#it intimidates me I think it might tear me into pieces and put my innards on display

[bookwyrminspiration]

the desire to read loveless by alice oseman vs the near certainty that it would absolutely eviscerate me mind body and soul

[hiddendreamer67]

Tears of Fear- The Witcher

Summary: Geralt wakes up to Jaskier crying over his ‘corpse’ and realizes Jaskier is afraid of him.

Word count: 2,102

Had a lot of fun with this, it’s actually my first witcher fic! Feel free to send in more prompts from my bingo card below! Also check out my writing blog @hiddendreamerwriting for more of my work!

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Jaskier was crying.

This was the first thing Geralt processed as he slowly began to wake up from his restless slumber. He was sobbing like a babe, making Geralt cringe as he heard the bard all but wipe his nose on Geralt’s shoulder.

Quickly Geralt became aware of a few other important factors, grimacing through the spike of pain that came rushing back to him. His ribs were definitely cracked, he could feel them slowly melding together beneath his chest. Geralt’s leg was on fire, bent at an angle no human- or witcher- bones should bend. His abdomen felt torn to shreds, and if he looked down Geralt was sure his innards were being exposed to the outside world.

There was a pounding in his skull, a side effect of bashing his skull against a rock, if he recalled correctly. Being used as a ragdoll by a Griffin was not an experience he hoped to encounter again. Had he killed it? He hoped he killed it, for the sake of not doing this twice.

Taking another assessment of his wounds, Geralt knew they would be fatal for a mortal man. Overkill, really; but he’d live. Maybe.

“Fuck.” Geralt hissed, and all of a sudden Jaskier gave a shriek right in his ear, quickly scurrying back from Geralt’s form.

And this was when Geralt realized a third important piece of information: Geralt took in a big whiff of air, recognizing a scent that had been present ever since he woke up.

Jaskier was afraid.

In all the years they had travelled together, Jaskier had never once shown fear towards Geralt- and now, the man reeked of it. It was the witcher’s fault, he assumed. He had let the bard get too close. Seeing Geralt in the throes of a proper battle, seeing the witcher in his primal beast mode as he threw himself and the griffin off the cliff, it had awoken that self-preservation instinct in Jaskier. Finally, Jaskier recognized he was a monster.

“Melitele’s tits, what the fuck?!” Jaskier shrieked again, clawing briefly at the tree behind him to gain distance before seeming to get a grip. He clutched at his heart, which Geralt could hear beating far too rapidly. “I- you- how the fuck- I thought you were dead!”

“Not… yet.” Geralt grit his teeth, growling to get through the pain. “Potion bag. Blue.”

Thankfully, even in his fearful state Jaskier seemed to take some form of pity on him. That, or Jaskier was too frightened to not do as the witcher said. The second was more likely as Jaskier quickly dug through the bag, grabbing the potion and pouring it into Geralt’s mouth with trembling hands.

Geralt grunts his appreciation, feeling the potion take effect. It wasn’t playing nice with the potion already in his system, but Geralt would survive.

“You- you’re okay now, right?” Jaskier cursed under his breath, his tears welling up again. “Of course you’re bloody not, look at you! Why your intestines are all dangling, are they supposed to- oh gods, I’m gonna be sick.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt murmurs, closing his eyes.

“What can I do, Geralt?” Jaskier’s hand is hovering just above his shoulder, touching it briefly as if afraid now to even make contact with such a demon. “I’m no healer, you have to tell me what you need. Another potion? One of the glowy ones?”

“Jaskier.” Geralt repeats, feeling his body drifting back into unconsciousness. “Shut up.”

---

The next time Geralt wakes up, Jaskier is crying again.

This time not on him, thankfully. Instead he’s sniveling to himself across the clearing, head tucked between his knees. Geralt isn’t certain how long he’s been out, but before it was just past dusk and now only the faintest bit of moonlight trickles through the trees, indicating it’s well indo the night. Perhaps he had been unconscious an entire day.

“Jaskier.” Geralt calls, startling the bard into looking his way. That scent of fear is still there.

“Y-yes?” Jaskier hurries to make himself presentable, trying to peer through the darkness. He isn’t gifted with the same night vision Geralt has.

“Potion.” Geralt manages to spit the word out without sounding pathetic, so that’s a bonus. The only reason he’s awake now is yet another burst of pain, a clear sign the last potion wore off. He’s not feeling great about relying on intimidating his best friend to get him through the night.

“Right, right, yes, of course.” Jaskier stumbles to his feet, feeling around cautiously for the potions bag. “Yes, that would- that makes sense, right? You just need these and you’ll… oh shit, I can’t make out the shades in this light. Can you? Is this the right one?”

Jaskier trods over, placing one uncomfortably close to Geralt’s eyeball. He grunts.

“Geralt, in life or death situations you really need to use your words-”

“Yes.” Geralt huffs.

Jaskier sighs, pulling the cork and easing the mixture into Geralt’s mouth as he continues to ramble. “So, you’re going to be alright? Just a few of these to fix you right up? I hope. I didn’t check, didn’t want to… well forgive me for not wanting to see, you’re quite a sight Geralt.”

“Hmm.” Geralt thought that was putting it lightly. He had been run out of towns for less.

“Are you going to… need more of these?” Jaskier asked, his scent spiking as he peered into the potions bag. “I don’t- if you tell me what to gather, I can try, but I’m not certain what it is you witchers put in these. Nearest town is a day’s ride, but I doubt roach will let me leave your side, and of course I’m not eager either-”

Geralt didn’t reply. Before Jaskier had finished his sentence, he had passed out once more.

---

The third time Geralt woke, Jaskier wasn’t crying.

The sun was high in the sky, illuminating the bard who was sitting against a tree, strumming a tuneless chord that was far from cheerful. That bitter scent of fear lingered in the air. Regardless, Jaskier met Geralt’s gaze, giving the witcher a pitiful smile.

“You’re awake.” Jaskier stood up, setting his lute to the side. “Again. Not sure if you’ll even remember all this when you fully wake up. Potion, I assume?”

“Mmm.” Geralt made a noise of agreement, reassessing his wounds. He still felt like shit, but if he was willing to put up with a whole lot of pain Geralt could stand. He could take care of himself.

“Right then, here you are.” Jaskier was at his side in moments, pouring the potion down his throat. “That’s it, nice and easy. Wonder what this stuff tastes like, anyhow- for your sake I hope it’s blueberry or something.”

Geralt didn’t bother giving that a response, swallowing down the last of it. He could feel it taking hold, easing his mangled body back together like the mutated atrocity it was.

“Well, nighty night, dear witcher.” Jaskier sighed.

Geralt looked at the bard. The man looked pale, clearly lacking proper sleep. It was clear he had been neglecting himself in favor of staying at Geralt’s side, frightened of what might happen if Geralt woke up alone.

“Jaskier.” Geralt caught the bard’s attention. “I’m fine.”

Jaskier spared a glance at the rest of Geralt’s body, grimacing. “Well you and I have different definitions of fine, I can tell you that. Your witcher drugs seem to be helping, i’ll be the first to admit, but I can assure you that is not how a man’s stomach should look-”

“I’ll heal.” Geralt cut him off. “I can manage. You’re free to leave.”

Jaskier shook his head. “Geralt, my dear, it is becoming increasingly obvious you have suffered brain damage.” Jaskier assured him, brushing the hair out of Geralt’s face. “No doubt about it, you’re as loony as a duck.”

Geralt gritted his teeth. “I’m of perfectly sound mind.”

“Oh really?” Jaskier’s dramatic attitude made it clear he wasn’t believing a word. “Because ‘perfectly sound’ individuals don’t ask to be abandoned in the woods with fatal injuries. Perhaps if there were a danger about - which would be very valiant and very stupid of you, I must add- , but the only danger here is the rotting corpse of a griffin you conquered several days ago. Which stinks, by the way.”

“There’s no reason for you to stay.” Geralt insisted, and Jaskier looked as though he’d been slapped across the face.

“No- no reason?!” Jaskier sputtered. “I thought after all these years you’d have a bit of faith in your best friend! The bar’s a lot lower than I thought if- if leaving your friend to die is acceptable behavior to you. Gods, I’m glad i’m not the one injured-”

“Shut UP, Jaskier!” Geralt all but roars, and it’s a testament to Jaskier’s bravery that the call of a monster doesn’t increase the smell of his fear. Jaskier isn’t getting it. He refuses to understand. Why must he make Geralt spell out the painful truth?

“...I know you want to leave.” Geralt murmurs. “I won’t hold you here any longer.”

Jaskier pauses, taking a moment to try and read Geralt’s expression. “What in all the glorious fields of the world makes you think I want to leave?”

Geralt grits his teeth. “Because you’re afraid of me.”

It’s quiet just a moment too long.

“What?” Jaskier gives a half laugh, clearly torn between making a joke and treating this seriously. “Geralt, I know you’ve got a lovely head wound, but think about what you’ve said for just a moment. Why would I be following you across half the continent if I was afraid? I’ve had plenty of opportunities to scurry away with my tail between my legs, but no! I treasure your company, bland as it may be at times, and not just for the stories we experience.” Jaskier grimaced, looking at the griffin carcass across the way. “Not that i’m particularly fond of this particular one, I must admit.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Geralt murmurs, perplexed for a moment when he can sense Jaskier isn’t lying. “I can smell it on you.”

“You can- so that’s just a witcher thing, huh? Smelling fear?” Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “Every new thing about witchers I learn is so bizarre. Lovely, mind you, but- wow. Alright, fine then. So how long have you been smelling this fear on me? Have I been scurrying after you terrified out of my wits and not even knowing it?”

“No.” Geralt admitted.

“Ha! So you see?” Jaskier looked rather proud of himself. “It mustn’t be fear then, you’ve just caught some part of my natural musk. Er, not that my musk is particularly frightened- you know what I mean. Your witcher senses fail you, my dear fellow.”

“No.” Geralt growled, frustrated. “It was new. Few days ago, after the attack.”

“... oh.” Jaskier froze, a haunted expression taking over his usually cheerful features. The bard took a deep breath, meeting Geralt’s gaze. “Geralt, you wonderful witcher... you are one of the most foolish people on the entire continent.”

Geralt gave a low warning growl.

“I have never, ever been afraid of you, and I never will.” Jaskier insisted, his jaw set in his declaration. “And you know what? Yes, I was very afraid that evening, and every day since. But I was afraid for the same reason I stayed by your unconscious form all these days, and it’s the same reason I cried over what I thought was your corpse. I’m afraid of losing you, Geralt.”

The witcher paused, never expecting such a response.

“I sat by, trying my damndest to nurse you back to health, not knowing what the hell I could even do.” Jaskier had tears once again pooling in the corners of his eyes, but he brushed them away in a hurry. “Each time you went back to your slumber, I didn’t even know if you’d wake again. But each time you were conscious gave me hope, made me realize you were still holding on. I know witchers are hardier than the rest of us, but good lord you really gave fate a run for her money, Geralt!”

“It takes more than that to kill a witcher.” Geralt furrowed his brow, not sure how to deal with this level of concern. He had never had another person so invested in whether or not he died. Even with his fellow witchers, it was always common knowledge that one day they’d die along the Path.

“And I never want to learn exactly how much it takes.” Jaskier shuddered at the thought.

[merryfortune]

Vrains Rare Pair Week - Day 6b

Day 6 / Dec 28 - Bad Pick-up Lines and/or Puns / Playing Games

·         Ship: Kengo/Ryoken

·         Warnings: Gunplay, sexual references 

  Revolver stared down the nozzle of Blood Shepherd’s laser. It had undoubtedly been hacked into the game; it suited his aesthetic well and Revolver was certain that if it fired, it fired for real, that a snarky little green light would be able to tear him to pieces, burning both his Avatar and his body.

  Nonetheless, Revolver stared down such a real and valid threat with a cocky grin. His hands were held high in mock surrender as he waited for Blood Shepherd’s demands of him. He already had his own concocted and couldn’t wait to inflict them upon Blood Shepherd. Regardless of whether or not Blood Shepherd wanted such things.

  “I want copies of your cards,” Blood Shepherd told him in a stone-cold tone of voice, “the ones you were able to use against the Wind Ignis and trump him. I’m going to get my revenge on that fucker Lightning and to do it, I need those old ass cards which aren’t in the system anymore.”

  “Sounds like a fine plan,” Revolver drawled, “I thought your initial match against the Light Ignis was magnificent, personally. But yes, a shame about how it ended.”

  Blood Shepherd, forever emotionless behind that mask so tight, did not reply. Those memories – the memories of being destroyed – were still fresh. He could feel the prickle of light beneath his skin. He could feel his blood crackle and shatter, even though these were just memories incited by mere suggestion of it. How pathetic.

  “Are you willing to meet my demands or not, Revolver?” Blood Shepherd finally spoke; his voice so cutting like a dagger.

  Revolver smirked. “Of course, but only if I can put my own little twist on it. You know I don’t like to bow to others.”

  “Make your statements.”

  “Let’s play a game.” Revolver suggested, all too eager with a devious edge to himself. “Let’s play a little game of… Russian Roulette, it’s a favourite of mine but all too often, I don’t get the thrill I’m looking for. I have to satisfy myself with safer alternatives. But I’m sure you would let me play the game I yearn for.”

  There something akin to lust in Revolver’s voice. Blood Shepherd honestly detested it, but he was intrigued by the proposition anyway. He and Revolver were of similar strains. They were uncomfortably bonded in this world which was so trusting of artificial intelligence. Not to mention, they were both roused by danger.

  “Alright.” Blood Shepherd agreed. “If I win, I get the cards. What do you want if you win?”

  “Your body.” Revolver said with a flippant hand gesture and a glint in his grey eyes.

  Blood Shepherd stiffened. Again, hard to read by his face, the rest of his body language had to suffice to communicate wordlessly but Revolver was quite certain that the reaction was repulsion. That amused him.

  “Too forward?” Revolver asked.

  “Perhaps.” Blood Shepherd said, his voice dropping a few octaves, but Revolver wasn’t intimidated.

  “Alright, just a kiss then.” Revolver said. “Oh, and to pick our winner, the winner should be the one to get shot.”

  “You’re a goddamn masochist.” snarled Blood Shepherd.

  Revolver flashed him yet another shit-eating grin. “A sadomasochist actually. So, do you want to play or not? Otherwise, you’ve squandered my time and I’m logging out. I have better things to do than banter with someone not willing to put out.”

  “Very well then. I accept your conditions, you strange bastard.” Blood Shepherd huffed.

  “Fantastic, well, you can go first then.” Revolver said.

  Blood Shepherd drew in closer and his gun changed slightly. There were now three slots in the barrel now, rather than five. He spun it and Revolver counted the clunky clicks. He relished the noises. He hadn’t a doubt in his mind that Blood Shepherd intended to cheat in this little match, but Revolver didn’t mind. It was a win-win for him given his affinity for pain and pleasure and how blurred such things were.

  Then, Blood Shepherd brandished his little pistol with alien confidence. There was no way of confirming his true feelings. He remained of stern shoulders and kept his head held high. If he was afraid, there was no way for Revolver to know. Blood Shepherd kept it all hidden and Revolver found that… alluring.

  Revolver watched, with sadistic eagerness as Blood Shepherd put his weapon to his head. His hand was steady, and his finger slowly inched around the trigger. Revolver felt his innards curl into each other and knot as cruel glee filled him. Finally, Blood Shepherd pulled the trigger.

  He held his breath. He did not wince or flinch. He was ready and willing to take the punishment. But it did not come. Neither did a stringent breath of relief. Blood Shepherd then handed over the pistol.

  “How unlucky for you…” Revolver mused.

  Blood Shepherd had nothing to say to such a thing. Not when it was voiced in such a tone of voice; such a vulgar coo. So, Blood Shepherd remained eternally stoic with his fists by his side and his gaze, piercing and judgemental, unto Revolver who was slightly occupied.

  Revolver assessed the weapon. It wasn’t as weighty as he thought it would be. He felt as though a sudden surge of wind would be able to knock it off course, but it had the virtue of being loaded with lasers rather than bullets and light was not so easily avoided unless refracted.

  Revolver swallowed. It was not a nervous act. No, not at all. In fact, it was significant to his great amusement to it all. He wondered – no, he hoped – that his luck would succeed where Blood Shepherd’s had failed. He licked his lips. And where Blood Shepherd had trod carefully, Revolver was far too reckless.

  He put the pistol’s nose to his forehead and he grinned. Without fumble, Revolver pulled the trigger and in the corner of his eyes, he could see it. He could see the grandiose flash of emerald light and Blood Shepherd’s heart skipped a beat. Revolver’s grin grew wider and wider. His stomach dropped.

  The light pierced Revolver’s head and Blood Shepherd’s stomach lurched. His eyes shied away and then he heard it. Revolver’s laughter. He was laughing and so, Blood Shepherd’s gaze returned to him. He was untouched by the laser’s shot.

  “You didn’t think I wasn’t prepared for such a thing, were you?” Revolver asked. “I’m already a step ahead of you, Kengo. I’m untouchable, at least in the Link VRAINS anyway.”

  “You rat. You preach one thing but live another.” Blood Shepherd snarled.

  “I’m horny,” Revolver informed him as he handed back the pistol, “not suicidal.”

  Blood Shepherd likely could have continued snapping at him, but he was afraid that such a thing might be construed as concern in the mind of the Hanoi Leader. So, his tongue stayed put despite the lashing he very much wanted to deliver unto Revolver. He then returned his little gun to his inventory where it was safe from possible purges, at least for now.

  “So, Blood Shepherd, may I claim my prize? I won the game after all.” Revolver asked, and he tapped his bottom lip.

  “Do as you please.” Blood Shepherd huffed.

  “With pleasure.” Revolver said.

  He was the one to close the gap between them. The distance had always been strangely amicable up until now but as Revolver went onto his tip toes, and placed his hands onto Blood Shepherd’s firm chest, the distance became heinous. And so, Revolver claimed his prize and Blood Shepherd was indifferent to it as Revolver sweetly, amorously with closed eyes and a sigh on his lips, kissed him.

  The kiss which ensued was drawn out. Or maybe it just felt that way because Blood Shepherd was not the most willing partner in such an affair. As part of a game, or otherwise. But Revolver enjoyed himself. And that was the main thing – for him at least, whilst Blood Shepherd counted the milliseconds until Revolver broke off the kiss. His lips tingled, and he smiled impishly as he returned to the ball of his heel.

  “Enjoy yourself?” Blood Shepherd asked.

  “Perhaps.” Revolver said but his expression betrayed himself.

  For that reason, Revolver almost missed his prior Avatar. He wanted to be just as enigmatic as Blood Shepherd, even if he had found himself changing within his headspace and had wanted to reflect that in the post of the destruction that the Tower of Hanoi had spurred.

  “I shall now take my leave.” Revolver said and the smile, the tingles, upon his lips began to fade.

  “Very well then. I can’t say its been a pleasure.” Blood Shepherd said.

  With that, Revolver pardoned himself. His Avatar shattered into a haze of blue-white data before turning yellow. His log-out data erased completely in the system and before Blood Shepherd’s view.

  Blood Shepherd turned away from where Revolver had once stood. He began to cycle through his plans. He could attempt to hack the SOL Tech Data Bank since summoning Revolver for a favour had fallen through. But the Data Bank option was strenuous. Sol Tech no longer permitted him to root around in it and was now constantly updating. Blood Shepherd resolved to attempt such a thing again; perhaps he could try to recruit Playmaker’s Ally – his so-called shield – to help him.

  But, as Blood Shepherd walked away with his thoughts and adjusting his Duel Disc, he discovered something in his inventory. He found those bastard cards he wanted in his deck. He cursed himself for not realising that Revolver had likely given him them during the kiss.