#i think for my bard it would just simply be The Silent Bard

[coldbycrossfade]

question that i dont know if it's been asked yet and id love to hear abt this from everyone:

if your tav was a companion, what would their personal quest (and possibly, subquest) be called?

[the-fandom-is-now-my-life]

Hey >:) Just a thought I had while reading the child creator AU.

What if the child was actually on of the archons? like, would you imagine it being Zhongli or Venti? They be like:

Zhongli: I demand to know who the father is! *looking threadedly while holding his spear, ready to pounce at someone* Creator: *sweating and thought* It's you bu. *The other Archons arguing as to which mortal it was that laid their hands on their creator*

Creator: *looks at them, then looking at Venti* *Venti, catching the creators gaze, winked and took his tonged out, fully knowing he was the father but keeping quite. He wasn't that dumb.*

Anyway that's enough of me, bye!

Archon's son

WC : 1k, venti: 591 zhongli:594

(somehow they ended somewhat close! I thought zhongli would be longer by a fair bit)

Cw:

venti- nahida can see the baby kicking inside the belly (I heard some people feel it's like body horror so just in case)

Zhongli -reader passed out because of low iron, pica/eating rocks

I will admit that this is mostly centered around the idea that they do know that it's theirs or it's likely to but at the beginning there is something along the line of that, anyway, wouldn't it be fun if venti's child could change some features, one day he looks like you and the next he is his dad's clone

“Why is everyone so silent?” Venti fills his glass with some wine, the atmosphere thick enough to cut. You were hosting dinner in your serenitea pot, something informal and a thinly veiled excuse to strengthen links between nations, and somehow the papers written by your physician were next to the door long enough for both zhongli and the tsaritsa to read.

“Their situation implies that they shared bed with a mortal” the tsaritsa crosses her arms above her chest, the way her lips curved and the roll of her eyes show her distaste for the situation.

“If their grace wanted to be accompanied by a man shouldn't that be their choice?” Venti says out loud while feigning innocence “who are we even to judge that?”

“Surprisingly enough Barbatos does have a point, to react like this is to some extent patronizing” Nahida nods along.

“tsk!”

“They seem pleased enough with the current situation so I find no reason to meddle” Raiden speaks for the first time since being seated. As much as the tsaritsa would have liked to snap back at her, you appear from the hallway oblivious to their fight so she chooses to bite her tongue and hope you bring it up later.

“Aren't they fidgety…” Nahida mumbles softly as you pat her hair, the soft white hair mixing with her green streaks. Her head is resting on your lap as you drink tea, bright green eyes focused on the prodding against your skin, some kicks and punches from the inside.

“Mhm, I can feel it in my ribs”

“just one month more, your grace!”

“Never thought a child could be so similar to only one of their parents” Raiden watches the baby from his crib, a small wood cot that Candace sent as a gift from Aaru village.

“Well, to a certain extent I expected that” venti WAS originally a formless air spirit mimicking his friend's form, at first you didn't even think he would be able to reproduce, but here we are and hubris is your biggest sin.

“♪~~♪~” spirit form venti sneaked inside the nursery by the slightly cracked space between the window and the window frame, barely smaller than your pinky finger but just enough for him to slip inside.

A good thing of simply being a bard in his nation was the freedom he enjoys, he is known for his songs and how good they are so it isn't strange when you have him around your house or in your serenitea pot, the pretext that you enjoy music under the shadow of your garden and that your little clone gets lulled to sleep quickly by his soft tunes. Even then it would be strange for him to be around so often so sometimes he just settles for mixing between his son's plushies and watching him play around for a while, after all it isn't like he has anything better to do.

“!!” Swiftly he gets caught by his son's hand and thrown up and down like a doll. This wasn't as smart as he thought.

“Hello, baby” Venti babytalks the the 1 year old seated on the floor playing with stacking blocks when he sees him he smiles. As much as Venti loved the image he couldn't help but be slightly scared as when he opened his eyes they were now his exact same colour.

“Oh, sh-” next blink his eyes were your color, the sane he was born with “how about we make this our little secret we never talk about ever again?”

“Their condition isn't as dire as you are making it seem it's just-” Zhongli tries to calm down Raiden, who visited Liyue under the pretext of cultural exchange.

“It isn't dire? They almost passed out during a leisurely stroll”

“At most they might have gotten low blood pressure”

Baizhu lets your arm go to hush them a bit “they aren't sick, just pregnant and not eating enough iron. May I continue the check-up or do you wish to wait outside?”

“as I insisted, Raiden, their grace isn't ill, they are just pregnant, which falls under no criteria of sickness”

“I meant to tell this to everyone next month but I guess Raiden gets to be the second to know!”

“For one to be impertinent enough to dare bed their grace” Raiden snarls under her teacup, a frown on her lips.

“I must guess their couple must be Ill mannered and uncivil” the tsaritsa follows her idea, the rest of the archon were asked to visit Liyue sooner than arranged to receive an important and very unexpected news, even if they didn't wish to show you directly their discontent between them it was fair enough.

“Don't you seem too calm, Morax?”

“Not at all, I'm burning with hatred” he crosses his legs but makes the point of hitting his knee against the table “I'm so angry I can't even control my moves”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“i will be prescribing you with a herbal tea to ease the birth process, when you come out Qiqi should have them neatly portioned in the daily brew” Baizhu turns around to give Qiqi the list of flowers and roots and how much of each to put in little silk satchel. As he turns around to follow the examination he sees you close to the flowerpot on the desk and your cheek lightly swollen. A deep sigh leaves hus disappointed face, simply pointing to the pot “please, spit” and you do so, a rock falling back to the dirt. Even then Baizhu still looks disappointed.

“Didn't you tell me to eat more iron?”

“Not from dirt, my grace…”

“Then is iron ore fair game?”

“No… just simply no”

“He is a chunky baby” furina prods at your son's chubby cheek, before the time of delivery the doctors told you to expect twins but unexpectedly enough he was just a big baby around 4kg or 8.8lbs and he keeps growing as times goes.

“As heavy as a bag of stones!”

Lei headbutts your leg, his small hands scratching his scalp “please don't tell me you got lice, I told you to be careful” you settle your cup down on the table as you excuse yourself with cloud retainer, who visited to give you advice at childrearing.

“But I wasn't close to anyone with lice” quickly, your hands start segmenting his scalp looking for lice or eggs but there was nothing behind his ears or on his nape, but when you go higher towards his forehead you find two protrusions that made Lei push your hand away when touched.

“Ah? That does remind me back when Morax ripped his horn off during a fight, tte skin closed and we were so worried it wouldn't grown back, luckily a few months after a new one punctured the skin, even if he was so cranky like a child that season”

“And here I thought because he wasn't born with them he wouldn't get them”

“To suppress such minimal features shouldn't be too much work, even if this one thinks the child would prefer not to”

[pinksugarscrub]

Congrats on your one year! ❤️ may I order a tiramisu with Hobie and bounty hunter!R arguing about how they do their vigilante work until R accidentally reveals why she takes paid jobs (provide for family/ relative by anonymously sending them money out of guilt for making their family think they’re dead)?

You can change up the prompt to best suit your writing imagination 😚🥹

@hyperfix-wip

Crossroads

Bard! Hobie x Bounty Hunter! fem! reader

I had a lot of fun with this as you can see. There are very mature themes including blood, violence, and implied assault. Please read at your own discretion. I tried my best to keep it vague.

Word count: 3,070

~

What does a bounty hunter and a bard have in common? Absolutely nothing. Why pose such a question you may ask? It’s because you’ve had the unfortunate privilege of learning this answer.

How much longer you’ll have to endure endless rambling you do not know. What you do know is you would gladly kill this man for free.

It started over four weeks ago. Enough time to witness all of the phases of the moon.

A measly drink, a moment of peace was all you wanted when the bard came crashing into the stool beside you.

Now, normally this would not have provoked you to action but after having a very high ranking target stolen from right under you. It’s safe to say you needed to blow off some steam.

You paid the barkeep for all of the damages and stepped over the groaning drunkards on your way out. Who had started and likely would have continued an all out bar fight with every patron.

Either way you were ready to retire when the bard came stumbling out. Hair braided into several and tied back by a leather band. You can recall just how irritating the conversation was then.

No matter how much you tried to deny his praises, he assumed you a hero. Trying to invoke a life debt that was quite common to pirates. You were not interested.

He stayed anyway.

You figured after a time he would come to his senses and eventually sneak off when he thought you weren’t looking. Violence did that to people. It pushed them away.

His name was Hobart Brown but he insisted on being called Hobie. He dubbed you Lily after spotting a field of lily of the valley and also because you would not provide him with your name. ‘Pretty but deadly’ he said.

He wanted to travel by the Great Sea and find adventure. You almost felt sorry for the poor sod and he must have noticed because he reassured you that being in your debt did not create a dent on his plans.

You could tell he was fascinated with you. You knew that would be short lived as you cocked your pistol and killed a man you recognized from a town bulletin board. He was worth five hundred gold.

Hobie was off put. Expression wary and heavy as he asked you that night by the campfire who you were. You simply responded 'bounty hunter' and continued stoking the fire.

When you awoke he was still there. Saddling the horses and murmuring that the next town over would be less than a day’s travel.

You did not show your surprise as you slid out of your bed roll and prepared to depart. You felt uneasy the entire trip there. It was silent between the two of you even after you passed the town’s gate.

You’re unsure of why but perhaps it’s because his company has lifted a weight off of your shoulders that you stop him by the shoulder and check into an inn. Spending more coin than you would on yourself for a more than decent room and food that you ask to be sent to his just across the hall. A proper place to rest instead of dirt clearings and forest floors.

When you sit in the first warm bath you’ve had in months it dawns on you what you’ve done. You can’t afford any setbacks. He needs to go.

You cannot handle this kind of guilt in your heart that will inevitably follow you when you have to complete a bounty so you’ll leave first thing in the morning.

-

A quiet knock at your door stops you. Midcount of the gold and copper pieces in your pouch. They all clink together as you let them slid back into the leather bag.

“Yes?”

Hobie’s face immediately brightens when he catches your eye. A grin you've grown accustomed to. A stark contrast to the relaxed line of your lips.

“Good evening darling. Would you like to accompany me to the nearest tavern? I would say I owe you a drink.”

You give him a pointed look.

“Come on!” He laughs. Resting against the doorframe of your large room. “I know you are just as bored out of your mind as me. We can come right back if you’re still not up to it after one drink.”

Is it the way he smiles at you that gets you or the small quirk of his brow? The challenge. You have to wonder if the man is secretly a siren. It would match with his profession of choice.

“Fine, meet me downstairs in ten minutes.”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen a man sprint to his room like his life depended on it.

The nicest thing you owned was a flowy white dress that hung onto your shoulders and went just above your knees. The holster of your gun still fits snugly around your waist along with the pouch of coin you have since emptied to seem less heavy.

It isn’t particularly cold so you don’t take your signature coat with you. In a flourish you’re out the door and waiting with the fae handing out room keys and pretty smiles.

Not a minute later you catch the sound of the steps creaking and you swiftly move around. “Took you long enough. I was beginning to-” You caught yourself before you could finish that sentence but it didn’t seem like he caught on to your blunder.

He was looking at you with a slight part of his lips. It made your hair stand on end.

Hobie could now clearly see your figure. He could see more skin than you had previously shown in the last thirty two days. Heavens did you look beautiful.

He promptly cleared his throat and gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

He let out a sigh of relief as soon as your attention was off of him.

Kill him, kill him now.

-

The walk to the tavern was short. The loud bumbling and bustling patrons spilling out the windows meant to look like painting archways. Sets of tables outside of the tavern as well which was new but not all that surprising. The population was bigger here compared to the last town.

Hobie stumbles and almost falls flat on his face as a boisterous woman steps into his path. You’re quick to catch him. Pulling him to your side with a firm grip around his waist. The woman apologies but it's obvious by the ale on her breath that she does not really mean it.

You look up to check on your companion only to find him already staring at you. With the same distant look he gave you at the inn.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he answers. Raking his eyes over your face before smiling. “Let’s go in.”

You roll your eyes at his obvious lie. Ignoring how it bothers you that you want to know what he is thinking.

A set of two glasses is set before you. Filled to the brim with froth coating the top of the glass. Apple cider. The town specialty given by the apple orchards the two of you passed on the way in.

You’re ready to slide your pouch off of your belt when a hand stops you.

“I’ll get it.” Hobie grins—fairy feathers doesn’t that hurt his face?—and hands a handsome amount of coin into the barmaid’s hand.

She’s ecstatic to which Hobie responds with a wink. It causes a pit to form in your stomach and you find yourself reaching for your mug to find something else to do with your mouth than scowl.

“Eager are we?” Hobie teases. Reaching for his own glass and taking a drink. He moans as soon as the liquid hits his tongue. “This must be made of liquid gold.”

You have to agree as your shoulders relax. The crisp taste is so satisfying you’re tempted to take bigger gulps.

Hobie smiles as he admires you behind his glass. He has to stop himself from reaching out and wiping away the froth from your lip. Thank the stars you are too distracted to notice.

“So,” Hobie hums,“was I right in taking you out of your room?”

He avoids using the word cage like he had planned to because he does take into account how luxurious the space they were staying in was. It wouldn’t be very proper of him to degrade the money she spent. Even as a joke.

You only nodded as you took the time to scan your surroundings. Everyone was having a good time. Glossy eyes and rosy cheeks were proof of that but you could never be too careful.

Hobie frowns but doesn’t say a word. Just shifts in his chair and tries to find something clever to say.

“How is your knee?” You ask above the cheers and laughter. “The foal took a pretty nasty hit to you.”

Hobie laughs. He looks pleased at the way you initiate conversation. It feels as though he is always the one talking.

“Oh, that. I’m fine. Was my fault for getting in her space anyway.”

Your lips break into a smile at that. “You should consider yourself lucky that it was her and not the mare.”

Hobie shivers at the thought. Bigger horse shoe, bigger hit. Yeah, that would not have gone well.

“I’m normally very good with animals, you can’t blame me,” he pouts.

That peaks your curiosity and yet again, he is perceptive enough to see this.

“I was born on a farm.” He grins again as he explains. “With more than a dozen cattle and sheep. We didn’t have horses though.”

Well, you might as well humor him.

“So your family owned land in the Northern region. That’s pretty far from where I found you.”

Hobie would fist pump the air if he could. Hook, line, and sinker. “Yeah?” He leans forward. “You know where that is?”

You nod, taking another sip of your cider and sighing. “I’ve never traveled up there. Aren’t many jobs and I haven’t found the need to explore.”

Hobie stiffens and glances at the holster holding your gun. “Right.” He licks his lips. His voice wasn’t as steady as he would have liked. “And you? Where do you come from? Because I’m certain it wasn’t from daisies.”

A chuckle leaves your lips that sounds more like a huff. “You do not know that. Haven’t you heard of the legends?”

“Ah, yes,” he pauses. Relaxing again as he slouches in his chair. “You truly want me to believe you came from stardust and laughter?”

“It’s startdust and happiness actually,” you correct. Smiling as you feel the bubbles of cider in your belly.

“Happiness,” he nods. Clicking his tongue as he grins. “Forgive me.”

You again, roll your eyes at his playfulness. Clinking your glass with your finger as you look off to the side. He still wants an answer, you know it.

You perk up as you notice a crowd gathering around a table. The perfect distraction. With a smile you reach for his hand and pull him with you. It doesn’t matter if your heart jumps into your throat at how warm his palms feel against your own. It was a necessary course of action. To protect yourself of course.

<

Commercial break - You’re almost 2,000 words in, take a break. If a project, work, or homework is staring you in the face, go finish it and come back. The story will still be here 💕

>

You’re laughing. Actually laughing as you leave the tavern with your head on his shoulder.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Hobie exhales. Disbelief still etched in his features as he kept his grin. “Where did you- how did you-”

“Family secret!” You snicker. A bit lightheaded from all of the alcohol you had just consumed. Ten times lighter but ten times heavier in coin after winning the bet.

“Oh so now you’re not even going to share that with me?” He guwaffs. Also a bit buzzed but definitely sober enough for the two of you.

“Fine fine,” you grumble. Squinting your eyes and scrunching your nose. “The secret is- my secret is-” A hiccup interrupts you but so does a cry of pain. You immediately sober up as your eyes dart toward a darker pathway of the town.

Hobie calls after you and soon he’s hot on your heels as you race to your destination.

Pain was something you were familiar with. You dealt with it every day. Whether you were inflicting it or someone was inflicting it upon you. You recognized it. It was what you lived for now.

A sort of numbness followed. It was a comfortable routine. Find the target, pull the trigger, find the next. But right now there was a panic and fear you hadn’t felt in years. Not since this entire ordeal first began.

You don’t think. It’s muscle memory at this point as you toss a man flat on his back. Cobblestone digging into his shoulders.

You can faintly hear the cry of the woman he was previously above. Hobie’s soft voice rushing to comfort the woman. That causes some of the fear to dissipate but not all of it.

It’s fist after fist and the blunt end of your pistol as you scramble to get some footing. Something to put you on top.

With a harsh shove to the path the man’s face comes to light. You recognize it in your haze. The sketch of his picture. The number under his name. You could do that, you could fix this issue no problem.

The cock of your gun snaps Hobie out of his frenzy. Eyes wide as he quickly rushes the girl to get out before she witnesses something to add more to her trauma.

The gurgle of the man’s throat is the next thing he hears as you hold him down with the heel of your boot.

“No, no, no-” he calls out. Grabbing you by the waist and tugging back so hard you both fall. The first shot rings out and hits one of the lanterns lighting the pathway.

“This isn’t the way to do this love!” He begs, pleas with you.

You struggle in his grip as the man in front of you finally manages to catch his bearings. Wobbling onto his knees as tears sting in your own eyes.

The second shot narrowly misses his boot. Hitting a stone before rolling away into the dirt.

The third you take as Hobie grips your arm. Opposite hand gripping tightly over your wrist as you close one eye and aim. It’s like clock work. As simple and easy as breathing.

The shell clatters to the ground and so does his body. The sight makes you nauseous.

Hobie finally manages to wrap his hand around your gun and toss it away. He doesn’t know where. His heart is beating too fast to understand.

For a moment you both sit there with heavy breath. Staring at the dead man that will owe you eight hundred gold pieces once you turn his body over along with his wanted poster.

“Love…” Hobie’s voice sounds so utterly broken that it brings you back to reality.

You reach up as you feel how sticky with tears your cheeks have become. When did you start crying?

“Love,” he repeats. More strength in his voice when he turns you around to face him. “Why would you do that?”

Why? Your brows furrow in anger. Hurt. Why? He’s asking you why?

This isn’t the way to do this

“You- do you even understand what you’ve done?” He shakes his head. He himself is shaking. “Do you just shoot everything that gets in your way? That brings you coin?”

He sounds so accusing. Like you are the one that has done something wrong. You look back to the man. Pooled in his own blood.

“Is that what you think?” You finally manage to say. Fingers curling into your soiled white dress. “That I do this for the satisfaction of money?”

You find the strength to push away and stand on your own two feet because that is what you have always done.

You turn to look down at the man before you. The man you were beginning to trust. The one you were willing to give your heart to if only in your dreams because you had no one else. Because at least someone would know you existed in this life. Laughed, cried, loved.

“I don’t do this because I enjoy putting a bullet between someone’s skull!”

Hobie cowers as you step closer and that only makes your heart ache more. Placing your finger fight at the base of his skull with your hand in the universally understood gesture of a gun.

“I do it for this!” You grip onto the pouch on your side. Tugging on it so the coins scatter like locusts. “All of this because that’s all I’m good for! That’s all I can provide for my family!”

Your chest hurts as you smack your hand against it. How many times have you placed a bullet there too? Counting the man on the ground, plenty.

“I don’t want to do this,” you choke. Throat feeling tight like there was a hand squeezing at its base.

You regret letting your guard down. Drinking like you didn’t have a care in the world when in fact, you did.

“I don’t want to do this.”

You sob as you fall to your knees and Hobie can’t stop himself from reaching for you and pulling you into his chest as you cry.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whisper. The cider pushing forward the thoughts you held back in the deepest part of your mind.

‘How shameful’ he would say when you returned. ‘Your family shouldn’t need you after all’. Then he would shoot you dead in his office much like you did countless times before tonight.

Hobie held you so tight someone might wonder if you could breath. His own tears rolling down his cheeks as he hides the mark he’s found on your neck. A number with the symbol of the king.

Hobie regrets his poor choice of words but shit can you blame him? He cries into your neck as he vows to repay his debt to you.

A life, for a life.

[sh1-n0bu]

✿ 𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞 ✿

@junerixi asked: This is just angst.. Maybe comfort but you decide.

You know how Venti took the form of his friend? Well what if he thinks the reader likes him just for his looks? I've been thinking about it for quite a while..

My brain stopped there, I can't think of any other words to describe it without me getting second hand embarrassment..

characters: venti x gn!reader

warnings: fluff, reverse comfort, body dysmorphia, existential crisis, venti having doubts😢

notes: sorry i took so long to respond junie😔 but here it is, a venti fic for the number 1 venti simp. also i’m finally clearing my inbox so keep the requests coming y’all😤💪

beautiful melody and soft singing can be heard whenever you enter your home shared with your loving bard of a boyfriend. however today the home you’ve shared together was eerily silent. no humming, no snoring, no stringing of the lyre. just complete hollow silence.

“hummingbird? darling, are you home?” shrugging off your outer layers and walking to your shared bedroom, a faint sniffing can be heard from the cracks of the door. it was so silent and miserable as if the person crying inside was trying to hide away from the whole world.

stepping inside your shared bedroom, you saw a small ball, curled up under the covers, shaking and twitching violently. cooing soft reassurances under your breath, you moved to hug his curled up body, laying behind him and pulling him close.

whispering soft praises, understanding words and humming a song that the bard made only for the two of you, you gently kissed where you think his forehead would be.

after some time of just simple laying there, humming a song, your lovely bard peeked out from under the covers. his puffy red eyes and pouty lips staring up at you.

“d-do you love me sniff as for who i am, [name]?” shattering the poor fragile heart of yours with that question, venti only managed to whisper his doubt out loud.

it was no good. he will always be a thief, a liar, a fake, a disappointment. he will never be venti. he will always be the tiny, helpless elemental being who watched as his only friend got shot through his heart. he will always be the empty husk of a being which never had a body to call his own. he will never be venti. just the simple, pathetic, weak, nameless, hopeless elemental-

as if sensing his swirling mush of dark thoughts, your warm hands wrapped around him tightly. pulling his head to lay over your chest, feeling the warmth of your skin, hearing the heart beat in your chest, feeling the life you breathe.

and the dam that was putting his facade of a happy-go-lucky bard broke when you simply whispered his name with love pouring from your soul. clinging to your clothes tightly, wailing and sobbing out loudly like a child. begging for you to never leave him, never let go of him, never stop calling him by his name. only then did the bard understood. how could he not when the truth was out in the open, bare and naked all along?

yes, he is venti. your venti. and he will always be your beloved bard, venti.

[thelurkershideout]

summerfest day 3!

ghost or hungry

Notes: I don't think this one needs warnings. This one was full of experiments for me I hope it works. I love these characters so much but I struggle to write them. Hope you like angst!

Brynjolf let out a deep sigh as he stepped from the silent Cistern into the rabble of the Flagon. It had been a while since he'd seen it this busy. Seemed like everyone in the Guild's fortunes were turning. Even if Mercer refused to see it.

He settled at the bar, sitting sideways to watch the card game at one of the nearby tables. It was good to see everyone enjoying these brighter days.

“I hear you're a Bard.” Thrynn’s voice cut through the noise, drawing his attention to the small table at the far end of the wooden platform that made up the majority of the tavern. Thrynn leaned across it, the tankard in his hand titled precariously as he tried to get Fjora to meet his eyes. She sat curled up on the chair, her knees serving as a support for the notebook she was writing in. She didn't look up.

“I was.”

“Never had a Bard in the Flagon.” His voice raised slightly. “Know any good drinking songs?”

“Not my specialty, and you seem to be doing just fine without one.”

Thrynn let out an obnoxiously loud and exaggerated laugh.

“Come on new blood! Give us a song!” He looked to the nearby tables for anyone to support his call for entertainment. Aside from Brynjolf, few seemed to notice.

“I don't perform for free.” Fjora’s writing stopped, “not that you could afford it anyway.”

“Are you that good?”

“The Jarl of Solitude wanted me to play at all her Palace events.”

“Oh, well look at fancy little –”

“Fjora!” Tonilia emerged from a back room holding what appeared to be some kind of bundle of cloth.

“I need your expertise.” She said, pushing past the busy tables towards them. Brynjolf, stifled a laugh in his drink as she nearly smacked her mysterious bundle against Viper's head.

“My expertise? You must be desperate,” Fjora looked up as Tonilia jostled Thrynn away from the table to place the parcel down. She quickly undid the twine holding it together, and began unwrapping it.

“Some meathead brought this to me last night,” the shine of green lacquer caught the candlelight. “He claimed it was one of a kind”

A beautiful green and gold lute sat on the table between the two women.

“How much did you pay for this?” Fjora stood, her gray eyes wide.

“How much is it worth?”

Fjora lifted the lute from the table. Turning it over in her hands she examined every inch of it. Running her hands along the neck. Gently strumming and tuning the strings. Thoroughly inspecting the decorative carvings. Her careful ministrations had begun to attract the attention of her fellow thieves.

“Well?” 

“First of all, every lute is one of a kind. Even two lutes made to be as identical as possible have differences, simply by virtue of being hand made.” She turned the lute over in her hands again.

“This one was made in Cyrodiil, it's a fairly common style.”

“So it's not worth the 600 gold I paid?”

“The paint color is a bit unusual. It doesn't seem to have ever been played. Pitty, the resonance of the wood is ex–”

“I don't care about the damn things life story, I want to know how much it's worth!”

“The most basic lute you could ever buy is typically 500 gold.” She ran her fingers across the swirls of golden vines. “The College operates on a system where you use the money you earn during your student performances to pay to keep the one provided to you.”

Brynjolf could see the frustration and irritation building in Tonilia’s eyes.

“This lute was probably intended to be a display piece, but would only fool someone who didn't know what they were looking at. It's a simple style dressed up with pretty paint. Its original buyer probably spent around 1000 on it, if the maker knew how to sell.”

Tonilia let out a sigh of relief, and sank into one of the chairs at the table.

“So I didn't waste my money.”

“I'll give you 700 for it right now.” Her eyes stayed fixed on the lute.

“What!? You just said it was worth 1000!”

“I said the original buyer might have spent 1000. The instrument itself probably would have sold for 600 with a more simple paint job, and you won't find anyone willing to pay full price for a preowned instrument.” She smiled at Tonilia. “I would be doing you a favor.”

It seemed like the entire Flagon had become invested in this exchange.

“900.”

“750.” 

“850.”

“800, final offer.”

“Deal.”

The Flagon rumbled back to life as the two women exchanged coin, and continued to talk over drinks. Paid for by Tonilia, Brynjolf noted. The lute never left Fjora's hands. She continued turning it over, and fiddling with the strings as the evening went on. Slowly, people started to stumble off to bed. 

The first few notes sounded like rain. Brynjolf was drawn back to Fjora, sitting alone. He watched as her fingers seemed to dance along the strings. A strange familiar sadness eased into him, like it was sinking into a comfortable chair. 

I've heard some of the locals call her ‘the gray child.’ The voice of a dead man whispered from the depths of his memories. She clings to the corners of rooms. The Flagon seemed so empty. She won't talk to us, maybe she'll talk to you. The song's swell felt like it was going to rip his heart from his chest. I want to know what she knows.

A little girl with wide gray eyes; sitting alone, under the docks. That's your first job.

The song ended. The Flagon stayed silent. Brynjolf finished his drink.

“I thought you didn't perform for free?” Thrynn plopped himself down across from her. Fjora stood, gathering up her notebook and lute. Had her cheeks been red the whole time? Was it the drinks or him? 

“You alright Bryn?” The bouncer's large hand slapped against his shoulder. Brynjolf nearly dropped his tankard. 

“I'm fine.”

“You look like you just saw a ghost.” He turned his head following Brynjolf’s gaze, as Fjora brushed past them.

“I'm fine, Dirge. Just turning in for the night.”

[dansconcepts]

Venti & Childe Go Buck

Would post this on AO3 but cannot finish it so instead have this drabble where two Liyuen immortals have to deal with their somehow complementary partners' shenanigans. 

Venti snickers. "We really can't have that, can we, oh fellow harbinger?" 

"It certainly would be a shame to let them get away with this…" He says, in a flourished motion, letting cool water glisten into sharpened scythes. 

The accused gulps, sweating profusely under the pair's scrutiny.

A foot away, an adeptus snarls, deep in his throat. His hands clench tightly around a cup still full and otherwise completely undisturbed. It reflected his companion well, who sat watching the scene with sips in-between.

"They weren't supposed to get along." Xiao growls. "How are they getting along?" 

Zhongli sips, delicately placing his teacup down on the wooden surface.

"Xiao." He states, and the yaksha immediately tenses at his name. "It is not as surprising as you may think. After all, they both can be…"

"Idiots?" He spits out. And he immediately winces at his rough tone. He was still amongst Rex Lapis. What was he thinking, speaking so crudely? "My apologies, my lord, I didn't mea-"

The archon stretches out a hand, his lips quirking upward. Xiao's mouth snaps shut. "Ah, I was merely speculating they were best referred to as 'troublesome', yet I suppose that description is not too far off as well."

He hums. "Yes. Observe."

Xiao's eyes peel away to watch the duo once more, one laughing up a storm while the other was itching for a fight from the poor passerby caught in their vision. 

"Oh, if you wish to be spared, offer your mora and food to be shared~!" His lover, the anemo archon, Barbatos, shamelessly rhymes.

It gives Childe pause. Dead eyes narrow at his current partner in crime.

The bard shrugs with a smile. He'd say it was like a cat's that caught the canary, if the bard wasn't allergic to the animal. "What? There isn't much to say. I simply found a business opportunity and couldn't let it slip away!"

"...I offer myself death in exchange for him to stop rhyming." The human sighs. 

Childe nods sagely. "You're making a good sacrifice."

"Hey! My rhyming isn't that atrocious! You're so ferocious!"

Childe splashes some water around. Spares a look at the archon. Looks at the water. Then his eyes glint.

Ugh. What is this mortal about to do?

"You're so certain, huh? Well then. Fight me over it."

The bard wrinkles his nose immediately in distaste. If he wasn't so focused on watching that Fatui scum that also happens to be Rex Lapis' consort for any sudden movements, he'd call the expression (what's the word he hears Venti use often…?) adorable.

Yet from distaste did his features suddenly relax, the hints of a smirk adorning his face. 

"It's not a fight to the death, right?" Venti adds. 

Wait, was his idiot of a lover actually considering to fight against-

"As long as you want it to be!" Childe chirps in. "Wow, I can't lie, I'm excited! You better follow through. I've always wanted to fight an archon, even if it's former. Surely you've still got power in you somewhere. Although I have heard you were the weakest archon…"

"Ehe~! Guess you'll just have to find out!" The archon grins. Childe charges.

Oh fuck no. 

Xiao immediately reaches for his polearm, but before he can fully grasp it, Childe's sent flying.

"Haha!" Venti's laugh chimes like bells. "Another victory for me! Ah, to watch him flee!"

"He didn't flee, Barbatos." Rex Lapis, who has been silent for a while, suddenly speaks.

Venti gulps. Xiao turns to his master, distinctly emanating a strangely menacing aura, and the tells of hiding a grimace.

"Oh, would you look at that! Xiao, it's time we leave after that!" 

"...You used 'that' twice, bard." He says. Y'know, like someone trying to ignore his master's anger. Y'know, like a liar.

Aquamarine eyes turn toward the blazing cor lapis.

"Well, I'm sorry, the mind can become quite distracted when confronted with their demise!"

As if on cue, Rex Lapis began with the devastatingly familiar words, "I WILL HAVE-"

And they whisk themselves away before the meteor falls. 

[decarabiandivorce]

Tbh the sheer magnitude of angst potential that decarabian has is untapped. Imagine thinking everyone loves you, that you know you’re taking care of them and they appreciate what you do for them, that people look up to you in respect. But in reality your kingdom is falling apart, everyone including your own wife hates you and your actions, simply because you’re blind to the world around you, trying and trying to protect everyone but nearly everyone else thinks you’re trying to hurt them. You have so much love in you for everyone you know that it system overflows into hatred, apathy, and obsession, and the two people who could ever have the potential to truly understand you and your motives are both plotting together to kill you

(he needs therapy)

😔 he needs both therapy and a divorce. Those who hated him realized they couldn't do anything about it just left. They would rather embrace the cold than defy him. No wonder why the only people left in his city were those who 'respected' him. Its survivorship bias. The naysayers are all outside his walls and so of course only the yes-men were in earshot.

Also yeah once Amos is like "you know what? I should leave him!". Decarabian starts to Spiral. Its not healthy at all, and it effects him a lot. Amos was completely justified in leaving him, and thats why i think Decarabian's winds get even worse. You know how there were tornadoes and such when Dvalin attacked the city? Yeah. Yeah.... Anemo guy gets abandonment issue 3.0 and acts like a dragon.

This just makes his citizen hate him even more, driving more people to the Nameless Bard's side. Oh once he realizes that all of them are on that bard's side he's going to blame the bard for everything. "Things were perfect until you came along!" Type of monologues. Its a mutual hatred, NB hates Deca for stuff that Deca didn't even do. They should stab each other :)

I can just imagine him at the top of his tower, the halls are as silent as they always been but its only now he can sense the *missingness* of it all. He knows something is wrong. He knows that he isn't happy. But he refuses to wake up. His throne glitters while the stone beneath him shatters. For the first time in a long time he feels emotions other than content. Anger. Despair. Bitterness. Guilt.

If he surrendered would he be able to see Amos again? See his citizens again.

Thats such a silly thought! He's trying to protect them! There is a war outside!

But Andrius's blizzards are weakening. When was the last time that wolf fought against his winds

When was the last time he went outside and talked to anyone

Everything is fine! Its perfect.

He misses her so much. He misses her so much. He misses her so much. Amos where did you go? Are you eating well? Are you cold? Your ring is right in my hand. Please come back. Please. You would do anything for her

Well, besides what she wanted.

Was happiness worth the lack of protection?

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

the ficlet i completely forgot about until i found it in my journal! dedicated to @roughentumble as always

At first, the words are whisper-quiet, mumbled into the midnight air and just as quickly covered up by the low crackle of the fire in the hearth and the muffled howl of the wind outside.

“Hmm?” Geralt prompts, giving Jaskier a little nudge where he’s lying curled up against Geralt’s, legs drawn up with his knees brushing Geralt’s thigh, one palm splayed over the witcher’s heart, thumb idly toying with the silver chain of his medallion. His hair is slightly damp and mussed from the rough towel drying he had given it after his long soak in the tub, smelling of his favorite chamomile bath oil and curling just the slightest bit as it dries. It’s cute, Geralt thinks.

Jaskier remains silent for a long moment and Geralt would think he had fallen asleep if not for the sound of his heartbeat, steady and calm but not the slower rhythm that comes with sleep. Another minute passes in comfortable silence before Jaskier finally speaks, this time speaking a touch louder as he repeats, “You make things quiet.”

Jaskier follows up the statement by turning his head to nuzzle his face against Geralt’s bare chest, the shadow of stubble on his jaw rasping against the hair on Geralt’s chest, just as pale as the rest of him. Geralt can’t help but snort in agreement though the observation is apropos of nothing.

He knows well how often his mere presence has quieted raucous taverns to nothing but hushed whispers. Has learned the art of utilizing his scowl and a well-timed glare of his unnatural eyes to silence those attempting to renege on their agreements and promises of coin. It’s something many witchers have taken advantage of, using their fearsome reputations for their own gain simply as a matter of survival. 

Why Jaskier has thought to comment on it now is a mystery but so much of the bard and his behavior is a mystery to Geralt. An enigma dressed in fancy embroidered silks and contradictions he is. Even now, a full season into their relationship becoming romantic in nature, Geralt still finds himself surprised at nearly every turn.

“A skill many a witcher has mastered,” Geralt teases in response, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Especially ones without a charming bard to butter people up.”

But Jaskier just grunts in disagreement, sounding a bit frustrated. “S’not what I meant.”

Geralt hums again, waiting patiently for Jaskier to elaborate. It takes a minute, as though he’s carefully composing his thoughts, crafting his words now just as meticulously as he does those for his songs.

“Sometimes… Sometimes it’s like my head’s too loud,” Jaskier begins softly, fiddling with Geralt’s medallion, tracing the snarling wolf’s head with the pad of his thumb. “There’s always so much going on. Composing lyrics and arranging melodies and thinking of snippets of poetry. Shopping lists and old stories and dirty tavern jokes. Grading rubrics and important people’s names, trying to keep the peerage in order so I don’t accidentally offend some duke by calling him a baron and find myself losing an invitation to play at court. So much noise it’s hard to hear myself just think at times.”

It sounds exhausting, Geralt must admit, wincing at the thought. He knows very well how hard it could be to maneuver the simplest tasks in the midst of a cacophony of sound, of having to try to tune out everything just to focus on the matter at hand for but a moment. But a crowded marketplace or bustling town square could be left, could be avoided entirely sometimes. But Jaskier could not so easily escape the babeldom of his own mind.

“But you,” Jaskier continues, drawing Geralt from his musing, “You make everything quiet. Calm and peaceful and quiet. I have no trouble falling asleep when I’m with you.”

Immediately, Geralt’s chest tightens, feeling so full of warmth and love, utterly charmed and thoroughly touched by Jaskier’s admission. He takes a moment to bask in the feeling, squeezing Jaskier with the arm he has draped over his waist.

“You make things loud,” Geralt says in turn, his voice barely a whisper, just as Jaskier’s had been. Jaskier huffs, sounding self-conscious as he curls closer and scoffs a laugh, no doubt thinking of the many times Geralt has insulted his voice or his tendency towards loquaciousness.

It’s been years since any such harsh words have passed his lips and Geralt has made certain to thoroughly apologize for his past remarks but he knows that Jaskier’s self-doubt, his worry about one day proving to be too much, too loud, too everything, is not so easily placated.

“Not in a bad way,” Geralt hurries to assure him. “Before you, my life was… Quiet. Lonely. Sure there were winters at Kaer Morhen with my brothers, yes, but I was always alone on the Path. Nothing but scornful looks in towns, aldermen cheating me out of my pay and innkeeps refusing me a room with no one to defend me, lonely nights around the fire with Roach.”

He remembers those days with the clarity of a broken shard of glass though they now feel like a lifetime ago ever since Jaskier strutted into his life. But now, when he thinks of the Path, he thinks of the sound of a lute and a familiar voice singing sweet songs about him. About the latest court gossip he doesn’t care one whit about but listens to attentively because Jaskier is the one relaying it. About the sweet whispered words directed at his beloved horse when Jaskier braids her mane and spoils her with apples. He smiles into the dim of their room.

“But you have filled my days with noise. With songs and poetry and laughter and love. You’ve saved me from a life of lonely silence and filled it with blessed sound.”

“Oh, Geralt…” Jaskier breathes, lifting his head to gaze at Geralt with bright watery eyes that glint in the firelight. He tips his head for a kiss and Geralt eagerly obliges, slipping a hand into those damp chestnut waves. His chest aches pleasantly when their lips part and Jaskier whispers the three little words that always steal the breath from his lungs. Of all the sounds Jaskier has filled his days and nights with, the sweetest and most precious of all remains, “I love you.”

[longing-and-heartache-and-lust]

you be my fire and I’ll be your gasoline, Ch.8

[prev][masterpost] [next]

when I started writing this four years ago, it was my full intention to make this pretty much just porn with some plot, but this is shaping out to be something so much more complex, for better or for worse

They’re a day’s ride away from Denesle, the endless meadows slowly starting to give way to small villages and windmills that always come with a castle in the region, when Jaskier finally finds it in himself to ask the question he’d been meaning to ask since that night at the inn. He’s not sure why he hasn’t asked about it yet, and he tells himself that it’s not because he’s afraid it will turn out that he’s just a temporary substitution. Despite the obvious fact that anyone who saw him and the witcher would say that that is what Geralt was currently to him. 

That wasn’t true. Or it didn’t feel like it, not in the sense that other people would put into it. How Jaskier himself would put it, he didn’t know. Perhaps, if he’d had someone to talk to about it all, he’d figure it out, but he had no one, and feelings were a complicated thing. In Oxenfurt, maybe, he tells himself. 

“Did you meet your Dandelion in Upper Posada?” 

The “your” slips, and Jaskier isn’t sure if it was a conscious choice or if he’s just imitating the way the witcher talks about this realm’s Geralt. It’s always “your Geralt”, no matter how many times Jaskier replies with “he’s not mine”. He didn’t think Geralt did it out of malice, but he did wish he would stop.

Geralt’s amber gaze slides to him, and he pulls on Roach’s reins a bit to fall in line with Jaskier. The mare nips at Cerbin’s long mane affectionately, like a mother. Cerbin flicks his fluffy ears in mild annoyance and snorts.

“Relatively close to it,” Geralt says. “He’d managed to get some unfortunate girl pregnant, and her brothers were not happy about it, to say the least. I had to save his dumb ass before I could even remember his name.

Jaskier snorts, presses his knuckles to his lips, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. It’s ironic, really, that when he’d met Geralt — his Geralt — he was singing a song about abortions. 

“I suppose, I should’ve foreseen that a meeting like that meant that it will be my job to save the aforementioned dumb ass forever and ever, until the end of times,” Geralt goes on, gesturing with one gloved hand. “And what do I get in return? An occasional tankard and a “Geralt, but isn’t that what friends are for?””

He pitches his voice higher, imitating the bard, and Jaskier thinks about shoving him with his knee but then his mind catches up with the words and screeches to an unexpected halt.

“Oh?” he hears himself say, before he could stop himself. “So you were— that is to say, you’ve never—”

Jaskier cut himself off, blushing despite himself and turning his attention to a non-existent speck in Cerbin’s mane. The stallion shakes it out impatiently when Jaskier runs his fingers through it, as if telling him to mind his own business and not use him as a distraction tactic. Jaskier’s almost surprised that he’s not whipped across the legs by Cerbin’s tail.

Geralt gives him a sideways glance. For a long moment, Jaskier is sure that the witcher isn’t going to answer at all, but then:

”If you were going to ask whether or not we’ve ever fucked, then the answer is no, and you can breathe a sigh of relief.”

Jaskier splutters. That is exactly what he was going to ask, though perhaps worded a little differently, but he would be betraying himself if he didn’t at least pretend that it was never even on his mind, making it look like it was Geralt that thought of both the question and the answer. 

The Witcher gives him one of his looks but allows for it, though probably out of sheer unwillingness to push rather than benevolence. 

It’s something Jaskier noticed about him — if there is an option of simply saying that someone else is correct in order to avoid having to prove anything, Geralt will do exactly that while maintaining his own opinion on whatever it is that was the topic of the conversation. At first, Jaskier thought it was a gesture of a lover’s tenderness, Geralt pretending to agree with him so that the bard was happy, but very quickly, he learned that it was simply a character trait that he’d probably picked up during the long years on the Path, where strangers were rarely kind to witchers.

He thought it would sting, but it didn’t.

Nevertheless, hearing that Geralt and Dandelion are just friends in the other realm brings him some peace of mind. It’s not petty jealousy, it’s a much deeper, almost primordial feeling. 

When he was eighteen and ran into the Geralt that he’s used to, he’d never yet been burnt. He had his share of heartbreak back in Lettenhove and in the Academy but that was no more than any other young love, — puppy love , as his father had called it, — and the pain was proportional to the deepness of the feelings, which is to say, it was superficial. 

Back then, he didn’t know to protect himself, because he’d never known the need for it. He thought, in his young and heady arrogance, that his heart could not be truly broken. But after Geralt, that became more than familiar, growing, over the years, into an instinct. 

There had been times when he’d heard that Geralt is passing through a town not far from him, or that the witcher was in Oxenfurt, and Jaskier had made himself stay in place, pretend — to himself, because Geralt cared neither for his lies or for his truth, — that he didn’t know. 

It hurt agonisingly to know that the witcher is somewhere close and Jaskier is deliberately putting as much distance between them as possible, but it hurt less that it would to see him. Through trial and error, Jaskier taught himself to make decisions that kept him safe. He twisted the knife in his own heart to protect it from shattering beyond repair. It worked, most of the time. 

So now, knowing for a fact that he is not a substitution for a lover left in a different realm, he feels a little less anxious about choosing to travel with this version of Geralt, about staying by his side. Three months were enough time to make up his mind about whether or not this had any right to continue, if he’d be ready to leave behind everything he knows if offered. At the very least, he hoped it was enough time. 

The silence lasts, and Jaskier realises it a little belatedly. He clears his throat, pretending to have ignored Geralt’s words, and asks, instead:

“You said you’ve met him “relatively close to Upper Posada”. Any place I might know?”

Naturally, Geralt lets the feigned ignorance slide. He adjusts the swords behind his back with an easy, fluid motion.

“You probably do. I ran into him at Gulet, on the other side of the mountains, what seems like a lifetime ago now,” Geralt pauses, frowning. “Which is weird, actually, because you said it’s twelve forty-eight?”

Jaskier nods, unsure of where this is headed.

“In my realm, it’s only this year that I met him, I think. Or it might’ve been twelve forty-seven, it’s hard to be sure now, after so long. But you’ve been travelling with your Geralt for eight years now?”

And there it is again. Your Geralt.

“Not mine,” Jaskier says, almost a habit now. “I met him in the year twelve forty, yes. I was eighteen.”

Geralt frowns, casts a glance into the distance somewhere, his gaze turning inwards for a long moment. Jaskier allows for the silence to stretch, turning the witcher's words over in his head. Cerbin, sensing the slight tension in his rider’s body, shakes out his mane, flicks his ears. Jaskier leans over in the saddle, runs a gentle hand over the stallion’s great neck. He can feel a twist of something unpleasantly tender in his chest, like the first little warning sign, the first soft blow of wind before a blizzard. He knows the feeling and forces himself to ignore it. 

“It doesn’t line up,” Geralt finally says. “Because Dandelion was nineteen or even twenty when we met. So you were born almost a decade earlier than him.”

As Jaskier’s speculations are confirmed, it’s his turn to frown. He’d thought, all this time, that even though Geralt was from a realm parallel to his own, even though there, it’s been nearly thirty years, the general timeline was still the same. Learning now that there is such a leap in the timeframe of his own birth, he feels suddenly uneasy.

“Do you think there are other events that happened here sooner than they happened in the realm you’re from? Is everything there pushed seven years back?”

He has to prevent his voice from sounding too small, and he doesn’t know why. Geralt had never said a word about the possibility of taking Jaskier back to his realm, and Jaskier knew that he shouldn’t expect such an invitation in the first place, as the witcher had an entire life of his own waiting for him, yet he couldn’t help imagining what it would be like. Despite himself, despite all his carefully shaped self-preservation, earned through blood and tears, he still couldn’t help imagining it. Every time, he had to tell himself that thinking about possible outcomes of the relationships in his life wasn’t in itself a crime.

But now, learning that time — his time — flows differently in Geralt’s reality, makes him feel like he doesn’t belong there no matter the circumstances. That he shouldn’t play with fate like that, testing the limits of his luck. 

In the Academy, he’d been taught that all the stars in the night sky are different realms, some similar to his own and some completely different, but no-one ever talked about it in depth, and so, Jaskier has no way of knowing if there are any records about what would happen if one was to travel to a realm where the time of their own life flows differently. Geralt’s words make him regret bitterly that he’d never sought out more information himself. When he was a student, there were at least two professors in the Academy that he could talk to about this. If they were still there, he didn’t know.

“Are you good with historical and political events?” Geralt asks, his eyes fixing on Jaskier again. “That’s the easiest way I can think of that would allow us to compare the years.”

Jaskier clears his throat, his mind snapping back to the present. “Of course.”

Geralt nods, runs his fingers through Roach’s mane, his lips twisting to the side in an expression of tense pondering. Finally, he seems to have come to a decision. 

“The creation of the Conclave of Mages,” he says. “What year?”

Jaskier thinks back on his years in the Academy again, the long and sometimes torturous lectures on the history of the Continent, including the role Chaos had played in it. Those ones were always Jaskier’s favourite.

“Year eight hundred thirty-nine,” he says. “The same year, the Laws of Magic were drafted and Aretuza opened.”

Geralt hums. “So far, we’re on track. How about... Queen Calanthe — the year of her birth and the year of her ascension.”

The choice seems a little odd to Jaskier, but he keeps his speculations to himself, instead saying:

“Twelve-sixteen and twelve-thirty accordingly,”

Geralt hums, again, but with a slightly different emotion than before. Catching Jaskier’s quizzical gaze, he says:

“A year off, both. In my realm, she ascended the throne at fourteen, but it was twelve thirty-one, a year in the future for you. Following that logic, her daughter, Pavetta, was born in twelve thirty-five in this realm?”

Jaskier nods. That is, he thinks, Slightly concerning. And so is the look that slithers over Geralt’s features like a shadow when he asks about the princess. And Jaskier could ask directly, he supposes, but there have been times before when he’d seen that look, and every time he asked, he’d gotten the same answer about Geralt being unable to talk to him about the things that are only yet to happen. So, he takes the indirect route.

“If the history professor in Oxenfurt wasn’t lying, then yes,” he says. “Believe it or not, but, having been thirteen, I was not invited to the celebrations. Don’t tell me that you’ve chosen to ask about Calanthe and Pavetta because in your realm, one of them is on the list of your paramours.”

Geralt gives him a look and knocks Jaskier’s knee with his own, reining Roach closer in. She nips at Cerbin again, and this time, Jasier does get whipped across the leg with his tail for not keeping the proper distance.

“What?” Jaskier laughs. “Don’t act like you’ve never been in a royal bed. You must’ve been, at least once.”

“Maybe, but not with either of the esteemed ladies you’ve already managed to imagine,” Geralt replies, and for a split second, he looks at a loss, before saying: “I only thought of them because we’re headed to Cintra.”

That makes sense. 

But the little pause, the way Geralt says it, makes Jaskier doubt if that’s the whole truth of it. Over the years, he’d grown attuned to picking up on the little signs, and Geralt is not as good at controlling his facial expressions and tone of voice as to fool him. He’d learned to read people like he’d learned to read monsters, the slightest of signs giving everything away and telling him what to expect, how to act. In the recent years, the only person that could remain completely unreadable to Jaskier was Coën. If he wanted to, the witcher could fool anyone he wanted to, an absolute natural at what he does, but he never did that with Jaskier. With Jaskier, he was an open book — the only one in his life.

He doesn’t push. He’s not sure if he really wants to know whatever it is that Geralt might be hiding from him. It never ended well for him — trying to find out what it is that he’s not being told.

“Alright,” he says instead, with a smile that he forces to reach his eyes. “But you’ll have to eventually tell me who it was that you’ve shared a royal bed with.”

“Aren’t you a viscount?” Geralt tries, weakly. 

“I am, but that’s a noble title, not a royal one. You’re not getting out of this one, Witcher.”

Finally, the weight lifts off his chest, and Jaskier smiles genuinely, with his heart in it. He knows that Geralt is keeping something from him, he can feel it, but they will have time to talk about it, if Jaskier ever finds it in himself to ask the witcher directly. Right now, it didn’t seem that anything fundamentally depended on Geralt’s honesty, and so, Jaskier let it go.

Just for now.

***

They ask each other about more political events after that, keeping mostly to ascension and deaths of monarchs rather than battles, as Jaskier is more well-versed in the intrigues of court than those of war. And all of them, for a reason that neither he nor Geralt can give any sort of explanation to, have happened a year later in the witcher’s realm than in Jaskier’s. It’s unexplainable but consistent, and that leaves even more questions about why Jaskier’s year of birth and that of Dandelion have such a leap. 

“Do you think there are other events that have such a gap, or am I just that special?” Jaskier asks, his good spirits having returned to him.

Geralt, on the other hand, looks preoccupied with his own thoughts again when he says:

“It’s not the events that have already happened that I’m thinking about. It’s the ones that are going to.”

The feeling in Jaskier’s chest grows stronger, like the pressure of a knife, not yet piercing but threatening to. As much as he is drawn to mystery, he doesn’t like it when people pointedly hide something from him, letting show just enough for him to be constantly aware of the secrecy. He wished that Geralt could either tell him more or not speak of the future at all. 

He understood that in his own way, Geralt was trying to protect him, but he also didn’t ask for protection, nor did he need it. 

Almost absentmindedly, Jaskier reaches down to run the tips of his fingers over the hilt of the dagger at his waist, a weapon that his hands took to with just as much ease as they did to a lute. A sword felt a little more heavy, and so did the crossbow, but daggers seemingly had no weight at all. 

He required no protection. 

“When you say things like that, you scare me,” Jaskier says, his voice calm, matter-of-fact. 

He meets Geralt’s gaze and holds it, patient. The witcher reins Roach in, cutting in front of Jaskier and stopping. Jaskier holds Cerbin back, the stallion stepping from foot to foot impatiently but not disobeying. Cerbin is significantly taller than Roach, and that makes Jaskier, astride, taller than Geralt, shifting the dynamic between them slightly but enough for Geralt to avert his eyes first. It’s something primordial, Jaskier thinks. 

“That is not my intention,” Geralt says, finally. “Never has been.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, as well, his amber eyes searching Jaskier’s face, but then Geralt just sighs, brushing his hair away from his face and turning Roach to fall in line with Cerbin again. Jaskier waits.

“If I tell you about something that is only yet to happen in this realm, who’s to say that I won’t somehow, unintentionally, cause it to take a completely different course? I’ve had my share of playing games with Destiny.”

“Then you should know that Destiny is a beast, and it will catch up to all of us, no matter what. You finding yourself here and changing the course of Destiny might be exactly what that Destiny had been all along,” Jaskier says, touching Cerbin’s sides with his heels to urge the stallion into a slow gait. “And this isn’t me asking you to tell me everything, this is me telling you that you don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“Says you,” Geralt tries, making a vague gesture in Jaskier’s direction.

“Says me.”

[read it on ao3]

[insertpoetryhere]

Dadbastian Week: Proud

What? Me? A day late?

... yeah.

It's fine, double entry.

Anyways this is for @dadbastianweek2023 , apologies for the late entry!

Pride is Not the Word I'm Looking For.

Preparations for dinner were cut short by Finney rushing in through the kitchen door and staring at Sebastian, suddenly pale and at a loss for words despite his dramatic entrance.

A bad omen, if you will.

“... Do you need something?” Sebastian prompted, his attention no longer on the potatoes and now fully pointed towards the young gardener.

Finney swallowed hard. “... Promise you won’t be angry?”

Another bad omen.

It was around then that Sebastian began to think much more critically about a quality of the manor that he had actually been pleased by up until that point; The past few hours had been unusually quiet. No “Sebastian I need my shoes tied” or “Sebastian I want cake”. Obviously, he had thought nothing of it. With the fiscal quarter ending, he has assumed his young lord was busy tending to the finances and simply hadn’t needed his assistance. After all, the last place Sebastian had seen him was in his study, nearly hidden behind a stack of papers.

“... Finney, where is the Young Master?” Sebastian asked, now fully putting the kitchen knife down.

Finney bit his lip nervously, which was all Sebastian needed to know. He ripped off his apron, leaving the vegetables on the counter as is.

“Lead the way.”

---

At first, he thought Finney would lead him to the garden. But then they passed the garden. The greenhouse perhaps? No, they passed that too. Stables? Of course not.

Much to Sebastian’s displeasure, Finney seemed to be leading him directly towards the woods. Now, Sebastian was not infallible by any means. Even demons have faulty memories on occasion. But he did specifically recall telling Ciel to not go into the wooded area that surrounds the manor without adequate supervision.

“Adequate supervision” meant Sebastian. He was not, under any circumstances, in any capacity, meant to go into these woods without Sebastian. He was fairly sure he had said so daily over the past three (nearly four) years; “Young Master, do not go in the woods without my supervision.”

The only thing keeping Sebastian semi-calm was the fact that he could still sense Ciel’s soul. Which at the very least meant he wasn’t dead. Just to make sure that his senses hadn’t failed him, Sebastian snuck a peak under his glove to check on the contract seal.

Nope, still there. Definitely not dead.

This still didn’t rule out the options of stabbed, shot, mauled, or maimed. Though he didn’t smell blood, which eased some of those concerns.

He had an itemized list of horrible things that he could be walking into. But what he actually saw was… not on that list.

In fact he saw nothing at all at first.

“I said get help!” The familiar voice made Sebastian look up.

That was… not what he was expecting.

He was in a net. Specifically, one of the traps he had Bard set up around the wooded area. He had told him the traps were for animals, which wasn’t exactly a lie. By definition, human assassins were classified as animals that he did not want getting too close to the manor. Though he had thought he had gotten rid of all of them after seeing Bard’s truly awful trap setting skills, but here they were.

Yes, that explained the net. That did not, however, explain the way Ciel was caught in it.

One foot was tangled in the top of the net, one leg was shoved entirely through a gap in the rope, and one arm was… stuck. Stuck is the only word for it. It weaved in and out of the rope in a way that would surely cause severe rope burns.

If the position came from an attempt to escape, then it was both fruitless and stupid. Even if he had managed to wriggle free, the net was set up far too high for him to not break several bones on impact.

It definitely inspired a feeling, watching a boy he had silently considered to be clever (and took credit for that cleverness) stuck in a way that did not seem… possible.

Pride was not the word he was looking for.

“I did get help!” Finney yelled up at the boy hanging in the tree. “I brought Sebastian!”

Ah, right. The issue at hand. 

Ciel tried to turn his head, eyeing Sebastian as if he was the last person he wanted to see. It was clear that “help” had not included him, which only annoyed Sebastian more.

“How did this happen?” The question was directed towards Ciel, an “explain yourself” of sorts. But naturally Sebastian got no such thing. Ciel turned himself away the best that he could in his situation, but Sebastian did get the satisfaction of seeing him look at least a little bit ashamed.

Finney spoke up instead, which Sebastian was almost sure would not help the young master’s case in the slightest. “The young master was hunting-”

“Hunting?” Sebastian repeated. “As in with a gun? Without an adult present at all?”

There was a noise of protest at the word “adult” from the space above them but Sebastian could not find it in himself to care as he eyed the gun laying in the grass.

Finney, for all his faults, was a brave young man. He paled, but continued. “Y-yes, I suppose that’s right. Well, then we saw this suspicious looking pile of leaves-”

“So you saw the suspicious leaves,” Sebastian interrupted once more. “And you went towards them?”

Finney was strangely fixated on the ground beneath his feet, and lord knows Ciel wasn’t speaking. “... Yes.”

Sebastian sighed. “Pride” was definitely not the word he was looking for.

“Alright.” He said in stunned, resigned disappointment. “Let’s get you down then.”

He was not as gentle lowering that trap as he should have been. And part him very much hoping that whatever bruises his young master suffered because of his rough descent would serve as reminders.

Though he severely doubted any lesson had been learned.

[xinfamousxunderdogx]

Disconnected (Jaskier x Reader)

Hello hello there, 

well, it’s been a while since I’ve shared a story on here. But I managed to finish something I’ve started writing quite a while ago. It’s not very long, but I needed a bit of comfort from the bard, as we all do. So I thought I’d share it.

This story is heavily inspired by the song “Disconnected” by Imminence, which I can highly recommend to you.

Quick summary: The reader os having quite a hard time to cope with their feelings on their own, but Jaskier is there to comfort them

“You’ve been in there for hours and you’ve had this song on repeat for weeks now already.” He leaned against the door frame, pale blue eyes fixating on me, eyebrows furrowed, a worried expression on his face.

And I looked away. I couldn’t face him.

He was right. I recently barely left my room, from time to time at least, only if I had to. And these times piled up the past weeks. I tried to hide it, because I didn’t want Jaskier to notice. Tried to keep up that smile and the bubbly energy we both shared. And I thought it worked. But yet again I realized I couldn’t trick him. He was way too good with people and knew me too well.

“I’m just tired. This week’s been exhausting.”, I murmured, still not looking back at him. Right now, there was still a chance that Jaskier would give up and simply leave me alone. But if I’d face him I knew I would start to cry, and then I would have to explain myself, but I know I wouldn’t find any words for what was going on inside my head right now. The past weeks. Months, even. Everything felt off, in a weird way, and I wasn’t able to explain. So, it was easier to deal with this on my own, in my head. Where I wouldn’t have to try and phrase my thoughts and feelings.

I grabbed my phone and turned up the volume just a tad bit, hoping Jaskier would understand and leave. With a sigh I closed my eyes, waiting for the familiar sound of the door closing and footsteps distancing. The door closed. But the footsteps approached, and a second later I felt the weight of his body lowering the mattress. Couldn’t he just go away? Couldn’t he just leave me alone?

“Jaskier, please, I said I’m fine I’m-“

“You can’t fool me, dear”, he interrupted me, and his voice was so incredibly soft, so caring and warm that I knew if he continued to talk, I wouldn’t be able to hold the tears back.

“I don’t expect you to talk to me, not if you don’t want to. I’m definitely not going to force you. But …”, he remained silent for a moment, as if he was trying to find the right words. “I’m worried. You haven’t… you haven’t been really … you, lately. I can see that there’s something bothering you, something that heavies your heart and mind, and I’m worried that it eventually might suffocate you.”

That was it. The first tear was running down my nose, but I did my best to try and keep my breath steady and calm. I hated to cry in front of others, at least when I was crying out of sadness.

“I just want you to know I’m here, okay? I’ll always be, whenever you need me. Remember that, okay?” I nodded quickly, giving him a sign that I was listening and not ignoring him. I wanted to thank him. But the lump in my throat was too big, so I just nodded.

“Good … good”, he whispered in response, and when I felt him shifting on the mattress to get up I quickly reached for his hand. I realized that I didn’t want to be alone, that I needed someone, but not to talk … just to be there.

“Could you … stay?”, I asked, barely audible, my voice almost cracked. But Jaskier sat back down, I felt the warmth of his body against my back again, giving me a feeling of safety. As if this warmth protected me, from the world, from my thoughts. I felt safer.

I took a deep breath, trying to swallow the lump in my throat before I spoke again. “I … don’t want to talk, though. But I think I could need some … some company.”

“Shhh, you don’t have to explain or justify yourself. If you need company, I shall, no, I will provide it, okay? Without question.” His fingers slowly intertwined with mine as his thumb started to gently rub circles on the back of my hand. Which only caused more tears to run down my face, and I desperately tried to suppress any sob, but Jaskier knew me too well. The grip around my hand tightened just a bit, and he turned so he was completely facing me.

“Do you need a hug?”, he asked and I just nodded, gritting my teeth, but as soon as Jaskier wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer, it was like something in my brain that was responsible for me holding back shut itself off. Tears were streaming down my face and I started sobbing almost uncontrollably. But Jaskier held me close, and my fingers were clinging onto his forearms as if my life was depending on them, on him. Everything that I’ve been holding back. suppressing, all the tears and emotions, now came over me at once like a tidal wave, and even though for now it felt like i was drowninhg in all of these feelings I knew I would feel better afterwards.

A loud, frantic sob escaped my throat and Jaskier wrapped his arms even tighter around me, gently rocking back and forth, he was mumbling something, I couldn’t understand the words but the sound of his voice and the vibrations I felt from his chest kept me safe.

I don’t know for how long we sat there, how long he held me while I was falling apart in his arms, crying every tear ive swallowed over the past few months. But eventually, even the last single tear ran dry and my breath got calmer again. I didn’t feel much better. But lighter than before. But even after I’ve stopped crying Jaskier kept holding me. And I was glad. I didn’t know if I was emotionally or mentally ready to let go of the shelter his arms and his body provided.

“I just ... I just feel so empty. And lonely.”, I whispered almost hesitantly after a while. “Most of the times, there’s just a void inside of me, and I don’t seem to be able to fill it. It’s ridiculous, because I know that theres is no reason for me to feel like that. I ... I have everything I need in life. Maybe that’s what frustrates me the most. Other people have it so much worse, have experienced so many horrible things and yet there’s nothing I can do against feeling that way even though I know there’s no reason for these kind of feelings.”

My voice got quiet again in the end, nothing more than a raspy whisper. There it was again. The habit to justify myself for my feelings, and to understate them. It’s always been this way. I wouldn’t allow myself any negative feelings that had no cause. Not because I didn’t want to, I really tried, but my mind was telling me other things.

“Can you be happy without any specific reason?”, Jaskier asked, his voice a gentle whisper right beside my ear. The question confused me. “Uhm ... yes, of course”, I replied, but it sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Is that feeling of happiness, you can experience without any specific reason less intense, less of an actual, valid feeling?”, he asked further. “What? Of course not, Jaskier, why should-” “Then why”, he interrupted me “Should any of your negative feelings such as sadness be less real, less valid even though in your opinion there might be no good reason for these feelings?”

I really had to think about this for a moment. But as much as I tried, I couldn’t come up with a reasonable argument. I had to admit that he was right. As much as I hated it.

“But I feel so guilty”, I whispered, and in this moment i was glad both uo us were facing the wall. I knew I couldn’t keep up this conversation when I was looking at him. Because right now, i showed myself the most vulnerable I ever had. It was difficult, but Jaskier made it a bit easier.

“We are human, love. We try to find explanations for everything, or anyone to blame. But feelings aren’t something that can be explained so easily. We don’t care when it comes to happy, psoitive feelings. of course not, why shouldn’t we.But with tzhe negative feelings ... when there’s no explanation for that, the most logical consequence is to blame ourselves for them. Even though there’s no need to. Because feelings come and go, no matter what kind of. If, for example, you love someone, but they don’t love you back - they haven’t hurt you, they just don’t feel the same. Then you get sad, which is a reasonable response to the situation. there’s an explanation for your feelings, yet noone to blame. You wouldn’t blame yourself there, too, would you? So why do you do it now?”

Jaskiers voice was calm, soothing. And for the forst time in months I felt rather ... alright. As if his words managed to seal the leaks in my mind that were spreading the void, finally helping me to form clear thoughts again. His words calmed the chaos up there.

The way he explained it everything seemed to make so much sense. And he was right, I coulnd’t say anthing against it. But I knew that was just for that moment. The thoughts would come back. The guilt.

“I understand that I won’t be able to change your mind about this with just one conversation. That’s not my intention”, he continued, as if he’s been knowing exactly what I was thinking about. “But ... if you’ll let me, we can work on this together. If you allow me to help you we will find a way. A way for you to cope. To allow any kind of feeling, good or bad. To be human, but to accept everything that comes with it.”

A single tear rolled down the bridge of my nose, but I wasn’t crying because of sadness again. more because of relief. It felt good that now someone knew what was going on. Someone I trusted, someone I know would support me. Just for the moment I had the feeling that with Jaskiers help I could actually manage to put my thought in order again, to show them theor place. To work with them, not against them.

And I was more than thankful for that.

[erabundus]

@drolliic &&. said... "You're gonna have to be more specific." and a huff before Aether returns to ( unsuccessfully ) trying to wrap up the wound on his arm dripping something a dark shade of red. When no progress is being made, he simply tosses the roll of bandages to Ren instead, wincing with the motion. "This one is new. Turns out Rishboland tigers aren't happy when you drop by unannounced. Some old wounds also reopened during the fight."

he  exhales  a  huff,  purposefully  choosing  not  to  repeat  his  QUESTION  —  more  specific  or  otherwise.  it  comes  as  little  surprise  that  the  traveler  would  be  littered  with  wounds.  it's  a  bit  repulsive  how  far  too  many  people  seem  to  forget  as  much.  he  oft  catches  them  looking  to  aether  with  reverence  equivalent  to  that  of  A  GOD.  as  if  he  is  some  infallible  being  who  exists  only  to  shoulder  their  burdens.  surely  one  who  has  clashed  against  the  might  of  deities  and  come  out  the  other  side  whole  must  be  impervious  to  all  MUNDANE  sources  of  harm.  yet  their  close  proximity  has  shown  ren  time  and  time  again  that  isn't  the  case  at  all.  the  triumphs  of  teyvat's  beloved,  GOLDEN  SAVIOR  may  be  attributed  to  sheer  dumb  luck  just  as  much  as  they  are  any  feat  of  genuine  skill.

he  isn't  going  to  fret  over  aether  as  though  he  is  some  HELPLESS  CHILD,  but  ren  thinks  these  small  stirrings  of  concern  are  entirely  justified.  (  even  if  expressing  them  feels  like  his  own  personal  form  of  torture.  )  nose  wrinkles  as  he  watches  blood  drip  sluggishly  to  the  ground,  a  sour  expression  washing over  delicate  countenance.  without  looking  up,  the  wanderer  raises  a  hand  —  effortlessly  catching  the  roll  of  bandages.  ❝  i  was  about  to  COMPLIMENT  you  on  finally  deciding  to  be  a  little  reasonable.  ❞   he  quips  dryly.  ❝  but  if  you're  picking  fights  with  rishboland TIGERS,  i  think  i'd  rather  keep  that  to  myself.  ❞  he  certainly  isn't  going  to  blame  the  ANIMAL  —  they  are  simple  creatures  driven  by  instinct,  aggression,  self-preservation.  however,  aether  possesses  the  wits  to  know  better ...  or  rather  he  SHOULD.

stepping  closer,  the  wanderer  then  goes  MERCIFULLY  silent  as  he  surveys  the  damage.  though  his  own  injuries  are  too  quick  to  heal  to  make  bandaging  them  worth  the  effort,  he  still  has  some  inkling  of  what  to  do.  as  much  as  it  PAINS  HIM  to  admit  it,  spending  so  many  years  around  the  doctor  taught  him  a  number  of  useful  skills  —  treating  wounds  among  them.

❝  i'd  ask  if  it  would  KILL  YOU  to  take  it  easy ...  but  at  this  point,  i'm  convinced  it  would  KILL  YOU  if  you  didn't.  ❞   though  his  tone  is  harsh,  his  hands  are  painfully  gentle  as  he  winds  the  gauze  —  as  if  handling  a  precious  relic  made  of  thin  glass.  (  one  that  may  shatter  beneath  his  too-cold  touch.  )  ❝  if  your  old  wounds  are  reopening,  they  obviously  aren't  old  enough  for  you  to  go  gallivanting  around  teyvat.  use  a  little  common  sense  before  you  meet  an  end  even  mondstadt's most shameless  bards  will  be  too  EMBARRASSED  to  sing  about.  ❞

THINGS    MY    FRIENDS    MUSES    HAVE    SAID.

[meltedicescream]

Unloved

Venti stood in the Angels share, a smile on his face, playing a ballad of love on his lyre, his music and voice filling the tavern. The patrons seemed to be enjoying the tune, however, the bartender seemed completely indifferent.

The ballad was coming to an end, and Venti slowly opened his eyes, having a habit of keeping them closed as he played a tune. He looked around and spotted a young couple staring lovingly into each other's eyes, they had obviously enjoyed the song. Soon, however, the song was over, and Venti went over to the bar, grinning to the red haired man behind it.

"Ah, young love. They sure seem to be enjoying each others company." The bard hummed out, his voice almost melodic as be spoke, however Diluc simply scoffed.

"Soon enough they'll get into an argument and hate each other for the rest of their lives." He stared down at the glass he cleaned then to the green clad bard leaning on the counter. "Let me guess, dandelion wine?" He asked as he grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind him.

"Right you are my dear friend! About the dandelion wine, not those two love birds over there." Venti watched as Diluc poured the wine into a glass, a grin on his face. "Perhaps they'll stay together until they grow old. Perhaps they get into an argument, but their hearts are of gold. I'm sure they'll stay together."

"Why are you talking to me about this?" Diluc huffed as he pushed the glass towards Venti, watching as the bard took the wine and sipped it.

"Because I'd love to know if you've got your eye on someone." Venti hummed, holding his wine close to his lips as he watched Diluc.

The red head scoffed at the notion, glaring down at the bard before him. "The only person I'd ever consider dating is currently the acting grand master of the Knights of Favonius, and if you weren't aware, I *hate* the knights." He turned away for a moment as another man came to the bar. He grabbed a few bottles of alcohol and a drink mixer.

Venti frowned as he listened to Diluc. What a sad sad life he had, and what a terrible time for him. "Would you ever consider anyone else?" He asked, hoping Diluc would say yes.

"No. Love is dead." A short and simple answer, but not one Venti had hoped for.

Venti sighed and stood from his seat, chugging the rest of his wine and setting the glass to the side. He waited for Diluc to finish mixing and pouring a drink before swiftly hopping over the counter, only to be immediately grabbed by Diluc and put back on the other side of the bar.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Listen- I just-"

"You just *what*? I'm listening"

Venti stood there, staring up at Diluc, unsure of what he was doing. "Diluc I... I love you, a-and it hurt hearing you say love is dead." He muttered, now looking down at the bar top.

Diluc stared at Venti for a moment, the words settling in. He let out a soft huff and turned away. "Sorry to say it, but you're fresh out of luck Venti. I'd never consider you as something more than a friend."

Venti frowned, feeling all of the eyes in the tavern on him. He turned away from Diluc as tears welled up in his eyes. "Okay..." His voice was soft and weak as he spoke.

Slowly, the heartbroken bard left the tavern, tears slowly flowing down his face. His heart ached as he let out quiet sobs and sniffles. It hurt to hear that he was nothing but a friend to Diluc, and to have been basically publicly humiliated was even worse. He slowly made his way out of town, wiping away the tears on his sleeves.

A few days later, Venti sat atop one of the highest branches that would still support his weight on Vanessas tree, strumming a melancholic tune on his lyre. Windrise was silent aside from the tune, as if mourning the heartbreak along with the anemo archon.

Slowly, the notes spread further apart before they stopped. Silence filled the air, not a single creature made a sound. Venti let out a soft sob as rain began to fall.

[crownshattered-arch]

@dancinghearts inquired: ❛   i just can’t believe how beautiful you are.  ❜  Ven @ Xiao

Ways To Love—No Longer Accepting

Beautiful… It was almost amusing to hear the bard refer to him as such. In what way was Xiao beautiful..?? He was a warrior. He was deadly, a weapon existing solely for destruction. There was nothing beautiful about it. However, Venti was breathtaking. He was everything Xiao could ever wish to have. Kind, gentle, loving, and so beautiful. Venti was perfect in every sense of the word, and it left Xiao wondering if he even deserved someone as wonderful as him. But the Yaksha never voiced these concerns. Venti would no doubt scold him if he knew what he was thinking.

So Xiao didn’t ask how he was so “beautiful”, nor did he inquire about what Venti possibly saw in him. He didn’t need to know the details. Simply acknowledging that Venti saw something in him was enough, and it brought more warmth than he knew how to express. So instead, he simply stared fondly at the Archon beside him before nestling against the side of his face—a silent expression of gratitude. He didn’t have a response. Xiao didn’t believe that he was beautiful, but he wasn’t going to ruin this moment by arguing. “

"You're the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my life..." And that was the truth.

[yeraskier]

“Jaskier?” He hears, and looks up just in time to see Ciri rounding the corner. She has this frantic look in her eyes. “Jaskier! Jaskier, come quick! Geralt is awake.”

Jaskier’s spent the better part of his life running. He’s run towards coin and booze, from monsters and scorned lovers.

Still, he’s never run as fast as he does now.

He nearly trips over his own two feet twice in his haste to make it to Geralt’s room.

There are others already in there, but Jaskier quite make out who. He doesn’t care, the only one in the room who matters in the moment is the man laid out on the bed— pale and still sickly-looking, but alive.

He rushes over to his witcher, hands reaching out for Geralt’s face before he can stop himself. Jaskier doesn’t mean to overwhelm him, he doesn’t mean to take up all the air that surrounds him, but he can’t help it.

Three weeks and five days. That’s how long Geralt has slept in this bed, with not a single one of the mages being able to tell whether he’d wake up or not.

And now here he is, awake, with those yellow eyes piercing into Jaskier’s blue ones.

The bard simply can’t help himself. He couldn’t part from Geralt now even if he tried.

“Darling?” He utters, voice weak and trembling, just like the hands that clutch Geralt’s face.

“Jaskier?” And Geralt’s voice sounds so familiar, yet so new.

“Yes,” he breathes, “yes, love, it’s me.”

“What are you…” Geralt swallows, and he winces when he does. Jaskier thinks to get him some water, but that would mean letting go, and he simply can’t right now. “What are you doing here?”

Jaskier's thumbs freeze, no longer stroking against Geralt's skin.

"What?"

Geralt doesn't offer him a response, he just stares at Jaskier like he's failing to piece together a puzzle.

It's silent for too long as they look at one another, and Geralt doesn't look at him now the way he's been looking at Jaskier for the last two years. He looks... distant.

"Geralt." It's Triss, Jaskier knows without even looking. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

No.

Geralt frowns, brows scrunching together as he looks up at the ceiling.

He couldn't have—

"I remember..."

Please. Please. Please.

"Taking Ciri to the Temple of Melitele."

Jaskier’s heart plummets.

The mountain. That’s his last memory of Jaskier— his last memory with Jaskier.

Geralt doesn’t remember coming to find him and making amends.

Geralt doesn’t remember asking Jaskier to stay with him, Yennefer and Ciri at the keep.

Geralt doesn’t remember begging Jaskier to remain by their side on their journey back to Cintra.

Geralt doesn’t remember all the moments they shared throughout that time.

He doesn’t remember the touches that lingered longer than they should’ve, and the looks that said more than their mouths ever would, and the conversations that had far too many meanings to track, and the knowing glances from their loved ones. He doesn’t remember the will-they, won’t-they of it all.

He doesn’t remember the they will. The they did.

He doesn’t remember their first kiss that night in the rain— desperate yet tender and slow, unlike their racing heartbeats.

He doesn’t remember peeling each of those wet layers off of Jaskier in his tent that night, just so he could worship every inch of the bard— my bard, Geralt had said.

He doesn’t remember all of the moments that came after, either. He doesn’t remember the first time he said I love you, the first time Jaskier said it back. He doesn't remember all the nights they've spent wrapped in each other's arms or the mornings they spent kissing one another to full wakefulness. He doesn't remember the time they slow danced to no music in the woods, and the time he helped Jaskier bake Ciri blueberry tarts. He doesn't remember vowing that he'd never want anyone other than Jaskier after their first big fight as a pair— a fight that left Jaskier afraid and unsure about their future. He doesn't remember promising that he'd never leave Jaskier ever again.

Geralt doesn't remember any of it, any of what they had.

Geralt doesn't remember them.

"Yen?" Geralt says softly, and Jaskier looks into his eyes again, doesn't even know when he stopped, and he's no longer looking at Jaskier, he's looking elsewhere. Jaskier turns to see Yennefer standing in Geralt's line of sight, and she's looking right back at him, and Jaskier turns back to Geralt, and oh—

There's that look... that look that he hasn't seen in far too long, that same look he was beginning to believe he'd never have to see again.

That warmhearted look only reserved for Yennefer, the same one Geralt used to have on his face every time they were in a room together back when he was... in love with her.

"Oh," Jaskier says aloud, because of course. Of course, Geralt didn't just lose the memories of their relationship, he lost the memories of everything else, as well. He doesn't know that he and Yennefer are more co-parents and best friends now, more than anything.

There was that one unforgettable night between the three of them, mere months ago, after they'd drunk far too much ale, but they had vowed to never mention it again. Not because they regretted it, but because it would complicate things.

As it turns out, there was no use in avoiding the subject altogether because here they are now, in a complicated situation.

Because Geralt doesn't remember what he had with Jaskier, but he does remember what he had with Yennefer. He remembers loving her.

Jaskier's hands begin to tremble where they rest upon Geralt's cheek, and that's what gets Geralt to look at him again. He doesn't know why it happens, but Jaskier moves away at once as if he'd been shocked, as if Geralt's gaze threatens to burn him alive. Maybe it does. Jaskier surely feels like he's been set alight.

The bard stands up straight and glances off to the side. There are still tears in his eyes, but not for the same reason as they were before. "Very well, then," he says, and he despises the way he sounds.

He chances a glance around the room at last, and everyone is there. Everyone in the keep is in the room, and he doesn't know why he expected anything less. Of course, they'd all be here for Geralt, and of course, they'd all be there to witness the worst moment in Jaskier's life.

They're looking at him with... with pity in their eyes, and Jaskier despises that too. He wipes at his wet cheeks with the back of his palm, and clears his throat.

"I'll just... I'll just go, then."

"Jask," someone says, and it's Yennefer, and she's reaching out to touch him. Whatever look he gives the mage must not be the most pleasant, because she deflates immediately, and Jaskier's never seen such a thing from her.

He must be screaming I hate you in every language through his eyes alone.

He knows it's unfair, this isn't her fault, but he can't help the way he feels towards her at this moment. He can't.

He can't help any of the feelings coursing through him. It's too much, he needs space, and so he takes it. He leaves the room, and no one follows.

Good, he doesn't want them to.

Jaskier needs to be alone. He needs room to think, and he needs to stop crying, and he needs this feeling like he's being ripped apart from the inside to go away, and he needs— he needs Geralt.

He needs his wit— the witcher, given that he's no longer Jaskier's anymore, is he?

Maybe this is a sign that he was never meant to be Jaskier's at all.

[cas-kingdom]

“For someone who’s totally selling the monster-killing, impassive mystique, you’re surprisingly kid-friendly.”

"For someone who’s totally selling the monster-killing, impassive mystique, you’re surprisingly kid-friendly.”

Geralt looked disgusted for a moment, but then that seemed to be a daily thing he had no control over. Still, he turned back to stoking the fire with an added warmth in his slowly-thawing heart that he knew wasn’t coming from the flame. “Thanks,” he grumbled, unsure if Jaskier had even meant it as a compliment.

“Seriously though, I’m surprised she’s got all four limbs...ten fingers, ten toes...” Akela giggled as Jaskier pinched each tiny digit, and he laughed, reverting back to the baby talk Geralt had to refrain from commenting on. Though he was genuinely glad Jaskier seemed to like the baby, it was still an introduction most unbefitting of him. Of a witcher. He’d known Jaskier for some years, not quite maintaining much of a relationship but certainly becoming at least acquaintances. There was obviously something there, because Geralt had gone searching for the bard purposefully, with no reason other than a subconscious desire to have him meet the baby he’d come to be guardian over. He wasn’t completely sure why the desire had existed. Perhaps he was in need of support after leaving Kaer Morhen and the welcomed assistance of his brothers. Perhaps he was aching for a real fight but needed to ensure the baby’s safety first. Or, perhaps, just simply, he wanted Jaskier to meet her.

Whatever it was, he didn’t think on it, unsure what that would help.

“You know what?” Jaskier had ceased his baby talk, propping the baby on his knee. She was little over four months now and was working on keeping her head up by herself, but Jaskier still had one hand supporting her. “I see the resemblance.”

Despite himself, Geralt scoffed. “That’s impossible, all things considered.”

“What’s ‘all things’?” Jaskier asked. His eyes suddenly widened. “You stole her? Geralt, please don’t tell me you stole this child.”

“What? No, I—” Geralt glanced over his shoulder to glare. “Jaskier, you did not believe she was mine biologically.”

Jaskier shrugged, allowing the baby to chew on the strings of his tunic. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe I thought they’d...reversed...it?”

“You are as brainless as you look, Bard.” Geralt turned his back on him once again, shaking his head to himself.

“Alright, alright, I hadn’t really thought that true.” He bounced the baby on his knee. “You can’t blame me. Witcher best friend says “come meet my new baby” and all kinds of things run through your head. I still haven’t landed on one answer, you know.”

To save himself from the incessant blathering, Geralt roughly interrupted with the answer Jaskier was searching for with little use of his words and brain. “She’d been abandoned, so I took her,” he informed the bard monotonously. He’d had to explain this a number of times, mostly to the witchers of Kaer Morhen when they’d continuously asked him to repeat it, just to ensure they were hearing right. The words still hadn’t quite lost their discomfort.

“So...” Jaskier took a second. “You did steal her?” The look the witcher sent him froze his blood and he removed one hand from the baby to hold it, palm up, in his direction. “Joking,” he assured him. Geralt didn’t look very assured. Still, Jaskier continued, figuring the baby in his arms was enough leverage to escape bodily harm. “Why did you take her? I mean, sure, I’d do it, but you—” He paused for a moment, evidently thinking over his words. “You know what? Never mind. It really doesn’t matter.”

“You think it’s a bad idea.”

Jaskier contorted his face into one of deep thought, silent for a few blissful seconds before he opened his mouth once more. “I don’t, actually,” he decided on. Geralt’s hand paused in its stoking. “I get that you can’t really fight everything that goes bump in the night with a baby on board...but in the long run, I think this might be good for you. Got to start looking out for yourself at some point, right?”

“Hm.” Vesemir had said something similar.

“Yeah, you ‘hm’ away. Baby and I will have a wonderful conversation about all the child-proof adventures we’re going to go on as a trio.”

“A trio?”

“What’s her name, by the way? Does she have one? Because I have a baby name list somewhere...let me find—”

“Akela,” Geralt said. The name rolled off his tongue, the only familiarity about this situation that brought an ease to his battle-hardened soul. He’d spent countless nights since he’d found her, on his back, the baby sprawled across his chest as she slept and he whispered the name to himself, wondering how many more times he’d speak it. 

“Huh,” Jaskier said, obviously finished with his mental criticising of the name the witcher had chosen. “That’s good enough. Though I think Jaskier Jr. has more of a ring to it.”

Witcher Masterpost

send me the first sentence of a fanfic and i’ll write the next five, except i don’t know when to stop writing so i guarantee there’ll be more than five