#of course I’m the one across the hall from the roach apartment

[steamcaptain]

.

[westmoor]

Oxenfurt isn’t all that different in winter, Geralt notes. Apart from the odd storm tearing along the coastline past midwinter, the weather is mostly agreeable. And although most of social life has moved indoors - public debates and forums picking up in concert halls and libraries - it still feels like standing in an anthill, teeming with life in apparent chaos until one learns to recognize the rigid structures upholding it.

The first day is mostly lost to sleeping. It can’t be helped. 

They’d debated renting him his own quarters, but only briefly - it would’ve been a waste of money when Jaskier’s were unoccupied for most of the day. He couldn’t deny the safety of it, either. Perched above the streets of a city that never seemed to get a wink of sleep, being surrounded by the comforts and belongings of a man he knew so well they might’ve been his own, the timber floors feel solid beneath his feet. Just like the solid warmth of a body, weighing into the bed next to him.

And so, swaddled in the scent of his bard and a fresh mattress under his back, a wood stove keeping the adjoined office-and-bedrooms mellow and warm, sleep pulls him under at its leisure. 

He expects to be teased for it when Jaskier makes it back in the late afternoon. Instead, all he gets is a bright smile, a bump of shoulders, and the promise of a proper supper.

The second is idle. 

He sees that Roach is content, well-fed and dry in her open stall on the university grounds. Considers bringing her tack back to clean, but there’s no rush. 

His nerves grow dull to the constant noise and bustle of the town, between the safe retreats of the stables and the professor’s quarters. He skims through some of Jaskier’s reading, sidetracked by scribbles in margins and their continuations on paper scraps stuck between pages. 

Respite, he calls it. Solace, shelter. It needs no definite name. He finds it in the dead of night, tucked into the hollow between Jaskier’s shoulder blades. 

The third day, he sits in on a lecture.

He knows, of course, that Jaskier can hold a room. Has seen him do it, knew him when he learned it, to wake the entire audience already in the first verse and have them eating out of his hand by the third. 

He built a career on it. Really, it’s a marvel to watch.

This is different.

The confidence is there, certainly. So is the way he moves about the room, talking with his hands each moment they’re not otherwise occupied. The charm, too - but not the bluster. No clever turns half drowned by empty drivel but real substance, knowledge and proficiency born from hard-earned experience, set against the framework theory and thesis. 

He enjoys the subject matter too, and yet again he finds himself surprised, listening intently as the professor peels back rules of rhyme and verse to reveal the broader commentary within. Geralt catches Jaskier’s eye as the latter riles his audience, singing a Mahakam working song to the tune of a Skellige shanty, and he grins.

They dine late that night, huddled close to a small table in the office-tuned-sitting room. Geralt starts with a counterpoint to the day’s lecture, and their conversation wanders on from there,

Geralt doesn’t even blame the wine when his thumb comes to skim across the ridge of Jaskier’s knuckles, rough and gentle and familiar, and he thinks, I’m fucked.

But the hand in his doesn’t budge. And when he musters the courage to look up at the face watching him above the rim of crystal glass, the hopeful smile there, he finds that maybe… Maybe this time, he’s not.

---

tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @elliestormfound @love-more-today-than-yesterday @fontegagrilledcheese @geraskier-trashh @honeysuckletook @underwaterattribute @ahhhhhhdonna @biitumen 

(pls let me know if you want to be removed or if you meant to be tagged only for something specific)

[bamf-jaskier]

Who the Fuck is Eskel?

If you have ever gone on The Witcher tag on Tumblr, I’m sure you’ve seen dozens of blogs dedicated to this guy named Eskel and for people who have just seen the show you might be wondering - who the fuck is this guy? 

Hi, I’m Aaliyah, and this is Part 5 of my WTF Series - a crash course in subjects from The Witcher Books. 

Post under the cut

Let’s jump in by talking about what books Eskel is in. He’s only mentioned in one line in The Last Wish, The Tower of Swallows and The Time of Contempt. He has a flashback scene in Lady of the Lake and the only book where he plays a heavy role in is Blood of Elves. 

For all you Eskel Stans out there, this is good news, because it looks like S2 of the show is going to be taking some cues from Blood of Elves and we do know Eskel is going to be appearing so these scenes might be showing up in some form or another in the show. 

We first meet Eskel in Blood of Elves when Geralt is first bringing Ciri to the keep:

“Who comes?” Ciri heard a menacing, metallic voice which sounded like a dog’s bark. “Geralt?”

“Yes, Eskel. It’s me.”

“Come in.”

The witcher dismounted, took Ciri from the saddle, stood her on the ground and pressed a bundle into her little hands which she grabbed tightly, only regretting that it was too small for her to hide behind completely.

“Wait here with Eskel,” he said. “I’ll take Roach to the stables.”

“Come into the light, laddie,” growled the man called Eskel. “Don’t lurk in the dark.”

Ciri looked up into his face and barely restrained her frightened scream. He wasn’t human. Although he stood on two legs, although he smelled of sweat and smoke, although he wore ordinary human clothes, he was not human. No human can have a face like that, she thought.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” repeated Eskel.

She didn’t move. In the darkness she heard the clatter of Roach’s horseshoes grow fainter. Something soft and squeaking ran over her foot. She jumped. “Don’t loiter in the dark, or the rats will eat your boots.”

Still clinging to her bundle Ciri moved briskly towards the light. The rats bolted out from beneath her feet with a squeak. Eskel leaned over, took the package from her and pulled back her hood.

“A plague on it,” he muttered. “A girl. That’s all we need.”

She glanced at him, frightened. Eskel was smiling. She saw that he was human after all, that he had an entirely human face, deformed by a long, ugly, semi-circular scar running from the corner of his mouth across the length of his cheek up to the ear.

“Since you’re here, welcome to Kaer Morhen,” he said. “What do they call you?”

“Ciri,” Geralt replied for her, silently emerging from the darkness. Eskel turned around. Suddenly, quickly, wordlessly, the witchers fell into each other’s arms and wound their shoulders around each other tight and hard. For one brief moment.

“Wolf, you’re alive.”

“I am.”

“All right.” Eskel took a torch from its bracket. “Come on. I’m closing the inner gates to stop the heat escaping.”

Couple things here. First, for all the game fans out there, Eskel’s scar in the books is VERY different. It’s not the lightening-like claw marks that go over his eye but instead it goes from the corner of his mouth to his ear. This is interesting because it really parallels in my mind Ciri’s scar she gets later on that extends from under her eye to her ear. 

Also, the little reunion between Geralt and Eskel, so sweet. The line about Eskel in Last Wish establishes that they were close friends so here is the snippet just to give more backstory to the two of them: 

“Once, years ago, when a little snot-faced brat following his studies in Kaer Morhen, the Witchers’ Settlement, he and a friend, Eskel, had captured a huge forest bumblebee and tied it to a jug with a thread. They were in fits of laughter watching the antics of the tied bumblebee, until Vesemir, their tutor, caught them at it and tanned their hides with a leather strap.”

Childhood friends and brothers is just so damn great. Actually, speaking of brothers, it is stated in Blood of Elves that Geralt and Eskel actually look very similar and are often mistaken for brothers such as in this scene from Triss’s POV. 

Eskel stood next to Geralt, resembling the Wolf like a brother apart from the colour of his hair and the long scar which disfigured his cheek. And the youngest of the Kaer Morhen witchers, Lambert, was there with his usual ugly, mocking expression. Vesemir was not there.

“Welcome and come in,” said Eskel. “It is as cold and blustery as if someone has hung themselves. Ciri, where are you off to? The invitation does not apply to you. The sun is still high, even if it is obscured. You can still train.”

“Hey.” The Enchantress tossed her hair. “Politeness comes cheap in Witchers’ Keep now, I see. Ciri was the first to greet me, and brought me to the castle. She ought to keep me company—”

This really interests me because Ciri is very young child when she meets Eskel and she is very terrified of him and intimidated. Which makes sense, she is very traumatized. But, when Triss meets Eskel she only makes a short note of his scar and focuses more on his resemblance to Geralt and commenting on the lack of politeness. It just goes to show how different characters perceive people differently. A child’s perspective of a warrior is not going to be the same as a Mage’s. 

“You didn’t even know.” She nodded in what was now a calm, concerned and gentle reproach. “You’re pathetic guardians. She’s ashamed to tell you because she was taught not to mention such complaints to men. And she’s ashamed of the weakness, the pain and the fact that she is less fit. Has any one of you thought about that? Taken any interest in it? Or tried to guess what might be the matter with her? Maybe her very first bleed happened here, in Kaer Morhen? And she cried to herself at night, unable to find any sympathy, consolation or even understanding from anyone? Has any one of you given it any thought whatsoever?”

“Stop it, Triss,” moaned Geralt quietly. “That’s enough. You’ve achieved what you wanted. And maybe even more.”

“The devil take it,” cursed Coën. “We’ve turned out to be right idiots, there’s no two ways about it, eh, Vesemir, and you—”

“Silence,” growled the old witcher. “Not a word.”

It was Eskel’s behaviour which was most unlikely; he got up, approached the enchantress, bent down low, took her hand and kissed it respectfully. She swiftly withdrew her hand. Not so as to demonstrate her anger and annoyance but to break the pleasant, piercing vibration triggered by the witcher’s touch. Eskel emanated powerfully. More powerfully than Geralt.

“Triss,” he said, rubbing the hideous scar on his cheek with embarrassment, “help us. We ask you. Help us, Triss.”

Now, if you can’t tell, Triss’ favorite is Eskel. This scene is also implies that Eskel is more magically powerful than Geralt which Is very interesting. But Triss is an Eskel stan, in fact a couple lines later Triss thinks to herself: 

Vesemir hawked again. But Eskel, dear Eskel, kept his head and once more behaved as was fitting.

“Of course,” he said casually, smiling. “We understand and clearly we will postpone your exercises until your indisposition has passed. We will also cut the theory short and, if you feel unwell, we will put it aside for the time being, too. If you need any medication or—”

Eskel definitely has the older sibling energy where he ends up in charge sometimes and knows how to keep a cool head. He’s also the most aware of societal norms of behavior which is why Triss likes his so much. She really respects people who know how to move in society. 

There’s also this scene in Blood of Elves where Eskel is drinking and offers Triss some:

“White Seagull.”

“What?”

“A mild remedy,” Eskel smiled, “for pleasant dreams.”

“Damn it! A witcher hallucinogenic? That’s why your eyes shine like that in the evenings!”

“White Seagull is very gentle. It’s Black Seagull that is hallucinogenic.”

“If there’s magic in this liquid I’m not allowed to take it!”

“Exclusively natural ingredients,” Geralt reassured her but he looked, she noticed, disconcerted. He was clearly afraid she would question them about the elixir’s ingredients. “And diluted with a great deal of water. We would not offer you anything that could harm you.”

I think it’s very funny how secret The Witcher keeps all their potions and elixirs. Whether it’s mushrooms or potions, they gotta keep those secret drugs locked down tight. Also the fact that Eskel is the fantasy equivalent of high every night? Love that for him.  

Eskel really is the peace-maker of the group. He’s not a push-over by any means but he is definitely more willing to play along that any of the others. When Triss is talking at night, Eskel is really the only one listening and engaging, even if it’s very half-hearted. 

In the evenings, consistently and determinedly, Triss guided the long conversations held in the dark hall, lit only by the bursts of flames in the great hearth, towards politics. The witchers’ reactions were always the same. Geralt, a hand on his forehead, did not say a word. 

Vesemir nodded, from time to time throwing in comments which amounted to little more than that “in his day” everything had been better, more logical, more honest and healthier. 

Eskel pretended to be polite, and neither smiled nor made eye contact, and even managed, very occasionally, to be interested in some issue or question of little importance. Coën yawned openly and looked at the ceiling, and Lambert did nothing to hide his disdain.

And he is really the only sort-of listener to Triss’ stories and retellings of events: 

This time it was Triss who began to yawn and stare at the ceiling. This time she was the one who remained silent – until Eskel turned to her with a question. A question which she had anticipated.

“And what is it really like in the south, on the Yaruga? Is it worth going there? We wouldn’t like to find ourselves in the middle of any trouble.”

“What do you mean by trouble?”

“Well, you know…” he stammered, “you keep telling us about the possibility of a new war… About constant fighting on the borders, about rebellions in the lands invaded by Nilfgaard. You said they’re saying the Nilfgaardians might cross the Yaruga again—”

“So what?” said Lambert. “They’ve been hitting, killing and striking against each other constantly for hundreds of years. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ve already decided – I’m going to the far South, to Sodden, Mahakam and Angren. It’s well known that monsters abound wherever armies have passed. The most money is always made in places like that.”

“True,” Coën acknowledged. “The neighbourhood grows deserted, only women who can’t fend for themselves remain in the villages… scores of children with no home or care, roaming around… Easy prey attracts monsters.”

“And the lord barons and village elders,” added Eskel, “have their heads full of the war and don’t have the time to defend their subjects. They have to hire us. It’s true. But from what Triss has been telling us all these evenings, it seems the conflict with Nilfgaard is more serious than that, not just some local little war. Is that right, Triss?”

Once more, Eskel is the peace-maker of the conversation and he brings it back around to what Triss originally said and also points to her expertise. Basically, Eskel is not really a fan of verbal conflict. 

This is actually the last line we see Eskel in a scene outside of the flashback in Lady of the Lake. After this, Triss, Geralt and Ciri head off. It is important to note that near the end of Blood of Elves Ciri says this about Yennefer:

The lady magician knew a surprising amount about a witcher’s sword and “dance.” She knew a great deal about the secrets of Kaer Morhen; there was no doubt she had visited the Keep. She knew Vesemir and Eskel. Although not Lambert and Coën.

Yennefer used to visit Kaer Morhen. Ciri guessed why – when they spoke of the Keep – the eyes of the enchantress grew warm, lost their angry gleam and their cold, indifferent, wise depth. If the words had befitted Yennefer’s person, Ciri would have called her dreamy, lost in memories.

So clearly Yennefer is also friendly with Eskel and knows him. I love the idea that Yennefer regularly visited Kaer Morhen before Ciri came into Geralt’s care and I would literally cry if they did a flashback sequence in S2 of Yennefer visiting Geralt in Kaer Morhen. 

The flashback sequence in Lady of the Lake with Eskel goes like this: 

The fire in the huge fireplace went out. A gust of wind from the mountains whistled through the crevices of the walls and screamed through the improperly closed shutters of Kaer Morhen, Home of the Witchers.

“Damn it!” Eskel said, standing up and going to the cupboard. “Seagull or vodka?”

“Vodka,” Geralt and Coen said with one voice.

“Sure,” interjected Vesemir, hidden in the shadows, “Yes, of course! Drown your stupidity in vodka. Damn fools!”

“It was an accident…” muttered Lambert. “She had already mastered the comb…”

“Shut your big mouth, you idiot! I don’t want to hear any more! I warned you, if something happened to that little girl…”

“Enough,” Coen interrupted him, softly. “She sleeps peacefully. Deep and healthy. She will wake up a bit sore, but that’s it. About the trance, and what happened, she will not even remember it.”

“As long as you remember,” said Vesemir, panting angrily. “Cabbage heads! Pour for me too, Eskel.”

They were silent for a long time, listening intently to the howling gale.

“We will need to call someone,” Eskel finally said. “We will need to bring a sorcerer here. What is happening to the girl, it is not normal.”

Eskel is one of The Witcher who really pushes to call Triss in order to help with Ciri’s trances. Also, once again this guy is hitting the drinks. 

So yeah! That’s Eskel in the books. Based on how in the non-canon wedding short Asaps wrote where he ended up having Triss and Eskel get together, I think his hints of them having a connection in the books is very intentional and if The Witcher wasn’t such a god damn tragedy and Triss wasn’t mooning over Geralt, I’m willing to bet they would have gotten together at some point. 

Eskel is the peace-maker of the family and is the best at recognizing the norms of “polite society” (or at least noble society) and while Ciri might have been scared of his appearance, it isn’t enough to phase Triss who is considered rather vain. In fact, she seems to respect Eskel the most out of the Witchers. Just imagine a dark-haired, scarred Geralt and BOOM, you got yourself an Eskel. 

[jaskierswolf]

Hello dear. Umm, I saw your prompts are open and Kelly Clarkson's "My Life Would Suck Without You" just came up on the radio, and... Could I ask for that and Geraskier? Pretty please, if you feel like it. Thank you. Love you. 💙

Hello dearest anon! I hope you see this. I’m sorry it took so long! I had a really great time writing this and thanks to @kuripon for being my beta!

___________

Geralt stared across the room, eyes fixed on the bard that was twirling and dancing around the room. Long brown hair flicked around her shoulder as she flirted with customers, singing words that were so familiar to him. He’d been there when they were composed, after all. They were different to the memory he had in his mind. Jaskier had repeated them over and over again, pacing around the camp and plucking at his lute without a care in the world. In his mind it was just a first draft, the words not quite fully formed, lacking the finesse and polish that this version had.

And yet, Geralt couldn’t help but prefer the version in his head.

It was messy, and most importantly, Jaskier was the one singing. Hazel eyes met his from across the room and winked at him, but it was wrong. She was wrong. He growled and downed the rest of his drink, the emptiness in heart becoming too much to bear. He picked up his swords and stalked from the room, letting the cool air of the night cleanse his pain. He didn’t deserve the warmth of a tavern. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come to Oxenfurt, there were no contracts as far as he was aware. In fact, he’d been heading in the opposite direction when he’d seen the signpost for Oxenfurt at a fork in the road.

And he’d turned Roach towards the city without a second thought. Thoughts of cornflower blue eyes and tousled mousy brown hair driving him home.

But now that he was here, he felt lost. He couldn’t enter the Academy without good reason, and without Jaskier’s easy lies and bright smile, he couldn’t find a way inside.

He pressed his fingers to his forehead, ignoring the hustle and bustle of the city that never seemed to sleep. He should leave, take Roach and leave. There were contracts in villages not far from here and he could make some coin. He really needed to make some coin. The purse tied to his belt was lighter than it should be and if his armour or swords were damaged then he would struggle to repair them, let alone replace them.

“Fuck,” he growled and turned towards the Academy instead.

His heart was foolish, but he hadn’t realised how much he wanted Jaskier until he’d lost him.  

It was like something from the fucking ballads that the bard wrote. He’d never pined like this before, and the feeling unsettled him. He’d been drawn to Yennefer, the Djinn wish pulling them together across the Continent, but this was different. There was no magic with Jaskier, no spell, or wish, or tie from Destiny.

Jaskier had chosen him, of his own free will, and he’d kept choosing Geralt, every single day, no matter what the world had thrown at them, and Geralt had found himself choosing Jaskier back. He would protect Jaskier at all costs, even if it meant failing a contract, killing a wyvern instead of moving them on. One bed at inns so that the bard could afford new lute strings, watered down piss instead of his favourite wine if it meant that Jaskier could have a goblet of fiorano rather than the cheaper wines on the menu.

Geralt hadn’t realised he was doing it until he went to order the wine along with his ale, before remembering he was alone.

“Hold up!” a guard yelled at him as he approached the gates. “No visitors.”

“I’m here for Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

“You’re not coming in, freak,” the guard spat, forcing Geralt to step back.

Geralt didn’t want to fight, but he didn’t know what else to do, he’d been hoping the mention of Jaskier would be enough. The guard glared at him, his fingers itching for his sword and Geralt raised his hands in defence, but it was no use. The damage was done. He swiped his fingers through the air in the sign of Axii.

“Let me through,” Geralt murmured.

“Let you through, of course, here you go, Master witcher.”

Geralt swept past the guard, keeping his head low, not wanting to draw anymore attention to himself. Iit wasn’t even the fact he was a witcher. Worse, it was because he was, the White Wolf. Students ogled him as he walked through the corridors. He hadn’t spent much time at the Academy but every time he had visited before, Jaskier had gripped his arm, waving his own hand through the air as he told stories of his youth. It wasn’t difficult to picture his bard as a young man in the halls of the Oxenfurt Academy. Jaskier hadn’t been much older when he’d met him.

The scent of chamomile and honey hit him before he saw the bard.

“Guess this means you’re sorry, if you’re standing at my door?” Jaskier said icily. Geralt spun round to see Jaskier leaning on a balcony above him. He looked… fuck he looked good. His hair had grown out in the year they’d been apart, the ends now tickling his chin, and he was now sporting a thick beard. His doublet was a pale sky blue that made his eyes seem to shine even brighter.

“Jaskier…”

It was the only word he had left, all apologies dying on his tongue as he took in the sight of his bard. No… not his bard. Jaskier was his own bard, an esteemed professor at Oxenfurt and Geralt didn’t deserve him.

But fuck if he wasn’t going to try his best.

“So… you take back all you said before?” Jaskier’s voice was poisonous, a cold fire burning in those pretty cornflower blue eyes. “Like how much you wanted anyone but me? If life could give you one blessing…”

Jaskier didn’t finish the blasted sentence but they both flinched, the memories of that damned mountain top haunting them both.

“I was stupid,” Geralt admitted, “for telling you goodbye.”

“Oh ho ho! Oh yeah, yeah. I know that, Geralt, but fuck, it took months for me to realise. I blamed myself, you know? For everything? You did. So it only made sense.”

“Jaskier-“

“What, Geralt?” Jaskier snapped.

Geralt took a shaky breath. In all their years together, Jaskier had never been so closed off to him. It had always been easy touches and warm words. The difference now was stark and every word was like a dagger straight to his heart.

“My life would suck without you,” Geralt mumbled. “It has sucked without you. I’m nothing without you.”

Jaskier laughed, a sharp, disbelieving bark that was almost hysterical. “Oh, Geralt. We both know that’s not true.”

“We do?”

“You’re a warrior, a hero, a knight. Smart, brave, and kind. You’re funny, in your own terrible kind of way, and you are, were… fuck no, are, my best friend.”

Geralt scoffed. “Means nothing without you.”

“That’s quite a change of heart, witcher.”

“I missed you,” Geralt said with a shrug. “What is it you poets say? Absence makes the heart grow stronger?”

Jaskier squeaked and slipped on the balcony. For a heart-stopping moment Geralt thought the bard would tumble over the edge but he just slipped backwards, gripping the beam in a desperate attempt to stay upright.

“Being with you is so dysfunctional,” Jaskier sighed. “I really shouldn’t miss you.”

“And yet..”

“Here we are…”

“Come with me?” Geralt asked, “Let’s try again.”

Jaskier shook his head. “I can’t.”

Geralt closed his eyes, readying himself to turn away and leave but Jaskier spoke again. “Geralt, wait. I mean… it’s the middle of term, Geralt. I can’t just leave.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not a no?”

“Come back at the end of term, I’ll give you my answer then?” Jaskier asked, tilting his head, and Geralt nodded. That wasn’t what he’d been hoping for, but honestly it was better than he expected. The things he’d said, fuck, it made him the monster everyone thought he was. He sighed and turned to leave the city.

“Geralt!” Jaskier yelled after him, he spun around to look back at the bard. Frantic blue eyes were staring back at him. “Just. Just wait there. Please, Geralt.”

And how could Geralt say no to that? He perched on a stone bench, overlooking one of the gardens in the courtyard. Bees were flying around the flowers, never quite settling as they buzzed incessantly. The blooms were almost overwhelming, too sweet, too floral, but he stayed put. Jaskier had asked him to, and he’d worked out pretty early on that there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for the bard.

“Ah, Geralt, there you are!” Jaskier called brightly, “I was starting to think you’d left.” Geralt gestured to the bench. “Right, right, yes. Well… I couldn’t let you leave, not without… well…”

Jaskier leant forward to kiss his cheek, the bristles of his beard brushing against Geralt’s skin. “Jask?”

“You’ve got a piece of me, dear heart,” Jaskier murmured, his hand cupping the cheek he’d just kissed. “And. And my life life would suck without you too.”

Geralt smiled as he leant into Jaskier’s touch. “I’ll be back, I promise.”

“I know, I think… well… I really hope, and I’d really like to forgive you for what you said, but it might take a bit more time.”

“I have time,” Geralt insisted, bringing his hand up to cover Jaskier’s. He took the bard’s hand in his and brought it to his lips. “We have time.”

[all-hail-the-witcher]

say yes to the plus one

the sequel to say yes to the drinks. which you should read first. i am so tired. just have it. 

__

ship: geraskier

warnings: none

editing: ish

words: over 3k but under 4k

genre: floof

__

After getting drinks with Geralt, Jaskier could not stop thinking about him. He found himself taking more time with his appearance each morning - something that he hadn't even thought would be possible - hoping that Geralt would come into the store.

But Geralt still hadn’t come into Kleinfelds since the day of his trunk show. Jaskier tried not to be disappointed. He knew that he was very busy and it had been a one off that he had even met him in the first place.

Still, he couldn’t help but think that the two of them had something. There must have been some sort of chemistry between the two of them. Why else had Geralt asked him to get drinks after he had made that awful slip up with the magic fingers? Surely, he must feel something for him.

He had been texting Jaskier though, so Jaskier knew that he was at least still interested. Every message that he got wishing him a good morning or about some funny wedding dress design or of a picture of Geralt’s Pomeranian, Roach, made his heart flutter. There just had to be a future for them, right?

So, Jaskier went through yet another day of busy appointments at Kleinfelds, hoping that he would run into Geralt.

Late May into early June was always a busy time for them. Jaskier didn't personally understand the appeal of getting married in a zillion degree heat, but to each their own. This was by far his least favorite part of the year though. He spent every hour at work on his feet, hardly getting a break as he rushed from appointment to appointment: checking on alterations, making sure that every bride was getting their dream dress, and providing tweaks to designs when necessary to prevent bridal meltdowns.

It was nothing short of exhausting.

“Jaskier!” Camille, one of the consultants, called to him at around mid afternoon.

He had just spent the last hour trying to get a very adamant, very conservative mom and a very eccentric bride on the same page. He needed a daiquiri. Or three. Still, he turned around and put on his brightest smile.

“Yes, darling?”

“You’re needed down in alterations,” she said with a sweet smile.

Jaskier nodded and turned back through the salon to walk down to alterations. He hated going to alterations. If he was needed there, it usually meant that shit had hit the fan in some sense. He braced himself for a long afternoon.

He walked up to the manager, about to ask her where he was needed, when a shout from behind him made him jump.

“Jaskier!”

And a swell of desire rose up in Jaskier’s stomach because he knew that gravelly voice. Quickly, he straightened his tie, thankful he had worn his good pink one today, before taking a deep breath and turning around.

“Geralt!” he said, trying furiously to keep his cheeks from flushing. “What a lovely surprise.”

“Surprise?” Geralt’s brows furrowed together as he walked up to Jaskier, his wolfs head cane clicking across the floor. He was wearing a light blue button down today with the sleeves cuffed to his forearms that made his golden eyes pop and Jaskier had to struggle to keep his eyes on his face. “I texted you this morning.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened as he reached into his blazer pocket for his phone. Sure enough, there were two messages from Geralt. The first was a picture of Roach, lying in a patch of sun in his apartment. The second was a message that read:

Hey, I’m going to be at Kleinfelds today doing a custom fitting. Can you help with the appointment?

And Jaskier had never even seen it. Much less responded.

“Oh Geralt, I am so terribly sorry,” Jaskier said quickly. “This is our busiest time of year and I have hardly had a moment to think today.”

“You don’t have to help,” Geralt said sincerely, concern clouding his eyes. “I don’t want to push you too hard with the rest of your appointments, but I just figured that since I was here, I would ask.”

“No, no darling!” Jaskier said, rushing to reassure him. “Of course I will help! Helping you is much better than dealing with emotional brides and entourages that aren’t on the same page.”

“It’s alright Jaskier,” Geralt said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I know you just want to see my magic hands at work again.”

This time, Jaskier did flush bright red. “ You! ” he said outrageously, gaping at Geralt’s audacity to bring up his slip up from last time. “You need a nap!”

But Geralt just laughed, a glorious sound that sent shivers down Jaskier’s spine. “I think you’re the one who needs the nap, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shot him an incredulous look. How dare he make such assumptions, and how dare he be right?

“Anyway, the fitting is for my brother’s fiancee,” Geralt explained. “I made her a custom dress and she’s coming in for her fitting today. There was a shipping delay, so we only have time for one fitting before their wedding next week. I was hoping you could help.”

Jaskier could see the tension that had creeped its way into Geralt’s broad shoulders and the worry that was clouding his pretty face.

Jaskier placed a reassuring hand on Geralt’s arm. “Of course I’ll help, darling. Helping resolve wedding dress disasters is my specialty. Er- not that your dress is a disaster,” he said quickly, amused by the way that Geralt’s eyebrows had shot up. “Nothing that you design could ever be a disaster, the way that you work lace and beads is just divine, not a disaster. Not in any way a disaster. What I meant was the fact that she only has one fitting, that’s the disaster. Not your dress.”

“My magic fingers are quite incapable of creating a disaster dress, you’re right,” Geralt winked.

Jaskier resisted the urge to smack his shoulder. “You are never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Nope.” Geralt looked far too pleased with himself. “Can you grab the dress for me? It’s on the rack for the day. And can you bring it to room 13?”

“Of course,” Jaskier said. He’d let the magic fingers comment slide for now. Geralt looked far too attractive with his moonlight silver hair in an artful bun, tendrils framing his face, for him to stay mad at him for long. He had never been able to resist a pretty face.

“Thank you.” Geralt moved past Jaskier and began to make his way to the room. Jaskier turned to watch him walk down the hall. His ass looked far too delicious in those gorgeous, fitted navy pinstripe pants. He just had to appreciate it. It would be a crime not to.

Distantly, he wondered if his ass looked just as delicious without the pants on. And was he wearing boxers or briefs? Oh who was he kidding, he had to be wearing at least briefs with pants like those. But what color? Geralt seemed like the type of man to appreciate a fun pair of underwear and-

Jaskier. Get your head out of the gutter.

He made a beeline to the rack and grabbed the dress. He had already left Geralt waiting long enough.

“Here you are,” Jaskier said, hanging the dress in the room.

Geralt fidgeted with his shirt sleeves, eyeing the bag. With a pang, Jaskier realized that he was nervous.

“I’m sure she’s going to love the dress,” Jaskier said, putting as much sincerity as he could into his words. “You are one of the best designers in the industry, Geralt.”

“I know,” Geralt said. “But I’ve never designed for someone that I know before, there’s more risk involved if they don't like it. Cause she’s put all her trust in me and what if she doesn’t like it? This is her only fitting. There isn't time to make anything else."

“Geralt,” Jaskier placed his hand over Geralt’s where he was still fidgeting with his sleeve. “She’s going to love it. Don’t doubt yourself so much, it ruins your pretty face.”

Fuck, did he just really say that out loud?

Geralt’s doubt dissipated as he looked at Jaskier amusedly. “You think my face is pretty?”

“Well who wouldn’t?” Jaskier said, trying and failing to backpedal. “It’s a plenty beautiful face, I mean you’ve got a nose and eyes and everything and…”

“I would hope I have a nose and eyes, yes,” Geralt laughed. Then, he leaned in, as if telling Jaskier a secret. “I’ve also heard that I have lips, too.”

Jaskier was saved the embarrassment of having to respond by a consultant escorting who Jaskier assumed to be Geralt’s brother’s fiancee and her entourage into the alterations area.

“Geralt!” a pretty girl with dark, curly hair said as she stepped up to hug him.

“Hi Triss,” Geralt said, giving her a polite hug and waving to the rest of the entourage. “Are you excited?”

“Of course I’m excited,” she said. “It’s only a week away, Geralt. This better be every bit as perfect as you said it would be.”

“It will be.” Geralt’s smile was easy, as if he hadn’t been freaking out about the appointment moments before.

“And who is this?” Triss asked, turning to Jaskier.

“Oh, everyone, this is Jaskier. He’s a consultant here and my friend,” Geralt said.

“Hello!” Jaskier said, giving everyone a wave.

“Jaskier, this is Triss, the bride to be. She’s marrying my brother.” Geralt gestured to the woman with the dark hair standing in front of them.

“Hello darling,” Jaskier said, shaking her hand. “You look just gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” Triss smiled.

“And this is Triss’s friend Yennefer, Yennefer’s daughter Ciri, my other brother Lambert, and Lambert’s husband Aiden,” Geralt said, pointing at the people sitting on the bench.

Jaskier waved to them all and gave them his best customer service smile.

“Tell me about your fiancee, darling,” Jaskier said to Triss.

“I am getting married to Eskel,” she said, her face lighting up immediately. “We’ve known each other forever and he is perfect.”

“Forever is an understatement,” Geralt said. “They went to kindergarten together.”

“Oh, a childhood love story!” Jaskier clapped his hands together. “How romantic! Let’s hope you have a dress to match.” He turned to Geralt.

“Well darling,” Jaskier said, gesturing to the garment bag that Triss’s dress was in. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Geralt stepped up to the garment bag, his shoulder taught with anxiety.

“Take a breath, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, just quiet enough for only Geralt to hear. “She’s going to love it.”

Geralt nodded once before unzipping the bag and pulling out the dress. Jaskier couldn't help but gasp.

“Oh my god, it’s gorgeous,” Triss gasped next to him, taking Jaskier’s words right out of his mouth. “Geralt, you’ve outdone yourself.”

“You haven’t even put it on yet,” Geralt said, stepping away so that the entourage could see it as well.

“I don’t have to to know that it’s everything I wanted and probably more,” she said, giving Geralt another hug. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Geralt said and Jaskier thought that he saw a light blush tinting his cheeks. Was Geralt embarrassed? Oh that was just adorable…

The dress itself was gorgeous, just as Jaskier suspected it would be. It was a glorious ivory color that seemed to shift under the lights to be a gorgeous pale blush pink. The skirt appeared to be A line and was sleeveless with a high neck. The bodice had an intricate lace and beading design that blended into the skirt. Jaskier knew that the dress was going to be amazing but Triss was right, Geralt had really outdone himself.

“Would you like to put it on, darling?” Jaskier asked.

Triss nodded, still not tearing her eyes from the dress as Geralt stepped out of the dressing room and Jaskier closed the curtains behind him.

He helped Triss into the dress, zipping up the back effortlessly.

“Oh it fits you like a glove darling,” he remarked. “Almost like it was made for you. Oh wait-” he smiled at her. “It was, wasn’t it?”

Triss laughed at his terrible joke - bless her - as she fingered the lace and beads on the front. “I wasn’t expecting it to look this beautiful,” she whispered.

“Well then let's spin you round, darling,” Jaskier said, taking her hand as she turned to face the mirror. “That’ll really shock you.”

“Oh my god.” She clapped her hands over her mouth as she gaped at herself in the mirror, turning from side to side to look at herself better. “Oh my god .”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Jaskier smiled at her. “Geralt is far more talented than he gives himself credit for.”

“Tell me about it,” Triss said distractedly as she continued to stare at the dress. “This is absolutely gorgeous. I love it. Eskel’s going to love it. Everyone’s going to love it.”

“Stop feeding pretty boy’s ego and show us then!” someone shouted from the other side of the curtain.

“Fuck off, Lambert!” Triss called back. “I’m having my bridal moment,” she whispered, tears springing up in her eyes as she continued to stare, utterly transfixed by the dress.

“Here, darling,” Jaskier said, pulling his pink pocket square out of his breast pocket. “You don't want to get your mascara on the dress now, do you?”

Triss dabbed at her eyes and took a deep breath before handing the handkerchief back to Jaskier.

“Are you ready to show your entourage?”

“She better be!” Lambert shouted from outside again.

Triss let out a watery laugh. “Yeah, I am.”

Jaskier drew back the curtain as Triss turned around.

“Oh, Triss,” Yennefer said, tears unmistakably clouding her eyes. “You look gorgeous.”

“Holy fuck, Geralt,” Aiden muttered as he stared at the dress, his jaw dropped. “ You designed that ?”

“Hey!” Lambert elbowed him. “I already said that pretty boy doesn’t need his ego inflated any more than it is!”

“Okay but fucking look at the dress, Lambert. It’s fucking gorgeous. And I’m half fucking blind. ”

Lambert shrugged. “Yeah I mean it’s nice. It’s a dress. It’s fabric. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Say she looks beautiful!” Aiden nearly shouted, smacking Lambert’s shoulder. “And that Geralt did a great job because if you don't I swear your ass-”

“Boys.” Triss crossed her arms. “There are children present.”

“I’m nineteen!” Ciri protested, throwing her hands up.

Triss ignored her. “There are children present and this is my fitting. So Lambert, shut up and tell your brother he did a good job.”

“You did a good job not fucking it up, Ger,” Lambert muttered.

“I’ll take it. And Aiden? You can finish that sentence later,” she said with a pointed look.

She turned to Jaskier, who had been watching the entire exchange with raised eyebrows. “Sorry about them, they are always like this.”

Lambert flipped her off. Aiden threw up a peace sign.

“Well,” Jaskier said, trying to contain his laughter. “Clearly they are meant for eachother.” He was just glad that he hadn’t had to diffuse the situation. He was tired of telling entourages to get along.

“It’s a good thing they got married then,” Geralt said, standing slowly and walking over to Triss. “You like the dress then?”

Triss once again read Jaskier’s mind and playfully punched Geralt’s shoulder. “I fucking love it . I was right, it is everything I wanted and more. Thank you.” Her eyes were shining with tears again and this time, it was painfully obvious that Geralt blushed when he looked down at his shoes.

“Of course, it was my pleasure,” Geralt said, squeezing her arm. “I’m glad you and Eskel are finally tying the knot, I couldn't imagine a more perfect match for him than you.”

“Geralt,” Triss sighed, the tears pooling in her eyes spilling over again. “You didn't need to make me cry more! The dress was enough!”

Geralt just laughed. Jaskier silently passed Triss his pocket square again.

“Is there anything big that you want to change or do I just need to adjust the fit?” Geralt asked.

“Just the fit,” Triss said, dabbing at her eyes again.

Geralt nodded and set to work, silently slipping into the zone, pinning and adjusting and occasionally stepping back and squinting at his work. Jaskier knew that Triss and her entourage were talking, but he didn't even pretend to be paying attention. He was much more content to watch Geralt work, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the fabric as he made the already gorgeous gown look somehow even more phenomenal.

“Alright,” Geralt said, stepping back. “I think that that should be good, spin round for me.”

Triss turned to look in the mirror.

“Does it look okay?” Geralt asked and Triss punched his shoulder again. “Ow!”

“Geralt if you don't stop insulting your frankly quite stunning work, I will have to steal your little demon dog,” she said, looking over the dress in the mirror. “But yes, everything looks good.”

“Roach isn’t a demon,” Geralt pouted, and oh fuck wasn’t that adoreable.

“That fucking dog almost bit my hand off!” Lambert shouted from the bench.

Geralt made several rude gestures at him and Jaskier nearly swooned. Fucking hell he was gone for this man. And it was only the second time that he had seen him.

“Jaskier, can you get her out of the dress?” Geralt asked. “Be careful with all the pins.”

Jaskier nodded, very much at a loss for words.

“C’mon darling,” Jaskier said, tugging the curtain closed behind Geralt again.

He undid the zipper on the back of Triss’s dress and helped tug the dress off her shoulders, mindful of the many pins that Geralt had put in it.

“Have you and Geralt known each other long?” Triss asked.

“Oh, no not at all,” Jaskier said, glad that he was standing behind her and couldn't see the flush of his cheeks. “He helped me with an appointment a few months ago and we went out for drinks after and we’ve been texting occasionally, but that’s it.” He didn’t say that he wished it was more.

“You went out for drinks on the day you first met?” Triss asked, letting her voice rise. “That’s interesting, Geralt doesn’t often go out with people that he’s just met.”

There was a shout from the other side of the curtain, but it was muffled almost immediately, the sound of a hand slapping over someone’s mouth unmistakeable.

“Well, it had been a long day and we were both in need of one. Step out for me, darling,” Jaskier said, picking up the dress and hanging it back up.

“I’m sure you were,” Triss said from behind him as he zipped the dress carefully back into the garment bag. Before he had the chance to ask what she meant, she was opening the curtains and walking back outside to her entourage.

Jaskier picked up the garment bag and followed her.

“It was lovely meeting all of you,” he said, waving to the entourage. “Triss, darling, I hope you have a wonderful wedding and Geralt, it was nice seeing you again.” He turned back down the hall to go hang up the dress for Geralt to deal with later. He should get back upstairs, hopefully nothing too dire had happened in the salon during his absence, even if the break had been nice.

He was just turning to go up the stairs when he saw Geralt walking purposefully towards him, his cane clicking quickly against the floor.

“Jaskier!”

“Oh, hi again!” Jaskier said. “I was just going to head back upstairs, we are still very busy.” He gave Geralt an apologetic smile. There was nothing that he would rather do than stand and talk with Geralt.

Geralt winced. “Then I guess you probably shouldn't have helped me with the appointment.”

“No, no!” Jaskier said quickly. “It was my absolute pleasure, Geralt. And honestly? The salon was driving me a bit insane, so it was quite a nice and much needed break.”

“Well thank you for helping,” Geralt smiled. “I think it went well.”

“It definitely did, darling,” Jaskier said. “She loved the dress, just like I told you she would.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and looked down at his feet, placing both hands on top of his cane. “Actually though, I had something to ask you before you get back to work, if that’s okay. I don’t want to keep you.”

“The only thing you’re keeping me from is crying brides and disapproving mothers, and there is only so much of that that my poor soul can take,” Jaskier said. “I’d rather stay here with you and your-” he cut himself off before he made another terrible slip up. He had already learned his lesson from last time.

“With my magic hands? Or my pretty face?” Geralt asked smugly.

Jaskier sighed, ignoring him. “What was it that you wanted to ask me?”

“I have a plus one for Triss’s wedding next week,” Geralt started.

“And you haven’t asked anyone yet?” Jaskier asked. “Geralt, what have you been doing?”

“...Designing dresses?” he said sheepishly.

Jaskier swore his heart melted. He just looked so cute. How on earth was this allowed?

“Well, you better ask someone,” Jaskier said. “You’re running out of time.”

“Yes I know.” Geralt looked at Jaskier and smiled. “Jaskier, what are you doing next Saturday?”

“Saturday?” Well…” Jaskier trailed off, trying to remember what was coming up. “That is technically my day off, but I might still come in because we have just been so busy and we’re getting a new collection in and I’m going to have to….wait….” his eyes widened as he finally processed what Geralt had been asking him. “Are you….are you asking me..?”

“Would you like to be my plus one to Triss’s wedding?” Geralt asked, his golden eyes somehow sparkling in the atrocious fluorescent lighting.

“ Oh ,” Jaskier gasped. “Yes. Yes I would love to.”

“Great,” Geralt said, breathing an audible sigh of relief. “I’ll pick you up at 1pm. It’s formal. Be ready.”

Oh, Jaskier would be ready alright. He walked back to a salon with a huge smile plastered across his face.

__

may be a ch 2. havent decided. 

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[wylanvnneck]

Rating: G for Giganotosaurus

Summary: Based on a TFOTA headcanon which I posted on Tumblr about Cardan and Jude visiting the Mortal world and Cardan getting introduced to pick-up lines. That he uses. Frequently. Which, of course completely irritates Jude.

Originally posted on AO3 | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Chapter 1

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Jude lets out a slight sigh of exhaustion as she fights to remain poised on her throne, the picture of elegance in front of her reveling subjects. She cannot show any signs of weakness. Her husband beside her steals a glance at her from over his wine glass, noting the weariness on her face that she is attempting to hide.

She can’t help but feel a little relieved when Cardan sets the glass of wine down as he stands and announces, “The Queen and I will be retiring for the day, but do carry on with the merry making.”

She takes a moment to drink in the sight of him imperiously addressing his subjects, the gold on his cheeks glistening under the bright lights. His black eyes shining, highlighted by the Kohl on his lids. The crown sitting regally atop his raven locks which fall over the pointy-tipped ears that mark his ancestry. He is beautiful, untouchable and yet, hers. She takes the arm that he extends as they gracefully exit the hall, headed towards their bed chambers.

“Tired, my mortal goddess?” he murmurs in her ear as they walk.

She is tempted to lie, so as to not appear fragile, but this was Cardan. The only person for whom she would remove her armour.

So she replies, “ A little, I admit,” looking up into his raven eyes that seem to hold a glint of concern.

He knew that the constant celebrations of the Fae took a toll on her, but she refused to shirk her duties as the Queen of Elfhame, attending every revel. The matter often caused fights between them but the make ups were always just as passionate as their yelling was.

“Your Majesties, please excuse me,” they are intercepted by Fand, Jude’s personal knight. “Your sister has sent you a letter, Your Highness.” She hands Jude a letter with her name scrawled on the envelope in Vivi’s sloppy cursive. For a moment she’d hoped it was from Taryn, her twin with whom she maintained a rather tenuous relationship. She was still glad to hear from Vivi  who kept up a correspondence with her between the Mortal world and the Fae one, both of them exchanging letters, although oftentimes Jude’s many duties would intercede.

“Thank you Fand, you may go.” She thumbs the letter as Fand respectfully bows and retreats.

“I wonder what your sister has to say this time?” Cardan remarks as they enter their rooms, immediately starting to remove his extravagant attire and change into his equally extravagant silk night robe.

“No idea, I only hope it’s nothing to do with Madoc and Oriana.” Jude’s relationship with her father was a very, very fragile one. After all that had transpired between them, she hadn’t yet reached out to him, with only Vivi’s letters to provide her with any news of his doings in the Mortal Realm since she’d banished him. He’d said that he understood her actions, but understanding did not mean forgiving.  Not that she needed forgiving. He was the one in the wrong. But he was also still the man who had raised her to be the warrior she was now.

As if sensing her thoughts, Cardan steps closer to where she is standing by the doorframe, gently nudging her with his now free tail as she rips open the envelope. He rests his head on her shoulder and joins her in her attempt to decipher Vivi’s handwriting.

“She’s inviting us to come and visit them in the mortal realm for a while, now that things are calmer.” It was indeed true that months had passed since Jude had slayed Cardan’s serpentine form, fulfilling the prophecy and the two had brought peace to Elfhame by ridding it of Madoc’s rebels.

“She says that a short break would be beneficial for the both of us and that Oak keeps asking to see me.” She smiles to herself as she thinks of her precocious younger brother.

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Cardan says. “You deserve a break, Jude. More importantly, I do, for all the hard work I attend to,” he adds with an exaggerated yawn and a smug look.

She gives that last statement as much attention as it deserved, which is to say, she ignores it.

“But can we afford to take a break? What about the safety of our Kingdom?”

“I’m sure that the Court of Shadows and our bloodthirsty redcap general can handle the Kingdom in our absence and it would only be for a few days. Besides, I am curious to see more of where my wife spent her days during her...exile.” He falters slightly on that last word, shooting her a wary look. He knows that Jude did not at all appreciate his trickery that had led to those miserable days in exile. She has forgiven him, mostly, but there was no harm in keeping the High King on his toes.

She narrows her eyes at him and in response he presses a penitent kiss to her lips.

Before they can get too wrapped up in each other he pulls away, “So it’s settled? We shall spend a few days in the mortal realm with your sister?”

“I suppose so.” Now that Jude is resigned to the idea she feels a spark of excitement at visiting her family.

* * *

A few nights later the couple, accompanied by the Roach, make their way to the sea that separates them from the Mortal lands as the fog swirls around them, each carrying saddlebags. Cardan conjures two bony Ragwort ponies from a few stalks, silent and ready to carry them across the realms. They have donned mortal clothes, Jude in a sensible black pair of shorts and a dark top, under which she has concealed her various weapons and Cardan looking quite irregular in his tight-fitting denim jeans and loose white shirt that Jude had scrounged up for him. Despite her best efforts at pleading with him, she had not succeeded in having his gold cheeks and kohl removed, creating a very striking yet confusing image of the Fae in ill-fitting mortal clothes. He did, at least, promise to glamour the pointed tips of his ears once they’d crossed.

“Worry not, Your Highnesses, your Kingdom is in good hands,” the Roach bids them farewell.

“I do hope so,” Cardan replies, giving him a quick nod, mounting his steed after Jude and tangling his fingers in the horse's leafy mane as they take off into the night.

It’s nearing dawn once they’re outside Vivi and Heather’s apartment, the horses dissolving into stalks that blow away in the dark and quiet surroundings. Cardan takes in the sights around him and Jude remembers that he’d been here once before, coming to Vivi for help after Madoc had kidnapped Jude right from Cardan’s presence, thinking she was Taryn.

“It is strange. The last time I was here I was in such a hurry to find you that I didn’t really notice much of what was around me,” he says, his enhanced eyesight not at all hindered by the darkness.

“What do you think of the mortal world so far?” Jude asks, ringing the doorbell.

“Usually at this time we Fae would be feasting and dancing, but here it’s so still and silent. It seems that no one is awake.”

“Sometimes mortals actually do have night time revels,” she replies, thinking of the nightclubs that Vivi used to sneak off to back when they lived with Madoc. She’d sometimes waltz back into Jude’s room upon returning and describe her night to her half-impressed, half-disapproving sisters, her cheeks flushed from alcohol and dancing. It felt like ages ago.

“Is that so? Perhaps while we are here we should attend one of these revels,” Cardan suggests, head tilting.

“Perhaps,” Jude replies distractedly as she wonders why it was taking so long  for someone to answer the door. They had sent a quick note informing her sister of their impending visit so they should be expected.

Finally Vivi swings open the door, her petite body clothed in a baggy set of pajamas, “Jude, you’re here,” she opens the door wider, scanning her sister with her golden cat’s eyes.

“Hello Vivi,” Jude steps inside and gives her a quick hug with Cardan following in her wake, “Sister-in-law,” he teases.

“Pain-in-law,” Vivi responds, not missing a beat. Jude smiles to herself. It was good to see her sassy half-sister again.

Jude follows her sister to the kitchen counter as she fumbles around for some mugs to make coffee in. Cardan settles himself onto a high stool, intrigued by the coffee machine that Vivi was currently operating. The three of them linger in the kitchen for some time, drinking their beverages and exchanging stories, Jude relating stories of Elfhame and court happenings and Vivi catching them up on the recent happenings in the Mortal world and Oak’s schooling and Heather’s job. Jude is relieved to know that Madoc and Oriana hadn’t gotten into any trouble in the mortal world, at least not as yet, and that they were currently living somewhere quite far off, though they did frequently come and visit Oak. They wouldn’t be visiting while Jude was here, she was glad to hear. That confrontation would have to come at some point she supposed, but not just yet.

Finally, Vivi calls it a night, showing them to the room they were to occupy and leaving them to return to her sleeping girlfriend’s side.

Cardan takes in the messy bedroom, with a half-heartedly made up bed, obviously a last minute preparation for their arrival. “So, this is where you slept when you were here?” He lays on the bed and slowly stretches his legs out in a cat-like manner, watching Jude as she deposits their bags on the floor.  

“Indeed. Not quite the level of luxury you’re used to, Your Highness,” she smirks, crawling onto the bed beside him. She pushes him aside to make space for herself.

“Nevertheless, there is something to be said about smaller beds,” he responds, putting his arm about her waist and pulling her close, freeing his tail from the jeans to wrap around her calf.

“Hmm…” she mumbles tiredly, resting her head on his chest, feeling her husband’s hands stroking her chestnut hair, lulling her to sleep.

Thank you to @cupcakesandkittens​ for encouraging me to post this fic on tumblr as well.💕

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Please let me know if you'd like me to tag you in further installations of this fic:))

[jaskiersvalley]

TITLE: Summer Swift

AUTHOR/ARTIST: @jaskiersvalley

PROMPT DAY #: #4 Hurt/Comfort

SUMMARY: Over the years, Geralt had assumed Jaskier didn’t travel with him during the winter because it was too cold and tough on a fragile human body. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

WORD COUNT (if applicable): ~1k

BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/VIDEO GAME: Netflix show

TRIGGERS/WARNINGS: Depression, Seasonal Affective Disorder.

RATING: Teen and up

ADDITIONAL NOTES: Written as part of @geraskierweek. This one is dedicated to @thefishmongersdaughter - you know why :)

That first fateful meeting had been years ago but Geralt still remembered it. His Summer Swift had deemed him home for the warmer months, only leaving him as the cold set it. It was something Geralt had come to accept, cold, hard winters by himself. Such a life wasn’t fit for a fragile human.

“Where will you migrate to this winter, little hummingbird?” Geralt asked as he set the fire, an early chill had settled on the lands this year.

“I don’t know, I don’t think I’m welcome anywhere in particular this year and my coin is a bit thin to be able to put myself up somewhere.”

Weighing up the options, Geralt finally offered to be a companion for the colder months too, happy to pay towards rooms for cold nights and help with furs for Jaskier. It was quietly accepted with a warning that Jaskier might not be able to pay him back and that Geralt was not obligated to spend all his time with him. At that, Geralt only laughed a little and shook his head, reassuring Jaskier that he liked spending time with him, his happiness was infectious. For some strange reason, that only drew a bitter huff from Jaskier but it didn’t matter, Geralt was just happy he got to spend more time with his bard.

As the weeks went on, something changed. Watching Jaskier was like watching a fire die out, the embers blowing in the winds and trying to remember their former glory. He still played in taverns but a spark was missing. He sang, he smiled, he bowed and went through the motions of flirting. But Geralt could see how it all rang hollow, a poor mimicry of what Jaskier had been.

And Geralt didn’t understand. He tried to make it better, took Jaskier to better inns, bought him nicer furs, didn’t put any pressure on him to perform, he even stopped trying to cuddle him in case Geralt was the cause of his sadness. Maybe Jaskier only ever wanted a summer romance with him and now felt trapped. Pulling back from Jaskier hurt and it didn’t seem to help. If anything, it made him fall deeper into this fading disease of his. The smiles were empty, there were no new songs. In fact, Jaskier barely even touched his lute. Some days, he sat on the edge of the bed, lute in hand but after a restless plucking of one or two strings, nothing more came forth. It was a good day when he got half way through a song even if it had no soul.

Things got worse. Not even the finest foods Geralt could offer seemed to make the bard smile. And it was a worry. Especially when Geralt realised that he, as a Witcher, slept more than his human companion. He lost track of the amount of time Jaskier lay in bed, eyes open and staring when he should have been fast asleep.

“What ails you?” Geralt ended up asking in the middle of the winter. “Would you prefer to part ways?”

The fact Jaskier didn’t answer beyond a shrug was worrisome. Even worse was when he opened his mouth to actually speak. “It would probably be better for you. I’d understand.”

He probably would understand but Geralt didn’t. Especially not when a tear trickled down Jaskier’s temple where he was lying. His question about being allowed to approach was met with a silent nod and Geralt was padding across the room, sliding into bed like he had done so many times in the past. It took a little coaxing and moving Jaskier around until he could be held and then it was like a dam had broken. Human arms clutched at him and tears escaped along with apologies.

Over the course of the next couple of days, Geralt managed to tease the story out of Jaskier. Each winter, some curse seemed to fall on him where everything seemed pointless, nothing tasted good and it was like sunshine and warmth brought all his happiness. The winter robbed him of that. Left him a husk of who he used to be. So he made up for it in the warmer months, becoming larger than life in the hopes that some of it might be carried over into the winter. It never was. His winters were spent holed up in some room, either at a friend’s place or somewhere safe. Only, this year nobody had been willing to put up with him, nobody wanted him to haunt their halls with his emptiness.

Listening to it all only made Geralt hold him closer. It wasn’t easy. Some days he wanted to shake Jaskier and ask him what was so awful about winter when there were so many wonders it brought. Snow, a crisp chill to the air, beautiful sights, the wonder of a warm fireplace with hot chocolate to boot. But it didn’t matter. For whatever reason, Jaskier was blind to these simple joys. On the days Geralt wanted to rage, he simply went out, walked through the snow, tended to Roach and, by the time his annoyance had quietened, he felt bad. So he always returned with a small gift for Jaskier.

As early as winter had set in, it was just as quick to pass. Soon, the sun was brightening the mornings, snowdrops peered out of the ground. And, Geralt noted, it was like watching Jaskier wake up. Not a sudden spring back to his usual self, more like a steady, yawning stretch. Rather than sit on his bed, Jaskier could be cajoled to sit by the window and look out at the melting snow. His lute, which had been abandoned on the darkest nights of winter, found its way to his side again. The first time Jaskier laughed, it sounded like a blessing even though it was last heard so long ago, it might as well have been a myth from olden times.

By the time the weather warmed up and spring had announced its imminent arrival, Jaskier was smiling again. Not the bright, sunny smiles he had greeted Geralt with after a winter apart. No, in the previous years he wouldn’t have found Geralt just yet. But the echoes of it were there, growing stronger each day. When they set out on their travels again, there was a hint of a skip to Jaskier’s step that got stronger. As summer rolled around, Geralt was grateful to see that Jaskier was back to how he knew him, his migratory little bird. The pet names returned, only, this time, Geralt vowed that he would find something to make winters more bearable for his songbird. Thus, they started their chase of the summer across the continents, trying to always be one step ahead of winter and her curse.

[vulturhythm]

let us waltz for the dead - three

part one - part two

- - - - -

They say never to trust the devil's silver tongue.

To do so is to sign away your soul.

They say not to wander alone.

To do so is to never be seen again.

- - -

The scream echoes out in the corridor, piercing loud and harsh and cruel until, abruptly it dies.

It dies, and Geralt is rigid, his eyes fixed on the bloody glass.

He blinks.

It's still there.

Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet. There's an ache, low. A memory.

A memory that's not entirely unwelcome.

The hallway is silent now, and so, he doesn't feel quite as much guilt when he takes the time to pull on his trousers and undershirt before he heads for the door. After all, the notion of facing his death unclothed is not one he finds appealing.

He isn't entirely certain what he expects when he opens the door - a grisly scene, perhaps, or even a rat on the floor, startling some maid.

He was not expecting to see merely Renfri, standing rigid a few feet away from his door, her eyes wide and haunted.

"Renfri?" he says, his voice rough with sleep. She seems not to hear at first. Geralt frowns, turning his head to follow her gaze down the hall...

... down to the mirror mounted on the wall at the far end.

Geralt's frown deepens.

Of all the people he would imagine to be afraid of their reflection, Renfri would never rank among them. Really, he wouldn't have imagined Renfri as afraid of anything, and yet, here she is, staring down the length of the hall as though it's done her harm.

"Are you okay?" Geralt asks, almost hesitant. He feels as though he's missing something here.

This time, Renfri starts, turning to look at him with eyes that quickly go bright with a forced smile. "Yeah," she says, almost breathless in her haste to reassure him. "Just got startled by my reflection, that's all. Happens a lot." She waves away his dubious glance. "I came to see if you were up yet. Breakfast is ready downstairs."

Geralt is quiet at first, his gaze still skeptical, but Renfri doesn't seem to care, her eyes already drawn back to the mirror at the end of the hall, as if she doesn't quite trust that it's merely her reflection in the glass, nothing more. "Thank you," he says. "I'll be down soon."

Renfri nods; it can't be just his imagination that says she looks almost relieved to be dismissed. She turns on her heel to head back down the hall for the stairwell, and Geralt stands in the doorway, looking after her until she starts the descent.

He turns to look toward the mirror then.

His face gazes back at him.

He hadn't seen his reflection's head turn.

- - -

Maybe ten minutes pass before Geralt heads downstairs, having retreated into his room to dress. He'd spared no attention to the mirror on the vanity.

The first floor is dimly lit, only a few candles lit on shelves and counters; even the fire flickering in the hearth seems dull. It's odd, disconcerting, but Geralt gives it scarcely any thought. He's growing accustomed to the strange ways of the Black Dog.

Renfri stands behind the bar, polishing a glass decanter. She lifts her head when Geralt approaches, and the smile she gives is pasted on. "Breakfast on the house," she says by way of greeting, nodding toward the platter on the bartop. It's a pleasant little spread, breakfast meats and breads and eggs. "No need to thank me. Don't see much point in charging you for food when you've no other options."

"Thank you," Geralt says as he takes his usual seat, drawing the platter closer to himself. He watches Renfri through the corner of his eye as he takes his first bite, watches her hands move with near-mechanical precision.

She moves like one who's seeking diversion.

Silence passes between them for one, three, five minutes at the least, silence apart from the storm still raging against the tavern walls. The winds sound less violent today, and it seems to Geralt that the rains are calmer, too. He says at much when the quiet grows too oppressive, immediately startled when Renfri jumps as though shot.

The decanter falls from her hands.

It shatters on the floor behind the bar, glass spraying like blood from a wound.

Geralt winces as the shards clink to the ground.

"Are you - "

"Fine," Renfri says, her voice panicked. She backs away from the corpse of the decanter, and Geralt knows he's not imagining the haunted look in her eyes. "Sorry. Just got... startled. That's all."

Geralt watches her, worried. Something is not right.

Renfri is motionless, gaze on the floor - no doubt on the shrapnel, though Geralt cannot see.

"Let me help clean it up," he says, breaking the silence far more gently this time.

His words seem to jar Renfri from her shaky reverie, but she shakes her head, glancing up with eyes that plead for help and a face that demands isolation. "No," she says, though Geralt can sense the pain the denial causes her. "No, you're a guest. I'll take care of it."

Geralt is quiet.

Renfri's gaze falls once more.

He watches as she lifts a hand, brushing it across her temple as though to wipe away an impending ache.

"I'll take care of it," she repeats, softer now - soft and faint.

She turns away.

"Just... enjoy your meal."

Geralt watches as the woman slips around the counter, as she walks through the doorway he can only guess leads to the kitchen.

Though he sits, still and waiting, Renfri doesn't return.

He finishes his breakfast in silence.

- - -

The rain has lapsed into temporary quiet by the time he retreats upstairs.

His eyes are on the floor as he climbs the stairs, but the sound of movement in the hallway draws his gaze up once more.

Geralt stops.

There's a young woman standing at the end of the hall, dust rag in hand. Her back is turned, but Geralt can make out brown hair beneath the frilled headband typical of a maid. Her servant's dress is plain, but even at this distance, it looks tattered at the hems; the white trim is faded.

He stands at the top of the stairs for a beat, taken aback by the presence of yet another in this strange tavern, watching the maid clean the surface of the mirror hanging on the wall.

A good thirty seconds passes before the maid seems to glimpse his reflection, and she jumps, whirling to face him.

The rag falls to the floor.

She appears shocked.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Geralt says quickly, his voice unwilling to work at first. "I'm sorry."

The girl simply stares, though her shoulders slump back into relaxation.

"I didn't realize there was anyone else here," he goes on, though it sounds idiotic even to his own ears. Of course a functioning tavern and inn would have a maid, even if the Black Dog is far from normal.

The maid tips her head to one side, and the smile she gives is forced.

It's almost worrying.

Geralt's words are softer when he speaks next. "I was just coming to get my coat from my room," he says, uncertain how to interpret the maid's silence. "Am I in your way?"

The maid shakes her head, stooping quickly to pick up the rag that had fallen at her feet. She wraps her fingers tightly into the old fabric; the fidgeting doesn't escape Geralt's notice, but he knows better than to breathe a word.

Geralt clears his throat.

Something is off.

"I apologize," he repeats, taking the few steps toward his door, though his sidelong gaze remains on the maid at the end of the hall.

He knows he doesn't imagine the way she tenses.

Geralt hesitates with his hand on the doorknob.

The maid turns away, back to the mirror.

Geralt has no idea what to make of it.

He slips into his room, heading straight for where his coat's hung up on the corner of the washroom door.

He spares only a brief glance to the mirror.

It is just the same as before.

The maid is gone when he leaves his room.

It's only as he shrugs his coat on and descends the staircase that he realizes he hadn't heard footsteps down the hall.

- - -

The rain is still at a pause by the time Geralt steps out from beneath the tavern's awning. The air smells heavy, almost cloyingly sweet with the aftermath of the rain, but beneath it all is the stink of mud and hay from the stable. Geralt wrinkles his nose with mild disdain, though he breathes in deep regardless.

Somehow, even the moist air is more pleasant than that of the Black Dog.

The stable interior is quiet when he pushes open one of the heavy wooden doors, leaving it open for the overcast glow to spread inside. Roach lifts her head from where she'd been nibbling at the hay, turning bright eyes and pricked ears his way. "Hello, Roach," he greets, his tone soft.

His mare nickers, returning her attention to her meal immediately.

"No gratitude," Geralt muses, crossing the stable floor to approach her stall. Beneath his feet, the old floorboards creak and groan, louder than he remembers from before. He pauses when one splinters under his weight, looking down.

The floor is solid enough, built on firm earth.

The rain must be damaging the wood, he reasons.

Before he can give the splintering wood any further thought, a loud, echoing snort demands his attention.

Geralt lifts his head.

The huge black stallion is all but glowering at him from the stall across the corridor.

... The stall across the corridor.

"Why, oh, why, do they keep moving you?" Geralt asks aloud, turning to lean his back against Roach's stall door. He folds his arms across his chest as he holds the bastard's cruel gaze, surprised to realize he's, well, smug. "Wait a minute... I think I know."

As if he knows what Geralt plans to say, the stallion stamps a hoof, heavy enough that Geralt hears wood cracking yet again. The stallion's head is bobbing now, nostrils flared wide as he stares Geralt down.

"I think it's because you're a biter," Geralt says, distantly aware that he should feel foolish for talking like this to a horse. "I think it's because you're an evil fucker - crazy, to boot."

The horse screams.

Geralt flinches in spite of himself when the stallion rears partway, when those feathered hooves slam down hard enough for the crack of wood to echo loud.

He knows he's imagining the way the floor beneath him feels as though it shifts, nearly gives.

"Never were taught manners, were you?" he asks aloud, watching with growing disbelief as the stallion's thrashing only increases - head tossing, hooves pounding, haunches bucking. Foam sprays from bared teeth, and the whites of the devil's eyes flash bright as he screams.

At his back, he hears Roach snort, and he looks over his shoulder to his mare, who has turned to face the goings-on. Pushing aside his newfound trepidation with some unease, he tears his attention from the manic stallion. "Is he this mean when you're alone?" he asks her, turning fully to run a hand down her brow.

Roach nickers once more, shoving her head into his palm.

Geralt croons to her, low, reaching into his coat pocket for one of the carrots he always carries. She eats it from his hand with the ferocity of a starving hound, even though Geralt knows damn well she's been eating nearly nonstop. "Greedy," he murmurs, continuing to stroke her brow.

Roach snorts in reply.

"I know," he sighs, tipping his head to rest against the mare's own. She draws back to nose into his hair; he endures it with a weary smile. "The rain's stopped for now, but knowing our luck, it would storm all the harder the moment we decided to leave. Besides, the roads are no doubt washed out in the lowlands.... no point in leaving yet."

Something changes.

It takes him a second to place.

The stallion has gone silent.

Geralt looks back over his shoulder.

The stallion is simply... standing.

Standing, head held high, eyes black and brutal and cold, ribs heaving with every roaring breath.

Anxious distrust coils tight and wicked in Geralt's chest.

He knows, more truly than he thinks he's ever known a thing, that he needs to leave.

"Not normal," he says, low. "You're not normal."

The stallion doesn't react.

- - -

Geralt spends another few minutes in the stable.

He doesn't last any longer than the time it takes to brush the straw from Roach's coat. He can't stand the stallion's presence any longer.

He pauses as he walks from the stable's heavy double doors, taking the time to give the area a more proper onceover now that the rain has ceased for the time being. In the half-light of the overcast day, the area seems less immediately ominous.

The forest encroaches quite near to the property, thick trees growing from the wet earth as near as three feet from the stable's outer walls. The clearing directly in front of the tavern is large enough to support two or three carriages at once, if angled correctly, but even still, it manages to feel almost claustrophobic, sheltered from the narrow trail going through the woods... the trail that, even from here, Geralt can see is virtually nothing but murky water and mud.

He can't begin to fathom what the trail is like in the lower points.

Geralt sighs, turning for the tavern's main door once again. He pauses beneath the awning, his hand on the knob, however - for his attention is caught by a small wooden sign, staked into the landscaping at the opposite corner of the building.

"Gardens," it reads, quite simply, beneath a carved rose. An arrow points around the building, following a narrow path he notices now that he's not seeking shelter from the dark of night or unbearable rain.

A bit of exploration never hurt.

So, deciding there's no true harm in taking advantage of the temporary lull in the storm, Geralt turns from the door, following the path.

It's paved in cobblestone just like the area beneath the awning, wide enough for a single person to move comfortably alongside the tavern's edge. Small shrubs are planted along the path's edge, and though the leaves are water-bowed, Geralt can imagine them to be quite beautiful when not half-drowned.

Behind the tavern, the path opens up into a large area - a cobblestone courtyard of sorts, nearly half the size of the tavern's bulk, stretching out toward the forest. Geralt pauses at the path's end, gazing about.

From the path's end, the shrubs are replaced by a low stone wall that wraps around the courtyard's perimeter, waist-high. At the far end, the wall is broken by a wrought-iron gate with an arch that peaks merely a foot higher than the wall, one that - judging from the ivy reaching from the wall to coil among the bars - hasn't been opened in quite some time. Geralt can see the cobblestone paving continues through the gate, leading out into the forest.

Two stone benches sit on opposite sides of the courtyard, facing eachother. Geralt's gaze lingers on the one closest to himself. It feels... almost lonely.

In the center of the courtyard are two identical plots of earth, split down the center by the paving that leads toward the gate. Rose bushes grow tall and nearly wild in each plot, blood red blooms and earth-green leaves beaded with raindrops. Growing closer to the rich soil are smaller plants - pansies, ivies, exotic grasses of which Geralt doesn't know the name.

Geralt tips his head to the side, his gaze following the path a particularly adventurous ivy frond takes - creeping from its bed, stretching out across the cobblestone to climb up the wall. It is this frond that weaves itself among the wrought-iron bars.

He doesn't quite know why this plant in particular catches his interest, nor why it holds it so firmly.

It is movement that finally snaps him from his botanical reverie.

Wolf-gold eyes snapping up sharply, he goes still when he sees what had caught his attention.

Standing on the low stone wall is a black dog.

It's a massive brute, for all that it looks like a hunting hound - closer to a wolf in stature - with thick fur that grows longest in a ruff about its neck.

Bear hunter, Geralt realizes distantly.

The dog is motionless where it stands, gaze locked on Geralt's own.

Its eyes are dark, nearly the black of its fur.

As Geralt watches, its lips curl.

He feels, more than he hears, the growl - feels it vibrate deep beneath his ribs, between his lungs.

Feels it in the air all around him.

Feels the way the plants between he and the hound seem to draw away.

Just as Geralt recognizes the feeling growing in his chest as <i>fear,</i> the growl stops short.

The hound goes silent.

Its gaze has shifted now, moved to something behind Geralt, up higher on the tavern's wall.

Geralt turns his head, starts in surprise when he sees the maid from earlier standing at a window on the second floor. Her eyes... though they're not turned to him, they look - feel - cold.

When he looks back, the hound is gone.

He stands there, quiet.

He doesn't know why he's surprised to find the maid gone, too, when he looks back up at the window.

- - -

Geralt isn't entirely certain what possesses him to approach the wrought-iron gate, apart from curiosity.

He treads carefully over the sprawling ivy fronds, stopping in front of the gate to peer toward the forest beyond. He sees no sign of the black dog, though that's not necessarily a surprise; hounds can run at quite the clip when they're in the mind, he knows. Wonder where the brute came from, he muses idly, turning his gaze to the stone wall itself. The dog would have had to hop up from the ground on the other side, which... Geralt leans forward enough to give the mud a closer look.

Odd.

No pawprints.

Before he can dwell on this too long, the distant sound of wind chimes draws his attention away. Geralt looks toward the trees once more.

The forest's edge sits back a short ways from the garden's edge, the earth rising in a slow, gradual arch to peak in a knoll atop which the trees sit. Even though the tree cover is dense, the trunks all close together, Geralt can tell that the ground beyond is uneven, too, all rolling hills that make it even more difficult to see beyond the dark of the treeline.

The cobblestone path beneath the gate leads off into the trees, disappearing from sight over the crest of the nearest knoll. Curiosity nags at the back of his mind, and he hesitates at first, looking down to the ivy growing thick and winding among the bars of the gate. It feels wrong to disturb the plant that clearly invested so much time in its growth...

"No one here to see," Geralt muses aloud, heaving a sigh as he swings first one leg, then the other, up and over the wall. It's just low enough that he has little difficulty.

Well. No one apart from the maid, if she's still there.

He pushes the thought aside, straightening up and heading along the path... privately shocked at how much darker his world becomes once he's beneath the cover of the trees, tall and imposing around him. They're just trees. Nothing more. Regardless, he cannot shake the feeling of being watched.

The wind chimes seem to be off to the left a ways once he passes the crest of the knoll, but the path continues straight. Geralt pauses, frowning off into the shadows. The brush is flattened and cleared aside, almost like an animal's hunting trail, leading toward the source of the noise. A look ahead along the paved path shows that it only leads farther into the woods; curiosity nags at him, but he doesn't fancy getting caught out here when the storm resumes.

Decision made, he turns off the cobblestone, following the downtrodden brush where it leads off into the woods. Much to his relief, he only has to go a short ways before the source of the sound comes into view. At the crest of another knoll is a massive oak tree, its roots rising high from the ground to create a tangled knot above the muddy earth. There's a hollow of sorts beneath the trunk where it grows at an angle, the roots splayed enough to bare the vulnerable underside.

Even without the rest, the tree on its own would be an imposing sight, but Geralt's attention is drawn by something else.

The limbs of the tree are adorned with wind chimes of every variety - simple metal rods, small silver-plated shapes, even some jewels hanging among the more ornate arrangements. There are simple shapes crafted of sticks and twine; there are small animal skulls hanging from lengths of beaded string; there are larger bones dangling closer to the trunk.

Geralt's stomach twists when he sees scraps of decaying flesh and matted fur still clinging to some of the larger bones - ribs and femurs and the like, no doubt. Animals, at least. Poor things.

His gaze moves down, down to the hollow at the base of the tree - the hollow beneath the gnarled roots. His confusion only grows when he sees that the oddities do not stop in the branches of the oak.

What looks to be a dog's skull rests in the damp earth, the brow painted over with streaks of mud in the shape of a cross. Its maw is propped open by a short stick through the mouth, keeping sharp teeth bared. Geralt frowns when he notices the two front canines are missing, frowns harder when he sees the arrangement of stick-and-twine figures around the skull, laid there in the earth. Some are merely geometric, squares and triangles and diamonds, but others are crudely fashioned in the shape of nondescript animals - spine, legs, neck, head, tail. Others, still, are human.

Geralt steps closer, crouching low in front of the strange shrine - for, he realizes now, that is what he has found. A shrine, an altar... a memorial. "Who are you for?" he asks the hollow eyesockets of the hound.

Only the wind chimes answer him.

- - -

He loses track of time, kneeling there before the oak tree shrine. The air feels still, dead.

Alone.

It's only when Geralt feels raindrops patter onto his head and shoulders that he finally straightens, peering up through the thick canopy. The sky has gone dark, nearly black. The storm is returning, and judging from how black the woods around him have become, it will be worse this time around.

"Great," he sighs aloud, turning to head back to the tavern with his head ducked low. Not for the first time, he wishes his coat had a hood. It would make this whole ordeal a sight easier.

Though he keeps an eye out for any sign of the black hound, the walk back is uneventful.

By the time he makes it back beneath the shelter of the awning at the front of the tavern, the rain is heavier, beating down on his shoulders and bowed head. Grimacing as he pushes open the door, he stops on the mat just inside, letting the worst of the rain drip back off of him before he ruins the wood.

Geralt doesn't realize there had been talking until, without notice, the tavern falls quiet. He lifts his gaze from the floor, pausing when he sees Renfri and Nivellen standing behind the bar. Renfri is reclining against the counter itself as Nivellen wipes a tankard clean, but they've both gone still, looking at him.

For a wild, brief moment, Geralt feels as though he's intruding.

"See the rain caught you," Renfri says, breaking the strange little silence. "Out visiting your horse?"

He shakes his head, clearing his throat as he approaches the bar. Nivellen gives him a pointed look, his gaze going from Geralt's face to one of the stools - one that, Geralt sees, is a couple of feet down from Nivellen himself. Alright, then.

As Geralt sits down - directly in front of the both of them - he turns his gaze on Renfri, ignoring Nivellen's irritated frown. "For a minute. Went for a little walk after, until the rain started up again. The gardens at the back - they're beautiful."

Something flickers in Renfri's eyes, and she looks toward the stairwell door. Before Geralt can follow her gaze, she's turning back to him. "Yeah, they're impressive. Can't take any credit for them, though. Have to talk to Holly for that."

Geralt feels, more than sees, Nivellen go tense, just at the edges of his vision. "Renfri - "

"Not that she does much talking nowadays," Renfri goes on, speaking louder over Nivellen, her glare harsh.

The feeling of intruding is back, more intense than before. Geralt looks between the two, between the stubborn edge in Renfri's eyes and the exasperated frustration in Nivellen's own.

He isn't surprised in the slightest when it's Nivellen who gives in, shaking his head and going back to wiping off the tankard that had been neglected in his hands.

Renfri gives a satisfied sigh, turning to face Geralt properly, her arms folded on the counter as she leans closer to say in an undertone, "Don't mind him. I don't know if he's ever woken up on the right side of the bed."

Geralt huffs out a single, quiet laugh. "That path," he says, jerking his chin to indicate the back of the tavern, "the one that goes out through the woods? Where does it lead?"

"The one from the gardens leads to the hunting grounds," she replies. "Bit of a long walk, though, and it's a winding trail. Don't think anybody ever actually used it, to be entirely honest. Guess you haven't seen it, but there's a wider path going from the rear of the stable. Heads the same way, and it's just dirt, but it's a quicker journey."

"Maybe because it's meant for horseback," Nivellen mutters.

Geralt sees Renfri's body jerk, and he hears Nivellen curse, sidestepping from the foot the woman no doubt sent flying to his knee.

"Like I said," Renfri says with a sigh, "wrong side of the bed."

Geralt likes her.

He thinks, as his gaze drops a little lower, taking in the low neckline of her blouse, maybe he would like her a little more, if Jaskier wasn't lurking somewhere in the tavern.

When he looks back up, Renfri is giving him a slow, sly grin, but she shakes her head. Geralt merely shrugs, another quiet laugh escaping. She's an odd one, but... in a good way. "There's an oak tree," he says aloud, changing the subject with customary ease, "off the path out in the woods - "

Nivellen goes still, and Renfri's face shutters off immediately.

Geralt is nothing but bewildered. "... You know the one, I take it?"

"The one covered in all sorts of chimes and pendants and pagan things?" Nivellen grouses. Geralt blinks.

"I hadn't placed them as pagan, but - "

"All that stuff is set there by troublemakers," Renfri interjects, and she pushes herself back upright, the moment of easy companionship between her and Geralt gone in a flash. "People just going through the forest. They see things left by others, decide, 'what the hell?' Just kids, no doubt. No point in paying it any mind."

"People come through these woods often?" Geralt asks dryly, no longer trying to conceal his disbelief. He can't imagine their reactions would truly be this strong if it was merely an issue of trespassers. "I didn't see another house or village or farm on the way through - this tavern is the first thing I came across for miles."

"People travel quite the long way to make trouble sometimes," Nivellen says, and there's a harsh edge to his tone, one that brooks no further argument.

Geralt frowns.

Something - many things - are not right.

There's quiet between them for a moment, Renfri's eyes averted, Geralt's on the cloth in Nivellen's hand.

It's Renfri who breaks the silence, turning away and clapping her hand down on the bar loud enough to make both men jump. "Why don't you head back up and pass the time to dinner?" she says, her voice too loud for the topic. "Not much point in sitting around and talking all day, I don't imagine."

Geralt knows a dismissal when he hears one.

"I'll see you again soon enough, I'm sure," he says as he stands. Renfri simply nods, her gaze already sliding away; Nivellen ignores him entirely.

Unable to shake his unease, Geralt retreats back upstairs.

- - -

He no longer has the energy to be surprised when he finds his mirror intact, untouched.

He is, however, surprised to find a small, leatherbound black book sitting on his bed, atop a heavy black cloak. There's a pencil, quill pen and inkwell laid beside them.

Geralt stands beside his bed for a few seconds in silence, taking in the odd little gift. Jaskier, perhaps. He can't imagine Renfri would have done this, and he knows better than to think Nivellen ever would.

Finally, he picks up the book, running idle fingers over the uneven surface. When he opens it, he's met with a small note scrawled in clumsy ink on the first page.

Stay in your room at night, no matter what you hear.

Geralt's frown deepens, and he turns the page. It, and all the ones beyond, are blank, made of heavy, good quality paper; meant for an artist, no doubt. He's never considered himself much of one, and he wonders what about him made Jaskier believe this to be a fitting gift, but he isn't about to turn it down.

He sets the book aside, lifting the cloak that was laying beneath it. It's thick and heavy, clearly meant to withstand cold temperatures and inclement weather, and - he notices with no small amount of pleasure - it has a hood.

He'll have to thank Jaskier later.

No sooner does this thought cross his mind than he realizes he's counting on seeing the strange little thing downstairs tonight.

It's only been two nights, and he's already got you enamored. Pathetic.

Geralt sighs, crossing the room to hang the cloak up on the rack beside the dresser. He spares himself the briefest of glances in the healed mirror, frowning when he sees how haggard he looks. His hair is still damp and matted from the rain, and there are circles beneath his eyes, all the more pronounced on his pale skin. For all that he enjoys Jaskier's company, it's clear it's been taking its toll on him. Perhaps a little more rest might be in order... or, he muses, running his fingers through his hair and grimacing when he feels a knot in the strands, a damn bath.

He opens the washroom door, looking toward the claw-footed tub tucked away against the wall. Although the washbasin in the counter has a working faucet, he sees nothing of the sort near the tub. He'll have to find somebody to draw him the water, no doubt, and he hasn't the faintest clue where to find the maid from earlier. Nivellen would just as soon kick him out, and Renfri, well...

Geralt can't help but feel as though he's irritated her somehow.

Resigning himself to remaining unwashed for at least another day, he turns away. If Jaskier gave him the sketchbook and media, he likely expects Geralt to make use of them. A glance at the ornate clock sitting on the windowsill shows he still has an hour or so to waste away before dinnertime.

With a sigh, Geralt settles down against his headboard, reaches for the book and quill, and sets to idle work.

- - -

By the time Geralt sets it all aside to head downstairs, he's finished what he thinks is a respectable sketch of the black hound he'd seen out in the gardens. It's no great work of art, that much is certain, but he takes some private pleasure in the finished product.

There's a minute part of him that hopes Jaskier will be... what? Proud? He scoffs at himself as he heads downstairs, pushing the thought aside. Jaskier may not even be in the tavern's lobby, he reminds himself, and he lifts his head, looking for Renfri in her usual post behind the bar, ready to serve him a meal of one sort or another.

Instead, he sees Jaskier.

Geralt stops short, momentarily taken aback.

The young man is sitting at the bar, his back turned; Geralt can see a glass of what he thinks is brandy in his hand, if Jaskier's constant remarks are any indication. He's dressed the same as each night before, and barefoot like always, too.

Pushing aside his bewilderment, Geralt slips easily back into the strange, half-dazed headspace even Jaskier's presence seems to put him in. "Wasn't expecting to see you here," he says aloud, breaking the peaceful quiet of the room. Jaskier turns to look over his shoulder, and his face brightens with a smile that makes Geralt's heart warm. "Here for dinner?"

"Mostly here to drink," Jaskier replies with a laugh, nodding for Geralt to join him. Geralt does without hesitation, though he comes to stand behind Jaskier, the brush of his hands on the young man's waist tentative at first. Only when Jaskier leans back to rest his weight on Geralt's chest does Geralt hold him properly, gripping his waist firmly, but no less gentle. "Yourself?"

"Well," Geralt starts, resting his face in the unruly brown locks at the back of Jaskier's head and breathing in deep, "I had planned on food."

Jaskier makes a gesture, and Geralt reluctantly lifts his head, though he sets his chin atop the little thing's head, finding himself entirely unwilling to move away at all. Only now does he notice the platter of roast meats and cheese; it looks as though it's already been picked through. "Help yourself," he says, but even as he speaks, he's picking up a little piece of chicken, holding it back for Geralt to take.

Geralt only just manages to resist the - frankly absurd - urge to eat it straight from his fingers, instead freeing a hand to take it the normal way. The chicken is impossibly tender, its juices bursting onto his tongue with flavor that makes Geralt nearly melt as he realizes just how hungry he truly is. "I know better than to guess Nivellen is the one cooking all of this," he remarks, soft and wry.

Jaskier laughs, leaning his head back to rest it against Geralt's shoulder as he picks up another piece, pork this time. "That bastard wouldn't know good food if it bit him in the ass," he replies, watching with rapt blue eyes as Geralt takes the morsel. "He knows his way around a bar, but that's about as far as his talents go."

"What about you?" Geralt asks, deciding to leave one hand free for the sake of eating and wrapping his other arm more firmly around Jaskier's waist. He feels the younger man shiver when his hand slides across his chest; something stirring low in his groin, he holds him more firmly to his chest, taking courage from the way they're alone. "What are your talents, apart from those I've experienced myself?"

The strange little thing merely shrugs, taking another sip of his drink. His head is still thrown back onto Geralt's shoulder, and those eyes haven't left Geralt's own once. "If you're asking whether or not I work here," he says as he lowers the glass, turning his head enough to nose against the side of Geralt's neck, "the answer is no. Not anymore. I prefer to keep my talents to myself these days. Surely you understand."

Geralt gives a hum of acknowledgement, far too distracted by the feeling of Jaskier's lips moving against his skin to pay much attention to his words. While the other man is distracted, he reaches for the glass of brandy sitting neglected on the bartop, taking a drink of his own and wincing immediately - mixed in with the liquor's taste is something else, something coppery, something almost like -

"Geralt," Jaskier says, drawing him back from - from... what was he worried about? "Geralt, look at me."

Blinking the strange haze from his eyes and feeling nothing but confusion when it doesn't clear he obeys.

The glass is empty, in Jaskier's hand. Jaskier's eyes are on his own, and Jaskier's mouth -

Blood, dripping from the lips that are shaping themselves around his name.

Geralt flinches, almost recoils.

He blinks again.

The blood is gone.

The blood is gone, and so is the - the...

There was something on the counter, just before... he remembers...

"Geralt," comes the blue-eyed man's voice again.

It takes more effort than it should to drag his gaze from the empty bartop back to Jaskier's face.

He doesn't look... worried, no, not really. More... pleased.

He blinks.

Jaskier looks concerned.

There's a shadow at the edges of his vision, off to the side.

He knows better than to look.

"Geralt, focus, can't you?" Jaskier is saying, and now he's laughing, nudging Geralt's ribs with his elbow.

Geralt pauses, huffs out a breath with the impact.

He must have zoned out for a second there.

"I'm plenty focused," he says aloud, closing his hand around the other man's arm when Jaskier goes to elbow him again. It's easy enough to trap that arm against Jaskier's side, to run his other hand up along the little thing's stomach, his chest, his neck... to fit his fingers around the base of Jaskier's throat. The pressure is light, teasing, barely even there, but his intent is clear. "I didn't realize assault was acceptable now."

Jaskier gives a sound that's almost like a purr, leaning his head back farther. It's as good an invitation as anything. Geralt leans down, noses into the side of Jaskier's neck as he squeezes his throat properly, thumb and forefinger pressing firm into the flesh on either side. "Didn't realize ignoring me was, either," Jaskier murmurs, but his voice is ragged, breathless already.

The moan he lets out when Geralt pulls his arms back to pin them against his lower back sends a rush of lust through Geralt's veins. Jaskier's fingers curl into fists between them, brushing against the bulge of Geralt's shaft through his trousers; with the same energy as if he's made an incredible discovery, Jaskier shifts to palm him, awkward angle be damned. The pressure of the heel of his hand makes Geralt's breath catch, and he sets his teeth to the side of the pretty little thing's neck, murmuring, "Didn't realize this counts as ignoring you."

- - -

Geralt is certain he's never seen a creature more beautiful than Jaskier is right now, pinned with his back to the wall, Geralt's hand firm around his throat as he works one thigh between the younger man's own. Jaskier is panting, both hands clenched tight in the fabric of Geralt's undershirt; his eyes are glassy, dazed, so fucking needy it makes Geralt ache.

"Gorgeous," he breathes out, surprised by how deep and rough his voice has gone; he leans in to fit his teeth against Jaskier's collarbone, bared by the way his chemise is undone and pulled aside. Jaskier's hips buck onto the muscle of his thigh, and he whines aloud when Geralt bites down, tastes blood beneath his tongue. He licks over the beading little wounds, drinks in Jaskier's moan like a dying man. "God, the sounds you make - "

" - would be a lot - a lot louder if you'd get on with things," Jaskier spits out, and there's just enough malice in his tone to make Geralt falter, but the little thing's hips are rolling steadily, grinding his cock along the length of Geralt's thigh, so he chalks it up to impatience and nothing more. Customary, honestly, he doesn't know why he's surprised.

Geralt draws back just enough to make Jaskier whimper with the loss, squeezing his throat one last time before he lets go. "Bed," he tells him lowly, fumbling with the fastenings of his own shirt as he backs off. Jaskier all but falls away from the wall, sucking in a gasp of air now that he's truly able, but he doesn't listen at all, instead pressing right up against Geralt and craning to capture his lips in a kiss that tastes of brandy and blood and -

- don't you dare leave -

- leave, run, get the fuck out -

- don't you fucking dare -

- of brandy and desperation.

The groan Geralt gives almost aches as it starts in his chest, and he gives up on his undershirt, finding a grip on Jaskier's waist as he backs them both toward the bed. He feels hazy, his world almost spinning, though he's got no clue why. When the edge of the bed bumps into the backs of his knees, he drops back, pulling Jaskier after him into his lap, unwilling to break from the kiss for more than the second it takes to make sure their teeth don't clash as he settles back. Jaskier is just as eager as always, nearly clawing at his chest in his attempts to get the undershirt out of the way, and Geralt hisses when nails bite into his bare skin.

"Easy, darling - "

And then, just as quick as he'd pounced, Jaskier withdraws, and there's such hate in his tone when he says, "Don't fucking call me that," that Geralt gets whiplash.

Right. He'd forgotten.

He gentles his hands on the little thing's waist, smoothing them up under the fabric of his chemise to trace along the bare skin beneath, watching as Jaskier shivers despite his tension, his eyes going glossy. "I forgot," Geralt murmurs, leaning in to breathe the words against Jaskier's lips. "Forgive me, sweet thing, I truly didn't mean to."

Jaskier draws in a breath, and Geralt feels him tremble again. The younger man is leaning closer, seeming entirely unconscious of it, too; when he gives in, when he seals his lips to Geralt's own with a low and reedy moan, Geralt knows he has been forgiven. He lets his grip go firm again, guiding Jaskier to lay back flat on his back with as much grace as he can manage when he refuses to break away.

The other man arches into him when Geralt settles above him, moans aloud into their kiss when Geralt runs his hands back up beneath his chemise to swipe a thumb across one nipple, to rake his nails lightly down planes of quivering muscle and heated flesh. When Geralt's fingers reach lower, palming Jaskier through his undone trousers, Jaskier bucks, keens aloud, nearly sobs his name.

Geralt breaks from the kiss to trail his parted lips down along the length of Jaskier's throat, sucking his fresh mark atop the ghosts of bruises from the nights before. Jaskier whimpers and whines so prettily with each kiss, splays his legs wide when Geralt pulls his trousers down enough to work two fingers inside him, and something in Geralt snarls with desire when he feels how wet he is even now, how much of his seed still lingers in Jaskier's slender frame.

"So fucking beautiful," he breathes out against his skin, crooking his fingers up as even as he splays them wide. It takes a second try before his fingertips brush over the nerves inside Jaskier, but he knows damn well when he succeeds, because the younger man arches from the sheets with a moan far too loud for the tavern, both hands flying up to tangle tightly into Geralt's hair. "God, look at you, you're so fucking beautiful..."

Jaskier's voice is cracked and broken, but there's still enough of his spirit, his fiery, impatient spirit, to make Geralt laugh, low. "Be more beautiful with your cock inside me, Geralt, please, I don't need anything more, I can take you now - "

It's the desperation in his tone that makes Geralt cave, though he so truly wants to lay Jaskier out one night, worship his body as he deserves. Geralt murmurs something in reassurance, withdraws his fingers even though it makes Jaskier whine. "Easy," he tells him softly, drawing back just enough to get his trousers undone and off. He isn't surprised in the slightest when Jaskier just about ignores him, already hooking his thighs up around Geralt's waist even before Geralt begins to press inside. "Easy, love, relax..."

But Jaskier is moaning aloud, his fingers weaving tightly into Geralt's hair once again to pull him down for another wet and messy kiss, and he's already rocking back even though Geralt's barely got the head of his shaft inside him, and, fuck, he feels amazing, wet and hot and tight, and -

Geralt gives up on thinking.

He knows there's not much point.

- - -

Afterwards, they lay together, Jaskier held close with his back flush to Geralt's chest, Geralt's arm tight about his waist. They're both nude, only the blankets drawn up around their waists keeping them covered. Geralt's face is pressed lightly to the back of Jaskier's neck, and he alternates between simply resting and leaving gentle kisses there, reveling in the quiet, breathy laughs he earns each time.

It's as Geralt traces idle patterns onto Jaskier's bare stomach that he remembers. "Oh," he mumbles, his voice hoarse with exertion. "Thank you, by the way."

Jaskier gives an inquiring hum.

"The gifts you left me," Geralt clarifies, heaving a sigh as he settles more comfortably into place and closes his eyes.

"What gifts?"

He pauses then, frowning.

"You weren't the one who left them?"

Jaskier shakes his head, the motion made clumsy by their position. "What were they?"

Geralt could simply be imagining it, weary as he is, but he thinks he hears a hint of tension in his tone. "The cloak hanging over there," he replies, gesturing vaguely with his hand, "and a little art book."

Though his eyes are still closed, he can feel Jaskier lift his head, no doubt to look over at the cloak.

He can definitely feel Jaskier go rigid.

"Burn it," he says abruptly, and there's no trace of kindness in his voice. "Immediately."

Geralt frowns, leaning back enough to open his eyes. Jaskier is pulling away from him, sitting upright. He's gone incredibly tense, and Geralt thinks he's never seen him look so distraught. "Jaskier," he says, reaching for his waist again. "What's wrong?"

When Jaskier strikes his hand away, Geralt freezes, torn between confusion and hurt. "Burn it," he repeats firmly. Jaskier pulls away entirely then, standing up and starting to redress. Geralt sits up to watch, clueless as to how he's meant to react. "I mean it. I won't speak to you until it's gone."

"Jaskier," he tries, moving to the edge of the bed, though he doesn't make another attempt to reach after the younger man. "Jaskier, it's merely a cloak, what's - "

Jaskier laughs, sharp and bitter, as he tugs his chemise back over his head and turns to leave. "Don't concern yourself with why. Just do as I say."

As he yanks open the door and slips out into the hallway, Geralt sees blood matting the back of his hair, bone bared white and clear in the dim flash of lightning.

He blinks.

As he yanks open the door and slips out into the hallway, Geralt sees his hand come up to his face as if swiping away tears, though the motion is soon aborted.

The door shuts with a heavy click.

Geralt sits alone.

The floor is cold beneath his bare feet.

- - -

Geralt can't remember falling asleep when he rouses, at first unsure what awakened him at all.

He lays there, still and alone, painfully aware of the empty space beside him, of the empty space in his arms.

With a sigh, he rolls onto his back, gazing up at the canopy overhead. There is no moonlight tonight, but lightning flashes often, thunder rolling deep and cruel just overhead.

It's because of the thunder that he doesn't hear the snarling until it grows louder still.

Geralt pushes himself upright in a hurry, staring toward the door. There's a light on in the hallway, just as always; he can see it through the crack beneath the door... but it's not all he can see. There's shadows, too, shadows that can't quite make up their mind what they want to be, drifting and curling as if they're alive.

Lightning illuminates the room, and, for an instant, the shadows disappear.

For an instant, the shadows are at the corners of his eye, twisting within the mirror, gone when he looks.

The snarling continues.

The shadows beneath the door have taken shape when his attention returns - four identical narrow columns, blocking out the light in a row.

Slowly, Geralt stands.

He picks his trousers and undershirt up off the floor, pulling them on almost in a dream.

He crosses the room to the coatrack, and now it feels as though the snarling is within his bones themselves, as if it's rattling against his ribs, screaming to be freed.

Even the warmth of the heavy cloak about his frame does nothing to abate the dread.

He moves slowly to the door.

When his fingers brush the doorknob, all goes still.

He glances down.

The shadows are gone.

Geralt breathes in once, opens the door.

[iamtaran]

Dialogue Prompt 30

SO I’m a dingus and answered @partyhardwoohoo’s dialogue prompt (30: “You don’t see me.”) privately bc the button is the bigger of the two and I! Am! Easily! Swayed! By! Button! Size! Anyway, thanks so much again for the prompt and, uh, sorry for the fic now living in your inbox!  *

“You don’t see me,” Jaskier pants from behind his chair. 

And, really, of all the ways Geralt had foreseen this night turning out, this was not outside the realm of possibility. Rather than say anything, Geralt picks up his goblet and, sighing heavily, drains it.

He hadn’t known Jaskier would be at this celebration. Scratching that, he hadn’t even known Jaskier was in this kingdom. Last they had parted in some muddy marsh in Redania, Jaskier had been awaited in Cidaris to perform in some political wedding between two major noble houses. At the time, the last glimpse Geralt had caught of him had been: huddled in his cloak, made small from the last chill day of spring; caked in mud up to his knee-high boots, yet rosy cheeked and grinning with victory as he waved the witcher on with the parting farewell, “‘Til summer, then! I’ll just catch on with that caravan coming over the horizon. Looks like they’re very well to do-- exactly the type to enjoy a traveling bard’s charm and warmth on such a drab trek, don’t you think?” And then, when Geralt was nearly out of (human) earshot, he had called, “Don’t let anything get its claws into you whilst I’m not there, Wolf!”

In a month and a half, Jaskier seems to have come into some good fortune (the fine, soft linen of his flatteringly draped trousers, the kidskin of his soft boots) only to immediately lose it again. The last bit, of course, is only supposition. Based on the fact that he crouches behind Geralt’s seat, sleeveless tunic completely unbuttoned over his airy organza chemise where it gapes open at the collar. 

Geralt had caught only a glance of his flushed face, but he knows what his friend looks like when he’s been at the drink. He also knows from their time together exactly how recent debauchery shows on his skin and neck. He doesn’t need to turn and look to see it for himself. He can smell it. Instead, he reaches for the pitcher of wine.

“Jaskier,” he sighs. It is all he says.

Jaskier, of course, takes immediate offense.

“I haven’t done anything wrong!” he hisses from the shadows. Geralt hums, refilling his goblet. The wine isn’t bad-- not to a witcher used to the road.

“Or anyone?” he rumbles. Jaskier scoffs behind his ear. The main doors open; a harried guard and a fluttering servant stride up the middle of the hall between the two tables, headed for their host.

“Is there no respect for the choices of a grown man or woman in this backward kingdom?” he complains. “You’d think I’d killed someone by the way they carry on.”

“Jaskier,” he growls. Jaskier huffs an overblown sigh. 

“How am I to know who is engaged and who is not if they won’t tell me? Really, Geralt.”

The seneschal at Geralt’s elbow sends him a condoling look and passes the bread. Geralt happily takes another roll with thanks. This baron keeps the best baker in the state, and he is never one to turn away such a luxury. The road has only ever lined his gut with venison and crispbread, and recently the road has been long and his purse light. Even so, he is even more thankful that his other neighbor has yet to take any notice of their whispered conversation.

A hand snakes into view for just a moment. Petulantly, Geralt jerks the roll away and nudges it back with his elbow.

“And besides,” Jaskier continues, apparently unbothered by the fracas growing in volume at the front of the hall. He is lucky indeed that Geralt had been positioned in somewhat obscurity to the back of the hall. He doubts he would have been able to hide half as effectively where they any nearer to the windows and candles closer to the nobility. “It’s not a love match. No one has exchanged anything like a vow or even a half-hearted promise at this point.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt scolds. Fingers pinch his side.

“Not a word.”

“I thought traveling bards were meant to keep up on such news,” Geralt says into his food, which is many words. Jaskier exacts revenge by stealing the pickled cucumber from his plate. His hand retreats back behind his seat.

“News, yes,” Jaskier huffs. “Gossip, as well. But only a fool believes it.”

“I believe,” Geralt murmurs, “that you are about to face a cadre of very unhappy kinsmen if you continue to linger here.” Jaskier makes an agreeing sort of noise as he crunches his stolen goods. “Why haven’t you ridden for the border yet? Or left the castle, even, you dolt.”

“Lost my horse in a bet,” Jaskier grouses. Geralt snorts and pretends it was to spit into his napkin when it draws attention. The woman across from him glares her disapproval briefly. “Not a word, I said!” Jaskier hisses. “I was actually quite attached to- ah--”

“Marigold,” Geralt supplies. 

“-yes, Marigold.”

“Triss would curse you if she knew.”

Jaskier sniffs. “It was a tribute, meant only in the highest respect.”

“Was it respect when you bet her on-”

“-a case of Toussaint red.”

“-on a case of wine?”

“Let me take Roach,” Jaskier says rather than answer. Teeth-deep in a bite of roast lamb, Geralt frowns. 

“No.”

“Oh, come on, please,” Jaskier wheedles. For a man hiding from very unhappy kinsmen to his latest lover, he is quite chatty. Geralt remembers his flushed cheeks and reconsiders, ah, yes. Must have been wine. I thought he lost the bet? “It will just be until I’m outside the kingdom borders. I’ll take the highway and stop in the first clearing so you’ll know exactly where to find me. I’ll even oil your tack as compensation for what would otherwise be an unselfish show of friendship and trust.”

“No.”

“Geralt,” he begins. Geralt doesn’t get to hear what other argument he has up his sleeve, however. The seneschal picking at his salad on Geralt’s left clears his throat delicately. 

Immediately, he realizes what is wrong: the noise from the front of the hall has ceased. From the corner of his eye, he becomes aware of a half dozen armed guards led by two men he recognizes at the baron’s oldest sons striding down the length of the hall. 

Jaskier must notice, too. Rather than turn tail and make for the door-- or even, knowing him as Geralt does, standing to talk his way out of whatever trouble he has drawn-- rather than doing either of those, he crouches further, hisses at Geralt, “Move your thigh,” and with a shove to his side wriggles under the table. 

“Don’t!” Geralt whispers, too late.

It is a tight squeeze. The table is long but not terribly wide, and seated on both sides with every member of the household staff. Geralt hears Jaskier mutter a curse to himself and nearly jumps when two hands land on his thighs, pressing them apart to make room for Jaskier to squeeze between. The seneschal clears his throat once more, radiating judgement. Geralt resists the urge to clamp a hand over his eyes, barely. As if it would make the current situation disappear. 

The company of guards and sons moves past and out of the hall. 

“Don’t get excited,” Jaskier whispers, and pats him far enough up his leg that Geralt does jump. Jaskier chuckles. “Merciful goddess, that was close.”

“And what,” Geralt grinds out, “do you plan to do down there?”

The scandalized seneschal coughs into his fist. Roughly, Geralt grabs the pitcher of wine nearly out of the questing hand of the Housekeeper across of him and slams it down at the seneschal’s elbow. The seneschal, steadfastly ignoring him as he unashamedly eavesdrops, jumps like a man prodded.

“For your throat,” Geralt glowers. 

It is, admittedly, an effective glower. He watches just long enough to see the pale-faced man nod quickly and fumbling pour himself a glass that goes more on his plate than in his cup, then returns to his predicament. 

“Well, funny you should ask,” Jaskier hums, unawares, “because, you see, um, I haven’t quite, well, planned past this point-” 

Geralt really does lower his eyes into his hand. All he can do is prop that elbow on the table and hope he merely looks tired to any who should glance his way. Tired, and not like he is having a conversation with the man crouched between his legs.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls at his lap as quietly as he can. “If you pull me into this fucking farce you’ve orchestrated before I’ve even been fucking paid for this job that took me two fucking weeks-”

“I haven’t!” Jaskier whispers back fiercely.

Geralt pins him with a look. “If it looks like they are going to find you here, I will drag you out from under there, march you to the Baron’s table, and offer to thrash your bare arse like a snot-nosed brat myself. I’ll do it in front of the whole fucking court if it means I will still get paid. Do you understand me?”

Wide eyed, Jaskier opens his mouth to protest. They are interrupted by one of the sons returning. Geralt doesn’t even hear him come up, so focused is he, until the man speaks.

“Sir Witcher?”

Jaskier shifts against his legs. Almost before he is aware of it, Geralt buries his hand in his hair and makes a hard fist. Jaskier, mid way to crawling-- back out, or away-- freezes. Casually, Geralt turns to face the second oldest son whilst his free hand reaches for his goblet with not a care in the world.

“Trouble, my lord?” He grunts, and takes a sip of wine. Jaskier’s boots shuffle under the table. Geralt tightens his hold and pins him to his leg. Jaskier stills, breathing sharply against his thigh where his cheek is pressed.

The son smiles grimly. “Purely human in nature, serah. Please don’t let me interrupt your dinner beyond the necessary.” 

A distracting hand wraps around his ankle. Geralt distinctly does not twitch.

“My thanks,” Geralt says dryly.

“My father has asked that I offer you room for the night, should you require.”

“Your father is uncommonly generous to offer,” Geralt notes. He can feel Jaskier’s rabbiting heartbeat thrumming where his knee has pressed into his chest. “No, I require nothing but the agreed upon price. I have a room booked at the inn for another night yet.”

The lordling smiles. “Very well. I’m afraid I can’t see you to our steward myself at the moment. But I will have my father informed to expect you in the antechamber after the meal has ended. He will see to your payment.”

It is unspeakably rude that he has not risen, Geralt knows. He also knows that he can get away with it. Witchers have always held a strange position in society. Outside of its rules and structures. It is a pleasant surprise, however, when rather than being offended as is his born right, the young lord merely offers his hand like a lowbornsman and with a short farewell leaves to catch up with his guard.

Under the table, Jaskier pants out an insult against his trouser leg. Geralt smirks and holds him there just long enough to make his point. It’s when Jaskier’s hands start fumbling up his legs looking for weaknesses and one finds the back of a knee that he lets go and goes back to his meal. Jaskier pinches him anyway and tells him exactly what he thinks.

“Neither of us know my father, and such a configuration seems unlikely,” Geralt replies mildly.

“Even more likely to be true, then,” Jaskier shoots back, craning his head as if to peer around Geralt’s chair for any other visitors.

From this angle, Geralt can see what he hadn’t before. A handful of deep maroon suck-marks spot the side of his neck and just behind the hinge of his jaw. His lips are still red from kissing whatever noble he should not have. (Judging by the stubble burn on his neck, it was the future husband.) He smells like wine, and sex, and cedar and bergamot perfume. His hair is mussed where Geralt had grabbed him. He doesn’t know what it had looked like before. He knows what it looks like now, however.

Suddenly, supremely aware of what the assumption will be if they are discovered, Geralt straightens. A passing servant pauses, takes up an empty plate to his left, and moves on without noticing anything amiss. Jaskier’s sigh of relief skitters hot and far too close across leather. It raises all the hair along Geralt’s arms. He freezes.

“In my belt purse,” he blurts. Blue eyes flash up at him. He tries to keep his face still and fails. He lifts his cup to hide it. “I still have a room at the local inn for the next two nights. Take the key from my purse and go there. And don’t get caught, or I’ll say you stole it.”

“And Roach?”

Geralt gives him a flat look. “Leaving on horseback is conspicuous. Or have you forgotten you’re sneaking out a fugitive?”

Jaskier pouts. “Point made,” he says, before ducking back enough to give himself room to work. Geralt tears his eyes away to look about the room nonchalantly. It is only the wood of the table creaking under his grip that makes him realize how tense he has become. Breathing in and out deeply, he forces himself to relax. 

Fingers grope at his belt for an excruciatingly long moment. Geralt takes up his forgotten roll and rips a bite off with perhaps too much gusto. 

“Got it,” Jaskier whispers. He leans forward just enough to wink up at Geralt one last time, grinning impishly. “Well, this has certainly been one of the more interesting nights I’ve spent on my knees-”

“Leave,” Geralt groans, and really does curl a defeated hand over his eyes as he feels Jaskier wriggle out from under the table. He doesn’t even watch him go. 

Only after he is sure he’s gone does Geralt slide a coin to the seneschal.

“This stays between us.”

[kirk-spock-in-the-impala]

Between You and the World (5 of 6)

CHAPTER 5: Touch - Early Spring, Year 1254  (on AO3 here)

CW: mentions of hunger and associated weight loss caused by food scarcity; non-consensual touching (not sexual and NOT between Geralt and Jaskier); Geralt's headspace

Approximately 6,100 words under the cut.

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This year, after spending the winter apart, Jaskier and Geralt reunited in Novigrad.  Jaskier had received a lucrative offer from the family of one of his schoolmates from Oxenfurt to be the noble family’s bard in residence for the winter season – no doubt prompted by Jaskier’s recent win at the Bardic Continental Championships – so Geralt had returned to spend the winter as usual with his fellow witchers in Kaer Morhen.  

 After the long, dark winter had finally started to lift and the snow cleared from the mountain pass, Geralt had set out from Kaer Morhen to make the several weeks long trek across the Continent to Novigrad with Roach, clearing up minor contracts along the way.  The winter past had been a long and hard one, bitter cold and heavy snows resulted in a lean spring, with many plants and animals having failed to survive the winter. It would be a difficult growing season and villages would face a run of hungry weeks before the spring crops flourished.

 When such conditions struck, merchants and innkeepers were unwilling to share their food stocks with a Witcher, preferring to keep the valuable goods for “good human folk”, as one particularly outspoken merchant had put it.  Geralt was used to such a reaction and had packed as much as he could carry to tide himself over until he reached Novigrad.  Strips of jerky, dried fruits, and hard biscuits from Kaer Morhen’s stores shared limited saddle bag space with Roach’s oats on his ride out from the old keep, but he could only carry enough for half the journey – less if he failed to strictly ration himself – so he alternated hunting with eating from his stores.  

 With harsh spring conditions following a bitter winter, hunting days often ended as fasting days, and Geralt quickly turned from lean to thin, what little fat he carried burning away to keep his body moving.  He wouldn’t die from the lack, witchers could survive long periods of total deprivation, but he was looking forward to the fresh, warm meals he would share with Jaskier in Novigrad before they set out on the Path once more.   Perhaps they could spend the next winter together again in Oxenfurt.  Geralt could never abandon his Path, but Jaskier had shown him that little breaks, little indulgences, could brighten his existence without threatening his purpose.  Geralt’s heart warmed and a small, private smile crossed his face as he thought of his friend, fond memories lending eager anticipation his journey.

Geralt reached Novigrad on a blustery, overcast day, soaked through and covered in mud from the heavy rains that had followed him the past several leagues.  The sea breeze was bracing and flocks of gulls screamed overhead.  All around the large, walled city, hardy, coastal plants were just starting to come into bud and leaf as the days warmed from winter’s chill.

 Jaskier must have paid the guard to watch out for him because he met Geralt at the gate, dressed warmly in a thick, woolen cloak and doublet, winter breeches and boots all new and of the highest quality.  

 Jaskier beamed when Geralt approached, embracing him firmly, headless of the mud and water soaking into his fine clothes.  Geralt breathed in Jaskier’s scent, rosin and honey immediately soothing, and returned the quick embrace before following Jaskier deep into the wealthiest part of the city.

 Jaskier had spent the winter with the family of his dear friend, Lady Annabelle de Rottermund, the daughter of Countess Rottermund, a wealthy, noble lady who had settled in Novigrad after the death of her dearly departed husband to be closer to the arts. She was a patron of all the bardic students at nearby Oxenfurt, ensuring the instruments, instructors, and facilities remained top-notch, and was known to employ a special favorite bard or two to provide entertainment for her winter social gatherings and elaborate balls.

 Jaskier told Geralt about his season as they walked through the cobbled streets, sun just starting to peek through the heavy clouds, the sound of Roach’s hooves echoing off the surrounding buildings.  He told Geralt about the thrill of performing for a large, appreciative crowd, about the many long discussions he’d had with Countess Rottermund about the history of the bardic arts, and about the slow, quiet hours he had spent composing and practicing, improving his craft day by day.  

 As they approached the large townhouse occupied by the Countess Rottermund, its large, stone façade taking up an entire city block and climbing up four, glided stories, Jaskier spoke of long nights, of endless days spent looking out the window, restless for adventure.  Just before they entered the yard, halting Geralt with a soft hand on his elbow, Jaskier told him about how often he thought of Geralt and how glad he was they were reunited.  Geralt was so touched by the words that he didn’t know how to respond, so he let his instincts dictate, touching his forehead to Jaskier’s and closing his eyes for a moment, feeling Jaskier’s warmth against him.  As usual, in Jaskier’s remarkable way, he understood.

 With a broad smile, Jaskier took Geralt’s arm and led him through the large, wrought iron gate, nodding to the guard as he passed.  He showed Geralt the stable he’d chosen for Roach, a spacious corner stall with thick, sweet smelling straw, and introduced the young stable hand.  After leaving strict instructions, and watching to see if the boy was competent, Geralt was satisfied and left Roach to be pampered, following Jaskier up into the house.  

 To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier not only led him in through the front door, rather than the servant’s back entrance, but up to a large guestroom on the main floor of the home.   Geralt was conscious of each speck of mud he left on the carpets, of each drop of rainwater he left in his wake, and felt his shoulders tensing, waiting for a manicured footman to jump out at him in a rage.  He slunk behind Jaskier like an old hunting dog who knew he was breaking the rules, trying to make himself as small as possible in the grand space.  

 Jaskier, of course, was comfortable as anything, striding confidently through the finely appointed halls and greeting each servant as they passed.  This is the life he deserves, Geralt thought, comfortable, safe, warm, nothing like the Path.  But he knew by now that this life was not what Jaskier wanted. For some inexplicable reason, Jaskier preferred jerky and campfires with Geralt to all the trappings of noble life. After all their years together, Geralt accepted that Jaskier’s choice was made, but he didn’t think he would ever fully understand it.

 Jaskier finally stopped, pushing open a richly carved wooden door and leading Geralt inside the well-appointed bedchamber.  There was no question that they would share, as was their wont.  An enormous, four-poster bed dominated the space, draped in thick, soft furs.  A fire burned merrily in the hearth, chasing away the chill, and carpets and tapestries ensured no speck of stone was exposed that might chill an unwary occupant. Off to the side of the room was a separate bathing chamber, an unimaginable luxury, with a deep, soaking tub cut into the floor, steam rising from the surface of the water.  

 Jaskier smiled as he saw Geralt’s attention latch onto the bath.  “I knew you’d like that,” he said. “I had them draw it for you before I left to pick you up.”

 Geralt hummed in appreciation, dropping his dirty pack carefully to the side of the hearth, far enough away from the flames to be safe, but still on the flagstones and well away from the fine rugs.

 Jaskier continued as Geralt peeled off his boots and armor, carefully placing each piece by his wet pack to clean and dry later.  “Countess Rottermund wants us to attend her for dinner.  She recently acquired a large plot of land about thirty leagues up the coast and wants to update her bestiary and determine the best possible monster deterrents to keep her new vassals safe.  If you’re amenable, I believe she wants you to visit the site and help oversee implementing the protections and training the village overseers.”

 “Hmm, sounds like a long job.”  Geralt said, stripping off his soaked tunic and leggings, heading toward the bathing chamber in only his smalls.  

 “A couple months at least, I would think.”  Jaskier agreed.  “But Countess Rottermund pays well and it could help save the villagers from running afoul of the local monsters.  I’m sure she’ll tell you everything at dinner.”

 Jaskier watched as Geralt settled himself in the bath, averting his eyes as he removed his smalls before stepping into the steaming water.  

 A knock suddenly sounded.  Geralt started, eyes focusing on the outer door, which was just visible from the tub, but remaining relaxed for now.  He was safe in Jaskier’s chambers and would only become concerned if Jaskier showed any sign of upset.  Geralt watched as Jaskier opened the outer door, speaking to a man on the other side, before he stepped back and allowed the man in.  The new arrival was accompanied by two young maidservants. Jaskier looked mildly annoyed, but not worried, so Geralt sat back in the steaming water, waiting to see what unfolded.

Jaskier led the man and the two maidservants over to the bathing chamber, gesturing for them to wait at the door while he knelt next to Geralt where he sat in the bath, feet level with Geralt’s shoulders because of how the bath was cut into the floor.  

 “Geralt, Countess Rottermund sent her under-butler and two maid servants to help you bathe and dress for dinner.  I know it’s a bit heavy handed, but they’re trustworthy and it’s well meant.  Are you all right with them helping you?”

 Geralt studied the three newcomers in the doorway.  They showed no signs of aggression or disgust, simply waited patiently with a blank expression as all good servants were trained to do.  If Jaskier believed them trustworthy, then Geralt would trust his judgment.  He nodded.

 Jaskier smiled down at him.  “All right then.”  He motioned to the others to get started.  “Enjoy your pampering!”  Jaskier clapped a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and retreated into the bedchamber, closing the inner door behind him to keep the bathing chamber warm.  Geralt heard him settle onto the lounge by the fire, pulling out a book and flipping through it before starting to read.

 The under-butler, a portly man in his late middle age, bowed slightly to Geralt.  “Master Witcher, I am Boris and these two maids are Agnes and Catherine.”  He said, gesturing to each young woman in turn.  “We are here to help you bathe and dress for the dinner with Countess Rottermund tonight.”

 Boris rolled up his sleeves and lined the edge of the bath with towels while the two maids prepared bath oils, brushes, sponges, and scrubs.  The scent of the various products merged together, strong enough individually, but together they gave Geralt a slight headache.  He ignored it.  It wouldn’t do to offend Jaskier’s patron over something so insignificant as bathing products.

 Geralt ducked down under the water, wetting his hair thoroughly.  He hadn’t had a bath since leaving Kaer Morhen, and the dirt, monster blood, and body oil left his hair a dull, knotted mass.  It would take some serious work to make it presentable. Under the water, he scraped his fingers through his thick, white hair, dragging his long nails across his scalp to try and loosen the matting.

 When he surfaced, Boris was behind him, a large bar of oil soap in his hand.  Soap was uncommon given its expense, so the Countess was clearly invested in making sure Geralt was as clean as possible before meeting him. Geralt started to see Boris looming in his blind spot, but quickly suppressed it, turning and reaching out a hand for the soap.  

 Boris pulled it back. “No, no,” he said.  He knelt behind Geralt, soap in hand, and gestured for him to face forward.  “I am here to assist with your bathing.”

 Geralt glared up at him.  “I can bathe myself.”

 Boris placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and spun him around.  Geralt flinched at the contact, but allowed Boris to move him, unwilling to risk hurting him or appearing aggressive.  Boris dumped a small basin of water over Geralt’s head and followed it immediately with the bar of oil soap, scrubbing it into Geralt’s hair.  

 Geralt sat forward and away from Boris’s ministrations.  “Stop it!”  He said sharply, unable to keep the growl from his voice. “I can bathe myself!”

 Boris frowned at him, looking down at him much as he would at a dog who peed on the Countess’s carpet. “This resistance is most unbecoming, Master Witcher.  Countess Rottermund instructed us to assist with your bathing and dressing to ensure you were presentable.  We will not allow this behavior to interfere with the performance of our duties!”  His voice sharped toward the end, frustration and distaste breaking through his professional demeanor.

 Agnes whispered to Catherine behind the stack of towels she was holding, assuming Geralt couldn’t hear them.  “Given the state of him, I wonder if he’s ever had a bath!” Geralt could hear Catherine titter in response.  

 Geralt turned his glare on Agnes, making it clear he heard every word.  She gave him an insincere nod of apology.

 With Geralt’s attention on Agnes, Boris again grabbed his shoulder from behind, pulling him back to sit against the back of the tub.  Geralt flinched at the contact, but again allowed it.  Boris was a human, and a servant of Jaskier’s patron, and Geralt couldn’t risk resisting and being cast as an aggressor.

 Geralt clenched his teeth until his jaw cramped, but forced himself to stay still as Boris resumed his work soaping up Geralt’s hair.  Boris’s frustration with Geralt was clear in the rough way he scrubbed the soap in to the matted locks.  As he worked, he looked up toward the maids, gesturing at them with a flick of his double chin.

 Agnes and Caroline immediately complied, leaving the fresh towels to the side of the chamber and coming to kneel by the edge of in-ground tub, one on each side of Geralt. They rolled up their sleeves and, with clear looks of distaste, each reached into the tub and grabbed one of Geralt’s legs, lifting them up onto the edge of the tub.

 Geralt fought the urge to pull away, fists clenching under the water.  “What are you doing now?”  Geralt ground out, careful to keep his voice calm, quiet, unintimidating.

 Caroline looked down at him, a haughty look on her thin face as she scooped some strongly-scented sea salt scrub onto a foot brush.  “Helping you bathe, of course, Master Witcher.”

 Agnes nodded, mirroring her compatriot’s actions.  “You’ve been travelling so long and in such dirty conditions that we must help you clean up properly before you’re fit to see the Countess.”

 Agnes and Caroline started in on his legs and feet, scrubbing at them with the brushes as if he were a cooking pot with caked on food.  The rough bristles caught in his leg hair and the sea salt stung the small scrapes left by the hard brushes.  They took no care to avoid the small, healing wounds littering his legs either.  It took every scrap of control Geralt had to avoid kicking them off.

 As the maids scoured Geralt’s legs, Boris continued his assault on Geralt’s head, pressing the oil soap hard into Geralt’s hair as his fingernails scraped along Geralt’s scalp, catching his sensitive ears with each pass.  

 Geralt felt trapped. With the way the tub was set into the floor, the three servants loomed over him, a maid on each side and Boris’s large bulk behind him, setting his hackles on edge.  They scrubbed, scraped, and pulled at him, and Geralt felt himself starting to panic.  

 “Stop it!” He demanded.  “I don’t need your help!”

 Boris pulled hard on his ear, pinching it like he would an unruly child, servant’s blank breaking and letting his disgust of Geralt come through in his tone.  “Enough of that!  You may be satisfied living like an animal, but we will not subject our Lady to your filth!”  Agnes and Caroline tittered, sneering down at Geralt.

 Geralt’s heart rate rapidly elevated, his pupils narrowing as his adrenaline soared.  It was too much; it was all too much.  He was exhausted and hungry, unused to human touch or contact after his winter away and his long journey alone.  He couldn’t fight back, couldn’t physically resist and risk hurting them, so he was trapped in the tub, under and beneath antagonists who forced their rough touches upon him in the name of following orders.  

 He’d asked them to stop, demanded that they stop, and yet they refused.  To leave the tub, he would need to physically move at least one of the servants.  The risk of that was unacceptable.  

 His vision tunneled, body taut with tension.  The servants continued their unwanted ministrations, uncaring of his distress or of his clearly stated lack of consent to their touch, pleased that he finally ceased moving.

 Tell me before it becomes too much.  The memory of Jaskier’s voice cut through Geralt’s rising panic.  He drew a breath and called out before he lost his words.

  “Jaskier!”

 His panic must have been evident in his tone because he heard Jaskier’s book fall to the floor as his footsteps raced across the chamber outside.  Jaskier flung open the door to the bathing chamber, taking in the scene.  Geralt was surrounded on all sides, Boris behind him with his hands in Geralt’s hair, Agnes and Caroline on the edges, each scrubbing roughly at one of Geralt’s legs with a brush.  

 Geralt’s eyes were wide and wild, his pupils pinpricks.  He looked up as Jaskier entered, deep lines of tension cutting across his face, begging Jaskier for help without words.

 Jaskier felt a calm rage settle over him.  “Leave us.” He commanded, looking every inch the Viscount he was, voice demanding obedience.

 Boris stood immediately, bowing to Jaskier.  “My Lord, we have orders to ensure Master Witcher is prepared for the dinner with Countess Rottermund tonight.”

 Jaskier’s eyes narrowed, managing to look down his nose at Boris despite the portly man having nearly half a head on him in height.  “Do you doubt my ability to prepare Master Geralt properly?” He demanded, emphasizing Boris’s failure to afford Geralt the respect of calling him by name.

 Boris swallowed hard, his smile gaining an obsequious edge.  “Of course not, my Lord.”

 “Then go.” Jaskier ordered, stepping away from the door in clear command.

 Boris bowed, gesturing for the maids to obey Jaskier’s command.  “Yes, my Lord.  We’ll ring the dinner gong after the seventh bell.”

 Jaskier nodded, watching all three leave, bowing or curtsying to him as they passed.  After they’d cleared the room, Jaskier shut the outer door, locking it behind him before returning to the bathing chamber and closing that door as well.  Geralt stared up at him as if he were a savior, tension melting from his frame. Geralt heaved a sigh and settled back into the steaming water, drawing his legs back into the tub, sinking down until the water reached his chin, white hair fanning around his neck.

 Jaskier lay down next to the tub, eye level with Geralt, chin resting on his crossed arms, headless of the water soaking into his fine woolen clothes.  

 “What happened?” He asked gently.

 “They wouldn’t stop.” Geralt said, his eyes regaining a hunted edge.  “They just kept touching me, scrubbing me.”

 Jaskier pressed his lips together.  He had expected better of the Countess’s servants.  “And none too gently from what I saw.”  Jaskier said.  “I’m so sorry about this, Geralt.  I wanted you to have a nice, relaxing bath after your journey.”

 Geralt sighed, looking down at the water before catching Jaskier’s remorseful gaze.  “I still can, I think.”  He offered a small smile, quirking an eyebrow.  “Will you help?”

 Jaskier smiled, eyes softening.  “Of course, whatever you need.”

 Geralt gestured up at his hair.  “I can take care of the rest, but I need help with this mess.”

 Jaskier chuckled, shaking his head fondly.  “You never do take proper care of your hair.”

 Geralt scowled in mock annoyance.  “Well, I’ll be sure to carry a bath with me next time I travel.”  His lips twitched around a smile.

 Jaskier laughed out right, poking Geralt’s shoulder.  “You’re impossible,” he said, indescribably fond.  He sat up, removed his boots, and carefully rolled up his breeches.  “Is it all right if I sit behind you?” He asked, tone carefully neutral.

 Geralt looked up at him, trust apparent in his open gaze.  “You’re the only one I trust at my back.”

 Jaskier smiled, warmth filling his chest.  Geralt showed him all the time how much he trusted Jaskier, but it was unusual for him to say it so bluntly.  

 “All right then, lean forward a moment.”  Jaskier instructed, positioning himself behind Geralt, one bare leg in the bathwater on either side of him.  Once he was settled, he placed a gentle hand on each of Geralt’s shoulders, guiding him back to rest between Jaskier’s spread legs.  

 Geralt shifted slightly before settling, letting out a sigh of contentment.  

 “All right?” Jaskier asked, picking up the discarded oil soap.

 “Hmm.”  Geralt nodded.

 Jaskier inspected Geralt’s hair, seeing the matting near the scalp and the small flecks of detritus throughout.  Satisfied it wasn’t a lost cause, he worked up a lather from the soap by rubbing it between his hands before setting the bar aside and applying the foam to Geralt’s hair, rubbing it in with long, gentle, circular strokes.  Geralt let out a hum that was practically a purr, melting back into the edge of the tub between Jaskier’s legs and closing his eyes.

 Jaskier hummed a light tune as he worked the soap through Geralt’s hair, carefully picking out bits of detritus.  When he was satisfied, he filled the small rinse basin from the tap used to fill the tub, and tilted Geralt’s head back to rinse the soap out of his hair.  Geralt’s eyes stayed closed, his face relaxed.  If it was Jaskier behind him, then there was nothing to worry about.  Jaskier’s touch was both tolerable and welcome, soothing a part of Geralt that had lain dormant since his childhood.

 With the soap rinsed clean, Jaskier uncapped the bottles of oil one by one, sniffing each before settling on a bottle of lightly scented lavender oil, hoping the calming scent would help ease any remaining tension from Geralt’s unfortunate experience with Countess Rottermund’s servants.  

 He poured a generous amount of oil into his hands before carefully working it into Geralt’s hair, finger combing out the tangles and patiently working through the matted sections.  Geralt thought he might melt.  Or fall asleep.  Jaskier had helped him bathe before, whether because of injury or because the grime in his hair required it, but there was something different about this time. Something was shifting in the air between them, something that had changed with the embrace they shared back at the Alderman’s hut in Lindenvale the summer before.  

 As Jaskier worked the last tangles out of his long, white hair, Geralt leaned over, nuzzling his face into Jaskier’s clothed thigh.  Jaskier’s hands stilled for the briefest moment before continuing to work, moving from Geralt’s clean hair down to massage the knots out of Geralt’s neck and shoulders.  Geralt let out a sigh of contentment, relaxing completely into Jaskier and letting Jaskier take care of him.

 As they heard the sixth bell ring out in the distance, Jaskier dropped a kiss on the crown of Geralt’s newly cleaned head.  He reached for one of the towels, wiping the oil off his hands.  “We have about an hour before dinner, so I’ll set out your clothes while you finish up, all right?”  Jaskier waited for Geralt to nod and sit up before he pulled his legs out of the tub, drying them off before standing and heading back into the bedchamber. He left the door open behind him.

 Geralt stretched his arms up, cracking his neck and rolling his newly loosened shoulders.  He felt more relaxed than he could ever remember being, despite his earlier panic.  It was as Jaskier had told him all these years, if he asked for help, Jaskier would willingly give it, and all would be well.  He felt the slightest twinge of guilt at his indulgence, at allowing Jaskier to care for him, but he ignored it.  Jaskier was his own man and he had shown Geralt time and time again that he wanted to take care of him and that he was pleased if Geralt allowed it. Geralt was even starting to believe that Jaskier enjoyed his affection and his touch, something Geralt had never dared to hope for in all his long life.

 Geralt reached for a small towel, lathering it up with the oil soap and ignoring the rough scrubs and brushes, and washed himself thoroughly, scraping off the grime of his several weeks of travel that had been loosened by his long soak in the tub. Finally satisfied, he stood, pulling the plug to drain the tub, and rinsed himself carefully with the small rinse basin, letting the clean water wash away the last of the soap.  

 He stepped up out of the tub and dried himself with the thick, clean towels before applying the lavender oil Jaskier had chosen all over his freshly cleaned skin.  Warm, clean, and relaxed, he wrapped a fresh towel around his waist and joined Jaskier in the bedchamber.  

 While Geralt had finished bathing, Jaskier had changed into formal dinner clothes, the cut of the fine silk doublet and breeches accentuating his figure and the deep blue color bringing out his eyes.  Jaskier smiled at Geralt and gestured to the clothes he’d laid out on the bed.

 “What do you think?” He asked.  “I had the tailor make them up for you.”  Jaskier had chosen a simple cut for the doublet and breeches, letting the quality of the thick, dark grey silk speak for itself.  There was a subtle pattern across the doublet, embroidered in the same color as the piece itself, adding interest without being ostentatious.  A pair of soft, black, knee high boots rested on the floor beside the bed.

 Geralt hummed, pleased with the simplicity of the clothes but otherwise largely disinterested in the fashion.  Jaskier didn’t take offense, he knew Geralt neither knew nor cared about fashion. His only goal had been to choose something comfortable and inoffensive.  

 He frowned slightly as he studied Geralt’s thin frame, concerned about the drastic weight loss. Geralt caught him looking and raised an eyebrow.  “It was a lean winter, Jaskier.  I’ll gain it back in due time.”

 Jaskier huffed. “I’m not worried about the look of you, I’m just concerned that you get enough to eat.  Can’t have you fainting from hunger during a hunt!”

 Geralt snorted, taking the good-natured teasing as intended. “I’m sure you’ll fatten me up again before we set out.”  

 “Damn right I will!” Jaskier said, handing Geralt a fresh, silk chemise and smalls. “Go on now, get dressed before we’re late.”

 Geralt shook his head fondly, but complied, pulling on the cool, soft underclothes and fine silken formalwear.  The doublet and breeches hung a bit loose, but not enough to be sloppy, Jaskier having accounted for a certain amount of winter weight loss. The soft boots fit perfectly, molding to his feet and calves like old favorites.

 Dressed, Geralt turned to Jaskier, spreading his hands in an unspoken request for Jaskier’s review of his appearance.  Jaskier looked him up and down appreciatively. “You’ll do.”  He said, smiling.  “Now, come here and let me fix your hair.” He gestured to the chair by the fire.  Geralt sat obediently, letting Jaskier smooth out his hair with a long-toothed comb, pulling it back from his face and tying it half-up as he preferred.  

 The seventh bell rang out in the distance, followed almost immediately by the dinner gong. Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s shoulders. “Ready?” He asked.

 Geralt nodded, standing up and heading for the door.  Jaskier stopped him with a gentle hand on his elbow before they exited the room. “Remember, if you need to leave for any reason, just tell me and we’ll leave.”

 Geralt nodded. “I know you’ll take care of me.” He said simply, patting Jaskier’s hand where it rested on his elbow before opening the door for him.  

 Jaskier blinked at him, surprised but pleased by the easy acceptance.  A huge smile spread across his face as he led Geralt out the door, his hand remaining in the crook of Geralt’s arm.

  _________________________________________

  It was near midnight by the time Jaskier and Geralt returned to their chambers.  Countess Rottermund had set an elaborate table for their dinner, an intimate evening with just the four of them in attendance: Jaskier, Geralt, Countess Rottermund, and Lady Annabelle.  The food had been superb and Geralt had eaten his fill, pleased to finally have the chance to fill his belly completely.  

 While they ate, Lady Annabelle and Jaskier had entertained them with tales of their exploits at Oxenfurt and giving Geralt plenty of ammunition with which to tease Jaskier in the future.  

 Unlike her servants, Countess Rottermund, though stern, was kind and treated Geralt with respect.  He imagined the treatment was partly a result of her tolerant nature and partly a result of her clear and genuine affection for Jaskier.  Whatever the cause, Geralt was relieved.

 After they finished their meal, Countess Rottermund got down to business.  Sipping a fine cordial, Countess Rottermund described the land and villages she had inherited on the northern coast above Novigrad.  A distant uncle had died without an heir, and she was his closest blood relation.  The Countess had never met her uncle and had never lived on a country estate, having grown up in Oxenfurt and then in Novigrad, and so was relying up her uncle’s old staff to run the holding.  

 She had been up to her uncle’s manor to meet the men he employed to care for his land and vassals, and she was satisfied they were trustworthy, but all had spoken about monsters plaguing the villages they oversaw.  All the villages suffered from drowners given their proximity to the coast, but one also had a wyvern problem, another lost livestock to endregas, and yet another was devastated by noonwraiths.  When she had reviewed the beastiary the overseers used to help protect the villagers, she’d noticed it was nearly a century out of date.  And, upon review of her uncle’s accounting book, she saw that the last recording of a witcher being hired in the holding was over six decades prior.

 And so, she explained, when Jaskier informed her Geralt was coming to Novigrad, she’d asked him to set up a meeting.  Her plan was simple, but would require several months of work.  She proposed to hire Geralt to update her beastiary, to clear out the monsters currently plaguing the villages, and to help the villagers set up protections and practices to discourage new monsters from taking up residence in her holding.  

 When Geralt had protested, saying that eliminating monsters forever was not possible, she made it clear that she understood monsters were an endemic problem, but that she wanted to give the villagesr in her newly acquired holding the best possible chance against them.

 Ultimately, for a hefty sum that would last Geralt close to a year, paid half in advance, they settled on a plan.  Geralt would clear out the drowners, endregas, noonwraiths, and wyvern currently in residence on his way north out of Novigrad for the season.  Then, in the late autumn, he would return with Jaskier to her holdings, taking up winter residence in a small cottage by the coast in the center of her territory.  Countess Rottermund would ensure the cottage was properly repaired and stocked before they arrived, and would arrange for one of her overseers to bring the beastiary to him, with ample parchment and ink for her edits and additions.  Over the winter, Geralt would update and expand the beastiary.  He would also travel to each village to meet with the village overseer and set up a deterrent plan to protect the villagers going forward.  If any monsters settled in the area after he cleared out the ones currently present, Geralt would eliminate them for an additional fee.

 It took hours for Geralt and Countess Rottermund to settle on terms, but both left the negotiation satisfied.  Jaskier was delighted it had worked out and looked forward to spending the winter on the coast with Geralt.  As they returned to their room, Jaskier chattered about his plans for the coming season, the songs he would work on, the dishes he would prepare to “keep you in good weight, Geralt!”, and how much he would enjoy spending that quiet season with Geralt again as they had years ago in Oxenfurt.  He even promised to arrange for a selection of books to be brought to the cottage for Geralt to read, assuring him the library still had his record and would not send him something he had already read.

 Geralt let Jaskier’s words wash over him, exhaustion creeping up as he prepared for bed.  He removed the finery, folding it carefully, before flopping back onto the bed in his smalls and chemise, Jaskier joining him shortly after, blowing out the candles by the bedside.

 There was nothing new in them sharing a bed – they did it all the time on the Path in much smaller beds than this – but the change Geralt felt earlier made itself known again. The atmosphere was comfortable and quiet, but there was a new weight to it.  Nothing tense or heavy, but a new significance to their shared space that simply hadn’t been there before.  It made Geralt feel like he wanted to bare his soul.

 He turned on his side to face Jaskier, watching the dim light from the dying fire cast shadows on his still youthful face.  Jaskier felt his gaze and turned to him, resting his head on a bent elbow, smiling gently.  They were inches apart.

 Geralt wanted to recapture the closeness he’d felt earlier, wanted to feel that same soul-deep contentment.  He placed his hand, palm up, on the bed between them, offering what he dared not take. Jaskier immediately accepted, placing his hand in Geralt’s and squeezing lightly.  

 “I am glad we will spend the winter together again.”  Geralt said softly, still afraid to speak his thoughts aloud, but made daring by the warm, intimate environment.

 “As am I,” Jaskier said, smiling gently, affection clear on his face.  “I am honored to share your Path.”

 That touched something deep inside Geralt, and he felt some long-held fear, some long-held resistance, give way.  He didn’t know how to express what he felt in words, so he let his instincts lead, trusting that Jaskier would understand, would accept what he offered in the manner intended.

 Geralt stretched forward, closing the small distance between them and placing a gentle kiss on Jaskier’s forehead, mirroring the soft, affectionate gestures Jaskier had bestowed upon him in the past.  Jaskier’s eyes widened in wonder, his mouth dropping open softly.  Geralt searched Jaskier’s eyes and found only steadfast affection.  

 As Geralt studied him, Jaskier drew closer, resting his forehead on Geralt’s and synchronizing their breathing.  He kept his eyes open despite the closeness, watching for any sign of hesitance as he gently, slowly, leaned in and pressed his lips to Geralt’s.  

 The kiss was soft and affectionate.  Loving without demanding, passionate without burning.  It wasn’t a carnal act, but one of the deepest feeling, the sort of quiet, eternal love built up over years of trust and companionship.

 Geralt felt the depth of love Jaskier conveyed with his soft kiss and felt his eyes fill with the strength of his emotions.  He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to, he simply closed the distance between their bodies, winding his arms around Jaskier and burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing deeply of the comforting scent of rosin and honey. Jaskier cradled him close, nuzzling at his hair and pressing soft kisses to the crown of his head.  

 They didn’t say anything further, they just breathed together in their warm bed, surrounded by soft furs, and slept, content in the knowledge that they were each exactly where they should be.

Requested tags for updates: @thesunshinemanman @animaniac1017

[hornsbeforehalos]

Waste Love: Part Fourteen

Pairing: Colson Baker|Machine Gun Kelly x OFC Warnings: Language, Alcohol and Drug Use, Smut, Violence, Angst, Fluff A/N: it might be a little bit longer for the next update :( I’m still currently working on chapter 15.

“God damnit, Colson! Delete that shit! We are not engaged!” Tiffany shouted, holding her phone’s screen out to him, irritation surging through her. 

“The fuck we aren’t! You said so yourself! You can’t take that shit back!” He argued, cheeks ticking with a smile as he chucked at her, “Don’t be mad now.”

The moment Tiffany had turned her phone on it erupted in texts and missed calls and social media notifications, all linking her to Colson’s newest social media posts. The first one was the picture he had taken the previous morning, her bare face and bright eyes surrounded by crazy tangles of purple, the simple caption of “What’s understood, doesn’t have to be explained.” enticing thousands of comments from fans and friends. It was the word under the second picture though, that made Tiffany’s face redden and annoyance spike. 

The simple word, “Fiancé,” stared back at her, slapping her in the face. 

The picture itself was adorable, a simple selfie of the two of them in front of the Alice in Wonderland statue. Tiffany’s hand had been placed on Colson’s face, two of the three shiny diamonds displayed across her fingers as they both smiled into the camera happily. 

“It was during sex, Kels!” Tiffany retorted hotly, throwing her arms into the air in frustration, “It’s not like you got down on your knee for fuck’s sake!”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, you don’t give a fuck about that shit,” Colson scoffed, waving his hand uncaringly in her direction with a sarcastic smile, “Just accept the happiness, Tiff.”

“Rook! Come get your fucking friend before I blow his head off!” Tiffany whined, stomping down the hall to the living room and plopping herself down on her couch next to her brother. 

Rook looked up from the joint he was rolling with a confused expression on his face at the same time Colson rounded the corner, the man looking offended. 

“The fuck happen now?” Rook asked, holding his hands out with the question as he looked between them, cheesy grin curving his lips, “I thought y’all were getting married?”

“Are you fucking serious?” Tiff groaned, slapping Rook across the chest before looking to Colson, “He’s on your side too?!”

“Everyone’s on my side, baby!” Colson teased, holding his arms out wide as he did a little side step back and forth, “We’re engaged, bitch!” 

“That wasn’t a real proposal!” She countered, picking up a plastic bottle from the table and hurling it at him. “There wasn’t even a ring!”

“I bought you three rings that night, you little bitch,” Colson laughed, picking the bottle up and chunking it back at her, “Now put one on that finger.”

“No!” She refused, crossing her arms as she shrugged against the side of the couch, side eyeing her brother with a betrayed glare, “I hate you two.”

“He asked you to marry him, you said yes. How is that not a proposal?” Rook inquired, lighting the joint before passing it to Colson.

“He asked me in the middle of me riding his dick! That doesn’t fucking qualify!”

“Hey, Hey, Hey,” Rook interrupted, covering his ears with his hands, “Fuck off! I don’t wanna hear that shit!” 

“You fucking asked, dick,” Tiffany huffed, snatching the joint from Colson as her eyes flashed dangerously at him, “We are not engaged, take that post down. Now.”

“Nope.” Colson replied, popping the ‘p’ at the end smugly as he leaned over where she sat on the sofa. “We are engaged, bitch.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Tiffany spat, blowing a cloud of smoke in his face. Her lips curled into a devilish smirk when he bared his teeth and snarled at her. 

Colson nipped playfully at her, his jaw snapping as he buried his face in her hair while she ‘struggled’ to push him away. 

“You two are ridiculous, you know that,” Rook complained, shifting over to the other couch as the two began to wrestle against each other on the one they were currently occupying.

“Lil’ bitch is just mad she gon’ be my wife,” Colson jeered, his tongue extending from his mouth to swipe the side of her face as he lay on top of her. 

Tiffany instantly shrieked in disgust, pushing against Colsons chest as hard as she could, “Get offff!”

“Gonna get fucked by this dick every night.” He continued, raising up off of her to thrust his hips into her thighs. 

“Bro!” Rook barked, standing up and groaning loudly, “Jesus Christ!” 

“My bad, dog.” Colson apologized halfheartedly, smirk still adorning his face as he licked his lips and smacked her outer thigh. He looked down at Tiffany as she lay there, his eyebrows lifting as he looked pointedly at her, “Imma marry you.”

Rolling her eyes, Tiffany sat up beside Colson as her brother held the joint out again. The topic shifted over to them flying home the next day as they finished the roach, Tiffany pouting when Rook let her in on the early morning departure.

“I’ve gotta get Case, like, the moment we land, babe. I’m sorry.” Colson sulked, his shoulders dropping with his own sadness. His eyes shifted from the floor, to her, and back before he murmured lowly, “I wish you’d come with me.”

“You know I can’t, Cols.” Tiffany replied, looking at him knowingly before kissing his cheek, “And I understand, babe. Please tell Itty Bit I miss her and her pancakes. I’ll be there for her to make me some as soon as possible.”

“I will.” He promised, pressing his lips against her temple as he reeled her into his side.

“We’ll be back here soon, too.” Rook added, looking up from his phone that had began to occupy him. 

“I know,” She nodded, humming as she leaned her head against Colsons shoulder. Her lip twitched as she smirked, “still sucks, though; having to be apart from your fiancé so soon after the engagement.”

—

“Bro, come the fuck on,” Slim complained, pushing Colson’s arm gently to get his attention, “You act like you ain’t never gon’ see her again or somethin’.” 

“Man, jus’ leave me alone.” Colson returned, shrugging his friend off with a huff as he looked back down to his phone, “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Y’all fighting again, dog?” Slim questioned, ignoring his best friends comment and sitting beside him on the couch, “It’s only been a week since we left. Why she trippin’?”

“It’s not even her, dude.” Colson sighed, putting his phone down on his lap and scrubbing his face with his palms, “I’m being stupid again.”

“What’d you do this time?” Slim asked,exasperated, shaking his head as he side eyed Colson. Slim snatched one of the rolled joints from the table, lighting it and hitting it while waiting on his answer. 

“Mannnn,” Colson huffed, his knee bouncing as he rested his elbow on it. He shook his head back and forth before taking the spliff from Slim’s fingers, inhaling deeply before answering, “Her and Norman went out last night ‘cuz he’s leaving or whatever and got all fucked up. She called me and he was all laughin’ and shit in the background.”

“Nigga, okay?” Slim scoffed, taking the joint back from Colson as he cocked an eyebrow at him, “The fuck is the issue? She goes out with him all the time, and it ain’t like you ain’t had hoes laughin’ and gigglin’ and hangin’ all up on yo stupid ass.” 

“I know, dog,” Colson replied with a groan, slouching back on the couch to sulk, “Shit just bothered me, and of course that only pissed her off, and now she’s not talking to me.”

Slim hit the joint deeply as he looked at his friend, the smoke catching in his lungs as he spoke, “Good, I wouldn’t either.” 

“Thanks, bro.” Colson deadpanned, rolling his eyes. 

“Man, are you serious about marrying this girl or are you jus’ frontin’?” Slim questioned, hitting the joint again before passing it to Colson. 

“I’m dead fuckin’ serious, man.” Colson answered seriously, his eyes watching the burning cherry of the roach while he ashed it on the leg of his jeans.

“Then you need to stop acting like you don’t know who that girl is, man. She ain’t like you, dumbass.” Slim scolded, irritation evident in his tone as he looked at Colson sternly, “If she love you, she love you. That’s Tiff, Kels. Tiffany. Our friend, our family. She ain’t some random hoe.”

Colson nodded, his head just barely moving as he comprehended everything Slim said. He hit the roach a last time before handing it back, silent as he tried to think of the right thing to say. 

“I’ll be back.” Colson said after a minute, new determination in his eyes as he grabbed his phone and hopped up from the couch. His voice could be heard as he headed towards his bedroom, Tiffany’s name being spoken softly as he articulated the words of an apology. 

Slim leaned back into the cushions with a smirk adorning his face, lighting up another joint as he enjoyed the satisfaction. 

Masterlist

Tags:  @cobainscocaiine @coffee-obsessed-writer @through-thesilver-lining @daryldixonandfrogs @buckyscrystalqueen @mgkobsessed @iamdorka @creatureofthen1ght-v3 @xxencagedxx @xxkellsvixen19xx  @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk @bvibunny138 @crystalbaby12

*credit for the bomb ass banner is to best friend @coffee-obsessed-writer

beta’d by @buckyscrystalqueen

[classic-vision]

Apartment Hunting

Been super busy but wanted to get this out for the weekend. Thanks to @justaleapoffaith and @leia321 for voting on the prompts.

AO3 Version     Enjoy

“It’s not…that bad.”

“Which part? The roaches on the floor, or the ants on the wall?”

“Come on, MJ.” Peter says, brushing his shoulder off from the wall he was just leaning on. “I’m just trying to stay positive.”

She scoffs, scooping some dust off the counter with her finger. “We don’t have time for that. Why don’t we go somewhere nicer?”

“Because we don’t have money for that. This complex is our last hope.”

School is starting two weeks and they still hasn’t found an apartment. Unlike his previous years, Peter’s scholarship only covered tuition not housing. So much for being smart. He wishes he could’ve gone the athletic route. Now here he is finally experiencing the toughest part of being a New Yorker. Rent.

Good thing is, he has someone to split the rent with. Bad thing is, it’s is on and off again girlfriend throughout college. Peter and MJ still remain close, but somehow only seem to work better has friends. And somehow, he convinced himself that living with her in a platonic setting was a good idea. Senior year was getting off to a rough start.

“I thought Ned and Betty were supposed to help us,” Peter says, stepping over the roaches. “What are they doing?”

“I’d say that depends on whether or not Ned has protection.”

“MJ…”

Though, she was probably right.

“We’ll just have to downgrade to a one bedroom.”

“But there’s two of us.”

MJ nods to him slowly, not wanting to waste breath on the obvious. Peter squints is eyes at her, playing out the situation in his head. He’s about to ask her until a spark lights off in his mind.

“H-How would that work?” he stutters. “I mean, I’m sure we can make it work. Wait, I mean definitely works. I just didn’t know you would want it to. But if y-”

“Peter,” MJ interrupts, “Don’t go all male on me. We’ll still sleep separately.”

“Oh…”

“You’ll just have to take the couch.”

“WHAT”

___

“Oh nice, carpeting.”

Peter and MJ make their way into the next unit available in the building. It was an improvement from the previous one. But…

“There’s a stain in the bedroom.”

“I’m sure it’ll wash out.”

“The toilet water’s low,” MJ shouts from the bathroom. “Bad plumping. You can say goodbye to pizza night.”

Peter shook his head, trying to ignore her complaints and moved to windows. “These are some nice blinds.”

He twists the knob twice to get a better view and instantly it snaps off in his hand. He wanted to yell, but instead, he takes a deep breath to compose himself.

“There’s a couple mouse traps left in the closet.”

Peter wasn’t going to let that bother him. It’s New York City after all. Rodents should be their friends.

“The point is, there’s no ants or roaches,” he comments softly.

“One of these traps is occupied.”

“THAT’S IT”

Peter throws down the broken knob and storms out of the apartments. MJ chases him down the hall but can’t catch him until they’re out of the he’s in the elevator.

“Where are you going?”

“This isn’t going to work, MJ. I’m sorry I have to go.”

It’s not often that Michelle Jones is caught off guard about anything. But here she was stunned as the elevator doors closed on her and Peter leaves the building.

___

The complex is stunning. A gated building, standing tall and wide with blue and orange patterns around the glass windows. Inside, the lobby has marble flooring surrounding the beautiful water fountain complimented by jazz music in the background. Each and every apartment on every floor is luxurious, spacious, and comfortable. To top it all off, there’s a rooftop bar with a pool and great view of the city. It’s perfect, it’s a dream, and most importantly to Peter Parker…it’s a big waste of time.

“Dude, why did you bring me here? There’s no way we can afford this.”

“I told you, man.” Ned finishes chugging his complimentary water bottle he got from the lobby and sat up from the lounge chair by the pool. “The whole point of living in New York City is to live big. Right Hoggy?”

The tour guide gives an annoyed sigh and rolls his eyes. “It’s Happy.”

“Wait, your name is Happy? I thought they-”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all and relayed it to my parents. Are you guys gonna put in an application or what?”

Ned puts an arm around Peter, cutting him off before he can speak. “Of course, we will. Because I live across the street.”

Ned lived with his girlfriend Betty. Unlike Peter and MJ, they had their relationship figured out, and then some. The two were inseparable from each other. And take PDA to a new level.

“I wish I could afford to live in your building. Little alone, this place,” Peter pouts.

“Someone’s gotta chase the dream, Peter. I’ve been trying to Betty to move over to this building but she’s always talking about budgets and expenses and crap.”

Peter scoffs sarcastically, “Yeah, who cares about any of that.”

He hates the way things have been going lately. Money was super tight and the last thing he wanted to do was let MJ down. Students loans can only go so far so Peter decided to sell some of his personal items to help with living expenses in preparation for rent. The toughest one to let go was his Nintendo Switch. MJ doesn’t know about it, but he figured it would be worth the sacrifice. At least that’s how he felt at the time.

“By the way, what’s up with you and MJ? Back together yet? Because we kind of have a little bet going?”

Peter squints his eyes at his best friend, but quickly writes it off. At least someone had confidence in his relationship. Or whatever it was.

“I don’t know, dude.”

“Okay!” Happy shouted, tapping his finger to his watch. “If you two don’t make a decision in five seconds, I’m gonna assume it’s a no and get back to my meatball parm.”

Peter takes one last look around the rooftop. He always thought that his first apartment hunting wouldn’t be limited by a budget. He would be a graduate with a high paying chemist job. But here he is watching his dream start to fade.

“Ned, I want to live here.”

“Great!” Ned threw his fist in the air and gestured out to the view of the city. “This is the dream!”

Peter laughs and cheers with his friend. “You really think we can afford it?”

Ned shrugged. “You don’t know until you ask. Hey Happy, how much for a two bed room?”

“If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”

“Dude..”

___

Peter and Ned walk out of the fancy complex with their heads down. Peter takes a step forward when Ned’s arm blocks him from moving forward. Peter questions his friend who seems to be lost in a daze until he looks in the same direction. And that’s when he sees them.

Coming towards them, are four girls jogging in place. Two of them he recognizes from class. As they get closer, the tallest one smiles politely at their gazes.

“Hi you guys,” Liz Allan says.

But they’re both too stunned, and embarrassed to speak. So, Peter just waves as the group of girls move pass them and enter the luxurious complex.

“Hi, Ned!”

Two of the girls, Betty and Liz ran back out of the complex sipping bottles of water.

“Hey, honey.” Ned says, kissing his short blond girlfriend.

“I was just about to head home. You helping Peter and MJ out with the apartment hunting?”

Before Ned can answer, Liz interjects.

“Peter, I didn’t know you and MJ were back together. That’s great!”

Peter gulped at the tall sweaty girl in front of him.

“Well, not exactly. But who can afford to live alone in New York?” he joked.

Liz wipes another beat of sweat off her head. “I hear you. One of my roommates kind of bailed on us. Boyfriend stuff. Anyway, we’ve got a spot open now. A couple of people are interested but, I felt like it would be rude if I didn’t ask you.”

Peter gulped again. He knew what he should say, but for some reason it was taking along time to say it. Perhaps he wanted to accept the offer. He could finally live the good life. A new life and new girl. Maybe it was time.

“Thanks, but I got my living situation covered,” Peter says, surprising himself.

“Oh, great. Well, I guess I’ll see you guys on campus.”

Liz waves at him and then to someone behind him before jogging back inside the building. Peter turns around and sees MJ standing there with her arms crossed.

“MJ, how long have you been standing there?”

She shrugs, “Long enough to see you drool your own pool.”

“I told her no.”

“Yeah, after like an hour of hesitation. That’s the life you want?”

Peter sees her getting tense and doesn’t like where things are going. But he’s not sure what to do. There still not even technically together.

“I just kind of wanted to see what it would be like for a minute,” he says honestly.

MJ scoffs again. “Let’s go, Betty”

The blond girl lets go of Ned’s hand and gives an apologetic smile to Peter before following her friend.

Peter watches MJ walk off. He still doesn’t know what they were. He doesn’t know if they could live together. He doesn’t know if they could be just friends. But the one thing he knows, is that he has to make things right. Because seeing Michelle walk off was too painful.

___

Peter and Ned arrive at Ned’s apartment about an hour after the girls. Ned thought it would be a good idea to let things cool down a little before going over there. That hour felt like an eternity to Peter. He needed to talk to MJ.

He rings the door bell and Betty lets them in. MJ’s sitting at the counter when she sees him and hops off to greet him.

“We’ll give you two a minute,” Betty says, shoving Ned out the door as he mutters something about it being his house.

Now it’s just the two of them. MJ shifts her feet a bit, stopping the silence. Peter exhales and decides to just dive into it.

“I’m sorry I stormed out. It had nothing to do with you. I just hated the idea of us living in crap.”

MJ laughs a bit and Peter is instantly relieved.

“It was crap,” she says. “But I didn’t have to be so blunt about it. I’m addicted to telling the truth. Even at the worst time.”

“It’s fin-”

“No, Peter,” she interrupts. The issue had been weighing on her mind apparently. “I know this can’t be easy for you either. “Things between us aren’t exactly ideal.”

This time Peter laughs. “Since when is anything about us ideal. That’s why I like you. You’re not normal.”

To anyone else, that would have been taken as an insult. But it brings a smile to MJ’s face. Peter takes the opportunity and puts his hands on her shoulders, standing close.

“You’re weird in the best way. I want to make this work. I want us to work.”

MJ wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him even closer and gives the best compliment she can think of. “I think you’re weird too.”

And kisses him. For the first time in too long, Peter Parker is kissing the girl he loves. He makes a silent vow to himself that he will make things work this time. Because she’s too good to let go.

He pulls away from her only to look at her face and that pretty smile she rarely shows.

“Thanks. Because I don’t want to be someone I’m not. I’m good with who I am.”

“Hey, I got a surprise.”

MJ pulls Peter out of the apartment and straight to the one next door. Inside, is a wide-open floor of a two-bedroom unfurnished with clean counter tops and clean walls.

“I know you’re not crazy about wood flooring, but we can get big rug.” MJ runs over to the other side and gestures from corner to corner as if rehearsed. “I figure we can put the TV on this wall next to your video game stand. Then we can have my bookshelf at the edge on the way to my room.”

Peter walks around the actually livable apartment pleasantly surprised. “Good ideas but I don’t think we’ll need my game stand.”

“Sure about that?”

He turns to see MJ holding a small wrapped box out to him. He looks at her in disbelief until she gives him a nod of approval. Then he rips the box open like a kid on Christmas morning. His eyes grow big and legs to bounce.

“You got me a Nintendo Switch! I can’t believe it. I had to sell mine at Gamestop last month for $140

“Funny, I bought mine at Gamestop last month for $160.”

“What?”

“I’m kidding. Well, not really. Never sell to Gamestop, dude. But anyway, Ned told me about what you did. I had to get it back for you.”

Peter smiles brighter than he has the entire day. For the first time, everything was coming together.

“I love this. Can we really afford it?”

“Apparently we can. The landlord told me it’s been vacant so long that she knocked off $500 off the rent for us.”

“Wow, that’s great! But why is a place like this vacant?”

“Well, it’s next to Ned and Betty’s…”

“So?”

“The walls are thin.”

“Crap.”

[oh-theatre]

Sycamore High: An Ending (Almost) (Chapter 39)

A/N: One more chapter bois!!! Honestly, I love Tommy so much holy jeezus, hopefully, I can remember how to do comedy in the sequel again oop! Anyway, leave me some comments. Also, I love Tommy and Ted and my heart legit can't take how much I love them

summary: Its the last day of finals, and the last day of school. What could go wrong?

words: 3158

warnings: Swearing, negative thoughts, kissing, violence

Edited by: @theyreallidiots  (Seriously please go give them some love, they're amazing and I love them with everything I have)

Ao3 Link

Finals Day 3...

“Tommy, right?” Tommy glanced up, his eyes adjusting to the figure standing in front of him. He blinked, realizing how exhausted he was. The library was quiet, huddled in a corner with all his materials and supplies, Tommy was studying.

“Hmm?” He hummed, he didn't really have it in him to speak. The figure chuckled sitting down next to him, Tommy shifted giving him some room. He could see his face better now: his hair was dark and long, it fell to his shoulders in a wavy formation. His face...was boring. Not in a bad way but there wasn't anything special about him. He was cute, sure, but that's about it. Tommy recognizes him from his English class, he sits in the back, he doesn't talk much. He extended his hand towards Tommy. “English class,” Tommy said.

“Yeah” He chuckled again, Tommy hated the way it sounded as if no matter what Tommy said, he would smile and play along. “I’m David,” Tommy nodded shaking his hand, he didn't really have time for this and hoped the conversation would end soon. “I..uh recognized you...from class” He rubbed the nape of his neck, avoiding Tommy’s eyes. His lips curled into a sweet smile or at least an attempt. “You're like...really smart” He complimented. Tommy pressed his lips together swallowing an exasperated sigh.

“Thank you...I’m sorry, I'm really bus-”

“Oh yeah! Totally, sorry...don't let me disturb you” He gestured to Tommy's work. Tommy eyed him but went back to his papers, he tried to work but he could feel Davids intense stare. He put his pencil down looking back up at him. “Sorry, it's just…” David looked him over, his eyes twinkling, his lips in a half-smile. “You’re...really cute” He pushed his hair behind his ears

Oh

Tommy’s heart sunk, he was being flirted with, never had he hated a feeling so much. He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. He looked back up at David, his smile as fake as he could make it.

“Thanks! My boyfriend sure thinks so” He chirped, and there it was. David's face fell, his smile disappearing becoming confusion. His eyebrows furrowing, he let out a small laugh.

“He's very lucky, and where might he be?” David looked around expectantly. Seriously? Tommy thought you're still going? He didn't really know how to respond, once his free period was over, he had a final and he really didn't have time for...whatever this was. It was almost selfish of him to wish Ted was here.

“I...I don't know” Tommy admitted. He was probably studying with Charlotte and Emma right now, seeing as they had free periods as well but he couldn't be sure. They used to know where the other was because they were usually together. And sure, some might say that's a bad thing but...it worked for them. And they loved it. They loved each other, Tommy loved him. “You know what? I have to go” But this time, he wasn't running away from someone, he was running towards them. He collected his things, not giving David another look and rushed down the hall and out of school. He was really hoping Ted would be at the coffee shop they always went to, and lo and behold.

Ted sat behind Charlotte fiddling with her while Emma lay strewn across Charlotte's lap reciting something. Tommy could almost laugh had he not been so nervous. Ted looked up noticing him, his eyes actually grew, the pupil dilates when it sees something it likes. Or at least that's what Tommy remembered from class, his mind was a little preoccupied right now. Ted stood, much to Charlotte's disappointment, well, until she saw who he was standing for. Tommy wasted no time, he took Ted’s face and kissed him. Ted was clearly taken aback but melted into the kiss nonetheless, realizing how desperate he was for this moment. Tommy giggled happily, wrapping his own arms around Ted's neck. Charlotte tried really hard but her heart was so full, she squealed Emma tried to stifle it but she was just as happy. Ted pulled away eyeing his friends, they quickly returned to their work shrugging. Tommy cupped Ted’s face pulling him back towards him.

“Hi” He smiled, his heart, much like Charlotte’s, was full. Ted shook his head trying to swallow a smile, he smothered Tommy in more kisses hugging him right after. “I’m so sorry dearest” Tommy whispered in his ear.  “How do I make it up to you?” He asked pulling away, Ted shook his head once more.

“You don't ha-” he paused, an idea popped into his head. “Sing with me” He marveled, Tommy laughed slightly. Ted stood his ground however, he didn't budge.

“Oh! You're serious?” Tommy’s eyes grew wide, Ted nodded.

“My parents wanted me to sing at the wedding...and I want you to sing with me” Ted admitted, Tommy forced a squeal squeezing his hands. To be honest? He didn't know if he would be here for the wedding. He wanted to, so badly but his parents were pretty adamant about him leaving as soon as he could. Ted bit his lips, still smiling. “What?”  Ted could tell.

“Nothing! I'd love to” he lied, well he would love to but...would he be able to? But no more, he was going to be here for Ted. As long as he could, he just had to convince his parents to let him stay a little bit into summer and it would be fine. “What are we singing?” He asked, his heart still racing from excitement to be back in Ted's arms.

~~~

“Bill Dorris!” The name echoed the auditorium. Ted always felt like this ritual was stupid and would cause low self-esteem for the students but watching Bill, shocked, rushing up to stage to accept the award, Ted felt nothing but pride. He definitely showed it by cheering the loudest. “Congratulations to Mister Dorris for winning the ‘Best Academic Student’ award”. The principal handed the boy the award, Bill was almost crying behind his glasses. He quickly returned to his friends, receiving an abundance of hugs and ruffling of the hair.

“Nicely done, dude” Paul complimented, Bill, smiled up at him. The principal called back attention. They turned to him and shushed.

“Next, as requested by Mr. Hidgens, our drama teacher-” Ted shouted out a single cheer, receiving weird looks but he didn't care. “Thank you, Ted” The principal shook his head at the boy, the school laughed. “As most of you know, the drama finals consist of singing a song, what those students didn't know is that those were auditions” The group stopped smiling and turned to one another, Tommy hid a smile. Those who were interested in the musical but were not apart of the class were asked to audition months ago, just as Tommy had done, his heart sank realizing he would have to pull out. “So, I'm here to formally announce the cast of Starship for next year! The cast is as follows” The list was something so many students had not expected to hear, but they were on the edge of their seats.

“Bug: Ted

Commander Up: Sam

Taz/Bugginton: Emma

Tootsie Noodles/Pincer: Tommy

Mega-Girl: Deb

February: Charlotte

Junior/Veeto Mosquito: Paul

Specs/Neato Mosquito: Alice

Roach/Krayonder: Bill

Overqueen/Sweetheart mosquito:  David

The Caller Bug/mister bug: Paul”

Ted’s jaw dropped hearing his name first, Paul was pretty shocked playing so many roles but excited nonetheless. Emma was delighted to hear her name called and getting a kiss on the cheek from Paul was pretty exciting. Charlotte looked to Ted and they shared a knowing look. Guess their chemistry was undeniable, on stage of course. Jackie hugged her, proud of her achievements. Paul shared a look with his sister, nodding at her for finally gaining enough courage to audition. Tommy bit back his lip, trying not to cry. He smiled and nodded at every single one of his friends, and kissed his boyfriend lovingly, but his stomach churned sadly. Bill nodded appropriately and congratulated his friends. David looked up and winked at Tommy who didn't reciprocate anything. Deb smothered her girlfriend in kisses, Alice returned the action. Sam smirked to himself but ultimately was just excited to perform again. They all were, junior year was going to be fun.

~~~

“Ok, kiss, marry, kill” Ted started pointing his fork at Paul. The teen returned the gesture, mocking his friend. “The try guys” He decided, Paul scrunched his eyebrows. Tommy rolls his eyes, returning to his conversation with Bill. The girls sit in their usual spots discussing other things.

“There are four try guys dumbass” Paul noted, Ted smiled coyly.

“Yeah, so double up loser” Ted replied, Paul, shrugged stuffing more salad into his mouth. “Alright, I'll go first. Mmm...id...kill Ned” Paul mocked a gasp, Bill stifled a laugh “Kiss...Zach and marry Eugene and Keith” Tommy turned to him, a smile placed on his face, but curiosity and confusion riddled his face. Ted turned to him, kissing him on the forehead. “Polyamorous baby” He joked, Tommy playfully pushed him off awaiting Paul's answer.

“Ok lame, I’d kiss Zach and Ned, marry Keith and...kill Eugene” He decided, Ted can't even fathom his response. “What? Don't hate me cause im right” Paul defended, Bill turned now facing them.

“Even I know you don't kill Eugene, Paul” Bill commented. Ted gave him a high five, posing a confident ‘told you so’ face to Paul.

“I’d marry Zach” Tommy joined in, munching carefully on his carrots. Ted smiled at him, the tug at his stomach in delight. “That's all, the rest can do as they please” He finished, Ted chuckled softly nodding.

“Ok moving on” Paul continued, he waited for the rest to turn to him but to no avail. “Ted?” He asked impatiently.

“What?” He focused back on Paul, the teen smirked.

“You've never played tuber simulator?” Paul teased, Ted laughed sensibly. Bill and Tommy shared a quick glance.

“Hey, have you seen Joe?” Ted inquired carefully, playing out his part to perfection. Paul raised a brow.

“Whos Joe?” Paul gave in, no one matching the name.

“Joe mama!” Ted cheered victoriously. Paul turned to Emma instantly.

“Just kill me” He requested. Emme stroked his cheek lovingly, turning back to Charlotte and Jackie.

~~~

“You look wonderful, bubbles” Jackie complimented tying up the back of Charlotte's dress. She let her hair down, turning back to her girlfriend.

“I love you!” Charlotte quipped wrapping her arms around Jackie's neck. Jackie giggled kissing Charlotte, moving to her cheek. Charlotte pulled away “Sorry J, I gotta finish getting ready”. Jackie groaned, falling back onto the bed. She finished her braids and slipped her jean jacket on.

“I look like Rosa Diaz” Jackie smiled, admiring the new jacket she made. Charlotte smiled, wrapping her arms around her. She kissed her cheek from behind. “Hmm, can I do your hair?” Charlotte shook her head, tying her own hair up with a ribbon to match her dress. “Oh pretty, nevermind you've got it” Jackie kissed her cheek.

“I'm so excited for dinner!” Charlotte exclaimed putting her earrings in, Jackie helped her with her necklace. “Everyone back together! Tommy! Ted! Paul! Emma! Bill!” She turned to Jackie “You…”

“I love you, bubbles” Jackie kissed her, wrapping her up in a hug. Charlotte squealed as Jackie spun her around. “Oh! We gotta go” And so they did, saying goodbye to her mother and heading out the door.

~~~

“Ok stop stop stop” Tommy chided, he undid Ted’s tie fixing it neatly. Ted pouted kissing Tommy on the forehead, Tommy pulled him closer meeting his lips.

“Oh my god, I missed you” Ted sighed. Tommy chuckled wrapping his arms around his neck. Ted did the same around Tommy's hips. “Hey, after dinner tonight we should take a walk in the park” Ted proposed. Tommy giggled, his head landing on Ted’s chest. “What? I think it would be nice” Tommy looked back up at him.

“It would be pitch dark, and one of us would get killed,” Tommy said honestly, Ted smiled kissing him on the forehead. “I love you but that's just not plausible,” Tommy told the boy, Ted nodded agreeing. Tommy wished he could stay like this forever, and his face showed it. His eyes avoided Teds, his mouth quivered.

“Gumdrop?” Ted asked, the nickname rolling off his tongue easily. Tommy looked up and shook his head, he stood on his tiptoes kissing Ted softly, connecting their lips. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, dearest” He patted Ted’s chest, pulling away and going to the mirror. Ted stood behind him wrapping his arms around the smaller boy. “Ted” Tommy giggled “I have to get ready” Ted moaned, kissing his boyfriend on the cheek. Tommy’s heart sank, he didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay like this forever.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt but Jackie just dropped off Tommy’s skirt” Paul poked his head through the door, Ted pulled away beaming. “She said it was done last minute because she wanted to put some more stuff on it” Tommy smiled sadly, he squeezed Ted’s hand nodding a thank you to Paul. He took the skirt looking at it. “Ted, your dads wanna see you” Paul notified before leaving. Ted kissed Tommy on the cheek before leaving. He set the skirt down clutching his chest, he and Jackie had been making this one for a while. It was put on hold for finals and she finished it. But something changed, he didn't want to. He shoved the skirt away putting on an old suit he brought from his house. It fit comfortably, and fine. It was...fine.

“Hey, look at mister fancy pants” Chad declared as Ted emerged from his room. He did a little spin showing off his new suit, he was test running the outfit before the wedding. Tommy emerged after a moment in a suit, Ted furrowed his brows. Paul followed in wearing a suit as well. “Well look at the three of you” Chad took a picture.

“Yes, you all look very dashing” Henry admitted, he handed Chad a drink. Paul smiled, he was really missing home. He talked to his mom every day but he missed his room, his bed, the smell when he got up in the morning. The back and forth with his sister. He loved Ted, and Ted’s house and the professors but it wasn’t home. “I hope you enjoy your night out boys, you two-” Henry pointed to Paul and Ted “Home by eleven, got it?” They nodded, Tommy, intertwined his fingers with Ted.

“I'll make sure of it, doctor Hidgens” Tommy assured, Henry, nodded at the boy. He was excited to see him back, Ted had instantly become happier with him around and it had only been a day. “We should go, we need to pick up Bill” Tommy reminded, Ted and Paul, nodded. They said their goodbyes heading out the door.

~~~

“Emma you look… stunning” Paul breathed as his girlfriend walked through the door of the restaurant. He stood greeting her, kissing her cheek and pulling out a chair for her. She sat next to him, her dress flowing beautifully. “I love you” he confessed, the table silenced laughing. He was clearly head over heels for this girl.

“Thanks, babe” Emma stroked his cheek, kissing it softly. “So...we did it! Sophomore year is over!” She declared, the group cheered happily. She grabbed a menu, skimming through the options. The rest of the group did the same, except Tommy and Ted they shared a look. Emma noticed and looked at them “What’s up you two?” She asked the group looked up at her.

“Tommy just wants to say something” Ted admitted, Tommy swat his arm softly. “What? It’s true” He teased, he kissed his boyfriend's cheek encouragingly.

“Um well… I wasn't planning on telling you all right now, but it’s as good as any I suppose” He looked around the table, he didn't want to bring the mood down but he had to tell them. “I'm leaving next year,” The group burst into a chorus of complaints, Tommy squeezed Ted’s hand. “I'll be back for senior year… I think” I hope “I’m going to a boarding school in France… I don't really have a choice” He explained, Bill put a comforting hand on Ted’s shoulder. “Um… my parents are letting me stay for the wedding but then… I’m leaving as soon as possible” Tommy finished.

“I hate this” Charlotte decided, a murmur of agreement was heard “I hate this so much”

“Look I just wanted to tell you, that's all, can we please move on?” Tommy begged, after more arguing and frustration they agreed to move on. “Ok, how about the musical guys?” Tommy proposed excitement buzzed throughout.

“Ted! Congrats on the playing ‘Bug’!” Charlotte announced, Ted blushed hiding it with his menu “Guess we just are the perfect couple” She joked, the group chuckled. Tommy shot her a playful glare. “I’m kidding, I clearly have the better significant other” She kissed Jackie on the cheek.  

“Hey, congrats on Pincer” Bill told Tommy “I know you don't get to play him but it’s still pretty cool” Tommy smiled gratefully. It was pretty cool and he was definitely going to ask Chad about the decision, mostly because he didn't see it himself. Tommy wasn't the type to play a meaningful role, but he supposed that's what acting was. He should take it as a compliment having such a big range. He was excited to return senior year and audition for Falsettos.

The dinner continued, a wonderful way to close off the year. Sharing stories:

“So you and Charlotte kissed?” Tommy almost laughed, Ted nodded shoveling food in his mouth. Charlotte giggled, Jackie, eyed the pair. “I… I have so many questions”

“It was for practice!” Ted defended, Tommy laughed into his shoulder. “I… shut up,” He said burying his face into the food.

Gushing over each other:

“I just love you all so much!” Charlotte announced, Jackie kissed her lovingly on the cheek.

“Oh, ditto that feeling” Paul commented, Emma laughed. They all did that night, down to the last dessert they ate.

Confessions:

“Bud, no matter what, we support you” Ted assured, Bill, smiled at him gratefully. He wiped away his tears, feeling foolish. 

“Thank you guys...seriously” He confessed “I don't know how im supposed to tell my dad” 

“Your dad is the most supportive person. He wouldn't care if you decided to like...become a murderer as long as you were ok.” Ted joked, Bill chuckled followed by the rest of the group “He’ll love you even if you are aro and ace” Ted's voice became more serious, Bill stood going over to his friend. They shared a hug and it was perfect. 

Sadly...the night had to end

Then they went their separate ways. Emma got picked up by her mother, passing out as soon as she stepped into the car. Paul drove Bill home, dropping off Tommy at his house. Paul and Ted headed home sleeping as soon as they got home. Charlotte and Jackie had a sleepover, spending the night watching Barbie movies and playing with Maggie and Token. It was perfect, and the night went perfectly. It wrapped up a weird year that was, in the best way, weirdly perfect. There was a lot they still had to figure out but that's why they still had two years to go. Two years…

[jaskierswolf]

The Bard of Kaer Morhen pt.1/4

Summary: In which Geralt is not the first witcher that Jaskier meets. He's completely enthralled when a witcher saves his life whilst he was studying at Oxenfurt and makes it his life's work to change the world's opinion of witchers. Meanwhile Geralt is intrigued by the amorous bard that Eskel has befriended and sets out to find out more.

On AO3

Jaskier was sixteen the first time he met a witcher.

He was drunk off his face and fast asleep on a stone bench in Oxenfurt when he was woken up by a hand squeezing around his neck and lifting him into air. He still had some growing to do but he wasn’t short by any means and yet his legs dangled limply beneath him as he clawed at the calloused fingers that were cutting off his air supply.

“Fuck!” He choked out, he knew that he shouldn’t have listened to Valdo. They had a big exam coming up and the idiot knew that he could never beat Jaskier without sabotaging him.

He was dumped back onto the floor rather abruptly, his knees screaming at him as they hit the damp cobbled street. He looked up at his assailant with wide eyes and gasped.

A witcher.

It just has to be.

The man was incredibly well built, eyes glimmering amber in the light of the moon and a jagged scar etched into the pale skin of his face. On the man’s back were two swords, thankfully sheathed, although the witcher clearly could kill a man with just his bare hands should the mood hit him.

Jaskier should have been scared. He should have been fucking terrified.

In truth, he found the whole affair rather titillating.

He’d always been a bit weak in the knees for partners who could throw him about a bit and this glorious specimen of a man could certainly do that.

Jaskier gazed up at the witcher through his eye lashes and smiled his most seductive smile.

“Why, witcher, if you wanted me on my knees you could have just asked.” He purred in a low voice. He knew the effect was probably ruined by the fact he almost certainly looked like a mess following his night on the streets but Jaskier was a flirt by nature, he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like this when it was easily presented.

The witcher, unfortunately, only laughed at him and pulled him to his feet. His grip was firm and strong on Jaskier’s arms. Jaskier pouted at the witcher’s laughter but wasn’t deterred.

Rather than letting himself be steadied as he was pulled to his feet, he fell towards the witcher’s chest. “My my.” He breathed as he felt the solid muscle under his fingers, hidden beneath layers of armour but still obvious beneath his touch. “Aren’t you strong, like a…” He stammered as words failed him. “sexy ox?”

The witcher snorted. “A sexy ox? Oxenfurt has really gone downhill since my last visit if that’s the shit they teach you these days, either that or you’re drunker than you smell.”

“Yeah. Well.” Jaskier mumbled.

“Get home, bard. It’s not safe on the streets stinking of booze.” The witcher artfully extracted himself from Jaskier’s arms.

“Care to escort me?” Jaskier winked.

The witcher rolled his eyes. “Persistent aren’t you?”

“For a handsome man such as yourself. Always.” Jaskier grinned.

The witcher shook his head. “I’ll take you home, bard, but I’m not bedding you. What are you, twelve?” He smirked.

Jaskier gaped and stammered back. “I am sixteen!”

“You’re a child.” The witcher pulled him along. “Where do you live?”

“At the university.” Jaskier grumbled. “I’m a student.” He paused. “How did you know I’m a bard?”

The witcher grinned. “You stink of resin and your fingers are covered in ink stains.”

Jaskier gazed in awe at his new friend. “That’s incredible!”

The witcher scoffed and punched Jaskier lightly in the arm. “You’re not bad, for a human. Come along, bard.”

The witcher, named Eskel as Jaskier eventually found out as he tried to lead the man the longest way back to his room at the university as possible, had been hired by one of his professors to kill a monster that was picking off drunk students at night. That was why Jaskier had been so rudely awoken from his drunken nap. Eskel had been trying to save him. A small part of Jaskier’s brain wondered whether the witcher had been intending to use him as bait for the monster but he seemed to genuinely care that Jaskier got back safely.

He also seemed surprised that Jaskier was being kind to him, that he was flirting so brazenly. Apparently not many people found Eskel to their liking which was honestly a crime. His eyes were like burning suns, his smile was gentle and warm like a hearth on a cold winter’s day, and he had a sharp wit that rivalled Jaskier’s.

All in all Jaskier was rather smitten but Eskel continued to reject his flirtations, such a damned shame. The witcher did, however, make up for it by telling him an incredible tale of one of his hunts, a fight against a succubus that turned into a long night of passionate love making.

Jaskier was hooked and itching for a quill so he could capture the tale in a ballad or epic poem, anything that would put Valdo’s work to shame.

Jaskier was devastated when they eventually came to a stop in front of his bedroom door.

He sighed. “Last chance, witcher?” He gave Eskel one last wink.

The man chuckled and shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint, bard.”

Jaskier sighed dramatically. “You break my heart, dear witcher. Tell you what come to my graduation at the end of the semester and heal my broken heart with more tales of your witchering. I have a feeling there are many more ballads in you yet! I’ll even give you a cut of the profits!”

Eskel considered it for a moment and then nodded. “Throw in a bath and a hot meal and you’ve got yourself a deal bard.”

Jaskier smirked. “What about a bed for the night?”

The witcher cuffed him over the back of the head. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’d like to think of it more as charmingly irresistible.” Jaskier purred jestingly at this point he wasn’t seriously flirting with the witcher. He knew a lost cause when he saw one but it was fun to flirt and Eskel humoured him.

“Incorrigible.” Eskel insisted firmly. “Sleep well, bard.”

And with that, Jaskier’s first witcher left his life for the first time.

__________

Geralt finally felt his muscles relax as he knocked on the doors of Kaer Morhen. The cold was biting against the exposed skin of his cheeks even though his cloak was pulled tightly around his neck. Roach whinnied and stamped on the ground impatiently, butting him on the shoulder. He murmured soothing words under his breath as he stroked her mane. Until the great doors opened.

He was home.

At last.

The last few months had been bizarre. Geralt was used to the hatred of humanity. He was used the suspicious glares and the never-ending litany of insults that the humans threw his way. Every witcher that lasted long enough to go into a town was used to that. It had only gotten worse after Blaviken but he had only himself to blame. He should have known better than he let himself be backed into a corner like that in a place so crawling with humans. He’d never stood a chance. They would never have listened or understood the truth. It was his word against Stregobor’s

The bastard.

What Geralt wasn’t used to was the songs and poems that had begun to crop up around the Oxenfurt and slowly spreading into the wider area.

They told tales of monster hunts, of witchers acting like knights and heroes. It had certainly made it easier to get coin after a hunt in those areas but he just didn’t understand where it was coming from. He was hoping that one of his brothers would be able to illuminate the situation.

It turned out he wasn’t the only witcher that was confused by the sudden change in fortune. Lambert greeted him with a hug and immediately asked him what trouble he’d gotten himself into this time that had inspired such songs.

“If you’re asking whether I’ve fucked a succubus, Lambert, then you should know I don’t kiss and tell.” Geralt smirked. “At least not sober.”

“Well it wasn’t me!” Lambert defended himself.

All became clear when they shuffled into the dining hall to eat and began to catch each other up with their years on the path.

Eskel grinned as he stuffed his face with a bread roll that was the size of his head. “I got myself a bard!” He announced, spitting crumbs all over the table. “A human from Oxenfurt, picked him off the streets, drunk off his face when I was hunting in the town.”

Lambert choked on his ale. “You got a what now?”

“A bard.” Eskel thumped Lambert hard on his back.

“So it’s your fault.” Geralt noted. “With the songs and poems.”

Eskel nodded.

“You fucked a succubus?” Lambert cried earning a disapproving stare from Vesemir.

Eskel rolled his eyes. “Of course that’s what you got from this.”

“It’s made payment easier.” Geralt noted, kicking Lambert under the table and ignoring the redhead’s curses. “The songs. He’s not scared of us.”

Eskel grinned. “That’s the best part. It’s like he’s immune to fear when it comes to witchers. He even wanted to join me on an adventure.”

Vesemir scoffed. “A human bard on a witcher hunt. That’s a foolish idea, wolf”

“That’s why I left him behind but it wasn’t easy. Bloody fool is worse than ivy. He clings onto you and doesn’t let go. An outrageous flirt too.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows at Eskel. A human who openly flirted with a witcher was either a whore trying to trick the man into bed and then demand payment, or someone who bored and wanted to try something exotic.

Neither options were particularly ideal but that was life.

“I think he might be cursed.” Eskel suggested. “I’ve never known any human, let alone a man, to try so hard to seduce a witcher, and it was genuine! I could smell it on him.”

The witchers all shared an incredulous look. Lambert patted Eskel sympathetically on the back. “You sure you weren’t on Fissttech. First the succubus, second….” Lambert trailed off.

Eskel launched across the table and soon they were wrestling on the floor. After a year apart tensions were always high before they settled back into their routine for winter. Scraps like this were unavoidable much to Vesemir’s dismay. He barked at them to take it outside or save it for the training ground.

Geralt was too lost in thought to watch the fight between his brothers.

A human bard that had taken it upon himself to change the way the world viewed mutants like him. A human that wasn’t afraid of them. A human that genuinely wanted them around. He scoffed. It was impossible.

Wasn’t it?

But what if it wasn’t?

Geralt was content with his family in Kaer Morhen. During the winter months they could all relax and enjoy the comfort of being home. They didn’t have to watch their backs every second of the day and they could all indulge in the physical comfort they craved during the summer months.

The witcher mutations were fickle. Whilst it was true that it dampened most witchers’ emotions, unless the witcher was foolish enough to undergo further mutations, they heightened other instincts. This varied depending on which witcher school you attended. The bears were solitary witchers. They were brutal and efficient and raw power but they struggled to find humans that wouldn’t flee in terror. The griffin’s style was more acrobatic. They danced and flew through the air. They parried and dodged and pirouetted in aerial attacks that were lethal and precise but the mutations had some of the worst success rates and even those who survived were often damaged and didn’t heal as well as they other schools. The cats were similarly light on their feet. They attacked from the shadows. They were the assassins and the school that gave witchers a bad name.

The wolves didn’t like the cats very much.

Unless your name was Lambert, but then he’d always liked to find new ways to piss of Vesemir and fucking the enemy was apparently his new venture.

The wolves, Geralt’s school, were a family. In the beginning, before the siege and before humans had turned on the ones that were meant to protect them, the wolf witchers had travelled in packs. They were skilled and ferocious on their own, but they were unstoppable together. These days it just wasn’t practical and they were caught in crippling loneliness for the majority of the year. Geralt felt it more keenly than his brothers, the second dose of mutations fucking with his emotions more than most.

During winter the wolves would hug each whenever they ran into each other during the day, they would wrestle on the ground whenever the mood hit them and they could often be found in a pile by the fire after a long day of training and chores. Casual affection during winter was the key to survival during the rest of the year.

No human would every allow a witcher close enough not unless they were being paid and Geralt simply could not afford regularly visits to a brothel.  

But if there was really a human who wasn’t scared of witchers, that liked them even…

Geralt growled and stalked up to his room.

He wasn’t going to get his hopes up. Even if the bard did like most witchers, he would still hate the Butcher of Blaviken.

Next

[therearemonstersinthedark]

Book 2 Luciferous

Chapter 7: Dear Fellow Traveler 

A Guardians of the Galaxy Fanwork

Pairings: Peter Quill / Gamora (one-sided), Peter Quill & Nebula

Genre: Adventure, general

Word Count: 5k

Rating: T to be safe, mild gore in later chapters

Links: Fanfiction.net || Ao3

Summary: Ego’s back, and he has an offer that Peter may be in no position to refuse, as much as he would like to.

Author’s Notes: Title is from 'Dear Fellow Traveler’ by Sea Wolf

Chapter 7: Dear Fellow Traveler

.

The crowd of Nova Officers fell back like sheep who had just discovered a wolf in their flock, weapons turning now towards this newcomer who had infiltrated their midst.

Ego didn't so much as spare them a cursory glance. Those blue eyes bore into Peter's, trapping him where he stood.

"Not even a hello for me?" Ego asked, spreading out his arms in mock pain. "And after all the trouble I went through to pay you a visit?"

"Wh-" Peter swallowed thickly and grasped for his voice.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING ON MY SHIP!?" Saal's outraged shout cut through Peter's attempts at finding a reply and the last of the crew's murmuring like a battle axe.

A broad grin spread across Ego's face as he turned to address the Nova Prime behind Peter.

"I was just checking on the quality of care my son was receiving here. You can't blame a father for worrying, after what happened the last time I left him in the care of someone else." Ego threw a haughty look over one of his shoulders at Yondu who was standing now, with a dark storm brewing on his face.

"Where is Denerian Averil?!" Saal demanded.

Ego pursed his lips and tipped his head, as though contemplating the question with great solemnity as he toyed with the Nova Prime. "I believe he would be in the mess hall about now." He finally answered. "It seems his summons never quite made it to him."

"How did you get here?" Another councilman spoke up. Peter though he recognized the voice as the one called Zara, but didn't dare turn back to look.

"Where's Mantis?" His own voice startled him when it slipped out, low and accusatory.

"Mantis is fine," Ego answered Peter first with an easy smile. "I sent her back, alone, with the ship while I... hitched a ride." His head tiled slightly as he shifted his attention to the council member behind Peter. "You mortals are all so alike, and so short sighted. Your defense measures don't mean much to a being who can survive in space."

"Enough chatter," Saal snarled out. "State your business."

"Very well," Ego shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I came here to check on my son, and it seems my concerns were well placed. So now it seems we have some matters to discuss."

Peter's lip lifted up into a sneer when Ego's smug smile landed on him.

"You may carry the light within you," He intoned, brows raising like he was schooling a child not to place their hand on a hot stove. "but I assure you, you are still mortal enough that you would not survive a bullet to the head."

"Do you intend to force him from us?" At Saal's words, the crew members seemed to gather themselves, spreading out to surround the newest arrival and blocking the exits.

"Oh no, nothing so crude. Rather, I intend for you to hand him over, and for him to come with me willingly."

"And how do you intend to achieve that?" Another council member scoffed.

"With an offer you can't refuse." Ego answered the councilman's question, but held Peter's eyes. "It seems you have a bit of a... pest problem?" Ego's eyes slid from Peter to something behind him. "Gossip runs rampart on small ships, and from what I have gathered my short time aboard is that you have some rather dangerous criminals in your possession, and no way to deal with them? This seems to be causing a great deal of upset among your people... And I'm sure they won't take well to the news of what has just conspired here. An attempt against the life of their own leader is sure to stir some of the more volatile to action... And when you were so close to offering forgiveness... oh well, I guess we can all see what they would do with any freedom you would offer them."

Around them, the crowd again shifted nervously, but now some of the Nova crew were darting glanced between Ego and Peter's crew, as though expecting one of the guardians to spring into an attack at any moment.

Peter really hated the sparkle in Ego's blue eyes. He looked like a dog that had just discovered an unguarded steak and couldn't believe its luck.

"Get to your point." Saal snapped, refusing to be cowed or swayed by the celestial before him.

"My point," Ego said. "Is that I have the means to provide you with a prison, far better than any you could ever devise on your own. An entire planet, with no way off, and no guards to harm. Give me the trouble makers, and I can promise to hold them where they will be safe, and far, far away from your crew."

"And in exchange for this?" Saal hissed.

"Why, Peter would come with them of course." Ego's eager grin had crept back and his eyes again met Peter's. "I think that would suit everyone just fine, now, wouldn't it?"

"I'm not going anywhere with you." Peter snarled.

"I understand we didn't part on the best of terms," Ego sighed, but the smile refused to budge from his face. "But is our little... family spat... really worth your friend's lives?" One hand lifted to gesture at something behind Peter.

Slowly, not trusting that this wasn't just some trick to make him lower his guard, Peter risked a look over his shoulder.

Behind him, Rocket was still unconscious, his body slumped in a heap on the floor. Nebula kneeled above him, one hand still gripped onto his collar, the other raised above her head in surrender to the handful of weapons pointed at her head and chest.

Tasting his own heart in his throat, Peter searched the faces of the crowd around them, but found only a varying mixture of disgust and fear. Most of them looked like they would be just as glad to be rid of his friends through any fate, so long as they would never be heard from again.

"The Nova Corps is already aware of your plans." Marlowe's voice rang out. "We will not allow you to use Peter to become a threat to the galaxies."

"The Expansion?" Ego's brows rose dramatically, almost touching the hair atop his head. "Is that what you think this is about? Oh, no my dear. I have bigger concerns for now than that failed experiment. I assure you, what I want here and now poses no threat to your... people, or any of the rest of the universe for that matter."

"You're not here for the expansion?" Peter asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief. "Then what do you want now?"

"To help you." Ego's smile split into a toothy grin that would probably be charming to anyone who didn't know what a slimy monster was hiding underneath. "Only the chance to help you. And in the process, perhaps to get to know my son-"

"Stop calling me your son!" Peter snapped, wishing desperately he had one of his blasters.

"You are my flesh and blood, Peter."

"I am nothing of yours!"

"You can deny it all you like, but it is my light that burns within you. I've heard the whispering on this ship and know that you intend to wield the Infinity stone against that Titan. Whatever you think, you are not yet strong enough to do that on your own without being consumed, and you never will be without my help. I am trying to help you survive this foolish endeavor of yours."

"How would you help me?"

"By guiding you, as I did before you turned on me and forced my hand into that battle. I will show you how to control the light within you, not just let it run rampart and wild like you do now, and how to cultivate it as well, into something greater."

"So you want him to walk right into your arms," Yondu spoke up. His voice strained through a tightly reigned fury. "So you can kill'm the way you killed all your other children?"

Ego's eyes were dark with undisguised hate when they turned to meet the ravager captain.

"I tried to better them." Ego's voice dropped as he lost his composure for a moment. "And you didn't seem to care so much what their fates were when you were being paid. Always so eager for the next set of coordinates-

A sharp whistle and flash of red caused the Celestial to stutter to a halt. Eyes wide, he brought his fingers up to touch a hole through his chest. No blood oozed from the injury. Instead a bright light burned out from within the punctured clothes.

"Well," Ego huffed. "How savage. But it will take more than that to hurt this body, and we both know that wouldn't really kill me, now would it?" Ego brought his eyes back up to Peter, quirking an eyebrow and tossing a lazy wink at his son, his composure regained.

"Well, isn't that just the way'ah you roaches;" Yondu spat. "The nastiest ones are always the hardest to kill."

"Funny," Ego drawled. "I was just thinking the same thing..."

Yondu sucked in a sharp breath, but before he could let out his next whistle a concussion rocked through the air and Ego was blown back like a rag-doll, slamming into the simple railing that divided the audience from the open space in the middle of the makeshift trial. There was a ripple of shock and shouts of surprise around the room, but no one else seemed to have been hurt. When Ego stood back up a moment later, there was a hole blown wide in his chest, the core light that supported his false body flickered and shimmered like an exposed wire. The shadows of ribs and organs rippled underneath.

How will this do for 'more?' Came a familiar ringing in Peter's head.

Cosmo must have slipped in while Peter was watching Yondu and Ego fight. To be honest, Peter had been so thoroughly distracted by the appearance of his father, that he probably wouldn't have noticed if the whole ship had crumbled apart around him. Now, the portion of the crowd towards the exit parted to reveal the cosmonaut dog, standing proudly with his tail flagged high and a blinding white light burning in his eyes.

"Now," Ego murmured, staring openly at the dog as he brought one hand up to grope at the mangled remains of his chest. "That is surprising."

"Cosmo!" Peter greeted, shoulders sagging with relief as the odds tipped clearly in their favor now.

"Cosmo?" Ego echoed, still eyeing the newcomer through narrowed eyes. "What a strange creature...But you're not a celestial. Not a real one..."

Perhaps, Cosmo's voice rumbled through Peter's mind as his muzzle split open into a panting, toothy smile, his lips pulled up to display his long curved canines. But Ego should still be careful. Ego is long way from home. And Cosmo's light burns from within his own blood.

Whatever Cosmo's cryptic words meant, Ego was clearly displeased by them. A sneer pulled at the corner of his mouth and the curiosity on his face melted into annoyance.

"I am not here to argue dynamism with some abomination." He sniffed, turning his attention around towards the Council and pointedly turning his back on Cosmo. "I came to see my son with my own eyes, and to lay my offer on the table, and I believe I have accomplished both feats. If you would like to discuss my terms in less..." Ego swept one arm out to encompass the room and its inhabitants. "hostile air... your fleet will find no danger in the open stars beyond my planet. I believe I can make these terms beneficial for all of us, and am willing to allow certain... precautions to be taken against what you would construe as hostile actions."

Satisfied with his speech, he dropped his arm back to his side and granted Peter his attention once more. "Please do consider the well fare of your companions carefully." He said through a winning smile before turning back to Cosmo with a clap of his hands. "Now, I believe you were intending to send me back home the express way?"

Cosmo's eyes lit brighter and the hole in Ego's chest quivered in answer, the edges of his false body breaking off and crumbling inward much like when Gamora's false memories had been toppled. Ego was still grinning as the last of his features were devoured by the light within, his haunting blue eyes, bright with triumph, boring into Peter until they finally winked out.

-x-

Peter sat on the floor in the hallway of the Containment Unit, slumped forward miserably, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around them. His chin rested on his folded arms as he stared forward into Rocket's cell, watching quietly, and lost in his own thoughts as Rocket glared back, entirely unrepentant for the trouble he had caused. Peter hadn't even bothered trying to speak with him since he had woken.

The assassins and Rocket had been thrown back in their cells as soon as the clamor of Ego's vanishment died down. Peter had followed them back, with much shouting, and now sported a shiny new bruise on his cheek from when a corpsmen had loudly and repeatedly suggested replacing Rocket's muzzle. Things had led to a quick but brutal fistfight which only ended when Marlowe fired her weapon at their feet and promised the next fight would be ended much more decisively.

Peter wasn't sure where Cosmo or the rest of his crew had gone off to. He had lost them somewhere in the ensuing chaos. It was just him in the Unit with his incarcerated friends now. Not even a Nova Corpsmen had stayed behind as escort. He had finally been let alone with his companions, for all the good it did him now. Peter was suspicious, however, that they had locked the main door behind them when they left.

At his side, in her own cell, Nebula sat on the floor as well. She was fiddling with her mechanical arm just a few inches away, so close that he could easily make out all the details of her enhancement as she worked to repair the damage Rocket's sharp teeth and raking claws had done. Closer, he thought somewhat uncharitably, than she would ever sit if it wasn't for the thick glass wall dividing them. In the silence, punctuated only by the noises of Nebula's repairs, Peter's eyes would drift from the ring-tailed subject of his ire, to the deep grooves that had been cut through the sturdy metal of her enhancement.

"That's a lot of damage." The bitter comment slipped from between his lips before he realized what he was doing. Nebula didn't pause in her ministrations. "I'm surprised he didn't loose a tooth."

"Of course not," She replied breezily. "They're enhanced."

"Enhanced?" Peter asked, not moving from his slump.

"There's no point in enhancing a jaw if the teeth are just going to break under the pressure," She snorted, like this should be obvious. Maybe it should. Peter didn't think about enhancements all that much.

They fell back into silence for a while before Peter broke it again.

"So they're fake?" The thought of Rocket with a pair of dentures was almost enough to break through his desolate state.

"No. They're his original teeth, but carbo-enhanced. Like all his skeleton is."

"Oh... Are yours...?"

"Mine are fake." She paused to frown at a panel in her wrist that was being difficult about sliding back into place. "They were developed with my own DNA, then implanted. My father had my jaw enhanced, along with the rest of my bones, without considering my teeth, and I shattered them when my weapon backfired and my muscles seized."

"Really?"

"You didn't honestly think I could take that direct hit from the fox's cannon and keep all of them if they were real?"

"Rocket." Peter corrected idly. "And it's a Hadron Enforcer."

"What?" The difficult panel finally slid back in place and she looked up long enough to give him a sidelong glance.

"A Hadron Enforcer. It's what that weapon's called. He nearly blew me and Gamora and the entire crew of the Eclector up with it our first day together."

Another long silence reigned. This time it was Nebula who broke it.

"Three of Gamora's teeth are fake."

"Nebula!?" Gamora shouted from where she had been reclining on her mattress ignoring them thus far. A grin tugged at the corners of Nebula's mouth even as she pretended not to hear her sister and continued to work on her arm. Clearly this was just the result she'd been hoping for.

"Really?" Peter lifted his head from his arms to get a better look at Nebula, trying to tell if the younger assassin was messing with him or not.

"Really." She confirmed. "In one of our combats I broke her jaw and shattered them so far beyond repair not even father's best men could salvage them." There was a smug, self-satisfied quality to her smile as she recanted the short tale. Behind her, Gamora was looking increasingly upset, her lips pursed into a tight, disapproving frown.

Peter felt the beginnings of a smile bubbling up from within, and when he settled his chin back down on the pillow of his arms his head felt just a bit clearer. It was like he had been pulled from the spiral of his dark thoughts and could finally consider things from a more rational point of view.

"Things aren't looking so good are they?" He sighed.

That garnered no answer from Nebula as she twisted a stray wire between her fingers. Statements of the obvious rarely did from her.

"What do you think we should do?" He tried a more direct approach. Circling the problem like he had been was getting him nowhere, just tiring him out and winding his nerves into a bundle.

"I think you're in a better position to weigh our chances of survival against these threats." She answered, closing one small panel on her wrist and opening a larger one. "That Marlowe is a bitch, but I'd hate to have to shoot her on the way out and cripple the Nova Corps' efforts against my father."

Peter chewed on his lower lip as the image of the carnage that a full on battle between the Guardians and Nova Corps would entail rose to his mind. It was strange having her pass the decision on to him, though. He'd grown so used to relying on Nebula for guidance and direction in this crooked universe, that her not providing him with any sort of answer was like suddenly losing one of his senses.

"So you think I should trust my dad?" Just saying it made his stomach twist and fill with acid.

"There's a difference between trusting someone and using them."

"Oh." Peter's lip was going to be bruised next time he looked in a mirror. "Hey, Nebula, do you-?"

His question was cut off by the sound of the main door unlocking and opening with a little swish. So they had locked it. Marlowe herself entered, a tablet held tight in one hand. Peter stayed where he was, but straightened respectfully as he could from his slouch as she approached. He hadn't forgotten how readily she had sprung headfirst into what would have been a very deadly battle, nor did he forget that she very likely still had her weapon concealed somewhere on her, and was more than willing to use it. Drax and Groot appeared behind her, entering quick on her heels.

"Hey." Peter greeted. "Where have you guys been?"

"Continuing to plead your case." Drax snorted, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down his nose at Peter, obviously disappointed in his supposed leader's actions.

"My case?" Peter blinked up at Drax. "I didn't realize the trial was still going."

"Nova Prime and the Council are doing their best to salvage things and calm the crew, but they were understandably shaken." Marlowe didn't look very shaken herself. She looked pissed. "We're here to see if you had reached a personal decision over your father's offer."

"You want to let me go?" Peter asked in surprise. "You're not worried about triggering the expansion?"

"Of course we are." She scoffed. "But there are precautions we can put in place with the means currently at our disposal to ensure it doesn't happen, or to stop it if it does, though I don't think we could make any promises to save you all if those things came to pass." She didn't look too sorry about that right now. "Nova Prime thinks it would be best if you weren't so close to the crew for the time being. Tensions are high and emotions are overcoming judgment. Putting you at a distance may give some people the time they need to calm down and make a more rational decision in the end, and," Marlowe's court heels made tiny clicks against the hard floor as she shifted uncomfortably. "The sooner you make some distance the better. Nova Prime still believes we need you."

"This is all what Saal thinks," Peter murmured, meeting her hardened eyes carefully. "What do you think?"

Marlowe somehow managed to further stiffen her already rigid posture. She was beginning to resemble a statue outside of a courthouse, looming over him with chiseled eyes that pierced right through him and promised atonement for his wrongdoings.

"I think your friends have taken a lot; from me personally, from the people I love- those who remain alive- and from countless others. I think they're getting off easy. A fake apology and a half-assed promise to do better isn't doing much good for anyone. But," Marlowe seemed to suddenly deflate; her rigid mask crumbling and bits of self-doubt and misery leaking through. "If Irani were here, she would say 'that's just the kind of narrow-minded thinking that lead us to this disaster to begin with. Only a fool would rather see an enemy punished than a friend helped.'"

"You really looked up to her, huh?" Peter asked softly.

"She was my mentor, my best friend, everything I ever admired, and now, thanks to your 'friends' here, she's gone."

"I am sorry she's dead."

Peter twitched in surprise at the soft apology from over his shoulder. Marlowe seemed to be caught off-guard as well, staring over Peter with eyes made bright with pain and unshed tears.

Nebula was still fixated on her arm, but the words had been clear, and held a small note of sincerity that hadn't been present in the terse apology she'd given during the trial.

"It sounds like she really was a good person," Nebula continued, testing the flex of her fingers. "I'm sure I would have hated her."

Marlowe opened her mouth but nothing came out. After a moment, she closed it, then opened it again. "I'm sure you would have."

-x-

Peter allowed himself to be gathered like some wayward child and ushered back to the meeting, or what was left of it. The original room had been abandoned in favor of a smaller room further down the same hallway. This one more closely resembled a private office and only allowed a handful of people. Whether that was because only so many remained brave enough to focus on the trial, or the room had been chosen to limit the number who could could attend remained a mystery to Peter. A pair of armed corpsmen stood guard outside the door. Peter tried not to feel the heat of their glare on his back as he entered.

Inside the room, Saal again sat behind a large desk. This one was thick and sturdy. It had it's own sort of economical beauty, but was far more utilitarian than the finely polished and lovingly stained desk of the Council. In place of the Council, a handful of decorated officers sat in plush chairs winging off from the desk. There were two on each side, all set to face the front of the desk where an empty chair sat.

The first thing Peter noticed when he searched the faces of the room was that Saal looked tired. He looked exhausted, really, as though all the burdens he bore as leader of a crumbling empire were gaining a physical weight which was slowly crushing him. His proud shoulders had the faintest slump to them now as he rested his elbows on the desk, and even the bright ship lights from above couldn't banish the shadows pooled under his eyes, but his voice was strong and commanding when he spoke.

"Star-lord. Please take a seat. It seems I have more questions for you."

It seemed answering endless questions was all he did these days, but any complaints that arose from within him quailed back when faced with the thought of what was to come after they stopped.

The questions were mostly just the Nova Corps digging into even more detail about the expansion and Ego's death. They ranged from questions about his core; what did it look like, what defenses were in place, could Ego move or hide it, to questions regarding Peter's own loyalty and what kind of 'talents' he could gain by staying there. Peter didn't much know, himself. As some of the decorated officers -one of which Peter thought he recognized from his timeline as one of Irani's nephews- speculated about what these may be, Peter felt a little like a ship being sent in for upgrades.

"And you are confident that there is no way to escape this living planet?" Centurion Taralin, according to name on her uniform, asked.

"Not unless you leave us a ship." Peter tried to ignore the way the acid in his stomach sloshed about at the thought of being abandoned on Ego's planet. "Ego controls everything on the planet. It is him."

"What about the ship he used to meet with us?" Another Centurion asked.

"According to Mantis- my Mantis- it was another one of his projections, and he was the only one who could fly it. Not even Rocket should be able to manipulate anything there to escape."

Peter couldn't believe, even as the words formed in his mind and slipped from his mouth, that he was laying out a case to be left on Ego's planet. The words passed over his lips like burrs and he had to resist the urge to chew on them again.

The little meeting proceeded in a predictable pattern from there. Every time the faux council met eyes and nodded in approval to each other after one of his answers, Peter felt himself slipping further and further over the edge of a cliff that would throw him right into the gaping jaws of his darkest nightmares.

By the time the questions ended Peter was slumped miserably in his chair, eyes glued to the dirty tips of his boots and fingers fiddling absently with the edges of his chair.

"Alright." Saal's sudden pronouncement woke Peter from the desolation he had been drifting away into. "We have what we need. Peter,"

Peter dragged his eyes up to meet the Nova Prime who was staring back with a surprising amount of patience in his tired eyes. It was the first time the Nova Prime had called him anything but Star-lord.

"Are you willing to accept Ego's offer to hold your companions in incarceration? Keeping in mind, that in light of recent events I cannot guarantee your crew's safety on this ship."

Peter felt like he was drowning, his throat crushed tight so no air could pass in or out. At Peter's silence, Saal's eyebrows raised slightly, but he made no other move to hurry him along in his decision. The thought of stepping foot on that cursed planet again-of Ego's smug smile as he knew he'd won- made something inside of him thrash and shudder like it was dying. But the thought of his friends suffering some terrible fate for his cowardice made another piece of him scream in violent protest.

He knew what the answer was. Had known what decision he would make for a long time now, but pulling the words to his lips was still like splitting himself in half.

"Yes." He forced out. Not sure if he was choking on hate, or rage, or fear, or love, or some awful slurry of a thousand other unnameable emotions. "I'll go."

"Alright," Saal said with a nod of his head. "Then let's get to work."

End

[iamnotthedog]

ST. LOUIS TO YOSEMITE: MAY 2000

By the time May rolled around, I was ready to leave St. Louis no matter what. Even with my job at the Natural Fact Deli, it had been impossible for me to save any money—I was simply bad with money. I tried to keep an envelope under my mattress, a pitiful little white envelope, in which I would put a few dollars from each paycheck every couple weeks or so, but then I would run out of weed and end up taking out the money to buy more, or I’d get the urge to go spend a night at Riddles, or Phil and I would want to go to a party somewhere or something (a party where I’d end up sitting in the corner wondering why I was there), and I’d take out the money to give to anyone over the age of 21 who could buy us booze.

But money or no money, I was ready to go—ready to put whatever money I had into the gas tank of the Olds and drive west.1 Leah and Phil knew I was ready to go. John and Marc knew, as well. I had told them all—each and every once of them—that I was going to go west and find myself a job, and that I’d come back in the fall and let them all know how it was, and if it was as good as I figured it would be, I’d bring ‘em all back with me the following summer.

That was the plan. But late one night, when we were in our dorm room standing under the strands of Christmas lights, and I was smoking weed with Phil and Leah and listening to records, and Leah was lounging in the corner braiding her curly brown locks, and she was in a really good mood for once, and everything was laced with the excitement that comes with the end of something and the beginning of something totally different—at least in my head—Phil surprised the hell out of me by standing up and grabbing me by my shoulders and saying, “I want to drive you to California.”

I puffed on the bowl and handed it to Leah. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m driving back to Salinas in a couple weeks, anyway. You only have a hundred bucks to your name, if that. Put the hundred bucks in your wallet and hold onto it. We’ll drive up to Morrison, drop the Olds off at your parents’ house, and then I’ll drive you all the way out to wherever you’re going. Where the fuck are you going, anyway?”

“I’m thinking Yosemite National Park.” I said. “I found an application online. I’ll go work in the mountains for a few months and lose my mind.”

“You’ve already lost your mind.” Phil said. He looked at Leah, lounging on the bed. She nodded her head. Then he looked back at me. “I’m driving you.”

“Well, shit!” I yelled. “Let’s go!” I flopped on the bed next to Leah. “You want to come?”

Leah finished sucking on the roach and tossed it in the ashtray on our little fridge. “Are you serious?” she asked.

“Come with me! It’ll be a blast. The application process is super easy. And we stay in these canvas tent cabin things that sleep two, so we can room together.”

“I don’t know.”

“It’ll be good for you! There’s nothing that’ll cure depression like a romp in the woods! A wrestle with a bear! A run from an avalanche! An empty alpine meadow at midnight!”

Phil laughed. Leah just shook her head. But I had her. The next morning, I filled out my application in our dorm room while Phil snored, then I got dressed and walked through the narrow carpeted fluorescent-lit dorm hall, then outside, across the sun-drenched lawn being traversed by students on their way to class, and over to Leah’s apartment building, where I found her sitting in her dark, lamp-lit studio—shades drawn—filling out an application.

“You know they give you a drug test when you get there, right?” she asked.

“Yeah, I saw that. But they only give you one. We can just get some pills or something. There are ways to get around it.”

Leah laughed. “Or we can just stop smoking weed for a couple weeks...”

“Nonsense!” I pulled her out of her chair and threw her on the bed. “This is going to be SO FUN.” And we wrestled around and made out until Lilith showed up with her backpack and her arms full of books and told us to knock it off.

“Some of us still go to class,” she said.

Two weeks later, Leah and I were in the Olds with Phil’s BMW in the rearview mirror, and we were leaving St. Louis behind us, rolling north through Illinois and leaving my Olds in my parents’ driveway in Morrison—a flurry of hugs and kisses and “Be careful out there!” for Mom, while Don looked at Phil skeptically, etcetera, etcetera—then the three of us were in the BMW heading west on I-80, then I-70, then I-15 through Las Vegas towards the Golden State and the Sierra Nevada. And Leah and Phil and I had heard stories about Yosemite, and we had read about it and looked at some pictures online and all that, but none of us were quite prepared for what we would see when we rolled into that park for the first time.

“You two are going to have so much fun,” Phil said, rolling down all the windows and craning his neck to look up at the towering pines, the granite domes and waterfalls. I banged on the dashboard and howled. Leah sat wide-eyed in the back seat, smiling but also looking scared out of her wits.

A week after entering the park, Leah and I were all settled in. We had moved into a tent cabin in Boystown, right next to the small dirt basketball court and the drab little cinderblock-walled employee kitchen, and we both got jobs housekeeping for the tourists staying in Curry Village. The majority of the other employees were kids, just like us, spending their summer out there rambling around in the wilderness. The employees who were back for their second or third or fourth seasons in the park—(and some lifers, as well)—all took us under their wings, showing us what hikes to check out first, where the best places were to camp, where to go to avoid tourists, and how to avoid getting our food stolen by the wildlife.2 I jumped into the park life with all the energy I had—something about that air and the smells and the wildlife and the elevation had me ready to go non-stop, and soon I was basically dragging Leah all over the goddamned place with me, whether she wanted to go or not. And when we weren’t out on the trails looking for hidden waterfalls or swimming holes or traversing frightening precipices, we were in Boystown drinking liquor and cheap beer, smoking weed, and launching into rambling conversations with all the new strangers we were meeting—young men and women from all corners of the country.

One of those strangers ended up being a dear friend—at least for that summer. I’m actually not sure what the hell he’s doing now. His name was King—King James Lawton—and he was from big ol’ snowy Wisconsin. He would end up becoming the Neal Cassady of the Kerouacian fantasy that was already beginning to play out so perfectly in my head at that point. For those magical four months in the year 2000, he was my brother of the road—my mystical chauffeur of the great golden west. And he got along with Leah—he actually found a connection with her through their shared clinical depression and their bottles and bottles of antidepressant pills that never quite worked. They both smoked weed constantly and tried to just keep going to stay above water, and I tried to keep them both moving and smiling, and as a result I had not one but two deeply depressed, shining diamonds on my arms for the entire summer.

The day I met King, he was sitting on a stump outside his cabin, next to the powder blue 1964 Volkswagen Type 2 split-window microbus that I would end up living in for the majority of the next four months. He had his head in his hands and was looking really troubled about something, and he was watching a really rough looking pock-marked old man in gray sweats, a brown flannel, and a floppy red stocking cap sweep out their cabin, pushing flaky white dust out into the brown dirt with a broom.

I had seen King working around Curry Village, so I approached with a wave. “What’s going on there, guy?”

“Hey man,” he muttered. He looked up at me and flashed the big, round-faced smile I would come to love over the course of the summer—the smile that is still firmly implanted in my memory today. “I’m just sittin’ here watching my fuckin’ roommate sweep his skin out of our cabin.”

“His SKIN?!”

King stood. He was wearing red Yosemite Lifeguard shorts and a white t-shirt. He was a few inches shorter than me, but was big—well built, with broad shoulders, thick arms, and muscular legs. Swimmer’s legs. “It’s really depressing, actually,” he said. “Dude is like 50 years old, but he looks like he’s 80. He wakes up every day and drinks a half a fifth and a six-pack of beer before he goes to work, and after work he drinks until he falls asleep. And now I just saw him change his clothes for the first time and I found out that his skin is falling off.”

“Fuck, man.”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

King stretched and slipped his feet into his sandals. I watched the old guy sweep, and noticed him ducking back into the dark corner of the cabin to take a drink out of a bottle of Jack Daniels between pushes of a broom. Then I looked beyond him, beyond the cabin, out past the Curry Village parking lot, to the wide-open meadow with the Royal Arches towering above. Birds chirped at each other in the trees. A deer bounded through the grass. It was all a perfectly cliché pastoral scene, save for the clouds of dead skin flakes floating out of that cabin.

“What’s your name?” King said. I turned back to him, and he was offering me a meaty hand, which I took.

“Dan.”

“You want to go for a quick drive over to Mirror Lake to look for bears or something? I saw two over there a couple days ago.”

I smiled. “Sure.”

“You smoke weed right?”

“Of course.”

“Ever ride in a 1964 VW bus before?”

“I have not.”

“Well, shit. Let’s go!”

In 2000, the average cost of gasoline nationwide was around $1.50 a gallon, so a hundred bucks would fill up the gas tank of the Olds a good four or five times—enough gas to get to the Pacific. And I suppose I could say something here about rising gas prices and war for oil and all that, but really, when you take into account the falling value of the dollar and you adjust for inflation, gas isn’t any more expensive now than it was in 1981 (or in 1918, for that matter). The cost of gas IS steadily rising—that can’t be denied—but the key to knowing if we’re all completely fucked or not will be seeing if at some point in the next ten years it swings back down into the $1.50 to $2 range (like it did from 1986 to 2004) or if it just keeps increasing forever due to a worldwide lack of oil and a stubborn unwillingness by the automobile industry (and the government) to commit to producing 100% electrical and/or solar-powered automobiles within a reasonable time frame (it should have already been done, anyway, but that is another story). Does that make any sense? I mean, things are getting better in some respects, but not NEARLY quick enough. And I’m not saying that gas costs don’t matter; I’m saying that it’s stupid to even talk about them when we should be talking about getting off gas altogether. Doing so is like talking about what medicine to use in what doses, when the cure for the disease is obvious. ↩︎

It absolutely boggles the mind that no matter how many “Store your food properly!” flyers and pamphlets and brochures both the National Park Service and the Yosemite Concession Service employees hand out to tourists—they get them when they enter the park, when they register for a campsite or a cabin, when they sign up for a backpacking permit, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera—people still manage to disregard them. They leave food in their cars and tents and open in their backpacks, the majority of which eventually get stolen or destroyed by black bears who are only after the food inside. The fact is that if you leave any food in a place where a black bear can smell it and get to it without too much trouble, that food is going to be gotten. That first summer in the park, when the bear problem in the valley was really bad, some of the employees staying in Boystown developed a late-night ritual of actually go out to the Curry Village parking lot at night just to watch the bears rip apart people’s cars. I myself once saw a small black bear—no bigger than five feet tall on its hind legs—rip the sliding side door off a minivan, crawl around inside the thing for a bit, and then emerge with a can of Coca-Cola in its teeth. And walking stoned with James to a vending machine by the Curry Village public showers one night to get some chips and candy, we ran into a big mama black bear and her cub, and the mama was tipping the vending machine and dropping it while the baby gathered the candy falling from the bottom. They are smart creatures, black bears. And their sense of smell is uncanny. ↩︎