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you-cant-spell-subtext-without · 3 years

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I’m back on my bullshit and we have GOT TO TALK about 13x08 The Scorpion and the Frog; which serves as a good example of why you should not ONLY watch spn episodes with Cas (partially because of that scene I shamefully blogged about earlier - no I will not link that cursed post here). The episode title comes from a fable in which the villain is the scorpion. Interpretations of this fable note its uniqueness lies in the concept that “the scorpion is irrationally self destructive and fully aware of it.”

To quote the scorpion, buddies - “it’s in my nature.”

Anyway, this episode is subtextually predicated on exploring Dean Winchester’s nature and specifically - his bisexuality, and I’m not only saying that because it opens with Dean in his Bi Colors Plaid (that also he wore on his burger date with Cas).

Let’s get started, after the cut!

Season 13 on its face gives me absolute whiplash because it starts widow arc-reunion-TOMBSTONE and then Jack yeets himself off to Chuck knows where so Cas can go out Looking For Him Because Otherwise He Will Definitely Kiss Dean there is no other option for the writers at this point. Sigh. Here, have another shot of Dean anxiously cleaning his gun as he always does when Cas has Gone Off For Reasons -

Anyway, this feels like a filler episode at first, but as always they bury the ENTIRE damn world in it and I am here with my dossier to Unearth It.

Lets start with Bart (demon of terrible nicknames and microagressions) meeting the brothers at Smile Diner to talk about some spell or whatever.

(I am not thinking about the Cherry Pie meta I AM NOT)

THEY HAVE THE AUDACITY to start with these lines immediately introducing the theme of duality, a thread throughout this episode.

BARTHAMUS

Everything. I've been following your careers a long time. You're a real pain in the pitchfork. And the halo. Natural disrupters. We have that in common, you and I. DEAN

Mm. Yeah, we're twinsies.

***MORE DUALITY! But as we know, Dean does not like Bart because He Is A Freakin’ Demon

DEAN

Well, see, here's the thing. When a demon tells us to jump, we don't ask how high. We just ice their ass.

UMMM excuse me Barting Bacting Boices? What is that sexual gaze?

Then we find out that Bart has 1/2 of the spell. They need the other 1/2. Oh, a spell with two parts, you say? [ I am going to scream :) ]

***Also, Dean eats the pie Bart ordered. I cannot begin to explain to you the state of unwellness that I am in regarding how important this is. DEAN NEVER GETS TO EAT THE PIE, remember? But in This Filler Episode, Dean eats the pie. While Sam looks at him with a very quizzical expression. Pie -> what Dean wants but never actually gets -> Dean actively eating this pie. Dean is coming to terms that maybe he can have what he wants.

***I am reminding you again that this is post widower-arc, post-reunion, and especially post-Tombstone. Anyway-

Now we get to Smash and Grab. Not literally even though I want to Commit Such Conduct at this point. We are introduced to two one off characters named

Smash (human/female presenting) - can crack any safe built by man

and Grab (demon/male presenting)- expert in bypassing supernatural security.

Reaching or no, you can’t disagree that when spn introduces one off characters - it is almost always a Narrative Parallel or Mirror.

So we have a human and a demon (and Dean Winchester, a human who has been a demon)

who are experts in cracking open/bypassing something that has been secured and guarded (breaking down walls, if you will).

They also use fake names identifying them as Tools to be Used ( Dean Winchester, the Michael Sword/daddys blunt little instrument)

BONUS:

Dean himself is literally used as a tool in this episode.

So yeah. Smash and Grab are physical representations of Dean’s duality. Human/Demon. Femininity/Masculinity. Dare we say something else, too?

Anyway, Dean is paired with Smash and Grab; Sam is off to idk negotiate weird artifact purchases lawboy style with Luther Shrike, a man who cannot die so long as he never leaves his house (I cannot even begin to unpack this shit; please just sit there and think about it. I’m not even going there here. I CANNOT DISCUSS Luther Shrike RN).

Speaking of things I cannot discuss without halgdhsag;lsa - Smash has very Specific boots (a look overall, really).

DEAN

Hey, Winona. The '90s called. They'd like their shoes back. SMASH

Shh.

***That’s right girl - do not take his shit; he actually LOVES them and is therefore Overcompensating for it with this little jab.

***Dean’s pop culture references and particular attention to the details here Should Not Be Overlooked. 90s! Winona! Ryder!

ANYWAY, then Dean and Smash bond over a caffeinated beverage -

[While Dean is doing a spell, Smash opens a can of drink, takes a mouthful and burps loudly. ] SMASH

Ahh. DEAN

You're weird.

***This scene makes me literally insane. (even aside from Dean living on something named NERVE DAMAGE as a KID. They could have called it anything. You’re saying this wasn’t a Choice)

She chugs a swallow of the drink and burps. Something stereotypically associated with masculinity. Not feminine. Dean’s reaction is that she is “weird” - because she is not acting in a way stereotypically, J*hn Winchester brain-rot patriarchy bullshit-tily associated with Being Female. But also, says the stupid show, they like the same soda. They are The Same. She shares the soda with Dean. HIS FACE WHEN SHE DOES -

Other similarities are addressed throughout the episode (they are working for demons because they have no choice; they don’t discuss feelings/emotions, they both sold their soul, they both This Thing -

DEAN

You know, we could help you. SMASH

No, you can't. I gotta take care of me.

etc. etc.) Smash is absolutely dean-coded.

****Also it’s textually established that Smash thinks Dean is attractive -

GRAB

[looking at Smash] Oh. You said he was just a pretty face. SMASH

Shh.

***But Grab flirts with him too.

DEAN

I will kill you. GRAB

I bet you say that to all the girls.

***sorry, Grab - you won’t get far with Dean, but only because as he mentioned in the beginning of this episode -

Drowley rights.

Now Dean has to put his hand in the mouth of this stone lion thing and all of a sudden he is acting....very-not-like-Dean.

[Dean looks again and takes a deep breath.] DEAN

I… how about this? What if I cut myself, put it on, like, a little piece of paper? We'll just wad it up and throw it in the mouth, okay? Okay.

***Dean Winchester, who has been to Literal HELL, who has been torn apart by hellhounds, who has battled the devil and angels and God’s sister - all at the expense of his own life is now - afraid of spiders. Well, technically he has always been afraid of spiders, but why isn’t ‘he being performative about it At This Time??

***Come to think of it, this sends me right back to how Jackles was playing Dean in 12x11 Regarding Dean THE episode dissecting Dean’s performative masculinity [one day I will clean up and post that analysis sitting in my drafts like a sad hamster]. That makes sense actually, because -> -> ->

that episode and this one are both written by Meredith Glynn. Girl get in I want to torture you affectionately with a barrage of questions.

So here we have Dean and he’s not performing for Reasons, and he’s scared he’s genuinely scared of putting his hand in this stone lion-gargoyle-pig-creature’s mouth and then -

Smash gives him a push.

She gives him a push. I cannot stop thinking about how she gives him a push. A push to go do this thing that he is scared of; his fear being something he was hiding under his performative masculinity. Smash - dean coded dean mirror who does not perform femininity and is ‘weird’ - she gives him a p u s h.

***linking here for the jackting joices that follow.

Now, let’s circle back to Smash’s story; why she is working for Bart in the first place -

SMASH

You think I wanna be here? Like I have a choice? SAM

You made a deal. SMASH

Wow! You think? SAM

You sold your soul. SMASH

And if I could take it back, I would.

there is no reason for this picture here other than I needed you to see the jackting again

***How does the story end for Smash?

DEAN

Take care of you. [Dean glances down at the box, and then at Smash. She sees that Dean has put a lighter on top of the bones.] BARTHAMUS

Alice, chop chop!

[Bart indicates she should get his bones]. SMASH

Yeah. [She grabs the lighter and sets Bart's bones alight. Bart screams as he bursts into flames. ]

***She accepts help and breaks free from the narrative, literally burning it down. The female presenting but not female-performing “weird” ooc representing a side of Dean breaks FREE because she makes a choice. The lighter Dean drops? It’s a push. And she goes with it.

Alice reclaims her story.

(Also, Grab gets ganked. The male presenting ooc; the performative masculinity side; the demon; the darkness; the not-humanity - gets ganked).

Guess what Dean says to Alice when they say goodbye?

DEAN

Hey, Alice. Stay weird.

[I know the peace sign is probably just a Charlie throwback but I’d still like to say duality. Two. ]

Dean’s not just talking to Alice. He’s talking to himself; because the walls have been breached and for once Dean isn’t as scared of being different. Maybe, just maybe, he’s going along with the push. That’s exactly how the episode ends - with Dean feeling a little more hopeful, a little more at peace; a little more Considering he is capable of not only loving Cas but also not hating himself for it.

[until the knowledge that Mary is still alive and the guilt of allowing himself ANY happy thoughts instead of looking for her miserably rears its ugly head in 13x09 and round and round we go but for NOW at least -> ]

DEAN

I'll drink to that.

(oh look Dean is just wearing his henley. It’s almost as if a layer has been peeled back).

tagging @im-shaking-like-milk and @deanwasalwaysbi for letting me ramble on to them while writing this; and @lilac-void because you are always so kind about my stuff :)

#my spn meta #spn analysis #spn 13x08 #bi!dean #destiel #deancas #hellerism #spn #supernatural #spn fandom #spn family #spn meta

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laketaj24 · 4 years

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Shrike II

Author’s Note: Finally, back with some suitable work to be the conclusion of Shrike. I am so intrigued with learning this world, even watching the gameplays, reading the books, and investing in the game. I mention a few things mentioned in the games and writings; if they are in the wrong context, don’t jump me. I hope you enjoy this addition. Let me know what you think! Happy Reading!!!

Side Note: If you are on the taglist and are no longer interested or active in the fandom, please let me know.

Pairings: Reader X Geralt

Warnings: SMUT. Angst

M A S T E R L I S T

Enjoy my work!! Buy me Ko-Fi to help me get back to school! All your support is appreciated!! I even do commissions!

The old house creaked, the most noise you’d heard it make in months. But supposed nothing could remain quiet when Geralt was inside. Your heavy dress swayed with every step you took, you slammed the bowl down on the table, followed by the spoon and then your hands. There was so much anger; you didn’t even know where it derived. Pieces of you rejoiced at even the thought of him being in your presence. They were elated, singing his praises, replaying lines in your conscious as if he never left. But the innate part of you that knew what he had done was venomous. It tainted those thoughts quickly.

“You left me.”

“Y/N.” Your name rolled off his tongue like honey, sweet and smooth, clinging to every fucking reeling emotion you had in you. “I swear.”

“You swear what??” You hissed at him, “You had every intention of returning? You were coming back when the world didn’t need you.”

“Is the child mine?” Geralt dare not look at you. His amber eyes fixated on the empty bowl in front of him. They were cut as if he was ashamed to ask you.

“What?” You answered.

“Is the child mine?”

“Who else’s?” It seemed illogical to you for him ever to think you would bed another so soon after him. Geralt meant more to you than you ever wanted to admit or comprehend. And the fact that you two conceived a child only made your point more blatant. You were destined, and no one could cheat their fate, not even the Witcher.

“How?”

“Geralt.” The tension in the room was replaced by sadness as Geralt finally locked his eyes on you and reached his hand out to your round belly. You forgot how his touch made you feel. Wrecked. Your heart strummed against your chest, drowning out any words that he might have said. You moved his hand from you, wondering how it would have affected you if his skin had touched yours and not the fabric. “What do you want, Geralt?”

“I only want…” He paused. “You.”

“Could have fooled me,”

He sighed in defeat. “I cannot explain why I left.”

“Then I suggest you leave again, I suggest you take your false sincerities to someone who cares to hear them.”

“I am not leaving,” He admonished.

Outside, your door was a small child, ashen blonde hair, and she carried a sword. “Geralt!” She called. Her small voice laced with a sudden panic.

Geralt stood, “There was a reason that I left.” He sighed. “I have,” He gestured to the young girl. “Ciri.”

Geralt explained his exploits and how the past year had led him to go back for her. You’d only heard the murmurs of the turmoil that trickled through the continent. Your heart was set on you and your child, the troubles were not for you to consider at the moment. This did not settle your heart, though, not one bit. It was easy to reach out, it just wasn’t in Geralt to be tied to anything, perhaps that’s why Ciri’s presence shocked you.

The two moved from the inside of the house after he’d explained most of everything to you, he told you how he wanted her to be training always and every second counted if she was to be an actual Witcher. It was odd he was training another child to do his job; he must have truly loved her.

You watched from the window, Geralt trained Ciri on her reflexes. She was decent, not as sharp as him, but for sure on the proper path. She flipped from the stone she’d perched on and landed on her feet. It took one swift kick and duck, and she blocked his next blow.

“Ha!” She exclaimed triumphantly. “I won.” She lifted her wooden sword over her head and then exhaled. “I am done.”

“Who says that you are finished?” Geralt knelt down to her level, brushing the ashen white hair from her face. “Continue training past your exhaustion, a battle doesn’t end when you want it.” He struck her sword to the ground with a single blow, and you grinned at him. “There was no doubt he’d make an excellent father. He’d already taken to his surprise child so well.”

Some of the animosity you’d harbored against him had subsided, it was hard to stay mad at him when he behaved this way, fatherly.

“Allow her one break,” You placed the bowls onto the table, happy that you opted to eat outside and then waved them over. “I have some food for the both of you.”

Ciri did not wait for Geralt’s permission, she simply tossed her sword to the ground and charged over, excited about the food you’d prepared. “Thank you, Y/N.” She looked to Geralt. “Someone cares about my survival.”

“Hmmm.” He picked up the wooden swords and placed them against the tree before he came to the both of you. “Ten minutes to eat. One hour to rest, train until sundown.”

“But, Geralt!”

“No protests.” He said sternly. “Vessimir said six hours of training daily, and you will have it.” Geralt looked to your stomach again, the flutters returned. “Shouldn’t you be sitting?”

“You do not return and tell me what to do.” You handed him the spoon and sat down in the rocking chair. You did not want to admit he was right, your feet ached along with your back. Carrying the child had started to take a toll on your body. “Ciri, you look wonderful out there.”

“She does well, but she is not there.” Geralt looked to Ciri admirably and shifted in his seat. “Nowhere near.”

There was silence as you ate, but the burning gaze from Geralt screamed at you, you could feel his curiosity teaming off him. Ciri finished first and retrieved her sword from the tree. She continued with her bounds of energy, and you found yourself envious of her. You didn’t have much energy, sometimes staying awake was even a hassle.

“Now that we are alone.” Geralt slid his bowl over and leaned forward on his elbows. “Y/N.”

“I do not want to argue.” You shrugged and exhaled. “We have a baby on the way, and you’re already playing father.”

“I,” he paused.

“You don’t owe an explanation to me, Geralt.”

“But, I am giving you one so shut up.” He held his hand up when he noticed your mouth draw into a tight line. “I came back for you earlier and was sent away upon arrival. After talking to a few villagers, they told me that you had been banned from the royal family. I’ve been out in the fucking forest searching for a week now.”

“A surprise child is only okay when it’s the form of her,” You pointed to her thwacking the tree.

“I love you.” He smiled. “And the fact that you are carrying my child only makes that ache in my chest that much heavier. I’ve always wanted it to be you.”

“It appears it was in our fate.”

“If this is truly fate’s will, I guess I should start believing in it then.” He touched your face, “You look exhausted.”

“I am.”

“Get some sleep.”

It was unlike you to actually listen to what Geralt said, but this time there was no issue with his request. You slipped out of your clothes into the plush bed and wrapped yourself in the soft blanket. It took moments for you to drift off to sleep, which was rare in your state. It usually took hours to find the perfect way to lie, not tonight.

You were unaware of how much time passed, but you felt the dip in the bed when he found his way to you. Geralt’s hands smooth over your stomach, and his weighty armrest on your side. “you could ask before you do that, you know?” You teased.

He would hear none of it; he rested his chin in the nape of your neck, and his hair pricked you. The familiar sensations of having him near covered you. “I did this to you… I don’t need permission to touch what’s mine.” He teased.

His possessiveness was alluring, he pulled you flush against his chest. Geralt’s earthy aroma was one that you had missed, your finger trail down the thick vein in his arms. “You can’t just leave again.” You whispered. “and if you do… don’t come back.”

Being grounded had never been an attribute the witcher conducted well, he was in constant movement. It was something that you were sure would not bode well with having a family with him. It couldn’t.

“Come with me.” He asked.

“No, sir.” You laughed.

His teeth sunk into your shoulder, and then he sucked, drawing a pressure to your pussy you hadn’t felt in months, one you had craved in the nights you slept alone. The pain followed the surge of lust, and you shook your head. “Please.”

“Are you asking me to come with you because you know that you cannot stay here?”

“I am asking you to come with me because the only home I have ever known is across the continent. If I am to have a family, the safest place I can think of to house them is the school. Come with me to Kaer Mohren.”

“I will not go there.” You said quickly.

“You think here is safe?”

“Yes.”

“Darling to the north, there is a swamp full of drowners, to the south, there is an army taking over everything from Nilfgard. To your east is a city full of thieves and to your west… a father with no heart.” Geralt paused, listening to your breath slow. “My point being there are dangers everywhere, if you are with me… I can and will protect you.”

Perhaps he had done enough talking because at your back, his cock, massive and clearly aroused, poked. You pushed your round ass against it, stroking up and down. The whimper slid from your mouth once his hand delved further down your stomach tot mound that was hidden. He pushed your legs apart easily and then rest his palm on you. You wanted for him to fuck you silly, make you wail his name until you lost your voice.

“Tell me you will come with me.” Geralt whispered in your ear, his teeth grazed the tender flesh on your earlobe and lifted you completely on him. Whatever his plans were, you abided with what he had in mind. You straddled him facing the wall, while his hands cupped your breast and squeezed. They were heavy, both with arousal and milk. Your body had started to prep for the arrival of the little one that stirred inside of you. He pulled the nightgown over your head and tossed it to the ground, which left you utterly naked on top of him. It wasn’t until now you’d realized he’d ventured into the bed with full intentions to fuck you. He was naked, muscles taut, and slick with his sweat from the training he’d just finished.

Each time Geralt’s hand stroked over you, he swore, his cock grew harder, more rigid. The thought that he had made you that way, swollen with his seed, full of him literally made him want to bury his cock into you again and fill you over and over. He wanted you to seep of him when you finally stood, fully claim you by fucking you into the mattress. He reached around and placed his thumb in your slit. He could feel you swelling for him, the blood rushing to those sensitive areas, so no matter how he touched you, you were gonna writhe under him.

He rubbed in circles allowing your head to rest on his chest while he worked. By the fourth circle on your clit, you were soaking his fingers, making it simple for him to rub you until your whole pussy wept for him. Your legs caged his, and from the slip of your fingers on the mattress, he knew you wouldn’t last long like this, but it pleasured him to have all your weight on him. He wanted to fuck up into you; he ached for it. He tapped his cock against your clit once, you jumped in ecstasy. He liked the reaction, so he tapped again and again until your clit jumped and nearly spasmed into an orgasm. Then he pushed into you.

Your satin walls enveloped him, and his head fell back onto the pillows. He was elated just with you still on top of him. His balls were heavy, threaten to spill inside of you just from it. You moved your hips, side to side, and then attempted to ride him. You moved up and then down, taking his whole cock.

“Oh.” You said with hitched breath. The feeling of fully sheathing him was overwhelming. “Geralt.” You swallowed and then lifted and buried his cock back into you again. You found your rhythm, bouncing on him while using the bed to anchor yourself for the ride. Geralt steadied you. Slowly meeting every other thrust as if he was trying to be careful with you. But you weren’t going to break.

“Fuck me.” You said, nearly out of breath.

It was as if he had waited the entire night to hear those words, Geralt placed his hands onto your hips and with a sharp thrust impaled you, the perfect angle. The tip of his cock was hitting your g-spot, causing a shutter to encompass your whole body.

You tugged at your own nipples, twisting them until the slight pain mixed with the alluring pace of Geralt sent you over the edge.

“Fuck.” He said as you fell apart on his cock. “I like that sound.” He smiled. “I like it better when you add my name.” As if it was a challenge, he started to fuck you harder and faster, his strokes causing your heavy breast to bounce and your body to quake with another orgasm.

You caught on this round, and when your back bowed, his name came off your tongue in a song. “Geralt. Geralt.” You clung to his legs for balance, and Geralt growled.

“You like being full of me?” He asked.

The erotic question somehow made you slicker for him. “Yes.” Your pussy sucked around him, coaxing him to stay deep inside of you. “Fucking yes.”

“I wish I could do it again.” He confessed. “Fill you up and see you swollen all over again.”

Fuck. You swallowed and nearly slid off him, but Geralt caught you, “Stay with me.” He breathed. He was exhilarated by the way you responded to him, your sweat coated the both of you, your cum trailed down his thick thighs, and the thought of burying his seed in you again drove him to the edge of insanity. Geralt wrapped his arm around you and fucked you deeper. He tried to keep the thought far from his mind because every time it inched it’s way in his head, he was ready for it to happen again.

Thoughts consumed you when he laid you on the bed, you lay on your side, and he lifted your leg up, allowing access to your pussy again. What the fuck was going to happen next? Nothing had been settled.

Geralt, as If he knew you were distant, He peppered the kisses on your shoulder, and then his hands were back at your clit rubbing expertly until you came again on him. He pushed back into you this time with languid thursts, controlling the deep grunts that escaped as the build-up to his impending orgasm began. His hips wind the smacked onto your once, twice, and then the third time, he swelled a little more, and the warmth seeped through your pussy. “Stay with me.” He pled.

There was no answer given, the flicker of the candle dimmed, and your eyes closed. You’d sleep on it, but deep down, you knew the answer already.

#Geralt #Geralt of Rivia #geralt the witcher #the butcher of blaviken #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fandom #the witcher x you #geralt x you #geralt x reader #geralt x y/n #henry cavill #the witcher x reader #the witcher x y/n #the witcher netflix #laketa j writes

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scarlet-bernard · 4 years

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Can I request Alastor x reader hc or a fic about his love being redeemed but then after a while they get thrown back in hell for a really stupid reason?

Lmao honestly I was like ‘Oh ho this is gonna be sad’ then the last part had me rolling. Ima go for a fic though. I hope you like it hun! :)

(P.S I made it a really really stupid reason-sorry).

(P.P.S (d/h/c): Demon hair color

(d/s/c): Demon skin color

(h/c): Hair color

(s/c): Skin color

Alastor X Reader-Redemption and Back

You had finally done it. You had made it! You were going to be taken to Heaven and given your wings! Finally! This IS what you wanted, right? You sigh as you snuggle in to your boyfriends chest, thinking things over.

He was humming softly as he ran his claws through your hair gently. He didn’t want to lose you, oh no, you were his darling demon gal! But, you had wanted to be an angel. He couldn’t tell you no to that, and besides, this gave him cause to follow you to Heaven. If he could manage, that is...

You looked at the time. Only an hour left. An hour to get your things to the roof. An hour to cuddle with Alastor. One last time... Until he came to meet you in Heaven, of course! An hour to say your goodbyes to your friends. No, your family. All of your goodbyes... Even to the sweetheart herself, the princess of Hell...

“Al, I can’t do this. I can’t just leave-” you felt the hot tears start, you couldn’t hold them back. You didn’t want to say goodbye to everyone.

Alastor simply shakes his head. “Darling, you must! I cannot let you stay here when this has been such a big deal for you!” His everlasting grin almost dropping. He didn’t want you to leave either. But he was going to be strong enough, for the both of you if he had to be. “Dear, please don’t back out now, I would be sad to see you give up so easily.”

You sigh as he gently wipes the tears away. You knew he wouldn’t be there for a long time, if ever, which felt like someone was ripping your heart out. “But I don’t want to leave everyone...” You say quietly, frowning.

“Smile my dear! You’re not fully dressed without one! And everyone will follow you up! I can’t see why they wouldn’t! I certainly will follow a pretty little doll, such as yourself, to the gates of Heaven!”

You let out a soft giggle and nod. “Okay... I’ll... Give it a test run.” A small dorky smile made its way to your face?

Alastor tilts his head in confusion. “A test run, my dear? “But there have been demons sent to Heaven before! This is no longer a test-”

You giggle and shake your head. “No, what I mean is, if I get too sad or too lonely, I’ll do something stupid and come back!” you joke lightly.

“Ahohohohohoh, my dear, don’t do that! It might take us a while, but we will all eventually be right there beside you!” His grin widens slightly at your cheered up state. Why was he convincing you to go? He didn’t want you to. He sighs and sits up. “Well dear, let us go say your final goodbyes, shall we not? Everyone will be waiting for you!”

You look up at him. He was right! Only half an hour left. You sigh and link arms with him, going to the roof. You smile as you see everyone. You waved shyly. Time to say goodbye! You went through them all, Husk, Baxter, Niffty, Charlie, and Vaggie.

After what felt like only a few minutes, you saw the angels. You turn to Alastor one last time. “You promise me I’ll see you again?”

The tall Radio Demon took and then kissed the top of your hand, smiling at you. “I won’t stop trying until I succeed, my love.” He said softly, only for you to hear.

You smile and squeeze his hand, realizing you may never see him again. Your heart begged you to stay, but he gently handed your hand off to an angels, and with that, you were gone.

Charlie tried to comfort Alastor, but he simply dismissed her, and went to be alone to think about you.

He didn’t cry, no, that would make him look weak, but he couldn’t stop his grin from falling as his brain screamed at him to get you back and his heart thumped dully in pain. He’d never see her again. He was too bad to go to Heaven, but at least you were happy.

You open your eyes and looked around. Your demon form was replaced with your human one. Instead of (d/h/c) or (d/s/c) you had (h/c) and (s/c). You stood there shocked for a moment.

“You may go in at any time.” The angel who escorted you up said, slightly annoyed. Guess attitude didn’t dull when you went to Heaven.

You sigh and walk through the gates, only to be tackled? You let out a shrike. “Who are you?!!” You glare at the angel above you-wait.

“Hiya toots. Miss me?”

“Angel Dust?!”

“Shhh shh, up here I’m Anthony.” He says chuckling.

“You EGGED someones house and got sent back to HELL? After one WEEK?” Vaggie yelled at you and Angel Dust, in a private room. So far only her and Charlie had seen you too.

“Come on sweets,” Angel began, earning a glare from Vaggie. “The guy was a douche. He shoulda come down ‘ere with us, ‘e was just to holy.” Angel said in your guys’ defense. “ ‘Sides Vaggs, I didn’t wanna be up there anyways-” he began.

“Because you missed the drugs, turf wars, and sex?” she asked, snapping at him.

Charlie set a hand on her shoulder and looked between the two of you for answers.

“Well, yes, but I also missed you fuckers, alright?” he shoots his own glare at Vaggie. “Heaven is no fun, especially when everyone is tryin’ to get ya sent back ta Hell anyways.”

You nod in agreement. “Yeah. I’m uh, I’m with Angie on this.” You look down at your hands. “Besides, there are other demons up there proving that Hell DOES have people who can change... We didn’t even think we’d get in that much trouble.”

Vaggie seemed to have softened up to the both of you. But, she was still going to be strict. “Whatever. But if you two plan on staying here for free still, you’re gonna need to earn your keep.”

At the visible confusion you and Angel Dust show, Charlie perks up. “What she means is that you two will need to work here! Keep a decent reputation so the hotel doesn’t fail, but do smaller things to stay here and help!” she grins.

Of course you and Angel agree happily! This hotel was pretty much your home, and so were the people! You both go your separate ways, you to find Al, and Angel to find Husk. Or drugs.

You smile as you see him, deciding sneaking up on him would be the worst best course of action. You wrap your arms around the deer boi and he goes rigid.

He won’t kill anyone he won’t kill anyone he won’t dO IT-

“Alllll, guess what?” you sing song.

His jaw drops, was that really you? “(Y/n)?” he turns around and wraps his arms around you when he sees you, afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You grin. “Yep!”

“But how did-why are-” he, for once in his life, seems to be speechless. He looks at you confused.

“Angie and I egged a guys house since he was being a dick... And well... We were condemned. Yay?” You weren’t really sure how he was going to react, if you’re being honest.

His grin only seemed to widen though. You had really come back! He picks you up and spins you around. “Well darling, it seems to me that you mean you’ll be in Hell for quite some time then! Lets go take a stroll through Hell and maybe get a bite to eat! Omelets, perhaps? It is breakfast!” He gives you a cheeky grin.

You can’t help but giggle and shake your head. “Of course. Omelets sound great, Al.”

And with that, you were off!

#Alastor x Reader #Alastor x Reader fluff #Alastor x Reader Angst #To Heaven #You Go To Heaven #Then You Get Sent Back To Hell #Saying Goodbye #Angel Dust #Angel Dust Friendship #Hazbin Alastor #Hazbin Hotel #Idk what else to put here #sorry lmao

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scarletaire · 3 years

Text

flowerfall

A/N: Not my usual Jurdan fare, I know, but after reading A Sky Beyond the Storm, this fic poured out of me and I was helpless to stop it. Canon-divergent for Chapter LX, but mostly follows canon for everything after.

WARNING: Spoilers for A Sky Beyond The Storm!

Fandom: An Ember in the Ashes by Sabaa Tahir

Ship: Helene Aquilla x Avitas Harper

Genre/s: Fluff

Rating: T

Links: Masterlist | Read on AO3

[Summary and tags under the cut because spoilers!]

Description:

When Avitas Harper falls, the Blood Shrike makes a deal with Death. Snapshots of their life together after the war.

Tags: Harper Lives, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Helvitas Living Their Best Lives, We Stan One (1) Power Couple

_______

When Avitas Harper falls, the Blood Shrike makes a deal with Death.

It happens as Mirra of Serra takes her knife to Keris Veturia’s neck. The blood and the life leave her body, but the Shrike cannot revel in it, for her love is dead and cold in her arms.

How is it possible that she still had anything left to lose?

But of course, to love someone is both to gain and to lose a thousand pieces of the world all at once.

She roars in the face of it.

In the face of Death.

And this time, with the bridge between worlds on the brink of evisceration, Death answers.

I need power, says Mauth to anyone who will listen, weakened, and scrambling for any strength to beat back the storm. Power to fight.

The Blood Shrike has never heard the voice of Mauth before, but what he asks for is familiar. She knows all too well the pursuit of power, the search for anything to keep fighting. It is what she searches desperately for now.

Give him back, she orders Death with the voice of a girl who has still too much to lose, give him back, and I will give you the strength you need.

The power of the Star. The power of song and healing. The power of Rehmat, reborn again through the centuries and a thousand times in her blood.

Whatever it is, it will be enough.

It has to be.

The maw opens its jaws. The Nightbringer succumbs to the maelstrom. The Sea of Suffering overtakes the sky.

And Helene Aquilla sings her last song.

____

For a moment, there is only the storm. It surges through the escarpment, it rages across the cliffs, it consumes everything in its path.

For a moment, all is lost.

For a moment, she thinks that at least she didn’t have to wait long before following him.

And then, between one breath and the next, the maelstrom disappears.

Beneath her hand, Avitas Harper stirs.

____

In the end, her deal hadn’t mattered. It wasn’t Mauth that saved them all. It was Laia of Serra, because of course, of course, who else could have done it but her. Helene is full of a strange mix of pride and awe when she pulls Laia into a hug. The girl she once tried to kill, the girl who pieced together the broken world.

The once Beloved, the once Forsaken now rests in chains of mercy, and so the world continues on.

Mauth never speaks to her again.

Maybe because there is nothing she could possibly offer anymore. Maybe because the next time Mauth speaks to her, it will be at the end, when his words will be the last thing she will ever hear.

Briefly, she wonders what Death will do with the power she gave him. Then she thinks that it doesn’t really matter much to her, anymore.

____

She stands with Elias as they take in the bodies of their dead. They are spread out in lines across the forest floor. There are too many of them, Martial, Scholar, Tribal – it isn’t important anymore. They were divided in life. Today, they are united in the loss of it.

Above her, around her, the forest blooms alive, like a panacea for the death and destruction spilt upon the soil, blossoms of apricot and cherry and Tala filling the air with their sweetness, falling to the ground like colored snow.

It is a good thing, then, that Harper is alive. If she had lost him, truly lost him, then she would not have been able to bear the sight of flowers ever again.

____

It turns out dying and being brought back to life takes a toll on a human body.

“When will he wake?” she whispers into the quiet of the healer’s tent. “It’s been days.”

She knows the body lying still before her is merely asleep, but she remembers the way he had looked with all the life drained out of him, and it is a sight she will never forget.

“Give him some time,” Elias says. “Being resurrected by Death itself is no easy thing.”

She raises her eyebrow at him askance.

“I know a thing or two about being resurrected by Mauth.” He shrugs, and the movement is so familiar, so genuinely Elias that she feels the corner of her lips tilt. “Guess it runs in the family now.”

Avitas Harper wakes two days after.

She doesn’t give him a chance to get his bearings. The words are out of her lips before he can even try to sit up, like a song she can’t keep silent any longer. “I love you.”

He raises his fingers to her face, tracing the scars there like a benediction. “I got my wish.”

Emifal Firdaant.

She presses her palm against his hand, trapping it against her cheek. “With all due respect, Captain Harper, it was a bleeding stupid wish. So I did you the courtesy of vetoing it.”

When she kisses him, she feels like she can breathe again after a millennium of holding her breath.

____

When Mirra of Serra takes up the mantle of Soul Catcher, Helene watches the life return to Elias’s eyes, and the hope return to Laia’s.

The Bani al-Mauth turns to Harper. “I suppose I should thank you. For offering me shelter and safety in the bowels of Antium.”

“It was an honor, Lioness. You repaid me in kind when you helped the Blood Shrike through the tunnels.”

“And when you aided in the battle with Keris,” Helene adds.

Mirra scoffs, white hair dancing in the wind. “I worried that the Shrike wouldn’t be able to keep the secret to herself. Not like you. A mind like a steel trap, you have.” She slaps Harper once across the chest. He does a fine job of hiding his grimace as she knocks his healing wounds. “Think you’ll be a fine brother-in-law for my daughter.”

Elias splutters, Laia flushes, and Helene feels a laugh bubbling up in her chest for the first time in ages.

____

As their troops begin to file out of the Forest of Dusk, she sees the figures of two men talking under the shade of a tree. Elias is taller, but Avitas is older. And so it is he who holds out his hand for his brother to shake.

And it is Elias who takes it, but uses it to pull him into a hug instead. She sees Avitas’s back stiffen in surprise, but he doesn’t push him away.

“It shouldn’t have taken so long for this to happen,” Elias says. “I’m glad you’re alive, brother. I’m glad I wasn’t the one to have to pass you on.”

____

When Quin Veturius proclaims her Empress in front of the conclave of their people, her eyes immediately seek Harper.

Help me, she tries to convey. Knock the old man out before he actually convinces them.

“Stand strong,” he says aloud, instead, love and pride sparkling in his green eyes, “Empress.”

____

Later that night, when she sings Zacharias to sleep with a soft lullaby, her blood doesn’t sing with her. It’s silent, dormant. The air is empty with the ghost of her magic.

Leaning against the door a few feet away, Avitas has closed his eyes to listen, his lips curled up at the edges.

And it should feel like something has been stolen from her, but really, it feels more like a blessing than anything else.

____

She dances with Avitas at the Moon Festival in Nur, and the night is warm and they’re both still in armor, and neither of them really know how to dance properly anyway, but it is enough.

It is more than enough.

Skies, it’s more than she could have ever asked for.

He lifts his arm and she twirls under it, catching the twinkle in his eye, and suddenly, she wishes they weren’t in such a crowded place full of other people. Suddenly, she wishes they were alone, in a room, flushed and pressed up against each other just like this. Dancing a dance they both know the steps of far too well.

On her next twirl, she catches Musa’s eye, where he leans against a table, flirting with a pretty Scholar girl. He winks at her, as if he knows exactly where her thoughts have strayed.

She’s far too happy to be annoyed in any way, and so she almost sends him a wink of her own before Harper pulls her close against him again and the thought is forgotten.

____

It occurs to her later in the night, as the festivities draw to a close and she glimpses Musa walking back to his tent alone, that she had come far, far too close to understanding his loneliness in a way she hates to imagine.

____

At night, the Empress walks her city.

Avitas Harper walks with her.

The blue irises native to Antium are in full bloom, littering the ground.

One year, she thinks, as she cups her hand around a petal that floats down to her through the air. It’s been one year since the last flowerfall.

The one in which the world was broken. The one in which the world was remade.

____

Sometimes, she wakes thinking of her family. Of Livia, bleeding out in front of her son. Of her mother, father, Hannah. All of them, their throats cut, their lives lost, gone.

Sometimes, she wonders if they will hate her for bringing back her lover instead of one of them, any of them.

Sometimes, she wonders if she will ever forgive herself for any of it.

____

Avitas Harper, as it turns out, is a shockingly good babysitter.

The first time he gets Zacharias to sleep in under ten minutes, she chalks it up to dumb luck and good timing.

The second time it happens she almost kisses him despite the baby in his arms, too grateful for the peace and quiet after a long hour of listening to her nephew scream.

The third time it happens, she stares at him in disbelief.

“Did you bring back anything from the afterlife, maybe? Does Mauth have supernatural baby-charming magic that we don’t know about?”

He flashes her that half-smile that she feels underneath her skin.

Her next decree, she decides, will be outlawing all attractive men in armor from holding adorable, sleeping babies. It should be absolutely illegal by now, the sheer power of the sight before her.

____

She may be the Empress, but she is a soldier first and foremost.

When the Karkauans hold hostage the Martial ambassador she had sent over to confer the peace treaty, she is first in line for the mission to take him back.

“It’s not over yet,” she tells her men, when all efforts at neutral negotiation fall through. “I’m most dangerous when I’m cornered.”

Harper stands strong at her side. Her Blood Shrike, always watching. “That makes two of us.”

They march together into the fray.

____

The next Moon Festival, Mamie Rila finally succeeds in shoving her into a dress.

She puts up a good fight, doesn’t go down easy. In the end, it takes the combined forces of Laia, Afya, and an exasperated Mamie Rila to wrangle the Empress into the thin, strappy excuse for a gown.

“What is this supposed to be, a slip? Where’s the rest of it?”

Laia furrows her brows. “What are you talking about? That is the rest of it.”

Helene gapes. “I can’t wear this. I’m the Empress. I can’t walk around looking like I’m one stiff breeze away from a public scandal!”

“If you ask me,” says Afya, “a public scandal might do you some good. Just the thing you need to convince some of those troublesome, barbaric Karkauans to ally with you like you’ve been planning.”

“Burning, bleeding hells.” Elias’s eyes go wide when he walks in. “Who are you and what have you done with the real –”

He chokes off as Laia elbows him in the gut. “Don’t listen to him. Or Afya. You look great. Harper will love it. Shall we get on with your hair?”

Helene rears back, because her hair is the last bastion of normalcy she has.

Harper looks like he's been stabbed in the heart a second time when he catches sight of her, and Helene vows to never wear a dress again.

But when his fingers find the hem of her skirt under the table, tugging first, testing the stretch of the fabric against the skin of her thigh, and then slowly inching under, and then up and up and up — well. Maybe dresses aren’t so bad after all.

____

Sometimes, when she walks, Laia is there beside her. There are some nights when the ghosts of the past seem to walk with them, too. This night, in Serra, is one of those nights. Spring has come, and the flowers here are different, cushioning the road on which they walk with bright yellow petals.

“I can’t forget their faces.”

Laia has never been a killer. But she has dealt her fair share of death during their war, and that leaves a mark on the soul that can never be burned away. The difference now lies in how one goes about dealing with those marks. No, Laia has never been a killer, even when she had to be.

Helene, on the other hand, has spent too much of her life wearing the skin of one, and so she speaks as much to herself as she does to her friend when she replies.

“And you won’t. Just don’t forget the ones you saved.”

____

The first time Zacharias speaks a full word, it’s in the middle of supply negotiations with Tribe Nasur. She has just been reunited with her nephew after months in the capital and so is making up for it by carrying and snuggling him everywhere she goes, even if it is to a highly political trade meeting.

Fortunately, Tribe Saif is in close relations with Tribe Nasur, and so no one throws dirty looks when the baby babbles nonsense right when someone tries to speak. The Fakira even smiles encouragingly when Helene begins to bounce him on her knee.

That’s when Harper enters behind her with a missive from Blackcliff.

“Empress.” His voice is warm, and she realizes that it’s because Zacharias has noticed him, and is dimpling up at him with his head tilted back in that way that only babies can do. “We have positive turnout for the new recruits at –”

“Hapa!”

The whole room stills, as if everyone understands the gravity of this moment. Helene feels a grin break across her face, and she realizes that this is a first for her, too. Her first real grin in so, so long, after so much pain. Harper’s large, brown hand comes over her shoulder to pat Zacharias’s downy head in gentle praise, and she forces herself to get it together in front of all these important Tribespeople.

The meeting goes on. But then, one little detail niggles at her, like a tiny pebble in her boot.

Later, when she’s pushing him against the side of an empty caravan, her lips maybe a little too punishing against the skin behind his ear, he has the gall to chuckle at her.

“Are you jealous? Because his first word was my name and not yours?”

And so Helene sinks to her knees and shuts him up the best way she knows how.

____

Once, and only once, Mirra of Serra, Bani al-Mauth, visits her on a balmy night. The snow is almost over, and the Empress stands at her balcony overlooking the grounds, singing a lullaby to a sleeping Zacharias. He is getting too big now, and so she relishes any moment with him while she can still carry him in her arms.

It is on a dying winter wind that the Soul Catcher comes to her, the white locks of her hair stark against the night. “So it was you. I should have known.”

Helene glances at her out of the corner of her eye. “Known what?”

Mirra casts her gaze out into the city, and beyond, seeing something that only the Chosen of Death can see.

“There is a song across the river,” she says. “In the Waiting Place. All the ghosts ready to pass on hear it. It gives them peace.”

Ah, Helene thinks to Mauth, even though she knows he isn’t listening, so you used my voice after all.

____

When flowerfall comes again, and she has lost count at this point, how many it’s been, Helene Aquilla does not need to walk outside to know.

The blue petals of her beloved city, so familiar now, drift across her window like rain. The air is sweet with the smell of it, and with all that the two of them had done during the night, tangled together in the sheets of her bed.

She lifts a hand to trace the outlines of the silver Mask on his face. He pulls himself out of his doze just enough to smile at her.

“I know I said I would never marry and have children and all,” she begins, and the words are slow like honey in her mouth, “and I stand by my vow as Empress. But the adjoining room to my chambers is empty and I was wondering if –”

“Yes.”

She blinks at the swiftness of his answer. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. How else will I keep you out of trouble, my love?”

And so their lives go on.

_____

End Notes:

Thank you for reading!

I did not foresee ever writing for this fandom, but after that ending, writing this was the catharsis I needed. Now back to regularly scheduled programming! 😂

* Didn’t tag anyone for fear of spoilers, and also because I wasn’t sure if they’d be interested in non-Jurdan fic 🙈But if you’d like to be tagged in any future stuff, I’d be honored to do so! ❤️

#helene aquilla #avitas harper #helvitas #helene x avitas #helene x harper #an ember in the ashes #a torch against the night #a reaper at the gates #a sky beyond the storm #a sky beyond the storm spoilers #aeita #atatn #aratg #asbts #asbts spoilers #sabaa tahir #zita writes

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queen-scribbles · 4 years

Text

On The Bright Side

For the @shepherds-of-haven holiday contest, I give you more Ryn/Red, just Red POV this time, set during the day off you get before leaving Capra.(It’s also partially @haledamage‘s fault again, even if the stuff that set the idea swirling is from a month-ish ago. I’ve been waiting. xD)

---

He found her in the library. Entirely unsurprising, for anyone who knew her even half as well as he did. Red leaned against a nearby row of shelves and watched Ryn peruse the ones in front of her as he waited for her to notice he was there.

It wasn’t a long wait.

“Given how long I’ve been gone,” she began without preamble or turning around, fingers running along the spines of the loosely-shelved books, “I could be wrong, but weren’t there a lot more books in this section at one point?”

“There were,” he said with a sheepish chuckle. “Most of them have changed residence to my study. Not intentionally,” he elaborated when she turned around with a smile tugging her lips and a brow arched in a look he knew all too well. “I needed them for research and forgot to put them back and no one’s wanted them.” It did figure she’d be the one to notice.

“Until me,” Ryn laughed, her smile gentle teasing that made his heart squeeze oddly in his chest. (Or, not-so-oddly, really, if he was honest.)

“We did always share similar tastes in literature,” Red agreed with a laugh of his own.He rubbed the back of his neck and scanned the large gaps in the shelves, trying not to stare at her too much in his peripheral vision as he did. She just looked so different and yet not at the the same time; still her but grown up from the lingeringly-gangly girl who’d left. “Was there something in particular you were looking for?”

Ryn smiled wryly and folded her hands behind her as she leaned back against the shelves. “You, actually.”

His heart skipped a beat and he hoped--oh, he hoped--it didn’t show on his face. “Were you?”

“Mm.” She nodded, not looking away even as she cleared her throat sheepishly. “We have a day before Blade and I leave. I wanted to spend some of it catching up, if you have the time. I got distracted by the nostalgia. And books.”

Red chuckled. “Understandable. The latter of the two distracts me all the time. And it worked out; here I am.”

He left off he’d been looking for her for much the same reason.

“Here you are,” Ryn repeated softly as she pushed away from the shelves. She toyed with one of her earrings as she closed the distance between them. “And do you have time to catch up, Archmage Antiqua?”

He laughed and ran one hand through his hair. “Always, Xaer, and I’ve missed you, but please never call me that again.”

She cocked her head and arched a brow playfully as they headed out of the library. “Archmage Liefred?”

“Xaeryn.”

“Alright, alright,” Ryn relented, bumping her shoulder against his. “I haven’t seen you in a decade; there’s... a bit of teasing built up.” She scuffed her foot against the ground as they walked. “Besides, I’m proud of you. Even though I know being stuck in one place isn’t what you wanted.”

The weight of his responsibility seemed to sit a little more heavily on his shoulders with the reminder, and Red only managed a half-shrug. “I’m sure Tevanti knew what he was doing.”

Ryn gave him a look that said the words rang as mechanical to her as they did to him before smiling and bumping shoulders again. “So, make any big changes when you became the man in charge?”

“Oh, yes, I went absolutely drunk with power,” Red deadpanned, pushing open the door to the hall for them. Ryn laughed and his breath caught ever so slightly in his throat. “Really, aside from rearranging the archmage’s study to suit my needs, I’ve left most things as they were.” He smirked. “I did tell Pan he has to wait a sennight before hazing new arrivals with Shifting.”

“Probably smart,” Ryn said with a small chuckle, running her fingers along one of the tapestries as they passed it and pivoted as one to take the door out to the courtyard. “Wouldn’t want to scare them away.”

“Glad you approve,” Red grinned, running a hand through his hair again. “One thing I haven’t done, but may take advantage of moving to the Shepherd compound to implement is that alternate organization-”

“-organization system for the library?” Ryn’s voice rose in pitch and her eyes lit up as she finished his sentence. When he nodded confirmation, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders in an enthusiastic--if clumsy--sideways hug that made them stumble. “Sorry.”

Was she blushing? No, that was ridiculous. And even if she was, it was likely just embarrassment. “It’s always seemed a daunting task to thrust on people here,” he explained as they walked, “but I figure if we’re moving anyway...”

“Perfect timing,” Ryn nodded. “Fifteen year old me is jealous she won’t get to take advantage,” she said with a grin, “and grown up me is giddy I will. If you’re still working on it when I get back to Haven, I’d be happy to help.”

“Thanks. It’s a big job; we probably will,” Red said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You could also ask Shery.” She toyed with an earring. “If she has the time, I’m sure she’d help. She’s very good at organizing, and she loves books.”

“Good to know,” he murmured. They walked in silence for a few minutes, heading as if by unspoken accord for the apple tree by the lake. “So, what about you?” he finally asked, glancing over at her as they settled under the tree. “What have you been up to, Captain Shrike?”

“Oh, this and that,” Ryn shrugged, smiling and rolling her eyes at him using her title. (It was fair play, and she had started it.) “Largely whatever job will have me, which has meant a lot of guard work; people or caravans.” She smiled. “I taught myself how to fight with a dagger, too, for that and times magic would be a... bad idea.”

“Any time someone picks a fight, in other words,” Red deadpanned, leaning back against the tree.

She huffed a laugh. “More or less.”

“I like the nose ring,” he said, offhand, studying her profile and trying not to be obvious about it. Her jaw was sharper, her air of confidence more... settled and natural. Her hair was shorter, not a shaggy, curly cloud anymore.

Ryn chuckled and brushed her finger over the dainty gold ring that pierced the outside of her nose. “Thanks. One of the few impulsive things I did after leaving. I was worried I might regret it, but I haven’t so far.”

“It suits you.” Liefred, stop talking. If he wasn’t careful, he’d start saying things he didn’t want given voice. At least not yet, not here. “And I mean that as a compliment.”

She smiled wide and bit her bottom lip. “Given how hard it is for you to insult people, I figured.”

He chuckled. “And I will take that as a compliment.”

“Do, that’s how I meant it.” She plucked a blade of grass and twirled it. “Getting back to your question, however, aside from guard work and other odd jobs, I did set up as a private investigator in Courtshore for... about a year?” She smirked. “Scrying makes it so much easier to find things, and if anyone wondered how I worked so fast, they never asked.”

Because knowing would make them culpable, and employing unsanctioned magic carried almost as heavy a penalty as performing it. “Still a pretty big risk, Xaer,” Red couldn’t help commenting, something going tight in his chest at the thought.

“I was careful,” Ryn promised with a smile, reaching over to pat his knee. “And I wound up moving on before anyone got suspicious, I think. People did get uncomfortable with a Mage living in their neighborhood, and business was drying up anyway, so I found a ‘van that would have me and headed elsewhere.” She hesitated, bit her lip. “I thought of you any time we passed in eyeshot of ancient ruins,” she admitted.

“Not a hard connection to make,” he said softly.

“Sorry you didn’t get to pursue that like you wanted,” she said, just as softly, nudging her shoulder against his.

“I get to explore the occasional ruin,” Red shrugged. “Like where I found the hammer.”

“That is pretty cool,” Ryn acknowledged with a laugh.

“And look on the bright side; if I was always off lost in ancient temples and what have you, I wouldn’t have been here when you came back through.” His heart pounded as he dared admit to that much, easily camouflaged in their years of friendship.

She gave a surprisingly bashful smile(for her). “Then will you think me terribly selfish if I say I’m glad you didn’t get to pursue that like you wanted?”

Red laughed. “No, or I wouldn’t have brought it up.” They could both be true, anyway.

“Good. I missed you, Red.”

He smiled and nudged her shoulder. “I missed you, too, Ryn.”

Achingly comfortable silence stretched between them, broken only by the quiet lapping of water in the lake.

Finally Ryn sighed. “Much as I’m enjoying this, I do have other things I need to accomplish today,” she said reluctantly. She pushed to her feet and held out one hand. “And I imagine you do as well?”

“I do,” Red groaned as he took her hand and let her help him scramble back to his feet. He didn’t particularly want to step out of this idyllic little bubble that held them, but the Circle needed him, and she had a mission... they weren’t carefree teenagers anymore. More’s the pity. “It was good getting to catch up,” he said instead, as they headed back inside.

“It was,” Ryn nodded, lips quirking in a smile. “Hopefully we’ll get to do more later.”

“Hopefully,” Red agreed. That was one bright side of leaving his long-time home; she was back in his life.Their hands brushed, and the warmth it sent spreading up his arm made him smile.

It was a trade he would happily make.

#queens fic #shoh #xaeryn shrike #red antiqua #ryn/red #GOD THE PINING #havenholiday2020

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vulturhythm · 4 years

Text

tell me what you hate about me

geralt is used to words of venom being spat in his direction.

he’s used to those words being accompanied by rocks or stones or scat or food, sometimes, depending on who exactly his presence has managed to offend.

he’s used to retreating from the village and wandering a good few miles away before finding a quiet patch off the road to rest.

he’s used to taking off his shirt in the peace of the forest to inspect the damage - never more than some bruises, although some do wind up being far darker and more painful than others. nothing a little salve won’t fix.

he’s used to laying back to sleep in the grass, comfortable in the knowledge that, for all the beasts in the woods that may want a taste, they will never wound him so sorely as the words of man.

geralt is... geralt is not used to jaskier.

- - -

the bard throws the worst of stones into the workings of geralt’s once-routine existence, and for the longest while, geralt isn’t quite sure how he’s meant to adjust. he knows how to handle the rumors and the hatred and the venom. how in melitele’s name is he meant to handle the kindness, the determination to help?

jaskier says that he can change geralt’s reputation, that he can make the world fawn at his feet.

geralt has his doubts. for many a month, he keeps to the back corners of the taverns in which his newfound menace performs, wary of the people who cast him even warier glances. even as he sees the people learn the words to “toss a coin” over time, even as he sees them loosen up, even as he comes to be greeted with a sort of cautious awe rather than outright, fearful disdain, he finds it difficult to grasp.

surely he’ll slip up somehow. surely humanity will go straight back to hating its “friend.”

- - -

slip up he does, two or three years into jaskier’s time with him.

they had meandered toward blaviken out of necessity - the shortest path between two towns in search of contracts, growing scarce in the winter months, as they headed for kaer morhen - as much as geralt loathed the idea of returning. jaskier had long since noticed his growing discomfort, and when he’d said that surely even the folk of blaviken would have forgotten, would have learned him as the white wolf by now...

when he’d said that surely nothing would go wrong, geralt had been fool enough to believe him.

- - -

it’s late at night when they amble into town, jaskier seated on roach’s haunch just behind him. the bard is rambling on about something or other - no doubt a story he’s told dozens of times before - but geralt has long since tuned him out.

he’s rigid in the saddle, his grip on the reins tight enough that roach snorts when he turns her head, jerking her chin up in reply. the streets are empty at this hour, illuminated by the lanterns hanging on the walls; a handful of chickens and a mutt are meandering about, patiently scattering when geralt guides his mare through their midst. he glances down a street he recognizes, shudders at the memory of the men he’d slain on those very stones... at the memory of a dark-haired shrike, bleeding in his arms -

“geralt,” jaskier is saying, and from the urgency in his tone, he’s been trying to say it for some time now. “geralt, talk to me, what’s wrong?”

he feels fingers come to rest on his arm, and geralt jerks away on instinct, a muffled snarl rising in his throat - panicked, caged, unsure. jaskier pauses then, but even as geralt turns roach toward the inn, the bard sets his hands more firmly upon him, touching first his upper arms, then his waist, squeezing gently. “geralt,” he repeats, his voice smoother now. “get off the horse for a moment.”

geralt is already obeying, looping his mare’s reins about a hitching post to the side of the building and backing off a few steps, instinct driving him from the glow of the lantern and into the shadows just beyond. he watches, tense and silent, as jaskier hops down after him, leaving his lute where it’s strung up on roach’s saddle in favor of slowly drawing near.

“can you tell me what’s going through your head right now?” jaskier asks, in that same low tone, and part of geralt bristles, for it’s the same sort of voice you’d use to soothe a child or unruly animal. “what are you remembering?”

he scoffs then, lip curling in a sharp-toothed mockery of a smile as he backs off another step, one hand up - signaling jaskier to keep at bay, and, blessedly, the bard complies, staying within the lamplight and allowing geralt to retreat into the shadows. “everything,” he huffs, low and frustrated. “all the blood, all the - all the pain...”

something in jaskier’s eyes softens. “that street you were looking down?” he asks, and geralt nods. “oh, geralt... i’m sorry, i didn’t think about... the memories, when i said we should cut through here - “

“why would you?” he mutters, slowly dropping his hand once he knows jaskier won’t approach. he feels caged regardless, caught within his own skin - restless, frightened, burning. “witchers don’t feel.” he spits the words out like a curse, fangs still bared as he looks away.

he doesn’t have to look to know that jaskier’s face has fallen - he can smell the guilt on him.

“geralt,” the bard repeats. “you know i’m the last person who’d think that... i’ve seen you, i’ve seen who you really are...”

the witcher laughs, short and bitter, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. his gaze is darting between the buildings around them, marking the familiar ones, the things that happened there, and then - then his eyes light on the tavern across the way, where renfri first approached...

he’s drawing away before he knows it, jaskier all but forgotten as his gaze strays next to the inn they’re standing beside - to the slanted rooftop and the attic window above.

“of course it is. i’m a princess, aren’t i?”

the shrike’s voice creeps into his ears unbidden, and geralt shakes his head, a muffled snarl rising in his throat. he doesn’t realize he’s neared the back of the little alley until his back collides with the wall of the stable attached; geralt flinches away, then gives in, sinking down to crouch at its base.

“geralt,” jaskier is repeating, slowly easing closer. “geralt, my wolf, can you let me nearer? i want to try and help...”

“there’s nothing you can do,” geralt scoffs, but he doesn’t protest when the bard draws nearer, sinking down to kneel just in front of him. he watches him with uncertain eyes, breathing in deep and smelling only sympathy - not a trace of fear. “jaskier...”

the bard gives him a small, weak smile, asking, “may i touch you?”

geralt hesitates, trying to take stock of himself through the frightened, anxious haze he’s lost in. this sort of kindness... he’s not used to it. he doesn’t have the slightest fucking clue how to handle it. “not... not now,” he mumbles at last, and there’s guilt in his tone. “i’m s - “

but jaskier cuts him off. “don’t start,” he says, moving slowly as he comes to sit against the wall with geralt, a half-foot away - telegraphing his movements, geralt realizes, bewildered. “you’ve done nothing wrong.”

he scoffs, shaking his head; with jaskier here, it’s easier to close his eyes, to try and block out the town around them. “you wanted a bed tonight,” he mumbles, wondering why he doesn’t smell a hint of anger or disappointment or... or anything on his friend. “i can’t - jaskier, i can’t stay here - “

“i don’t blame you for it,” jaskier breaks in once more, tone soft and steady. “what happened here, it was... it was terrible. i shouldn’t have asked that we come through here.”

“you couldn’t have known this would happen - “

“but i should have guessed. i should have listened when you expressed your doubts.”

geralt is truly fucking bewildered now, some of his anxiety easing in the face of utter confusion. why is jaskier accepting blame here? “if we’d come here during the day... there’d be people throwing stones...”

he scents pity now - no, not pity, genuine sympathy. it has geralt reeling. “when you feel up to it, we can ride on,” the bard murmurs, and geralt feels his eyes on him, even though his own are closed. “got to be a good, cozy patch of grass somewhere ahead.”

“you stay for the night,” geralt tries, soft and weak, “i’ll leave roach here, you can catch up to me at dawn - “

“no,” comes jaskier’s reply, and it’s so firm that geralt winces. “fuck, sorry - geralt... i’m not letting you go out there alone tonight, not when you’re like this.”

geralt heaves a sigh, finally opening his eyes again, though he doesn’t dare lift them to the streets ahead, instead staring down at his hands, clenched tight on his knees. “why do you care?” he asks abruptly.

jaskier pauses.

it’s the longest few seconds of geralt’s painful life.

“because,” he says at last, and geralt doesn’t flinch when he feels a gentle hand come to rest on his shoulder, “you’re my friend, geralt... my closest and truest friend...”

the words have him reeling.

“can’t imagine why,” he mutters at last. “thought surely you’d hate me, too, by now...”

jaskier breathes out a little sigh; the sound of rustling fabric is all the warning geralt has before the bard is kneeling just in front of him, a delicate hand coming to tilt his chin up. geralt meets his gaze reluctantly, startled when he finds only affection there. “do you truly think i could ever grow to hate you?”

geralt doesn’t answer.

everyone else does. beyond the taverns where you perform, they all loathe me. they’re afraid of me. they tell horror stories to their children, and i’m the monster.

he doesn’t say that.

he doesn’t have to.

“geralt,” jaskier is murmuring again, so soft and soothing, “listen to me... i’ve traveled with you, what, nearly three years now? in that time... in that time, i’ve only ever known you to do your best, and isn’t that the most that any of us can manage?”

“my best still leaves innocent people dead,” geralt mutters in reply.

“those deaths aren’t on you,” he says firmly; geralt tenses only slightly when jaskier’s hand comes to cup his face instead, though he relaxes into the touch when the bard’s thumb brushes along his cheekbone. “i know you feel that they are, but... geralt, you can hold no guilt for that.”

he gives a vague, weary laugh in reply, closing his eyes. he doesn’t protest when jaskier reaches up to comb his matted hair aside. “you can’t deny what i did to the people here,” he says.

jaskier hesitates. “no,” he admits softly, “but i can tell you this... you did what you thought best, what needed to be done. how the rest reacted - all their hatred? that’s on them.”

“renfri,” he murmurs, uttering the name for the first time in what feels a lifetime. “i shouldn’t have killed her. i should have taken stregobor’s life when given the chance. she was barely even grown, jaskier, she could have lived well without him hanging overhead - “

he’s growing agitated again, that restless snarl returning to his voice, and jaskier must be able to tell, for suddenly he’s pressing closer, working his way into the gap between geralt’s legs to draw him in for - for a hug.

a hug.

i’ve never been hugged. not that i can remember.

“geralt,” the bard is murmuring as he pulls him in, and geralt finds it only natural to tip his head forward, to rest it against jaskier’s shoulder and close his eyes. “you did what you could.”

they both fall quiet then, geralt far too focused on the feeling of jaskier’s hand rubbing slow circles onto his back to bother with protesting. it’s... it’s nice.

it’s nice.

at long last, he speaks again, breathing in slow and tucking his head closer into jaskier’s neck. “if - if we leave now... will you hold me like this again...?”

jaskier pauses, and for an instant, geralt is certain he’s said the wrong thing. “of course,” he murmurs, a few seconds later; geralt blinks when he feels a gentle kiss bestowed upon the top of his head. “of course...”

- - -

they leave blaviken behind, well before sunrise.

geralt doesn’t begin to properly relax until the livestock town is many miles at their rear. jaskier, seated behind him like usual, is holding him close, arms about his waist and head against his back.

when they stop at last to camp, geralt doesn’t hesitate to settle in at jaskier’s side; somehow, he knows that comfort is always offered now.

he doesn’t quite understand it...

he doubts he ever will.

#geraskier #gerlion #geralt x dandelion #geralt x jaskier #my fics #written in like thirty minutes #with no sense of direction #only with enthusiasm

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agoodgoddamnshot · 4 years

Text

Shrike - Geraskier [E]

[Gif isn’t mine]

Warning(s): Smut (Rating E); Mild Violence

Originally posted to my AO3

Mob Boss Geralt is brought to the Rosemary and Thyme Bar, where he meets with an alluring Jaskier; who has a new work proposition.

In hindsight, he should have just punched Lambert in the jaw and left it at that.

But here he is, in the back of his own car, heading towards downtown. Gods only know what time it is, but Geralt’s eyes are already starting to sting. A tight pain runs up the side of his face. He’s clenching his jaw again. There isn’t a moment where he isn’t. But after catching himself going it, he manages to flex his jaw and wring the pain out.

The red-haired man laughs, mostly to himself. He’s sitting in the back of the car with him, letting Coën do all the driving. He can only assume the other man didn’t have much of a say in it, with how grimly he’s glaring back at Lambert stretched out along the backseat. “You work too much,” he lilts, looking out on to the changing cityscape.

Gods alive, he hates downtown. It’s busy and bright and desperately loud, assaulting every sense that he has. Work might lure him down here every so often, but that’s why he has Lambert and Eskel and Coën. If he can send them in place of him, then good. They’ll go. But more often than not, people want to meet the White Wolf personally. Even if it’s the last meeting with him they’ll ever have.

It’s not that he works too much. It’s that there is so much work to do. Vesemir retired and overnight Geralt found himself in charge of all of this. People underneath him who know who he is, knows that the Old Wolf raised him personally to take over. But he still watches those with uncertain eyes. Whispers of a coup have been brushing his ears ever since Vesemir fucked off to the countryside and left the title of boss to him. An argument could be made that they had talked about it. Vesemir was getting greyer, and young bucks were popping up all around the boroughs, crowing and fighting amongst themselves. It was only a matter of time before they ran their antlers through the Old Wolf and took over.

Best to get someone like Geralt in before any of that unpleasantness started. The White Wolf may have been a shy pup, quiet and always keeping to himself, but he could level anyone with a stare, enough to knock them over and have them scampering from the offices. Eskel, gods bless him, is too kind-hearted. Lambert is too much of a prick. Geralt has the perfect temperament; but is easy to anger.

And he can feel that very anger starting to bubble up now, just as downtown’s bright and irritating neon lights stream in through the dimmed windows of the car.

“Stay for an hour,” Lambert reasons, tilting his head to the side. His brother might be a prick and a degenerate, but he knows how to look at the elder in a certain way to get him pliant enough to do whatever he asks. That’s how he got Geralt to fight all of his battles for him when they were boys. Lambert was often the one to get them into trouble, and Geralt got them out. That’s how it worked. And then there was Eskel, wearing an ever-suffering expression on his face wondering why in the name of all of the gods their father put Geralt in charge in the first place.

Lambert splays his hands. “Stay for an hour,” he repeats, “and if you hate it as much as you think you’re going to, then you can leave. I’m sure Coën would drop you back home if you asked. Isn’t that right, Coën?”

There’s an illegible huff from the front of the car. Coën keeps his glowering eyes on the road, muttering something or other under his breath.

It isn’t directed at Geralt, that’s all he knows. So he allows it. If Coën had his way, he would be home in bed too. Geralt’s ache bleeds for them both.

Lambert slaps a hand on to Geralt’s shoulder. He leans over, lowering his voice. “It’s my job to make sure you don’t look so fucking grumpy all of the time,” he lulls, only sitting back when the bar comes into view. Geralt tries not to roll his eyes. Of course. Of course he would bring him here.

The dazzling, irritating lights of Rosemary and Thyme glare at him. A bar and club frequented by just about anyone who can slip in through the small army of security posted to the front doors. Just as Coën parks them in front of the door, Lambert slips out and has a word with the burly men. They nod and stand aside. Lambert looks back at him with a brilliant smile. “Come on, Geralt!” he calls out.

Coën offers him a sympathetic look through the rear-view mirror. “I can hang around, if you like?”

If you want to bolt after a minute.

Geralt grunts. “Might be an idea,” he rumbles, but steps out of the car all the same. He’s used to it; having security come up to meet him. Despite everything, even though they’re contracted by the bar and they could call the police on someone like him, they know to lead him past the queues formed outside and get him into the building as quietly as possible. He catches a few faint whispers, all about the White Wolf. He tries not to let his eyes roll. He’s had enough of it, to be honest. But Lambert laps it up. Sticking close to Geralt’s side, he gets anything he wants. A completely different world to the one he grew up in.

They’ve barely stepped into the bar before a woman meets them. Armed with a clipboard and armoured in a suit, she points to some secluded rooms to the side of the bar. “If you would like to come with me, Mr. Rivia?”

Geralt grunts and follows. Lambert makes idle chatter with the woman; always polite when he wants to be, laughing when he should be keeping the swearing to a minimum. But as soon as they’re shown to the rooms, Lambert turns on his heel and whispers something into her ear. They have a quiet conversation, one that Geralt can’t hear through the din of music.

She nods. “I’ll see if they’re available.”

“They’ll be available,” Lambert says firmly, palming some gold into the woman’s hand. She nods curtly before disappearing.

Geralt watches Lambert stride into the room. It’s a far cry from the main bar; chrome-lined and with a dance floor already heaving with people. Even the booths lining the sides of the room are full, with parties of people keeping to themselves. Curious glances had followed him while they walked through the floor. Now, shielded away, at least he doesn’t have to deal with them anymore.

But he still has Lambert, which is a problem. The man makes himself at home within the room; letting the door click shut behind them and tossing his jacket over the back of an L-shaped couch pushed to the back of the room. A well-stocked bar lines the walls, something that has grabbed Lambert’s attention.

“You work too much,” the man lilts, pulling some bottles from the shelves. “You need to loosen up a bit.”

Geralt grunts, stalking over to the couch. It’s plush and just soft enough for him to sink back into it. He leaves his jacket sprawled beside him, still within an arm’s reach just in case he decides to leave early. He thinks of Coën, driving aimlessly around downtown, or maybe grabbing something to eat while Geralt ponders when it would be an acceptable amount of time passed for him to leave.

“Then let me go home and sleep,” he sighs, burying his face into his hands. Lambert...is a lot. The only reason why Geralt hasn’t flung his body into the nearest river is that he’s family. And Vesemir will come out of hiding or retirement to make sure Geralt’s body joins his.

Not that there haven’t been moments. His fingers itch for the trigger, but not here. If he’s going to kill Lambert, he’ll make it look like a damn accident.

The man plies him with alcohol, setting a familiar drink down in front of him. Geralt’s glare softens slightly, but doesn’t disappear completely. He reaches out, taking a measured sip. It’s strong, whatever he’s concocted, mostly whiskey that burns the back of his throat. But it’s enough to start unwinding the tension from his muscles.

There’s a knock at the door. Lambert, midway through knocking back a shot of something, eyes the door. He sets his glass down and the same hand moves to his waist, to the sheathed gun resting there. Geralt’s eyes narrow. If he’s smart, if he can keep a hold on himself, then that gun will stay where it is.

Lambert cracks the door open just enough to glimpse at who’s outside. Geralt’s ears twitch as the man grunts, stepping outside for a moment.

There’s a short conversation, one that he can’t hear. He reaches for his glass, taking another measured sip of whiskey and letting it sizzle on his tongue. If he’s going to be dragged this far away from home, he’s not going to weather the night sober. He thinks briefly of fishing his phone out of his jacket pocket, dialling Coën’s number and getting the man to come back. He has enough drinks lining the bar in his own home. Who’s to say that he can’t get what he wants at home? At least his ears will be spared from having to endure endless thumping of music beyond the walls.

Lambert steps back into the room before he can make his decision. He’s as comfortable as he can be; his jacket set to the side as he lounges back against the plush couch. His legs drift apart from each other, but only because the day’s work finally starts coiling through his muscles and tensing them.

A devilish smile starts to curl along Lambert’s lip. Another man joins him, and Geralt blinks. He’s not a man he would expect Viola to have in her employ. He’s certainly not dressed like it. Hair that sweeps over and dusts his eyes, a luring smile that rounds his cheeks and highlights the faint flush of colour. Geralt’s eyes wander. His visitor is made up in tight-fitting pants – leather, if he were to guess – and a shirt that dips low enough into the middle of his chest.

Lambert just about manages to swallow a delighted laugh. “My dear brother works too much,” he lilts, nodding to the other side of the room. He turns his eyes back to the man. “He’s been terribly stressed lately. Be a good lad and make sure he enjoys himself tonight. He’s an awful bastard when he’s pent up.”

He’s going to fucking kill Lambert. Screw making it look like an accident. He might just have Coën drive by one of the biggest rivers in town just so he can hurl Lambert over the bridge and into it. So fucking what if Vesemir appears at his door tomorrow, glaring daggers at him.

But it’s either the whiskey or the man’s eyes slowly drifting over him, the urge to kill his brother is slowly fading. Geralt grunts.

He eyes his brother, watching the mop of red, curly hair try and disappear around the corner. Despite that, Lambert is loud enough for him to keep track of, even when the door clicks closed and he’s left alone with his guest. He turns to the man. “How much did he pay you?” he rumbles.

The man tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. Scrutinising whatever words perch on the tip of his tongue. If he’s one of Viola’s, which Geralt doesn’t think is likely with the more he stares at him, he’ll hold that tongue.

Geralt sighs. “I’ll pay you twice as much to turn around and leave me alone.”

The man’s face lightens. A delighted smile suddenly stretches over his lips, and just for a moment Geralt thinks that he might be free. There aren’t many things he can’t worm out of with money.

But this doesn’t seem to be one of them. Geralt notices the man holding a drink in one hand. He brings it up to his lips, resting them against the rim. “That’s a shame. If you don’t want me to do anything, fine,” he lilts, taking a measured sip. It’s bright and shines slightly when it catches the lights. Geralt can practically taste how sweet it must be. The man hums. “But company is free. We can talk. Or sit here in silence, since you don’t seem to be the talking type.”

Geralt stares at the man. “It’s bad manners to refuse a boss’ offer.”

“It’s bad manners to come into a whore’s bar and turn him down,” he replies just as easily, tilting his head again.

Geralt isn’t unused to having people try and read him. Ever since a grubby-faced, shaggy-haired pup appeared at Vesemir’s side one day, he’s had eyes watch and regard him. He’s learned how to shake them all off; to keep himself measured and in control, unreadable. Even when his temper flares, he can keep it to himself. He’s used to people trying to burrow under his skin.

But this man, with eyes the colour of oceans and a smile as bright as the sun, burns right through his skin and reaches into his muscles and bones. Geralt sighs. He grabs his drink and takes a mouthful, not even wincing at how the whiskey burns and stings the back of his mouth and his throat as he swallows it.

It’s suddenly not enough. He could pad over to the bar, down the whole bottle of whiskey sitting on one of the shelves. Or he could get his company to do it. He seems to know his way around a bar and its bottles.

Geralt’s jaw tightens. “Listen, you don’t want me for company,” he grounds out. It’s more words than he would normally gift anyone. Usually, if his patience starts to wear thin, or people annoy him just enough, he leaves. No reason to give any excuses. But his company is the responsibility of someone else, and if they see Geralt leaving as quickly as he plans to, words might have to be said to the man.

He has a certain soft spot in his heart for those who find their work in sex.

The man lifts his chin. “I know who you are. You don’t work here long before you start picking up names.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “And who is trading those names?” It’s all well and good having the right kind of people knowing your name in the boroughs; but it’s dangerous to pick up on whispers. People can be talking about you for all the wrong reasons.

“Everybody.” The man lifts a shoulder. “Everyone wants to be the White Wolf. Or in his pack.” The man’s eyes venture down. Brave things that linger on the open folds of Geralt’s shirt. His neck bobs as he swallows, taking a measured breath. He can feel his skin starting to flush from the scrutiny. “A few want to be in his bed.”

“And what about you?” Geralt’s voice rumbles out of the centre of his chest. “Do you fall into any of those groups of people?”

“I didn’t give it much thought, to be honest,” the man replies, lowering his voice to match, “until now.”

It’s almost lost to the thump of music. Even through the walls of the secluded rooms, broken off from the main bar where wandering eyes stop, it still worms into him. Before long, his heart matches the beat of the music, thumping in his chest and rattling his ribcage. Geralt swallows the last of his drink before setting his glass away. The couch underneath him is just plush enough to let him sink into it.

The moment he sits back against the couch, splaying an arm out to the side, sure fingers suddenly explore his chest. The fabric of his shirt is pulled at and scrutinised. A nice paying job means nice things. And even though he spent most of his life preferring to keep to simple clothes, Vesemir insisted on looking the part of the head of a pack. Pressed black slacks and a crisp white shirt, the top buttons always undone to reveal a portion of his chest. A simple silver chain sits around his neck, pooling in the hollow. Blue eyes investigate, spanning over everything fingers map out. “I knew you were the White Wolf the moment you walked in,” he lulls. Blue eyes glance up at Geralt’s hair. A tell-tale shade of white. “And not because of the obvious. But you hold yourself in a certain way. You want to walk a head higher than everyone, because that’s what someone taught you to do. But you want to blend into the walls, too.”

The man tilts his head, his gaze softening. “Have I caught myself a shy wolf?”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Are you a therapist?” he asks, not helping the small smile that quirks the corner of his lip. This one...this one is peculiar.

The man laughs. It’s a light thing, and the smile that stretches over his lips rounds his cheeks and crinkles his eyes. Too many strangers have batted their eyelashes and dazzled him with sweet smiles, while none of it was at all genuine. This man, though, Geralt likes. His smile lures a small one out of him, and he’d very much like to hear that laugh again.

Inquisitive fingers only get braver as they catch one of his shirt’s buttons, fidgeting with it. The man hums. Within seconds, Geralt’s lap is full.

The man moves surely, slinging his leg over Geralt’s thighs and perching himself on Geralt’s lap. Arms slowly wind around his shoulders, crossing at his nape.

Geralt’s hands go to the man’s hips, settling over the arches and feeling the soft swell of muscle underneath. He’s dressed just as well as Geralt; in a soft blue shirt that brings out the colour of his eyes, slacks that ride up and bunch around his thighs, showing off the muscle gathered there. He isn’t a small or lithe man by any means. Not in the way Viola’s people usually are. His fingers are sure in what they’re doing, as are his lips.

Geralt grunts as he’s caught in a kiss. The man dips down and the arms around Geralt’s shoulders tighten and draw him closer. The man’s lips are warm and plush and flavoured with tequila and something searingly sweet. Below it all, Geralt can taste him.

The hands on the man’s thighs tighten, with his fingers delving into any bit of muscle he can find. They eventually travel, slipping around and kneading the globes of the man’s ass. A cut-off groan is muffled against his lips. With that, hips roll and grind and the arms around his shoulders gather him closer—

There’s a firm knock at the door. It cuts through everything and almost scalds the both of them. The arms slung over his shoulders tighten, drawing Geralt closer, and the hands he has on the man’s hips firm too.

Geralt parts from those plush, reddening lips, barely swallowing down a growl. “What?” he calls out. It could be someone from the bar, it could be Lambert. Though, Lambert would just barge in and make himself known. He wouldn’t bother with doing something as polite as knocking.

He keeps his jacket in the corner of his eye. One hand parts from the man’s thigh, resting just beside his jacket, ready to draw his gun if he needs to. The man stiffens against him, probably seeing the movement too.

A woman’s voice cuts through the door. “Apologies, Mr. Rivia,” she calls in through the door. She doesn’t come in, and it’s probably from the sharpness of Geralt’s voice. That’s fine. The fact that she’s even here, taking him away from the body on top of him, annoys him to no end. But she continues on nonetheless. “None of our regulars are available. I’m afraid I don’t have anyone for you.”

The words take a moment to settle with him. He remembers Lambert palming gold into her hand, the mutterings of someone being available. He isn’t stupid. And he knows what his brother is like.

The body on top of him doesn’t even stiffen. But a small sigh is puffed against his lips. Blue eyes blink open, watching his, scrutinising. Waiting for Geralt to say something, either to him or the woman outside.

He muses over his words for a moment. Sly thing, he thinks, regarding the man on top of him.

“That’s fine,” he grunts, sitting up a bit. He moves them both, letting the man lay back slightly. The arms loosen from his shoulders, but still sling over them as if they always belonged there. And he finds himself loath to actually part with the warm body perched on him.

But the warm body isn’t meant to be there at all.

At Geralt’s quirked eyebrow, the man sighs. “I saw you come in,” he says, reaching up to brush some of Geralt’s hair back from his face. He curls it around his ear. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Geralt grunts. “You’re not one of Viola’s, are you?”

“I’m a whore, among other things,” the man corrects, but he muses over his words for a moment. Whatever he says next could earn him a death sentence. When he’s decided on what he’s going to say, his hips move. A slow roll over Geralt, keeping his attention. As if Geralt could focus on anything else but the enigma on top of him. “But I don’t work for Viola.”

Geralt hums, lifting his chin. “Who do you work for?”

“Myself,” the man replies. The same fingers that explored his chest now skim over the ridge of his jaw, sending slight shivers through Geralt as his skin scalds. The man’s touch is too much, even now. “Though, I’m currently looking for some new business ventures.”

Geralt huffs a short laugh. People have asked things of him in the past. And he has had certain people be more forward than others. This isn’t the first time he’s been straddled and kissed and plied with gentle touches, and suddenly a business plan is placed in front of him.

But this man may be the only one Geralt hasn’t shoved off of him yet. His hands settle back on the man’s thighs, feeling a gentle tremor shiver through them.

The man perched on Geralt’s lap straightens, pulling himself just out of kissing range. Brave little thing, Geralt things. “I heard a rumour that you’re looking for a new hitman,” the man lulls, letting his arms fall from Geralt’s shoulders. Sure hands map down his chest, lingering slightly over every swell of muscle they can find.

Geralt blinks. Letho’s death isn’t public knowledge. His own people haven’t been told yet, just because Geralt can’t be bothered dealing with the fallout just yet. He needs to gather everything he has, resource-wise, just because the Vipers might not be too pleased one of their own has fallen. He’s been keeping an eye on Lambert. One more outburst and Geralt will have run out of rivers to dump bodies in.

The man’s dexterous fingers linger on the buttons of Geralt’s shirt. He plucks one open, revealing more of his chest. It stops there, though. Geralt wonders vaguely if the man can feel how his heart hammers in his chest. He’s caught. And he could very easily shove the man off and go home. But this man knows about a vacancy in his house. How he knows about Letho’s death, that’s another matter.

For now, the man has his attention.

The man tilts his head. “I want to be a member of your house,” he murmurs, his gaze flickering up to meet Geralt’s. “I’m done with working by myself.”

Having the man within his house would keep him close. Wolves could keep their eyes on him; and tear him apart if he became too brave. Geralt hums, musing. “You know your way around a gun, I suppose?” Even though he doesn’t work for the woman, he knows that Viola teaches those on her payroll how to use one and a blade, if it ever calls for it.

The man nods. “I’ve known how to kill someone longer than how to pleasure them,” he counters.

Geralt’s chest tightens. He lifts his chin. “What’s your name?” he rasps.

“Jaskier,” the man replies.

A single name shouldn’t mean much, but when it’s Jaskier—

A slow smile slowly curls along Geralt’s lips. Of course. “The same Jaskier who dealt with one of my irritating problems in Cidaris?”

Jaskier laughs. The same laugh Geralt wants to hear more of. “I didn’t know that you considered Valdo Marx an irritating problem, but he was certainly irritating to me, and causing problems.”

“Well, I guess I owe you a thank you.” Without the pompous bastard strutting around like a peacock, making far too much noise about anything and everything, Geralt’s men can work a lot easier within the streets without being bothered by a man who’s far too brave for his own good.

Jaskier hums. His fingers pluck at the buttons of Geralt’s shirt, seemingly struggling between undoing them and revealing more of his chest, or leaving them be. Geralt hopes for the former. “I can think of a few ways to repay me,” Jaskier lulls. Those fingers venture further down, deftly catching and undoing Geralt’s belt.

At the clink of the buckle, a low moan slips out of Geralt’s throat. He reaches up, catching Jaskier’s chin between his fingers. “Careful, little lark,” he rumbles, delighting in how the man’s eyes shimmer. His attention is solely Geralt’s, already wrapped around him. The voice that rumbles out of him is deep and rasping. “Wolves are dangerous.”

A shiver shakes up Jaskier’s spine. “Good,” he replies, dipping down to lure a kiss out of Geralt. He hums against his lips, breath hitching when Geralt snags his bottom lip in his teeth and tugs.

A clever and sure hand slips down the front of his pants, reaching into his briefs and curling around his cock. He’s already half-hard. The man peaked his interests. Fingers coil around it, slowly pumping up and down. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat when Jaskier twists his hand around his head, gathering a bead of precum in his palm to slick his way back down. It’s dry, but the pressure and coil of the man’s fingers around him is just enough to keep his interest. And the squirming thing in his lap, plying him with kisses and luring words, has him very interested.

Geralt slides his hands into Jaskier’s pants, kneading the globes of his ass and rolling their hips together. A thrum of pleasure rumbles through him. A lithe groan slips out of the other man.

He pauses when he feels metal.

Geralt quirks an eyebrow.

Jaskier, for the first time all night, actually blushes. Though, he smiles his way through it. He pushes his hips back against Geralt’s hands, wanting them to keep going in their explorations. He’s a hopeful thing, if he expected Geralt to say yes. Or an incredibly self-assured one. Geralt isn’t sure which one he’d appreciate more.

Geralt’s finger traces around the man’s rim, following the edges of what he can only expect is a plug. He leans up, plucking a gentle kiss from Jaskier’s lips. “Stretched out already?” he hums, lounging in the way his lips tingle after kissing Jaskier’s.

The man doesn’t answer. It could be the blush that’s warming his cheeks giving him all the answers he needs, but Geralt delights in any sounds he manages to lure out of the man. He grabs the end of the plug and tugs it gently. The body on top of him shivers.

He sets up a gentle rhythm, delving the plug in and out of Jaskier’s hole. He can feel how wet the man is, and the images that flash in front of Geralt almost catch his breath. He might have spotted Geralt coming into the bar, or known that he would have come this way. To be as bold as to assure himself of a night with the White Wolf, to go into a bathroom stall or the back rooms of the bar, lube and plug in hand, readying himself.

Geralt’s growl rumbles through his chest. “Has anyone else had you today?”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open, a moan slipping out. “No,” he manages to breathe.

Geralt nips at his jaw. “Good,” he mutters against the skin. “Because you belong to me now.”

Jaskier’s moan is a gorgeous thing, just as beautiful as his laugh.

He isn’t a possessive person. He sees other masters of their guilds hoard people in their beds, and while these people walk around the boroughs draped in silks and gold, people know who they belong to and wouldn’t dare look in their direction, let alone touch them. He’s never been like that. Those who have fallen into his bed have had their time and have gone with the changing wind.

And then there’s Jaskier, who he’s known for all of thirty minutes now, and he wants to keep him forever. He slowly works the plug in and out of Jaskier, languishing in every small choked-off sound that he wrings out of the man. Eventually, the man’s hand tightens around his cock. If he can tease him, then Jaskier can tease right back.

Geralt sets his teeth to the ridge of Jaskier’s jaw, slowly working the plug out of the man’s hole. There’s a broken attempt at Geralt’s name, followed by a high-pitched whine when the plug slips out of him. As soon as it’s gone, and Geralt sets it on to the couch to be forgotten about, he delves in with two fingers.

Jaskier did a good job of stretching himself, but he still tightens and clamps around Geralt’s fingers. He curls just enough to search out that spot inside of the man, and when he brushes it with the pads of his fingers, one of Jaskier’s arms coils around his shoulders and hauls them flush against each other. “Geralt,” he breathes.

The heat around him is hot and warm and wet. Geralt’s tongue sits heavy in his mouth at the thought of burying himself into it. His cock twitches in Jaskier’s hand. He nips at Jaskier’s jaw. “Get us both ready,” he rumbles.

Hand scramble and pull off what they can. He’s desperate, Geralt can tell that. And he is too. The more time Jaskier spends squirming in his lap, bunching their slacks down as far as he’s able too before perching back on his lap, the more fidgety he becomes. When Jaskier is close enough, he winds a firm arm around the man’s waist and holds him in place.

It shouldn’t sear his blood as much as it does. He’s lost count of the number of people falling in and out of his bed. Some appear more often than most, while others are gone by the time the sun decides to peer over the horizon. But this one...

Geralt reaches down, guiding the man’s hand on his cock. It’s tight and quick, and if he’s not careful then this will all be over with too soon. Jaskier’s hand eventually falls away. He squirms on Geralt’s lap, trying to roll back on to the other man. The noises that slip out of him Geralt will commit to memory. If he’s as serious about this new proposition as he thinks he is, Geralt will be hearing those noises for many nights to come.

He sets the head of his cock against the man’s hole. A small chuckle escapes him as Jaskier whines and tries to roll his hips back. Geralt tights his old on him. “I’ll give you everything, darling,” he rumbles, delighting in the shiver that shakes through the man’s body. He sets his lips to the ridge of Jaskier’s jaw, hints of teeth scraping, as he slowly pushes himself into the man.

He struggles to keep his breath. Jaskier might have stretched himself out, and Geralt might have played with him for as long as he could have, but the heat that surrounds him is hot and tight and already lures depraved sounds out of him. Jaskier’s moan is choked and stuttering as he lets his hips fall flush against Geralt.

He’s perfect. Geralt moans against Jaskier’s jaw. Short puffs of hot breath ghost the man’s ear, making him shiver and tremble against him.

Jaskier’s arms coil around his shoulders, tightening their hold on him and bringing him closer. “Fuck me,” he sighs, half into the air above them. He lets himself feel Geralt for a moment. He’s big, and there isn’t a lot of space inside of Jaskier that he isn’t flush against. Every twitch of his hips has the tip of the man’s cock brushing his prostate. And this could all be over too soon.

Geralt has his hips trapped. He might allow the small quivers and rolls of movement, but he can’t lift himself. The hands around him tighten and fingers dig into the arches of his hips. Jaskier whines against Geralt’s lips. It’s too much and not enough. His cock leaks between them, the first few drops of precum already beading around his tip. He needs a hand on it. Or the man below him needs to move. Or something.

The man laughs, mostly to himself. It’s a rumbling thing that comes from the depths of his chest. Geralt leans back against the couch. His hands don’t part with Jaskier’s hips, but his hold loosens, just a touch. Lain out in front of him, Jaskier’s eyes wander over any stretch of bared skin he can find. “Come on, little songbird,” Geralt rumbles. “Take what you want.”

Jaskier’s moan is the only thing he can hear. The thump of music worming in through the walls, the shitty fluorescent lighting overhead, the hum of alcohol buzzing in his veins. It all slips away the moment the man’s hips roll and lift and fuck down on to him. Jaskier’s breath hitches and his eyelids droop. There’s a struggle in him. To close his eyes and lean back, languishing in how Geralt feels inside of him. Or to watch the man underneath him, make those golden eyes meet his and see what he’s doing to him.

Geralt bites the edge of his tongue. The same war starts to unfurl within his own mind.

His hands do nothing more than guide. Jaskier’s thighs work and warm as he lifts himself up and down, slowly riding Geralt. The heat around him tightens and quivers. One of Geralt’s hand slips down to his thigh, feeling the muscle work. He pets skin and mumbles sweet, worshipping words. “That’s it,” he tries to steady his own voice. “Look at you, little bird. Taking my cock so well. You were made to be there, hmm?”

Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed as a moan slips out of him. One of his hands moves, curling into the hair at the back of Geralt’s head. He grunts as the man’s hold on him tightens. He might be enjoying himself, but he isn’t as naive to lose himself completely. Surely he must know what kind of effect he’s having on the man beneath him.

And he does – if the smirk curling along his lips is anything to by. Geralt tries to keep his breath. In and out. Settle.

Jaskier leans down, setting his forehead against Geralt’s. Their noses brush and warm air is shared between them. The smirk doesn’t budge. “Do you say that to all of your whores?”

Geralt pushes back. They’re close. The man’s lips are just there. He could lift his chin and steal a kiss. And he’s sure the other man is betting on it. His lips are plump and bitten already, luring him closer. “No,” he hums. “Though my hitmen tend to have excellent bed-manners.”

A laugh lilts out of the man. That’s it settled then. Jaskier works for him. And if he has his way – and if the other man is amenable – he’ll litter marks all over Jaskier’s skin so people get the message. Having a bird-like Jaskier perched on his shoulder, ready to go and hunt those undesirables he has out in the other boroughs, it tightens the coil in his core.

His hips lift and fuck up into him. He meets Jaskier thrust for thrust, and it lures the most divine of noises out of him. The smirk slips off of his lips as they stretch around moans and half-formed attempts at Geralt’s name.

Sweat starts to bead on both of them. Eventually, Jaskier’s thighs warm and give out, and he’s moved along with each of Geralt’s thrusts. He sags against the man’s chest, tightening the hold he has around his shoulders. “Fuck me,” he breathes against Geralt’s ear. “I want to feel you for days.”

He grabs the backs of Jaskier’s thighs and stands. The man’s arms tighten around his shoulders as he’s lifted and carried and eventually set down along the length of the couch. With the firm cushions underneath him, he rolls his head back. Blearily blue eyes watch Geralt; hovering above him and setting a hand next to his head.

His hips roll, driving himself deeper and deeper into the body below him. Jaskier’s breath thins and his whines grow higher and wisp. Every thrust fucks out one more sound Geralt can’t get enough of. He wants to hear more. He wants his name falling from the man’s bitten, plump lips. He wants to see what those hands can do; in his bed and for him out on assignments.

The people he hates most in life won’t know what hit them when he lets the songbird out of its cage.

Well-toned legs move, hooking around Geralt’s waist. Feet cross and heels dig into the small of his back. “Come on then, White Wolf,” Jaskier lulls, stretching his arms up and over his head. “Thank me properly.”

Geralt grabs his hips in a sure grip. Even through the shitty lighting, he can see the beginnings of marks form. He’ll leave more, when there’s time. When he has his little bird at home and in his bed, he’ll mark every stretch of skin he can find. And from the way the man watches him, his lips curling into a satisfied smile, he’s sure he feels the same.

Jaskier’s moans thin as Geralt snaps his hips. He’s close. He can feel beads of sweat starting to trail down his back. He fucks into the body beneath him with all he has, chasing down the edge that he can see in the distance. Jaskier’s legs splay around him, hips opening up, inviting him to delve deeper. If he could get any deeper, he would. The heat around him trembles and tightens, and it’s so wet and hot Geralt wonders if it has truly just been him to fuck the man tonight. He’s so spread open and inviting.

One of Jaskier’s hands moves. He watches it trail down, palming over his chest for a moment before it ventures downwards. Geralt quirks an eyebrow. “Did I say you could touch yourself?”

Jaskier holds his gaze. Fiendish thing, Geralt thinks, watching a small smile curl the corner of his lip. “You can take your time with me later,” he wisps, not bothering to hide the moan that slips out of him when Geralt’s cock brushes his prostate. His hand curls around his cock and gives a slow pump. The heat around Geralt tightens. His pumps start to match Geralt’s quickening thrusts. “When I’m in your bed – fuck – you can do what you like. Your mouth, fingers, hands, cock. Whatever you like, darling. And when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll have a few less problems to deal with.”

His words rasp as he stumbles closer to the edge, but they lure the more depraved of sounds out of Geralt. His hold on the man tightens as his hips start to stutter. Jaskier lifts his chin. His breathing thins and he moans Geralt’s name better than any of Viola’s whores. “Are you close, darling? That’s it, oh gods. Fuck it into me, Geralt. Harder, good—Geralt—”

The man’s breath catches as Geralt thrusts deeply into him, his hold on him turning white-knuckled, as he comes. Bowing over the man, he catches the first splattering of cum across Jaskier’s abdomen. Geralt moans at the sight. He trembles around him, hole fluttering, as come starts to pool around his cock and spill out.

Jaskier’s chest lifts and falls, every breath heaving.

Geralt has danced with enough of Viola’s payroll to know when they’re genuine or not. And though this little songbird might not be one of hers, he’s sure that he’s been in enough beds to know how to play people to his advantage. And Geralt has been careful. This bird might be his, but he’ll keep an eye on him. Any creature can turn against their masters; especially when a better offer comes along.

But he watches the man below him, fingers slowly trailing up Geralt’s abdomen and chest, feeling his sweat-beaded skin. Hooded eyes follow where his fingers go, slowly taking him in. Even through the shitty lighting overhead, he can make out just enough of him to hum. Geralt’s breath threatens to hitch when blue eyes blink up and meet his.

He’s too soft to stay in the man. He bites down on a small whine as he slips out of him, already missing the warmth. Jaskier’s brow twitches in a small frown, but it’s gone within moments. Geralt sets a hand on the outside of the man’s thigh. “Did I hurt you?” he asks.

Jaskier blinks. “No,” he says, after a time. “No, no. Just...You were good.”

Geralt meets his gaze for a moment, holding it. He hums. “Well,” he rasps, “as you said; I can take my time with you next time.”

It lures a smile out of the little bird. Jaskier stretches out, lounging in how his muscles groan and protest the movement.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Geralt manages to gather enough energy to slip away from the couch, fixing his trousers up and around his hips and doing up his belt. Sweat starts to cool and he just about manages to clamp down on a shiver. His jacket lies nearby, tumbled to the floor after he had placed Jaskier along the length of the couch.

Geralt fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket. Numbed fingers are barely able to tap out Coën’s number. The man answers on the second ring. “Bring the car back,” Geralt grunts, glancing over to the man still stretched out on the couch. He’s brought a leg up, splaying it to the back of the couch. Geralt’s breath threatens to hitch at the sight: the man reaching down and trailing a finger around his hole, feeling wet heat slowly trail out of him.

Coën hums. “Are you alone?”

“No,” Geralt replies, lowering his voice. He leaves it at that, because he’s sure that even if he doesn’t say anything, Coën will take one look at them both in the backseat and know everything he needs to know. He can already feel colour start to warm his cheeks.

Lambert will be given a wide berth. Gods forbid if he knew that his plan for the night worked – in a way. He’s sure this isn’t what the man planned, but he’ll lord it over Geralt for weeks on end if he finds out that Geralt did in fact have a good night.

He hangs up with the knowledge that Coën will be here in moments. His ears twitch at the sound of clothes shuffling.

Jaskier pulls down his shirt, and Geralt mourns the loss of a bare chest to look at. He’s managed to fix himself back into something more or less presentable; though his hair is distinctly out of place and a colour flushes along the heights of his cheeks. He doesn’t look much better, he guesses. He can feel wisps of hair dusting his face, fallen out of his ponytail. He should fix it, try and run his hands through his hair and fix it back into something normal. But blue eyes flicker up to his face. Jaskier smiles, reaching up to curl a stray strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear. “Ready to go?” he asks. His voice is still rasped and nothing but a gentle rumble. His hand gentles down the side of his face, trailing gooseflesh in its wake.

Geralt hums.

Jaskier’s smile is a devastating thing. He lifts his chin. A silent request.

Geralt bows, brushing a light kiss on to his lips. Jaskier moans into it, trying to chase it even as Geralt pulls away. A sure, firm arm coils around the man’s waist. “We have a lot to discuss,” he rumbles, already leading them both out of the room. No one waits outside for them. Lambert will have taken up a space at the bar, probably having lured someone into his lap. He already made his promise to Geralt to keep himself out of trouble and make his own way home. And Geralt, knowing better, knows that at least one of those things is true.

Rosemary and Thyme has secret, more shielding, exits for certain patrons. Viola, catching Geralt’s eye just as he passes her, blinks at the man curled around him. Jaskier buries his laugh into Geralt’s shoulder, but winks at the woman all the same.

Coën and their car sit out in the alley. The man is still in the driver’s seat. He isn’t their driver, but often finds himself there because Lambert drives too recklessly and Eskel is never around enough. And if Geralt could drive himself, he would. But with a certain man starting to paw at him again, he clambers into the back of the car and shuts the door behind them without a word.

CHAPTER II

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