#metaphorical kikimora in the room

[kayte-overmoon]

Daisy Chain - Part 1

Next Part

Alpha Geralt/Omega Jaskier

Rated E

Pregnancy AU

Full tags on AO3

Geralt knows the omega is pregnant the second he sidles up to Geralt’s table in the Posada pub.

He’s not showing under the obnoxiously colored doublet he wears, but Geralt can smell the twinge in his scent that tips him off. Geralt hasn’t met many pregnant men in his life, surprisingly, but something keys him in almost immediately: a foreign sweetness to his scent. Even omega men still have a deepness to their scent, but this boy smells like a damned bakery.

It's subtle to anyone without a heightened sense of smell. Geralt would be surprised if he even knows of the pregnancy himself.

That—more than the omega’s grating personality or the endless stream of nonsense spilling from his mouth—makes him want to get as far away from the bard as possible. He’s aware he’s in perhaps the most dangerous line of work one could have. People close to him tend to get caught up in all sorts of magical and monstrous business. He doesn’t need the debt of another life on his hands, let alone two.

As luck would have it, the shiny young man only clings onto Geralt even more fervently.

Geralt’s first thought upon waking from unconsciousness at the Edge of the World is for the omega and his pup. It only takes a sniff and a touch to the omega’s wrist (currently bound between their backs along with Geralt’s) to know they are both alive and well, if a little anxious. He’s shockingly bitey, if a little unwieldy. Geralt has no doubt that if he hadn’t been there to shut him up, he likely wouldn’t have made it out in one piece.

Granted, he wouldn’t have even been in that situation had he heeded Geralt’s dismissal, but noooo.

Geralt holds himself back from biting the elves’ heads off—he’s tired, and poor, and irritated, and more than a little worried about his new accidental friend—and gets them out with a shiny new lute for the bard to replace the one the elves had broken.

Geralt means to ditch the omega—Jaskier, as he learns—as soon as they make it to the nearest town, but the way his eyes widen and his scent turns sour when Geralt tries to leave him behind makes it impossible.

So, Geralt gains a traveling companion. A companion and a half, to be exact.

It’s several weeks later when one of them brings up the metaphorical kikimora in the room.

They’re sitting at the fire Geralt built in a clearing that’s just a bit too open for his comfort. Usually he tends to find the closest approximation to a cave to hole up in for the night, but Jaskier has made his complaints known. Frequently and loudly.

The bard likes his sunlight and detests tree roots digging into his back as he sleeps, so Geralt’s begun making allowances. He tells himself it’s to keep the bard from nagging his ear off. (Secretly, he knows it’s because of the way the omega’s scent turns buttery and sweet every time Geralt acquiesces.)

Over dinner, Jaskier clears his throat once, then twice. “I… I assume you know,” he says.

Geralt looks up from his rabbit leg—unseasoned and a bit dry, but less gamey than he’d been expecting. He glances at Jaskier’s hands, where he’s polished off his own rabbit leg and pushes the remains of the spitted rabbit toward him. “Eat more,” Geralt says.

Jaskier rolls his eyes but takes the meat, pulling off a bit more for himself but leaving the rest for Geralt. He huffs. “You know, don’t you?”

Geralt looks down the bard’s body. He still wasn’t showing, yet. He’s not sure when, exactly, that starts to happen during pregnancy, but Geralt can’t help but steal glances. “About that?”

Jaskier nods, eyes wide. His scent edges into something unpleasant. Hesitant, cautious.

Geralt wrinkles his nose. “I smelled it when you walked up. Figured you probably didn’t even know.”

Jaskier is clearly mildly grossed out by Geralt’s admission that he’d smelled the pregnancy on him, but he nods again, nonetheless. “I knew. I knew the minute it took, really.”

Geralt frowns. “Then why are you here?”

Jaskier blinks slowly for a minute before taking a deep breath. “I wanted adventure. To see the Continent. Take part in its pleasures.”

Geralt smirks—or as close as he can get to it. “Took too much pleasure, did you?”

Pink floods the bard’s cheeks. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He looks away, the fire lighting the side of his face as he stares into the woods. “It happened before I set out.”

“You chose a life on the road for you and your child?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Beats the alternative.”

Geralt studies him for a long moment. The young man never minds the attention, but now, he’s squirming under Geralt’s perusal. After a while, Geralt finally asks, “What happened to you?”

Picking up on Geralt’s bristling, Jaskier snorts and waves a hand. “Nothing like you’re thinking, I’m sure. The sire was one of my close friends growing up. We weren’t bonded, though he fancied himself in love with me.” A fond look crosses his face, softening the line that always seems to stick between his brows. “We dallied for months without consequence.” He laughs, sudden and bitter, looking down at his own stomach, hand straying to the area below his navel. “And then… consequence.”

“You think he wouldn’t have taken care of you?” Geralt asks. “Made an honest man out of you, or what have you?”

Jaskier chuckled softly. “It wasn’t him I was worried about.”

“Your family, then,” Geralt says.

“Aye.” Jaskier grits his teeth. “The Count would not approve of his oldest son bonding with a stable boy.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts. It was new information, but he’s not surprised. He’d suspected Jaskier was some form of nobility; he was too well-dressed and well-spoken to be anything but, and he was too young to have learned it all elsewhere. “So, you left?”

Jaskier sucks his teeth. “Better them think I’m a flake running from responsibility rather than a hussy who will lift his skirts for any man who smiles at him.”

Geralt bristles and wants to protest, but he knows their ilk. People like that would rather feed their son to the wolves than let him be happy with someone below his station. As rash as his decision had been, it wasn’t the wrong one, if he wanted freedom. If he wanted any chance at raising his child.

They lapse into silence—something he only gets from Jaskier when he’s eating or asleep, and even then, he will speak around a mouthful of stew or talk back to his dreams. Jaskier lets himself be coerced into finishing off the rabbit and half of Geralt’s own waterskin. 

“I would thank you,” Jaskier says after they’ve eaten. He’s reclining on his bedroll like it’s a chaise lounge, tipping his head back to look at the stars emerging above them. “For not judging me. Or encouraging me to go back and face my mistakes, or whatever the hell else.”

Geralt snorts.

“Right,” Jaskier says. “Forgot who I was speaking to.”

Geralt shakes his head and lays back in his own bedroll. He folds his hands over his stomach, covertly breathing in Jaskier’s scent as the apprehension melts away into contentment. He likes Jaskier’s scent, he realizes suddenly. After only a few weeks in his company, he’s found himself seeking it out in crowds or taverns, following him and making sure he’s not gotten himself in trouble.

It tells him things about Jaskier that the bard has yet to reveal himself. It sours when he accidentally eats any sort of green vegetable. It deepens when the sky is overcast and positively simmers when it rains. It mellows when he’s picking at his lute or humming under his breath, the same way it does when Geralt finds him again after finishing a contract, like it pleases him that the witcher has returned. It sweetens when he’s dancing with pretty girls but absolutely blooms any time a man either taller or wider than him pays him the barest amount of attention. And, completely by accident, Geralt knows how he smells when he’s been freshly bedded. Jaskier had been covert about sneaking off with the lumberjack’s son a few towns back, but Geralt had smelled the sweat and slick and satisfaction on him the moment he’d returned to their room at the inn.

Geralt’s still trying to work his way through how that one makes him feel.

“Your stable boy,” he says after a few moments. He hears the rustle of Jaskier’s bedroll that tells him he’s turned his head toward Geralt. “He knows?”

“He knows I have wanderlust,” Jaskier says. Geralt hears the click of his throat as he swallows. “He knows I care for him, but I care for myself more. He knows we never could be more than what we were, and we were both better off ending things before they got too serious.”

“He doesn’t know he’s going to be a father?”

The scent of tears stains the night air between them. “He never will. He deserves a life, someone to love him and provide him children who won’t be torn apart by the nobility. He’s better off not knowing.”

Geralt grunts in acknowledgement, unsure how to word what he wants to say. “Jaskier… I know you’re doing what you know is best for you. And for…” He makes a vague hand gesture, not sure if the bard is even looking at him still. A soft snort tells him he is. “And I want you to know… I will keep you safe. Both of you. The Path is hardly a comfortable place for a human, let alone a child. But when you’re with me… I don’t want you to be afraid.”

Jaskier sniffs and lets out a soft laugh. “Geralt, you big lug. I’d hug you if I weren’t so comfortable over here.”

“Good thing you’re comfortable, then.”

Jaskier laughs harder, the sound soothing the ache in Geralt’s chest.

⚘⚘⚘

Several weeks later, the morning sickness begins. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Jaskier insists. He waves a hand to dismiss Geralt but just ends up whacking him in the chest as his stomach heaves and he continues emptying his breakfast into the brush beside the road.

Geralt stands by awkwardly, holding Roach’s reins in one hand and a waterskin in the other for when Jaskier is finished. They’d just left town after Geralt finished a contract. They’d barely made it to the main road leading out of town before Jaskier rushed over to the roadside and retched.

“Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier pants. He stands upright again, rubbing his stomach absently, his hand encountering the tiniest of bumps—more like he’d eaten a good dinner than anything else. He’s gone pale under the light tan he’s picked up from all their traveling the past two months. “You do not enjoy soft cheeses, do you, pup?”

“Healer,” Geralt says. Jaskier looks at him, dabbing at his mouth with the corner of his handkerchief as he takes the waterskin from Geralt. “You need a healer.”

“I do not, Geralt.” Jaskier takes a few tentative sips of water. They both relax as his stomach seems to settle at the cool drink. “I told you I found a witch who specializes in omega male pregnancies when I first left home. She told me this would be normal. Omega males can bear children, but they’re not necessarily going to enjoy it.”

Geralt hums. He has half a mind to track down Yennefer of Vengerberg, the sorceress he’d once saved from making a very bad decision involving a djinn. They’d become friends after a short but intense affair where they ended up breaking each other’s hearts. Now they stayed in touch, calling on one another for aid and the occasional romp when they were both off their stride enough to give in. He hasn’t spoken to her in several years, but she would know how to help, or at least know someone who could. She was smart, and resourceful, and had friends in high (and low) places. 

“Quit your frowning!” Jaskier pokes Geralt in the cheek. “I’m sure this will be the worst of it.”

⚘⚘⚘

It’s not the worst of it.

Jaskier gets sicker the bigger his belly grows. By the time he has to start wearing his doublets open all the time because the laces dig in, he has dark circles under his eyes, and he’s lost a considerable amount of weight. It doesn’t help that traveling with a pregnant omega is hell on Geralt’s reputation. He can hardly get work to keep the three of them (plus Roach) fed.

Geralt insists they stay in town, even when the inns they had to offer were shabby at best. At least they keep Jaskier and his pup out of the open air, where anyone or anything could cause them harm.

For the time being, they’re safe.

⚘⚘⚘

There comes a point when Geralt realizes this may be a more permanent arrangement than he originally thought.

He’s aware he’s growing overfond of the pregnant omega following him around for the past three or so months, but by the time summer’s heat has swelled past its zenith and the nights grow chilled, Jaskier’s steady stream of chatter and his music have become the background hum of Geralt’s life. The Path has always been quiet, lonely. For the better part of the past century that’s been the case. Jaskier has changed that in a matter of weeks.

However, it doesn’t change the risks involved with Geralt’s profession.

It was only a matter of time before Jaskier got dragged into it.

The contract was nothing out of the ordinary to start out. A farmer kept finding her cows butchered by something with claws big enough to nearly rend the poor things in half, their insides feasted on by the time she gathered her farmhands and went out to follow the sound of animal screaming. The farm was right on the edge of the forest, a creek running along the east side. It was the perfect location for any number of lower monsters. 

Overall, it was pretty standard, as far as witchering went.

Then the endrega swarm caught him off guard.

He took a few brutal bites to the leg and shoulder before he realized he would need the help of his potions. The sun had set, and the moon was only a slim crescent above. Even with his witcher senses, he could hardly see a few meters in front of him. And the bastards were coming at him from every angle.

He fumbled for his potion sash with one hand as he ran one of the giant lizard-like creatures through with his sword. He barely stopped to confirm he’d grabbed the correct vial—he knew them all by feel, had a careful order he kept them in on his belt—before ripping the cork off with his teeth and downing it in one swallow.

It was quick, tedious work after that. There were 15 endrega in the end—more than he was used to fighting, but not unheard of. They’d been having mild winters of late. Beast populations—monster and otherwise—tend to go up when they’re not being frozen out every year. Once he lobbed the head off the last one, he set fire to the corpses and sniffed out their nest to burn that as well. By the time he was done, the smell of burning flesh singed with sulfur was pungent enough for the whole village to smell.

The farmer paid him well for his efforts, but even a woman strong-willed enough to try and fight off the endrega on her own was shy to look him in the eye. She was a strong, brave woman for her portion, but Geralt could smell the bitter tang of her fear as she handed over his hefty earnings. The potion was still in his system, so his eyes were black as pitch and his skin was deathly pale and run through with crawling lines. He was covered in soot and guts. He couldn’t blame her for her trembling hands.

A wave of vertigo hits him when he leaves the farm, so strong he staggers and nearly falls to his knees. Only then does he notice the throbbing pain in his left thigh, the hot drip of blood staining him from the knee down.

There’s a chunk of his leg missing—nothing life threatening, but hurts like a bitch, and even with the potion, he’s healing slower than he’d like.

No matter. He’s had worse. He’s got a needle in his medical kit. He’ll patch himself up, sew the gash closed, and be on his way. It won’t be pretty but—

Oh.

Right.

He left his medical kit with Jaskier.

Jaskier, who’d gotten a nasty splinter on his hand and hadn’t stopped whining about it until Geralt plucked it out, applied a salve, and bandaged it. He’d left the kit with him out of spite, and to see the bard’s pout quiver at the edges as he tried not to smile.

Gods, Geralt is an idiot.

Jaskier could be in bed already. Fortune had favored them recently, so Geralt had been able to get them separate rooms joined by a single door. Maybe he left the medical kit in Geralt’s side of the room. Or maybe Jaskier was at the tavern, singing that gods-awful song he’d written about the Edge of the World that people seemed to love for some reason. Their inn has a back entrance that would let him avoid anyone else.

Jaskier was the only consideration.

Isn’t he always, though? Geralt thinks to himself.

He hobbles his way back to town, ignoring the insistent throb of his leg. The stairs up to the back entrance of the inn are a journey all their own—by the time he reaches the top, he’s dragging in breaths through clenched teeth and hissing them out just as quickly. Black dots flash in and out of his vision. It’s a miracle he even manages to make it to the door to his room.

He throws it open then collapses against it when he’s inside, focusing on his breathing so he doesn’t pass out before he deals with his leg. He’ll survive—he’s had far worse—but even witchers can’t overcome blood loss.

“Geralt?”

Shit.

The legs of Jaskier’s chair scrape against the floor as he jolts to his feet, his eyes wide in alarm. He’s in his sleeping clothes, his lute hastily set aside as he takes Geralt in. He was clearly picking at his lute, mindful of his bandaged finger, waiting up for Geralt to return. Why he couldn’t have done so in his own room is beyond Geralt.

Geralt can’t imagine what he must look like to the omega: hulking and imposing on a good day, with the added gore and the effects of his potions. He’s still got his sword out, apparently, and he hasn’t bothered to clean the endrega guts off it.

“Leave,” Geralt says through gritted teeth.

Jaskier doesn’t leave. “You’re hurt,” he says instead, taking a step closer.

“Stop.” 

Blessedly, he does.

Geralt pants for a moment. Speaking is taking all the energy he has left. “Med kit. Get it, then get out.”

Jaskier frowns. “I won’t leave you like this, Geralt.” He rummages around on the table in the corner before finding the pouch that contains the needle, thread, and bandages they keep on hand. 

Geralt considers him. Jaskier may be pregnant, but he’s still young and spry, and with Geralt’s leg still spitting blood into his boot, he could probably outrun Geralt right now. Geralt can’t snatch the kit from him without a fight. And with the wound on the back of his leg, it will be hard to mend himself. If Jaskier is stupid enough to offer, then Geralt’s tempted to indulge him. He can already feel his familiar scent seeping through the cracks in his mind, soothing him and tempting him in equal measure.

“Fine,” he grits out. He wobbles his way to the chair Jaskier had just vacated, but the bard stops him.

“Ah, ah. Bed. I won’t be able to reach it if you sit.”

Geralt can’t be bothered to care. His vision is swimming. He’s lost too much blood. If he were human—maybe even if he hadn’t drank his potions—he would have been unconscious by now, if not worse. He falls face-first onto the bed, not even bothering to take off his armor.

Vaguely, he hears ripping fabric and a drip of water. Jaskier prods at his leg. Eventually, he feels the sting of a needle and the unpleasant tug of thread through skin. He must doze off because the next thing he knows, his swords are being pulled from his back and he rears up, snarling at whoever tried to disarm him.

Jaskier jumps back, hands raised. His fingers are stained with dark blood. It’s on his sleep shirt, too, for which Geralt thinks he’ll get an earful come morning. Geralt scans the room beyond him, scenting the air to make sure they’re alone.

No threats. Only Jaskier, his scent tinged sour with worry.

“There, there, Geralt,” Jaskier says when he’s recovered from his shock. He drops his hands and rolls his eyes, shaking off being growled at by a witcher armed to the teeth and dripping with toxins. Utterly unbothered. “I’m only trying to make you more comfortable. Your trousers are ruined. I’m not certain of the immune response among witchers, but I imagine you are not totally incapable of contracting infections from poorly tended wounds. It’s shut now, I think. As well as I can get it. But you need to clean off if you expect to be able to walk on it tomorrow.”

Geralt stares at him as he eases himself back to his feet.

Jaskier raises a hand to his own cheek, forgetting, apparently, that he’s still covered in Geralt’s blood. “What are you looking at?”

Geralt’s struck dumb between one moment and the next. Maybe it’s the potions, or the blood loss, or the adrenaline wearing off, or the sight of his own blood streaked across Jaskier’s fair cheek, covering him in his scent, claiming him… 

Want washes over Geralt like a summer deluge. 

Distantly, he hears himself growling, but he’s not present in his body to do anything about it. It’s far from the snarl he’d let out when Jaskier went to take his swords, when he’d thought someone was coming to disarm him and make him unable to protect Jaskier and his pup. That was the growl of an alpha who felt his pack was being threatened. This is something darker, something more primal.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Geralt snaps his eyes shut and digs his fingernails into his palms, steadying himself with the bite of pain. “Get out.”

“W-what?”

“Get out, Jaskier.”

Jaskier huffs, offended. “Now, Geralt, I’ve just saved your life. The least you can do is not snap at me like I’m some—”

Geralt crosses the steps between them quicker than he thought he could in his condition and grips Jaskier’s jaw in his gloved hand. Jaskier’s eyes go wide, his pupils dilating. Geralt can feel his pulse spike, hear the pause in his breath before he reaches up to hold onto the witcher’s arm. Not pushing nor pulling, simply holding.

“I need you to listen, little lark.” Geralt doesn’t let himself breathe between words. He knows if he catches another whiff of the bard’s scent, he’s not going to be able to hang on. His control is on a razor’s edge. He’s about to start coming down from the effects of his potion. Who knows what he could do to Jaskier, to an unmated omega in his space. “Go to your room, lock the door, do not open it until dawn. Not for me, not for anyone else.”

Jaskier licks his lips, his gaze flicking between Geralt’s left eye to his right rapidly. “But—”

“Don’t argue.” Geralt pushes him away, not ungently. “I’ll explain later. I just need to know you’re...” He can’t bring himself to finish, another wave of something dark washing over him so strong he has to sit on the edge of the bed, uncaring for the wound on his leg.

Jaskier understands anyway. He nods and crosses to the door separating their rooms, pausing at the threshold. “Geralt, are you—”

“Now, Jaskier.”

The door snaps shut. The lock clicks into place a moment later.

Geralt spends a long time counting his heartbeats, willing the heat that had risen in him to fade. 

⚘⚘⚘

Come morning, Jaskier emerges from his room looking about as well rested as Geralt feels. There are dark circles under his abnormally dull blue eyes and he seems to have forgotten to do up the last few buttons on his trousers. 

But he smiles when he sees Geralt, even though the witcher both looks and feels like he’s just crawled from the gutter, and offers him the breakfast he’d rang for them both. 

“You’re still here,” Geralt says in lieu of a good morning.

Jaskier’s smile falters, just the slightest. “Where else would I be?”

Geralt finds himself considering that question for a long while, even after he explains the potions’ effects to Jaskier and they go along their merry way.

Where else would Jaskier be?

More importantly, where should he be?

⚘⚘⚘

Something changes after that.

Geralt, now seeing that Jaskier isn’t about to be scared off, even when Geralt’s snarling at him and brimming with poison, finds himself relaxing around the bard more. He seeks out his company, rather than playing at tolerating when Jaskier finds him. He finds himself leaning into Jaskier’s friendly touches and reaching out for his own on occasion.

He’s never been so comfortable with another person, other than his family. Even as close as he and his brothers are, they’re not prone to reaching for each other’s hands or offering one another chains of daisies they’ve woven as they walked or finding any excuse to touch each other.

Geralt’s going soft. He knows he is.

He can’t find himself to be bothered when it clearly makes Jaskier so happy, his scent flowering out and deepening every time Geralt returns his affection.

Jaskier’s scent is heavy on the air now. He is soaking in an Igni-heated bath barely big enough for him to fit in. He doesn’t seem to mind, kicking his feet up over the far edge as he rests his head on the other end. 

“As much as I hate spending all our money on inns,” he’s saying, eyes closed as Geralt cleans his swords. “I do appreciate a good soak in a man-made basin every now and then.”

“I know you do,” Geralt says, half a smile on his face for a moment (our money, Jaskier said) before it drops. There’s something on his mind, something that’s been bugging him since the night of the endrega attack, when he’d pushed Jaskier away and he’d still come back.

“Now, now, witcher,” Jaskier tsks. “What’s the frown for this time?”

Geralt sets aside his swords and looks at his companion. Jaskier has twisted his torso to see Geralt better, arms crossed on the side of the basin and chin propped up on them, watching Geralt with wide, amused blue eyes. Geralt no longer bristles at the bard’s nudity—a good thing, because he tends toward heat spells these days despite their steady march toward mid-autumn, and often the only way to cool down is to strip to the skin. They’ve had a good couple of weeks of work, so his cheeks are full and pinked with the heat from the bath. He could use a shave, but other than that, he looks good. Happy.

Geralt looks down at his own hands. “We should talk. About our arrangement.”

“I wasn’t aware we had an arrangement.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, watching the omega smile out of the corner of his eye. “I mean our situation.” He looks up and meets Jaskier’s eye again. “You can’t keep traveling like this, Jask. We need to get you somewhere safe. Comfortable.”

“But I am safe,” Jaskier pouts. “I feel safer with you than I do anywhere else.”

“That’s the problem, little lark,” Geralt says, the endearment spilling from his lips like water. He’d done it first on instinct the night Jaskier stitched him back together, and every time he’s done it since, Jaskier’s shoulders relax like Geralt’s taken a great weight off them. He makes it a point to do it as frequently as possible now. “I told you before, the Path is no place for a child. And all that aside, you’re going to keep getting sicker if we don’t let you rest.”

Jaskier waves him off, sinking back into his bath. “You worry too much.”

“No, you don’t worry enough!”

The omega flinches at his tone, glaring at him from the corner of his eye. 

Geralt sighs, looking at him apologetically. “I just mean you should take care, Jaskier. If you’re this ill barely a third of the way into your pregnancy, what do you expect to happen later on?”

“I’m not that ill.”

Geralt scoffs. “You turned down a minced pie today, Jaskier.”

He purses his lips, caught. “Fine. You’re getting rid of me, then?”

Geralt should take it for the opening it is. He knows how dangerous traveling with him is for Jaskier. How much worse will it get when he has a child at his breast? Geralt’s new worst nightmare has quickly become returning from a hunt to find Jaskier taken, hurt, beaten, ripped apart and sold for parts. And besides all that, it was becoming dangerous for Geralt. He’s never been so attached to someone—perhaps Eskel or Vesemir, but they know the dangers of their line of work and can fend for themselves. It’s hard to focus on monster hunting when half his mind is preoccupied with the omega waiting for him back at the inn. 

A distracted witcher is a dead witcher.

“No,” Geralt says, not even surprising himself.

There’s no question. There hasn’t been, since the moment he realized Jaskier wasn’t afraid of him, would never be afraid of him. He physically can’t bring himself to let Jaskier go. He’s considered it a time or two in the months they’ve been together, and each time, his stomach ties itself in knots.

The omega relaxes in the tub. “Good. Because as much as I love you, Geralt, there are some things even you can do to break my heart.”

His tone is light, teasing, and he doesn’t seem to realize the impact the words have on Geralt.

He’s still reeling from those words (I love you echoing in his mind) when Jaskier finally pulls himself from the bath, dripping wet, pruned, and smelling of chamomile. Perhaps the sight, perhaps the smell, perhaps those words muddle his mind enough for Geralt to blurt out, “Come to Kaer Morhen with me.”

Jaskier blinks up at him from the towel he’d been drying himself with, his hair tufted up on one side from where he’d rubbed it. “Kaer Morhen?”

“The homeplace of the witchers,” Geralt explains. “The wolf witchers, at least. It’s where I grew up. It’s where I—where we go every winter.”

“And you… want me to come with you?”

“Is that… is that alright? For me to ask?”

Jaskier chuckles and comes to where Geralt is sitting at the edge of the bed—there’s only one, since they’re on a strict budget, after all, and Jaskier claims he sleeps better with Geralt’s warmth only an arm’s reach away—and insinuates himself between Geralt’s knees. He doesn’t even seem to be aware of his nudity. Geralt decidedly is aware of it.

“Dear witcher,” Jaskier says fondly. His hands land on either of Geralt’s shoulders and his scent, warm and happy, surrounds Geralt’s senses. He closes his eyes, letting Jaskier pet him as he pleases. Thin, bath-pruned fingers brush his hair off his shoulders, off his ear. It’s nearly enough to make him shiver. “Never doubt how much your generosity means to me. It sounds lovely, but…”

“But?” Geralt gives into temptation, lets his hands settle in the dip of Jaskier’s hips, his wrists almost brushing the soft skin of his ever-growing belly. Some deep, base instinct makes him want to rub his scent glands over Jaskier’s bump, to claim him and the pup as Geralt’s. He digs his fingers into his bard’s hips to keep from doing that. He hasn’t been given permission. Jaskier has given no indication that he sees Geralt as anything more than a close friend, a platonic person who could protect him and his pup. The last thing Geralt wants is to breach his trust.

Jaskier purrs softly, not seeming to realize he’s doing it. He keeps fiddling with Geralt’s hair. “I feel as if I’m taking advantage of you.”

Geralt snorts, leaning his head into the bard’s hands. “Trust me, if I didn’t want you here, I would have dumped you before we even left Posada.” And he’s grown soft, he knows. No one has ever shown him this much gentleness, this much kindness. Not even his own family. Not that he’s ever wanted Vesemir or his brothers to play with his hair, do his laundry, buy him little trinkets or pick him flowers just because it pleased them.

Jaskier doesn’t respond for a long moment, and Geralt opens his eyes. The bard tips his head and smiles and gods above Geralt just wants to pull him into his lap and press his face against his neck where his scent is strongest. Still grinning, Jaskier asks, “Why do you put up with me, witcher? You don’t seem the type to form attachments.”

“I’m not.”

“And yet… here we are.”

Geralt observes him carefully in the candlelight. “Here we are.” He drags his thumb absently across Jaskier’s ribs, watching goosebumps rise in his wake. Jaskier takes a breath at that, pulling himself away from Geralt to continue drying and dressing himself. Geralt mourns the loss of his touch but lets him go.

“So.” Jaskier twists open a jar of sweet-smelling oil he’d been rubbing on his belly of late. I may adore this child with every fiber of my being, Geralt, but that does not mean I wish to have the marks of pregnancy on my youthful form for the rest of eternity. “Kaer Morhen?”

“Mmm.” Geralt picks up his swords again, going about cleaning and sharpening them absently while he watches Jaskier go about his routine. He misses his touch, but his scent is still there, rubbed into Geralt’s hair, his hands. It’s enough for now. “Vesemir will be there. He’s a healer, of sorts. He could help with the delivery. Or we could bring someone if you like. A midwife of your choosing.”

Jaskier hums back at him, a mannerism he’s beginning to pick up from Geralt without even realizing it. “Vesemir?”

“My… father, I suppose.” At the omega’s inquisitive look, he goes on. “Witchers are born human and come—came, rather—to the keep when they were young. Many were orphans. Some… weren’t.” Jaskier clearly catches his meaning but graciously deigns not to dig in. “Vesemir was one of the teachers before the sacking of Kaer Morhen, when mages destroyed all knowledge of making new witchers and killed all but a handful of us. Vesemir is the oldest living witcher. He took it upon himself to care for the keep and the last few witchers.”

“You speak fondly of him,” Jaskier says. “Are you close?”

Geralt grunts, not in agreement or disagreement. “I suppose. As close as witchers let themselves get. We have a lot in common. All the witchers left do. No one quite understands the life of a witcher more than another witcher.”

“How many of you are there left?”

“Of my school, the wolf witchers”—he thumbs his medallion—“there’s only me, Vesemir, and my brothers Eskel and Lambert. There are several others left from other schools, but we’re not nearly as close.”

“So, this winter,” Jaskier says. “Would it just be us and Vesemir? Or will your brothers be there?”

“Hard to tell,” Geralt shrugs. “We usually don’t know who’s going to show up until they arrive at the keep. The past couple years, Lambert has brought a guest.”

Dark eyebrows rise as Jaskier slips into a clean change of smallclothes. “A guest? Then it won’t be strange if I come?”

Geralt snorts. “No, it will be strange. Lambert’s guest is a witcher from one of the other schools.” He meets Jaskier’s eye. “None of us have ever brought home a human. Not since it’s just been the four of us. We’ve had our fair share of mages and sorceresses. But no humans.”

“Let alone a pregnant omega?” Jaskier snorts. He flicks a wrist, playing at being scandalized. “Imagine what they’ll say, Geralt! They’ll accuse you of stealing my virtue!”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “As if you had any to begin with.”

Jaskier gasps, clutching his chest. “You wound me, darling. I’ll have you know I was the picture of innocence before—well, before this.” The hand at his chest smooths over his stomach as he looks down fondly.

Geralt hums in response, languishing in the omega’s happy scent as he strokes his baby bump. “They’ll know it’s not mine anyway.”

“How so?”

“Witchers are sterile,” Geralt says. He expects the shocked, saddened look Jaskier shoots his way, and waves him off before he can start to mourn Geralt’s useless knot. “I’m not sensitive about it. It’s part of the Trials to become a witcher, and they don’t hide the information from us beforehand. We go in knowing we will either die in the trials or come out the other side an alpha with no ability to breed.”

“Oh.” Jaskier wilts a little, his scent—usually a mix of honey and wheat—dips toward something like sandalwood. “I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“It’s not your fault, Jask.”

“No, I mean.” He throws his chemise over his head and scrambles up onto the bed with Geralt, laying his head on the witcher’s shoulder with no regard for the sword in his hands. Again, that blind trust that makes Geralt wonder what he did to deserve it. “Here I am, running around and making poor life decisions while carrying a pup, and you can’t…”

“Jask.” Geralt nuzzles his hair absently to get his attention. The omega tips his head up to look at him with watery blue eyes. Geralt sets the sword aside—again—and resolves to finish it in the morning. “I told you, I don’t care. Especially not when I get to see how happy you are every day.”

Jaskier squints, mushing his cheek against Geralt’s shoulder, looking every bit like a contented house cat. “I am happy. I feel as if I should be worried or anxious or afraid, but I’m not. I have many regrets in my life, but this is not one of them. I’m glad I have the pup. I’m glad I have my freedom. I’m glad I have you. You’re a dear friend, you know that, Geralt?”

Geralt grunts.

“You are!” Jaskier shoves his arm gently, not even enough to dislodge himself from Geralt’s shoulder. “Not many people would be willing to put up with me, with or without the child. And here you are, not just tolerating me, but taking care of me. Why is that?”

Geralt shrugs with his free shoulder.

“Oh, don’t get silent on me now, Geralt! We’re having a heart-to-heart!”

“I’m aware.”

“Ugh!” Jaskier flings himself back on the bed, kneeing Geralt in the thigh as he squirms to get comfortable. Geralt pinches his leg in retaliation, making him giggle. “Fine. Don’t tell me, then. I’ll just assume you are susceptible to my charm and wit. You saw me in Posada and thought, ‘Yes. Now there’s a man I’d let rub chamomile on my lovely bo—‘”

“It was one time, Jask.”

“One very memorable time, on my part.” Jaskier grins, cheeky and lecherous. With a face like that, there’s no wonder he was knocked up before the age of twenty. 

Geralt makes himself end that line of thought the second it arrives. 

Instead of admiring his friend’s fuckability, he grunts. “It’s not too late for me to leave you along the road somewhere.”

“No!” Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s waist from behind, his head knocking against his hip. Geralt twists to accommodate him, letting the bard rest his head in his lap. “I’ll surely shrivel up and die the moment you leave me. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”

“I think you overestimate how much you need me. You’d make it just fine on your own.”

The omega tips his head to level an unimpressed look up at him. “When we met, I was getting booed out of taverns and stuffing bread in my pants so I’d have something to eat later.”

Geralt just hums.

Jaskier pokes him in the side. “I’m happy with you, Geralt. It’s a peculiar arrangement, I’ll admit, but I couldn’t ask for anything better.”

Geralt watches him for a moment, aware his face was probably too fond at the moment but too content with the omega’s closeness to care. “You pet your stomach when you’re tired, you know that?”

Jaskier looks down. Sure enough, his hand had strayed to the little bump and was smoothing over it. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Winter isn’t for another two months still.”

“Very astute, love.”

Geralt snorts and tugs his hair until Jaskier yelps and bats his hands away. “I mean, I think we should find somewhere safe for you until it’s time to make the trip to Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier frowns and turns to lay on his back, his head still in Geralt’s lap. The hand that had tugged his hair now smooths it back. “You want to split up?”

“Only for a couple weeks,” Geralt says. “The Path, as I’ve said, is no place for you right now. You’re only going to get more uncomfortable in the coming months, and you need to be somewhere you can rest and relax. It would… I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you or the pup because you’re with me.”

“What do you propose, then?”

“I can put you up somewhere. Somewhere with good weather and plenty of things for you to do. Somewhere you can relax and pick at that lute you’ve barely touched the past few weeks.”

Jaskier frowns. “Fingers were too swollen.”

“The swelling will go down if you rest.” Geralt leans over him to catch his eye. “And as much as I love having you close, knowing you and the pup are safe and healthy, I’d feel better knowing you were somewhere you can get warm baths and hot food whenever you want.”

“How do you propose we do that, hmm? It isn’t as if we have the money.”

Geralt puts a hand on Jaskier’s chest to hold him steady as he reaches over the edge of the bed for his sword. He unclasps the pin there, the one he’d pulled from Renfri’s body as a reminder all those years ago. He holds it out for Jaskier. 

The bard takes it and studies it. “I’ve seen this but didn’t want to ask.” His thumb runs carefully across the clasp. “I figured it was sentimental. It’s fine craftsmanship. I’m sure it would sell for a pretty penny, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“It is,” Geralt says. “I’m not sentimental. The person who gave it to me is long dead. It was more of a… reminder to myself, than anything else. I don’t…” He looks at Jaskier. The bard was now holding the hand Geralt had put on his chest, stroking his wrist softly as he watches Geralt with those wide, innocent eyes. “I don’t think I need it anymore.”

Jaskier’s heart rate spikes for a moment as he turns the pin over in his hand, pink flushing his cheeks. “If you’re sure,” he says. “I don’t want you giving up any more than you already have for me, Geralt. I’ll never be able to repay you for your kindness.”

“I’m not doing this so you’ll pay me back.”

“Then why are you?”

The same question from earlier, just rephrased. Glancing at Jaskier, Geralt knows he did it on purpose. Geralt sighs and takes the pin back, just to give himself something to do. “Because you’re special, Jask.” The bard beams, and Geralt nudges him softly. “Don’t let it go to your head. I’m going to sell this so you don’t freeze or go hungry while I’m gone. I’ll let you pick the town.”

“Oxenfurt,” he says without hesitation.

Geralt frowns. “Why Oxenfurt?”

“I’ve got friends there, at the university,” Jaskier explains. “I know at least one of them will put me up, especially if I pay for food and whatever other expenses I’ll have.”

“How do you know these friends?”

“Stand down, guard dog,” Jaskier chuckles. “We grew up together. Priscilla was from a neighboring family, and we were the same age, so we always sat together at parties. She is kind, and generous, and happily bonded to her alpha, Philippa.” He gives Geralt a significant look and Geralt stops bristling—which he didn’t even realize he was doing. “They’re good friends, Geralt. They’ll ensure I’m looked after while you’re gone.”

Geralt nods, smoothing a hand down Jaskier’s chest. His gaze strays to the little bump on the bard’s belly, where Jaskier is still stroking.

“You want to feel?” the omega offers. “Pup won’t be moving for a couple months, probably, but it’s a fascinating feeling.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier takes his hand and lifts his chemise, letting Geralt finally rest his palm over the little swell beneath his navel. His skin is hot and smooth, little divots where his skin has begun stretching to accommodate the life growing beneath the surface. It’s not big—Geralt’s hand covers the full expanse of it—but it feels significant. If he focuses, he can feel the vibrations of the pup’s heartbeat. His breath leaves him in a rush. 

“What?” Jaskier asks in quiet alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Geralt says. He strokes his hand across Jaskier’s belly gently, soothing him in and taking in the feel. “I can feel their heartbeat.”

“Really?” Jaskier slips his hand under Geralt’s, brows drawing in with the effort of trying. 

Geralt chuckles softly at him. “You won’t be able to. Witcher senses.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier squeaks. The scent of tears alerts Geralt to his sudden burst of emotion.

“Jaskier?” He shifts around so the bard is no longer on his lap and leans over him, one hand still on his belly and the other on the bed. “Jaskier, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

“No, no.” Jaskier gives a shaky laugh and wipes his face with the hand not trapped under Geralt’s. “I’m fine. Just… overwhelmed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He flips his hand over to catch Geralt’s fingers in his. “That was the greatest gift you could give me. Guh.” He gives a mighty, nasty sniff that makes Geralt laugh. “Shut up. Don’t make fun of a poor, pregnant omega.”

“I would never.” Geralt raises their joined hands to his lips before he even realizes what he’s doing and presses a kiss to the omega’s knuckles. Jaskier’s cheeks turn pink and his scent takes a sultry spike that Geralt doesn’t let himself linger on. He pulls away before he can do anything more embarrassing. “So, we’re agreed? Tomorrow we leave for Oxenfurt, where you’ll stay with your friends if they’ll have you. I’ll return for you in two months when it’s time to make the trip up the Blue Mountains. We’ll spend the winter in Kaer Morhen until the pup arrives, then we stay as long as you need to recover.”

Jaskier blinks up at him. “We… you mean you intend to keep me around after the pup arrives?”

“Of course,” Geralt says, though he hadn’t put much thought to it before. All he knew was that there was no way he was willing to part with his omega. 

No, not his omega. Just Jaskier. Jaskier, who happened to be an omega. Jaskier, who was carrying another alpha’s pup. 

Jaskier can’t seem to find words—a rare occurrence for him—so he just pulls Geralt down into a crushing hug. Geralt keeps himself up, afraid to put too much weight on the bard. “Thank you,” Jaskier whispers, a fresh wave of tears spilling from his eyes and smearing all over both of them. “Thank you, thank you.”

⚘⚘⚘

Their parting at Oxenfurt is somehow tearier than Geralt feared.

Jaskier, now in his fourth month of pregnancy, is overcome with emotion at the prospect of Geralt leaving him. Priscilla and Philippa watch silently from the door of their little townhouse Jaskier will be calling home until Geralt returns for him. It’s small, but clean and warm. Geralt knows Jaskier will be taken care of, especially with the money he’d given the omega after he sold Renfri’s pin in the market. 

Still, knowing he’s safe doesn’t make it any easier to pull away from the teary omega clinging to him.

“Promise you’ll come back,” Jaskier whimpers into Geralt’s throat where he’s been nuzzling desperately for the better part of five minutes. They’re in the middle of the street, Roach waiting impatiently a few paces away and countless passersby giving them a wide berth. 

Geralt pats him gently on the back, pretending he's not rubbing his cheek against the bard’s hair to scent him as much as he can before he pulls away. “You have my word,” he says. “Two months, I’ll be right back here with everything we need for our journey. I won’t leave you behind. Never.”

Jaskier whines softly, breaking Geralt’s heart into pieces as they clutch each other tighter.

Finally, a wince from Jaskier pulls them apart as he rubs a hand across his belly. The pup is barely the size of Jaskier’s fist at present, but it makes itself present at inopportune times. “Alright,” Jaskier grumbles down at his bump. “I’ll stop pressing on you, calm down.”

Geralt brushes the back of his knuckles against the omega’s belly, afraid to do much more in public. “Take care of each other, alright?” he whispers, loud enough for Jaskier to hear but too quiet for the women on the stairs.

Jaskier nods, pressing his face up to Geralt’s to nuzzle him once more. “I hope you know,” he sniffs delicately. “If you don’t come back, I’ll send half the Continent after your head. You shall never find rest. You will never find work with the nasty ballads I’ll write of you. Everyone will know you kick puppies for fun and drink the blood of orphans with your breakfast.”

Geralt smiles and gently knocks his forehead against Jaskier’s. “Noted. I’ll keep an ear out for them. I’m sure they’ll be your finest work.” Reluctantly, he pulls away from the omega, the whine he makes at the loss of contact nearly making him change his plans completely. He turns to Priscilla and her alpha, bowing his head slightly at them. “Thank you for taking care of him. I’ll return by the first snow. If you encounter any problems, send word southwest. I don’t plan to go far. I’ll pick up a few contracts, stock up on supplies, and be back here as soon as I’m able.”

Priscilla descends the steps and takes Jaskier into her arms. He nuzzles against her, looking back at Geralt miserably but taking comfort in the other omega’s familiar scent. “He’s safe with us,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. She doesn’t trust him—or at least, she doesn’t trust his motivations with Jaskier. “He’ll always be safe with us, no matter what happens.”

It’s a threat and a promise, and a subtle one. We’ll take care of him if you can’t.

Geralt nods at her then at Philippa, who despite being an alpha seems less intimidating than Priscilla. He gives one last look at Jaskier, pressing his lips together in his best approximation of a smile, then turns to Roach. 

He swings himself up and urges her onward, not letting himself look back even once.

Next Part

[55cdfc-f7a8b8-ffffff-f7a8b8-55cd]

reverse unpopular opinion game for the owl house?

Ok easy one first. Eda mom. Eda mommy also. I love her so so much and the Owl Beast is SO cool I was DELIGHTED the entire reveal episode for it.

Hunter the fan favorite. Hunter one of MY favorites because. Duh!!! Stupid edgy snarky boy with the literal and metaphorical mask who is actually just a silly nerd with Extreme baggage. Whether or not we find out more about the whole Caleb thing it's SUCH a cool thing Dana did with the grimmwalker plotline. Rip Flapjack you had the best name.

Camila CARRIES season 3 full stop. I had complicated feelings about her through season one (something something personal mommy issues skewing how I read her character you know how it is) but I've seen the light and now I know. Now I know. She's been through so much and she still stays strong and tries to fix her mistakes from when her own trauma was used against her and through it all she NEVER stopped loving and supporting Luz. She took in Vee and Luz's demon friends without a second thought. And she's a Star Trek fan. Literally what more could you ask for.

The Collector is like my FAVORITE genre of villain I live for fucked up little children with the power of god. It's always so entertaining and so, so horrifying. It's so interesting to see how the Collector tried to break a cycle set by their predessecors but in such a surface level and. Well. Childish way. He's a little confused but he got the spirit you know? SO excited for episode three to see this little jerk (affectionate) go OFF.

Raine. Where do I even start. Of course you have green hair and pronouns. The revolutionary with a violin. They're SO cool. I am legitimately in love with them Eda move over make room for one more.

Luz is just so. !!!!!!! I can never describe in words how much this character means to me I think. I'll leave it at Best Girl before I write an essay and start crying. (String Bean supremacy)

Everybody I didn't mention: Gus, Willow, Amity, Lilith, King, Hooty... I adore them all every character in this series is SO fun and charming. Even the baddies like Belos, Kikimora, Boscha are written so nicely and are all so intriguing! They aren't written hatefully just to be hated they all have their own character and motivations and reasons for being Like That. Characters are always my favorite part of a show so seeing such purpose and meaning crammed into every spare inch of these guys really butters my eggrolls.

And that's just the characters!!!! The world is so beautiful and full of life and the themes... the THEMES man... everything moves and breathes and works together so well. This show is incredible in every sense of the word.

[dapandapod]

In the light of the stars

HAPPY SUPER BELATED BORTHDAY @kuripon ripon​ MY DARLING!!! I am so sorry this one took me, what? Three months?? to finish?? I am so sorry my love, I hope you like it!! Please enjoy this smol offering of love, my love! <3

Warnings: Uh, emotional hurt/comfort? lonely jaskier, but geralt fixes it.

On Ao3 here

Time passes in a blur while walking the path. Seasons come and seasons go, especially when you have so many to spend.

But some days carry more weight than others. Not that Jaskier cares much about his birthday, usually. It’s just that it is the first time in a long time he has had anyone to tell about it.

The first day of the new year, when Jaskier was little, he used to pretend that all celebrations were just for him. He always looked forward to them, even if most people were still hung over from saying goodbye of the old year.

But eventually, it too faded and became a day like every other. New Year’s Eve took over, and Jaskier was alright with that. The nights he spent in Oxenfurt, counting down the hours, are still very precious to him.

This year is different. This year, he is spending it up in the cold mountain. This year, he knows that somebody knows.... And he thought, hoped, pretended, maybe... that he would care.

But as Jaskier opens his eyes on the first day of the new year, everything is the same. Quiet. Cold.

The breakfast in the big hall is leftovers from the small feast they made themselves the day before. Lambert nods at Jaskier as he sits down and Eskel looks like he drank another bottle of gull when the others went to bed. Smells like it too. Vesemir and Coën are cleaning up in the kitchens, but Geralt is nowhere to be seen.

Jaskier's heart sinks. Most likely he is with Yennefer and Ciri, it makes sense. He'd just hoped..... it doesn't matter. He said it a long time ago. It is not important, he has had so many birthdays, it is not like they are special anymore.

Though if he is honest with himself, they were only special because he had someone he cared for to spend the day with. It's enough.

These people are his friends, some of them even closing in on family. They do care, in their own way.

Jaskier does what he always does. He sits down on a balcony, scribbles and sings in the cold sunshine, his lute safe inside from the freezing winds. A bottle of wine keeps him warm, and he sips on it as he sketches the rolling hills and roaring wyverns in the distance. It is peaceful.

As lunchtime closes in, he sees Geralt cross the courtyard. He knows better than to hope, but his heart is betraying him.

Running down the stairs, taking the steps two at the time at breakneck speed, he catches Geralt in the door.

But the witcher only smiles, asking if he is hungry, and Jaskier... well, he doesn't want to push.

Their relationship is still fragile. There is still a metaphorical kikimora in the room, blocking all steps forward. Jaskier is a little afraid to poke it, to wake it, even if it is to ask it to leave. Who knows what havoc it will make if set loose.

So Jaskier smiles back, tells Geralt he is ravenous, the shell of a man, starving, possibly wasting away from lack of nutrients. No one can ever accuse him of not having a dramatic flare.

Lunch is a humble affair, mostly noticeable because Ciri only joins them as the others are finishing up. Her hair is tied back, she has a smudge of soot on her cheek and something that looks like white dust is covering the sleeves of her arms. Curious, but she refuses to tell him what she is doing, just wolfing down her hare stew and then she is gone again.

That afternoon Jaskier spends in the library.

There are a great many books he would like to take a look at, but most of them are so damaged from time and moisture, the latter of which is hard to keep out in an old keep like this, especially with the damages it has sustained.

He has taken it upon himself to transfer what he can from those books that still are readable, onto new pages. First he used his spare notebook, but when Vesemir noticed, he supplied him with more materials.

Journals, letters, lore and school books. Religious texts from near and far, songs and languages forgotten as the world passed them by. Jaskier tries not to linger on that thought, tries to think about the now. For the first time in almost 80 years, Jaskier has found a family that, for once, has time on their side.

Jaskier is not even sure Geralt has noticed that Jaskier barely ages, despite Yennefer's pointed remarks and jokes. And he would like to keep them.

The afternoon drags by, and as soon as Jaskier moves around the keep, Geralt is gone.

Even if nobody congratulates him, or gifts him something, just anything, he would have enjoyed some company. This solitude is fraying on his nerves, throwing all kinds of unwanted thoughts into his mind. Like he has worn out his welcome, that Geralt doesn't care anymore, that nobody would notice if he left.

That isn't the case, of course it isn't. But the thoughts are still there, despite how Geralt actually took the time, took the care, to apologize about his outburst, admitted that he wants Jaskier around, despite that charging energy that remains between them every time they part to their own room.

The thoughts are still there, and right now it is so hard to fight them.

Jaskier makes his way to the kitchen, hoping to drown his sorrows in Eskel's hidden stash of sweets he is keeping on the top shelf and pretends nobody with a nose can't sniff out.

Instead he finds a young princess furiously whipping something in a bowl. When she notices him, she gives an angry squeak and chases him out again. Ah, so it was flour, not dust, on her sleeves.

Instead, Jaskier goes looking for the lab, Lambert always has something hidden away that he shouldn't have, mostly meaning Yennefer's minty treats. But there too, he is unwelcome. Lambert is cleaning out his bottles, fumes and suspicious liquids making the room terribly ill suited for bards.

Maybe he should just go to bed.

Maybe he can pretend like today never happened, that he never hoped to get just a little bit of attention.

So he does. Jaskier skips dinner in favour of crawling into bed, curling around a book on monster psychology he's been struggling to decipher all day.

No one comes knocking. No one seems to wonder where he is. And Jaskier pretends it is alright. Many hours later, Jaskier actually managed to get some sleep.

There is a light knock on his door, and then another when he doesn't immediately reply.

"Jaskier?" Geralt calls through the door. "Are you there?"

That makes him bolt upright, blinking blearily into the dim room.

"I'm here." He croaks, rubbing his eyes and trying to wake his mostly still dreaming mind.

Geralt steps inside, looking all too warmly dressed to be indoors.

"You missed dinner." He says, hiding his arms behind his back.

"Oh. I must have fallen asleep reading." Jaskier says, only half lying. He did, but it was also his intention.

"Do uh.... Hmm. Want to come with me for a bit?"

Jaskier tilts his head curiously.

"Do I need as much clothes as you?"

"More." Geralt smiles teasingly. "I want to show you something."

Jaskier dresses slowly, Geralt's eyes on him as he rebuttons his chemise and stuffs it down his trousers. When he puts on his cloak, Geralt mutters under his breath, steps in close and puts his own cloak around him too.

"It's going to be cold," Geralt says when Jaskier looks up at him. Jaskier's heart is trying to beat out of his chest, the witcher can probably hear it clear as day, as close as they are standing.

"What about you?" Jaskier asks softly.

"I'll grab a spare on our way out. You are more sensitive to the cold."

Then Geralt leads them away. He steals Vesemir's cloak on the way, and then grabs Jaskier's mittens hand in his.

With this much clothing Jaskier is expecting to be led outside, but instead, Geralt leads them up. Up, up, up, all those blasted stairs of this keep, but the view is stunning.

The sky is stretching out in every direction, stars bright against the inky black. It is beautiful.

He is lost in it for a moment, his eyes drawn to constellations and tales found up there.

Geralt brings him back to the present with a gentle nudge, and then he notices the balcony itself.

It has blankets and pillows, a few candles lighting up a basket and a suspicious little box.

"What's this?" Jaskier asks quietly. He feels like he knows, but he wants to, needs to hear it....

"I'm sorry it took so long. Ciri was struggling with the cake she wanted to make you, and Yennefer refused to get the wine. I hope you like it."

Jaskier stares, first at the scene, and then up at Geralt.

"I do." He whispers, and Geralt's smile is small and satisfied.

They sit down together, Geralt is pouring them some wine and they try the cake that Ciri made. It is a little crooked, but it tastes very cake-like, so they count it as a success.

Jaskier shivers again, but this time it is from more than just the cold. He sits stiffly at first, barely daring to believe he is allowed this.

Maybe the kikimora in the room doesn't need to be poked. Maybe he can just inch around it, and leave it behind...

Building up his courage, he allows himself to relax, lean into Geralt's body, lean his head against his shoulder.

Geralt shifts, but only to make them more comfortable. The blankets are pooled in their lap, their free but incredibly gloved hands inching towards each other.

Jaskier feels like flying, like singing, like crying, when Geralt lifts their joined hands, presses a kiss to his gloved knuckles, and leans his head against Jaskier's.

"Happy birthday." Geralt whispers, and Jaskier lets out all the tension he's been carrying all day.

"Thank you," he whispers back, afraid to break the moment. "I thought you had forgotten."

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to surprise you."

"You did. I didn't expect it. Thank you."

"Jaskier, look at me."

It takes another moment of gathering his courage, until he can lean back enough to meet the witcher's eyes.

"This past year has been.... the worst, in a long time. I'm sorry I pushed you away and hurt you. All of us being here at the keep, it has been... It's been the biggest blessing life could give me."

"Geralt..."

"I would like to fix it. Everything I broke."

"You didn't do it alone."

"No. But I threw the first punch. Twice. And I shouldn't have."

Jaskier tightens his grip around Geralt's hand and leans against him again.

"You are also working on fixing it. Thank you for making tonight special."

"This isn't all. Good thing you slept a little, because it might be a while."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever seen the northern lights?"

[blackyote]

@rqmdae

Hunter tried not to dwell on masks as a metaphor, or what it said about him that this one felt so right, almost as though it suited him better than his own face staring back in the mirror. His adversaries in the coven would say it proved their point, that he was lying to himself, but they didn't understand. The lines of the Golden Guard uniform, they were so sleek, so beautiful, so masculine. It filled him with such pride he thought he might die trying to contain it. Wearing the handsome cloak, the owlish mask, gave him the confidence he still struggled to feel in more traditional clothes, like everything was a reminder of the child Belos had found, and those early attempts to cover, to conceal. Granted, he always wore layers, but this was different. It wasn't hiding, it was revealing.

Some were still slow to adopt his new name (his real name), and defaulted to "Golden Guard" as a cop out, but that was just as well. It was a masculine sounding title, after all; they were doing him a favor. And now, when denizens of the Boiling Isles met him for the first time, they knew instantly he was a boy. His voice, the way he carried himself, the authority of his winged sigil... People were, ironically, seeing the real him when he covered up.

Well, almost everyone.

Kikimora came barging into the throne room, looking fit to murder. "I swear, if that brat thinks she can just—!"

"He."

Kikimora sputtered, pointing. "My lord, they—"

"He," Belos corrected again, more forcefully. "I do not care to repeat myself. If you cannot respect the head of this coven, I will find myself an assistant who can."

She gaped, then glared at Hunter, who made a point of standing taller beside his uncle. "Of course, Lord Belos. I meant only to report that I was left behind on the Knee this morning. On purpose!"

The two masked figures shared a look.

"And did you make the rendezvous on time?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Then he was simply following orders. You should consider doing the same."

She looked struck, but eventually managed a shallow bow. "My apologies, Lord Belos. The cold must have rattled my senses. I meant no offense to your, uh— nephew."

"I'm sure it won't happen again," he replied, the warning clear.

Kikimora appeared to be sweating from more than just the heat now. "Of course, my lord."

He waved a hand, dismissing her. "No doubt your tardiness has you behind on today's assignments. You ought to be getting those done, not running here to highlight your foolishness."

Hunter hadn’t known it was possible for the demon to look even smaller. He almost winced in sympathy. "You're very right. My apologies."

As she beat a hasty retreat, Hunter turned to the emperor, murmuring, "Thank you, uncle."

The eyes of his mask were still leveled at the doors. "She's had more than enough time to get it right. If it happens again, I want you to tell me."

Hunter bowed his head, grateful if self-conscious, and cleared his throat. "So, as I was saying— we found the wild witch that was reported ..."

------

A/N: You ever think about how proud Hunter is of his Golden Guard uniform, and how much more it might’ve meant to a young trans Hunter struggling with dysphoria? 'Cause I do. (Hollow Mind DNI.)

[drabbles-of-writing]

Coming Home

AO3

third owl fight attack! This one’s prompt was “Hunter and Luz being siblings”, and I kinda ran with it

Summary: Saying that Hunter was worried for Luz would be an overstatement. He wasn't worried, he was just...vaguely curious. He knew that she'd take some time in the human realm, to be with her mother, but...well, it'd been almost two weeks, and nobody had heard a single thing from her. So, really, breaking and entering was an entirely reasonable reaction.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Now, Hunter knew, on some level, that Luz would be in the human realm for a while.

To be fair, he hadn’t had much time to think about it, what with  everything  going on. There was the Grimwalker revelation, which was also a kind-of clone revelation, and Luz offering an outstretched hand, and sitting on the ground in the human realm with the portal flickering and pulsing angrily, the dust settling as he held his uncles broken mask in his hands--

He’d been more than a little preoccupied, to say the least.

And Luz had gone through the portal the second it had all finally calmed, when there was nothing left to fight, with goodbyes he couldn’t remember. He wasn’t sure exactly when, everything had gone pretty numb by that point.

He just knew that after the first two days, when he was finally dragged out of his miserable wallowing in ditches by a very exasperated palisman and Owl Lady, Luz wasn’t there.

The others noticed her absence and the slight hole she left, he knew they did, but they never really commented on it. What with Bonesborough falling apart in a literal and metaphorical sense, everyone was kinda busy trying to patch all of it up. Like dealing with that one demon who kept talking about ancient magic, who was apparently the small rat demon's dad. And making sure Kikimora stopped escaping prison for five minutes. And dealing with the other Coven Heads. And apparently there was some people  mad  that the old wild witch ways were coming back--

Nobody really had the  time  to wonder about Luz off in the human realm, seeing her mother again.

And for the first week, he  didn’t  worry. He had an existential crisis and bothersome witches to avoid like the plague. His days were spent distracting himself by making everyone's lives miserable, since they kept insisting on holding him captive in the Owl House instead of letting him decompose in the woods for some reason. And honestly, Luz knew  way  too many people, because he’d stopped bothering to keep track of everyone by the fourth hour of being in that house. 

After he realized trying to run for it or annoying everyone into kicking him out wouldn’t work, he mostly hid in the dark corners where nobody would see him for hours at a time. Used to be for days, but apparently the Owl Lady was just as nocturnal as him, and they’d run into each other early in the morning when trying to grab a snack.

He had Rascal for company, at least. Say what you will about the little guy, but he was as loyal as he was stubborn.

But, after the first week, Hunter was starting to  really  notice a severe lack of annoying humans running around.

Apparently, so was the others, because he was noticing a few of them beginning to get a little antsy. He would’ve brushed it off, but he could hear a distinct influx of mutterings that sounded like ‘Luz’ and ‘portal’ and ‘human realm’ from his hiding places, when they thought no one else was around.

It was almost halfway through the second week before he knew it, and that was  far  too long for Luz to be away without so much as a note. 

And she was  probably  fine, he reasoned. But Luz being away without even a call was suspicious enough,  two  was downright concerning.

By then, Hunter was somewhat starting to recognize the faces that filtered in and out of the Owl House, and he began to plan. 

Somehow, he managed to wait until he saw a girl with familiar purple hair step in through the doorway, speaking words he didn’t bother to listen to as she sat on the couch he was hiding under. 

Rascal had, of course, chosen to perch himself on the head of a chair across the room, where barely anyone would care to notice him.

She was talking to some small illusionist he saw earlier (he may recognize faces, but names were a whole other matter. He’d never had to memorize names unless they were important to Belos, and if they weren’t, they were irrelevant. He should probably work on remembering their names), something about buildings and repairs or something, it wasn’t his problem. When the illusionist stepped away, off towards the kitchen to grab something, Hunter decided to poke his head out from underneath the couch.

“So what's the word on-- ow!”  He yelped, jerking back under the couch when he got a foot kicked into his nose.

“Titan,  don’t  do  that, you prick!” Amity snapped, inching a little further to the left as Hunter peeked out only one eye from under the couch this time, giving his best spiteful glare. “Why are you even  down  there?”

“Because nobody bothers me,” Hunter growled, holding his nose as he began to wiggle out. “Everyone’s so  clingy  in this house, it’s maddening.”

“Do you actually mean clingy, or are you referring to basic kindness?” Amity raised a brow, narrowing her eyes as he stood and brushed himself off from the dust bunnies that gathered under the couch.

“Irrelevant. Why hasn’t the human returned yet?” He demanded, leaning against the arm of the couch as Amity sat at the other end, giving a reasonable distance between them.

“Luz?” Amity blinked, clearly taken aback by the question.

“Yes, is there another, different human that you have to bring up every five minutes I should know about?” Hunter snapped, and got a curled lip and bared teeth from Amity in response.

“What, getting bored of the rest of us?” Amity snarked, crossing her arms. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, barely any of you were entertaining to begin with.” Hunter huffed. “Now do you know why the human is avoiding us or not?”

“Avoiding?” Amity frowned. “Luz’s not  avoiding  us, she’s just visiting her mom.”

“With radio silence for almost two weeks,” Hunter said, doing his best to stamp down his impatience. 

He  really  would have rathered asking the Owl Lady about this, but he’d learned from the last time he tried that she’d twist any conversation regarding Luz to be about him, so the next logical best bet would have to be her incessant, chattery, girlfriend. Titan, Luz had the weirdest tastes.

“She’s been away from her mom for four months.” Amity said, rolling her eyes like this was some concept he wasn't understanding. “She’s not gonna see her for a day and then come right back.”

“But still!” Hunter threw his hands in the air, ignoring Rascal’s minorly concerned chirp from across the room. “You think someone like  Luz  would go without contact for almost  two weeks?  She would’ve at least popped in to say hello, or go on some ramble about what’s going on in the human realm. She’d feel guilty about leaving you guys to repair everything on your own by the second hour.”

“It’s just...taking her a minute,” Amity said, and that was the first small crack in her resolve he saw. Had she not seen him at his lowest the first time they spoke, he would’ve been proud of the fact he could chip away at her far easier than she could at him. “Luz wouldn’t avoid anyone out of the  blue,  that’s not like her.”

And he  knew  she was right on that, as infuriating it was to admit it. Luz wouldn’t  abandon  people, she’d be more likely to keel over on the spot from spontaneously growing a bile sac. And perhaps a part of him  was  being a little over dramatic, but there was just this little twist in his chest that curled tighter when he considered going back to hiding in empty rooms and letting everything continue on,  waiting  to see if anything would change rather than  making  it change.

“Besides,” Amity continued. “As Luz’s girlfriend, I think that I would  know  if--”

“Oh  Titan,  just  forget it.”  Hunter groaned, tugging on his ears as he stepped away from the couch. “Whatever, you’re useless about this, anyway. If  you  don’t know when she’s coming back, and the  Owl Lady  doesn’t know, then nobody will.”

Amity stayed silent for a moment as Hunter stormed off towards the doorway that led to the staircase, Rascal flying off his perch to land on his shoulder with soft, almost melodic chirrups.

He contemplated if he could steal something from one of the spare rooms up there. Everyone was fluctuating between them the last few days, but they often left their stuff in there for him to take. It was fun watching them get so riled up about their missing junk.

“We,” Amity started, and Hunter paused in the doorway, one ear pricked. “We were planning on going into the human realm,” She admitted, voice quiet. “If we didn’t hear anything from Luz by the end of this week.”

Hunter turned around then, noting Amity had one hand bunched up on her leg, fisting the hem of her shirt and rubbing her fingers between it in a nervous tick. She avoided his gaze, and he saw, for just the briefest of moments, the uncertainty spilling off of her, possibly having been doing so for far longer than when he’d noticed the same signs from everyone else.

“Well,” He said, and she looked up at him then, and the vulnerability was gone in a snap, replaced by a curious, slightly accusatory, expression. It unnerved him how familiar it looked. “By all means, don’t go telling  me  about your super secret rescue missions, not like  I’d  want to join.” He muttered.

“Count it a blessing that I told you at all,” Amity hissed, ears flicking back. “Maybe if you promise to be nice, we’ll let you come along.” She taunted.

“Maybe if you people hadn’t  kidnapped  me, I wouldn’t be causing so many  problems.”  Hunter growled back through gritted teeth, breaking eye contact for only a moment when Rascal lightly bit and tugged on his ear, trying to urge him away.

“Like you need an excuse--”

“Uh, am-am I interrupting?”

The two turned their heads, realizing that the small illusionist, he’d figure out the kids name later, was standing in the living room again, a box of juice in his hands as his eyes flicked between them.

“No, Golden Boy was just leaving.” Amity waved him off, leaning back against the couch.

“You weren’t even clever with that one, Blight.” Hunter sneered, rolling his eyes as he turned to leave.

“Wittebane.”

“Call me that again and I’m ripping your teeth out.” Hunter threatened, pointing a finger at her as he backed out of the room.

“No name,” Amity amended, sticking her tongue out at him.

“You are on  thin ice.”

 ,

That night, Hunter was opening the window in Luz’s old room.

His escape attempts had never really worked before, the weird tube demon in the front door took his job of keeping him contained  very  seriously. Everyone else just liked watching the show and tapping in when needed.

However, he  also  knew, from the mutterings that Luz had told him in those few snatches of time in the days that they had talked before everything went wrong (or right, depending on who you asked), that she’d snuck out through her window  multiple  times without the demon realizing. Apparently she had bribed him once or twice, and now he barely reacted to the sound of her window opening, sort of like a reflex.

He’d meant to use it for his next escape attempt, just to see if it’d work for him, to run for the hills if it worked, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He’d be  damned  if they left him out of nabbing Luz from the human realm.

So Hunter tugged his cloak tighter across his shoulders, despite it being torn in many places, he had yet to rid it completely, and slowly opened Luz’s window.

He waited, tense, Rascal just as silent from within his hood. When there wasn’t the sound of a piercing voice after a few seconds, he cautiously poked his head out.

Nothing.

Either the bird really  had  grown to have no reaction to Luz’s window opening, or he was just as tired as everyone else. Or off eating bugs, that was plausible.

He slowly edged out, only having a moment to peer down at the ground below until he swung out of the window, hands gripping the windowsill as he edged himself down.

He hung in the air for a moment before releasing the windowsill, dropping to the ground below in a crouch. The perks of the Emperor’s Coven were few and far between, but hey, living there had made him an  expert  at being quiet.

He darted around the Owl House, crouching so as to avoid being seen through the first-floor windows, because there was always  someone  awake, no matter the hour. The portal to the human realm had been moved not too far away, but far enough that it couldn’t be, you know, automatically seen by anyone approaching the building.

He spared one last glance towards the house before he booked it off towards the woods, already mentally cursing himself for wearing a  white cloak  in the middle of the night. Why did he think that was a good idea,  why  did he think that was a good idea--

He made it to the cover of trees, somehow, without anyone sounding the alarm. He ducked behind a tree, catching his breath for a moment as he waited for shouting to arise.

Upon realizing he was in the clear, he pumped a fist in the air with a soft  “yes!”  and got an encouraging whistle from Rascal, who he gave a quick scratch on the head to.

He then hurried a bit further into the trees, soon faced with branches, vines, and bushes all stretched out across the beginning of a slope before him.

He reached out, grabbing one of the vines and yanking it aside, revealing the structure of the portal to the human realm, its soft humming mostly muffled by everything covering it. He ran his hand down the exterior of it for a second before pushing more vines aside, allowing a small enough space for him to crawl through.

He’d been to the human realm before, technically. Belos’s wrath had only just begun to reach into the human realm before he had managed to be stopped, and Hunter had a few moments out there, feeling the grass and seeing the trees. They really  were  green, and he couldn’t help but see it all and know with certainty that there was no magic within any of it. Hollow. It was a feeling he was familiar with.

But this time was different, and he inhaled for a moment before giving Rascal what he hoped was his best determined look.

“Alright,” He said. “Let’s see what’s been keeping her.”

 ,

He spent about half an hour in the woods of the human realm until he managed to find Luz’s house.

She’d never really said  where  she lived, just that it was the closest house to the forest. Nothing about directions, so he spent his time wandering about trying to find a house that wasn’t falling apart.

Rascal gave up and eventually flew off at some point, returning about five minutes later, chittering loudly and pulling on his hood. Hunter knew better to argue, and had followed until he came across a house that actually looked  lived  in, as opposed to the one he’d appeared in.

“If you led me to a random person's house, I  will  throw you into the sea.” Hunter warned, only getting a cheery whistle in return as he walked around the house.

He eventually found a window on the first floor, and pushing on it, was delighted to find that it was unlocked. He opened it, hoisting himself inside as Rascal darted in.

He realized the window was right over a kitchen sink, and lightly stepped a foot onto the counter beside it. He slowly swung himself inside, not even bothering to shut the window behind him as he dropped to the floor. He might need that escape route later.

Rascal was off exploring without a second thought, so he allowed himself to stalk throughout the kitchen, eyes flickering over photos and magnets stuck to the fridge. He saw ones that looked like letters, colors, and even saw a photo of a woman and a young, crazy-looking child.

He peeked around corners as he darted through the house, cracking open doors before continuing through hallways. One of the doors he opened  looked  like a bedroom, but he saw something with a scaly tail poking out, so he let that room be. The human realm was bound to have its own oddities.

The other bedroom he saw did have a person sleeping in it, but she didn’t look like Luz, much too old, so he quietly shut that door again and tried a different one.

He opened the last one, at the end of the hallway, already preparing to snap back that Rascal had brought him to the  wrong house,  when he took in the bedroom.

He only needed to see it for half a second to see the immediate resemblance to the mess that was Luz’s room in the Owl House. He slipped inside, leaving the door open just a crack in case Rascal showed up.

He crouched, eyeing the posters along the walls, shelves full of random junk, books strewn across the room. The figure sleeping in the bed was practically twisted backwards, blankets already halfway on the floor. He approached it, slowly standing up as he loomed over them, searching their face.

“Oh thank the Titan,” Hunter breathed, stepping back as he pressed a hand to his chest. That was Luz, for sure.

She stirred, slightly, hand twitching as she mumbled incoherently in her sleep. At least she wasn’t actually kidnapped or something, he reasoned.

“Hey, human,” He said, a little louder, but enough that he hoped the others down the hallway wouldn’t hear, shoving at her shoulder. “Wakey wakey.”

Luz mumbled in her sleep again, one eye barely cracking open before she turned over and tried to bury further under her covers.

Hunter grabbed her leg poking out from the blankets and yanked her off.

Luz’s yelp was cut off as he smothered the blankets over her, pausing as she fumbled around trying to get it off, ears pricked as he waited to see if anyone had heard.

“I’m  awake,  Vee, I’m  awake--”  Luz pulled the blanket off her head, her glare almost immediately replaced with shock.

“Hey,” Hunter grinned, flashing fangs. “Miss me?”

“Hunter?”  Luz exclaimed, before immediately covering her mouth with her hands, eyes darting towards her door like she expected someone to be there.

“Oh don’t sound  so  surprised.” Hunter scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You oughta step up your game if you think you can escape me in another dimension.”

“What are you  doing  here?” Luz whisper-yelled, scrambling to her feet as she looked wildly around her room. “Did-did the  others  come?” She asked, giving him such a scared look he was a little put off by it.

“No? I mean, they  will  be, I just got ahead of the curve.” Hunter shrugged off her odd reactions. “Made sure I got to you before they did, didn’t feel like being left behind on the ‘let’s drag Luz back kicking and screaming’ plan.”

“Oh no, oh no,” Luz shook her head, one hand on her head as she began to pace. “Are-are the others  looking  for me?”

“Will be by the end of this week,” Hunter said, watching her curiously. “Why? This a bad time or something?”

“Yes! Yes, this is a  terrible  time!” Luz exclaimed, barely managing to keep her voice down as she whirled towards him.

“Did you get grounded?” Hunter narrowed his eyes. “Because if so, let me just say, I know about fifteen different ways to lessen the extent of the grounding, and twice as many ways to sneak out, this place isn’t even all that fortified--”

“No! Well, I mean, I kind of am,” Luz winced. “But that’s not--you can’t--you need to  go.”  Luz said, gesturing back towards the door. “You can’t be here.”

“Do you need a body disposed of? Because I also know a lot of ways to--”

“I’m touched, but no.” Luz gave him a withering look. “Don’t even wanna know why you know that. You have to  leave.”  She insisted, beginning to shove him towards the door.

“Aw, but I came all this way to see you,” Hunter whined in a dramatic tease, slowly leaning back, therefore putting more strain on Luz as she tried to push him out. “You don’t want to see me?”

“Believe me, I’m  very  happy to see you’re okay,” Luz assured through gritted teeth, offering the smallest of smiles. “And I’ll bother you later. But now is  not the time.”

Rascal took that moment to poke in through the crack in the doorway, landing on a shelf and eyeing the two with what felt like judgement. Hunter promptly dropped all his weight on Luz, nearly crushing her. 

“Damn,” He whistled when Luz’s knees refused to buckle. “You got some muscle hiding under those skinny bones?”

“That, and you weigh as much as a half-filled sack of lumpy potatoes.” Luz muttered, already pushing back up to her full height as she took Hunter with her.

“You’re  impossible.”  Hunter huffed, standing back up onto his feet and snickering as Luz stumbled with the lack of weight. “Seriously, what’s the hold up? Are you getting bored with us already?”

“No,  first of all, I’d never do that.” Luz pointed a finger at him. “And I’m offended you thought I ever would be.”

“It’s a reasonable assumption.”

“It’s not. And second of all,  I’m  serious, you  cannot be here.”  Luz stressed, grabbing his shoulders, a movement that instinctively caused him to flinch, just the tiniest bit. “If my  mom  sees you here, she’s going to  freak--”

“Luz?” A groggy voice called, and Luz stiffened so quickly with such  terror  crossing her face that Hunter tensed as well. “Creí haber escuchado algo, are you--?”

Hunter saw the door to Luz’s room open, and immediately threw an arm out in front of Luz, giving a quick whistle that Rascal had learned to recognize by now. In a flash, he was holding his staff in his other hand, Luz pushed behind him as he pointed his staff towards the figure in the doorway, ears pressed back and fangs bared in a low, warning growl.

The person froze, eyes going wide, one hand still clutching the door handle.

He recognized it as the older woman he saw in one of the bedrooms, hair still mussied from sleep, the glasses on her face smudged from someone having grabbed them clumsily. The sleep had vanished from her eyes the moment she saw him, a faintly glowing staff pointed only a foot away from her.

“Hunter, Hunter, no, stop!” Luz was quick to grab Hunter’s arm after barely a second of tense silence, shoving the staff down. “She’s my mom, she’s safe!”

Hunter paused at that. Granted, his experience with biological family (as biological as Belos could be) wasn’t the best, but he had heard a few stories, here and there, about Luz’s mom. And Luz would go into a Slitherbeast den for anyone who asked nicely, but hey, he still thought that if someone was willing to fight  Emperor Belos  for them, they had to be something special.

“Oh, sorry.” He said, all hostility evaporating as he drew his staff back, holding it at his side. “Reflexes.”

“Luz,” The woman said, slowly, and Hunter was so instantly reminded of when the adults dealing with him were trying so hard to not lose their shit that he halfway raised his arm to shield Luz again. “Por qué hay un chico extraño en tu habitación?”

“Puedo explicarlo!” Luz was quick to exclaim, clutching Hunter’s arm, and he looked blankly between them. He’d heard of other languages in the Isles before, often ones spoken by demons, but this was a new one on him.

“Oh estoy segura de que lo harás!” The woman snapped back, hands on her hips now, not bothering to keep her voice low. 

“What’s she saying?” Hunter whispered to Luz, eyes still darting between the two. “Is this a ‘we’re about to start fighting’ situation or a ‘you’re grounded for life’ situation?”

“No te puedo creer.” Luz's mom grumbled, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Okay, so, uh,” Luz clasped her hands together. “I promise, mami, this is  not  what it looks like.”

“What does it look like?” Hunter blinked, giving Luz a concerned expression now. “It doesn't look like I’m a robber, right? Because this place has nothing  near  worth stealing.”

“Please stop talking,” Luz hissed out of the corner of her mouth, never taking her eyes off her mother. “Mami, this is, uh,” She faltered for a moment. “This is Hunter.”

Her mother cracked open an eye from where she was rubbing the bridge of her nose, sending such a seething glare that both kids shuttered. 

“You know what,” Hunter said, letting Rascal transform out of a staff and back into his usual self, letting the bird land on his shoulder as he clapped his hands together. “I can see that you're busy, so I think I’ll just be--why is she staring at me like that?”

The woman was staring at him now, well, Rascal, eyes locked on the cardinal on his shoulder like it had suddenly grown five heads. He flicked an ear in confusion, turning to Luz to ask what her mom’s problem was, only to see Luz immediately face-palm.

“Estoy atascado con un idiota,” Luz mumbled under her breath, and Hunter could pretty easily guess what the last word had meant, and bristled at it.

“Hey--”

“Okay,  so, Hunter,” Luz kept her hands pressed together, using them both to point towards him. “Thank you for the visit, really, but I think we’re done here.”

“We,”  Luz’s mom finally managed to speak, and Luz cringed with a sheepish smile. “Are going to have a  talk.”  She growled, though it lacked any of the reverberating sounds an actual growl would have. He always wondered how humans ever got the last  hit  of their point across without growls or clicks or hisses. He realized now that tone had a  lot  to do with it.

“And that includes  you,  young man.” The woman added, turning her glare towards Hunter, and he wouldn’t be ashamed to admit he wilted a bit under it. She could’ve disintegrated Kikimora on the spot with a look like that.

“Yes, ma’am.” Hunter ducked his head, and ignored the quiet snickers from Luz that she quickly tried to smother.

The woman stepped to the side, allowing the two of them to shuffle out of the room. Luz went out first, giving Hunter an expression that was somehow both  ‘sorry’  and  ‘I told you so’  and  boy  did he want to punch it.

Hunter hurried out after her, one hand cupped over Rascal protectively, unable to fight back the urge to hide him from everyone and everything new, that he’d be broken in half the second anyone got close.

As he passed her, he knew she was staring at him with a far sharper gaze than she had Luz. He glanced out the corner of his eye, and she was staring at his ears, at Rascal, and just as he stepped into the hallway, her eyes narrowed in on the scar along the side of his face.

He’d had people stare at his scars before, it wasn’t new. Scars weren’t uncommon in the Boiling Isles, but ones as big and prominent as his were generally expected of witches far older than him, far more known for their battles and their victories.

He growled in the back of his throat, briefly twitching his lip to flash a fang. It was near-instinctive at this point, a quiet reminder of who he was, of who shadowed over him, and that it was impolite to stare, to mind your own business.

Luz’s mom jerked back at it, a far stronger reaction than the ones he was used to getting. He was used to a quick aversion of the eyes, hurrying to turn their heads the other way, a simple glance to elsewhere in the room. She stared at him with even more apprehension and worry than before, like she was confronted with a wild animal in her home.

His ears pressed down and he hurried off down the hallway, almost stepping on Luz’s heels from how close he walked behind her.

He noticed an eye peeking out of a room up ahead, and Luz gave a weak, almost teasing, salute to whoever was inside. He saw a flash of scales and what might've been a pitying look until they slipped out of view.

Luz stood off to the side as she exited the hallway, and Hunter stood next to her. He gave her a questioning look, one she nearly missed from how much she was staring at her feet. He nudged her shoulder, gaining her attention, and Luz gave a weak, nervous smile.

Alright, so he was  definitely  missing something here with his woman.

“Kitchen table,” Luz’s mom said, pointing, and the two obeyed. Hunter had no real reason to, he knew this. She was human, he could just leave, and she wouldn’t be able to stop him. But she was important to Luz, clearly, and he knew, tragically, that he’d feel guilty if he left Luz alone.

Luz sat in one of the chairs at the round table, and Hunter took the one next to her. Her mother eyed them for a moment before taking the one across from them.

“Can I just say, that I did  not  invite Hunter here--”

“Oh, so  that’s  how it's gonna be?” Hunter whirled his head to her. “Throwing  me  under the bus? Sorry I wanted to  check in.”

“I am telling it  as the truth.”  Luz insisted, glaring at him. “Would you rather I tell her that I purposefully invited you here at,” She turned towards the wall, squinting at a clock hanging there. “Two twenty-three? Why did you come here so  late?”  She demanded.

“Technically, it’s early.” Hunter corrected. 

“I’m actually going to punch your teeth out.”

Rascal cheeped from his shoulder, and Hunter nodded sagely like he had said something. Rascal  could  talk to him, of course, in words that only he could hear, but he often didn’t. And the best part was that he could never prove to anyone that Rascal wasn’t shit-talking them.

“Enough,  both of you  . ” Luz’s mother said firmly, hands placed on the table that had them both straightening to attention. “Luz,” She turned to her daughter, rubbing her temple with one hand as she gestured with the other towards Hunter. “Explain him, please.”

“Like, life story, or why he’s here, or what he is, or--”

“Just  please  tell me he’s not from where I think he’s from.”

“Oh,” Luz glanced between Hunter and her mother, gears turning in her head. “He’s...not?”

“Dios ayúdame,” Her mother groaned.

“You told me to say he wasn’t! Actually,” Luz frowned as she turned to Hunter.  “Do  you count as someone from the demon realm, biologically? I don’t know how that whole, er, Grimwalker thing worked, like are you a direct clone, or--”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, because I’ve been avoiding dealing with that whole situation for the past two weeks, and I’m not about to start now.” Hunter raised a hand to cut her off.

“You…” Luz narrowed her eyes at him. “You need a therapist, dude.”

“You’re the fifth person to say that in the last week.”

“Why,”  Luz’s mother cut in again, silencing their conversation. “Is there a  demon boy  in my house?”

“I’m a witch,” Hunter corrected.

“Don’t you count as, like,  half  a--”

“What did I  just  say, Luz?”

“Right,” Luz snapped her mouth shut. “Uh, so, I’m assuming he broke in--”

Hunter groaned, gripping his head in his hands as he slouched over the table. Rascal chittered gently as he hopped off his shoulder and onto the table, nudging his arm.

“--but he wasn’t going to cause any trouble!” Luz added quickly, seeing her mothers expression continue to sour. “He just-he wanted to make sure I was alright.”

The woman eyed the two of them for a moment, and Hunter refused to look up and meet her gaze.

“Hunter, is it?” The woman said slowly, cautious, suspicious, but not accusatory. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Hunter sighed, relenting to lift his head, messy hair hanging in his face.

“How old are you, exactly?”

“Mami…”

“Sixteen, ma’am.” He mumbled, resting his cheek in his hand.

“And…” She hesitated for a moment.  “How  old is that in witch years…?”

“...sixteen?” Hunter gave her a perplexed look.

“They age the same as us.” Luz assured, and her mother seemed to relax just a bit.

“Gracias a Dios por eso,” Her mother mumbled. “Alright, and how did you get in?”

“Window,” He tilted his head off towards the one in question, still open over the sink.

“Of course,” The woman muttered under her breath. “The  one  time I didn’t lock it. Okay, now what is  that?”  She gestured towards Rascal on his shoulder, and he raised his hand to let the palisman hop onto his hand.

“My palisman,” He said, settling the bird down on the table, but keeping him a far enough distance from Luz’s mom that she wouldn’t be able to grab him. “I call him Rascal. Which reminds me,” He nudged Luz’s shoulder. “Where do you keep those seeds you have for your palisman? She keeps screaming at everyone and the Owl Lady doesn’t know how to make her shut up.”

“Is she okay?” Luz straightened.

“Yeah, little jays fine, she’s just being a pain in the ass.” Hunter grimaced.

“Watch your language, young man.” Luz’s mom leveled a finger at him, and he eyed it for a moment. “Now what do you mean ‘Luz’s pailsman?’ What in the  world  is a palisman?”

“Oh, uh, nothing! Nothing important, really. Just, like, staff things.” Luz said quickly, and Hunter and Rascal shared a look. Luz loved her palisman, as bratty as she was. And he knew from experience that Luz didn’t think of palismans as ‘nothing important.’

He drew a hand around Rascal and scooted him a little closer towards himself.

“Okay, okay,” Luz’s mother inhaled a steadying breath, as though to keep her cool. “And you are breaking into my house, early in the morning, to see my daughter.”

“Really just to make sure she didn’t, like, get kidnapped on the way up here.” Hunter shrugged. “Everyone's worried about her, so I took one for the team, and all that.”

“Everyone?” Her mother frowned.

“Her...friends?” Hunter gave Luz a sideways look, and she avoided his gaze.

“Mija, you have friends in the  demon realm?”  Luz’s mom balked, with the tone of someone who didn’t quite believe it, who almost felt as though they were being tricked.

“I told you a bit about them…” Luz mumbled, shifting uncomfortably.

“You,” Her mother chuckled, shaking her head, the first sign of anything lighter than what they’d had so far. “You really can’t help but be friendly to everyone, huh?” 

“It’s how she got stuck with me, it’s a real problem.” Hunter said, and got an elbow jabbed into him for his troubles, wheezing as he clutched his side. 

“Well, you certainly are an...interesting acquaintance,” Her mother said slowly, eyeing him, and he barely resisted the urge to briefly flash sharpened teeth when her gaze lingered on the scar across his face again. “And you showed up, by breaking in...just to check in on Luz?”

“Yeah?” Hunter managed to cough out, cracking open an eye to give the woman a confused look compared to her suspicious, searching one. “Why else?”

“...alright.” She said, and her gaze went back to her daughter. “I wasn’t aware that there would be... situations  where the demon realm followed you  back.”

“Neither did I, really.” Luz was quick to assure, hands raised.  “Hunter  of all people being worried about me is the most confusing and touching thing that’s happened so far.”

“I was not  worried.”  Hunter whirled to her. “I only came here because everyone  else  was, and they were going to leave me out of the rescue party.”

“Rescue party?” Luz’s mother startled, and he should really learn her name.

“Aha, he doesn't mean that.” Luz waved her hands quickly. 

“I do?” Hunter narrowed his eyes. “The others were planning on busting out of the portal to come find you by the end of this week. I didn’t want to be left out, so I broke in ahead of time.”

“There are demons coming  here?”  The woman exclaimed, jumping to her feet.

“Pretty sure the little rat dog is the only demon coming along.” Hunter corrected. “The others are witches.”

“You  know  his name is King.” Luz grumbled.

“Yeah, but it's way more fun to call him a rat.”

“Luz, cariño, are we going to have  more  witches breaking in?” Her mother stressed, stepping away from the table and already beginning to pace.

“Not-not when Hunter gets back to them!” Luz said, also standing. “He can tell them to hold off, that I’m fine, and all that.”

“And deal with them getting all pissy I broke out?” Hunter demanded, scooping Rascal up in his hands as he, too, stood.  “Hell  no, either they hear from me with you there, or I don’t tell them shit.”

“Watch it,” Luz’s mother warned him again, this time only giving a quick glare. “And Luz is  not  going back there.”

“Then you have two to twenty witches, plus one demon, knocking on your door.” Hunter shrugged. “What’s the big deal?”

“Luz, what did you get  into  while you were in the demon realm?” Her mother groaned, rubbing her temples.

“I mean, you didn’t ask a  lot... ” Luz tried, hovering about two feet from her mom.

“You have two to  twenty  magical demon people ready to break into our home to make sure you’re okay,” Her mother said, turning towards her daughter. “You didn’t...you didn’t tell me you had  friends  there.”

“I feel like I just said this,” Hunter squinted. “I told you Luz has friends in the Boiling Isles, isn’t that expected? She makes friends with  everyone.”

Luz rubbed her arm and looked down at the ground, and her mother’s mouth twitched downwards for a brief moment. He felt like he was missing something.

“Are all of your friends like him?” Her mother said after a moment, gesturing with a hand off towards Hunter.

“I resent what that implies,” Hunter huffed, ears pressed down as he tucked Rascal between his neck and cloak.

“I mean, personality wise? No, he’s the biggest brat of them all.” Luz assured, and Hunter visibly took offence. “Well, Matt was  also  a brat, but he’s a friend of a friend, and I think he’s calmer now.”

“They  are  annoying, though.” Hunter piped up, and prided on barely reacting under Luz’s seething glare.

“Well they can’t come  here,  your first friend has already caused enough trouble.” Her mother said firmly, and Hunter rolled his eyes at that.

“Please, breaking and entering is tame for me.” Hunter scoffed, and got an even more worried, and possibly judging, look from the woman.

“You're not helping.” Luz whispered, immediately turning back to her mother. “I’m sure we can figure this whole thing out. I can probably get Hunter to tell them to calm them down without me having to go back, Rascal can bully him into it, he likes me.”

“That’s a  low blow,  human!” Hunter hissed, a low, drawn-out sound that had the woman tensing and Luz only rolling her eyes. “I do so much for you, and  this  is the thanks I get?” He ignored Rascal’s gleeful chitters that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“We’re  even  on that front and you  know it.” 

“Debatable,”

“This is  serious,  Luz.” Her mother said, and Luz’s mouth clicked shut. “Christ,” She sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d made  friends  in the demon realm?”

“You didn’t ask…?” Luz said slowly.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Hunter said, leaning against the island counter. “I drag Luz back, she hangs for a day or two to calm everyone down, and she comes right back to have quality family time, or whatever you guys call it, until you’re all finished.”

“Absolutely not,” Her mother said instantly. “Luz will not go anywhere  near  that portal.”

“It’s not gonna blow up, it’s stable.” Hunter raised a brow, not noticing Luz freezing up. 

“Luz is  not  going back to that demon realm,” She insisted, and he was sure she would be growling if she could. “Listen, could you please just tell the other witches to stay back? I don’t want any trouble from that realm coming through here.”

“Ouch,” Hunter said dryly, twitching an ear as he crossed his arms. “Why’s this got you in a tizzy? I came here to bring back Luz anyway, why is this an issue?”

Luz and her mother met eyes for a brief second, and Hunter knew then he was missing something, because it felt like a conversation passed between their eyes and Luz ducked her head again, ashamed.

“Luz,” Her mother spoke in soft tones, though she was rubbing at her face. “You didn’t tell your  friends--”

“I was going to--”

“Luz, honey, you can’t  omit details  from people--”

“I know, I swear I was just busy trying to see you--”

Hunter set Rascal down on the island counter and gestured towards him. The palisman fluffed his wings before proceeding to peck incessantly on the counter, making a loud clinking noise. It got both humans mingling words to come to a stop as they both turned towards him.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt, but I’m still here.” Hunter said, scratching his bird's head to get him to cease once he had their full attention. “What am I missing?” He asked, pointing between the two.

“I apologize Luz hadn’t informed you earlier,” Her mother started, and Luz gripped her arms and looked away from them both, shoulders hunched. “But she won’t be going back to the demon realm.”

He stared. He blinked once, twice. He could see Rascal staring too, just barely in his line of sight.

“Come again?”

“Luz had been trapped there for so long,” Her mother went on. “And-and she was surrounded by  demons  and rain that scalded skin and-and Vee told me of Emperor’s and experiments,” 

Hunter flinched at that, ears pressing flat as he turned his head to the side.

“It’s clearly not a safe place,” She continued, and her eyes dropped to his notched ear. “And...there’s much to catch up on, to talk about.” She said, in a polite tone that told him not to press that particular matter. “Surely, you can explain this to them?”

Hunter stayed silent for a moment, aware of Luz peeking at him with guilt across her features. He didn’t meet it, he knew he’d get more riled up if he did.

“Yeah, so,” Hunter said calmly, clasping his hands together. “That’s  not  happening.” 

“Excuse me?” Her mother reeled back a bit.

“Listen, Miss...what are your last names again?” He asked Luz, though he still didn’t let himself fully look at her.

“Noceda,” She said, sounding confused now.

“Ms. Noceda,” He continued. “I can speak from personal experience when I tell you that the Emperor and any experiments he had are  far  beyond gone,” He said, bitterness dripping from his words. “And I--  we  have your daughter to thank for that.”

Her mother startled for a moment, opening her mouth to speak, but he plowed on.

“Half the things that made the Isles dangerous, including the very reason your daughter was late coming home, are either burnt to a crisp or in the ground.” He said, holding her gaze. “And I can tell you this, with one hundred percent sincerity, that if I go back and tell Luz’s friends that she won’t ever be coming back, you’ll have witches and demons in numbers nearing the thirties knocking on your front door.” 

“Is that a threat?” The woman managed to get out first. 

“With all due respect, Ms. Noceda, it’s a promise.” 

“Thank you,  Hunter.” Luz was suddenly at his side, seizing his arm in a grip that felt like he was losing circulation. “That’s  enough,”  She said, giving him a warning look. “I think she gets the message.”

“Luz, what in the world is he talking about?” Her mother asked, eyes back to her child.

“It-it’s a long story, but he’s right about the Emperor!” Luz added quickly. “He’s...he’s gone, and-and I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“He won’t.” Hunter said, and left it at that.

“Luz, cariño, I’m sure we could work something out with your friends.” Her mother assured. “I’m glad a man like Vee had described is gone, but I’m sure they would understand.”

“That her mom won’t let her come back?” Hunter scoffed, and Luz tugged forcefully on his arm.

“Hunter,”  She hissed, and he looked at her then, and saw the fear practically  radiating  off her. He wondered if it was something she’d picked up from Amity or vice versa, to be brimming with emotions, but leaving them largely unnoticed until someone actually  focused.

“Look, I…” Luz hesitated for a moment. “I  promised  that I’d stay with her…” She mumbled, and the last piece clicked in his mind.

Luz had promised she’d stay, to a likely terrified mother, and Luz was never one to skimp out on promises. She either kept them or agonized over trying. And it’d make sense why she wouldn’t want to tell anyone, she promised she’d  leave forever,  and no plans or compromises from the residents of the Owl House could sate a mother worried for her daughter. 

Also made sense why she wanted him to leave. Her mom did  not  seem to like the place, and him being there had to be somewhat breaking the little ‘promise’ of interacting with someone from the demon realm at all.

“Oh,” He said, instead of all that, ears pricking slightly. 

“I’m sorry to have it all sprung on you without warning,” He heard her mother saying, though he wasn’t looking at her much in that moment, but she sounded genuine. “But the demon realm doesn’t necessarily seem to be...the  safest  of places.”

“It’s not,” Hunter confirmed, slowly straightening to face the woman again. “But hey,” He shrugged, feeling Luz letting up her grip on his arm. “It’s home.”

Her eyes dropped to his scar again, just for a moment, and he didn’t bother to hide his eye roll this time.

“Trust me, I’m an outlier in how deadly the place  actually  is.” He muttered. “These,” He gestured broadly to his face, not quite feeling the satisfaction he assumed he’d feel when he saw her wince. “Were caused by something  outside  the Boiling Isles, something that never should have been there in the first place. He’s gone now.” He rumbled a growl. “We made sure of it.”

She looked apologetic, and he’d give her that. But she shook her head with a sigh all the same.

“I’m sorry, truly, but Luz and I agreed, it’s not safe. I’m glad she could make friends there, I really am,” She said, and he wondered what kind of friends Luz had had in the past, because she said the word ‘friends’ like it could have five different meanings. “But it’s not safe for her.”

“And?” Hunter threw a hand out in a broad gesture. “It was never completely safe, no place is. You gonna look me in the eyes and tell me Luz would never sneak back out? I’m giving her another week at best.”

“Hunter!”

“Look, I’m  really  just trying to wrap this whole complication up,” Hunter sighed unsympathetically, aware of Rascal chirping and head-butting his arm. “Unfortunately, I  know  you, and I know you’d rather wallow in a chasm for eternity than never go back to the Isles. And as entertaining as watching a whole drama unfold would be when your mom would eventually find out, I  really  don't want to deal with that headache.” He grumbled.

Luz looked to her mother then, and her mother looked back. Luz’s hand was still clutched in his sleeve, watching her mother worriedly as she met her confused gaze.

“Luz?” Her mother said slowly, and Luz fiddled with Hunter’s sleeve.

“Mami, I...look, I didn’t...my friends, they...I don’t…”

“Hi, sorry, can-can I butt-in?”

The three whirled around, Hunter automatically putting an arm in front of Luz and taking a step back at the sight.

A basilisk lay in the doorway to the kitchen, tail curled somewhere out of sight. It was a young one, about the size of Luz. That’d work, he’d taken on bigger before, not like he had any magic for a basilisk to steal--

“Vee,” Luz’s mother breathed. “What are you doing up?”

And of  course  she was someone they knew. Amazing, wonderful, he loved being out of the loop that there was a  basilisk  casually within the house, that wasn’t unnerving at all.

“You guys aren’t very quiet,” The basilisk--Vee--shrugged as she slithered in, and Hunter took another step back, his arm in front of Luz causing her to be pushed back as well. “Hey there, uh, new guy.” She offered a small, shy wave to Hunter, and he eyed her before hesitantly returning it.

“Vee, I think you should go back to bed, we were discussing--”

“I know, I heard.” Vee brushed off Luz’s mom. “I actually have an idea for, y’know, this predicament. No offence, but I can't really sleep with you guys arguing.” She said, the wringing of her clawed hands the only sign she was nervous, stopping only when she was between them, with Luz and Hunter on one side, Ms. Noceda on the other.

“Should I be worried about this?” Hunter whispered to Luz.

“Nah, she’s cool.” Luz whispered back.

“What if, and hear me out...we all sleep on this,” Vee said, palms pressed together. “We think it over during the night, and when it's actually  light  out, we talk about Luz wanting to go back to the Isles and the rules that would have to be put in place. And also nobody breaks in.” She tacked on quickly.

“So you  do  want to go back?” Luz’s mother turned to her, and he saw the hurt and shock in her eyes.

“I…” Luz looked like she had a ‘no,’ at the back of her throat, and he truly did believe she would’ve said all her mom wanted to say. But he nudged her side, and she looked up at him, and clearly he was doing  something  with his face, because the empty assurances died out.

“Y-yeah, I do.” She mumbled, looking back to her mom. “I...really,  really  want to see them again, back in their realm.”

And he avoided looking at Ms. Noceda’s face, because the shock and pain increased significantly.

“Well, I, for one,” He said, ducking around Luz. “Agree with the lizard's plan. Sleep on it, talk in the morning with Ms. Noceda, yadda yadda, all that fun stuff.”

“Camila is fine,” The woman murmured, sounding a little dazed.

“Lizard?”  Vee hissed, tongue flickering out as she narrowed her eyes on him.

“Right, sorry, snake fits better.” Hunter said before he could stop himself.

“You have permission to beat him up.” Luz said casually, ignoring Hunter’s indignant shout of “traitor!”

“I, yes, yes,” Luz’s mother--Camila--sighed, stepping back and bracing herself against the kitchen counter. “Tonight has been...a hectic one. It’s far too late to be talking about things like this.”

“Does this mean I can go?” Hunter asked, pointing with his thumb behind him. “Preferably without alerting everyone that I snuck out?”

“I don’t know  how  you got past Hooty,” Luz sighed, tilting her head and beginning to walk towards the front door with a quick, affirming glance with her mother that both had barely managed to make, Hunter immediately following.

“I escaped through your window.” Hunter said simply, and he noted Camila looking up slightly at that, until Vee approached her, murmuring in soft words he knew better than to try and eavesdrop on.

“Of course you did,” Luz grumbled, opening the front door and practically shoving Hunter outside. 

“Alright, alright, I get it, I’m leaving--”

Luz stepped out onto the front porch with him, leaving the front door open just a crack, enough so that she could be seen through it, and in turn could see Camila and Vee talking back by the kitchen.

“Am I going to get a personal lecture?” Hunter asked cautiously, crossing his arms as his ears flicked down. “Look, in my defense, you didn’t exactly explain a lot of things to  me--”

Luz lunged, and he stepped back and raised his hands defensively. Instead of a mean left hook he was expecting, he got arms wrapped around his sides, squeezing the air out of him.

Hunter wheezed, and would’ve doubled over if Luz wasn’t in the way. She didn’t let up on her hug, and after a moment of trying to get his thoughts in order, he slowly drew his arms around Luz, chin tucked against her head pressed into his chest.

“I’m glad you're okay,” Luz muffled into his shirt, and Hunter may have clung on a little tighter, aware of Rascal watching this all from his shoulder.

“Feel like you said this already.” He managed to get out.

“I know, I just wanted you to know I meant it.”

And if Hunter tilted his head down to press his face into Luz’s hair then, she didn’t say anything.

“Good to see you still kickin’, too.” He mumbled. 

“Miss me?” Luz teased, throwing his words back at him as she pulled her head back slightly, and Hunter quickly did the same to look down at her.

“Hardly,” He huffed, clearing his throat to hide how it cracked halfway through. “I just didn’t want everyone leaving me out of all the fun.”

“Uh huh,” Luz raised a brow. “So you just  happened  to drop by to make sure I was alright on the one night you  actually  managed to escape the Owl House without being caught?”

“...listen--”

Luz laughed, and Hunter sputtered over his words. He growled and pushed her back and off him, knowing his face was flushing as he turned away and crossed his arms. Luz’s laughter didn’t stop at that, and Rascal sounded like he was laughing, too.

His ears drooped down and he half-heartedly bared teeth, in what may have been an attempt to hide a smile.

“You’re such a massive pain, you know that?” He growled. 

“I do,” Luz grinned, laughter calming down to giggles. “I learned from the best.”

“That, you did. That Owl Lady couldn’t be more overbearing if she tried.” Hunter muttered.

“She’s got a bit of an empty nest syndrome, you get used to it.” Luz lightly nudged his shoulder. “It’s her way of welcoming you to the family.”

And he didn’t even have the time to process  that  whole sentence, because Rascal was fluttering onto Luz’s shoulder, cheeping as Luz raised a hand to scratch at his head.

“Make sure they know not to worry too much, okay?” She continued, looking up at him. “I’ll try and sort this out.”

“Does that mean you’re coming back soon?” Hunter paused, tilting his head. And maybe there was a tone of hopefulness in his tone, maybe.

Luz hesitated for a moment, frowning slightly in thought. She looked back towards the front door, though he couldn’t see if Camila or Vee were anywhere near it, what with the angle being off and Luz blocking most of it. He wondered if they could hear their conversation.

“I think so,” She said, quieter this time as she turned back to him with a small smile. “I... hope  so.”

“So do I, they’ll be insufferable without you.” Hunter teased. “Have fun thinking up how to explain to them your apparent promise.”

“Don’t remind me,” Luz groaned, throwing her head back. “Look, it was a panicked situation, and I didn’t want her any more scared than she--”

“Save it,” Hunter said, not unkindly, raising a hand to silence her. “I’ve made worse spur-of-the-moment decisions. Contrary to popular belief, I know you well enough that you’d never stay away for long. You have a habit of being a people-pleaser.”

Luz relaxed, and raised her hand to let Rascal hop onto it. She offered him back to Hunter, and he took the bird into his hands.

“Still, I’m sorry.” She said, wringing her hands together. “For all of this.”

“If all goes well, you’ll get to tell them that yourself.” He said, and attempted a smile.

“Hopefully,” Luz said, glancing back towards the door. “So, that means you’re willing to tell them what happened?” She asked, a pleading note to her voice.

“As in, I tell them that I broke out of the Owl House in the middle of the night, escaped to the human realm, found you when I  knew  they were going to do the same thing, and then came back to the demon realm  without  you, just to tell them you’ll  probably  be back soon, but I don’t know when?” Hunter said, ears lowering more and more as he spoke, raising a brow.

“...yes?” Luz tried, hands clasped behind her back as she looked up at him with wide, puppy-dog eyes.

“...I don’t know  why  I put up with you.” Hunter groaned, relenting as his shoulders slumped, letting Rascal fly up onto his shoulder.

“Because you care about me,” Luz teased in a singsong tone, her relief immediate.

“Unfortunately,” He muttered unthinkingly, before the words processed in his head. He tensed right after, eyes locked on the wall behind Luz.

She looked surprised for about half a second before she practically  lit up,  beaming excitedly at him.

“Anyway,”  He said quickly, voice higher than normal,  knowing  he was flushed up to his ears. “I should be off before your mom gets even more pissed at me.” He said, sharply turning on his heel.

Rascal was most definitely laughing at him now, and he pulled up his hood before shoving the bird into it, silencing him. He leapt down the stairs leading up to the porch, instead of walking down them like a normal person.

“Well, in her defense, you  did  break in.” Luz reminded, though there was a certain giddiness to her tone as she watched him leave.

“Like you  haven’t  done it!” Hunter scoffed behind him, beginning to hurry back towards the forest, head ducked low.

“Yes, but we don’t need to  tell  her that!” Luz hissed, voice notably quieter as she fearfully glanced back. 

“No promises!” He called back, a grin forming as he picked up the pace. “Call it compensation for throwing me to the wolves!”

“Wh--Hunter!” Luz squawked indignantly.

He turned on his heel for just a moment, giving Luz a mocking salute before ducking between the trees of the forest, cackling as Luz’s calls of “don’t you  dare!”  faded behind him.

“Alright, Rascal, prepare yourself.” He said, hearing his palisman chitter from within his hood, with a hint of annoyance to it. “We’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

[sepublic]

Season 2 Poster!

           It is looking… DELICIOUSLY red, like a very bloody, ominous kind! We see the Titan’s skull looming in the background, and of course Belos… We have Luz with her cloak, wielding Owlbert! And King, who might just be sweating, or it’s extra detail; But is it me, or does he have pitted marks on his skull? Coupled with the additional King lore we’re getting, and I’m becoming concerned…

           EDA! Poor Eda, half of the curse but she STILL has feathers sprouting, dang it… But I guess it makes sense. The curse got worse, and now I’m scared that it’ll keep getting worse until she reverts back to the Owl Beast state from the Season 1 finale. The idea that all Lilith did was buy time for Eda… And LILITH, she has her staff and palisman and a new outfit, resembling her more homely, humbler status now! It reminds me of Eda, but she’s off in the background, distant from Eda, looking at her!

           Is this distance merely metaphorical, with focus on the main trio? Will Lilith room at the Owl House, and/or be less of a cast member? The synopsis for Echoes of the Past alludes to her working with Luz and Hooty… But Keeping Up A-fear-ances doesn’t mention Lilith, just Eda! Which, it’s Eda’s house, so maybe that’s why the description only talks of HER getting a visitor, but…

           I am concerned that Lilith might not want to burden Eda by leaving. Perhaps she’ll visit, maybe she’ll just live in the tower. Maybe she’s just away when Gwendolyn drops by, and another episode will be dedicated to HER relationship with Gwen, while KUA focuses on Eda and Gwen!

           To the right of Lilith, curiously, are statues with plague-doctor masks reminiscent of the mask she wore as leader of the Emperor’s Coven! There’s only two seen, but the way they’re arranged, it reminds me of the Petrification Statues… Will the statues allude to Clawthornes? To past EC leaders… Oh god, what if a previous leader for the Emperor’s Coven, the first two, were petrified for mistakes- And now Lilith is shown beside the statues of her predecessors, haunted by their legacy, by her criminal status, realizing what she just missed out on! Or, they’re just wild witches who become relevant to Lilith, perhaps people she learns from, posthumously or in present-day.

           There’s of course Willow, Gus, Amity, and Hooty, all looking concerned- Gus shouting out, befitting that kid as someone who speaks out and gives a voice to others! Amity is alone, possibly symbolizing conflicts related to her parents, which are confirmed to happen, and/or to balance out the layout of characters and positioning, because Amity has always been the odd-one-out of Luz’s Hexside friends! The loneliest… Even the more minor Detention Kids have one another!

           We see another set of those statues to the left, with Owl Mask in what looks like knightly armor, chasing after the trio, with Kikimora basically siccing them. Not much else to say besides the idea of Owl Mask being a recurring antagonist, alongside Kikimora, who gets more time to shine… And nice outfit, OM! The armor reminds me of Belos, which is fitting, and I can only speculate on the potential Clawthorne heritage… Another child of Gwendolyn’s?

           The background is looking more meaty too! Which brings me back to my speculation, this idea I had way back when Agony of a Witch aired… Of blood-red skies as Belos tries to resurrect the Titan, its flesh regenerating as it screams, its shrill shriek piercing the air as a pair of giant, freshly-formed eyes erupt from its sockets. The red reminds me of blood, perhaps related to a resurrection of the Titan’s body, a Day of Unity in which all become one with the Titan’s reformed body perhaps?

           The blood-red skies are also of note, because it reminds me of what Hooty mentioned regarding his origins; How it all began with a HUNT, with blood-red skies… With Owl Mask there chasing the trio and THEIR motifs, could they be connected to Hooty??? And Eda, poor girl, please give her a BREAK from this stupid curse…!

[jaskiersvalley]

(Nearest) Furthest and Dearest

Written for @aphelioo as part of @thewitchersecretsanta.

Rating: Teen and up Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier Summary:  With so many suitors and adoring fans to swoon over Jaskier, Geralt had no hope of ever being more than a protector and source of inspiration. He'd all but given up, accepting his fate. It wasn't like Witchers should want or need anything anyway.

It was an understatement to say that Jaskier was popular. He had fans across the Continent who adored him to an almost alarming extent. This made Geralt both happy for his friend but also rather sad for himself. Because, in the constant stream of admirers, Geralt didn’t stand out. He didn’t have a special place in Jaskier’s life. Well, he did, he was Jaskier’s muse, took him on adventures and provided inspiration for songs. But that wasn’t all Geralt wanted to be. Like the many other adoring fans, he had only gone and lost his heart to Jaskier. Unlike the masses, Geralt didn’t just love the image of Jaskier and his songs. Nobody else got to watch Jaskier wake up, squinting worse than a startled mole into the sunlight while creases from the pillow lined his face. Geralt quite doubted Jaskier would have quite as many fans if they had to bear witness to not just the songs in the taverns but the grunt and whining in the forest after a slightly underdone squirrel meal. Over the years Geralt had seen Jaskier in every state of being and still loved him, no matter whether he was belching after an ale or snoring thanks to a cold.

The problem was, Geralt could watch from afar as Jaskier charmed his way through life, got invited to bed after bed, often with the offer of more than just a tumble. All those suitors, they could offer so much more than Geralt ever could. A Witcher didn’t have a lot, they have even less to spend on frivolous gifts. The scarf Geralt managed to save up for and present Jaskier as the weather turned cold was, by Geralt’s standards, extravagant. Yet it paled in comparison to the three others that were given to Jaskier over the following week, each more ornate and of softer material than the previous. It was no wonder Geralt’s measly offering got shoved to the bottom of a pack and forgotten about.

Anything Geralt offered, it was vastly surpassed in value by others. When he could offer a nicer room at an inn for the night, a suitor whisked Jaskier away to a cleaner, larger and less drafty room for the night. The food Geralt could buy was pigswill when Jaskier could dine at any court he wished because he had invitations from all over the Continent to play for the rich and elite. It wasn’t like Geralt could even offer Jaskier a horse to ride with him. Feeding two humans and a horse was strain enough on Geralt’s coin pouch already, he went hungry so Jaskier and Roach wouldn’t more frequently than he’d hoped. It didn’t matter anyway, any horse he could have offered Jaskier would have been good for nothing more than glue when compared to the carriages that came to whisk Jaskier away if he so wished.

Despite all this, Jaskier still stuck by Geralt’s side. It certainly wasn’t for all the gifts Geralt had tried to bestow on him, it wasn’t for good company because even Geralt knew he was sullen and bitter most days. The only reason Jaskier stuck around was probably for the safety of travelling with a Witcher while exploring the Continent. Geralt couldn’t begrudge him, he knew Jaskier craved the new and the exciting, was familiar with how Jaskier would pout when a contract was something as mundane as a handful of drowners. He had even begun to turn his nose up at kikimoras, preferring to stay at the inn and entertain his loyal fans than get dirty and be in danger for such boring contracts.

If all that hadn’t been enough of an unfortunate mess, Geralt’ heart had one more painful twist to choke itself with. Namely that he was failing as a Witcher. He was meant to be aloof, above frivolous things like matters of the heart. Maybe the second round of trials were wearing off, weakening him. Geralt had no idea what was happening to him. Working through his inner turmoil and allowing himself to gift Jaskier things had been difficult enough. Now, he was left holding the tatters of his heart and trying to figure out whether it was terminal.

So caught up in his worries, Geralt didn’t notice at first that Jaskier was chattering away. That was another problem. Jaskier spoke so many words but rarely actually said anything and Geralt didn’t have the time and energy to parse all of them. Thus he often found himself humming along to Jaskier’s chatter without actually paying much attention. There were more pressing issues to concentrate on, such as the surrounding area and listening out for any danger as they settled for the evening. What did draw Geralt’s attention was Jaskier huffing as he dug through his bag.

“Honestly Geralt, why do you let me carry so much crap around? I don’t even need three scarves.”

Said scarves were being pulled out of the bag and being dumped unceremoniously in the dirt by Jaskier’s feet. Rich, vibrant silks that were now covered in dust. Geralt never could understand how anyone could have such disregard for their possessions. Then again, Jaskier didn’t treat Geralt’s heart any different either, maybe he just didn’t value what he had.

“What do you keep them for then?” They could sell them or burn them and they would be more useful than when they lugged them around, bursting their bags with frivolous gifts.

“We might need them.” Jaskier frowned at Geralt as though he’d heard the worst suggestion on earth. “I’m certainly not tearing up my doublets to bandage your wounds with.”

Not that Geralt ever expected him to. “I don’t need or want you to.”

“I know.” There was a hint of sadness to Jaskier’s words. “You don’t want anyone or need anyone. I know.”

Which was an absolute lie but Geralt couldn’t refute it. A Witcher didn’t have wants or needs. They had the Path, their swords and their purpose, and that ought to be enough. They shouldn’t be mooning over a bard who could have anyone and anything. They most definitely shouldn’t be trying to impress them. Maybe there was a ballad in it that Jaskier would never realise: the Witcher who gave his all and still wasn’t enough. Usually, those Witchers ended up dead.

A soft huff from Jaskier drew Geralt out of his introspection. His friends was staring into the bag with a small, almost bitter smile twisting his lips. Whatever he had in the bag, he was running his thumb over it.

“I imagine it’s nice, not wanting anyone. It gives life a certain simplicity surely.”

“I guess.” The lie burned Geralt’s throat.

“Makes me wish sometimes that I could have some of your stoicness, some of the stones of the fortress around your heart.”

So someone had caught Jaskier’s fancy. It was only a matter of time, Geralt knew. Their time together was limited, dictated by Jaskier’s whims and desires. Geralt had done all he could to entice Jaskier to stay but, like always it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough.

“We can go back and find them. It’s not too late.” If the lies had burned, saying those words was agony. Geralt didn’t want to let Jaskier go, didn’t want to deliver him on a platter to someone else. But Witchers didn’t want anyone, Geralt didn’t need Jaskier. That wasn’t a luxury he could afford, both literally and metaphorically.

“It’s okay Geralt, they don’t want me. I know that for sure.”

How anyone wouldn’t want Jaskier was beyond Geralt. He cleared his throat, wanting to comfort but that was a skill he never developed. When Roach was upset, he pressed against her side, so with great simplicity, Geralt shifted to sit close to Jaskier, shoulders together. It meant he also caught a glimpse of the item in the bag that had Jaskier all misty eyed.

A cheap scarf. A very familiar one at that. Geralt could distinctly remember buying it and shoving it at Jaskier’s chest in a market when it was cold. It was never worn after that first day and Geralt had known he’d failed at giving a gift once more. Now, it was in the bottom of their bag, being caressed by a sad Jaskier while other, fancier scarves were still on the ground.

“It’s silly, I know,” Jaskier whispered. “But I couldn’t bring myself to wear it for fear of damaging or losing it.”

“It doesn’t match any of your outfits.”

“I don’t care.” Jaskier turned to Geralt, pulling the scarf out. Keeping eye contact, he linked his fingers with Geralt’s and wrapped the scarf around their joined hands in a mockery of handfasting. “You gave it to me. That makes it important.”

Speechless, Geralt frowned, trying to make sense of it all. He didn’t have to because Jaskier’s eyes were flicking down to his lips as they leaned in closer together. As their lips brushed, Geralt had a thought. Maybe, just maybe, he had been enough all along.

[asmolbirb]

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: T Word count: ~2500

Jaskier doesn’t start on the sweeter ballads until after he’s eaten his dinner and enjoyed a mug of ale. By then, the last vestiges of daylight have given way to inky darkness shot through with stars, and the innkeeper has stoked the fire to a roaring inferno, and the kind of lazy contentedness that accompanies a full belly has settled over the locals like a blanket, all of this working to create a decidedly more receptive audience for tender tales of lost love and distant adventure. So Jaskier looks around and notes how the conversation has dulled, and he begins picking out chords and runs, starting simple and working his way to more melancholy melodies.

He gets “Toss a Coin” out of the way early. It’s a crowd-pleaser and guaranteed to recoup the cost of his supper—and Geralt’s, when the Witcher deigns to join him—at least twice over. He fumbles his way through a couple of local ballads he’s still learning, about old spirits and familiar legends, and he tells the poeticized tale of a kikimora Geralt recently dispatched. And then, to end of his performance, he indulges himself with one of his more wistful ballads about love and heartbreak.

He has an alarmingly robust collection of those, and he rotates through them: the bittersweet lament about a love that slipped out of his reach; the tragic tale of the woman with no smile; the ode to the muse whose quick wit enthralled him only to leave him desolate, yearning, utterly alone. These ballads are too forlorn to see frequent use, but Jaskier has a soft spot for them. They tell his own story, after all. It’s cathartic to lose himself in the movement of his fingers across the strings of his lute, the plaintive runs that bookend his choruses. And the ballads have the added bonus of occasionally attracting a barmaid sympathetic to his plight and willing to help him forget his sorrows.

By the time he and Geralt pay for a room in a town where the air is sticky with humidity and sharp with the faint scent of seawater, it’s been more than a month since his last tumble with an eager barmaid, and Jaskier is thrumming with excess energy. He works his way through three ballads that night before noticing he’s picked up an audience.

“She must have stolen your heart quite thoroughly,” says one of the women lingering near Jaskier and Geralt when Jaskier finally shakes himself out of his trance, “to have inspired three ballads.”

“She is the beauty of my world,” Jaskier agrees. He begins packing up his lute; he’s indulged himself enough tonight. “My ballads capture only a fraction of her splendor.”

“Tell us about her, then,” says a barmaid, and the rest of Jaskier’s audience sends up a chorus of agreement. “She’s a lucky woman to have caught your attention.”

Geralt, who has been silent until now, snorts. “Yes, Jaskier, tell us. I can’t wait to hear about the fair lady who has caught your eye,” he says dryly, and it’s only because Jaskier is now fluent in Geralt’s sparse manner of speaking that he hears the words Geralt isn’t saying, hears you’ve been on the road with me for a month, how will you spin your way out of this?

Jaskier meets Geralt’s gaze without flinching. He grins slightly, casts his eyes over his captive audience, all hanging off his every word. “I’m not one to kiss and tell,” he begins, affecting wistfulness, “but she deserves to be told about.” Minding his pronouns, he continues, “She’s incredible. The kindest soul I’ve ever met. Her nobility is unparalleled. She would never leave a debt unpaid, nor a soul in harm’s way. She is unafraid to face any danger, be it a dragon or a man sick with corruption.”

He catches Geralt’s eye again, but the other man doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He lets Geralt’s lack of reaction embolden him. “She doesn’t say much. It is my punishment, I suppose, for barging into her life the way I did, that I must interpret her moods from her expressions alone.” He sighs dramatically, letting his eyelids flutter and his lips fall into a besotted smile. “But how exquisite those expressions are, and how I delight in coaxing them upon her face.”

“To hell with that sappy bullshit,” says one of the women sitting near him. “You speak in metaphors enough in your ballads. What does she look like? Is she noble or a commoner?”

Jaskier swallows. Involuntarily, he glances at Geralt, but the Witcher only looks amused, still waiting for Jaskier’s lies to fall apart. Jaskier understands his amusement. From Geralt’s perspective, Jaskier hasn’t properly courted a woman since the Countess de Stael.

Just as well for Jaskier, then, that Geralt hasn’t yet figured out the true object of his affections. “She’s fair-haired,” he says now to his audience. “With locks that reflect the sun like a thousand mirrors, and eyes golden as honeycombs. Taller than me, but with hips as slender as any child’s. And a bottom round as an apple,” he throws in with a cheeky wink. “She isn’t a noble, but she’s no commoner, either. She isn’t the type to sit back and let others do her work for her. She is strong—stronger than I, that’s for certain.” And he has to pause here as he remembers the way Geralt has thrown him over shoulder, has hauled him across terrain both rough and smooth with naught more than a grip on his collar. He swallows shakily, wills himself not to look at Geralt, though he can see out of his periphery that Geralt is staring at him now, intently, brow furrowed, lips thinned. Nonetheless, Jaskier continues digging his grave. Can’t leave his audience waiting, of course. 

“She isn’t one for tender touches,” he admits. “But still, she tolerates mine. I confess, I often wonder why she allows me to grace her side.”

“Perhaps you offer a nocturnal performance worth suffering the rest,” suggests one of the barmaids, and the others cackle in agreement. Jaskier simply shrugs. 

“Perhaps,” he acknowledges. Unable to help himself, he sneaks another glance toward Geralt, only to find Geralt’s intense glare trained directly on him. Try as he might, Jaskier can’t tear his eyes away. “Perhaps she keeps me around as a bedwarmer,” he continues slowly, his eyes locked on Geralt’s, “until she finds someone who is sweeter than me, or until she grows tired of my antics. Perhaps I am naught but temporary entertainment. But I adore her, truly. The sight of her is as water to a man lost in a desert, and her touch is softer than the finest Toussaintian silk.”

Geralt growls at that. He stands up abruptly, his chair skidding across the floor with a screech. “Say good night, Jaskier,” he rumbles, his eyes narrowed. “We have business of our own to attend to.”

Jaskier swallows. Finally, he looks away, back at his enraptured audience. “That’s enough for tonight, I suppose,” he concedes good-naturedly. “You’ll have to wait for the next ballad to hear more, though it won’t be long until I write it. My lady is too exquisite to keep her name from my lips for long.”

Geralt’s voice rumbles again, wordlessly, before Jaskier can get lost in his own words again. He claps a large hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, using it to steer him toward the stairs and their room. “Sweet dreams, ladies!” Jaskier calls over his shoulder, doffing his hat clumsily. “May you be luckier in love than I!”

Geralt doesn’t slam the door behind him, but it’s a near thing, and Jaskier would wince in sympathy if Geralt’s hand wasn’t still bearing down on his shoulder, rooting him in place. Geralt lets go after a moment and leans against the door, his arms crossed in typical Geraltian fashion. Jaskier collapses onto the bed, taking the opportunity to roll his shoulder a few times in exaggerated discomfort. “I swear I end up with more bruises than you do sometimes,” he complains. “I understand misery loves company, but perhaps next time you feel the urge to rough someone up, you could find another monster. Plenty of those around, and frankly, we could do with the extra coin, seeing as someone kept me from buttering up the crowd to fatten our purses tonight—”

“There’s no lady,” Geralt says.

Jaskier trails off. “Well, of course not,” he says instead. “I imagine a woman would take grave offense to the frequency with which we give our patronage to brothels, not to mention your unseemly habit of bathing in monster blood and other revolting gunk.” He wrinkles his nose. “Perhaps I should write an ode to your masterful powers of observation next.”

“But you were talking about a woman tonight,” Geralt continues, ignoring Jaskier entirely. He tries not to take offense to that. Something tells him that any protest he offers will be utterly disregarded. “The same one your ballads are about, the one who broke your heart and left you wanting.”

Warmth blooms, unbidden, in Jaskier’s heart. Geralt has been listening to his songs. Geralt remembers his lyrics. Geralt knows enough about Jaskier’s lyrics to notice the details consistent through them all.

Geralt knows Jaskier is in love.

The warmth transforms instantly into a spear of ice, chilly tendrils spreading through Jaskier’s chest and pulsing through his veins even as he says, with false cheer, “They’re stories, Geralt. Hyperbole. I’m a poet. It’s what I do. Heartbreak is a universal emotion, and the gods know I’ve experienced it often enough in my short time upon this mortal coil. I could write songs about heartbreak in my sleep—and just you watch, I’ll be doing it tonight, you’ve really dug your own grave with this, my friend.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts. He pushes off the door and stalks towards Jaskier, stopping just inches from the bed and forcing Jaskier to crane his neck to keep looking Geralt in the eye. Briefly, Jaskier considers climbing to his feet as well, to be on even ground with Geralt. However, doing so would place him chest-to-chest with the other man, and that isn’t something Jaskier can physically handle right now. So he stays put, his heart hammering wildly against his rib cage, and he’s certain Geralt, with his enhanced hearing, must be deafened by the sound.

“Someone once told me,” Geralt starts slowly, “that all good stories stem from a kernel of truth. So either your stories are shit, or you aren’t telling me the truth. Which is it, Jaskier?”

And here’s the problem with traipsing across the Continent behind a Witcher like a lost puppy, Jaskier reflects. He’s experienced a lifetime of adventure and filled uncountable notebooks with lyrics and learned more about Geralt than possibly any other being on the planet. But then, Geralt has had ample opportunity to peer into Jaskier’s soul, too. It’s easy to get caught up in Geralt’s brawn, and his stony silence, and his aversion to emotional commitment. It’s easy to forget how perceptive Geralt can be.

“The former, obviously,” quips Jaskier, a little breathlessly, a little too quietly. He wants to look away, wants to find an escape route, but Geralt is magnetic. Jaskier could drown in those golden eyes. And all the while he’s still running his mouth, trying to stave off the inevitable. “I’m all pie crust and no filling, didn’t you know? It’s a wonder I manage to earn enough to pay for a warm meal and a bed at the end of the day. That’s why I keep you around, actually. For your income. Certainly not for the riveting conversation. Certainly not because I—because I need you.”

“And yet,” Geralt murmurs, reaching out to tip Jaskier’s chin up with a single knuckle, “here we are.”

When did Jaskier’s mouth get so dry? He licks his lips, watches Geralt’s eyes dip down to track the motion. “Here we are.”

Jaskier doesn’t know whether to close his eyes to give Geralt implicit consent or leave them open to track every emotion crossing Geralt’s face, doesn’t know whether to lean into Geralt’s touch or pull away and offer Geralt an out. Instead he waits, pulse racing, teetering on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the slightest gust of wind to send him careening into freefall.

And it comes: a shallow breath against his lips, before Geralt’s mouth is covering his, stealing a kiss and Jaskier’s breath in one fell swoop. He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t give Jaskier a chance to collect himself before he’s surging in again, teeth tugging gently at Jaskier’s lips and coaxing a gasp from him, tongue pushing past the moment Jaskier’s lips part. It’s heady and intoxicating, and Jaskier can feel his mind going fuzzy as he focuses solely on matching Geralt’s intensity.

Somehow they end up horizontal, with Jaskier’s feet still dangling off the edge of the bed and Geralt on his hands and knees above Jaskier. Geralt presses close, his weight pinning Jaskier down, and Jaskier thinks there’s no place he would rather be than right here, Geralt’s thighs bracketing his, falling into a sweet messy rhythm that has Jaskier arching his back and scrabbling uselessly at Geralt’s broad torso and keening into Geralt’s mouth. Eventually he gives in and tosses his head back, opening his neck to Geralt’s ministrations and giving himself over entirely to the quicksilver pleasure coursing through him.

Once they’ve stilled and caught their breath, Geralt moves just far enough to drag Jaskier fully onto the bed and no further. He continues stealing sweet kisses, seemingly determined to swallow all the air from Jaskier’s lungs before letting him go.

“You’re not temporary entertainment,” Geralt rumbles an eternity later against Jaskier’s lips, their breath mingling. Jaskier revels in that simple phrase and the intimate action that accompanied it, feels his blood singing with the knowledge that Geralt reciprocates his feelings, might want Jaskier as a permanent fixture by his side—until Geralt continues, “You’ve never been entertaining.”

“Oi, fuck off!” Jaskier gasps in mock indignation. He pushes himself away and braces a hand against Geralt’s chest to keep him at arm’s length. “You weren’t complaining about my performance just now!”

But Geralt is laughing quietly, his whole body shaking against Jaskier’s, and Jaskier lets himself be pulled back into Geralt’s arms, lets Geralt kiss his anger away. His last thought before he launches a campaign to make Geralt regret his words is an apology to the women he’d been singing to in the tavern below; his next ballad may be a long time coming yet.

[robbyrobinson]

OWL HOUSE X CTHULHU MYTHOS (XVI)

The next thing Eda, Lilith, and King knew, they were being escorted into the dungeon whilst still being stronghold by a few of the imperial guards. Nyarlathotep walked in front of them, humming some tune to himself. Once more, he was in his Black Pharaoh form. He turned to look at the prisoners with a half-amused smile. “Be sure to make yourselves at home.”

At the entrance of the dungeon with its large, heavy iron casing, stood Warden Wrath. He gave a slight bow towards the Crawling Chaos to which Nyarlathotep responded to with a wave of his hand. “At ease, Wrath.”  

Wrath examined the prisoners. His yellow button-like lens of his mask lit up. “Eda, the Owl Lady! We meet again.”  

Eda groaned in irritation. “Oh, Titan, not him.”  

Nyarlathotep smirked and tried to stifle a laugh. “I take it that you know this woman?”  

“Yes, my lord; the Owl Lady was the one that always escaped my clutches! Yet for as much as I desired her, she always rejected my advances.”  

He walked up to Eda and morphed his hand into a bouquet of flowers. He held it in front of Eda’s face. “Perhaps now that there is no escape, you could change your mind?”  

Before Eda could reply, Nyarlathotep broke the two up. While his smile was still visible on his face, he tapped his finger against the side of a wall. The sound of his finger echoed through the walls in a dry, hollow thrust. Warden Wrath immediately backed away. Nyarlathotep’s glare never faltered.  

“The human girl is essential in my plans; what would you think would happen if she knew that you laid a finger on her mentor? Need I remind you of the punishment that could transpire for your insolence?”  

Warden Wrath held his hands up. “Yes, my lord. Forgive me.”  

“You are forgiven; now show the three guests to their room.”  

Warden Wrath and the guards took the prisoners and tossed them into a glass cage. Once all three were in, the bindings that were placed on their limbs were removed. When the last guard exited the cage, the door was sealed shut with a wave of the guard’s finger. Nyarlathotep took a chair and propped it down to sit on it. His smile widening to the point of wrapping around the sides of his head, he crossed his leg and held a cup. Almost on cue, another guard arrived on the scene and poured a liquid into it. Nyarlathotep grasped the head of the cup and brought it to his lips.  

“What is your game, Nyarlathotep?” Eda asked.

The glass clicked against the Crawling Chaos’ teeth. He brought the cup down and sighed. “I really love this apple blood you witches brew; maybe moreso than the typical games I engineer.”  

“What are you planning on doing to us?” King said.

“You are all much too valuable to threaten,” Nyarlathotep stated, “it’s really the most mundane of gambits, but I am keeping you all hostage for as long as I like.”

Eda knelt down and clasped some of the shackles. She then made an unprovoked dash towards the glass. The cuffs slammed against the cage. Instead of doing what she had hoped, sparks of white lightning struck her and propelled her back to the ground. The walls jiggled from the magic that composed them. Once the gelatinous walls settled down, the cage regained its still composure. Eda tried it again only to be met with the same result.  

“What is this?” Lilith inquired. She casually poked her finger on the wall only to draw it back when a surge of lightning shocked her. She clutched her other hand over that one.  

“It is a wall that was created by some alchemist using some of my dark magic,” Nyarlathotep explained. “Any normal magic you witches could dish out will only bounce off it. It has the additional benefit of absorbing the magic and blows of other people making it three times as strong as it initially was.”  

“That can’t be true,” Eda denied, “every cage can be broken...just takes effort.”  

Nyarlathotep got up from his chair and rubbed his chin. “It isn’t like you can do much; I sense that your magic bile sac is faulty.”  

“For your explanation, if you must know that I ended up using it in order to save Luz.”  

Lilith looked down at the floor. She really wished that she could forget driving her sister to that point, but what was done was done. There was little inconceivable way that Eda would be able to perform magic again through the biological way.  

“Even if you and your sister, hypothetically speaking of course, transform into your beastly forms, that will not be enough to free you from that cage. Unless...”  

Eda’s eyebrow arched. “Unless what?”  

“You and your sister can always align yourself with me; I can remove your curses if you so please.”  

Eda turned her head in disgust. “Forget it; I am not going to agree to that deal especially because your little pet project lied to my sister about promising to remove my curse.”  

“Of course, he was unable to remove it; he represents only a sliver of my power. If he was able to cure anyone of their ailment, it would only be a temporary fix for a temporary situation. But once I have the Necronomicon in my possession, I can remove your little curse if in return you become my acolytes.”  

“I said no, Nyarlathotep. I will not spend the remainder of my days serving you until the Boiling Isles crumbles away.”  

Nyarlathotep sighed in disappointment. “Very well then; I may as well should just leave you condemned to your tragic fate.”  

The Black Pharaoh snapped his fingers not taking his eyes off the cage. In walked in Kikimora with a plate in her hand. On it was a silver cloche to conceal the contents within. She made a slight bowing gesture to Nyarlathotep and directed one of the guards to create a hole big enough to slide the plate into it.  

“What are you doing now?” Lilith asked in confusion.  

King grabbed the cloche and pulled it away. Underneath the plate were three sandwiches comprised of peanut butter and jelly. The crust of the bread was cut away leaving only the whiteness of the loaves. The three eyed the sandwiches suspiciously before directing their attention back to Nyarlathotep. He sat back down and drank more apple blood from his cup.  

“You may want to eat that,” he said.  

“You can go to Hell for all we care,” Eda declared.  

“Hell? Aw that’s cute,” said Nyarlathotep in a chuckle. “But I do insist on eating those sandwiches; it could may as well be the last time that you eat something in your life.”  

“You likely laced them with some...alien drug,” Eda said, “we do not want anything to do with your sandwich or you.”  

Nyarlathotep shrugged. “No skin off my back then; the clock is ticking.”  

He waved his index finger back and forth as a visual metaphor. “The Day of Unity is just about to take wing.”  

“You always say things on Day of Unity this; Day of Unity that. What exactly are you detailing?” Eda asked aloud.  

“It comes in two forms: first, my servant, Belos, wanted me to specifically destroy the Earth for his cause. I will admit that while I hate the idea of him gaining free will away from my control, he did keep the Isles nice and tidy while I was on temporary leave. I will do such once I regain my full power.”  

Eda tensed up. Her blood ran cold; shivers went up her spine. “Why does he want that?”  

“It is a very interesting story he told me: the reason he hates the Earth so much has to do with him being a temporary parent of sorts.”  

Eda sat down with her sister and King. “A parent? Belos?”  

She turned to look at Lilith. Lilith shrugged her shoulders expressing the same confusion that her younger sister was showing. “Belos never mentioned having any children.”  

Nyarlathotep laughed. “I would suspect not; one day, some human girl found herself wondering in the Boiling Isles along with scraps of metal and other things coming from the human realm.”  

“There were more portal keys out there?” Eda asked.

“I am certain that there were at least a few keys aside from the one that you had in your possession; whatever means she came here, Belos saw some potential in raising the child as a mentor. The child was always kept away in the deeper parts of his kingdom where he bestowed some of his power to her whilst keeping her being a human a top secret. The old man taught her every kind of magic there was under some belief that she would likely continue in his footsteps.”  

King was ripping his teeth into one of the PB&J sandwiches and shoveling large chunks into his mouth. “Wvell, hwhat rappened?”  

“She started to realize the corruption he was poisoning the Boiling Isles with, and she fought against him. Before she vanished, she left Belos in such a bloodied, beaten state, he swore to have his vengeance. From the way he described the beating he was delivered, Belos can now barely hold it together. Give or take a year and a half, I am quite certain that he would be shuffling off the mortal coil soon. With no heir to succeed him, this may as well spell the end of the coven system.”  

The three prisoners looked at each other whilst mentally trying to figure out what human girl would have even dreamed of defeating Belos and leaving him in a near-death state for the rest of his rule.  

Luz and Amity were arriving to Earth at a skyrocketing speed, the pressure of the air around them smacking into them. The brown rat was already further down and using the streams of cloud as a surfboard. Hypnos was following closely behind. Unlike the two girls who flailed their arms against the winds, Hypnos gracefully floated through the mist, his arms pinned squarely on his sides.  

“No fair, how can you do this?” Luz asked.

“Tons of experience, and...lots of drugs,” Hypnos bluntly stated.

“Oh.”  

The two turned back to glaring at the brown rat. “I have the tiniest inkling of where he is going.”  

“Where?” Amity asked.

“Let me confiscate the rat, and you can find me then,” Hypnos stated.  

Hypnos’ astral body curved in the air and jetted down like a heat-seeking missile. It was now just Amity and Luz plunging towards the Earth. Amity’s eyes were open in small squints. The pressure bounced off her eyes shifting them behind the back of her head. She grabbed onto Luz’s hand for dear life hoping that with her combined strength, they could slow down the speed with which they were free falling.  

She looked up at the sky seeing the portal that they had just leaped from. She could hardly believe it: she was now in another realm filled with alien tech her little mind couldn’t even bear to understand. Naturally, she knew that the Earth existed because Luz was a denizen of that world. But never in her imagination or calculations could have prepared her to the implication of a multiverse. The scenarios were limitless: in one, Amity could have been the one who was not born with magic whereas Luz was. She could likely be some other species on another world with a completely different personality. Perhaps there was one where she and Luz..she couldn’t finish that thought due to her feeling the warmness of her cheeks.  

“Amity, is the motion sickness making you sick?” Luz asked.

Amity shook her head to keep her thoughts at bay. “Oh...no. No, I’m fine.”  

She yelped when Luz placed her forehead onto hers. “Are you sure, Amity? Your head feels warm.”  

“Pfft...I’m fine, hahahaha...who’s Amity?”  

Amity’s oddness aside, Luz shrugged her shoulders. “Anyway, we should probably brace ourselves.”  

She pointed to the ground which was now within reach. “Makes me wish Hypnos considered giving us parachutes.”  

Amity was confused. “Par-A-what now?”  

“Whatever, get ready...set....”  

Luz wrapped her arms around the witch girl’s waist. The pupils in Amity’s eyes shrunk. “L-Luz!?”  

Before she could say anything, the air tightened around the two as they faced the full brunt of the fall.  

[squidpro-quo]

AN: Because I’m a sucker for The Witcher now, I guess? Just a short look into the little things, I got stuck on Jaskier’s ‘bread in my pants’ line and now Geralt has to deal with it too (also on ao3) 

Geralt knows that Jaskier had introduced himself as a ‘man with bread in his pants’ but after experiencing his characteristic chatter, he’d immediately assumed it was a metaphor for something else entirely, probably lewd or perhaps just plain inane. At the time he’d been making far more of an effort to not pay attention to any of the other patrons in the inn, including the bard, be it the booing from the other end or the whispers that swarmed at his sight, and so it comes as a surprise when he finds Jaskier was being completely forthright. 

Months later, after a feast he’d begrudgingly attended for reasons he’d rather forget, he’d been on his way out of the hall as the more drunken noble guests became rowdier than a saloon with free ale. Shoving his way free of the stragglers, he’d caught sight of an as-yet still buttoned and far too brightly colored set of clothes ducking down to table level, only to rise with an odd bulge added to the front as if its wearer had gained an extra roll of fat in the span of seconds. 

“Jaskier,” he growls once he’s closer, interrupting the bard’s attempts at stuffing another piece of loaf of bread down his sleeve that would undoubtedly have made them as thick as Geralt’s, if not more prone to crumbs. 

“Ah, Geralt! Off to recuperate after a strenuous evening of people smiling at you and badgering you with unwanted gratitude? I’m about sung out myself, always a bit more stored in there of course, for a last serenade or two for a bedfellow, but I’m—”

“What else are you storing?” Geralt pokes the offending section of Jaskier’s chest, his finger sinking into the fabric as what was underneath gave under the pressure. But instead of the sheepish hiding that he’d thought the accusation would bring out, Jaskier splutters and fumes like a barely boiling pot of water. Holding his head high as if it wasn’t Geralt who had jabbed him but rather one of the nobles accusing him of sleeping with their various innocent relatives, he backs into the table so suddenly his lute twangs. 

“Oi, that’s my breakfast in four days! Don’t need you squashing it before its time.” 

“It’s already squashed,” Geralt mutters, which only brought even more affront into Jaskier’s face. 

“I’ll have you know, this is the finest sweetbread you could find this side of Toussaint.” 

“And this side of your pants.” It was a habit he wouldn’t have thought to pin on the man who stuck out in a village like a peacock among partridges, but more likely he was just so attached to the finer foods in life that he’d stock up however he could. Besides, the cooks in the castle won’t miss the few loaves that fit up Jaskier’s trousers and he can’t fault the man for taking advantage of the situation, albeit in an unconventional way. 

But it continues. 

“You stepped on that one,” he notes, once Jaskier has plopped onto the bench beside him, their shoulders bumping together as he takes a swig from his tankard. The inn is as filthy as they came, the patrons even filthier, and yet Jaskier stuck to stuffing what had to be at least half a loaf of bread into his pockets. 

“And? This town might not appreciate the delicate nuance of my songs and tales, honestly that lady in the corner near took my eye out with her aim, but that doesn’t keep them from feeding us, one way or another. Roach would say not to look a fellow horse in the mouth.” He tears a bite off the one he still held in his hand and leans back with a sigh. 

“Even she wouldn’t eat some of this.” Geralt has to wonder if this was what Jaskier had grown used to from before they’d met. Despite his rancor at the earworm of a song that the bard had created, even he would have to be dull as a bogweed to not notice the decline in curses, glares, and general spitting that greets him in a new town and how much of that might be owed to the one currently filling his pockets with crumbs. And yet with fortune smiling on them more often, it hadn’t lessened this odd habit of frugality at all. 

“I don’t say anything about your morning talks with her, when you think I can’t hear you even though you discuss more with your horse than with me. Nor about how you have an apparent allergy to smiling.” 

This close, with Jaskier pushing into him as he fiddles with his lute in the small space, Geralt can see the collar of his doublet with fine gold stitching along the edge that must have cost at least ten full dinners if not more. The doublet that Jaskier had complained about being soiled during a back-alley fight with a few mercenaries a fortnight ago when a seam had been ripped is the same as the one he is now stowing stale bread in. The bard has enough coin saved up from the last town to afford a meal served on a plate instead of the floor and yet he never gives up the chance to play in an inn, no matter the crowd’s reaction. 

“Why?” Geralt finds himself asking; the question pushing against his mind until it slips out against his better judgement. He shouldn’t care, Jaskier’s habits, as long as they’re not getting him killed or annoying him personally, are just another facet of him that Geralt doesn’t understand, like the running commentary on their adventures or his insistence on helping with baths. Just another part of Jaskier that he’d forgotten to question somewhere along the way and now it’s merely another shade of color in his many and varied clothes.  That doesn’t stop him from being curious, however. 

“Why do you have an allergy to smiling? I don’t know, Geralt, you tell me.” Jaskier waves his bread to accentuate his point, flakes of it raining onto the table like dandruff. 

Instead of replying, Geralt finishes off his pint and returns a patron’s glare with a blank stare until the apparent butcher turns back to his dinner sans bread. 

The third time he brings it up, he doesn’t have to ask Jaskier the question. It’s almost half a year later, a time after they’d separated for their own purposes, and his only concern is collecting the coin he was promised after clawing his way through a burrow of rotfiends. The venom he’d ended up coated with drips onto the street with every step and it must have clogged his ears too, because that’s the only explanation for why he hears Jaskier’s voice from the dark gap between two shops. 

“I’ve got more! You can take it all.” 

His first instinct is to unsheathe his sword again, ignore the ache in his bones and wade into whatever puddle of trouble Jaskier had fallen into. But the words don’t sound like the bard’s being mugged, not fearful or worried, quiet though they are. 

Stopping by the entrance to the small alley, he wipes a hand over his splattered face and peers in to see Jaskier crouched by a gaggle of urchins pulling hunk after handful of bread from his sleeves and pockets to accompanying laughter. None of the children look older than ten, one of them trails a grubby dwarvish doll from a three-fingered hand while another sits in the mud to chew the scraps he’d gotten with teeth sharp enough to gnaw bone in half. 

“That might be all,” he admits after another minute or so, before sweeping the feathered hat he only wore during the gaudier festivals off his head to show its contents. “Ah, I’d almost forgotten about these! They had a fresh harvest last night, just on hand I guess, and I caught a few besides.” 

The hat is quickly emptied and the children scatter, one scooting by Geralt with her ears hidden under a torn kerchief pulled low, until the alley is empty save Jaskier standing up to dust his hat and pat down his much emptier jacket. Geralt meets his eyes as he turns to leave and the smile that crosses his face is fast, deceptively fast. 

“Geralt! That rotfiend must have been a wimpy one for you to finish so quickly! I wasn’t expecting you back until nightfall, would have made for a dramatic return, but no matter, I can tweak that in later. Besides, hard to recognize you anyway, looking like a pustule come walking like that.”

“There’s lettuce in your hair,” Geralt notes, pulling the stray greenery out with his offal-sticky fingers as Jaskier ducks his head to brush away any more telltale signs.

“Oh that, that’s nothing. I had a face full of tomato last night, some villagers had a bumper crop, I guess. Had those on hand when they were trying to take Roach from the stables, but she wasn’t having it so I tried to shoo them off and got a few vegetables from my trouble...” Catching sight of Geralt’s expression, Jaskier trails off with his arms still gesturing madly with hat in hand. “What?” 

“Your actions speak louder than your words, bard.” The odd feeling that’s warming him doesn’t bother Geralt at the moment and Jaskier’s grin is infectious enough to make his foot slip in the pool of slime that had collected on the cobbles. 

“Aren’t you the one who was asking about respect back then? My songs are for you.” Jaskier shrugs, patting Geralt’s shoulder. “But I do with my bread what I want. Including storing it in my pants.” 

“Hm.” He rakes his gaze down Jaskier’s clothes, the embroidery fuzzing up at his wrists and the slight pouch shape still retained by his shirt at the waist. “You could use some bigger clothes.” 

“Are you offering me your own then?” Jaskier dances into motion when Geralt strides off at the comment, ending up skipping backward up the street to keep up with his faster pace. “I couldn’t refuse such a generous gift, but I do imagine there’s bits of kikimora caked into every inch—”

“No.” His destination can’t come fast enough. Pushing the door to the inn open, Jaskier follows in his wake like a bee that won’t stop buzzing until its duty is done. He spares a look at the villagers waiting at the bar, deciding his current state will do nicely in securing the coin they’d promised and strides across the room to slam his sword down on the counter. 

“It’s all right here!” The first man’s fingers fumble with the pouch as he pulls it from his pocket. “Are they all dealt with?” 

“Depends on how my horse feels about revisiting the site to check for any stragglers.” 

“Yes, I see. Well,” he adds a few extra pieces of silver in with the rest, a nervous smile nailed onto the man’s face, “A fine mare she is, to carry such a man.” 

Looping the drawstring around the pommel of his sword, he makes for the stairs, ignoring the way Jaskier’s glare disappeared as soon as he’d turned around. Just as he makes a point to forget the handful of silver he slips into the pocket of Jaskier’s pants when he steals Geralt’s bath after he’s done.