#frantically scraping together enough muse to work on a thread

[nocentis]

touches the glass...

breathes on the glass and draws a heart

[ahh-fxck]

Here is my gift for @demisexualgeralt for @thewitchersecretsanta 2020 gift exchange! This was such a true pleasure to write, I hope you enjoy it!

Title: Soul Music

Rating: M (some whump, some mild adult content)

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Cross-posted to Ao3

Everyone is born with a song. It is the one gift that Creation leaves each of its children. A small magic to comfort them in the lonely silences of life, a healing love when their hearts ache or shatter. Every child knows their song as well as the pattern of their breath.

Legend has it that Creation left each child with one more gift, a hidden secret that few ever discover. For the songs are more than simple wordless melodies, though they are that. They are also harmonies, one-half of a duet meant to be sung with one’s soulmate. On the day that duet is sung, voices twining in the air, lyrics will appear for the first time on the skin of each lover. No magic can wipe them away. Sharing soul music with one's true love is the only way to find out what the words are meant to be.

Or so the story goes.

Few people on the Continent believed that old tale anymore. The soul words, if they had ever existed at all, were a rare occurrence. Now, only children and fools sang their songs to the people they loved. Sensible people kept their private music for lonely moments when the only solace was the gift of song.

Witchers didn’t even have that. 

When a young boy was given to the Witchers, the first thing that was taken from him was his song. A Witcher with an instinct to sing when he was hurt or frightened was a dead Witcher. 

There could be no songs on the Path. 

When Geralt met the bard for the first time, he had no idea what to make of him. After a life of silence, the young human was a breath of irrepressible melody. Quiet seemed to gall the little bardling, so he filled Geralt's days with chatter and his evenings with endless compositions.

"You smell like death and destiny!" The young human, barely more than a child, had cried on the day of their first meeting. "Heroics and heartbreak!"

Despite himself, Geralt had taken a discreet sniff. The only things he'd smelled of were Roach, onion, and the dirt of the road. Curling his lip, he'd grumbled, "It's onion." How could anyone smell like Destiny, anyhow?

Then the bard had called him the Butcher of Blaviken like it was something to be proud of. A surge of frustration had overtaken Geralt, and he’d turned toward Jaskier. 

“Come here,” he’d said. The boy had trotted eagerly up to him. Geralt had given him a taste of what the Path had in store for such innocence, slamming a fist into his stomach just hard enough to drop him. 

To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier had bounced back up as if nothing untoward had happened, like he got punched in the stomach all the time. Perhaps he did, at that. Bemused, Geralt had given a mental shrug and let him be. If the young idiot was willing to take a beating in the pursuit of inspiration, who was Geralt to stop him?

The intervening years hadn’t changed the bard much. He was a man now, yes. Stronger. Wiser to the ways of the Path. He was just as full of enthusiasm as he’d been that first year though, when he was a skinny boy prancing up the road after Roach. Little could dampen the bard’s spirits, and his good humor was matched only by his gift for tall tales.

Geralt discovered that Jaskier was a constant fount of sound. Crooning melodies to his notebook next to a banked fire, shivering and wrapped in a stinking woolen blanket. Voice bouncing back from the walls of canyons or hushed by moss in deep forests. Always moving, always talking, like a brook babbling over stones. When he wasn’t chattering, he was grizzling, and when he wasn’t grizzling, he was singing. Even his sweetest melody he gave freely of, to himself and others. 

The first time Geralt heard the bardling’s soul song, they’d only been traveling together for a few days. Jaskier had injured himself sharpening a pen nib. There was a spat curse, a sudden bright scent of blood, and by the time Geralt looked up from the herbs he was preparing the bard’s knife had clattered to the ground. He’d hunched around his hand, squeezing it and gasping with shock and pain. 

Geralt had tensed to rise, but quick as a breath, the young human had begun to hum. The sound was frantic at first, quickened and muddled by the pain. But then his eyelashes had fluttered against his cheeks and a true note thrummed in the air, bright and golden. Yellow as new leaves in sunshine, fresh and ancient as the damp breath of forest stones, the song had woven its way through the clearing.

The notes had thrummed in Geralt’s breastbone, tingled in his fingertips and the tip of his sensitive nose. He’d felt like the whole clearing had rung for one brief, shining moment, the sunlight sweetening through the shivering branches above him until it felt like his heart might break with the beauty of it. Then, like a soap bubble breaking, the moment had passed. Jaskier had straightened and smiled apologetically at him, still squeezing his hand. 

Wordlessly Geralt had turned away and pulled a cloth and styptic tincture from his bag. Kneeling before him, he had pried the silly boy’s hands apart and pressed the cloth to the gash in his thumb. His gentle hands provided firm pressure to staunch the bleeding. As he sat there with his body ringing like a bell he privately marveled at the beauty of the bard’s soul song. Geralt had never heard a one before, not up close. People feared him, shunned him. It wasn’t an intimacy meant for Witchers. 

Perhaps, then, it explained why he didn’t realize why Jaskier’s song pulled at his heart so. After a lifetime of being told Witchers weren’t meant for music, of course the first soul song he’d heard up close would set a yearning under his skin. It gave him a longing to hear more, hear it again, hear it forever.

Wasn’t everyone’s melody like that? He had no way of telling. 

As they traveled together, Geralt learned that the bard’s soul music spilled from him at the least provocation, like an over-full cup being jostled. Jaskier sang to his abraded heels at night after a long day of walking, and to Roach in the early morning when he thought Geralt was too far away gathering herbs to hear. He sang to lovers behind closed doors, and sometimes their voices raised in gasping harmony with his own, music melding as bodies twined between the sheets.

Geralt was silent. 

Witchers do not sing.

Perhaps they enjoyed melodies, though. The bard's notes eased into campfire nights and embellished dew-covered mornings like jewels. They embellished the sounds of whetstone and steel, leather, thread, and awl. As Geralt groomed Roach, Jaskier's music twined with the whisper of the brush. It became so much a part of his world that Geralt began to miss it when he and the bard parted ways.

They parted ways frequently. 

Jaskier lingered with wealthy patrons, drawn to luxuries found rarely on the Path. Geralt pursued contracts in unpleasant places, too dangerous for even his foolhardy bard to follow. Their lives twined across the Continent, poorer for each parting, richer for each reunion. 

The first time Jaskier left the silence came as a relief to Geralt. He’d rested easier knowing that there was only him and Roach to guard, no prattling human to protect from monsters and bandits. Before long, though, he’d found himself missing the soft sounds of finger and quill on parchment, the scrape of the bard’s razor on his chin in the morning, and, though he would never admit it, the neverending music. It pulled at something in his soul, woke a soft secret that he hardly dared ponder.

The first time Jaskier returned to Geralt, he'd shown up at the promised crossroad. He’d had his lute on his back and a smile on his face. When Geralt had ridden into town as agreed, Jaskier had greeted him with joy, throwing his arms wide. Then the colorful bard had fallen into step beside Roach, filling the air with his prattling and singing as if he’d never been gone.

Just like that, the music was back. It was as incomprehensible as the seasons and tides to Geralt, and just as impossible to control. 

Sometimes Geralt wondered what it was like to sing, to be the instrument and the player all at once. He watched the bard do it with such ease that it made him ache. Music poured from Jaskier fearlessly. When Geralt told him that he made it sound easy, the bard had laughed. 

It was the first time Jaskier had talked about his childhood. He’d told Geralt about the long hours of practice, honing his skill as surely and rigorously as the boys of Kaer Morhen had honed their bodies and minds. Golden songbirds don’t eat if they don’t sing sweetly. 

Geralt had paused in his work, leather awl in hand. He’d eyed Jaskier in the flickering firelight for a moment. Then he’d quietly told him that wolf pups who don’t fight, starve. 

It was the beginning of an understanding between them. Perhaps, the Witcher mused, they weren’t so different after all. 

After that, Geralt began to see the discipline and skill behind the bard’s frivolous facade. Jaskier worked as just hard as Geralt, ever laboring to keep his voice, his mind, his fingers limber. The quills in his pack were always sharp, his lute well-tuned, his clothing impeccable. They were just as precious to Jaskier as Geralt’s blades were, and as well-cared-for.

Jaskier, in his turn, saw the soulful man hidden behind Geralt's layers of training, the years of discipline that wrapped him in silence. What others mistook for soullessness was a work of artifice, carefully concealing the thrumming music that still lived inside of him. Geralt himself was a melody, though few but the bard saw it. He moved through the world with grace, ferocity, and intelligence. It made Jaskier want to sing his heart out, and he did.

He did.

The bard sang to taverns and courts, to traveling families huddled in the forest for a night of rest, to kings and stableboys and Melitele’s women. He sang in high places and low, for pay, for free, to anyone who would listen. He sang of a man, a Witcher, a beautiful Wolf who stalked in the dark places and protected good people from monsters. Won’t you be good to him? Jaskier sang. Won’t you love him as much as I do?

Over the years of their travel, Geralt’s reputation changed. In more and more places he was greeted as the White Wolf, hero and friend of humanity. The songs the bard sang might be mostly puffery, but there was a grain of truth in each of them, and a hint of the bard's soul music rang as he performed them. Though he didn’t discuss it, Geralt could hear the sweetness of the bard’s longing hanging between the notes. Sometimes he wondered… why? But he never asked. No good could come of the answer. Just as Witchers were not made for song, they were not made for love.

Jaskier either didn’t know this or didn’t care. He doted on his Witcher. He followed him from one place to another, as loyal as the day is long. When Geralt hungered because people were stingy and cruel, Jaskier shared food with him. When he ached, the bard’s clever hands soothed the pain from his body. And when melancholy struck him, he was always there with a kind word. Jaskier insisted on indulgences that the Witcher felt he didn’t need and didn’t deserve. 

Through it all, the bard showered him with unaccustomed praise. He held his sweetest song in reserve, though. If Jaskier started singing to his beautiful Witcher, would he ever be able to stop?

For once, he was silent.

Silent, that is, until death’s wings brushed too close.

Jaskier knelt over the Witcher as he lay injured in a hidden forest hollow. He watched with terrible fear as Geralt slipped from true sleep into something shallow and pale. His body cooled and his breath became a thin whisper, barely stirring his massive chest. Jaskier murmured unhappily, stroking his face, his chest, his hands. When he didn’t stir, the bard gathered Geralt’s big head into his lap and held him close. He sang every song he knew trying to bring comfort, although to who, he wasn’t sure. 

Then he ran out of songs. Geralt was heavy in his arms, heartbeat fading as his body labored. A moan of dread escaped Jaskier, a terrible sorrow rising. The Witcher always said his death would be small and stupid, some lonely place far from help. Jaskier clenched his jaw, swallowing around a rising lump in his throat. He felt silly and helpless. Just a bard with no healer’s skill, watching as the man he loved slipped away. There was only one thing left, one small solace that he could share with his dearest love.

Softly, he began to sing. 

Sweet notes dripped from his lips, golden as sunlight, a tune as familiar and intimate as the whorls on his fingertips. They rained down on the Witcher, twisting through the dank air and filling it with sweetness. Jaskier poured all of his love into every note. With each breath, he prayed that the small magic of his soul would reach his beloved. That Geralt would know there was one person who would sing even into the deepest night on his behalf.

The music sank into Geralt, enfolding him in the sweet melody of the bard’s soul. Somewhere deep in the darkness of his mind, he turned towards the sound and his heart knew solace. He had traveled this terrible road many times, skirting the black borders of death for patient hours as his mutated body healed, always in silence. Lonely silence. This time though, a piercingly familiar sound accompanied him. It weaved in between his labored breaths and the faltering boom of his heart, carrying with it a powerful love. You are known, it seemed to say without words. You are cherished. Most exquisite of beings, I am with you.

Time passed, and he realized the sound was a voice.

Yellow and green and gold, sweet and new and ancient. 

Jaskier.

The light swept buttery fingers of warmth through the enfolding darkness. Along with the light came scent. Musk and clove, ink and dye, honey and wax. Smoldering coals and salve, stinking wound- for the first time that day, Geralt opened his eyes fully. He took in Jaskier, singing above him. Jaskier stopped when he saw Geralt and he lit up, tear-streaked face suffusing with joy.

Geralt smiled. 

Heart leaping into his throat, Jaskier tenderly stroked milk-white hair away from the Witcher’s face. Geralt turned into his hand, sighing softly as his eyes drifted half-shut again.

“Sing?” he rumbled.

“Always,” the bard replied, his voice catching. He cleared his throat, then began his truest melody again. The golden notes drifted down around Geralt in the half-light, and Geralt followed them down into true sleep at last. Cradled in a gentle bath of sound, he rested. He healed. 

When he woke again, a soft feeling stirred inside of him as he looked to the bard curled sleeping nearby. No one had ever sung their song for him before. He had never been cradled through the long night and bathed in the solace of another person’s melody. No one had ever loved him enough to entrust him with such a delicate and precious thing. 

A stirring, needling feeling in his throat made him cough. Perturbed, Geralt turned away. He rose to clean and bandage his wounds, then attended to the small duties of camp. When he returned to Jaskier’s side, he wordlessly dragged his bedroll close and arranged himself alongside Jaskier’s sleeping back. With a sigh, Geralt curled so that he could nose into the softness of the bard’s brown hair.

The morning sun found them still furled together like petals in a flower bud. Dawn brought with it warmth, sore hearts thawing as the light revealed entwined fingers and tangled legs, still held close after the long night. They laid together until the sun was high and hot, watching the leaves shivering on the branches above. Even after their tangled bodies unfurled, the silence between them was as sweet as honey. 

After that, the bard began to bring the Witcher gifts. Jaskier plied him with treats from patisseries, sweet-smelling salves, and rare ales. Even the simplest things that sparked the bard’s joy were pressed into Geralt’s hands: a stone, a leaf, a particularly lovely feather. Each was another note in a love song that Geralt could finally hear the melody of. Now that he could hear it, he realized that the bard had been singing it from the day they’d met. It warmed him in ways he couldn’t put words to.

Their nights were different, as well. Where they used to lay their bedrolls on opposite sides of the fire, now they were side by side. When the inn had only one bed, there was no longer an awkward gap between them. They furled together sweetly, basking in the tender new warmth between them.

Soon, the Witcher began to bring the bard began gifts as well. Beautiful flowers to brighten his days and savory herbs to flavor his meals at night. Soft pelts the bard took to the tailor. Rare dyes and their mordants went to the cloth-maker. Soon Jaskier was clothed very finely indeed, and Geralt smiled secretly to see him preen and strut. The bard was beautiful in his joy, and the Witcher finally had eyes to see it.

Geralt didn’t understand why the bard loved him so. He was a mutant with no song, ugly and scarred by his work. But night by night, song by song, he came to know that Jaskier loved him in all of his seasons. Fine moods or foul, injured or hale, he was always at Geralt’s side. And night by night, breath by breath, Geralt came to trust that he loved Jaskier, too.

With the love came longing, a rare heat kindled under his skin. Jaskier’s pheromones took on a new meaning, becoming sweet and potent to Geralt in a way he rarely experienced. He began to wake in the mornings hungry to scent his beloved, his body warm and heavy with a curious delight. 

The bard, long accustomed to quiet wakings with his reserved Witcher, enjoyed the change. Gentle teeth grazed the back of his neck and a warm nose pressed into the soft place behind his ear, tickling as it stirred his hair. Rumbling hums of sleepy pleasure became part of their dawn song as the Witcher explored his scent, nibbling at his neck like a delicacy, hungry for Jaskier but not yet ready for more. 

Jaskier’s hums of enjoyment joined with Geralt’s, patient, lazy, and sweet.  He knew that the big Wolf took lovers only rarely, preferring a quiet moment alone in the forest or a quick sojourn to a brothel to satisfy his momentary hungers. He had accepted long ago that his desire for Geralt might never be returned and cherished these moments for what they were: trust, intimacy, love. The bard purred and sighed in the grey hours before true light, savoring the gift of his Witcher just as he was. Perfect.

The patience was a balm to Geralt, soothing his sorely damaged trust. His body remembered hungry hands and angry words, frustration, spite. Jaskier was calm where others had been hasty, holding space for Geralt to sort out exactly what he wanted. His blue eyes were soft when Geralt struggled, and when he needed to stop, Jaskier never became angry or bitter. Curled in his arms in those moments, Geralt scented him. The bard smelled safe, happy, full of love. 

Over time, the trust and gentleness worked their way into Geralt’s body. They eased something in his soul, leaving him alive to delight in a way he’d rarely experienced. The dawn song blossomed, over time, into exquisite harmonies of skin against skin. Teeth would sink into the bard’s neck just below his hairline, a soft growl stirring the fine hairs, and the bard would shiver with delight. Big hands would pull at his shirt, his braies, and soon their voices would crescendo into bright cries of pleasure. 

Curled around each other in the aftermath, they knew a kind of peace. It was good to share a secret. There was something soft and sweet in the world, and it was theirs and theirs alone. Mingled breaths and tangled bodies became part of the rhythm of their travels, another beautiful thread winding through the song of their lives on the Path.

For a time, things were peaceful. Contracts were paid for more often than not, and patrons turned a favorable ear to Jaskier’s especially vivacious performances. The music of Geralt’s life became kinder than he was used to, softer and sweeter than a Witcher could ever have hoped for. 

Of course, it would all end in silence. 

The Path was a harsh mistress and she always took her price.

Geralt spat out blood, shivering and snarling as he inched his way across the rocks to where his bag had gotten tossed in the fight. The giant scorpion whose sting had grazed him laid dying behind him, spindly legs kicking the air as nerves fired their final impulses. Geralt’s whole body trembled and seized, muscles going rigid as the potent toxin began to eat into them. He tried to cry out in rage and fear, but to his horror, all that escaped was a rattling wheeze. 

As the spasm eased he scrambled the rest of the way to his kit, hands numb and clumsy when he pawed it open. His stomach turned as he heard the sound of broken glass grinding within. The antivenom had been his last insurance should the creatures turn out to be too fast, or too numerous. They had turned out to be both. Now, as his shaking hand withdrew from the bag, he could see that one bottle was mostly intact, its foul liquid leaking from a hairline crack. With the last of his strength, he unstoppered the bottle and downed its contents. Would it be enough to save him? There was no way to tell. 

There was barely enough strength in his throat left to swallow. The antivenom burned in his stomach and leaked hot-and-cold tendrils into his big body as his muscles spasmed and froze. Even if he survived long enough to metabolize the venom paralyzing him, something was bound to scent blood and ichor long before he was able to defend himself. For the first time in as long as Geralt could remember, terror set in. 

Light leached from the stones around him, becoming cool and blue as late afternoon heat turned to early evening chill. Paralysis ate its way inwards, freezing first his limbs, then his core. As the light fell away from the mountainside even his diaphragm and lungs became sluggish and numb. His world narrowed. It had been rich with sound, scent, and vibration, but now that all faded to cold emptiness. Eyes useless, ears useless, everything useless. All he could hear beyond the occasional beat of his heart was the thin wheeze of air in his sluggish lungs. The only thing he could feel was the slow crushing sensation as each breath became harder to draw.

Air. Sound. The wind of life, breathing through all things. Dwindling, dwindling, to silence. 

Silence. 

It had been so many years since he’d walked the outskirts of death alone. Geralt had come to rely on the frantic scramble of Jaskier’s feet, on his kind hands and his knowledge of his potions. He relied on the green and gold light of his music to lead him home, back to the safety of his mortal form, back to his beloved. Geralt’s heart ached as he realized that he might not be able to feel it if Jaskier came, that he might die well and truly alone. 

The cold emptiness pressed around him, closer and closer with each passing minute. It reminded him of being a boy on his first day of the Trials. He remembered shivering inside of a barrel, cramped, the only sound his breath as he pressed his face against the hole in the wood that allowed him air. Water lapped at his ears. To become a Witcher, the first thing he must sacrifice was his song. Like the other boys, he had been dosed with powerful alchemical potions before climbing in. He remembered watching the lid coming down over his head. Then, the sound of footsteps walking away. They wouldn’t return until the singing had well and truly stopped… one way or another. 

The potions caused terrible fears to arise, even as they made his muscles ache and his insides churn. He supposed that the boys who thrashed drowned. The boys who despaired, drowned. The boys who couldn’t stop singing… in the end, they drowned too, too exhausted to hold their heads above the water. 

Even Geralt had cried his sweetest song for long shivering hours, unable to stop himself. But at last, he’d fallen silent.

All that was left was the breath, curling in his ears, puffing in his face, a tiny wind.

If he started singing again, he wouldn’t be able to stop. He’d known he would die.

So he’d held his breath.

Sliding under the water, he’d felt it pressing down on him, crushing him as he’d fought the urge to sing with every ounce of his being. Fear had risen all around him until he’d nearly vanished within it. His chest and throat had fluttered against the water, spasming and gulping as he’d gripped the song between his teeth. He’d held onto it until spots began to dance in front of his eyes, his whole body trembling with agony and fear.

At last, the song had died. He had not. 

The memory of that airless silence reminded him of the awful nothing he heard now, stuttering breath halting for too long, too long-! 

Terror seized his lungs, trying to force him to breathe, and for a moment he couldn’t remember if he was the child in the barrel or the warrior on the mountain. Within his mind he thrashed for air, the song gripped so tightly between his teeth he was sure he could hear them cracking. If he let it go, he’d die. If he kept it, he’d die. Which one was it? 

The lines began to blur until all he could remember was the burning urge to live, to live, stronger now than ever before as his soul melody curled between his gritted teeth. He was the warrior on the mountain and he was no longer alone. Jaskier’s song rose in his mind to greet him, conjuring memories of soft fingers and honey and cloves, sweet music transmuting loneliness to love. If there was one last thing he could do, even here alone on the mountain, it was this: 

He could let his soul song rise into the night air with the last of his breath, a blessing and a celebration of a life shared in love.

Geralt could not feel the fumbling hands on his face as he began to sing, couldn’t feel the bottle being pressed to his lips as the last of his air left him. His song ebbed for a moment as he choked, then rose up as his massive chest heaved a life-giving breath. Freed at last, his soul melody twined up into the cold air with the rising mist leaving his lips.

Unheeded tears dappled Geralt’s shirt and face as he heaved and sputtered unintelligibly. Clever fingers massaged his numbed throat, helping him swallow. Jaskier cursed and prayed and muttered at the gods, easing the antivenom down Geralt’s throat drop by drop. As the bottle emptied the slow movement of Geralt’s chest quickened. The choking, rumbling noise that Geralt had been making unfolded, at last, into whispered music.

Grey and gold, silver and white, the song rang amongst the mountain rocks like it was a part of them. At first, Jaskier couldn’t be sure what he was hearing. Then Geralt gasped in another blessed breath and sang out again, louder and surer this time. The bard could hardly believe his ears. He felt the vibrations in his breastbone, in his lips, felt an upwelling from deep in his soul that he couldn’t have denied even if he’d wanted to. 

Jaskier began to sing. His soul music spilled forth from him with delicate force, rising to meet Geralt’s. There was a shivering quality to the songs as they danced their first steps in the cold night air, rippling the world around them. Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s stiff hands, cradling them and watching with wonder as the notes began to spark and shine with visible light. They danced around him like little stars, drifting from their lips and kissing everything they touched with blazing beauty. He tried to stop and gasp with wonder and discovered that he couldn’t. The song was moving through him like a living thing, like it was singing him and not the other way around. 

The song pouring out of Geralt was strong and quiet, as gentle and full of hidden depths as the man who sang it. Jaskier’s melody wove and danced until it settled, suddenly, into bright harmony with the low rumble of his Witcher’s voice. The air around them was wreathed in coruscating shimmers as the breath of Creation spiraled through them, filling them with an indescribable warmth and peace.

Geralt opened his eyes to see the brilliance above him, forming a nimbus around Jaskier’s tear-streaked face. The bard’s eyes were wide with wonder, and he gripped at Geralt’s hands as if he were afraid he was going to be swept away in the shining tide. Geralt felt his heart stutter in his chest as he took in the sight, utterly overcome by the beauty. . 

Delicious sensation began to spread from his fingertips and toes inward, a glow that was far gentler than the wracking pins and needles he’d been bracing for. His hands thawed, his arms, his legs, until he was finally able to heave himself upright with the help of his stunned bard. Facing one another with awe in their eyes they sang light into the world, into each other, into themselves. Their fingers entwined as unconsciously and perfectly as their melodies had as they looked into one another’s eyes, tiny drifting stars marking every breath. And for the first time, they knew the words to their song as surely as they knew the sound of their own heartbeats. 

Home is a word I’d never known

Paths of stone, 

Hard stone, cold stone

Time unrolling,

All alone, so alone

Travel weary

To the bone, the bone

Where are you, my love?

At my side all along

The longest road is the road home

To you, to you, to you

As the last of the words left their lips, the light faded. The warm wind curling around them vanished softly as a lover’s kiss, leaving a hush in its wake. They fell silent, their lips tingling with the primal magic of their soul melodies. Geralt ran his eyes over his beloved, taking in every detail of him as if for the first time. 

That was how he noticed the words. Jaskier was kneeling over him, shirt unbuttoned even in the cold of the night. Geralt reached out and brushed it open, his eyes widening as the words he’d just sung appeared, one by one, on the skin of Jaskier’s chest. He frantically pulled his shirt the rest of the way open, ripping at it in his haste. Both of them watched in awe as they wound along the wing of Jaskier’s collarbone and down around his arm like a snake around a branch. 

Jaskier goggled for a moment before he realized what had happened… and what it meant. Then he exploded into joyous motion. He began pulling at Geralt’s armor in a flurry of excitement, tugging and prying until he could finally see his lover’s pale chest. 

There, twined in a spiral around Geralt’s heart, was the same song. 

Jaskier started smiling first, but Geralt was the one who beamed like the sun breaking through the clouds. He reached out to his beloved bard, drawing him in for a kiss. It was one of the finest kisses that the Continent had ever paid witness to, the purest, the most passionate. The mountain rocks hummed with the memory of it long after they had picked their way down to the valley, ringing with the sound of their music. 

A Witcher and his bard, together in harmony at last.

Then, they met a sorceress.

Sorceresses don’t sing.

But one Witcher does… 

And so does his bard.

[21stcenturyyfoxx]

Young John at the ruska roma x reader for writing prompts? Thank u ♥️

Characters: Young John Wick x Reader

Setting: Ruska Roma, 1994, Outskirts of Russia, Belarus.

Warnings: Violence, Cursing, Blood.

A/N: IM SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG — or at least I think it took so long lol. I hope this finds you with what your were hoping, babes.

———————————————————

You sat there watching as the instructor dismantled his gun, eyes focused with great precision on the weapon before him.

You, along with the rest of the students, sat there bored, dying for a bit of freedom but everyone knew it would never come. Not in this life.

Your peripheral caught notice of a silent movement, your head casually turning to one side to look at what, or rather whom, had just made a sudden move.

Jardani Jovonovich.

Your breathing became clogged into your windpipe as you shamelessly stared at his form; his face donned a few scrapes from practice earlier in the day. His eyes always told the tale of being haunted, his chestnut orbs could always forfeit his emotions — sometimes. You couldn’t force your eyes away from his figure, how the black t-shirt he wore accentuated his broad shoulders and chest; his jeans only making you break into a soft sweat as the fabric pressed against his thighs.

“Miss Y/N!” The instructor snapped you out of your daze, a blush executed itself across your cheeks as you realized the whole class including Jardani was now staring at you, fully aware that your gaze was glued to the young man; a smirk evident on his face as you looked like a caught animal in a cage — full of fright.

You adjusted your coat, shaking your head and answering the instructors question about which gun had a higher velocity of ammunition to encourage maximum damage. You had answered correctly and to your surprise, Jardani had the look of being impressed written across his face.

———————————————————

Six months later...

You stood ready to strike, your breathing settled as you had managed to find your footing once more after the tumble to the mat; your hands tucked away against your body, rage flashing in your eyes.

A smirk placed on your opponents face, their arms distant ready to strike at any moment.

The class watched with bated breath as the two most prestigious students were locked in a dance of rage and passion.

“Now, Y/N... you know you should forfeit and submit to my power.“ their voice hissed with such confidence it made you nauseas.

You shook your head with a sinister laugh.

“Like I would ever submit to you, Jardani.” You spoke his name like a curse.

Soon the dance continued, you had managed deliver a few punches to his side, you knew his body was slowly crumbling to the effect of the blows.

He grabbed you, hooking your arm behind you while he snaked his free arm, hooking it around your throat in a chokehold; earning gasps from your trachea.

“Give up, Bailarina*, he hissed into your ear as you struggled inside his firm grip.

Your sight became blurry with hints of black orbs dancing around your orbit.

You begrudgingly took your free hand, tapping his arm three times — signaling your withdrawal from the fight.

You crashed to the floor, gasping for air; coughing and wheezing, clearing your throat.

A hand visible in your peripheral, you looked at who it may be attached to; Jardani.

“Let me help you up, bailarina.” He smirked with a greedy look in his eye; power.

You took his hand, staggering upward in his comforting grasp.

“Well...” said the Director. “My best students, you two, are absolutely, uh, how do you say?” She trailed off in her own thoughts, fumbling words through her mind like a rolodex.

“Mesmerizing, Yes, that’s the word!” She nodded with a faint grin, eyes squinted peering at the two of you as the rest of the class fled through the doors for lunch.

“You two have a bright future ahead of you, mark my words.” She said with a nod before turning on her heels and leaving the room.

There you stood, Jardani by your side. If someone would have only took a picture.. maybe for your future self as to reminisce when the hard times were to fall; and they would fall, like torrential rain years later.

———————————————————

Twenty-Five years later

———————————————————

You sat there, knees bobbing up and down; focused on the task at hand.

Your fingers lacing the thread carefully through the persons skin, ever so often you’d have to stop and tell them to quit wincing in pain for it was proving difficult to finish the stitches.

You were the doctor at the Los Angeles branch — The Continental. You had been there for the past fifteen years; the twenty-five years that passed you had left the Ruska Roma and placed yourself as the highest ranking, well, second highest ranking assassin there was for the Underground.

You were only thwarted by Him.

Your eyes looked at the patient before taking the glass of vodka away from him, he muttered a response to you before standing up, handing you two gold coins and heading out the door.

Time passed as you cleaned the mess before you up, blood on the hardwood floors, on the equipment you tossed unceremoniously away in the trash. A rapid knocking had startled you out of your routine; you swiftly opened the door.

“Bailarina.” He said weakly, collapsing in your arms at the threshold.

“Jardani...” you breathed out, shocked but ever determined you gathered him in your arms; blood pooled around him as you draped him in the chair. Your nimble digits quickly finding their way to his shirt, ripping it open sending buttons flying every which where as you looked him over.

A stab wound graced his chest, deep enough to do quite some damage.

Your heart stopped momentarily at the discovery but was quick to jolt awake with adrenaline; your hands worked feverishly, securing the wound as the blood spilled, you clamped it down with a small holder; stopping the flow before you; hands working tirelessly to suture the wound.

“Jardani?” You said after the suturing was complete. He had yet to regain consciousness — you had became almost frantic, feeling for any sign of life.

His mumbles began, his eyebrows knitting together in pain as he began to sit up.

Your palms quickly found the tops of his shoulders.

“No, Jardani, no. Don’t move, you’re not strong enough.” You cooed quietly, your thumb had begun to caress his shoulders softly, absentmindedly.

“Bailarina, I, I owe you.” He said as he placed his hand on top of yours, his free hand snaking into his pants pocket, pulling the silver medallion from it.

You shook your head in protest. But he simply opened it.

“I will not take that from you.”

“I don’t care but it will forever stand, that I, John Wick —” He paused, looking up at you for the first time. His eyes fixed, mingling with yours.

“I, Jardani Jovonovich, owe you my life.“ He declared, pricking his thumb with the small needle provided before pressing his digit to the interior surface of the medallion — the blood marker.

You nodded as he handed it to you, fingers brushing against the others.

“Nobody has called me Bailarina in twenty-five years.“ You chuckled softly, your eyes falling on him, properly taking his appearance into your mind for the first time in the night.

He had changed, not much but ever prevalent — his hair was black but sprinkled with grey; his beard had grown out more also with grey undertones. He remained youthful but it only took one in depth look at him to figure out he was exhausted. A soft grin crept on his lips, the same grin that had caught your gaze years before.

“Y/N, Bailarina, you’re staring again.” He chortled to himself.

Your eyes peeled away, an embarrassed blush radiated across your cheeks.

He took your hand into his, bestowing a tender kiss onto your taunt flesh.

“I never said I didn’t enjoy your stare, Bailarina.” He mused.

———————————————————————

*Bailarina is Ballerina in Spanish.

[banshee-cheekbones]

title: make it to tomorrow [ao3: here]

main pairing: Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall

rating: Hard M

word count: ~2100 words

written for: the ‘robots′ square on my Teen Wolf Rare Character Bingo card and for the 2017 Summer Heat Mini Round over at the ROK LJ community.

summary: After all is said and done and the Breach is closed, Isaac and Scott share a moment in the catwalks above the Shatterdome, away from the victory party below.

(or, the Pacific Rim AU with "I'm so happy that we're alive" hand jobs.)

Mere hours ago, the Shatterdome had echoed with the sounds of an army prepping for war; yelling in half a dozen languages, the screech of metal against metal, the frantic, repetitive thud of booted feet crossing the expanse of the room over and over again. It’d been chaos; organized chaos, albeit, but chaos nonetheless.

Now, the vast space is filled with the sounds of joyous victory.

Isaac isn’t sure who is in charge of the music, but the speakers that are normally reserved for broadcasting announcements and orders are now spilling out pounding electronica tracks, the volume so high that the bass seems to reverberate through every surface he lays his hands upon. Drunken whoops and joyous yells break through the music every so often, along with the sharp crack of a cork exploding from a bottle of champagne.

For being an active military base, there seems to be a lot of the latter lying around.

Isaac’s sure that, if he ventured down from the catwalk, he wouldn’t have to ask for a drink. They’d shove full bottles in his arms, pour it down his throat, probably drench him in it. It’s all too possible that he’d end up on someone’s shoulders, carted around the room like a trophy or idol.

Some of the other pilots would absolutely love that. He’s sure they’re already down there having the time of their lives.

That’s all the more reason for him to stay away.

As far as he can tell, he’s the only one up in the catwalks; all the mechanics and technicians that usually fill them have abandoned their posts, are probably down below soaking in the revelry. Not that Isaac blames them; there’s nothing for them for them to be working on, after all. Every last one of the cavernous Jaeger bays is empty, their normal occupants either abandoned in the bay or ripped to pieces or blown to bits in another dimension.

Hopefully, they'll never be occupied again.

He has to believe they’ll never be occupied again, that what happened today is a permanent fix, because otherwise everything they did, all the people they lost-

(and that is not a line of thought he wants to pursue right now, because while he’s only been at the Shatterdome for two weeks, barely enough time to get to know anyone, he knows that they were good people, people with lives and hopes and dreams for after the apocalypse was thwarted, people who deserved to live)

-was for nothing.

Abruptly, the sound of nearby footsteps thudding against metal breaks through the music, and he pulls his gaze away from the deep shadows of the bay that previously held Alpha Wolf, which is now entombed in the murky waters of the ocean. Most of the overhead lights have been switched off, so it’s a few moments before Isaac can actually make out the figure of someone coming towards him. He gets ready to defend his absence from the party below, starts combing through excuses in search of one that won’t just lead to more invasive questions that he doesn’t feel up to answering.

Thankfully, before he actually has to decide on an excuse, he recognizes the figure, and he relaxes back against the sturdy railing.

“I figured you were up here,” Scott says, smiling as he leans up beside Isaac. There are three stitches holding together his eyebrow, and butterfly bandages dot his forehead and cheeks. Two of the fingers on his left hand are bound together in a splint, and dark bruises march up and down both arms, extending from his wrists to where the sleeve of his tee bisects his bicep.

All things considered, the fact that he’s in one piece, that they’re both in one piece, is something of a minor miracle.

“How was the party?” Isaac asks, sliding down to rest on the ground with his legs stretched out and his back pressed against the railing. His ankle bone is bruised, and although the painkillers that were thrust upon him in the medical bay are top-grade, it’s probably best to get off it sooner rather than later.

“Skipped over most of it, actually,” Scott says, sinking down beside him, a wince momentarily passing over his face. “Last I saw, they were hoisting Jackson around on their shoulders.”

“I’m sure he’s absolutely loving that,” Isaac mutters.

“He probably won’t even remember it tomorrow, if he keeps drinking like he was.”

It’s the last either of them say for what feels like hours. Isaac isn’t sure when Scott’s head drops down onto his shoulder, but he follows suit by carefully lowering his own head down so that he doesn’t end up resting his ear on any of Scott’s battle scars. Their hands end up entangled together shortly after, and Isaac finds himself entranced by the way their fingers slot together, like they were solely designed for that purpose.

“It’s so quiet,” Scott eventually murmurs, the words washing over where Isaac’s collarbone branches away from the collar of his t-shirt. The Shatterdome is still echoing with noise; if anything, the music and yelling has only increased in volume, but Isaac knows what Scott means.

Without the drift connecting them, without Scott sharing every single inch and hidden corner of his brain, his own mind seems painfully quiet and empty.

“It is.” If he concentrates hard, closes his eyes and does his best to block out the sounds of revelry filling every inch of space, he can still feel something connecting his mind to Scott’s. Something thin and tenuous, like a loose thread gently unraveling from a well-worn sweater.

He wonders how long they have before that thread reaches its end and tears away for good.

He wonders what that will change between them. If that will change anything.

He hopes with everything he has that it doesn’t. Scott’s the first person in years that he’s been able to depend on, and even though they’ve known each other for all of two weeks, he’s not sure if he knows how to go back to being on his own again.

Even if he was interrogated, he wouldn’t be able to definitively answer which of them leans in first; what he knows, and what matters most, is that their mouths meet and immediately meld together like they’ve been doing so for years.

They don’t stay leaning against the railing for long; Scott slowly slumps over, until he’s stretched out on his back, and Isaac is obliged to follow him. Thankfully, the catwalk is more than wide enough to safely accommodate them so, once they’ve moved safely away from the edge, they pick up right where they left off. The only difference is that, this time, Isaac is slotted between Scott’s legs, and Scott’s right hand is fisted tightly in his hair, tugging slightly whenever Isaac shifts.

He was starting to think that his hair was getting too long, but he’s definitely reconsidering that notion.

The rough metal of the catwalk scrapes against his knees, even through the thick fabric of his pants, and he can’t imagine that it feels comfortable against Scott’s undoubtedly bruised back. But when he pulls away for a moment, before he can even part his lips to ask, Scott shakes his head fiercely.

“I don’t want to move,” he says, tightening his fingers in Isaac’s hair. “I’m fine. Kiss me.”

That’s all the assurance Isaac needs to dive back in.

Part of him thinks that they should be talking about this, trying to work through things before they step over a line that they can’t come back from, but that part only remains in the forefront of his mind for a few moments. The last few weeks have been an absolute exercise in control, in keeping himself carefully between the lines, so that he didn’t jeopardize the mission. The drift was no better, because for every errant thought that slipped through, every memory of his father or every half-thought out musing about what Scott would sound like choking back a moan, there were dozens, hundreds more that he had to keep hidden away.

He’s tired of holding himself back.

The others down below are celebrating their victory with rivers of booze.

Isaac is going to celebrate by letting himself go.

His own various aches and pains let themselves be known across his body as he rolls his hips down against Scott’s, but he does his best to ignore the urge to pull away when Scott’s fingers press into a bruise or trail over a line of fresh stitches. When he braces his forehead against Scott’s to take a breath, the butterfly bandages holding Scott together scrape against his skin, and he silently apologizes for any pain he’s causing before he dives back in.

By the time Scott’s fingers yank open his button and zipper, Isaac already feels like he’s walking along the edge, whether it’s from the adrenaline that has yet to totally wane from his system or from the sheer fact that he’s alive, they’re both alive, still living and breathing and able to touch each other.

“I hope you aren’t expecting me to last,” he laughs against Scott’s swollen mouth, words trailing into a gasp as Scott’s fingers slide past the elastic of his boxers.

“I was going to say the same thing,” Scott grins, arching his hips into the line of Isaac’s thigh. “There’s always later for that.”

Later.

Hearing that word pass from Scott’s lips officially shuts down the last remnants of concern in Isaac’s mind.

When Scott’s fingers wrap around Isaac’s cock, Isaac’s breath catches in his throat. He wants to return the favor, but for a few moments, all he can focus on is the feeling of Scott’s calloused palm, the slick slide of his thumb slipping across the head of him. It’s just on the right side of overwhelming, and he thrusts his hips into the loose circle of Scott’s fist, bites back a groan as his mind finally sparks back to life. He sits back slightly, putting more weight onto his knees, so that he can better access the zipper of Scott’s pants. His fingers, normally so sure of themselves, fumble and skitter, until he finally manages to get the button open with a frustrated growl.

“Take your time,” Scott says quietly, resting his free hand on Isaac’s face. The metal of his splint is warm against Isaac’s cheekbone and he twists to press his lips to it, another silent apology.

The real thing can wait until later.

He gets Scott’s zipper down with more ease, yanks his pants down his hips until he can get his hand inside. It’s far from a great angle; warning twinges of pain shoot through his wrist, but he ignores them.

What’s a little more pain, after all?

In the end, he doesn’t have to worry about finding a way to work through a wrist cramp; before the warnings can turn into the real thing, Scott spurts onto Isaac’s fingers with a sudden gasp. His head drops back against the catwalk with an alarmingly loud thud that seems to echo. The grip of his fingers around Isaac’s cock grows tighter, and he twists his wrist in a unfamiliar way that makes fireworks go off behind Isaac’s eyes.

He comes with his teeth pressed into Scott’s bottom lip and the taste of blood in his mouth.

Who the blood belongs to, he couldn’t say.

Once he’s gotten his breath back, he wipes his hand off on the thigh of his pants and carefully lowers himself to the ground at Scott’s side, wincing as every ache and pain that he’s been ignoring makes itself known with a vengeance, painkillers be damned. Scott wipes his own hand off on the hem of his shirt before carefully tucking himself back into his pants. There’s a fine sheen of sweat covering his face, and when he rolls his head to face Isaac, so close that their noses brush together, a smile more radiant than the nuclear heart of a Jaeger splits his mouth.

“We’re here,” he says. One of the bandages dotting his forehead is slowly turning red, the skin underneath freshly split open. “We’re here.”

Now that the adrenaline has started to melt away, replaced by pain and rational thought, Isaac is ready to admit that, at some point, they’ll have to talk further. They can’t just ignore what happened today, all of it; they need to mourn for the people they lost, find their place in a world no longer on the edge of disaster, figure out how they fit together without the drift to tie them together.

But all of that can wait for tomorrow.

“Yeah,” Isaac says, dropping one hand to Scott’s chest, right above his pounding, beautifully strong heart. “We’re here.”

He leaves the I’m not going anywhere unspoken, but he trusts that somehow, Scott hears it all the same.