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Hua Cheng and Lan Wangji are each separately long for and looking for their respective beloveds. So what happens when they bump into each other while searching?

HC keeps hearing this annoying guqin music that asks weird questions in his spiritual array every time he gets close to the Burial Mounds. Then he hears about a cultivator in white going around helping ghosts move on to the afterlife. After a few years of this (and after losing a few subordinates to the cycle of reincarnation) he decides to investigate himself.

featuring a possible cameo from the ghost of granny wen who walks around with a swaddled radish tied to her back and calls it her grandson.

(was trying to figure out a way to include the ghost of uncle four also, but not sure what might tie his soul to the earthly realm. Maybe he brewed a wine that he never got to drink?)

I want HC both scoffing and empathizing with lwj. And stubborn lwj not caring that he’s bothered a ghost king with his incessant songs of inquiry. Also maybe they tacitly agree to keep an eye out for each other’s boos

He didn't expect this to result in Geralt asking if Jaskier was bored of him. If he'd already found another muse.

“You can just go,” Geralt said suddenly, the words landing in the quiet clearing like a blade dropped point-first into snow.

Jaskier looked up from where he had only just unrolled his bedroll, brow furrowing in bafflement. “Excuse you? I just got comfortable. I’m not going anywhere.”

Geralt busied himself with the fire rather than looking at him. “You can go be with your new muse,” he muttered, trying — and failing rather spectacularly — to sound indifferent. “I’m sure they’ll buy you a better bedroll.”

Jaskier stared at him. “My what?”

“Your new muse.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier said slowly, as though speaking to someone concussed, “in case you haven’t noticed, I have spent the past several weeks alone in the woods with you. This is hardly fertile ground for finding a new muse.”

That finally made Geralt glance up. His head tilted slightly, sharp yellow eyes blinking with the bewilderment of an oversized wolfhound. “You don’t have a new muse?”

Jaskier shook his head, utterly lost now.

“Then why have you been pulling away from me?” Geralt asked quietly.

And gods.

Jaskier had heard Geralt furious, exhausted, wounded, half-delirious with pain. But he had never heard him sound sad before. The softness of it cut straight through him.

“I thought…” Jaskier swallowed. “I thought I was starting to annoy you. So I tried to be less.” He gave a small, miserable shrug. “I assumed you’d like me better that way.”

Geralt’s expression crumpled with something heartbreakingly tender.

“Jaskier,” he said, voice rough as gravel worn smooth by a river, “I like you best when you’re the most Jaskier.”

The hope that flickered across Jaskier’s face was painfully bright. “Really?”

Geralt nodded once, certain and immediate.

Which was good news, truly.

It's simply because Jaskier has an astonishing talent for getting cursed, enchanted, or trapped.

Over the years, he spent decades imprisoned as a statue before finally being restored. Some time later, he ended up trapped inside a painting. After escaping that fate, he was transformed into a magical flower for a while.

Jaskier has spend years as a Sword, a mirror, etc

They don’t bother him nearly as much as they used to. And they don’t really influence his day to day life at this point, more an obstacle he had and dealt with and proudly bears the scars from for having overcome. Metaphorically, that is, his skin is flawless of course.

But then Geralt and Jaskier are cursed to hear each other’s thoughts. And Geralt has never heard of intrusive thoughts before, which becomes blatantly obvious when the pair are passing by a ravine on their way to Yennefer, hoping the witch can fix this issue for them.

Because suddenly, Jaskier is panicked to find himself practically tackled by the witcher, the man’s golden eyes wide in what Jaskier could only describe as fear and maybe…concern?

Jaskier looks around, trying to find what spooked Geralt, only to see literally nothing trying to rob, eat, or maim them. Assuming it’s something only the witcher can sense, Jaskier tilts his head, trying to figure out what is happening.

And Geralt seems stressed, almost whining, when the mental litany of ‘don’t die, please don’t, can’t lose you’ is finally interrupted by a ‘please don’t jump’, and Jaskier can’t help but laugh.

Which Geralt does not take well at all. He looks at the bard, fearing the man has finally lost it, which really only makes Jaskier laugh harder as he tries to mentally and audibly explain that no, Jaskier was not planning on taking a one way trip, Geralt, seriously Darling, he’s fine.

And Geralt doesn’t really get it, having never had intrusive thoughts of his own, but Jaskier literally can’t lie like this so he begrudgingly accepts the bard’s words as truth.

But that doesn’t stop Geralt from clinging to Jaskier all night so he doesn’t touch the fire, hiding his (shiny, tasty?) potions from the bard, and finally physically lifting Jaskier onto Roach before holding onto him tightly, clearly afraid he’ll jump off or something.

Jaskier tries and fails not to think about how sweet it is, which makes him wonder about how the witcher would react to other intrusive thoughts he’s had, which really only makes Geralt’s mother henning 100% worse.

Jaskier idly thinks that if the witcher were human, he’d have had a heart attack by now with all his worrying.

And then thinks it might still be on the table with how Geralt reacts to the bard’s intrusive thoughts about his iron and silver swords.

But then Jaskier finds a witcher. And this witcher is…different. Because for as much as he insults the bard, threatening to run him through or leave him behind, his emotions do not match his words. So Jaskier just smiles as the months and years pass, because even though Geralt tries to hide it, there’s no mistaking the fondness that tastes like a warm buttered roll on Jaskier’s tongue every time the witcher acts annoyed at the bard’s antics.

It’s not the candy sugar-high of lust, nor the strange bitter, strong, earthy scent of what Geralt feels for the witch, but it’s something. It’s positive, and it’s for him, and that’s enough. Has to be enough, really, because Jaskier couldn’t ask for more. It doesn’t work like that, they’ve never worked like that.

And Jaskier takes it, lets down his walls against Geralt, because the man has never once felt an ounce of hate for him, even when the bard screwed up particularly egregiously. Which, really, in the grand scheme of things, is more important than the desire Jaskier has for honey cake-care, syrupy-sweet fritter-devotion, apple-pie filled-love—

Jaskier aches, and chides himself daily for being greedy. He takes what is given, and does not ask for more, having long ago chosen to never use what powers he has to feed like that. It’s not worth it, not for the confusion and pain it leaves in its wake.

But Jaskier will sometimes help take the edge off of negative emotions, can swallow down some of the spoiled meat-fear, mouldy bread-despair, sour, slimy ale-disgust. It leaves him feeling nauseous, his appetite poor for days, but it’s worth it for the relief it brings to those truly in need of it.

So when he notices the rotten egg-hurt coming off of Geralt on the mountain, he reaches out, trying to help the witcher. Open, defenseless, he chokes heavily on the bitter, numbing, burning-hate that Geralt shoves down his throat, the taste unlike anything he’s ever felt before in his life. Dizzy, he falls to the ground, clutching his chest at the way his heart stops breathing quite right, how his lungs don’t want to move.

He doesn’t notice the familiar beef stew-concern until it’s right next to him, visible in the bright golden eyes. The last thing he thinks before he passes out is how ironic it is, that Geralt’s hatred had taken the form of a buttercup, Wolf’s bane.

That he will die with the taste of his namesake on his lips.

He doesn’t expect to wake up, certainly not to the comfort, care, hope, love surrounding him like fog. He’s almost drunk on the emotions, feeling more full than he has since…well, ever. When he notices who they’re coming from, though, he can’t help the wall that flies up, has to force back a flinch at the realization of whose arms he is in.

And Geralt apologizes, verbally, feelings more free than Jaskier has ever seen them before, clearly projected for his sake. Jaskier listens as Geralt explains he’s suspected for years, but never knew for sure until…

It takes time, as most hurts do, to heal. Jaskier is reluctant at first, to leave himself vulnerable to feed off the witcher. But he is weak, and tired, and there’s no one else on this forsaken mountain he’s willing to feed off of, so he doesn’t have much choice.

For his part, Geralt only lets go of the bard when absolutely necessary, seemingly aware that physical contact makes the process easier on Jaskier. And Jaskier doesn’t want to forgive the witcher, wants to hold onto the fear, betrayal, hurt that he’d felt when Geralt force-fed him his emotions. But Jaskier can’t control the way his heart softens as the witcher helps him down the mountain, how the golden eyes always on him make him feel safe even when they shouldn’t.

It takes them a week to make it back to Roach, at which point Jaskier’s heart has finally stopped skipping beats and the dizziness has faded. Geralt asks Jaskier a silent question, and the bard thinks, really thinks, before stuffing the scant belongings he’d brought with him in his pack atop the witcher’s horse.

Jaskier squeaks when the witcher lifts him into the saddle, and he tells Geralt that he’s feeling all better, really, it’s been nice but he can walk, only for the witcher to join him atop Roach silently. And Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with this, this new territory, as Geralt wraps his arms around the bard to grab the reins.

He’s seconds from panicking when warm spiced milk-contentment envelops him like a hug, so overwhelming he can’t help but relax as he’s guided back to rest on an armored chest. The sensation is all-consuming, and Jaskier, more tired than he realized, feels his eyelids drooping.

But Jaskier doesn’t bring it up, and Geralt figures that with how particular Jaskier is about his looks, the glamour is just there to make him appear younger, slimmer, fresher. Whatever it does, his medallion does not seem to find it malicious, and that’s really all that matters to him.

Until the pair find themselves backed up, quite literally, to the edge of a cliff by a platoon of Nilfgaardian soldiers intent on taking the bard and witcher captive for torture and interrogation. And Jaskier looks at Geralt, who is standing in front of him, ready to defend him to his dying breath, and carefully removes the piece of silver.

Geralt watches, confused, as all the soldiers lower their weapons, his medallion humming stronger. Jaskier tells him not to turn around, to focus on getting them out of there, and while his voice sounds…lighter? Softer? the tone is insistent, so Geralt does as he says, trusting the bard has a plan.

Geralt blazes through the army, the soldiers barely putting up any resistance, focused on something just behind the witcher. And Geralt isn’t stupid, he knows Jaskier must have done something, he just doesn’t know quite what the bard has done to provoke such a strong reaction.

He hears Jaskier swear behind him, but doesn’t lose focus, training his eyes on the next soldier facing him until all that’s left in front is the woods they’d run out of near an hour ago now. So he turns, mentally bracing himself not to react, only to find an ethereal being behind him. He thinks the books at Kaer Morhen didn’t do the description of fae justice, that the very glow of the stars, moon, sun pales in comparison—

Geralt shakes his head, reminds himself this is Jaskier, even with the eyes that sparkle like gems, the flawless milky skin, and the hair that shines and seems to flow slightly in a nonexistent wind. It helps, that the bard looks more worried, more scared than he’s seen the man in a long time, clearly concerned about how the witcher will react.

And that…Geralt pretends like that isn’t how he feels constantly as Jaskier sheepishly explains that the bracelet fell into the ravine in the struggle. Geralt nods, grabbing Jaskier and dragging him back to Roach when he notices the way the bard looks longingly at what can only be a quick and foolish death.

And it’s…fine, for the next few days, as they camp outside. Geralt watches as the woodland creatures flock to the bard, utterly flabbergasted, both men feeling slightly guilty when some of the poor, entranced creatures are sacrificed for the sake of sustenance.

But when they need to go into town, to restock, he watches as Jaskier hesitates, exuding terror. He takes the Witcher’s cloak offered to him with trembling hands, not even complaining about its drab colors, and Geralt just humms. Nothing will happen, not when he’s with Geralt, which Jaskier should know by now.

But Geralt wasn’t expecting the way the townsfolk flocked to the bard, their mental barriers even worse than the soldiers’ were. He tries to keep the bard behind him, but they’re quickly surrounded, and Geralt flounders for a moment. He can’t attack these people, not when they’re as much victims in this as Jaskier is, but he also can’t let them get to his bard.

So he tosses the man up on Roach, clearing a path for the mare before hoisting himself up behind the cowering man, shielding him from the unwanted touches as they flee into the woods.

And Geralt isn’t sure what to do as the bard breathes quickly, harshly, head whipping back and forth to make sure they’re not followed until they’ve returned to the small clearing they’d slept at the night prior. Geralt helps the bard off Roach, watches as the man clutches his own hair, rocking silently on the forest floor.

This is normally where Geralt would try to comfort the bard, to maybe give him a hug, but would that even be welcome here? After the touch enforced on him? After what almost happened, would have happened, if not—

And Geralt mentally swears as he slowly approaches the bard like he would a spooked Roach. Because clearly, if Jaskier had seen fit to spend what must have been quite a lot of money on such a powerful glamour, there were other instances like this. Situations that Jaskier couldn’t get himself out of, times where he was overpowered and—

Geralt holds out his hand, only stumbling a bit at the way the bard practically flies into his chest. Ignoring the growing wet spot on his shirt, he whispers promises of getting a new glamour, of not entering any more towns, of keeping the bard safe.

And as Jaskier falls asleep, dried tear stains doing nothing to take away his unparalleled beauty, Geralt wonders if this is part of why Jaskier was never scared of him. If Jaskier approached him all those years ago, uncaring what others thought of the witcher, because he understood what it was to be dehumanized for simply existing.

The thought made Geralt wonder if, given the chance, he would trade the hatred he faced for the unwavering infatuation the bard’s presence compelled.

And Jaskier noticed.

And then decided yeah, okay, he could work with that.

Which leaves the witcher staring, perplexed, as Jaskier haggles with a merchant for a new blanket for Roach, trying to obtain the dark green piece of woolen fabric at a cheaper price. As he watches Jaskier bring out the agreed upon coin, he remembers the way the bard had insisted she needed a new one because hers was getting too thin, and it was getting colder, and honestly Geralt don’t you care for her at all—

It had made Geralt feel uncomfortably guilty, that it was Jaskier who noticed his horse’s need before he did. The bard didn’t even ride Roach, and yet he was aware of the issue.

Not to mention that Jaskier insisted she be brushed every night, that the pets he gave her helped make her calm and happy. And Geralt wanted to refute that claim, he truly did, but Roach did seem to truly enjoy the attention. In fact, Roach had warmed up to the bard in a way that she had never done with others she saw frequently, like the other wolf witchers or Yennefer.

Perhaps, he conceded, that may be due to the bard bribing her with treats. But even in that, the bard seemed to be a step ahead of him, keeping a ranked list of Roach’s favorite snacks in his journal and updating it as needed. Geralt had tried to convince Jaskier multiple times that she did not need such indulgences, to which Jaskier had pointed out quite frankly that the witcher need not buy ale at every tavern they frequented either, or a bath rather than a swim in a stream, or—

Geralt could admit to himself that the bard had some…convincing arguments. After all, Roach worked so hard, was there for him through so much, and she deserved to be appreciated. Truly.

So maybe Geralt started to pay a little more attention to his horse, and to the care the bard gave her. And maybe he noticed that the bard was shivering more, his thin, flashy doublets not designed for the cooler autumn nights. And if the bard asks, Geralt only bought him the cloak because he knew the bard would soon start complaining about being cold all the time, so this was just a preemptive measure.

Yes, Geralt could have gotten the brown cloak for cheaper, but again, Geralt didn’t want to listen to the bard complain about how ugly he looked in it. So he chipped in the extra coin for the royal blue one, the color that Geralt had noticed the bard favored.

And, okay, Geralt hadn’t really meant to start giving the bard shoulder pats after a particularly rough performance, or to give the bard hugs when the man woke up from nightmares that left him drenched in sweat, unsure of what was real. But honestly, it was just logical to use what seemed to work best, no matter how foreign it felt to the witcher.

It was fine, he told himself, pulling Jaskier closer after one such terror-filled dream. He moved his hand up and down the bard’s back, trying to physically remind Jaskier of where he was.

Geralt reminded himself there was nothing weird about this, that this was how one was supposed to treat traveling partners.

To put it mildly, the mages and witcher trainers virtually annihilate the Beldams.

So it’s no great surprise that Geralt doesn’t recognize the doll that Ciri has with her when he meets her for the first time. His medallion hums, but it’s a faint thing, and he doesn’t want to make her part from a beloved childhood object that brings her comfort when she has so little. Especially when he doesn’t know how to comfort her himself during tear-filled nights.

But then, a week after meeting Ciri, the pair stumble upon Jaskier in a tavern and apologies and rants and hugs are had once the bard is coaxed into a private room. Jaskier plasters on the brightest smile he has as he finally faces the little girl, Geralt’s Child Suprise, the wonderful—

The look on Jaskier’s face fractures as he sees the doll. He stares at it, the little creation with bright white hair and black pants and a brown shirt (and Geralt thought that was strange, had wondered why it hadn’t been a dress befitting a princess) and the button eyes.

Jaskier moves quicker than Geralt had thought possible, yanking the doll out of the girl’s hands and throwing it in the fire, heedless of her screams. Jaskier ignores the way Ciri pounds on his back, crying, grabs Geralt’s arm as he goes to pull the doll from the flames.

“Don’t, Geralt. We need to burn it, need to get far away from here, we need to—”

“It’s a doll, a child’s toy!” Geralt hisses, going to yank his arm back.

Except the bard doesn’t let go as he usually does, and while the witcher could force Jaskier away, the uncanny serious look on the bard’s face makes him pause.

“Look at it, Geralt.”

Geralt follows Jaskier’s finger, to where the doll is staring at them in the middle of the flames.

It takes him a moment to see what’s wrong.

To feel a chill crawling down his spine.

“Children grow up with bedtime stories of witchers that take naughty children in the middle of the night, never to be seen again.” Jaskier shakes his head as he starts packing up what little had been put out already. “They know children go missing, the ones no one wants, but they blame the wrong person because they never see who takes them.”

Geralt lets Jaskier drag them out of the room, both he and Ciri looking back one last time at the fireplace. At the doll that seems to look at them as they walk out the door.

At the doll that doesn’t burn.

“You never asked why it is I’m so against people calling you a monster, why I don’t fear you as everyone else does. I’m not sure I would have told you the truth if you’d asked, frankly, but you should know—”

Jaskier shuddered as they left the inn, inhaling sharply as he watched Ciri run ahead to tack up Roach.

“Witchers are nothing like her. You could never be like her.” The bard swallowed harshly, tracking the young girl’s movements. “I’ve searched for thirty-five years, trying to find someone who received one of those blasted dolls and lived to tell the tale.”

Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, a sick sort of understanding spreading across his face.

“And…?”

Jaskier frowned, seemingly lost in thought.

In memories.

After a moment, he shook himself violently, eyes like ice turning to face those of molten lava.

HAPPY PRIDE!

during the training trip, Naruto and Jiraiya visit uzu as Naruto starts to learn seals.