yourself up onto the mountain cliff, "When I woke up I couldn’t find you anywhere! You gave me a scare there."

He hates you. He hates you.

Words of his previous master ring in his ears, almost as if her very soul is wrapping around him as she whispers in his ear how weak he is. Ones with power that refuse to take what they want because they rather live in the comfort of nothing. Be greedier, take what belongs to you.

"Xiao?" you say as his piercing eyes stare directly through you. His Master always told him that she loved him. Even if he hated her he still clung to that false love. Of being wanted. Isn't love for a single person vile? Would feeling such emotions for one person instead of "everyone" bring you down to reality? It's not fair that you've crawled your way into his heart while you walk along in bliss. Now that he thinks about it. It was so simple. He just needs to monopolize your thoughts and love. This time it won't be as friends.

"I love you."

He'll pull you down to where he is. You extended your hand down to hell so it's your fault. He'll drag you down kicking and screaming if he has to. You left him alive. You have to live for him and by him. He's not letting go.

Reblogged for extra notes

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[dailytatsu]

Hello! I love your writing and I recently saw a post of yours about the reader being the God Of Chaos and I was wondering if you could make a part two with characters of your choice, if it’s not that much of a trouble! Remember to drink water and rest well <3

Tysm! I’m really happy to see that a lot of you enjoyed it, and being honest, chaos reader now have a special place in my heart lol

Then let’s write a second part! Hope everyone likes these as well! ( ✌︎'. ')✌︎

Thanks for the request!✨

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[II - HC] God of Chaos! Reader & Genshin Characters

Characters: Bennett, Tartaglia, Scaramouche, Ganyu, Chongyun

Gn! Reader

Sorry for any mistakes!

Request are open!

Genshin Masterlist

<- First part

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BENNETT

First of all, how dare u

This boy already has a chaotic life for you to arrive and making it worse.

But being honest, it wasn’t intentional, just like always.

Besides he’s a kid. The chaos of a kid + chaos of his bad luck, I mean- how were you not supposed to meet him?

That day was really strange, for the very first time the chaos wasn’t attracted by you, but you were attracted to chaos. Like a moth following a lantern on the street, something that you felt like you had to do, some kind of childish curiosity that guide your way to find Bennett in the middle of his adventure.

Poor boy was charging his pyro attack to max until a barrel exploded near him, he flew in the air waiting for a rough landing before his trajectory sent him where you were standing, still looking for the origin of that uneasy sensation of curiosity.

Luckily for him you could see his shadow just in time to react. You looked up because of the strange silhouette on the ground next to you and there he was, surrounded by a cloud of smoke and fire, with his screams getting louder and louder as he falls.

You trapped him in your arms, with the situation turning even more strange when the first thing he said was “nice catch!” with the bright smile of his.

Like if his hair on fire wasn’t a big deal.

It’s raining men ig

Before you could ask anything, a crowd of angry hilichurls appeared from the same direction where Bennett came at first.

The white haired boy jumped off from your arms and tried to grasp your hand to run away together, but instead you pulled him near and then behind you before rising your hand to the front, pointing the stampede of furious creatures about to reach you both.

Not even a leaf fell from a tree before the hilichurls stopped, all of them felt your presence immediately, the primitive sensation of danger that meant a silent threat. Following the message that another camp of them told long ago, ‘get away from that stranger’.

Bennett was surprised, kind of scared at least. He wasn’t sure about how to call that feeling.

Are you a beast tamer?! Maybe an adventurer that discovered a secret about hilichurl’s behavior! Wait- where are you going? Don’t leave him behind, the doubt won’t let him sleep tonight!

You explained to him that it was dangerous for both to be near each other (more dangerous for him than for you), still you needed to get away. To protect Bennett and the other adventurers that were exploring nearby.

But why? He was so excited about meeting someone who could react that fast and precise! Like the heroes in the legends!

Please show him your ways, he’s begging you, how can you be rude to Bennett? That literally illegal.

When he heard that there was a God of Chaos exploring all over Teyvat like an errant he connected two points (even if there wasn’t a single thing to connect in first place).

You’re like him!

Hello ?? You’re literally ?? the most qualified to be part of Benny’s Adventure Team ??

Negative plus negative is positive, isn’t it? Maybe if you roam near Bennett his bad luck can collide with your chaos to neutralize each other!

You told him that you were leaving after that short conversation, but in reality you just hide from his sights and followed him from behind.

That kid really put you on your nerves, running into danger without knowing. Was that what Zhongli have to deal with every time you visit Liyue?

The old man really deserves an apology.

You’re not doing this an habit, of course not! You’re the all mighty God of Chaos, the ultimate troublemaker! How was even possible to think about wanting to protect a human just because he has bad luck? That’s ridic-

“Watch out!” You had to abandoned your hiding spot to reach Bennett again, pulling him away from the place where a bunch of hunter’s traps were. “Barbatos, why all your children have to be like this?…” You whispered for yourself, actually waiting for a answer, maybe a little too much because you didn’t free Bennett. His feet were just barely touching the ground.

“Oh, it’s you! Hello again!”

Enough of babysitting, that’s it, both of you are heading back to Mondstadt. This boy is a danger for himself, who allowed him to be an adventurer in first place?

After abandoned him in front of the city’s bridge you turn back to the forest, believing that it was the end, even if in the process your chaos took the life of some pigeons nearby.

Next morning you were sleeping peacefully on the branches of a huge old tree, feeling the wind of your bard friend greeting you from the distance.

Then a storm started out of nowhere; your fault.

And almost immediately you heard a cheerful voice below you, calling your name like a lost child searching for their parents.

As Bennett climbs the tree to talk with you a lightning strikes near enough to make both of you jump because of the surprise, falling from the branch and meeting each other on the mud below.

“Sorry, my bad.” Bennett and you said at the same time, to later laugh because of that.

It seems that both are more alike than you would expect

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TARTAGLIA

How do I explain that this guy already knew about you-

As you may suspect, yes, his only reason of wanting to meet you was to fight you.

The first step for taking the thrones of gods is beating one of the youngest, isn’t it? It would be a good start, and you’d be also one of the best opponents he ever fought! The only thing still needed was a way to make you accept his challenge.

Tartaglia’s first try was by attacking you without hesitation, not even a warning, just shooting an arrow for behind and waiting for you to counter. And yes, that didn’t go as planned, the rope of his bow snapped even before aiming.

It wouldn’t be that easy, the distance is always boring for a fight, why not just attacking directly?

Because you learned from Morax that you must not hurt mortals; the reason of your trip was for appreciate the human’s life, to understand why you exist, to have a reason to not end with everything that crosses your path.

To convince yourself that you’re not only destruction.

But it was hard to stay calm if he constantly provokes you to fight back. Always dodging, always running away, always breaking his weapons.

Barely holding yourself to not to break his Vision at this point.

Dodging one of his attacks again you ended up on top of a nearby structure by the side of the road, watching him from above and begging for him to stop for once.

Tartaglia clicked his tongue in annoyance, you would escape again. He was as sick as you of that senseless hunt. Maybe was the stress what impede him to think wisely, because his next strategy was like a death wish.

The water blades disappeared from his hands and, for the first time, he had a casual talk with you. Smiling and waving his hands to look relaxed.

Then he mentioned the incident with Osial, a event that almost became a tragedy. And the only reason you knew about that was because Morax told you about it, about his contract and the reason why he left his position as an Archon the next time you visited him.

It was your fault, isn’t it?

“… what?”

"As you heard! The conditions for summoning Osial was ideal, bringing back a sealed god filled with hatred and hungry for destruction couldn't have been possible if you hadn't been around Liyue that day.” His hand lifted to pointing at you, also smiling as your expression turned into a concerned one. “Oh, our God of Chaos, you were successfully satiated as the catastrophe filled the ocean! Bring us back the destruction, because it's the only thing you ever knew!”

He was obviously just mocking you, but still Tartaglia managed to actually make you think about it.

Your fault. Your chaos.

And even with that, Rex Lapis didn’t seal you or tried to eradicated you like the burden that you are for every nation.

It’s just a matter of time before you destroy all humane existence when you get bored of your fantasy of not being a spirit of chaos.

An infinity of negative and dark thoughts began to fill your mind.

It was sad, it was so sad that the erosion already began to have an effect on you being so young. You were afraid, you were concerned, the stress ate you inside while you tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t like he said.

Your mind collapsed, and you left the wrath take the control for the first time in centuries.

A fight? That’s all he wanted? Easy, that’s easy, just kill him and everything will end. His annoying voice won’t torment you ever again, his words won’t hurt ever again.

It’s easy, so easy. Mortal life is so easy to end.

He’ll defeat the gods, he’ll take their thrones and will witness the world’s end in the final battle he planned since his first encounter with the traveler.

But that day Tartaglia noticed the difference between your strength, it wasn’t huge, neither significant enough. But you were stronger, and it’s well known that wrath and despair can provide extra energy when it’s needed.

The perception of time disappeared, the world did too. Nature, men creation, everything will succumb against chaos, existence itself will be reduce to ashes.

That’s why you exist, to make sure there’s not too much heroes trying to make the nations a boring place. You just need to accept it!

But…

‘There’s no other way?’

The question sparkle inside your mind, bringing you back out of nowhere. There’s a lot of irregularities in the ground nearby, the land was broke for something that impacted with an inhuman strength, even the structure where you step on top was gone, just the remain of a building was left.

And your hands were holding something bland and soft, the warm sensation on your palms and the strange movements caught your attention to look down. Your hands were strangling Tartaglia.

From the other side his hands were trying to remove yours, his strength was minimal, not even able of closing his fingers around your wrist.

A expression full of pain and regretting of his decisions, question by question filling his mind while the air became harder to get.

A broken bow, his Vision has been thrown away. Now it was a human versus a god.

You took a step back, afraid of what you were about to do. You have to stay calm and quiet forever? To prevent catastrophe, to bring peace to mortals? Who’s the one you have to blame for creating you? How you could think that coexisting with humans was possible? Even if you say that you don’t want to make any problems you would stay near them.

“Just… leave me alone.”

Was the last thing you said, a whisper that wanted to apologize for a whole eternity, a regret that couldn’t be forgot. And then you left that place, escaping one last time.

But wait for him, Tartaglia thought, he didn’t need your compassion.

Sooner or later he would have his revenge.

➷➹➷➹➷➹➷➹➷➹➷➹ ➷➹➷➹ ➷➹➷➹ ➷➹ ➷

SCARAMOUCHE

Finally! With Shogun Raiden’s gnosis on his possession and the all mighty hero of Mondstadt weakened there’s no way things can go wrong for him!

A little delay in his plans, but still a smile remained on his face. Kunikuzushi couldn’t wish for anything else right now.

But you already know what is going to happen next.

In this world exist Murphy’s Law?, because anything that could go wrong went wrong after he claim for victory. Even being far away of the factory it seemed that the karma reached him immediately.

He just got his guard down for a couple seconds, and then, whoshh. Now you see it, now you don’t. The gnosis disappeared from his pocket, not here, not there. The annoyance filled his chest and then a irritated growl came from his throat.

What in the world happened?

Scaramouche looked to a huge tree in front of him, and there you were. On your favorite place to sit, above from everyone else in a branch. Holding the gnosis as the board piece it looks like, playing throwing it up a little and then catching it again and again.

Who you think you are to act that carefree on his presence? If you wanted to die so bad then you could just have asked for it.

Even if he called you and made a question first you counter it with another one, what was he doing with that thing?

You were sick of those who defy the gods thanks to his ‘workmate’.

Scaramouche ordered you to give him the gnosis back, threats and insults came out from his mouth as a distraction; in reality, he was just ready to set the first hit from behind.

But something made him stop just in time when you talked again.

“I don’t care what you are planning, but if it involves the ones who I’m in debt with, you will surely fail.”

“Another clairvoyant? Hah, your type are more words than an actual subject matter, but I have to admit it, they’re also very skill to escape.”

“It was a warning.” You said, throwing again the gnosis, this time to his direction.

Scaramouche reacted in time to rise his arms but in midair something caught the chess-like piece before his fingers. Surprising him again and making the irritation event more unbearable.

It was a tanuki. The same that looked behind a second before running even deeper in the forest.

The chaos isn’t necessary a huge disaster; a little accident, an inconvenient, a failure, it depends time and place to be considered like a catastrophe.

Scaramouche had a killer gaze just for you in his face, in respond you smiled at him, then covered your mouth with both hands to fake surprise.

“What a shame! Better luck next time, gods defier.” Your laugh could be heard all over the woods, like a spectral echo that chased him his way to get back the gnosis.

He got it back after a few minutes of a stressful walk through the forest, found the tanuki dancing on a stone before disappearing again. When he got closer he found that piece, making sure it was the real one and not just another trick.

The following days he received endless reports of Fatui soldiers and entire camps being reduced to rubble aside lost or destroyed materials; it was a higher level sabotage done by who they said was someone of relatively young appearance in strange clothes, the one that enjoyed staring at them until something goes wrong.

Nobody could defeat them, not even get closer. And with that, Scaramouche knew they were talking about you.

Was that what you meant with “warning”? Who are you exactly? Not even holding a Vision, how could you… ?

A quick order was enough to deliver him a book full of ancient legends, part of the Fatui private collection. Texts that were lost and the world had forgotten, his only hope was that you weren't exactly mortal, and if that was the case they could take advantage of your nature.

Hah, he found you.

God of Chaos, a body sculptured by the blood and bodies of the ones who died in middle of the wars. At first they were just a being full of anger and affinity for taking the life of every living being on earth, until the same hand that created them gave them a human heart of their own. Made without any prior basis, without being the remains of the deceased. Something one of a kind, the mortal heart of a god.

When human emotions filled the vessel they were released into the world, to mourn over the spilled blood and to know how everything of their existence originates. Born from the red that stained the fields and being the bud that seemed withered, the same that now has the deepest roots ever found.

Hmm, that brings back some memories…

But hey, that vital energy could be useful.

Don’t be surprised if one day you wake up chained and feeling dizzy as Scaramouche drains your life. You know what? Just wait for it! Running away as you did with that idiot won’t work this time.

Every possibility can be foreseen, every inconvenience can be solved. And if you think that you’re an exception then you’re stupider than you look.

➷➹➷➹➷➹➷➹➷➹➷➹ ➷➹➷➹ ➷➹➷➹ ➷➹ ➷

GANYU

Bold of you assume that Zhongli didn’t introduce you to everyone the first time you travel to Liyue.

The difference between your meeting was that it had to be really short. Ganyu is always busy so you couldn’t know her better before her duty called for her again.

Obviously you heard a lot of stories of her childhood thanks to Cloud Retainer. The day she knew about it Ganyu avoided you, next week she apologized with you about it. It was very rude, please pardon her.

Such a big sister vibes ngl

An Adeptus working that hard to human’s matters. It was so cool to follow her from a significant distance to see how was her routine.

If you could only live that peacefully near humans without causing any problem! What a dream! The envy was killing you.

Ganyu didn’t mind about you stalking her, the feeling of a companion was always present and she also knew that you had to keep some distance from everybody to not cause any accident. She appreciated your consideration.

Until a soldier from the millelith arrested you for harassment, wait- you’re innocent! Don’t get closer, hold on! Hold on!

The handcuffs broke almost immediately, though.

When Ganyu resolved the misunderstanding she hold your hands to apologize again, it had to be really stressful to be aware of any chaos you could create accidentally.

What if you… wait for her on the surroundings of the city?

Please, she have a lot of work, don’t interrupt her, she’s begging you.

Ganyu thought you heard her request, but she knew that you were just hiding when a window opened out of nowhere and a lot of documents flew away in the room.

You appeared hanging upside down from the other side of the window, jumped down and entered to pick up the documents. You hand her over all the pages and then you leave through the space on the wall.

“… I’ll be in Huaguang Stone Forest… ”

“Thank you.”

Even though you both agreed that you would return to the stone forest, she couldn't help but feel guilty as the hours passed, did you feel like a nuisance? Maybe she should apologize. Again.

When another successful day at work ended, she realized that repeating the same words over and over was not the best way to show her regret. That’s why a better idea formed in his head as she approached the abode of the rest of Adeptus.

Ganyu found you being scolded by Mountain Shaper for unintentionally releasing the trespassing intruders along with other creatures from their amber prisons.

After rescuing you again, she was able to propose her idea to you. With a calm and charming voice she asked you if you would like to learn about Liyue's traditions from the human perspective.

Sure, Zhongli could tell you about the beginning of traditions and festivities, but the way to celebrate them and pay tribute to the Adeptus was something that only a person who had lived among mortals for years could explain to you.

Your eyes shone in gratitude but no words really came out of your lips, kind of embarrassed you said some nonsensical things and then another amber cracked when you brushed its surface.

Mountain Shaper kicked you out without thinking twice.

But hey! The next day your classes on Culture from the Mortal Perspective began! A quick but calm walk through Liyue that got spread when a bunch of kids recognized you.

How could they not remember the person who plays with them every time they get a chance?

Ganyu sat by the side of the road on an empty bench, watching you scamper the children who seemed happy at your mere presence. Like the occasional accidents of a child, the curious and outlandish nature cannot be controlled, only accepted.

➷➹➷➹➷➹➷➹➷➹➷➹ ➷➹➷➹ ➷➹➷➹ ➷➹ ➷

CHONGYUN

Don’t move! The future best exorcist in the world, Chongyun, will put an end to your legacy of misdeeds and pranks! No evil specter that causes bad luck will survive to-!

Just by lightly tapping with your fingertips you were able to break the seal of the talismans that surrounded you out of nowhere. Pushing back the boy who was convinced that he had beaten his yang.

how dare u interrupt him.

Another of Xingqiu’s pranks? Isn’t this going a little to far? He hadn’t learn about not believing everything his friend says smh.

Let’s just mess with him a little.

‘Measure your words, human. In the presence of the God of Chaos, the first thought that should run through your mortal instinct is to beg for your life, since those who dare to defy them will be punished and displayed as a trophy in the infinity of the abyss from which the catastrophe came out.’

You took a few steps closer to him, while Chongyun kept backing away. The scene was so dramatic that you had to stop when the boy summoned his sword.

Haha jk, nice to meet u.

It's nice to know that there are still such dedicated exorcists out there.

But wait-, so you're not an evil spirit? A God? Why is there a god causing accidents all over Liyue!? That makes no sense! If you think you can deceive him by pretending to be a deity then he shall punish you severely for disrespecting them!

After a detailed explanation of your identity, Chongyun's mood plummeted again due to another failure as an exorcist.

He sat silently on a rock and remained silent, his expression showed so well his disappointed that it made you feel like it was your fault.

Ohno, a sad human child, your weakness-

At the end you sat next to him to listen to what he had to say.

Did he really want to see a spirit so badly? Those things are horrible, wearing strange clothes and yelling all the time, buagh! The thought of it gives you chills. But there's nothing you can do, after all they are drawn to your chaos.

When you finished talking so indifferently about what you lived through from day to day, you looked back at Chongyun, finding his expressive eyes filled with astonishment and disbelief.

Are you a magnet of evil? Chaos and destruction? Demons and spirits alike appear wherever you go?

Then you stopped him, it wasn't something to take so lightly; there’s also the chaos of the butterfly effect, natural disasters, unforeseen events, influencing the mood of evil people, losing your favorite pair of socks-

But you attract spirits, right!? You have to help him! How can you say ‘no’ to that face?

The next day he took you to one of his commissions as an exorcist, a house that had numerous reports from its previous tenants. He stayed outside and asked you to come in first, obviously you refused, if your chaos broke something inside you would have more problems besides the ghosts of the house.

He insisted a little more, it worked. Now you were waiting to feel the presence of some spirit trying to attack you. You could feel it, their energy was spread throughout the building, but still there was no movement. Neither hostility, neither terror, just the presence of a soul.

When it was Chongyun's turn to enter you explained this to him, his yang was also easy to perceive, you could describe it as a blizzard in the middle of the storm. But despite this, that presence didn’t react to his energy, nothing changed.

Then you understand it, your energies neutralized each other. Your chaos and his yang ended in a stalemate that went nowhere.

“I was really hoping to see an actual spirit and not only stay still in the middle of the entrance… “

“Well, I can still curse you. Want to try?” Chongyun crossed his arms, annoyed for your jokes.

“Maybe I should exorcize you instead… ”

“Ohh, so the little exorcist wants a deity to be his personal dummy? Let’s make a pact then. Promise me your soul.”

“I-I thought you said you weren’t actually a demon!”

When you stroked his hair he couldn't help but think about how much he still had to learn, so much so that even the gods were taking pity on him.

[bitcher-of-blaviken]

The Death of a Bard

Rating: T Warnings: None WC: 1,783 Tags: Modern AU, family shenanigans, Geralt is a good dad, fluff, nobody is dead i swear

Geralt sniffed and subtly wiped a tear from his eye as Yennefer stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder. Eskel stood on Geralt’s other side, a box of tissues clasped in his large hands. In front of them, Jaskier laid in the long makeshift coffin, his hands clasped over his stomach with flowers tucked under them. They were just wildflowers that Ciri found out in the backyard where they were all standing, but it’s how Jaskier would have wanted his funeral to be like. Off the cuff, nothing grand, a cheap cardboard box instead of a grand and beautiful coffin of mahogany and a plush velvet interior. Geralt knew that this was what the humble musician would have always truly wanted.

Lambert stood on the other side of the box. “Dearly beloved and hated, we are here to celebrate the death of Jaskier—“

“It’s to celebrate the life, Lambert,” Geralt interrupted. He cleared his throat and sniffled again. “He had a good life. He deserves to be celebrated.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever,” Lambert retorted with a scoff. He fumbled with the wrinkled paper in his hands. He was dressed in his nicest outfit, which was his work uniform for the post office. It was sufficient. “We are here to celebrate the life of Jaskier, who died from a fatal gunshot wound in the stomach. He bled out slowly and painfully, murdered in cold blood.”

“Who would do such a horrible thing?” Eskel lamented, his voice watery. “He was so young. He had so many more years ahead of him, so much more music to make, so much— I’m running out of words.” He choked out a sob and took a tissue out from his box to blow his nose into it, comically loud.

“Nobody move,” Ciri called out, walking out with an oversized fedora on. It was nearly falling over her eyes as she stomped out, her chest puffed out despite the large trenchcoat she wore trailing half behind her on the ground. “We have reason to believe the murderer is among this group. Nobody gets in or out.”

Gasps came from all of them.

“Oh come on lady, all of us loved the guy. Some more than others,” Lambert said with a pointed look at Geralt, who flushed. “None of us would kill him. We don’t even have guns.”

“Is that so?” Ciri asked, showing them all a plastic ziploc bag. Inside was a tiny, bright pink water gun. “I’m Detective Cirilla. We found this on the crime scene.”

More gasps from all of them, though there was barely suppressed snickers from Lambert.

“You think this is funny, do you?” Ciri asked as she strode over to Lambert. “There is a man dead in front of us and you think to laugh? Sounds like something the murderer would do.”

“No I’m laughing because it’s a fuckin’ pink water gun,” Lambert interjected with a grin.

“Language,” Yennefer chided.

“No, it is the murder weapon and you better start giving an alibi or you’re going to jail for some interrogation,” Ciri insisted with a shake of the ziploc bag. The harmless water gun rattled around inside of it.

Lambert cleared his throat and put his hands up at the equally hard stares from everyone else at the funeral. “Fine,” he relented. “I was in the kitchen, getting dinner ready.”

“What were you cooking?” Ciri asked, her tone and glare so serious that Geralt even saw Yennefer have to bring a hand up to suppress a smile.

“Pancakes,” Lambert replied equally as seriously. He even crossed his arms and leaned down to meet Ciri’s glare, their noses nearly touching.

“Hm. A likely story,” Ciri relented with a huff. She marched over to Eskel and pointed a tiny finger up at him. Geralt had to hand it to him, he still managed to look convincingly frightened even with an eight year-old in a too big hat and far too big trenchcoat pouting up at him. “And what about you? What were you doing at the time of the murder?”

“I was just— reading with Kitty curled up on my lap. I wasn’t able to move, much less murder someone. I’ve never seen that gun in my life,” Eskel defended, his hands up. “I swear detective, I would have never!”

“I see, and you?” Ciri asked as she whirled around to point at Geralt.

“You think I would have murdered him?” Geralt asked, his tone coming out more flat than it probably should have. He wasn’t good at the theatrics like Eskel and Lambert were. “We just married last week, we were supposed to go on our honeymoon. You were there detective.” It was true, Ciri had married him and Jaskier last week.

“I see,” Ciri said, rubbing her chin as she thought. “But what about his will?”

“What about it?” Geralt asked.

“I have it here,” Lambert said as he cleared his throat. He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.

“Well? Don’t tarry on man, read it!” Ciri demanded. Geralt bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. At least she was learning a wide range of vocabulary.

“Yeah yeah, it says ‘If I die, I leave all of my earthly possessions to my newly wedded husband Geralt, including…” Lambert gave a loud gasp.

“What does it say? Including what?!” Ciri asked.

“It says ‘Including my super duper big family inheritance that I have stored away in the coast of Belize’. He was loaded!” Lambert exclaimed.

“Let me see that,” Ciri said as she snatched the paper out of Lambert’s hands. She hummed as she looked over the paper, which really just had the will written out in crayon with multiple words misspelled, including Geralt’s name, but nobody commented on that. She gasped and waved the paper. “This will is forged! I knew it!”

Everyone else gasped as well.

“Forged?” Yennefer asked.

“Yes! His signature was faked,” Ciri decided as she showed the paper to Yennefer.

A loud snore from the “coffin” interrupted them, and Geralt kicked the cardboard box. Jaskier gave a yelp from the jostling.

“Corpses don’t snore,” Geralt chided.

“Sorry, sorry, I was just comfy, and you all were droning on, it faded into background noise,” Jaskier mumbled. He yawned and rubbed his eyes as he settled back in the cardboard box. He reached up with one hand, gesturing in a small circle. “Continue.”

“Thank you sir,” Ciri said with a nod. “Sorry about your death.”

“Thank you for your condolences detective,” Jaskier said. “I shall now go back to being dead now. Blargh.”

Geralt huffed a laugh as Jaskier put his hands back on his stomach and clasped them over the flowers again.

“Now! Who would gain from such a forgering, if not Geralt!” Ciri declared as she rounded back on Geralt. “You murdered your new husband in cold blood, to take his secret fortune for yourself!”

“I wouldn’t,” Geralt protested with another sniffle. “I— loved him. A lot. I was really looking forward to the honeymoon. We even had our entire trip planned.” He produced the two strips of green construction paper from his jacket pocket, with the words “Honeymoon tickets” written on them in crayon with a lot of little red hearts around the words.

“I see,” Ciri said, taking the tickets from him to inspect them carefully. “But then why forge the will?”

“I was framed,” Geralt sighed. “Someone must have wanted me to be out of the way. Someone who would have gotten the fortune instead.”

“Someone like..his long lost sister?!” Ciri asked as she pointed an accusatory finger at Yennefer.

“How did you know detective?” Yennefer gasped, a hand on her chest.

“In the victim’s bedroom, I found the actual will stuffed under the mattress!” Ciri said as she whipped out another piece of paper. Everyone gasped again. “But this one says the exact same thing as the forged one! Everything is to be left to Geralt, including his super duper huge family fortune! So why would Geralt have forged a will if he was going to get Jaskier’s family fortune anyways?” She waved the paper at Yennefer. “So I looked around, and found a chain of letters between you two! He wanted to reconnect with his lost sister, and told you about the fortune he inherited from your parents that he was going to share with Geralt!”

“It should have stayed in the family!” Yennefer cried.

“Exactly! And if the forged will was deemed trash and I hadn’t found the true will, then it would have gone to you!” Ciri said with a proud grin. She mirrored Yennefer’s pose, her hands on her hips as she puffed her chest out. “Case closed!”

“Argh, I was so close to getting away with it,” Yennefer said as she offered her hands for Ciri to clasp the toy handcuffs on her.

“Close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and— um.” Ciri paused, trying to remember.

“Certain nuclear weapons,” Lambert reminded her with a snicker.

“Yeah!” Ciri said with a grin. “Just like my Uncle Lambert always says!” She bounced and grabbed one of Yennefer’s hands. “The judge has already decided your sentence. It’s a thousand years in jail! We’re locking you away for a long time.”

“That seems fair for a murder,” Yennefer relented as she let Ciri tug her back into the house.

Geralt smiled as he watched them disappear inside, and he turned to help Jaskier stand up out of the box. Jaskier winced and rubbed his backside.

“Ah, that was cold,” he said.

“I told you,” Lambert snickered. “Not so funny when it’s your turn to be dead, now is it?”

“I think I liked it better when Ciri was marrying us to each other,” Eskel muttered. “Are you sure she should be watching those crime shows?”

“Can’t really stop her,” Geralt said with a shrug. “It teaches her big words, and at least that way we don’t have to try to explain to her what incest is and why it’s bad.”

“I was having the time of my life,” Lambert teased with a snicker. “I rocked that wedding dress.”

“Geralt wore it better,” Jaskier fired back with a grin.

“Dead people don’t get opinions,” Lambert said as he led the way to the house again. “Come on, let’s get inside before the detective eats all of the carrots.”

Jaskier slipped his hand into Geralt’s and kissed his cheek. “I absolutely would leave you my super duper big family fortune that I stashed on the coast of Belize if I had it,” he cooed.

“I know,” Geralt chuckled.

“Do you think she even knows where Belize is?”

“Probably not.”

[annmarcus63]

GIVE US TO HIM

Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Warning: this might hurt a little

on ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/34157128

Grandma said once that to give away your raw score is forbidden.

"Your heart in it's full rawness, chaos, is a precious and dangerous thing. Never you should do something as giving it to someone else."

"But our ancestors used to do it. Look ma ¡look!" said Jaskier holding his story book on the air for grandma's tired eyes to see. A handsome knight was lying on the dry grass, dying from a wound on his stomach. He started calling for his love, an ancient fae with blond hair and fair skin. She fell upon the prairie from the charged clouds, with something shiny between her hands. The fae feed the wound with her raw core, her heart. The knight lived along side her, flying amongst the starry night, happily ever after. "This are just stories, Julian" said Grandma with contened anger in her dry voice. She took the book and close it on her thighs "Things were rarely like that. Knights and kings are more inclined to use our cores against us and other people. We can't recover from that loss" Julian look at the drawing on the coverbook, the fae was kneeled by a pond and the knight stood glorious in practically all the cover, leaving a very small space for the real hero, the one who save the life of the protagonist.

"Never give your raw core away. Stop reading these, THEY wrote this, Julian, you must be clever than her" said Grandma pointing at the beautiful fae. Julian nod, undesrtanding much more that he wanted to, and so little, so so little. Maybe that was the reason his family were hiding, they never express it in a literal way, that was the point really, but Julian notice anyway. The way, for example, of how they said their names and the rust taste that was left on the air after. It was common to hide their real names for fae, but you'd give that name knowing it's false, on the opposite when you say the false name thinking is the real one then another fae would know. Losing the self was something of a disease between the fae. Jaskier later knew that his parents have not choice but to lose themselves to save the lineage. Most fae really. Humans did that. Like they did to the elfes. Julian promise to never forget about the fae from his last storybook. He'll never forget about her sacrifice and the sacrifice of his people. But come on, after some years it was just naturally that, despite the wound on the history, a selfish creature he was and he forgot. He was raised as human, and he wanted to be a bard oh how he want it. And he did accomplish that, and a bloody good one that's for sure. Fae were extinct for all the world and that wasn't a cover, they're doomed to extinction sooner or later. It has been years since the last time Jaskier felt another fae being born. He is Jaskier troubadour, master of the seven liberal arts a mastermind amongst the crowds, a legend…an idiot most of the time basically.

What grandma failed to mention is that for a fae to be able to give their core away the recipient must be worthy at the eyes of the fae. Once this worthiness makes evident, that person would plant roots in the core itself, whether the fae want it or not. It's inevitable. Grandma should have said "be aware of where you place your heart. Hold it until you're fully sure of them" But well, it wouldn't have matter in the end. Jaskier have never being someone who follows advice, much less from his dead relative. It happened naturally, like breathing, eating and shitting. One moment he was standing next to Geralt under a pouring rain, the witcher kept looking for a missing girl on the edges of the woods, her parents place a bounty on the towns board, they couldn't offer payment in form of crowns but they're willing to let them sleep on the girl’s room. Jaskier became indignant, how a witcher is supposed to take a payless bounty? No, that is unacceptable. But despite the protesting bard and zero reward whatsoever Geralt went anyway, he look for a girl who surelly was already dead.

"I found her body near the cave by the pond. You can go for her by morning when it's safe. I'm sorry" after a minute of silence the parents with equal expression of cold sorrow release a heavy sigh charged with so much grief.

"What did it?" asked the father

"Nekkers. I got rid of the pack living there"

"Thank you, witcher. You and your bard can come in, i'm sure you're exhausted” Said the mother with great effort, like someone who can't breathe quite well.

Geralt rapidly added "No, I'm sure you and your husband need time to resign and mourn alone. My bard and i already had another place to stay" Eh, no they didn't.

"But...we don't have any crowns"

"I didn't do this for payment" And while the parents thanked infinitely to Geralt, Jaskier felt something wild and untamed surging from his chest. Reaching unabashed for the witcher with a big golden heart standing next to him, explaining to a mourning parents that he went to search for their lost daughter because he wanted to help. This new awareness of chaos, he knew what it was.

Chaos, core, raw.

And it had marked Geralt as his. We want him.

Give us to him. He's worthy.

He was doomed, so doomed from the very beginning since they encounter each other on Posada. Grandma tried to warn him of this. Oh grandma, you and i both know that I was never obedient or wise. So Jaskier let it happen, four years after knowing the witcher and his raw core already belong to him. But he didn't do it. He hold back despite the urgency on his chest because he wasn't sure it'll be welcome. Geralt was still trying to get rid of him in every town, sometimes Jaskier felt like a pet you don't want but you can't abandon it either. Surely there'd be a time in the future. And Jaskier wait and fell in love deeply with each passing year. And Geralt...well he was the same and also different in his own way, more at ease around him, softer maybe. Jaskier didn't need to be call a friend to felt like one to Geralt. They're friends, even if one part has being in denial for the past decade.

And then the djinn happened follow by the complicated affair with one Yennefer of Vandenberg. The curse caused the core to retreat afraid and wounded. He hurt us, he wished to hurt us. Jaskier argued with the voice that it wasn't his intention, he didn't even know he was the one with the wishes. In truth his heart shattered not for the wish but for the easiness in which the sorceress become someone important to Geralt, something to hold on to even if drowning. One decade and still Jaskier thinks he haven't reached that relationship level with his friend.

He doesn't want us

No.

"Uhmm?"

"What?"

"You said no"

"Oh, it's nothing" Geralt didn't ask again

But weak and in love he was, the raw core and him reached out again, with fully open arms for Geralt to pull. Jaskier long to belong to him, oh how he did.

Yennefer and her shining imbecile knight join the hunt and he was jealous because as soon as she appear the witcher was drooling as if she was all he needed to shut down the darkness inside.

Don't you know? inside me there's a full light waiting for you to hold

At the softness of the afternoon Jaskier found Geralt sitting on a rock lost, as usual, in though. But this time were different, he had failed three people, Borch's dead has left a wound that surely would scar badly. And the bard felt a deep sadness for his golden heart witcher. He's definitely blaming himself for the fall, for that narrow and insecure path alongside the mountain as if he was the one to build it.

Jaskier asked him to come with him to his home, to the coast, he yearn to be there with him and feel the sea wind on their faces while walking by a cliff near a quiet village that Geralt wouldn't mind to visit.

We want to be his.

Give us to him.

We can love him better.

But Geralt didn't want him, he wanted Yennefer.

He give himself to him anyway.

"Here" said Jaskier putting a hand on Geralt's thigh, surprise, instead of flinching away Geralt held Jaskier's hand and with most carefulness took what was inside the palm. A small glass vial, similar to the ones where he pours his potions. He held it on his gloved open hand. There was something inside, warm and inviting. White, almost yellow that make Geralt felt calm and safe.

"What's this?"

"A gift. It'd take care of you" Geralt frown at him, confused and uncertain of what it meant, but he took it with a barely there smile only for Jaskier to see.

He's a coward, he couldn't confessed him the reality of what it meant because he was terrified of being rejected, grandma said that a rejection is so devastating that it might kill him. And even at this point in their friendship Jaskier couldn't know for sure.

It's me. Take me, i'll protect and save you if needed to. Have me, please have me.

Geralt went that night at Yennefer's tent and Jaskier felt glad for not having told him the truth

"If life could give me a blessing it would be to take you off my hands"

No, no, not now.

They're doing fine.

And then very fast very suddenly Geralt reached for his breast pocket to held the vial of raw core on his fist and toss it unceremoniously to the hard soild.

The noise of shattered glass invaded Jaskier's ears before the heavy blankness surged from his chest to every corner of him.

“No, no, no” said he, giving a fumbling step towards the vial but deciding to turn around instead.

Away away away away.

He can't see me like this.

Something was tearing in fine lines caused by the trembling, an earthquake from his very bones that were fighting on maintaining their solid formation. Something inside was bawling with such and intensity that make his ears bleed.

Was this dying? let it be death for he can no longer take it. Does breathing always hurt this much? like if his lungs were filled with wool and the air only add heaviness on them. What was this? a beating heart, so afraid so betrayed, like a laugh from his ancestors. He wanted to throw up his intestines, they're on fire, but when he tried only saliva flood. He was not himself anymore, and to become whole was an impossibility that the pain was making sure off. Dirt get inside his mouth, his cheek on the ground was getting cut by rocks. A voice calling for him to react, to say something. But he no longer have a voice, he was death itself preparing for a long dream.

I’m sorry grandma.

I'm sorry, said to himself

and he remembered the blond fae on the cover book between grandma's hands, of how she give her life to save her love one, but who'd give their life for her?

who'd give their life for him?

He needed to sleep, right here on the mountain ground, to become whole again or at least half whole.

He begged for death instead.

[asweetprologue]

my burden to bear

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Piggyback Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: Gen Content Warnings: None Summary: Jaskier gets hurt during a hunt and Geralt has to carry him back to town. Jaskier has mixed feelings about this. ao3

“You’re hurt,” Geralt said. Jaskier groaned from his position on the ground, more at Geralt’s tone than any amount of pain.

“I think I’m fine,” he said, pushing himself up into a sitting position. When they’d come to the woods, they’d been working under the assumption that the creature plaguing the nearby village was nothing more than an overactive godling or maybe a hag. Neither of them had been expecting a leshen, and no amount of staying back from the fight did any good when your opponent could sense your location through the ground. While Geralt was valiantly slaying the beast, Jaskier had been darting away from roots shooting up from the ground and attempting to impale him. They’d not succeeded, but they had managed to send him sprawling as he tripped over an exposed root. He’d feared he was done for when suddenly the writhing plant life had collapsed. Though he was pleased to be still in one piece, his ankle throbbed traitorously where the root had tugged his feet out from under him. 

Geralt narrowed his eyes suspiciously and offered him a hand up. 

Jaskier took it and allowed himself to be pulled to standing, only to stumble as soon as he put weight on his left leg. Geralt caught him as his knees buckled, one hand snapping out to grab him by the elbow. Jaskier’s face lit up, heat spilling over his cheeks in an embarrassed flush. “Ah, shit,” he cursed. 

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, looking down at the offending appendage with a stormy expression. “No Roach.” 

“So true,” Jaskier said morosely. They’d left Geralt’s trusty steed behind for this venture, as the brush was generally too thick for her to navigate. The village was a good mile or two away. Jaskier’s ankle seemed to throb even more intensely at the thought of the walk. “Well, nothing for it I suppose. I’ll manage.” He tried to pull out of Geralt’s grasp, gingerly testing the weight on his ankle. It felt like being stabbed in the tendon with a razor, but he would be alright. He had plenty of experience limping along beside Geralt on the Path. This time it would just be a bit more literal. 

Geralt did not release him, much to Jaskier’s surprise. “You’ll make it worse,” he said, mouth tightening. Jaskier’s pulse, only just having begun to settle down now that the leshen was dead, began to rise again. Angry Geralt he was plenty used to, but angry-at-him Geralt was not something he enjoyed. They both knew that Jaskier was a liability at best on hunts, and he was well aware that he was only ever one misstep from being left behind, at least for the truly adventurous moments. He hadn’t realized it would be an actual misstep that did him in. 

“I can manage, Geralt, I swear,” he protested. “What else am I meant to do? Stay here forever? I’m sure I could make a nice home out of the leshen’s abandoned burrow. House. Whatever.”

“They don’t have those,” Geralt said dismissively. “I could get Roach.”

“Sure. So I can be eaten by the wolves that ran off when you killed the beastie. I’m sure they’ll be eager to finish the fight once the huge man with the swords fucks off. I’ll walk, it’ll be fine, I’ll -”

“I’ll carry you.”

Jaskier blinked, and then blinked again. He must have heard wrong. “Come again?”

Geralt glared at him, as if daring him to offer up a different solution. “I’ll carry you. It’s not that far of a walk, and I still have Thunderbolt in my system. It wouldn’t be hard.”

If Jaskier had thought he was flushed before, it was nothing compared to now. “Ah, well. Um. Are you certain? I suppose - I really can walk, truly -” He took a step backwards, away from the warm hand that still cupped his elbow, only to nearly drop to the ground when a bolt of pain shot up his ankle. Even his knee ached with it. Geralt caught him around the waist, hauling him upright again and, unfortunately, directly into the witcher’s space. Jaskier gasped at the contact more than the near tumble, though he hoped Geralt thought it was just the surprise. 

“I can see that,” Geralt said dryly, their nose barley inches apart. Jaskier swallowed. 

“I take your point. How, uh, how do you want to do this?”

Geralt released him, allowing Jaskier to take a deep, fortifying breath. Leaning all his weight on his good leg, he waited while Geralt turned around and knelt down on the mossy forest floor. Jaskier exhaled slowly. “Put your arms around my shoulders,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier ran a hand along his face, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “This is so infantilizing,” he grumbled, but he leaned over and pressed his chest to Geralt’s back, wrapping his arms around his broad shoulders. He was extraordinarily grateful for Geralt’s armor, separating him from the heat of his body. As it was, he still felt like he might spontaneously combust when Geralt’s large hands came up to grip under his thighs and raised him effortlessly into the air. 

Holy fuck. “Melitele,” he said, “do I weigh anything to you?”

“No,” Geralt said with an amused huff. He began to take sure steps through the clearing and back the way they’d come. Jaskier shifted to find a more comfortable position for his arms, and found that he could lift them away entirely without Geralt dropping him an inch. 

“I feel like a toddler,” he groused. 

“Next time watch your step,” Geralt grunted. 

They made their way through the forest slowly, Geralt carefully navigating the underbrush. Jaskier was aware that he was being more delicate with his footwork than he typically was, avoiding any areas that might throw him off balance or land Jaskier with a face full of branches. He was being nice, Jaskier realized, not even getting back at him for the fact that he had to carry Jaskier’s sorry ass through the woods. Always so chivalrous. 

That was Geralt though. Even when he was grumpy and upset and probably worn out from a fight, he was always going out of his way to be kind. He wasn’t always nice, Geralt, but he was almost always kind. It was a miracle, honestly, that he didn’t lose hold of his temper more often than he did. They would bicker, often, and fight, sometimes. But even when he was mad, Geralt was often still considerate, still worried about Jaskier’s safety and comfort. He was always taking absurdly underpaid jobs, even taking payment in a simple meal or a roof over his head sometimes, just because there were people in danger. This village, for example, had scraped together a tiny purse to offer a passing witcher, desperation writ on their faces. Seven people, including two children, had disappeared in the last season. It was a small village, only a little cluster of houses, and such a loss must have been felt deeply. Geralt had looked at the purse, a frown maring his features, and pushed it back into the alderman’s dirty hands. The job had ended up being even more dangerous than he’d assumed, but Jaskier knew Geralt wouldn’t take payment beyond maybe a warm loaf of bread and some hearty stew from the alderman’s wife. 

It was wildly unfair that the reputation of witchers remained so heavily tarnished. That Geralt’s reputation still suffered so. It was starting to mend - in the decade since Jaskier had begun traveling with him, the White Wolf ballads had become popular, enough so that many towns they passed through were already ready to throw their crowns and orens at his feet. But the further north they went, the closer to Blaviken, the less people were swayed by his songs. People didn’t always see what Jaskier saw. Not everyone felt the depth of affection swell in their breast at the sight of his silver hair and golden eyes, regardless of how many times Jaskier tried to put it to words. Maybe it wasn’t something he would ever be able to capture. This haunting, aching thing inside him that just loved and loved and loved Geralt of Rivia. 

He wished he could do more, more to alleviate Geralt’s pain and stress. And instead here he was, only putting more weight on his shoulders. Literally. Jaskier rested his forehead against the leather of Geralt’s armor with a sigh. That was the story of his life, though. Try to help, get in the way, get pushed aside. An infallible cycle. 

“Alright?” Geralt asked suddenly. Jaskier blinked back to himself, attempting to shake off the shroud of self pity that had settled over him. 

“Hmm?” he responded, lifting his head from Geralt’s shoulder. “Alright what?”

“I’m asking,” Geralt said. “You’re quiet. That only ever happens if you’re writing a song or you’re dying.” He paused. “It’s only your ankle?”

Jaskier huffed out a laugh, stirring the hairs at the base of Geralt’s neck. The silver strands were pulled back into a short pony, leaving the pale expanse of skin beneath exposed. Jaskier had to tamp down the swift and overpowering urge to tuck his nose into the spot just behind Geralt’s ear, to press his lips to the scar just above the line of his armor, where some monster must have gotten in a lucky hit. Forcing himself to focus, he said, “Just the ankle, I swear. I’m only thinking.”

“So it is a song,” Geralt said darkly. 

“A great ballad about how the White Wolf of Rivia once again saved a humble bard,” he agreed, eagerly latching onto the half lie. “You’ve made a bit of a habit of it.”

Geralt grunted, sounding unamused. Suddenly there was a burst of sunlight across Jaskier’s vision, warm on his face. They stepped out of the forest and onto the small dirt track that led to the village, which Jaskier could just barely see peeking out over the rise of the next hill over. The sky was a sprawling blue tapestry above them, not a cloud in sight. “I don’t like it,” Geralt said, stopping to scan the road briefly. 

Jaskier’s throat felt tight. “Saving me?”

Geralt hummed an affirmative and began walking again, towards the village. 

Jaskier let out a long breath, equal parts annoyed and hurt. “Well no one’s asking you to,” he snapped. “I know it’s, I don’t know, part of your job, but you don’t need to go out of your way.”

Geralt shook his head, nearly hitting Jaskier in the face with his short ponytail. “It’s not a fucking chore, Jaskier. I just don’t - I wish you didn’t need saving.”

“Well, you and me both,” Jaskier said. “I know you think I do it on purpose, but I don’t actually want to get in the way.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt gritted out. Truly annoyed now. “Nothing you do could keep me from doing my job.”

“Well obviously you always finish the fight, I wouldn’t imagine you’d just quit on my behalf -”

“I don’t like it,” Geralt interrupted, “because I don’t like this.” He moved one hand to Jaskier’s injured ankle, the touch feather light. Jaskier’s knees tightened automatically to hold himself in place, but it was barely necessary. Geralt was strong enough to hold him in one hand. It made Jaskier feel deeply fragile, but not necessarily in a bad way. More like something precious and delicate. Worthy of being preserved. It made his fingers tingle where they were latched together between Geralt’s collarbones, just at the base of his throat. 

“Oh,” he said, at a loss for words. “I didn’t know that it, um. Well - I’m really fine.”

“I know,” Geralt said, sounding tired and a little amused. “You always are, mostly. I still don’t like it.” He tapped a finger against the heel of Jaskier’s boot, still light, and then put his hand back to support Jaskier’s thigh. “Sometimes I forget that you’re not like witchers.”

Jaskier laughed outright at that. “I can’t imagine how you could lose track of that piece of information. I complain about my bad eyesight and sore feet daily, as you are certainly aware. I’m the same as any other human.”

“You’re really not,” Geralt said, so quiet that it almost seemed to be said to himself. Jaskier stilled at that, startled and somehow warmed by the sentiment. 

“Thank you,” he finally said. They were nearly to the outskirts of the village, where hopefully they would find a warm welcome with the alderman or another grateful peasant. They might be given a place to rest for the night, maybe a few, while Jaskier’s ankle healed. Maybe they would be asked to move along, and Geralt would let him ride on Roach for a few days, and in the evening he would give Jaskier the salve he used for bruises and pulled muscles. Maybe even rub it into his swollen foot himself.  “I’m sorry to burden you.”

“You’re not a burden, Jask,” Geralt said. Then he laughed, a dry rasp that Jaskier never tired of hearing. “Well, alright. Technically you are at the moment. But I don’t mind.” As they reached the first house, he gently set Jaskier on his feet, turning to offer support. Jaskier let him slip a broad arm around his back, Jaskier’s own stretched out across Geralt’s shoulder to grip at the rough leather there. After having Geralt’s face hidden from him on the walk back, the sudden confrontation with golden eyes and square jaw was enough to make Jaskier flustered. Their faces were close now, and it felt almost too intimate, too raw after being unable to see Geralt’s expression during the rest of their conversation. Geralt quirked a small smile at him, a fondness there that Jaskier felt echoed in his own chest. “I don’t like it when you get hurt, but I don’t mind saving you.” 

Jaskier couldn’t help but smile back, even though his heart was racing and he knew his face was flushed from their proximity. “I suppose I’ll have to let you keep doing it then,” he said, only the tiniest bit breathless. 

“Good,” Geralt said, and together they took their first steps into the village. “But for the love of the gods, at least try not to get yourself into trouble.”

Jaskier laughed even as his ankle flared with renewed pain and he spotted a few villagers stepping out of their homes, concern plastered across their faces for the injured bard. So it would be hot stew, he thought giddily, and a warm place by the fire, and Geralt would still probably rub that salve into his ankle. He could be satisfied with that. “Geralt, my dearest, just try and stop me.”

[clown-of-rivia]

In his 300 years Jaskier has perfected being able to hide his true nature. Not even his closest friends knew that there was more to the clumsy charming bard than meets the eye.

He had managed to make a lifestyle and rhythm for himself, and worked very hard to keep it that way. He was happy. He was safe. He was normal.

As normal as a Higher Vampire can be.

Till he met Geralt

____

Being an extremely rare and dangerous race, very little is known of higher vampires. They keep to themselves and are highly secretive. They can pass as human and hide their powerful abilities rather easily, and often do, living for decades amongst them without suspicion. 

They were inhumanely fast, could behead a man with a single swipe, and could regenerate from a single piece of flesh back into their normal state. They were, essentially invincible.  But they had one weakness. They had to feed.

It was their biggest secret, closely guarded. If a higher vampire was starved for too long from human blood they would grow weaker and weaker until they start to transform. They become feral and lose all reasoning, not being able to retract to their calm state, permanently becoming bloodthirsty killing machines that could usually only be killed by one of their own kind. Human blood was therefore more than just a delicacy, it kept them healthy, powerful, and most importantly, sane. 

There was another well-kept secret to higher vampires, although it had been speculated by experts throughout the years. Being as complex and powerful as they are, each higher vampire had a special ability, often completely unique. 

So did Jaskier. 

Jaskier was able to hypnotise. Although he was careful not to use his talent when performing, it was a necessary part of his life. You see, Jaskier was a bit of a slut. Or that is how people thought of him with how often he took someone to bed. He hardly even had to try, his paramours usually approaching him with their proposition. 

There was some truth in the rumours, he did get proposition very often, and he accepted more often than not. However, only a small handful of those encounters ended in sex. Jaskier knew he had to feed, it was an unfortunately unavoidable part of his nature, no matter how much he hated it. So he developed an art out of it - returning the alluring looks, a saucy wink, and following an eager human to bed. He would serenade them then, softly, leading them into a calm hypnotic state. A gentle bite to their neck, careful not to injure more than absolutely necessary, he would take a few mouthfuls to keep him for the next few weeks. They always tasted so sweet, nothing like the sharp bitterness of a frightened human’s blood like what his parents had in their house. Calm and happy and aroused human blood was unparalleled to any other. 

Once done and his brief intoxication passed, he would lull them to sleep with another song, replacing the blank memory with something happy and sweet, leaving them to blissful dreams. He carried a small pot of healing balm he would apply to the two tiny punctures, ensuring it would be gone by the morning. They would wake up happy, and be none the wiser. 

Jaskier had no desire to ever outright harm, drain, or kill. It was what had isolated him from his family in the first place. Not even in self-defence would he resort to his vampiric abilities, knowing that no matter how he was harmed he would heal. 

He just wanted to be happy, and to make others happy. He wanted to play his music, make friends, and enjoy life. 

Then he met Geralt. 

When he first approached the hooded stranger it was out of curiosity, and maybe hoping that with some eyelash fluttering he could score a free meal as he had been short on coin for a while. True, he didn’t need to eat, but he still liked to. 

But then he saw the yellow cat eyes, the two swords, and the heavy armour. 

Jaskier used his iron will he rarely relied on to keep his panic down, knowing Witchers could smell such emotions. 

Despite the risk, Jaskier was short on material for his songs, and when the Witcher pointed out the inaccuracies, he decided he had a new goal. Stick to the Witcher. (as long as he could)

He had been sure Geralt would figure it out, soon rather than later. But he didn’t. Jaskier had spent centuries perfecting his cover, so knowing it paid off to such a test was delightful. So he stayed and followed. 

At first it was for inspiration, then for adventure, then for friendship, then for happiness...and now it was for love. 

It developed slowly, this ‘thing’ between them. Warm golden eyes on him when he laughed, sitting pressed together next to the fire, getting one bed despite having enough coin for two, excuses to touch, and sharing a bedroll ‘for warmth’ despite it being a warm night. It was soft shy smiles and gentle lingering touches. It was new and fragile and made his heart feel alive in a way that it hadn’t...maybe ever. He kept it close to his heart, shielded it from the elements, nurturing it and watching it bloom. Both welcomed this unspoken change between them, this new happiness and warmth. By now it was more like playful teasing, seeing which of them would snap first and take that final step, to seal their lips and finally confirm their relationship. 

But as with all things in Jaskier’s life, happiness just wasn’t that simple. He still had to feed. He used to break away for a week or so every few months for that exact purpose, but had grown reluctant to leave his Witcher. When he suggested he needed to attend to something, Geralt shyly asked if he could come with, clearly not wanting to be without him either. 

So he was torn between the the way seeing Geralt smile at him made him feel like he could burst with happiness and love, and the way he could feel himself grow weaker, see himself getting more pale and gaunt. 

Geralt became more and more worried as the weeks passed. Worried looks turned to carefully asking if he was okay, to firmly demanding he eat and sleep more and ride on Roach instead of walking. He refused Geralt’s offers to take him to a healer, because obviously the bard had something serious, until the offer became a threat. Jaskier knew he was running out of time. 

So he waited for an opportunity. They were in a new town and Geralt had just left on a contract and wouldn’t be back till morning. That night Jaskier mustered all his strength and charm to sing, then accepted the flirtations of the comely barmaid. He hadn’t realised how truly starved he was till the taste of her sweet blood knocked him out and he awoke to morning’s early light. She was still thankfully sleeping blissfully, so he quickly applied the balm and hummed a tune and watched a smile spread on her lips. 

He sneaked into the corridor, careful to quietly close the door behind him. He had just turned, fixing his sleep wrinkled shirt with his doublet in hand when he heard a crash and looked up. 

A stake to the heart would've hurt less than the look of wounded betrayal on the Witcher's beautiful face. At his feet lay two plates of food, breakfast he was bringing to what he had assumed would be a sleeping sick bard in their bed. 

“Geralt, this isn’t-” he started, his eyes desperately imploring as he reached for his Witcher, but the man only made a choked sound, taking a step back, then all but fleeing the inn. 

Jaskier had never hated himself and his nature this much in all his years. And he had hated himself a lot in the past.

They never spoke of it. But things had changed once again. Only now it was cold. Distant. He couldn't explain to Geralt that these interactions were never sexual (he never - not once - took sexual advantage of a hypnotised paramour), hasn’t been in years, or why he had to do it. That would also mean Geralt finding out the truth about him. The entire truth.

Whether it be about lying for 20 years or being a vampire- either or both would have Geralt leaving him. Even kill him. He couldn’t bear the thought of parting from Geralt, just the thought left him feeling empty, lost, and hurt. 

Still, Geralt didn’t turn him away. He didn’t tell him to leave, didn’t disappear in the night, or ride off with Roach at a speed he couldn’t keep up. He took the cold silence and clear muted pain on his beloved’s face as his punishment. He would do anything fo this man. Anything to make up for the hurt, even if Geralt never looks at him with a smile on his lips and affection in his eyes again.

So Jaskier decided to give up feeding. 

At 327 he has lived a full life. He had lived and laughed and loved and lost, more than he could ever have hoped for. He use his remaining time to write as many songs as he could that would become his realy immortality once he is gone, that would remind the world that his Witcher was kind, noble, and brave. That would make life easier, even just a little. He would follow Geralt as long as he could until he grew too weak to walk, then go off on his own to put an end to himself before he hurts anyone.

And if he turns before that...well. At least Geralt would be there to put him down.

[holdmecloser-gandydancer]

read here or on ao3!

Being a Regulator was one of the worst jobs Killian had ever decided to take. Don’t get her wrong, she knew that the purpose she served was great; she totally believed in doing everything in her power to keep the world safe, but it was so incredibly lonely. A good portion of Killian’s job description involved being prepared to kill any of her colleagues at a given moment. Didn’t exactly make for the most fun office relationships.

It was scary to think that at any moment, anyone in the Bureau could make a break against their procedures and require - well – regulation. When the Director had first approached about employment, Killian didn’t think much about it.

Okay, so my duties would be to stop people who use these things that you’re looking for?

In very simple terms, yes.

Great. When do I start?

Are you certain, Killian? This is going to be a highly dangerous job.

Listen, Madam Director, it beats the current gig I got so I’m in.

As the Bureau grew and turned into something much grander and more professional, Killian began to excel. She proved herself time and time again to be the most competent Regulator that the Bureau had. But it was that fact that she grappled with most.

Killian tried to keep a neutral face when she entered the Director’s office. She was being sent down planetside, though the details of the mission hadn’t yet been revealed to her.

“Killian, thank you for coming so quickly. As you know, your services are needed,” The Director’s face looked troubled and far away. “It’s Brian.” Killian let out a sharp, exasperated laugh.

“No way, Brian? Magic Brian? Director, surely there’s some kind of mistake! He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Killian thought of the highly complimentary, dramatic drow she’d met her first day on the base. They had both been in the first crop of employees and they had become fast friends. Everyone had taken to calling him Magic Brian because he was simply too bombastic to have such a plain name. And he was one of the most accomplished arcanists any of the Bureau employees had seen.

“Killian, I wish that were the case. Unfortunately, during his reconnaissance mission to locate the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet, he began to turn his back on the Bureau. Rather than seeking the Gauntlet for the good of the organization, we have it on good authority that he has started to seek it out for personal gain. In fact, we believe that he has,” the Director paused for a moment, considering her words carefully. “We believe he has hostages of sorts. It’s vital that you get down there, deal with him, and if you can, retrieve the Gauntlet.” Killian’s stomach fell. Regulating was one thing. That was her job, one she was very good at. But the idea of having to actually handle one of the relics herself? It scared her more than she cared to say.

“And I’m going alone?”

“Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be another option. Leeman is in the midst of preparing for a reclaiming mission himself and I don’t feel comfortable sending another Seeker down because I do fear that would put you in a hard position. Furthermore, I don’t believe the other Regulators are capable yet, frankly.” Killian’s thoughts rushed to Carey Fangbattle and to Boyland. Her regulator team. She was the unofficial captain, she supposed. She’d been at the Bureau for a few months longer than the two of them. And she also understood the Director’s unspoken addendum. She didn’t want to send more Regulators than necessary in case Killian herself had to be dealt with. Killian clenched her jaw, hoping no hesitation showed on her face.

“I’ll go get suited up and meet you and Avi at the hangar.”

“Actually, it’s just going to be Avi. He’s now going to be the sole one in charge of the Bureau’s transportation needs. The Millers have been working on adjustments to our system that make it easier to be manned by a single operator.”

“Oh shit, good for him.”

“Yes, he’s proven himself to be quite competent.” Lucretia reached into her desk and retrieved parchment and an inkwell. Killian turned to leave the Director’s office. “Oh, and Killian?”

“Yes, Madam Director?” the Director pressed her lips into a tight line.

“Don’t disclose the details of this to anyone yet. I know this is likely going to hit everyone hard and I frankly don’t want you to have to deal with that. I’ll figure out how to break the news.” Killian nodded and exited the office.

 

Late in the night she returned from the ruins of Phandalin, Killian found herself in the voidfish’s chambers. There had been a miraculous amount of excitement at the fact that a relic had been recovered and that the Bureau’s Reclaimer team had grown by three. Killian had done her best to slip away, sight unseen after she debriefed with the Director. She didn’t exactly feel like celebrating.

Instead, she felt like sitting on the ground in front of the voidfish’s tank, basking in its gentle light. She knew that Brian's Rites of Remembrance had been hastily done since the Director informed the Bureau of his treason. Traitors don’t get honor. But they do get grief, Killian thought to herself. She knew that Brian was too far gone by the time she reached him. She knew that he’d been ready to kill her with no second thought. She knew that he’d betrayed the Bureau and that betrayals wouldn’t stand in the organization. But all those facts didn’t keep her heart from twinging at the thought of Brian’s life just being wiped from memory.

“How’re you holding up?” Killian turned and saw Johann stride out from the shadows of the large room. She sighed and shrugged. Johann gazed at the voidfish for a moment before sitting on the ground beside her. They sat in silence for a while until a squeak by the doorway caused them both to turn around. Avi gave a meek wave before entering the room.

“Hey Avi,” Killian murmured quietly. He said nothing as he sat on Killian’s other side. The trio’s gazed up at the voidfish.

“Killian,” Avi began suddenly, “How was he?”

“He wasn’t himself. Not at all. I don’t know if that made it easier or harder, to be honest. I'm just glad that it wasn’t me who did him in.”

“Right, it was one of the new guys?” Johann turned to look at Killian for a moment. She nodded.

“Yeah, that new wizard, Taako, I think. I just still can’t believe he’s gone.” Killian didn’t tell anyone about the fact that she didn’t land a single hit on Magic Brian or his stupid fucking spider. She went running as soon as she could.

Avi tilted his head back and frowned. “Shit. His fiancé.” The trio grimaced. They all had lovely and ornate invitations in their own dormitories to Brian’s wedding. But at least the voidfish was supposed to handle all the messy things for the non-inoculated.

“I'm gonna miss that son of a bitch.” Johann mused quietly.

“Me too.” A gravitas-filled voice made the trio turn. The Director stood in the doorway, flanked by Carey and Boyland. They approached, staying mostly silent. Carey squeezed Killian’s shoulder and the six of them stayed in the voidfish’s chambers for some time.

 

Killian really did her best to keep from getting close to her coworkers, especially after what she was forced to do in Wave Echo Cave. It was terrifying to think that someday someone could be her coworker and then her assignment the very next day. Annoyingly, though, Carey Fangbattle seemed determined to break through Killian’s walls. She had done her best to get Killian to open up about her past, her fears, and everything in-between. Killian did her best to keep the dragonborn woman at arm’s length but the rogue was persistent.

“So, what was your deal before the Bureau?” she had asked one day while the pair was sparring. Boyland was home visiting family.

“Uh, you know, typical stuff. Pretty small family, we’re from a town outside of Neverwinter. They’re mostly all fighters so I took up that mantle. It was a pretty basic choice. What about you?”

“Heh, less basic than that. Small family too, just my parents, my brother, and me. He became a bard and I became a rogue. Our parents hate both these paths for both of us,” Carey chuckled after dodging a particularly swift sideswipe from Killian. “But you can’t ever seem to please barbarians, you know?” Killian laughed stepped out of the way of a deft roll Carey did. They continued sparring and joking for hours.

 

Killian found herself back in the voidfish’s chambers after she heard about Leeman Kessler and again after she heard about Captain Captain Bane. She hadn’t been particularly close to either of them be she saw that both these losses hurt Avi and Lucretia, respectively. Both times, she found herself surrounded by the five others who’d come together after the death of Magic Brian. They never coordinated it or spoke about it but something about basking in the company of each other in the glow of the voidfish gave them all a comfort none of them would admit to needing. At one point, Carey began to slip in beside Killian, forcing Avi to scoot to the orc’s other side. The rest of them changed position pretty frequently, depending on when they arrived. The Director eventually began siting on the floor with the five of them. When they were all in their unofficial ceremony for Captain Captain Bane, everyone had the courtesy to ignore the few tears shed by the Director.

 

Killian began to grow closer to Carey which scared the orc. It wasn’t that she didn’t love all the joy that the rogue brought her. That wasn’t it at all. But she couldn’t help but think about the fact that part of both their job descriptions involved being prepared to destroy their colleagues at any given moment. It wasn’t that Killian didn’t want to grow closer to Carey. If she was being honest, she’d love nothing more. She was just terrified.

 

Five of them gathered after Killian and Carey returned from the Miller’s lab. Boyland’s Rites ceremony wouldn’t be performed for some time. None of them were prepared to write out every detail of the man who’d brightened their days countless times.

They’d all already gathered after learning of the passing of Maureen Miller, but this time was different.

Maureen Miller and Lucas Miller would not receive Rites, though that didn’t stop the group from mourning them. Killian and Carey had quietly agreed to keep up the charade Magnus had set up in the lab. They both intended on interrogating him about it, but this was not the place to unwind it.

Truthfully, all of them were openly crying. Their tears were mostly quiet but they traced bright, shiny paths down their faces in the glow of the tank.

“Fucking Boyland. Him and his fucking cigars,” Carey said, leaning against Killian. She said nothing, instead choosing to wrap a protective arm around the dragonborn woman.

“I just can’t stop thinking about all his kids,” Avi’s face was unusually solemn. He retrieved his flask from his pocket and took a swig from it before passing it to Johann.

“Well, I mean, I understand that he was using a relic but,” Johann took a swig and passed the flask to Killian “Lucas was just a kid. I can’t believe that the Miller line is just… gone.”

Killian drank from the flask and passed it to Carey. “I can’t believe all the sketchy shit he was doing in that lab.” Carey gulped down some Brandywine and tentatively passed the flask to the Director.

“Grief is one hell of a drug,” the Director said hollowly, draining the remainder of the flask. “He was destroyed by the loss of his mother. Losing a loved one makes you do terrible things, especially if you think you could get them back.” She slid the flask back to Avi. The four others in the chamber glanced at the Director but said nothing. She was a woman who seemed to be haunted by griefs none of them could ever imagine.

 

Killian let her guard down at last. She let Carey inside her walls and was truthfully never happier. There was still an ever-present stripe of fear in Killian’s heart but somehow, when Carey was in her arms, it didn’t matter so much. Killian decided to appreciate and love Carey while she was alive rather than wait until she was despairing in front of a cryptic fish with an assortment of her closest friends and confidants.

 

After the day of Story and Song, after the Hunger had been defeated, after the base had been cleaned up, after a world of revelations had come to light, Killian and Carey found themselves in the voidfish’s chambers. Well, what used to be the voidfish’s chambers. Fisher was no longer there, the tank was shattered, and there was a noticeable absence in the room. They still sat in the spots they’d become so used to sitting in, though the room was far darker than it used to be. They both had their head in their hands when they heard familiar footsteps pad into the room. Avi practically collapsed next to Killian. She wrapped an arm around her friend and pulled him in close. None of them could speak. What could you say?

“I can’t believe it. In his last fucking act he just –“ Avi broke his sentence off and shook his head. He reached into his pocket and fished out his flask, dented but still functional. He held it up in a toasting motion and took a deep drink. Killian grabbed it from him and followed suit before passing it to Carey. Like a ghost, the Director, Lucretia, the woman they all suddenly knew in ways they never expected, appeared at Carey’s side. She wordlessly and unceremoniously sat down, taking the flask.

“How are you all doing?” she asked after a sip of Brandywine.

“Uh, not fucking great.” Avi reached out for the flask with one hand, scrubbing tears away with the other.

“Yeah, Madam Director, it’s been a bit of a day,” Carey said hoarsely before burying her face into Killian’s side.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Well, how are you doing, Lucretia?” Killian asked after a moment of silence. Lucretia barked out a humorless laugh.

“Shitty.”

 

Carey and Killian’s wedding was a beautiful affair, but it wasn’t without its more somber moments. The two women had an entire row of empty chairs reserved at the ceremony. They said nothing about their purpose but it didn’t take much energy to determine their purpose.

At one point in the evening, the pair found themselves sitting with Avi and Lucretia.

“And here’s the beautiful couple!” Avi said brightly, wrapping the brides in a tight hug.

“The ceremony was beautiful,” Lucretia delivered a hug to the couple once they detangled from Avi.

“It really was, huh?” Carey squeezed Killian’s hand. Killian’s smile was tinged with sadness.

“Hey um. Thank you both for being here. There’s already too many people missing and I don’t know how it would have been without you both.”

“Killian, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.” Lucretia reached a hand out and squeezed the orc’s arm. Avi looked around and snagged four glasses of champagne off a waiter’s tray. After passing glasses to the three women around him, Avi raised his glass in a toast.

“To Johann and Boyland.”

Carey raised her glass. “To Noelle and Captain Captain Bane.”

Lucretia followed suit. “To Maureen Miller and Magic Brian.”

Killian raised her glass. “Fuck it, to Fisher and Junior.” The four laughed gently before toasting.

Killian was never more grateful for her friends than she was in that moment. So much had been lost in the pursuit of balance, but she was grateful that their memories would remain with her. And she was never so glad to have been finished with a job.

[mollymawkwrites]

For the first times prompt meme: first time making them laugh for Eskel/Jaskier

This prompt has been sitting in my ask box for so long and I am so sorry, but I'm actually quite happy with the result, and I finally managed to keep it short for once! Small victories!

Thank you for sending me this cute prompt, I hope you like it! 💕

CW: none.

Eskel is killing Geralt the next time their Paths meet.

Rarely has he felt such hatred and rage, and never towards his brother-in-arms, his best friend, his other half.

But here he is, sitting on the rickety bed in Jaskier's Oxenfurt lodgings, Jaskier himself laughing so hard to his face that there are tears streaming down his cheeks and his lungs are starting to make a wheezing noise.

You have to woo him, to seduce him, you know, like one of these dumb novels he's always reading, Geralt had said. He says there's nothing more romantic than someone baring their heart with big gestures and bigger bouquets.

That in itself sounded rather reasonable. The bard is a known sap, a romantic at heart like he likes to say, and what's more logical than listening to the poet's pretty words, when you're trying to court said poet?

So he planned everything, bought so many rose petals two apothecaries had to empty their stock, ordering Zerrikanian chocolate that could only be shipped twice a year to Oxenfurt, picking all the yellow wild flowers in a perimeter of two miles around the city walls.

Fiorano is his favourite wine, Geralt had said, so Eskel went to three different shops to find a bottle from Jaskier's birth year that cost more than the reward for an average Basilisk contract. 

He said something about pears. That they taste like love? Or they look like it. Can't remember. He likes them a lot though.

There's a cup full of pears under a stasis spell because it is definitely not the season for them to grow so far north, next to the bottle of Fiorano and two wine glasses. The rose petals are scattered all across the room, with a focus on the bed, which is nearly made, with red silk sheets Eskel rented to the closest brothel because his purse was empty from all the other expenses.

He asked Essi to play some viol under the window, but she laughed at him and said he couldn't afford her, which is technically true. She was nice enough to lend him a poetry book though, from one of Jaskier's favourite modern poets.

So he's sitting on the silk, roses covered bed, a bouquet of buttercups and dandelions in one hand and the book in the other, and he barely managed to read half of the poem when Jaskier entered the room after his evening lecture before the bard erupted in a booming laugh, cornflower blue eyes glistening with mirth and tears, pink mouth open in delight as his hands came to rest on his belly to ease the ache of his abdominal muscles.

It's been five minutes now, and Eskel is definitely killing Geralt when he sees him next. Behind the fury of having been mocked and lied to, shame and rejection are starting to show themselves. The Witcher stands, closing the poetry book and putting the bouquet on the table next to the uncorked bottle of wine and unnaturally green pears. As Jaskier's laughter finally begins to dwindle, he gathers the rose petals in his large, clumsy hands, and not finding anywhere to throw them, tugs the silk bed sheets undone to wrap around the dry petals. The smell was starting to make him nauseous anyway.

"What are you doing?" Jaskier asks, and the remnants of humour and mirth in his voice is another stab to Eskel's heart.

"I made a mess of your room, 'm sorry. I'll just… get out of here once it's cleaned."

"What? Eskel, no," a hand comes to rest on his bicep, light and gentle, encouraging him to turn back. As always, Eskel is helpless in the face of the bard's wishes.

"I'm not laughing at you, my dear," and the hand on his arm rises to cup his cheek instead. "This simply is such an unexpected - but welcomed - sight, and it is so… unlike you, I was surprised. What brought all of that on?"

His free hand waves at the flowers, the chocolates, the book, his eyes lighting up when he spots the Fiorano.

"I wanted to… seduce you," Eskel deflates, cheeks warm, gaze downcast.

Again, Jaskier laughs, this time a fond, private thing  crossing the space between them to caress Eskel's face where Jaskier is not touching him.

"Oh, my love," the poet breathes, "but you don't need all of that to seduce me. You see, I think this happened quite a while ago, and you didn't have to do anything but be yourself."

And the wine might be corked once they get around to drink it, the pears might be tasteless, and the flowers might trigger Jaskier's allergies, but this is, without a doubt, the most romantic evening of Eskel's long, long life.

I'm taking drabble requests!

[abluescarfonwaston]

He opens his eyes and Dandelion is there in his stupid colorful clothing. Covered in dirt. Pulls him into his neck and holds him as he cries. "I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd lost you."

This is the first time he thinks as he coughs dirt from his nose and lungs. Although. Maybe not. Dandelion smacks his back hard trying to help.

Maybe. Maybe this has been going on for years. How many mortal wounds had he woken up from?

But this is the first time he's woken with his own graves dirt in his lungs.

"Don't do that to me again." Dandelion begs.

When his lungs are finally clear and he can almost breathe he holds him. Let's the warmth of him sink into his chest that was as cold as his grave not an hour before. And he does not promise, because he suspects, it would be a lie.

This is the first time, he thinks, as he stares up at the mountain peak high above he's fallen from. The first time Dandelion's done it from a distance.

The wyvern screams above.

He stands. His back no longer broken. Thinks of the bard waiting for him at the inn with a tankard of ale.

And he goes back for round two.

This. Is not the first time he thinks as Ciri startles from her pale shaking wailing. And holds him.

And then Yennefer stirs next to him. Her silent chest suddenly beating. And it is a first. The first time Dandelion's brought someone other than him back.

And then they both hold her.

"You were dead! I thought I'd lost you! I don't know how I did that!"

"You didn't." He reassures. "We're right here."

And they both hold her.

"Geralt!" Zoltan jumps like he's seen a spector. "They said you died in the progrom!"

"I did."

He smacks him. "Dandelion! You'll never guess who just showed up!"

Dandelion pops his head around the corner. The feather in his cap falling into his face. "Geralt!" He greets. Excited but not surprised. "Told you he wasn't dead! You owe me fifty crown!"

"I'll deduct it from your debt!" Zoltan laughs back.

He crosses the room to Dandelion. Pulls him into his arms. "Thank you." He says as he crushes him to his chest.

"For what? Thinking you were alive? Most people would call that denial!" He laughs.

"For bringing Yennefer back too."

Dandelion's arms finally wrap around his back. "Course. She's the love of your life." He whispers into his shoulder. "And I wouldn't do that to Ciri."

"What's it cost?" He asks at long last. Because magic always has a cost. And whatever it had been, he hadn't brought Essi back.

"It's always worth the cost when you come back." He deflected, pulling away. "Come. I believe you owe me an ale."

He caught his arm. "But what's it cost?"

He shook his head. "What do I always say?"

"Anything for a friend."

"Promise it's true."

"I don't want it to be true!" The other patrons turned to glare at him. He lowered his voice. "I don't want you trading your life for mine. Or something worse."

Dandelion turned back or him with a roll of his eyes. "As I said in Dol Blathanna, if they're going to kill you they best kill me too." He reached out for his cheek but settled for his bicep instead. "Like I'd let you go on an adventure so grand without me."

"Id rather you outlive me."

"And I you." He ordered them drinks with a wave at the bar. "So I suppose we shall have to compromise and go together. As we're both far to stubborn for anything else."

He was silent as they waited for their drinks. Dandelion catching him up on the state of things.

"Where are you headed?" He asked when their drinks arrived at last.

He smiled. "Nowhere." He drank heavily. "That is to say. I could go where you're going."

He smiled back. "I'd like that." And with that Zoltan pulled him away for a game of gwent.

[cherryjuicegf]

the spaces where our garden grew wild

He cuts through the branches, desperate, but they grow back, thicker and thicker and almost hiding that raven hair, that red doublet behind their leaves. He grunts and shouts and pants and his sword rips the air like paper. He sees them again. Or is he?

Black, isn’t her hair? A chain.

Red, isn’t his doublet? Blood.

Oh, he’s too busy, too focused on the thorns. Of course he would, they have hurt him too much by now not to notice them. Yet he doesn’t hear the voices anymore. He doesn’t hear the screams. He doesn’t hear his name. 

And when he does, it’s too late.

or

A study in gardening.

11.3k, angst with a happy ending, cw temporary character death, blood & gore, nightmares

The sky looks beautiful, she thought. She never did that, didn’t usually stop to look at the sky. It’s admittedly not what she was doing right now either. No, it was not. She just had to look somewhere, to avert her eyes from the road to where the wind blew. So that it dried the tears threatening to fall from her eyes. 

She had shed tears. All the way down the mountain, every step, every tree. Every tear another droplet of trust wasted on the ground. Oh, those were too real. As if to compensate for all the moments that were fake.

Lovers. She was too old to believe this time would be different.

The sky looked indeed beautiful. Red and pink and orange, and the sun, although still not set, painted it with its rays as if they were brushes flowing on blue paper. Red. Her eyes caught movement behind her, albeit far, still, it’s as if she sensed it. The same taste of tears, the same cracking of a heart. She cleared her throat and turned her head, only slightly. Only to catch full sight of the bard standing for a moment there, behind her, his eyes piercing her just like the first daylight pierces through a closed window. Still, he was silent. And the way he looked at her. Just like he always did, yes, with indifference and rivalry. She knew mutual feelings when she saw them. But if she looked deeper, there was something else too. Something new. 

Empathy. Gentleness.

His eyes were flooded. She said nothing though, only stared back at him without bothering to change her harsh look. It was the only one she afforded right now. So he lowered his look swallowing and nodded faintly at her. Like a greeting. And turned around, continuing down the mountain.

She looked at the sky spreading in front of her again. She never expected to share mutual feelings with the bard except for resentment maybe. She couldn’t even if she tried; he was too much of an idiot. She smiled at herself, for some reason. It was comforting, as bad as it sounded. Having someone to hurt with. Despite the thorns.

High on the mountain, the wind blew harder. The Witcher stared at the distance. Deep breaths shaking his shoulders, his nostrils flaring, his heartbeat a bit faster than usual. 

What I am missing. 

Too much. I’m missing too much. 

There they go, there they go.

~~

The night was warm, as warm as an early spring night could be, the last patches of snow still lingering on the roadside. It’s silent except for the chirping of a bird that had forgotten to return to its nest, enchanted by the first blossoms embellishing the trees, knowing that something so beautiful was worth singing for. It’s silent. Except for the whetstone dragged on the sword blade with slow, as though rhythmical with the birdsong movements. Geralt didn’t raise his eyes from the blade. Devoted to his work, knowing that if he allowed his mind to wander, it wouldn’t come back, lost in the paths of his mind, so many more than the one he was supposed to follow. 

He was a Witcher. There was no other Path. 

Yet there was. More than one, more than he dared to admit. And he was too afraid, too broken to follow any of them.

His eyes didn’t look away from the blade. But the mind is a strange enemy, attacking from the inside. From the heart. 

He glanced at a faint scar on his forearm. A small smile, could be a laugh, escaped his lips. One would say it was one of the scars he’d gained on the big hunts, killing a monster unheard of. That’s what the songs said. That’s what Yennefer thought, that night in the tent, as she was peering at his body as if admiring a gallery of outstanding art. It had been no hunt though. No monster. It had been a damn thorn in a healer’s garden, ironic as it sounded. Yennefer had laughed when he told her. Gods, she was so beautiful when she laughed.

“Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher, scarred by a thorn. An unorthodox way to be injured, for someone like you.” She smiled. “What’s next? Are you going to die from a garden pitchfork?”

Geralt huffed and shook his head, imagining a death quite different admittedly. Like the ones of previous Witchers, heroic or not, still defending what they had learned to defend. It’s not like he could avoid Destiny anyway. He would like to. He stared at Yennefer and took a deep breath, letting his eyes wander for a moment only to return to her. “You know”, he muttered, “I’m thinking it would be nice if one day I indeed retired. Maybe as a stableman,” he paused to hear Yennefer’s chuckle. “I’d like to have a garden. A normal life,” he smiled, “one that you’re a constant part of.”

She looked at him, her smile a little fainter now, a playful glint in her eyes. “Are you asking me to retire with you, Geralt?”

Her voice made him melt. He raised an eyebrow. “Only if you want.”

“Well,” she sighed and raised her eyes on the ceiling as if already thinking about their life, “it’s a nice dream. Something to wait for, even if it never comes. And anyway,” she shrugged, “a garden would be nice.”

He took in her scent. Lilac and gooseberries. Of course. One of his favourite scents, and those were barely five. How can I dream of a garden, he thought, when I have one right in front of me? A garden wild and beautiful and fragrant. It had its thorns, every garden does. Some of them he’d grown himself. But he wouldn’t let them get in the way.

~~

He raises his sword cautiously, ready for anything to show up from behind the dense bushes. His steps are slow, silent like a cat’s as if scared that if he makes any noise, he’ll be unable to hear anything else. Anything resembling that whisper he’d heard less than a minute ago, a whisper that, stable as it was, sounded scared, hollow. He knows that voice. Gods, he knows it and he also knows he would hear it calling his name for the rest of his days without ever wanting it to stop. But not like this. Oh, not like this.

A sharp glint catches his eye some meters away from the spot he is standing, something shining on the ground, between the wild branches and the thick foliage that embraces wilted flowers, lilacs and roses, the remainders of a garden once blossoming with care. He approaches. He knows, before he thinks about anything else, like an instinct, he knows. And thinks, gods, how much he’d like to have no idea. 

He lowers on one knee, ducks under the bushes and reaches for whatever is blinding his eyes as if reflecting the rays of a nonexistent sun, a sun that once had been. And as his fingers trace cold silver carved with a shape he’d felt so many times under his fingers, his heart flutters. A black velvet ribbon. An obsidian star. 

Oh, how real it feels.

He hears his name again, flowing with the breeze, only now it’s trembling and suddenly louder and he stands on his feet, sword raised and the branches grow in front of him and he looks around, lost, desperate, encircled by leaves and thorns and bushes and flowers turning red as though painted and he cuts and searches and searches for a way out and then the earth trembles with a familiar voice screaming.

“GERALT!!!”

~~

He stumbled close to Roach, reached for the saddlebag, groaning, arm pressed around his abdomen. He searched inside the bag, caught a small bottle and chugged it for dear life. He didn’t bother returning it to its place, instead, he threw it on the ground and searched inside the bag again for bandages, swearing when the only thing his hand brushed on is a cloth that definitely wasn’t a bandage. He didn’t really care though as his vision blurred in the light of the fire and he pulled the cloth as he fell on his knees, tying it around his abdomen with trembling hands. His breath shortened and if his head hit the ground hard, he was already unconscious to feel the pain.

When he did feel the pain throbbing in his head, he was already met with the first daylight, blinded. He squinted and made to sit up, grunting when he felt a sharp tugging at his abdomen. He fell back again and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. It’s silent. Except for Roach snorting and walking closer to him, lowering her head to nuzzle in his hair, making him huff. It’s silent. And, as hard as it was to admit, there was no other exception.

And how he missed that exception now.

He swallowed, looked up at Roach and put his arms against the ground, trying to sit up again. He did, barely, and shuffled to the closest tree to rest again the trunk. Then he lowered his eyes on the wound. The white cloth had gone red with blood, but at least it had dried. He untied it to reveal a red scar across his abdomen, almost healed yet hurting him still. He sighed, ignored the pain that caused. And made to throw the cloth aside.

Only that he didn’t. 

He stared at it, felt the texture. Silk. He had no reason to own a silk white cloth. Or maybe he had. As he unfolded it, he recognized a white shirt, embroidered with little flowers on the collar. A red stain was painting the front side and some of it reaching the back, ruining it completely. He stared at it, gritted his teeth. His hands were clutching it, tightly, just like he always wished to do. Yet it did next to nothing serving as a substitute.

“Come on, Geralt, it will suit you.”

“No doubt.”

“Do not mock me, you idiot. You have never tried.”

Geralt peered at Jaskier leaning against a tree beside him. His hands were moving feverishly, intertwining green stems, tight as not to fall apart. Colourful flowers were slowly forming a crown, yellow and light blue and a little bit of red, buttercups and forget-me-nots and carnations. It was beautiful indeed and definitely where his attention was drawn on, and not on the skilled hands and strong fingers brushing against the petals. He swallowed.

“Back at home, we have a wonderful garden,” said Jaskier without being asked, as he always did. “Even you would be impressed if you saw it. That’s how I learned to make flower crowns.”He tightened the last knot and sighed, taking a look at his work as if gazing at the greatest painting. Then smirked at Geralt and stood up. “There you go.”

Before Geralt managed to protest the leaves were falling in front of his eyes. He snorted, fixed the crown on his head less than eagerly. Then looked at Jaskier. Well, probably he was wrong before. Now Jaskier looked as if he was gazing at the greatest painting. He felt his cheeks burning. 

He’d never considered flowers for anything else than their abilities and yet, if he was to see that smile on Jaskier’s lip’s again, he would consider them as so much more. He thought he could even let Jaskier show him their home garden. 

It would be a nice meeting point.

~~

“GERALT!!!”

He turns around, terrified, but not as much as the scream he hears now for the third time. Voices and screams and whispers that make him shudder as if feeling their fear. And it’s not just one now, it’s two, and he knows those two voices better than the back of his hand. And how he wishes he didn’t. He walks through thick branches and leaves and flowers that wilt the moment he stands close to them, as if he is the reason for their death.

Oh, he is.

His eye catches a glimpse of red among the bushes and he thinks it’s a rose or any other kind of flower he didn’t give a damn about. And yet, and yet, he stands closer and suddenly it’s not a flower at all, it’s just a piece of clothing, torn and achingly familiar. He approaches, runs his fingertips over it, his heart thumping inside his chest. It’s silk, and red, and although he knows the colour of that specific doublet he also somehow knows that there’s something more on it than the garment’s colour. 

He hears the voices again. And again, and again, as if blowing with the wind that hit him out of nowhere and he looks around and it’s green, branches and leaves and then oh, flowers still alive. He feels a wave of relief for a moment, only to have it drained of him again when he realizes the flowers are buttercups and forget-me-nots and carnations. And the moment he seems to realize it, the flowers wilt.

And anyway, a garden would be nice.

Back at home, we have a wonderful garden.

Figures. He sees figures behind the branches and for a moment he thinks he can reach them. Craves to reach them, hearing their voices call him, screaming, weak, terrified but cold, so cold as if they already come from ghosts. He sees them now, yes. Raven hair. A bright red doublet. Shadows and yet their images are so clear in his mind. The last gaze he shot them, that’s what he sees. The tears prickling in violet eyes, the ones that used to enchant everything they laid their gaze upon. The tightened lips that struggled to swallow a sob, the ones that used to calm the wildest waves with their song. He raises his sword, cuts through the bushes. His skin is torn by thorns. He’s exhausted. He doesn’t care. He has to reach them, he has to.

Blood flows between his feet as he cuts and cuts as though trying to reform a garden grown irreparably wild. It’s not too late, it can’t be. It’s his blood, he thinks, it’s the thorns. They come closer, oh they do, he can reach them, he can grow the garden back beautiful again, he can, he will. He cuts through the branches, desperate, but they grow back, thicker and thicker and almost hiding that raven hair, that red doublet behind their leaves. He grunts and shouts and pants and his sword rips the air like paper. He sees them again. Or is he?

Black, isn’t her hair? A chain.

Red, isn’t his doublet? Blood.

Oh, he’s too busy, too focused on the thorns. Of course he would, they have hurt him too much by now not to notice them. Yet he doesn’t hear the voices anymore. He doesn’t hear the screams. He doesn’t hear his name. 

And when he does, it’s too late.

When he does, he’s kneeling. Crawling. Reaching. Black hair sinking in blood. Violet eyes, wide-open, a moment ago frightened. Now lifeless. He can still smell the lilac and gooseberries. Or does it come from the garden?

A white shirt drenched in blood. Blue eyes staring at him, the void, everywhere, nowhere. If he touches his lips he can still hear the songs. Or is it the voices?

He’s small, shrinking suddenly, curling to himself. Blood. A chain. He’s shaking. Eyes looking at him. Accusing him. He closes his eyes, his ears, whimpering. Do not feel, do not feel. Witchers don’t feel. Witchers don’t feel, Geralt. Who are you? Where are you? What have you done? 

There they go, there they go.

A sob. Then, slowly, hoarsely, desperately, a scream.

Geralt screams and jerks up on his bedroll, shaking in terror.

~~

The sun was shining with a warmth fit as a goodbye from the last days of April. Light poured from the windows, brightening the whole room and Yennefer found herself unbothered to close the curtains. She looked outside the window, let the sun blind her eyes. Sighed. Maybe she should get out more, she thought, as much as she refused to admit it. Get some air, not the one blowing inside the house, getting trapped between walls. She needed fresh air, away from whatever smells Vengerberg brought to each corner, she wanted to go into the forest, sit down, take a deep breath. Rest, for once, or better, give a fitting end to the rest she was getting the past months. 

It’s not that she felt comfortable at home anyway. It was good, having a place to retire for a bit, to remember what it’s like to live like a normal person. Be nothing more than a random lady strolling at the market, at least then she fit there, belonged somewhere, even if it was nothing but a shopping crowd. 

Still alone nonetheless. Unimportant.

She was a fool. She knew she was, as she felt her eyes getting wet and blamed it on the sun. Nobody smart plays fair. She knew that, always did. Still, she thought that maybe, this once, it wouldn’t harm to hope for something more, to play fair, to give life a chance. She shook her head, laughed at herself. She was as foolish as then, picking up a daisy, hoping for something, everything, anything a little girl could hope for. She was a little girl. A child. What else can a child ask from the world other than to be something for it, for someone? Something important. Was she a child, then, still? 

She was not, she knew. Yet, oh how bare had she laid her daisy, and how cruelly were its petals ripped apart and thrown on the air. She had played fair. But Geralt was smart, smarter than her. And nobody smart plays fair.

She sighed again and turned around, sat on her bed. She would go to the forest tomorrow. Today, she could use some sleep. If she managed to get any.

A loud knocking on the door made her realize sleep would wait for a bit. When she saw who it was from the window, she realized sleep was now out of the schedule. She swallowed, waited for a bit. Maybe he would go away. He wouldn’t know if she was there anyway.

Another knock, louder. “Yennefer? Please, open the door!”

Something in her stomach dropped at the sound of his voice. Did she really want him to leave? After all those times she saw how he…

Before he could knock another time, she pulled the door open and stood still, as still as the man in front of her, his hand raised ready to knock and his eyes wide. Like that, in his bright yellow doublet, he looked ridiculous. He is, she corrected herself and raised an eyebrow. “Jaskier.” Her voice was stable. As if she didn’t feel a weight coming off her shoulders.

That same weight seemed to abandon Jaskier’s shoulders as well but he didn’t have the intention to hide it. He let out a loud sigh. “Oh, thank the gods!” He looked around, breathless, and then back at her, for the first time unable to utter any words.

Yennefer frowned in confusion and smirked. “I wouldn’t say the same for you.” She paused, waiting for a comeback to her sarcasm but, as she saw Jaskier just standing there, looking at her as though he was looking at a ghost, she knew something was wrong. And as she noticed the dark circles under the bard’s eyes and exhaustion draining his otherwise bright look, she feared that this something might be more than familiar. She tilted her head. “Why are you here, bard?”

Jaskier stared at her for a couple of seconds as if he had forgotten why he was there in the first place. Then he lowered his look, cleared his throat. “Can I come in?”

For some reason, even before he had finished the sentence, Yennefer had already stepped aside to let him pass. She closed the door behind her and if the food of the spying neighbour was burning on the frying pan, well that was none of her business. She turned around, faced the bard, crossed her arms on her chest, and waited. And oddly, so did Jaskier. But he was never the patient type anyway. He huffed and shook his head, rolling his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Before she could even reject the thought of asking him what he meant since she didn’t really care, he went close and threw his arms around her, holding her tight. Hugging her. He was hugging her. 

Even more outrageous, she hugged him back. Not because she felt her heart returning to her place. Not because he was the first friendly face she’d seen in months. Not because he was alive in her arms. Definitely not. Only because, as soon as they relaxed a bit in each other’s arms, he started trembling and, after a moment, he buried his face in her shoulder. She frowned but, for some reason, she knew exactly how he felt. Someone to hurt with, she thought. Even if she didn’t show it. She swallowed. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier took a shaky breath and suddenly his arms were gone, he took a step back and wiped his eyes. “Yeah, uh, sorry, it’s just--” He trailed off, his voice choked in his throat, quivered. A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “I just-- I saw you… I saw--”

“Hush.” He felt a hand on his shoulder and another one, guiding his hand away from his face, letting some stray tears fall. Yennefer looked at him and nodded. If she remembered what she saw too and if her eyes sparkled a bit in the sunlight, he noticed but he didn’t have to say anything. She squeezed his hand. “Hush. I know.”

Oh. She knew too well.

continue reading on ao3

tagging some mutuals who have shown interest/might like this 💞 @geraltsays @indelibleposies @contemplativepancakes @restmyheadatnightcontent @broskier @geraltdirivia

[wolfish-trickster]

Advent kisses

24/24

Loki x female!reader

Word count: 2 796 (I regret nothing)

Summary: Instead of chocolates, kisses are going to be recieved everyday until Christmas.

Tag list: @gaitwae @lucywrites02 @modestlyabsurd @winterfrostsarmy @spaceyempress @thefridgeismybestie @laramoonworld @birdgirl90 @nickkie1129 @loki-yoursaviourishere @hard-to-be-the-bard

Y/N POV

The warm water around you felt nice. You were positive you could fall asleep, here in your tub surrounded by soap bubbles. After Loki's yesterday visit and cuddling no cramps came back to you. That doesn't mean you can't spoil yourself with a nice hot bubbly bath first thing in the morning.

Today was the day. The day you'll be honest with him.

Or not.

Your insides hurt from anxiety and fear. What if all those kisses and hugs were his way of warming up to the human contact? What if he sees you as just a cuddle buddy and things will get weird between you two?

'Stop it Y/N, it's going to be okay. You'll be okay. You got plenty of time to calm down.'

You stood up from your warm bath and wrapped yourself in even warmer towel. Still wrapped in it you looked through dresses you brought with you spread out on your bed.

You got a soft creamy one, elegant black one, forrest green and kinda extravagant one and the simple but pretty one with different blue hues with black fluff around the neckline.

At first you wanted to go for the green one. But after further thought you chose the blue one. You're not going to dress yourself in his chosen colour. You'll be wearing the colour he was born in, the one he hated and was affraid to show for god knows how long, until he had accepted himself. You hoped his sharp mind will understand.

You hung the blue dress in your bathroom for later and threw on a simple plain sweater and jeans. The plan for today was to finish little details and make food for the evening.

Everyone has placed the wrapped gifts under the tree. This year was purely your decision. No secret Santa. You guys always argued afterwards, for whatever reason.

You being you bought little meaningful gifts for everyone (except Laura and kids, you didn't expect them to spend Christmas with the Avengers, but you had a feeling Clint will spoil them rotten, so it's fine). You started placing all the colourful boxes you brought among others under the tree. All but one. The one you wanted to give Loki in private was still hidden under your bed. You still didn't know how you're going to do it. Today or tomorrow? Tomorrow will be a chaos with gifts and you two won't get any privacy. So you settled for today, in the evening.

You were excited, but also scared. 'Is there even a name for this emotion?'

~~

Loki POV

Loki just got from the shower. He was drying and brushing his hair. He knew he had to look good in the evening and not right now, but he wanted to look as charming as ever. For you.

Tony told all boys to specifically wear white shirt and black pants, nothing else. Loki was torn between wearing clothes from his or your realm. He looked best in his Asgardian royal attire, but he wanted to look like he was from your home when he confesses his love to you. Decisions...

He'll leave them for later. Right now all he wants is you in his arms, your head on his chest, the smell of your hair in his nose. He dressed himself in his casual asgardian clothes and went looking for you.

He checked your room first, just in case your body was beating you up from the inside like yesterday. Thankfully not. The second place he checked was the living room.

He found you there. Kneeling on the floor, placing gifts under decorated branches of the giant tree.

Quiet as a mouse he crept towards you. He saw his chance when you stilled after placing the last present. As if you were thinking about something important. He quickly picked you up by your hips and spinned you around. Your startled scream turned into laughter when you realized it was only him.

He stopped spinning and held you close to him, your back to his chest. "Hehe, I'm so sorry darling, but I couldn't help myself. Your laugh is so adorable and I wanted to hear it."

You turned around in his arms and put your own around him. "I forgive you trickster, but only because it's Christmas," you winked at him.

He hugged you even closer, inhaling the scent of you. "Merry Christmas my darling," he whispered against the top of your head.

Y/N POV

You felt his hot breath on the crown of your head and smiled into his chest. His hearbeat was fast, still from the little spinning stunt he pulled, you assumed. You loved these hugs. If he didn't feel the same way and rejected your romantic feelings, would he still hug you like this? Would he hug you at all?

Your chest hurt. You can't lose him. Not today. Not ever. 'I guess I'll be satisfied with only friendship for the rest of my life, rather than risking losing this.'

You pulled away from him far enough to still hug him but also to look him into eyes. "Have you put gifts under the tree yet?"

Loki looked at you seriously. "Darling, do you even know me?" he snapped his fingers and a giant green box with yellow bow appeared next to both of you.

"Wow, who's that for?"

"Everyone. I put all of it in one box. To save the paper."

"And what's 'all of it' ?"

He smirked. "A trophy that says 'you're not as annoying as I thought you were'."

You started laughing uncontrollably. That's so Loki thing to do. Even though it hurt a little knowing this is what you're gonna get from him. And as always, your coping mechanism tried to turn something sad into a joke. "At least I'll have a trophy for something, and I didn't even have to try."

"You're not getting a trophy."

"Then what, a medal?"

He moved your hair out of your face and caressed your cheek. "No my darling, you'll recieve a much more meaningful gift."

You opened your mouth to ask, but he shut you up with a single finger on your lips. "I can't tell you, it's a surprise."

You pouted against his finger. "No pouting my dear, patience brings roses."

You pulled his finger away from your lips. "So another ice rose? Good. I like the one you gave me. Did you know it's practically imposible to melt it? I've accidently left it inside yesterday and guess what? Not a puddle."

Loki POV

"-and guess what? Not a puddle."

Can his ice power really be that strong to keep it frozen the whole night? In a warm house? He'll think about it later. "No. And stop being curious. You'll find all out in the right time."

You both stood there. Gazing into eachothers' eyes. Into eachothers' souls. After a while you spoke up. "I think I'll go into the kitchen. To help them with- ahhh- whatever they're doing."

"Oh, okay then," he reliesed you from his embrace. "I have to go and check up on something too. So... eeehh, I'll see you later?"

You smiled warmly at him as you moved towards the kitchen. "Yeah, see you later."

Loki sat down on the couch. Why did you flee so suddenly? He doesn't get it. Human emotions are so complicated. So are asgardians'. Emotions overall are complicated mess.

He sighed and wondered around the place. What else could he do? There were still hours until the official celebration began.

Grunts and huffs were coming from the gym as Loki was passing by. He peeked in and saw his brother. Working out as always. How better kill some time than with a little chat with his beloved brother?

"Hi Thor."

Thor put down those weights he was lifting. "Oh, hello Loki. Blessed Yuletide."

"You too. When are we going to celebrate it properly? It's unlike you to left out getting drunk on that festival," Loki pointed out as he sat on a nearby bench press.

"Hard to tell. Maybe after all of the 'Chistmas' is over," he wiped his sweaty face with a towel.

"What are you doing here. Why are torturing yourself like this? Isn't this day supposed to be a day of relaxation? Dedicated to spend meaningful time with your loved ones?"

"Jane called. She'll come today, I have to look my best for her. And what are YOU doing here? Aren't YOU supposed to be with your loved one?" he asked with a knowing smirk.

"I'm with you, am I not?" his voice dripped with sarcasm.

Thor rolled his eyes. "We both know I didn't mean it like that. What are you going to give her? Jewelry? A book?"

"She's not shallow. My gift for her tells her I know her. That I view her as a wonderful person she is. I think- no I know I'll give it to her today. And I'll tell her how I feel. Do you think she feels the same?"

Thor put a reassuring hand on Loki's shoulder. "Don't worry about it. You said it yourself. She's a wonderful person."

"Thank you, brother," Loki felt like a teenage boy again. When he and Thor used to be so much closer. When they were telling eachother about a girl they liked and gave eachother advices. He missed those times, when it was simpler.

"Go take a shower or you'll scare Jane away from you," he told Thor before he got too sentimental.

Thor playfully smacked his Loki's head. "You're not the boss of me," 'you'll still obey my comand as if I was' Loki thought.

And yes, Thor did take a shower.

~~

Loki was looking himself over in his mirror. Black hair slicked back, white (too tight) shirt on, Asgardian trousers and boots as well. He came to a compromise.

He took the box containing your present out of his pocket dimension and nervously played with it. The moment he waited for the whole month was nearing. His palms got sweaty.

'Breathe. Just breathe. Everything will be alright,' he told himself as he put the wrapped box back into the pocket dimension and exited his room.

The christmas music got louder and louder as he approached the living room. Everyone was there. Having fun with kids, drinking or talking and having a good time. His eyes were searching for you. With dimmed lights and the only light source being the tree it was harder than he expected. Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Loki smiled. He knew exactly whose fingers were this gentle. He turned around. "Took you long enough my lo-" he lost his abilty to speak. It rarely happens, but you made it happen with how you looked.

One word: gorgeous. Your hair was adorned with a blue headband with two big white snowflakes on the left side. It matched your blue dress and blue glittery high heels. The black fluff went from your neckline around your shoulders. A red necklace hung on your neck, completing the look of an ice goddess. With this colour scheme you almost looked like-

Jotun. Like him.

You chuckled. "What? Cat got your tongue?"

Loki blinket few times to ground him in reality. "I-I-I, wow. You look absolutely magnificent."

Y/N POV

Magnificent? That's more than you could ever hope for!

You felt your cheeks heating up as you spoke. "Thank you. I tried my best to look good tonight," 'for you'.

"You certainly achieved it," the music in the background suddenly changed from a happy melody to slow and romantic one. As if someone-

Loki outstretched his hand towards you. "May I have this dance?"

"Why not?" you smiled at him and let him lead you to an empty spot in the room.

Loki hugged you by your ways with both hands, your arms snaked around his neck and started swaying to the tune.

More pairs soon joined you. You were thanking all gods no one was teasing you two. You felt how he was rubbing his fingers behind you. Was he nervous? Why?

He leaned down and whispered into your ear. "Darling, what do you say we get ourselves some privacy after this song ends?"

Now you were the nervous one. "O-okay."

Loki hummed and rested his chin on top of your head. "Wonderful."

The end of the song came. A new faster melody resonated from speakers. Loki took your hand and started walking towards his room. What is he planning?

He shut the door after you. He didn't turm on lights, just the small one on his bedside table, giving the whole room a cozy atmosphere.

He took your hands and looked into your eyes. "My lovely Y/N. There's something I wanted to tell you for a while now. I never expected to meet someone like you in this team. Someone so strong, graceful, passionate and sweet. You've caught my attention from the very first time you laughed at one of my jokes and it only grew after you showed your interest in literature, just like me. Now I have to be honest. You see I had this plan: give you one kiss everyday from first of december to Christmas Eve. My love for you only grew with each passing moment we spent together. I love you Y/N. I love you for your kindness, your gentleness, your intelligent mind. Please, allow me to give you this," he placed a neatly wrapped box into your palm. With shaking fingers you opened it. Inside sat a lovely green candle. It smelled like pine tree, snow and leather. It smelled like Loki!

Tears gathered in your eyes as he continued. "If you don't return my feelings, it's okay. I won't preassure you. I just want to let you know I'm always here for you. Anything you need, I'll be there to help you. And if your mind tortures you, this candle will remind you you're not alone. I put a charm on it, no matter how long it burns, the wax will not recede," you were full on crying now. How can he be so.... this? You don't even know how to name it.

Loki noticed your tears, cupped your cheeks and started wiping them away. "My love, forgive me. I didn't mean to upset you."

You shook your head. "It's not like that. I wanted to tell you too, but I got so scared you'll reject me. I love you too Loki. I love you so much," you threw yourself into him, face hiding in the crook of his neck.

His own head dipped into ypur shoulder and his arms held you close to him as he whispered 'I love you' one more time.

"I got you a gift too, I'll go get it," he didn't let you.

Hugging you even closer he murmured into your skin. "Tell me where it is."

"Under my bed," with a snap of his fingers it appeared in your hands.

You unwillingly pushed him off of you and gave him his present. His long fingers tore the wrapping paper apart to reveal a cardboards box.

You spoke up as he opened it. "So you could look cool during storms."

He pulled out brand new headphones. Custom made, with small golden horns, just like his helmet. One on each side of the earpiece.

"It's not as meaningful as yours, but-"

"I love it. It's amazing, thank you," he pulled you into another deep hug.

You heard little cracking above you. You pulled your head away from Loki's chest and looked up. He made an ice mistletoe grow from the ceiling.

"Would you look at that, your infamous murder weapon. Wanna smooch?" you asked in joking tone, however you were dead serious.

"I'd love nothing more," he cupped your cheek, his other hand pulled you close to him.

His lips touched yours, soft and careful, as if he was affraid to break you. You eyes fell shut as you tasted him. Fingers got lost in his hair, pulling him even closer, deepening the kiss. Your tongues dannced together, stroked eachother. The hand on your cheek moved to the back of your neck and you moaned into the kiss.

Eventually you had to part in order to breathe. Your foreheads were touching, Loki's cheekes were flushed, his hair messy from your hands.

He softly pecked your lips again. "I love you, my darling."

"And I love you. Always," and you got lost into another deep kiss.

A/N: thank you all for reading ❤️ I wish you beautiful Christmas and blessed holidays!

[jaskiersvalley]

Oh my god im the anon with the cuckoowitcher ask. I've been running around all day trying to have a few quiet Moments to read! I really loved it thank you so much. I've been reading all your lovely Storys but I have to say I have a Soft Spot for cuckoo Jas. Thank you for responding and writing something so sweet. Still love your writing and it still helps a hell a lot! Lots of love! Hope to see much more

Some people get stuck in my head and you, cuckoo Jaskier Nonnie, are one of those people because you’re always so polite and sweet. So while I may not have more cuckoo Jaskier stories at the moment, I wonder whether you’d like something else. There’s a lot of warlord Geralt going around, with Jaskier offered up as a tribute. But has anybody ever considered warlord Jaskier before?

It had started off as a side gig, Jaskier would always be adamant about that. He had wanted to be a bard. Sing songs, witness adventures and maybe be adored by the masses, that was his grand plan for life. Unfortunately, being a travelling bard didn’t pay well and people weren’t as quick to laud him as Jaskier had hoped. However, according to Redanian Secret Services, he was in the unique position to help them gather intelligence. So, on the side as Jaskier collected materials for his greatest works yet, he also picked up intel on armies, prisoners, relationships between factions, species and kingdoms. It was quite eye opening.

The only problem with it all was that Jaskier wasn’t stupid. He could see where wars were brewing, what allegiances were being forged. And, really, Jaskier thought he could do so much better. The information he was returning back to Redania wasn’t being used in the best way possible. So Jaskier started tailoring the information to ‘help’ them along. He had also managed to make friends with a few of the other intelligence officers, namely Valdo and Priscilla. Between the three of them, they had quite a spread of information and spent many a drunken night gossiping over maps, discussing how they would solve the problems of the continent.

One thing led to another and suddenly Jaskier had more than two fellow spies at his beck and call. Somehow he’d ended up with the loyalty of the dwarves, Zoltan and his crew being quite helpful. Then Filavandrel and his elves entered a truce with Jaskier, followed by Triss Merigold and a handful of sorceresses. It was haphazard at best but word travelled. And suddenly Jaskier was being approached by the Redanian Secret Service not as a spy but as an equal. They wanted to trade information and Jaskier almost laughed. Except, after Redania came Nilfgaard, offering riches in exchange for information and good relations. Not like Jaskier had an army or lands or anything like that. Did he? The dwarves and elves had their own regions, Redania was trying to save face that their own officers had done a better job of keeping the peace. Well, there was no harm in keeping on good terms with Nilfgaard, they had been the thorn in the continent’s side for a while. Maybe by being friendly, Jaskier and co could actually help settle issues.

When Temeria took umbrage at Jaskier’s meddling, it was one hell of an awkward moment because Redania, Nilfgaard, elves, dwarves and even Aedirn joined forces to quiet the unrest. Which was a turning point of sorts. Suddenly, every kingdom great or small came knocking on Jaskier’s door. He’d returned to Lettenhove because home was home. The steady stream of well wishers and ambassadors was, frankly, embarrassing. Jaskier had a hard time keeping up with everything.

Then there was the matter of Kaedwen. They were trying to be fiercely independent and up in arms. It just wasn’t going to do and, for the first time in his life, Jaskier asked his newfound allies if anyone was willing to raise arms against the threat. Unsurprisingly, Nilfgaard was down for a battle or two but they were joined by the elves. Redania offered medical assistance while the dwarves and trolls helped with supplies. It was all rather anticlimactic, an army marching to Kaedwen, only to be greeted by a white flag.

Not all battles were so easy though, sometimes factions arose, Cintra was being a royal twit and the war fought with them and Skellige was brutal. In the end though, they were defeated, Queen Calanthe had to admit defeat. Despite this, they weren’t prepared to roll over and play nice. In an attempt to display might and dignity, they sent the most extravagant offerings to Lettenhove. It wasn’t riches, no silks, no finery or gold. Instead, they had captured the most difficult of offerings. A witcher.

He was trussed up in his own silver chains. Silver for monsters as witchers had been known to say. It was a warning from Cintra, they had caught the most feared of beasts, the monster designed to kill all monsters. They wouldn’t bow down to a warlord, no matter what the kingdoms thought and did. The witcher was tied to a horse and made to walk behind it though a shuffle was a more apt description.

Jaskier stood in the hall of Lettenhove and watched as the half starved wretch was shoved to his knees in front of him. A hungry witcher was a weak one, much easier to subdue and manage.

“A gift, from Cintra,” the messenger had declared and stepped away with a bow.

Approaching the witcher, Jaskier ignored how every eye seemed trained on him, hands on swords and prepared to leap to his protection. Rather than pay them any attention, Jaskier sank to his knees in front of the witcher.

“Hello,” he offered. There was no response, the witcher’s head was bowed, whole body tense, trying to exude disdain and an air of threat. Up close, Jaskier could see the fine tremors through muscles though. He stood up. “Please pass my thanks to Cintra, I accept your fealty and this offering. Though I would request no more live tributes. Or dead ones! Gold, silks, food and shared knowledge is more than enough. Court dismissed.”

Nobody moved for a moment. “Everyone out!”

Jaskier stood next to the witcher who hadn’t moved throughout the exchange. As soon as they were alone, he was crouching down, tugging at the silver chains.

“You poor thing, how could they treat you like that.” Gradually, the witcher was freed from his bonds and as soon as he could, he had Jaskier’s own dagger at Jaskier’s throat. “Harsh,” Jaskier observed, “but fair. Can we save the killing for after dinner though? I have always found having a full stomach helped with most decisions.”

He didn’t expect the witcher to waver, the dagger fall from his hands and for him to collapse on the ground in a dead faint. It seemed that springing on Jaskier had really been the last of his energy. What a waste.

Needless to say, there was no killing after dinner. Jaskier learned that the witcher was called Geralt, he’d been to Cintra to collect his child surprise but Queen Calanthe had different ideas. Trapped, Geralt had been helpless to do anything which was how he’d ended up becoming an offering to a warlord.

That had Jaskier laughing. He wasn’t a warlord. If anything, Jaskier was a failed bard and a very bad intelligence officer because he thought he could do better than those he worked for. It wasn’t his fault people were pledging their allegiances to him or that he had to ask if anyone was willing to help deal with a threat to the peace that he was bringing to the continent. No, Jaskier wasn’t a warlord because he helped bring new rules to kingdoms and enforced them. Oh shit. He was a warlord. His parents were going to be so pissed off when they found out.

“I think they already know,” Geralt had interrupted Jaskier’s internal panic. “You might have been the last person on the continent to find out.”

“But I didn’t mean to become one.”

“I didn’t mean to become a witcher. Destiny is a bitch.” Geralt had shrugged. “At least you get to choose who you will speak to from different kingdoms. Is Emhyr over the fact you won’t talk to him yet? That you picked some general of his army as a representative”

Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck with an awkward grin. “I mean, I just figured the Emperor of Nilfgaard himself wouldn’t want to deal with me. So I picked someone who would and who I liked. Then I heard of what Emhyr’s like and just decided I liked my pick better.”

Over the course of a week, Geralt ate and rested, gaining back his strength and resilience. Jaskier admired from afar, astounded by how quickly his witcher seemed to bounce back. Not his witcher. Geralt didn’t belong to anyone. Even if Jaskier quite fancied the idea.

“You’re free to come and go. I’ve set out a new law that’s making its way round the lands. Witchers are to be lauded and appreciated for their hard work,” Jaskier said as he stood, facing Geralt by the stables. His witcher was ready to head out on the Path again, hopefully it was going to be a little easier for him from now on.

“Thank you.” The thing was, Geralt sounded so earnestly genuine. “I was wondering, could you keep something safe for me until I return?”

An unusual request but Jaskier would help if he could.

“You’ve been a wonderful guest, even if your arrival wasn’t the most wholesome one. I’ll keep anything safe for you.”

He didn’t anticipate Geralt leaning in to kiss him chastely. “Keep my heart safe. I’m leaving it in your good care.”

The bastard then had the gall to hop onto his horse and ride off without a backwards glance. Jaskier was going to tell him exactly what he thought of that tactic when he came back. Until then, he would treasure Geralt’s heart, even if he didn’t have time to officially give his own in return.

[sennextheassasinkingoflight]

To My Grave

Geraskier Rated T to be safe. Cross posted to Ao3

Prompt: I told you I love you, I thought I was dying, but I lived and now I have to deal.

Summer was of course Jaskiers favorite time of year. Not to say that he did not miss the opulence of the city, or the balls, or even the conversation and study of the arts while he was away. To say he did not miss the shade of the trees in the courtyards of Oxenfurt, or the breeze that often blew off the river would be a lie. And yet, summer brought with its adventure, travel, inspiration, and of course, his friend Geralt of Rivia.

Despite the excitement that summer brings him, today Jaskier is quite miserable as dust rises into the air with every hoof fall of Roach and Pegasus against the dried, cracked soil of the road. The sun hanging high in the sky drowns them in wave after wave of stifling heat as he follows behind the Witcher heading towards Vizima. They’ve easily another day beyond tonight before they reach their destination, but word of a winged beast has reached Geralt and he is insistent on finding out what it is. Jaskier for his part can’t bring himself to mind. There are plenty of winged beasts that wreak havoc, and he can’t wait to find out what it is. He’s certain it will make for another great tale. Beyond that, there is rumored to be a bardic competition beginning in the next few days, and Jaskier desperately wants to compete.

“Geralt?”

The barest shift in his friend’s demeanor encourages him to continue. Where it was once hard to read the Witcher it is now a language in which he is more fluent than he believed he would be.  Shifting in the saddle to ease the discomfort in his lower back, a side effect of aging, he continues his speech.

“How long do you think we may be in Vizima? You see there’s this competition and I was hoping to, well, compete while we’re in town. I know, of course, that it will depend on what kind of “winged beast” it is that we find upon our arrival, but have you perchance any ideas on our time frame?”

“I could leave you there.”

“Come now Witcher, I’m being serious.” He laughs out. Geralt hasn’t threatened to leave him behind, seriously, in almost a decade.

“So was I, bard.” Geralt tells him with a slump in his shoulders that indicates he isn’t serious at all.

“Hmm, I don’t think I believe you.” Snarks Jaskier like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. And for him, it might as well be. Perhaps he is too comfortable with his companion. Still, he wouldn’t change this for the world.

“I won’t stop you from competing with Jaskier. In fact, maybe you’ll be too busy to get in my way.” Geralt grins over his shoulder and any retort Jaskier had dies in his throat. He rarely sees those smiles, so he focuses, captures the moment to memory and smiles in return. The lapse in conversation is hardly a new commonality for them. Instead of being uncomfortable it has become a token of their friendship, and Jaskier has learned how to put the silence to use for him at some point in the last fifteen years.

As the sun continues to glare down at them, Jaskier drinks water skin and then pulls out one of his many notebooks and a broken piece of charcoal. He has yet to master playing the lute and riding a horse at the same time, but he can take down notes, even if they are a bit of a mess. Messy notes are much better than no notes at all. Absently he wipes sweat from his brow, unintentionally leaving a streak of charcoal dust across his forehead. With the same movement, he unbuttons the top of his doublet. It is unusually hot for this early in the summer he thinks as charcoal meets parchment again.

The rhythmic clip clop of the horse’s hooves is melodic in his ears as he continues brainstorming. Certainly, he could start another conversation with Geralt, but sometimes it was best to save that for around the campfire. Instead, he watches Geralts back, jots down some ideas and notes, and then watches his surroundings. A slight rustling in the bushes to the left catches his attention. Geralt is saying something but he can’t make out what it is over the cacophony of shouting surrounding him, or the burning in his stomach.

Gasping he falls from Pegasus. The trees look lovely from the side, canopying the road like they may actually cast it in shadow from time to time. With a thud his shoulder comes into contact with solid earth and he groans. Unconsciously he curls into the fetal position on his uninjured side and grits his teeth against the sharp pain below his ribs. Squeezing his eye shut against the ringing of steel in the air and the sun above him he tenderly seeks out the wound with tips of his right-hand fingers. There is an arrow lodged below his ribcage, just below his left lung. Well, that’s lucky isn’t it.  He thinks to himself as he assesses the damage as much as possible without the use of his eyes. Slowly he forces them open, blinks against the white in his vision and tries to observe his surroundings.

He watches despondently as Geralt disappears into the woods chasing something, bandits, his brain supplies as he forces himself to roll onto his back and breath as deep as he can. It hurts. It hurts worse than anything he has felt before. Whimpering he considers what he needs to do and blinks back tears trying to keep them from sliding through the dust on his face and turning to mud. Shaking he manages to get to a sitting position, his head spins wildly and he presses his eyes closed so hard he can hear the fluttering of his eyelids. It doesn’t take long for nausea to set in and he vomits to the side.  

When he has caught his breath, he looks down and tries to ascertain the extent of the injury. Due to its location he can’t tell exactly how bad it is, between his doublet getting in the way and the poor angle. Exhaling a long, low whistle of air he looks around and notes Pegasus nearby and Roach grazing peacefully to the side, waiting for Geralts inevitable return. Which, Jaskier admits to himself, could be a while if he’s found reason to kill them all.  Unlikely, but a good beating, certainly. Hesitantly he tries to stand and fails. Pain like fire rips through his side and the wound begins to bleed worse. Instead he uncrosses his legs and scoots, and starts and stops to the side of the road.

When he finally makes it to the grass he moans. He aches all over and he is shivering cold, despite the heat of the sun against his skin. Sweat beads across his brow, down the nape of his neck and across his back. The station of the sun tells him some time has passed and the only feasible explanation is that he passed out. It doesn’t surprise him. He can’t remember much beyond falling to the ground and Geralt giving chase. Trying to relax his body he lays back feels at the wound, the arrow has been jostled in his movement and it comes loose without much prodding. He inhales too sharply and grimaces, clenching his teeth as air tickles his insides. With a groan he rolls onto his good side and curls up. There is little he can do on his own. He knows he should try and stop the bleeding but he can’t as black shapes swirl in his vision.

+++++

When he comes to the throbbing in his head and side are enough to make him grunt in pain. He can’t seem to formulate words, and despite the darkness that surrounds him when he tries to open his eyes, he is burning up. He lets his weight shift to the right and feel his forehead come into contact with something hard and cool. He moans, pleased and leans further into the item. Leather?  His tired mind supplies and he sighs.

“Hold on Jaskier. Just, hold on.” Geralt says nearby, voice rough like gravel, and all he can do is form a strangled sound in response.

++++++

When he wakes a second time, there are two voices whispering urgently somewhere nearby. The first is melodic, clipped and paced. Designed to be listened to, informative. He wonders if the face that belongs to it is soft? If the lips that form words are plump? Are her eyes gentle? The second voice is familiar, like gravel beneath boots. It puts him at ease. He’s to tired to try and open his eyes, though he wants to. Everything burns and aches. Fire courses through his veins, and his side is the source of its fuel.

He tries to speak, but his tongue is heavy in the pit of his mouth. It feels as though someone has poured sand into it while he has slept. His lungs, too, feel as though they are dry as the deserts to the east. He tries to move, to make any sign of life and it is impossible given how barren every part of himself is. If the fire continues to rage, he knows he will not wake up. The thought terrifies him, puts him on edge. Something is placed on his forehead and it feels like boiling water, the cloth like horsehair against his skin. It makes him want to squirm, to lift his hand and throw the blasted item off.

“Jaskier, rest.” The voice like gravel says and so he tries.  No. You cannot rest now, Julian. There is something you must tell him before you go. A voice inside his head tells him, and he’s tired enough to listen to it. Aching to fall into oblivion and never return. He is in agony.

“Ge- Grlt.” He manages through parched lips. He tastes blood on his tongue, and in some sick way it is soothing, his mouth finally feels wet, like it should.

“Jask. Sleep.”  Geralt says, and he can’t. How could he possibly sleep when he has something this important to say? He tries to swallow, fails, coughs weakly and chokes.

“I.” He wheezes. These words are mummified deep within the caverns of his body. They are dust in his lungs; never meant to be pushed up the dried canal of his throat, never meant to pass through the forbidden gate of his vocal cords, over the desert plateau of his tongue, and carried by hot air through the cracked dunes of his lips.

“Love you.” He finishes voice rough as a sandstorm, before the call of darkness’ cool embrace drags him into the depths of her inky waters.

+++++

He wakes to cool air against his skin, darkness surrounding him when he manages to pry his dried eyes open, and the smell of rosewater and ivy encompassing him. Altogether it is a pleasant change from the last two times he woke up. Of this he is certain. There is very little pain in his movements as he pushes himself into a sitting position.

The bed beneath him is soft, comfortable, expensive. The pillow he shifts behind him is down, and he almost grins, then remembers he has no idea where he is, and in the darkness, he cannot see anything. There are no candles, or fires in the room, and the faint starlight shimmering at the edges of what appear to be heavy curtains does nothing to illuminate the shadows dancing around him. He opens his mouth to call out and whimpers when his lips crack. Tentatively he licks them and finds them bloodied. After a moment he swallows and tries again.

“Hello.” It’s hoarse, and coarse, and too quiet to have been heard, and yet the air to the left of the bed stirs. He shifts to listen more attentively and is surprised when he receives an answer.

“You’re awake!” Its melodic voice and he can’t help but smile at the joy he hears in it.

“I. Yes.” He manages.

“You must be thirsty, let me get you something.” The disembodied voice says and he smiles.

“Thank you.” He blinks away the tears that form when there is a sudden burst of light in the room. Several candles lit themselves across the expanse of the chamber. He watches as the woman moves to the table and pours water from a pitcher, likely there for that very reason. She is lovely, brown hair in ringlets and dark skin shining in the flickering light. When she brings him the water he accepts it gratefully and sips at it.

“Geralt?” He asks after the silence has stretched too long.

“He went out after your reveal. He hasn’t been back yet, but he left Roach so I’m sure he will be back at some point.” She grins, eyes revealing nothing but amusement and understanding.

“I’m sorry, but my wh— oh.” The word comes out of him like he’s been punched in the gut by a witcher. “Please, tell me, it was more than three words?” He begs, voice very quiet, eyes turned towards the cup in his hand as he tries not to spill it. He focuses on keeping his hand from shaking as the woman giggles and then speaks.

“Well, four if you count his name.”

“Lovely. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” He mumbles and then smiles up at her.

“Triss, Triss Marigold.” She says with a smile and refills his water.

 “Thank you for staying with me while I recovered. And for the water, I feel as though I could drink a lake dry.”

‘After the fever you had, I’m certain it feels that way. Are you feeling hungry at all?”

It takes him a moment to process the question, and when he does he simply shakes his head no. He doesn’t have much in the way of an appetite, but he is exhausted.  Tentatively he brings the glass cup to his lips and drinks the rest of the water. Triss smiles encouragingly at him and he can’t help but return it.

“Miss Marigold, perhaps this is tactless of me, but did you use magic on me? I seem to notice a lack of hole in my gut.

She laughs and her eyes crinkle with glee, “Yes, some. Though I specialize in plants, which is what cured your fever. My magic and Geralts potions did the rest.”

“Witcher potions. He used, a potion on me?”

“Before you got here. He was… concerned you would not make it. You’ve been out for a while, but you haven’t been resting. Try to go back to sleep and we can speak more in the morning.” Triss stands, takes the cup from him and returns it to the table. When she reaches the door she turns to look at him one final time.

“If you need anything, I’m down the hall on the right. Good night Jaskier.” With a wave of her hand she plunges the room back into darkness and the door closes behind her with a soft clunk.

Sighing to himself, Jaskier snuggles down into the thick duvet and curls onto his side. He’s alone with his thoughts and the knowledge that his best kept secret is in the air. He would scream if it didn’t feel like it would drain him of every drop of energy he has. Instead he growls into the pillow with frustration and lets out a long winded sigh. Well Julian, He thinks, this is great. Look what you’ve gone and done now. Ha! You weren’t even awake to see his face. Cowardly now aren’t we. Of course, when haven’t we been? Then again, this wasn’t something we counted on right? No. No it wasn’t. This is fine. This is completely fine. I was dying, right? Yes. I was dying, and feverish. Geralt can’t blame me. We’ll…. We’ll just pretend it was never said and that will be that. Yes, that’s all there is to it. I’ll just pretend not to remember. Geralt probably won’t bring it up and that will be the end of it. Or so he tells himself as he drifts off to sleep in an oversized, overstuffed bed.

Bright light filters through his eyelids and wakes him the following morning. With an unamused groan he rolls over in bed and pulls the duvet over his head. Whose idea was it to open the blinds without warning him. Did they want him to go blind? The smell of food draws him from the cave of warmth he’s created. Sitting up he looks towards the table where Triss is sitting amusedly waiting for him.

“You’re in good spirits this morning.” He grumbles, the effect somewhat ruined by a yawn.

“Of course, I am. You're alive. Geralt is back. The king listened to me for once. It doesn’t get much better than that around here. Now, eat your bread and broth. Nothing heavier for a few days. You’re still recovering.”

Languidly he stretches before slipping from the bed and joining her at the table. In the light of day he can see that the room is smaller than it appeared in the dark. The table is situated a short distance from the hearth, there is a finely woven rug between the table and the bed, a chest and wardrobe against the far wall, and an end table beside the bed and the chair which yet remains beside it.

“Well then, it seems as though everything is going to plan for you today.” He smiles and sips at the steaming beverage in front of him. It soothes his throat on the way down and tastes sweet.

“For now.” She agrees. They eat in companionable silence until heavy footfalls pull them both from their thoughts. He doesn’t have to look up to know that Geralt has entered the room. He can feel eyes on the back of his neck. Triss smiles at him, then looks passed him.

“Well I have some tasks to attend to. I’ll check in on you later, Jaskier.” She says politely and makes her way out of the room.

Jaskier chews his bread slowly, waiting. He will let Geralt speak first, let him decide where this conversation is going to go. Straightening his back, he takes another gulp of his drink and finally Geralt comes into his line of sight. With obvious discomfort the witcher sits across from him.

“You’re awake then.”

“Obviously, Geralt. I am sitting up and eating, or is this a dream?”  His lips pull up in a half-hearted smile. He’s too tired to pretend but he will do what he needs to to put Geralt at ease.

“Right. Yes.” Geralt coughs and oh gods, he can’t do this.

“You seem…. Unnerved, my friend.” He winces internally as Geralt makes eye contact with him and just as fast breaks it. Well Jaskier, way to act normal. He closes his eyes and scrubs at his face. 

“You almost died.”

“I remember and its far from the first time.”  Geralt stares at him and the words catch up with him. He comprehends them and wants to go hide in the folds of the blankets. The silence stretches long and tense between them. It’s uncomfortable in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. Jaskier catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror and notes the slight wrinkles around his eyes, the way his hair is gathering grey at the temples. He shifts, winces at the slight pain, and thinks, better to have said something now than live to regret it, I suppose. He watches Geralt watch him from time to time, face impassive and unreadable, and finally he drops his gaze from golden irises. Geralt will speak when he is ready, and in this Jaskier will not push him for an answer, only… he can’t quite keep his mouth shut.

“Like you said, I was dying, and I know I was feverish. We can pretend nothing was said if you like. We're good at that. At pretending. So why don’t we just move on? It’s not like we haven’t pretended in the past.” He manages, and his voice sounds weak, disappointed, even to him.

“It did happen.”

“Yes, but I’m saying if you want to pretend it didn’t then say so. Look, I was dying, I didn’t really think I’d be alive to deal with the repercussions of my words.”  He flicks his eyes up to Geralts and freezes. Geralt looks vulnerable, like he’s battling something inside himself and he thinks he should look away but he can’t make his eyes obey.

“Did you mean it?” Jaskier almost misses the question, caught completely off guard by the earnestness in Geralts tone.

It takes him a long time to answer. Not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he is trying to choose his words wisely. He opens his mouth and closes it more times than he likes to admit and holds up his hand to stop Geralt interrupting him when the witcher tries to speak. Finally he does speak, slowly, as though he doesn’t really know the words he wants to say and hopes that they will instead flow from his mouth.

“I did. I do.” He takes a breath and perseveres, “But I think, what you mean is: How do I love you? What makes you different from any of my dalliances?” Geralt simply nods noncommittally.

“You are who I think of when I think of home. If you ask me where I want to be at any given time, the answer is always; with you. When we began traveling together, I counted the days to when I would go back to Oxenfurt for the winter to work on finishing the manuscripts I start in the summer. Now, at some point along the way, that shifted. It came full circle and all I can think about when I’m supposed to be teaching is where we’ll be going next. It’s consuming, and it’s not fair. It’s an ache and a longing, and a hope. I don’t know how to best answer you, for that much I am sorry.”

Geralt nods slowly at him, hums in understanding and they lapse back into quiet. It’s not as tense or uncomfortable as before, but it stretches nearly as long.

“And if that feeling were returned?” Geralt asks, looking right past him.

“I would have died happy.”  It’s the best he can offer. To say more risks never traveling with the Witcher again. As it is, it wouldn’t completely surprise him if Geralt packed up Roach and took off. Told him to go back to Oxenfurt and never come back. He hopes that won’t be the case, that at worst Geralt goes along with pretending. At best, he hopes that the feeling is returned, that the question isn’t just cryptic, and curiosity fueled. Geralt sits straighter and rolls his shoulders.

“Triss says you need a few more days to recover and I still need to deal with the gryphon. You missed your competition.” Geralt says briskly as he stands.

“I imagined as much.” He responds dutifully, tries to keep the bitterness from his voice as Geralt leaves the room. He lets his head fall back and stares at the ceiling. It could have been worse, he tells himself, he could have sent you back to the university. For now we pretend, and that has to be enough. With a mournful sigh he gets to his feet and makes his way to the window, his food forgotten. Leaning against the wall he watches as Geralt prepares to go on his hunt. Idly, he wonders how long it will be until this all crumbles around him, tries to console himself to contentment as he soaks in the morning light. Summer is his favorite, but he worries this will be the last one that fits into the category as he watches Geralt ride out.

Happy (ISH) Epilogue:

The summer had continued in a kind of stale peace. They’re actions, hesitant and second guessed at every turn. Neither comfortable around the other. Awkward in each other's presence in a way they hadn’t been in years. Every dance and rhythm they had gone, replaced with missteps and uncertainty.  More than once, Jaskier wonders if he should return to Oxenfurt, but he is greedy and if Geralt isn’t actively asking him to leave then he will stay. June fades into July, and July bleeds into August before they know it, and still they’ve only just begun to return to the familiarity of longstanding friendship.

The sun is setting, and the smell of their supper has settled heavy over their campsite when Geralt speaks softly across the fire. The Witchers voice is soft enough that Jaskier doesn’t realize he’s being spoken to right away, over the sound of his lute. He fumbles the strings at the oddity of it and blinks rapidly at Geralt. It was unusual for him to start the conversations, they had reverted back to Jaskier being the chattery one and Geralt being the monosyllabic one since their conversation.

“I’m sorry, what?”  Geralt stares at him and shakes his head in what appears to be amusement. Jaskiers heart somersaults in his chest and he can’t help but be happy about it. Maybe normalcy is returning to their relationship.

“I said, there is a competition in Redania. Do you want to go?”

“Yes. Yes! Of course I want to go, Geralt!” He grins and strums a bold chord. Geralt shakes his head and rolls his eyes at the boisterousness of it all.

“Good. I thought… it would be nice. Since you missed the last big event.” Geralt mutters to him, as he stokes up the fire, carefully avoiding Jaskiers eyes.

“Wait,” He begins slowly, uncertainly, “You don’t have a contract that’s taking us to Redania? You’re offering to go simply for the competition? You’re not a doppler are you?” a laugh bubbles out of him by the end. Geralt glares, unfortunately, Jaskier grew an immunity to them almost immediately.

“I am not a doppler. Not that you would know one if it bit you on the ass, Bard. I’m certain I’ll find contracts as we travel.” The Witcher sighs and lies back on his bed roll.

“Why?” Jaskier asks, voice quiet. He knows Geralt has heard him, but he also knows maybe it’s pushing the boundaries a little. When no immediate answer comes, Jaskier lies down for the night too, watches as the stars come out and light the night sky. His eyes have grown heavy and he lets out a small yawn. When he’s settled and nearly asleep, Geralt finally answers, voice steady in the dark of night.

“So, you can die happy.”

He grins into his bag, Geralt was never one for words, but Jaskier has always been good at understanding what he means. It’s no secret to either of them, that Jaskiers days will end before Geralts unless some freak accident happens. And maybe, mentioning death isn’t the best way to say “I love you”, but nothing about them has ever made sense to anyone else.

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

The Last Dragon | The Witcher

Chapter 16 | Steel for Humans

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Targaryen!OC

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Warnings: Skeevy bandits being Skeevy bandits

Word Count: 7.5k

Note:  Click here to read the previous chapters ♡ Also! My tag list is open!

He's looking at her again. 

She can feel it; a shiver up her spine, the prickling feeling in the back of her mind to be alert for something, all telltale signs of his eyes on her. Every time she turns to meet his gaze, to try and decipher the whys and what's in his eyes, he looks away. And in the midst of all of her uncertainty, she's sure of at least one thing, he's still reeling from her confession, despite it being weeks since her name, her real name slipped from her lips. He doesn't say that he's still trying to piece together the puzzle, but he doesn't need to. She can see it in the way he carries himself around her, his lingering eyes and stumbling words. 

More than a few times he's called her Jane, instinctively, if she were to have to guess. And each time she just simply raises a brow at him before he swiftly corrects himself, eyes wild and uncertain, unable to directly look into hers. She never gets mad or annoyed, the exact opposite, in fact. She's never seen this side of Geralt that resembles a fumbling boy who still isn't a man yet; all rosy cheeks and shy conversation. Normally Geralt is so put together, constantly in control of the situation, and yet, something as simple as a name change is all it takes to throw him off. 

Another thing she's certain of is just how much she enjoys the way he says her name, the smooth Valyrian name effortlessly slipping past his lips. It's like a symphony, a sound not even the most renowned of bards could replicate. But she'd never tell him that. 

She continues staring at her face in the old mirror, dust and cracks speckling across her reflection. But she looks past it, staring at her eyes that are like liquid gold, and her fair skin, nearly glowing in the dim light. She frowns, lines appearing around her mouth - lines that weren't always there. Under her eyes are small wrinkles, hidden by the dark circles from countless sleepless nights in the least ideal spots, but she can pick them out a mile away.

She's older, that much is obvious, but how much older is not.

She used to count each day, the wall near the bed in her old room in Blaviken covered in small little lines meant to represent every time she fell asleep. She stopped keeping track after the town burned to the ground. At first, it was too painful to think of anything beyond the basic necessities of her survival. But then time drifted away, things grew easier the longer she spent with Jaskier. She smiled more, laughed more, and felt lighter than she had in a long time. And now she finds herself in an odd position, unsure of how much older she is. 

"Geralt." She doesn't remove her eyes from her reflection. He grunts, a sign that he's listening. Always a man of few words. 

"How long has it been since Blaviken?" She hears a sharp intake of breath before it's released back into the air. It's silent a moment longer.

"You don't know?" Geralt asks, skepticism and disbelief abundant in his voice. 

"No." She reaches a hand up, tracing the new scars that mare her face, they're faint, nothing more than a whisper on her face. To everyone else, they're only visible in the flicker of a candle at the right angle, but she's always aware of them.

"Fifteen years." 

Her hand drops, limp at her side. She turns a flurry of hair and wind, facing Geralt with an odd expression on her face. She can't discern how to feel with that revelation. How is one supposed to react upon figuring out the fifteen years have passed, and they don't even know it? She wants to protest, to scream that he's lying to her, and demand that he tell her the truth, the real truth and not some practical joke. But the longer she thinks on it, her eyes resting on Geralt's stone face, the more it makes sense. 

She thinks back to Winterfell, trying to remember the smells of her previous home. To remember how everything felt under her fingertips - whether it be in the warm castle or the icy cold. She tries to recall how everyone looked the last time she saw them, tried to visualize their exact heights in comparison to hers, to recall small imperfections that made them not smooth porcelain dolls. Only then, when she focuses so hard on doing just that, does she realize she can't even remember their faces. She can see their general shapes, her mind recognizing them as either Jon, Robb, or anyone else important enough to remember. But when she tries to zoom in and make their faces clearer, they're nothing but humanoid-like blurs. 

Her face twitches, in discomfort or shock, she's not sure. 

"Huh." It's the only thing she manages to say, unable to force her mind to think of another response or to form the words with her mouth. She's utterly frozen in place. 

She almost allows her mind to wander, thinking of what may have happened to the rest of the Stark children. Would they have found peace and safety, or would they have blown away like leaves in the wind, desolated by monsters and grief? But she banishes the thoughts before they could form. What would be the point? All it would do is pull her into another bout of melancholy, the same suffering she was drowning in whilst hiding away in Blaviken. So she does what she's best at; she takes all unpleasant thoughts and ghosts and locks them into a little box in the back of her mind. Leaving it to collect dust until it's long forgotten. 

"You didn't know that?" Geralt asks, breaking his statue-like posture to step closer to Visenya. She doesn't answer, she simply shakes her head, her breathing shaky and unsteady. 

'Fifteen years.'

The number echoes in her mind, it's on repeat and she finds herself unable to escape it. He's silent, Geralt is always silent. But she welcomes it, more so now than ever. 

Her fingers begin to count down as she counts up, the numbers hardly above the breaths she takes. She looks down at the ground, counting the grain in the wooden floors. 

"21, 22, 23, 24…" 

She pauses, finishing the math in her mind. She opens her mouth, cautiously.

"Thirty-five… I'm thirty-five years old now." It makes sense, her face appears much older than when she first arrived, the lines and crow's feet not just a result of poor living conditions and battle scars. 

"Is that a bad thing?" Geralt asks. Visenya looks up at him. His facial expression remains much the same as before, but his eyes glow with a hint of curiosity. Not that he would ever admit to it if she ever called him out on it. 

"No, I just-- never thought I'd make it this far," Visenya says, a sardonic grin pulling at her lips that looks more like a grimace than anything. 

"With the life, you've had--" Geralt starts, his voice low and raspy, but Visenya cuts him off with a bout of laughter that sounds more like knives than bells. He closes his mouth, simply raising a brow at Visenya. 

"You have no idea, Geralt of Rivia." She shakes her head, the grin-grimace hybrid still on her face, yet her eyes tell a different story. They're despondent and regretful, and Geralt can't understand why.

"Then perhaps you should tell me." Suddenly Visenya is no longer laughing. She stares at Geralt with a type of intensity he's never seen in her eyes before. And before he can bring himself to get used to it, to allow himself to sink in the new atmosphere that surrounds them, she dissolves it, eyes turning warm and mischievous once more.

"Give it another fifteen years, and maybe then," she says, feather-light laughter following her words. She turns once more, hair whipping behind her as she continues to stare at her reflection. Her hair is longer, reaching a few inches below her breasts. Her roots are slightly grown out, allowing a little bit of shining silver to peek through the mud brown. She still can't decide if she wants to continue dying it or not. But she tucks that thought away, not wanting to unpack everything that comes with those thoughts. Not after she just packed away unpleasant thoughts that are of a similar vein. 

"Plus, I've told you more things than I've told anyone else, and still I feel as though I know nothing of you," Visenya says, turning around once more, moving away from the dingy mirror. This causes Geralt to laugh - it's rough and dark, the complete opposite of Visenya's. It causes shivers to rush up her spine and a fluttering sensation to form in her stomach. 

She passes by him, a hand ghosting over his shoulder. She exits the room and Geralt swiftly follows. His footsteps are much heavier than hers; she's like a soft summer breeze while he's the terrifying winter winds that threaten to blow everything down. 

They walk the length of the hall, down the winding staircase, and out of the inn where Roach is patiently waiting for them. Throughout their small journey, they maintained not only the same distance between one another but the same space. 

She only pauses upon reaching Roach, a hand resting on the mare's side as she gently pets her. Visenya looks at Geralt, who now stands precisely two paces away from her - one pace closer than he had been five seconds ago. 

"Fair is fair," she says, raising her brows. A grumble of a laugh escapes his mouth, so quiet it could almost be mistaken for the world itself shaking. His laughter causes his eyes to close for a brief second before he opens them once more.

"I can't argue with that. In exchange for what you've told me, I'll tell you about my first hunt. Does that sound like a fair bargain?" he asks, a certain lightness in his eyes that quickly disappears in the time it takes for her to blink and open her eyes again. She holds a hand out, and he places his own in it. They shake their hands, two times to be exact. 

"Sounds like a deal to me."

oOo

"I'd only just left Kaer Morhen, a new Witcher who was naive enough to think I could save the world. I came across a gang of men who were about to rape a young girl, a few of them holding back the girl's father." Geralt says, his voice quiet and somber, but she could hear each word perfectly. They're both riding on Roach, with Visenya in front and Geralt's arms slung loosely around her as he holds Roach's reins. The mare doesn't need much guidance though, she just follows the winding road ahead of them, and neither Geralt nor Visenya corrects her. 

"And then what happened," Visenya asks, resisting the urge to turn around and look at Geralt. He's so good at obscuring any emotion or feelings when he speaks, often opting to talk with a monotonous voice. While hilarious when dealing witty one-liners, it makes it near impossible to discern how he feels. His eyes on the other hand are a completely different story. 

To most, they may seem as empty and dead as a poorly done painting, but Visenya can read him like an open book - spotting small flickers of different emotions. After all, Visenya often employs the same tactic to appear as cold and unfeeling as possible, it's only natural she sees through when others try to do it to her.  

"I killed them, the bald man with the rotted teeth and all his friends. The girl's father fled right after--" Geralt says.

"And the girl?" Visenya says, unable to stop herself from interrupting him. When he promised her a tale of his first hunt, this isn't exactly what she expected, yet she finds herself enthralled none-the-less. A part of her wonders how different her history might've been if Geralt lived in Westeros. What would be different, if anything at all. She knows with complete certainty that the Geralt she knows would have no problem defeating the Mountain. But if Geralt lived in Westeros instead of here, he wouldn't be a Witcher. Which means he'd have none of the capabilities that make him superior to mortals. So her train of thought is moot and pointless. 

But she can't help the twitch of a smirk on her lips as she imagines Geralt slicing the Mountain's head off his body; the cut clean and precise. And instead of a girl about to be raped by a slimy bandit, she sees the Mountain looming over her mother, and Geralt saving her just in time. 

"What happened to the girl?" This time she doesn't fight the urge to turn and look at Geralt. She turns her head just enough to see the right side of his face. His eyes are far away, recalling memories that are probably lifetimes away. The mid-day sunlight aggressively shines onto his face, but it's deceiving in its harshness for it provides no warmth. The air is cold and icy, freezing dead leaves and small twigs into timeless statues that will melt when summer comes again. 

"She was covered in the bald man's blood, but unharmed, not that you'd know that with how she reacted. When I approached her, she screamed, vomited, and then passed out," Geralt says. His tone remains even, not portraying any feelings. 

She turns her head to face the road once more, her lips pursing in concentration. 

Would her mother have reacted the same if Geralt swept into her chamber like an angel of death, white hair his halo, and the blade strapped to his back his judgment? Or would she have thanked him, tears streaming down her face as she held her screaming children? 

"And how did that make you feel?" she asks, not daring to turn and look at him once more. She fears if he takes one look at her eyes, he'll see all the thoughts furiously swimming in the flames that dance in them. She can feel him shrug more than see it, the movement of his shoulders causing his arm to brush against her back. 

"Like shit," he simply replies. Visenya scoffs, a grin pulling at the corner of her lips. 

She opens her mouth, a witty quip on the tip of her tongue when she's cut off by a scream. It comes from her right, in the forest, but not so deeply hidden that the dying trees and frostbitten leaves muffle the noises. Her posture turns stiff like a board, the hairs on her body standing up straight. 

"Did you--" she begins, only to be cut off by another scream, this one more guttural than the last, yet not beast-like in nature. Visenya turns, catching Geralt's eyes. He nods, acknowledging that the shouts aren't just in her head, the manifestation of deeply hidden thoughts resurfacing. He hears it too. 

Without allowing a moment of hesitation or for her mind to catch up with her actions, she jumps off of Roach, unsheathing her blade. The dragon hilt is cold as ice, but soothing to the heat slowly rising in Visenya. 

A loud thud follows only a moment later, signaling that Geralt is following her lead. She'd feel touched by his lack of protest when it comes to her charging headfirst into the unknown, but the situation is far too dangerous for any distractions, even if only for a brief second. 

Blood rushing and heart pounding, she turns to ice as another scream echoes in their ears. It's closer this time, sounding as if someone is shouting while choking on their blood. Visenya's pace quickens, her heart racing faster as adrenaline floods her body in preparation for the potential fight that seems more likely than not as each second passes. The grip on her sword tightens as she clenches her jaw. Dozens of battle maneuvers and tactics fly through her mind, all the years of training; both in Winterfell and with Geralt blaring in her mind. 

Another scream, this one deeper than the previous. Visenya picks up her pace again, eager for this confrontation to be over before it even begins. She glances behind and Geralt is right behind her, sword unsheathed and face battle-hardened. 

For the fifth time, another scream rips through the trees, but now that they're closer, Visenya hears the rustling of what sounds like people running. The muffled noise of jeers and mocking voices trickle into her ears.

People, they're dealing with people, and not literal monsters. Though most times, people can be the worst type of monster there is.

With a deep breath that she quickly releases, Visenya reaches a handout, pushing away the branches that separate her and Geralt from the apparent attackers. 

'The blood of the dragon is not afraid.'

The phrase enters her mind without thought. But instead of banishing it away, she embraces it. She imagines Queen Visenya beside her, a stern expression on her beautiful face, lips curling into a snarl that would perfectly mimic Vhaegar. 

When she opens her eyes, nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. A group of six or so humans wielding various types of weapons that were dripping with blood stand in the small clearing. The source of the screams quickly became clear; a small family of elves with blood dripping from various wounds. A male elf lays on his stomach, unmoving; meanwhile, a woman cowers in a corner, pressing her body against a tree, three children with her. The smallest of the three were huddled on either side of her as she attempted to soothe them, tears streaming down her bloodied face. Meanwhile, the oldest, only looking to be seven at the most, stands in front of her, the branch from a tree between his unsteady hands. He holds it as if it's a blade, determined to protect what remains of his family. 

The humans are bandits and not very successful ones; with worn mismatched leather armor and blades that look seconds away from rusting. But they wear sneers on the face, showing rotted teeth and foul words. They snap their attention toward Visenya who enters first and watch her for a moment as she watches them, taking in the scene before her.

She expected the worst, but nothing could've prepared her for this. It's too familiar, too close to home. She feels her vision go red, blood pumping in her veins, and skin nearly burning.

"Look at this boys, no need to find a nearby brothel. Looks like our entertainment found us," one of the men says, a twisted smirk curling on his cracked and bleeding lips. Visenya's face contorts into a look of disgust. The other men around them laugh, cackles that sound more like screams than sounds of delight. 

Visenya tightens her grip on the hilt of her sword, teeth grinding as she clenches her jaw tighter. She takes a single step forward. 

"Pretty thing you are, and you look like a fighter. Good, I like it when they fight," the man continues, undisturbed or intimidated by Visenya.

"And I like it when bastards like you are six feet under. Lucky for me you will be, soon," Visenya says, her voice gravelly and harsh like a growl. She smiles, her mouth looking more like the snarl of a wolf that's moments away from attacking. 

The man doesn't falter, instead, he barks out a laugh, pointing his finger at Visenya as he does. 

"Funny," he says. He nods his head at a few of the men, turning his attention back to the elf and her children. "But be a dear and be quiet. I have some business to attend to." He lifts his blade and begins approaching the woman. The child holds his stick up high, about to try and defend his mother when the bandit just shoves him aside, knocking the kid on the ground. A loud crack resounds in the clearing as his small head collides with a protruding rock. 

The elven woman screams, crawling to try and get as far away as possible, clutching her kids tighter against her. Tears stream down her face as vigorous as a waterfall. Dread fills Visenya, all her thoughts consumed by panic. 

"No!" Visenya screams. She moves to charge him, but a grimy hand holds onto her, keeping her from running. She turns towards the man, and wildly swings her blade. It misses, but in dodging it, he loses enough of his footing that he lets go of her.  

He goes to grab her again, but before he can try, a blade slices into his neck, causing blood to gush out of the wound before he drops to the ground. Visenya doesn't have to look to know it's Geralt, but she does anyway. A deep scowl is set on his face, eyes blazing in a way that's eerily similar to Visenya's. He growls, eyes assessing the scene before them. He glances at Visenya, then moves his eyes to the leader. Visenya nods, understanding the nonverbal cue. 

Save the girl.

"A fucking Witcher!" The man spits out. He spits turning away from the elf, no longer able to ignore the threat right in front of him. "Just kill them both, I hear Witchers make good coin."

Then everything descends into chaos. The rest of the bandits charge Visenya and Geralt, but she pays them no mind. She nimbly dodges each one of their attacks, leaving them to Geralt. Her eyes stay on the leader, who's eyes rest solely on her as well. He grabs a second blade from the ground, ripping it from the hands of the dead elf. He strides towards her and she meets him halfway in a clash of blades and fury. 

Their blades meet in a cross, the clang of metal ringing in her ears. She scowls as he snarls, spittle flying into her face. 

She jumps back and pivots to his side. His gaze follows her, body turning as she does. Like a butcher cutting a pig, he hacks down at her. She parries it with her blade, pushing it away as if it's nothing more than an annoyance. His second one comes down a moment later and she dodges to the other side, the blade slicing through empty air. A third swing, his other hand comes down, this time towards her face. She crouches low to the ground as she brings her blade up to block the hit, using her lower position to steady her body as she pushes against him, both hands holding onto the hilt. 

He presses down and she pushes upward, arms shaking from the exertion.  She screams, the sound eerily similar to the roar of a dragon, moments before it decimates its enemies with its fiery wrath. With a burst of power, she shoots up, causing him to stumble back. 

Right and left, she slashes her blade at him. His leather armor takes the brunt of the first hit, but the second one manages to piece into flesh. She snarls as he screeches in pain. Clammy hands begin to shakily smack against his belt, desperately looking for a blade to try and stick her with, but she doesn't give him the chance. 

She kicks him in the abdomen. The force of it slamming his already weak body against a tree. There's a loud crack as his body makes contact, another howl of pain escaping his mouth. 

"Stupid bit--" 

Her blade stabs into his neck, stopping him mid-sentence. Blood pours out of his mouth, a gurgling sound replacing his scratchy voice. 

"Fuck you," Visenya says. She then spits at him, the saliva landing on his chest and disappearing into the blood. 

She sighs, the sounds of fighting die down, and she turns around. Geralt is standing in the center of the clearing, blood speckling his armor and dripping off his blades, but luckily none of the blood is his. Her tense shoulder loosens slightly, the adrenaline leaving with the threats. She tosses her blade to the side, making a mental note to clean it later. 

Turning to her right, she sees the elven woman with her children still cowering in the corner, all three of her children around her, the eldest of them knocked out cold. Now that no threats are looming over them, Visenya allows herself a moment to inspect the three of them. 

The mother looks to be middle age, with wheat blonde hair and pallid skin, her bones protruding in a way that the bones of someone well-nourished wouldn't. Her eyes are down and as large as a doe, the sparkle in them enhanced by salty tears. 

The small girl looks nearly identical to her, her wheat hair in a messy braid that's falling apart. She clutches her mother's hand tighter, moving further into her the longer Visenya looks at her. The other boy is the complete opposite, with dark disheveled hair and blue eyes. His face is blotchy and wet from tears, but he doesn't seem to fully understand why. Staring at Visenya with blank curiosity rather than fear.

"Are you hurt?" Visenya asks, making a conscious effort to make her voice as light and harmless as possible. She takes a step forward, a branch breaking under her foot. The woman gasps, pressing herself further against the tree. 

Visenya stops, holding her arms up, a nonverbal sign that she means peace. The woman doesn't relax, not that Visenya expects her to.

"You--you--you," the woman stutters, tears still streaming down her face, but not as frantically as they were moments ago. 

"Saved you, yes," Visenya says, taking another step forward. The woman doesn't cower, but her fear doesn't lessen. 

"I don't have coin," she says, her voice wavering in between her sobs. Visenya shrugs, a small smile curling on her lips.

"And I have more than enough," Visenya says. The woman continues to stare at her, not uttering a single word. It's like they're frozen in place, only the tears running down her cheeks and their shaking forms giving away that they're in fact real. Visenya feels her stomach twist itself into knots. 

She should grab her blade and leave the clearing behind, get back on Roach with Geralt and ride off to the next destination. At the very least her conscience would be eased by the fact that they kept these band of idiots from hurting the woman and her children. 

And yet…

A voice whispers in her ear to not, that she'd never stop thinking about this moment, wondering what became of them. Did they save them from these bandits only to get robbed and left for dead by the next group of pricks with pointy swords? She couldn't live with it, she realizes. Not if she doesn't do everything in her power to ensure they arrive home safely and alive… wherever home is. A sigh escapes her mouth, so quiet it could be mistaken for the wind. 

"You have no reason to trust me, I get that, but at the very least I saved you from those pricks, so I can't be that bad, right?" Visenya asks, voice rougher and blunter than she intended for it to be. Internally she winces as the woman cowers for a brief second, but then slowly she nods her head.

"Right. Your son is injured, how serious, I'm not sure. I don't know, maybe you have some training in the art of healing, but if you're not, at the very least, I'm no stranger to minor injuries. I can help him," Visenya continues. The elven woman doesn't cower anymore, her rapid tears dwindling to a light drizzle rather than a heavy pour. She nods once more, and Visenya finds herself sighing in relief. 

Without wasting another moment she takes a step forward, turning towards the child on the ground. She crouches beside him, his mother moving to be on his other side. Her shining eyes are sharp, watching Visenya with the likeness of a hawk watching its prey. 

He looks to be a mixture of his mother and presumably his father. His hair is a dirty blonde, freckles dotting his tan skin. He's not nearly as frail as his other siblings, similar to how Jon, Robb, and Theon looked when they first started training in Winterfell. But he seems to have much less meat on his bones. 

Visenya places her warm hands on his face, lifting his head and moving a hand to gently cradle his head. There's a large bruise blossoming on the right side of his forehead, but there's no blood or any other signs of injury. She places a hand on his heart, feeling it beat against her hand, then slides it to the side of his neck, feeling a pulse there as well. 

"He didn't get hit with a weapon," the woman says, whether convincing herself of his safety or trying to feed Visenya information she isn't sure. Or it could be a mixture of both. 

"No, but he took a hard fall, I've seen men twice his size get knocked on their heads and never get back up, and if they do, they're never the same. There's bleeding, but that doesn't mean he's completely safe," Visenya says, removing her hands from his body. 

"Is there anything to be done?" she asks, picking his up and gently cradling his head in her lap. 

"Other than wait and see when he wakes? No. As I said, I'm no healer, but I have a tea that can help ease his pain. He'll have a bad headache and sore body, that much is certain," Visenay says. She looks over at the two other children; a girl and a boy. They're young, that for certain, younger than the boy on the ground. 

"How much?" the woman asks, not removing her eyes from her son. Visenya's brows furrow in confusion.

"How much what?"

"How much will I owe you for the herbs?" the woman asks again, looking Visenya directly in the eyes. Her tears are dry, but her eyes still shine from the residual dampness. 

"Nothing. He needs it now more than I do. I can buy more when I reach the next town," Visenya says, keeping her face as pleasant as possible. The woman purses her lips, clearly in thought. Silence washes over them until it's broken by the woman. 

"Thank you. Not many humans would show kindness to elves, much less two so well trained in fighting." 

Visenya snorts, a smirk appearing on her face. 

"One human and a mutant, actually. But you're welcome. What good is all the fighting talent in the world if you don't use it well," Visenya says, slowly standing from the ground? The woman's eyes follow her form as she stands to her full height. "Our horse is near the road. We can take you wherever home is, and make sure you get there safe."

The woman nods, adjusting her son in her arms so that he is lying across her lap. With Visenya's help, she stands from the ground, holding her son's bridal style. Her two other children stay close, hiding a bit behind her, each one with a hand attached to her dress. Visenya turns, eager to leave the clearing and forget any of this happened, but the woman stopped her. 

"I've already lost Aldon, my husband. I could not lose my son too, I truly appreciate what you have and are doing for us."

"I wouldn't speak so soon," Geralt's gravelly voice enters the conversation. They both turn to see him kneeling beside the body, two fingers against his neck. "He's fading, but he hasn't died yet." 

Visenya strides towards Geralt, the woman, still holding her son, hot on her trail while her two children stay in place, silently watching with wide eyes. Visenya sits beside Geralt as the woman nearly collapses on the other side of Aldon's body. She takes a hold of his hand, her grip so tight her fingers begin to turn white.

"Can we save him?" Visenya asks. Geralt grunts, gesturing with his head in the direction behind them. She nods, knowing what he's saying without having to physically say it. She stands and runs the way they came in. Her feet are heavy, beating into the soil and breaking any twigs or crunchy leaves. The world is a blur around her, wind rushing against her skin. They can save him, but only if Visenya can get the supplies back to Geralt in time. 

Either by sheer dumb luck, or the gods truly have shown them favor, Roach is right where they left him. Visenya releases a heavy sigh as she beelines straight for her pack that hangs off of Roach. 

"Good horse. I'm going to give you so many apples once we reach civilization," Visenya breathes out, untying her pack from his saddle. He neighs, happily it would seem. She smiles, patting his side a few times before turning and rushing into the forest once more. 

Everyone is in the exact spots as when she left. Geralt is leaning over Aldon with his wife sitting on the other side of his body. She clutches his hand in hers, knuckles turning white from the tightness of her grip. Her lips are quivering with large eyes, her body shaking every few minutes, the stark contrast of Geralt. With thin lips, hard eyes, and unwavering hands as he cleans the wound to the best of his ability; he's the epitome of stone. Visenya runs towards them, tossing the bag at Geralt once she crosses halfway through the clearing. He catches it in his hand, flipping it open and rummaging through it. He pulls out various bottles; some with powders, liquids, herbs: both brushed and whole, and bandages. 

Visenya slows her pace, moving around Aldon to sit beside his wife. She glances at Visenya for a moment before looking back at her husband. She;'s breathing heavily, the sharp intakes of breath sporadic. A hiccup escapes her mouth every few seconds, eyes on her husband, waiting and hoping for any signs of recovering. Hand on the grass, it moves over until it brushes against her free hand. She doesn't look away from her husband, but she takes Visenya's hand, her cold body instantly feeling warmer from Visenya's proximity. It provides comfort, a sense of reassurance that Geralt knows what he's doing. That her husband will make it out of the mess, and this day won't become a travesty that's burned in her mind. 

Geralt works quickly, each minute passing in a blur. He tears strips of bandages off with his teeth, the tearing sound from it enough to keep Visenya from getting lost in her thoughts. He wipes away the blood with a cloth, pouring a liquid that smells suspiciously like alcohol over the wound. It hisses upon contact but the noise swiftly dissipates. He then grabs one of the vials that contain a thick liquid. It's amber, with various herbs and other ingredients slightly discoloring it. He packs it into the wound, laying down multiple thick layers of the poultice. He then lifts the torso of the man just enough to wrap his torso in bandages. With her only free hand, Visenya helps him keep the body off the ground, mutely watching Geralt work. 

Finally, Geralt sighs, removing his hands from the body, the two of them gently lowering him to once again lay on the ground. Blood is no longer gushing from the wound on the side of his body, unable to seep through the dense layers above it. 

"They were pricks, but luckily they weren't skilled pricks. He would've bled out, but it wasn't a fatal blow. When he wakes he'll be weak, but alive," Geralt mutters. Visenya sighs, eyes moving to the elven woman. She removes her hand from Visenya's grip, moving her child off of her lap. Visenya immediately places hands on the small boy, taking him from his mother and cradling him. The woman cries out in relief, hovering over Aldon's body and placing a hand on his cheek. 

She looks down at the boy in her arms, noticing the way his eyes twitch under his lids. He's dreaming, it seems. And from the small grin on his face, it's a good one. A soft smile forms on Visenya's face, wide eyes watching the boy, her breathing matching his. A familiar tingling sensation runs up her spine. She glances up, seeing Geralt's gaze firmly on her. She smiles, and he returns it. They've done it, managed to save an innocent family, keeping them from being torn apart by stick bastards with pointy sticks. It's...nice.

"We probably shouldn't move him too much in fear of disturbing his wounds. How far are you from here?" Visenya asks, turning her attention back to the woman. She lifts her head, eyes moving from her husband to Visenya. They're wet with tears again, but not tears of sorrow or fear. This time they're from an overwhelming feeling of joy and hope she didn't have moments ago.

"It's a short distance, we live just on the outskirts of Brunwich," she says. Visenya nods, opening her mouth but Geralt speaks before her.

"We just left," Geralt says.

"And we can turn back around," Visenya interjects, looking at Geralt with a stony expression; lips in a firm line and eyes daring him to contradict her. She clutches the child closer to her, not willing to let them go just yet. They need to be safe and back home, and Visenya needs to see it with her own eyes. Otherwise, her consciousness will never be sated. And Geralt gleans this, causing a sigh to leave his lips, not bothering to start an argument he knows he wouldn't win. 

"We can," he concedes, voice lacking any form of enthusiasm or conviction in his words.

"Excellent." Visenya returns her attention to the woman. "Since his injuries are the most delicate, your husband can ride on Roach, and you can ride with him. I can hold your son, but would your two other children be okay to walk? I'm not sure they'd fit on Roach." 

"They won't. We should camp here for the day until he's conscious and well enough to ride," Geralt says. Visenya nods and looks at the woman for confirmation, who nods as well. 

"In that case, I will get Roach," Visenya says. She begins to adjust the boy in her lap to give him back to his mother, but she stands from the ground. 

"I'll come with you," she says. Visenya nods, standing from the ground as well. She walks around Aldon, to stand beside Geralt. She gestures with her chin down at the child. Geralt opens his arms, reluctantly. She places the boy in his arms, and turns, dusting off any dirt that clings to her armor. Visenya nods at her and the two of them exit the clearing. 

The air around them is quiet. They neither speak nor acknowledge each other. Occasionally Visenya glances at her out of the corner of her eyes, and she catches the woman doing the same thing. It's almost like two wolves dancing around each other, trying to figure out how to approach the other. It isn't hostile, neither of them having any obvious tension. It's just….silent. 

The woods are as gloomy as before; a cold chill sweeping through the air with dead trees and crunching leaves in shades of brown coloring their world. Yet everything somehow feels lighter, less dull, and grey. Visenya feels weightless, the adrenaline from the battle still lingering in her veins and the rush from saving innocent lives giving a small skip in her step. 

"I am Amaria," the woman -- Amaria says, making the first move. Visenya nods, continuing to look straight ahead. 

"I am Amaria," the woman, Amaria, says. Her voice is louder than she's heard it, yet the only other times she spoke was during great distress. There's a melodic tone to it, each word slightly flowing together like the lyrics of a song. Visenya nods her head, staring straight ahead. 

"Visenya." Leaves crunch under her boots, matching the pace of her heart, and the distant song that lingers in the back of her mind. It's been too long since she's heard music - and not just the drunken yodeling of tavern goers. She misses music and singing that are enjoyable to listen to. She misses the small tunes and fumbling lyrics that Jaskier always sang throughout the days. Everything is too silent now, and she finds herself trying to fill the silence the way he did. 

"That's a beautiful name," Amaria remarks, stepping over an overly large root. Visenya smiles, glancing over at her. She's only the second person to call her Visenya. It's relieving...finally able to take ownership of her own name once again. 

"Thank you, it's a family name." Amaria nods, falling silent once more, and unlike moments prior, this silence is not an easy one. Nerves fill Visenya, the uncertainty of what to say - if she should say anything at all overwhelming. She mulls over it for another moment, before just opening her mouth and hoping to not offend. 

"What are your children named?" Visenya asks. 

"Rohir is my oldest at seven, he's the one you helped. Then there's Elana, she's only four and my youngest is Vyron, he's only two," Amaria says, a wide smile appearing on her face as she thinks about her children. Visenya watches her with keen eyes, a pang of envy stabbing into her, a piece of her longing to know the feeling of having a family that's all your own. 

"They're beautiful," Visenya says, tightly nodding her head. She drums her fingers against the side of her leg. 

"Do you have any?" Amaria asks. She's seemingly unaware or unconcerned by the awkward air that surrounds Visenya. But it's nothing new, she's never been the best with people. Constantly being around such loud people like Jaskier, or quiet and reclusive people like Geralt, she never notices. But now, walking in the forest alone with Amaria, she can't help but notice how extremely difficult something as simple as conversation is. 

"No," Visenya says, crouching to avoid smacking into a low hanging group of branches. Amaria nods, and then sighs. Her face scrunches into discomfort; pursuing her lips with eyes that are narrowed slightly. 

"Sorry, I should not have asked. I'm sure Witcher mutations make conceiving a child near impossible," she says, her voice sympathetic and apologetic. Absentmindedly Visenya nods, only a moment later, fully processing the words. 

"Wait what?" Visenya stops in her tracks, turning to face Amaria. Her mouth is agape and eyes wide, ashen brows furrow in confusion with lines on her forehead. She continues a few steps before realizing Visenya is no longer walking with her. She stops as well, turning around and facing Visenya.

"You and the Witcher. Aren't you two..." Amaria trails off. Visenya's cheeks are bombarded with heat that makes her skin bright red. There's a funny feeling in her stomach, tingles rushing up her spine. The thought of her and Geralt together isn't unpleasant, and that's the worst part. She almost enjoys the idea. But she quickly sweeps that away, her and Geralt having children would be disastrous, not that he probably could. 

"Geralt and I are not...together," Visenya says, tone more frantic than she intended. 

"Oh, I just thought maybe…"

"Well, you thought wrong," Visenya says, the words harsher than she intended for it to be. She releases a sigh of frustration, watching Amaria jump, slowly taking one step back from Visenya. Quickly, she crumbles back into the scared rabbit she was when Visenya first saw her. The familiar look in her eyes quickly snaps Visenya out of her frustration. Guild replaces her bubbling temper, immediately dousing out any annoyance in her voice. 

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be so harsh," Visenya says. Amaria nods, frown curling into a small smile. "Please, forgive me."

"You are forgiven. I should not have made such assumptions," Amaria says. She steps closer towards Visenya, a non-verbal sign that she doesn't hold any fear for her. Visenya smiles at her, and the two of them continue walking once more. Silence cloaking them in its aura for the rest of their walk, neither speaking even upon reaching Roach and bringing his back to Geralt and her family. 

oOo

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