#my cat slashed me across the face once i think he's allowed to wear those

[heronoegg]

i think Ojiro is allowed to be hot for no reason and be a background character

[thegrimmgrimm]

Cat Got Your Tongue?

Story Summary: "What are you doing here, Jaskier?" Geralt watches as he brushes past, not quite close enough that Geralt has to lean away to avoid contact, and hovers opposite the fire.

Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest and gives Geralt a wicked grin. "Well, would you believe it, Geralt? I'm here to kill a monster."

Geralt gives a half-hearted glare to the sardonic response and tries to ignore the itch in his fingers to reach for a blade, his sword currently resting mere inches from him.

"No, what are you doing here?" In this wood, in this clearing. 

Jaskier's smirk turns sharp, lips curling away from sharp teeth, and golden eyes glinting in the low light. "I should have thought that was obvious."

Tags and Warnings: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, this bad boy can fit so many tropes, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Major Character Injury, references to past torture, enemies to lovers speedrun, more like rivals to lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, gratuitous homoerotic fight scene, Hurt/Comfort

Author’s notes: a lil something something inspired by another post on tumblr and got away from me a little (who'd have guessed?) thanks to eransandstorm for the beta and the fantastic title 👌🙏🙌 Enjoy 😘

It's near impossible to sneak up on a Witcher. Those that try are generally extremely dangerous, or extremely foolish. Whoever is trying to sneak up on Geralt at the present moment, so far as the Witcher can tell, is only one of these two things. Though, Geralt has yet to fully decipher which of the two.

Not being Geralt's first run in with this particular interloper, it doesn't take long for him to recognise their movements. He debates for a moment letting the intruder catch him "unawares" but decides that it would be inevitably more satisfying to watch them skulk into the clearing, dejected and contrite.

"This didn't work the last time you attempted it, Tojad, why would you think to try it a second time?" Geralt calls out into the woods. He hears a muffled curse in return and a fleeting smirk passes across his face as he leans in to toss more wood on his small fire.

"Oh, omniscient White Wolf, I'll have to keep that in mind for next time." Though the newcomer's tone is jovial and teasing, Geralt can hear the true frustration underneath. Geralt looks over his shoulder at the man slinking his way into the firelight.

The Cat School Witcher looks much the same as from their last encounter. His dark, chin-length hair still falls in front of wide amber eyes, catching and tangling in the closely cropped beard in a way that just has to be irritating. Twin swords sit at his back, curving over each shoulder, deadly as ever. A dagger at one hip, and a small satchel at the other.

Much like Geralt, every inch of skin from the neck down is covered by thick fabric or hard brown leather. It looks like the armour has actually seen some upgrades recently. New, heavier buckles and straps have replaced the old, worn thin from use and abuse. Geralt supposes it must have been a successful season for him.

"What are you doing here, Jaskier?" Geralt watches as he brushes past, not quite close enough that Geralt has to lean away to avoid contact, and hovers opposite the fire.

Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest and gives Geralt a wicked grin. "Well, would you believe it, Geralt? I'm here to kill a monster."

Geralt gives a half-hearted glare to the sardonic response and tries to ignore the itch in his fingers to reach for a blade, his sword currently resting mere inches from him.

"No, what are you doing here?" In this wood, in this clearing.  

Jaskier's smirk turns sharp, lips curling away from sharp teeth, and golden eyes glinting in the low light. "I should have thought that was obvious."

The challenge in his tone gives Geralt a fraction of a second to prepare. In an instant Jaskier has his dagger in hand and launches himself across the space at Geralt. Knowing it would be futile to try and wield his sword in such close quarters, Geralt instead takes a biting grip on Jaskier's wrist.

The pain of the hold seems to only make Jaskier's grin grow wider, more feral. Knowing he doesn't have the upper hand in strength, the Cat twists, kicks, and scratches at Geralt, landing a hard elbow to his cheekbone that will surely leave an impressive shiner.

Geralt keeps his hold on Jaskier's wrist as he struggles, and attempts to wrench it such that he drops the weapon. Geralt's other hand scrambles for purchase in Jaskier's armour, hoping that with a good handful he might be able to toss him off.

He half succeeds and sends the blade tumbling to the ground, narrowly missing Geralt's ear on its way down. He also manages to throw Jaskier's weight off to the side, and the movement pulls Geralt over after him, pinning Jaskier to the hard dirt and winding him for precious moments.

Geralt rolls away smoothly and picks up the fallen dagger, crouching slightly in wait for the Cat's next move. Jaskier is also quick to recover, jumping to his feet and pulling a second blade from his boot, smile gone, eyes narrowed in concentration.

They both watch each other with sharp eyes, as still as the trees around them, waiting, and Geralt weighs his options. Jaskier now stands between him and his swords, his horse, and still armed to the teeth, while Geralt holds only a dagger. Not ideal, but at least he's still wearing all of his armour.

Jaskier moves quickly, in almost the blink of an eye, kicking a cloud of ash and coals towards Geralt's face. His arm comes up to shield his eyes just in time, but then Jaskier is back in his space, wicked blade carving a shallow slice across the softer leather protecting Geralt's inner thigh. Though it doesn't cut through the pants, Geralt can feel the blow as it scores up the inside of his leg.

He twists away quickly, reaching so that his blade, or at least his vambrace, comes between him and Jaskier's next blow. The two daggers meet with a clash, and the spark has returned to Jaskier's eyes as he bears down with a series of rapid-fire slashes and stabs, only barely avoided by quick parries and dodging from Geralt.

Frustrated at being on the defence, Geralt make a grab for Jaskier's wrist again. Once he’s found a firm grip, he slams his shoulder into the other Witcher's torso, keeping a sure hold as Jaskier stumbles. With his other hand Geralt brings his blade across the weaker armour at Jaskier's shoulder, cutting clean through the strap and gambeson beneath.

The new give in the armour allows Jaskier's arm to twist into an unnatural angle, and a sickening crunch and pained groan tell Geralt the fight is won. He releases Jaskier and steps back, allowing him to drop to his knees and take in panting, pained breaths. Geralt swipes the second dagger from where it's fallen from Jaskier's now limp hand.

"Are you done?" Geralt rumbles, seeing the hurt and anger pulling together the other Witcher's brow in a deeply frustrated frown.

Jaskier glares up at him fiercely, not to be cowed, but he nods once and sits back onto his feet with a hiss. "You fucker, I just had this armour fixed."

Geralt huffs out a laugh. "Then you shouldn't go starting fights you won't win."

Jaskier glares again, but there's less bite to it. "One day you'll get cocky, old man, then I'll have you."

"So you say," Geralt teases, but decides to leave off further insult, seeing Jaskier poking at his injured shoulder, wincing pitifully. "You want me to help you with that? We should re-set it quickly."

Jaskier tries to shrug, and regrets it, letting out another pained groan which makes Geralt laugh again. "Fine! Fine you bastard, help me."

Geralt tosses both daggers away, out of reach for the both of them, and approaches the injured Witcher with less caution than he probably should. "Promise not to bite my fingers off," He warns as he reaches for the limp limb.

Jaskier grits his teeth and his good arm comes up to grip at Geralt's elbow, steadying himself as Geralt slowly starts to shift the joint back into place.

As he works, Geralt's eye is caught by sight of pale skin beneath the shredded armour. Like his own, the surface is mottled and marred with scars upon scars, but something about them stands out in his mind. Jaskier has his eyes tightly shut against the sensation in his arm, so he doesn't catch Geralt's intense scrutiny of his ruined skin.

Geralt's mind races behind the steady, stoic movement of his hands. Something sick settles in his stomach as Jaskier's arm is righted. With an uncharacteristically soft touch, Geralt takes Jaskier's good hand from his elbow and moves him to hold his own wrist against his chest while he searches in his supplies for a scrap of cloth to fashion a sling.

"Geralt?" Jaskier, now in a touch less pain, must have noticed Geralt's change in mood.

Geralt says nothing, hands clenching around the length of clean linen he's managed to find. He takes a breath to settle himself before turning back to the Witcher kneeling in the dirt by the firelight.

Jaskier is also uncharacteristically quiet, watching him approach with curious and concerned eyes. "What's gotten into you? Usually a good fight makes you less taciturn."

Geralt hums and looks away from those inquisitive eyes, whist also fighting to keep his gaze from returning to the bare skin of Jaskier's shoulder. To distract himself from the gnawing in his insides, Geralt turns to the logistics.

"Do you want to remove your armour before I immobilise the arm, or are you happy to sleep in it?"

Jaskier seems almost startled by the question and he chews on his lower lip, brows drawn together in thought. Geralt understands his apprehension, just moments ago they'd held a blade to each other, and now Geralt was asking Jaskier to make himself completely vulnerable in his presence.

Several expressions cross Jaskier's face in the space of a heartbeat, and Geralt doesn't even attempt to interpret them. Jaskier sighs, "I'll need it off for repairs anyway, might as well get it over with now.”

Geralt nods absently and gives Jaskier the linen to hold as he carefully starts to unbuckle the swords strapped across his back. His fingers feel stiff, and he feels strangely scrutinised as Jaskier watches him work, unable to provide much assistance. Geralt tries to keep any jarring movements to a minimum, but each gasp and wince from Jaskier tells him he could probably be doing better.

Jaskier lets out another pained sound as Geralt has to shift his arm to slide off the damaged shoulder piece, and he does feel a little guilty at causing such an immobilising injury. The being said, Witcher healing will probably have a good range of movement back by morning, but for a little pain, so the Cat will just have to survive until then. Geralt replaces Jaskier’s hold on his wrist once again, and together they manoeuvre off the second spaulder and leather breastplate as best they can between them.

The torn gambeson falls open wider at Jaskier’s shoulder without the armour holding it in place, and as Geralt suspected, the intense map of scars continues further beneath. Without thinking, he brushes his fingers along the shallow cut left by his blade, the streak of blood already drying, and the collection of old scars alongside it. At the touch, Jaskier finally notices the focus of Geralt’s attention.

Geralt can see from the corner of his eye as Jaskier’s jaw clenches, and he catches the sharp hiss as his muscles unconsciously tighten. Geralt meets his gaze and holds it steadily, taking in the pain, old and new, as well as the stubbornness that he sees there.

"Geralt-" Jaskier starts, tone cautioning, but Geralt cuts him off before he can continue.

"Who did this to you?" When Geralt speaks his voice is quiet and tense. He’s finally found a name for the feeling deep in his gut, the web of scars dancing across his mind's eye even as he looks into matching gold. Rage.

Geralt’s hand hovers over the clasp at Jaskier’s neck, not sure if either of them is quite ready for Geralt to see what lies beneath. Almost defiantly, Jaskier’s free hand comes up and releases the first buckle with an impatient yank, working quickly down the front until the garment hangs open.

Though hidden slightly under dark hair, it's impossible to miss the horrible extent of the countless interlacing marks. Before Geralt can stop himself, he's mapping them out with his eyes, noting the neat, careful lines interspersed with crudely carved words. Mutant. Freak. Monster. Butcher. Words Geralt knows well. He swallows roughly at the sight.

"No monster made those." Geralt's voice is as cold as ice, as sharp as the daggers now lying in the dirt. "Who did this?"

Jaskier's amber eyes are narrowed in annoyance, and something darker, when they once again meet Geralt's. "What does it matter? They're all just scars." Geralt thinks its flippancy he’s aiming for, but the steel in his voice betrays his unease.

"I know that's not true."

Jaskier huffs out an angry breath and tugs impatiently at his sleeve, clearly causing himself pain in the process. He gives up with a cry of frustration. "Will you just help me out of this godforsaken thing?"

Though Geralt has no interest in letting him just brush away the topic of conversation, he still moves quickly to help Jaskier carefully extract himself from the heavy garment. The weather is mild, but with his torso bare to the night air, Jaskier can't hold off a slight shiver.

Geralt curses and returns to his things to search for a spare shirt to lend Jaskier. Perhaps next time his unexpected guest could turn up with more than just his swords and an attitude. Thankfully Geralt is able to find an aging black undershirt to offer up.

Standing in front of Jaskier, something in the Witcher's expression calls out to Geralt. Jaskier's clutching the gambeson in his lap like a lifeline, picking aggressively at the cut in the fabric. Geralt kneels in front of him, once again level with those amber eyes, both of them searching for somehthing. What Jaskier sees in his Geralt can't rightly say, but whatever it is must inspire some confidence, or sincerity.

"Let's just say, not everyone appreciates a Witcher getting involved in local politics and leave it at that." Jaskier is working hard to keep his voice steady, Geralt knows, but he can't keep the stricken look from his eyes. "Why do you care, Geralt?"

"Jaskier," It takes nothing at all for Geralt to lean forward and catch the desperate words with a kiss. Many times, Geralt has imagined his first chance to kiss Jaskier. More often than not, he pictures a fierce, heated kiss in the middle of one of their impromptu sparring bouts. But this, this is nothing like that.

This kiss is soft, and warm, and short. Barely the length of a heartbeat.

"I care about you," Geralt confesses, sitting back to watch the expressions evolve on Jaskier's face.

"Oh," Jaskier says, looking dazed, and all the ugly feelings curling in Geralt's chest float away like smoke at the sight of the little crease between his eyebrows.

Something else is building in Geralt's belly that makes him feel like laughing, but he settles for a small smirk as he holds up the forgotten shirt. Jaskier does laugh and Geralt wants to chase it with another kiss, but he's painfully aware of sitting in full armour before the half-dressed Witcher.

Jaskier allows Geralt to help him into the shirt and set the injured arm as comfortably as possible across his chest, both of them silent from a new kind of tension as Geralt works. He binds the limb snugly against Jaskier's collarbone and ties off the cloth neatly where Jaskier can undo it himself quickly and easily when necessary.

Jaskier stretches, testing a few movements, and nods to himself and turns back to Geralt, evidently happy that it's stable and comfortable. His new expression sends a small thrill through Geralt, a shy smile, but almost as wicked as the last time he threw himself at the stoic Witcher.

His free hand goes straight to Geralt's hair to pull him forward into another kiss. Just as sweet as the first, but with all the fierceness Geralt has been expecting and anticipating. Geralt makes a sound low in his throat and his hands come up to cup Jaskier's face, sliding along his jaw and into his hair, beard both soft and rough beneath his fingertips and against his mouth.

Jaskier whines when Geralt pulls away, and gods if that doesn't make it hard not to just fall back into him and never stop, but Geralt has no intention to rush this. He also has a feeling neither of them will be particularly inclined to be careful if things go much further.

"You need to heal," Geralt murmurs, resting his forehead against Jaskier's as they both catch their breath.

Jaskier gives a breathy chuckle in response. "Spoilsport."

The two unentangle themselves and help each other back to their feet, not straying far from each other's touch. Jaskier steps away for a moment to let out a piercing whistle that leaves Geralt's ears ringing, even as he hears the steady beats of Jaskier's approaching horse.

"Oh, so you didn't need to steal my clothes," Geralt teases.

Jaskier smiles not-quite-innocently at him. "Much more fun this way, though."

As Jaskier collects his things from his horse, a stocky grey mare, Geralt eases himself out of his own armour, not feeling quite as vulnerable as the occasion probably calls for. When he's done, he turns to see Jaskier laying out his bedroll beside his own and Geralt watches him with a soft smile that he will absolutely deny if caught.

"Are you going to stand around all night?" Jaskier asks as he lays out on his back and looks up at him.

Geralt huffs out a laugh and settles down beside him, just out of reach. Jaskier rolls onto his side to face him, his good up under him, propping up his chin. Though Geralt internally kicks himself for being so sappy, he can't help noticing the way the firelight dances in Jaskier's golden eyes, and wonders if Jaskier sees the same in his own.

Jaskier leans in closer, reaching over to touch Geralt's face, fingers dancing across his cheekbone. "I care about you too," He whispers, and his fingers brush through Geralt's hair so softly it pulls the air from his lungs.

Geralt rushes forward to meet him in another kiss, the steady pump of his heart a constant reminder of the sensation threatening to burst in his chest. He loops an arm around Jaskier's waist and pulls himself in close, aching at the warmth beneath his touch.

This time its Jaskier who pulls himself away, leaving Geralt bereft. "As you said, I need to heal," He recites, and Geralt lets out a frustrated groan. Jaskier just chuckles and settles down into the bedding. He lets Geralt pull himself in closer and get comfortable wrapped around him.

Somewhat reluctantly, Geralt lets his eyes close, and he listens to the sounds of Jaskier's soft breathing and steady heartbeat. After what feels like an age, but also no time at all, Geralt finds himself drifting into an easy, comfortable sleep. 

 ------

 When Geralt wakes the next morning, it’s to the feeling of a warm weight above him, and a sharp blade at his throat. He cracks his eyes open to the sight of a familiar grin hovering above him and raises an eyebrow in question, only half-wondering if he should be concerned.

"What did I tell you, Kocimiętka?" Jaskier leans forward, and his smirking face nuzzles into the side of Geralt's neck with almost a purr. "Cocky."

Geralt gives an answering growl low in his chest, gripping hard at Jaskier's thighs where they straddle his waist. Jaskier leans back again to look him in the eye, grin sharp and wide, eyes dark in the growing light of dawn.

Geralt knows they're both aware that he could easily roll them over and reverse the position, but he's reluctant to do so with Jaskier's shoulder as it is. Instead, Geralt slides his hands up and around the firm, slender waist, and leans up to meet the smug Cat in a kiss, as slow as their last, and almost as sweet.

Secondary A/N: "Tojad" is the Polish for Wolfsbane or aconite, and I figure Geralt has been calling Jaskier this for a little while now "Kocimiętka" is the Polish for catnip/catmint and Jaskier is trying it on for size (I think he and Geralt like it, how about you?)

[mhamiltonwrites]

Chasing a Song: A Witcher’s Tale

The first time had been an accident.

Jaskier had come to the hilltop seeking inspiration. His muse had taken to hiding, squirreling itself away in some forgotten recess of his spirit, and the usual methods of coaxing it out, wine, lovers, old songs, had all failed one after the other. So a different approach; a stroll to the hilltop overlooking the town, that the sight of such grandeur spread out below might just move his hands to pluck similar beauty from his lute.

If he’d known about the griffin, he would have just tried the wine and lovers option again.

The winged terror had not been best pleased to find the foppish interloper reclining upon its hillside, lesser so still when said interloper had attempted to serenade it to peace. The tattered remains of his jerkin now discarded on the slopes spoke to the narrowness of Jaskier’s escape. He had tumbled out the way, lute clutched to his chest, the things talons leaving a crimson line raked across his shoulders that would undoubtedly scar, and in his tumbling had ended up falling into a gully in the sloping meadow. It was too narrow for the creature to reach him, but similarly too smoothed by centuries of rain for him to climb out of. The griffin did not seem in any way discouraged by the difficulties; indeed, in its impotent rage it had begun scraping up great clods of earth and sod, beak snapping, claws reaching, furiously trying to pluck him from his fragile refuge.

All of a sudden there came the tinkling sound of glass breaking and heat as fire flared above him, flames scorching a path across the griffin’s back. It shrieked in pain, its anger now turning to whosever had dared to interfere in its hunt. It had barely turned when a pale figure leapt upon it, cat-like, one leather-gloved hand gripping a fistful of feathers, the other slashing a sword into its neck. Silver flashed, caught in both the light of the summer sun and the orange glow of the fire. Jaskier watched as the battle raged above him. He heard the shrieks of the griffin grow more fraught until at last it gave out a final mewling cry and fell silent. A single smouldering feather drifted down towards him. Jaskier snatched it out of the air and ran it between the strings of his lute. It sat caught there like a garland from some courtly competition. The light above him dimmed once more as his saviour came into view. White hair hung down, thoroughly ruffled in the fight. Jaskier’s eyes widened. “Geralt!?”

“Jaskier.” The leather-gloved hand gripped his shoulder, pulling him and the lute bodily out of the crack in the earth.

“How- What- Why in the world are you here?”

Geralt looked at him flatly. “There was a monster to kill.”

Jaskier stared back, mouth still opening and closing as he dumbly reached for the words. How long had it been since Geralt had told him to leave his side? Six months? Eight? He’d stopped counting after the first few weeks, losing himself to the self-indulgent consumption of misery before resigning himself to a life without his stoic companion. And yet now, seemingly out of the bloody ether, Geralt was before him once more as if he’d never left, behind him the bloody remains of the vast avian terror that had so recently been trying to rip him to pieces. “R-right. Okay then. Right.” Gods damn it all, why did his words have to fly from him now of all times?? “You, um. You look…”

The witcher raised an eyebrow. “I look like shit, Jaskier. So do you. What you get for tangling with a griffin I suppose.”

“Well, yes. Quite. Yes.” The bard looked Geralt up and down. There he was, just as he ever was. The leather a little ragged from the fight, certainly, but that and the mud somehow only added to his rugged perfection. “You wear battle damage just as well as you ever did, for what that’s worth.”

Geralt grunted in response. As if deciding the bard was safe and therefore no longer a concern, he turned away, cleaning feathers and gore from his blade. “You should go, bard. The wilds are no place for a soft-skinned fool.” He glanced back over his shoulder “What?”

“Nothing!” Startled and blushing, Jaskier snatched his gaze up and away from the witcher’s taut buttocks caught in the stretched leather of his britches. “Nothing at all. You’re right. Of course. No place for a fool indeed.”

“A lesson I thought you’d learned back when…” Geralt trailed off, voice fading into uncharacteristic uncertainty. What was that, Jaskier wondered. Could it possibly be regret that traced at the corners of his erstwhile-companion’s eyes? Impossible; Jaskier pushed the thought away. Geralt was many things but the kind of person likely to be given over to regret was definitely not one of them. And yet, those lines remained on the witcher’s hardened face.

Jaskier did his best to smile, pushing away the memories of Geralt’s harsh words the day he’d left. The day he’d been sent away. “Oh, you know me. Never one to learn a lessen so well it stuck!” He was trying for jovial, though it came out more manic. He rested his hands on his hips, willing his heart to stop beating so fast beneath the tattered remains of his shirt. “So, um. You planning on sticking around long?”

“No.”

“I see.” He was powerless to keep the note of disappointment from tainting his words. “In and out, the witcher way and all that, I suppose!”

“Yep.”

That was Geralt. Monosyllabic to a fault. Jaskier stared at the back of his head, watching the way his mouth hardened into a line as he worked on his gear, how his shoulders rose and fell with his breathing; how, even now, he could see the muscles shift under his skin in a fashion that brought the colour surging to his cheeks. “Geralt,” he started, but he had no idea how to continue. How could he begin to put it into words, how much leaving had hurt, how much seeing the witcher again meant? Could mere words even begin to capture it? And would Geralt even hear them?

“I’m not here to talk, Jaskier,” said Geralt, his voice icy. Silently he cursed his rotten luck and the vague cruelties of fate that had forced the bard back into his path once more. How many times would he have to save the poor idiot’s hide before he got the message and stayed in some comfortable college where he belonged? This was no place for the overdressed clown. Time he went back home and the witcher could get back to the busy work of forgetting. Jaskier, Yen, all of it. A witcher, alone. Suited him just fine. “Time to go.”

It was good to see you, Jaskier. The words came to him, unbidden. Seven words, that was all. He could say them, as a kindness. It wasn’t as if they would mean anything. They would, the little voice in his head whispered. They would mean something to him.

Damn it. Geralt took a sharp intake of breath, calling on old instincts to slow his heart and quiet the buried feelings trying to surface. A witcher didn’t have feelings. Feelings made you weak. Reckless. Feelings got you killed. Besides, it wasn’t anything worthwhile. Not really. Mayhaps for a time there he’d allowed himself to think of Jaskier as more than a travelling companion. A friend, even. A friend with soft hands. Soft hands on your back, rubbing away the knots and stresses of a hard fight. He returned the sword to its scabbard. Enough. He had business elsewhere. Anywhere, so long as Jaskier was far behind.

Jaskier felt the harsh words cut into him, sharper than any griffin’s talons. “Right. Yes. Okay then.” He ran his hands down his shirt to keep himself from reaching out, biting back his own response. “I’ll be on my way then.” Gritting his teeth, he turned from Geralt once more. It wasn’t any easier this time either.

Geralt watched him go a little while. Not once did the bard glance back behind. Somehow, that stung him. Why? He wanted him gone. Needed him gone. So why this ache as he watched him leave?

Folly; he dismissed the ache as soon as it had arrived. There was no time for sentimentality in this job. And the work would not be done until he’d found the nest and made certain there would be no mates or offspring coming to look for their fallen feathered comrade.

But a little while later and Jaskier found himself once more engaged in the time-honoured traditions of a soul scorned, drinking himself into a stupor in an all-but-deserted tavern and doing his best to ignore the slow, sad thumping of his heart. Even oblivion had to be better than this. He forlornly plucked at the strings of his lute, its bowl scratched and marked from its tumble down a hillside. The crisp, sweet notes filled the air, cutting through his wine-drenched misery with their unexpected grace. He let his hands move of their own accord, trusting musical instinct to guide them. Notes gathered and strung themselves together into a simple, soulful melody, not a song, not yet, but the start of something… Beautiful.

He stared down at his lute. Where in the hell had that come from? It seemed nothing sharpened the bardic spirit like imminent death.

And seeing Geralt. That helped. He didn’t want to admit it but it was the truth nonetheless. The missing piece of the puzzle, the inspiration he had been craving all these months, it was all thanks to him. It made sense; his times on the road with the witcher, for all the near-constant threat of danger and lack of comfort had been invigorating. Fun, even. He’d found parts of himself on those desolate roads and in those forbidding forests that he’d never known were there. Seeing Geralt in action once again had clearly revived those instincts. But not enough.

The song hung incomplete, its beauty dying as the notes faded away. Jaskier plucked again, repeating the pattern but it was becoming hollow, emptier with every reprise. Shit!!

In a surge of anger, the bard raised the lute as if to smash it upon the flagstone floor, but before he could bring it down a voice cut through his rage. “A terror, so they say. Some monster or summit. Over near Lindenvale.” Jaskier’s ears pricked. It was like the song, buried instincts starting to rise to the surface. “Looks like a man, but cast in clay. Killed a girl.”

Without thinking Jaskier was on his feet and hurrying to the speaker. “Which town?”

The speaker, a stocky man in a stained jerkin, turned, surprised. “What’d you say?”

“Which town,” Jaskier repeated, his voice shaking. An idea had started to form, a plan, crazy and half-baked, but a plan nonetheless. “Which town did you say you saw this clay man?”

The man looked him up and down, concern touching his eyes even as Jaskier’s wine-drenched breath forced him to recoil. “Lindenvale. Why, you know someone from round them parts?”

“No,” said Jaskier, mouth stretching into a manic smile, “but I’m sure I know someone who’ll be heading there soon.”

And suddenly the plan that had been creeping up, inch by inch, was there, fully-formed (or as close to fully-formed as any of Jaskier’s plans ever were); where there was danger, where there were monsters, there would be his inspiration. He’d seek out the risks that he’d encountered by chance before, and in those frenzied flights for his life he’d find the rest of that song that had so nearly been birthed just minutes before.

And maybe, just maybe, Geralt would be there. The thought sat in his mind, unbidden and unmoving. It was born of broken hope and just a touch of masochism and it was not going away. Yes, thought Jaskier to himself. Maybe Geralt would be there. That would be… Nice. Definitely not his goal. Certainly not. Hadn’t crossed his mind once that a dangerous clay man wreaking havoc in the countryside might just draw the attention of a certain professional monster hunter.

***

Jaskier had arrived in Lindenvale in time for a funeral; a girl, no more than sixteen, was to be laid to rest beneath the roots of a cherry tree that grew in her family’s garden. Asking around it seemed this was the girl the man in the inn had mentioned, beaten to death by a golem loosed upon the townsfolk as some wizard’s misplaced retribution. Jaskier solemnly struck a few minor chords from his lute as he watched the veiled procession pass, a thin drizzle wetting the shoulders of the fresh jerkin he’d managed to procure in a handy game of cards. A golem was always trouble. But Geralt was good at what he did. That girl’s family would have justice soon.

The journey may have only been three days’ travel but it still took a week before Jaskier even heard word of Geralt’s arrival. From the talk of the townsfolk they’d driven the monster into the woods around the town but feared it could return at any moment if it were not slain soon. And so coin had been gathered and word sent calling for a monster slayer. Jaskier did his best to steady his heartbeat as he listened to the town bailiff announce that the witcher Geralt himself would be arriving in the morning. He spent that night fitfully tossing and turning, countless improbable scenarios playing across his mind as to how he would go about talking to him, doubt beginning to creep in. This plan was folly, anyone could see that. Geralt had made it clear twice now that he wanted nothing to do with the bard. What kind of man was he to defy him on purpose this time?

The kind who knows he needs to hear it one more time, Jaskier thought. Geralt had been a constant in his life for the best part of twenty years and now he was expected to simply let him disappear? Friends didn’t do that. Sure. Friends.

He woke with a start to the sounds of a commotion outside, sunlight streaming in through his rented room’s window and the sheets tangled about him like a poorly-worn cape. Cursing under his breath he stumbled to the window, the bedsheets almost tripping him. There in the street below was Geralt. His white hair tumbled about his shoulders, rippling in the wind. His orange eyes seemed to glow in the cold morning sun as he took in the gathered townsfolk and dilapidated buildings. He glanced upwards, as if sensing the bard’s gaze upon him. Jaskier threw himself to the floor, his knees colliding hard with the wooden boards. He yelped in pain and rolled away, grabbing his coat and boots. Staying out of sight was going to be essential; the plan would never work if Geralt knew he was in town.

He dressed and ate breakfast hurriedly before bolting out of the inn and into the street. From what he’d been able to get out of the townsfolk, the last place the golem had been spotted was out of town a ways into the dense forest. There was a cavern there, blasted into the side of a quarry by miners long ago, and it was there that it was thought the monster had made its home.

The plan, from there, was even simpler. He’d sit outside that cave, playing his lute, until Geralt showed up in pursuit of the monster. What could go wrong?

***

Jaskier flung himself to the ground out of the path of the clay fist that rushed towards him. Dirt exploded upwards as stone met recently-vacated earth. Jaskier yelped in fear as the terrible thing moved to him once more, impossibly quick. Golems were usually slow, lumbering things, lumpy masses of whatever loose clay the maker had to hand, but this one was different. It was faster, and definitely angrier.

Not an hour after Jaskier had found the cave the thing had come running from the treeline as if pursued by some unseen assailant. It was only the bard’s frequently practised survival instincts taking over and dragging him up onto his feet and out of its path that had saved him from being little more than a smear on the road. Not that the golem seemed ready to let him go that easily.

Jaskier scrambled for the treeline, lute smacking painfully against his ribs, swinging as he ran. The golem started towards him, giving out a monstrous shout, but before it could reach him a figure appeared at the treeline. Sunlight shined off dark leather, glinting silver and all too familiar white hair. Geralt. The witcher paused at the treeline, taking in the scene; Jaskier, his back now pressed against a broad elm; the golem, glaring at him as if unsure whether to finish off the idiot or make a run for it; and the cave where it clearly called home.

Geralt heard his trainer’s voice whisper in his head. First job of a witcher is kill the monster. Saving the civilians comes second. Especially when the civilian in question was clearly just here to torment him once again, Geralt thought to himself, jaw clenching. He darted forward, bringing his sword back to swing. The golem moved impossibly quickly, moving almost in a blur as it pulled away from Jaskier and ran for the cave. Unusual; he’d expected it to stand and fight. Still, the townsfolk had already told him there was no back exit from that cavern, so he had the beast cornered at least.

“Perfect timing once again, Geralt,” Jaskier called cheerfully from the treeline.

Geralt spun towards him, eyes narrowing. “Jaskier. I’m busy. Get out of here.”

“Aren’t you at least surprised to see me? I would risk happy but even I’m not happy to take those odds.”

“I wasn’t surprised. I knew you were here.” The witcher tapped his nose. “Practically followed your scent.”

“Remind me to change cologne.”

“Hm,” Geralt snorted, softly. Jaskier blinked. Was that the ghost of a smile teasing the corners of his erstwhile companion’s mouth? The smile was gone in a moment, fading like a snuffed candle. Geralt’s eyes darkened. “Damn it, Jaskier,” he said, voice softer than the bard had expected. “How many times do I have to pull your arse out of the fire before you understand? This is no place for you.”

“Oh come on, Geralt, have a little faith! I’m a grown man who’s survived more than his fair share of scrapes along the way.”

“Because I was there to fix your problems,” Geralt sneered. “I mean it, Jaskier. No more games. If I smell you around any job I’m called to in future, I will just ride on. There are other witchers. Let them deal with you.”

The words stung as sharply as they ever did, but they sounded to Jaskier just a little hollow. Or perhaps that was just his heart, desperately listening for softness that wasn’t there. “I’m sorry my possible death proved so inconvenient for you,” he replied, his voice cracking at the edges.

“You say that like you didn’t come just to get in my way.”

“Alright, yes. I came, hoping that you would also be here. Truth be told I’ve been somewhat lacking in inspiration since we… Went our separate ways, and I was hoping that the chance to see you in action again might get the old creative juices flowing once again.” And the fact he’d be able to spend some time talking to the witcher, even just to bicker, even just to fight, played no part in it.

Geralt sighed internally. I don’t want to see you get hurt. Why was it so hard to say? Why did he always have to wrap it in cruelty? Geralt looked at Jaskier. The bard stared back, half angry, half hopeful. Because he wouldn’t hear the warning, only the kindness. And that would get him killed.

Telling himself that it was Jaskier’s own good had become a reflex at this point, one almost as finely honed as any in the witcher’s arsenal. His mind would wield it like a log from a pyre, burning away his doubts and unbidden wishes until the coldness, the apathy, the untrue voice that said “you are a fist, not a heart” was all that could be heard. Steeling himself he spoke at last. “I’m not your easel, bard. You don’t get to prop your work up on me.”

Jaskier shivered a little at the icy tone. It wasn’t surprising to hear yet it still stabbed at his heart as keenly as the silvered dagger on the witcher’s belt. “I suppose you’ll be off then,” he replied, fighting to keep his voice airy. “Monsters to slay, coin to collect and all that.”

The witcher nodded curtly, turning towards the waiting cavern.

“And an audience would not be appreciated?”

“What do you think?”

I think you’re being a stubborn ox, Jaskier thought to himself bitterly. I think you might just miss me as much as I miss you and you’re too wrapped up in all your anger to admit it. But the words caught in his throat like gnarled roots too twisted to loosen. “I’ll leave you to it then. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. Gratitude? That was new. The witcher hadn’t turned back towards him but he hadn’t move either, seemingly locked in place by a different battle than the one that lay ahead.

Geralt fought the urge to turn and offer the bard his hand to shake. Somehow he knew that even just that one touch would be enough for his resolve to weaken and ask Jaskier to stay, at least to watch the mouth of the cave. And then you’d be right back where you started. It was true; he’d hurt him enough the first time he’d sent him away and besides, being around Geralt always seemed to land Jaskier in deadly peril. It was better it stayed how it was. Still, a few words wouldn’t hurt, would they?

To hell with it; even if they did, his body was already outlined in constantly criss-crossing scars. What was one more? He looked back over his shoulder, his sharp features caught in profile against the gaping black of the cavern’s mouth. “Take care, Jaskier. The world would be a poorer place without you in it.”

Jaskier caught the gasp of surprise before it could escape his lips but he couldn’t keep his eyes from staring wildly or the spreading smile from his face. “Yeah. You too, Geralt. You too.”

Without another word, the witcher stepped into the cavern. For a moment, Jaskier considered staying and waiting for his return. Perhaps there would be more of this new softer Geralt to see? It was certainly tempting… But no. He’d pushed his luck already. And it wasn’t as if Geralt hadn’t told him in no uncertain terms that he was not looking for another traveling companion. Reluctantly, he started back towards the town and his lonely room.

As he walked his hands fell once more to his lute and, almost without a thought, began to pluck that self-same melody as had been following him since the griffin attack days ago. His hands quickened as he began to hum along, fragments of lyrics beginning to form. The stumbling block of the chorus began to creep up upon him just as it had before but this time as he reached it his fingers moved as if of their own devices, striking a series of crisp, clear chords that closed off the sequence beautifully. He stopped and stared down at the lute. It had worked! Somehow, getting back into the dangerous work was exactly what his muse had needed of him, just as he’d suspected.

Seeing Geralt helped. The thought was burning and undeniable in its constancy. Could it be true? Could it have been not the monster trying to kill him but the witcher coming to save him that had returned his inspiration? It was certainly true that Geralt’s presence was… Comforting, but was that the same as inspiring?

He’s always been there. At the times when you need him most, he shows up. Even when he doesn’t want to. Even when he’d rather stay away. Even when he says he hates you. He still shows up. That was right, wasn’t it? He’d been able to write because of the sight of Geralt and the jolt that always gave him. But then if that were true what did it mean for the two of them? Jaskier, for all his romantic notions, was not one to be so quick to hope that Geralt had a similar need for his presence in his life.

And yet, there were those words he had said before he left. “The world would be a poorer place without you in it.” What was that if not a confession that the witcher was glad to see him alive? Perhaps, even, missed him? Certainly Geralt scolded him for his recklessness, and sent him away as soon as look at him, but what as that if not spoken concern? Spoken a little harshly admittedly, but that was the white wolf’s way.

Alright, so he was concerned; so what, Jaskier thought heavily. It wasn’t as if the witcher would ever admit it. Dappled sunlight streamed down through the canopy of leaves, scattering as birds took flight, startled at his passing. He morosely strummed his way through the melody once again, mood darkening as quickly as the elation had risen. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Even if his muse truly was Geralt, even if Geralt truly missed him, the witcher would never say so, nor would he be willing to stand and hear Jaskier out.

Unless he thought there was cause to.

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed as he glanced back over his shoulder, the faint path back to the cavern stretching away through the trees. Geralt went where there was word of a monster. So if he wanted Geralt to come to a specific spot all he’d have to do is make sure he got word of one.

Jaskier snorted. That had worked once, it wouldn’t work again. Even if concerned, Geralt could be so bloody stubborn there was every chance he’d make good on his threat to simply not show up if he got wind that Jaskier was there, even with a rampaging beast on the loose.

Well. Unless the threat seemed dire enough. If he’d been warned of something terrible, something that he simply could not entrust to anyone save himself. If that were the case Geralt would have to come, Jaskier be damned. Jaskier lost himself in thought. It might even be better coming from him. After all, he could sound apologetic, that he did not want to interfere but he knew that Geralt would trust his word. It wouldn’t be the first time Jaskier had brought such a mission to him. He could do it, couldn’t he? After all, a bard had to be a writer too, and to write a notice worthy of the white wolf’s undivided attention would be a challenge worthy of ballads.

Do you really want to lie to him? The thought whispered across his mind, cutting sharply through the fevered reverie that had started to overtake him. He’s upset already, the thought said, chiding Jaskier sternly. How would upsetting him with some wild goose-chase win you any favour?

But it was that or simply wait for fate to intervene as it had before and drop the witcher back into his life like a glove dropped on a ballroom floor. And how long might that take? He didn’t have Geralt’s long life to wait for him to decide he was ready to talk. A little deception then, to get the stubborn oaf to the table. Then they could at last have it out. Whatever “it” was.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the sense of something… More between them that Jaskier had started to feel was nothing more than his own head and heart joining forces against his reason. But if it proved so, at least he could go forth knowing that he had at least said everything. It was better, the bard thought, his hands repeating the perfect little melody once again, to try and to fail and to know than to live forever with the pain of the possible, the biting torment of the could-have-been.

***

It had been simple enough to arrange. He still had some coin saved up from performances on the road, enough to book a private room for as long as he’d need it and to send a trustworthy courier out after Geralt. He’d stayed in Lindenvale; his scent would already be all over it after all, so there was at least a chance the witcher wouldn’t immediately suspect something to be wrong. In his message he had claimed that it seemed the golem Geralt had dealt with had been but one of a pair, and now the second came hunting for those who had slain its fellow. The town, short on coin and fearing retribution if the witcher returned, had decided to try and keep the matter secret; Jaskier was only sending word to Geralt out of concern and hope that he might find it in his heart to lend a hand. After all, when you thought about it, it was really finishing off the job he’d already been paid for.

It was a good lie. Not his best, but good enough to fool Geralt. And if not, at least enough that he might just return to town simply to castigate him for pestering him further. Whatever the cause, Jaskier was certain it would get him back and that was truly all that mattered.

It was just over a day that the courier sent word of his message being received. If everything kept to plan, Geralt would be back here that very night. Jaskier felt his heartbeat quicken just at the thought of it. He had gotten to work immediately, setting the table in his private quarters for two, fetching candles and ordering wine and a dinner of roasted chicken and vegetables from the inn-keeper. The stage was set; now all that was needed were the players.

It was dark out before he heard the tell-tale crunch of hooves upon the gravel path outside, the gentle murmur of “Easy, Roach,” drift up through the window. He was here. Geralt was here. Finally. Jaskier checked himself in the mirror once again for what must have been the twelfth time that hour alone. His hair was a problem, as neat as he could make it but part of him wanted it ruffled, at ease, as if the witcher had just roused him from a bedroll by a campsite fire. Remind him of the good old days, he thought to himself. “It’ll do,” he said aloud, smoothing his shirt and shifting his hips just a little. The britches were perhaps a little on the tight side but they’d always done the trick when it came to seducing various baronesses and stable-hands across the realm.

He turned away from gazing at himself as a different sound reached him. Voices in the bar, low and questioning. Mutters of a brief conversation. A door opening. The sound of feet upon the stairs. Heavy. Purposeful. Geralt’s.

Jaskier watched the handle of the door to his prepared sanctuary twist slowly, the oaken door swinging slowly open on squeaking hinges. There the witcher stood, caught in candlelight, leather and silver and the promise of deadly violence wrapped up in a man Jaskier knew in his heart to be kinder than he would ever let show. That was until tonight. Jaskier took a deep breath before finally speaking. “Geralt. You’re here. Good.”

“I got your note, bard.”

“That’s good! I’m glad. Yes.”

Geralt’s brows were knotted as if he was wrapped in some complex puzzle. “You mentioned another golem. Funny. I asked the barkeep about it just now. He doesn’t seem to know anything about it.”

“Ah.” Jaskier felt that a stirring in his stomach, the nerves at what he had done, at what he was about to do, starting to truly strike at him. “That’s the thing, I suppose. Time to come clean. Actually…” He paused. Could he do it? Yes. For Geralt? For this? Anything. He steeled himself one final time and let the words flow from him. “I made it up. The whole thing. There is no second golem. I just… I just needed you to come back here.”

“You did what?”

“I made it up. Every word. Complete fakery on my part, I’m afraid.”

“Hmph.” At first, Geralt’s face was unreadable save for the ice-cold anger that seemed to set it in place. Then, after a moment’s breath, the witcher’s eyes narrowed, his gaze taking in the dressed table set for two, the fire gently burning in the hearth, candlelight glinting off silver cutlery and china plates. “Expecting other company, bard?”

Jaskier fought to keep his voice steady. “Actually it’s for you. All for you, Geralt.”

“What are you talking about? What is this?”

“The greatest horror I’m sure you’ve ever had to face. An honest conversation.”

“Hmph,” Geralt snorted again. “You’ve wasted my time once too many. I ought to run you through where you stand.”

Jaskier felt his heart pounding but fought against it, willing himself calm. “Of course,” he said, focusing all his energy on keeping his tone as level as the cold witcher’s. “Because I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you and it’s all my fault that your default reaction to anything being the slightest bit difficult is to turn and run.”

Despite himself, Geralt looked at the bard a little incredulously. “Jaskier, I fight monsters for a living. I don’t run from anything.”

“All you do is run!!” Jaskier couldn’t help his voice from raising to a shout, anger and frustration overtaking forced calm. “Fighting monsters is easy for you, its being a person that’s hard! The second you start to feel something, anything, you get up on that damned horse of yours and disappear over the nearest horizon!” Unbidden tears threatened to overwhelm his eyes’ resolve, but he carried on, the hurt and pain rolling out like a dammed river bursting. “I can see you’re annoyed, of course you’re annoyed, but that’s not from me. You look at me and you get annoyed because deep down you know what you said to me on that goddamn clifftop was… Was fucking unfair, Geralt!!”

The bard’s words hung in the silence between them, months of frustration and distance suddenly spanned by Jaskier’s bridge of accusation. Finally, Geralt spoke, his voice little more than a whisper. “You tagged along when you were not welcome. You dragged me into messes of your own making. You used my work to further your career. And you wish to talk about fairness? Damn you and your fucking lute.”

The words were like daggers in Jaskier’s chest. Was it so hard for him to apologize? For just once to admit that perhaps he had been too harsh on him?

Inside Geralt could feel two voices battling. Right now the louder of the two was his iced fury, ready to reach out and tear the fool’s head from his shoulders for wasting his time like this with such a wild goose chase. But the second voice was becoming almost as hard to ignore. It spoke without thought, without words, instead a simple, silent crescendo of longing and loneliness, its unheard yet unstoppable whispers running across the surface of his anger like red-hot rivers melting his frosty countenance. From the depths of the witcher’s heart he could sense a simple truth emerging; Jaskier was right. It had been unfair. He had yelled out in anger, in the shocking pain of losing Yennefer yet again, pain that needed a lightning rod to draw itself to, and there was Jaskier.

There was Jaskier. The bard stood staring back at him, his own eyes wild in a way that Geralt had never seen. Gone was the buffoon who talked too much and got himself into scrapes so often that it was a wonder he hadn’t yet been killed by a monster or cuckolded husband, and in his place stood a man as strong as any the witcher had faced in battle. Geralt blinked, surprised at the intensity of Jaskier’s gaze back at him. “I tried to move on, Geralt,” the bard said, voice shaking at last. “I really honestly did. But I can’t. Not while there’s so much… So much that I still need to say. So please.” Jaskier’s hands twitched, as if he were fighting the urge to clasp them together in supplication. “Please, all I ask is that you sit and you listen. And if you don’t want to hear it or you still wish to be alone at the end of it, you have my truest word I will let you be.”

Geralt blinked again. Against all instinct he could sense something in him, willing him to stay. “…Alright. I’ll hear you out.”

Jaskier felt his shoulders sag with relief, gratitude surging over the mountains of misery that had sprung up within him. “You will? You will. Thank you. Thank you, Geralt!”

“Hold your thanks, bard. I said I’d listen, that’s all.” The witcher stood where he had entered, hand still on the lintel, though it seemed to Jaskier’s eyes that had tarried over Geralt enough to know the signs, that an undeniable uncertainty had made a crack in the stoic armour of his erstwhile companion.

He gestured to the table. “Come on, if you’re going to stay at least sit down.”

Geralt stood frozen a moment longer, then, with a grunt, complied, settling himself on the opposite side of the humble table. He glanced across the setting once again, as if coldly amused by the effort on display. “So what was your plan here, that we would somehow settle our differences over supper?”

“Something like that,” Jaskier replied, taking the seat opposite. “Can I pour you some wine?”

“Sure.”

With shaking hands Jaskier poured a generous amount of cheap red into the two polished goblets. He gripped the bottle a little tighter, fighting the trembling in his fingers that threatened to send crimson liquid staining across the tablecloth. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Geralt sniffed the wine. His sharpened senses could pick out the bitter notes where the unfinished wood of the cask had seeped into fruit. Not that it mattered. In his experience the only difference between the wine on a lord’s table and the stuff in his goblet was how much bull you were willing to listen to about it.

Jaskier finally sat down opposite the witcher, hands folding in front of him. For a moment there was nothing but silence between them, the awkwardness growing with each passing second. He watched as Geralt took a long sip of wine, his gaze fixed firmly to a section of wall several meters to the bard’s left.

Another moment passed. Another sip of wine. Internally Jaskier berated himself. He’d gotten so worked up so quickly, and all his planning had been so focused on just getting Geralt in the damn room, that now he was actually here and complying his momentum had just run out on him. He’d taken the leap, and quite to his surprise it had turned out there was deep water at the bottom and he was going to have to swim.

The silence was becoming excruciating. Finally Geralt cocked an eyebrow. “Well? Are you going to say your piece or not?”

“Yes! Yes. Sorry. Just… Gathering my thoughts.” Jaskier took a deep, steadying breath. He’d started this whole evening’s performance. He could see it through. “I suppose it all started there on the cliffside. Where you…”

“Where I told you to leave.”

“Yes.” Another moment of silent recollection passed between them, as if despite the warmth of the small room they were both back on that wind-blasted hilltop, without even a final goodbye to ease the passing of their time together. “Like I said just now, it hurt, but I’ve endured your harsher side plenty of times over the years. But this time… I think… This time I think I realised that I never properly told you what our journeys meant to me.”

Geralt snorted, his face as impassive as ever. “They certainly helped line your pockets. If everyone’s tossing coins to their witcher, the bard next to him can always scrape a few off the ground.”

“You needed that song more than you know,” Jaskier bristled. “You might hate it but without that and your still just the Butcher of Blaviken!”

He was right of course. Geralt knew that, in his heart. It had done wonders for his success, to have his reputation restored in the fashion the bard had provided. He’d gone from a reaper-like menace, a mere thug with a specialty, to some kind of rugged folk hero. He was practically beloved in some corners, or at the very least begrudgingly renowned. All thanks to Jaskier. It wouldn’t hurt him to say so. A small kindness. He was worthy of that, at least. “…Fine. I admit it. I got plenty of work out of it too. But you can hardly compare what I do to your ceaseless strumming.”

“You protect, I inspire. It’s a complimentary arrangement. Was a complimentary arrangement. I’m sorry.”

Geralt studied the bard from across the table. A complimentary arrangement, huh? That was one way of putting it. He raised an eyebrow again, almost as if to tease him.

“Anyway,” Jaskier continued, stumbling to get back to his point. What was it about Geralt that could leave him so bereft of words? Nothing else had had this effect on him. “Like I said, I never got to tell you what it all meant to me. And now… The thought I wouldn’t be able to… That was just horrid, Geralt.”

“I’m here now, bard. Tell me what it all meant.” Geralt’s voice was cool and level, without a hint of emotion.

Jaskier paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. He’d tried before, in songs and stories, by flickering fires and in crowded inns, but they’d never come out right. But now, with Geralt here, actually here in front of him once more, they crystalized in beautiful simplicity. “Well… Those days… For all the ups and the downs and the danger… Those days spent travelling with you were the best days of my life.”

Geralt blinked. Honesty radiated off of Jaskier, the bard staring at him almost pleadingly as he waited for his response. It wasn’t as if it had been unpleasant, came that voice inside him once again. It wasn’t like you hated having him around. No; the opposite, really, though he was loath to admit it. And for all his faults Jaskier did seem to understand what he’d done this time was wrong, there was no doubt about that. But there was also no changing just what he had done; it was foolish and preyed on the witcher’s nature in a manner that sat wrong for Geralt. The thought threatened to harden him once again, but before it could a second thought chased it away, twice as potent in its simple truth: Just like you preyed on Jaskier’s nature to send him away.

That was it, wasn’t it? Even speaking in anger he’d known at the time that the words were perfect in their cruelty. They attacked the deepest insecurities he knew the bard carried, like arrows flying straight to the centre of the target that was Jaskier. In his anger and pain, he had allowed himself the bitter indulgence of turning it all on his most loyal companion. Jaskier was right; that was unfair of him.

He’d been running from that fact for so long, convincing himself that his self-righteous anger was justified, that he was better off on his own, that now stopping and facing it head-on was as comforting as staring down a rampaging striga. He coughed, mouth suddenly dry. “…I’m sorry too, Jaskier.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to blink in surprise. “Sorry? For what?”

“For what I said. You’re right. It was wrong. I was wrong. And for what it’s worth…” He paused, considering his next words carefully. But pausing did not make the words on his tongue any less true. What was the harm in finally saying them aloud? “For what it’s worth, I had a good time too. I miss… I miss those days too.”

Jaskier blinked again, eyes widening in surprise. The words had reached him but were still barely making sense. Geralt missed those days? Missed travelling with him? It was more of an admission than he’d dared to consider in even his wildest imaginings and yet here Geralt was, saying it aloud as if it were nothing more than a casual line. As if it the possibility it promised was nowhere to be heard.

He steadied himself as he considered his next words. This was a new side of Geralt, and he knew the witcher well enough to know that if he pushed too hard, too fast into something new he was likely to up and bolt as swiftly as he had come. “I’m… Glad to hear that,” he began, fighting to keep his voice gentle. “I wouldn’t want every memory you had to be of me tormenting you.”

His eyes fell to the table. Geralt had sat as if posing for a portrait, placing his palms flat on the cloth as he listened. It was still, poised— exactly as he’d come to expect from the witcher. Moving seemingly of its own accord his own hand moved across the table, fingers lightly drumming a nervous rhythm as if to betray the pounding of his heart. “And I am more than willing to admit that I took advantage of your loyalty,” he continued, words as carefully chosen as before. “That was wrong of me, I know. But I felt like I had no choice.” Jaskier felt his hand move just a little across the tablecloth, the lace catching at his palm just a little as it closed the gap between his and the witcher’s own resting fingers. “I was dishonest, I betrayed your trust, and I hurt your feelings. I am truly, truly sorry, Geralt.”

“Spare me the hysterics, Jaskier. I’ve told you before, Witchers don’t have feelings.” Somehow the words sounded hollow even to Geralt.

“Bullshit. You feel everything. You feel it more, even.”

“Don’t talk like you know me, bard.”

Jaskier moved his hand a little more, his fingers brushing just the edge of Geralt’s, frozen still upon the wood of the table. “But I do know you,” he said, his voice little more than a pleading whisper. “Better than most, I might add. I’ve seen the good and the bad in you, Geralt. In fact, I’ve seen some of the worst. Perhaps,” he added, with a wry smile, “due in no small part to my own annoyances.”

The witcher’s lip curled just a little. The moment seemed to stretch out between them, a quiet spell cast upon contact, the distance of months finally bridged.

Geralt opened his mouth to speak but before he could utter a word there was a sturdy knock at the door. It burst open to reveal the innkeeper, red-faced and sweating under his generous moustache, arms laden with a tray of steaming meat and vegetables. “Now sirs, I mean no ‘arm interuptin’ ye, jus’ thought you’d be wantin’ yer supper so.”

Jaskier’s hand flew from Geralt’s, the magic spell broken in an instant. He jumped back to his feet, hurrying to the innkeeper’s side. “Yes, yes, thank you. Perfect timing.” He cursed internally but helped the man, taking the tray from him and moving it towards the table, doing his best to ignore the way the skin of his fingers seemed still to burn from where they had grazed Geralt’s. “Do you mind?” Geralt grunted, shifting plates and candles aside to make room for the high-piled tray. Jaskier sat it down, the table groaning slightly under the new weight. “Thanks.”

“Will ye be wanting more wine, sirs,” the innkeeper called across to Jaskier.

The bard shook his head. “No, no thanks, we’re all fine here.” Get out, he thought, get out and leave us alone for Gods’ sake.

As if sensing the bard’s anxiety at his presence the innkeeper huffed once and turned on his heel. “As you say, sir, as you say.” He disappeared, the door swinging back shut as he stomped his way back down the stairs to the hubbub of the taproom below.

Jaskier looked over the tray of food to Geralt. His companion’s face was impassive as he took in the feast set before them. “It’s…

“A lot of food,” Geralt finished, his voice tinged, if Jaskier wasn’t imagining, with just a hint of amusement.

“Rather more than I’d planned, yes.”

“Do you mean to fill me like a goose? Make a pate of me to spread on your morning toast?”

Jaskier blinked. Geralt was joking with him. Genuinely, openly joking. “I’m not sure the flavour would be all that pleasant,” he replied quickly, not wanting the sudden change in tone to stop. “I don’t want to imagine just how you’ve marinated under those leathers all these years.”

“Hmph. Sure you’ve picked up plenty of stench from your own escapades, bard.”

“Perhaps my fair share.” A moment’s silence fell between them as each considered the other. How long had it been since that quiet corner in that no-name bar? Enough that Jaskier had lost count of grey hairs plucked and new lines on his forehead. He’d kept young as best he could but Geralt may as well have been cast in granite for all that they had seen. Time had run off of him like water off of rock, leaving as much impression as a dream forgotten on waking.

Geralt could sense his heart stirring just a little as he looked back at Jaskier. Damn it. Even now, despite himself the bard knew how to make him smile. He shifted his shoulders under his armour. It was a little warm with it on in here, and it wasn’t like there was any immediate dangers…

With a final decisive exhalation of breath, the witcher stood and began to unbuckle the straps holding the sheets of leather and chainmail to his body. Jaskier’s eyes widened. “What… what are you doing?”

“It’s not like I need armour if all we’re doing is talking. Besides,” Geralt said, another slight smile teasing the corner of his lips despite himself, “if you do decide to make an attempt at my life with the cutlery I think I can take you either way.”

Jaskier watched as the leather fell away revealing the simple cotton jerkin and taut britches beneath. Dark marks where the witcher had sweated into the fabric only served to accentuate the physicality of the man, the potential of those muscles that moved so pleasingly as he watched. Even the overwhelming scent of rosemary and thyme wafting off the food was not enough to stop Jaskier from catching the old familiar smell of Geralt’s skin. Musk and woodsmoke, salt and soil, as deep with mystery as a lost grove at the heart of a darkened forest. Just a breath of it and he was back on the road again, the pair of them camped out under distant twinkling stars. Alone with each other. He hadn’t had comfortable beds or sweet wines, but he had Geralt. And that had been all he’d wanted. All he would ever want.

Geralt glanced back over his shoulder at the bard watching him, mouth slightly open. “You’ll catch flies like that, bard.” In two more movements his gloves were pulled off, the pale skin of his rugged calloused hands seeming to glow in the candlelight.

Jaskier caught himself, snapping his lips shut before he could start to drool. “Sorry,” he mumbled, still dazed from the sight before him. “You, uh, caught me off-guard.”

“That makes two of us,” Geralt replied, finally returning to his seat. His golden eyes, still as startling to Jaskier as the first time they had stared back into his, watched him levelly from across their supper. The witcher studied him as if appraising him like a jeweller with a rare stone. Or a wolf with a choice piece of meat. The though caught Jaskier just as unaware as Geralt’s scent had, crashing through his already-shaken mind like an out-of-control haycart.

Jaskier blinked and shook his head slightly, forcing himself back into the present moment. In need of distraction he turned his attention to the feast before them, grabbing a carving knife that the innkeeper had kindly though to leave beside the roasted bird. “Um. Shall I carve?”

“Sure.”

The knife’s edge was imperfect, dulled in places so that it made ragged work of each slice, not helped of course by Jaskier’s shaking hands. After what felt like agonizing minutes, he finally had two plates of meat and vegetables assembled, the juices from the roast making a thin sauce. He handed a plate to Geralt, smiling apologetically. “Sorry about that. Not exactly the suave demonstration I was hoping for.”

Geralt half-smiled back at him, sharp eyes softened in the gentle light. “I was tempted to get my sword. Seemed like quite a beast to wrestle with.”

“I’ll be sure to compose a ballad to its slaying.”

“Maybe leave out the part where it was already dead.”

“Of course, how else could you come riding gallantly in to save me once again?”

Geralt caught the chuckle in his throat before it tumbled free, burying it in a brief cough and a mouthful of sour wine. What was this? How was it possible that the months had fallen away so quickly? It was as if they were living once more in the past, already joking, and teasing back and forth. The roadside bonfire had been replaced by candlesticks and the hunted game by the inn’s offerings but the spark, the flare of something different that made the bard bearable was the same as it had ever been.

No; not bearable. A joy. Geralt furrowed his brow at the thought, feeling it creep through him. It was just so, wasn’t it? Jaskier was a joy. And it wasn’t in spite of the scrapes he inevitably had to pulled from; it wasn’t in spite of the way he refused to take his warnings seriously; it wasn’t even in spite of the way he could so easily get a rise out of him like only Yennefer on her worst days could. They were all part of it. There was separating him down into his component parts, you either loved all of it or none of it. And for Geralt it was all of it.

He froze at the realization. Love. That was a new word, one that had never crossed his mind when thinking of Jaskier before. But then, Jaskier had always been there. He’d never had to think about what he felt. He was just there, a comforting presence, as much a part of his day to day life as his leather armour or the weight of his swords on his back. Geralt glowered down at the plate of food in front of him as if some answer to this new troublesome thought could be divined from the swirls in the meat juices, but any secrets the sauce may have held evaporated like so much steam off a good meal.

Jaskier caught the look on the frowning witcher’s face. “Oh, something wrong with the meal?” His voice was teasing again, still riding the high of discovering this new, softer Geralt. “I know it wasn’t the most elegant of cut-jobs but it should still be edible, right?”

“Jaskier.” Geralt had changed again, his shoulders seeming to freeze while his eyes remained locked on the plate of food. “All these… Feelings of yours. It sounds like…” He drifted off, seemingly unsure of what to say. This was strange, even for Geralt. Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen the witcher at a loss for words before. His voice was strange, all at once back to its sharp, cutting tones, and yet, just like carving knife, seemed dull in places, as likely to catch on the shape of what he wished to say as to slice yet another gulley through the bard’s heart.

“Sounds like what, Geralt?”

Once again, silence fell between them. Even the noises around them seemed to quieten in the moment stretching agonizingly between them, the crackle of the fire, the voices from the bar bellow, the crunch of gravel and shouts of night-birds, all fading away so that all remained was the unbroken stillness, a hundred thousand unspoken words silently whispered in their hearts.

Slowly, moving in inches, Geralt raised his head to meet the bard’s pleading gaze. His features were a mix of confusion and something Jaskier hadn’t truly seen before; simply, undeniable fear. Geralt was afraid. “Geralt…” Hardly daring to breathe, Jaskier stood, getting up from the table.

With a tinkle of cutlery the witcher followed suit, quickly rising as if readying to run. “This was a mistake, Jaskier. I should go.”

“Don’t you dare!” Jaskier moved closer to Geralt, putting himself between the witcher and the door. “It wasn’t a mistake. You needed to hear this and I think you needed to say your piece too. I know there’s more you want to say, so say it. While I’m here to hear it.”

Geralt glowered back at him then lowered his eyes, as if looking at Jaskier would stop the words in his mouth. “Just that… The road wasn’t the same without you walking it beside me.”

Jaskier could hear the words between that Geralt could not say. The shaking threatened to return but he quelled it, willing his voice to remain steady as he replied. “I would gladly walk it with you again. If you would have me.” He took a step closer, his body seemingly dwarfed by the witcher’s broad frame. “Where you would go, I’d gladly go also. Your loyal companion to the end.”

His words filled Geralt’s heart, threatening to undo him. “And what if there is more to say, further along the road? What do we do then?”

Jaskier half-smiled. Letting himself be bold, he pressed a hand to the witcher’s chest. The powerful thud of Geralt’s heart thundered ponderously against his flat palm. “Then… We’ll just do what we have always done best. Say it all. Fight, talk, laugh.” He stared wide-eyed into Geralt’s face. “And in the end we’ll figure it out together.”

Geralt gazed back down at the bard, so close now that he could taste his sweetened breath, his perfume filling Geralt’s senses. “…Alright.” His voice was little more than a murmur. “I can do that.” A lock of Jaskier’s hair had sprung out of the carefully lain arrangement he’d clearly combed it into. Moving slowly he reached up and gentle moved it back, tucking it back behind the bard’s ear. His hand felt heavy, as if it had been transformed to lead by some alchemist’s trickery. He held it there, palm close to Jaskier’s cheek, the bard eye’s half-closed, lips open just a little as if to speak. But there was nothing more to say.

The inches between them now felt like canyons. Did he dare to cross them?

For just a moment longer he paused. It would change everything. It could all go wrong again. He could be a cruel, callous fool, speak in anger and ruin it all once more. But Jaskier’s lips, so soft in the candlelight and so close now, seemed to call out to him, an undeniable force. In his heart the witcher knew that to resist would be one fight he had already lost. Would always lose. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, the distance between them shrinking until at last…

Their lips met, gentle, unsure. Then Jaskier sighed and leaned into the kiss, his body pressing against Geralt’s as the witcher wrapped his powerful arms about him. They both gasped at the rising intensity, hands gripping each other’s clothes as if wishing to tear it away, freeing their bodies to be even closer. At last, after what felt like minutes, they broke apart, eyes closed panting, foreheads still resting against one another. “Geralt…”

“Jaskier.”

But there was no more need for words. They kissed again, more certain this time, passion overwhelming them both as they explored each other, the world outside, the bar downstairs and even the room in which they stood melting away in the heat of the moment.

***

The cold, gold-tinged light of morning crept through the blinds of the private room. Illuminated in a shaft of dawn, Jaskier sat on the edge of the table, the lute strung across his bare chest. His hands rested for a moment on the strings as he took in the gentle rousing of the day. A cockerel crowing on a distant farm. The crunch of gravel under the horseshoes of dawn riders. Low voices of those perhaps only just making it home now. And there in the room with him the low bass rumbles of a witcher’s snores.

He’d forgotten the strange comfort that came with those rumbles. It was somehow a promise of safety; if Geralt was ready to sleep so deeply and soundly surely there could be no threat nearby.

Gently so as not to wake him, Jaskier moved his hands along the strings of the lute, the faint whine of the gut under his skin pricking the edge of the peaceful air. Then, just as gently, he began to play. His fingers as if without command began to pluck out that same strange new melody he’d been chasing for so long now, at first unsteady and unsure but quickening with each strum. The chorus came towards him, the chords that had surprised him before now singing out with perfect clarity, like they’d always been there. But this time he played on. The chords moved, progressed, until the melody returned in a beautiful refrain, the same pattern repeated but subtly changed, as if the story told had moved forward just a little. On and on he played, the song filling his heart and mind like no melody had in years, until at last with a final repeat of that perfect chorus it came to a sweet,

Jaskier blinked. There was water on his cheeks. He was crying. He hadn’t even noticed. Quickly he grabbed a cloth from the table, rubbing his eyes and face clear of tears. As the music drifted away he realised his companion’s snores had ceased. He turned to see Geralt stirring, murmuring from the bed. “Hmm. Don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

Jaskier smiled. “It’s something I’ve been working on for a while. It was touch and go for a while there, but now…” He turned back towards Geralt, letting his eyes linger across the tangled sheets caught around the witcher’s muscular form. He smiled again, heart lighter than it had been in months. “Now I think it might just be something.”

[meereens]

a dream of spring rarepairs week - day 2: children

A little foster brother might be just what Tommen needs to wean him away from Margaery and her hens. In time they might grow as close as Robert and his boyhood friend Ned Stark.

9

On Tommen’s ninth nameday, Mother stuffs him into a spring green Essosi doublet with a gold thread lion in the center. The lion is supposed to have two rubies for eyes, but one must have fallen out somewhere along the way—look, Mother, he’s winking—and Mother goes out into the hall to sternly talk at some maid until he hears a muffled sob. Her cheeks are splotched with red when she returns, red as lost rubies, and Tommen casts his gaze downward. His poor one-eyed lion is less frightening. Mother holds his shoulder like a plump mouse in a claw.

“Thieves in Maegor’s Holdfast,” she seethes, digging in her nails. “Were Maegor still master here, those little sneaks would have their eyes put out and their innards broiled for their treachery.” 

“What did you say to her?”

“To whom?”

“The...our servant?” 

“Servant no longer,” Mother tells him as her hands move to his laces. “Dorcas! Fetch us something green or gold, with gems sewn in. We cannot have the king playing the pauper on his special day.” 

The large woman standing behind a screen for his privacy silently shuffles over to his wardrobe while Mother rips him out of his clothes. The lion splits open, loosening the garment, and he holds up his arms so she can wiggle it over his head. 

“You must especially look your best to meet Lady Merryweather’s present.”

That excites Tommen. Meeting means something to make friends with, something to have and to hold like a—

“Is it a kitten?” There can never be too many kittens in the Red Keep. 

“No, but you will play together.” 

Tommen pouts at that. It will probably be a cuddly rabbit or a little puppy that will grow into a fearsome hound, animals that are lovable enough but cannot capture his heart in the same vein as cats. Margaery understands, he thinks. The doublet Dorcas comes back with is gold, with slashed sleeves, pearl buttons, and garnets lining the neck and shoulders in a crescent shape. His lion had more character, this he knows, but Mother seems at least more pleased than she was before, so he wears it down to the tourney held for his day. 

And what a tourney. Joff’s—his heart does a sad little flip whenever he’s reminded of Joff—was pure fun since they put an enemy straw man out for him to batter, but it was a shame they chose to hold it behind castle walls instead of outside by the bubbling of the river and the chirps of baby birds in trees. His is along the Blackwater, as it should be, and all the Tyrells come out to greet him first in varying shades of green. Margaery’s gown is the palest mint, her hair worn loose with a circlet of cloth buttercups on top. Buttercup would be a good name for a cat. She smiles and takes his arm, but as they are about to ascend to their seats, Mother says, “Lady Merryweather, don’t we have a guest for the royal box?”

All eyes turn to Mother’s friend, standing near the back of the rapidly growing group. An olive-skinned boy smaller than him peers out from behind her skirts. 

“Russell, go on and introduce yourself to His Grace.”

The boy rushes forward, punches off the ground, then flips before landing neatly at Tommen’s feet. He is too stunned to respond, much less clap for him. Mother does, prompting a few ladies to follow in her example. Russell kneels, and he notices how bushy his hair is, thick black tufts that stick out at every possible angle. He looks to Margaery for what to say, but her face is set in the same soft smile. 

“From this day on, Russell will be the Crown’s fosterling,” Mother announces in a regal voice. This time, everybody claps. 

11 

Russell’s nameday is today, and he keeps on reminding Tommen that he has to tumble for him the way he did for his ninth. 

“I was six and I had more skill in my pinky toe than you do now,” he boasts, puffing up his chest like a proud bird about to shit over a parapet. He taught him that expression, foul mouth included. He always wants to teach him things, from how to tumble to how to lie without bursting into tears to how to start a fight in Flea Bottom and come out scratchless. Half of what Russell claims he’s done when they’re not training sounds like something out of a fable; Lann the Clever’s natural son born thousands of years too late. 

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll box you on the nose,” he teases.

“Not fair—it’s too big a target.” 

His nose can charitably be called a lightly beaten potato; Tommen was shocked to discover nobody broke it. Grinning, he pulls his companion by the arm and leads him through winding stone corridors, their feet pounding at such a pace that Ser Loras has to run along to play his role as Kingsguard. Russell’s luck struck again when it came time to choose a mentor, since Mother wouldn’t allow the Knight of Flowers to serve as his. “But Ser Loras is my favorite,” he said when she revealed Ser Addam Marbrand would be his knight instead. “Favorites change,” she said.

My favorites never will. He almost misses the Queen’s Ballroom, backing up into Russell as they skid to a halt. 

“Are you holding a ball for me?” he launches into asking. “No—a feast?”

It must be hard for him, not knowing. Even worse, being the only one who doesn’t know. He is the first to whisper did you hear when they break their fast together, followed by an enticing rumor he hopes is not true or a tale so outrageously wild he hopes it is.

“No,” Tommen says as Ser Loras opens the doors. “We’re holding court.”

Inside, thick woolen carpets have been placed on the floor, and tapestries of contented animals lounging in meadows and forests cover the walls. There are three large chairs side-by-side, like he asked for, and Margaery sits in the rightmost with a cream kitten on her lap.

The kittens. Everywhere, the kittens. Clawing at loose threads in the wool, or curled up to nap, kittens litter the ground like snow in Winterfell. Each of Margaery’s ladies holds one, waiting dutifully in a line facing the thrones, while servants scoop up more balls of fluff with cradling hands. Grown cats prowl the ballroom as well, though there are fewer in their ranks. A velvet-capped bard strums a jolly tune as two striped ones twine about his ankles. The overall effect is the closest thing to paradise Tommen can imagine; Russell’s mouth is agape. 

“You...you didn’t.” 

“I did!”

Margaery claps twice. “Presenting the Court of Cats!” 

“You know I don’t like them,” Russell groans, but follows him through the horde regardless. 

“You will.” 

His friend has never had an appreciation for cats, holding his pets at a distance when Tommen brings them in to play or pretending they make him sniffle and sneeze. When pressed, he gives a flimsy excuse like I don’t understand them. 

That ends here today. Once Russell finds a cat to fall in love with, his doubts will melt away like rain. He knows they will; it is even surer than his father’s kingly blood running through his heart.

“If this is the Court of Cats, does that make you the king of cats?” 

He giggles as he takes the left chair. “Perhaps, though you’re the guest of honor. Sit!” 

Megga Tyrell presents first, hoisting a white kitten with a black face up for all to see. 

“Darling,” says Margaery.

“Adorable,” says Tommen.

“Looks like it dipped itself in soot,” mutters Russell. 

The king and queen exchange a look. “On to the next, then.” 

And so it goes. Every time a kitten is presented, even if the Mother’s most perfectly crafted creation, Russell manages to find fault with it. Some are mewling too much, or might as well be mute. Some have too much softness to their limbs, or are too scrawny. Some have tasseled ears that look silly, or their ears are too plain. Once he dismisses an exquisite silver kitten with pale green eyes because it reminds him of another cat that stole a piece of bread. Margaery’s ladies wilt one by one, letting their offerings back onto the floor to search for new ones that will undoubtedly get rejected also. The Court of Cats seems more and more pointless when—

“Shoo! Get out! This isn’t your place, you mangy beast!” 

One of the servants is trying to drive a dirty yellow cat away from the others. She kicks it with her foot, but it dives back between her heels, almost causing her to trip. 

“What’s going on there?” Russell calls out. 

The woman swoops down and catches the cat, who struggles madly from between her brawny arms. 

“Apologies, m’lord, this one must’ve snuck in. I’ll throw it out right away.” 

“No, bring it here. I want to see.”

Tommen eyes the proceedings with new interest. The intruder is uglier than the bad cat that used to visit his window at night, sporting a crooked, scowling jaw and missing its left eye. 

“He’s a pirate cat,” Russell declares. “He lost his eye at sea.” 

“It sounds like you like him,” he says.

“I don’t like him—I respect him.” 

“That is a good start, is it not?” asks Margaery.

The cat seems to think not, as he starts yowling at the top of his lungs. 

“His name is Buttercup,” Russell says, and the king of cats cannot contain his glee. 

15

He is almost sixteen. Almost a man grown, and feeling half a boy. Lady Olenna pulled him aside in the garden the other day to insinuate about performing husbandly duties, which he knows he has to get around to doing sooner or later. But why not later rather than sooner? Margaery is three-and-twenty, in the bloom of her childbearing years, still fecund if they wait until he is eighteen or nineteen or twenty, and he is the king. 

He has to remind himself he is the king. At the small council earlier, murmurings arose that the Queen of Meereen was planning to make her way across the narrow sea and reclaim what she believed to be her birthright. Russell’s father, his Hand for the past few years, fumbled around the issue before admitting they were woefully unprepared should dragonfire chance to rain down upon King’s Landing. 

That has been my week—fire and bloodlines. 

He cannot imagine any two things less appealing to think about. Ser Pounce, Boots, and Lady Whiskers trail him into the royal apartments, sticking their tails up at Ser Boros as they glide past. His bedchamber is a welcome sight, made more so by Russell tickling a surly Buttercup on the bed. 

“From rags to the royal bedchamber,” he says when he catches sight of him. “This cat has the life bards dream of.”

“And what of your life?” Tommen asks as he sits by them. Buttercup hisses and slides off to lurk beneath. 

“My life? I am the king’s dearest friend, of course! I whisper poison in your ear and thus I am well contented.”

“You do not.” 

They stare at one another, until Russell goes cross-eyed and sticks his tongue out of the side of his mouth. Laughter bubbles from Tommen’s throat, spreading to the corners of his eyes and falling down as tears. When it dies down, he feels a sudden emptiness.

“I am glad our mothers made us friends.”

Russell snorts. “Our mothers didn’t make us do anything, no more than you made me adopt my Buttercup.” 

“It seems like everybody is making me do things. My mother, the small council, even Margaery, sometimes. I am—I wish we could go be pirates.”

He feels the impact of arms being thrown around him immediately after he says it, the hug as instantly comfortable as it is crushing. “My poor king of cats,” Russell whispers. “They mean to take you away from me.”

I am king, Tommen thinks. But that does not mean he is free.

[spaceshipsarecool]

Two Words

Happy Birthday @poppyssupergirl​!!! I hope you are having a fabulous day and that you are getting all the cake and ice cream and whatever else you could so desire <3

Here is a little fic for you, I hope you enjoy!

////////////////

Cat tapped her fingers along the edge of her desk, lips pursed in a thin line as her eyes skimmed over the fresh new Superman interview splattered across the front page. It was aimed at her, of course. Metropolis hadn’t had a major incident in a while and Lois had conducted so many interviews with the Man of Steel over the years that there could be no other reason for another one now.

Normally, Cat preferred to keep up with The Daily Planet from a distance, going so far as to have her IT Hobbit install special software on all her devices that would allow her to surf the online articles without adding to the click count, but every year on the anniversary of her departure from that paper she walked to the corner store and purchased a hard copy. And every year it felt like a victory; knowing that despite all the ‘Good Old Boys’ had done to keep her down, she had risen above. Cat had never had Lois’ charm, that something quality that let Lois smooth her way through the ranks, and in those days the Planet’s newsroom hadn’t been the place for a woman like Cat to charge ahead. So she had left and charged ahead on her own, and every year on this date she bought the paper to remind herself of just how far she had come.

This year should have been another sweeping victory, only she had had one too many martinis at the awards show last month and let the details of her ritual slip to Lois, and now instead of looking down at some mundane, hacked-together article from one of the usual lesser beings the paper employed, she was faced with this approximation of what Lois clearly thought was a good joke. And it would have been, Cat could admit that, if the players had been reversed. But in the months since Supergirl had surfaced, Cat had only managed to snag one interview with the girl. One, as compared to the three, no four—it was right there in the print, the entire article dedicated to Superman’s remembrances of his first year wearing the cape—interviews Lois had had in that same span of time. Those early months had secured a place for Lois’s name right next to Superman’s for the rest of time. And Cat was falling behind.

Her phone rang as she reached the last sentence, and she hit the ���accept’ button before she fully registered who it was.

“Cat, darling, I wanted to congratulate you on your anniversary. Did you get my present?” There was a smugness in that tone, but something else as well, an almost playful quality that very few people would have recognized.

“Really, Lois?” Cat settled the paper on her lap, pulling off her glasses and tossing them back into the pile with the others. “Were you so desperate for my attention that you dragged Superman out of the sky just so you could get one over on me?”

“Please, I’ve been over you plenty of times in the past. Under you too, if memory serves, and neither of us were complaining then.” Despite herself Cat felt the corners of her lips start to twitch, and she hastily spun her chair around in case any of her employees dared to glance into her office. Most of them could read lips, and she didn’t need it to get out that her public rivalry with Lois Lane was actually based on a private, far less antagonistic relationship born from their mutual love of competition. “Besides,” Lois continued, “I hardly had to drag Superman from the sky. He was perfectly happy to do the interview from my bed.”

“I’m sure,” Cat’s voice was still dry, but her movements were gentle as she smoothed down the edge of the paper with her free hand. “And how is that farmboy of yours? Still glad you took up with him now that his more attractive cousin has appeared on the scene?”

“Clark is fine.” Lois ignored the barb. “He says to let you know the article was entirely my idea and to please not take it out on him next time you see each other. He’s still a little afraid of you after the cheese puff incident.”

Cat hmmed, noncommittal in case Clark was listening in. It was always good to let a little of that fear linger, you never knew when you might need an extra superhero in your pocket.

“But seriously, Cat,” Lois’ voice softened. “Congratulations. I looked up CatCo’s stock price last night and it was almost enough to make me wish I had come with you when you asked.”

Cat closed her eyes, her fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around her phone. She had broken every other anniversary she had ever had. Not on her own, but she wasn’t blameless in her four failed marriages. Yet for all that, when it came to this job, to her passion, for all the times when it would have been easier to give up and crawl back to The Daily Planet or any other established newspaper, she never had.

“Thank you, Lois,” she finally allowed a smile to blossom fully across her face. “But you know, as much as I appreciate your little joke with the article, if you really wanted to get me something, you should send Supergirl my way. Just tell her not to fly off with my car again. As impressive as that was, I was hardly in a position to watch the show and afterwards I had to drive myself home from that cliff. Do you have any idea how aggravating that was? I haven’t driven myself anywhere in years.”

Lois’s answering laugh was light, and so different from the way most people dared to act with Cat. “So would you rather she just picked you up and carried you bridal style? In all honesty, she probably needed the car as a buffer. You have been known to be somewhat intimidating on occasion.”

Cat’s smile turned smug even as she pushed on. “If you’re trying to divert me with compliments, Lois, it won’t work. Unless you want your Hanukkah gift this year to be tickets to the revival of Jekyll & Hyde, you better give me something.”

There was an audible gasp of horror on the other end, and Cat rolled her eyes.

“Alright, alright, sitting through that monstrosity once was enough. But I can’t just tell her to go see you. For one, she actually liked that show and wouldn’t understand the dire nature of your threat. And two, you don’t really want me to make it easy on you, do you? The Cat Grant I know and love wouldn’t be able to appreciate an interview with Supergirl unless she had to work for it herself. I’ll give you a hint, that’s all.” Lois paused, but Cat stayed quiet, letting the silence carry her waiting judgement. “Ok, then. If you want to talk to Supergirl, all you have to do, is think ‘mushrooms.’”

///////////////

“Mushrooms,” Cat muttered to herself as she slashed her red pen liberally over the CatCo magazine proofs. It had been a week since the phone call. Seven days, and she had been stubbornly refusing to act on something as ridiculous as the ‘hint’ Lois had so graciously give her. In truth, she wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t an elaborate prank, a continuation of Lois’s article joke, but as her pen hovered over yet another secondhand account of Supergirl’s heroics, Cat felt herself wavering.

Sales were still up, but Cat wasn’t so naive as to think that would last. Humans had an unbelievable capacity to adjust and explain away the spectacular, and without regular reminders to stop and smell the roses, as it were, even Supergirl would become old hat. Soon, simply relaying Supergirl’s activities wouldn’t be good enough anymore. Cat needed more.

“Fine. We’ll do it your way, Lois, but so help me god…” Cat put down the pen after one final stroke, already half-regretting her decision even as her mind was moving on to the next step.

It couldn’t be as simple as just eating the damn things, but Cat was hardly desperate enough to dress up in a costume and do some elaborate dance on the top of her building. She could have someone at The Tribune write an article or two about mushrooms, but what if Supergirl went to that person instead of Cat? What was it that would really get Supergirl’s attention? A mushroom garden? A giant mushroom light beamed into the sky like that thoroughly inefficient contraption they used in Gotham?

Two hours, an impulse jewelry purchase, and several google searches on mushroom costumes later, Cat was finally willing to admit that she was overthinking it. Sometimes her own brilliance got in the way when she was trying to function on a simpler level, and when that happened, she was never any good at re-regulating herself. She needed to talk to someone else with a fresh mind. Someone who would think the same way as Supergirl. Someone with that same light and smile. Someone… Cat’s eyes fell across her assistant working diligently at her desk outside Cat’s office.

“Kiera!” The name was out of her mouth in an instant, and it was only another more before the girl was standing in front of her, attentive and eager as always.

“Miss Grant?”

Cat tilted her head, ignoring the small bolt of pleasure that shot through her core at the sight, and she forced herself to assess Kara critically. She really was the perfect person to ask about this; Kara tried to see good in everyone, which in its own way was almost as inspiring as any number of Supergirl’s traits. If Cat thought about it more, she was even sure she would be able to think of several other overlapping qualities… like those arms, for instance, and what Cat assumed they would look like if Kara ever took off those hideous cardigans.

“Supergirl, Cat. Focus!” She pulled her mind back to the task at hand.

“Tell me, Kiera, what does someone like you think of when you hear the word, ‘mushrooms?’”

Kara’s fingers, which had been drifting loosely over her ipad, ready to take notes or call up whatever information Cat might need, froze, and Kara’s eyes widened beyond what should have been humanly possible as a blush started to spread across her face.

Well, that was interesting. Cat leaned in and studied Kara more intently—only to figure out what was causing that reaction of course, not for any other reason. The only thing she could think of was that the fungi might be part of some new slang she wasn’t aware of, but she was at least fairly confident that between the two of them, if either of them was to be out of the loop on idioms it would be Kara. So it couldn’t be that, but then what?

“Kiera, did you hear me. I asked-”

“Noonan’s makes an excellent Three-Mushroom Pie,” Kara blurted out, her blush somehow deepening. “I know it’s not exactly what you’re used to eating, but I would be pleased to procure it for your lunch. I mean…” Kara faltered, ducking her head as she realized that she had cut Cat off mid-sentence. “I-if you wanted, that is, Miss Grant…”

Cat opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat as Kara risked a glance up, piercing blue eyes searching Cat’s face in a mixture of nervousness and hope, and suddenly there was a fluttering butterfly feeling in her stomach and she felt the tips of her fingers twitch with some inane desire to reach out.

“Stop it, Cat. You’re just getting excited about Supergirl. Now focus!” she inwardly berated herself. She was more than capable of admitting that her assistant was beautiful, and even that on occasion Kara seemed to possess an alarming astuteness and competence that was oddly appealing, but Cat was a fully grown, independent woman in complete control of her facilities. And those facilities did not allow for her to get sidetracked when a story was on the line.

“I suppose that doesn’t sound awful.” Cat found her voice, waving her hand dismissively and busying herself by looking down at non-existent work. She would give it a few days. Perhaps she had been wrong about food being too simple after all. So just a few days to try this approach… a few days that had nothing to do with the breathy “Yes, Miss Grant. Thank you!” Kara offered on her way out.

///////////////////

Kara was doing it again, looking at her, and it was making Cat feel both very warm and entirely too frantic at the same time. It was not at all a customary state for her to be in, yet she couldn’t seem to be able to bring herself to do anything to stop it.

In the month since that first meal, Cat had had nothing but different mushroom themed lunches every workday since. She had meant to switch to a new approach after four days, five at the most, but that plan had been thwarted by the growing scourge in her side that was Kara Danvers. When day five had come and gone with no Supergirl, Cat had been on the verge of ordering her customary lettuce wrap the next day, only to have Kara flounce in with her eyes all aglow.

And they had been glowing, or at least, with Kara standing in the light just so they seemed to be, and Cat’s inquiring mind had gotten so caught up in trying to figure out how that was happening, that she had taken the paper Kara had handed her and nodded along with her words without realizing what she was doing. It was only later—once she had firmly decided that it was the light reflecting off the new crystal drinking glasses she had acquired that had given Kara that extra shine—that she had bothered to read the paper and realize that it was a lunch schedule for the next three months.

Which was how she had gotten here, spending another lunch trying to choke down a mushroom souffle, while Kara was once again not so subtly peering at her through the glass walls with a beaming smile painted across her face.

“Just tell her you want something else. She’s your assistant, dammit. It’s easy.” But was it? Because Kara seemed very pleased with herself. In fact, each time she delivered Cat’s lunch tray her demeanor was akin to what Cat imagined a caveman must look like after successfully procuring some offering to bring back to his mate. Not that Cat thought she was Kara’s mate, or that Kara thought that, but Cat was all about encouraging women, and in the age of a female superhero, how could she squash the blossoming confidence that came each time Cat accepted another dish?

Especially because she was getting to see glimpses of a rare pride in Kara as well. Each day the tray became slightly more elaborate, and where once her food was delivered in a tidy, but simple method, now her napkins were folded into beautiful origami birds, and out of nowhere her metal utensils developed unique and intricate patterning that changed every day. When Cat had commented on the beautiful work last week, Kara’s shoulders had pushed back, and instead of the shy blush Cat had been expecting, she had been faced with an almost regal—a descriptor she never would have thought to apply to her assistant before—nod as Kara took the compliment head on.

Not that any of that really mattered. Kara coming into her own was a nice bonus, but Supergirl was the primary objective, and just because Cat had been willing to switch to a new tactic after a few days, didn’t mean this one wasn’t still working in a way that she wasn’t aware of.

Glancing at her assistant again, Cat’s stomach lurched as she realized she had paused too long between bites and a small frown had formed on Kara’s lips. Hastily, she scooped up another forkful and shoved it in her mouth. It did the trick, Kara’s face smoothing out again, and Cat had just a moment to be grateful she had caught it before The Crinkle(™) could make an appearance, when her actions caught up with her.

“It’s just because of Supergirl,” she tried. “Come on, Cat. You know all about displacement. Supergirl hadn’t come yet, so you’re focusing all your attentions on Kara.” She nodded to herself, putting every ounce of her remaining authority into accepting that argument as truth.

But she still needed to get through the rest of the meal. While objectively she could admit that the dish was good, her body was craving variety, and there was no way she could finish this. And then Kara would think she didn’t lik- and then that could throw off the Supergirl plan.

“Kiera!” Cat yelled the name before Kara could frown again, and used the second it took for Kara arrive in front of her to compose herself.

“Miss Grant?”

“There’s another plate around somewhere, isn’t there?” She had a nagging feeling she was about to make things worse, but Cat brushed it aside. Logically this should work. And Cat always went with logic over something as flawed and misleading as emotion. “I need you to work late tonight, but we may not have time for a dinner break later. I’ve seen how much you eat, grab a plate and take some of this so I won’t have to listen to your stomach growl later on.”

Ok yes, Cat saw it now. It was definitely a mistake. Her words, while they did get her out of eating the entire thing, could almost be construed as caring, and Kara was… Kara was… Cat swallowed. Kara was looking at her like she was the sun and the moon and the stars, and for a brief moment, that expression was almost enough to make Cat believe that she was.

/////////////////////

Cat’s initial assessment that it had been a mistake turned out to be true, only somehow it was a mistake Cat kept making again and again over the next two months. Because Kara was smart, and caring, and funny. When Kara laughed, in the almost privacy of what had become their shared lunch ritual, it reminded Cat of Lois; the kind of carefree laughter she shared with her once lover, now closest friend, that was without fear or ulterior motive.

But Kara was also shy, she still blushed if Cat caught her at the right moment. And she was strong, standing up to Cat and pushing back more than she ever had before as she soaked in all Cat had to teach her. And she was hurt. Cat didn’t know how she hadn’t seen it before, the sadness that lurked behind Kara’s eyes, echos of a loss Kara could never quite get over. Each time she saw it, it pulled at Cat, part of her wishing Kara had never had to experience whatever it was that had caused her such pain, while another part, the selfish part, was almost glad for it because of the role it had played in turning Kara into this complex, utterly astonishing person she was today.

Which was why Cat had to let her go, because clearly Kara was ready for bigger and better things than being Cat’s assistant. It definitely wasn’t related to the way Cat’s heart fluttered when Kara graced her with a smile, or the very unprofessional thoughts that had recently had the audacity to invade her dreams.

“And it’s distracting you from Supergirl,” she reminded herself, watching impatiently as the numbers on the elevator panel rose, bringing her closer and closer to her destination. “You remember Supergirl, don’t you Cat? Alien from another planet? Flies around? Still hasn’t given you a second interview?”

Cat did remember Supergirl, for all that nowadays Cat couldn’t help but think that perhaps it was Supergirl that shared some similarities with Kara, and not the other way around.

Because it was Kara’s smile on Supergirl’s face that news cameras captured after an incident. It was Kara’s kindness that Supergirl shared when performing the more mundane tasks, such as rescuing a lost puppy or helping someone with their groceries. And it was Kara’s determination that Supergirl copied when she threw herself into a fire or chased after a rogue alien.

The elevator dinged and Cat stepped off, ignoring the sudden burst of activity in the bullpen and zeroing on the empty desk where Kara was usually waiting to greet her when Cat returned from these early afternoon board meetings. Frowning, Cat stepped closer, heels clicking slightly faster than normal along the office floor.

Today was the last day of the three month schedule Kara had so carefully put together, and while it was possible that Kara had another three month plan ready to go, somehow Cat didn’t think so. The day was marked with a red ‘X’ on the list, the only day without a clear description of the meal, and when Cat had asked, Kara had just offered a small grin and told Cat she would have to wait. And Cat had waited, so where was Kara? Surly she wouldn’t…

“I’m on the balcony, Miss Grant.” And yes, there she was, peeking her head around the balcony doors just as Cat reached her office. “I thought we’d eat out here, it’s such a beautiful day.”

“It is,” but Cat wasn’t looking at the sky, her vision entirely taken up by the sight of Kara in a sleeveless blue dress. Had she changed for this lunch? Cat would have remembered if Kara had been wearing that this morning. Cat always remembered when employees violated the dress code, and for all her musings about getting rid of Kara’s cardigans, there was no way those arms were legal.

While she had been thinking, her feet had chosen to continue carrying her forward. Kara, however, waited until the last moment to move back, bringing Cat close enough to brush against her chest, and ‘brazen’ flashed through her mind.

Rather than comment, Cat pushed on, accepting the seat Kara pulled out for her and looking down at the ornate table setting and covered dish on her plate.

“Last one,” she reminded herself, as out loud she asked, “what’s on the menu for today?”

Kara bent over Cat’s shoulder to lift the lid and Cat bit her lip, refusing to give in to the sudden impulse to turn her head and lean into Kara’s side.

“This is something from my home, or as close to it as I could make with… local ingredients.”

“You cooked for me?” Cat barely registered that Kara hadn’t given her the name, or that the strange meal in front of her wasn’t anything she recognized. Except for the mushrooms. Those were distinct. They were always so distinct.

“I did.”

Cat felt a smile forming, and she shoved it back down before it could reach the surface, gesturing almost frantically to the seat across from her and blurting out, “I have something for you!”

She breathed a sigh of relief when Kara moved to comply, the space giving her just enough fresh air to clear her mind. Reaching into her purse, Cat pull out her phone and set it on the table when it got in her way, noticing as she did that she had several missed calls from Lois she would have to return later.

And when she did she would have words for Lois. So many, many words.

It took another few seconds of fumbling, but then Cat’s hand closed around the item she was looking for and she lifted it out. She hadn’t meant to do this, had been planning on talking to Kara about a promotion in a week or so once she had time to find an appropriate appreciation gift, but Cat needed it to happen sooner.

Because Kara looked gorgeous, and happy, and she had cooked for Cat, and all of that was causing Cat to have some very un-boss-like feelings that had no business being a part of her ‘nab-a-Supergirl’ plan.

So Cat was lucky that the impulse buy—the jewelry she had custom ordered a little over three months ago—had finally arrived, and that because she had been in a rush this morning, she had simply shoved the box into her purse to do something with later. If everything had been made to her specifications, it would be a small silver bracelet with the Supergirl crest inlaid delicately in the metal, interspersed with the CatCo logo and a number of mushrooms from around the world, each one unique and different. She had been planning on wearing it herself on her balcony when working late as a call sign for the hero, but right now it was all she had, and after all Kara had done for her, she deserved something to mark her promotion.

Besides, it would look beautiful on Kara. In fact, now that Cat thought about it, the understated jewelry was almost perfect for her, and Cat almost couldn’t believe that she had ever thought it could be for anyone else. Kara followed Supergirl just as closely as Cat, and while Cat still didn’t know what mushrooms were supposed to mean to Supergirl, they clearly did mean something to Kara. And then there was the CatCo logo, and well, that was obvious.

“Miss Grant?” Kara tilted her head, watching Cat with an intensity that made Cat’s hand almost falter as she handed the box over.

Not trusting herself to speak just yet, Cat tore her eyes away before the deliberate movements of Kara’s fingers could pull her in deeper. Her gaze fell across her phone just as a text message from Lois came in, and she read it with the sound of the box opening in the background.

Lois Lane: Answer your damn phone, Cat!!!! I thought Kryptonian mushrooms were used to symbolize friendship, but Clark just corrected me and apparently they’re romantic! To anyone who actually grew up there, they would be…

The message preview ran out of space, but Cat didn’t need to open it up to read the full thing as the pieces fell into place. Because this had started with Lois. With Lois and her insufferable hint, and ever since it hadn’t been Supergirl who had become closer to Cat, but Kara who had been bringing her food, and sharing her meals, and treating Cat almost like a partner rather than a boss.

It was also Lois who had given the world most of the known information on Kryptonians, and Cat had read every single thing Lois had ever written. Like the interview where Superman explained that in Kryptonian culture, once an acceptable mate had been identified, it was customary to enter into a courtship period that lasted approximately three months. How that ritual often involved showing each other ways in which you could provide for one another, such as through the giving of food or knowledge, and how eventually the goal was to share in those things equally. And how when a successful courtship period ended and the two houses joined, they exchanged bracelets instead of rings.

Bracelets, exactly like the one Cat had just given to Kara.

All Cat had to do was act like she didn’t understand what she had just done, was go on with her promotion speech and have that be the end of it. It would be simple, a misunderstanding, but when she lifted her eyes and took in the sight of Kara holding the bracelet in her hands, lips parted slightly and face flushed in wonder, everything else mentled away.

There were denials, and half-formed arguments, and all the other lies Cat had been telling herself for much longer than just these past three months. But looking at Kara now, with the weight of all of that pressing against her, Cat knew that underneath it all there was only one truth.

“Kara,” she said the name purposefully, hearing the sharp intake of breath as Kara looked up at her. Slowly, carefully, Cat picked up her fork and speared the largest mushroom she could find on her plate. “Thank you for this meal. In return, do you accept my offering, Kara, Last Daughter of Krypton?”

There was no pause, only a single, blinding smile that Cat returned with one of her own.

“I do.”

[shinachikusuniverse]

Ronin

(OC Origin) Naruto/ Shippuden/ Shinachiku Verse

(Name) Ronin

(Age) 12

(Gender) Male

(Hair Color) Brown

(Eye Color) Amber

(Affiliation) Leaf Village

(Personality)

Easily one of Ronin’s most noticeable traits is his sense of honor. Living by the strict code of duty, courage, benevolence, respect, truth, honor, and loyalty, Ronin has a straight forward way of distinguishing good and bad. This has also lead him to have a rather narrow sense of justice. In time, and with the help of others, Ronin has learned that not all the world is black and white. Still strong in the belief of his code, Ronin is expressed as righteous, courageous, and well mannered, if not a little stiff, for his age. Ronin has a hard time relaxing in the presence of others, not as being overcautious or untrusting, but more of being tense or anxious around others. Again, people were required to help him relax in he presence of others.

(Quotes)

“Be all that you can be!”

“I OWN this fight!”

“Duty, Courage, Benevolence, Respect, Truth, Honor, Loyalty!”

“For Love and for Honor, that’s all the reason I need to fight!”

“The time of Samurai and Ninja is NOT over! Not yet!”

(History)

Born to a samurai father on the run and a rogue ninja mother, Ronin was born outside of the main villages of the fire nation. To ensure his safety, Ronin was taught the ways of the Iaido and Justus at an early age. Amongst these abilities, Ronin learned the summoning technique from his mother, and Iaido from his father. These techniques would be the foundation of his future, a future that would be compromised at an early age. Before the age of ten, Ronin’s father was killed in a one on one duel with an old rival samurai, leaving only his mother. The last words of his father were to be take care of his mother and to be all that he could be.

With the decision to leave home and set off on his own journey, Ronin and his mother moved to the Village Hidden in the Leaves, hoping to be pardoned by the humble hokage. Ronin and his mother were granted refuge with the only rule of his mother never leaving the village. After securing a small home for them, Ronin enrolled into the ninja academy to hopefully one day become a ninja. This would be the starting foundation of his goal to one day see more of the world, and be all that he could be.

(Weapons)

Basic Tools: Taught by his mother, Ronin carries the standard basic set of tools a shinobi always has on hand. This consist of kunai, shuriken, explosive tags, flash bombs, and summon scrolls. Armor: Ronin wears the traditional version of samurai armor, built by his father just for him. While sturdy and extremely durable, the samurai armor does have a single flaw. If the armor is cracked or broken, it becomes brittle and almost useless to use.

Helmet: For extreme measures, Ronin summons the helmet dawned by his father. Though not always used, the helmet serves more for extreme or personal combat. Inside this helmet is a face mask with a built in radio and respirator to combat poisons.

Wakizashis: Ronin main weapons are quadrupole wakizashis. These short but sharp blades can be used in duel formation or single Iaido strikes. These weapons are used for more expendable use, meaning if one or two break then the Ronin has extra on hand.

Katana: Much like the way his father’s helmet is used in only emergence uses, Ronin knows how to use a katana. Dubbed Seizonsha (Survivor), this blade is a summoned weapon and used for more extreme moments.

(Techniques)

Samurai saber technique: Unique to samurai, this technique employs the concept of chakra flow in a weapon. Through the use of chakra flow, the user channels their chakra through their swords, extending both the reach and cutting ability of the blade, while allowing the user to fire crescents of chakra whenever the blade is swung. This released chakra is capable of great destruction, as shown from how these projectiles completely penetrated a considerable stone pillar, before continuing to damage the immediate surroundings.

Slash: Also known as the Samurai Flash, this is a swift ranged attack where the user swings their sword at a target after coating it in chakra. This releases a sharp crescent of chakra in the arc that the blade was swung.

Dash: Also known as the Dancing Blade Hazard, Ronin performs a quick dash towards his opponent, slashing them.

Summoning Jutsu: A space and time jutsu that allows the user to transport animals or people across long distances instantly and uses blood as a sacrifice. Ronin uses this mainly to summon his pets as a back up ally. He also uses this technique to summon his helmet and katana if necessary.

(Pets)

Kuro: A black Ninneko, or ninja cat, this is one of Ronin’s allies/ summons. Taught by Ronin’s mother to use weapons, Kuro uses a small katana and boomerang shuriken.

Niiro: A red panda, this is one of Ronin’s allies/ summons. Taught by Ronin’s mother to use weapons, Niiro uses small dual katanas.

Shiro: A white weasel, this is one of Ronin’s allies/ summons. Taught by Ronin’s mother to use weapons, Shiiro uses a sickle, and nunchucks.

(Noticeable Feats)

For the age of twelve, Ronin has had his own fair share of experiences. Ronin has learned Iaido at a young age, he’s learned the summons technique, and he’s gone toe to toe with chunin level shinobi.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hey, what is up everyone? Today I have a new Naruto character. I’ve wanted to make a Naruto character for a long time, but I could never get them JUST right, or I got too crazy with them. Another thing was that the ideas I DID have were converted to other characters for other fandoms.

For this character, I mainly created them for the Shinachiku universe. For those of you who don’t know what that is, the Shinachiku universe is a fandom made universe. It’s where Naruto and Sakura became a thing and had a child or children. One of these kids was named Shinachiku. As you can tell I’m not a fan of the ending or the Boruto series. Be that as it may, I left a lot of space for my character to be used in either the Shinachiku universe or Boruto universe, because I’m not a dick, and I’m open to rping either series. I just PREFER the Shinachiku verse.

Also I want to mention that I left a lot of space to put him in the original Naruto and Shippuden universe, as well as other fandoms. On details for the character, I wanted to do a summon animal, but I couldn’t decide on a single animal or something that would fit with the samurai base. In the anime series, there was a filler episode involving Ninneko, or ninja cats, and I DID see that they used weapons. I’ve also seen other animals use weapons like Temari’s weasel, and of course the toads. Giving the animals weapons wasn’t TOO far of a stretch, and it didn’t overshadow the samurai base of the character.

I will also admit that he character’s jutsus or techniques are pretty much copy and pasted from the Naruto Wikipedia. The reason being is that the jutsus were one of the problems that made my characters too overpowered or too complicated, so I thought just some good old simple samurai techniques would be ok, with of course the summing jutsu. Being that my character is still very young is also one reason for little to no new techniques. I might add more to this character later on.

Anyways I really hope someone will rp with this character. I want to remind you all once more that this character is intractable for all aspect of the narutoverses. And even though I DO prefer some verses over others, that doesn’t mean I won’t touch the other verses. If you don’t want to rp with this character I DO have other characters from other fandoms such as RWBY, Pokémon, High School DXD, etc.

I think that about covers it all. I hope you enjoy this character. Don’t be shy to send me an rp starter on Tumblr, my username is still the same as it is here. I also want to give a shout out to shinachikusuniverse on tumblr for giving me that last push to finally finish my Naruto character. So take care everyone in the naruto fandoms, my best to the Narusaku Fandom, and I will talk to you all later.

[infinitehouseofbooks]

BLITZ - The Sun God's Heir

  The Sun God’s Heir: Return

The Sun God’s Heir

Book One

Elliott Baker        

Genre: Historical Fantasy/Action and Adventure

Publisher: Hypatia Press,

Piscataqua Press

Date of Publication: January 18, 2017

ISBN: 978-0-9978322-0-4

ASIN: B01MS3RCE0

Number of pages: 347

Word Count: 108,000

Cover Artist: Kelly Shorten

Tagline: To defeat a brutal pharaoh re-embodied in 17th century France, René Gilbert must fight his way through pirates and slavers to Morocco and reclaim the power of his own ancient past. To succeed, he must remember. Book Description:

For three thousand years a hatred burns -In seventeenth century France two souls incarnate, one born the child of a prosperous merchant, the other, determined to continue a brutal incarnation begun long ago.

In ancient Egypt two brothers are disciples of the pharaoh, Akhenaten. When Pharaoh dies, the physician takes the knowledge given and goes to Greece to begin a new mystery school. The general makes a deal with the priests and becomes pharaoh. One remembers, one does not.

The year is 1671. René Gilbert’s destiny glints from the blade of a slashing rapier. The only way he can protect those he loves is to regain the power and knowledge of an ancient lifetime. From Bordeaux to Spain to Morocco, René is tested and with each turn of fate he gathers enemies and allies, slowly reclaiming the knowledge and power earned centuries ago. For three thousand years a secret sect has waited in Morocco. 

After ages in darkness, Horemheb screams, “I am.” Using every dark art, he manages to maintain the life of the body he has bartered for. Only one life force in the world is powerful enough to allow him to remain within embodiment, perhaps forever. Determined to continue a reign of terror that once made the Nile run red, he grows stronger with each life taken.

Get it Free April 19th  Amazon  –    Kobo –  B&N –  iBookstore –   Google Play –  Pronoun

Excerpt:

The boatswain, a large man with scars on his arms and face, walked over to stand in front of René. “Chain him to the mast.”

Their gazes met.

“Don’t look at me, boy,” he said, backhanding René in the face. “Look down at the deck when I talk to you. You’re some over-fed nobleman’s kid thinkin’ you make the rules. I’m surprised you ain’t cryin’ for your mama. You got a mama, boy?” he asked and laughed. When René didn’t answer, he hit him again. “I asked you a question, boy. Don’t try my patience, cause I ain’t got none.”

“My mother died when I was born,” René said, watching the man’s feet to see how he moved. He was cataloging everything he could see out of the corners of his eyes.

“Well, not to worry, you’ll be seeing her soon.” The boatswain turned to walk away and then turned back and hit René again. “I had to do that,” he said, and walked away laughing.

Though they had chained him in a way that didn’t allow him to sit, René had enough slack to turn and see most of the ship. He was aboard an English slave ship. She was an older carrack in design, still with the large forecastle. She had seen better days, though. The fact that she was still on the seas suggested either a cutthroat reputation or an experienced captain. Under the wear, the ship was surprisingly clean, her ropes and sails newly repaired and in good order. Second rate though she might be, she was seaworthy. This was a veteran crew, competent in their tasks. It wouldn’t be easy getting free, and even if he could, where would he escape to in the middle of  the ocean? Don’t rush fate. One thing at a time. Do what you can do, he heard the Maestro say. It was clear he would have to pick a fight, and hope he could survive long enough to begin creating allies. The next time the big boatswain walked by, René laughed.

“What are you findin’ so funny, boy?” The boatswain stuck his face within inches of René’s.

René had noticed the boatswain had one leg shorter than the other, and was certain the big man would be touchy on that point. “You walk funny, that’s all,” said René, raising his voice. It was of no use to him if he got beat up and no one knew why.

All work within the sound of René’s voice crashed to a complete stop. Silence reigned. René had guessed right. Now he could only hope he would survive his insight.

The boatswain stood in absolute disbelief, his face turning redder by the moment. “What did you say?” Spittle flew from his mouth.

Even the captain had turned to watch. René counted on the fact Gaspard’s agent had given the captain a great deal of money, along with explicit instructions that didn’t include throwing a dead boy overboard. What he didn’t know was how close to dead the agent considered acceptable.

“I said you walk funny,” René said—louder this time, so there would be no mistaking it.

“Do you know what a cat is, boy?” the boatswain said, clearly beyond rational thought. René could see the veins standing out in his neck and temples, his eyes shot red with blood.

“A small animal?” René asked.

There was a laugh from the men standing around the mast. The boatswain took one look around, and the laugh died.

“You, James, bring me the cat. I don’t think this boy has ever seen a real one. Your education has been sadly incomplete, boy. You’ll be thankin’ me for this. I promise you.” The boatswain’s voice was a rough whisper.

James walked over and handed the Cat-O-Nine-Tails to the boatswain. As he caught René’s eye, he sadly shook his head. The cat had nine long thongs of blood-encrusted leather dangling from a handle, knots tied along the length of each thong.

“This here’s a cat, boy. As you can see, it ain’t no small animal. Now, there’s a skill and a talent to usin’ a cat, both of which I’m proud to say I have. You see, you need to take care the thongs don’t get all stuck together with blood and skin, which they’re wont to do. If that happens, the cat’ll take yer organs right out, and that’s always a bad thing. So you need to run your fingers between the thongs every couple of strokes, to keep ‘em separate. I gotta tell you—as much pride as I take in usin’ the cat, sometimes I’m forgetful. I try to keep count, but before I know it, I plumb forget to clean the damn thing. I surely hope that don’t happen today.”

“I also have a skill and a talent, and I will kill you with it,” René said quietly.

  For one second, the boatswain paused, confusion written across his face. “Turn him around, and chain him up. You there, strip off his shirt.”

About the Author:

Award winning novelist and international playwright Elliott Baker grew up in Jacksonville, Florida. With four musicals and one play published and produced in the United States, New Zealand, Portugal, England, and Canada, Elliott is pleased to release his first novels. The Sun God’s Heir: Return, book one of the trilogy, was released this past January, and book two, Rebirth will come out in April, followed in July by the third and final book of the series, Redemption. A member of the Authors Guild and the Dramatists Guild, Elliott lives in New Hampshire with his wife Sally Ann.

https://www.elliottbaker.com

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https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8423737.Elliott_Baker    

        BLITZ – The Sun God’s Heir was originally published on the Wordpress version of SHANNON MUIR'S INFINITE HOUSE OF BOOKS.