[ OPEN/SOME CLOSED ] if I had to do it over, I'd do it all again

[cointosser]

Who: Jaskier, Ciri, Geralt, Yennefer, Alucard, and some open prompts
When: Mid-to-Late January
Where: Cadens and the Horizon
What: Jaskier wakes from a vivid, nasty dream to physical evidence that it was unfortunately very real. He spirals, but like, only a little bit. It mostly involves getting drunk and buying hats to cope.
Warnings: Mentions of bodily injury/torture, maybe PTSD, heavy drinking



[Will be throwing starters (including open ones) down below! You can hit me up at scathefire or #scathefire6612 if you'd like to plot anything or want an additional starter. Also, let me know if you'd like me to avoid S2 spoilers, because there will be a lot.]

Comments

[cointosser]

[This time Jaskier looks at him with real amusement; soft around the edges, much more muted than it had been years ago, but it reaches his eyes. Jaskier is all for affirmations, but sometimes they are unnecessary. Yet Geralt's words were so achingly sincere.

Geralt's hand warm on his arm, he reaches over with the other.

Flicking the end of his nose.]

I know that, you fool. She's said as much herself. [He could add that, unlike some people, she is much more obvious with it. Yet it is not entirely true. He likes to think Geralt's affections show just as clearly, but said in a different language. One the bard has long become fluent in.] I will keep her safe, in the ways I can.

[Let's try something else, shall we? The roll of that voice through the dark.]

And you. Both of which, I think, can also go without needing to be said.

[gynvael]

[ His nose wrinkles. ] I know.

[ He sighs. Fuck, he's exhausted. When was the last time he truly rested? Maybe once, that brief outing he'd had with Jaskier and Ciri. Or...when he'd slept next to Yennefer, in the Horizon, nose buried in her hair. A small handful of times.

Feels like it's been years. Decades. The memories tumble in his head, expanding, contracting. Taking place over months and in a matter of hours all at the same time. Jaskier looks older, too. Aged a year or two overnight, hasn't he? Not physically, but—something deeper. Bone-deep. He supposes it only makes sense. And though it's hardly the first time he and Jaskier have shared a bed, Geralt moves in closer now. Slides a hand down his arm. ]

Goodnight, Jaskier.

[cointosser]

[Jaskier shares his exhaustion. Somewhere between the flip-flopping of his thoughts, cartwheeling through his head, thrown against the now and the then, he'd begun sobering up. He'd gone through fear and anger and -- and now there was this, which was about as close to peace as he felt capable of getting.

Like maybe he could rest tonight. Without waking to flames or burning eyes. (He hadn't even had burning eyes. He'd been unremarkable. Handsome, even.)

It was not fair to take it from him, but he'd needed this. This chance to go through all of it. Of everything he'd felt through the year, all coiled into one ouroboros, spinning round.

His arm warms. Without asking, he moves close enough to bury in against the Witcher. He hardly ever does. Not before he's asleep -- and Jaskier would claim he is not responsible for anything he clings to in his sleep. But now, he wants it. That weight, the presence. To ensure that tonight, he doesn't sleep alone.

Just one night. He only wants to get through one night.

There are still so many things that go unsaid. Perhaps they will stay unsaid. This thing, though. It needn't be said, yet Jaskier wants to. This time.]

Thank you, Geralt.