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eepyuii · 7 months

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frostbite — pt. 11

pairing ; childe x gender neutral!reader

content ; childhood friends to “rivals” to lovers, slowburn-ish

cw ; several mentions of blood, torture and killing (could you guess that it’s dottore related) as well as mentions of self-loathing

notes ; sorry folks, no childe this time! this is the dedicated sumeru chapter, i am not dwelling any fucking further on it or i might die. this chapter is also solely focused on the relationship between reader and scara! bonding about your fucked up boss with the bitchiest little cockroach on earth <33

honestly pretty happy with this one, it’s got the exact depth of character that i’ve been wanting to add to the reader, their internal moral conflict, their skepticism toward gods and their eternal guilt as to what they’ve gone through with dottore. as well as how they’re definite besties with scaramouche!!

finally, just ignore the nahida logic toward the end- i don’t CARE if it doesn’t make sense in the lore for her to be able to do that and also DONT MIND the self insert of the name i gave to my wanderer. ok goodbye.

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you wish someone had warned you of how cold nights in the rainforest were.

leading up to this trip, you were only trying to mentally and physically prepare yourself for the extreme weathers of sumeru, obviously more directed towards the desert. you expected to only be hit with scalding heat that you’d never once see in snezhnaya— but in the rainforest, where you’d been stationed, it was shivering cold during nighttime. cold is no stranger to you, unspokenly so, but the chilliness in sumerian air was different from the one you grew up with. snezhnayan cold was dry and sharp, like microscopic shards of ice constantly nip at your skin, which you’ve long since learned to bear— though sumerian cold was overwhelmingly humid and smothering, like a—

“can you stop shivering? the sound of your joints shaking is gonna give me a headache.”

oh, that’s right. you were in a room with that brat.

for a moment, for one shining moment you’d forgotten you were in a damp workshop, dottore branded, in the middle of the rainforest with the doctor’s most promising little experiment— the balladeer. it’s only been a few weeks into the collaboration between the sages of the akademiya and the fatui, to create a manmade god out of scaramouche with the electro gnosis he’d previously disappeared with. even thinking about everything that was explained to you about the project made bile rise up to your throat.

“is there even anything inside that porcelain head of yours to ache?” you snarl back.

scaramouche scoffs, you can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused by your response.

“watch your tongue, vermin. wouldn’t want me to call your boss over and see how fast he finds a new squirming roach to refill your position.”

“for someone destined to be a god, you seem to really rely on a ‘mere mortal’ like dottore to get your way.”

“you cower in his presence like a cornered lamb and then start running your mouth the second he’s away, don’t even try to act as if you’re better than me. you never will.”

“it’s funny that you think someone with an ego as catastrophically big as yours could ever become a real god.”

scaramouche inhales sharply, his eyebrows furrow further as a manifestation of how irked he’s become.

“the gall you have to criticize my divinity… i heard of what you did in liyue, y’know— your little.. moment of unfaithfulness. you were only lucky that the imbecile of a harbinger you were up against wouldn’t dream of hurting you.”

the mere indirect mention of ajax makes your heart stutter—you’d only ever admit to yourself how much you wish you were still back in the golden house facing off against foul legacy instead of here. anything but here. the balladeer, somehow, seems to sense that you space out slightly at his words and presumes his snark.

“unlike him, if you decide to join that pathetic traveler and try to stand in my way, i won’t hesitate to crush you into a fine pulp.”

your fists close so tightly that your nails begin to dig into your palms. “at least i have somewhere else to be and someone else to get to! you have nothing but this, if this fails you’ll stay in this form and remain stuck in dottore’s grasp until he gets bored and finds a better lab rat to experiment on. you chose to isolate yourself in the grasp of a fucking monster like him up to the point where this stupid project is all you have in life and it’s all you’ll lose when it goes shit!”

your outburst seems to have finally broken through scaramouche and you can tell that if he had any veins under his skin, they’d be tensing through it at this moment from how vexed he becomes— if he had any blood, it’d be slowly seeping through his bottom lip from how hard he bites it. even though he’s strapped to a wall of tubes and machinery inside the workshop, he launches as far forward as he can like he means to strangle you where you stand.

“i could end your depressing excuse of an existence right this second if i wanted to!” he practically barks out, his words echo through the empty metallic room as you give up on retaliating. silence invades the space between the two of you while you both pant from how much you’ve argued.

this always, inevitably seemed to happen whenever you and scaramouche interacted— you’d back and forth like bickering siblings until both of you were entirely too pissed off at each other to keep going. it was pointless. knowing someone as ‘take-no-shit’ as the balladeer, you’d expected for him to have reprimanded or even just kill you off for your insolence long ago, but he does nothing and your arguments just happen again and again. you can’t tell if it’s because he recognizes you’re one of the few people who has enough of a brain to try to humble him cleverly or if he’s planning a bigger, more painful demise for you lest you stop overestimating your authority before him.

“why…?” he growls lowly, but this time it doesn’t sound like intends to verbally berate you— rather it sounds like he’s just… frustrated. maybe even with himself.

“why are you so sure that this’ll fail? even if you have that idiot to go back to, you still put your career and your life at risk by working for dottore. why? why do you work in fear of him and skepticism of the tsaritsa’s cause?”

you chuckle bitterly. “i had no choice. if my homeland wasn’t so reliant on its military, i would’ve never even considered getting a medical degree in the first place. and,”

you pause, flashes of dottore’s cruel scarlet gaze stab at your mind and you physically flinch slightly. it seems it hadn’t settled into your chest how imprisoned you were as definitively before— you talk big talk but you’re just as trapped as scaramouche.

“a-and he forced me to. i blinked once and suddenly there was blood on my hands that wasn’t mine and an assistant title over my head.”

scaramouche is silent. you can feel his stare on you but, once again, it doesn’t feel as though he scrutinizes you. a smaller, more hopeful part of your brain whispers to you that he might even be sympathizing with you— even if he’s so convinced that this is righteous, that his godly destiny is finally within his grasp admittedly because of dottore, he still fucking despises that man. probably more than you do, given how much he’s been prodded and tested by him over the years of his position within the fatui.

“would you kill him?” he asks suddenly, the question hangs heavy in the air of the workshop. his tone is quiet and deliberative.

“w-what?” your breath is briefly taken from your throat.

“if you could. if you had the chance to wipe his livelihood off of teyvat, would you do it?”

your mind blanks. it’s equally a simple question and the hardest one you’ve ever had to answer in your life. it’s about an innate desire for liberation, for closure— if you just could would you? but then… it’s also about opportunity, about the possibility of you ever stumbling across the chance to finish him— if you would could you?

now that you think about it, you’ve never considered dottore to be someone killable. he’s always been so up high, so entirely unreachable to anyone around him. the second fatui harbinger is a heavy crown, perhaps not for him to wear but for you to bear witness to. it’s almost as if… he’s the untouchable god here, he’s the culmination of unjust divinity that you so loathe, not scaramouche. it was never scaramouche.

you have your answer.

“no.”

“h-huh? why?”

the balladeer is visibly taken aback, his shoulders roll back slightly and his head leans backwards into the wall. sheer incredulousness overtakes his features before it blends into suspiciously— he’s looking for you to elaborate justly on the choice.

you chuckle. “even if it’s.. not exactly right, i’d love for nothing more, trust me. but comparing the two of us… i think you deserve to stab him in the heart more than i do. you’ve known him for longer and that’s a misfortune few people have.”

his breath hitches. it seems he wholeheartedly did not expect that to be your reason for hypothetically letting go of the chance to make sure dottore feels as much pain as he’s cause you— for it to be so he can return what the doctor has done to him over the years. scaramouche analyzes your expression, as if he’s desperately looking to find the logic in your sympathy, after all you barely know what he’s been through. all you’ve been told is that he was supposedly a puppet prototype created by the electro archon, hence his attachment to the relative gnosis— but beyond that, you can’t even begin to imagine what sorts of hardships he’s been through to turn out as hostile as he is. yet this was still your answer. he looks aimlessly toward the ground defeated and… if you dare to say, he’s trying to hide how much your answer affected him.

“foolish human… once i become a god, it won’t matter wether that doctor lives or not.” scaramouche dismisses with a growl and your suspicions are confirmed.

—

at some point of this project, you became thoroughly convinced that you’re a terrible person.

most of your time has been spent inside joururi workshop, overseeing the construction of scaramouche’s godly form— shouki no kami, it’s been called. even overseeing is a gross overstatement of what you do here, which is essentially nothing. you’re a medical professional specialized in, well, human patients and with the closest thing to a patient here being a doll created by an archon, there’s little for you to do.

within these rusted metal walls, you’ve had more than enough time to think over everything— especially how you work for possibly one of the most terrible people in teyvat and do nothing but cower in his shadow while constantly praying that he gets what he deserves without doing anything about it. you’re pathetic. you’ve since met the traveler and paimon in their current stay in sumeru, they’ve told you about their ventures and investigations around the land in the midst of heroically trying to solve the nation’s problems and have specifically reported to you about their discoverings on a scholar named zandik and his atrocious actions, you don’t need to think twice to wonder who he’s become.

you recall paimon’s look of horror while she retells what they found about zandik murdering a classmate, how adamant he was about investigating a ruin killing machine that took several of his peers, his involvement with the investigation of eleazar, the hospital in the desert— and hearing it all, you couldn’t even muster fake shock. all you do is watch that man do unthinkable, inhuman things without even batting an eye, it’s all normal to you now.

you’re a terrible person.

you can’t even bear to recall the forest ranger the traveler and paimon befriended, that they told you about— collei, an unfortunate victim of eleazar and even worse, former… patient of the doctor. you don’t think you could ever muster up the audacity to look her in the eyes if the two of you ever met. collei is partially why you don’t dare to leave the workshop if unrequired, any venture around the rainforest could very likely lead you to stumble into her and be forced to face the very personification of your guilt.

you spend so much time deliberating over all of this and yet… you still blindly follow after the traveler, paimon and a small girl when they enter the facility.

you hide within the shadows and pipeways of the workshop, watching the three brave souls solve the overly complex and arguably unsafe pathways of the place and waiting for them to unlock the marbled elevator leading to the larger area where scaramouche’s fo— err… shouki no kami rests to await the final touches.

when the puzzles are completed, you move to stand beside the structure of the lift and the traveler is the first to spot you as they arrive. she presents you a small, friendly smile, you don’t think you’re deserving of it. you think you’re much less deserving of the immediate kindness you receive from the small girl who came along with the two travelers. she speaks so wisely and patiently, with a distinct aura… it’s like a change in the air, you’ve only felt it twice— near the tsaritsa’s quarters in zapolyarny palace and during your dinner with zhongli. she’s an archon.

your hands close into fists, nails digging into your palms— you’re so tired of entangling yourself with godly beings. yet… your feet still take you inside the chamber, your fingers still tingle with slowly growing cryo energy, your body still mindlessly wants to help sort this out. nothing will fix what you’ve done, what you’ve been an accomplice to and what you’ve allowed to happen, so why are you still here? why are you still trying to help your friends by sustaining them with your healing capabilities, why are you still putting yourself in the frontlines of danger just to provide the most minimal assistance?

you want to say it’s because you’re itching to see scaramouche get his ass handed to him, but… that’s not it. why isn’t that it? he’s so arrogant and condescending, even more now that he’s so far into divinity— he’s never looked at you as if you were an ant to crush quite as much as he is now. he attacks you so mercilessly, like he promised he would, like your answer to his question truly meant nothing to him. he’d evaporate your and dottore’s existence all the same with his new powers, it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. though, that taste could also be the blood invading your lips from all the injuries you’re sustaining.

scaramouche, or whatever it is he wishes to be called now, has pushed you to your physical limit and he’s done without breaking a sweat. so why is that something tugs at your chest when he’s desperately clawing out of his cushy seat inside shouki no kami to reach for the gnosis that’s just been torn out of his chest? why do you swallow hard when you hear his nearly crying pleas, or more so threats since it’s scaramouche, for nahida to take anything but the gnosis— his wails that he’ll never go back to what he was before?

and moreover, why do you sprint to catch him, despite how entirely hurt and exhausted you are, when the tubes on his back finally give way and he proceeds to fall from the absurd height of his mechanical form? why do your eyes sting when you fail to catch him and he hits the ground with a devastating cloud of smoke? why is there a warm wetness flowing down your cheeks as you spot a crack on his pale porcelain skin, obviously a consequence of his hard impact against the marbled floor.

and the most vexing question of all— why does nahida let you stay as she whisks away his unconscious form?

—

it’s ironic how much you hate gauzes.

they’re so itchy… they prick at your skin and press uncomfortably against your injuries— you’re only lucky you’re usually tending to others’ wounds rather than receiving them. in fact, the other way around occurs so rarely that you don’t even remember how you got hurt this time. it truly, wholeheartedly escapes your mind and you consider yourself to be someone with a good memory.

every time you try to recall how you got injured, it’s like a buzzing sensation in your brain, a hurtful one, that doesn’t reveal a single mental image of the situation. you’re almost beginning to consider the possibility that you just fell from your bed while sleep and fell so hard that you had to be bedridden in sumeru city while dottore took off to the motherland without a glance back. but to be fair, he’s probably still fuming internally from having to shut down all of his clones at once before the new, young goddess of wisdom.

personally, you’d say it serves him right for uh.. f-for err… what was it again?

gods, you must’ve hit your head when you fell from your bed— that has to be why you’re struggling so hard to remember what dottore was doing in sumeru, the very reason you were transferred here so abruptly.

though, you don’t dwell on the matter for much longer, as nahida, the traveler, paimon and… an unknown person walk into the little room inside the sanctuary of surasthana that you were given. all four of them stare at you expectantly, especially the individual you’ve never seen before— you note that he wears a ridiculously wide hat.

“so… did you intend for them to remember?” paimon asks with uncertainty, still looking at you up and down.

“…no, you idiot. did you forget that i intended to erase myself from the world?” the stranger scoffs toward paimon, you’re slightly unnerved by his rudeness.

he looks over to you and you swear that his gaze unhardens in the most microscopic degree, as if he’s saddened that you… apparently don’t remember something.

“there just—“ he pauses with a sigh and looks toward nahida. “there has to be another way, right?”

the small archon proceeds to gaze down at the floor aimlessly, finger tapping her chin and quiet hum escaping her throat as she thinks deeply. she shakes her head in disappointment.

“directly, no— i can’t extract memories of theirs that don’t exist anymore due to your wish. the closest thing to that would be for me to replicate the compilation of memories i showed to you, only narrowing it down to the moments between the two of you. they’d be watching their past self from your perspective.”

the strangers gaze lights up, once again in the slightest, and he nods vehemently. “yes yes, try that.”

you feel like you’re in a fever dream, or an out-of-body experience where you’re not present in the room at all as they continue to discuss something to do with you that you couldn’t decipher to save your own life. you frown and stand up frustratedly.

“i-i’m sorry, are any of you gonna explain what in teyvat is happening? what memories, what wish? i mean— who even is this guy?!” you gesture to him incredulously.

nahida quietly steps over to stand right in front of you and cups both of your hands into her own with the softest, most gentle hold you’ve ever felt. she looks up at you with equal patient and shoots you a sympathetic smile.

“y/n, please answer this honestly, would you trust me to do this? i know we only met recently, but i promise you i would not take a subordinate of the doctor under my care after they willingly injured themselves to assist me, only to put them back in harm’s way later.”

your eyebrows furrow with confusion once more— you willingly hurt yourself for nahida? not saying that you’d never do that with full consciousness but… how in her majesty’s name could you have possibly injured yourself to the extent you’re currently recovering from?

she chuckles. “that is how you would expectedly react to such a wild reveal of information. but what i am attempting to do next is with the full intent to help you remember what happened. i can’t promise it will fully work, as i’ve never done this before, but i’ll do my best to make sure it will not damage you in any way— past a mild headache, i’d say. i just need you to trust me.”

gods, how could you ever say no to such a soothing presence like nahida’s? there isn’t a single bone in your body that thinks she’s lying to you. plus, the stranger looks at you with such innocent expectancy that there’s an odd pang in your chest, though you don’t know why it’d ever react like that.

you face nahida once again and nod firmly. “i trust you.”

her smile widens with satisfaction and she steps away from you, turns slightly to the side, closes her eyes and joins her palms. after a few seconds she produces a small, blindingly glowing green orb. it’s got several specks of stylized sigils radiating from it, ones that are signature to nahida’s abilities. you give each person in the room a quick glance and they all grin up at you as a silent wish of good luck— except for the stranger, who looks ever so slightly anxious.

you touch the orb.

the first thing you feel is the forewarned headache, it hits you with full force instantaneously. next is horrifically blurred images of… you, from someone else’s perspective. in one image, you’re looking unsuredly at the person, as if it’s a first meeting and not a friendly one— you note that the background seems to be dottore’s lab. next is another environment resemblant of dottore’s work and you’re found in the dead center, yelling with at the person with genuine, irreplicable anger— you note that the perspective is taller than you, as if the subject is physically taller than you or… mounted to a wall or something. finally, the most blurred image of all, you’re sprinting toward the subject from afar with terrified tears forming at your eyes, arms stretched out in front of you as if you’re trying to catch something— you note that you’re upside down in the perspective and it’s in motion, as if the subject is actively falling head first into the ground.

your head really fucking hurts.

your brain is entirely unsure of what to do with the information it’s fed but… what does it mean for you? that you knew the man in front of you and physically forgot of his existence? now what— you still can’t put a name to the face, or the face to someone you know at all!

the stranger seems to recognize exactly what you’re feeling and steps up to exclaim.

“dottore— would you kill him?”

and it’s like everything clicks.

suddenly, you remember everything. you’re hit with a frying pan to the head’s worth of memories, of familiarities and it all clicks with the point of view you were shown. he’s here, he’s okay. and he’s very obviously not a god anymore.

your mouth hangs open as immediate tears gather at the corner of your eyes and you examine him up and down. he’s wearing different clothes, they’re blue and turquoise now— and most of all, he’s got a shiny new anemo vision hung over the left side of his chest. no, more importantly than that, the crack on his porcelain skin is gone. you’re so relieved.

“n-no.” you manage to get out in a shaky, sob-y voice, big relieved smile on your face.

he’s forced to suppress a chuckle at your answer, one that he fails at hiding before you could fully register it. he looks to the side and pulls his hat slightly downwards.

“glad to see you haven’t lost your head, worm.”

you laugh warmly, tears freely flowing before you pause for a moment— sure you’re happy to see him again but… what was his name again? it’s at the very tip of your tongue, to the point where it’s frustrating. it just never comes out.

“wait, uhm— this’ll sound weird but… w-what do i call you? i don’t know if i’ve fully recovered my memories, i just can’t figure it out.”

“wanderer.”

“wanderer..? i-is that a proper name or a title, are you—“

“i’m not going back to the fatui. i have no business there.”

“oh…”

“don’t sulk. i’ll still get my revenge on dottore later.” he teases.

the traveler nudges.. wandere’s side and he coils away with a scowl briefly, before the notices the knowing look on her face. he takes a moment to understand what she’s implying.

“and i suppose… there is another name, i’m not as used to it.”

“what is it?”

“…kunikuzushi.”

“kunikuzushi…” you sound it out and nod with an approving smile.

“i like that.”

taglist ; @kentply @osaemu @rain-and-a-nice-nap @koichirana

#childe genshin x reader #childe imagines #childe x reader #childe x y/n #childe x you #genshin impact #genshin impact fic #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #childe fic #tartaglia x y/n #tartaglia x you #tartagalia genshin impact #tartaglia x reader #childe tartaglia ajax #tartaglia imagines

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justyoureader · 1 month

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GENSHIN IMPACT X MALE! OC

Check out the other parts! ;p ( - 2 - 1 - ) Also, do you like it? Should I upload more of these? AND I'M NOT KIDDING I'M HAVING DREAMS OF THIS LITTLE GUY ON MY BANNER HERE FOR DAYS IN A ROW...

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

"Oh, Balladeer. Didn't expect to see you here. I thought you're on some mission again." Lux hummed, sitting up and slowly standing up. "I thought childe was the one on 'babysitting' duty as you called it- today."

"Ugh.. Don't falter yourself, I just happen to stumble upon you today." Scaramouche grumbled, plopping himself down beside Lux.

"Whatever you say, kabuki." Luxym just laughs, the sound making scaramouche's face brighten and a light blush bloomed on his face. "Don't call me that—"

"Ah! Buddy, good to see you there!" A cheerful Tartaglia startled both of them, scaramouche's face immediately turned into an unhappy frown. "Oh my fucking archons, what do you want tartaglia?"

"You may have forgotten, but I'm the one to accompany teach here." Tartaglia returned with a smile, hinted with displeasure on his eyes. The obvious display of passive aggression made Lux roll his eyes. "Ugh, don't act like you own him, filthy low life."

Lux decided to step in to avoid further conflict, "He's right, scara, I'll go with childe now. If I'm not wrong, didn't you have an appointment with dottore?"

"Ah. That's right.. Unfortunate since I wanted to spend more time with you..." Scaramouche mumbled, the last part not unheard by the other two male. "Hm?" The other two inquired, different tones to both of their voices.

"Nothing. You must be hearing things, pesky ginger. And.. Farewell too you, I guess." Scaramouche replied, his voice snarky as ever, though there's a hink of sulk when regarding the immortal boy.

"Bye-bye" Lux shrugged, watching as the indigo haired male disappeared betwern the stack of snow before he got dragged by his former(?) Maybe not former(?) student.

"Teach! I'm glad it's only he both of us now. I haven't seen you in a while since you're always with the tsaritsa." The ginger head male said with his signature charming grin, something that most poeple would immediately fell for.

"Sorry for not visiting you much, though I reckoned you're also busy preparing yourself to go to liyue am I correct?" Lux hummed while they strolled down the halls of the fatui residence. The ginger's eyes lit up to the fact his master paid attention to what he does. "Yes! I mean- yes, I've been preparing for the lantern rite in hopes of getting the gnosis."

Lux hummed in acknowledgement, nodding so in the process. "I see, maybe I'll visit you in liyue then, I'm quite bored as of lately." He said as childe lead them to his (Lux's) bedroom. The male swestdropped at the choice of words, last time Lux was 'bored' he travelled into the abyss and trained him along with his other master. "I see.. Oh, your finger tips is cold again master, you should really stop sleeping on the snow." The ginger frowned in concern.

"Me? I'm fine. Don't worry about it." Lux dismissed tartaglia's concern towards his cold body. "Teach!" Tartaglia exclaimed in exasperation and frustration, holding out his hand to use his hydro vision to produce hot water.

"There's no need for that ajax." Lux sighed, not correcting his own habit of using Tartaglia's real name when they're alone. "No, you'll get cold." He frowned, guiding the hot water to Lux's body for him to get warm.

Luxym sighed, but smiled at his action. "My student is so caring." He cooed playfully.

Tartaglia's face lit up, lightly flushing as he exclaimed. "Anything for my favorite teacher." He hesitantly scoot over to Lux before leaning his head slowly to his master's shoulder. "I might've or might've not felt homesick a little.."

"Hm and why not visit your family then? Teucer must've missed you too." He lets tartaglia lean onto him, not bothered by the ginger's act of affection. Tartaglia avoided Lux's eyes, a light blush visible decorating his ears. "I mean.. I miss you." He said with a playful grin, trying to act as if his voice wasn't trembling.

"Hm?" Lux's eyes glide to meet tartaglia's dim eyes.

"Wait no- you didn't hear that. It's nothing."

Lux looks at him with a small fond sigh, wrapping an arm around ajax before letting the ginger cuddle up to him. "Is this what you want?" He huffed while the ginger-head just giggled smugly. Only stopped when Lux smacked his head, making the ginger release a low whine. "Hey.. That hurt teach!" While Lux only rolled his eyes.

"Do you detest me that much?" He pouted playfully with a hint of almost unnoticeable insecurity.

"Of course not." Lux denied with a frown, Ajax birghten up playfully but he didn't truly believe it. After all, what else is he but a weapon for the tsaritsa and the fatuis?

Safe to say, it's one of the only time that the ginger fatui harbinger let himself lower down his guard, his dim eyes shining just the slightest bit from the genuine comfort. The wholesome moment only interrupted when Lux pointed out, "You should stop fighting with people. I heard you sparred with signora a few days ago and your body is currently patched up with burns." he deadpanned.

Ajax's expression contorted into a chuckle. "But teach, the adrenaline and thrill is amazing. Just like when I'm in the abyss dparring with master skirk, plus I need to get stronger to protect teucer, you, and my family." He reasoned.

"Still. Let me check your bruises." Luxym huffed his hand that's on Tartaglia's shoulder sliding smoothly to his waist, the sensation made ajax shiver. "Ah-! Alright alright." He pouted and looked away, sliding off his coat and lifting up his shirt.

His stomach to his torso are littered with red painful burns, some of dried blood staining on his chest from his wounds that he didn't bother to clean up. "... Will you stop staring? Don't act like you really care about me, teach." Tartaglia frowned, playfully looking away, though a bit embarrassed that his body is being inspected.

"Of course I care, you're my student." Lux sighed, tracing his hand over the burns are a bit severe. "I'm glad signora went fairly easy on you, ajax." He said with relief, his hand ghosting the wounds and burns. The sensation made Tartaglia whimpered, before flushing and covering his mouth. "Hah-.. Why- stop touching it teach. It's not that bad."

"Let me heal it." Lux said out of the blue, Tartaglia looked startled. "Heal it? You mean bandage it up? There's no need-" Lux interrupted him by pushing Tartaglia down on the bed, making the other's eyes widen, his mouth hang open from his mouth. A strong hand gripped Tartaglia's waist down and the other beside his face as Lux hovers aboce the squirming ginger. "Ahaha.. Teach you're not going to.. Uh.." Tartaglia founds himself unable to find his playful words as his body grew warm from embarrassment.

"Shh." Lux hushed Tartaglia. "I'm not going to do anything to you." He said with a low voice, Tartaglia finds himself unable to believe that and hides his face on the pillow, embracing himself for what's to come. It's alright, right?.. It's his teacher.. His teacher has every right to use his body, yeah...

"Calm yourself down tartaglia.." He whispered, muffled by the pillow. He tries his best to do just that but he can't help but winced once his shirt is taken off, fortunately not ripped. He can feel his teacher's hand on his torso, struggling to stay still from the contact. "Teach, teach you're just playing right? You won't actually do it to your student right? I'm sure you're not cruel right?" He asked nervously, opening his eyes to meet with Lux's sharp eyes, it made him shiver.

"Calm down. It won't hurt." He murmured, placing his hand on one of Tartaglia's burns, said fatui harbinger was about to refute before he felt warmth radiating from Luxym's palm. "Eh?" He asked dumbfounded, and before he knew it, his body looked like it was before he fought signora.

"Teach you- you-" Tartaglia's face burned from embarrassment, immediately sitting up and bumping his forehead against Lux's before shaking his teacher by the shoulder. "I thought that- aghh! Teach I thought you're going to fuck me?!" He exclaimed loudly, his eyes twitching from frustration which made Lux slapped his mouth with his hand, seriously, he doesn't want their subordinates to hear Tartaglia say it so loudly. The ginger grumbled even if it's muffled by Lux's hand before licking it which made Lux pull away immediately with a scowl.

"Get rid of that dirty mind of yours." Lux smacked Tartaglia's head again. "Ugh- You're just such a tease, teach. You have no need to make it that dramatic." He scoffed while holding his head, even if he does felt a tiny bit disappointed.

Lux rolled his eyes, "don't sulk on me now. How about I entertain you with some spar?" He asked in an attempt to cheer Tartaglia up, which certainly worked as the adrenaline-loving ginger instantly lit up and grinned excitedly, an Imaginary dog tail swinging behind his back. "Alright. Your word teach, don't hold back on me, please!"

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

#dom! reader #dom! male reader #dom reader #dom male reader #sub! character #sub character #dom! oc #male! oc #male oc #sub! childe #sub genshin impact #genshin impact #genshin impact x oc

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sokkas-first-fangirl · 4 months

Note

I have a question based on something you said in response to a comment from the latest chapter of Luminous. Hypothetically, if Irma’s Sheikah heritage was uncovered (say in an Age of Calamity timeline) would her biological family have been discovered? Would it by chance be this universe’s version of Lianna and her ilk?

Genuinely, thank you for this question, because I'm having so much fun rambling about Irma and her Sheikah heritage ✨

Now, let's get into it!

Even if Irma's Sheikah heritage was discovered pre-Calamity, figuring out who her bio family is would be a harder task. After all, there's no real evidence of who they were. Pre-Calamity there'd be a bit of a witch-hunt among the more devout (and/or fanatical) Sheikah to find them and demand answers, even if Irma herself doesn't actually want to find them. (Although, with that revelation, some members of the tribe might begin to put gossip and dates together, maybe begin to notice certain physical traits, and begin to piece together who her family was.) It's unlikely they would have come forward at all, unless Link was already proclaimed as Hylia's Chosen Hero.

If it's Age of Calamity/Pre-Calamity (in which case, everyone involved with Irma is obviously alive, Irma herself is alive and Link knows his mother) then there's a chance they'd take the risk to try and lay a claim on Link (and mostly just him) for the status boost. In which case, they'd try to claim they didn't know about Irma and her abandonment, and they'd be forced to try and play nice with Irma. (And she's not buying it)

Some members of the family would want to keep quiet no matter what for fear of backlash and the reaction of the tribe. In this 'verse, the Sheikah are sworn to guide and protect Hylia's Chosen, just as they are with the Blood of the Goddess. Who wants to admit that their family abandoned Link's mother? Who wants to admit that, if not for them, Link could have been raised among the Sheikah? The tribe's pride and joy would have skyrocketed if Hylia's Chosen was considered "one of them." It would have been a huge symbol of hope for them. (Which would be even more pressure on Link, sorry to Link and his anxiety)

Others would want to take the risk, chasing after that clout and status. (Which would backfire terribly)

It wouldn't be Lianna, but they'd certainly be similar people to her. Even if they didn't know about Irma's abandonment, I see her Sheikah relatives being terrible snobs; proud, narrow-minded and unfortunately, passing that terrible mindset down through the generations until someone manages to break that cycle of abuse. There's good people among the family, but they're pressured into keeping silent and doing what's "best for the family." Even if they didn't know about Irma's abandonment, they're not people that Irma would want to associate with or have anywhere near her children.

The survivors and descendants a lot more likely to come forward post-Calamity, when everything about Irma's birth is even more muddled than it already was and Link's memories of her are so few. They'd still be in for a nasty surprise, because Link wouldn't be happy to find them. He'd be absolutely furious. Link loved (and still loves) Irma so much; even though these descendants wouldn't have anything to do with Irma's abandonment (and a lot of the original family members would have died in the Calamity), he'd have no patience for them. And if/when they tried to pull the "family" card, he'd be so insulted. He's already got a family, thanks very much and child abandoners do not make the cut.

Now, if they were genuinely oblivious about Irma's existence, that would be another matter. Then Link would at least give them the time of day and Irma would be curious about them. Then certain members of the tribe wouldn't be out for blood and there'd be a lot more sympathy and a sense of tragedy.

But honestly? They were responsible for her abandonment.

*plays "The Ballad of Lucy Gray Baird" on repeat and thinks about Irma* Anyway, I love her a normal amount, can't you tell?

#answers #asks #luminous #worldbuilding go brr #irma hallow #link's mother #loz oc #link botw #link loz #sheikah #sheikah tribe #kakariko village #sheikah oc #my writing #botw fanfic #loz fanfic #the legend of zelda #breath of the wild

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allylikethecat · 2 years

Note

What are your favorite The 1975 songs? Getting into them lately and would love to know!

Hello! Great question! I apologize in advance for this small novel I am writing you in response. For someone with less than zero musical talent, I have a lot of feelings about music. Asking me to pick a favorite song is like asking me to pick a favorite child, also, sorry not sorry I tend to like the popular songs on an album, and I maintain they are popular for a reason! SO I have broken it down by album:

Self Titled

- Menswear - the production makes my brain happy

- Robbers - the music video was little baby Ally’s entire personality when it was released

- The City - has always been a fav, and then TAYLOR SWIFT COVERED IT?!

- Honorable mention: Chocolate - the first 1975 song I heard on the radio back in 2013, then I realized that the lead singer was THAT GUY from Tumblr and I was hooked

ILIAYS - my favorite album because I was a disaster college student when it was released and look back on that time with a fond nostalgia even though it was objectively not a good time (for me, or the band)

- The Ballad of Me and My Brain - the pain in this is so real, kinda hurts a little (watching old live performances really hurts)

- Somebody Else - came out around the time when my first serious partner and I broke up- also was obsessed with the music video, I have a super cool poster from the music video in my bathroom that I got on Etsy

- A Change of Heart - the lyrics are savage and I’m here for it

- Honorable Mention: The Sound - it’s catchy, and fun, and as someone who watched the Matty / Halsey drama unfold LIVE on Tumblr, before Halsey was Halsey I love it

A Brief Inquiry

- Sincerity is Scary - because IT IS

- It’s Not Living (If It’s Not With You) - just like a special song, also love how it sounds like a cute and happy love song but isn’t

- I Always Wanna Die (Sometimes) - relatable af

Notes on a Conditional Form

- Roadkill - just makes me smile

- The Birthday Party - also makes me smile

- If You’re Too Shy (Let Me Know) - just a straight up good time- also “i think there’s been a murder so they won’t let me in” will never not be one of the best lines in a song in my opinion

BFIAFL

- When We Are Together - the whole thing about the cows? Fantastic, Matty admitting he had accidentally gaslighted all of his previous partners because he didn’t know what it was? Horrible but on brand

- Happiness - just makes me happy

- About You - fantastic, Robbers sequel!! I wish Carly had an entire album her voice is incredible in my opinion

If you made it this far, thank you for the ask! I hope you’re having a great day!

❤️ Ally

#ask ally #anon ask #ally’s thoughts #the 1975 #matty healy #george daniel #ross macdonald #adam hann #allylikethecat

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kaeyazuha · 3 years

Text

𝐡𝐮𝐠 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐨 (𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞)

❝ s/o backhugs (character) which they do when they have a lot on their plate. fluff/comfort/whatever you think this crap is- w/ scaramouche and childe ❞

; For my beloved 🍫🐶 anon ! Sorry it took awhile, hopefully the wait was worth it!

; 3/1/22

; Reverse Comfort/Fluff

; CW: physical touch, kissing, soft childe, use of childe and scaramouche’s real name

𝗦𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗺𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵𝗲 '𝗞𝘂𝗻𝗶𝗸𝘂𝘇𝘂𝘀𝗵𝗶'

✧ After all these years of solitude, loneliness, and nights spent crying himself to sleep, he’s wary of affection. Yet, he craves it so dearly. He leans into almost every touch you offer him- though denies that fact immediately -and stares at you with eyes akin to a curious child. The fearsome balladeer was once an innocent boy, you remind yourself sadly. Kunikuzushi absolutely adores your affection, but he’s definitely still on guard! Before you wrap your arms around him from behind, let him know you’re coming unless you’d prefer to be tackled to the ground like a common enemy.

✧ Normally, he’d bask in your warmth for a moment before breaking away. But this week’s been so, so much- too much…let him have this moment of peace, archons, please. As you hug him, Scaramouche would slowly lean his head back onto your shoulder, one hand reaching up to hold one of yours. It’s brief, it’s hardly noticeable, but you can feel the way he relaxes into you. Sadly, the man has an ego to protect, so he enjoys the moment before begrudgingly pulling away. It’s pretty easy to tell he wants more, as he still stares at you expectantly and stays so close to you. If you don’t hug him again, he’d turn around to whatever he was doing and sigh dramatically until you hugged him again.

✧ He wouldn’t be caught dead being so affectionate with someone, the thought alone is sickening to him. Being so vulnerable, so ‘weak’, it’s distasteful. But he indulges, he leans into every touch you give him and he loves you so, so much. Especially after a hard week, you’ll see a lot more of an affectionate lover than a fearsome harbinger. From this day on, he made an unspoken cue for back hugs- he’d lean his arms onto some surface, back facing you, and then sigh far too loudly to go unnoticed. Only behind closed doors, of course. He finds he enjoys these hugs more than others, feeling your heartbeat against his back, your chin resting on his shoulder or the top of his head, the way your arms hold him so securely, he’s never felt so safe before.

- ✧ -

Sakura petals practically glowed under the iridescent light emanating from the moon, winds sending a chill down your spine and yet caressing it at the same time. You hummed in thought, silently reminding yourself of your daily tasks while opening the door, one hand pushing it open while the other pocketed your keys. Your head tilted to the side, catching sight of a slumped-over and clearly exhausted Scaramouche. He was quiet, unusually so, and as much as you wanted to surprise him, who knows what’d he do if caught off guard…”Kuni’?” You smiled, approaching him leisurely before hooking your arms under his and resting your chin on his shoulder- though he flinched in surprise at first, you could feel him relax under your touch.

“What?” A simple response, but not much needed to be said. Scaramouche leaned into you slightly, the overwhelming pressure of his week slowly flooding his mind and body once more; and he groaned under his breath at the mere thought of doing it all again tomorrow.

You sighed, nuzzling your cheek against his shoulder and leaning over it to get a good look at him; eye bags and a significantly more pale tint to his skin being an unpleasant surprise. “Long week?” Long? Archons, he thought it’d never end. Endless, endless heaps of useless paperwork, incompetent underlings, failure after failure with every mission-- what the hell is he even doing? He’d be better off carrying the Tsaritsa’s work by himsel-- why do you keep nodding?

Oh.

Your hair tickled his jaw when you nodded, wrapping your arms tighter around him with a reassuring smile. “Yes, you were thinking aloud. I’ll pretend to ignore it, if that makes you feel better.” You mused, laughing at the way the tips of his ears burned red. “What if you took tomorrow off? Just the two of us?”

Scaramouche fell completely silent, deep in thought as if contemplating the world’s existence rather than a plan for the next day. It was hard to think when you practically wrapped yourself around him, gods you feel so warm, and you smell so good- did you use a new shampoo? How long have you been holding him? He turned to you the best he could, awkwardly trying to look down at you while your head rested in the crook of his neck. “I-” He coughed, clearing his throat and slowly reaching one hand up to hold one of yours. “Sure. I’m not planning it, so don’t disappoint me.”

Most would find that offensive, but by the small hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, this was his best attempt at a jest. “Yes, sir! I’ll get right on that-” Moving to pull away, you stood up fully and released him from your hold-- only to be dragged back almost violently into a very awkward, but comfortable embrace.

“Not--not yet.” Kunikuzushi stammered out, resting his chin atop your head to hide his embarrassingly flustered expression.

“Oh?” Was all you could manage, any teasing remarks bitten back at the way he squeezed you just a bit tighter into him- almost desperate in the way he leaned into you. Normally he’d have pulled away and dramatically recoiled from you to retain his pride and image, now he practically handed himself to you.

Running one hand through his surprisingly soft hair, you hummed happily before the weight of the situation truly sunk in and you smiled impossibly wider. He’s learning to trust again. He trusts you with the fragile boy he’s protected and shielded away from the world for so many years after being thrown away.

As he holds you close, he trusts you to protect him too.

𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗲 '𝗧𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝗮'

✧ Archons above, the moment your arms sneak under his, he perks up like a puppy at the sound of a bag opening. Back hugs? For him? This is heaven! Of course he can’t resist being a tease about it, putting all of his body weight on you and laughing as you groan, turning around before you can touch his back, starting to walk away as you cling to his back like a koala; of course he wouldn’t make this easy. However, after a particularly dreadful week, he doesn’t move one bit when you press a kiss to his shoulder before enveloping him in your arms. Childe would be surprisingly quiet, basking in the pure warmth of your affection and relishing in the way he felt himself relax. He might crack a small joke, maybe let out a dry laugh, but the way he leans into your touch and holds your hands so tightly practically begs you, ‘please stay.’

✧ Unlike Scaramouche, he’s hardly ever on guard around you. His walls are built with diamond and stone, carefully crafted to keep what little he has of his heart safe; but he trusts you wholeheartedly. He might jump every once in a while if you surprise him, summoning a sword with a malicious grin, but otherwise it’s hard to tell he’s a harbinger around you. If someone saw him right now as you held him, practically melting against you and leaning his head back on yours with a lovesick grin, they might compare him to a teenage boy with his first crush.

✧ Tartaglia is a complex man, a miserable yet beautiful mixture of passion, pain, and the adventurous glee of a little boy. And if you look close enough (though it’s hard to see since he rests his head atop yours), the smallest glint glimmers over his dull eyes- a small glimpse of Ajax rather than Childe. After a hard day, or anytime really, he’ll swear to you that your hugs could cure every disease in the world; and if you don’t hug him, either expect a pouty Child(e) or him clinging onto hugging you and not letting go until you hug him instead.

- ✧ -

Tartaglia was a charmer. Beautiful blue eyes as deep as Liyue’s oceans, skin bright and clear (some say it glows in the sunlight), fluffy hair that bounces so cutely when he walks, and a smile that even Aphrodite would envy.

What happened?

Hunched over his desk like a dead man, the bags under his eyes deeper than the oceans, skin almost dull even with the unflattering overhead light, and a grimace in place of where that classic smirk should be…he looked dreadful. You inwardly winced at his appearance, walking up to where he sat and resting a hand upon his shoulder. He sucked in a quick breath, appearing startled before relaxing again. A quick, half-hearted smile was all he managed to give you before his expression collapsed into one of pure exhaustion once more.

“Geez, Ajax…” You sighed, the hand on his shoulder sliding under his arm as the other followed until you hugged him close and tight to your chest- his hair tickled your cheek when you pressed your cheek to his shoulder in an attempt to get a good look at him.

“Oh~? My real name…I must be in big trouble.” His voice, normally laced with honey and suave intent, cracked when he spoke. A gloved hand slowly reached upwards to hold one of yours; the way his fingers squeezed yours reminded you of a child clinging to their mother’s hand, afraid to let go and lose her. Your cheek nuzzled into his shoulder, trying to get more comfortable with the awkward position- how long has he been sitting here?

“You think?” Came your almost snarky reply, using your free hand to hold him closer to you, until all that was left between you was warmth. “You’ve practically worked yourself to death…c’mon, I don’t care what you’re working on, you’re taking a break.” He let out a dramatic groan, leaning all of his weight against you and offering a tired, but genuine chuckle when you pretended to struggle holding him.

“Who am I to say no to such a pretty face?” Ever the charmer, even with his almost deathly appearance, Tartaglia turned his head so he could properly face you. Have you always looked this beautiful? The pure light reflected off your eyes and he could’ve sworn this was an angel’s gaze-- an angel’s hands holding him so lovingly despite how filthy he was. Years and years of blood, corruption, and tragic secrets stained his being like black oil over a dove’s feathers. Yet, your hands held him so dearly, so kind and loving in the way you traced his skin in soothing circles. It’s perfect, too perfect-- why are you so nice to him? Why don’t you look at him with disgust when you see him without the filter he crafted? Why don’t you pull away from hi--

“AJAX!”

“Hey, focus-- you’re spacing out!” You snapped your fingers, lifting your head and sucking in a breath before bonking your forehead against his, nose scrunching up at the mild pain.

“ack- I’m here, I’m here, did you miss me that much?” There it was, a real smile. Not a smirk, not a snarky grin, but a smile he only showed you. He reached out once more, grabbing your arm and tugging you back down so he could press a kiss to your cheek. You giggled at the touch, hugging him tight to your chest and moving side to side with a playful grin. You couldn’t get any cuter, he thought. For the first time that week, he relaxed; eyes fluttering shut and a lazy smile tugging at his lips while he swayed with you.

“Of course I did, I love you. I haven’t told you that enough lately, but I do. Don’t doubt that, put some trust in me, yeah? You’re worthy of love.” He fell silent, and you almost worried if that was too much- until you heard him whisper something while pressing a lingering kiss to the back of your hand.

“tanf lu, i lufgn juutu”

“What was that?” You leaned in closer, only for him to capture your lips in a tender kiss, silencing your surprised gasp with a genuine twinkle in his eyes- then pulling away and repeating himself a bit louder.

“Thank you.”

“I love you too.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚✧˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Word Count: 2115

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚✧˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧; 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗷𝗼𝗶𝗻!

@storytravelled ; @irethepotato ; @paradise-creator ;

- Ky♡♡

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caro-bug · 3 years

Text

Traitors

Three times does Tartaglia call the traitor by his real name. Perhaps a single call back will keep the readhead alive.

Tartaglia definitely wasn't fit to become a Harbringer.

"Kunikuzushi."

And yet, there he was, in all his power and glory, looking at his former supervisor, pathetic and locked beind the bars in Dottore's private lab.

And Tartaglia was kneeling.

"I did not allow you to call me by that name. " Scaramouche growled, clenching his fists on the gray fabric of his dirty robes. He was too ashamed of his situation to look Childe in the eyes.

"Why not though? I think It sounds beautiful. You were the one who chose it, right? A Political figure wouldn't call her puppett-

"CAN YOU PLEASE JUST LEAVE?"

A heavy silence filled the lab, interrupted only by miserable weeps and cries of Dottore's other test subjects, all in their secure, yet cold, respective cells. Most of them were children.

Such a family guy like Childe shouldn't have become a Harbringer.

"I'm sorry, but I can't leave just yet. I'm gonna get you out first."

Kunikuzushi slowly raised his gaze at him, his beautiful, dark eyes wild, terrified, distrusting.

"You what-"

"Not just you. All of these other children as well." Tartaglia reassured. "You know, whenever I see them, I keep remembering my little brother, Teucer. I wouldn't want him to suffer like them, so... I'm giving them a chance. And you as well." He explained.

"... You must be stupid if you believe that this could possibly work."

Tartaglia laughed awkwardly, looking around the prison in distress. Was it really a good idea?

"I know I can't get them all out. They must be too physically and mentally exhausted to let me guide them out but..." He paused for a moment, feeling a tight squeeze somewhere deep inside his chest. "Hopefully they create enough chaos so we can help at least few of them escape..."

"WE? Are you expecting me to join you in this?"

"... Well, I was hoping that you would treat this as a way of returning the favor..."

Scaramouche furrowed his eyebrows, standing up and approaching the prison bars, until he could look the other man directly in the eyes.

"You are way to soft for a Harbringer, Tartaglia."

The ginger sent him and awkward smile, walking away to place his hand on a lever that was supposed to open every single prison cell in Dottore's lab.

"I'm absolutely aware of that... Scara."

~~~

"You are suprisingly good with children, Scaramouche!

A man once known as The Balladeer didn't look up at his companion, carefully closing the door to the small bedroom in which Dottore's former test subjects were sleeping.

"No I'm not. Stop calling me that. Shut up and go away. They're all gonna wake up and It's going to be your fault."

"I'm just suprised that someone who's supposed to be destroying countries also destroyed my heart by adorably nursing these children back to health. They seem to really like you. Teucer would probably love you as well."

"As If I don't have enough children to take care of" Scaramouche scoffed, looking away from the Harbringer's ocean blue eyes. "Besides, I'm to pathetic to be seen by anyone else right now."

An amused, yet slightly nervous laugh escaped the readhead's lips. "You, pathetic? Why? How?"

"... Your brother likes cool fighting toys, right?" Scaramouche mused, leaning his back against the wall. "I'm just a broken doll. Can't fight properly because I can't even tell where my goddamn on-switch is. And by getting used to a catalyst I lost my skill by fighting with blades too...

Despite the stupid metaphor that was so blizzare for Scaramouche to use, Tartaglia could understand.

"... Kunikuzushi, can you close your eyes for a moment? Please."

A heavy silence filled the room, and the Eleventh's breath stopped. It would be only natural if someone like The Balladeer distrusted him even after all this time. Especially after being called by his real name without his permission, again.

But Scaramouche sighed quietly and closed his eyes, his long, dark eyelashes adorning his pale, porcelain cheeks.

The former Harbringer felt the warmth of the other's hands on his. This feeling was... Suprisingly pleasant. But before Scaramouche was able to fully embrace this new sensation, it was already gone, replaced by something else - a cold, metalic, vessel of the corrupted power in his palms.

An Electro Dellusion.

~~~

Maybe Scara was too soft to become a Harbringer as well.

"... Kunikuzushi... Look at me, please. "

But the shorter man couldn't bare to look the other in the eyes. He knew what he would see anyways - beautiful, yet disturbingly empty eyes, looking directly at him despite large group of enemies aporoaching their hideout. A reassuring, smile, trying to convince Kunikuzushi that it's gonna be okay.

It was probably an empty smile. They both knew that It's never gonna be okay again.

"Just go already, you idiot! You can still get away with it. I can't. So Just take the kids and leave."

"Oh, so you suddenly care about me and the kids now?" Tartaglia's laugh was heavy, but also quiet, as he tried not to attract their aporoaching opponents. "Well, you're not the only one who cares, so sorry, I'm not leaving."

"I know you care, Tartaglia." Scaramouche hissed, gripping on his dual swords that Childe had taught him to operate. "You don't have to prove anything anymore, you dumbass!"

"... I CAN do that though, right?" The ginger smiled warmly, and Scaramouche almost forgot about the danger aprroaching them. "You know I like fighting. Besides, not only I'll be able to impress you, but I'll also get to be your hero again, right?"

Scaramouche scoffed, grabbing Tartaglia by the colar of his shirt and pulling him closer, his stormy eyes fixed on his, ocean blue ones.

"I don't need a hero, Ajax. "He whispered, before leaving a fast, chaste kiss on the other's dry lips. "I need a partner in crime. It's boring to be the only Traitor. So-"

"Don't I dare die on you." The redhead finished Scaramouche's command, grinning as he stole yet another kiss from the fellow Traitor's lips. "Sure, if you promise to call me "Ajax" more often."

"... I'll go evacuate the children."

"And I'll take that as a yes."

Despite the danger lying ahead, neither Scaramouche nor Tartaglia felt fear when one took the fighting stance, and the other ran to the old bedroom where the children were hiding.

And even in Ajax's case, the thrill of battle was only a bonus. All that he cared about was the fact that Kunikuzushi's barrier was broken.

And with that barrier gone, he has to be the one to keep his loved one safe instead.

The door burst open.

#genshin impact #Scaramouche #kunikuzushi #balladeer #chiscara #scarachilde #tartaglia #ajax #childe

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saturnznct · 4 years

Text

doyoung’s family | k.dy

➸ note; alot of people requested some doyoung so here u go <33

➸ word count; 2239 words

➸ (by end) byungchul; aged 5, kyungmin & deoksu; newborn

nct masterlist

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

kim byungchul -

Firstly I have thought about this quite a lot and I don’t think Doyoung would have an oopsy baby at all

I feel like he’s big into family planning and very responsible

And I also feel like he just wouldn’t give two fucks ab the company or anything,, as soon as he gets broody like he’s telling you that he wants to have a baby

Usually you would just shoot him down, reminding him of all of the cons and negatives of his environment, and why it wouldn’t be fair to involve a child in all of that,, and he would eventually back down but feel a bit :/ about it

n e ways

Once he eventually completes his military service and NCT turns a whole 10 years old you get married and your wishes to have a child eventually match his <3

It takes maybe 4 or 5 months but you eventually fall pregnant and ur both ecstatic for obvious reasons

Doyoung feels like he has to tell EVERYONE and it takes him a lot of self restraint to not blurt it out in front of all of the members after you repeatedly tell him that you should wait a while

You do get quite sick… not too sick though, just the average dizziness and vomiting but it simmers down after a few months

I feel like he would try his best to comfort you but he would honestly really annoy you sometimes

Like you’d feel really nauseous and just want to sit quietly while trying to fight it off but he just keeps talking to you and trying to make you laugh and ur just sat in front of the toilet like SHUT UP if you make me laugh I may projectile vomit all over you and you WONT be happy

I think I went on a bit of a tangent there

I could just imagine it sorry

I feel like he’s quite chill when it comes down to it. Like he clearly cares and is very passionate about raising and giving your child everything but he’s not in a rush to buy baby clothes immediately or anything

You just take it one day at a time for the first twelve weeks, deciding to just set aside money and worry about buying things later

Doyoung MAKES SURE that he has the day off for your first ultrasound

Literally he does not care what he has to miss he will BE THERE

He sits right beside you, holding your hand the whole time, but he does laugh at you a bit when the cold gel makes you squirm

Holds your hand the whole time and 100% cries when you finally see the baby on the screen

After you’re sure everything is safe and okay literally every single member of every group and every single SM employee knows

He shows them the ultrasound photo in his wallet and he’s like look <3 I have a baby on the way

Also explains to you why everybody is suddenly very doting and gentle with you and the 127 members randomly send a massive bouquet of flowers to your house

I feel like Doyoung would act like normal in public but be very doting on you in private

Loves to cuddle w you and put his arm around your bump and just kind of take in the fact that its real

A big bulk of your pregnancy is in winter and you find yourself being extra sensitive to the cold and Doyoung makes sure you’re always wrapped in lots of blankets drinking warm drinks

Honestly you love this Doyoung, he’s not usually nearly as soft as this and you love it

He buys you lots of candles and thick knit cardigans to wear when you go out

TELL ME HE WOULDN’T SING TO THE BABY

Sometimes he goes a bit too hard on the vocals and ur like ‘you know they can’t appreciate all the ballads you sing them’ and he’s like ‘what do u mean they’re my child of course they can appreciate a good rendition of from home’

You also discover that IOU is their favourite NCT song, they kick like MAD

You decide not to find out whether its a boy or a girl, just for the sake of more excitement

Although you’re both fairly confident its a boy, even though you both promise not to have the argument

Once spring is coming to a close you start getting properly excited

Doyoung and Jaehyun paint the nursery (white and lilac colour scheme, Doyoung’s choice) while you sit in your new rocking chair (which Doyoung carries into the living room because ‘YOU CANT BE AROUND THE PAINT FUMES’)

You sleep a lot leading up to it

Doyoung is just there to hold you, knowing that in a few short months you’ll be incredibly sleep deprived

Although every so often you wake up needing to pee lmao

Summer eventually rolls in and its awful for you

Its really hot and sticky and gross and you just feel so uncomfy

You spend most of your time at home in like shorts and a small top/your bra with the air con and fan blasting

Because of the heat the last few weeks you always feel quite nauseous and you get quite sick again

You go into labour at home

You wake up feeling vey intense contractions and you’re in a fuck ton of pain

You think maybe its just cramps for a bit but then you eventually realise and Doyoung is like shit

After your contractions get closer and closer he takes you into hospital

And you have lil Byungchul early in the morning in mid July <3

Its quite a nice experience, its nighttime and its quiet and he doesn’t give you too much trouble

Hes a longboi,, literally 22 inches long

And also very big, like 8 pounds

And Doyoung is just in love

You’re really tired and laying in bed just absolutely exhausted and Doyoung is just standing by the window bouncing him in his arms

‘I told you he’d be a boy,’ he laughs, lifting Byungchul up so that his tiny hand grazes his face.

‘I agreed with you,’ you whine, ‘stop making it out like I argued with you.’

You realise really quickly that Doyoung is the most doting and loving father ever

He spends a lot of time cuddling him

He loves to like do things for him, like give him his bottle or calm him down when he cries

I feel like Doyoung would talk about his family just like he talks about his brother sometimes but I think he’d be quite private and want to protect Byungchul’s privacy

We all know how much he hates sasaengs hello

He would definitely fight on behalf of both of you

Because he loves you both so much

Doyoung is definitely his favourite parent 100%, its very obvious but it melts your heart so you deal with it

He always always goes to his dad or asks for his dad first if he needs something

When he’s little NCT have a show in Japan and so you take him and you go to Disneyland and u have to just stop yourself from bursting into tears of pride because they’re just SO CUTE

we all know that Doyoung would be supportive of his kids like literally no matter what

he would let Byungchul do whatever he wanted

Like when he would tell you what career he wanted to pursue that week Doyoung would always encourage him and tell him that he could do any job he wanted

Sometimes when he visits Doyoung at work and he asks all the stylists to put some glittery eyeshadow on him and paint his nails black

Also very well dressed?? Doyoung isn’t big on designer clothes for the baby because ‘they’re a waste, he will grow out of them in no time’ but he still wears nice clothes (and Doyoung would never admit it but he likes to match with him, they have lots of matching clothes, especially matching sweaters)

He loves to spend time with Byungchul, its his actual favourite thing in the world

He likes to take him to places like cafes and pretty public gardens and art galleries and takes pictures of him and omg I can just imagine it

I sense a cuddler,,,, in both of them

When Byungchul is a young toddler he goes through a phase where he is just attached to you or Doyoung like a koala

And Doyoung really likes the attention, he can’t lie

As Byungchul grows up Doyoung starts to want another

Obviously he’s extremely close with his brother so he really really wants Byungchul and his future sibling to have the same level of closeness

So he brings it up with you<3 and you agree

kim deoksu & kim kyungmin (identical twins)

Obviously very expected

Doyoung is absolutely thrilled

Like the thought of Byungchul actually having a lil friend

Byungchul is kind of confused by the concept of having a sibling

But once you explain it’s just like Lucas and Noah he gets it

And he was actually seemingly excited

Sometimes he’d be playing with his toy cars in his room and he’d be like ‘mummy/mommy when will my little brother or sister be here to play cars w me’

And you just have to explain that they gave to actually grow in your stomach first

At 12 weeks you find out it’s twins <3

Naturally youre shocked, like you only ever planned to have two, but you were definitely happy to find out it was twins

Like your youngest children will literally have a built in best friend each

You have an overall okay pregnancy

You decide to find out the genders this time, just to make things a little easier (and also because Byungchul kept asking whether or not he was going to have a brother)

So when u found out it was two boys

Lets just say you were very glad you could give Byungchul what he desperately wanted

Byungchul is quite interested by the whole process, he always asks about them and also helps Doyoung paint the nursery

This time before you go to bed, he sings two songs, claiming one for each help

Also talks to them individually, eventually addressing them each by name

I don’t think he’d be the type to make them match or anything, so you accumulate lots of tiny baby grows in various different colours

Again the majority of your pregnancy is in summer it is PAIN

By the end you’re so sweaty and uncomfortable that you literally just want them to be out so so badly

So you do try very hard

It’s hard to move around properly since you are carrying around the weight of like 3 whole people

Byungchul had gone back to school at this point so you and Doyoung were just home alone all day

Does anyone remember that episode of Good Luck Charlie where Amy really wants to go into labour so she and Teddy try like a fuckton of things

That’s you

Bouncing on a ball, spicy food everything

Nothing works like at all

You start to get quite frustrated

Doyoung tries really hard to comfort you but eventually you do go into labour

It goes on forever

Like?? Ur last one was nice and peaceful and Byungchul just came out no problems no faff

But with Deoksu and Kyungmin they just hate you

Firstly it just goes on for ages, and the contractions are really strong and painful and its just horrible </3

Doyoung tries to comfort you, and holds you through it, massaging your scalp and trying to rock you to sleep so you can sleep through it

You do fall asleep a few times but always wake up when you get a particularly painful contraction

After nearly 30 hours you’re finally fully dilated

Just before you start pushing the midwives ask him if he would like to deliver the babies

And at first he looks to you for permission

But you’re in far too much pain to speak really so you kind of just nod weakly

So Doyoung gets dressed in scrubs

You would’ve laughed at him but you’re a bit preoccupied

Deoksu is born first

Doyoung, with guidance from the midwife pulls him out and holds him for a few seconds, before passing him off to be weighed and checked over etc

Three minutes later Kyungmin is out, and once again Doyoung takes him to the midwives and by that time he can take Deoksu back to you and place him on your chest

You spend a few minutes just doting on him and crying over him and trying to calm him down

Eventually they’ve checked Kyungmin over, and they bring him to you and lay them next to each other and they actually calm down surprisingly

A few hours later when Byungchul gets to visit he’s just so enthralled by then

You get to take them home the next day

You sit in between them in the backseat, Doyoung drives like a snail because he doesn’t want to disturb them lmao

Anyway when you’re finally home it just feels amazing, like finally your little family is fully complete u feel like ur gonna burst

And Byungchul loves the twins so much <3

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spike-and-faye · 4 years

Note

Hello, I require your infinite wisdom please!! :O So I just finished cowboy bebop and I am so confused like who the fuck was Julia. WHAT was Faye's past. I literally never process tv shows and the bebop was not immune to my stupidity LMAO like... I guess the ending just really confused me, from what I gathered Spike and Vicious were friends? But then they weren't? And Julia dated Vicious but also Spike? And he? Went after Vicious even after Julia had died? I am Confusion. Please help. Thank u...

Oh BABEY I am so glad you asked! :) Be prepared for a long answer and I apologize in advance for how incoherent it will probably be.

ALSO Please note: this show is fucking complicated. I have watched it all the way through several times a year, every single year, for over a decade now, and I am *STILL* finding new shit every time I watch it. It's packed with symbols, motifs, allusions and underlying themes that are just so rich. It is so extraordinarily well-written that it could give a lot of classic literature a run for its money. I'm literally working on an in depth literary/film analysis my husband lovingly calls my Manifesto on the series right now. SO PLEASE don't beat yourself up about not catching everything on the first go round.

HEY BTW for anyone who hasn't finished the show, please know there will be MANY spoilers ahead!

Anyways ~

1. Spike / Julia / Vicious:

The information we get on Spike's past, including Vicious and Julia, is pretty limited considering how big of an impact they have on the story. We get our first glimpse in Session 1: Asteroid Blues, then again in Session 5: Ballad of Fallen Angels, Sessions 12 + 13: Jupiter Jazz, and Sessions 25 + 26: Real Folk Blues. I recommend reviewing these episodes for you Julia and Vicious fix.

What we know:

Spike and Vicious were both members of an organized crime syndicate called the Red Dragons, which is roughly analogous to the Yakuza or the Mafia. Their positions in the organization are not clear, but there are some images alluding to them being hitmen, and they likely rose up in the ranks as they were close acquaintances of Mao Yenrai, a Capo of the Red Dragon.

Spike and Vicious were close comrades. Spike taught Vicious everything he knew about fighting, and the two had a deep trust in each other. Which Spike fucked up ….

^^Vicious looks hot asf here

Julia was Vicious' lover/girlfriend. One night in 2068 (three years prior to the time we watch in the Bebop) Spike is injured, presumably from a syndicate-related fight and he passes out in front of her door. She takes him in and nurses him back to health and he SIMPS HARD for her. We’re all but told he's in LOVE love with her. They start an affair, and Spike tells her he's ready to abandon the whole life - the syndicate, Vicious, Mao, all of it - and they could run away together.

WELL Vicious finds out about this whole affair, and is DOUBLY betrayed because his literal best friend and girlfriend have been having an affair, and tbh I think he was just as jealous of Spike's attentions as he was of Julia's. (Whether or not it’s a sexual thing for Spike … well … I have my own headcanons about that). SO when he finds out they're going to run away together, he gives Julia an ultimatum: you can either kill him, or I'll just kill you both. Spike had written her a letter about meeting him in the graveyard to start their new life together, which she tears up to hide his location from Vicious. (This is the falling ripped up pieces of paper we see in Spike's flash back in Session 5).

^^ r/gifsyoucanhear

**NOTE: There are those who disagree with this view, (looking at you Cowboy Bebop wiki) instead suggesting Vicious and Spike were buds in the past, but then hated each other once they were both considered as potential successors to Mao. That's why Vicious wanted him dead, and he was enlisting Julia (who he didn't necessarily have a romantic connection to) to help kill Spike since he knew Spike loved her. Personally, I think there is plenty of evidence that Vicious also wanted Julia, and in fact was already with her, when Spike started seeing her. If you want me to cite my sources please send an me an ask about it :)

Spike gets the idea, whether by her just not showing up or word around the syndicate being like YO Vicious wants you dead. Despite Vicious' ultimatum to Julia, he was gunna kill Spike either way. SO he sets up an ambush, and SadBoy™ Spike walks intentionally into their trap. Somehow, he doesn't die, though the entire syndicate thinks he did. (Note Annie's reaction to seeing him alive in Session 5). It’s also implied that this is where he lost his eye.

HIS EYE - possibly the most important symbol in the show so I do have to mention it. In episode 26, he explicitly explains to Faye that one of his eyes only sees the past. (PS this isn't dissimilar to Jet's arm… we can get into that another time). Basically, he's constantly living halfway in the past and halfway in the present, and describes the past like a dream he can never wake up from. Because dysfunctional or not - the syndicate WAS his family. (Again - see his relationship with Annie, Mao, and Vicious (prior to Spike's betrayal)). It's his reminder that Julia didn't run away with him, and that he'd left behind that life for her. (He didn’t know she was being threatened until the final episode). Basically Spike is hyper-fixated on what he had and what could've been.

Not long after this, Spike starts bounty hunting because like? What else is he going to do. He doesn't care if he lives or dies but if he has to be alive, he may as well be able to eat. He joins up with Jet Black on the Bebop.

TL; DR: Spike stole Vicious' lover, Julia, so Vicious made Julia choose between her killing Spike or Vicious killing them both. She instead went into hiding and Spike thought he'd been stood up. He fake died and got the hell outta dodge.

2. What was Faye's past?

Ok let me start by saying Faye is my wife and my life. HOWEVER I hated her the first time I watched this show circa age 13 because I thought she was annoying/vain/shallow (also because #internalizedmisogyny lol am I right fam). Good news! She is all those things! But she's also very lonely and scared and an amnesiac and secretly a sweetie and she realizes she loves the crew of the Bebop like family.

SO my wife's backstory:

she was born in the 1990s (#only90skidsremember). There's some debate over her race/nationality, but due to the images of her hanging out in Merlion Park in Singapore, my bet is that she's Singaporean. She comes from a wealthy family with a big house, and we see some utterly *adorable* film of her as a child/young adolescent in Session 18: Speak Like a Child. I cry everytime </3

^^ Holla for the representation

In 2014, circa age 20, she and her parents were going into space when the shuttle they were on had some kind of malfunction/accident and it killed an unknown number of people, including her parents. At the time, the technology didn’t exist to be able to save her, so she was put into a cryogenic sleep state. Meanwhile, the Lunar Gate accident occurs, breaking up the moon and causing rock showers on Earth's surface. Most people died, moved to Mars, or settled underground.

She wakes up from her cryogenic sleep in 2068. (Also the year Spike leaves the syndicate.) She's 'woken' by the corrupt Dr. Bacchus who plans on charging her for the years and years of medical debt she's accrued. (See Session 15: My Funny Valentine.) Luckily a lawyer takes interest in her case (Whitney Haggus Matsumoto) and tries to help get rid of her debt. The two fall in love, but turns out Whitney is a Scumbag. He's actually Dr. Bacchus's nephew, and faked his death, writing Faye as the sole inheritor to his will. This means she'll take on all his debts. So baby girl has LOTS of debt at this point.

In the intervening years prior to her joining the Bebop, she gambles, cheats, gains a lot of street smarts, and adopts a very seductive character to get her way. She joins the crew on the Bebop in Session 3: Honky Tonk Women.

TL;DR: Faye is Austin powers

YIKES this is so long I am so sorry. Bitches are obsessed with this show. (I am bitches)

3. The Ending

Okay I'm going to present this in the way, in my scholarly opinion, would be correct, though there are SO many interpretations other than simply 'Spike died :/".

To understand the plot of the last couple episodes we actually have to go back to Session 5: Mao is instructed* to sign a treaty with a rival syndicate called the White Tigers. (*He's instructed by The Van (Council of identical creepy old men) who are the actual head of the dragon. I think we only see them in Session 26.) Well - Vicious is a Bastard Man and he and his fellow mutineers blow up the White Tiger guys' ship and slit Mao's throat. Before he dies, Mao is like "Gotdamnit if Spike was still here this shit wouldn't have happened." Later in the Cathedral battle, Vicious explains to Spike he killed Mao because Mao 'lost his fangs'. He planned on killing Spike for good her, IMO, so there'd be no rival to take over as Capo for the Dragons.

^^These guys are The Van btw

THEN in Session 25, the Van basically catches Vicious and is like “you killed Mao and now you have to go to Time Out.” The Van also decides to just kill everyone associated with Vicious, just 2 B safe. That's why there's a big ass shootout at the Loser Bar where Jet and Spike are chilling, drinking, (missing Faye and Ed and Ein lol) and Shin (younger brother to Lin, who's helping Vicious overthrow the Dragon) explains all this to Spike. OH and PS JULIA IS ALIVE AND HERE IS HER LOCATION :). (**Notice Spike's reaction at this point is different than his reaction in Jupiter Jazz when he hears there's a Julia on Calisto. Much less excited… hmm…).

SO THEN you know we get some flashbacks of the past as previously explained *and* Julia just happens to run into Faye. She recognizes that Faye is one of Spike's friends from the Bebop (she was keeping tabs on him it seems) and picks her up. Faye doesn't know who Julia is but is like damn bitch I'm a little gay for you. (I mean … that may just be my bi ass projecting, but Faye is REALLY struck with her. Look at how she describes her to Jet, I mean come on.)

Faye's like, 'we should team up' and Julia says 'no thanks but also tell Spike to meet me at *the place*'. Meanwhile back on the Bebop Spike and Jet are talking and Spike goes on about some dream woman who was his other half. (We assume he means Julia … I have my reasons to doubt this … I have a lot of angry DMs about my opinion here lol but I just do not give a fuck (: I can expand on this in another post or you can refer to the title of my fucking blog haha) Personally, I think Watanabe personally left this specific scene open ended, the same way he does with the ending and various other things.

more like SIMP Spiegel

ANYWAY Faye comes back to the Bebop to tell Spike about Julia, and Jet gets intel from a former cop buddy that there's some shit going down with the Dragons. (Again, the Van is hunting down everyone ever associated with Vicious, including your pal Spike). Bebop is attacked, Faye tells Spike what's up with Julia, and he heads out.

PAN TO VICIOUS chained up - about to be executed - but what's that!? It's a bird!? It's a pla- no it's just a bird. (With one glowing red eye … hm … reminds me of Spike, also the drug Red Eye. Pls let me know if you have any thoughts on this). Just a bird with a BOMB! Explosion (RIP bird c. 2065 - too soon), Vicious kills the elders, his buddies show up and are ready to go fuck shit up.

this show could not be more of an aesthetic

MMMPhhh okay RAINY CEMETERY. Spike and Julia. She draws a gun, explains why she didn't meet him that day, and then hugs him. Now Spike is not *great* at showing his emotions but he literally just stands there. Maybe it's a stoic expression of how sad he is that he never knew she still cared, when it seemed like she dumped him. Maybe he's finally getting some closure on his past. Maybe the past doesn't mean the same thing it used to. (I'll elaborate later on this).

They go to Annie's to get stocked up on stuff, she lets them know she denied knowing Spike was still alive and hey also the Van was assassinated by Vicious and his guys so. Watch out for that. Then her shop is surrounded by Vicious' guys and she dies :(. Spike and Julia escape to the roof, but she's shot and dies in Spike's arms, and says 'it's all just a dream' :(. (Refer to: Spike living in a dream of the past).

Anyway Jet SAID he wasn't gunna go after Spike but. Jet's parental instincts kick in (oh yeah he was shot in the leg earlier btw) and he goes to Sitting Bull to see if he knows where Spike is. He basically says yeah Spike's about to die somewhere. (I want to do a further analysis on all the Sitting Bull scenes.) Well conveniently Spike returns to the Bebop, eats, tells his story about a tiger-striped cat. (At one point Jet asks if he's going there for her, and Spike is like well she's dead now so whatever). THEN we get to the scene where Faye is like HEY YOU CAN'T GO OFF AND DIE ASSHOLE and he's like ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I 've been living in the past so I might as well see if I'm living now. (**This will play heavily into my interpretation of the ending). Faye is pissed, shoots the ceiling and he goes off to the syndicate headquarters to fuck shit up.

He basically John Wicks his way through the building, Shin dies, he and Vicious have the big boss battle and whatnot. He kills Vicious and stumbles back out down the stairs and says "Bang!" and collapses. We pan to the sky and see a star fade away.

Well that explains the plot … now here's what I think happened!!! ALSO may I mention, anon - you picked up on something I feel like a lot of people miss out on. Why *did* Spike go back to kill Vicious if Julia was already dead??

Basically, once it became clear that anyone associated with Vicious was being killed, Spike knew they'd hunt him down, and they weren't beneath Kill-Billing their way to him, (i.e. systematically destroying this companions to get to him). And for all his apparent indifference - he really loves his new found family. Jet is literally like an older brother to him. Ed is a little sister. Ein is well … a very good boy. And Faye? Well the relationship is complicated, and I'm not going to get into the 69,420 reasons I ship them here, but I think it is beyond argument that he really does care for her, even if that just in a filial way. He didn't want the syndicates to kill them for their association to him, or in order to get to him. So he did what he had to do to protect them. *AND NO* I am not saying that he didn't love Julia. But it was clear that his desire was no longer to run away with her. I think he genuinely loved and cared about her, but at some point between Jupiter Jazz Pt 2 and now, he accepted that their time together was over. Now he had a new raison d'etre, which is the Bebop.

I think at this point Spike has 'woken up' to reality (as he implied to Faye in their final conversation in episode 26: "Look at these eyes. One of them is a fake, because I lost it in an accident. Since then, I have been seeing the past in one eye, and the present in the other. I had believed that what I saw was not all of reality...I thought I was watching a dream that I would never awaken from. Before I knew it, the dream was all over." (This is from the sub btw I'm too lazy to look up the dub transcript.) He wasn't going there to die, he's going to find out if he's really alive. This line is fucking cool and everything - but it's implications are multitude. I won't go into them all here but basically : what makes him alive now is that he's free from his past. He's alive because he has this new family and protecting them is all he really wants now. Spike was protecting Jet, Faye, Ed, (and Ein) by going and facing the entire syndicate, knowing that their lives would all be in danger.

SO - did Spike die? Well again - Watanabe has purposely and artfully left this open ended. Well, if we're following the symbolism from Sitting Bull, then yeah, the man is as dead as disco, and wouldn't that be a fitting ending? BUT at the same time, Spike always refers to having 'died' before (meaning when he was ambushed by the syndicate, and they all thought he died, and he pretty much did). Don't forget that in movie (takes places roughly between episodes 22 + 23, and yes, was made AFTER the series but whatever) he like .. DIES dies. He goes to the afterlife and everything. He wakes up to find he's chilling with Sitting Bull, who's like nah it wasn't your time to die yet. So the fact Sitting Bull confirms Spike will die in the final episode, means yeah, Spike is pretty much dead.

BUT -- okay now hear me out -- could this death in the final episode be a death to his previous life? The person he was in the syndicate? Now that he's extinguished the Red Dragons for good, is it not possible that its merely *that* life which has ended? That's the optimist in me saying that, but if it keeps me from staying up all night crying, I guess it'll have to do. Watanabe definitely wants to leave it up to the viewer, so whatever you think, I feel like there's validity to it.

WELL any anon, sorry for the fucking lecture - and believe me, I could've said MUCH, MUCH more - but I enjoyed this question. I always love talking about this show so please all you fuckers feel free to message me or send an ask about anything any time. I am really slow at replying because #life'sAbitch.

Love you all.

SY,SCB <3

#sorry for the long ass rant #i could seriously talk about this all day.#i even trimmed this down so much #cowboy bebop #fuck man this show is everything #spike spiegel #julia #faye valentine #jet black #vicious #radical ed #ein #<3 #spoilers #rant

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Text

A new us will begin (5/ 11)

AO3

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 6

word count: 5.7k

Content warnings: mentioned character death, funeral (kind of), mentions of dying alone, mention of child death, survivor’s guilt, visiting graves, guilt

Why did it hurt so much to listen to Yarrow’s retreating steps? Why did Geralt jump to his feet and press himself against the door, even though he knew it was too late to even catch a glimpse at that strange man?

He knew why. He knew it, and he hated the answer, hated himself for even considering such an impossible thing.

The truth, shameful and better locked away in the back of his mind, was that Yarrow reminded him of Jaskier.

There was a reason why Geralt had avoided talking to people as much as he could, why he never stayed in one place for too long and made a point of not looking at flowers or any other pretty thing he would come across.

There was always that chance that he would find something, some small detail that reminded him of the one he had lost. Any smile would send a pang through his chest, because it made him think of the smile he had woken up to every morning for so long. Every place that had a bard made him immediately compare them to the only bard that had ever managed to make Geralt close his eyes and get lost in the music. Every songbird, flower or pretty cloud made it painfully obvious that now there wasn’t anyone by his side anymore to point those things out to him.

Yarrow probably would have. If they had met out there and not in these cells where there was nothing but grey stone and darkness. The man who had so annoyingly insisted on talking to him – and wasn’t that just like someone else Geralt had known once? – was an artist. Surely, he would stop to stare at every flower and every other interesting thing he noticed. Just like Jaskier had always done.

The two of them would have liked each other, if they had lived at the same time. With a soft huff, Geralt’s lips twitched upwards. Yarrow’s enthusiasm when he had talked about his art could rival Jaskier’s. Maybe they would have become the best of friends over their shared love for the arts. Or maybe they would have become bitter rivals because they had different views on an art piece or the other talked too much.

And gods, even just the two days that Geralt had known Yarrow, it had seemed as if the artist didn’t know how to shut up. Or as if he had been desperate to say anything he could as fast as possible in case he wouldn’t get the chance to say it later.

It shouldn’t have been endearing, but fuck if it wasn’t soothing Geralt’s battered heart to have someone talk to him. He hadn’t known just how much he had missed that.

He missed Jaskier.

Just for a second, a torturous, beautiful second he had found a small piece of him in this stranger, who insisted on becoming Geralt’s friend. Geralt had no delusions about that becoming a reality. He had meant it when he had said that he didn’t want friends. He knew where such a thing would end. In death and heartbreak. Even if Geralt had been willing to risk that, there was no mistaking that Yarrow would take one look at him and turn away. Just because he was lonely and desperate for conversation while in his cell, didn’t mean that he would want anything to do with him once he got to go back to his family and real friends.

The thought made something twist in his stomach. It was nice to think that Yarrow had someone to come back to. He should have someone like that. But dammit, it made Geralt miss his family all the more. Too often did he force himself to stay on the Path for however long he could, always desperate to fight as many monsters as possible, to save as many people. As if that could erase all the wrongs he had done. He would hunt monsters until snow fell and he was forced to realise that he wouldn’t make it to Kaer Morhen in time. He was aware that his brothers and Vesemir must worry about him if he didn’t show up, so he always made sure to come home every other couple of years, just to let them know that he was still alive and to see for himself that nothing had happened to them, but those years were still few and far between.

Talking with Yarrow and listening to him had almost made him feel as if he was with his family, hearing tales of what they had done on the Path.

It hadn’t been fair to either Yarrow or himself, but as the artist had talked, Geralt had closed his eyes and been able to imagine just for a little while that it hadn’t been Yarrow who’d been talking.

Then he had started to sing and Geralt’s chest had split in two. Yarrow’s voice was clearly untrained, but the emotion in it, the meaning he gave the words and the melody had been so like Jaskier’s singing that Geralt hadn’t been able to hold back dry sobs. It was just a song, but a song lost to time, twisted and turned into jigs or maudlin ballads instead of the simple comforting lullaby that it had always been meant to be. Geralt had thought the real song had died with Jaskier. It was a wonder even the one line Yarrow had sung had survived that long in this way and it had hit Geralt like a bucket of ice being emptied over his head, leaving him gasping for breath and yearning for warmth. He hadn’t dared hope to ever have this song sung to him again. It hurt. More than he could describe, but he had needed more; his whole being had been desperate for more. He had been so full of the unrestrainable need to make himself forget that it wasn’t Jaskier singing. For a moment, it had been so easy to forget. And so painful when he had remembered.

Geralt was a fool for fantasising about meeting Jaskier again, that through some twist of fate or magic, he would ever be able to hear Jaskier sing again. It was madness. It was a dream. One that crept up on Geralt in the days he sat alone in his cell after Yarrow had left, time and time again until he was barely able to remind himself that it couldn’t be real. He wanted it to be real. He wanted to dream.

Then there was that last thing Yarrow had said to him, “See you around”. It had hurt to hear those words. They were normal, everyday words. Everybody used them, but Geralt couldn’t help but wish that somehow they had been more. If not an impossible possibility, then at least a promise. Yarrow wasn’t Jaskier, Geralt couldn’t ever forget that. But perhaps, he could do what Yarrow had promised him and see him around again, even if it would tear him apart.

It was madness, but with every minute he sat in silence, the resolve became hard as stone; Once Geralt finally got out of here, he would go find Yarrow, however slim the chance was that the artist would want him around once he saw him.

When Geralt finally got released from the cell after a week on his own, he told himself that he wasn’t anxious. He had spent longer stretches of time in prison before, but those seven days thinking about Jaskier and debating whether or not to seek out Yarrow once he was free to go, felt longer than any other time before.

The problem was, now that he was free, he had no idea where to look for the artist. As much as Yarrow had talked, he hadn’t mentioned where he lived even once. For hours, Geralt tried searching for places that might be considered inspiring, but no matter where, he couldn’t find the artist. He told himself he wasn’t disappointed. The town might not be that big, but there was still plenty of places that Yarrow could be.

Yet with every minute Geralt tried and failed to find the man, who had said they could be friends, his stomach twisted into tighter knots and Geralt’s resolve to find him began to crumble. Because, that was the thing; he had no way of actually finding him. He had no idea what Yarrow looked like, what he wore, how he behaved when he wasn’t in a cell. The brief glimpse Geralt had gotten of him amidst the chaos of the festival hadn’t been enough. Back then, Geralt had been far too preoccupied with calming Roach than to pay any attention to the drunk man that had been dragged away by the guards that would later come for Geralt once he had made sure Roach wouldn’t cause any more trouble.

Geralt on the other hand, was unmistakable. Yarrow didn’t need to know what he looked like in order to recognise him. There was no way he would see his hulking figure, his unnaturally white hair and the scars and not know who he was.

All Geralt could do to find Yarrow, was walk around and hope that the artist found him and pray that Yarrow would be brave enough to approach him. Then again, it wasn’t unlikely that he had already passed Yarrow unknowingly and that the artist had taken one look at Geralt and realised just how stupid it was to want to befriend someone like him.

Geralt had no way of knowing if that was what had happened for sure, but the longer he walked around aimlessly, the more the creeping fear turned into ice-cold certainty.

The bitter taste of disappointment filled Geralt’s mouth. How could he have been so stupid to think he might find another friend? How could he have been so reckless to let himself want another friend? He knew where such a thing would end, in heartbreak, misery and death. It was better that Yarrow wanted nothing to do with him, now that they weren’t forced to be in each other’s company.

As Geralt walked back to the inn, where he hoped Roach had found some shelter until he returned, he kept his eyes to the ground, pointedly avoiding all eye-contact with the townsfolk, just in case one of them would stare at him with something akin to recognition that would turn into disgust.

The familiar sight of Roach made something warm blossom in his chest. At least she would stay with him. He didn’t need anyone else. The mare greeted him with a soft snort and butted her head against his chest.

A small smile tugged at Geralt’s lips.

“I missed you too,” he said. “Sorry for being away for that long.”

A deep-rooted worry dislodged inside him when he looked her over. The innkeeper might not have been selfless enough to give Roach a box in the stables, but at least someone – probably a stable hand – had made sure to unsaddle her, brush her down and feed her. He breathed a sigh of relief. At least she didn’t have to suffer negligence because of what Geralt was.

He patted her neck and froze. It took him a second to realise what made him halt, but when he did, his heart began racing.

There were braids in Roach’s mane. They must have been put there days ago, loose and almost gone as they were. But it was unmistakable that someone had plaited her mane. No, not someone, not just anyone. Yarrow.

The certainty flared up in Geralt’s chest, racing through his blood like a wildfire.

Yarrow had been here. He had been the one to take care of Roach. Geralt’s breath hitched. What if Yarrow had waited for him? But if so, then why wasn’t he here anymore?

Geralt’s jaw clenched. There were too many possible reasons. Geralt had taken too long and Yarrow had come to his mind and left. Yarrow could have just had to go back to his job and other responsibilities. Or perhaps it had something to do with the fading smell of sickness that clung to the air. If someone had gotten ill around here, Geralt couldn’t fault Yarrow for not wanting to stick around lest he caught the sickness too.

Still, Geralt couldn’t help but wonder and hope that Yarrow might come back in a bit. It wouldn’t hurt to stay in this town a day longer, just in case.

His hope was crushed all too soon. After not even an hour of waiting, a couple walked by and threw not so subtle looks of disdain at him, before hurrying away and muttering to each other, evidently under the impression that Geralt couldn’t still hear them.

“Is that the one that good-for-nothing idiot has been waiting for?”

A dismissive laugh. “Figures he would show up just after that guy lost his patience. Haven’t seen him around since yesterday.”

“Good for him, I say. Have you seen that man?” A nod back at Geralt. “That’s the witcher. Leaving before he could show up was the only good decision that wanna-be artist ever made in his life.”

“Wait, I thought the witcher was still in prison. Are they crazy to let him go free? What if he decides to attack someone again?”

The woman threw a quick glance over her shoulder, but averted her eyes again as soon as she noticed Geralt looking at her. She grasped the arm of her companion and hurried them along.

Geralt’s heart sunk and he turned away abruptly. He didn’t need to linger any longer. He’d heard more than enough.

“Guess it’s just you and me again,” he said to Roach, stroking her nostrils.

It was better this way. At least with Yarrow gone, the artist wouldn’t have to listen to people talk about him as if he were scum just for knowing a witcher. Without travelling with Geralt, Yarrow wouldn’t get chased out of towns or spat at like Jaskier had been far more often than he would have otherwise. Without Geralt’s presence bearing down on him, Yarrow was free to pursue his dreams, to draw eyes and gush about how much he loved the arts.

Expecting him to come with him wouldn’t have been fair anyway. Geralt wouldn’t be a good companion or friend. It was a truth etched deep into his soul, painted onto his body with every scar.

There would never be anyone who could be a replacement for Jaskier, but that was all Geralt would have been able to see in Yarrow. The song, the way he talked and the readiness to get to know him, had made sure of that. Yarrow was too much like Jaskier, the one Geralt actually wanted in his life.

With harsh movements, Geralt saddled Roach and swung himself onto her back. He didn’t look back as he left town. That didn’t stop him from wondering if Yarrow was in one of the houses he passed, if maybe the passer-by had been wrong and Yarrow hadn’t given up on waiting for Geralt and was walking back to the inn while Geralt was going further away from it.

He didn’t let these thoughts stop him, only halting once he had passed the town walls. It wasn’t so much Geralt’s own choice, but suddenly, Roach started bucking, refusing to walk a single step further in the direction Geralt tried to lead her. After a minute of arguing, Geralt succumbed to his fate and let Roach decide on the way. As stubborn as she sometimes could be, Geralt trusted her instincts. And strangely enough, now that he wasn’t so focussed on getting away as fast as he could, Geralt noticed the slightest tug in his chest, urging him to where Roach was already straining to go.

When Roach finally slowed, it took Geralt a moment to realise what this place was. A small stone wall stood before him and behind that…

Ice splintered in Geralt’s chest. Without knowing what he was doing, Geralt dismounted Roach and walked towards the gate in the wall like in a trance.

He pushed the gate open, dread pooling in his stomach. The cold certainty of what this place was washed over him, even before he laid eyes on the rows of tombstones. This was a cemetery.

It wasn’t unusual for towns to have their cemetery outside of their town walls, which had always made it easier for Geralt to do his job whenever he was hunting ghouls or other necrophages. For a moment, he thought that was what had brought him here, some sort of hunter instinct telling him that there was a monster here, but his medallion remained unmoving against his chest.

With measured steps, he walked through the rows, aimlessly but with unnatural fear sending chills up his spine.

Then he heard it. The grunts and noises of a man driving a shovel in the ground. Geralt followed the noise, dreading what he was about to find, but unable to stop himself from continuing onwards.

When he reached the source of the noise, the undertaker looked up at him with the bleary eyes of a man, who had hoped he wouldn’t have to work that day. The expression made unreasonable anger flare up in Geralt. He must not have been able to control his expression as well as he thought, for the undertaker visibly sobered up and reeled back.

“I’m sorry.” He took the shovel in one hand and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “If I had known anyone would come to the funeral, I would have waited.”

Geralt scowled. “No one came?”

It shouldn’t have bothered Geralt as much as it did. For most of his life, Geralt had been living in the certainty that he could count himself lucky if he even got buried at all and not just left to rot where he would die or be thrown in a ditch. Yet, there was something utterly wrong with just the two of them standing in front of this fresh grave; a stranger and an undertaker. One here by chance, the other for a job he didn’t want to do.

The undertaker shrugged. “Didn’t have any friends here, this one. Family didn’t care much for him either. Think they might even live somewhere else, but I never cared enough to ask.” He leaned on his shovel, as if this was just a normal conversation. “The innkeeper of the Sleeping Hare came to me this morning, telling me to get the body out of the room…”

Geralt’s brows drew together. “He was a traveller then?”

The undertaker huffed. “He wasn’t anyone, really. No one important. ” He caught Geralt’s gaze and blinked, taken aback by what he found in Geralt’s expression, before adding hastily, “Not to talk bad of the dead, of course. I’m sure he was a good fellow… anyway, my job here is done. I should probably leave you to…your mourning. I suppose.”

Geralt didn’t reply. As the undertaker shuffled away awkwardly, Geralt’s eyes were transfixed on the headstone. It was plane, just like the grave itself. No decorations, no meaningful words. Just a name and two dates.

Yarrow.

Geralt had known. Somehow, he had known that this was the name he would find on the tombstone, and yet, seeing it written there, broke something within him. He hadn’t known Yarrow for long enough to really grieve for him, but seeing that no one else did….it wasn’t right. It wasn’t what Yarrow deserved. He had been so full of life and excitement when he had spoken of the things he had loved. He had been so adamant about making Geralt feel less alone.

And now here he was, alone in the earth, with no one but Geralt to visit his grave.

This was where they always ended up, wasn’t it? This was the reason why Geralt hadn’t wanted another companion, because sooner or later, they would end up exactly like this.

Geralt wished it had been later for Yarrow, just a few merciful years more. If this was how it was always going to end, then at least Yarrow could have gotten to have a friend, as bad a companion as Geralt was. It would have been something at least.

Geralt’s eyes drifted down to the dates. Yarrow had been so young, barely in his twenties. Too young to die. Life wasn’t fair, but why did it have to be so cruel? Why did it have to take and take and never stop taking?

Geralt didn’t have a scar for this life that had been taken. Not a visible one at least. He almost wished he had one. If only so he’d have something to remember the man who had insisted on being his friend by.

Could they have become friends, if Geralt had given Yarrow any sort of reassurance that he would come for him? Could Geralt have found a way to be good for him?

He didn’t think so, but now he would never know. All he knew was that he would continue to be alone and so would Yarrow, once Geralt left his grave’s side. If anyone came by per chance while visiting someone else’s grave, all they would know about Yarrow would be his name, how short his life had been and that no one cared enough about him to leave him flowers. They would know nothing more. Not what he had been, not what he had meant to anyone.

Geralt hesitated. There probably was a law of respect about tampering with gravestones, but there was no one around to see, no one to care.

Slowly and with his heart hammering painfully against his ribs, he pulled out his hunting knife. What he was about to do, would dull his knife beyond saving, but just this once, Geralt didn’t care about his weapons. All he cared about was that Yarrow shouldn’t be forgotten.

The letters he carved painstakingly into the stone weren’t pretty, but when he was finally finished, it was as if a weight was lifted of his chest.

Yarrow, artist and friend.

The words were as plain as the rest of the stone, and Yarrow surely would have complained about the lack of artistry, but it was all Geralt could give him.

For a long time, he just looked at the scripture with a strange feeling in his chest that he couldn’t quite place. For some reason, his eyes were drawn back to the first date on the stone. There was something vaguely familiar about that first date. It tugged at a memory somewhere at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t put his finger on what had happened on the day of Yarrow’s birth that made it recognisable. Something important, surely. Something historical or something personal, if Geralt remembered the date.

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t here to think about history. He shouldn’t let his mind drift to such things while standing over his almost-friend’s grave.

It felt awkward just standing there, silently. When he had buried Jaskier, Geralt had listened to all of Jaskier’s friends tell tales about the memories they had of Jaskier. They had spoken about his songs, his laughter, the love he had given. Geralt had been silent most of the time then too, but in his heart, he had thought about every moment he had been allowed to spend with Jaskier.

Now, though, he barely had anything to remember. He had already spent the past week thinking about Yarrow and the way his words had given Geralt comfort and had made him yearn. Yet one thing he remembered clear as day, made him stay at the grave. For just one night.

Because Yarrow had been afraid of the dark. Just as he had been afraid of being alone. It was foolish, but Geralt couldn’t leave him here in the dark all alone for his first night in the ground. So he stayed, sat down next to the grave and produced a small flame with igni, that he held in his hand until the morning dawned, just as he had done a week ago.

He didn’t sing Jaskier’s lullaby. But it was a damn near thing.

In the morning, Geralt left in search of flowers to put on the grave, to make it a little less barren and lonely. Yarrow would have liked having flowers on his grave, he was sure. So Geralt did his best to search for yarrows he could dig up with their roots mostly intact.

It felt right planting them on the grave, knowing they would continue to grow and keep Yarrow company. When he took a step back to look at his work, there was one single buttercup that he hadn’t even noticed he had taken with him as well, right in the middle of the yarrows.

For a second, his fingers twitched to tear the flower out again, but then he relaxed, even giving the flower a small smile. It looked nice there, surrounded by the bigger flowers. Almost like it belonged there.

With one last look to the gravestone, Geralt turned around, leaving this place for good.

It wasn’t until he was already a day’s ride away from the cemetery when he realised why that date on the gravestone had been so familiar to him. It had been the day Lettenhove had gone up in flames. The day of Yarrow’s birth had been the day Viscount Alfred had died.

Life continued on. It always did, at least for Geralt. He lived while the world changed and people died around him. It had always been like this. He had survived the trials, the death screams of the other boys ringing in his ears. Kaer Morhen had been sacked and almost all witchers living there slaughtered and Geralt had been among the painfully few that had survived.

Jaskier had died in his arms.

A little boy had taken his last breath right before Geralt could reach him.

A Viscount died.

Yarrow did too.

And Geralt kept on living, kept on hunting, kept on remembering every single life he had outlived. He kept on pretending that it didn’t matter to him, that he didn’t grieve for every single one of them.

He didn’t visit Yarrow’s grave. But he did go to Dol Blathanna. The valley of flowers had changed since Geralt had last been there. There must have been some sort of battle, for most of the land was scorched and no flowers bloomed there any longer. Except for that small patch near the mountains where Jaskier lay.

Geralt remembered Triss’ promise that the spell she had cast over the patch of land would keep it safe and the flowers from dying. At least one thing that wouldn’t wither away.

Geralt sank to his knees in front of the old grave the sight of which still hurt Geralt as if he had dug it this morning. There were things he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the words. Not like Jaskier would have.

With a heart that felt heavy as lead and a tight throat, he stared at the dandelions blooming on the grave. Jaskier would have liked the flowers.

But he would have hated everything else. He would have wanted to stay with Geralt. He would have wanted to see him smile instead of crumbling like he did. That was all Jaskier had ever wanted for him. Not to be alone. To know that he had someone there by his side who saw him as more than just the witcher that he was.

Geralt had come so close to finding someone like that again, to fulfilling Jaskier’s wish.

“I made a friend.” His voice came out as a hoarse croak and the words felt like a lie. He hadn’t made a friend. But he had come close to it. Close enough that Jaskier would have been proud of him, surely. “His name was Yarrow.”

He let out a wet laugh. “Yeah, I know. Seems I keep stumbling about people who name themselves after flowers.” He reached out, brushing a hand over one of the few dandelions that still bloomed yellow. “You would have liked him, I think. He was an artist. He wanted me to give him a review on his works, can you believe it?” A trembling smile tugged at his lips. “For a moment there I thought he was going to ask for three words.”

With a sigh, he stood back up, going over to Roach and pulling out the sketchbook be had found in his saddlebags not a week after he had left Yarrow.

He hesitated, before sitting back down before Jaskier.

“It’s silly,” he said, running his fingers over the worn edges of the sketchbook. “But I wanted to wait looking at this until I was here with you again. You would have been able to give Yarrow a better review than I ever could. I think he would have liked you to see his drawings.”

A lump formed in his throat. It was only half the truth. Yes, it had felt wrong to look at Yarrow’s sketchbook while sitting in some rundown tavern or in a forest surrounded by cobwebs and dirt, but the other reason for waiting for so long, was that a selfish part of Geralt had been able to pretend that it wasn’t a sketchbook he was holding at all. The binding of it was so similar to the notebooks Jaskier had always favoured, that Geralt could let himself imagine it was a book of verse and not art he was carrying with him, as long as he didn’t look inside.

It had been too long since Geralt had been able to thumb through Jaskier’s notebooks. They had gotten so old that he had been forced to give them to the academy to preserve it if he didn’t want them to fall apart in his hands.

It hadn’t been fair to Yarrow to imagine it was something of Jaskier’s. So giving his drawings the right amount of appreciation now, felt all the more important.

Slowly, with trembling fingers, Geralt opened the only reminder he had of the man who could have become his friend.

At the very front of the book there was a note. Nothing special, just a plea that if anyone ever found it, they should return it to Yarrow.

It was as ordinary a note as any, and yet it made Geralt’s breath catch in his throat. He leaned in closer to the book, trying to find what was bothering him so much about the note that his heart sped up and a knot twisted in his gut.

It was…it was just wishful thinking. Geralt had spent so long imagining that it was Jaskier’s notebook that now that he saw writing in it, his eyes were playing tricks on him.

But there was no denying it; the way Yarrow had embellished some of his otherwise spidery letters was nearly identical to Jaskier’s handwriting whenever the poet had rushed to put all of his ideas down onto paper while still wanting them to look pretty.

Geralt’s fingers hovered over the note, as if afraid the resemblance would disappear if he touched the letters.

Geralt swallowed thickly, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from the note. It had to be a coincidence. It had been decades since Geralt had last seen Jaskier’s writing and there were probably a lot of people with similar handwriting. It didn’t mean anything.

Just how Yarrow singing a long-forgotten lullaby didn’t mean anything.

Just how that “See you around” hadn’t meant anything.

Just how Yarrow naming himself after a yellow flower didn’t mean anything.

Just how Yarrow commenting on Roach having braids without ever having seen her with them didn’t mean anything.

It couldn’t mean anything.

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the ball of one trembling hand against it. This was madness. He shouldn’t be even thinking about such things. Those had been coincidences. They had to have been meaningless.

If not, that would mean….if they hadn’t been coincidences, that would mean that Geralt had lost more than just another chance at having a friend. It meant that something far more beautiful and terrible was happening. A dream come true or a nightmare dragging Geralt under.

With a shuddering breath, Geralt forced his eyes open again. His heart was beating wildly and with one last hopeless look – or perhaps it was one full of fearful hope? – to Jaskier’s grave, Geralt flipped to the first page.

For an irrational second, his only though was an amused and fond Yarrow really wasn’t exaggerating when he said he loved to draw eyes.

Then, with the force of a wyvern slamming into him, Geralt’s mind caught up with what he was seeing. The hundreds of eyes that were staring up at him from the pages weren’t just any eyes. Most of them were of a rich amber colour. Witcher eyes. His eyes.

His stomach twisted and cold fear plunged its claws into Geralt’s chest as he frantically flipped through the pages, desperate to find something that proved that this wasn’t happening. That there wasn’t a connection between Jaskier and the man he had let die on his own without even calling him his friend.

But every page he saw only made the terrible certainty grow stronger. At the top of some of the pages, there were notes, like an explanation for what exactly Yarrow had drawn.

Fear.

Hurt.

Guilt.

The eyes staring up at Geralt were like a mirror image of the emotions raging through him at this very moment.

Contentment.

Laughter.

Love.

Yarrow had never seen him like that. There had been so precious few people who had ever seen his eyes the way Yarrow had painted them.

Looking at a lover while being read poetry to.

Playful annoyance at hearing a song made up of purely of puns.

They were too specific. No one could just come up with these scenarios that truly had happened to Geralt such a long time ago. Yarrow couldn’t know. He couldn’t. Not unless –

Devastation while his lover dies in his arms, wishing to see his smile just one more time and listening to the song he’s singing for him.

Not unless somehow, through some cruel twist of fate or an undeserved blessing, Yarrow had been Jaskier.

#reincarnation au #geraskier #geralt #character death #funeral #graves #guilt #fic #witcher #witcher fic #my writing #angst #fanfic

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whitecrowapothecary · 4 years

Text

Like A Dream

Jaskier has had dreams for as long as he could remember- of monsters and magic and all the things that go bump in the night. He dreams of golden eyes and silver swords and honeyed ballads.

AKA the modern immortal/reincarnation AU no one asked for but I’m writing

Read it on AO3 here!

There’s music around him. Coming from him, his throat warm and honeyed with the lyrics he sings. Not him- the bard, the unknown man who captures his mind at night when he closes his eyes. He- they- are playing for an audience. Jaskier is used to this, the wayward looks, captured attention, but it’s… new. There’s an instrument in his hand he’s never learned to play and lyrics on his lips he’s never written, clothes resplendent of another time, another world, and he drinks it in with abandon. Full, flowing skirts, jackets made of the richest silk brocade in all colors, though all are muted compared to the bright, rich amethyst ensemble he seems to have donned for the performance.

He’s deep into his set, if he should call it that, singing about a fishmongers daughter just to get a laugh out of the crowd when his eyes catch on a small, insignificant detail. Jaskier sings and sways among the royalty around him, but all he can see is gold with flecks of amber, curious cat eyes watching him from the shadows. He takes a step closer, then two, then three until he’s propelling through the crowd, and just as a jaw covered in a neat snow white beard is unearthed from the shadows, a blare sounds, and the image shatters.

He gasps awake, clutching at his chest and trying to quell the shaking of his hands. Sweat sticks his hair to the back of his neck and his forehead in small curls which Jaskier rakes a hand through. On the nightstand, next to the bed, his phone vibrates, clanking softly against the wood until Jaskier scoops it up and hits answer. There are only a handful of people who will actually ring through.

“What, Pris?”

“Ah, woke you up huh? Touchy touchy. You haven’t forgotten about our brunch date, have you?” The voice on the other end is perky, far too awake for Jaskier’s liking right now.

“No, no of course not. You aren’t here yet, are you?” He slips from bed, grimacing and rummaging through his closet for something to wear, phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder.

“Almost, a block away.”

“Shit, okay, let yourself in?” The woman on the other end hums, amused, and Jaskier hangs up. Leave it to him to fail to set an alarm for something like this. He drags his sorry carcass into the bathroom, intent on getting a shower. He feels cold and sticky for all the wrong reasons, and when he looks at himself in the mirror the blue in his eyes is offset by the purple bags underneath. It’s… not an attractive look for himself. The hot water pounds against his back when he hops under the spray and he groans, letting it wash over him. Praying it’ll wash away the dream that seems to cling to him, digging at his bones and refusing to leave.

He’d had the dreams for as long as he could remember- at first they were nothing more than terrors, dreams of hideous, foul smelling creatures with sharp claws. Claws that regularly tore into the soft flesh of his belly, or the tender meat of his thigh, leaving him to wake up screaming and thrashing in bed. His parents, bless them, had tried everything to help, from heavy medication to therapy to a stint in a mental facility, but nothing took the monsters away. Medication only trapped him within his dreams, unable to wake up until he was well and thoroughly taken apart, and therapists only insisted the monsters were representations of some trauma he’d sustained as a child. The stay at the mental facility, well, that was more a break for his parents than thirteen year old Jaskier.

He’d learned to hide them, since then, to hold people at arms length and keep them from seeing what he truly was. The monsters rarely followed him into real life, but on the occasion he saw mention of a kikimore on the news, or a striga cropped up in Germany somewhere, well, it was all too easy to flip the channel and pretend. Now though… it was becoming harder and harder to leave his dreams behind when the sun came up. The dreams had shifted when he was almost eighteen, from monsters hunting and maiming him to something else- instruments and performances and gaudy, awful clothing he had no name for. Days spent walking and walking and walking, sweating under the sun but grinning like it didn’t bother whoever was in his dreams. It was harder still, to pretend that the performer in his dreams didn’t have his hands, his wonderful, skillful fingers, or the voice he’d spent years fine tuning.

He’s knocked from his reverie by the sound of his front door opening and clicking shut and the smell of food drifting in. His stomach growls loudly, protesting it’s current situation, and Jaskier hurries to finish his shower and get dressed. He’s got a towel in hand, scrubbing at his hair when he pads out barefoot and spots the blonde currently tinkering with his tv remote. Her blue eyes are bright, friendly, and she motions to the spread of food currently piled on his coffee table.

“Got you coffee.”

“Thank Melitele.” He makes a beeline for it, not caring the way it burns his tongue as he gulps it down. That draws a laugh from his companion, and he throws himself onto the couch, settling his legs across her lap and tossing his towel onto the chair nearby. He’ll get it later. “You’re a godsend, you know that Priscilla?”

A small smile plays on the woman’s lips, colored by rouge lipstick, and she raises a brow. “I do, but it’s nice to hear. Did you not sleep at all last night, Jaskier?”

“Ah, I’m afraid my muse kept me up, as usual.” He grins at her, reaching out to snag a strawberry from her plate before bending to get at the french toast on the coffee table. It smells absolutely divine, and maybe some food will make him feel more like himself and less like a shell of someone else.

“You really need to learn how to prioritize sleep.” Priscilla says, shaking her head fondly and digging into her eggs. He hums, half paying attention to the news on the screen. It’s nothing new, stocks going up and down, the latest in sports, and something about him, actually. Talking about his newest single that’s put him up in the top ten- Her Sweet Kiss. Jaskier clicks away before they can play the music, drawing a laugh from Priscilla. “You know, you never told me where the song came from.”

“Didn’t I? A whirlwind affair in Europe, during my last tour. She was… incredible, shall I say? Truly someone never forgotten.” He’s bullshitting and Priscilla knows it. The song had come to him, as most do now, in his dreams. Ringing through his ears in a voice so close to his he can feel his throat burning when he wakes up. She doesn’t press though- she knows better than to push Jaskier too far. The glassy, far away look he got when thinking about whatever it was that inspired his songs was sad, old, and lingered on Jaskier’s face the rest of the day. Jaskier focuses on eating now, barely tasting bite after bite and only stopping when his stomach is full. Priscilla does much the same, but she chatters through the melancholy.

Jaskier stops himself on a random show, listening to Priscilla but staring at the screen. It’s something nonsense, talking about old instruments, but his hand stops mid bite, the french toast falling back onto his plate with a wet smack. He stares, wide eyed, at the wide, oval bowl of the instrument and the short, sturdy neck. The strings, there are more than a guitar but not nearly enough- no, his had more. Six pairs, one singular. His?

“-ier? Jaskier, what is it?”

“What is that?” His voice sounds strange, words twisted faintly by an accent he’s never had before, and he sets his plate down as Priscilla looks between him and the tv.

“An instrument? You put on the show.”

“But what kind?” At this Priscilla frowns. She doesn’t seem to know either, and she shrugs reluctantly.

“We could ask Essi, I’m sure she knows more. Why, do you recognize it?”

“No.” He says softly, switching the tv off. He ignores Priscilla’s worried look and goes instead to put on socks and shoes, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on. It’s big, engulfs his frame, but there’s something about it he couldn’t get out of his head when he’d seen it in a thrift shop off of 28th. It’s also entirely too hot outside to need it, but he feels naked without it, and the hood will give him a better chance at remaining hidden. Not that that happens much anymore. Priscilla has the food cleaned up when he steps out of his room, and she swings her keys around her finger, lingering near the door.

“Where are we going today, my famous friend?” Jaskier rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Anywhere but here. I think I’ll go mad if I hide in bed anymore.”

“That’s the spirit! There’s this new music store on Madison we could check out, and then that little bistro for a late lunch-” Her words fade from his ears as they merge into the crowd outside of his apartment building. He slips on sunglasses, nondescript ones he’d gotten from a random gas station, and prays that today he looks like anyone else. With Priscilla at his side, arm looped through his, no one pays much attention to the couple wandering down the street, chattering away. Jaskier feels a rush of gratitude for his friend, for the unwavering presence she is in his life. He’s not sure how he would have managed his budding fame without her, or handled being recognized everywhere once his face and name and music became more common knowledge.

“You’re the one who wrote the songs.” A rough voice reminds him, teasing.

“Yes, well, I didn’t expect them to break into my HOUSE for an autograph!”

“Get better doors. And a guard.” He drowns in those eyes, an endless pool of gold, and he reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair away, a smile stretching his lips wide.

“Why would I need anyone other than you?”

Jaskier stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, pitching forward, and it’s only Priscilla next to him that keeps him standing. He rights himself, cheeks pink, and laughs despite his heart pounding in his chest.

“Ah, rather clumsy today. I probably should have had more coffee.”

“Or more sleep.” She counters, Jaskier laughing again and nodding in agreement. More sleep is definitely what he needs. A nice, dreamless sleep. Maybe if he gets that, he’ll be able to function like a human being again, instead of walking through the world with half a mind stuck firmly in fiction. The music shop is a quaint, cute little building tucked in a strip of other quaint buildings, and Jaskier ducks into the dim light of the shop. There are rows and rows of cds, vinyls, movies and more, and his eyes track along them all, taking in the sights and colors. There are plenty of instruments on the wall, guitars, basses, a couple of keyboards and a few sets of bongos even. There seems to be little rhyme or reason besides the alphabetical arrangement of the displays, and Jaskier spends his time wandering while Priscilla goes straight for the vinyls.

He’s near the back of the shop, by the counter when he spots an instrument on display behind the glass display. The sight is enough to make him freeze, and he stares at the smooth wood, the graceful curve of the instrument, finding that his fingers have begun to twitch. This can’t be a coincidence.

“Do you play?” A voice breaks through to him, and he has to blink a few times before he can focus on the man standing before him. His dark hair curls rather attractively, falling around his face and framing rather striking hazel eyes. Jaskier’s countenance sours immediately, and he squints suspiciously. It takes the man a moment, but he grins wide when he recognizes Jaskier. “Dandelion! A pleasure to have you here.”

“Valdo. This is your shop?”

“It is indeed, opened it up after my last album.” He’s proud, almost annoyingly so, but Jaskier begrudgingly has to admit the shop is rather nice. His eyes wander back to the instrument behind Valdo, and Valdo raises his brows. “You never said if you played. Would you like to hold it?”

“You’d let me?”

“I’ve seen how you care for your guitar. I’d warn you it’s expensive, but I know you’re good for any damages.” Jaskier snorts as the other man goes to grab the instrument, and his fingers drum against his thighs. “Do you even know what this is?”

“Not a clue.” Jaskier’s hands are reaching for it as soon as Valdo holds it out, and he tucks the strap around his body. The neck settles into his hands, fingers resting on the strings, and a line of tension holding his body razor tight snaps.

“It’s a-” The soft sound of Jaskier plucking out a melody stops Valdo short, and Jaskier closes his eyes to ward off the dizziness.

A fire crackles merrily in front of him as he plays, tinkering away at a tune with his notebook close by. He isn’t sure about the harmony of the piece, the way the notes blend together. There’s something missing, and he can’t figure out what it is. He stops with a heavy sigh, scrubbing at his face and wracking his brain.

“You’re missing the lowest note in the harmony.”

“Pardon?” He looks up, sees the sensual curve of a small smirk on a very ruggedly handsome face, and those eyes, always those eyes staring back. The man comes over, reeking of pine and metal and home, and reaches to softly pluck at one of the strings. The note rings out and Jaskier latches on.

“Try.” The man whispers, and Jaskier does, drawing the note into his harmony and grinning at the fully bodied life it brings.

Jaskier’s head is spinning when he finally opens his eyes again, Valdo staring at him with unabashed surprise. Priscilla is at his side, hand on his elbow to hold him steady, and he glances down at the familiar way in which his hands hold the lute. Because that’s what it is- his favorite instrument, the thing that made him coin and granted him fame and found him a-

Jaskier’s heart cracks in his chest, and his breath punches out of him in one big whoosh. He lifts the lute over his head, pressing it back into Valdo’s hands before turning to bolt out the front door of the shop. He doesn’t know where he’s going, merely that he has to get away, to find somewhere safe. He feels a thousand eyes on him, whispers following his frantic fleeing, and he ducks into an alleyway, hiding behind a trash can and pressing his back to the brick wall. There’s a stitch in his side from his frantic running and his hands won’t stop shaking as he rakes his fingers through his hair. The song rings through him, as fresh as the day it was written, and the lyrics come to him unbidden.

He’s crazy. He’s well and truly crazy, because there’s no way what he’s seeing can be real, but it’s so vividly him, buried so deep in his heart that there’s no way it could be fake either. His breath comes from him faster and faster, and tears blur his vision as he folds his knees up to his chest and rocks. Priscilla finds him that way, huddled in a ball amongst the trash, sobbing and muttering to himself, and she uses the large hood of his jacket to hide his face as she gets him home. Jaskier has calmed enough to get himself up the stairs when they manage to stumble their way back, and his chest aches from the pounding of his heart.

The tremor in his hands hasn’t abated yet, but the mug that’s pressed into his hands doesn’t shake, so he just enjoys the warmth that it brings him. Priscilla seems at a loss for words, but Jaskier knows what she wants to ask. “Just say it, Pris.”

“What happened? You haven’t been yourself all morning- first with the tv, and then the lute in the shop? Jaskier, I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I have dreams.” He says, voice so soft it’s almost lost in the sound of his heartbeat. “And lately, I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.”

Priscilla reaches out, touching his shoulder lightly, and her face is soft, sad. “They’re just dreams. What you do here, the music you make, that’s what’s real.”

Jaskier nods, but his heart is plummeting in his chest and he doesn’t know why. Priscilla’s words should be a comfort, someone rooted in his reality telling him that his dreams are just that- dreams. The result of an overactive imagination. That’s all they are, all they’ve ever been. Jaskier tries not to let the thought suck him down somewhere he doesn’t want to go, but it’s near impossible to fight the tide rising in him. “They’re just dreams.”

He takes a sip of his lukewarm drink to find that it’s tea- the stuff he usually drinks as a last resort before bed time. It’s never worked before, but Jaskier downs the rest of it and hopes that this time, it will. Priscilla waits until he’s finished to take the cup, and when she comes back she’s holding a very large, very lute shaped object in her hands. Jaskier frowns, confused, but takes it from her anyway, tracing fingers over the lacquered wood. It’s smooth and warm under his touch, and he finds himself picking at the strings just to hear the sound. “Valdo said that it was yours.”

“I didn’t pay him.”

“He knew you’d say that. He said, and I quote ‘I’ve only been holding it for him.’ Whatever that might mean.” Jaskier schools his features into careful indifference, trying not to let his discomfort show. What in the hell does he mean by that? He’s going to have to go back to the shop and talk to him to find out, but he’s not inclined to leave his apartment for the foreseeable future. Priscilla, sensing the mood has gone down, ruffles Jaskier’s hair and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Take some time, Dandy, get some sleep, then come back.”

Jaskier makes a soft noise in his throat at the silly nickname, but it’s sweet and Jaskier has never told her to stop. He watches her duck out of the apartment with one last look his way, and once the door clicks shut, locking behind her, he grips the lute tighter. He hasn’t ever played formally- has never been trained, and while a guitar is similar, there’s more strings than ever and he expects to fumble.

He doesn’t.

His fingers know what to do even without his brain, and he hums along to the melody from before. Here, in the safety of his apartment, he plays and plays until the song is firmly committed to memory and he’s written down the lyrics to go along with it. A song about the monster of the wood, a cruel, hungry creature with the head of a deer, stalking him in the night.

“You need to listen to me-”

“I’m your barker, for better or worse. How can I bark if I never see anything?”

“You stay alive for a day longer.” His hands shake with anger, chest burning with it, and the man in front of him, golden eyes fierce and animal, glares back just as hotly. They’re nose to nose practically, and his head pounds in time with his heartbeat as his hands come up, shoving the man away and watching in shock as he goes.

“Go then. I’ll be here, tending your fire and watching your horse, as that is all I am good for.” He turns then, but a hand grabs at his arm, turning him around on his heel. He pulls against it, fights to be released, but Geralt’s hand bunches in his shirt above his heart and holds him. “Geralt-”

“For better or worse, Jaskier.” His eyes meet gold, molten and scalding, and he’s speechless at the sincere intensity in Geralt’s gaze. “I would rather it be better.”

“You don’t get to decide that-” Geralt cuts him off with a kiss, lips hard against his own. It’s awkward, a bit painful, but Jaskier tilts his head, pulls back a bit and Geralt responds in kind. He kisses, Jaskier decides, like a man who has been kissed not nearly enough, and he commits himself to fixing that immediately. Geralt’s grip loosens in Jaskier’s shirt, but Jaskier’s hand comes up to bury in snow white locks, keeping him close as his heart rockets into his throat.

The strings of the lute dig painfully into his fingers when he comes to, and he shakes himself, releasing his tight hold and groaning when blood rushes back into the pads of his fingers. He tucks the lute back away in its case, not wanting to look at the flowers painted onto the wood along its wide belly. He tells himself not to touch the lute, to leave it alone so that all this will go away, but the longer he sits on his couch, leg bouncing and tv on some awful movie the more his fingers itch to play.

Instead, he forces himself to get up, to pull out his vacuum and mop and cleaning supplies. He spends the afternoon scrubbing down every inch of the apartment, puts away his laundry, and even tidies up his desk, which is a rather artful disarray of papers. Some, like Priscilla, call it a mess, but Jaskier knows where each piece of paper goes, and he prefers it stays that way. Cleaning can only distract him for so long, and once the smell of lemon cleaner becomes too much he caves, grabbing the lute and ducking out onto his balcony.

The sun is beginning to descend on the city, and he allows it to warm his bones and loosen his muscles as he plays. Each song that comes from him is new and old and entirely his, each rich, resounding note a piece of him. The instrument is no more a stranger to him than his guitar, or his flute, or any of the other instruments he’s picked up and enjoyed along the way. Its weight, the feeling of the double strings pressing under his fingers is home to him, and he plays long after the sun is set. There’s a reckoning, a righteousness within this instrument that calls to the deepest parts of Jaskier’s soul, and he finds himself crying with no real reason as to why.

He cries silently, holding the lute close to him and staring out over the city. Cars rush past his building, far below, and somewhere nearby a dog barks. But it’s all background noise- it’s nothing compared to the harsh intake of his breath or the way that it shudders out of him. When he can’t stand it anymore he retreats back inside, leaving his lute on his dresser before stripping down and crawling into bed. There, buried under blankets and utterly, terribly alone, Jaskier closes his eyes and dreams.

“You’re alive.” A low, rough voice breathes behind him. He turns, but he already knows what will be waiting for him, and he can feel his face lighting up in a grin.

“Geralt! Of course I’m alive, how could the world bear to part with me just yet?” His heart jackrabbits in his chest at the sight of the man before him, clad as always, in dark armor and a stormy, conflicted expression. Well, the expression is new. The armor, not so much. He finds himself smiling for no real reason as to why, but Geralt’s face is open and honest and terrified, and he can’t keep from reaching out to gently touch his cheek.

“There were rumors- about a bard, having been murdered by a beast.”

“As if I could be harmed by a beast with you protecting me.”

“But I wasn’t.” Jaskier takes a step forward, cupping his witcher’s cheek and smiling when Geralt leans into the touch.

The dream dissolves as Jaskier shifts, drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. The latter wins out, and his body drifts away while his mind slips again.

Blue eyes stare at him through the mirror. It isn’t a great mirror, small and cracked and woven with imperfections, but he won’t need it for long. He only needs to make sure his hair is presentable, his golden doublet unmarred by any stains, and that his smile, when shown just so, is as charming and delightful as always.

“You’re fussing.” Geralt says, and Jaskier knows, his heart knows that voice and the hand that slides over his hip better than anything. He finds himself leaning back against a strong chest, laughing and tipping his head back.

“Some of us care for our appearance before a performance.” An amused hum, and then lips on his neck, gentle and sweet, kissing a trail up toward Jaskier’s waiting lips. He sinks into the kiss, turning as Geralt’s arms come up and around him, careful not to crease Jaskier’s clothes.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Most of the night. You’re free to come, love. I’m sure they’d love to pester the White Wolf himself.”

“Mmm, pester is right.” The warmth in his chest is softer now, with no edges of anger, and he knows what this is. It’s love. Pure and unfettered by doubt.

That same warmth burns in his chest when he jerks up in bed, leaping from under the covers to run into his bathroom. The mirror he has now is perfect- gleaming with the fresh cleaning he’d done just today and showing his reflection without any defects. The same blue eyes stare back, sweeping over the same lips, the same cheekbones and nicely shaped jawbone. The same messy, tousled brown hair as the bard in the dream. As him . Whoever he was- is- is long gone- left behind in another life completely. That isn’t him anymore, it can’t be, but when he thinks, and thinks hard, they’re there. All the memories, the times in between his dreams. The first time he’d seen Geralt, sitting in the back of a tavern refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, to draw any unwanted attention to him. The feeling of his hair, so devoid of color, twisting around his fingers as he washed blood and viscera from them. His friends- Priscilla, in her blue and red ensemble with the poofy shorts, Essi, a near twin to Priscilla, only shorter and plumper. Valdo, his rival, the troubadour who writes songs without any meaning but somehow comes out on top.

Valdo.

Jaskier scrambles for his phone, dropping it twice before finally swiping open the screen. He has his number, more to make sure he never answers than anything, but now, now he needs it more than anything else. He hits dial without letting himself think, holding his phone to his ear and shifting nervously from foot to foot. The line rings and rings, and just as he thinks it'll go to voicemail he hears a soft click.

"Dandelion? It's nearly three in the morning, what could you-"

"I'm not crazy."

"Debatable." Valdo's voice is amused, but when Jaskier doesn't respond he quickly grows serious.

"You said you were keeping the lute for me." His words are rolling in his mouth, voice mangled by an accent that he can't seem to keep away or bring back. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and then a long, shuddering sigh.

"I was, Julian. For far, far too long. Meet me at the diner on Broadmoor." The line goes dead and Jaskier is left to get ready, a long, long dead name ringing in his ears.

-*-

There are three diners on Broadmoor. Jaskier curses his luck, but only one seems to have the lights on and so Jaskier heads that way first. He pulls on the door and is hit in the face by the smell of stale coffee and hash browns. He glances around, searching, and spots Valdo in a booth back in the corner. His face is drawn, hair a mess, but he has a cup of coffee waiting For Jaskier when he slides into the cheap plastic booth. Valdo slides the mug toward him and he clasps it in his hands, sniffing lightly. He debates putting sugar or cream in it, but he needs the caffeine too badly right now to care much about the bitter taste. Valdo watches his internal debate with a raised brow, leaning back in the booth and sighing.

“You remember.” Jaskier accuses, wincing at the way his tone sounds. Valdo takes it in stride, tilting his head in a small nod and sipping at his coffee.

“I always have. I didn’t know if you would this time around.”

“This time?” Valdo nods again, and Jaskier is quickly becoming frustrated by the non answers. “Valdo, what the fuck is going on?”

“Reincarnation. You’ve heard of it before, yes?” Jaskier nods, and Valdo continues on. “There are some of us who keep coming back. Not always with memories, not always whole. I seem to have no problem keeping them, but others like Priscilla, or Essi, or-”

“Are they really reincarnations?” Jaskier frowns- how much is it reincarnation if you’re just the same body without knowing if your consciousness is the same?

“I said that, didn’t I?” His glare is enough to set a house on fire, but Valdo doesn’t fold under the pressure, instead waving for menus to be brought over. “For decades I was unsure why. Why us? Nothing seemed to connect us together, just random strangers being brought through life. Until I found out you came along as well.”

“You’re saying that I’m the link?”

“You know us all, have some kind of connection. You are the one constant in each of our lives.”

“But the others, they don’t remember?”

“They never have.” Valdo orders something for the two of them, waving away Jaskier’s protest, and plows forward in his conversation. “You don’t always either. I’ve held that lute for the past two reincarnations, neither of which you retained memories for. But you remember now, or are beginning to.”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s voice is a whisper, and admitting it, saying that it’s real takes a weight off his shoulders he didn’t know he was carrying.

“Tell me how?” It’s phrased as a request, and Jaskier nods, staring at his coffee to try and ward off his tears.

“I was seventeen when my dreams started feeling real- performances or days on the road, nights spent stitching wounds or bandaging cuts. Lately they’ve-”

“Been bleeding into your waking hours. Like when you played in the shop.” Valdo’s interrupting makes irritation flare in the back of his mind, but he tamps it down. He’s only trying to help, and is filling in more details than Jaskier would have gotten on his own. Their food comes then, and Jaskier watches as some kind of breakfast scramble is placed in front of him. It’s heavy with hashbrowns, eggs, bacon and cheese. It looks awful. Jaskier digs in hungrily, groaning at the heavenly taste- shitty overnight diners always have the best food. They eat their food in relative silence, too hungry and tired to care much to continue with something else in front of them.

This all seems fake, too good to be real. Valdo’s instant reassurance of what he’s feeling, what he’s dreaming, it has to be some kind of con, some way to get dirt on him. He expects the other man to laugh any minute, to call him crazy and tell him he needs serious help. He’s waiting for a punchline that isn’t coming, and it makes him anstier and anstier by the second. It explains so much- the old, old memories he has of a time before electricity, or running water, of nobles and peasants and monsters. Of witchers and sorceresses and bards. There are newer memories too- of him in a diner much like this, sitting across from a man with white hair and shining golden eyes. Of dancing in a club to his own music, standing alongside all the others in a rally, holding a sign protesting the inequality that ruins his life while cameras show his face. Through it all, his companion is there- a silent, steady presence.

“There’s- a man. Who I am desperately in love with, no matter who I am.”

“Your witcher. White hair, cat eyes?” He doesn’t need to nod for Valdo to know the answer, and he grins. “His name is Geralt of Rivia, though Rivia is long gone now.”

“Is he…”

“Alive? Of course. They, unlike us, do not die.”

“They?” He doesn’t even get a chance to let Valdo talk, his vision going blurry and ears ringing.

“C’mere asshole!” Jaskier laughs, darting away from the witcher intent on catching him. It isn’t Geralt- his hair is dark and cropped short, voice smoother, less gravelly. He’s also much, much more expressive.

“Catch me if you can!” His lungs hurt from running and laughing so much, and he squeaks as hands grab the back of his doublet and yank him to a stop. Jaskier squirms as arms wrap around him, and he pouts, letting himself go deadweight. “You aren’t supposed to use your witchery powers, you know.”

“Oops.” He’s let go then, and Jaskier shoves the other man lightly, grinning.

“Ass. Maybe I’ll go find Eskel, at least he follows the rules of the game.”

“Rules are for peasants.”

“Then you should fit right in, Lambert.” He dodges a swat to the back of the head, laughing and disappearing further into the keep.

Valdo is staring at him expectantly when he blinks, the stone walls and cold breeze fading away from his mind. His food is lukewarm in front of him, and he takes a big bite just to avoid having to say anything yet. Valdo is too smug for his own good though, and he sits forward, grinning.

“Jogged your memory, eh?”

“Shut up.” His insufferable grin only grows bigger, and Jaskier wants to smack it off his face or strangle him. Either would work, honestly. “Is there some way to contact him, or any of them?”

“Not unless you’re a government official, or happen to know someone who had a pest problem. But, there is something that might work.”

“What?”

“Your songs. I'm sure you've already written new ones with the lute- release them in an album. If they’re listening, which is near impossible not to with your reputation, they’ll find you .”

“What if they don’t?”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to bed a government agent.” Jaskier scoffs, wrinkling his nose, but Valdo wags his eyebrows and he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from his chest. He falls into silence then, staring down at the rest of his food, and his voice is soft when he finally finds the courage to speak.

“Thank you. For keeping it safe.” When he glances up, Valdo’s eyes are bright, shining with relief.

-*-

Jaskier does what he does best- he writes a few songs, then writes a few more, until he’s bursting with music and lyrics and ideas. He gets himself into his studio and doesn’t leave until he’s recorded an entire album, with his lute being the main focus. It brings with it a new, exciting kind of charm that his producers eat right up, a kind of mystical energy that isn’t present in any of Jaskier’s other songs.

It’s also a release- he lets go of the monsters that haunted him, bringing them roaring into his music instead and letting them run wild. His dreams are still plagued by memories, but the more he plays, the more he tries to remember, the easier it gets. Turns out when you stop fighting against a piece of yourself, letting it in is much, much easier. The music videos are his favorite part of the whole process- he crafts one specific to each song, embedding as much of a message as he can in the hopes that one of the witcher’s will see. Will see him and know him, and extend a hand.

He tries to look up the witchers, to see if there’s any kind of way to find them online, but Lambert is too common a name and he has no clue what last name he would use, if any. Eskel’s name yields less results, but still too many for him to narrow down, and he’s left back at square one for them. Geralt’s name? Now that pulls up results.

‘ The witcher, most formally known as Geralt of Rivia, is one of the world’s only practicing monster slayers, and a bit of a recluse. He was last spotted hunting some kind of sea serpent along the mediterranean, and then boarded a plane bound for America.’

‘Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf, was allegedly seen decapitating a local woman at a train station in France. When questioned by police, they were informed that the woman was a bruxa who had been preying on locals. Mr. Rivia was released without further incident.’

That article makes Jaskier laugh, and he prints it out to tack above his desk on his cork board. Leave it to Geralt to scare everyone around him while doing his job. Any article related to Geralt gets its spot on the board, actually and he’s fairly certain he looks like a stalker, but they’re his only glimpse into what Geralt has been up to. It makes the pain easier to handle, knowing he’s just been too busy to seek Jaskier out, and certainly not ignoring the neon signs that are his music. Half of them are Geralt’s exploits, after all, and if he doesn’t recognize them then Jaskier has failed to faithfully recreate them.

But the songs work- somewhat. In a small town somewhere in the midwest, a witcher hears Jaskier’s music, and begins to hunt for his white haired brother.

Jaskier, in the meantime goes about his life, bouncing from interview to interview, one of which he’s in now. The chair is somewhat uncomfortable and the lights are a little too bright, but the woman interviewing him is new, nervous, and he does his best to put her at ease.

“You’re doing great, love. What were you saying?”

The woman blushes, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before asking again. “Your newest album, it pulls away from the bouncier, lighter tone of your second album. Why?”

“Good question. Writing fun music is wonderful, lovely, but I, and I’m sure you’ll be surprised, have my own fears. Monsters that haunt my dreams, who begged to be put into song.”

“So the songs are based on dreams?”

“Now you’re catching on.” Jaskier winks, drawing another giggle from her, and he leans back in his chair, tilting his head. “No one can tell me they don’t dream of dark and twisted things sometimes. Of wanting a knight in shining armor to come save them.”

“That’s an incredible way to put it. Are any of the monsters in your songs real?”

“Oh yes. The leshy, or leshen is a forest spirit that is said to roam the deepest parts of a forest. There are also ghouls, terrible hunchback creatures who stalk battlefields, and basilisks, large winged creatures with iridescent scales and scalding breath.”

He sees his interviewer shudder, and his gaze goes soft, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Where did you hear about these monsters?”

“From a friend, years ago.”

"Do you still talk to them?"

Jaskier's eyes find the camera, and it's a terrible cliche to spike the lens, but he does it anyway. "We lost contact a while back. I'm hoping that… through my music, I can find him again."

"Well, I'm sure your fanbase can help!"

"That they can." Jaskier grins, glancing back at the interviewer, and he hears someone yell cut behind them. He stands, shaking her hand and giving her a quick hug. He murmurs a few words of encouragement, and when he ducks into the room they've designated for him he tells his producer to send her something. Flowers or a gift or anything. She handled him like a champ. It's thankfully his last interview of the day, and he grabs his lute, which he brought just in case before ducking out the door. He makes his escape from the building out onto the street with relative ease, slinging his lute across his back to navigate the crowds easier. The amount of times he’s had to refuse security before they learned was more than he could count. He's stopped a few times by fans, asking to take pictures, and he glances at them on his phone once his Twitter dings.

@dandelion stopped and took a picture! Best day ever!

The rest of the post is filled with heart eye emojis and hashtags, but Jaskier stares at the photo. The awful stripes and swirls on his button up are reminiscent of a bowling alley floor, but his jeans are cute and his boots top the whole outfit off. He thought it'd looked cute when he put it on, and is pleased to see that others agree. He looks better in general- the bags under his eyes are all but gone and there's a confidence in the set of his shoulders he hadn't noticed before. Like knowing who he is has completed a puzzle he didn't know he'd lost a piece to.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket as he skips down the steps to the subway, whistling merrily the whole time. The public transportation in the city had to be his favorite thing in the world, aside from jelly donuts and Geralt's eyes. It makes going from place to place a snap, and he doesn't have to constantly tell people he can't drive when they ask where his car is. The train is running a minute behind, as usual, but Jaskier books it down the rest of the stairs and through the turnstile, jogging up just as the doors slide open. People file on quickly, taking their seats, and Jaskier moves to step on when he spots snow white hair.

That in itself isn't unusual- plenty of old people ride the subway, but it's a man who looks no older than his mid thirties. He's dressed in all black, jeans and a heavy sweater, and strapped to his back are twin swords, their pommels shining dully in the fluorescent lights of the train. A duffle bag hangs from one shoulder, nondescript, but a pale, scarred hand hovers over it protectively. Jaskier is aware he's staring, holding up the train, but his feet are rooted firmly in place as his head begins to pound. The man- Geralt- irritated by the lack of movement turns to see what's going on, golden cat eyes cold and hard. The sight sends vertigo crashing through Jaskier so wildly that he feels his knees give out, and his vision blurs as he collapses onto the ground.

-*-

"No, no. He's fine. Don't hold the train for us." A voice, rough and low and heavenly drifts through his consciousness and he groans, burying his face in a warm, nicely toned chest. Strong arms wrap around him, holding him, and he sinks into the embrace without really thinking. When he moves the arms tighten around him, holding him closer, and he finally rouses.

He cracks an eye open to see an officer in front of them, debating with Geralt about getting him medical care, and he groans, sitting up and plastering his best smile on his face.

"Sorry love, my sugar dropped again. Was I out long?" The officer stops when he speaks, and Jaskier tilts his head curiously. "Tell me you didn't call them, you know I don't want the attention."

He looks up at Geralt, false frown on his face, and Geralt shakes his head. "Another passenger. I told them you were fine."

"That I am! I'm very sorry for the confusion, I just got off of a rather long interview and was a bit hungrier than I expected." The officer looks between them, brows furrowed, but tucks his notepad away and nods reluctantly.

"If you're sure you'll be alright."

"Feeling loads better already! Sorry again Officer!" Jaskier watches until the officer leaves the platform, and then shoves his way out of Geralt's arms. Geralt lets him go without a fight, sitting on the bench and watching as Jaskier paces the length of the platform, ranting. He's speaking in a language he knows but doesn't know, but it's better than letting everyone else hear him.

" I dreamt about you for years! Years, and the first thing I do is pass out when I see your goddamn face. Son of a bitch." Jaskier glares accusingly at him, but the corners of Geralt's mouth tug up in a smirk and Jaskier can feel his heart going a mile a minute. " I could have broken my lute, or-or been cut in half by the doors all because you were on the subway you big old insufferable-"

" You dreamt about me." Geralt's voice is soft, fond, and Jaskier loves and hates the way his voice curls around elder speech. " Jask, I didn't know you'd come back."

" Didn't- didn't KNOW? I am, and I am going to brag here, insanely famous, Geralt. Like on the news famous. How in the WORLD did you not know?"

" I don't watch the news."

"Of course you don't- of course I would get the one witcher in the whole wide world who doesn't watch the news ." He's cut back into English at some point, and he stops, fists clenched as Geralt stands up with his palms out. It's something he's seen Geralt do with Roach a thousand times when she's being antsy, and it drives him up the wall. "I am not a horse , Geralt, I am your fucking barker."

"You're acting more like my horse right now." Geralt is close enough now Jaskier can smell the soft cologne he's wearing, and his knees go weak again with the fact that he's actually here.

"You jackass -" Jaskier launches forward, throwing his arms around Geralt's neck and pulling him down to kiss him senseless. Geralt takes it in stride, scooping Jaskier off his feet and spinning with the momentum. He's careful of Jaskier's lute, but his hands are strong and firm as Jaskier is thoroughly crushed to his chest, held so tight that neither of them seem to be breathing. Jaskier doesn't care- his feet are off the ground completely, a fistful of white hair in his hands again and Geralt's lips on his. He has a beard, neat and taken care of, and Jaskier's other hand slips down to cup the side of Geralt's neck, thumb brushing through the coarse fibers.

Geralt is the first to pull away, Jaskier tipping forward blindly to kiss him again, huffing when Geralt smiles and bumps their noses together.

"Train is coming. As much as I've missed this, I'd rather not miss the next one."

"Tell me you aren't leaving me." Jaskier presses their foreheads together, eyes closed to keep any potential tears at bay. “Please.”

“I have to check into my hotel.”

“Geralt of Rivia, if you think for one minute you aren’t coming home to sleep in my bed you’re a fool. Fuck your hotel room.”

“It has a jacuzzi.” Geralt laughs when Jaskier pulls back to glare, and Geralt holds onto Jaskier’s hand, guiding them through the throng of people and onto the train. Geralt motions towards a seat, but Jaskier stays plastered resolutely to his side and just rests his head against Geralt's shoulder. He sways with the movement of the train, but Geralt’s arm is around his hip, holding him steady as the train goes around a curve and slows a bit. He feels more at peace with Geralt next to him than he has in years, and he’s drifted off to sleep when Geralt moves just a bit, dipping down to whisper in his ear. Elder speech brushes against him, trailing down his spine, and his eyelids flutter as he leans in to hear him better.

“What stop do we get off at, Jaskier?”

And oh, if hearing his name from Geralt’s lips isn’t sublime. “Two more.”

“ You were asleep.” Jaskier chuckles softly, turning his head and kissing him lightly.

“ I’ve lived here for years. I know how long I have.” His elder isn’t nearly as pretty or fluid as Geralt’s but he seems to enjoy it all the same, pupils widening at the sound, the sight of Jaskier’s lips moving. He feels like prey being hunted and he loves it. True to his words, two stops later Jaskier is the one to lead them off the train and up the many, many stairs to the street above. His hand never leaves Geralt’s, afraid that if he lets go the man will disappear into the crowd and leave him alone again. His apartment building isn’t far from the station, and he has to pass through three different checkpoints before he’s even flagged into the building. All of the security guards eye Geralt with barely hidden suspicion, but Jaskier is either oblivious or doesn’t care. The hot, possessive kiss that Jaskier pulls Geralt into while waiting for the elevator is answer enough.

Jaskier’s head is spinning again by the time they make it to his door, and he sags against it, panting lightly and trying to get his key in the lock. Geralt’s hand comes up, guiding the key in as he stands just close enough for Jaskier to be intimately aware of every inch of him. Jaskier gasps, shakes against the door and finally manages to shove it open. He hurries into the room, past the kitchen and into the living room. His lute is slung onto the cushions gently just as his knees give out again, and he catches himself on the arm of the couch, Geralt at his side a moment later.

He can’t feel his legs- he really, really can’t feel his legs, and he isn’t sure that it should seem like such a good thing. Geralt is a hard, hot presence between his thighs, and he arches up into Geralt’s touch, whimpering his name. He wants, he wants so desperately and he feels like he could fall apart at any moment, his breaths coming faster and faster as Geralt grins down, at him teeth sharp and glistening and begging to be buried in flesh. He reaches up, brings him down and kisses him, lapping into his mouth just to taste and let a fang scrape against his tongue.

His chest is heaving when he blinks from his memory, and oh, oh he’s embarrassingly, frustratingly hard. How in the hell does he explain something like this? His knees smart from where they’ve hit the floor and he pitches himself forward, out of Geralt’s surprised hands, his palms slapping against the wood of his floor as he pants. It’s better than letting Geralt see him, worked up over nothing. But he doesn’t get the chance to even think of a lie- he hears Geralt’s sharp intake of breath, the soft huff of a stunned laugh. Geralt is on his knees next to him before he can move, lips on his neck and teeth digging just so into the pale, unmarked flesh. Jaskier keens without meaning to, the noise spilling from his lips, and his cheeks flush when Geralt makes a triumphant noise, pulling back and using a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back make him sit back.

“If you say anything smart, Geralt, I will throw you off my balcony.”

“You don’t have to hide from me.” Is all he says instead, and he takes Jaskier’s hands, guiding him to sit on the couch while he takes care of Jaskier’s lute. Jaskier watches, knees pressed to his chest to hide his slowly dwindling erection as Geralt hunts around his apartment, breathing deep and seeming pleased at what he finds. He lingers briefly by the bedroom door, but seems to think better about exploring there just yet. Instead he reaches up, undoing the clasp across his chest and letting his swords slide from his back. He places them on the coffee table and pulls his sweater up and over his head. Jaskier watches it all, eyes wide, and he jumps as the sweater is tossed at him. He catches it with only a minor fumble, pressing it to his face and breathing deep.

He can almost feel the growl that rumbles through Geralt at the sight, and he grins, toothy and bright, sniffing again. It’s easy to lose his train of thought at the sight of Geralt- Modern clothes suit him well, from the cut of his jeans to the way his t-shirt shows off the rather lovely shoulder to hip ratio he has. Practically perfect. What really arouses him, and this shouldn’t ever be admitted out loud, is the amount of weapons Geralt has on him. There are two pistols tucked into sheathes under his arms against his sides, at least two knives tucked into each boot, not to mention the swords he’s already discarded.

“How do you draw the pistols with your sweater on?”

“I don’t.” Geralt’s voice is amused, and he reaches to unbuckle the leather harness, silver rings glittering along his fingers. There are no fingers that are bare of rings, whether they’re smooth, simple bands or ones studded in small spikes. It’s… ridiculously attractive and Jaskier fears for his heart at this rate. The holsters slip off of his shoulders and they too are left on the table with his swords, though he doesn’t go for the daggers in his boots at all. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed to.” He breathes out, reaching a hand out as Geralt pads over. His fingers splay against Geralt’s chest as the older man leans down, kissing him slowly, the warm metal of his rings sliding across Jaskier's cheek. Jaskier shivers at the sensation, making a soft noise as he stretches up further to try and get closer. Geralt pulls back too soon, always too soon, and Jaskier groans with disappointment.

“Tell me what happened when we came in.”

“Do we really have to talk about that now?” Geralt leans back, eyes searching his face, and Jaskier sighs dramatically, tugging Geralt to sit next to him on the couch so he can lean against his chest. "I wasn't born with my memories. I had- it feels stupid to repeat this all- I had night terrors as a child."

"Of monsters." Jaskier nods, pressing Geralt's sweater to his face and speaking through the fabric.

"Particularly of me being eaten by them. When I got older, graduated high school, they shifted focus. They showed me, or the bard I thought was haunting my dreams, following you, performing at a banquet, being chased by a farmer's husband. Within the past few months they got worse. They slipped into my daydreams, took them over, until I could hardly go outside without seeing something that would set them off."

"Is that what happened on the platform?" Jaskier shakes his head, sighing.

"I don't know what that was- a reaction to seeing you again, after only seeing you in dreams maybe? All I remember is getting hit by the worst vertigo I've ever felt, and then I was waking up in your arms. This last time- I'm not sure. I really don't want to keep collapsing though, my knees won't be able to take it."

His joke is weak but Geralt chuckles anyway, pressing his nose into Jaskier's hair. "I'll get you kneepads."

"My hero." He feels a rumble go through Geralt's chest and that brings a smile to his face. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Tell me about you, what you've been doing. I, for one, have been struggling with my memories and made it as a musician. But you, last of the witchers, are impossible to find info on."

"How do you know I'm the last?"

"Internet speculation. Don't worm your way out of this." Geralt sighs heavily, shaking his head and muttering to himself before Jaskier turns and plops himself into Geralt's lap so Geralt has to look at him.

"Eskel and Lambert retired a few years ago. Contracts are few and far between."

"What do you do then when you aren't fighting monsters?"

"I… Translate." Jaskier doesn't think he's heard right, and he tilts his head.

"Pardon? Was my very sexy boyfriend about to tell me something even sexier?" Geralt raises a brow at the word boyfriend, but Jaskier can see that he's pleased by the automatic assumption that they're together. Like they were never apart at all.

"I interpret. Mostly for doctors offices or business meetings. I'm occasionally called to the field when researchers need help."

"What languages?" Geralt doesn't say anything, cheeks flushing a faint pink instead. Jaskier grins then, pleased as all get out, and he leans forward, bumping their noses together and watching the way Geralt's pupils open wider at the contact. "What languages, Geralt?"

"There- aren't many I don't know."

"Someone's been busy."

"I had time. And language barriers make hunting harder." Jaskier laughs at the defensive tone to Geralt's voice, leaning their foreheads together and laughing until Geralt kisses him to shut him up. And even then he giggles against Geralt's lips, wiggling when Geralt tickles at his ribs.

"No wonder your elder is good." Geralt huffs out a laugh, shaking his head and leaning back so he can look at Jaskier, gaze sweeping over Jaskier's face slowly.

"My brothers and I are the only ones fluent."

"In the world?"

"There are small elven communities hidden around, but other than that, yes."

"Where are your brothers?"

"Somewhere in the midwest." Geralt says it with a shrug, as if it isn't a big deal. "They move frequently."

"Too used to being on the Path." Jaskier muses, though it's truer than he might realize. “What about you, where do you settle?”

“I don’t.” Jaskier tilts his head, thinking about that. He isn’t sure why Geralt would ever settle down, since he’s the last witcher active apparently. It would make sense for him not to have any place to call home, but the thought bothers him. A lot more than it should.

“You have a home here, if you want it.” He whispers, heart in his throat, and Geralt’s whole demeanor softens. His eyes look more amber in the setting sun coming through his balcony, and Jaskier leans forward, lips brushing Geralt’s at the same time his phone rings. He groans, intent to ignore it, but Geralt’s fingers dip into Jaskier’s back pocket to pull it out. He hits answer, holding the phone up to Jaskier’s ear as he glares.

“Jaskier, who the fuck are you kissing?”

“Hello Priscilla, nice to see you again, I’ve been just dandy since we last saw each other.” Jaskier takes the phone from Geralt, pressing it to his ear on his own.

“Jaskier, Twitter is in an uproar, there are pictures everywhere.”

“Naughty pictures?” Jaskier puts the phone on speaker while he moves over to Twitter, scrolling through the thousands of tags he’s gotten in the past two hours alone. They’re all the same picture, which Jaskier saves immediately, some better quality than others. There’s him in his bowling alley button up, held aloft in Geralt’s arms, kissing him senseless. It’s a rather artistic photo, the contrast between his bright colors and lute and Geralt’s stiff black clothing and threatening swords. “Ah.”

“That’s all you have to say? You haven’t seriously dated anyone since high school and that's what you say?” Priscilla is pissed, rightfully so, and Jaskier winces.

“Look it’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, I just-”

“I asked him not to.” Jaskier can hear the sharp intake of breath over the phone from Priscilla when Geralt talks, and she’s much more pleasant this time when she speaks. Traitor.

“Oh. And you are?”

“Geralt.”

“And where are you from, Geralt? How long have you been dating my best friend?” He sees Geralt’s lips quirk in a smile, and he rolls his eyes, letting Geralt do the talking. At least that way he isn’t getting yelled at.

“Rivia. We’ve been seeing each other for a few years now, I would say.” Jaskier snorts at the lie, except well- it isn’t really a lie. They’ve been together for years and years over entire lifetimes.

“Rivia?” A distant quality overtakes her voice, and Jaskier winces, clapping a hand over his ear as Priscilla squeals. “Jaskier, please tell me you aren’t dating Geralt of Rivia.”

“Uh.” Geralt’s lips twitch upward as he raises a brow at Jaskier’s hesitation, but Priscilla is laughing, wheezing out little breaths, and Jaskier waits for her to calm down before he answers. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, no it’s just unbelievable.”

“Hey!” There’s offense in Jaskier’s tone, and Geralt’s hand rests on his hip, squeezing lightly. Jaskier shudders at the touch, scowling, but his witcher is the picture of innocence. “I guess the cats out of the bag, eh love?”

“Mhm.” Gods Jaskier has missed those little sounds, the answers but not answers.

“You have to say something on Twitter before your fans break the site. And introduce us properly.”

“Right, right. Dinner okay?”

“Only if I get to pick the place.”

“Deal. I’ll call you later, okay?” Priscilla gives an affirmative and hangs up, Jaskier tilting his head at Geralt with his brows raised. “So, Geralt of Rivia, ready to be official with a popstar?”

“Not really. But with you? I’ll manage.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, moving to tuck himself against Geralt’s side. Geralt’s arm snakes around him, hugging him a bit closer as Jaskier raises his phone.

“Say cheese!” He grins wide, waiting until Geralt isn’t glaring to snap the photo. It’s a good one, Geralt’s eyes liquid and warm, the corners of his mouth tilted up in the smallest of smiles. It’s definitely going to be his wallpaper. Jaskier posts it onto Twitter with a simple caption.

My knight in shining armor.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #modern au #reincarnation au #immortal geralt of rivia #flaskbacks #popstar Jaskier

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dhwty-writes · 4 years

Text

Of Witchers, Bards and Broken Hearts

So, uhh, I saw @spielzeugkaiser‘s art. Wanted to write a one-shot. It got out of hand. Decided to split it into separate parts. It got even more out of hand. I am now, apparently, writing a full-length fic. Anyways. Have the prologue?

Summary: Six months have passed since Geralt and Ciri found each other. Since then, they have been on the run from... well, everyone, basically. Geralt is tired, Ciri is hungry, Roach is dead. And then they stumble across a very particular viscounty named Lettenhove. The problem? Geralt broke the Viscount’s heart on a mountain and Julian ‘Jaskier’ Alfred Pankratz, a bard, a friend, a lover, is slow to forgive.

part 2

Read on AO3

The Viscount de Lettenhove had a... a reputation to say the least. He had left his home when he had been fourteen, off to Oxenfurt to study the Seven Liberal Arts, vowing never to return. That alone had been seen as less than ideal by a great many of people – though their choice of words hadn’t been nearly as nice. He had redeemed himself, in a way, by graduating summa cum laude four years later. He had gambled it away again by disappearing not a month later without so much as a word. And by leaving his family and subjects to figure out that the famous Jaskier was, in fact, their Julek by themselves

It still surprised him a great deal that he had gotten away with it for seven years until he had played at a Cintran banquet that had become very famous – though regrettably not by his doing. The only reason he hadn’t been declared dead in the meantime was that he had occasionally used his real name when times were especially hard, he supposed. Once he had been discovered, however, his family had managed to bully him into writing a few letters a year, at least. His vows of staying away, on the other hand? He had been even more adamant on keeping them.

No, there was only one person in this world who he would ever break them for. And that was also, coincidentally, the only person who would never ask it of him to do so.

Or so he’d thought.

Julian ‘Jaskier’ Alfred Pankratz had returned to Lettenhove not quite one and a half years ago on a beautiful spring's eve, the cherry trees in full bloom and the crops swaying in the breeze. For his family, it had been a jubilance. For Jaskier, it had felt like bitter defeat.

For the people of Lettenhove, it had been a shock. The loving, loud and ludicrous boy they had known had never returned from the Path. Instead he was a suddenly a man grown, sullen and sombre and silent who sought solace in his siters' embraces.

There had been many rumours in those first few months after he had ridden up to the gates demanding entrance about what had happened out there. They spoke of friendship and fervour, of affection and agony, of hundreds of heartbreaks and lifetimes of loyalty. Of course, none of them were true, strictly speaking. But many of the whispered guesses came so close to veracity it hurt all the same.

It had gotten better, though. There had been no other choice. He was the Honourable Master of Lettenhove and member of the Oxenfurt Academy's Faculty of Most Contemporary History whether he liked it or not and there was a war threatening them all.

This time there was no university to escape to, no witcher to follow, no destiny calling. For the first time in his life, Jaskier had run into a dead end. For the first time in his life, he could no longer run from his duty.

And now he was standing in his father's study, wearing his father's sword and looking across his father's lands as the sunset tinted them in the embers of a dying day, the most beautiful mixture of blood red light and bruise purple clouds above golden fields and emerald forests. ‘There’s a story in this,' the thought startled him. ‘Has the queen put on her ruby glasses to see the world as it had been before her lover scorned her? Has the dragon come to bathe the world in fire? Has-‘ He quickly pushed those thoughts away before they could make a home in his mind. ‘I must not.’

Before it might have been enough to inspire him for a new ballad. ‘It would have been enough for a thousand.’ Before returning. Before the war. Before... everything.

Now he could control the itch in his fingers fairly well. It was not just that his life in Lettenhove did not compare to a muse as magnificent as his travels. As magnificent as- 'No, don't think about it, it just hurts.'

It was also that for the first time in his life, Jaskier considered if his father had the right of it. What use had the arts for him now that he was- well, not old, most certainly not old, he had barely seen thirty-four years go by - 'Gods above, already?' What use had the arts for him now that he was settled? He had responsibility now. A responsibility to the land, the name, the people. To his legacy.

'I viscount's legacy shan't be telling a witcher's tales,' he could still hear his father's voice.

'Fuck you, father,' he thought. 'And stay in your grave where you belong.' He would love to continue telling a witcher's tales. The thing was, however, he couldn't anymore. Geralt had made that very clear.

'If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.' The words still stung as much as they had on the day the witcher had first spoken them into existence.

The other thing was, Jaskier couldn't really leave Lettenhove anymore. The disappearance of an heir apparent was one thing. The disappearance of a Viscount quite another. His father, the bastard, had died, and bound him to these lands.

'My lands,' he had to remind himself again. It was still weird to think that, his lands. For so long Lettenhove hadn't been anything his. Not his residence, that had been whatever dry spot they could find. Not his own, that had been his father's. And certainly not his home, for that had been at Geralt's side. But Geralt had sent him away and he had returned so now everything was different. Oh, what would he give for the ability to reverse time.

‘That’s useless,’ he had to tell himself. ‘He’d send you away again. And again, and again, and again. Quit thinking about that which you cannot change.’

There was a timid knock on the door to his study that forced him to abandon his melancholy thoughts. He did that a lot, these days. Brood, that was. It wasn't something he had ever liked to do before, but now there was scarcely anything else to occupy his mind with and- he was doing it again. "Come in," he called without turning around. He had long learned to tell the members of his household apart by the sound of their steps.

"Milord," said shy Marta with the shuffling feet, "I am sorry to disturb you..."

The viscount spared the idyllic landscape one last glance before he sighed and turned around. "You did not. What is it?"

"There, uh-" Marta looked away. "There's a witcher at the gates. He's asking to see you."

Jaskier frowned. 'A witcher?' He forced the feeling of euphoria from his mind before it could make itself comfortable. "Tell him to go away." For a moment he paused, allowing himself to wonder which one it might be. 'Do I know him?' Then again, he was not really in the mood for visits and a visit it had to be for there were no monsters in Lettenhove. "And that we are in no need of witchering."

The young servant shifted uncomfortably on her feet. "He's very persistent, milord."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 'Of course, he is.' "Then be persistent, too."

"I mean, I wasn't there, I wouldn't know how persistent he is but that is what Marin told me when he came to fetch me, so-" He ground his teeth. The darting of her eyes and her incessant babbling set his nerves on edge and made him lose his own train of thought. 'Is that what I'm like?' he wondered for a moment. He was half of a mind to yell at her when she finally spoke again: "Marin also told me to tell you that, uh, the witcher claims to know your, um- your son."

Jaskier froze as an icy hand wrapped around his heart, gripping tightly. "My son?" he asked a bit confused. "What did you say was his name again?"

"He didn't give us one."

'Smart man,' he thought appreciatively. "Well, then, what does he look like?"

"Like a witcher?" she tried.

He groaned: "Marta-"

"I wasn't there, milord!" she said defensively again. "I only got a glimpse at him, I swear it. But a witcher he was, large and scary, with two swords and his hood all up in his face. He wasn't alone, though."

"A horse?" he concluded but she shook her head.

"A boy, I think. Maybe he stole the child."

Jaskier sighed loudly and massaged his temples. "Witchers do not steal children," he said slowly. No matter how often he told them, there was nothing he could do about superstitions that had been in place for generations. "If you didn't see him, was there at least anything else you heard?"

"Sure!" she answered. 'Melitele's tits, finally!' "It doesn't make a lot of sense, though. He told us to thank you for the invitation."

He waved his hand expectantly. Marta didn't answer. "Was that all?" he asked impatiently.

"And that he's run out of apple juice."

He frowned. "Apple juice?" he repeated incredulously. Why on earth would a witcher come to his gates to tell him he was lacking apple juice of all things- 'Oh.' Of course. Jaskier ground his teeth forcefully.

"He hasn't heard then," he gritted out. Well, that was just his luck, wasn't it? Of course, it had to be the only witcher in the whole wide world he definitely did not want to see to come knocking on his door. And the child? It couldn't be, could it? There had been rumours but he hadn't given them any credit until now. But if they were true- "Fine," he said after a long while and straightened his back, steeling himself as if for battle. "Send him in."

Oh, and what a battle it would be.

#My writing #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfiction #it's angsty #angst with a happy ending #though that will take a while #of witchers bards and broken hearts #OWBABH

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so--many-fandoms · 4 years

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Jaskier is technically a noble, right? So he probably had to go through all the fancy noble tutoring and such, not just for math and literacy and normal school stuff but for etiquette and politics and all the noble-specific training that anyone who might end up ruling at least some portion of land would need.

After Cintra falls, Ciri is the last remaining heir to the throne (unless you start looking into distant cousins and other branches that may or may not exist or have any claim to the throne); either way, assuming they manage to drive nilfgard out someday, she’ll be the next ruler. Do you see where I’m going with this?

At some point, probably a few months after they found eachother, Ciri is going to make some comment about how having her former life destroyed sucks but at least she’s escaped her boring old lineage tutor or something, and Geralt is going to realize that not only is he in charge of raising and protecting a tiny human child, he’s in charge of a royal tiny human child who will one day be the Queen of an entire country. Then he’s going to panic because she definitely needs to be learning things for that but they don’t teach Witchers how to be nobles, he has no idea what she needs to learn, this isn’t like sword fighting, he can’t teach her himself! And so his first thought will probably be Yennefer, because she was a court mage and he had probably already asked her to help teach Ciri magic/control. When he asks, though, she says she can’t help him because while sure, they received some court training at Aretuza, it was all manipulation and making people like you enough to avoid getting killed or fired for accidentally offending some random important noble (its a different story if you did so on purpose, of course). Anyway, she had never learned any of the things nobles had to know, and especially not the kinds of things they taught noble children. She was 0% qualified to be a royal tutor for anything beyond magic, and probably reading/languages (particularly Elder) and maybe math, because some spells definitely involve math to get the correct affect.

So Geralt is still panicking, and now he’s thinking he’s going to somehow have to find some noble that he can trust to know where Ciri is, and worse, what kind of noble would be willing to travel around the continent with a Witcher? So he is thinking that he’s probably going to have to leave Ciri with this random noble for months at a time, because she needs an education and to be prepared to rule but how the fuck is he going to find some noble who’s both willing to look after a Witcher’s kid (who might be the crown princess of a powerful kingdom but is also being hunted by a powerful invading army with a dark mage, any political advantage from fostering her would be negated by the huge target doing so would paint on your back) and trustworthy enough that Geralt could let her out of his sight with them? Now, there are two ways this could go.

1) yennefer Knows Things and decided to take pity on Geralt after he’s so clearly (well, clear to people that know him well(or can read minds)) freaking out over the issue, and casually mentions “isn’t that bard of yours a Viscount or something? Maybe he can help.” Skip Geralt’s what kind of viscount is named Jaskier?? confusion (yen: you didn’t know that’s not his real name?), he immediately goes to track Jaskier down, because even if they haven’t seen eachother since the dragon mountain, and Jaskier might never want to see him again no matter how much he apologizes, he knows Jaskier would never turn on Ciri. He finds him rather quickly because a lot of people are gossiping about the “Toss a Coin” bard who has recently debuted a fantastic new tragic love ballad (Geralt is definitely having Feelings the first time he hears it. Maybe it’s just coincidence that the story of Her Sweet Kiss sounds so familiar? It has to be, right? Right??? Because if not... well. There’s a third person in that song, and Geralt doesn’t think he could possibly have been that blind- but then again, he’d never known his friend was a noble or his name wasn’t actually Jaskier, had he?). Cue lots of reunitement feels and apologies and hugs (and Ciri shipping them from the background). Geralt is so relieved that Jaskier is safe and forgave him that he forgets why he had been looking for him so urgently until Jaskier asks something about where he was going/why he was in town or something like that. Geralt says something about how he’s currently raising a Princess, and he can teach her fighting and survival but he didn’t even know she was supposed to be studying things like a century’s worth of noble family trees and how to tell someone to fuck off with silverware until she mentioned how much more exciting monster-identification-lessons were, and apparently Jaskier is actually a noble? Named Julian??? And Jaskier, being fluent in Geralt, correctly interprets this as “what. Geralt. You want me to be Cirilla’s tutor? The future queen of Cintra? I’m not as young as I look, it’s been decades since I had to think about any of that bullshit, oh, fu-sorry, sorry, small ears, gods. I may be a professor at Oxford for a winter every now and then, but I am NOT a royal tutor! Besides the fact that royals learn things lower nobles don’t, I’m from Rhedania, not Cintra, we use an entirely different fashion language, and they have a weird thing about-” “Jaskier. Where the fuck am I going to find a trustworthy Cintran noble, let alone one qualified to teach her?” “Language! and they- oh. Good point. I suppose I know more about it than you do, at the least. Ugh. If I’m going to have to try to remember all this sh-stuff, I definitely am going to need some books. Cintra’s library would be best, country specific info and all, but there’s no way we’re going to get any of that, if it hasn’t burned already. Maybe Oxenfurt? If we-” “make a list. Yen has... resources.” “Well that’s terrifyingly ominous. And I hope you’re planning on letting me teach her music too, if we’re going to have to put up with all this stuffy etiquette!”

2) Yennefer doesn’t say anything, either because she figures Geralt must already know and have chosen not to go to Jaskier for some reason or because she never bothered to pay enough attention to Jaskier to find out herself. Geralt leaves to continue on his way to Kaer Morhen or just Away, because they’re still too close to Nilfgard’s front line for his comfort, and assumes that he’s just going to have to wait for the war to end to find a trustworthy noble who can teach her. On the way, they hear that Jaskier is just a couple of towns out of their way and decide to go find him because Geralt has been wanting to apologize for being a dick for months but he’d been too focused on Ciri’s safety to track him down (or maybe they just walk into a tavern and he’s there, preforming, and it’s awkward and angsty and leaves Ciri wishing she could lend them a brain cell or two because clearly they have none). Geralt apologizes, angst is had, feelings are aired. In the end, Jaskier decides to follow them because he’s missed Geralt and also he’s kind of famous for being the White Wolf’s Bard, and if Nilfgard is looking for Geralt a squishy (mostly?)human bard is a much easier target than a Witcher, and so he should also probably be heading away from the war and who is he to deny the extra protection of traveling together? Anyway, after they’ve been reunited for a few days or weeks, Jaskier gets fed up because he knows Geralt has been angsting over something, and at first he thought it was related to the whole reunion drama but it’s been long enough and it clearly has not gotten better. So he waits until Ciri is asleep and ambushes Geralt with concerned questions because sometimes the element of surprise was the only way to get him to spill things regarding feelings. Geralt knows he won’t give up, so he tells him about how he’s worried because he can do his best to protect Ciri physically, but he never thought himself qualified to raise a child, let alone a princess who will inherit a kingdom, and he knows there are a lot of things she should be learning to be ready for her future responsibilities but he had never had anything even resembling a noble education, and Yennefer may have been a court mage but she didn’t either, and unless Jaskier had some secret noble lover who would be willing to travel with them and live in a castle full of Witchers for however long the war lasted, he wasn’t going to be able to give her the education she needed until at least after the war, and she’d probably be expected to take the throne at that point so clearly that would be an issue, because while on the job training is great the fate of the kingdom would be in the balance, and- (okay, a lot of that was probably Jaskier reading between the lines. Geralt would never have spoken that much, but he was definitely thinking all of it, and Jaskier had gotten quite good at reading his Witcher over the years, thank you very much). “Geralt. You do know I’m technically a Viscount, right?” *confused silence* “Sure, I might not know every detail about Cintra’s trade history or some of the more royal-specific stuff, and it’s been a while since I had my own lessons, but if I had to sit through 16 years of unbearable Nobility Education, I may as well do something useful with it. I might not be at all qualified under normal circumstances, but I’m definitely better than nothing, right? And I can easily make learning it much more interesting than some stuffy old tutor or governess. Do you know how much easier it is to memorize dates and names when set to music?” “What the fuck.” “Oh, and literature! Rhetoric! Grammar! Not necessarily vital to ruling, you have scribes for a reason, but really words are one of the few things I actually am officially qualified to teach. No reason I shouldn’t go the whole way if I’m already doing this, and a good education is an important tool for anyone.”

#the witcher #im sorry this is so long #if only i had this much motivation for my essays #geraskier #jaskieralt?#ciri #cirilla fiona elen riannon #i love her #honestly i love all of them

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gyujeongfmd · 3 years

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restructuring task 1 / changes *+10 ecp

1. assuming your muse has changed in some way, be it internally or as a result of a change of the external factors around them, how is your muse different? these can be as small as an opinion on a song they hadn’t released previously or as big as a major change in their background. (wc / 297)

if the spectrum lies in minjung not changing at all, and taejin doing a 180. then, gyu’s right in the middle. there are a few changes — one being that now he dances, and he’s no longer a main rapper. but the dancing portion isn’t something he trained on or necessarily has a passion about, but instead something that comes instinctively to him? he’s the opposite of a 몸치 aka he is the opposite of not having any sense of rhythm. that kind of stuff comes natural to him, and even when he was underground inside his hyung’s apartment — his dancing was above average for someone who’s never had a dancing skill. however, that becomes polished once he enters gold star.

another change is that he’s at gold star now — it came about when he tried to audition for show me the money as a young child, but instead got recruited (all thanks to his looks. but turns out he’s more than a pretty face). this meant he trained under gold star and they promised him a bunch of things? he believed it because he was still naive, and under the thought that he’d find some freedom by debuting as an idol (he had no idea what idols did prior to this, or a bad general understanding).

i’d say his general change is his attitude towards his group? knight was more focused on him not liking his group at all, but with platinum he feels in a way sorry though he doesn’t outwardly show it. there’s some sense of brotherly bond but not enough to tether him, but also not far off that it brings him to completely leave. as a result, he’s in limbo about how he is — still grappling with that one day at a time.

2. what does your muse think of their company and their group? (wc / 259)

compared to bc, gyujeong likes gold star. at least, enough that he doesn’t outwardly want to start a smear campaign about bang sunyoung like he did with kim byungchul. that being said, he doesn’t really like the company either — the noonas that recruited him promised everything and for a while, when he was a trainee he did get good treatment compared to the half basements he was living in with his hyungs. however, he debuted and he realized that this was all bullshit — everything they promised was gone and done especially when the songs he releases are complete shit and they rarely let him take a hand on it. (well, that’s because of his punishment).he realizes now that there’s no freedom in debuting, and a bit too late. it’s hardened him to the point where he blames gold star for his big downfall of being this new persona he wasn’t when he was a child.

as for his group? he doesn’t hate his group nor does he love his group either. the music they release, he thinks is corny for the most part — especially the ballady nature. however, he feels somewhat sorry for dragging them down in a way? he feels the shit they get is mainly because of him, and he feels some loyalty to his group especially because they’ve picked up on where he’s fucked up in the past. he’s still not letting them be all blood brothers, hugging and saying ilysm! lylas! but he’s learn to grow with them, and just take it as is.

3. is your muse on their first contract or their second? if they’ve renewed, what were their feelings around that at the time and what were their hopes for their second contract? if they haven’t renewed, what are their current thoughts on the end of their eventual first contract? (wc: 303)

gyujeong renewed his contract with gold star in 2018. honestly, he knows why he did it. but he regrets it to a degree — half of it, i’d like to say is the gold star pressure. they pressured him, basically giving him the lines of ‘what are you gonna do now? you have no career outside of platinum.’ which was true considering he had 0 solo opportunities back then. he was 26 at the time, so he was aged so even if he wanted to make his debut as a rapper, it’d be hard since he was getting so much shit for selling out to be an idol to begin with. plus, public hate surrounding him at that point was a high, and gold star basically made it like they were the only option to save him — his 26 year old ass was scared on the inside, as much as he hates to admit. as a result, he signed on for another year thinking he didn’t want to retire because what skills did he have to offer? he didn’t graduate high school, he didn’t go to college. he makes music, but if gold star decided to black list him then he’d be fucked with a 0 person fan base.

another reason he chose to sign on was because of his group. this is unknown but deep down he felt sorry for the shit he caused within his group — and seeing as how his group all signed on, he felt some sense of responsibility to carry on, especially because they’re a four person team. one person lost is 25%, and that’s a lot when you have more groups in the horizon waiting to take over whatever niche platinum is in.

so, all in all, he signed on bc he had no choice / kinda felt guilty.

4. what are your muse’s goals and motivations? (wc / 324)

gyujeong doesn’t have many goals at all — at this point, he’s given up having any goals within gold star because he feels he’s been fucked over by them one too many times. he got a solo? which was great, and oddly well received by the public — but he also thinks those were pity listens, and not worth much. doubts it transfers over if he came back (he kinda cares). but realistically, his goals might be to release another album in the future?

right now, his attention’s on fashion though. he’d like to get more global recognition for his line, far from the asia target market. he’d want to be known with the greats (that’s just wishful thinking lmao). but it’d be nice to house a fashion week set, or go at least. he’d want to carry on his relations with chanel because he truly loves the brand and everything it stands for.

motivations? he has none. he doesn’t know what love is, has basically no friends and a cat. he’s living life day by day and seeing what becomes of it — ideally, what he’d want to really have as a goal is to find happiness. corny, i know. but the happiness he once had as a child (void of any parental figures).

i’d suppose his goal right now is to stop writing music based on what his company wants. they know the tracks he touches usually are generally better received than the public, and because his ‘ban’ aka punishment for getting into scandals is over (ala a solo debut), gold star seems to want to make him use his creativity for platinum’s tracks. however, he doesn’t want to be a pack mule and wants to start creating music for the sake of him — basically, he’s exhausted from his solo debut doesn’t know if he wants to make a comeback at all or wait another ten years or just retire completely.

5. what is one conflict, internal or external, that your muse is currently dealing with, has recently dealt with, or will need to deal with in the future? (wc / 329)

he’s at a low — he has no real friends, minus hidden figures here and there. he has no music left on the table that gold star seems to want (they always tell him last minute and pick the songs he doesn’t want to release). he basically got told off by someone he loved to get over it — he has nothing left. he’s a dramatic little bitch, but what can i do?

he’s dealing with how to handle these things one by one.

career wise — he’s doing a lot in fashion? and that becomes a piece of confusion when he neglects music for fashion and gold star wants something released, and they can’t because gyu hasn’t touched logic or ableton in near months prepping for the next line of his work. he does it when inspiration hits and works at his own pace. then again, he can’t? because he has the guilt of having to carry the burdens of his past he doesn’t let show. it’s a recipe for disaster when it all brews internally and he doesn’t let it out and instead runs to different avenues for escape.

he doesn’t know what he wants. he just wants to live life like kanye, but knows that he can’t because he’s not kanye.

he’s also dealing with the conflict of being pigeon holed into one genre. his earlier works focused more on being true to himself, and his core — into the new world, empty. etc. the more sentimental ballad-esque pop songs were when he was more carefree / optimistic about the world. however now, he’s been more hardened? and the scandals have left him more contained as to what gold star would let him do — aka, keep up the bad boy image the public seems to know him for. as a result, he’s not able to venture out or get back in touch in fear of what others may think / his underground buddies may think

6. if your muse has established career claims, what are their thoughts on their career so far? if they do not, how do they feel about not having individual activities yet? what would they like to do in the future, if anything? if they don’t have ambitions for individual activities, explain why. (wc / 384)

gyu’s established career claims fall under three categories — variety, modeling / fashion, and music. musically is the easiest as he’s released his solo album after ten years, lmao. i like that he hasn’t touched music in ten years just because gold star hasn’t let him release it — they finally let him off the leash after so much despite letting him work behind the scenes. behind the scenes, they let him work on a lot of things. his overall mood / 감성 when it comes to music is just that it’s soft and sensitive — hence why his first piece is into the new world. you’d never expect it to come from someone like him, but it’s really just the soft gentleness that’s part of his core hence why it’s one of the melodies closest to him as an individual. aside from that, he works on a lot of darker equinox tracks because that’s what his vibe is lately, and it’s that house clubby r&b funk that works with him, and gold star likes that enough to keep asking him for it. he’s worked more in-house than out-house, and not really looking to branch out into any territory. he just wants to make music for him : )

modeling / fashion wise — chanel picks him, and he picks chanel. a matchmade in heaven when he sports their bags and their tweed jackets like no other. it’s enough that chanel inspires him to create his own line otakgyu which he’s heavily involved with. that’s his focus for now, creating new pieces to appeal to his own fashion sense. he wants to create more pieces that are “edgier’ but also fall more into the androgyny of fashion.

lastly, variety. he doesn’t even know how he ended up in this — yet, each time he appears on variety, more fans fall in love. i like to think of it like song mino and how stupid he comes across on variety which basically shatters his stage image of being more ‘hardcore’. aka, the public likes how goofy and silly gyujeong gets (unplanned and completely candid) on variety. it’s why he shows up and why gold star signs him up. gyujeong, on the otherhand, finds it more of a nuisance and an invasion of privacy as that’s one side he’d not want to reveal.

#famedrstask3

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beingatoaster · 4 years

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Me this morning: I’m gonna take today off from any Real Work, mostly play videogames, and maybe do the writing prompt only if it really strikes me.

Over three thousand words later....

Anyway! Today’s prompt was “drowned” and yesterday’s was “haunted,” and both made me think of those ballads/folk tales about, first, the dastardly man who drowns his pregnant girlfriend when she expects him to propose to her, and, second, the whole thing about making a harp from a murder victim’s bones that, when in the presence of the murderer, tells the tale of their murder so that justice can be done. (Incidentally, for a really great treatment of that concept, I refer y’all to T. Kingfisher/Ursula Vernon’s Minor Mage, which is not about that, but which has a secondary character for whom it’s very deeply and interestingly relevant.) I was still mulling it over, though, when I glanced at my DnD character list and saw Dismay, whose backstory is still underdeveloped, and suddenly everything fell together.

The soundtrack for writing this was Delta Rae’s Bottom of the River, which is definitely the song and mood I was imagining while writing the singing bit.

---

Desamee didn't like going down to the river anymore. But laundry had to get done, and it would be cruel to ask Mistress Whether to do her own, so she went ahead down with their grieving neighbor's clothes in her basket along with her mother's and her own.

She was halfway through pounding the dirt out of a particularly soiled shift when she realized that Amancia was standing over her, watching. Desamee looked up at her. She could see right through Amancia, in her familiar red dress, the one she'd worn for festivals, the one she'd drowned in. The rounded curve of her belly was more pronounced than it had been in life.

Was the baby its own ghost? Or hadn't it been enough of a person for that yet? Desamee didn't know enough about souls and ghosts and babies to be sure.

Amancia didn't speak, and Desamee didn't know what to say. She stared up at her friend, and her friend stared back. Amania's hair was long and soft-looking, even with the translucence, but it didn't shine the way it had in life. It hung loose around her face and shoulders like it never would have in life.

Unless it had hung that way for the lordship's son, Desamee thought. Had she let her hair down for him, that festival night? Had he seen her like this, beautiful in her red dress? A tired anger boiled in her stomach and scratched upward in her throat.

She was struck, suddenly, with the memory of the days when Amancia had worn her hair so loose, when they'd both been girls together, too young to pin up their braids and so rambunctious they fell regularly out of their ties. Amancia had always been the pretty one, and not just because of Desamee's horns and tail and strange purple-pale skin. Even as a child she'd had the promise of beauty in her face, in her pert nose and her dimpled cheeks and her huge dark eyes and the flowers she was always tucking behind her ears, the ones that somehow even stayed when her hair was loose and in tangles. Even now, she was pretty. She'd still been pretty when they'd pulled her out of the river.

Desamee had known something was wrong. She'd gone to her mother when Amancia didn't meet her that evening, and her mother had gone to the headman, and the whole town had gone out searching. The wisewoman thought Amancia had only been drowned a half hour or so, at most. A half hour too late to save her.

Tears welled in Desamee's eyes, and she blinked them stubbornly away. But Amancia saw them, of course she did, and she knelt down in her red dress, with her hair falling around her face when she bent her head, and finally spoke.

“Sister,” she whispered, reaching out as if she was going to take Desamee's hands in her own. “Heart-sister, lovely, I'm so sorry. But I have a task for you.”

Desamee hung the wet shift over the side of the basket, with the rock on top, and reached out to grasp Amancia's fingers. Her hands went through them without feeling anything, not even the chill she'd half expected.

“What do you need?” she asked, and her voice was hoarse with grief and disuse. She hadn't spoken much, these past few days. She'd never spoken much in the first place, but it was even less, now, without Amancia to talk to.

“My bones are still in the pyre,” Amancia said. “What remains of them, underneath the ash. Brush that away and you'll find my ribs. Make a harp from them, for me. You'll know how.”

“A harp,” Desamee repeated dully, not bothering to protest the impossibility of the instructions. If Amancia wanted her to make a harp from her ribs, then that's what Desamee would do. “That's all?”

“Make the harp, sister mine,” Amancia whispered. “Make it from my ribs, and from the strands of my hair you wove around your wrist. And then I'll tell you what to do next.”

She didn't fade, like Desamee had always thought that ghosts would fade. She was just gone, from one moment to the next.

Make a harp. Desamee had no idea how to do that. But she would, she swore that to herself.

Before that, though, there were clothes to wash. Desamee turned back to her basket, and, with no one watching, let her tears fall.

***

Amancia was right. She did know how to put the harp together.

She waited until night to go to the temple, kneeling down in the ash to sift through it by lantern-light. Their village's priestess was old, and blind, and thought Desamee a lovely child, though shy of being touched; she wouldn't notice the light, and this late in autumn the nearest houses would have their windows shut up tight.

There were three ribs left whole in the ash, still, and as Desamee's fingers closed upon them, the knowledge came to her, the way the tongue of devils had when she was a child. She loosened the woven bracelet around her wrist, made from the memory-lock she'd clipped from Amacia's body before it was burnt, and she took the ribs and the hair and some strips of leather she'd kept for braiding a new belt from, and she went to the great willow tree at whose feet she and Amancia had played as children and set quietly to work.

The lantern had run out of oil and the first glow of sunrise was shining at the horizon by the time that she was finished. It barely looked like a harp, but when Desamee plucked the strings that she'd twisted together from Amancia's hair, it hummed.

She came back to the house as the sun was rising, and put the harp under her bed before her mother could see it, and put her dirtied skirts in the laundry. And then she deliberately put it out of her mind.

For a week, Desamee refused to think of the harp under her bed. She did chores for her mother, and a few for Mistress Whether, and she ran errands through the village and avoided everyone's eyes. Which she always had, so no one paid any mind. Of course Desamee looked down, ashamed of her strange skin and her strange eyes and her strange devil's horns, and of course she would be even more quiet, now that her only friend had drowned.

All week through, she didn't speak, and she didn't think anyone noticed. Her mother might have, but her mother was patient, and gentle, and kind, and understood that sometimes Desamee just went silent.

Then it was laundry day, again. Desamee wrapped the harp in her sheets while she was stripping her bed, and buried it under hers and her mother's and Mistress Whether's laundry. And then she went down to the creek.

Amancia arrived, again, in the middle of the laundry. Desamee thought she might be a little more solid this time. But she also might be just imagining it. She spoke sooner, though, kneeling down as soon as Desamee looked up.

“Have you played the harp yet, sister mine?”

“No,” Desamee said, her voice even hoarser than last time. “You said you'd tell me what to do next. I didn't want to do any damage to it before then.”

A sad smile dimpled Amancia's ghostly cheeks. “You can't damage it, heart-sister, no more than you could do me harm. Take it out and play it for me.”

Desamee couldn't blink the tears back this time, but she did as she was told. The harp fitted perfectly into her hands, and she began to stroke the strings. It hummed under her hand, and without Amancia saying anything, or Desamee asking, she suddenly knew how her fingers should go to make it sing.

Its song was soft, and eerie, and full of sorrow, and Desamee could feel a descant for it itching in her throat. But she didn't know how to sing, and Amancia had only asked her to play the harp.

“It's beautiful,” Amancia said. “You did beautiful work, sister. But this isn't all I want from you. I want you to take it to the great estate where his lordship lives, and present yourself, and play it in his presence, and his son's. And when you do that, don't hesitate to sing. I know the song is in you.”

When she said that, Desamee knew what words the descant in her throat should have.

“We already know it was the lordship's son,” she said, the same tired anger bubbling in her again. “If I could catch him alone at the river, I'd shove him in too. But his father won't do anything.”

“He won't have to, not if you play the harp for him,” Amancia said. Her voice became urgent. “Please, heart-sister, do this for me. Go to him and sing his own misdeeds to him. Play the harp, and sing the tune, and avenge me on him. Avenge me as my sister.”

“I will,” Desamee said, because how could she argue? She would sing the man's evil to the whole world, if it was what Amancia wanted.

Amancia reached out to her, as if to pull her into an embrace. But again she felt like nothing at all, slipping right through Desamee's flesh, and again, between one breath and the other, she vanished.

***

Desamee left home the next morning, early, before the sun had risen. Her mother would worry, but she didn't dare tell her what she was doing. For then, if anyone from the village knew, it would be their fault for not stopping her if his lordship was offended.

He knew nothing of her, their lordship. They were only one of several small villages in his domain, and probably the least important. He probably never knew that one of his scullion-maids had lived here, once, and come back here when she fled the castle. And it had been no trouble for the mayor to keep the scullion-maid's name on the tax rolls, just in case, and that of her devil-horned daughter.

No one would have been so cruel as to expect her mother to pay taxes to his lordship. Not after what he had allowed her to suffer. So their house was still Mistress Whether's shed on the village rolls, and Desamee had grown up almost alone behind her fields, with only Amancia Whether as a playmate. The priest didn't know, nor his lordship, and the mayor and the village tolerated her, because it wasn't her mother's fault, or hers, what had happened.

But they wouldn't tolerate what she was going to do coming back upon them. So Desamee gave no one a chance to stop her, or worse yet, accompany her. She walked alone in the dark up the long road from the village the manor. By dawn she was at the town that lay between them. A few people shied away from her as she walked up the main road, the harp under her arm, her eyes on the ground in front of her.

They were, it seemed, too taken aback to touch her, and she continued on towards the manor. It was nearly evening by the time she reached the grounds, and her feet ached as they never had. But when she raised her eyes at last, she was at the gate, and there were guards in front of her.

“I'm here to see his lordship,” she told them, her voice cracking.

One shied back, like the townsfolk had. The other stepped forward, raising his halberd. “His lordship sees no demons!”

“He might not see demons,” Desamee said. Her voice sounded thick and raspy to her, its disuse showing, but the rusty timbre seemed to only alarm the guard further. “But he deals with devils, and I'm sure you know it. Let me through to see him.”

There was more than just rust in her voice as she said it. She could feel the words vibrating through her, with a hum under them, a vibration almost like the quiet hum that came from stroking the harp-strings. The guard heard it too, and he stepped back, the whites of his eyes showing, to let Desamee through the gate.

She walked towards the great doors to his lordship's hall, her head up for once, eyes fixed upon her goal. There were more guards at the doors, but they needed no convincing. Reaching out with her free hand, the one that wasn't wrapped around the harp in a death-grip, she made to push one door open. Before she could even touch it, they both flew open. The impact of their opening sent a loud boom through the great hall before her.

Desamee strode in, knowing that she had to seize the moment for her entrance. This worked only so long as someone didn't stop her. And the longer she seemed otherworldly, like the devil she'd claimed to be, the longer it would keep his lordship's men from trying.

A long table filled most of the hall, with chairs all along, and one great chair at the far end of it. Desamee walked up to the foot of the table and looked along it.

“Who are you?” his lordship demanded, rising from the great chair with a half-eaten haunch of meat in his hand. He was red around the eyes, like her mother had told her, and the haunch was half-raw. Even from here she could see blood on his teeth from it.

It was only his good luck, and her mother's ill, that Desamee had been the one born with a devil's horns, and his lordship's son hadn't.

“I am one you should have expected,” Desamee said, and raised up the harp, settling it into the crook of her elbow as if she had long practice. “Is it not true, my lord, that you sold your firstborn child to a devil?”

His eyes went wide, first, and then narrow. “You aren't the one I dealt with.”

“Men like you have children, my lord, who inherit their rights and their duties,” Desamee said. She didn't know where the words were coming from, but she let them flow out of her, ringing through the high-vaulted hall with perfect clarity. “Do you think that it's different for devils?”

And then she began to play. The tune flowed from beneath her fingers, each note perfect, soft, and eerie, and full of sorrow. She let a few measures ring out, filling the hall like her voice had, before she began to sing with it.

The descant she sang was just as eerie, and just as sorrowful, but there was so much more anger in it. A grieving anger, at the death of a woman and a child; a raging anger, at the man responsible. Desamee sang of Amancia, sweet and soft and beautiful, and of the man who had decided to trifle with her at a festival, and seduced her with baseless promises. She sang of Amancia's honest heart and simple sincerity, how sure she had been that the man would make himself husband and father, when she send to him that she was with child. And she sang of the deep evil with which that man, sending back that she meet him at the river, had plotted and then committed.

Throughout, his lordship and his son and his men had sat or stood motionless, as if trapped by some spell of the music. Then, at the accusation, his lordship dropped the haunch of meat and started to move around the table. As soon as he did, the tune changed, going higher, shriller, even the song of the harp angry more than grieving.

Before he could rush on her, his son convulsed beside him. The younger man doubled over, clenching at his throat, choking and gagging. His father caught him around the shoulders as he began to vomit water. More and more came out of him, but he couldn't stop choking, though his father pounded his back and hooked arms around his stomach. Desamee, still playing, still singing, watched in satisfaction.

It didn't take very long for him to drown. Desamee's fingers stilled on the strings, and her voice in her throat, at the very moment he stopped convulsing. She could see his lordship look up at her, red-rimmed eyes wet with grief and fury, holding his son's limp body. His men no longer seemed stunned; their chairs scraped amid the rushes as they started to stand.

Desamee tucked her harp under her arm, turned around, and walked out the door. Somehow, without her moving a finger, it closed shut with another boom behind her.

That wouldn't stop them for more than a minute. For that matter, there were the guards still outside the doors, who had seen the whole thing and now were both closing upon her. She would die here, for this. But she could only feel a deep, burning satisfaction, in the same place within her where that tired anger she'd felt had boiled.

Amancia was standing before her again, more solid than translucent in the bright sunlight, though the guards didn't seem to have noticed. She held out her hand to Desamee, and Desamee reached back to take it. This time, Amancia's fingers were solid, if cold, in her own.

And suddenly, it was the world, not Amancia, that was translucent. The guards' hands passed right through her when they reached to catch her shoulders, and they looked at each other in confusion. As the door opened again, and more men rushed out, they began to shout at each other about how she had vanished.

“Thank you, heart-sister,” Amancia said, her eyes full of tears. “Thank you so much.”

Desamee teared up in answer. Her throat was aching, rubbed raw by the fury of her singing, and she hesitated to speak. But she knew without speaking that this was the last she would see of the friend she'd called sister.

“Come with me,” Amancia said, and turned to lead her away. Desamee followed.

Together, hand-in-hand, they walked through the translucent walls of the manor, and the transparent trees of the wood behind it. At last, in a small clearing, Amancia turned back around, and took Desamee's other hand as well.

“You've done me the greatest kindness,” she said, her voice soft and aching. “You've allowed me to rest. This is goodbye, sister. I will not see you again in this life, and I pray it is a long time before I see you again in another, for you have so much living left to do.”

Desamee swallowed, feeling her throat burn, and nodded.

“The harp is yours. It will answer to you, and you alone, forever. No other hands can make it sing, and your hands cannot fail upon it. You have music in your soul, sister mine. Now that there's no flesh in the way, I can hear it. Don't spend your life hidden in one little village. Go out into the world, like I always wanted to, and take that music with you.”

Desamee nodded again.

Amancia smiled tearfully at her. “Goodbye, sister. I love you.”

“I love you,” Desamee whispered, finally dragging words from her ruined throat. Around her, the forest was becoming solid again, and Amancia transparent. “Sister.”

And then Amancia was gone, and the finality of that absence settled like a heavy weight in Desamee's chest.

She took the harp out from under her arm and touched the strings, but they only hummed in a quiet, sweet discordance. The knowledge of how to play it had left her.

That would be her first step, then. Clutching the harp close, Desamee started off through the forest, away from his lordship's manor. If she was going to do as Amancia had asked, she had to find a teacher.

#dismay #my writing

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