#and like two sides same coin or whatever but how much of him not DIRECTLY (visibly) going to Miles for help is like

[borom1r]

I have thoughts abt Beanix but they are NOT coherent ooooargh!!!! HIM!!!!!!!

[unknownentry404]

The Dragon Prince: Pre-Season 6 Thoughts.

(Post finishing my 3rd full watch-through)

It was SUPER weird going from S4-5 Viren back to S1-3 Viren. I think it’s amazing how- like, they didn’t really redeem him? Cause he CANT be redeemed, but they still- Showed us who he was underneath the corruption and- Really emphasised how much of Viren’s villainousness was DUE to Dark Magic corruption which just- And how much he did out of love. (CoughCallumCough) Is terrifying when you think of the other two characters that have ties to it…

Viren turning to dark magic to save his son. “Whatever it takes: however dangerous, however vile.” But then: choosing dark magic OVER his son. Being careless with Soren’s feelings and very life. Telling Claudia to choose the egg over Soren, almost turning Soren into a sunbeast, gaslighting him, etc…

It appears that he first saw the Mirror in his first “dark magic coma,” with his future self on the other side of it. Explaining again why he became so obsessed with the Mirror when he saw it- The fact that S5 Viren would agree with Runaan’s warning: “that mirror? You have found something worse than death-“ Kinda mindblowing.

I have and will always be on the “Viren is an irredeemable bitch” train but- I didn’t expect it to hurt so much when I got back to Season-4-him coming to terms with mortality and just wanting to spend the next 30 days enjoying life with his daughter like- It seemed so deeply unserious and out of left-field when I first watched it, but, post Season 5- Wow, it actually hurts?

His relationship with Terry was actually really sweet? And Terry really helped him unpack so much of the Toxic Masculinity in him… as a certified Viren hater, it’s disturbing how much of this is about him- I always thought the crew spent too much time with him but- He is actually such an amazing foil?

Once again: Harrow is the bird, (Pip), confirmed. Ghost Harrow standing over Viren with the staff saying “your soul is my treasure” in reverse, turning Viren into a Coin? With Pip right behind him for “no other reason?” Also, new theory but: I think this also might be pointing to how the star spell Callum will use, with the Quazar Diamonds, to “restore spirits to their bodies.” Will not only be able to save Rayla’s family, but potentially King Harrow as well…. (Harrow has been on an Oppa bird-side-quest journey this entire time, mark my words: one does not simply emphasise bird and then let bird escape so he is “conveniently” never in the same room as the only known animal speaker, King Ezran, ever again).

Umm, something I noticed that I actually hope is just thematic and is not an important observation but: Callum has learned/connected with both of his Arcanum DIRECTLY after having used Dark Magic… (Also after doing so to save Rayla, but yeah-) And Dark Magic appears to have been something cultivated by Aaravos? Oh great master of all six primal sources?Basically, I’m hoping that it is just thematic and showing triumph over evil! Of choosing your own path! But… there is a non-zero chance that Callum might ONLY have made these connections BECAUSE he used dark magic and- (Don’t let it be so, please- I love Mage Callum, he loves magic why- /scared) It’ll take three to make a solid pattern just- don’t make it three for three, please-

Aaravos is basically whispering in Karim’s ear, via the old high mage that his caterpillar (son) bit, isn’t he? Meaning he’s being manipulated by the person who killed his sister, destroyed Lux Aurea and swallowed his grandmother. And hence Sol Regrem is, too, being manipulated, through Karim, by the person who GAVE humans dark magic, gave them the wizard staff and LEGIT took his eyes- It is LITERALLY the end of S3 again- Karim in Viren’s place. Aaravos, master warmonger-

Rayla to Callum, finally opening up about the coins: “there’s a burden I’m carrying, but I know I can trust you with it.” To trust is to be stronger. If we’re gonna do it, we’re going do it. Together. Meanwhile: Callum carrying the burden of using dark magic alone. And I’m not even sure if he’s TOLD anyone that the cube is called the @Key of Aaravos!” He tried to destroy it but- he couldn’t and- (This is gonnna FUCKING HURT I-)

Another small observation, but to the Earth Archdragon in S4, Callum offered the least valuable item as a gift when- I’m pretty sure if he offered the Key of Aaravos, it would have been enough on its own and really gotten the ball rolling too? Would it have been smart to give it up? Unclear. But that thing is also a potential danger and-

(I love my baby Callum and I fear for his fate a bit more each day-)

Claudia… oh Claudia… I dunno what it is, but the fact she is so “committed to her family,” but at the same time… they are still alive. As far as we know, her mother is still alive in Del Bar. Soren is still there, and even tries to reconnect with her in Season 4. The only one who’s dying is Viren, but all Viren wants is to spend his last month with his daughter in peace and-Oh Claudia

Extra: I bought and read the graphic novels for a fuller experience, and found them quite interesting:

Callum was going to go off with Rayla on her search for Viren. And she accepted as a lie, before sneaking off in the night. Ouch.

It’s not explicitly stated, but it appears Rayla developed her fear of water from when she almost drowned on the Harvest Moon, as a child, after a run in with the Bloodmoon Huntress. She was alone and pushed off a cliff/waterfall into a lagoon where she was too weak/young to save herself and Runaan had to miraculously appear and save her. We see her carelessly dangling on a log over a stream before this scene, with seemingly no fear. And she also hasn’t interacted with the Bloodmoon Huntress yet, as of Season 5: literally JUST missed her but, I wonder if it’ll come back? 🤔

The third graphic novel takes place before Ezran was born and follows Claudia (and Soren) searching Viren’s old mentors house. It is very much a kids book, but one with very sinister undertones. We learn two things of interest: 1). The timeline of events are as follows: “Soren got deathly ill, Viren’s old mentor ‘mysteriously disappeared,’ Soren got better, Viren and his wife started fighting, wife left-“ Which, I’m- well. That’s fun? Also: the King, Harrow’s father, comforts Viren and asks how he’s doing and how the search for his mentor goes which- well then. 👀 2). The story ends with Claudia obtaining a map to a Unicorn, a map that only she can read because she is… “pure of heart” which- is such a standard, happy ending to a kids book until you realise… what she did… once she found that Unicorn… and then what its horn went on to do…

This show is too well written for the tiny fan base it has. If it sticks the landing, like I think it will? Cult classic on our hands people. Again, I’m just pissed about the depth they brought to the show with Viren: how he was a COMPLETELY different person in Part 1 vs Part 2. How that is terrifying not because we love HIM as a character, but because of how much we love Claudia and Callum… How they made me, a Viren Hater, sad that he died? Because his death was a tragedy? Not because he died, but because he died BEFORE he could warn Claudia not to go down this path. HIS path. That he didn’t want this for her- That she could still stop-

Oof. I simultaneously dread and cannot wait a second more for Friday-

[revelisms]

black-wing devil, with heaven in your hands?

Ugh this FIC.

So this is a very unfinished idea that I've been tinkering with for a while. It sits somewhere in my scraps and doves AU and is essentially a big comparison piece on Silco's and Vi's perceptions of Vander.

I have a lot of thoughts on what all Vander represented to these two, mainly because they are introduced as the ones who were closest to him, and have been set up through the series to be antagonists for each other as a result of that closeness. This is not only because their memories of Vander directly conflict with each other (Silco remembers the Hound, their leader, a fighter: a violent, ruthless and awe-worthy man; Vi remembers a father and mentor, a loving but pacified man shackled by his own shame)—but also because their perceptions of Powder/Jinx.

Vi only sees Powder: the little sister who was her responsibility to protect, who she believes she failed, and who Silco "made" into Jinx—this chilling killer, this wrathful girl, this broken thing she no longer recognizes.

On the flip side, Silco only sees Jinx: the child he's taken in, who has found strength and potential in the identity she has chosen to reclaim for herself. He sees Vi as the root of her demons: the reason for her self-doubt and shame—and Powder, to him (as he understands through Jinx's own resentment of what "Powder" meant, to herself) is the manifestation of all of that.

But then we get to Vander—and things get complicated for these two. Because they both knew him, followed him, felt supported by him, loved him.

They have such an immediate point of connection, here. But, still, their ideas of him are conflicting. Rooted in their own memory and regrets.

Silco sees what-never-was, what-could-have-been. He sees a younger, weaker part of himself, who poured so much into a man who turned his back on him. And he's bitter about that. Vander is no longer a happy memory, for him—but still, it's one he cherishes.

A metal-kissed sucker-punch, draped in silvered cinnamon plumes. Woodpolish and mint on blood-scraped nails, and hellfire, and hate, plowing off one's breath like a beast. A shell of gentleness, fine as gossamer, wrapped around a rage inexorable as a gas leak. That, to him, was Vander. His bloodless brother, brother-in-arms, brawny arms laced within his sinewed own; his hands clapping to his back, his laughter the kind that boomed like a bomb blast; his liquor-sweetened jeers and palms heavy through the hair at his nape, rough-tumbled tenderness threading a blistered rope of want. (Oh, to what end did he dare to desire?—for his faith, trust, deliverance; to believe those hands would carry their city to freedom, and his wretched self along with it? That every snare and grab and crack of knuckles and bone meant that the years he'd spent breaking had made a forge, and not a coffin? That those same hands laced around his throat, crushing his bones through his voicebox, stifling the oxygen from his veins, had come from some bastardization of love, and not a lifetime of hatred? No. Hope was a young man's game. Reality had sunk its teeth in at seventeen, and chewed at whatever scraps of it were left. Nine years, and it had torn the sinew from the bone.)

(As a sidenote—all of this originally started as a backstory for how Silco and Vander met, which has since found its way into a few different ficlets here, here and here.)

With Vi, though, we get the opposite side of the coin. Her memories of Vander are warm and pleasant, and a part of her life she misses, desperately. There are things she regrets from it, too, and things she resents him for—but he was a light, for her. He was her everything.

Warmth, and smiles, and laughter: the kind that lit up one's soul with the glow of a thousand suns, that turned heads and filled rooms end-to-end. Orange zest in his pipe, and mint in his tea. The scent of woodpolish and tobacco on his clothes, smoke stuck on the tufts of his hair, a sweetened dust cloud filling her lungs when he'd toss her over his shoulder. That, to her, was Vander. Not Dad—but something. Unavoidable, irreplaceable, magnetic. Hers. Someone she understood. Who understood her. So many of her nights had found her slumped at that bar, bandages wrapped over her knuckles and him hunched across from her, his quiet scoldings peppering the rough gentleness of his hands: Can't have you goin' out like this, every night. You've got a good head on your shoulders, kiddo—but you need to be more careful. She'd hiss back at that, her chin pillowed on her palm: They came at me, first! or I did what you said to do! or You weren't there—you didn't hear what they said to Powder! He'd always smile, in the strangest way—like the pride and the shame in it was battling him, in turns. He'd lay a heavy hand about her forearm, and squeeze. I know.

The real thread of commentary underlying this is that, in his own way, Vander ultimately made these two who and what they are—and, even in his absence, they both are still striving for his approval; trying to be what he would have wanted.

(The irony, of course, is that neither of them know what that would be, really. They're both too wrapped up in their own assumptions, guilts, etc. to try to unpack the "why" around all of it.

But there's so much potential here for them to find some common ground with each other—to share both sides of Vander, the Hound and the man who set down the gauntlets, and maybe, just maybe, even find some semblance of peace and fatherhood in each other, again.

Will they, though...? Ehh.)

[renneiscent]

Two Sides of The Same Coin

Note: This chapter… is kind of contained NSFW part that I embarrassedly managed to write. So... yeah, pardon my bad grammar and ugly writing.

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Chapter 8: …but also my heart that yearns for you.

“So, where is this secret coffee shop you talked about?”

I turn and find Jake is putting his wallet inside his pants pocket. We just had finished delightful lunch, our laughter and conversation (mostly my monologues) are still lingering in the air as we walk out from the restaurant. I have no clue about how much Jake paid for today’s lunch but I saw some cash when he paid for our food. It must be so damn expensive. I’m upset that old man didn’t give him free meal or at least discount, at least that’s what I saw judging about how much cash Jake handed to the cashier.

“That’s just few blocks from my flat,” I explain. But that means we will separate too soon if we go grab some coffee right away. I don’t want that.

“Oh,” his brows are raised. I guess he realise that too. “Very well, shall we go now?”

Then Jake calls the taxi for us while I’m hoping for us to hardly get the taxi, but no, the taxi comes right away parked in front of us. He then opens the door for me as the sign to get inside first, which I stop him right away by holding the side of his shirt. I’m thinking to go there by bus, but it is too much of public space. Too many people. Who can ensure that it will be safe for Jake and his transparency while being in the public transportation? I highly doubt that. So it makes taxi is the best option we got so far. Let’s just ask the driver to stop at the bus stop so we can walk to the coffee shop. Yeah, that will do.

“Nothing,” I smile. “Let’s go then.”

The traffic is smooth, which I hate it. I’m hoping it will be crowded and there is going to be traffic jam like usual. It’s Sunday after all, it’s a weekend! But why suddenly people didn’t go out and crowd the whole street like when I spent some time by myself? I take glance on my phone screen, it’s still 5 o’clock but the sky already turns darker rather than usual. Will it rain? As soon as I notice the bus stop, I immediately sign the driver to stop. Jake looks very surprised but he didn’t ask much but just pay the fare again. I hope I didn’t make him broke in one date.

“What was that?” he walks beside me. I look up and read his expression which is now showing confusion and uncertainty.

I cannot help myself but grin. “Nothing,” I lie.

“What’s that grin for?” He lifts one brow, still watching me in perplexed.

I press my lips together, forcing my smile away. “I’m just excited to get some coffee.”

“Right,” he smiles. “As if I didn’t notice your sneaky plan to stop the taxi right in front of the nearest bus stop in your neighbourhood.”

I blush.

I’m trying to counter his statement—which is true and I hate to admit it, but I cannot come up with anything. So I’m just looking away while our hands are brushing each other until Jake chooses to hold mine, his hand covering my hand entirely. Without saying anything, I’m holding his hand and intertwining our fingers together as if they were meant to fit perfectly together.

As we step inside the coffee shop, there are only 4 customers inside; one person is sitting while facing the huge window of the shop and reading a thick novel, two people are sitting not far from the first person while having chit-chat and sipping their lattes, the last person is drowning on whatever on her laptop with a slice of carrot cake and latte as her companion. It makes us don’t have to get in line and directly order the coffee to the barista.

“Good afternoon,” the barista smiles cheerfully to both of us. “Oh—it’s you MC. How have you been? I rarely see you these days. Let me guess… cappuccino for here as usual?”

“Hi Kevin,” I greet him. Since I’m one of those loyal customers here, it isn’t weird that the barista know my name and even my usual order, right? Especially when the shop is near my place and we often have the chance to bump into each other. “Yes, I’ve been busy these days. Now finally have some free time to get my usual order.”

I chuckle. Kevin also chuckles. Only Jake that doesn’t chuckle.

“Of course,” Kevin winks while smiling so wide. “Then what about you, mate?”

“Coffee. Black. For takeaway…” he takes a short pause. “…mate.”

“We don’t stay here?” I ask, confused.

“I prefer spending time in your place,” he winks at me as he tugs the strand of my hair behind my ear.

That’s a sudden strangely hot moment he gives me.

“Oh…” I can feel the heat on my face. “Well then, mine also takeaway please.” And I find Kevin’s face is strangely frowning. Now I understand about what’s happening here. Jake is jealous. I love it. I love the Jealous Jake.

“Good, so 1 cappuccino for you and 1 black coffee for this mate and take away.” Kevin wraps our orders before asking about the warm pumpkin pie on the display or their signature carrot cake or their new muffin like usual. “That will be £5.20.”

Jake takes his wallet out from his pocket and I quickly hold his wrist to stop him from spend more money in our very first date. “No, you promise me I will buy you coffee.”

“Yeah, and I did.” He hands out the cash to Kevin, “would you mind to give the receipt to the lady next to me, Kevin? Oh, you can keep the change.”

“What—well, thanks mate…” Kevin says sheepishly and hands me the receipt before going to make our orders.

I stare at the receipt then stare at Jake who is now leaning on the wall and his eyes are gazing on me, waiting for my response. “Uhm, a little bit help here?”

“You insisted to buy me coffee,” he smiles. “I bought yours and you bought mine. The price is on that receipt you are holding.”

I nod then quickly grope for my wallet inside my purse but then Jake holds my hand and pulls me closer to him. “Later,” he says. “We still have much time.”

I smile, completely amused with his act. I always have this assumption about how much Jake is not PDA person but thinking about today, I need to dump that assumption. Judging from today’s date, he is like a man written by woman; he is gentle, polite, such a sweetheart, that type of guy that you will not be ashamed to bring in front of your friends or family. That type of guy that will make your parents love him more than you as their own child. That type of guy that will make your friends defend him when you have an argument with him. That type of guy that will make you question yourself about what did your past life do until you have him in your arms?

I might sound like I’m really biased but Jake is such a lovely man and it’s such an unfortunate how he is living tough life like this; when a freedom is such a luxury to have. It makes me so eager to discover about his life, to reveal what actually happened until he lost that luxury. But to be honest, I’m kind of scared. Rather than scared with the damage that I will find from him, I’m more scared if my questions, my intention to know him further will bring him to the memory he want to erase. I’m more scared with the questions that in any way will harm him and damage him even more. Because he must have lost so many things, he must have killed so many parts of himself just to stay alive, just to be survived.

We are only a block away from my place, when I’m slowing my pace until stop completely. Jake notices right away as he also stops and turns himself to face me completely, holding the black coffee that he sipped in every minute. He lifts one brow and look at me, perhaps studying me for finding the reason why I suddenly stop when it’s just a block away from our final destination.

Just when I open my mouth intending to call his name, I feel a droplet of water against my skin. It begins with the pitter-patter of the rain but the drops suddenly fall even faster and become a downpour. The sudden heavy rain is pouring and every drop of the water bathes me in until I can smell that fresh and earthy scent. People are rushing and passing past us, seeking for the shelter to run away from the rainfall, but neither of us is moving, neither of us is trying to get away.

Neither of us, until Jake moves first. He throws his cup of black coffee that I’m certain that’s already mixed with the fresh water from upstairs, I throw mine too—I wonder if we will get scold for littering in the middle of heavy rain. His hand reaches my face, despite the cold of the rainfall is that sliding down on my skin, my face, my neck, my body, my everything, and I still can feel the warmth from his skin that brushing me. I still can feel the taste of his lips that strokes against me. I still can feel his body heat that press against me. I still can feel him.

The lips of his as cold as the first snow in the soothing night and as wet as the dew on the grass in the morning, it’s soaked from the rain but then I can feel the warmth of his tongue gently strokes mine. It twirls and dances inside me, giving me life and colour when our surroundings feel little grey because of the rain. Jake’s warm hand is moving to the back of my head and the other hand is holding my waist tightly, wrapping me in his embrace; while both of my hands are clutching on his shoulders as if those already attached with him, becoming him.

Is it our second kiss? I cannot remember. Every time we have kiss, it’s feeling so great, it’s feeling so amazing. It feels like we have done this so many times since his mouth fits mine so perfectly, as if this is our usual routine, as if we are the two pieces of puzzle that matching.

If only it’s not because both of us are still mere human that need oxygen to breath, there is nothing that can possibly separate us right now. I lean on his chest while hoping to hear his heartbeat but only the rainfall that I can hear. He pulls me closer into his arms, embracing me until I can feel his chest is going up and down as he is panting so hard.

“Going to catch the cold, aren’t we?” he chuckles. His words are clear as he speaks next to my temple. “Come on,” he says while pulling me away and taking my wrist, keeping me close as both of us are running. I match my pace with him, both of us are running until we finally reach the entrance of Mister Wright’s building.

“Should check the weather forecast,” I pretend to be disappointed. I’m grateful, absolutely. I cannot help but notice the figure of Jake who is soaked by the rain; how dare he is brushing his drenched hair while the shirt that soaked by water is clinging to his torso, outlining the lines of his abdomen. How dare he do that without thinking the damage that he causes on me?

“Neither did I,” he takes out his flip phone, perhaps checking if the phone still works out or not.

“It feels like the rain is not going to stop any sooner,” I mumble, waiting for him done checking his phone.

“Feels so,” he turns at me. “You should go inside and get change immediately.”

“What about you?”

“Do you have umbrella that I can borrow?”

“And letting you pass through that heavy rainfalls after soaked by the water? No.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Come inside, I believe I have some clothes that you can borrow.”

“How come you have some clothes which fit me?” he lifts one of his eyebrows, there is accusation in his tone. Oh, is he being jealous? I love this overprotective side of him.

“I like wearing oversized clothes when staying at home,” I open the entrance door and beckons him to follow me. “Some of it really big since I bought men outfit. So I believe you can wear it.” As we are going inside, there is so much water over the floor as if there is something leaked. It feels like not only us that got soaked by the sudden rainfall.  I hope we don’t get scolded by Mister Wright or maybe I will just make Jake to persuade him in case he’s angry.

When we finally inside my flat, I immediately go to the bathroom and take two towels. I hand one of it to Jake and dry myself with another towel. “Wait here, let me take the clothes,” I sprint toward my bedroom and check my cupboard to see the oversized shirt and pants that I thought will fit on Jake. After I managed to find the right size, I head toward him.

Normally I’m neither feeling shy nor awkward when a guy is taking off his shirt and making him exposed his upper’s body half-naked. Normally. Since I’m growing up with brother who loves to bring his guy friends stay over or spend the weekend together, I’m getting used with that kind of horror scene. But this time is different, well of course it is! I already thought about whatever lies beneath that polo shirt twice—let me remind you, twice! Which is I never did it with other guys before. So when I found Jake with his upper body’s half naked, exposing his bare skin and making me notice that he owns these huge tattoos that covered almost of his back, what do you expect me to do besides subconsciously walk toward him and brush his tattoo with my fingers?

It’s just a small and light touch that I made subconsciously against his back, but he easily flinches and immediately holds my wrist, his gaze on me is intense.

“I don’t know you are a tattoo person,” I comment. “Even the massive one.”

“I’m seriously concerned about your opinion on me,” he escapes soft chuckle.

“That’s why you need to open up,” I click my tongue. “First thing first, may I see it?” I beam.

There is slightest hesitation on his face but then for whatever reason, he relents. Then he turns his back on me, granting me with a great view of his back and of course his tattoos. As my fingers gingerly explore the intricate designs etched upon his skin, I find myself captivated by the artwork that adorns him. Beginning at the upper back, near his nape, a majestic ship with its flag unfurled commands attention. Following the contours of his spine, a meticulously crafted clock, its intricate details resembling a perfectly real image, captures my gaze. Nestled beneath the clock, a compass merges harmoniously with bare branches, their absence of leaves adding more questions for me about the meaning of his tattoo. The compass is connected with a simple design gears, but still meticulously shaped and aligned. As my eyes travel downward, I discover a lighthouse gracefully stretching from his lower back to his loin, elegantly encircled by twin anchors. The expanse of his shoulder blades down to the lowest part of back reveals a symmetrical arrangement of bold geometric lines resembling wings, as if those are fences that keeping the art on his spine to be protected.

While I’m staring on his tattoos, my eyes are catching some scars scattered like there is the constellation engraved on his back. The scars that are faint and covered with the tattoos’ ink make you have to get closely to see them. “This is beautiful,” I says while keep stroking his back. “This is painfully beautiful,” I correct my previous word. With the amount of pain for making this masterpiece, I couldn’t imagine how much he needs to suffer.

He turns to face me, there is something in his gaze that I cannot grasp into it. “I will deliver your praise to the creator,” his lips curl and form a smile.

“So many people must want to get in line to see that masterpiece,” I tease.

“I don’t know about that,” his hip is leaning against the wall while still staring at me. “There are only two people this far.”

“Two?” I lift my eyebrows, feeling upset about the fact that I’m the second. “Who are they?”

“The tattoo artist and you.”

I cannot recall who starts this another round of passionate kiss we are sharing with each other; was it me or was it Jake? The only thing that I can remember that I lean closer to him as his hand glides to my lower back and pulls me against him, and just like that… our lips are pressing into each other again. The kiss is little different this time; it’s still sharing the same passion and affection from the previous, but it’s more deep and somehow more desperate.

He pushes my body and makes me being pinned against the wall, not so hard but it’s so gentle. His hands wrap around me as if I’m a fragile thing and he is afraid to cause any harm. The mouth of his tastes so sweet and I’m certainly addicted with the taste and its sensation he puts under me. He pulls down the collar of my turtleneck, making it expose a glimpse of my skin and he claims the land to be his. He kisses, he nibbles, he sucks, as if he is trying to declare that I’m his.

And he succeeds.

As I cannot help myself but escape a soft moan, my hands are clutching onto his shoulder and grasping it tightly. I perhaps cannot think straight under this situation but I clearly know what I want. And I want him right now, so, so bad. And I want to throw whatever things that crossing Jake’s mind, until it makes him pull away and stares at me with those ocean waves that still calmly welcome me.

“Should I stop?”

That question is clearly rhetorical. He is not asking because he wants to stop, but instead he is asking because he wants me to say it clearly what I want. He wants me to say it out loud, that I, also want him as much as he wants me.

“No,” I trace his bare chest with my finger. “I thought it’s clear that I want you as much as you want me.”

“I hope you are aware that I just wanted to have lunch with you,” he inhales deeply and exhales sharply. “And I didn’t come prepared, not at all,” he nudges his nose on my forehead.

“I hope you are aware that I’m always understanding my menstrual cycle,” I’m peppering his neck with kisses. “And lucky you, it’s already passed my fertile time.”

He clenches his jaw with his eyes are staring at me, it’s growing darker as if the desire he has been holding is finally growing bigger and consuming him. But he still hesitates to make a move.

“No way, is it your first time?” I accuse.

He snorts, feeling offended with my accusation, “I’m sorry to disappoint you but you are not my first.” He lifts his brow, showing that cocky grin that I don’t know that he has. “Is it yours?”

“Of course not,” now I’m the one that feeling offended right now. I don’t know why it feels like we are showing off about the fact that we both already had our first time moment in having intercourse with someone else. “Then, why you still hesitate? Do you have STI?” I accuse him again.

“I’m really strict with the person I’m making love with,” he leans closer and plants another kiss on my temple to my jaw and then my neck. “I can assure you that I’m clean,” his hand is slipping under my shirt as he is breathing and whispering on my ear. “Are you?”

The way he said making love instead of having intercourse or having sex—or worst, fucking someone, really managed to make my heart pounding so hard. “Am I what?” I feel like I’m starting to lose my composure as he begins to claim me again.

“Clean,” he replies shortly as his hand that inside my shirt is caressing my skin. I can feel his warm hand again on me. “Are you also clean, MC?”

“I am,” I answer but I’m not sure if the words managed to escape from my mouth because what I can hear is my moan and his deep breath that are born because of his fingers running all over my skin and my thigh suddenly between his legs. As my knees feel weak and start to tremble, I’m clutching onto Jake and mumble, “let’s move to bedroom.”

Note: Don’t do this, fella. Remember what Uncle Ben said, great power comes with great responsibility. Always use contraception! And always put the trash on the trash bin! Do not littering!

[write-ur-wrongs]

The Death of Me

Pairing: Geralt x reader

Word count: almost 4K - big whoops!

A/N: This was totally meant to be a drabble / blurb, but the story got away from me! A huge thanks to the sweet anon who submitted this prompt - I was beyond inspired and chuckled warmly throughout the entire writing process. This baby isn’t proofread so thread lightly!! I sincerely hope y’all enjoy this one :’) 

Prompt:  Heya! I saw your post about wanting to practice writing short stories so I have a small prompt for Geralt! What about: the reader and Geralt have always had a difficult relationship, always running into each other at the most inconvenient moments and hence disliking each other. However, while Geralt is passing through a village the reader comes barging into his room bloody and near death, only getting a chance to say “I didn’t know where else to go” before collapsing. I would be honoured if the idea inspired you :3

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You’d never considered yourself unlucky but lately life had a funny way of throwing you for a loop, or rather, throwing you to the wolves. One wolf, actually. A damn, irritating, and arrogant white wolf.

At first, it was all business. You’d arrive in a village itching for a contract, only to find that a “legendary witcher” had already come through and taken care of every monster within a two-days ride. Furious, hungry, and broke, you set out determined to get as far as you could and as quickly as possible. Your determination got you far enough that you’d managed a full three months of contract work, but not far enough it seemed.

You’d been on your way to collect payment from your latest contractor when you’d heard the buzz on the street; a witcher had come through asking about work, and had been told to wait and see as someone else (a woman! A human woman!) had already committed to the case. Apparently, he was either incensed or bemused at the idea – the brute was very hard to read, so say the town gossips – but it didn’t matter to you. You beat him to it and now you get to eat. When you finally met with the contractor to collect your coin, you couldn’t help but swell with pride as they thanked you, eyes wide, for taking care of a monster no human ought to be able to handle. You could have sworn your pride had given you wings as you floated out of the inn.

That is, until you heard them mumble under their breath, “Thank Gods that lass was able to handle it! Had it been the witcher, I would have had to pay triple!”

“Thank heavens for cheap labour!” whispered their partner, raising their glass to cheers their big victory.

Suddenly whatever weightlessness you felt transferred onto your coin purse. Biting hard on your cheek you pushed up your chin, determined to remain dignified. But then you saw him.

Impossibly broad chested, rippling muscles evident beneath his leather armour, with golden eyes that reflected back to you with a cruel playful nature that made bile rise in the back of your throat. He held your gaze and raised his own tankard to you as you walked past him. His deep voice rumbled through you as you pushed the door open.

“Cheers to cheap labour,” you heard him say, and swore you could hear the smirk on his full lips.

Groaning furiously, you pushed the door so hard it swung back and slammed shut behind you with such force a flock of birds took off somewhere in town. Undeterred, you stomped off towards your horse and set off at a gallop.

I’m going to make sure I never cross his fucking path ever again, you thought searingly.

You were wrong it turned out, but how were you supposed to know that?

You’d gone years without actually seeing him again, but that didn’t mean you were free of him. You’d alternated winning and losing contracts to each other, and the pressure of beating him to the next one stressed you so fiercely you developed ulcers. That alone would have been enough to push you to murder had you not heard from another witcher that their brother, the great white wolf, was losing sleep trying to keep up with you. Knowledge of this fact spurred you on; after all, if you couldn’t beat him, it’s best to be even, no?

The next time fate brought you two together, though, you could not have been farther from on top. What made matters worse, is that you weren’t even in battle when your paths crossed. Your literal paths just simply… crossed.

You’d been riding east for many days and just as many nights. You were tired, sore, and somehow still soaked to the bone despite the fact that the rain had stopped at least a day ago. You were so tired, your muscles seemed heavy in your limbs, and you had to keep blinking hard to bring the spinning world around you back to its axis. As you rode through an intersection on the trail, the sun peaked out from behind the thick curtain of clouds just long enough to pull you fully into sleep, and right off your still-moving-horse’s saddle.  

You honestly didn’t remember falling asleep, or off the saddle. You also had no memory of the moment another traveler, who was riding towards the intersection on the other trail, leapt off his mare just as you started your descent and caught you before you could split your skull open on one of the many rocks sprinkled throughout the street. You had no memory of the way he’d pulled you off the path, leading both horses behind him as he’d carried you over his shoulder. Zero recollection of him laying you down on a bed grass, tying your horse to a nearby tree, lighting you a campfire, or filling your pack with some bread and meat.

What you did remember, was the arrogant look on his face when you finally woke up. The condescending tone he took as he reminded you that you were ‘only human’ and had to take care of yourself accordingly was also seared into the annals of your memory.

You hated that he’d saved you almost as much as you hated the fact that you’d been asleep around him. Completely vulnerable for God knows how long and he’d been there to witness it all. Whenever the memory of the look on his face or the way he’d crossed his arms and tilted his stupid head as he condescended your humanity came to you, you couldn’t help but cringe even months after the fact.

***

Your saving grace came a full six months after your damned damsel in distress moment on the trail.

Well fed, well worked, and well travelled, you were taking your time enjoying the market in your town of the week. The work you did wasn’t glamourous, but it did allow you the means to afford a few luxuries every now and then. This time, it just so happened that your coin could buy you the sweetest gift of all: revenge.

The market was busy as ever, you could barely hear yourself think over the cacophony of voices and animal bleats bouncing around the square. Had it been anyone else, the conversation would have been lost among the noise around you, but when that voice came rumbling through the mess of shrieks and shouts, you couldn’t help but seek out the source. You didn’t know why you cared or why you were so surprised to find that the voice’s owner was none other than the White Wolf himself.

“You good?” you asked, making sure to tilt your head, hands on your hips, the same way he’d done the last time you’d met.

“Fine.” He practically barked, not even turning his head fully to address you directly.

The merchant, none-too-concerned with your arrival on the scene, continued as if uninterrupted. “I’m sorry Mr. Witcher, sir, but I can’t go any lower. This is the best I can offer.”

“I can’t pay that much,” he grumbled, hands closed into tight fists.

“I’m sorry-”

“Is this enough?” you interjected, knowingly offering forward far too many ducats.

“Y-yes!” breathed the merchant, looking quizzically at Geralt before picking three coins from your open palm, “thank you, madam...”

“Y/N,” you introduced yourself with a warm smile and a nod.

“Y/N!” Geralt hissed, at the same time, reaching out to push away your hand a fraction too late; the vendor was paid, and you’d won this round.

“What is it, Witcher?” you teased, as the vendor took his sword back for repairs, “been on vacation? Why so skint?”

“Been low on work lately,” he replied coolly, cat-like eyes boring into yours, “not as many contracts as there use to be.”

“Well, I’ll be,” you said, cocking your head to the side and pursing your lips in mock contemplation, “I can’t imagine why that’d be the case! Seems I keep running into monsters to kill.”

“Mmhm.” He hummed, narrowing his eyes at you.

Refusing to let him have the last word, you quickly turned on your heels and high-tailed it out of the market, shouting over your shoulder to the blacksmith to give any change back to Geralt before disappearing back into the crowd.

***

Being even should have brought peace between the two of you but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Your last interaction only fanned the flames of your rivalry. As the months turned to years without coming upon each other again, you still found yourself filled with unreasonable anger whenever you saw a mop of white hair cross you on your travels.

And not that you’d know it, but it turned out that Geralt wasn’t faring any better; finding himself frustrated and acting recklessly whenever he’d come upon anything that reminded him of you.

You were both completely obsessed with one another. Thoughts of the other constantly on the mind. Whether in waking or in dreams, you were both equally afflicted by an intense need to outperform, out run, and also, inexplicably, to impress the other.  

*

It was that need to impress each other that led you to accept a contract you should have never even considered taking. You honestly wouldn’t have even considered it had the circumstances been any different but you’d been hearing about this monster for weeks on your travels. Tales of the mighty griffin tearing people to shreds had been circulating far and wide on this side of the Yaruga, and honestly, with every retelling you’d expected to hear that a witcher had handled it, but that never happened. You’d somehow managed to arrive at the village at the source of these stories before him and had an opportunity to literally rob him of this victory.

Granted, you were the only one who’d been attributing him with this win, but that didn’t matter, not to you. The only thing you cared about when accepting this particular contract was the knowledge that by taking it, you were preventing him from having it, and that was more than enough.

The shock on the villagers faces when they saw you accept the contract only added to your already inflated confidence. The sheer size of the griffin’s wingspan humbled you a little, though, and whatever grand illusions of an easy victory you’d carried into the forest were squashed along with a couple rib bones only moments after engaging the beast. In short, you were fucked.

Some might say that coming out of it alive was enough of a win. Those people would be morons, you thought as you stumbled clumsily back towards the lights of the village, clutching your split abdomen with both hands and blinking back blood dripping from your forehead. Every step you took came with the stabbing pain of additional tearing around your wound. You could barely think, your ears were blocked and caked with dried blood and dirt, your tears stung as they fell across the gashes on your cheeks, and every breath in felt like it could be your last. You’d never admit this out loud, but a part of you wished the creature had finished the job.

Perhaps the only saving grace here was that in your condition, you couldn’t hear the villagers as they pointed and gossiped. You didn’t hear the “told you so’s” or the lewd shouts coming from the drunk men as you stumbled into the tavern. You could barely hear the disappointment in the inn owner’s voice as they reprimanded you for accepting a contract, they knew you couldn’t complete. Rolling your eyes, you pushed your way towards the stairs as quickly as possible – which, as it turned out, was not so quick, praying that someone would call you a healer.

“… and to think a witcher arrived only hours after she went off to kill herself! Tsk-tsk!”

You stopped dead in your tracks, drops of blood falling across your brow as you interrupted the momentum you’d been building. “W-what?” you croaked, turning towards them as much as possible to make sure you’d hear them correctly.

“Yeah! And not just any witcher, lass, the Butcher of Blaviken no less! Checked in with us just as you head out. Had you waited half a day you could have saved yourself a world of – ‘ey! Now where’s she off to?”

As you registered this news, something inside you snapped. Before you knew what was happening, you’d made your way upstairs and started pushing your full weight onto every door you passed. The great White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, was certainly arrogant enough to leave his door unlocked. You might have been wrong about the griffin, but you’d be damned if you were wrong about this.

Fortunate or not, you weren’t wrong about this. As you pushed your shoulder against the last door with whatever strength you had left, the door swung open with very little resistance. The heavy wooden door slammed loudly against the wall at the exact moment that your limp body crashed onto the floor.

“WHAT the fuck!” Geralt howled, leaping off the bed and onto his feet. His wild eyes assessed the situation in an instant, and he bound to you in barely two strides. “What the fuck did you do? What happened?” he asked as he flipped you over, so gently you were sure you’d already passed out and were now dreaming. Or maybe the blood loss was finally catching up to you and you were full-on hallucinating.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you breathed, barely above a whisper, before losing consciousness in his arms.

*

Regaining consciousness was a slow, painful process. You’d come in and out of it a handful of times throughout the night, and flashes of what you’d seen before you lost it were coming to you in an almost dreamlike haze; terrifying images of the furious griffin, its blood-soaked talon shining in the setting sun as it reared back to strike you again, and warmer visions of Geralt, shirtless, running towards you with – could it be? – genuine concern in his eyes.

Now as the rising sun cast its glow across the room, you squinted painfully against the light. Your head felt as though it was full of cotton; heavy, and scratchy, and unnatural on top of your shoulders. Hesitantly, you ran your tongue over your teeth and were equal parts relieved to find them all there and disgusted at the acrid, mineral taste the blood left behind. Blinking slowly, you tried to bring up your hand to rub at your eyes, but stopped short as you felt the large bandage draped across your forehead.

Slowly, you started to register the other bandages, on your arms, your cheek, across your abdomen. Your eyes grew wide as you finally registered the man facing away from you in the far corner of the room. Geralt’s broad strong back was hunched away from you as he rifled through herbs and small glass vials looking for something. Inexplicably, you found yourself disappointed to see he’d put his thick black tunic back on. Horrified by that realization, you literally gagged, startling Geralt and pulling his attention squarely onto you.

His big dumb beautiful face was all hard lines as he looked you over, stern eyes flashing to meet yours before dropping back down to the vial in his hands. You couldn’t help be notice the way the muscles in in jaw rippled and tensed as he sighed. He was oozing disappointment and anger, and that infuriated you.

“Am I dead?” you ask, squinting at him a little theatrically as you squirmed and winced in your bed.

“No.” he practically growled, his body tense as he made his way towards you slowly.

“Oh,” you breathed, bringing your eyes up to his before adding, “this isn’t hell?”

To your immense satisfaction, his stern eyes widened into shock, but then something unrecognizable flashed across his features – wait, was he hurt?

“Why, because I’m here?” he shouted, as if in confirmation of your hunch, and slammed the damp cloth he’d been holding back into the basin.

“No, jackass,” you retorted, pleased that despite the position you were in, you still had some semblance of an upper-hand, “because a griffin fucking fileted me like a fish and some poor drunk is probably downstairs slipping in a pool of my blood right now.”

You’d kind of hoped that he’d laugh, or at least have a comeback geared up for you, but Geralt just stood there staring at you, his mouth in a tight line, nostrils flaring.

Uncomfortable by the intensity of his stare and the silence accompanying it, you decide to continue to poke the bear.

“Come on, what’s with the face, Geralt? Pissed I’m still alive? You know you could have just closed the door over my body, let nature finish the bloody job.”

“Fuck, no! Y/n!” he screamed, startling you out of the attitude you’d put on, “I’m pissed because you’re an impossibly difficult woman hellbent on killing herself! I’m pissed because you don’t seem to fucking care about what happens to you! You can’t keep doing this Y/N! Because one of these days you’re going to get hurt and you’ll be too far away from me and I won’t be able to fucking save you, again! I am pissed because I am losing my mind spending every god-awful day wondering if you’ve gone and gotten yourself killed! Fucking hell, woman! If you didn’t find me – I-if I wasn’t here, with these herbs – Damnit Y/N!”

You just sat there, mouth opening and closing like a fish. You couldn’t believe it. You didn’t know what to say. This man, your nemesis, was in front of you pacing back and forth, breathing heavily, looking like a maniac. His nostrils were flaring more than the monster that almost killed you just yesterday. Part of you wanted to correct him and demand he never address you as ‘woman’ again, but his wild earnest eyes kept you quiet. My god… was he crying?

Before you could say anything, Geralt sighed gruffly, ran his large hand over his face and stormed out, mumbling something about needing to get you more water.

Left alone with your thoughts, you couldn’t stop yourself from spiralling. You’d expected him to be angry – hell, you wanted him to be angry! You’d humiliated yourself twice over, enraging him would ease the blow – but this was… different. He seemed genuinely concerned about you. And what was with his whole speech? He spent every day thinking about you? Worrying about you? There’s no way.

Sure, you thought about him daily, but that was out of spite! You hated the man! Why else would your heart race whenever you thought you spotted him in a crowd? Why else would you actively seek out the most dangerous contracts? What, like you were hoping these contracts would draw him out, and therefore, closer to you? As if!

Your ridiculous inner monologue was interrupted by Geralt’s return. The horrible brute knocked gently on the door before stepping inside, and your heart had the audacity to skip a beat.

Oh, you thought, fuck.

“I need to change the dressing on your wounds,” he grumbled, not meeting your eyes. You nodded wordlessly as he settled onto the chair next to you. You watched him work in silence, praying he would attribute your insane heartrate and flushed skin to a pain response from his work.

“Geralt?” you tried, chewing nervously on your cheek, as was just finished up with the last of your dressing.

“Hm?” he hummed, keeping his eyes cast down as he fussed with the bandage on the gash across your abdomen.

“Thank you… for saving me.”

He finally brought his gaze up to meet yours, but said nothing in return. He merely grunted in acknowledgment. You didn’t know why, but his silence in combination with his inscrutable gaze encouraged you to keep talking.

“I honestly only took this contract because I didn’t want you to have it,” you admitted bashfully.

“What the fuck? No one was taking it because they weren’t paying nearly enough! Hell, and you’re just a human,” he fumed, throwing up air-quotes as he said it, “so what – they offered you a third of nothing?”

Laughing lightly, you shoved him with your elbow, “they offered me three whole ducats!”

“Oh, wow,” he laughed, low and rumbling, “so a big pay day for you, eh?”

“Shut up,” you gasped as pain rippled through you with each peal of laughter, “knowing I could screw you over was payment enough!”

“Well congratulations are in order, you did manage to screw someone over,” he chided.

“Me,” you stated dryly, gesturing widely at your busted up body.

“You,” he echoed with a sigh that seemed to deflate him.

He suddenly looked so small, sitting there next to you. You watched him as clenched and unclenched his jaw, rubbing his large hands up and down his thighs – was he anxious? You mind raced as you felt his eyes travel slowly up your body. You held your breath as he worked up the nerve to finally bring his eyes up to yours.

The moment his eyes landed on yours, something shifted. Whatever had been lodged uncomfortably between the two of you all these years had finally clicked into place. This change, albeit small, was palpable. His eyes dropped to your lips and lingered there. He was looking at you like he’d never seen you before. Like he was afraid he might never see you again.

Without speaking, Geralt inched himself closer to you and reached a tender hand to tuck your hair behind your ears before cradling your face.

“You’re not allowed to die, do you hear me?” he whispered, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb.

You gave him a quick nod and brought your hand up to his, nuzzling into the warmth of his palm before giving his hand a quick kiss.

“I need to hear you say it,” he begged, bringing himself even closer to you.

“I do,” you breathed, trying to sit up to bring your face closer to his. “I’m not going to die, not on your watch, but I’m also not quitting.”

“Y/N –”

“No! If I quit, you’d get lazy. Who’d push you? What would be your driving force?”

“Wow,” he scoffed, looking at you incredulously but fondly, “you’re so fucking arrogant.”

“And yet…” you said, quirking a brow flirtatiously as you pulled him closer by the collar.

“… and yet?” he murmured, letting himself be pulled closer to you. His eyes half-closed and his lips slightly parted.

“You love me.”

“I love you.”

And then he kissed you. His mouth claimed yours urgently but his hands were ever gentle, ghosting over your bandages and caressing your skin with a feather-light tenderness that would have brought you to your knees had you not already been bedridden. Any hesitation or doubt melted away under the heat of his touch as all those years of tension sprung apart catastrophically. The knot you had carried in your stomach unfurled into flittering fireflies, their heat traveling up your stomach to your chest as his hands worked their way into your hair.

You didn’t know when they’d fallen, but you let out a shaky laugh as Geralt kissed away the tears on your cheeks, his thumb swiping at the tears his soft lips failed to catch. Breathing heavily, he rested his forehead against yours; his hands cupping your face as yours captured his.

Gods – this man was going to be the death of you.  

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I think I saw a post about how terrifyingly similar V and Saeyoung when it's come to the one he loves. V is willing to do anything, even going as far as letting Rika blind his eyes, and torture him. He could die for Rika if possible, and if that's what Rika want. Saeyoung is like that too. He sacrifice his all to protect Saeran, and even could be Saeran's sacrifice if that's what Saeran want. Just in 707 route, unknown want to kill him so bad and he's just give in, if that's making his brother happy. What do you think about this?

Well, you know what they always say? Like father like son. We know he views him as a father figure and the apple doesn't fall far from the metaphorical tree. They are both very self-sacrificial. They are some of the most extreme examples of how far you could go to protect people that you care about.

If you have the willingness and the know-how to make something happen, then you'll do whatever it takes to ensure that the people that you love are protected. Even if that means you have to risk your life. Saeyoung will throw away all of his person if it means Saeran is safe and safe even if that means that he’ll wind up dying and his choice doesn’t make things right. Jihyun will destroy himself if it means that he doesn’t abandon the people around him even if it means it’s not healthy for any person involved around him, involved directly or indirectly.

It's a painful parallel but it's an interesting one when people notice it. They can be two sides of the same coin when it comes down to it, but this is also partially why it is so intense when Saeyoung feels betrayed. He thought that they were the same kind of person and does it turned out, they weren't. It's a painful thing for him to face no matter what timeline it happens in where he learns the truth.

These two will go as far as they can.

Just look at this call where Saeyoung talks about how he knows that he has to trust V because he truly believes they believe in the same thing. He makes his heart believe that V will do the right thing because they both sacrifice and fight for what’s right.

It hurts all the more in Saeran’s After Ending where Saeyoung cries out and says that he truly did believes V to be like his real father. Saeyoung and V may have a lot in common when it comes to how quickly they burn themselves for others. It’s painful to see. Saeyoung tells you to leave, to run, and to be safe with Saeran as long as you can. He will give up his life for the two of you and V comes in to say it won’t be happening.

It still haunts me as V’s lowest moment that I cannot forgive ever. V believes he’s doing the right thing here by giving up and surrendering. He has to keep that old promise of his to Rika and by protecting her and giving himself up, he forces all of his person to believe he’s doing the right thing for everyone. He can protect all of his choices even if it’s wrong... even if he knows it’s wrong. He’s giving himself up but forcing others to accept that choice by taking what comes with it.

You’ll see Saeyoung admit it multiple times in his Route and the Secret Ending. It’s what haunts SE Saeran to the brink of losing control and realizing that there’s so much he doesn’t understand. He realizes Saeyoung will give him anything he needs and... well, it’s why he figures out that he can’t kill his brother. If Saeyoung can die for him right now... maybe he wasn’t lying about leaving to save his life at the risk of the agency.

V does the same to himself in the Secret Ending. We see as he gets on his hands and knees and begs Rika to destroy him instead of everyone else. It’s what he imagines to be the solution to everything. It’s not, he’s just made his heart believe that. He will give himself up to the Devil himself if it means that he doesn’t abandon people the way his father did, and that’s the crux of his failures. You know he never stops doing that unless it’s his Route.

It’s okay to be self-sacrificing as a person, but if you push it to the point where you are destroying yourself and other people by doing so, that’s when it’s an issue. It can be a good quality to love people enough to give your life for them if that ever arises, but... just like anything in life, doing anything to the extreme can be harmful... even if it’s a “good” thing.

V and Saeyoung... I love them as characters because they make me face that part of myself. Even Saeran to a certain degree is capable of this level of self-sacrifice. It’s why these characters feel so real... they’re capable of showing us the extremes of ourselves as people. They feel like people you are, or people that you’ve known before. You learn a lot as the characters learn what is and isn’t healthy for them.

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@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Favorite Food Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: G Content Warnings: None Summary: Jaskier gets Geralt a gift, and it makes Geralt realize he doesn't know enough about what Jaskier likes. He forms a plan to figure it out. ao3

The small cheesecloth package that was dropped in front of him wasn’t necessarily a surprise, but the way that Jaskier hovered as Geralt picked it up was.

“What’s this?” he grunted, sniffing the air subtly. The little package smelled like honey and flour and cream, and the thick, sweet smell of-- “Are those dates?” He pulled the cheesecloth off to reveal a neat little tart, gently browned on the edges, about the size of his palm.

“It is!” Jaskier leaned over him slightly, his arms holding several more packages. He continued, sounding a little nervous. “I know you don’t usually enjoy sweets, but I know the dates are your favorite. Must feed that witcher metabolism, no?”

“No,” Geralt eyed the tart. “Our metabolism is more efficient, not faster.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, deflating slightly. “Well, if you don’t want it I guess I can--”

“How did you know that date was my favorite?” Geralt interrupted, looking back up at Jaskier. Oddly, he could see the bard color slightly at the question, an appealing pink spreading across his cheekbones.

“You bought a jar of jam from that merchant from Toussaint, remember? You never buy jam, unless it’s for me, so I assumed you must have a preference for it. I mean, unless you don’t, which is fine, I can… Well, not eat it, I hate dates, but I’m sure I can find some mangy child to give it to, or a dog, or something. Do you hate it? You hate it.”

Geralt picked up the tart and bit into it, giving Jaskier a raised eyebrow. It was honestly more of a miniature pie than a tart, the flaky crust filled with dates and prunes covered in a custardy filling, sweetened through with honey. The flavors burst across his tongue, the tart still warm. Jaskier must have picked it up at the market and come directly here to give it to him. Geralt swallowed the first bite, looking into Jaskier’s apprehensive face, and said, “Thanks.”

Jaskier visibly relaxed, shuffling onto the bench across from Geralt and beginning to relay the events of the morning market. Geralt hummed where he was meant to and sipped his watered down ale and ate his tart. If Jaskier noticed his absent mindedness, he said nothing.

Jaskier… knew what his favorite fruit was. The knowledge should not have come as a shock, Geralt knew. Jaskier was often getting him gifts - oil for Roach’s tack, new clothes when Geralt’s last threadbare shirt gave out, potion ingredients when he ran low. Sometimes he bought Geralt useless things, little bobbles or trinkets he saw that he thought Geralt might like or find amusing, and Geralt kept them safely at the bottom of his bag, or in his room at Kaer Morhen. He cherished those things, things that told him Jaskier thought about him when he wasn’t near. It was nice, to be thought of.

But for some reason this little gift felt different. Jaskier had known his favorite food, and Geralt had never told him. Dates weren’t particularly common in the North, and it was rare that they were far south enough to meet merchants who carried them up from Nilfgaard. Geralt could remember when he’d bought the jam, hoping it would last him a while, but he couldn’t recall a single other time in recent memory that he’d eaten dates, or even mentioned them. He didn’t tend to wallow on things that were unavailable to him.

His eyes lingered on Jaskier as he spun a tale about haggling in the square. No, Geralt didn’t make a habit of wishing for what he couldn’t have.

Still, there was a problem at hand, one he had to solve. Jaskier knew Geralt’s favorite food. He might know Geralt’s favorite everything. Did he know that Geralt’s favorite color was blue, the wide, free color of the sky on the first day of spring? Did he know that Geralt’s favorite thing to drink wasn’t wine or vodka, but warm honeyed milk like his mother made when he couldn’t sleep as a tiny child? He certainly knew that Geralt liked the scent of chamomile and sage best in his bathwater, and that he preferred cotton shirts over linen, and that he would pick a song with a sad ending over a happy one. If he’d been paying this much attention, there was probably quite a lot that Jaskier knew about him, without Geralt having said a word.

And he didn’t know a thing about Jaskier.

What was Jaskier’s favorite color? Was it blue, like the doublets he so often wore, or was that just to match his eyes? Did he really like wine the best, or did he just like it better than ale? What was his favorite season? His favorite weather? Did he go to Oxenfurt every winter because it was where he could find work, or did he prefer Novigrad, or Vizima? Geralt could tell how Jaskier was going to react every time someone recognized him on the street, anytime a young lad or lass winked at him, even what he might say if Geralt gave the right sort of hum. But he didn’t know much about him, at the end of the day.

He needed to find out. As they packed up their belongings and set out on the road once again, leaving the small town behind them, Geralt ruminated on what could be done to rectify this situation. He couldn’t very well just ask Jaskier about all these things. After all, Jaskier had figured it all out with nary a word from Geralt. He didn’t need to ask; he was paying attention. Which made Geralt’s chest feel oddly warm and heavy, knowing that Jaskier was watching him, paying heed to his reactions and filing them away. Maybe it should have felt invasive, to know that he was being read so easily without his knowing, but instead it just felt… nice. To be known.

He wanted Jaskier to feel known too. He wanted to know Jaskier.

He would start small. Jaskier had given him food, something he knew Geralt would like. It couldn’t be that difficult to figure out what Jaskier liked. Geralt could start bringing him small things, pass it off as returning the favor, and guage Jaskier’s reaction. It would be simple, he mused, eying Jaskier from atop Roach as they walked side by side. His hair was mussed slightly from sleep, still, and he hadn’t bothered to fix it before heading out for the day. No one to impress, Geralt guessed, just the two of them and the road. He liked Jaskier this way, less pinned up and proper, more open. Letting Geralt see him without all of his armor, because that’s what it was, as surely as the leather on Geralt’s back was his. Right now, Jaskier was an open book. All Geralt had to do was pay enough attention to read him.

*

It was not easy to figure out what Jaskier liked.

The problem, Geralt quickly found, was that Jaskier was enthusiastic about almost everything. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. When he disliked something, he made his distaste abundantly clear. He was dramatic, which should have made it even easier to determine what delighted him the most. Geralt expected that, when he found it, poetic stanzas would be flowing like wine from Jaskier’s tongue, praising whatever it was. He had no reason to expect Jaskier to be subtle about his preferences.

And he wasn’t. The issue was that he seemed to react with the exact same level of excitement about everything Geralt brought him. On the first day they arrived in a new town, Geralt went to the market and brought Jaskier a small basket of strawberries, which Jaskier enthused over for half the morning. Geralt was pleased. Maybe it had been that easy, and he’d intuitively known what Jaskier liked. Maybe he had unconsciously been paying attention all along. He congratulated himself on figuring out at least one piece of the puzzle, and began thinking about how he might approach the next step.

But then he unthinkingly bought Jaskier a few sweetbreads when he was out the next day getting lunch. He’d been getting himself some, he thought of Jaskier sitting in their shared room, composing a ballad about the hunt Geralt had been on the night previously. He’d brought him the extra meats, and Jaskier had nearly the same reaction. Gushing over the gift, thanking Geralt for thinking of him. Lamenting his own forgetfulness, for getting so caught up in his work that he would forget to eat, as Geralt expected he might have. And Geralt was confused, because he didn’t think a few offal from a market stall in a half pint city in Velen was what Jaskier would like. Certainly not something he could call a favorite.

But he’d reacted the same to the sweetbreads as the berries. So Geralt was back to square one.

He reevaluated his metrics. So Jaskier reacted that way to anything he liked, apparently. It was odd; Geralt had seen Jaskier enthusiastically dig into a wide variety of foods over the years, but he didn’t praise them and rave about them the way he had done the berries and the meats. So he must have legitimately enjoyed both of them more than he would any old dish. But neither of them had seemed to outweigh the other. He still didn’t know what Jaskier liked best.

Over the next several weeks of their travel, Geralt bought Jaskier enough tortas and crepes and stews that he knew it was boarding on suspicious behavior. If it was any other situation, any other two people, he knew it might come off like courtship. Every time he offered Jaskier some new morsel, he could feel the back of his neck grow hot at the implications. But Jaskier only ever grinned in delight at whatever Geralt offered him, flushed and pleased no more or less than he had been at all the others. If he suspected any sort of foul play, he never said anything.

It was infuriating. After three weeks of spending more coin that he cared to count at markets and roadside stalls and taverns, he was no closer to figuring out Jaskier’s favorite food than he had been at the outset. It all seemed to go over well, which was gratifying, but he couldn’t tell what Jaskier liked the most of it all. Maybe he just wasn’t as good at reading Jaskier as he thought. He’d thought he was a master of it, at this point - he could tell when Jaskier was tired during a performance, even though his smile never flagged; he could tell when Jaskier was being dramatic about an injury and when he was actually in pain; he could tell the difference between righteous anger versus petty versus hurt. In most respects he felt like Jaskier was an open book, but there was nothing in his reactions to Geralt’s gifts that said he was anything less than entirely pleased to receive them.

He was running out of ideas. Giving Jaskier gifts one at a time was clearly not working; either none of them were right, or Geralt was misremembering Jaskier’s enthusiasm for the ones in the past. He needed to give Jaskier a selection and see for himself what was best, side by side.

It took another week to plan, mostly due to location. They needed to stay in one place for a few days, so that Geralt could collect the things he would need, and it was rare that the two of them were in one town for more than a day. Large contracts were few and far between, and it never took Geralt more than a single night to clear out some ghouls or drowners from an area.

As luck would have it, however, they were only a few days out from Carreras. Geralt pointed them in that direction, claiming that they would likely be able to find multiple contracts in one place there, and that Jaskier could take a few days to play for their small selection of inns and taverns. It wasn’t entirely a lie; there probably would be more contracts posted in a larger settlement, which would mean a solid few jobs to refill Geralt’s pockets. He would need the extra coin to execute his plan.

The first two days of their stay were filled mostly with real work. The city had been having issues with contaminated water, which sent Geralt out to investigate all the wells, and by the time he found the drowner that had fallen into the water supply a full day had passed. He was able to fill another two contracts on their second day, but the triple confrontations over less than 48 hours left him feeling bruised and exhausted.

It was Jaskier who suggested it, in the end. Pulling a comb through Geralt’s hair as the witcher let himself soak in the bath, Jaskier said, “What if we stayed for an extra day or two? The crowds have been good, and Barclay - the innkeeper, I don’t know if you’ve spoken to him - he offered us a discount if I play tonight and tomorrow.” His hand fell to Geralt’s shoulder, warm and comforting. “You could… take a few days.”

It had been his plan to stay, but Geralt felt an ache behind his breastbone at Jaskier’s careful suggestion. Always trying to take care of him, as if Geralt were someone who needed protecting, someone who deserved something like a vacation. He didn’t think he did, but it was nice, as always, to think that Jaskier cared. “Hmm,” was all he said, a soft sound of agreement. His eyes slipped shut as he basked in the quiet content of Jaskier’s company, and they said nothing else on the matter.

The next day he felt rejuvenated, the burn of overexertion in his muscles faded after a hard night’s sleep. Jaskier had played after getting him out of the bath and settled into bed, but he’d returned later, smelling of sweat and rosemary and catgut. Geralt had slept well with his solid weight by his side, pressed into the too-slim bed.

He spent most of the day preparing. The market was busy and bursting when he found it in the afternoon, though not as packed as he was used to seeing in larger settlements like Novigrad. There was a bakery on the corner from which the rich scent of fresh bread spilled out into the square, and the people at the stalls were standing around amiably, chatting about local affairs and peddling their individual wares to one and other. It was a homey little trade network, and despite his strangeness, Geralt didn’t feel unwelcome.

He made several minor purchases before he found his way to the bakery. It wasn’t as crowded as he’d feared, and he waited until the one or two customers before him had made their way out. The woman working the counter was twig thin despite her occupation, thin blonde hair tied up away from her face and covered by a light cloth, probably to keep flour out of it. Her eyes were blue, pale as diamonds. Geralt couldn’t help but think that Jaskier’s were nicer.

He made her nervous, it was easy to see, but she quickly warmed to him when he told her what he was looking for. Whether it was his gold that excited her or his plan, he couldn’t say, but regardless she helped him pick out his desired items with enthusiasm.

“If you’re planning to use them later tonight, I can make up a basket and have it ready for you. So nothing goes cold,” she explained, her forearms resting on the counter. “The pies are really best that way.”

Geralt nodded, and handed over her coin.

Jaskier would be back soon from where he was playing the lunch crowd at one of the taverns. Geralt rushed back to their room and put the purchases he had with him at the bottom of his pack, a blanket spread over them. Jaskier returned not fifteen minutes later, flushed and grinning. A successful performance, then. Good. When Jaskier was in a good mood he was more amenable to doing what Geralt said. “When do you play this evening?” Geralt asked, not looking up from where he was cleaning his sword at the small table they’d been provided.

Jaskier set his lute case down gently against the wall and then flung off his doublet with much less care, flopping down on to the bed. Geralt forced himself to keep his eyes on his work, though the image that awaited him - Jaskier, spread out, his shirt falling open to reveal the smooth line of his throat and his sharp collar bones - burned against the back of his eyes anyways. “Not until nightfall,” Jaskier answered with a content sigh. “After the dinner crowd. Why? Do you have plans?”

“Do you remember where we stopped on the first day, the hill just before town? By the brook.” He set his steel sword aside and reached for the silver, which was the one that truly needed attention. So many contracts in a row had left her chipped in a few places, and dull all around. Geralt set his whetstone down, but didn’t draw it across the blade yet. Waiting for Jaskier’s answer. He felt his stomach twist with something like nerves, which was ridiculous. This wasn’t anything risky, anything that Jaskier would read into - probably. Probably.

“Sure,” Jaskier answered easily.

“Can you meet me there?” Geralt asked. “An hour or so before you have to play?”

He heard Jaskier sit up, could feel the bard looking at him curiously. His gaze warmed the side of Geralt’s face, and he refused to look up and meet those bright blue eyes. “Did something happen? Do we need to get out of town?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, amusement bubbling up within him. “No. Nothing bad. Just… meet me?”

Jaskier was silent for a long moment, long enough that Geralt gave up and turned to look at him. He was regarding Geralt with a curious expression, almost guarded. But all he said was, “Alright. I can do that.”

Geralt nodded, satisfied, and returned to his task.

*

He left before Jaskier, stating the need to drop by the herbalist's shop and that if he wasn’t back - as he didn’t intend to be - that Jaskier should go to the meeting place on his own. Geralt made his own way back to the bakery, where his basket of goods was waiting as promised. He tipped the girl well, and set out with his pack containing the blanket and other purchases on his shoulder, and the basket on his arm.

It was a nice evening, warm and thick with the last hints of summer. It would be fall soon; he could taste it in the faint hint of decay that lingered on his tongue whenever he took a deep breath of the air beyond the city. But for now it was still hot enough during the day that the evenings were comfortable. Geralt found his way back along the road to where they’d stopped to water Roach at the nearby stream, just before the landscape dropped down into the shallow valley that held the large town. He made his way off the path, far enough away that they wouldn’t be obvious from the road, to a raised patch of earth that looked down over the fields as they spread out below. It was a lovely sight, the landscape rich in the evening light, the dying sun casting the rooftops of the city in rich gold. Jaskier would appreciate the scenery, at least.

Geralt quickly set up, laying out the blanket and pulling out the supplies from the basket. He’d maybe gone slightly overboard. There was a meat pie, several stuffed rolls, a hearty cabbage stew in two small bowls kept covered by plates tied to them; a loaf of fresh rye bread, with cheese and jam and honey to go with it; berries and apples with cream; a plethora of desserts, including an entire apple pie, along with little marzipan candies and several little cakes. Two bottles of wine, one white, one red. As he laid out item after item, Geralt felt unease stir within him. It was too much, he realized, seeing it all together. That had been his goal, after all, to see Jaskier eat as many things as possible, to get a sense, at least, of where his preferences lay. But this was overwhelming. Jaskier would realize something was amiss. A picnic, laid out in perfect detail, in the warm light of the evening, fields spread out beyond them and the forest to their back. It was obviously, sickeningly romantic, he realized. So very obviously beyond what one might do to spend an hour eating dinner with a friend. Panic rose in his throat, choking him, and he grabbed one of the wine bottles, thinking to put it away. If he could put some of it back, maybe it wouldn’t look so much like--

“Geralt?”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, fighting the desire to curse, and turned around. He hoped none of his apprehension showed on his face.

Jaskier was a few feet away, carrying nothing but his lute on his back. He was looking down at the spread with a shocked expression, eyebrows pulled up nearly into his hairline and eyes open wide. “What’s… all this?” he asked, his gaze flickering back up to meet Geralt’s.

“Dinner,” Geralt grunted, putting the wine bottle down. In for a penny, he thought grimly.

He watched several different expressions flicker across Jaskier’s face, too quick to parse. For a moment Geralt thought he looked almost… sad, or maybe anxious, but then he broke into a wide grin. The honest delight pouring off of him made Geralt let out a slight sigh, relief blooming in his chest. “Oh, well isn’t this just wondrous,” Jaskier laughed. He pulled his lute from his shoulder and set it in the grass beside the blanket, and folded himself down amongst Geralt’s offerings. A hand reached up towards him. “Are you going to join me?” Jaskier asked, raising a playful eyebrow. Geralt grumbled, but carefully sat down next to the bard and began dishing out the food.

It was good, all of it, but Geralt hardly paid it any mind, focused entirely on Jaskier’s reactions. The constant flow of conversation was interrupted every time Jaskier took a bite of something new - “This is delicious, have you tried this yet?” and “We must find out what spices they used for this stew, it’s absolutely the best I’ve had in months” and “Geralt, where did you find marzipan? Look at these little things, the details are impressive.” Throughout it all, Geralt watched his face, listened to his words, paid attention to what he returned to and what he didn’t.

And by the end, he was ready to tear his hair out.

Jaskier seemed to enjoy everything. He finished every helping he took, praised every dish, thanked Geralt for each and every selection he’d made. Even with so many choices, it didn’t seem to matter. Jaskier liked them all, but Geralt couldn’t tell what he liked the best. Not the way Jaskier apparently could do for him.

Finally Jaskier flopped back into the grass, one hand on his stomach. “I don’t think I’ve been so full in years,” he groaned, staring up at the sky with heavy eyelids. ���Probably since the last banquet I played at. You really outdid yourself, my dear.”

Fuck it. He had to ask. “Anything you liked in particular?”

Jaskier hummed, closing his eyes. “Mm, how could I choose? Everything was so lovely.”

Frustration clawed at him. Before he could stop himself, Geralt heard himself ask, “Do you even have a favorite food?”

Immediately he clamped his mouth shut, jaw clenched hard. He hadn’t meant to ask that. He wasn’t supposed to, he was supposed to--

“Oh, I don’t know if I have a favorite favorite,” Jaskier droned, blinking his eyes open to peer up at the sky again, this time with a thoughtful expression on his face. “There’s just such a range, you know. I suppose when it comes to desserts, there’s these custards that they make in Toussaint, have you had them? Tiny things, very sweet, with saffron and cinnamon. Delicious. We’ll have to get some next we go so far south.”

Geralt was hardly listening, even though he knew that had been the entire point. He’d failed. Jaskier had told him the answer to his question, which meant he was never going to have the chance to prove that he could learn Jaskier as Jaskier had learned him. He couldn’t prove his friendship, his affection, through his actions. Jaskier would never be interested in Geralt the way that Geralt was in him, but he’d hoped he could at least let some of his true feelings bleed into his actions, into the careful way he paid attention. Jaskier had already done so as nothing more than Geralt’s friend. Now he would never be able to pay him back in kind, not truly.

Jaskier turned his head to look at him, brow furrowed curiously. He must have been silent for too long. Geralt quickly schooled his features into neutrality, but some of his distress must have peaked through, because Jaskier frowned at him. Geralt could feel the incoming conversation before Jaskier even opened his mouth. He tried to get ahead of it, talking over the beginning of Jaskier’s soft inquiry. “We should head back,” he grunted, rising abruptly to his feet. “You have to play.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, in a tone that made Geralt’s stomach fill with dread. That was Jaskier’s no nonsense, absolutely-you-will-not-be-getting-out-of-this tone. He turned back towards Jaskier, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The bard had clamoured to his feet when Geralt stood up, and was now stepping around the blanket towards him. Geralt wanted to retreat further, to shove the remains of the picnic back in his bag and hide the evidence, but he knew it wouldn’t save him. He was being too obvious, and Jaskier knew him too well.

The bard eyed him suspiciously, but there was a note of concern in the way his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?” Jaskier asked, this time a bit softer. “I thought we were having a lovely time.”

“We… It was. It was nice. I just think it’s time to go.” Jaskier gave him a shrewd look. Not buying it then. Geralt sighed. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s not you.”

“I certainly hope not,” Jaskier chuckled. The sound was thin, like that was exactly what he had been worried about. “You’ve been acting strange for weeks. I wondered if-- Well. But if it’s not about me, it’s something else? Are you trying to butter me up for something? Is there a big scary adventure you’re about to tell me I’m not allowed to come on?” His gaze turned sharp again, but this time there was something like fear underneath it. “Are you leaving me behind?”

“No,” Geralt said quickly, his hands rising in a placating manner. “I’m not leaving you, Jaskier, I swear it. It’s just…” He petered off, unsure how to continue. How to explain.

“It’s just what?” Jaskier demanded. “Why have you been so damnably nice to me lately? Are you dying?” His eyes widened. “Am I dying?”

“No, Jaskier, of course not, just--”

“Then why the gifts?” Jaskier spread his hands around their little picnic, an easy example of exactly what he was talking about.

Geralt’s resistance shattered. “I was trying to figure you out,” he snapped. “I don’t know you, not like you know me. You know everything about me. You pay attention, even when I don’t say anything. You knew I liked dates because I bought jam months ago. You know me better than anyone, but I don’t know you. I don’t know what your favorite food is, or your favorite color, or what you like to wear, or what your favorite kinds of songs are, or your favorite season. I’ve been looking. I tried to figure it out, I tried to bring things I thought you would like and see what you liked best, but it seems like you like everything. You don’t always… say what you mean. I can’t tell when you’re faking and when you’re not.” Geralt was tense, fists clenched at his sides, jaw hard. He knew he looked angry. Jaskier probably thought he was mad at him, for some reason, but all Geralt felt was fear. He wasn’t good enough. Jaskier had to see that now. Geralt had known him for years, and he couldn’t even say whether Jaskier preferred blueberry jam to strawberry. What kind of friend was he?

A hand took his, gently pulling his fingers apart. He jerked his head over to stare as Jaskier stepped forward to slip their fingers together, squeezing softly. When he looked up, Jaskier was regarding him fondly.

“My favorite color is yellow,” he said. “I wear the silk doublets a lot, because they’re in fashion, but I prefer a linen shirt because it’s not as sweaty. I like songs about adventure, but books about romance.” His other hand lifted to brush a bit of hair away from where it was stuck to Geralt’s warm cheek. His expression was difficult to look at, earnest and painfully affectionate. Geralt was trapped by those blue eyes, like falling into a clear sky. “And my favorite season is spring. You could have just asked.”

Geralt swallowed. “You never had to. I just didn’t want you to… I don’t want you to think that I don’t pay attention.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, laughing a little, “I know you’re not always paying attention. I’m talking constantly. There’s a lot to keep up with. I know you tune me out most of the time, it’s fine.”

“I’m still paying attention to you,” Geralt insisted, because it was important, critical that Jaskier know that even when he wasn’t listening, he was still attuned to Jaskier. His presence, his voice, the sound of his heartbeat always in the back of Geralt’s mind. Whenever the bard was around he could scarcely focus on anything else.

“Knowing my favorite color or food or what have you isn’t what proves that you’re my friend,” Jaskier said, still smiling. “You know me. It’s alright.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me if you didn’t like the things I brought you?” Geralt asked, feeling unmoored. “You acted like you loved everything.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, but his chuckle was nervous. The hand he held in Geralt’s was sweaty, and his heartbeat, always in Geralt’s ears, was a bit fast. “Well, they were from you,” he said with a half shrug. “Of course I loved them.”

“But they weren’t--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaskier interrupted, soft but firm. There was a slight, bitter twist in his lips that Geralt wanted to wipe away. “I just… like to know that you’re thinking of me.”

They were standing so close together. Jaskier’s hand was in his, palm to sweaty palm. They were nearly of a height, but Jaskier was just the tiniest bit shorter, so he had to tilt his chin up ever so slightly to meet Geralt’s eyes. Now it was Jaskier who was tense, his shoulders squared as if to absorb a blow. He nervously dragged his teeth over his lower lip, leaving the hint of an impression in the soft flesh. Geralt watched raptly, swallowing against the urge to soothe the spot with his tongue. “I’m always thinking of you,” he finally said.

Jaskier took a shuddering breath, and Geralt watched as his eyes dropped down to flicker over Geralt’s mouth before they dragged back up to meet his gaze again. “When I saw all of it spread out like that, I thought maybe it meant something,” he said, nearly a whisper.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, helplessly. He lifted the hand not clutched in Jaskier’s toward his neck, tracing his fingers along the delicate line of Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier’s other hand came up to fist in Geralt’s shirt, inhaling sharply at his touch. It was an intoxicating sound, making his head spin more than the bottle of wine they’d consumed between them.

“Did it mean something more?” Jaskier pleaded, his eyes bright. His hand clutched at the fabric over Geralt’s heart, the fingers between his own tightening in a deathgrip. “Did it?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, and leaned forward to kiss him.

Jaskier gasped at the first press of their lips, opening for Geralt easily and without hesitation. He tasted like sweet white wine and meat pie and marzipan, and Geralt greedily mined the flavors from Jaskier’s tongue. He tried to pour all of the things he found himself unable to say into the press of his teeth against Jaskier’s lip, into the flick of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and the way his fingers tangled delicately in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier gave as good as he got, humming encouragingly into Geralt’s mouth and hauling him closer by the hand in his shirt. He didn’t release Geralt’s hand from where he held it in his own, and Geralt made no move to extract himself.

Finally, Jaskier pulled back, panting against Geralt’s lips as he set their foreheads together. His eyes were closed, and Geralt watched them flicker open, savoring the dazed expression on his face. “I think I’m going to be late to play that show,” Jaskier rasped, and a thrill went through Geralt at the sound. And indeed, the sun had begun to set, dipping over the edge of the mountains in the far, far distance, coloring the air around them in rich purples and reds. Jaskier’s face was soft and ethereal in the glow, and Geralt never wanted to let him go, never wanted to leave this moment.

“Why spring?” Geralt found himself asking.

Jaskier smiled, and his face softened even further. “Because it’s when I get to see you again, of course. You should have known all along; you’re my favorite.”

It was a corny sentiment, and by Jaskier’s grin he knew it, but Geralt couldn’t help the way it warmed him up from the inside out, radiating out from within him and making his lips pull into an answering grin. He leaned in and kissed Jaskier again, and again, and a third time, in quick succession, each more soft and lingering than the last. When he was finished Jaskier had that dazed looking expression back on his face, and Geralt decided it was a good look on him. “Want to know something?” he asked, teasing. Jaskier nodded, the hand on Geralt’s chest snaking up to wrap around his neck, holding the both of them close. Geralt leaned in to press his lips just behind Jaskier’s ear, to press his secret against the soft skin there.

“You’re my favorite too,” he rumbled, and Jaskier laughed, bright and joyful, and both of them knew that it was true.

~

This is my last s&s fic!! So excited to be done with the challenge, and happy that I was able to finish! Thank you to all those who encouraged me over the last two months, your kind words and support mean more than I could say <3

tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire, @theamazingbard

[scapegrace74-blog]

Love Stained, Chapter 3

A/N  Here is the promised mid-week chapter.  Jamie and Claire don’t meet in this chapter, but she’s not far from his mind.  Stay tuned next weekend when they get together for their first, ahem, session.   Thanks as always for reading!

Trigger warning: mild references to past sexual assault

The whole story can be found on my AO3 page.

”Weeel, if it isn’t my favourite wee fox cub!”

Geillis Duncan was a walking embodiment of the stereotypical flamboyant therapist with her brightly patterned clothing, chunky framed glasses and vibrant red hair.  Her office was a cozy pastiche of over-stuffed armchairs, swag lamps and Himalayan salt crystals.

Jamie settled his bulk into one such armchair, eyes scanning the familiar room for any new eccentric curios.  A gaudy cat with one paw raised in greeting stared down at him from a bookshelf with porcelain eyes.

Despite outward appearances, Geillis was a dedicated and relentless professional, always eager to support her patients in whatever way she could.   These weekly meetings had become a mainstay of his otherwise tumultuous life, and he’d grown quite fond of his colleague.

Didn’t stop him from taking the piss, though.

“What’s with yon wee cat?  Looks like he’s tryin’ to hail a cab on Grassmarket,” he teased.

“Ye really dinna miss much, do ye Jamie?  That’s a maneki-neko.  A Japanese cat of good fortune.  A patient gave it to me the other day.”

“We could all use a little more good fortune in our lives,” he conceded, eyeing the cat more critically.

Their session proceeded as usual, with Geillis sharing her notes and observations of the women they were both treating.  A large part of being a sexual surrogate was understanding the underlying causes of a woman’s dysfunction, and where she was at on her journey to coming to terms with those causes. Patients had to agree to allow the two professionals to share otherwise confidential revelations. Their work was two sides of the same coin: Geillis addressed the emotional response to trauma, while Jamie focused on the physical one.

“Mary McNab will only be comin’ to see me once a month, henceforth.  She even went on a date last week.”

“That’s grand!” Jamie enthused, truly pleased for the mousy woman who had been in treatment for well over a year after a violent attack in the alley behind her flat.  It had taken three months before she’d allowed even the lightest touch of his hand.

“Aye, tis.  She went on and on about how wonderful ye were wi’ her.  It was nauseating, if I’m bein’ honest.  Still, twas a job well done.”

Geillis pushed a thick envelope across her desk towards him.  This was part of their agreement.  Jamie never accepted payment directly from his clients and only once his assignment was complete.

“I hear Claire Randall finally sought yet out,” Geillis continued after Jamie slid the money into his messenger bag.  He worked hard to school his features before looking back up.  He wasn’t the only one with a keen eye for detail, and Geillis saw him better than anyone except his sister.

“Aye, she did.  She found me at the Ridge the other night and we spoke.  Texted me afterwards to thank me for my time.  Ball’s in her court whether she wants to pursue treatment.”

The therapist observed him with the same jade green gaze as her porcelain cat.

“And what did ye make of her?”

Measuring his words carefully, Jamie went on, “Skittish.  Highly strung.  A perfectionist who needs to please to feel valued.”

Geillis nodded in agreement.

“Ye’d have made a fine psychologist, lad.  She lost both parents in a car crash when she was seven.  Claire was in the back seat at the time.  It took o’er an hour to extract her wi’ the jaws of life.”

Jamie shuddered in sympathy.  His mother and father were also gone, but he couldn’t imagine what it might do to a child to be trapped in a twisted heap of metal next to the dead bodies of her parents.  Calling for them in that throaty wisp of a voice, with no answer ever to be heard again.  He urged the salty knot in his throat down into his chest.

“Her paternal uncle raised the wee lamb,” Geillis went on.  “A bit of an absent-minded professor type, I gather, but he doted on her.  Probably to excess.  He passed away eighteen months ago.  Cancer.”

The puzzle pieces began to rearrange themselves in Jamie’s mind.  Claire had said she’d been married for just over a year.

“Attachment disorder?” he guessed.

“A reasonable assumption, but Claire has no problems maintaining healthy relationships with friends or colleagues.  No, I think we’re looking at a case of fear of abandonment that’s manifesting itself through resistance to sexual surrender.”

A thought had been niggling him since he met Claire at the Ridge and heard her heartfelt wish to save her marriage.

“What of her husband?  Should he no’ be part of her treatment since it’s their intimate life that’s at issue?”

Geillis’ mobile mouth arched downward and she cleared her throat.   Clearly, she hadn’t formed a better opinion of the bastard than he had.

“Mr. Randall is of the impression that since his prior sex life was fruitful and, in his mind at least, mutually satisfactory, the onus lies wi' his wife to resolve whatever problems she brought to their marriage bed.”

Huffing like an enraged bull, Jamie stood and began to pace in front of the floor to ceiling bookshelves, fists forming and unforming in thin air.

“He does,” Geillis conceded, “approve of her seeking therapy, along with any treatment she may request from you.”

“Mac an donas,” Jamie swore, rounding on Geillis where she sat watching him from behind her cats-eye glasses.  “What kind of man sends his wife to another to see to her pleasure?  A duty that is his by both vow and honour.”

It was a rhetorical question, but Geillis answered him anyway.

“The kind that keeps ye gainfully employed, Jamie Fraser.”

[tobi-smp]

Sorry for sending this to you specifically but the thought of making my own post and being perceived terrifies me, and I also think you might have some interesting input on the matter?

How much do you think c!phil being the way he is, is a result of ""bad writing"" (I'd more call it inexperienced), and how much of it is him just being morally gray/not a good person/whatever you would call him at this point idk.

Because one one hand a lot of C!Phil to me feels like he's a prime example to some of the downsides of (mostly) improv role play. He only exists when he is being played and all the knowledge on him kept by the one playing him is only in his head. None of him is written down anywhere so he acts inconsistent and details are easily forgotten/reconnected. Its hard to figure out what c!Phil wants to say because it comes off as not even he knows what he wants — and not because of him, but what the writers want to do. There's no thought behind his actions, just an outside force dictating what he should do for plot or what would be funny in the moment.

I often wonder how different c!phil would be if he were kept track of like a dnd character, but tbh you could say that about anyone.

(personally I don't think this is a bad thing and the DSMP should be given leeway due to its nature as an unscripted roleplay, but I think it can lead to a lot of characters like c!phil)

But I feel all these things could also just be who c!Phil is. Is he an inconsistent person because he only parrots his ideals and doesn't truly believe them? Maybe he's so old and jaded he's forgotten where he's been and can't empathize with people suffering in ways he was able to overcome long ago. Maybe C!Phil is meant to be one side of the coin of attachment. He values people while C!Tommy (in his mind) over values things, seeing his views separate from C!Tommy's when in reality, they're two sides of the same coin, the thing C!Dream has been trying to distance himself from.

I There's so many cool and interesting angles you can infer from Phil's character depending who he interacts with and how — but none of it feels intentional. Is that just me? Is c!phil simply a product of how he's been handled by the story? Or is he just. Like That.

honestly, it's difficult to say what about a character is intentional or not.

I will say, phil's character has suffered the most over inconsistencies in the writing that aren't necessarily His Fault. the sbi dynamic was Fully Canon once, and then he was in character limbo for a long while after it wasn't.

someone like foolish was able to come in completely disconnected from anyone else on the server and then Built those connections thoughtfully, while phil was left scrambling trying to figure out What his connections to other characters were to try to build on shaky foundations that might move again.

we can say for Sure phil went through an awkward period where he was trying to figure out where his stance was supposed to be with other characters and where he had to be careful about what he said about his past while trying to establish his character, which was limiting considering just how interpersonal his central story arc is.

but at the same time, there are aspects to improv roleplay where the separation between the two doesn't matter as long as it's recognized as having happened. watching his scene between him and wilbur on the 16th its easy to see that phil was out of his depth. it was his first moments on the server and he was immediately dumped into the deep end of the pool. he was laughing, he was starting and stopping sentences without knowing where to go with them, and wilbur was so much Surer and Stronger in his delivery. which ultimately funneled phil's actions into giving wilbur what he wanted, in killing his son.

obviously we understand from an out of world perspective that this was due in no small part to phil's inexperience with roleplay, but this translates directly into phil's In Character Reaction as well. c!phil hasn't seen his son in years, he doesn't know what's going on, he didn't know how to help his son. stumbling, not knowing what to do in the face of wilbur's Absolute Certainty. it makes sense even if his choice was a Terrible one.

think about how dream's fixation on tommy in the early days was down to them both being active content creators that bounced well off of each other and how those interactions have permanently been tinted by current lore. the intentions behind what a character does and says matters less than what it tells us about that character, you know?

that said, while I Do think phil's character has suffered the most from retcons and shuffling behind the scenes, I Do genuinely think that things like his hypocrisy, stubbornness, and ignorance are written to be there Intentionally. whether that was his intent the entire time or he connected the dots himself later matters Less than what he does with it now.

either way, I think people are angry at c!phil right now because cc!phil wanted them to be. and I'm optimistic about his character moving forward.

[archived-kin]

local cashless god nearly loses you your job (but you’re okay with it)

note from kin: *throws this at you* please take it i’ ve been stuck on the blasted thing for hours (peepaw i promise i’ll write you something where you’re better characterised another day)

fandom: genshin impact

character(s): gn!reader, zhongli, xingqiu

pairing(s): zhongli/reader

warning(s): none! (though i do want to give a heads up for some out of character stuff since i started this when i still wasn’t too familiar with the liyue characters)

genre: fluff

“How many copies of Encyclopaedia of Liyue does one man need?”

You shush Xingqiu as the man just across the shop continues to browse at his leisure, golden eyes furrowed in concentration as he trails his gloved fingers across the books’ spines. “Maybe he’s here to buy something else this time! You never know.”

“He’s bought the exact same book seven times in a row now,” Your little brother insists, pulling his nose out of his novel for once to regard the tall figure drifting listlessly from one end of the shop to the other. “I doubt he’s going to break the cycle now.”

“He could be a collector,” You suggest, dropping your voice slightly when the man’s eyes flicker over to you briefly. “This shop’s older than us - maybe it has a bunch of different editions that he wants to get.”

“Well, wouldn’t it make sense for him to find all the different editions and then buy them all at once?” Xingqiu whispers in reply, tapping restlessly at the countertop with one hand. “Then he wouldn’t have to stop by every day and charm you into paying for him.”

You don’t have a reasonable argument for that, so you don’t reply. Xingqiu really is too smart for his own good sometimes.

The man - who you can see is now flicking curiously through a copy of The Founder of Diabolism - isn’t someone you know particularly well, but he’s visited the bookshop where you work enough times that you do know the essential facts: his name is Zhongli, he likes drinking tea, and he’s broke. In every sense of the word.

That last point is quite the source of exasperation on your part. No matter how many times you remind him as he leaves, he never fails to turn up with a completely empty Mora pouch the next time you see him. At first it hadn’t been so much of a problem - he’d just come in, browse the books, start a little small talk with you, then leave. But then he’d actually started wanting to buy the books, and buying usually involves money - something that Zhongli seems to forget exists.

If it had been any other ridiculously handsome guy, you might have sent them packing, but there’s something about the lost look on Zhongli’s face when you ask him for his payment and he realises that he has no way of giving you one that never fails to make you get out your own Mora pouch and suggest that you foot the bill for him instead. Zhongli always tries to refuse your offer, but, in kind, you always insist. You have no idea why he has such an affinity for that particular book, but the way he smiles at you as you as you drop your own coins into the payment pouch is more than enough to make up for the money you lose. It’s not like you actually need the funds, anyway, considering who your father is.

Today, however, Zhongli has neglected the shelf of encyclopaedias in favour of drifting over to the Xianxia section. You’re not sure what’s spurred this change in interest, but maybe it’s the little toy dragon you’ve set on top of the shelf? Zhongli seems rather enamoured by it - he keeps glancing up at it while he reads.

Speaking of the book that he’s skimmming through, it’s a rather odd choice on his behalf. You haven’t gotten the opportunity to read it yourself, busy as you usually are between your work shifts, adventurer’s guild commissions, and making sure your little brother doesn’t get himself into trouble by wandering directly into a gang of hilichurls in the middle of reading a book again. You’re pretty sure Xingqiu has read it at some point, though - to be honest, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already read every book in this shop several times over. (Part of you wonders if the only reason he’s so supportive of you venturing into the world and taking this job is because he gets to sit with you and read all the books he likes during your shifts.)

You don’t remember all the details he’d spewed off to you over the week or so he spent reading it, but you vaguely remember him crying into your sleeve about something to do with trees and lanterns and hugs. You’re also pretty sure that it got kind of… what’s the word? Risqué? Adult? Well, whatever word you use to describe it, it doesn’t really seem like the sort of thing that someone like Zhongli would read. Then again, you wouldn’t have ever expected your innocent gentleman of a little brother to read something like that, either.

“At least he seems to have good taste in fiction,” Xingqiu sighs as Zhongli continues to skim over the first few pages, looking rather intrigued. “I suppose that’s about as much as I can ask for…”

“He seems pretty invested,” You observe. “Reckon he’s going to buy it?”

Xingqiu shakes his head. “No. He’s going to come up here and realise he’s forgotten all his Mora again, and then you’re going to end up buying it for him again because you have a giant crush—”

You shove him in the shoulder so hard that he falls off his stool. “Oh, shut up.”

Xingqiu quickly catches himself on the side of the table and shoots you a glare, fumbling to retrieve the book that he’s accidentally dropped in the process. “Hey! This book doesn’t belong to us, you know.”

“It’s one book, A-Qiu,” You sigh as he turns away from you, clutching the book to his chest like it’s some precious child that you’re threatening to kidnap. “Mr Yao isn’t going to condemn you if it gets a little dusty.”

“Books should be treated with respect,” Xingqiu sniffs, turning up his nose at you like some nobleman - which he technically could be considered, now that you think about it. “You of all people should know that.”

“Just because I work at a bookshop doesn’t mean I think they’re Morax’s gift to man like you do,” You snort, noting in the corner of your eye that Zhongli’s eyes had flickered over to you briefly as you spoke. “Sure, books are neat, but they’re not holy.”

“‘Books are neat?’” Xingqiu repeats disbelievingly. “Of all the words to—”

“Excuse me.”

Both you and Xingqiu jump in startled surprise - neither of you had noticed Zhongli approach the front desk. You gather yourself quickly and smile at him as he quietly sets the book on top of the counter and pushes it towards you with a small nod.

“Will that be all?” You ask, reaching for one of the complimentary bamboo bookmarks that you’re obligated to give out with every purchase. You’re pretty sure that Zhongli has more than enough at this point, but you don’t want to risk getting into hot water with Mr Yao for not doing it.

Zhongli takes the bamboo bookmark with a small smile. “Yes, thank you.”

You nod and flick the book open to check the price label on the inside of the cover. “Alright, that’ll be… 5000 Mora, please.”

Xingqiu mutters something resignedly under his breath as Zhongli reaches into his pocket and fumbles about for a moment, clearly not particularly hopeful that the man has actually brought his money with him today. Your little brother, as usual, is perfectly correct in his intuition; after a second of slightly embarrassed silence, Zhongli pulls his hand out of his pocket with nothing in it.

“My apologies,” He sighs, bowing his head in shame. “I’ve forgotten my money pouch again.”

“I knew it,” Xingqiu whispers.

“A-Qiu, shut up,” You hiss back, then turn back to Zhongli, your smile back in place. “No worries, I’ll buy it for you.”

His brows pinch together slightly in the smallest of frowns. “No, no, you shouldn’t. You’ve already spent so much money on me…”

“It’s no big deal!” You assure him brightly, already reaching into your lapels to find your coin pouch. “You seemed to be really into it earlier, so it’d be a shame if you couldn’t keep it, right?”

Zhongli’s frown deepens. “Even so...”

“You could always pay back with something else,” Xingqiu chimes in, the exasperated look on his face replaced with a shit-eating grin that you know all too well. Before you can step in and shove him into the cabinet or something to shut him up, though, he continues, turning to you in a parody of innocence, “What do you say? Mr Zhongli clearly has some time on his hands…”

You narrow your eyes at him, not liking what he’s implying with that grin. “I’m still on shift, A-Qiu, I can’t just up and leave. Mr Yao would probably kill me.”

“You’ve been working shifts for two weeks straight,” He counters, crossing his arms stubbornly. “I can mind the shop for a long enough for you to take a walk. He won’t notice a thing.”

“You won’t ‘mind the shop’, you’ll just sit there and read,” You shake your head and tussle his hair with a flippant hand. “Don’t think I haven’t seen you eyeing up those antiques at the back.”

He looks affronted. “Are you accusing me of stealing intent?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” You explain patiently. “I’m just saying that your moral compass is very easily diverted when it comes to books.”

“If I may,” Zhongli begins, cutting off Xingqiu’s indignant spluttering. “I do not mind the idea.”

You turn to look at him in shock, only to see that his golden eyes are already fixed intently on you. He has the sort of gaze that makes you feel as if he’s seeing right through you, as if all of your faults and flaws and wishes and dreams are laid out bare for him to examine at his leisure - but Zhongli doesn’t look at you with any judgement. In fact, if you hope hard enough, you think that there might be some affection in his eyes.

“W-well, I—” You glance quickly back at Xingqiu, who pointedly refuses to help you, evidently offended by the moral compass comment. “I- I’d love to, honestly, but I need to finish my shift…”

“This young gentleman has already volunteered to take care of that for you,” Zhongli counters. There’s a strange intensity to the way he’s looking at you now - hope? Determination? “I know of a quiet spot just outside the harbour. If you would…?”

You glance at Xingqiu, who, despite still looking a little miffed, gives you a begrudging nod. After another moment of thought, you turn back to Zhongli, who gazes expectantly back at you.

“I’d love to go for a walk,” You say, standing up. “Lead the way.”

He smiles then, holding the door-curtain open for you to exit first. You pause briefly to wave a goodbye to Xingqiu, who pointedly sticks his nose in his book and pretends not to see it.

The two of you walk in silence for ten minutes or so, with him in the lead and you occasionally glancing behind you to make sure Xingqiu hasn’t already set the bookshop on fire or something. Zhongli walks rather more quickly than you’re used to, mostly because you usually walk with Xingqiu, who has refused to grow more than half an inch in the last three years and still has legs substantially shorter than yours. Zhongli seems to notice you lagging behind a little after a minute or so, slowing down his pace slightly so that the two of you can walk side by side properly.

“The breeze is pleasant this time of year,” Zhongli comments as the two of you cross the bridge to the mainland and begin to leave the harbour. “Particularly as the sun is going down.”

“I’ll have to get out to see the sunset more often, then,” You sigh. The amount of people milling about around you thins out the further the two of you walk from the harbour and along a grass-lined path, until the two of you are alone.

“I’d be happy to escort you,” He says, glancing quickly back at you, then snapping his head forward again. “...that is, if you’d like me to.”

You’re glad he isn’t looking at you, because you’re pretty sure that the look on your face is smitten to an absolutely ridiculous degree. It takes everything in you not to reach forward and grab Zhongli’s hand right then and there, but you restrain yourself just in time, knowing full well that initiating sudden physical contact with someone that you still don’t know all too well is incredibly rude.

“Of course I would,” You answer. “Just name a time and a place.”

He looks at you again, a gentle smile curving at his lips. “I’ll be sure to.”

The walk takes the two of you through a grove of trees dappled by the rich afternoon light. Zhongli speaks at length about the various different species that you pass; part of you is listening attentively, but the other part of you is far too distracted by the elegance of his quiet footsteps and the way the sunlight glows softly at the edges of his hair to register the information.

Leaves and branches crunch underfoot as Zhongli finally leads you out of the trees and out onto a quiet spot on the mountainside overlooking the harbour. He sits down on the ledge, legs dangling precariously over the edge, and you follow suit, quietly settling down beside him, leaving about two inches’ space between the two of you. Zhongli doesn’t say anything for a minute or so; he’s absorbed in watching the city below him, golden eyes darting back and forth as he watches the tiny figures of the people bustle about the streets.

You notice that he’s still holding the book you bought him earlier, keeping it set carefully in his lap with both hands placed firmly on top of it, as if he thinks it might slip out of his grasp and off the mountain if he isn’t careful.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” You begin, catching his attention. He turns to look at you, and the sudden sight of his content expression, framed by the sprawling fields and trees in the distance behind him and the light casting his features into sharp relief, knocks all the air from your lungs for a moment. You very nearly choke on your words, but manage to gather yourself in time to ask, “Why the sudden change in interest?”

He cocks his head ever so lightly to the side in confusion, then realises what you’re referring. “Ah - the book? I just wanted a change of pace, really.”

You nod in understanding. “I see. A-Qiu’s read that one. He says it’s one of his favourites.”

“Is A-Qiu the young gentleman accompanying you in the bookshop?”

“Yup.” You sigh, leaning back and kicking your legs slightly, noticing with some fascination that you can faintly see yourself reflected on the water far beneath you. “Xingqiu. He’s my little brother.”

If you squint hard enough, you can see Zhongli’s reflection in the water as well. He’s shifting slightly - is he moving closer to you? You can’t quite tell from the reflection alone, and you’re not about to risk looking at him. Zhongli is a little like the sun in that respect: warming you indirectly with his presence, but damn near blinding (and incredibly flustering) to look directly at or make eye contact with. He’s almost ethereal-looking - as if he isn’t quite of this world.

“He seems a well-intentioned boy,” Zhongli comments quietly.

You respond with a light-hearted scoff. “I’m not too sure about that. He’s good at hiding it behind a book and all those airs and graces, but he’s always annoying me.”

“Is that not what younger siblings are for?” He counters, eyes twinkling slightly as you laugh in reply.

“I guess they are, huh?” You shake your head, a grin continuing to play on your lips as you finally turn to look back at him. Somehow the blinding beauty of before feels as if it’s mellowed out, become softer around the edges - like a surging river calming to a trickling stream.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a while. The late afternoon breeze picks up a little, and Zhongli’s hair dances about on the air, twisting and curling in swirls as if the very wind is playing with it. You’re so occupied by (subtly) staring at him that the small movement of him lifting a hand to adjust his tie makes you jolt slightly on the spot.

You can tell that he’s noticed as well, so you hurry to start a conversation before he can bring it up. “So… what’s the fascination with Yi Xichen?”

“...ah.” You might be imagining it, but you think you can see a faint flush forming over his cheeks. “The encyclopaedias?”

“What else?” You swing your legs back and forth restlessly, leaning forward and resting your cheek in your hand. “You must have at least fifteen copies by now. Are you collecting them or something?”

“Well, no...” He glances away from you, intertwining his fingers. “I suppose I’m not particularly good at ‘acting natural’, am I?”

You cock your head to the side. “What do you mean?”

Zhongli fiddles slightly with the seam of his glove, looking uncharacteristically bashful. “I have no need for encyclopaedias, but after the first few days, I found that I had fallen into the routine of selecting one every time I visited.”

“Why did you visit, then?” You ask.

He glances quickly at you, then back down at the water. He doesn’t answer at first, as if mulling over what to say, until finally, he replies, “...I suppose I just wanted to see you.”

It takes you a good moment to fully process what he’s just said to you. Once you do, though, your entire body implode. Well, it feels it does, anyway.

“I— you— me— huh?” is all you manage to get out at first, hands dancing around in front of you like two birds trying to escape from a net, as if they’re trying to physically pluck some words to say from the air. It’s a bad habit you’ve always had, throwing your hands about when you’re stressed; it drives you mad sometimes, but you can’t stop yourself.

Zhongli closes his eyes and bows his head, and there’s no mistaking it - his cheeks are definitely pinker than usual. “Is that alright?”

You nearly choke on air, but you force yourself to take a deep breath instead, fanning yourself briefly with one hand. Getting flustered heats you up surprisingly quickly. “Y-yeah! Of course it’s okay.”

“I’m glad.” He smiles a little bashfully, leaning forward and tilting his head slightly to look at you. “I don’t want to overwhelm you, but, if it’s alright… could I see you more often after today as well?

The sheer adrenaline rushing through you is so intense that you’re surprised that you haven’t busted a blood vessel yet. Actually, as far as you know, you might as well have - you’re far too focused on the man in front of you and his… confession? Is this a confession? You’ve read romance novels, sure, but is that how it works in real life as well? What are you supposed to do?

Your head is so filled with pure chaos that you just know that, if you speak, you’re going to say something completely inane and stupid. So, instead, you reach forward, and take his hand in your slightly shaky one.

He looks down at your intertwined fingers with mild surprise for a moment, then raises his gaze to you once more, eyes lighting up slightly. “...I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

You nod quietly, hesitantly shuffling closer to him. He squeezes your hand almost experimentally, then glances quickly back up at you as if trying to gauge your reaction. You offer him a smile; he returns it wholeheartedly.

You’re sure that you’ll have missed the rest of your shift by now, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to care. Zhongli doesn’t let go of your hand, and you in turn do not move away from him - if anything, you move closer, leaning slightly into his side. He doesn’t seem to notice, and if he does, he doesn’t object.

The sun is slowly beginning its descent, staining the sky a pale orange that reflects from the waters below you. It seems that the two of you will be seeing that sunset together a lot sooner than you had anticipated.

[myundeadgayson]

Mystic Messenger, but it’s actually C!Quackity on the DSMP

 …C!Quackity treating the DSMP like a dating sim joke, except I take it literally and tell you all the datable characters and Good, Bad, and Neutral Ends like this Mystic Messenger. (Disclaimer Note: This is all based on C!Quackity’s lore. This is also all based around their characters, NOT the CC’s. I am also NOT encouraging you to ship any of these characters -- especially bc some DO NOT feel comfortable with that. Also, no Minors are included because NO. This has just been a running Quackity joke for a while, and the concept of C!Quackity trying to flirt with all of these characters to speedrun the server like a legit dating sim sounds just so funny to me. Please do not attack me.)

Main Character Routes:

Sapnap (Good End: “Burning Love”, Neutral End: “I Love You, But Not Like That”, Bad End: “Twice Burned”) — can be connected to Karl’s Route

Karl Jacobs (Good End: ”Forever and Always”, Neutral End: “Friendzoned”, Bad End: “When Time Runs Out”) — can be connected to Sapnap’s Route 

Schlatt (Good End: “Alone, but Better”, Neutral End: “As the World Caves In”, Bad End: “Yes, Mr. President”)

Advanced Character Routes (only accessible after all Main Routes are completed):

Wilbur Soot (Good End: ”Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust”, Neutral End: “Two Sides of the Same Coin”, Bad End: “Enemies to Enemies”)

Technoblade (Good End: ”Tame the Blade”, Neutral End: “Enemies to... Allies?”, Bad End: “Dental Appointment”)

Karlnapity (Advanced Version): (Good End: “It’s About Time!”, Neutral End: “Only Time Will Tell”, Bad End: “...Who?”)

Secret Character Routes (only accessible after all routes above are completed):

Eret (Good End: “Flirt with the Traitor”, Neutral End: “You Need Friends, I Need Therapy”, Bad End: “Never Meant to Be”)

BadBoyHalo (Good End: “Dance with the Demon”, Neutral End: “...Sapnap’s Your What?”, Bad End: “An Eggsellent Ending, but a New Beginning”)

Bonus Route (only accessible when reaching halfway through Advanced Routes; technically a Bad End):

Philza Minecraft (??? End: Dilf Hunter Achievement: Become a Stepdad)

These are just the routes I’ve come up with for fun, and you can kind of see how a lot of them turn out by the names asjhdgksaj. (I don’t mind explaining what happens in any of them if you wanna know.) ** For anyone that doesn’t know Mystic Messenger by the way, there are 3 Main Endings (Good, Neutral, Bad) for Every Character, a True Neutral End, a True Bad End, and some other Bad Ends along the way if you start Good, then turn Bad towards a Character you’re pursuing.

But also, since this is Quackity… Him balancing out affection towards Karl and Sapnap, gets the Karlnapity Route, which is technically also a Main Route.

I will say though… Karl would probably have secret bonus options in the Advanced Routes that become available that involve Quackity finding out Karl’s a Time Traveler (something he discovers vaguely in Karl’s Main Route), but it leads to Quackity finding out more about Karl’s Time Travelling— the way Karl dies each time, the Dopplegangers, the Inbetween, etc.

Upon discovering all these things and finishing Karl’s Route in Advanced as a Good End, Secret Endings become Available to him. (This is where we’re gonna get SERIOUS, just so you know. We’re living like the Dream Daddy Simulator and there’s more lore than you realize.) More about the Secret Endings under the cut with the actual hidden lore because this post is about to be LONG.

These Secret Endings actually include Quackity witnessing Karl’s Time Traveling firsthand… Also, potentially Quackity traveling WITH Karl through time and into the Inbetween.

Upon him finishing this Secret Ending (which ends with him calming Karl through everything and a hopeful ending of him promising to help Karl to learn more about Karl’s abilities and save Karl’s memories), another route is open.

There’s Three Secret Endings that reveal themselves in total. That was only the first. The final two are connected, but the third being revealed depends on Quackity getting all the Main Bad Ends.

The Second Secret End is directly tied to Karl’s Bad End and the Fiancés’ Bad End in Advanced where in both, Karl forgets Quackity and Quackity lives alone in Las Nevadas.

In the OG Good Ending with Karl, they get married and stay El Rapids with Sapnap (romantic or platonically). In the Good Advanced with Karl, Quackity builds Las Nevadas and Karl almost forgets him, but Quackity comes home and finds out what happened.

The Second Secret Ending is what happens after Karl’s Advanced Bad Ending where he forgets Quackity. This Quackity, who’s chosen not to find out why he wasn’t invited to Kinoko, finds Sapnap struggling enough between helping Karl, managing Kinoko, and everything with Dream. Karl is gone again. Quackity, though still angry with the two, decides to help find Karl.

What ends up happening though is Quackity and Sapnap discover The Library (something Quackity discovers only in the Good Advanced End). They search around and find The Books. Obviously, the two start freaking out until Karl appears. This Karl isn’t their Karl. He looks the same, but there’s a noticeable white streak in his hair. Another thing is that he remembers Quackity.

It’s discovered in that moment that this “Dating Sim” situation with Quackity being able to restart through every path (though he fully never remembers any of them once the paths end) is the work of Time Travel. It’s Karl sending him back in time to make things right. The Karl in their timeline will only continue to get worse and lose all his memories. He NEEDS his memories, otherwise Karl can’t fix the timeline. There’s a huge threat that is going to be showing itself. Everyone WILL be doomed if Karl can’t repair the timeline, however, this Karl can’t fix it for him. Whatever threat that is going to come after them in the near future is following this Karl’s trail too closely. If this Karl tried to do it, he’d be leading the threat back in time with him and things would be doomed even sooner. He can only send back one, which is how Quackity gets chosen. Even though Quackity protests, Sapnap insists that it be Quackity to go. Sapnap can’t leave. If he did, he would be abandoning their timeline’s Karl, along with George and Kinoko. There’s a small argument between Quackity and Sapnap over this, but Sapnap admits he just Can’t. The timeline might change, but he couldn’t live with himself imagining Karl coming home without someone there to remind him that it is Home. Or George finally waking up and Sapnap not being able to be there. Quackity might have Las Nevadas to worry about, but Sapnap has the weight of two of the most important people in their lives on his shoulders. He can’t do it. Future Karl assures Quackity that he’d be good for this, too. That past Karl NEEDS him. His Fiancé NEEDS him. And this way, Quackity can help Sapnap! In the end, Quackity agrees. He reluctantly agrees to go. Future Karl just grins at him and hands him a pocket watch that in future runs, Quackity will be more aware of having because he’s actually had it in every route that wasn’t Karl’s Advanced Route. Right as Future Karl is teaching Quackity how to use it, the portal behind Karl turns a sickly neon green and yellow. Karl looks panicked at the sight. He quickly starts ushering Quackity to leave. NOW. Right as Quackity does, he just manages to see a glimpse of a hooded being stepping through the portal. He’s gone before he can see who it is. The Final Secret Ending becomes available.

The Final Secret Ending is ENTIRELY based on Quackity getting to all the Bad Endings for the Mains and all Karl’s Endings. That’s because the Final Secret Ending is, of course, about Dream. Up until this point, Dream has been doing his typical Dream things. In the Main Routes, he’s more of an idle character for Quackity because Quackity’s not directly involved with him yet. In the Advanced, Dream has reached the point of being imprisoned, thus Quackity is incredibly aware of everything Dream’s done. Somehow, this Dream eventually finds a way to escape the prison. He becomes more powerful upon getting released and somehow finds out about Karl’s powers, leading him down the road of wanting to understand him so that he himself can “fix the server”. Karl can’t allow Dream to tamper with the timeline because it’ll ruin everything. Dream, of course, finds a way into getting into Karl’s library and trying to find the necessary information to do it himself. Insert more plot leading to Dream eventually chasing Karl through the portals to stop Karl from reaching a timeline where they can change the story, and thus enters Quackity. In this Final Secret Ending, Quackity discovers everything that happening because Dream appears before Karl in The Library and reveals everything. Karl arrives late, just as this version of Dream is about to actually kill Quackity because, you know, personal reasons, but also Dream’s figured out Karl’s plan. Right as Dream’s about to kill Quackity though, Karl manages at the last second to shove Quackity the pocket watch, but Karl ends up getting killed in the process. Quackity has no time to mourn before he wakes back up in the past. And that’s all the Karl routes (which technically along with Sapnap) make for the True Endings! So there’s all of that story! ^u^ Definitely way more than I considered plotting out... But ya know,,, I fucking love Mystic Messenger and I love C!Quackity lore, along with C!Karl... So this started as a joke, but now you get lore to it! So please enjoy this brainrot! I put WAYYYY too much thought into it ajsgalkdjghlkd

[borrowedtimeandspace]

Spring Cleaning

29. Trinkets

From this list of gt prompts

AU: ??

Note: Another belated entry for GTJuly, don't mind me

~~~

Funny how a part of cleaning up always seemed to involve making a mess. Stan Baker certainly thought so as he sorted his clothes into piles all over the floor of his tiny bedroom.

Having recently turned fifteen, he was in the middle of a growth spurt. When his brothers were his age, they had to pass down clothes they'd outgrown to the younger, smaller ones. Stan was the youngest of the Bakers, so all he could do was gather up everything that was too small for him now and donate them.

On top of that, Simon insisted it was high time Stan sorted through his things and gave his room a good clean. Stan couldn't quite argue, knowing he was guilty of having some of the typical teenage boy's mess around the place.

Along with a bag or two of old clothes, Stan set aside a bunch of toys he hadn't played with in a few years. The small bookshelf that doubled as a nightstand next to his twin bed was left with a few holes after he pulled out some books he also didn't touch much anymore.

Notably, a small handful that Stan didn't even consider giving away were books in The Borrowers series.

About the only thing left to do was dig through whatever lived under his bed. A few things were easy to write off, mostly shoes that absolutely would not fit him anymore. He did, however, find a few sentimental things that hit him with waves of nostalgia much stronger than anything he'd felt so far, looking back at all his old things.

One was an old tin filled with small spools of thread, a collection of needles, buttons, pins, and a tiny pair of embroidery scissors. A homemade sewing kit, no bigger than the palm of his hand. He remembered it feeling much bigger when he was little, when his mother first gave it to him. Before she passed away, she'd taught all her sons to at least patch up any clothes they roughed up. The kit had come in handy so many times over the years. Stan set it reverently to the side, making a mental note to replenish its contents later.

Not far from where the sewing kit was kept, Stan found another old box. This one was a little bigger with a lid that came off the top, probably an old gift box for something small, he couldn't quite recall what. He recognized it for what it was, and handled it with the same care as his mother's kit. Pulling off the lid and looking inside brought so many memories flooding back.

Stan reached a finger inside to gently nudge around the miscellaneous contents. A slightly dented metal thimble, a cheap plastic ring with a resin 'gemstone', several stray coins, mismatched dice and tokens from various board games that the Bakers didn't own. All those and more, each bringing a wide grin to Stan's face. Tiny things, worthless to anyone besides him, all unrelated to one another except the one thing they all had in common.

They were all gifted to Stan by his borrower friends. Left at the edge of his desk or the nightstand where he was bound to find them, or given directly to him by someone less than five inches high.

He'd known since he was ten that the borrowers were real. As far as he was aware, it was true that the smaller folk were traditionally homebodies, staying in their chosen houses with their familiar humans to borrow from. Some, like his friends, couldn't be tied down so easily. London was a great city for those types; its borrower residents had long since established their own methods to get around, out of sight and safe.

Stan's friends were quite busy these days. He was still finishing school, which kept him quite occupied as well. Still, they always came back to visit Stan, and more often than not, would bring him something interesting. That added more value to all the useless junk in that tiny box than almost anything else Stan owned.

Replacing the lid carefully, Stan put the box down right beside the sewing kit for safekeeping while he continued his spring cleaning.

[redwinterroses]

I’m doing my very best not to format this as a literary analysis paper but that’s basically what this is so forgive me if I slip back into those old habits at all. And I'm going to tag @betweenlands and @fluffy-papaya in this because guys look what your fic made me brainrot. XD

(This is a long one, y'all. We're talking 2k words. Sorry.)

That said:

Hey, let’s talk about the bead curtain in Dog at the Door.

That dang bead curtain, and why I’m currently fixating on it, and how I think it has symbolism that may or may not be intentional.

(At this point, I’m assuming it’s intentional. Everything about this fic is intentional. Including the pain. Heh. “The only difference between a running gag and a recurring theme is how seriously you take it,” says Solar. Cool. I’m taking it seriously.)

The curtain first shows up in chapter one. It’s one of the first things we see in the van, and the first thing we know about it is that Doc finds it obnoxious. Ugly. Revolting. Renbob loves it, obviously, but Renbob has odd tastes. Doc, on the other hand, literally uses his hatred of the curtain to motivate him to get out of bed in the morning.

The Red King, when he shows up, also has similar dislike of the thing, but his reaction is a little more measured, a little less extreme. More distaste, less disgust. He finds it “distasteful” and compares it to wearing a labcoat without a shirt (lol). But he doesn’t loath it like Doc does, and when Doc suggests (in chapter 13) that they take it down and use it for friendship bracelets, he’s as displeased with that idea as Renbob is. He has an ambivalent opinion, overall.

And then Ren. Ren actually reacts the least to the curtain—but ends up with the most dramatic interaction with it, which we’ll come back to in a second. He simply says (chapter 24) that normally he’d find the beads hideous, but that the light of Doc’s eye reflecting off it into the shadows makes it oddly peaceful.

There’s exactly one other use of the word “curtain” in this fic, and it’s this line right here:

“I haven’t done anything but possess him and lead his soul back to the controls.” RK throws his hands up in the air. “He’s put himself behind the curtain because he thinks I’m out to get him. My only crime is the original contract I made with him, doctor.”

In this instance, RK is talking about their “imperfect metaphor” of Ren being behind the curtain that separates the “driver’s seat” from the rest of the van that is Ren’s mind/soul. He’s saying that Ren has deliberately put himself in a position of defeat and surrender because he (Ren) doesn’t think there are any other options.

M’kay. Right about now, any sane person is going, “Red. Why are you so fixated on this bead curtain. It’s a running joke at best.”

And... I mean, sure. Kinda. But also definitely not.

This is the part where I really step out on a potentially-shaky limb with all the confidence in the world, because here’s what I'm seeing: the dividing line between life and death is often portrayed in literature as a curtain.

(And it’s interesting to note that the curtain is a barrier, a separation, but it’s only a curtain, and this one is made of beads at that. It’s a flimsy and fluid barrier, easy to pass through. Back and forth. Surrender and control, life and death.)

In fact, even in this fic it’s used that way: RK may be referring to the metaphorical bead curtain in their van of an explanation for how his and Ren’s relationship works, but in the story at that point Ren is convinced that he’s dead. Or is supposed to be dead. And by putting himself “behind the curtain,” he’s surrendering to that. Almost insisting on it, because that’s the truth of how he sees the world right then and he can’t process any other possibilities. He’s basically saying “I’m supposed to be dead, and this side of the curtain is death, so that’s where I’ll stay.”

So if the curtain in the metaphor represents the two sides of that, it’s really interesting to look at the various characters’ reactions to the literal bead curtain and see how it reflects their attitudes toward death—and specifically Ren’s death.

Renbob is... chill. He has an entirely comfortable relationship with the bead curtain, with life and death, with his own emotions—even with dealing with the emotions of the others he’s chauffeuring across the universe. While he isn’t immune to the grief of losing (or thinking he’s lost) Ren, he deals with it in a relatively healthy way—at least as much as we see. I think there was a possibly-canon ask at some point that said he was journaling and meditating so... yeah. Renbob’s got this. And 50 other bead curtains in storage. He’s the only character in the fic who passes in and out of the curtain regularly and without it being a big deal.

To put it simply: Renbob is on good terms with whatever happens in life, up to and including the end of it. (Renbob is arguably the equal and opposite of Grimdog. Two sides of the same coin in more ways than one.)

Contrast that now with Doc. Doc is... not a fan of the bead curtain. It represents a loss of control to him, (“freakin’ hippies”) and a separation from what he loves. In the past, he and Ren were on opposite sides of that conflict, and the beads still somewhat represent that tension (though in a mostly nostalgic, and not actively-antagonistic way.) But the language Doc’s narration uses to describe the beads is strong. “Obnoxious.” “Accursed.” “Horrendously evil.”

Nearly as scary as his best friend trying to kill him.

It’s played for laughs, obviously, and it is funny. But if we project the symbolism of “the curtain represents death” onto Doc’s reactions, it gets a bit less amusing. And it really fits with Doc’s attitude toward Ren’s death in the whole fic. It’s the worst thing he’s ever faced—to the extent that until RK’s seemingly-permanent presence forces him to, Doc doesn’t even try to process it. He goes right to work on the prosthetics, growls at anyone who tries to make him do anything he doesn't want to do, accepts RK as “New Ren,” and pretends that he’s going on with life.

He refuses to look at how weird the whole situation is, because if he does that he has to deal with Ren being gone forever. He ignores the thing that’s right under his nose and pretends it’s not there until a moment of quiet or actually having to interact with it brings it back to his attention, and then his reaction is vitriolic.

Doc hates that curtain, and he hates the concept of death, the concept of losing control. Even in his nightmares, he holds tight to what little control he can take, even if it’s just taking the initiative to sit in the snow and let it kill him faster. Hold onto that thought, because I’ve got more to it, but we have to talk about RK and Ren first.

RK holds both distaste and acceptance of the curtain. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t want it destroyed either. The distaste, notably, is when he’s with Doc, and the acceptance comes from being around Renbob. The Red King, as a blood god, is not exactly unfamiliar with death. It’s literally in his job description, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. A necessary evil, if you will.

It doesn’t hurt either that, at least up until Ren, RK has always been the one on the other side of the curtain, completely in control of the situation. He goes back and forth on his attitudes, but in the past he has been the one in control and the bringer of death. His reaction is negative, but not emphatic—the way someone who has plenty of indoor plans might react to a rainstorm.

Ren... now, Ren. Ren has, like I said, the least recorded reaction to the actual, physical bead curtain. But. But. While he normally would call it hideous, “there’s something oddly peaceful about watching light fractals spin off the walls, cutting off into the shadows.” The shadows, it’s worth noticing, are specifically implied to be RK/hiding RK in this moment. Doc’s light and RK’s shadows interacting with the curtain bring peace to Ren. He passes through it easily to find Renbob.

Ren has already accepted his death—he accepted it long before the fic even started—to an extent that he’s actively insisting on it for a large portion of the story. It’s only when he realizes that Doc is in potential danger that he starts fighting RK for control of the situation again. (“Stay away from Doc, you bastard. He wasn’t part of our bargain. Leave him alone.”)

He dislikes the bead curtain, but he doesn’t hate it, and when seen in the (literal) light of Doc’s protective, watching eye—even if he is asleep at the moment, bless—even the shadows of RK’s presence are suddenly beautiful and peaceful to him in a way that, without the “reflecting fractals” of the beads, wouldn’t be possible. Again: this is the chapter where Renbob’s influence is felt, and his peace with life and death directly affects Ren and his reactions. (“It’ll all sort itself out, eventually, and I’ll be here for you while it does.”)

And then...

And then Ren rips down the curtain altogether.

The separation is gone. For better or for worse, that divide between control and surrender, between RK and Ren, between life and death... it’s gone. It’s scattered across the floor of the van, glittering in Ren’s hair, and in the carpet. Ren has broken through that barrier, and now we just have to wait to see what the consequences of that are for him.

But... we can already see at least one consequence for Doc. Because now there is no more illusion of control and surrender for him to maintain. That division is no longer there, and we see Doc’s first real surrender in the whole story. Even in his nightmares, he was still in control: he knew it was a nightmare, and he fought against it until he “gave up”—in a way that still put him in control. He chooses to sit in the snow so it’ll kill dream-him faster.

He acts like he doesn’t care, but it’s still not that: he takes control in the only way he knows, aware that everything is only a dream and no matter what how it treats him, he’ll still wake up in the end. He looks at the nightmare and says basically “Do your worst, I dare you, but you won’t get what you want from me.”

But now—now he surrenders to Ren. He gives up. His core truth (“I’ll do anything to protect those I love,” which I talked about in this post) looks like it’s not going to be enough to save them. He can’t save Ren—from RK or from Ren himself—and that means he’s lost in the worst way possible. In this moment, it looks like Ren doesn’t even trust that Doc’s core truth—that he will do anything to save his friends—is true.

This is Doc’s lowest point: that Ren seems to think Doc’s loyalty and love have failed. And to Doc... that’s a fate worse than death.

So he gives up. He tells Ren to kill him, and he fully expects him to do so. Doc doesn’t want to die, but at this point he has completely let go of any control of his own fate. Even when facing down Ren with the Skizz blade, he held tightly to his control of the situation. He literally takes the sword in his own hand and removes it as a threat. But now—now the curtain is gone. The illusion of control is gone.

Ren is the one in control of the situation—for possibly the first time in the fic—and he chooses to remember that Doc is his friend, that he’s missed him. But Doc leaves it all to him. Even when Ren backs off, Doc stays in that surrendered state (“I can’t do anything right, unlike [Martyn.]”). He realizes that he's been in the passenger seat the whole time, and he’s now where Ren was before: no longer even trying to take back the driver’s seat.

The curtain is gone. Now we just have to wait and see who ends up on which side of it at the end.

[wisehq]

Mission Debrief: Chapter Forty-Four

Battle aboard the Princess Lorelei, everybody!

I think I speak for the whole fandom when I say thank you Endo for finally giving us our long overdue Yor chapter! And not only that, but a whole freaking boat arc to boot!! There was so much that happened this week that I honestly had trouble narrowing down the panels to use for this review. There’s a lot to talk about, so let’s get into it!

First off-!

[rips up all my old reviews]

All of my Shopkeeper theories up until this point have been completely wrong...and I am A-OK with that! I didn’t think we’d actually get to see her this early (I’m assuming it’s a her, but it was never directly stated) and to be honest I’m surprised by her design. She’s unlike any other character we’ve seen till this point; I assume the bags under her eyes to be wrinkles, and she is built very strongly for someone her age. Her gaze has a definite presence, and that hair- good god it’s long! Shopkeeper is certainly intriguing from a design standpoint, which only adds to the mystery of her as we really don’t get to see much of her character despite the panels devoted to her.

We do get to see that Shopkeeper barely approves of Yor being Mrs. Forger, both in the above exchange and her introduction. It’s obvious she prizes Thorn Princess highly as a valuable Garden assassin, and worries that playing house is making her lose her edge. It’s going to be very interesting to see how this plays out further down the road; I wouldn’t put it past Shopkeeper to start keeping tabs on Loid, just to have something in her back pocket should the time come to convince Yor to leave the family (oh the juicy angst).

Moving on, Yor’s mission is interesting (for more reasons than one, which we will get into more later). Instead of killing, she’ll be protecting- a mother and her child no less. I’m willing to bet money that Yor’s going to draw parallels between herself and Olka, if only for the fact that they’re both mothers with a young child. I suspect that’ll come into play more as the arc progresses, given that Anya-

-Is not only a card shark, but also queen of the raffle box!

Ok look, I get it; this was complete bullshit on Endo’s part to finagle a way to get Loid and Anya on the boar with Yor, but dammit if I didn’t love this whole scene regardless. Anya’s determined yet deadpan stare, Loid’s nonchalant attitude about the whole thing, the whole bit about the winning ticket being stuck underneath the lid and Anya using her powers to find it, it was all adorably fun. Plus, it got the Forgers altogether on a boat, so I have no qualms about it!

Also throwing it out there that I loved Handler getting chewed out for overworking the agents and just being like “sure whatever go on a cruise with your family, have fun.” Endo really could have made her the stick in the mud here, but I guess for the sake of time and also Loid’s sanity he went the easy route and made her the fun mom for a change lol

The same goes for the soft moment with Yor and Yuri. It’s no secret I’m not a huge fan of the latter, but anytime the Briar siblings are together having genuine conversation I melt like butter. Not only was it nice seeing Yuri behaving like an adult for a change (for the most part) but also for Yor to start coming to terms with the fact that he’s older and doesn’t need her as much anymore. Instead, we see her feelings slowly start to shift towards Anya towards the end of the chapter. Yor muses that perhaps the best thing she could do is give up assassination, and instead focus on her (not-so) fake family. It’s a new layer of drama to an already thick cake, so we’ll see how it all plays out as the arc proceeds.

I will say that the final panels do give a certain air of tenseness (aside from Loid holding Anya’s hand of course, love it). It certainly sets the scene for something big just on the horizon and given that we know a whole army of assassins is out for blood on a giant cruise ship, you can rest assured it’s going to get messy!

Speaking of, before we wrap up, it’s time to get back to the whole “Yor’s mission is really interesting” thing from earlier. I’d like to highlight what a few people have pointed out already; specifically that this gentleman in Shopkeeper’s briefing-

-looks remarkably similar to a certain someone from chapter one.

Arguing for the side that this isn’t the same character, @eldraftsman​ (calling you out dude xD) points out that their faces are slightly different and their hair’s not quite right, which I will agree with. Looking at it from the other side’s perspective though, it’s entirely possible his design has changed slightly since the very first chapter of the manga. Two years is a long time to tweak a design, let alone how fast Endo is at doing it (just look at Fiona’s introduction vs. how she looks now, all in the span of two chapters). Plus, it wouldn’t be the first time Endo has hinted at a future character way before their proper introduction.

Guy on the right look familiar? Mr. Green in all his glory, all the way back in chapter twenty-seven. For reference, he didn’t show up again until chapter thirty-nine, almost a whole year before he got the spotlight. It’s also clear that this isn’t just him re-using the design; Mr. Green is Eden security, so it would make sense for him to be escorting the mid-term tests. Whether or not the same holds true for our mystery man orchestrating the events of Cruise Ooting Arc (coining it), I guess we’ll just have to wait till the next chapter to find out!

Also, BONUS!

Anya really said “Give me a boat or I’ll give you felonies”

[samstree]

hi dear!! what about 37 for the pining prompts?? only if you feel like it 💞💞

37. "Characters cannot touch for plot reasons." Thanks for the prompt Chrysa!! Here's more empath!Jaskier!

Unfinished Story

Empath!Jaskier, 2.4k, soft geraskier, ciri has a nightmare, hurt/comfort, mentions of past violence

Part of the Empath AU 

Read on AO3

Ciri’s scream pulls Geralt out of his doze.

He springs up immediately, knocking Jaskier’s arm out of the way. The bard grumbles something incoherent on the bedroll before fully waking. “G’ralt, what is… Oh, shit.”

The scream continues, Geralt’s medallion thrumming because of the chaos carried by the sound. The ember is dying but the moon provides enough light for him to see Cir in a fetal position, her face buried in the crook of her elbow. Her ashen-colored curls obscure the view.

Geralt half-scrambles to her side, familiar panic seizing his heart. It’s been so long since she had a nightmare this bad, so long that it’s taking him a second to react.

“Ciri.” He shakes her shoulder gently, but she flinches away. The smell of fear rolls off of her in waves. “Ciri, wake up. You are dreaming.”

The sharp wail trails off to a quieter one, but her eyes stay shut, her brows agonizingly knitted tight. Geralt tries to soothe her by stroking her hair, only to have her snatch his hand and holding onto it for dear life. He squeezes, hoping it’s a comforting gesture.

Each of Ciri’s cries sends a pang of regret in Geralt’s chest. If only he could go back in time. If only he had found her earlier, before the horrors of Nilfgaard—

“Hey, let me help.”

A hand falls to Geralt’s shoulder, and Jaskier meets his gaze in the dim light, the bleariness in his eyes completely gone.

Please, he wants to say. The word gets interrupted by the girl’s writhing.

Jaskier takes over Ciri’s hand, despite her reluctance to let go of Geralt. She clings to him during bad dreams, even when she can’t properly wake up, but the witcher knows it’s important not to touch either of them right now. The wolf medallion vibrates more as the empath works, calming her through the touch.

“It’s okay…” Geralt murmurs helplessly to the girl still asleep. “It’s okay, cub. We are here.”

The empty space around Geralt is excruciating. Under the clear night sky, his witcher senses allow him to see the two of them basked in the silver moonlight—Jaskier kneeling at Ciri’s side, one hand clasped around her wrist and the other carding through her curls. The girl’s pained expression eases slowly.

“Oh… Don’t be afraid, sweet girl,” Jaskier shushes her, the flow of chaos buzzing in the air. “Let me take your fear away, all right? Don’t fight me. Let me in, so you won’t be scared anymore…”

The bard continues to murmur sweet nothings to the girl, easing her resistance to his empathetic powers. At this point, Jaskier’s magic is like a second layer of skin to Geralt, gentle and warm and weaving around their hearts. Even when it’s not directly used on him, he feels somehow pulled to their connection.

To Jaskier and Ciri.

His empath bard and his child surprise.

Two halves of his world.

Jaskier’s eyes are closed to concentration, taming the waves of Ciri’s distress. The action exerts him, Geralt can tell from his elevated heartbeat and the slight slump in his shoulders. The witcher catches himself before he reaches out subconsciously. The gnawing urge to help almost makes him scowl in frustration.

Inaction has never been Geralt’s strong suit.

Finally, finally, Ciri’s eyes flutter open. She’s holding back the tears, as always, even when she’s confused from these dreams, even when she’s reliving her past and desperately searching for her family in the present.

“Geralt?”

Her voice is so small and he has to lean in to hear.

A relieved sigh escapes Jaskier’s lips as he lets go of the girl’s hand. With the magic dissipating, so does the stench of fear. The air settles. As soon as the medallion stills, Geralt surges forward to put a hand on her arm, so she knows he’s here.

On Geralt’s periphery, he senses bard stand and walk to the other side of the campfire—the empath usually needs a moment to collect himself after absorbing someone’s emotions—but right now Geralt’s focus is on his child.

“It’s okay. You are safe, Ciri,” Geralt whispers.

“I dreamed—”

“You are not there anymore.”

“It was burning…I—there was fire… and the man.” She sniffles, stubbornly refusing to cry. His child is tough, probably too tough for her own good.

“It wasn’t real.”

“Because you found me?” There’s a sliver of doubt in her voice that Geralt wishes more than anything to remove.

“Because I found you, Ciri,” he reassures. She’ll need reminding tonight. “You are my destiny and more. I’m here so you’ll never have to be lost again.”

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Geralt tucks away a strand of hair on her face and watches her eyelids droop heavily.

“I’m not. Not now that I’m awake.”

He returns the smile, although she can’t see it that well in the shadows. “That’s because of Jaskier.”

“Oh.” She searches for the bard. When Geralt looks back at the empath’s silhouette, he’s leaning against a tree, a few paces away from camp. “Thank you, Jaskier. Again,” she says.

“Of course, princess,” Jaskier says softly, “I know how scary nightmares can be, no matter how long it’s been. Those things may have happened a long time ago, but sometimes…they come back and haunt when you least expect it.” He pauses, looking to the distance for a moment. “I’d chase them away for you any time.”

She murmurs another thanks before her eyes close with exhaustion.

“Go back to sleep,” Geralt tucks Ciri’s blanket in, before taking her hand again, his thumb tracing a little circle on her skin. “Sleep, cub. We’ll be here. Both of us.”

It doesn’t take long for her to fall into a deep slumber, peacefully this time. Geralt sits next to her for a while longer just to be sure. When he finally leaves Ciri’s side to see to his bard, Jaskier is still standing with his back against the tree. He seems to be miles away, his expression hidden in the shadows, distant and inscrutable.

“Jask?” They are far enough from the girl but Geralt keeps his voice low.

With a surprised gasp, the bard notices him approaching and almost flinches. “Don’t—”

“Don’t touch you, I know.”

Jaskier rests his head on the tree bark. “Just for now.”

Geralt’s fists clench and unclench at his sides. Using those powers takes a lot out of Jaskier, and it leaves him unbalanced. The empath is so wary of hurting him by accident when he’s like this, with raw energy still rippling under his skin.

But in truth, Geralt doesn’t care. He wishes Jaskier could let him in, let him share the burden. Right now, with the space between them, he’ll have to rely on words instead of action.

It really isn’t his strong suit.

“Another nightmare… ” he decides to distract the bard while he recovers. “It’s been too long since Ciri had an episode. I thought it was all over.”

“Time doesn’t heal all wounds, Geralt,” Jaskier breathes. “We should all know better.”

Geralt frowns at the haunted look on his bard’s face. The tips of his fingers reach forward again, but he quickly hides the movement by crossing his arms before his chest.

“You sound like you are speaking from experience, Jask.”

“Do I?”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s stomach turns at the way Jaskier speaks about the girl’s trauma. “You know if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

Jaskier squirms, chewing on his lower lip. Now he’s truly nervous, tense even. The witcher sees the way his posture stiffens and quickly adds, “Or not. Uh—it’s okay if you don’t—"

“No,” Jaskier interrupts him, shaking his head, “No, I want to tell you. I should tell you everything, at this point.”

Silence hangs between them as the bard adjusts his breathing. In and out, like he would before a performance.

“Years ago, when you first identified my powers” Jaskier chooses his words cautiously, the moon shining in his eyes. “I asked if you would use silver on me.”

Geralt’s heart sinks. “I would never, Jaskier. I—How could you ever think that?”

“Oh, relax, my love. I know.” the bard chuckles tightly. “Even back then, I knew you to be a decent man under all the gruffness. You wouldn’t even harm those confused monsters who drifted to human territory on accident, remember? You claimed that your life was just coin and contracts, but to me, it was clear that you were so much more.”

“You are not a monster,” Geralt argues.

“No, but someone else might think differently.”

The leaves rustle in the breeze, the air cooling as the night stretches on. Without the blanket, Jaskier shivers with only a thin chemise on his back. Geralt’s body gravitates toward him of its own volition. Fuck it, if he can just hold Jaskier right now…

“I was thirteen.” The bard is lost in memory. “This man, a magic user, came to our door. It was just me and my mother. He somehow knew about our identities and asked for her help. You see, she had been keeping it a secret for so long, so she couldn’t trust this man, this mage, who somehow just knew that we were empaths.”

He lets out a shuddering breath before continuing.

“His request was… weird. Something about a king or a royal court. I remember thinking that whatever he said sounded so sinister, it couldn’t have been any good. Mum sent him away on the spot, but afterwards she got so scared, like he’d come back again or something. That night, she barred the door and told me to hide in a storage chest. I refused, so she made me. She kept me obedient the entire time.”

Geralt frowns. “Her powers were the same as yours?”

“Stronger.” Jaskier starts pacing, a few twigs snapping under his feet. “She didn’t need contact to manipulate someone’s emotions like me, and she could influence many at the same time. I’m not as powerful—my father was human.”

“What happened next?” Somehow, Geralt knows the story will not end well. A mage usually means trouble. Or in this case, the shadow hidden behind Jaskier’s bright smiles and chirpy songs.

“She kept me calm the whole night, even when she wasn’t with me, but I could feel her fear. It’s was like an undercurrent beneath my skin. I could feel her emotions change. Then I heard the sound of fighting, but I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t go and help her…”

The salty tang of tears assaults Geralt’s nose, but they don’t fall. Jaskier looks up to the sky to hold back the grief that makes his hands tremble.

“Everything got fuzzy after that, but I still remember the pain and the despair. It was like a part of me was hurting with her. Part of me still does, during some nights.” Jaskier closes his eyes in agony. “When I got out the next morning, no one was there. Our home was wrecked, ruined. There was… There was so much blood, Geralt. I—I couldn’t…”

“Oh, Jaskier.” Geralt watches as Jaskier’s shoulders shake, whimpers choking in his throat. Under the night sky, the bard retreats into himself, making his frame look so much smaller. He sways a little and Geralt extends his hands again, hovering by his elbow. “Can I please touch you now?” he pleads.

With a sniffle, the bard composes himself. He flexes his hands to see if his magic is in check. “I think so, yes—oh.”

Geralt pulls Jaskier in for the tightest hug, his arms wrapping around the bard’s frame protectively. Through the thin fabric of the shirt, he can feel another shiver running down Jaskier’s spine, so he rubs small circles into his back to get some heat back in.

He breathes in Jaskier’s scent, not knowing if the lingering stench of fear is from Ciri or the bard.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jask…” Geralt keeps murmuring into the soft hair by Jaskier’s temple. Gradually, the bard sags against his shoulder, letting himself be soothed and supported. Geralt then places his lips to the skin under Jaskier’s ear, and then his cheek, his chin, all the while holding him impossibly close. He’s ready to help the empath restore his energy with all the brimming love in his chest. “Do you want me to…”

“No,” the bard shakes his head. “I’m good. For now.”

They stand there for so long, swaying gently while the world sleeps, before the bard speaks up again.

“I looked for her, and him, at so many courts.” Jaskier’s slightly colder fingers rest on the nape of Geralt’s neck, buried into the hair there. “No mage fit his description. No trace of her either. I think that deep down, I already knew that she was gone, even back then. Otherwise, I would have felt her in there somehow. No matter how far away she was, but all I had was just this emptiness. I was alone since then.”

“You are not. Not anymore.”

“No,” Jaskier pulls away, the tears have dried. Geralt brings the pad of his thumb to trace those streaks anyway. Under his touch, Jaskier smiles. “You see, back in Posada, I met this witcher, a dashing and heroic one. He fell for me so hard that he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving without me, so he begged me to become his travel companion.”

“And you agreed?” Geralt chuckles.

“Not at first, but he wore me down eventually.”

The bard is the most ridiculous man Geralt knows, and yet here they are. Shaking his head in amusement, the witcher steers his bard back to their bedrolls. As they settle back into their usual position, Geralt can’t help but pull him closer, making sure they are touching from head to toe.

The cover sets heavily over Jaskier's body, slowly warming up his skin. His heart beats against Geralt’s ribcage steadily, showing with solid proof that the empath has survived those horrors.

“I found you too, Jask,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss between Jaskier’s brows.

“Good.” The bard's reply is muffled by Geralt's skin. Not far from them, Ciri is still breathing evenly, sound asleep. Geralt has everyone he needs to protect right here with him, tucked away from their separate demons.

And yet, his mind drifts to Jaskier's story. It’s a tragedy with no end and no closure. There was never a body to bury, no vengeance to seek either.

Somehow, he doubts that an unfinished story will stay unfinished.

---

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[retrodesis]

As much as I love found family headcanons, I am also obsessed with the dynamics of a dysfunctional family. (And Technoblade can pry them from my cold, dead hands)

He said something yesterday about how it wouldn’t make sense in canon because he’d just be backstabbing his family constantly. But personally I find that EXTREMELY compelling.

Give us chaos-hungry Technoblade that puts his own morals before family, standing amongst what he knows are his brothers. Not his accomplices or his enemies. Just his brothers, one slain in cold blood, and the other a child pleading for his home. I want a Techno who knew this, and who still chose to destroy L’manberg.

I want to see Wilbur, older brother and Tommy’s impromptu guardian, as he spirals into insanity, taking everything down with him. To see as the need for power and conflict slowly begin to outweigh any semblance of justice or liberty. I want Tommy to feel as his relationship with Wilbur shifts, slowing losing whatever trust he had in his brother, his only protector since they were children turning against him. I want Tommy and Wilbur to stand in the place where they took refuge together, as Tommy stares onto the face of his brother, eyes manic and unrecognizable. Give me familiarity turning to icy fear.

I want to see a Tommy who has zero concept of what family should look like. A child who’s been betrayed by every person he’s ever trusted. Someone who views his brother as a weapon and a traitor. He’d watched as Techno slaughtered Tubbo and Philza murdered Wilbur. He clings to the man that stripped him of his home and friends and identity simply because he’d offered open arms and comforting words where his own family didn’t. So easily manipulated and codependent on Dream because really... how could he know any better?

But all that being said, there’s two sides to the same coin.

I want a Technoblade that grits his teeth and fights tooth and nail to deny the relationship with his family. But when push comes to shove, and Tommy shows up underneath his house angry and afraid with a variety of Techno’s potions and a stack of Gapples, Techno offers him shelter without consequence. Gives him resources without hesitation. A Technoblade who claims he’d give up Tommy at the drop of a hat, but lies straight to Dream’s face when he asks. A ruthless killer who wants his brothers to be safe and a private recluse who gifts Phil with a compass that points directly to where he lives.

A Tommy that says he hates Techno, but inevitably gravitates towards him anyway. He claims they are not brothers, not even friends. But when Tommy is lost in the woods, overwhelmed by memories of logstedshire, he calls out for Techno. And Techno helps, attempts to bring him down, tells Tommy that healing takes time. I want a Tommy that climbs in bed in the house of the man that he’d called a bastard and a traitor, and thinks to himself that maybe it could be true. Because despite Techno’s quick wit and Tommy’s erratic mouth, there is a surprising patience between them.

And then there’s Phil, who finds reassurance in the reconciliation of his living sons, and Ghostbur, who finds relief in the memory of his own death.

I want the portrayal of a family so threadbare that tragedy is interwoven into the seams. A family that is built on the bases of betrayal and catastrophe, made up of people who don’t fit together like puzzle pieces as much as they’re hammered together like steel bars. Maybe it’s not the most idealistic portrayal of family, but in what world are there families that are? One of my favorite tropes ever is watching people who don’t know how to love try and love each other.

Because really, despite it all, when the dust settles and all you’re left to do is pick up the pieces, what else is there to do?