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jaskierswolf · 3 years

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Mayhaps a wild take : Geralt folds the corners of his precious, centuries old, valuable beyond compare, bestiaries. Jaskier sees and loses his marbles. ( Then gifts geralt a book mark with pressed.. somehow familiar flowers... 👀 )

Hi, hello... So... I got carried away? This is 2.1k? I hope you like it!

CW: mentions of injury (on Jaskier)

________

Monsters mutate. They adapt, change, grow. Geralt was clearly a very skilled witcher with decades of experience, and Jaskier never grew bored of watching him fight, on the rare occasions he was actually allowed to watch that is. Most of the time, he had to make do with second-hand stories told by Geralt himself, which just wasn’t the same. But, sometimes, just sometimes, Geralt would deem the contract safe enough for Jaskier to trail along with a silver dagger gripped in his hands, and sometimes... Geralt got it wrong.

Jaskier was poking at his bandaged thigh where the drowner had bitten him, already beginning to stain red as the blood oozed from the wound. It hadn’t needed stitches but it still stung. The fight, however, oh the fight had been surprisingly spectacular. It was a small drowner nest just outside of town, attacking nearby fisherman along the beach, nothing that Jaskier hadn’t seen before and certainly not ballad worthy, but he’d tagged along regardless. He never wanted to pass up the opportunity to see Geralt in action. The witcher was just so beautiful, dancing with his sword in hand, all grace and elegance and fury. Jaskier was entranced every time. It was truly a miracle he didn’t get hurt more often.

The drowners had been fast, faster than they should have been, and now Geralt was muttering about mutations and skin pigments as he scratched words into a worn out copy of a bestiary. The witcher has borrowed one of Jaskier’s least expensive ink sets to update the centuries old book. It broke Jaskier’s heart to see such a beautiful book treated so poorly but he understood that it needed updating to keep his witcher safe.

The poor book though.

Academics at Oxenfurt would kill to get their hands on it. It would have been treated with the utmost respect, kept away from the grubby hands of the first and second years, only allowed out for special projects, and here was Geralt, covering it in his appalling handwriting, bloody fingerprints and dirt smudges in the margins.

“Oh bollocks,” Jaskier hissed as he jabbed at the bandages a little too hard, his restless energy getting the better of him. The witcher always told him off for picking and scratching at his bandages and scabs, but he couldn’t help it. They were just so scratchable, and the itching drove him mad!

Geralt sighed, glancing up at Jaskier with an exasperated expression. He took one look at Jaskier’s bandage and…

And he fucking folded the corner of his page before closing the book.

Jaskier saw red. He stammered and pointed at the pages, gaping as he tried to find the right words to express his utter outrage. “You-You… Geralt!” he whined.

The witcher’s brow furrowed and he looked between the book and the bard, obviously completely confused by Jaskier’s sudden change in mood. “What?”

“You did not just fold down the pages!”

“Yes?”

Jaskier scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, dear witcher, you and I are taking a trip to Oxenfurt immediately!”

Geralt scowled, looking at Jaskier as if he’d grown a second head. “Why?”

“Geralt, please. Don’t make me suffer your cruelty any longer,” Jaskier pleaded.

The witcher rolled his eyes but didn’t argue any further. He just took Jaskier’s hands in his, keeping them away from the bandages. Jaskier blushed, the gap between them suddenly feeling too small and yet too far all at once. He swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden swell of nerves in his chest, and laced their fingers together, smiling shyly up at the witcher.

______

By the time they reached Oxenfurt, Jaskier’s limp had almost entirely gone. He still got tired quickly and by the end of the day he had to lean on Geralt or ride Roach until they found a suitable camping spot. Geralt had been ridiculously caring, obviously looking out for Jaskier at every opportunity, their days were shorter and well… Jaskier had actually been allowed to ride Roach. That was new. Holding hands had now become almost normal, and Geralt was just so gentle when he took care of the bandages, making sure the bite wound wasn’t infected. It made Jaskier’s heart do all sorts of acrobatics in his chest.

If he hadn’t been in love with the witcher, then he certainly would be after all of this-this… nonsense.

When Geralt wasn’t looking then he crouched at the side of the road, picking up a variety of buttercups and cornflowers and slipping them inside his heaviest poetry book. The supplies he needed from Oxenfurt were specialist ones. He hadn’t made bookmarks in ages, not since his days at the Academy, but he used to make them for all his friends. It was something to do with his hands that didn’t feel like work, and he had always enjoyed giving gifts. He was looking forward to getting back into his old hobby.

“Why are we here, Jaskier?” Geralt groused, glaring around the town with his scary witcher face. Jaskier felt a little bit bad for dragging Geralt back into a busy city but it was important.

He scoffed and waved a hand at the witcher. “You’ll see,” he said with a grin, and booped Geralt on the nose. “Don’t be nosy.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed back, sticking out his tongue. “You know your way to my rooms at the Academy?” Geralt nodded. “Excellent! I will see you there in time for dinner, but I have shopping to do. Did you need any potion ingredients?”

Geralt cocked his head, his brow furrowing as he thought. “Blowballs.”

Jaskier grinned and brushed his lips against Geralt’s cheeks before he could chicken out. “Be good, darling, no scaring my colleagues.”

The witcher smirked. “Unless it’s Valdo?”

Jaskier laughed, “Unless it’s Valdo.”

And then they went their separate ways. Jaskier easily navigated the streets of Oxenfurt, basking in the hustle and bustle of the city. It was alive and thriving, as if it had a beating heart of its own. The witcher may hate the city but Jaskier lived for it. He was a bard, a man of the people. He needed to be seen, loved, adored. The bookshop was in the same place that it had been when he was a student, tucked away in the backstreets, only known by the students and professors. Jaskier grinned and slipped inside, the bell ringing as he pushed up the door.

He let his fingers trail along the leather spines of the books, inhaling the musky scent of paper and old parchment. It smelled like home, and a warmth settled in his heart. He knew this shop like the back of his hand, and he easily found the supplies he needed. The pressed flowers from the road would be fixed onto a soft leather strap, and then Jaskier would cut the end into smaller strips, creating a kind of tassel. He also planned to engrave an inscription into the leather, something lyrical, something poetic… something for Geralt to remember him by when they were apart.

“Gods, I’m pathetic,” he mumbled as he worked. His tongue flicked between his lips as it so often did when he needed to concentrate. Each letter took time, a delicate process, and he sat in the little corner at the back of the shop, just as he had in his youth. After an hour the owner, now an old man with a thick grey beard, brought him a cup of herbal tea. Jaskier smiled up at him, and gestured to his work.

“How’s it looking? I’m, well, I’m a little out of practice,” he hummed, scrunching up his nose.

“It’s beautiful, and it’s good to see you back here, Jaskier. It’s been too long. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten us.”

“Oh, no. I would never!” Jaskier reassured him, “and thank you. This one is special.”

The shop owner chuckled. “You used to say that every time.”

Jaskier grinned sheepishly. “This one is extra special.”

He stayed later than he intended, past the closing time of the bookshop, and certainly past dinner time but he just lost track of time, too focused on his task. By the time he finished, Geralt’s bookmark was a work of art. The inscription was written in his finest calligraphy, and the flowers were arranged just perfectly. It had been made with love.

He just hoped that Geralt liked it.

When Jaskier made it back to his room, Geralt was perched on the corner of the bed, a needle and thread in his hands as he made repairs to his armour. His silver hair was loose and falling in front of his eyes, and there were the beginnings of a beard growing on his cheeks. The witcher’s golden slitted eyes were almost completely black in the dim light of the room, and Jaskier was once again envious of his friend’s ability to see in the dark. It was a handy skill, and he looked almost ethereal as the light bounced off his eyes, making them glow.

“Dinner was two hours ago,” Geralt murmured, not looking up from his sewing.

Jaskier felt his cheeks heat up and he scratched the back of his neck. “Ah, umm…, yes, well…”

“Jaskier.”

“You know how I get?”

“Hmm.”

His friend finally looked back up at him, giving Jaskier a soft fond smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. Jaskier stuck his tongue out, “Don’t hum at me, witcher, I’m fluent in Geralt speak!”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just being obtuse, and don’t you dare…” Geralt hummed again. “Stop it! You bastard. I’m not giving you your present now.”

“Present?” Geralt cocked his head, looking stunned by Jaskier’s revelation.

“Ha! That got you, oh shit, cock it. It was meant to be a surprise. Fuck!” he groaned and buried his face in his hands. The bookmark was tucked away in his bag but it seemed to be taunting him, and he was suddenly struck by the fear that Geralt would hate it.

Fucking buttercups.

He was an idiot.

Why would a witcher want flowers on a bookmark?

“You got me a present?”

Jaskier nodded “I made you a present, Geralt.”

The witcher looked completely taken aback, a blush painting his cheeks. He set his needle and thread aside, and reached out for Jaskier. It was almost instinct at that point to reach back, taking Geralt’s hands in his. “Can I see?”

Jaskier glanced at his satchel and sighed. “Yes, yeah. Yes, of course. Umm, wait here.”

With shaking hands he plucked the cloth bundle from his satchel and handed it to Geralt, mentally preparing himself for the worst. At least he was already in Oxenfurt, he wouldn’t have to travel alone when the witcher inevitably decided to dump him. Gods, he was such a fool.

Geralt gingerly unfolded the dark blue cloth, humming as he picked up the bookmark. “Buttercups?”

Scratching the back of his neck, Jaskier cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“To my dearest, Geralt. May your days be filled with Destiny, heroics, and love. Ever yours, Jaskier.” Geralt read the words aloud and Jaskier wanted to sink into the floor. It was ridiculous. They weren’t even that good. He was supposed to be a poet for Lilit’s sake.

“It’s shit. I’m sorry, I’m tired, what with my leg healing and the rush to get here, but I just… you fold down the corners of your page, Geralt. I could not sit by and let that happen, and I-I… ah fuck it. I wanted you to have something to remember me by, you know,” he gave a flick of his wrist, one hand resting on his hip, “when you’re stuck up in that mysterious witcher keep of yours, and well, you probably don’t remember but I-I said you smelled like-”

“Death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak, I remember.”

“Oh, umm… well yes. Death and heartbreak seemed a bit… dramatic? So, I-I changed it… to love.”

“Thank you, Julek,” Geralt murmured, cupping Jaskier’s cheek and pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss that was over before Jaskier could even process what was happening.

He stared wide-eyed up at his friend, his heart racing and the whole universe shifted until Geralt was at the centre, burning brightly in the dark. Jaskier cupped the nape of Geralt’s neck and pulled him back into another kiss, and this time they didn’t break apart, their lips moving in tandem. It was slow, lazy even. There was no rush, just the two of them against the world, their breaths mingling and their hearts beating as one.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #wolfie's witcher writing

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actionnerdgamerlove · 3 years

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Divine Favors - Chapter 8: Table for Three

The next morning, Geralt woke first. Nothing about this was unusual in any way. Geralt always rose first; a habit that been instilled in him during his Witcher training at Kaer Morhen. He was on his back, and Jaskier was on his stomach, hands flung out so one was draped across Geralt’s chest.

Geralt could think of worse ways to wake up; much worse ways. He was thinking to himself he could get used to waking up this way when the sound of paper sliding under the door snapped his attention to the other side of the room.

Geralt slid gently out from underneath Jaskier’s embrace and padded softly over to the door and the envelope that was laying on the ground. Having been burned before (literally) he knelt down to see if his medallion reacted to it. It did not. He picked up the envelope, smelling a faint hint of spice (cinnamon and…nutmeg?). He turned the envelope over, and saw it was addressed to ‘The Distinguished Witcher and Illustrious Bard’.

Geralt frowned, humming.

“What’s that, love?” Jaskier asked, sleep catching his voice. Geralt turned, a smile making a corner of his lips twitch. Jaskier had turned over, and was sitting up. Geralt tossed it to him on the bed.

“Dunno. Didn’t open it.” Geralt sat on the edge of the bed, and watched Jaskier frown in concentration at the front of the envelope. “What?” Geralt asked, looking at his bard’s frown.

“I know this handwriting.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up. “Should I be concerned?” he asked with a smirk. Jaskier’s eyes looked up quickly to meet Geralt’s eyes, and Jaskier smiled.

“What? Oh, no. This is Freya’s handwriting.”

“The Goddess of Fertility?”

“She’s also the Goddess of Beauty.”

“Of course she is.” Geralt rolled his eyes. “Well then, what’s it say?”

“We are invited to a party. Here in Novigrad. Tonight.”

“We. Received an invitation. To a party. Hosted by a Goddess.”

*******

@persony-pepper @lovelyrita1967 @laughingatlivedragons @diorang3l @oxbridge-quality-fanfiction-co @peanitbear @losto-vae-mellon-nin @imweakmylove @inikokoru @toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account @west-moor @geraskier-trash

#myfic #the witcher #The Witcher Fic #Geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #this shit is ridiculous #table for three #jealous geralt #possessive geralt #but it's really funny

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for-a-muse-of-fire · 4 years

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oh, but you’re good to me

the wench and the witcher

"oh, but you’re good to me”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Black!OFC - Zahra Auberel. Platonic!Jaskier x Zahra.

Summary: Midaëte brings the height of summer, and a reconciliation.

Warnings: Rated Mature due to brief mention of sex. Please don’t interact if you are under the age of 18.

A/N: Well, what started as a simple reader insert character grew into a fully-formed OC through the course of this series. And now we have reached the end! Well, mostly. I have some random outtakes and drabbles that I’m sure will crop up, but my (eventual) multi-chapter will feature Geralt and Zahra as they navigate some... interesting magical developments.

But, for now, I call this the end of The Wench and The Witcher. Thank you guys so much for your kind words, reblogs, likes - this is honestly the most I’ve written in years and knowing that y’all have enjoyed it warms the cockles of my heart. Title and lyrics under the cut from Hozier’s “Would That I” which I think might be my favorite Hozier song full-stop, hands down.

@coconutxraikage - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @alwaysnatz - @agniavateira - @owillofthewisps - @hina-chans-stuff - @yespolkadotkitty - @wastingmypotential - @inber

With each love I cut loose, I was never the same Watching still-living roots be consumed by the flame I was fixed on your hand of gold Layin' waste to my lovin' long ago

“Contracts from the butcher and the miller,” Lucja rattles off. “And Jaskier returned your message – says he’s very much looking forward to performing for the solstice festival.”

She gives a hum as she thumbs through the stack of papers on the desk. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you, as well,” she teases.

Lucja’s pretty round face goes pink, making her employer grin. The older woman pauses when she finds an unfamiliar piece of folded parchment among the stack of invoices. Slim brown fingers unfold the sharply folded letter and suddenly her heart is in her throat. “Lucja… where did this come from?”

“Oh… it, ah, came with Jaskier’s reply. Do you want me to get rid of it?”

Though half-tempted to let Lucja burn the letter, she bites her lip and shakes her head. “No,” she murmurs. “Thank you, Lu’ – that will be all.”

Her young barmaid flashes a sympathetic smile and closes the door behind her. The neatly looped scrawl of the letter makes something around her heart ache. She’d always been surprised by how tidy the Witcher’s handwriting was:

I don’t

This isn’t what

I’m not – fucking shit fuck

The first time I saw you, it was like walking into the light of the sun after half a lifetime in the cold. And it was so fucking cold that night.

You were like summer.

It’s cold again now, without you. I don’t know what I’m doing

Two weeks later:

I wanted want wanted to bring you to see Kaer Mohren. I know you said you like the ocean more than the mountains, but I think this place could change your mind. You would get on with Eskel like a house on fire. He’s more of a southerner, like you.

I told him about the time you tried to teach me to cook and he nearly pissed himself laughing.

Lambert’s a shit. Vesemir already likes you.

You’d like it here. The kitchen is nearly as big as the whole front room of the tavern. Library’s bigger.

Garden’s a fucking nightmare, though.

We could go to the ocean, too. Anywhere you want.

The missives don’t come with any real regularity. A few at a time, a week-long gap, but they never stop. She thinks about writing back, at first, but deciphering where the Witcher is would likely be impossible and… gods, she’s still so damned angry. The White Wolf receives no reply.

Regardless, the letters keep coming.

The thing is, I don’t know what else there is besides The Path - this life of slaying monsters and getting paid in coin. I was told that was all I needed and I believed it for a very long time. There was nothing to challenge that, not until I met you.

You were are so fucking beautiful. And warm, and bright, and vulgar, and kind, and a pain in my ass and I should have told you how much you meant to me, but I couldn’t parse it out until just now, and I am an idiot. And a coward. I thought that telling myself you were an amusement would be enough, that I would be content with warming your bed, but I can’t do that anymore. I can’t keep lying about how much I need you.

I need you, Zee. It feels like I’m missing my fucking sword arm.

The words on the page blur together. She brushes them with her fingertips, almost smiling even as the tears catch in her lashes:

I miss the way you laugh at Jaskier’s dirty songs.

I miss the way you used my legs to keep your feet warm at night.

I miss that fucking rabbit stew.

I miss the way you’d look at me when I walked in the door.

I miss the sounds you make when I’m inside of you. The way you taste.

I miss your eyes. And your smile.

Your voice. Your terrible fucking singing.

You are my home. You’re my harbor and my safe haven.

I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.

---

Midaëte approaches. With it, a week’s worth of festivities, and food and drink, leading up to the day of the solstice. It means early mornings in the kitchen and late nights in the tavern. The evenings are balmy, windows and doors thrown open to allow the scent of summer air and night-blooming flowers to drift through.

For a time, she is so busy that she forgets to be heartsore. Geralt’s letters – page after yellowing page – sit tied with a gold ribbon in her desk drawer. Confessions and apologies, promises and rambling stories that she keeps picking up to read again and again. It’s a veritable book, more than he’d ever seen fit to say in person and she’s not sure whether to be infuriated or hopeful, but there’s barely time. Thank the gods.

Business booms, between trades-folk coming in for the market day, then musicians, then families. She drinks a little, dances when there is time; she lets Lucja weave tiny yellow purple flowers into her hair for Midaëte Eve and dresses in white and yellow to enjoy the evening. Or try to, at least. The main room is full almost to bursting, patrons laughing, carousing, and eventually spilling out into the courtyard to dance in the falling dusk.

Zahra watches from the doorway. A few try to tempt her into the circle for a reel and they receive a grateful smile with her refusal. Jaskier, however, will not be deterred.

“You, dear lady,” he croons. “Look too lovely to be hiding in the shadows.”

“Jas…”

“One dance. Just one – you might even have fun by mistake.”

She rolls her eyes, but the bard just grins and lifts her hand for a kiss. He leads her, hand-in-hand out to the courtyard; Jaskier gives a nod to his fellow players and they begin with a sharp beat that eases into a lovely, familiar melody.

“You know this one, ducky?” Jaskier queries with a smile. She nods and he takes the lead.

It’s a simple step, to start with. A sweet back and forth to match the sweet, flowing verse of the song. The touch of Jaskier’s hand on her low back offers guidance, keeps her moving in gentle circles around him until the real movement begins. Swinging, agile steps carry Zahra and her partner around in wide loops. The mingle with other dancers, threading hands to spin back together and then apart.

Jaskier grips her waist across the front, and she follows suit. The dizzying spin turns the world into a wash of summer colors for a moment and she can’t help but laugh. It feels good to be light again.

The bard turns her under his arm and into the hands of the next man. There’s a moment of hesitation, a moment where she considers bowing out and going back to her corner, but the tabor still thrums in her blood and it’s such a beautiful night.

Still smiling, she curtsies, and is lead back through the steps again. Her partner leads easily, light of foot and loose of tongue – from her ale, more like than not – but he’s kind, and sweet, and so funny that she’s nearly in tears when she’s suddenly spun away to her next partner. She catches the fabric of her skirts to add a flourish to the spin; the soft yellow cotton dances with her.

When spins to a stop, she sees black, at first. Matte black buttons, black tunic shirt – worn, but cleaner than it usually is. The silver wolf’s head medallion sparks in the torchlight.

Zahra looks up into the face of Geralt of Rivia and the music goes dull behind the roar of blood in her ears. It feels a bit like standing on a ledge cliff and looking down to gauge the fall. She feels dizzy, and terrified, and wonderfully breathless. Heart in her mouth, she spies Jaskier out of the corner of her eye.

The bard grins. Bastard.

“Zahra…”

The Witcher’s voice rumbles through her like soft summer thunder. Strong fingers grip hers, and he lifts her knuckles to his lips. His honey-gold eyes are more earnest and honest than she’s ever seen them – he asks the question without moving his lips. Zahra nods.

Geralt leads her in the dance and everything falls away.

She hears the music, feels it sing through her, but her focus remains on the white-haired mutant at her side. His hand spans her back, warm through her dress and stays; the lightest pressure of his fingertips, or palm, guides her to turn, or step, or pivot in time with him. It shouldn’t be surprising to her, how well he moves – she’s seen him fight, and his grace with a sword, and how would dancing be any different? He doesn’t look away from her once and the heat of his gaze flushes over her. The Witcher very nearly smiles.

Geralt turns her under his arm, guides her through the last few measures of the song. He steps away, takes his warmth with him, and bows. Zahra curtsies in return.

The crowd, the rest of the world, rushes back over them. The townsfolk whistle, and stomp, for a moment determined to swarm in and start up another country dance, and Geralt grips her hand tight for a moment. She sees him hesitate before he asks, simply, “Can we talk?”

Most of the party has spilled into the streets, leaving the tavern itself practically empty. Lucja still keeps to her spot behind the bar, green eyes going wide when she spies Zahra and her guest in tow. The girl’s pretty face splits into a knowing smile that makes Zahra’s face go hot.

It’s mostly dark in her study. The small hearth fire has gone to smoldering embers, and it gives her the opportunity to light a few candles and collect her utterly scattered thoughts. She flicks out the last taper and finally looks up at Geralt. He stands just inside the closed door, just as he used to. It’s familiar – it feels like it’s been years, or decades, or maybe just a few hours. His honey-colored gaze still holds a heat that sings over her skin. She drops her eyes to the desk.

The last letter sits there, creased and folded from how many times she’s read it. Zahra picks at the parchment. Keeping her focus on Geralt’s neat lettering seems easier than looking at the Witcher himself. “Did Jaskier put you up to this?” she teases half-heartedly.

Geralt exhales on a chuckle. “Something like. Threatened to garrote me with a lute string.”

She smiles, in spite of herself. When she lifts her head and meets his eyes, it takes a moment to catch her breath. For a few heartbeats, she simply stares. Gods, he is still so beautiful. She swallows hard and feels her throat go dry.

“Did you mean what you wrote?” she asks.

“You know I did, Zee.”

Gold eyes go guarded again. He doesn’t go totally cold, but she can see the way he builds up his walls to prepare for the worst. He steps forward. Second-guesses – stops.

“What I do – what I am – I can’t change it,” he rumbles. “I’m still a Witcher, Zahra. A mutant. I can’t… I can’t give you normal, sweetheart – ”

“Gods, Geralt - fuck normal.”

---

“Fuck normal.”

She says it with such passionate certainty that it startles a laugh out of him. The soft yellow of her skirt floats like woven sunlight around her legs. Like the sun, it almost hurts to look at her, but fuck all, that’s all he wants to do. He watches her face, watches her chew her lip; feels his slow pulse try to speed up when she steps closer. His fingers itch to curl around her waist.

“I never asked for normal, Geralt,” she whispers. The way her voice cracks pulls tight around his heart. “I don’t want normal. I want you. That’s it. Can… can you give me that, or no?”

The Witcher’s footfalls carry him to her. He studies her face; re-acquaints himself with the curve of her cheek and the dimple that presses there. She all but melts into his touch when his thumb brushes her cheek. He pulls her into the circle of his arms. She’s still soft, and warm; he closes his eyes, feels his muscles go lax with relief when she holds fast, locking her arms around his back. Geralt presses his face against the smooth curve of her shoulder.

It feels like stepping into the light of the sun after ages in cold and rain. “I love you, Zahra,” he breathes.

Her soft, tearful laugh settles warm into his heart. “I love you, Geralt.”

He gives a pleased murmur, lets the tip of his nose trail lazy circles over her shoulder. When he inhales, the warm, soft smell of her skin eases back into his lungs. From shoulder to neck, the Witcher draws in slow breaths and ghosts his lips over the exposed skin he finds until Zahra shivers. “What are you doing, Witcher?” she whispers, breathless.

“Hmm… taking your scent back,” he mumbles. “I missed this smell.”

His lips ease along the shell of her ear. She still gasps when he nips at the crux of her jaw. “I missed you, love,” he growls.

Geralt takes his time. He savors the smell and the taste of her skin, humming lowly when Zahra’s hands grip at his back. The sweetness of her begins to bloom with heat, with the richness of desire – want – and when he sets his teeth gently against her pulse point, she moans delicately. Insistent fingers tangle in his hair; she whispers his name and pulls him to her lips. She kisses him like a woman starved and it feels like his heart might thunder its way free of his chest. He lifts her onto the edge of the desk and comes to stand between her parted thighs, gathering the soft yellow cotton of her skirts up. Her fingers yank at the buttons on his trousers.

It’s a quick, desperate of coupling. Mingled breath and bitten off sighs – greedy kisses with fingers gripped in the front of his shirt. She flutters hotly around his cock with a whimper and a curse. He groans against her mouth when he comes. Zahra drinks down the noise with a grin on her lips.

Geralt stays put for more than a year. It’s good.

The Path still calls, and he still follows, but she finds she’s able to let go of the fear. It’s no longer a question of ‘if’ but ‘when’ in terms of Geralt’s return. And if he knows it’s going to be a long journey, or if the mood simply strikes him, he writes -

I miss you.

I love you.

Sometimes no more than a line, sometimes full paragraphs – even pages – but he always tells her when he plans to return. When he’ll be home.

It’s nearly spring next time he rides back in, market day in full swing as he passes through the township gate with Roach at his side. Vendors call their wares, families and merchants wander the stalls as he peers out from the shadow of his cloak. He finds the trail of Zahra’s scent past the cloying smell of cut flowers and rounds to corner to find her chatting with the butcher’s daughter.

The younger woman catches his gaze. Geralt watches the girl grin and give his woman – his woman – a nudge, nodding in his direction. Zahra is already smiling when she turns, and the Witcher has the pleasure of watching her face flash from surprise to joy in the space of a heartbeat. She moves to him, a walk that becomes a jog, and then a final sprint that launches her into his arms. He curls his free arm tight around her waist. Immediately, he has his face pressed to her hair. Zahra’s laughter rings softly in his ears when she draws back, just enough to look up into his face.

At her throat, the polished wolf’s tooth is bright against her brown skin. “Welcome home, my love,” she murmurs.

The greeting settles warm over him like the sunlight. Geralt pulls her close again, kissing her in full view of half the town. She shivers sweetly in his arms and pulls her fingers through his hair. He hears a wolf-whistle, and a smattering of applause that makes Zahra giggle against his mouth.

“People are staring,” she teases softly.

He smirks. “Let them,” he tells her before kissing her once more. She tastes of clover honey.

She smells of sunshine.

She feels like home.

#geralt of rivia #geralt x oc #geralt of rivia x ofc #geralt x ofc #the witcher #oc: zahra auberel #orignal character #the witcher netflix #fanfic #fanfiction #the wench and the witcher #tutu scribbles

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king-finnigan · 4 years

Text

And I Will Find You Still

This is a prompt fill (17. War AU and 37. Letter) for @yourshadow18. (sorry it took a while :( )(also it’s not specified in the fic but it’s ww2)

Uhhhh. Warnings! Major angst lmao.

***

The clock in this classroom has to be broken, Jaskier decides after looking at it for five hours. At least, it feels like five hours, but the clock in question says it’s only been thirty minutes – which could not possibly be true.

The professor’s words start to fade into the background the longer Jaskier stares at the clock, his pen tapping out every ten seconds he counts on his desk.

“-superior and inferior vena cava bring non-oxygenated blood from the rest of the body to the right atrium of the heart, through the tricuspid valve, to-“

It’s only half past nine. Just a little longer, Jaskier tells himself, just an hours and a half more until he can go to the post office around the corner.

Ten seconds pass. Tap.

“-will flow from the lungs to the left atrium, to the left ventricle through to mitral valve-“

Today is the day. The third Thursday of the month. The mail from the frontlines always arrives on the third Thursday of the month – but only after nine in the morning, no sooner. Which means he couldn’t have gotten the letter before class.

Tap.

“-aortic valve, to the aorta, which will branch out in three arteries before continuing down-“

Though, if he had gotten the letter before class, he probably wouldn’t have attended either way, too engrossed in his love’s words, in the fact that he’s still alive to care about his education. He hates the fact that he has to wait a whole month for a single letter, though, hates the fact that his love has to wait a month as well – surely they can deliver mail faster than that, right?

Tap.

Of course, he understands that it can’t be that easy to deliver mail to and from an active warzone, in Africa nonetheless, but Jaskier hates having to wait a month, hates the uncertainty of not knowing whether Geralt is alive and well for so long.

Tap.

He just wishes this war would be over, wishes his love would come home soon, wishes he could hold him in his arms again – God, how he wishes he could hold Geralt again. It’s been so long since he’s last seen him. The last time was the day before his love got drafted, about a year ago. They’d walked around Oxford, close but not too close, hands brushing but not holding. Of course, someone might see – someone might report them.

Tap.

They had ended their day by Peninsula Lake – the same place where they’d first kissed, about a year before that. By all means, it had been a perfect day, that last day, but it had been overshadowed by the knowledge that it was all going to end soon, that Geralt would leave for the war the day after. He remembers crying, that evening, remembers holding his love close, making him promise that he would come home. Geralt, of course, had promised he would.

Tap.

They had both known there was no way he could make sure he held that promise.

“-Mr. Pankratz.”

He blinks, pulled out of his musings, eyes tearing away from that traitorously slow clock to find the professor and the whole class staring at him. Oh, shit. He notices the professor is pointing to a figure drawn on the blackboard of the heart and lungs, and he figures he must’ve been asked a question.

“Uh, the pulmonary veins?”

The entire class breaks out in giggles, and he feels heat rising to his cheeks as the professor rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“I asked you if you would stop tapping your pen, Mr. Pankratz, but thank you for your contribution to my lesson. Good to know you’re paying attention.”

He feels his blush deepen, and shrinks away in his seat, as the professor continues his class.

He looks at the clock again. Five minutes past half ten. He sighs. Still almost an hour and a half to go. He resists the urge to tap his pen on his desk for every ten seconds that pass.

---

The second the professor starts wrapping the lesson up, Jaskier hastily stuffs away his pen and paper, into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He nearly trips in his hurry to get up and get going, barely catching the professor’s shouts of “don’t forget the homework, Mr. Pankratz! Page 381!” behind him as he throws the door open, letting it bounce off the wall, before he starts sprinting down the hallway.

He nearly bumps into a bunch of people, ignores their calls of protests, their angry stares and inquisitive looks, as he runs through the hallways of Oxford. Finally, he reaches the nearest exit, sprinting across one of the courtyards, to the gate. He nearly trips a few times, and almost slips on the wet grass, but manages to make it to the street unscathed.

The post office is only a short walk from there, at the corner of the street, but he makes it within seconds, panting slightly as he skids to a halt, resting his hands on his knees for a short while, before pushing the door open.

The bell tinkles merrily, and Mr. Miller looks up. “Ah, Mr. Pankratz! Is it that day of the month again? Hmm, let me see, lad.”

He rummages through the neat piles of letters on his desk, as Jaskier hops from one foot to the other impatiently, hands itching to reach out and shove all the letters aside, in search of Geralt’s.

“Ah, found it!” The sentence is barely out of Mr. Miller’s mouth before Jaskier snatches the envelope from his hand.

“Thank you!” he calls over his shoulder, as he starts making his way out of the post office, though he’s stopped by Mr. Miller’s voice.

“Mr. Pankratz, sorry, don’t mean to pry, but I have to ask, after a year of giving you his letters and delivering yours to him – who is he? Your brother?”

Jaskier smiles, shaking his head, memories of stolen kisses by the lake, of leaning his head on Geralt’s shoulder as they watched the sunset, of holding each other when they were sure no one was looking, of secret glances, of the brushing of fingers, of hidden smiles, of longing and heartache and love presenting themselves to him. “Just a childhood friend, is all.”

“Must be a very good friend, then.”

Jaskier nods, turning back around, making his way out the door again. “He is.”

The bell rings again softly as he closes the door behind him. He starts walking back to the university, to his dorm, resisting the overwhelming urge to open the letter right there and then – he wants to wait, wants to be able to be alone and truly savour the moment, to really let the words soak into his skin, the scratchy ink into his soul.

But he also can’t bring himself to wait too long – as he starts walking faster and faster, eventually breaking into a run again, letter still clutched in his hand, the early spring wind whipping around his face, through his hair.

He takes the stairs two steps at a time, chest heaving by the time he reaches the third floor – but he doesn’t wait, and starts running again instead, through the hallway, to his dorm room. He’s sure he hears a “wait, what’s the hurry, Jaskier?” from one of the open doors, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down until he’s in front of his own room.

He fumbles with his keys, nearly dropping them a few times as he searches for the right one, jamming it into the lock when he finally finds it. He hears his door bounce off his bookcase when he opens it, but he doesn’t stop to assess the damage as he closes the door again, locking it behind him – he doesn’t want to be interrupted.

He drops his bag on the floor unceremoniously, heavily sitting down on his desk chair. He all but rips the envelope open, heart thumping wildly in his chest, fingers shaky, breath shallow and quick.

Finally, he takes out the sheets of thin, slightly yellowed paper, a few grains of desert sand sticking to the ink and to his skin. And at last, he lays eyes on the scratchy handwriting, on the words his love sent him two weeks ago from hundreds of miles away.

“My darling,

It’s going to be summer in a few months, I can already tell. The days are growing longer and hotter, the nights shorter and less freezing, the men more tired – I grow more tired as well.

I miss home more, now that spring is coming. I know that the tree outside your window will start to grow green soon, if it hasn’t already. I remember two summers ago, when you opened your window, and reached out to the branches, while I held onto your waist – so afraid you would fall. You picked one of the leaves from the tree, and it was bigger than your hand. Huge it was, but not as huge as the smile on your face, the triumph in your eyes, as you handed me a leaf I never asked for in the first place.

I still wonder what kind of tree it is. Whatever it is, they don’t have them here. There aren’t much trees at all, really, and barely any rain. Nothing to remind me of home, of you, except for your letters. I don’t know if I told you this yet, but I hold them close, wherever I go, and I read them every night before going to sleep. It’s come to the point where I can’t sleep if I haven’t read your letters, if I haven’t seen your handwriting, if I haven’t felt you near, at least a little bit.

They are saying we might be allowed to come home this summer, might be relieved from our duty. I hope so. It’s been well over a year, and the other men are growing tired. And so am I. I’m looking forward to the prospect of being allowed to go home. I hope the higher-ups give us a definitive answer soon.

As per your last letter, I know it’s hard to focus on getting through medical school with the war going on, with the uncertainty of me being alive eating away at you. I understand. Every day, I wonder myself, if it’s going to be my last – and I really, truly hope that if it is, you will know, and you won’t be left waiting for a letter that will never come. But I need to know you’re getting through this, I need to know you’re not failing because of me. I could never bear that thought. So please, keep going to your classes, at least for me, no matter how hard it gets.

It’s growing dark again. The nights here are so incredibly dark - it’s hard to see even a foot in front of you most of the time, until the sun starts to rise again, so I rejoice in the fact that the days are growing longer again. Though that also means they are growing hotter. But as long as I’m home for the summer, I think I can bear a lot more than I thought I could.

Either way, I miss you. I really do, and I wish for nothing more than to hold you again, to see you once more. I hope Destiny will allow me that, at least.

Yours, always,

Geralt.

P.S. I love you, and I love the songs you write. I can’t wait to hear you sing them for me.”

Jaskier sighs, and only notices he’s crying when a tear falls on the paper, smudging the ink a bit. He wipes it away as quickly as possible, desperate not to lose any of his love’s words.

He reads the letter again, and again, and again, before he looks up, out of his window, at the tree. There are small, green nubs on the branches, and he knows the leaves will start growing soon.

Home for the summer. God, how he hopes it could be true, how he hopes to be able to look forward to seeing his love again so soon. How long will it have been, by then? A year and a half? Maybe longer? Either way, any time spent apart is too long, in his mind.

Though, what would it be like? How would Geralt feel? Would he be plagued by the nightmares and the horrors of what he experienced in Africa? Would he ever find peace, or worse, would he hate the peace? Would he find Oxford too boring, and leave? Would he find Jaskier too boring, and leave? Surely, he loves him – God knows how many times he’s told Jaskier so, but would it be enough to keep him? Would Jaskier be enough?

Still, having him near again at least one more time would be enough for him – knowing his love is safe and well and happy, even if he’s not longer with him, would be enough as well.

He sighs, taking a few sheets of paper from his desk drawer, and his fountain pen.

“My darling,

Spring is already making itself known here, as well. You were right – the tree outside my window is starting to grow leaves again. I hope you will be here to hold my waist when I hang over my windowsill and pick a leaf larger than my own hand, this summer.

I long for nothing more than to see you again. Though, I know this life would be so different from Africa – almost boring, even. I do wonder if it won’t be too boring, as well. If I would be enough, still.

I know you would be enough still. More than enough. More than I deserve.

And yes, I am still going to my classes, but I can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t stop thinking about seeing you again, about the way your hair feels between my fingers, the way your eyes sparkle in the golden light of the sunset, the way you make me feel safe and loved, the way I might never see you again. I don’t think I could bear never seeing you again.

I was wondering, if you do make it back for the summer, if we could maybe head to the coast, get away for a while. I know you’re not near the coast, there, and maybe a little vacation would take your mind off things, would make sure you wouldn’t get haunted by what you’ve seen there, hopefully. Maybe we could hire a little cottage on the beach, or maybe we could rent a little boat, sail down the coast, visit different places. I would love that, really. (Though not as much as I would love seeing you again.)

As for the songs, I can’t wait to sing them for you. Maybe I will even write one especially for the coast and when we get there.

Maybe something like: The summer air by the seaside. / The way it fills our lungs. / The fire burns in the night sky. / This life will keep us young. / And we will sleep by the ocean. / Our hearts will move with the tide. / And we will wake in the morning / to see the sun paint the sky.

Or something similar. I don’t know yet. You would have to agree to head to the coast with me before I finish this song, though.

Either way, I miss you, and I hope you’re coming home soon. I wish I could hold you again, and see you safe and well in my arms. I hope Destiny will allow us that, at least.

Yours, always,

Jaskier.”

He rereads his words one last time, before taking an envelope, putting the sheets of paper in it, and closing it. He adds two stamps, before writing Geralt’s name and division on the paper.

He cradles it in his hands, before walking to the door, frowning when he can’t open it. Right. He’d locked it, so he wouldn’t be disturbed again, and, of course, he had forgotten.

He grins at his own stupidity, imagines how exasperated Geralt would’ve looked, if he had been there, and his grin falls immediately. He sighs again, longing in his heart, as he unlocks his door, walking to the post office.

Mr. Miller smiles at him, eyes kind, as he takes the letter, and Jaskier nods his thanks to the old man, before heading to his dorm again. After all – he’s got studying to do.

---

Every morning, over breakfast, he reads one of Geralt’s letters. Every evening, he does the same right before going to bed. The clock seems to tick slower and slower, each day insufferably longer than the last.

Two weeks after he sent his letter, he rejoices in the fact that Geralt must’ve gotten it by now. Every day after that, he grows more impatient as the hours pass by slowly. He hates the fact that he has to wait two weeks for a letter back, but then again, his impatience fades away as he remembers that his love might come home before the summer.

A week after that, he gets a knock on his door. He frowns, closing his anatomy book, wondering who it might be as he opens the door. He smiles broadly as he sees Geralt’s dad, standing in the hallway.

“Ah, Mr. Rivia! So good to see you!”

Geralt’s dad smiles softly. “Jaskier, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Vesemir?”

Jaskier winks. “Just a few times more, I think. What brings you here?”

Vesemir’s smile falls, and Jaskier suddenly notices the dark rings under his eyes, the slight puffiness of his cheeks. He’s been crying. Please tell me they were tears of joy.

“I got a telegram this morning. Thought you’d might want to know.”

He hands Jaskier a piece of paper, who swallows thickly, heart beating in his throat, nausea rising as he opens it with trembling fingers.

“The Air Ministry regrets to announce that your son LAC Geralt Rivia has been killed in action. Letter to follow.”

He stares at the words, barely registering in his mind, though it’s getting harder and harder to read with the way his hands are shaking, with the rain that falls from the sky, smudging the ink.

Strange, he thinks, surely there must be a leak in the roof, then.

He only realizes a few more seconds later that he’s crying. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and looks up, seeing his own disbelief and anger and hurt mirrored in Vesemir’s eyes, before he’s pulled into a tight hug.

“I know you two were very good friends. I’m sorry I had to be the bearer of bad news.”

Jaskier almost scoffs at the words, scoffs at the notion that they were just friends, that he didn’t just lose the love of his life, but he keeps his mouth shut, lets himself be hugged, waits for this moment to pass.

Although – it feels like time has slowed to a stop altogether.

He wonders if he’s going to live in this moment for the rest of his miserable life, will feel this sorrow and pain for all of eternity. Certainly fucking feels like it.

But it does pass, and Vesemir holds him at an arm’s length, smiling sadly at him one last time, before walking away.

Jaskier stays there, frozen in time, in pain, staring at the wall, numbness spreading from his chest to the tips of his fingers, until he can’t feel anything, can’t think anything – other than ‘Geralt is dead’.

Because he is. Geralt’s dead. Gone. Lost. He wonders if it had hurt, to die. He wonders what his last thought had been. He wonders if he had been on Geralt’s mind. He wonders how he even did die. Was it a plane crash? Gunfire? A bomb?

He hears his name in the distance, a hand on his shoulder, a face replacing the wall in front of him. He lets the sensations pass, like birds in the sky, like planes flying by – gone before he can register them, gone before he’s even aware they’re there, high and distant and fleeting.

He turns around, finding his muscles working on their own accord, and he locks the door behind him. He sits down on his bed, then lays down. He knows the tree on the other side of the window has started to grow leaves, he knows they’ll become bigger over time. He knows there’ll be no one to hold him by his waist as he hangs out his window, come the summer, to pick a leaf larger than his hand. He knows there’ll be no one to give it to.

Slowly, but surely, the numbness starts making way for a void, for oblivion, into which he lets all his thoughts, all his feeling fall, watches them disappear over the edge, before he steps into it himself.

He lays there, staring at the wall, barely aware of his own body, of his next-door neighbour knocking on his door, asking him if he’s okay, of the slow but sure passage of time – each second marking another eternity without his love.

---

He lays there for a few days, only getting up when someone calls campus security, who use a spare key to open his door – then threaten to call the mental hospital if he’s just going to lay there and starve himself. They tell him he should get up, eat, drink, stuff like that.

So he does – he gets up halfway through the morning, eats some bread, drinks some water, then sits at his desk the rest of the day, watching the leaves grow ever larger on the tree outside his window. By nightfall, he crawls back into bed. He ignores the knocks on his door, ignores the curious and worried voices of his classmates asking him why he hasn’t gone to class all week. He’s pretty sure one or two professors stop by as well, but he ignores them just the same.

He just sits there all day, at his desk, watching the seasons change, the oblivion in his chest growing with the leaves on the tree, as he waits for a summer he’ll have to spend alone.

---

Two weeks after that fatal day, there’s another knock on his door. He ignores this one as well, staring at the tree, mind blank, his bleeding heart in his lap, for the entire world to see.

Another knock. Then: “Mr. Pankratz?”

He blinks, ignoring the slightly familiar voice, his tired mind occupied with breathing in, breathing out, breathing in, blinking, breathing out. And repeat.

“Mr. Pankratz? It’s Mr. Miller, from the post office, remember?” A few seconds of silence. Breathe in. Breathe out. Blink. “Uh. You got a letter last week, as usual, but you didn’t come to pick it up, so I thought I’d just give it to you.” Silence. Breathe in. Breathe out. Blink. “Right, so I’ll just…” The slight woosh of paper on wood. “Here you go. Uh. Hope you’re doing alright. Bye.”

Footsteps walking away. Breathe in. Breathe out. Blink.

Slowly but surely, the words start registering in his mind. A letter. Got it last week, as usual.

Which can only mean one thing.

Geralt.

Except he’s still dead. He probably sent the letter about a week before he died – letters from the front take two weeks to deliver, after all. So a letter from a dead man – words he’ll never get to hear from his love out loud.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Blink. He considers throwing it in the trash. He considers shredding it up. He considers burning it, letting the flames consume it and him and the rest of this world until there’s nothing left but ashes.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Blink. He gets up, slowly, turning around. His eyes fall on the slightly yellowed envelope next to the door, on the scratchy ink and familiar handwriting and the bleeding heart that’s fallen from his lap, lying at his feet, waiting to be trampled.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Blink. He’s suddenly holding the letter, already sitting at his desk. He doesn’t remember the past five minutes. He all but tears the envelope open, taking out sheets of slightly yellowed paper, desert sand sticking to the ink and to his skin.

His hands start to tremble, his eyes start to tear up. He forgets to blink, as he folds the paper open.

“My darling,

I know it might seem unlikely that I’ll be the same when I come home – impossible, even. And I know you won’t be, either. But I also know that it won’t drive us apart. Trust me, you will never be unloved by me. You are too well-tangled in my soul.

As for the coast, I would love that. Maybe we can take a whole month off for it, even, just the two of us, by the ocean. When I close my eyes I can already imagine the breeze in my hair, the sand between my toes, my hand in yours. It’s a small piece of heaven I carry with me, for now – until I get back.

As for that: they gave us a definitive answer. I’m coming home for the summer.

I’m not exactly sure when we’re going to be leaving, but I heard the others talk about one more mission before they’re letting us go. I should be home within two months, at most, though it’s hard to pinpoint an exact date. After all, who knows how long the mission will take, or how long it will be until we can catch the next plane out of here, or where we’ll be landing, back home – and how long it will take me to make my way over to you.

Either way, I am coming home, I will see you again, so very soon.

But don’t worry about me. Please don’t, love. Don’t worry about meeting me at the airport, don’t worry about running into my arms like in the movies and books. Don’t worry about me.

You just have to wait for me to knock on your door. Because the second I’ve landed in England, I’ll find a way to Oxford, and I’ll come to you as fast as I can. You just have to wait for me because, no matter how much time we’ve spent apart, no matter how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other, I love you now and forever. And I will find you still.

Until soon. Yours, always,

Geralt.”

***

Credit where credit’s due!

Title from “Letter To My Wife” by Miklós Radnóti Song lyrics from “Coastline” by the Hollow Coves Quote “you will never be unloved by me, you are too well-tangled in my soul” from the poet Atticus I’m pretty sure there are some Amazing Devil lyrics in there as well

#squish answers #drabble #ask game #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #angst #historical au #gerlion #geralt x jaskier #war au #i apologize for nothing

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funkzpiel · 4 years

Text

WIP Post

Ya’ll, I thought I lost my flash drive. For context, I keep all my writing on it like an idiot because you don’t want to know how many times I’ve misplaced it. I found it, bless - and so here’s a few WIPs. My writing brain just fucking stalled so hard during quarantine, but I swear, I’ve been chiseling away at some things.

Includes content for the following:

The Witcher

Fantastic Beasts

Assassin’s Creed

Keep reading for WIP excerpts! If that’s of any interest to anyone, of course. ^^;

The Witcher | Stardust AU - Chapter 2:

He ached, bony weary in a way stars had no right to be. High above the sun blared down, reaching them furiously through even the dense canopy of the trees, and Geralt felt every inch of it weighing down on him. He was exhausted. Exhausted from the fall. Exhausted because it was day and usually he slept during the day. And moreso than any of that, he was exhausted by his captor-turned-dealmaker’s endless prattling. The star was beginning to wonder if the man had been cursed, he talked so incessantly, but he would have noticed the sort of energy that a curse puts off the moment it’s laid – and he had no recollection of a man like Jaskier ever being associated with an energy output that would match such a thing.

“She’s really quite fair, Geralt. Fair like the finest spilled milk – well, er, I used to think so until I met you, my pale friend. Spilled milk and delicate honey, perhaps. Yes, that seems right. Poured from the vase of Aphrodite herself. Molded, I daresay, in her image – she is that lovely. Just wait until you see her; but don’t go getting any ideas either, star. She’s mine,” Jaskier babbled ahead of him, on and on, yanking cheerfully at the chain between them sheerly because his hands swung from the sheer unexpected force of his positivity and enthusiasm.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Geralt growled through his teeth, soft so the bard might not hear him and yet unable to resist finally throwing a barb at the chatty man. He watched the trees, their tall trunks blurring pleasantly into a soft lull, making his eyelids heavy. He shook his head to rid himself of the feeling and grit his teeth painfully. Vigilence, he reminded himself. He could rest when he was home.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, and the star’s bright eyes darted up only for Geralt to startle when Jaskier was suddenly standing far, far closer than he had anticipated. His jaw ached from its frustrated clenching. Jaskier didn’t seem to notice though. Just tilted his head as though that might provide him a more illuminating angle with which to study to star bound to him and said, “I’ve called your name thrice now, star. Are you quite alright?”

“I don’t know, bard. I was plucked from the sky, thrust into a form I don’t recognize and then chained to a blathering fool. What do you think?”

Jaskier just looked at him critically for a long moment, as though searching out some wound or cause, before he finally said, “I think you’re grumpy. And you need a nap.”

The Witcher | Creature!Jaskier:

Geralt had always known that Jaskier was not quite human. After all, how could he be? Geralt had not been so alienated from humanity, so separate from mankind as to be oblivious to the difference between a regular man’s lifetime and his own. And yet, over the course of decades, Jaskier did not age. His brown hair never silvered. His cornflower blue eyes never greyed or dulled. It had been easy, at first, to write it off as genetics or the benefit of devoting one’s money, however small, to the procurement of ointments and bath oils and lotions. His hands were always lovely despite hours of plucking lute strings, his skin always glowing despite hours of dust and grit on the road.

Oh, he had known. But Jaskier had never offered the information, and Geralt saw no need to ask. The bard was hardly out there slaughtering villages. The witcher doubted the man were even capable of it. He had seen Jaskier run to him – bug-eyed and pale – too many times from some monster he had accidentally startled on the road to ever believe the man a creature capable of slaughter.

So just as Jaskier had accepted him as Geralt rather than as a Witcher, he had accepted Jaskier for who he was, rather than what – whatever that what was.

Fantastic Beasts | Sequel to “And The Tag Read Simply: Pretty”

Graves stopped in the doorway of the morgue before Theseus realized he was there and took a moment to absorb the view before him. The room was meagerly illuminated, drawing long shadows on the Theseus’ face and on the blankets that covered five bodies, all set up in a row of gurneys, their bare feet pointed as Theseus. Each body had a tag looped around the toe, their names scrawled in the messy handwriting of the diener on staff when they had been rolled in. Theseus had his hands closed tight around a piece of paper. He looked old; about as old as Percival felt.

Five bodies. Five aurors, dead.

Graves felt every one of them like a crack in his bones, aching when he breathed, when he slept, when he moved. He sighed, startling Theseus from his thoughts, and slowly walked to join him. When he was close enough, Theseus moved as though to grab Graves’ shoulder – stopping only when he registered the slight flinch Graves still hadn’t learned how to control. Jaw clenched, he returned to strangling the paper in his hands.

“Diaz, Copperfield, Wu, Firth and Hollows,” Theseus said, listing the names as clinically and succinctly as he could but unable to hide the sharp constriction of his throat. Graves’ scanned each tag, noting that the names all matched Theseus’ list. Five aurors. Three of them were aurors he had personally trained in some capacity or another. One was not much younger than himself. Another was just a babe – fresh from the academy.

None of them were even on Graves’ task force. They were just aurors investigating matters utterly unrelated to Grindelwald’s crimes. In fact, all matters related to the madman had been removed from the desks of the Department of Magical Security. These men and women should have never gotten remotely close to the dark wizard’s line of fire, and yet here they were – five aurors found dead on the steps of MACUSA.

“We’re certain it was him?” Graves asked. Theseus looked at him as though he was loathe to answer, and that was all Graves needed to see to know the truth. He held out his hand and reluctantly, Theseus handed over the paper he had been strangling. It was crumpled now, but the ink still stood out bright and perfect, not one bit of it smudged.

Why are you hiding my beautiful gifts, little love?

Assassin’s Creed Syndicate | Wild Youth - Chapter 7:

He ached in horrible ways. Growing bones made fragile with cold, throbbing twofold. The sheets were twisted around him uncomfortably, but even when they’d magically right themselves he found that ensnaring himself anew was inevitable when he was so murderously hot one second, then freezing the next. His clothing clung to clammy skin, his hair too. His little hand kept reaching for something, someone, but the bed was so big and Evie was off no doubt playing.

‘Why didn’t you wear your coat, Jacob,’ he could remember his father saying, voice laden with weary misunderstanding – as though Jacob were a creature to puzzle out rather than a son. ‘Evie wore hers and now she’s playing and you’re stuck in bed. Is that what you want, Jacob?’

Heat seared around the edges of his eyes, his little jaw clenched. Of course that wasn’t what he wanted. Who wanted to be sick? Old Lady Cusick had his coat. She had been patching a hole in the elbow from a rather rough fall. It was only a few hours without it. What else should he have done with that time? Sat in the corner trying to make sense out of father’s stupid books when he could have been practicing his sneaking or his climbing or his tumbling? Just because he had trouble reading didn’t mean he didn’t take things seriously. He was trying.

Why couldn’t father ever see that?

#WIPs #The Witcher #Fantastic Beasts #And The Tag Ready Simply Pretty #Assassin's Creed Syndicate

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