#attentive enough to know how to make geralt's perfect cup of tea

[flowercrown-bard]

Birds Still Sing When They Fall From The Sky

part 1 /  part 2 /  part 3  /  part 4  / part 5  / part 6  / part 7/  part 8 /  part 9 /  part 10 /  part 11  /  part 12  / part 13 / part 14 / part 15 /  part 16 / part 17 belongs to this

Content waring: memory loss, Alzheimer, use of the name Julian, minor allusions to future character death. Probably counts as hurt/no comfort

about 6k

“I need to talk to you,” Geralt said, his hands twitching at his sides.

“I like it when you talk,” Jaskier said with a bittersweet smile, beautiful in its earnestness but lacking the teasing tone Jaskier would have used before.

Despite his words, Jaskier didn’t push Geralt to keep talking. He just kept on looking at him expectantly, while Geralt’s jaw worked as if grinding his teeth would make the words smaller and easier to come out.

“It’s almost winter,” he said finally. Small words. One sentence at the time. It wasn’t easier. “It’s going to get cold.”

Jaskier didn’t react. Whether because he had nothing to say, not noticing the truth in Geralt’s words or because he wanted to be attentive to Geralt and let him say his piece, Geralt couldn’t tell.

Somehow the lack of response made it even harder to form the words.

“Do you remember Eskel?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier’s lips twitched. It was only a miniscule shift, the movement of a single muscle, but it brightened Jaskier’s entire face.

“I miss him.” Geralt’s admission was quiet. Unplanned. He hadn’t wanted to talk about this, hadn’t wanted to make it personal. It would be easier if he could keep his own emotion out of it. “We won’t see him again this year.”

Something unspoken clung to the words like an echo one couldn’t hear clearly enough to understand. Geralt didn’t want to understand.

“Kaer Morhen is colder than here. Too far away from any healer and –“ and there were ghosts, memories haunting the walls that Geralt had been able to ignore for most of his life. He didn’t think he would be able to ever return if another ghost would walk the halls because Geralt in his selfishness had brought Jaskier to Kaer Morhen, where there would be no help for him if anything happened.

Geralt became still, unnaturally so, until with an unknown force, his hands started shaking. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Jaskier.

“We can’t go to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt pressed forth, intending to make his voice sound stronger than before and failing miserable.

Jaskier’s face showed no change, as if the words Geralt had said were meaningless. But he did reach out a hand, brushing it against Geralt’s and let it linger there, not yet taking it but giving Geralt the option to.

He took it wihtout hesitaion. Geralt clung to Jaskier’s hand as though it was the only thing keeping him from drowning. As though Jaskier wasn’t already sunk deeper than Geralt ever would.

--

Jaskier didn’t seem to mind staying at the coast. That, at least was a relief, even though last year’s memory of Jaskier’s excitement at the prospect of seeing their family again played over and over in Geralt’s mind. A family Jaskier might not even know existed anymore, even if their mention still brought a smile to his face without fail.

At least he didn’t get to miss them.

Not like he used to. Not like they missed Jaskier.

Geralt tried to distract himself from the ache such thoughts brought with them. As long as he worked with his hands, his mind didn’t have time to go down that line of thought until its end.

So instead of thinking about what he was missing – too much, everything, nothing he could bring back again – he tended to what he had.

Jaskier sat on a bench, watching Geralt cut back the withered flowers. Geralt was so focussed on his work that for the longest time, he didn’t see the sour look on Jaskier’s face, barely concealed by a cracked mask of aloofness.

Geralt furrowed his brow, one of his hands still holding onto the rose bush he was in the middle of cutting down, when his eyes had fallen on Jaskier’s disapproving frown.

Geralt opened his mouth, but before he could ask Jaskier what was wrong, Jaskier spoke up.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

Geralt closed his moth again, dumbfounded. After a moment he asked “Do what? Cut the roses?” he looked back at the pitiful bush. “They have wilted. It’s better to cut them now so that new ones can come next spring.”

“Why?” Jaskier said, something sharp blazing in his eyes. “Are they not pretty enough anymore? Do you have no use for them anymore?”

“Well, no. I don’t. We can’t sell them like this and –“

“Don’t punish them for being flowers! You watered them and made them pretty. You are the reason they are like that. You can’t just get rid of them just because they cannot be what you want them to be any longer.”

Geralt didn’t know how to respond, so instead of saying words that would surely be the wrong ones, he just let go of the roses.

Immediately, Jaskier’s shoulders relaxed and he slumped forward a bit.

Wiping his hands on his trousers, Geralt moved over to him. For a moment, Jaskier tensed, but when Geralt sat down next to him, he sagged again.

“That’s why they have thorns.” Jaskier’s hands clenched and unclenched. “Because they are pretty. And they know that once they don’t have that anymore, they have to protect themselves. No one will want them anymore.”

“You thought about that a lot, haven’t you?” Geralt asked, studying Jaskier closely. As if he would even know if he had thought about it before of if he was even making sense.

“Of course I have thought about what I am,” Jaskier said, clearly aiming for sounding irritated, but something in his tone made it seem like admitting defeat.

“You don’t have thorns.”

“It would be better if I did. I can’t choose to be a weed. Should make the best of what I am.”

“You are the best.” The words were rough like grating stones, but they left Geralt’s lips light as feathers.

Jaskier huffed, frustration coming off of him in waves. “Always the best. Until one day I’m not and I will get discarded for the next in line. The next perfect flower.” Jaskier’s eyes slid from the withered flowers to the dandelions still fighting for their lives, stubbornly refusing to back down despite the frost coating them. A strange smile quirked Jaskier’s lips. “You didn’t pull the weeds.”

Geralt’s frown smoothed out. “It would be no use.”

“No use,” Jaskier repeated slowly, as if tasting the words on his tongue. “They are better than useful.”

“How so?”

“Because they don’t wilt. Flowers die slowly and become ugly until they get cut away, no matter how many thorns they have.” He paused, tilting his head to the side looking on in contemplation. “Dandelion’s don’t fester. They become more beautiful even when their time to bloom is over. And then, when they do finally go, they are breathtaking. No one notices a dandelion while it’s in full bloom. But have you ever seen a child that didn’t watch gleefully as the seeds flew off?”

Geralt scooted over, until his thigh brushed Jaskier’s. “People have always noticed you.”

Jaskier scoffed. “For being a perfect rose.”

“I noticed you,” Geralt said. Maybe it would make a difference to Jaskier. “I don’t get rid of weeds.”

Jaskier’s eyes lingered on the dandelions a moment longer, until they turned back to Geralt, searching him for something. Geralt hoped he would find it, whatever it was.

“Have you ever made a wish on a dandelion?”

Apparently Geralt’s expression was answer enough. He felt a pang at the disappointed smile Jaskier gave him. “I will make one next year.”

Jaskier’s smile widened and the gentle pressure against Geralt’s leg increased for a split second before Jaskier pulled away.

Jaskier straightened his jacket and put that broken mask back on. Geralt’s heart cracked at the sight.

“You should probably get back to your work,” Jaskier said in a tone that sounded so unlike him, distant and almost cold, that Geralt’s insides clenched painfully. “I shouldn’t keep you from it.” When Geralt didn’t make a move to get up, Jaskier added “Don’t you have roses to cut?”

Geralt shrugged. “Not if you don’t want me to. They are your roses.” He pressed his lips together tightly. “And just so you know. You don’t need thorns. Not with me.”

Even if you don’t know who I am.

--

Jaskier changed. It didn’t really come as a surprise, not anymore. Not after all the changes Jaskier had gone through already.

But something seemed different about this time, something that gave Geralt pause and made him look closer at Jaskier in hopes of finding the itch that came with not knowing.

Then, one day while they were sitting at the table drinking tea, it hit him. This change was happening backwards. Somehow, Jaskier was getting better.

Geralt couldn’t help but stare at him, his heart racing in his chest with a burning hope that almost couldn’t be contained, taking in every detail he could about Jaskier’s change.

The cup in Jaskier’s hand still shook, but a blind man could see that Jaskier was putting all his focus on keeping it as steady as possible, not even letting himself get distracted by the light snowfall that could be seen through the window.

Jaskier also seemed taller somehow. He sat straighter than he had in years – in fact, Geralt couldn’t think of a time when Jaskier had ever paid attention to his posture while not surrounded by nobles he needed to impress – until his aching back made him hunch over into a more comfortable position again. Even then, he often endured the prim and proper posture with a grimace, until it got too much or Geralt gave him some of Yennefer’s medicine against his aches.

When Jaskier wasn’t stubbornly refusing to hunch over, he had a strange look on his face, his body tense despite the relaxed posture and his eyes darting left and right as if expecting to get scolded any minute.

And lastly – at least as far as Geralt was aware – Jaskier never slept in any more. No matter how often Geralt mentioned the dark circles under his eyes or reminded Jaskier that he didn’t have to get up in time for anything, Jaskier continued to wake early and hide his yawns behind a façade of unneeded discipline he had never shown during their time on the road.

So yes, Jaskier was getting better, but Geralt noted with a sense of dawning dread that he was also getting so much worse. Haunted, tense, constantly looking over his shoulder as though he thought someone was looking at him, judging him, ready to cut him down once he showed signs of withering.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said quietly, so as not to startle him. Jaskier didn’t seem to hear him, too focussed on his cup to take note of anything around him. “Jaskier!”

At Geralt’s raised voice Jaskier flinched.

Ripped out of his concentration so suddenly, Jaskier lost control over the cup in his hands, the tea sloshing over before Geralt could jump in to steady the cup again.

“No,” Jaskier breathed, suddenly rigid, his widened eyes darting to the door. Mortified, he stared back at the wet spot on his shirt where the thankfully cooled down tea had landed.

He frantically started rubbing at it, only looking up when Geralt gently took his hands in his, stilling his motion.

“It’s alright,” Geralt said softly. “Nothing happened.”

“I can’t let them see it.” Jaskier’s shaky voice broke Geralt’s heart.

“There’s no one here. Just us.”

Jaskier didn’t look convinced. His tongue nervously licked his lips and his eyes flickered over to the door again, before nodding faintly.

Minutes seemed to pass, in which Geralt just watched Jaskier relax and tense over and over again.

“You are safe here,” Geralt said finally, the constant anxiety in Jaskier getting too much to bear. “Whatever you are afraid of, it can’t reach you, Jaskier.”

At the last word confusion overwrote the hunted look in Jaskier’s eyes.

“What?”

“You are safe,” Geralt repeated with all the conviction he could muster, doing his best to emulate the tone Jaskier used to use on him whenever he came back from a hunt, pumped up with potions and pacing like a caged animal.

“No, I mean…Jaskier?” He said his own name as though it sounded foreign to him. “I…Sorry to disappoint you, but I believe you have me confused with someone else.”

Geralt sighed inwardly, while his face remained stoically blank. One would think a few months would be enough to get used to the idea that the man he loved didn’t remember him, but Geralt knew not even an immortal’s lifetime wouldn’t ever be enough for that.

Brazing himself for the unavoidable blank stare he would receive, he said “I am Geralt.”

Not even a twitch on Jaskier’s face. His name was completely erased from his mind.

At the very least, Jaskier didn’t draw back as he had done a few times before. He also didn’t lean forward eagerly trying to befriend the man whose heart he unwittingly held in his hand.

This time, Jaskier held out his hand to Geralt in a clear invitation.

Briefly, Geralt hesitated. The gesture looked almost like he was supposed to kiss his knuckles. As he lifted Jaskier’s hand to his lips, he risked a glance at his face, stopping shortly before his lips could touch his skin. Jaskier’s face didn’t show any rejection.

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat, as he pressed his lips against Jaskier’s knuckles, not breaking eye contact for fear that he had misunderstood.

But Jaskier only nodded slightly and said “Pleased to meet you. I am Julian.”

It was as if a rug was pulled out from under Geralt. He froze, his light grip on Jaskier’s hand tightening just like Geralt’s chest.

“What?” Though his mind was racing with questions and fears, this one word was the only thing he managed to force out of his mouth.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

“No. No, you’re not. You’re Jaskier.” Even while Geralt said it, he could taste the bitter lie in his own words. The truth was Geralt had no idea who Jaskier was right now. All he had was Jaskier’s word and the way he carried himself that looked so painfully unlike Jaskier.

The slight narrowing of Jaskier’s eyes was the only indication of any reaction to Geralt’s words. Apart from that, he was all the viscount he seemed to be in his own mind.

Before his eyes, Geralt had watched Jaskier become a stranger to him and he hadn’t even realised it until now. How long had this been going on? How long had Jaskier thought himself trapped in this life he had spent so long escaping from?

His eyes were drawn to the wet spot on Jaskier’s shirt. Such a minor inconvenience that had Jaskier tense up in anxious anticipation of who knows what.

“Come on,” Geralt said, holding his hand out, hoping that Jaskier wouldn’t reject it. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” After a brief pause, Geralt added with forced casualness that couldn’t hide the tightness in his throat “Julian.”

The name was heavy like rocks, cutting like shards of glass grazing his throat. But it coaxed Jaskier into reacting, into taking Geralt’s hand and letting himself be guided to the bedroom, where he sat down on the bed and let Geralt change his shirt without protest.

They were quiet while Geralt put the new shirt on Jaskier.

Jaskier endured Geralt’s care with little to no reaction, only the slightest press into his touches, as if he was afraid of them being noticed. Geralt pretended not to, as he knelt down in front of Jaskier to tighten the fastenings, wishing with every fibre of his being that Jaskier would grant him more of his brief touch.

It was Jaskier, who finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

“Who is Jaskier?”

Geralt had expected the question to come, but nothing had prepared him for the way it was said. He froze, looking up at the stranger sitting before him, cold and aloof and distant.

And with such longing in his voice that even the most even tone couldn’t hide it.

Every part of Geralt yearned to give him what he was longing for. If only he knew how.

Jaskier didn’t repeat his question. Geralt half-hoped that he had already forgotten about it, had moved on in his mind to places that hurt less. But Jaskier was looking at him with hopeless, starving desperation and Geralt felt his mouth moving without his permission.

But despite his inadequate and rough words, Jaskier looked mesmerised.

“Jaskier is the best bard the continent ever knew. The best man I ever knew.” His throat became dry.  “Stubborn and stupid and unable to shut up.” His wet laugh faded into a soft tone. “He is brilliant.”

He didn’t know what other words he spoke. Too many, it seemed. Too few. Never enough to encompass everything Jaskier was.

“Where is he now?”

A sound escaped Geralt that might have been a sob. “I don’t know. Gone.”

“For how long?”

Geralt had to close his eyes. He couldn’t bear looking into Jaskier’s face, slowly revealed by the fallen pieces of the mask that broke off with every word Geralt said.

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “I don’t even know when he started leaving. I don’t think he will come back.”

Jaskier tilted his head to the side. He was quiet for a long time and Geralt didn’t dare breathe while Jaskier assessed him, silently begging the blue eyes to pierce his skull and read his thoughts.

Please come back. Come back to me!

He didn’t. Jaskier stayed hidden in his realm of shadow, leaving only Julian behind.

“And yet you love him still?”

The words came unexpected. They were enough to dissipate the tightness in his chest, replacing it with something light and burning.

“I don’t think it would be possible not to love him.”

Jaskier smiled at that, the mask finally coming off completely. “Sounds lovely.”

“It is.” Lovely and painful and hurting him more than anything else in his life. And it was worth every bit of it.

“Do you think I’ll ever know what it feels like?” He sounded frail, like a touch that was only slightly too harsh would make him crumble.

Geralt reached out to touch. Jaskier stayed solid, though his shoulders slumped. His posture clashing horribly and beautifully with the name of viscount he still claimed.

“I know you do.” Rarely had Geralt ever been so sure of anything in his life.

Jaskier must have felt it, for he leaned in after eying the door suspiciously for a moment.

“I wish I were a bard.” His voice was but a whisper, but his confession was loud as the roaring thunder. “So I could write a song about what you and he have.”

Something unfurled in Geralt’s chest and he traced the places where lute calluses used to be with his thumb.

“He named himself after a weed.” He didn’t know why he said it, but the words seemed fitting somehow. The discomfort of saying something so mundane was worth it, when Jaskier’s face lit up as it hadn’t in days, with no trace of decorum or tension.

“And is he still making you happy even after he had served his time?”

He was making Geralt miserable. He made him lose sleep and ache for what they used to have and he made him want to scream in his helplessness, but he still smiled at him and reached out to hold his hand sometimes.

“Yes,” Geralt said without a trace of hesitation. “Even now.”

“And later?”

Geralt’s blood turned to ice. “Later he will hurt me enough to make me wish that I hadn’t ever met him. But it will have been worth every moment we had together.”

Jaskier twisted his hand in Geralt’s until he could weave their fingers together.

“He must be truly lucky then.”

An involuntary laugh escaped Geralt. “I hope so or else we have collected all those seashells for nothing.”

Jaskier knitted his brows together. “What?”

Geralt’s eyes trailed down Jaskier’s neck where the broken piece of seashell still hung around his neck; not a day having passed on which Jaskier hadn’t worn it.

The warmth spread from Geralt’s chest, melting the ice in his limps. “I’ll tell you about it later. It’s a long story about a siren and a prince.”

Jaskier’s chin trembled and Geralt could almost see him biting his own cheek. “Father says a viscount shouldn’t listen to such nonsense stories.”

Geralt shrugged. “Perhaps not. But bards are surrounded by such ‘nonsense stories’. It’s up to you which path you want to be yours, really.”

Jaskier hesitated for all of one heartbeat, before the helpless longing in his eyes was replaced by giddy determination.

--

To say that it was easy having this man who didn’t even know who Jaskier was around him would be a lie. It was, however, like a small wonder; sometimes hurting, sometimes cursed, always beautiful.

After that first day when Geralt met ‘Julian’, Jaskier had become both more open and more closed off in a way.

His smiles came easier, when he woke up early he let himself get coaxed back to bed and he sometimes sat down closer to Geralt than he had allowed himself to before whenever Geralt told him a story, wishing he had Jaskier’s ability to colour the words with his voice in a way Jaskier deserved to hear.

But he was also less and less responsive. He followed Geralt around, let himself be guided and protected, but he rarely talked anymore. It was too quiet. Too empty.

As the snow fell, pilling up on their windowsill, Geralt found himself picking up the lute more and more often. It still felt strange to hold the treasured instrument in his arms. It was too small for him, too breakable.

But on some days it felt like the lute was all he had left. Whenever Geralt took it in hand, Jaskier relaxed a bit, even though he didn’t always seem to truly hear it.

It hadn’t taken long for Geralt to get frustrated and bring the lute into town for someone to tweak the pegs until the instrument didn’t sound like a yowling cat anymore.

The first time hearing the strings being in tune had made his chest ache with an unbearable heaviness. Geralt had lifted his hands off the strings as if they had cut him. But he remained sitting with the instrument in his lap, the fading notes still drifting through the air.

He still wasn’t good at playing it by any means. If Jaskier hadn’t been somewhere in his mind or far away, he might have teased Geralt about being a brute with no sense of rhythm and the natural flow of music.

His heart clenched at the mental image that would never come to pass in real life.

Straining his mind, Geralt did his best to imitate the finger placement he had seen Jaskier use so often. It was possibly the most basic chord that even children easily mastered, but to Geralt it was an accomplishment when he was finally able to play a real, albeit simple song for Jaskier. Weeks upon weeks of Geralt watching Jaskier teach Sera how to pluck the strings to make them sing finally payed off, even if it was just in such a small way. He remembered Jaskier’s patience with his student and the memory of the gentle but firm encouragement he gave the new bard until she had the confidence to match the skill, was enough to push Geralt through his awkward attempts at playing.

Jaskier didn’t stir much when Geralt played for him. Geralt felt foolish. Here he was playing a children’s lullaby for a master bard who had serenaded him with ballads beyond compare.

But Jaskier leaned in close, a smile on his lips that stretched the wrinkles around his mouth, though his eyes were still distant.

Every once in a while when Geralt messed up even this simplest of songs and silently cursed his own clumsiness at playing, Jaskier reached out and corrected Geralt’s finger placement. It didn’t even seem like a conscious action and when Geralt looked Jaskier in the eye, he saw little passion, but the fact that Jaskier still somehow knew how the chords were meant to be played even when he wasn’t the one playing made Geralt’s chest want to burst.

He held the lute out for Jaskier, offering it to its rightful owner. Jaskier stared at it with a mixture of longing and the false dispassion that had slipped onto his face every once in a while.

He didn’t reach out to take the lute, but he didn’t push it away either when Geralt put it in Jaskier’s lap.

“Viscounts don’t play around with frivolous things like music.” The clipped words sounded foreign coming from Jaskier’s mouth, like lines in a play or the repetition of someone else’s words.

Of all the things for Jaskier to remember, this shouldn’t be it.

Geralt shrugged, a vain attempt at casualness that he probably missed by a mile. “Neither do witchers.”

Geralt’s heart sped up in restless anticipation when Jaskier lifted his arms seemingly automatically and rested his fingers where they belonged. He didn’t play, but the sight of him like this – like himself – was radiant enough.

An almost shy and hesitant smile graced Jaskier’s lips. “And yet here we are.”

Geralt’s heart clenched and he felt something in him come loose.

“And yet here we are,” he said in agreement.

The moment they shared was brittle but charged with unspoken emotion. Geralt couldn’t begin to guess at what this moment meant for Jaskier; he could barely make sense of all the feelings rushing through himself. He knew this meant something entirely different for Jaskier than it did for him, but that didn’t make it mean any less.

“Play for me?” He asked quietly, afraid to break what they had between them.

No reply left Jaskier’s lips, but his hands answered for him. While Jaskier’s eyes lost focus again, watching shapes and images only he could see, he strummed the lute like Geralt had done often times before. No chords, no rhythm. Just Jaskier.

---

The flames danced high into the night sky as if they were trying to reach the stars.

It was surreal, sitting in the same spot they had sat in half a year ago. With everything that had happened – everything Geralt had lost and done his best to rebuilt – the winter months had raced past him until they once again found themselves apart from the solstice festivities in town.

“The nights will be shorter from now on,” he said, just to fill the silence.

Jaskier didn’t answer, just stared into the bonfire. It was almost the same as during the summer solstice. Back then, Geralt hadn’t known just how little time he had had left with Jaskier. He hadn’t known Jaskier would disappear and leave Julian in his stead, who then left as well, leaving nothing but a shell behind.

Ambers flew into the sand, pushed away from the fire by a gust of wind.

Geralt felt rather than saw Jaskier shiver next to him. Instinctively, Geralt laid an arm around him and pulled him closer, trying to shield him from the wind that tugged Jaskier’s scarf loose. Geralt’s lips quirked into a broken smile when he saw Jaskier’s nose scrunch up in disgust at the scarf as if it was the ugliest piece of clothing he had ever worn, which in all honesty seemed quite likely.

“Don’t be so critical,” Geralt said, though he knew better than to expect an answer. “I loved the scarf when you gifted it to me. It was our first winter we spend here together, remember?” He left a pause for a reply that wouldn’t come. “You were so frustrated while knitting, but you didn’t stop, because apparently ‘knitting is what old people do’.”

Jaskier’s fingers trailed over the frayed ends, and odd little smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes didn’t waver.  

Geralt could have said more, could have talked about how after a week of Geralt constantly wearing the scarf just to tease him, Jaskier had declared it was too ugly to be worn and had told Geralt to get rid of it. He could have told Jaskier about how even as he nodded, he had known he would never throw it away, instead putting it in a box where Jaskier wouldn’t look. He could have told him how occasionally he still took the scarf out of that box when Jaskier was too preoccupied or too far gone to notice how Geralt smiled at the feel of the scratchy but warm wool.

Taking the scarf out of the box and laying it around Jaskier’s neck had almost choked Geralt. He had wished with every part of him that Jaskier would scoff indignantly that he still had the scarf or make a joke about Geralt being sentimental.

Instead he had gotten no reaction at all, until now. The small displeased frown on Jaskier’s face was more than he had dared to hope for.

Geralt couldn’t supress the shudder than ran down his spine. He needed more. He needed so much more from Jaskier, but nothing he had any right to ask for and nothing Jaskier would be able to give.

An arm found its place around Geralt’s middle. He startled, when Jaskier pulled him slightly closer, rubbing his arm as if wanting to warm him, his free hand tracing a pattern on Geralt’s thigh. It took Geralt a moment to realise what it was. The shape of igni.

Geralt felt something break inside of him, though he couldn’t tell whether it was his heart of glass or a dam that had held back everything he hadn’t allowed himself to feel. Either way, he felt warmth spread through his chest all the way down to his fingertips and to where Jaskier was touching him.

“Thank you,” Geralt said tightly, almost choking on his words. “I- thank you. I didn’t get to tell you during the summer. No, that’s not true. I had my chance. I missed it. I won’t miss it again.”

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You said we should tell each other what we were thankful for to have that be a light for us. The thing is – I don’t know how. The memory of what I’m grateful for can’t be enough. It can’t replace you.”

He hesitated for the briefest of moments, dreading that he wouldn’t find the right words again. All that Jaskier was couldn’t be contained in mere words. He was laughter and dances and songs in the night and dandelion seeds flying off with the wind.

And yet, Geralt’s mouth was able to form the words that hadn’t left his throat in summer when the birds had sung and the flowers had bloomed. It was easier to find them now that the bitter wind bit into his skin and the thought of home and family made him ache. It was easier when the only beautiful thing he had left was the man curled into his side.

“It can’t replace you,” he said again, firmer this time. “Because the Path is a cold and lonely road and it is unbearably dark. And then you had to find me and smile at me as if you were the sun, making it your mission to single-handedly light up the Path. And you did.” A laugh that might just as well have been a sob escaped him. “You fucking did. And you continue to do it. Every time I think I am alone in the dark again you pluck a single lute string or you listen to me or you smile at me the way you do, even when you don’t know who I am, as if I was good and worth your smiles.”

Geralt’s voice broke off. He ran a hand down his face, though no tears came. Maybe he did it because of the lack of tears, because he should be crying but for some godsforsaken reason he was unable to.

“A memory of you can’t replace you. I don’t want it to replace you. But…” the words didn’t want to come, but they needed to. Jaskier deserved to hear them. He would have wanted to, even if they might not reach him now. He needed to know that he had done enough for Geralt. “but I am thankful, more than anything, that I you gifted these memories to me. They won’t be enough, but at least they will be there, when…when you aren’t anymore.”

The last words were spoken so softly, Geralt wasn’t even sure they had ever left his tongue at all.

A gentle touch on his arm had him lifting his head again. Jaskier still wasn’t looking at him, but his face was sombre. He was so heartbreakingly beautiful like this; wrinkles and thin hair and eyes that often didn’t see him anymore, all basked in the soft glow of the fire that held his attention while Geralt was baring his soul.

Geralt released a shuddering breath and waited. Jaskier didn’t say anything, but he did lean his head against Geralt’s shoulder, once again tracing igni into his skin.

Jaskier’s silence for once was something precious. Geralt relished in it, closing his eyes to better hear all it left unsaid.

The wind dimmed down and the bonfire started to crumble, when Geralt began to hum one of the traditional songs Jaskier would always sing for the solstices.

His voice was bad, wrecked from the dry sobs and unable to carry the tune, regardless of how often he had heard Jaskier sing it. The melody didn’t come right to him, and yet, Jaskier recognised it or at the very least recognised the intention behind it, for after the first verse, he joined in.

Jaskier’s voice, too, was bad, rough from disuse and the cold air and unable to carry the tune, regardless of how often he had sung it as if he had been the one to write it.

As the festivities in the distant town died down, two voices on the edge of the sea drifted into the night like flames, reaching towards the stars. They went unheard by anyone except maybe the few seagulls who weren’t yet asleep and who to anyone but themselves might sound like they were croaking, when to themselves the seabirds’ cries made music sweeter than any nightingale.

Maybe not even the seabirds heard them, their voices drowned out in the wind, cracking of the fire and sounds of the sea.

They sang nonetheless.

The people of their village still knew that they were there. People all over the continent might spent the night and any day to come telling each other tales about the witcher and the bard who had found their happiness in each other.

Geralt didn’t care about such tales. He didn’t care if his name would live on in tales and songs, for he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Jaskier’s name would live on in him. All he cared about in this moment was the man in his arms, leaning against him despite everything and singing as he had always done.

Jaskier had sung while Geralt had fallen for him and while Jaskier had fallen for him in return. He had been a lark, soaring into the sky belting his songs into all corners of the continent. Now, as Jaskier was falling slowly from the sky, tumbling down with Geralt at the bottom ready to catch him, he still sang, broken and out of tune and his voice mingling with Geralt, more beautifully than he had ever sung before.

[queenxxxsupreme]

hey! been feeling a bit down lately (started a new medication and with the quarantine too im hyperconscious abt my weight), would you be able to do a fic with either dettlaff or regis reassuring the reader of their appearance?:) tysm!! -🔮

A/N: Oh babe, I can relate to this so much. I chose Dettlaff for this!

You frowned as you looked down at the red gown pooled at your feet. It wasn’t going past your hips. 

You checked to make sure the gown was unlaced completely before trying again. You silently prayed to the gods that the dress would slide up over your hips. You needed this dress to fit! There was a celebration coming up- a party for Geralt’s child surprise -and you needed to be able to wear this gown. It was your favorite, as well as Dettlaff’s. The dark red silk was his favorite, and then the black lace around the bottoms of the sleeves and the bust worked perfectly with Dettlaff’s attire. 

You sighed in frustration as the dress refused to go over your hips. You let it fall to the floor and stepped out of it. 

You looked at yourself in the mirror a little closer, paying attention to your hips. Admittedly, you had gotten bigger. Your clothes fit tighter than usual as of late, but you didn’t think you gained that much. 

Your stomach twisted up at the thought. What if Dettlaff noticed? What if he was disgusted by the way you looked? Surely he was too much of a gentleman to mention it to you. 

As dark thoughts began to invade your mind, you changed into more comfortable clothes, a pair of sleeping trousers and one of Dettlaff’s shirts. 

You moved out of the bedroom, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself. 

Dettlaff sat in his favorite chair in the living room, reading a book. He looked up when he saw you. 

“Did you….” He trailed off when you didn’t look in his direction. It was like you had one goal in mind and that was to get to the kitchen. He took note of the frown on your lips and the way a crinkle formed between your brows. “What’s wrong, darling?”

You shook your head, not trusting your voice enough to speak. 

He closed his book to focus on you. You went to retrieve the kettle and put water into it. Then you hung it on the hook over the fire. 

“Darling, come sit, please.” He patted his thigh, concerned that you weren’t looking at him. 

But still, you shook your head. You retrieved your favorite mug from the cabinet and placed it on the counter. As you waited for the kettle to whistle, you looked down on the empty mug. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at your dear husband. 

“Y/N.” He murmured. “Tell me what’s wrong, please. Why won’t you come sit on my lap while you wait for the water to heat up?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” You mumbled, but he could hear every word perfectly. 

“I’m sorry, my dear. I’m afraid I don’t understand. How would you hurt me?”

You let out a heavy sigh, bringing your eyes up to look at the fire in the hearth. Your heart hammered in your chest. You were sure he could hear it. 

“Because I’m too big. I’ll hurt you sitting on your lap.” You turned to put your back to him, unable to chance seeing his beautiful blue eyes. 

But Dettlaff was behind you before you had a chance to get very far. His hand, though large and rough in texture, gently grabbed your arm and turned you around to face him. 

“Why would you ever think such a silly thing?” His deep baritone was soft and gentle, carrying a tone that made you nearly melt right then and there. 

You shook your head and tried to look away, to look anywhere but at him. He won’t let you though. 

Tears welled in your eyes and poured down your cheeks before you had a chance to stutter out some excuse. 

Dettlaff said nothing. His arms wrapped around you and he pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around you. As your shoulders jolted and shook with your pitiful sobs, he held you. His hand found the back of your head, cradling you to his chest. 

“Hush, my love.” He kissed the side of your head. “You’re going to make yourself sick getting so worked up.”

Your fingers clutched at his tunic. You were fearful. Fearful that if you let him go, he’d disappear. Fearful that when you pulled away, he’d agree with what you said. Fearful that he’d finally see just how unfit you were for him. Fearful that he’d see all of your flaws. 

Dettlaff was patient with you, brushing his fingers over your hair and sometimes kissing just above your ear. 

He waited until your sobs had died down, waited for those little hiccups to still. Then he pulled away from you and looked down at you. You tilted your head down, eyes focusing on the moth brooch Regis had given him. You always admired the pin. It was so beautiful, and it perfectly fit Dettlaff. 

But the higher vampire wanted to be able to see your eyes. His hands wrapped around your hips and he lifted you up onto the counter. Then he settled between your thighs. 

He was silent at first, carefully brushing stray tears from your cheeks and swiping your hair out of your eyes. 

“What makes you think you are too big?” He softly asked. You closed your eyes for a moment, taking a shaky deep breath in. 

“I-I can’t fit my red dress anymore. The one that you like so much. I can’t even get it over my hips, Dettlaff.” You cried quietly, shaking your head. “That’s your favorite dress, and-and I used to think it looked so good on me and fit me so well, but now-now I can’t even get it on!”

“Oh, my dear.” He cupped your face with one large hand, brushing his thumb along the apple of your cheek. “It’s just a dress. We can have it tailored to fit you now. There is plenty of time before the celebration to have it fixed. All is not lost.”

“That’s- Dettlaff, that’s not the point.” You breathed out. “I’ve gotten fat and I’m ugly.”

The look that crossed his face made your stomach churn. He was heartbroken. How could you believe you were ugly? To him, you were the most beautiful being he’d ever set eyes on. A masterpiece crafted by the gods. It hurt him to know that you thought so poorly of yourself.

“My darling, your beauty isn’t measured by your weight.”

“How can you think I’m not some fucking cow, Dettlaff?” You didn’t mean to raise your voice at him. You were just frustrated. Was he lying to you? He had to be. 

“I happen to think you are perfect.” He whispered, unable to speak much louder. “Yes, you’ve gained weight but you are healthy. You are well. You aren’t any less beautiful because of it.”

His hands found your thighs, fingers curling gently in as if to grip you tight. 

“You are absolutely stunning, Y/N. You are an angelic being built perfectly for me.” He leaned his head down to kiss your forehead. “Your thighs, my gods.” He paused for a moment, inhaling deeply. He rested his forehead against yours. Your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned into him. 

“There is no feeling I enjoy more in this world than when your thighs are wrapped tightly around me.”

You smiled just a little, feeling a heat rise to your cheeks. 

“And your hips, they fit perfectly in my hands.”

“It’s cause you’ve got big hands.” You muttered, but a smile tugged at the corners of your lips. You opened your eyes as he pulled away from you. You met his warm gaze. He wore a little smile of his own. 

“Perhaps I have big hands so that I could properly hold you.” He thought out loud. “Perhaps, when the gods were creating me, they had you in mind as my mate. Have you ever thought of that?”

Your lips parted with the thought. What if that was true? It made you warm and tingly to think that he was made specifically for you. 

“There is no part of you that I will ever not love with all I have, my dear.” Dettlaff assured you, leaning down to gently kiss your lips. “And it just breaks my heart to know you think so lowly of yourself. You are beautiful and nearly every time I lay eyes on you, you steal my breath away.”

“Dettlaff.” You whispered, bringing your hand up to cover your mouth. “Stop it.”

“Not until you believe me.” He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you to the edge of the counter. “Now, while you wait for your tea to heat up, let me read to you.”

Before you could object, Dettlaff picked you up and took you over to his chair.

Taglist: @pressedinthepages @mishafaye @whitewolfandthefox @wolfyland07 @belalugosisdead @persephonehemingway @keira-hulmaster @dinonuggs69 @greatestauthorofmygeneration @shadow-hunters-lover @dancingwith-thesunflowers @tedi-fach-las @thecomfortofoldstorries @raspberrydreamclouds @natkowaa @disasteren @weathervanes-my-oneandlonely @onlyhenrys @wackylurker @criminaly-supernatural @magpie343 @permanently-exhausted-witcher @hina-chans-stuff @the-space-between-heartbeats @havenoffandoms @carriebee1 @ger-bearofrivia @naominami @writingawaymylife @reaganjenelle @theawkwardpedestrian @scarlettwitcher @badassspaceprincess @just-a-sad-donut @summersong69 @an–actual–human–disaster @rubyqueen819 @omgkatinka @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @vonxcon @mazakeen @bravelittlesunflower @thereagles @awkward-turtles-world @menalliha @cotton_mo @maan24 @thefirelordm @monkeymo @krenee1drful @nympha-door-a @awkward-turtles-world @fl0ating

[paintingraves]

A purr-fect day

Went to OPT prompts and received a prompt about Percival being swarmed by a pack of kittens so here - have this very soft thing ❤️

------------

It’s Percival Graves’ birthday. 

The man himself doesn’t seem to care, but  every single one of his Aurors know about it. So does Newt, who's been living in a rented flat in New York for a few months now, working in an official capacity as a consultant for the MACUSA. They are trying to reform some of their laws about magical creatures: it is a long, tedious process -- one that sets back the publication of his second book by months -- but it’s important and Newt really feels like he is making a difference. 

His routine these days is usually the same. Newt wakes up at the crack of dawn and tends to his creatures; then he gets dressed and drops by Jacob’s bakery on his way to work in order to grab coffee and a delicious pastry. His favourite at the moment is a croissant-like delicacy filled with warm chocolate.  Newt always wolfs it down like he hasn’t eaten in three days and licks his fingers clean afterwards, unashamed. 

He steps into MACUSA through the magical revolving door and heads to the Aurors’ bullpen, where his office and work await him. They chatter amicably between colleagues until 8 am, at which point Director Percival Graves makes his grand entrance -- cup of bitter black coffee in his hand and dark circles under his eyes. He gives them a debriefing as he sips his drink. When he's done they get to work, and Graves heads down to his own office. He always passes by Newt when he does, and Newt always gets to appreciate the heady smell of his cologne on the way. 

(He… may or may not have a bit of a thing for Percival Graves. So what? Almost everyone here does, apparently, because their director is just that striking. Newt is no different.) 

But today is a special day, and things take a different turn. 

Newt stills drops by Jacob’s bakery, but he’s earlier than usual. Instead of buying only one pastry, he buys an assortment of them, trying to pick ones he thinks Percival would like. 

All his colleagues are present at the office as early as 7 am. Newt steps into the room as they’re starting to clear the tables free of paperwork, ink, quills, books and other bulky things to rearrange them in a sort of semi-circle to serve as a buffet. 

Madeleine uses her wand to unfold a large white tablecloth and everyone helps set the table: there's pots of coffee, warm chocolate and tea; Newt brought pastries, John’s baked an apple pie, and Esther made a fruit salad. Soon enough, with everyone’s contributions, the table is full of food and drink aplenty. Diana is blowing up balloons while Geralt hangs a large ‘happy birthday’ banner across the room. 

There's one table reserved for gifts. Newt can guess what most people could have bought: perhaps a new tie or a book, a good bottle of wine, etc. Newt himself has gotten Percival an exotic plant, whose flowers release a calming scent that has the same effect on humans as a cat purring. He hopes Percival will like it. 

It’s nearly 8. They're all a bit nervous; truth be told they have no idea how Graves will react to the display. He certainly isn’t expecting it, that's for sure. Geralt said he's never known Percival to mention his birthday, much less celebrate it. But today also marks the first year the man's been back at work despite his ordeal at the hands of Grindelwald, and that deserves to be remembered. They’re just hoping he’ll be touched by the attention, and happy. 

When Percival walks into the room at 8 precisely, he freezes on the doorstep. His eyes widen in surprise and alarm. He takes in the redecorated room, his hand shaking slightly around his cup of coffee. “... What is this?” 

“Happy birthday, sir,” his Aurors say all at once, smiling. 

Percival’s eyes widen even more. “Oh shit,” he says, coming to a realization. “It is my birthday, isn’t it? I’m… Fuck. I don’t know what to say. This… is a surprise, but...” 

“You deserve it,” Diana says simply, and they all nod in agreement. “I’ll put on some music. I hope you like jazz!” 

“Get you anything to drink, sir? Or eat? We got a ton of stuff here, including but not limited to John’s famous apple pie!” 

“A - a slice of apple pie sounds perfect, thank you,” Percival says, still bewildered. He looks almost timid, so wrong-footed. “And coffee, please. I’m sure it’ll taste better than this brew I have.” 

“Let me take your coat,” Newt offers, stepping forward. “And make yourself comfortable.” 

"There’s work to do,” Percival says, even as he takes off his cream-coloured trench coat and his hat. Underneath, he wears one of his usual three-piece suits, complete with dark blue pants, a white shirt and an assorted waistcoat and tie. Everything is tailored to perfection, as per usual. Newt will honestly never get over how attractive the older man is. It doesn't help that Percival rolls up his sleeves to his elbows. "I can't stay long, but I really appreciate this, thank you…"

His words get drowned in the soft jazz music that starts playing. Everyone relaxes and starts to eat and drink, standing up, or sitting on chairs around the room; they're all happy that Percival hasn’t reacted negatively (and why would he?) 

The director seems to have gotten over his shock now; he is clearly embarrassed (the tips of his ears blushing red) as well as deeply flattered, but he’s not mad. 

At one point there's the opening of presents. 

Percival stays sitting in his chair as they bring the wrapped gifts over to him. He thanks each Auror warmly, saying he never expected to be this spoiled, and that they shouldn't have. He makes jokes about getting old. Percival receives a brand new watch (courtesy of three of the Aurors, who put together some savings to afford it) as well as a silver hoop earring -- much to his delight and surprise. He raises an eyebrow as Geralt explains sheepishly that he’s noticed Percival’s ear was pierced, yet that he never wore such jewelry, promoting Percival to regal them with a few tales of his rebellious youth. He puts the earring on. It looks incredibly dashing, giving him a bit of a more roguish air. It's terribly, terribly attractive. 

There's also a funny tie with little ducklings printed on it which Percival promises to wear the next day at work; two Sherlock Holmes books; a shiny pocket knife (for Percival never goes anywhere unarmed) and finally Newt’s plant. Newt monologues about its healing properties, as he’s wont to do, and Percival thanks him with a warm smile, telling Newt it is incredibly thoughtful. He is so polite. So sincere. So composed. Ugh. Newt wants this man quite badly. He doesn’t know how much longer he can handle this sweet torture... 

The last gift Percival receives is… different. He is laughing, and he's never looked this happy in the months Newt has known him. It makes his heart swell painfully inside his chest. He wants Percival to keep smiling like that, everyday, and he wants to be the reason behind his joyous smile. 

“Alright, what is this?” Percival asks as Madeleine give him a large square box. They managed to convince him to wear one of those pointy colorful birthday hat, and it is slightly askew on his head. A strand of dark hair falls into his face. Percival looks more ruffled and relaxed than they’ve ever seen him, and Newt wonders whether one of the aurors spiked his coffee with whiskey or something, because this is quite the contrast compared to the austere, severe, put together man they’re used to seeing daily. 

“Open it!” Madeleine says, and Percival does - only for everyone to gasp in sheer joy at the sight of what’s inside of the box. 

Kittens! 

“Oh my god!” Esther squeals happily, slapping a hand over her mouth. 

“So one of my cats had babies recently, and I figured this was a nice gift! Here they are!” 

“I…” Percival says, at a loss as to what to do. Madeleine grins and, gently, she takes each kitten from the box and puts them in Percival’s lap, then takes the box away. 

The kittens (four in total) immediately meow for attention and begin to explore their new surroundings: one of them tries to climb on Percival’s chest, digging its claws into the expensive fabric of his waistcoat; another nearly falls off Percival’s thigh except the man catches him, and the kitten fits in his big hand. Percival says ‘Hello little guy, hello’ and strokes his head with a finger so very gently. 

Percival Graves and kittens. Newt thinks this might be heaven. 

“They’re so tiny,” Percival murmurs in awe. “Oh no no no, where are you going? Ow, not the claws, hey, not the claws --” 

Percival Graves swarmed by a pack of kittens is definitely the cutest thing Newt has ever seen. He can’t stop smiling. 

Neither can Percival, apparently - his cheeks are glowing with happiness, his eyes wrinkling attractively at the corners, his face and posture open and serene. He helps one of the kittens climb up his shoulder, where it sniffs Percival’s collar curiously, and gathers the other three together in his lap, petting them. Noticing Newt’s staring, he holds one of the kittens up. “Take him.” 

Esther kneels next to Percival, who gives her one of the kittens too, and she looks about to cry as she holds the tiny animal in her hands. She folds her arm and the kitten curls up in the crook of her elbow, seemingly having found a nice corner to nap in, and purrs as she scratches it behind the ears gently. 

“They’re up for adoption,” Madeleine informs them, beaming. “We already have three cats, and I got a friend who adopted one from this litter, but these four are looking for a new home!” 

“I’ll take one,” Esther says immediately. “My husband’s allergic but we’ll find a way to make it work. I've always wanted a cat.” 

“... I can take one too,” Geralt says hesitantly. “They’re rather cute.” 

“They’re adorable.” 

“Percival? Ahem, sir?” 

Percival had been busy making heart eyes at the kitten in his lap. “Hmm? Oh, I wish I could, but…” He sighs. “I wouldn’t have time to care for him. They deserve better than that.” 

“Newt?” 

Newt shakes his head. Same as Percival, he’s already got a lot of creatures to care for. 

“I’ll keep asking around then,” Madeleine concludes. 

Geralt takes one of the kittens. Percival gets up from his chair, his last tiny friend still perched on his shoulder like a very fluffy parrot. He brushes cat hair from his pants with little success, and walks up to Newt, who’s busy cooing at his own kitten. He’s already given it a name and everything. Oh, and she’s a female. 

“This is Kiara,” he says, showing the kitten to Percival, who smiles warmly. 

“Seems like she’s adopted you, uh.” 

“I do so wish I could take her in,” Newt says mournfully. 

“Hmm. You’ve already got a lot on your shoulders, haven't you, but I understand the sentiment.” 

“You look happy,” Newt remarks. 

Graves laughs. “You say that as if it’s the second coming of christ. Am I that sour and grumpy all the time?" 

“Well...” Newt ducks his head and avoids the question, though he knows Graves is just teasing him. “I’m really glad you liked our little surprise party here.” 

“Whose idea was it?” 

“Everyone’s, really. We figured you ought to know how much we all appreciate you. You’re a very good leader, Percival, and a good man, and a good friend.”

“...Thank you,” Percival says quietly. "I do try."

“I mean that,” Newt insists. “Met a lot of politicians in my life, after all, I know what I'm talking about." 

"Ah ah. While I can’t say I’ve met a lot of magizoologists in my life, I also really like working with you, Newton. You've very knowledgeable, and you are able to think outside the box. I really like that.” 

Newt swallows at the compliment, his heart picking up pace, heat rising to his face. “Thanks,” he mumbles, forcing himself to look straight at the other man. Percival meets his gaze. There’s a heavy moment of silence. Time slows down as Newt’s eyes flit from Percival’s own down to his lips, and he is overcome with the urge to simply kiss the other man. Percival wets his lips too, looking up at him underneath his dark eyelashes, and he leans imperceptibly closer and Newt thinks oh fuck -- and then Madeleine steps into their intimate circle with a plate of cake to offer them some. The moment is shattered. 

But… Newt didn’t dream it, right? Right? 

For a moment there he saw desire reflected back in Percival’s eyes… right? 

He refuses another helping of cake, but Percival does take an apple fritter and bites into it, smearing sugar across his lips. He licks them clean. 

Newt wants to kiss him so badly. Again. 

After an hour or so of festivities it’s time to clean up and get back to work, however reluctant they are to do so. 

For the rest of the day, the balloons still hang on the walls of the aurors’ room and kittens roam free in the office. They play with bits of string or red dots that the aurors make appear on the floor with the tip of their wand. 

Percival goes back to his office and keeps the pointy hat. It’s not a very productive day, work-wise, but it’s one that leaves everybody in high spirits when the evening comes, and certainly strengthens the bonds between colleagues. 

Around 8, Newt prepares to leave the bullpen as well. He tidies things up on his desk and takes his suitcase, turning off the lights as he leaves. He knocks on Percival’s door and hears a rumbling ‘yes, come in’. 

“Leaving for the day,” Newt says. Percival nods his assent, nose deep in paperwork. “Good night, sir.” 

“Good night, Newton,” Graves says absently. He dips his quill into ink and scribbles something down. Newt sighs. 

“Sir?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Would you - that is, would you like to grab a drink with me sometime?” 

Percival pauses, looking up at him above the rim of his tortoise shell glasses. “Why?” 

“B - because…” Oh bugger, he read this all wrong. A stab of fear lances through him.  “Err. No, nevermind, forget I asked. I’ll just - go. I'm leaving. Yes.” 

“Newt.”

“Yes?” Newt looks back at him, his palms sweating, only to be struck dumb. 

Graves is smirking. He’s never seen such an expression on his face and oh, that must be what Graves looks like when he’s really flirting. Newt feels weak in the knees. 

“It’d be my pleasure,” Percival purrs, and Newt makes a sound not unlike that of a startled mouse. He flushes and haltingly steps back, fiddling with the handle of his briefcase, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. 

“Oh. Oh that’s. That’s good then. Great. Brilliant. Hm. Is… after work tomorrow okay for you?” 

“It’s good,” Percival agrees. “Have a good evening. And Newt?” 

“Y - yes?”

“Remember to breathe.” And there’s that infuriating, smug smirk again. 

Newt vows to kiss it off the man’s face one day until Graves is the one struggling to remember how to breathe. He shall make Percival lose his carefully constructed composure. 

“Tomorrow it is,” he repeats, straightening up. “I look forward to it.” 

Graves shakes his head, as though he can’t believe he’s really doing this, but he’s still smiling. 

Newt makes his way out MACUSA and back to his flat with a spring in his step, happiness and hope bubbling inside his chest. 

He did it! 

And Percival agreed! Holy shit. This. Is. Amazing! By Merlin - tomorrow can’t come fast enough!

[itsclydebitches]

Soo like 6 days ago I started watching the Witcher stopped at ep 7 bought the Witcher 3 and have been playing it nonstop. The shows okay? I think? (From someone who only knows what the series is from a 4 hour critic video that I had no idea what was going on in BUT- the game is so funnnn. Like I barely know what’s going on, from that video and people discussing things online but WOW??? Like how was I not told about this shit earlier??? Dandelions realllllly icky thooo like I thought he’d be more fun and less “wow your straight fucking scum” but I mean at least he cares about his friends? Triss and yennifer are... Oof rough BUT I’m only just in the game, hope they’ll grow on me? Or change? But Ciri? Is adorable? Her parts are so fun to play her dodge is so fun.

The novels! Have You read them? Where does one get them lmao Ik they’re translated?

[old timey fisherman's voice] WE CAUGHT ANOTHER ONE, BOYS!

Ahhhh new Witcher 3 fan!! Congratulations, anon, you've unlocked my numerous Thoughts™ and Opinions™ on the matter that I am now going to dump on you in bullet point form. No spoilers though!

Okay, okay, yeah I like this game a totally normal amount. I've sunk at least 250 hours into it (so far) which might not be much compared to the Pro Gamers and whatnot, but it's an insane amount for someone like me who possesses the attention span of a goldfish. I don't do any of the same thing for 250 hours (except write things on tumblr, I guess)

I didn't know what was going on either when I first played. I didn't even have the show to sort of help me out, Witcher 3 was the first Witcher story I ever dove into. The great thing though is you can just... google stuff? See, idk if you've worked this out yet, but the games all take place post-book series. All the stuff in the series happened, then Witcher 1 starts with Geralt having amnesia, and everything else in the games is new content. Which means that though there's obviously a fair number of book spoilers throughout, it's pretty easy to google worldbuilding questions without getting game spoilers. So once I understood that I was able to supplement what I was getting via game osmosis with stuff like, "Who the fuck is Nilfgaard again and why does everyone hate them?" or "What did Triss do to Geralt?" without getting any quest-specific spoilers. Basic wiki articles with, "Such and such is related to such and such and once did This Thing" was super helpful.

Yeah, the show is just okay. I'm far less enamored with it a year later than I was at the start. I think I was trying to like it more than I actually did... Honestly, I'm actually somewhat wary of getting more seasons simply because of how TV shows tend to dominate fandoms. The Jaskier/Geralt dynamic is a perfect example: once the show does something, a very large portion of the fandom tends to take that as their preferred canon. Finding non-TV!Jaskier/Geralt content is more of a struggle now. Which isn't a bad thing, god knows I'm happy to have more Witcher content in general, it's just too bad that we have game and book dynamics that are, at least here on tumblr, largely overshadowed by the show. My fave in the whole franchise - Regis - is someone I'm particularly worried for because if the show does him dirty and the whole fandom takes that characterization as gospel, I may not recover lol.

Dandelion's characterization in Witcher 3 is, sadly, not what I'd hoped it would be. To my mind book!Dandelion is superior to both game!Dandelion and TV!Jaskier. It's his dynamic with Geralt that made me ship them in the first place. He does grow on you in the game though (or at least he did for me), but he's definitely presented as more annoying/inept/creepy than in the books. And don't even get me started on how they butchered that relationship in the show... Though I WILL say game!Dandelion remains pretty funny. There's one quest in particular that never fails to make me laugh. Also his fashion is on point for a flamboyant bard.

Oof Triss and Yen... beware, anon, that is THE debate in this fandom and the one you might want to steer clear of lol. Personally, I'm not a fan of either. Triss is fine, I guess, but not someone I really, actively like and Yennefer is... well. Let's just say if I could do away with any character it would be her. I absolutely despised her in the game, was told she was better in the books, started the books, hated her even more, tried to give her a chance in the TV show, and ended up hating her there too. I'm just not a Yen fan, at all, which basically makes me the black sheep of the Witcher fandom lol. You might warm to them though, the majority do, however, know that you don't have to romance either of them. My Geralt was quite happy being a single father to his amazing daughter Ciri :D

I've read the short story collections and read enough of the novels to realize it wasn't my cup of tea. Basically, there are two collections of interconnected tales as Geralt goes about his witchering and then a six book epic following the hansa and everything with Ciri. Personally, I couldn't get into the epic and dropped the novels early on. In my humble opinion Sapkowski, writing a character like Geralt, (much like Doyle writing Holmes) excels in the short story format and then struggles stylistically in novel form. I found his writing tedious, the themes not nearly as poignant (many outright uncomfortable), and the fact that Yen is a central part of the whole tale didn't help sell things for me. Reading a six book series where a good chunk is dedicated to the supposedly epic love story of a couple where you hate one half and find the whole relationship cringy (though not in a way the story is purposefully acknowledging)... doesn't make for great reading imo lol. But I want to emphasize that that's my take and god knows it's a minority one. Most fans adore the books - and I do heartily recommend the short stories - so definitely give them a shot for yourself some time.

They are indeed translated (I can't read a word of Polish lol) and are very easy to find in a bookstore, online seller, etc. The wiki article lists them all.

(Though know that you definitely can't download ebooks for free via the Z Library. Nope. Not possible. Don't know why I'm even getting your hopes up.)

Really though, Witcher 3 is my fave, hands down. Out of the books, the show, the other games... Witcher 3 is the version of Geralt and the world that I truly fell in love with. When people say "Witcher" that's the version of Witcher I'm eager to discuss. However, if you can stomach early 2000s games with pretty terrible graphics, I recommend trying Witcher 1 and 2 once you're finished (I was immediately ready for more gameplay content after I'd finished lol). Witcher 1 is, in many ways, a mess. God the combat system drove me nuts... BUT it has a strange charm that I, in all seriousness, really loved. Meanwhile, Witcher 2 (Assassins of Kings) is far stronger. You can easily see the building blocks of Witcher 3 in the narrative choices and worldbuilding. Plus, AoK has Iroveth who is just such a fun character. Wish he'd made it into Wild Hunt :(

Also the comics! I bought the omnibus a while back and didn't regret the purchase for a second. House of Glass (the first story run) also has one of the saddest Geralt moments for me. Just this single panel that lives in my head, rent free, making me Feel Things on occasion lol. There's a new run, Fading Memories, releasing this month (!!!) which I can't wait to get ahold of once the trade paperback is out.

Oh god I could ramble about Witcher 3 for ages but this is already getting so long. Do all the side quests! Return to places you've already been to for fun surprises! Replay decisions to see how differently things turn out! Play lots of Gwent! Enjoy the gorgeous landscapes! Be sure to get the amazing DLCs when you're finished! Play Hearts of Stone first because Blood and Wine has an ending-ending and I didn't realize that, so it was a little weird to get the emotional finish and then have like 10+ hours of gameplay left! Oh, and if you haven't figure it out already know that you can put points into any skill in the General Skills tab (you don't build on it like the fighting/signs/alchemy tabs) and I would snag the "Gourmet" ability ASAP because it has saved my ass so many times.

AND ENJOY PLAYING

I wish I could play it for the first time again, but diving back into more Blood and Wine tonight will have to do :D