#I hope you can feel the panic in lambert's eyes

[elmonstro]

Reference

[darling-i-read-it]

System

Dalton Lambert x fem!reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: set after insidious the red door so spoilers for that, the readers scared daltons wandered off again 

Author’s Note: Sorry this took so long love! I’ve been a bit everywhere lately but I was finally happy with this. Also my spell check is being hella weird so if there’s some misspelled things just ignore it lol. I hope you enjoy!

Requested: by anon, hi i literally just got home from the insidious movie with my friend, but i was wondering if you are taking requests, if not feel free to ignore! but i was wondering if you’d be able to do a dalton x reader where they maybe meet his family? and he has an episode during it and gets stuck in the further and reader has to try and coax him out of it? or he has an episode and comes out of it in a panic attack like state and reader helps him through it and his family is in shock that dalton lets her see him like that. they think its really sweet that she can help him through it and everything.

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator

(not my gif)

Thanksgiving break. You could fear the cold in the air as people talked lightly going down to their cars, happy to leave school behind for a couple days of rest. Dalton threw his bag over his shoulder, watching you watch the window. The leaves were falling onto the street, whisked away by the gentle wind. You could see people’s silent laughter through the glass. 

“You ready?” Dalton’s voice broke you out of your trance. You nodded once, pulling your bag up over your head as well. It just had some clothes and your laptop, plus chargers. You hadn’t been expecting to go back for Thanksgiving with your heavy workload. 

“Your dads here?” 

“Yeah, pulling up outside.” You turned back to the window like you could locate him. Dalton grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the door. You followed him outside of his dorm room. He shut and locked it behind him before leading you down the stairs among the stragglers of people leaving for break. 

You had never seen the parking lot so crowded. 

Dalton put his phone to his ear, keeping a firm grip on your hand. You followed him blindly. 

“Near the flag poles isn’t an instruction dad,” Dalton said, voice annoyed. You looked around, trying to place the car. You didn’t actually know what he was driving but you knew Mr.Lambert’s face. “There are a ton of flag polls.” Your eyes scanned the area. “Are you talking about the one with the school flag?” You sat Josh Lambert, standing outside of his car with the door opened. You hit Dalton and pointed. He followed your gaze. Dalton hung up the phone and guided your way through the parking lot. 

Mr. Lambert smiled when he saw you both. He pointed beside him, where an American flag was posted between some trees. 

“It was the only thing near me,” he explained. 

“Don’t worry about it.” You offered your hand to shake. 

“You must be Y/N. I’ve heard a lot.” Josh shook your head. 

“Thank you for letting me stay over the break. My family is so far away and getting a plane ticket in this weather has never been good odds.” Josh’s smile was genuine and kind. You had only met him over the phone but Dalton had mostly assured you of his normalcy. After the whole flying away possessed by demon thing, you understood that Josh also had issues with staying in his head. You felt for him. 

“Oh of course. Any friend of Dalton’s is a friend of ours.” Josh winced, trying to find the right words. “It’s a pleasure.” 

“That’s good dad.” Dalton took your backpack. You smiled gently, trying to let him know you understood what he was trying to give off. “This is gonna be a long drive.”

-

Josh asked you plenty of questions, happy that someone in his car actually answered him. You didn’t mind chatting. It was a couple hours after all. Before you were there, Dalton couldn’t exactly shut out and put his headphones in. Still, he sat behind you, sketch book out, half listening. 

Eventually you came to his and his moms home. It was nice and large, almost secluded but not quite. You didn’t peg Dalton for a large house kind of guy but the second his mom opened the door, it all clicked into place. 

Josh had started recently living with Renai again, much to Dalton’s surprise. He didn’t talk about it often, only in passing. You were able to pick up bits and pieces from everyone’s body language but that was about it. 

Renai had Josh take your bags. 

“Thank you so much Mrs. Lambert for letting me stay,” you said hurridly as she ushered you inside. She smiled, so brightly it hurt. She looked just like Dalton’s pictures of her. Goregous and kind. 

“Renai, please. Dalton go take those upstairs.” 

“Are we allowed to sleep in the same room?” Dalton asked, teasingly. 

“You can sleep in the guest room,” she said, ushering him away. She turned to you. Dalton walked up the stairs, followed closely by his father and your bags. “It’s nice to formally meet you Y/N.” 

“And you! I’ve heard so much, seen your face on a lot of different sketches,” you joked. Her smile remained, dripping in generosity but not so much it made you uncomfortable. You felt instantly comfortable in the house. 

“I’m sure you’ve become the new muse,” she joked. 

“He’s extremely talented. He could make a tree look interesting.” 

“Don’t say it to him, it’ll go straight to his head.” Renai would sometimes call you when she was worried about Dalton. After the demon event she grew more worried about having him out of the house. You became her eyes and ears, which she was eternally grateful for. 

There was a childlike commotion upstairs. You both turned to see a little girl barreling down, her hand loosely holding the railing. Once she hit the bottom she halted. Dalton was following close behind her and behind him was another teen boy, though younger than Dalton. It was easy to guess the names. 

“Oh shit D,” Foster mumbled. Dalton hit him. 

“Are you Y/N?” Kali asked. You nodded. 

“And you must be Kali! It’s very nice to meet you.” She smiled, ogling. You grew self conscious under everyone's gaze. Dalton pushed through his siblings to get to you. 

“Hey, go get your own person to stare at.” He grabbed your hand. “C’mon, I wanna show you my room.” 

“No funny business,” Josh said as he came down the stairs. “Keep that door open.” 

“He doesn’t bring girls home often,” Renai explained. 

“Mom,” Dalton seethed. You laughed as he tugged at your arm. You followed him up the stairs. 

“It was nice to meet all of you!” you called, your arm half way out of it’s socket. You observed the place as you walked, glancing at the family photos on the wall. At some point they started to lack Josh completely. “You’re were so cute,” you cooed at one of the photos. “What happened?” 

“Woah there.” You laughed as you finally landed upon his room. It was a normal teenage boys bedroom but cleaner. You wondered if Renai had cleaned when Dalton left. There was art supplies still scattered on the desks and some laying on his made bed. Your bags were put off to the side, next to his. 

“I see you have no intention of posting up in the guest bedroom?” 

“Oh no,” he said. “My mom’s a lightweight and will be in bed by nine.” There was countless pictures on the wall. Some were painted, some where with ink, some with just pencil. It was like a whole other gallery. “I have a couple new ones to add up there.” 

“Oh yeah?” You turned back to him. He was grabbing his sketchbook out of his bag. He turned it open to the one he was working on in the car. It was a back view of his dad and you talking. Josh was mid word but you were smiling, watching intently. “Is that why you weren’t talking with us?” 

“I don’t like my dads taste in music.” You grinned warmly. 

“I love it. Like I love all your stuff.” He carefully went to tear it out and you moved to get some things out of your bag. 

-

You had dinner, courtesy of Renai, and quickly turned in. Dalton made a big show of going to bed in the guest bedroom, rolling his eyes and pretending to pout. You cuddled into his bed, scrolling through your phone as you waited for him to come back. Your eyes drooped. It had been a long day, filled with new things. Dalton’s bed was way more comfortable then the dorm room bed and far bigger too. 

At 10 you heard the door open slowly. You turned on your side and smiled sleepily at Dalton walking in. He ran his hands through his hair, shutting the door quietly behind him. He climbed under the sheets beside you. You moved over to make room but the bed was big enough where it almost didn’t matter. 

“Bigger than the dorm room bed huh?” he questioned. You usually had to squeeze together. You got very used to being on top of each other. 

“Just a lil.” 

He dipped his head over you, kissing you gently. Your body eased into his touch. His lips were lazy and sleepy, also fueled by the long day. He moved away after a moment and layed his head down next to you. 

“Tease,” you joked. 

“My mother is in the next room.” 

“No more kisses then.” 

He scoffed and the two of you got comfortable, his arm under your head, your cheek against his chest. The window was creaked open, the sound of the suburbs floating into your ears as you drifted off. 

-

You woke up with a start. There was an echo of a noise but you were still half asleep and couldn’t pinpoint it. You sat up, glancing down at Dalton. He laid on his back, eyes shut. You looked around the dark room. You didn’t know it’s curves well enough to know what had changed. You rubbed your eyes, trying to decide if you were still asleep or not. 

Through your shadowy perception, you saw the door creak open. It was slow but the movement struck home. You turned to Dalton and nudged him. He didn’t move. You nudged him again, harder this time. He stayed completely still, the only indication he was alive from his breathing. 

“Dalton,” you muttered. You shoved him again, almost knocking him off the bed. 

Nothing.

Fear shone in the lights of your eyes. You sat up completely and turned on the lamp beside your bed. You took a deep breath. You had done this before. You could do it agian. Dalton and you had talked about what you could do when this happened. He assured you that, while he likely couldn’t get possessed by that same demon, there was no guarentee he couldn’t drift off. 

You cleared your throat and set your shoulders back. 

“Dalton can you hear me?” Your voice was loud and clear. It needed to project if he was gonna hear you. You took clear breaths in, counting and then releasing. “Dalton, baby, you’ve gone to far.” 

You glanced back at the door. Had he left? Was that him coming back in? How long had be been out? 

“Dalton, listen to me. Follow my voice.” 

With each passing tick of the clock you got more anxious. You wondered if you were too late. Your breathing became more labored as you sat there, starring at his face, begging it to move. “Dalton.” 

You knew shaking him did no good but you did it anyway. 

Renai could hear your speaking in the other room. Despite what Dalton said, she was also easy to rise. She had gotten into the habit when Kali was a baby, always able to easily identify her childrens voices. She knew it was yours immediately. She nudged Josh, who woke up after a couple pushes. 

They listened for a moment, making sure they weren’t going to enter some sort of scene they would never be able to unsee. But then your voice came again. 

“Dalton, follow my voice. I’m right here.” Renai knew the script well. It sent shivers down her spine to hear someone else say it. She quickly moved the covers aside and padded down the hallway to Dalton’s open door. She stood in the frame, Josh behind her. You were turned away, looking down, sitting practically on top of Dalton. Your voice, though stressed, was soothing. 

“Dalton I’m right here. Come back to me.” Renai was about to jump forward and start helping when Dalton sat up straight. He hit your head with his because he was moving so fast. You both groaned in pain.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, grabbing your cheeks. “Are you okay? Did I bruise you?” 

“No, no I’m okay,” you breathed. You let out a hefty sigh of relief. “Are you okay? You scared me!” 

“I’m fine, I’m okay,” he promised. “Followed your voice.” 

“Everything okay?” Josh asked. You both turned on a dime. You almost fell off the bed with the speed you were trying to get off Dalton. He still had his hand on your cheek and it fell just as quickly as he had put it there. 

“Yeah we’re fine.”

“Totally okay!” 

Your voices overlapped into a scrambled mess. 

“You’re still floating away?” Renai asked. She hadn’t heard anything about that. Josh was still grounded, as far as she knew. Dalton shook his head. 

“Not often,” he promised. “I think being back home triggered something.” He rubbed his eyes. “But I’m fine. We have a system.” 

“Yeah, just in case. I can usually tell because he starts to move things around when I’m sleeping,” you explained. “The door usually opens.” Renai nodded. She parted her lips, the fear dissipating. You had it handled. 

She was impressed. 

“Is that why you’re in the same bed then?” she questioned, eyebrow raised. Dalton rolled his eyes but you had the heart to laugh. 

“Sure mom.” Her gaze lingered. 

“You sure you’re alright? Do I need to quiz you on something?” she asked. 

“I’m fine,” Dalton promised. “No demons here.” 

“None over here either,” Josh promised. Renai scoffed. 

“Good to know.” She turned back towards the two of you. “It’s late. Get some sleep and stay in your shoes okay?” Dalton nodded quickly. She left the door wide open as she turned to leave but not after giving you one last look. 

“We could’ve used a system,” Josh mumbled. 

“Maybe we should get one,” Renai concluded. 

You turned back towards Dalton. 

“She let you stay.” 

“Yeah well, I think that was the astral projecting.” You laughed a bit. You were still reeling from the fear, even though you were trying not to show it. 

“Wanna grab a midnight snake or something? Just to shake off the demons?” He smiled, thinking of kissing you in his kitchen, the privacy something he wasn’t used to.

“I would love to.” 

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Can we get a ♡ "hey, hey, you're alright! it's okay, just calm down" with Lambert trying to calm down Aiden panicking when they have to cross deeper waters (thalassophobia? maybe they get stranded?), if you want to :)

Hope I did the prompt justice!!

Lambert finished tying his kit to Aiden's horse, freeing his own up to carry both Witchers before glancing over at the other. The Cat hadn't moved an inch in the last ten minutes, posture rigid as he stared at the wide, deep river with an expression suggesting he'd rather chew his own hand off whilst fear came off him in waves (which in turn hadn't made Lambert's task any easier seeing as it was making the horses skittish). It wasn't an ideal solution, but with the only bridge for miles in either direction having been washed away they had no choice - it was either this or add days onto a contract they desperately needed the coin from.

"Alright, everything's secure. You ready?"

"No. But the quicker we start the quicker we'll get to the other side right?" Aiden said, edging towards where Lambert was tethering both horses together like he was making his way to the chopping block, "So...how are we doing this. You in front, me in front...?"

"I have a bit of an idea. You trust me?"

"Stupid question. You know I do."

They'd barely even entered the water before Aiden's breathing was picking up, arms squeezing around Lambert's waist. It has taken a little manoeuvring but they'd ended up with Aiden sat in front, legs thrown over Lambert's as he sat facing towards him, the Wolf figuring it might help if Aiden had something (or in this case, someone) else to focus on besides the water separating them from the opposite bank.

Aiden bit back a whimper when the water reached the tops of their legs and by the time they reached the middle and both horses had had to resort to actually swimming across rather than wading Lambert was pretty sure the Cat had forgotten how to breathe.

Lambert let go of the reins, gripping tight with his thighs against the current as he wrapped both arms around Aiden. The other clearly hadn't been exaggerating his dislike of deep water but as far as Lambert was concerned he was totally justified. Having your village caught up in a flash flood as a kid and then spending three days clinging to the branches of a tall tree waiting for the water to recede whilst surrounded by various beasties making the most of the corpses (including those of your friends and family) and anyone feeling desperate enough to try and swim for it would definitely do that to a person.

He rubbed Aiden's back in what he hoped was a soothing manner, trying to banish the tremors running through the others body and also trying not to wince as Aiden's grip on him grew uncomfortably tight.

"Hey, hey, you're alright! It's okay, just calm down." He said, cursing internally at the little yelp Aiden let slip when their mount got caught in an undertow, briefly dunking all three of them below the surface.

"Aiden. Aiden, look at me." The Cat did as he was asked, eyes wide in panic, "We're over halfway, it's ok. You're ok. But I really need you to calm down and breathe for me before you pass out, alright. Breathe with me."

Aiden shook his head, "Can't."

"Yes, you can." Lambert tightened his hold on Aiden briefly, "I've got you. I'm not going to let anything happen. Just look at me, focus on me." He started taking deeper breaths, Aiden shakily trying to mimic him.

"That's it, you got it. Good Aiden, keep doing that. And we made it."

"Huh?" Aiden dared to glance down and sure enough the water was now only up to their ankles and getting lower as their horse picked its way up and out.

"You did it." Lambert pressed a quick kiss to Aiden's cheek, "Proud of you, Kitten. You doing ok?"

"I will be as soon as this fucking river is out of sight." He rest his forehead against Lambert's chest, "Please don't tell me we're going to have to do that on the way back too."

"It's...not unlikely?" Lambert tried, wincing as he tried his best to sound apologetic but knew it probably just came out more sarcastic, "You want me to stop and let you down?"

"Nope!" Aiden bought his legs up to wrap around Lambert's waist for emphasis.

Lambert chuckled, pressing another kiss to the top of Aiden's head this time, "Fair enough." After facing one of his worst fears, Aiden was entitled to all the cuddles he wanted and Lambert was more than happy to oblige.

[artistsfuneral]

part 15 - sorry it took a while

When he turns, Geralt is standing right behind him, golden eyes wide with something like shock as he rings for words. "Ciri. Her name is Ciri."

Jaskier gasps, a frsh wave of tears falling from his eyes, "What- ?" Once again it's all too much for him. The constant mix of hurt, pain and confusing hope makes his head feel weird and fuzzy. He just wants his husband back. His Geralt, his sweet lovely Geralt, who always says he cannot bear to see Jaskier in distress, who panics when he cries, who hugs him, holds him, tells him he's safe and that everything will be alright. He misses him so, so much. Never- never having that again, never having his Geralt again, makes him-

He tears his wrist out of this Geralt's grip and wipes away the salty tears that just won't stop streaming down his cheeks. "What?" He repeats again, more stammering than actually pronouncing the word.

Geralt isn't doing much better. "I uh-," he looks just as helplessly shocked as Jaskier feels, "I don't know, why I- Her name is Ciri, isn't it?" Jaskier nods, hiding his face behind his hands for a moment. He has no idea what on earth is going on. This has never happened before. At this point in time, Ciri shouldn't even be a thought and yet somehow Geralt knows her name. "She likes to dance," the witcher speaks slowly as if trying to piece something together in his mind. "She made Lambert slow dance with her. I- I don't know-," he lets out a long shaky breath. "Why do I know that?"

Jaskier shakes his head. "I don't know," he whispers, voice hoarse from his emotional outburst. "You never remembered anything before."

Geralt frowns. "How many times have you done this?"

"I don't know."

"Have you done anything differently this time? Said something, or done something? Playing around with Chaos is a terribly stupid idea!"

"I'm not stupid, okay?! Just because I have no idea why you can suddenly remember Ciri's name doesn't mean I jumped heads over heels into this mess!"

Geralt sighs again, looking at least somewhat remorseful as he apologizes quietly. "It just feels like you must've done something differently for me to... remember these things.

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[hidden-misthios]

Something in the Orange (part 3)

Pairing: Lambert x female!sorceress!reader

Word count: 3 427

Summary: When Geralt of Rivia disappears, Jaskier has no choice but to ask his best friend for help. Although struggling with her own issues, Y/N agrees and they join Vesemir and the others in Kaer Morhen. The search might be difficult but not as difficult as the certain redheaded witcher who keeps challenging her.

A/n: I’m sorry for the long wait AGAIN but the last two months were wild. Enjoy! 

Part 1 Part 2

After a couple of failed attempts, impatient mumbles from Ciri and words of encouragement from Jaskier, Y/N did it. The portal was right there in front of them. She felt dizzy and could feel her energy draining incredibly fast but she was awfully proud of herself. Making portals was always risky but this one seemed completely stable. The only problem is going to be keeping it open until everyone crosses.

“Go!” Y/N yells but no one looks like they are ready to go first.

Lambert, who was standing closest to the portal, moves a step back.

“I’m not going to be able to do this whole day. Go.” Y/N looks at him, keeping her arms steady in front of her.

“Why me? So you can close it as soon as I cross over?” he crosses arms. Y/N rolls her eyes and turns around to her best friend.

“Jaskier. Please.” she looks at him with hope in her eyes. Jaskier hesitates for a bit, but slowly nods.

As soon as he moves a step forward, Lambert scoffs and slightly shakes his head.

Jaskier doesn’t say anything but steps forward again.

“Fine, I’ll go first. Save your precious troubadour ass from potential downfall.” he says and steps forward, standing in Jaskier’s way. Jaskier slightly frowns at him, but doesn’t say anything, as if he’s trying to read his mind.

“Go!” Y/N repeats before both men could say anything else.

Lambert glances at her then steps in front of the portal. The portal makes a loud sound but nothing happens as Lambert’s hand slowly touches the dimmed veil. He hesitates for a second before finally stepping inside.

Y/N is holding her breath.

There’s no response from the portal when Lambert fully disappears. Portal is still stable. Y/N feels her heart beating like she just ran a marathon.

He crossed safely. He’s fine.

“Next!” she says, her voice shaky.

Jaskier, who was already on his way when Lambert stopped him, moves forward again.

His fits are nervously clenched but he looks determined.

Once he’s gone, the rest of the group looks a bit more certain now. Portal is still stable, but Y/N feels the energy shifting slightly. Ciri moves closer as soon as Jaskier is through.

“We will have to speed things up a bit.” Y/N tells Vesemir when Ciri crosses over without a word.

She could feel the portal taking more and more energy from her. Y/N wasn’t sure was Ciri’s magic somehow to be blamed for that but she didn’t want to question it any longer.

Vesemir nods and moves forwards immediately. He knew what this meant. Portal was going to be unstable soon.

As Vesemir passes through, Y/N feels something warm on her lips. Her nose was already bleeding.

Shit.

She still had Coen and herself to go through. Portal could go unstable any minute now.

“Coen, wait!” she calls for him. The witcher halts and turns to her. “We need to go together!” she tells him, with hint of panic in her voice.

Coen is visibly confused but nods in silence. He joins her and slowly they start to approach the portal. Y/N’s arms are slightly shaking at this point and her vision is getting blurry.

Come on, you can do this.

As they are about to enter, portal suddenly shatters.

“Jump!” Y/N screams, flinging herself towards. The white light surrounds her and forces her to close her eyes.

The pressure inside her own mind is insane. It lasts only for couple of seconds and then suddenly Y/N feels the ground beneath her and the heaviness is gone. She dares to open her eyes, fully prepared for the worst.

But there she is, standing in front of small rescue group.

Relief hits her and she falls down on her knees. All of her energy was gone. It’s going to take days before she’s fully healed. The energy drained from her by the portal was equivalent to an entire month's worth of effort for an oneiromancer’s work.

Jaskier runs towards her, grabbing her around the shoulders.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” brushing the blood off her lips. Jaskier immediately offers her a handkerchief and Y/N takes it.

“Where is Coen?” Lambert asks. Y/N looks at him and then around herself. He wasn’t there. Her heart sinks.

“Where is he?!” Lambert asks, this time, much louder. Y/N manages to stand up with Jaskier’s help.

“He didn’t-”

Lambert is standing in front of her, lifting his arms and aiming for Y/N’s shoulders. Or neck. Y/N couldn’t be too sure.

Whatever his goal was, Lambert was stopped by Vesemir, who suddenly appeared by his right side.

“That’s enough, let her explain.” Vesemir gives him a warning look. “Y/N.” he looks at her now.

“Coen should be just fine. He didn’t jump on time so the portal closed in front of him.” Y/N says, finally leaning on her own feet without Jaskier’s help. Her friend still stood near, monitoring her every movement. “He is unharmed. Probably just upset he didn’t cross over.” she adds.

“If he’s not-”

“Oh, won’t you give me a break! I just held the portal open for 5 people. He is alive and well!” Y/N snaps at redheaded witcher. Lambert’s brows furrowed but he didn’t say anything this time. He turns his back on her in utter silence.

“Now…where are we?” Jaskier quietly asks, looking around. Everyone else does the same. Unfortunately, there isn't much to go on. The eerie woodland lay shrouded in an ethereal mist, its gnarled trees stretching their skeletal branches toward an ominous sky. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and moss. Jaskier, who was still standing next to Y/N, slightly trembles when a distant howl fills their ears.

“Maybe it’s just me, but this doesn’t look like Hengfors.” Ciri mumbles. Y/N feels the wave of shame overwhelm her. She really believed she was powerful enough to do this right.

It was still an early morning but the dense, dark clouds hindered the sunlight from piercing through. With each passing moment, the mist enveloping them grew denser and heavier.

“No, but we have to find our way there.” Vesemir adds calmly. Y/N slowly makes a step forward and approaches him.

“I’m sorry-” Y/N says. Vesemir’s yellow eyes stared at her with a piercing gaze. “Do not apologize, Y/N. You helped us.”

“We don’t even know where we are.” Y/N says feeling the slight dizziness overcome her again.

“We will get to the closest town. We should head west.” he says, this time to the whole group, which meant their discussion was over.

Vesemir took the lead and Ciri followed, tightly gripping the hilt of her silver sword.

Y/N nervously swallowed. Despite taking a deep breath, the dizziness persisted. She wouldn’t dare to stop the group for her own troubles. She had to walk.

Jaskier, who remained by her side, regarded her with a gaze filled with concern. Y/N felt even worse. She didn’t want anyone’s pity for her own failure.

“I’m fine. We should go.” she tells him.

“Can you walk?” he asks, obviously not convinced. Y/N nods and takes a few steps forward. The bard lets out a sigh, refraining from uttering a word, and began trailing behind Ciri.

Y/N's attention was drawn to Lambert's figure, catching a glimpse of him behind her with the corner of her eye. She didn’t like him walking behind her but had no energy or desire to fight him again.

The group walked in a tranquil silence, enveloped by the ambient sounds of nature that surrounded them. Even Jaskier remained quiet, occupied with his own thoughts and worries about their current location.

But no one blamed Y/N. Not even the red headed witcher at the end of the line.

Y/N fixated on her own steps, each one proving more difficult than the last. All she wanted now was to lay down and sleep for days.

***

After a few hours of (mostly) silent walking, the landscape around them began to change - woodland was replaced by eerie swamp. Y/N took a deep breath. The air became infused with a pungent aroma, carrying the unmistakable scent of decaying vegetation and stagnant water that defined the wetland.

Muscles in Y/N’s legs were screaming. Her whole body did. She had reached the point where she truly didn't know how much longer she could continue walking. When she finally raised her gaze from the ground, which had captivated her attention for the past half hour, she came to the realization that she had fallen behind. Jaskier now walked at least 10 meters ahead of her, leaving her with the undeniable awareness that her pace had slowed down.

“We have to pick up the pace. We don't want to be trapped in a swamp when it gets dark.” Vesemir shouted from upfront. Lambert, who was still walking behind Y/N quietly, didn’t say anything, but Y/N heard his steps getting closer to her now. When he finally bypassed her, Y/N felt helpless. Her own feet were betraying her. She struggled to focus on each step, but her vision was blurring with every moment.

She abruptly stopped. At last, her body yielded to the unforgiving grasp of exhaustion, and her knees crumpled to the ground with a muffled thud. Y/N’s eyes already closed when she felt someone’s hands catch her around her waist.

As her consciousness slipped away, she was embraced by the sudden darkness.

***

She slowly regained consciousness, her eyelids fluttering open to reveal the unfamiliar surroundings. Groggy and disoriented, Y/N took a deep breath, feeling her body gradually come back to life.

“Y/N!” she heard a familiar voice next to her. She moves her head to the side. Jaskier lowered himself into a crouch beside her, immediately helping her to sit up. Y/N looks around.

By the sound surrounding them, she was sure they were still in the wetlands. A disappointed sigh escaped her lips.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jaskier asks her, monitoring her face as if she was about to faint again.

“I didn’t want us to stop walking.” she mutters, trying to get up on her unsteady feet. It was pitch darkness around them, the only light sources were small lanterns placed around their improvised campsite.

“Sit down! We won't be going anywhere until morning.” he scolds her.

“Jaskier, I’m fine. We can go.”

“That’s what you said the last time and then fainted into that revolting mud.” he retorted with a tinge of frustration in his voice.

Suddenly Y/N remembers the last moment before the world blackened in front of her eyes. She instinctively touches her waist, as if expecting to still feel the lingering touch of hands upon it.

“But you got me. I didn’t fell.” she says, unsure in her own words. Was it Jaskier?  Or was she imagining the whole thing?

“I-I didn’t.” Jaskier says reluctantly, his eyes suddenly looking away from her. Y/N frowns.

“Jaskier…”

“Fine! It was him!” he finally confessed, lowering his voice. Then his gaze shifted to Y/N’s left side. She slowly turns her head.

Lambert.

He rested against a fallen ash tree; arms crossed over his chest with his head slightly bowed down. He was asleep. Or at least looked like he was. Y/N wasn’t even sure if witchers ever properly slept.

“Him?” Y/N whispers but there was panic in her voice.

“Yes, him.” Jaskier says impatiently, still looking at the redheaded witcher. “He carried you for an hour without a word. When I insisted that I should be the one to carry you, he told me to get lost. Can you imagine!” he says, not even bothering to hide his reluctance.

Just as Y/N was about to voice her complaint, the witcher's sudden movement startle them both, causing them to jerk back in surprise.

“In fact, I believe my exact words were ‘sod off’.” Lambert mutters to Jaskier, but his gaze is pierced on Y/N. Y/N’s mouth open but she’s speechless.

Why on earth would he carry me?

Jaskier stood up. With an indignant huff, he straightened his posture. "Well then, aren't you a delightful specimen of manners." he retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Lambert glances at him with a sardonic smirk, clearly amused. “Happy to be of service.”

“Alright, now that’s settled...” Y/N interveners, still feeling uncomfortable. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere near Creyden or Luton. Braa river is this way.” Lambert turns the point of his dagger to the north.” We won’t be sure until the morning.”

Y/N took a moment to realize where they are. “So…I didn’t mess up.”

“What do you mean ‘mess up?” Jaskier asks with confusion. Y/N finally manages to get up on her own feet. She located her leather bag just a few steps away from her. Thankfully, she carried a map with her!

“Hengfors,” she exclaims optimistically as she crouched down, “is just right behind us.” Y/N lowers the map on the somewhat of a flat stone. With a quick motion, she straightens the crumpled piece of paper. Jaskier and Lambert appear beside her, each holding a lantern to illuminate the map.

“If your assumptions are right, we should be right here.” she points to a blank part of the paper, surrounded by four cities – Blaviken, Luton, Jamurlak and Hengfors.

“Fuck.” Lambert quietly says, turning around. Y/N’s optimism suddenly vanishes.

“Isn’t that good? We know where we are.” she asks, standing up again. Lambert doesn’t look at her, but somewhere in the black void that was surrounding them.

“These roads are feeding grounds for kikimoras.” he mutters, as the flickering glow of the lantern bounced off the contours of his stern face.

“Of course they are.” Jaskier anxiously uttered his words, his throat tight with tension.

Y/N felt the chills down her spine. She never encountered any monsters. She had no idea how to fight. She didn’t need to do that in Novigrad anyway.

“I’m sure you have plenty of experience in fighting monsters with Geralt, bard.” Lambert mocks him, lowering the lantern on the ground.

“Actually I’m- “

“Don’t answer that.” Y/N interrupts him. “Where are Ciri and Vesemir?” she decides to change the subject.

“They are taking turns guarding the camp.” Lambert answers and settles down on the very same tree where Y/N first spotted him when she woke up. “My shift just ended so excuse me for a next hour or two.”

Y/N and Jaskier return to the spot where Y/N woke up and they sit down on her bedroll.

“You should sleep too, you know.” Y/N tells her friend. Jaskier shakes his head immediately. 

“Not a chance. I’ll watch over you.”

 “I just woke up. You should be the one sleeping.” she insists.

“I’m not-”

“You don’t own me anything, Jaskier.” she gently nudges his arm, smiling at her friend.

“I do. And least I can do is let you sleep.”

“You won’t be of any use to me tomorrow if you’re going to be tired.” Y/N continues. Jaskier lets out a sigh. Heavy-lidded and burdened with the weight of exhaustion, his eyes were veiled by a haze of fatigue.

“Fine. But only for a few minutes.” he says, leaning against the log behind him. “Promise you’ll wake me up.”

***

Y/N, of course, did not wake up the bard. She sat there, surrounded by the darkness of the eerie swamp and just watched. Her surroundings were mostly quiet – occasional hoots or croaking from shallow waters. The night seemed peaceful which calmed her nerves.

As the early light of dawn emerged on the horizon, Vesemir and Ciri made their way back to their camp. Despite their appearance of alertness, Y/N knew that the lack of rest was taking its toll on them.

“Someone’s finally awake.” Ciri says with a mocking tone, but the smile on her face was friendly.

“I’m sorry-”

"Pay no attention to her, Y/N," Vesemir softly adds, tossing a flask full of water towards the girl. Ciri catches it swiftly, gulping down half of it in an instant. Older witcher walks over to Y/N and gazes at the slumbering bard. Jaskier's mouth is slightly ajar, emitting gentle snores as he rests peacefully.

“Not quite a guardian, that one.”

“I told him to sleep.” Y/N explains and finally gets up on her feet. She felt safer now when they were all together again. Ciri joined Lambert, gently tapping him on the shoulders. Witcher instantly opened his eyes and looked at the group surrounding him.

It was time to move.

Few hours and lots of kilometres later, they finally saw signs of civilization. The sun had risen high in the sky, yet it offered little warmth. Vesemir and Ciri were leading the group, but even their firm steps started to slow down after a while. Jaskier was awfully quiet again, but Y/N knew better than to ask questions.

And behind her, there was Lambert again.

From time to time, Y/N swore she could feel his gaze but when she subtly turned around to check, he wasn’t looking. It was annoying and distracting, she realized, but there was nothing to say or do without starting another fight with stubborn man.

It was late afternoon when they finally reached the city of Luton. If such a place could even be called city, Y/N thought. At the core of the city lay a bustling and malodorous port, where the constant cries of seagulls filled the air, circling overhead as they mingled with the scent of the sea.

Vesemir suddenly stops and turns around to face the group.

“Alright. This is where we split up. Ciri-” he turns to the girl “Find us a supply shop. Herbs, oils, whatever you can think of.”

Ciri nods and leaves, not waiting for other instructions. Y/N is nervously looking around, not really sure if splitting up is good idea.

“Jaskier.” Vesemir turns to face the bard. Jaskier clears his throat and steps forward as he was waiting for his instructions. “Find us a quiet inn for tonight. Not too crowded nor too empty. Somewhere we won’t draw attention. Find me here in an hour.”

“Got it.” Jaskier nods quickly, looks around a few times and then leaves in the same direction where Ciri left just few seconds ago. Y/N knew it was her turn now.

Vesemir turns to her, with a soft look in his eyes. “Y/N. You’re going to snoop around. Look for the notice boards. Eavesdrop for the stories about our whereabouts. If someone is looking for us, we have less time than we thought.” he says, occasionally glancing around. Y/N suddenly straightens her back, as she feels chills going down her spine.

“Where should I meet you?” she asks quietly.

“We will find you after everything is prepared.” Vesemir says. Y/N quietly nods and decides to follow Ciri’s and Jaskier’s direction.

“Oh, and Y/N.” Vesemir adds before she has the chance to make another step forward. “Take Lambert with you.”

Both Y/N and Lambert groan.

“I can do this on my own, Vesemir.” Y/N says. Vesemir’s eyes suddenly darken.

“Can you? Could you defeat a drunkard who wants to fight you? Would you find a thief who steals your bag or money? “He asks her, his voice suddenly colder. Y/N suddenly feels ashamed and doesn’t know what to answer. She was a sorceress. If things got out of hand she could always rely on her magic. But she knew that would be the end of her. This wasn’t Novigrad – and magic wasn’t welcomed here.

“And you” suddenly he turns to Lambert. “Stay out of trouble. Keep an eye on Y/N. And don’t draw attention to yourselves.”

Lambert looks at Y/N and then back to Vesemir. “Got it.” he mutters and joins Y/N.

“What about-” Lambert was about to ask, but when he turned around again to face Vesemir, he was already out of sight. “Fast for an old man.” he mutters and faces Y/N. He looks at her for couple of seconds and sighs.

“What?” she asks, even more nervous now when he was completely focused on her.

“You’re not good at this, you know.” Lambert says and approaches her. Y/N freezes when his hands move towards her shoulders. He grabs the edges of her coat and pulls the hood over her head. Y/N frowns a little.

“Of course I’m not! I generally don’t waste my days hiding around foul-smelling cities or looking for kidnapped witchers.” she finally says, crossing arms on her chests.

“Well today is your lucky day, your highness.” he grins and pulls hood over his own head as well.

“Let’s go.”

[rommahh]

{this show was off the walls. He looked so good. And the energy was just??}

You stood uncomfortably at your flights gate with Harry. After being with Harry for five shows, your anxiety had reached a peak leaving you to be faced with one of your worst panic attacks before the St. Louis show. Harry didn’t want you to feel so much mental pressure so he suggested that you go home, he even bought you a ticket without consulting with you.

Your shoulders were tense as you stood rigid next to Harry. You were beyond upset and sad. You felt like a burden who being sent away to make everyone else feel better.

“Love, it will be ok. I’ll see you in two weeks for the Nashville show.” Harry comments watching your face scrunch up withholding the tears. “I just want you to see your therapist for a few days.”

“I don’t wanna go. It was one panic attack. Ive done fine every other night and on the bus.” You huff not making eye contact with Harry. “You’re just sending me away.”

Harry feels his heart break in two. “That’s not-“

“We are now welcoming our first class passengers.” He was cut off by the attendant. You grab your duffle on the ground, opening your phone to the electronic ticket. You moved to get in the line but Harry was quick to grab your arm to stop you. You couldn’t stop the tears from welling in your eyes at the look of hurt on his face.

“You’re not even gonna say goodbye?” He whispers.

“Why should I? You said it for me when you purchased the ticket without even talking to me about it. I’ll call you when I land, I love you and goodbye.” You snatched your arm away, rushing to the slowly growing line of passengers.

Harry watched in defeat as you trudged onto the bridge that boarded onto the plane. You felt those traitorous tears push past the surface, your feet feeling like they were dragging behind you- wanting you to go back to your heart.

The entire flight home was painful. All hours spent on the flight looking lifelessly out of the window. Harry put you in first class but none of the comfortable perks could make you happy.

It was weird to walk back into your home with no one there walking in with you or even waiting for you. The house was dark and quiet and you felt scared to even be in the stupid beach side mansion all alone. Times like this made you regret moving in with Harry. This house only felt like home when he was there, any other time felt like your own personal solitary confinement.

Hey lovie, hope you’re flight went well. Having groceries delivered to the house for you. I love you and miss you. Xxx H.

You scoffed. That anger from before bubbling within you. He misses you? You left him on read, the pettiness easing the anger.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up at the small read notification under his sent message. He waited a few moments thinking maybe you just forgot to press send. Minutes turned to hours and hours turned into the next day.

You sat at the dining room table watching the waves eat up the sand and pull granules away at a time. Your laptop sat in front of you after you finished a telehealth therapy appointment. A ring sounded from the laptop signaling that someone was FaceTiming you.

Harry’s icon popped up in the corner of the screen. You hesitated before answering. You couldn’t bare to look at yourself in the camera knowing you looked a mess. Your eyes swollen from the sobbing during therapy. Harry thought you looked beautiful nonetheless.

“Good morning baby.” He broke the silence.

“Hi.” Was all you could muster. This wasn’t the two of you. You both would normally fill a space with sound and giggles and now it was just silence.

“How did you sleep?” He asks. He looked as disheveled as you. Hair messy, face red and puffy.

“Fine.” You didn’t look at him, playing with the frayed edges of your Live on Tour hoodie. Harry huffed in frustration.

“Is this how it will be from now on?” He snapped. Your head snapped up out of shock.

“You’re getting at me like somethings my fault!” You snapped back.

“Well, we didn’t leave on the right foot.”

“You sent me away!” You retaliate.

“No, I did not. You had a panic attack before I went on stage. I had to come on stage late because I was consoling you.”

You flinched at his comment and tone of voice.

“So it’s my fault? I can’t control the panic attacks. It wasn’t like I conjured one up for attention.” His lack of response broke you. “Really?”

“No, I don’t think you did it for attention but it’s a lot Y/N. I want to take you on tour with me but it’s a lot for me and you know it’s a lot for you.” He tries. His words hurt though. You’ve felt like a burden your entire life and to feel that way because of the love of your life hurts even more.

“Ok. Um, I have to go.” You choke out. Harry shakes his head, the weight of his words catching up with you.

“I didn’t mean it in that way. I love you and I only want to protect you.”

“Yeah, protect me by sending me away when things get tough. I’m sorry for being a burden Harry.” You hang up before he could get the last word in.

Harry sat on his hotel bed shocked. He doesn’t know how things escalated the way they did. He made her feel like a burden. His body racks with sobs as he thinks of how his love must be feeling.

The day of Harry’s Philly show you felt uneasy. You didn’t like not being with Harry. You got so used to your preshow rituals with him. It hurt to be left out after being so involved.

Harry felt the same way. His regret evident in the way that he couldn’t stop blowing up your phone with short apologies and messages. He woke up alone in the hotel room on the day of a show feeling like utter crap.

His stomach was in knots and his heart couldn’t stop pounding. Normally before a show you both would share a light meal and have small discussions about nothing. You both would take silly selfies together or watch tiktoks. But now it was just Harry.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, impulsively clicking your contact to face time.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up…” He mutters. He lets out a sigh of relief when your face reveals.

“Hi, Harry.” You murmur, your face squished into a pillow, his pillow because it smells good.

“Hi-hi baby.” He stutters fidgeting in his seat.

“What do you need?”

“I need you. You’re not a burden. I want you here, not there but here. I have a show in a few hours and all I can think about is how you’re not here with me.” He cries. You sit up in the bed, tearing up watching your boyfriend cry. His shoulders shook with the sobs that wracked through his chest.

“Harry, please breathe. Your gonna hurt yourself.” You try to calm him down but can tell it’s not working.

“Come back.” He whimpers.

“I-I think I’m going to stay home until Nashville. We both need a breather from each other and I know I need to see my psychiatrist and probably get some new anxiety medication. Which will take the two weeks to kick in you know?” You reason. Harry wiped his face of tears nodding understandingly.

“Ok. I miss you though. I fucked up horribly by making you feel less than. I know you’re not a burden and I’d do anything for you. The stress of tour is starting to weigh on me and I took it out in you when I shouldnt have. I also thought I was keeping you safe by sending you home, but I shouldn’t have done that. Because we are a team, I shouldn’t be making choices for you.”

“Thank you for apologizing. I understand why you did what you did. You were trying to protect me, I know. I love you Bubby.” Harry felt his world come back together at the nickname, a signal that you two would be alright. “You have a show in like three hours, you need to get ready. Eat some food, drink water please, and I’ll go and scroll through TikTok and send you all of my faves ok?”

“Ok. Thank you for being everything to me. I couldn’t do what I do today if I didn’t have you in my life.” Harry’s sincerity made your heart swell.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. We will be alright. Now go!” You urged him to hang up the phone. He gave you one last smile before hanging up.

Watching Harry through some Instagram live wasn’t what you had planned for but it felt good to see him. He even wore the outfit you picked out with Harry lambert, the blue and pink paying homage to fine line. You’re heart gushes when he tells the crowd that he’s feeling really happy.

The next day you have another therapy appointment with your regular therapist, you even phone in Harry to join the call. You felt warm on the inside as your therapist reassured that you and Harry’s relationship was on the right path. She even said that you and Harry were meant to be together.

She didn’t have to tell Harry that for him to already know that information. I mean he had the ring sitting in his pocket to prove it.

[fandom-junk-drawer]

The Witcher Headcanon - Trouble Bonus Scene: Interlude 1

I wasn't ready to let go of baby!jaskier just yet. I'm thinking of writing more of these interludes as I think of more little baby!jaskier bonus scene ideas.

So here's the first one!

Pretty much what happened before the Witchers reached Yennefer's house.

Geralt is sitting by the fire, cleaning his sword, when Eskel comes crashing back through the trees, yelling his head off.

He's holding a baby, and is almost as white as a sheet.

Confusion swept through the camp.Where did Eskel get a baby from? Did he kidnap it? What is a baby doing out in the middle of the woods?

The first thing out of Lambert's mouth was "Good gods, Eskel, you can't just take a random baby you find in the woods! It's probably Fae! Go put it back where you found it before the mother comes after us!"

"IT'S JASKIER, YOU JACKA**! He's been cursed!"

*chorus of swearing*

"D*mn it, Eskel! You were supposed to be watching him!"

"I was! We were gathering firewood! He said he had to take a sh*t!"

"You weren't supposed to let him go off by himself!"

"I didnt'! He went like, ten feet into the bushes!"

"So you did let him go off by himself!"

"Oh, f**k you sideways with a blackthorn branch, Lambert! What was I supposed to do, stand right behind him and watch?!"

"F**k, Yennefer is going to kill us!" Coen moaned

"Shhhh! Shut your gob!" Lambert whispered fiercely in near panic, "Don't say her name out loud! You might f***ing summon her here!"

Geralt might have rolled his eyes as he took his miniature bard from Eskel, but he also refrained from mentioning her by name. You could never be too careful.

The camp was enveloped in tense silence.

"She doesn't have to know..."

All eyes turned to Geralt in an odd combination of surprise and hope. "We don't have to tell her. We can just stop at the next town and get their mage to break the curse."

"Yeah, yeah!" Coen said excitedly, " We can fix this ourselves! She never has to know. And we all get to live!"

There was a murmur of enthusiastic agreement. They decided that first thing in the morning, they were heading for the nearest town. For now, they had to figure out what to do with baby Jaskier.

The only experience most of them had with children, was trying to get away as quickly as possible from their frightened screams.

Babies were even harder to figure out. They couldn't talk. You just had to guess what the noises and various smells meant.

Then Coen voiced a very valid concern. "How are we going to feed him?" Everyone froze. "I mean, most babies don't eat solid food, right? Their mum's feed them. But we don't have a mum handy, so..." There was some uncomfortable shifting.

"We could always go find a mum and-!"

"We aren't going to steal a mum, Lambert!"

"I was going to say 'And ask her what to do' you c*ckwomble!"

"Wait, wait! He's got teeth!" Eskel said, after feeling inside Jaskier's mouth.

The Witchers: *relieved sighs*

Eskel felt something warm start soaking into his shirt. He thrust Jaskier out at arm's length and quickly turned him away from him. Witchers scattered to avoid the stream.

Eskel made the mistake of setting him down so Coen could rinse him off. Jaskier took a few toddling steps while Coen brought over a waterskin. "Aww, look, he can wal--!" Eskel began, and then ended with a curse as Jaskier took off, squealing and giggling.

He wasn't moving very fast, but it was hard for the Witchers to catch him. How could a child that could barely walk be so hard to catch?

The problem wasn't that he was fast; he could barely manage a stumbling run. The problem was that the Witchers were terrified that they were going to fall on him and crush him.

They just sort of hovered over him, following at a slow, awkward shuffling crouch, as they tried to herd him to where they wanted him. He kept slipping by them, toddling between their legs or pivoting in a random direction while they desperately tried not to trip on him.

No one really wanted to try to grab him by an arm, just in case they accidentally pulled it off. Babies were delicate, after all! No one wanted to be the one to have to explain to Yennefer why her Bardling was missing an arm.

He was rounded up after what felt like an eternity of close calls with the fire, pointy weapons, and assorted dangerous camp equipment.

Geralt and Eskel tied a rag round Jaskier's bottom while Lambert and Coen worked on cooking the rabbits they had caught earlier.

Jaskier started getting fussy, and kept squirming and whining. He ate a little of the rabbit and then clung to Geralt moodily.

"Gods, he whines and fusses as much as he did as a grown man!" Lambert remarked, covering his ears as the tiny bard cried.

"And he's just as clingy," Eskel added teasingly, earning a glower from Geralt. The white haired Witcher said nothing, but noted that Jaskier felt a little warm. But then again, babies were supposed to be warm, right?

He smelled different too. Was he sick? Was that a normal smell for babies?

Geralt put him down for a nap in a crib made from their saddles and a blanket. He thought they would have an hour or two to relax and fine tune their Fix It Before Yennefer Finds Out Plan, but, alas, it was not meant to be.

Lambert looked up from where he was poking at the fire to see that Jaskier had escaped the saddle pen, and was vomiting right by Roach's feet...

Roach leaned down and sniffed at the tiny human that had toddled unsteadily up to her. Her ears pricked forward as his hands patted at her nose. It smelled like Jaskier, but the human in front of her was little more than a foal.

She smelled the scent of magic on him. Ah, Witcher Business. Geralt would handle that part.

Roach was concerned. Jaskier was too little to be out on his own, and the Witchers didn't seem to be aware that he was wandering loose. She would just have to take care of him herself.

Besides, she'd always liked Jaskier. He annoyed Geralt (which amused her), he always gave her treats when Geralt wasn't looking, and he would always scratch that one itchy spot she could never reach.

The mare gently herded the foal against her leg when he tried to wander past her.

Foal Jaskier made a distressed sound and threw up at her feet. Then he started wailing. Roach nosed at him, trying to comfort him. She could smell that he was ill.

That was when the red haired Witcher shouted and hurried over.

Lambert, still shouting, ran over, reaching for Jaskier, and had to backpedal fast. Roach laced backed her ears, arched her neck and lunged forward, pawing and squealing angrily, putting herself between Lambert and Jaskier. Lambert barely avoided her teeth as she snapped at him.

Roach was not going to let this brute hurt this precious foal while she was around! No, sir! Mama Roach was not going to stand for it!

Lambert cursed and retreated when Roach turned her hindquarters to him, stamping and threatening to mule kick him into next month if he came any closer. The Witcher backed off and let Geralt deal with his b*tchy mare.

Geralt just walked up, ignoring Roach's posturing and snorting, and gathered the crying toddler into his arms. Roach backed off. She and Geralt both knew she wasn't going to do a d*mn thing to stop him. Geralt gave her a pat and told her she was a Good Girl for protecting Jaskier and promised he'd get her an apple from the market.

Geralt held the fussing baby while his brothers set up a small tent. He tried to get Jaskier to drink some of the broth from the stew, but he kept turning his head away.

Geralt knew babies often threw up, but he was still starting to worry. Was he sick, or had he just swallowed too much air while he'd been eating? Was that a thing? Was he supposed to have burped him? Did he even need to be burped? Was that normal baby warmth, or was it fever?

He finally took him into the tent and managed to get him to sleep. Geralt dozed off at some point, but was awakened when Jaskier started to cry. The Witcher groggily sat up, thinking the toddler had dirtied the rag diaper.

Then he smelled it. The inside of the tent was filled with the sour reek of bile. Jaskier was hot when Geralt touched him.

F**K!

Geralt's oath drew the attention of his brothers, and they turned to see Geralt scrambling out of the tent, holdng the feverish child.

"We need to leave. Now." Geralt rumbled, yellow eyes filled with worry as the Witchers gathered around him. "There's something wrong with him!"

"Let's get him to the Healer in Aldersberg, it's closer-!" Eskel began.

"No," Geralt said quickly, cutting him off. He grimaced as if biting into sour fruit, "We need real help..."

The Witchers all cringed and shifted uncomfortably. They knew they were probably riding to their collective gruesome deaths, but they rushed to break camp.

Jaskier threw up on Lambert while he was holding him so Geralt could saddle an impatiently stamping Roach. It smelled foul, and Lambert nearly threw up too. Inspite of the smell, he didn't stop to change his shirt, he just handed Jaskier up to Geralt and silently mounted up.

Minutes later, they were riding hard for Vengerberg.

The party stopped only to let the horses rest, and to try to get Jaskier's fever down. The baby bard drank a little of the milk they had bought while passing through Aldersberg, and then projectile vomited on Lambert.

The red-haired Witcher, though somewhat exasperated, had nevertheless been a tiny bit impressed. He'd only ever seen grown men spew like that. He changed his shirt, and soaked the clean parts in water to run over Jaskier's face and back, trying to cool him down.

One of Geralt's spare shirts was torn up and used as a diaper after they had to stop so Geralt could change his pants when his lap was abruptly soaked in 'the brown water'.

His face went whiter than his hair. Geralt's soul tried to yeet itself from his body in self-defense. The stink, the warm, oozing wetness, the runny, mushy consistency...

0/10 would not want to do that again. Ever.

He wordlessly passed the dripping baby to Coen, then slid from the saddle and went to change his pants, arms held away from his body and moving in a slow shuffle, walking as if broom handles had been shoved up both pant legs

Roach and the other horses stood by watching curiously as their riders made various exclamations of horror and disgust, as the sopping rag slid down the screaming foal's legs and landed with a wet splat in the grass. They began running to and fro in agitated panic as they tried to deal with the messy blow out.

The brown haired one was trying to carry the soiled rag away on the end of an awkwardly long stick, while the bald one held the foal out at arm's length while looking both lost and disgusted. The red haired one tried to clean the foal off by pouring water on him while trying to stay as far away as possible.

The brown haired one came back and reluctantly tried to assist as the other two tried to clean foal Jaskier off by wetting him down and dragging his botton through the grass.

Roach's Geralt returned from changing into his spare trousers, and rescued the indignantly screeching foal from the three idiots. He wiped him off with a vomit stained shirt, then wrestled him into the makshift diaper.

The Witchers got the bright idea to stuff the new rag diaper with big wads of grass. The result was a bulky, lumpy, messy affair that made Jaskier look like he had a comically large bum that was sprouting grass in some places. It wasn't pretty, but it would do for the remainder of the ride.

They were quite pleased with themselves. The haphazard design ended up being a stroke of genious. When ever Jaskier dirtied the diaper, all they had to do was dump the grass out and stuff it with more!

Roach died a little inside at the waste of every perfectly good handful of grass that was stuffed into the diaper.

Jaskier spent most of the journey fussing or sleeping fitfully. By the time they could see the gates of Vengerberg, he had been crying almost non-stop. They rode fast throught the streets, letting the crowds get out of the way as best they could.

After what seemed like a harrowing eternity they were jumping from their saddles and crowding around Yennefer's front door.

There they hesitated for just a moment, looking at eachother with varying degrees of dread. This was it. Take one last look at your brothers, boys, because we are all going to die. But at least we are going to go out together!

Geralt nodded to his brothers, then bravely stepped forward and started pounding on the door and shouting for Yennefer.

They heard the ominous sound of the witch's bootheels on the floor. It sounded like a Death Knell. Doom was approaching! They instinctively drew closer together, and then the front door was flying open and Yennefer was snarling "Oh, gods, not you f**kwits! What the h*ll do you want?"

And then Geralt, his face a mask of worry, was rumbling helplessly "Yen, you've got to help him!"

[the-butch-of-blaviken]

Finally saw what happens if you fail to save Lambert’s life during the battle of Kaer Morhen (because i kept trying to forget that this is something that can actually happen in the game) and i’m having Thoughts about Lambert, still full of rage and grief after Aiden’s death and having lost the only thing that kept him going (his months-long quest of avenging him), trying to get himself killed at the swords of the Wild Hunt, whether it was a conscious decision on his part or not; Lambert putting himself in more danger than he needs to, seeing himself surrounded and waiting for his survival instinct to kick in only to realize that this is what he’s been waiting for. There’s no panic, no urge to fight back. He relaxes as he embraces his nearing death and lowers his sword, not even pretending to have any fight left in him.

But Keira sees him. It didn’t take a lot for her to diagnose Lambert with a broken heart and depressive tendencies; it takes even less to put two and two together as she watches the scene unfold beneath her. She already has a soft spot for him but she also won’t become complicit in someone else’s suicide if she can help it; so she saves him. It’s not even difficult, even if she is starting to feel out of breath. Lambert gets back on his feet and nods at her. She sees no gratitude in his eyes, only acknowledgement. An understanding. He knows she knows. The first spark of something more. Later, when the keep has gone quiet again, he’ll tell her that he hopes she’s not expecting him to thank her. “I didn’t do it for your thanks” is not exactly what she wants to reply but it’s close enough and it won’t make him run away. Baby steps; she’s patient and there’s nothing she likes more than a challenge.

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part I

Ahh I can’t believe it’s finally done! After a year of working on this beast, it’s finally ready for me to share. This is something I started way back last summer, and I decided to finish it as my project for this year’s @geraskierbigbang. It will be ten parts in total, and I will post one part per day until it is complete! There are several art pieces that were created by the wonderful @herostag​ and Miranda.draws for this story, which I will link when the appropriate section is posted. For a summary and further links, please see the masterpost.

Next | Ao3 | Masterpost

“Alright,” Geralt said. “Don’t laugh at me.”

Yennefer looked up at him with bright eyes, curious and already mirthful. She was sitting across from him in his quarters, reading through a tome she’d found in Kaer Morhen’s disheveled library. Geralt had just come from a bath after hours spent training Ciri in the yard, and the room was filled with the warm evening light, supplemented by the fire crackling in the hearth. Yennefer had insisted on carting dozens of tapestries and drapes to hang around the drafty keep, and the room was nearly stuffy with their bulk keeping the heat in.

Yennefer gave him an amused smirk. “I will make no such promises before I even know what you’re going to say.” The gentle teasing brought a fond smile to Geralt’s face. After the events of the mountain all those years ago, things had been understandably tense. Yennefer had been reluctant to join them when she had finally met up with Geralt after Sodden, but had eventually agreed to seek refuge in the witchers’ keep and teach Ciri to control her magic. Once she’d met the girl it had all been a wash; it was clear as soon as their eyes met across the room that Yennefer was as much a part of Ciri’s destiny as Geralt was.

Geralt had expected that to either mend the rift between them enough for things to go back to the way things were, or make things even more awkward. Instead, they found themselves in a sort of in-between. Over the years his affection for Yennefer had only grown, but he found himself looking to her more and more as a friend—maybe his best friend. After Jaskier, of course.

Speaking of. “I was thinking about Jaskier.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes obviously. “As you are so frequently wont to do. The thaw will come soon enough, dear, and you can run off in search of your bard.”

Geralt felt his ears grow warm. Witchers couldn’t blush, not truly, but he still felt the tingle of it as he fidgeted with embarrassment. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, absently tracing a finger against the grain of the wooden table. There were two goblets of wine sitting between them, but so far neither of them had begun to drink. “Do you know how many winters it’s been since I found Ciri?”

If she was confused by the odd turn in subject matter, Yennefer didn’t show it. Instead she looked thoughtful. “Two, perhaps three? You know I don’t follow the seasons with diligence.”

“Neither do I,” Geralt agreed. “I was thinking the same though, two or three years since the fall of Cintra. Which means Jaskier is…” He paused, trying to do the math. “He was a few years past forty, during the dragon hunt, I think. He must be closer to fifty now than not.”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him. “I recall mentioning something about his crows feet. What of it? Humans age. Are you only just discovering this?”

Geralt forced himself not to grumble. In a way, he was only discovering it. He’d known humans across the years, of course, and knew that many that he’d once been acquainted with were no longer alive or were in their twilight years. For decades Geralt had wandered through the world, changing no more than a ghost would, touching the lives of regular mortals for a brief instance, maybe a few times if they were particularly unlucky. No one had stayed by his side, dedicated themselves to a relationship with him, the way that the bard had. The amount of devotion that Jaskier showed to him had made Geralt antsy, in earlier years, and then confused and angry by turn. He had hated the idea of someone needing him, had hated needing someone in return. The way his chest felt heavy when he and Jaskier parted ways had left him furious with himself and the bard.

And then Ciri came into his life, and everything had changed so quickly.

With Ciri, it didn’t matter whether Geralt felt like he should care for her, or if he wanted to. He needed to. Without him, the girl would die, or be kidnapped by Nilfgaard for who knows what purpose. He had to feed her, and clothe her, and teach her, and he had to love her for her to thrive.

She made it very easy. It was only afterwards that he realized how much of an idiot he’d been to Jaskier, and the thought of how he’d treated the bard over the years had plagued him. It had been months before he could find him to apologize, but Jaskier forgave him almost immediately—which Geralt found both relieving and infuriating at the same time. This was the first winter they’d spent apart since. Geralt left the keep more rarely now, heading out on the Path only when the months grew truly warm and returning at the first hint of falling leaves. Ciri was safe on her own, he knew, but he missed her when he was away. And he could admit now that one of the forces driving him back into the world over the last few years had been the itching desire to find Jaskier again and settle the yearning in his chest for another year. He was less inclined to venture forth when his bard, his daughter, Yennefer and his brothers were all in one place.

This winter Jaskier had begged off, saying that he had “work in the south,” which could mean anything from spending a decadent winter in the court of some noble or sludging through the front lines as a Redanian spy. Geralt had learned not to pry too deeply into Jaskier’s business when he wasn’t around. It was often either too explicit for him to stomach or too confidential for Jaskier to share freely.

It worried him, being away from the bard for so long. He could get hurt, or captured by Nilfgaard, or worse. But what really terrified Geralt was the idea that he would find Jaskier in a tavern along the Path and realize that the bard had grown old, to find silver in his hair and wrinkles beside his eyes. “He’s getting too old,” Geralt said to Yennefer, who looked at him with sympathetic eyes.

“You must have known when you started travelling with him that he would eventually leave you,” Yennefer said, not unkindly. “Humans are so short lived.”

“I didn’t exactly get a choice about becoming his muse,” Geralt said with a huff. Despite his improved relationship with Jaskier over the past few years, he still found it difficult to admit that he had always been more than willing to let the bard tag along. If he’d wanted to travel alone, he would have. But he never had. “I just didn’t realize…”

“It always comes sooner than you think it will,” Yennefer sighed. She set her book aside and picked up her goblet of wine, turning to look out the large window their table sat in front of. It faced west out of the keep wall, towards the mountains and the forest beyond. The sun had set below the craggy peaks, throwing the snow covered valley below into darkness. Geralt could just make out the ruins of the old tower, its stones dark against the white landscape. “You can’t cure his mortality, Geralt.”

“We did.”

The look that Yennefer gave him was sharp, almost angry. The firelight in the room turned her violet eyes darker, like mulberry wine. “At great cost,” she snapped. “I can’t imagine you would put him through the Trials.”

A stab of panic shot through his gut at the thought. “No. Of course not. He wouldn’t survive it anyways. Only children stand a chance at all.”

Yennefer nodded, apparently satisfied that Geralt hadn’t completely lost his mind. “The boy hasn’t got an ounce of Chaos in him, in spite of his rather chaotic nature, so I highly doubt they’ll accept him as a late trainee at Ban Ard.”

“There must be other ways,” Geralt said, feeling petulant. “Less conventional.”

“I cannot believe we are actually discussing this,” Yennefer said, rising to her feet. She picked up her book from the table as well as her glass. “There is no way to achieve immortality, especially not without sacrifice. You know that, Geralt. Drop this foolish line of thought.”

Geralt rose after her, reaching out to catch her retreating wrist. A grasp loose enough that she could break it, if she wanted, but Yennefer paused. “Please, Yen. Just… look into it for me? I can’t—the thought of—” He cut himself off, dropping his hand away from her arm. The look she gave him was more pitying than he would have liked.

“I’ll do some research, but nothing more. Don’t get your hopes up, Geralt. There’s a reason there are so few of us,” she said. Her face softened slightly, as much as it ever did. Despite Ciri, Yennefer was still made of more glass and fire than anything else. “I know you love him, even if you can’t admit it to yourself. I promise, I will do my best.”

Geralt nodded wordlessly as she left and wondered if Jaskier's eyes would be as bright next time he saw him.

*

For weeks Yennefer said nothing about his request, and Geralt refocused on spending time with Ciri and preparing to depart for the spring. Lambert and Eskel had already left a month before, as soon as the road down the mountain began to thaw, but Geralt had hung back. The roof needed repairs, a difficult job to do in the midst of winter, and it was a hard task to leave for Vesemir alone. It was always like this, now—him looking for odd jobs to keep him at Kaer Morhen, with Ciri, making excuses until Jaskier’s jitteriness or Vesemir’s raised eyebrows forced them on the road again. Some of that was mitigated this season by the silence he heard when he found himself listening for the sounds of lute strings strumming gently in the background, and Geralt’s increasing anxiety about Jaskier’s wellbeing. Even so, it was hard to leave Ciri behind.

The girl was progressing rapidly as she entered her teen years, the chubbiness of her youth morphing into lean if awkward muscle as she continued to work on her swordsmanship. When Geralt and his brothers weren’t pushing her through drills, she was studying monsters and alchemy with Vesemir, or practicing her magic with Yen. She never seemed to tire, eagerly absorbing any lessons passed on to her and desperate to prove her worth. The only person she seemed to let her guard down around was Geralt, who found himself often goading her into mock wrestling matches (which he refused to throw on principle) and humoring her when she became restless and wanted to explore beyond the keep. Kaer Morhen was dangerous in the winter, but as spring approached and the deep snows on the surrounding mountains began to thaw, the duo spent more and more time trekking through old ruins and sleeping beneath the stars.

He could put off his journey south no longer.

“I’m going to be fine, Geralt,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. He wondered if he’d been this petulant as a teenager. Certainly Lambert had. “I can take care of myself, and Yen will be with me.”

Geralt tapped her wooden training sword with his own, indicating that she should prepare to go again. When he was a boy he’d trained against the other foundlings, stumbling around like pups through drills and sparring matches. Ciri trained against full witchers, and only Eskel ever faked a misstep here or there to allow her to get in a good hit. When she won a fight for the first time, it would be on her own merit.

The girl raised her sword into a decent fighting stance, and Geralt moved to correct her footwork. Her sword work was exceptional above the belt, but she consistently forgot her stances, throwing herself off balance. They’d begun putting her on the pendulums to force her to focus, dancing between posts to attack the dummies. Geralt had spent many a night rubbing salve into her bruised shoulders, gained from taking fall after fall from the low poles. No one forced her, but if there was one thing Ciri hated, it was admitting to weakness in herself. “Sword up,” Geralt said, and launched into his attack.

He stayed on the offense, forcing her to practice the defensive drills they’d started going over recently. “I know you’ll be fine,” he said, continuing their conversation. His breathing was relaxed, almost meditative through the slow exchange of blows. “Just seems cruel to leave you with only the old man and Yennefer for company.”

Ciri giggled despite herself, and Geralt found himself grinning back before he smacked her lightly in the ribs with the training sword. She swore—Lambert, Geralt thought with chagrin—and danced back a few paces. “Gotta focus,” he said, still smirking at her.

She poked her tongue out at him childishly and reposted off of one of his blocked attacks. He easily swayed out of the way, but the movement was fluid and smooth, which meant someday it would be fast, faster than he could dodge. He gave an encouraging nod.

They continued to spar for another half an hour or so before breaking, heading to the well to fill their water pouches. Geralt sat on the short ring of stones and Ciri slumped on the ground beside him, leaning against his leg. The simple trust and familiarity she exhibited around him still took him by surprise, sometimes. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said, rubbing a hand over the top of her head. Her hair was almost as white as his.

She sighed, wiping dripping water from her chin as she tossed her water pouch down. “I figured,” she said. “Say hello to Jaskier for me, when you find him? I missed his songs this time.”

Geralt’s caress turned into a playful ruffle. “I will. Any requests for books?”

“Ones about Elves,” she said immediately, “and Skelligan alchemy. It’s different from ours, did you know? The Druids—”

Geralt chuckled. “I know. You’ve said half a dozen times. No fairytales this time?”

The girl hummed, reminding him for a brief and touching moment of himself. “Just bring Jaskier back. He tells about your adventures so much better than you do.”

“He’s certainly made a career out of it,” Geralt grumbled, feigning annoyance. “I’ll do my best. You know how he is.”

“You missed him too,” she said, hitting his knee with one closed fist. “I know you did. You get all…Well, more grumbly and mopey than usual, when he’s not around.” She wrinkled her nose up at him in exaggerated disgust. “It’s gross. But I do want you to be happy.”

Geralt knocked back against her gently with his knee, swallowing around the feelings that rose in his throat. “You just think I’m a boring old man who won’t help you put toads in Eskel’s bed. But you never even ask. I’m the expert, not Jaskier.”

Ciri laughed, bright and crisp in the morning air, and Geralt felt warm despite the fading winter chill. Tomorrow he would leave, and he would find Jaskier, and next winter he would tell Jaskier that he had to stay at Kaer Morhen. For Ciri, if nothing else. And if it was more for Geralt’s sake than anything, well, no one had to know.

*

Yennefer found him before he left, saddling Roach in the stables.

“Go to Triss,” she said by way of a greeting. Geralt knew what she meant by the gravity in her tone and the tension sitting in the corners of her mouth. “Ask after Ida. I don’t know where she is or if she’ll speak with you, but a Sage is the only one that might be able to give you anything.”

Geralt reached out to grasp her hand firmly in his own. “Thank you, Yen,” he said honestly.

The sorceress sniffed. “Well, you owe me one, I suppose. I hope you find what you're looking for. But be careful.”

“I won’t do anything that might put him in harm’s way,” he promised. “I swear it.”

“Good.” She gave him a slight smile before leaning in to brush a kiss over his rough cheek. The simple touch warmed him from inside out. “Say hello to the bard for me. Tell him I heard about that disastrous competition in Vizima. Ought to have him stewing for a good long while.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I’ll give him your love as always.”

“Goodbye, Geralt,” she said, patting his arm lightly. “Be safe. You know how to reach me, if you have need.”

“I do,” he said. “I will. Take care of Ciri.”

“It’s more the other way around, I’m afraid,” she said with a soft smile, and Geralt understood exactly what she meant. Ciri had saved them both, in more ways than one. Every time he left her was more painful than the last. Someday, he knew, they might travel the Path together, a witcher, a sorceress and their daughter. Maybe even a bard, if he was extremely lucky.

Geralt hoped he would be.

[theonewiththefanfics]

Tomato - Tomato (one-shot)

Synopsis: One is an international rock-star. The other is his loyal assistant. Both are complete morons in love. Also - she’s allergic to tomatoes, and it is important.

This started off as something completely else. hope you enjoy :D

Pairing: Harry Styles x fem!Assistant!Reader

Genre: fluff, minor angst

Warnings: two idiots pining for one another, swearing, mentions of allergies and EpiPens

Word count: 3492

Being an assistant to someone famous wasn’t all glamourous parties and wild nights out with celebrities. It was scheduling last minute flights and not sleeping for three days straight as you packed a million bags and then repacked because their stylist sent you knew pieces and the old ones no longer fit the aesthetic of the week.           It was also making sure that they were up by six AM with a hot coffee at their bedside ready to help them wake up as you lay out a detailed plan of the day down to the minute, while you yourself basically only had a two-hour nap because you had to finish off 568 handwritten notes to be sent out to each of the contacts in their phone. Or at least that’s what Y/N’s life was like being the personal assistant to none other than the modern-day prince of rock Harry Styles.            Said rockstar was actually still asleep when Y/N entered his room, ripping open the curtains and letting in the rising sun. He groaned, pulling up the bedsheets that’d ridden down his form during the night. “Not that I don’t like seeing your gorgeous face in the mornings….” he mumbled into the covers. “But I don’t like seeing your face in the mornings when they start at six bloody AM.”           Y/N snorted and rolled her eyes, rubbing them in an attempt to get rid of the sleep that still lingered in her own body. “You were the one that said you’re fine with seeing Lambert at eight for a fitting.”           “When did I say that?” Harry scoffed, only the top of his messy bedhead seen from the cocoon he’d built around himself.           “Would you like me to pull up the text messages, the calendar or the e-mails?”           Even with her back turned as she rummaged through his closet for him to put on some clothes, she could sense the middle finger he threw at her, and she smiled.           Despite everything, despite the zero sleep and stress always coursing through her veins, Y/N loved working for him. He treated her as a friend, not just some lackey he paid to, but most importantly, comparatively to the other people she’d worked for in the same line of business – he treated her as a human.           If something went over the deadline, Harry didn’t scream or yell at her and tell Y/N how incompetent she was, instead he asked what kind of help or assistance she needed to get the job done, or maybe if she just needed some time off to gather herself and look at the problem with fresh eyes.           “I hate how organised you are,” Harry groaned, finally throwing the covers off.           “If I wasn’t, you’d be in a ditch somewhere.”           She heard him scoff and two feet plop against the hardwood floor as he made his way towards her. “Is that how little faith you have in me?”           “You don’t even know what day it is!”           “Who does in these times?”           Y/N shrugged her shoulders and handed him a pair of boxers, some loose jeans, and a flowery Hawaiian shirt. “Are you telling me I’m wrong though?”           She looked over to her side, a smirk playing on her lips while he squinted his green eyes at her. “No, but it doesn’t mean I like getting called out, especially this early in the morning.”

          With a roll of her eyes and a shove at his shoulder for him to move to the bathroom, Y/N handed him the clothes, moving downstairs to start making him some light breakfast and get herself a cold glass of water.           You see, she’d been working as his assistant for close to two years, and they’d grown not only as people around one another, challenging their beliefs and world views, but as friends too. And, well, Y/N would be lying if the emotions hadn’t evolved from platonic to falling in love. Not that she’d ever admit it. He was an international sensation, and she was the girl who got him vegetarian croissants at the airport.           She dragged a hand down her face as she clicked the stove on and took out a carton of eggs from the fridge. Y/N knew how he liked his omelette to the T, mostly because when she’d spent the first night of quarantine with him a year prior right as the pandemic had started, Harry had wanted to do something nice because she couldn’t go and see her family any more, so he’d gotten up at seven to make breakfast for both of them. The only problem was, he hadn’t asked if she had any allergies, so as he added bits of tomatoes, parsley, cheese and scallions, Harry hadn’t expected Y/N’s eyes to go wide at the first bite as she dropped the fork.           “Harry…” Her tone had been cautious. “What’s in this?”           He was sweating. Was his cooking really that bad? He just wanted to do something nice and there he was screwing everything up. “ ‘S just some of my favourite things. I’m sorry I didn’t ask, I just thought you’d like it.”            “I do, but this tastes like it has tomatoes in it.”           He nodded. “Yeah. It does.”           Gently she smiled at him and pushed the plate a bit further away. “Could you grab me a coat, and if you have any – an EpiPen?”           “An Epi – oh shit!” When the realisation hit him, Harry was jumping out of his seat, running to one of the cupboards and rummaging through in a panic all the while apologies flew non-stop from his mouth.           Y/N in the meantime had gathered her purse and mask, making a call to the nearest hospital to explain the situation to which they responded they’d be waiting for her arrival.           “I’m so sorry!” Harry ran up to her, a first-aid kit in his shaking hands. “Please don’t die! I didn’t want to kill you, I promise! I just wanted to make you some breakfast cause you do so much for me, and now you’re stuck here, and – oh god,” he cried. “I’m going to be prosecuted for killing my assistant.”           She didn’t mean to, but the snort came out of her nose either way. “Harry.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Please calm down. I’m not going to die.”           “You’re allergic!”           “Yes, I am, but I only had a small bite. The ER is just a precaution.” Y/N took his palms in hers and squeezed them. “Now take a deep breath with me…” They did so, holding it for five seconds and letting it out for eight. “And calm down a bit. I’ll go give myself the shot, and then I’ll drive to the hospital.”           “Let me,” Harry begged. “Please, let me at least drive you to the emergency room. God, I almost killed you with an omelette, it’s the least I can do. I – I could also help you with the shot, I won’t hit an artery, I promise -”           “Harry, you’re barely coherent. Not to say anything, but you’d have a bigger chance of killing me in a car crash, than from that tomato.” Y/N gave him a smile. “I’m gonna be fine.”           With that, she left him to venture into the bathroom and did the unpleasant part of stabbing herself in the thigh to alleviate her body from the allergy symptoms. She sat there for around five minutes before she felt that the swelling of her tongue and itching in her throat was starting to subside, which meant the epinephrine was working.           “Okay,” she huffed, taking her purse from the couch where Harry had been sitting, hugging the accessory. “I’ll be back in probably around two hours. Do we need anything from the store?”           He shook his head. “Just come back home, please.”           Y/N would never admit how her heart thundered in her chest when Harry said to come back ‘home’. “I will.” She promised. “Don’t you worry. You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Styles. The money’s too good.” She winked at him and then left Harry pouting on the couch, but she couldn’t get through the door, before he jumped up, yelling, “wait! Do I need to get rid of every tomato in the house?”           “No,” she laughed. “I’m good to be around them. Even touch them. ‘S just my insides that don’t agree with it when they meet.”           “Okay.” He nodded, hands on his hips. “Alright. I’ll uh – I’ll be waiting. I’ll make you something else.”           “There’s no need for that, Harry.”           His eyes widened at her words. “I swear I’m not trying to murder you!”           “Oh my god,” she muttered shaking her head. “Just – just relax. Okay. I’ll send you hourly updates.”           He bit his lip. “Make it every ten minutes.”           “Harry –,”           “Please?” The way he was giving her puppy dog eyes melted her heart.           With an eye-roll, Y/N waved at him and promised to update her boss at every possible moment and confirm that he hadn’t, in fact, been the reason for her demise. Well, he was the reason for the demise of her low standards in men, having taken them and thrown them up to the Moon, but unless her feelings were miraculously requited or if one of the Marvel characters, she was obsessed with came to life, she’d have to stick to what was available. And in her mind, that wasn’t Harry.           “What are you thinking about?” His voice startled Y/N out of the memory, and she shook her head, adding salt and pepper to the beaten eggs.           She shrugged. “Just about that time a year ago where you secretly tried to off me because you were too nice to say you didn’t wanna quarantine together.”           The groan he let out was of royal embarrassment, and it put a wide smile on her face, as she took one of the forsaken fruits and started to chop the red ball into small pieces.           “You’ll never let me live it down, are you?”           Y/N raised her eyebrow at him. “Your failed murder attempt?” She snorted. “Of course not! It’s like you don’t watch the crime shows and murder documentaries when I have them on. You really haven’t learned anything.”           Harry stuck his tongue out at her and moved to her side, dropping some chives into the mix as well. “Well given how it wasn’t a murder attempt, I wouldn’t consider it a fail.”           Her hip bumped his, and only then did Y/N really give him a once-over. As always, he looked amazing in whatever was on his body, but what made him even cuter in her eyes was the sleepiness still lingering in him.           Harry’s movements were a little bit sluggish, eyes half-closed and small sighs passing his lips as he sipped onto the coffee she’d come to his place with. The shirt sat loosely on his body, the first two buttons left open while he’d tucked the bottom of it into the jeans, having found a Gucci belt and cinched it around his waist, giving it a more eighties look rather than the sixties vibe he usually had with his suits.           The brown hair was still messy and dishevelled, and Y/N could barely, just barely restrain herself from running her fingers through it, but what she didn’t know Harry was struggling just as much.           All he wanted to do was pull out the bottom lip Y/N had gotten in between her teeth and kiss her senseless, to have her fingers dig into his arms and leave crescent shaped imprints on his skin.           “So, uh…” He had to start a conversation otherwise his mouth would find itself on Y/N’s mouth in a second. “What’s Lambert got in his schedule? How many outfits is he thinking?”           “Two or three, I think,” she said, pouring the mixture on the pan and letting the slow sizzle erupt around them. “He’s got this one suit which I think you’ll really like – all leather, but it needs to be altered.”           Harry hummed, and for a second both of them relished in the domestic feel of it all. They’d had many moments like it before, especially during the spring and summer seasons of 2020, and Y/N couldn’t help but relish in her memories at them.           “Harry?” It was like her voice snapped him out from a trance. “Could you pass me a plate please?’           “Uh, yeah,” he stammered for a moment and then nodded, wordlessly going to a cupboard and taking out a white marbled plate. That single piece of kitchenware probably cost more than her life insurance, but it was definitely aesthetic if nothing else.           Silently Y/N plopped the omelette onto the plate, placing it on the kitchen counter and went to get him a fork, however when she turned around, he was facing her, chewing quite agressively on the inside of his cheek.           “You okay?” she asked, coming closer. “I can call Lambert, reschedule it for later. He wouldn’t be too happy about having to wake up and then – “           But Harry shook his head. “It’s not that.”           “Then what?”           He didn’t say anything. It was like he was trying to decipher the best course of action, and when he ultimately did, Y/N was pressed up against the counter, Harry’s forehead against hers with two ring-clad hands cupping her cheeks.           “Harry,” she breathed, out her lips brushing his making the air in her lungs hitch. “What are you doing?”           “Something I’ve been dying to do for a year now. If you let me that is.”           “I -,” The words were muddled up in her head. Of course, Y/N wanted him to kiss her, she wanted him to ravish every part of her body. The fantasies and dreams she’d had at night would be incriminating proof if her feelings were on trial, but despite it all, her brain was usually in charge and would overrule any decision made by her heart. “Harry, we can’t.” She whispered, voice breaking.           “I -,” Horror morphed onto his features as he took a step back. “Did I misread the signals? Did I do something you don’t wan –“           “No.” She grabbed onto his cheeks, trying to calm him down, his body practically melting into hers. “I do.” She didn’t need to explain what she meant. He understood. “So much it hurts me sometimes… but Harry, you’re my boss. My employer. It… it wouldn’t be right.”           “Why? How can it not be right, when it feels like the rightest thing in the world?”           “Because, Harry,” she huffed. “You’re my boss. And what’s worse – I love working for you!”           That made both of them laugh, the tone of her voice as if she was more annoyed than anything else. “ ‘Nd why’s that bad?” He nudged her nose with his. “I’d hope my employees like working with me. What kind of a person would I be if I thrived on them being miserable?”           “Because if I didn’t, quitting would be easy.” She raised her eyebrow at him. “And if I quit there’d be nothing stopping us from dating.”           Harry bit his lip, finger trailing along her cheekbone. “There’s nothing stopping us now either. There is no clause in your contract that says you can’t date people who you work for or with. Sarah’s with Mitch, and they’re the happiest they’ve ever been. They’re even having a baby…”           Y/N gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know. But that’s different. They’re on equal levels. You and I, however… I don’t want people to think I got my job because I slept with you, or some shit. It’s bad enough some already do so.”           His brows furrowed, and Y/N saw how his jaw clenched. “Who?”           “Strangers.” She shrugged. “I know you don’t look at comments like that online, but I see them. My DMs are filled with that. Gossip magazines. The point is – there are already unsubstantiated rumours about us. This would give them the confirmation they’d need.”           “How can it confirm something that’s not true?”           “There are still people who believe vaccines cause autism. Even when their ‘proof’ has been discredited and shown to be just complete bullshit, most don’t like to admit they’re wrong, so they’ll look for whatever tells them they’re right.”           Harry huffed throwing his head back to look at the ceiling. “So, where does that leave us? In love, but without being able to do anything about it? Because I can’t.” He shook his head. “I won’t be able to just pass you by without kissing you, or not pull you into the bed when you wake me up, or press you against the wall and not have my head between these two gorgeous legs.”           Y/N groaned slapping his chest and dropping her forehead against his peck. “That is so unfair. Why do you have to tease me like that!”           “Oh, sweetheart.” The rumble was deep and shot a wave of heat straight to her core. “This is no teasing.” The smirk on his face when she looked up at him was shit-eating. “Trust me, if I was teasing, you’d be begging for me.”           She’d imagined him between her thighs more times than it was appropriate considering he was her boss, but hot damn, did it feel amazing when his lips crashed onto hers, and she let him. In her dreams, his lips hadn’t been just pressed to her mouth but other places which were more south, but it was still one of the best feelings in the world.           The kiss left them both breathless, and grinning and satisfied, yet begging for more, teeth nipping at the soft flesh.           “I’ll put out an official statement, if you want,” Harry muttered against her mouth, unable to stop pecking her lips now that’d he’d gotten a taste. “But please, please, please… for both our sanities go out on a date with me.”           It seemed like Y/N was the one contemplating the best plan of action now when her brows furrowed and she looked up at him, pressing and unpressing her lips, as the swelling from the kiss grew. “Did you by any chance have a piece of that omelette already?” She had a suspicion it wasn’t just from the kiss.           His eyes widened, and then his head dropped to her shoulder. “Not again!”           Y/N rolled her eyes lifting his face by the chin so he would look at her. “How about EpiPen first?”           “Fair enough,” Harry grumbled unlatching himself from her and going for his keys and wallet, already preparing for the short drive they’d have to take. “But then a date?”           She raised her eyebrow, taking out the box Harry now kept under the sink with at least three EpiPen’s for emergencies. “In a hospital?”           “We could be going dumpster diving for all I care, and I’d count it as a date.”           Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’ll have to do so much better than that; you’ve almost put me in anaphylactic shock twice. Now come on.” She motioned with her head towards the bathroom. “Stab me and take me to the ER.”           “Fucking tomatoes,” Harry grumbled, taking her by the hand and not letting it go even for the short walk.           “Tomato-tomato, you’re the one that kissed me.”           “That I don’t regret.”           Y/N smiled, turning towards him, and taking him by the nape of his neck pulled Harry down for one more kiss, groaning at the feeling of his tongue dancing against hers.           “Y/N!” He pulled back with a gasp, shock on his face.           She just shrugged her shoulders. “We’re already going to see the doctors anyway.”           Harry pushed her shoulder and made her sit down onto the toilet. “Take your pants off before my kisses kill you.”           “Yes, daddy.” Y/N wiggled her eyebrows as Harry moaned, squeezing her calf.            His eyes were dark as he looked up at her. “Next time this happens, you’ll be begging me.”           Her wicked smile was so full of happiness he couldn’t help the one that grew on his face. “I’ll be keeping you to it. Now, dear sir.” She handed him the EpiPen. “Hit me with your best shot.”           And although it’d been now two times in their lives where Harry trying to do something good and make the other feel just as good had done pretty much the opposite, when they got to the emergency room, their smiles could be felt even under their masks           Harry watched with blushing cheeks as Y/N explained the situation to the nurse, especially when one of them threw him an unsavoury glance, eyebrow raised high as if saying ‘again? One time wasn’t enough?’.           “No more tomatoes.” He promised. “And also - it wasn’t on purpose!”           Y/N squeezed his palm, chuckling. She may not be able to give a shot at eating a tomato, but she sure as hell was going to give Harry one. After all, she had almost died for the man. Twice.

Tags (crossed out wouldn’t take):

Harry Styles tags: @breezykpop​ @girlboss99​ @harrystylesdoesntknowiexist​ @alliyjane​ @sirtommyholland​ @raylovessarcasm @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @harryhub​

Everything tags: @lumelgy @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @breezy1415 @crazy--me @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @s-c-a-r-e-d-po-t-t-e-r @reblogger-not-a-blogger @m-a-t-91 @dalilx @i-need-a-hero-i-need-a-loki @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @in-the-end-im-still-trash @gallifreyansass @dewy-biitch @avxgers @unlikelygalaxygiver @magicwithaknife​ @ollyoxenfrees​ @bnhvrdy​ @tvwhoresblog @celebsimagines @thatkindofgurl​ @sj-thefan​ @teenwolflover28 @lestersglitterglue​ @im-squished​

A/N: I’m at work and I wanted to write a bit for my book, but hahahahahahaha I can’t stop procrastinating. Also, this was something comepletely else centered around Christmas, then New Year and the Valentines, but I just couldn’t and it morphed into this. Maybe this Holiday season when it rolls around I’ll post it :D

P.S. if anyone’s had a septoplasty (repositioning of the septum) - how was it? how painful is it? kinda starting my journey towards it cause apparently I can’t breathe out of my left nostril, but I’m kinda scared ngl. I’ve read some horror stories about having holes and pieces of the cartilage fall out afterwards :/// 

P.S.S. what did ya think? my tags are always open, just drop a message if you wanna be added :)

P.S.S.S please don’t plagiarise or repost my work on other platforms (wattpad, AO3 etc)

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

🥺 babe 🥺 bAbE

What if Jask gets sick at Kaer Morhen but tries to hide it from Geralt bc he doesn't want him to think he's gross/weak/etc? And Geralt has the Feelings Braincell for once?

oh babe... thank you

tw: sickness, falling unconscious, fever, whump/angst with a happy ending

---

Jaskier knew he had a fever the moment he woke up. He could feel it burning beneath this skin like a forge, flushing his face a more vibrant shade of pink than usual. He glared at his reflection in the small, round mirror above his dressing table and willed himself to feel better. It was his first winter at Kaer Morhen, and he didn’t want Geralt to think he’d made a mistake by inviting Jaskier along to stay. The bard knew that his stoic, self-loathing Witcher would blame himself immediately for any misfortune or illness that befell Jaskier. Geralt might even reconsider inviting him back again someday. So he had to keep his little bug a secret until he was well. Surely it was nothing major. Surely it would pass after a few days, unnoticed and unremarkable.

He should have known better.

Jaskier dabbed a bit more perfume than usual (which was generally none at all) beneath his ears and along his wrists. He hoped the peony-lavender mixture would mask whatever kind of scent his illness might carry and slowly, carefully made his way down the long stone staircase that led from the guest bedroom to the enormous kitchen. His limbs felt achy and tired, even though he’d slept heavily the night previous. His head sat heavy and unbalanced atop his shoulders; the world wavered and spun around him as he desperately tried to keep from pitching sideways into the wall. 

“You alright there, boy?” Vesemir asked, catching his eye from the bottom of the stairs. “You seem a bit… nervous.”

Maybe his anxiety was doing a better job of hiding his secret than the perfume. 

“Just a little wool between my ears this morning,” the bard laughed brightly, ignoring the searing pain that throbbed through his chest with the movement, “I think I might go chop some wood and see if the brisk mountain air helps clear it out faster.”

“Hmm,” the eldest Wolf nodded sagely. There was no doubt which teacher Geralt had admired most as a pup. “Alright. Be safe, take care. I’ll send someone to fetch you when breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you, Vesemir,” Jaskier bowed shallowly and headed for the kitchen’s back door. He took the axe into his hands and tried not to sway on his feet from the added weight. The bard covered his tracks by throwing a smile back over his shoulder and pushing the door open. “See you for breakfast!”

He stepped out of the keep and let the heavy slab of wood slam shut behind him. The early morning sky above Kaer Morhen was cloudless and the sun was bright, blinding him entirely. His situation only worsened when the sudden change in temperature, from the warm kitchen to the freezing mountainside, punched the air from his lungs in one thick cloud. He struggled to regain it as he wove his way through the snow drifts to the woodpile. Slowly, and with great effort, Jaskier lined up a thick log to be split.

The world felt watery and far away. His hand, which he knew to be attached to the end of his arm by some miracle, would not obey his command to pick up the axe again. His lungs felt heavy in his chest cavity and his legs suddenly ached with a fierce intensity. 

With a quiet cry of protest against his own body failing him, Jaskier collapsed into the snow.

---

Jaskier’s heartbeat was so slow and quiet, his limbs unmoving and his lips nearly blue from the cold; Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever been so scared before in his life. He turned to Vesemir and asked, barely keeping the frantic terror from clawing its way out of his throat: “How long was he out there?” 

“Half an hour at most,” the grey Wolf shrugged. “I don’t really remember, Geralt. I was busy taking care of the breakfast arrangements.”

“Fuck!”

“Calm down,” Eskel ordered. He frowned at Geralt from his place at Jaskier’s opposite side. He’d helped carry the bard from the courtyard to Geralt’s room and was just as worried about the human’s wellbeing. “Panicking won’t help him. Now, what’s the problem?”

“It’s hard to tell over all that stupid perfume,” Lambert snarled. “Stupid fucking bard fucking knew we would be able to smell it on him. He covered his gods-damned tracks.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, having grown suddenly calm. He let the back of his knuckles drag softly across the bard’s too-hot cheek until he could stick a stray lock of sweaty brown hair back behind his ear. “You idiot.”

The bard shifted against the blanket they’d laid him on, his brow wrinkling. His arms twitched slightly, as if he was trying to move them, and he whined plaintively: “G’ralt.”

“I’m here, Jask,” the Witcher replied quickly, forgetting they weren’t alone in the room. He took one of the bard’s freezing hands into his own and began rubbing the warmth back into his fingers. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you better. You’ll be alright.”

“Who are you trying to reassure?” Lambert huffed a short laugh. “You or the bard?”

“Leave off,” Eskel shot his younger brother a glare. The redhead rolled his eyes and moved to lean against the wall near the door. Eskel continued speaking to Lambert, but his eyes were back on Jaskier, who kept trying to get closer to Geralt even in his sleep. “Why don’t you go grab some clean clothes from his room while we get him warmed up and conscious again.”

“Fine,” Lambert spat. But he took off at a quick trot, regardless.

“Geralt, get his wet clothes off and get him wrapped up. Eskel, you come with me to the kitchen. I’ll need help carrying things and I’m sure the bard would prefer some privacy in this particular matter.”

Eskel nodded his agreement and followed Vesemir from the room, leaving Geralt alone with Jaskier. The White Wolf hurried to undress and swaddle the bard with a warm, heavy wool blanket and several furs, talking all the while in a low, worried voice. “Fuck, Jaskier. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this happened and that you- Why did you hide it? Why wouldn’t you- Are you afraid of me? Is that why you didn’t come to me for help?”

Jaskier’s lids fluttered open and Geralt watched with nervous anticipation as two of the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, blue as cornflowers and brighter than the spring sky, tried their best to focus on his face. “Geralt?”

“I’m here, Jaskier. What’s ailing you? Please, tell me how I can help you.”

“Hurts,” the bard managed to groan. “To breathe.”

“Fuck,” Geralt growled. “We need to get you warm. Lambert should be back with your clothes by now.”

Jaskier’s head lolled back against the pillow and he struggled to reach for his Witcher, “Hold me.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll warm up-” he gasped between words, as if every syllable pained him to expel “-faster if… you hold me.”

“Hmm,” Geralt’s brows furrowed in frustration. He knew Jaskier was right, that he’d feel better faster with skin-on-skin contact, but he also wanted to hold Jaskier for other, less emergency-based reasons. That was unacceptable. Losing Jaskier to death or sickness or other human reasons was intolerable but losing him, in all senses of the word, because of Geralt’s impossible feelings? That would be truly horrendous.

The warring factions of his heart were still clamoring over a decision when Eskel and Vesemir re-entered carrying two large trays. One was covered with foodstuffs and the other held an enormous clay teapot and mugs. A small pot of honey, gathered from Vesemir’s very own beehives, was the most obvious sign of affection Geralt had ever seen the older man display for a near-stranger. 

“I’m gonna… get… spoiled,” Jaskier gasped. The eldest Wolf shot Geralt a glare. 

“Why aren’t you in there with him? You know the best way to warm up a hypothermic person is skin contact, Geralt! I certainly taught you better than this.”

“I didn’t-” he stuttered. “I wasn’t-”

“He’s afraid,” Jaskier smiled sadly, cuddling himself deeper into the furs as he turned his gaze towards the fire. All three of the Witchers could smell his sadness, even more potent than the illness ravaging his delicate human body. Geralt winced when his brother and father glared at him in tandem, expressions nearly matching in fury. The bard was still looking away, watching the flames send dancing patterns of light against the stone walls. “Don’t worry… won’t ask… for any more.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. “May I hold you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s our cue to leave,” Vesemir smiled beneath his mustache. Jaskier was too tired to blush, and opted to bury his head in Geralt’s shoulder instead. “Come along, Eskel. Let’s see what Lambert has gotten up to.”

“What about Jaskier’s clothes?”

“He can borrow Geralt’s for now. I’m sure our White Wolf won’t mind sharing; he’s the possessive type, after all.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and grumbled out of habit more than disagreement. 

When Vesemir and Eskel had gone for good and the door was closed, Geralt pulled Jaskier out of the furs and removed his own shirt. He settled the bard against his chest and buried his nose in Jaskier’s dark hair, breathing in the scents of sweat and sickness and now, thank the gods, tangy-bright happiness. “Gods, Jaskier. Don’t scare me like that ever again. I can’t lose you.”

“I didn’t… want… to disappoint.”

“You never do and never will,” Geralt intoned. He pulled the furs over them both and splayed his large hands across Jaskier’s back. The bard’s skin was overly hot in some places and freezing in others; Geralt buried his panic in order to care for... for the man he loved. He took a deep breath and rubbed slow circles between the bard’s shoulder blades. “I… I love you, Jaskier.”

“Hmm,” the bard hummed tunelessly. “Love you… too.”

Geralt helped him sit up and drink a mug of tea. He listened, slowly allowing himself to relax, as Jaskier’s breathing eased and his heartbeat balanced. When the tea was gone and the fire was re-built to Geralt’s satisfaction, the Witcher tucked Jaskier’s head beneath his chin and wrapped his arms around the bard’s shoulders. “Oh, my little lark. I’ve been so foolish for too long.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier grinned into the Witcher’s warm pectoral. “Me... too.”

“Well, we’ll have plenty of time when you feel better,” Geralt murmured, lips pressing over and over to the top of the bard’s head. Jaskier couldn’t keep himself from smiling, even as he drifted back to sleep. The Witcher felt something settle in his chest when he whispered: “Rest up, dear heart. There are many more adventures to be had.”

[dapandapod]

When you kiss me heaven sighs

As might have been noticed, I have been listening to this version of La vie en Rose for days. On loop.

So naturally Geralt has to propose. That is how it works. Also don’t look too closely at the french, because I literally google translated it, copy paste and done. shhhh don’t tell :)

Please enjoy a sappy panda mood again <3 On Ao3 here

Out of the two of them, Jaskier is the musician. Rather obviously so, as they actually met the first time on a street corner where Jaskier was singing his heart out and Geralt was unable to tear his eyes away. That first time, it was a guitar, the next a flute, lute, and a loop pedal. 

His eyes were twinkling, his smile warm and inviting, and Geralt was completely smitten. Is completely smitten.

Years later, after a tentative friendship filled with pining and then finally that first, desperate kiss, Geralt is still smitten. If possible, more so than all those years ago.

They live together now in a sunny flat on the third floor. Their upstairs neighbours are loud with children running and parents screaming and the street below is always filled with honking cars and road work. They talk of moving somewhere bigger. Somewhere possibly theirs.

And all the while, Geralt carries a secret. Because, after talking to his brothers about it, he realizes Jaskier is all he wants in life, always and forever. The secret is a little black velvet box. A box his adoptive father and brothers too carried until they were ready, and now rests with a new charge. 

As they look for a new home, hoping to find an apartment on the top floor, or possibly a house, Geralt takes time hiding away, preparing. As they pack away their belongings, plan and make bids, Geralt asks for his darling Ciri’s advice.

On the eve they have moved into their small house, their very own little corner of the world, Geralt can’t wait anymore. They're sitting on the floor, leaning against cardboard boxes and eating pizza, when Geralt caves.

There is one box he has kept an extra eye on, the one with the ukulele. He digs it out while Jaskier watches him curiously, a bit of cheese clinging to his chin. Sitting down, he strums it, tries out a few chords. He doesn’t look at Jaskier as he does this, but he senses the growing surprise.

His heart is in his throat when Jaskier draws a breath as the strumming turns into a song.

“Geralt,” he whispers, putting the pizza down, finally wiping his chin, and Geralt smiles.

“Quand il me prend dans ses bras Il me parle tout bas Je vois la vie en rose Il me dit des mots d'amour Des mots de tous les jours Et ça me fait quelque chose”

Jaskier blushes so prettily. His lips are parted, eyes filled with something warm and gentle, and his hands are clenching his dirty sweatpants. He is beautiful, and Geralt’s heart skips a beat.

"Il est entré dans mon cœur Une part de bonheur Dont je connais la cause C'est lui pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie Il me l'a dit, l'a juré pour la vie"

Geralt sings, finally meeting Jaskier’s eyes. His fingers feel clumsy, the strings vibrating under his grip, and he licks his lips before the next part.

Hold me close and hold me fast The magic spell you cast This is "La vie en rose" When you kiss me, heaven sighs And though I close my eyes I see "La vie en rose”

When you press me to your heart I'm in a world apart A world where roses bloom And when you speak, angels sing from above Everyday words seem to turn into love songs"

 This is it. There is a storm of emotions, an onslaught from all sides. Hope, longing, comfort, worry, and so, so much love. 

 "Give your heart and soul to me And life will always be "La vie en rose"

  The last note of the ukulele rings out, and for a moment, there is silence. Geralt puts the instrument on top of a box, heart beating like a sledgehammer.

“That was beautiful,” Jaskier whispers. He curls up against his shoulder when Geralt sits down next to him again. “I didn’t know you played the ukulele.”

“I don’t,” Geralt admits and tucks his arms around Jaskier. “I only know this one.” 

“Could have fooled me,” Jaskier says, propping up his chin on Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Fake it til’ you make it,” Geralt replies, smirking, quoting Jaskier right back at him.

“Faking French too?” Jaskier asks teasingly, leaning in for a kiss.

“Hmm.” Geralt can’t help but get distracted, lost in warm lips on his. He didn’t plan it this way, he swears he didn’t. But he has to say it somehow, right?

“ Je t'aime ,” he mumbles against Jaskier’s lips, knowing full well that he will understand it. “Veux-tu m'épouser?”

And Jaskier freezes.

“You-”

Jaskier pulls back, studying his face. Geralt gropes around in his pocket, realizing the ring isn’t there.

“Wait. Shit. Fuck.” He stands up, running to his jacket. He digs around desperately in the hallway. Jaskier sits quietly on the kitchen floor. He is never quiet.

“Geralt,” he calls after a few minutes, and Geralt panics. “It’s here.”

Fuck. This is not going as planned at all.

Geralt returns, sweaty and nervous. He stands in the doorway watching Jaskier hold the black satin box in his hands. It must have fallen out of his pocket, but at least it wasn’t in the moving truck.

Jaskier looks up at him, eyes misty.

“Is this the same box Lambert used?”

“And Eskel. And Vesemir,” Geralt confirms. He approaches Jaskier, his little bard, his light, his everything, and kneels in front of him, taking Jaskier's hands in his.

“You are the love of my life. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?” Geralt repeats, now in English, his voice a little hoarse and cracked. He opens the box and reveals a silver ring

The tears finally overflow, Jaskier pushing the little box away and sniffling. For a heartbeat, just one heartbeat, Geralt fears rejection. But in the next, Jaskier has flung himself around his neck, pretty much crawled up in his lap, hugging him as tight as he can.

“You romantic sap, never accuse me of being soft again,” he sobs.

“You are soft,” Geralt murmurs, his arms coming up to hold him. “Is that a yes?”

Again Jaskier leans back, his eyes are red rimmed and well. Soft.

“I am yours, Geralt Rivia. I have been from the moment I saw you and will be until I draw my last breath. You will never get rid of me.”

“So yes,” Geralt says, smile growing, heart so light he could fly.

“Yes, you fucking imbecile, yes, I will marry you!”

  There is more kissing after that, and some more crying. The pizza lies forgotten on the floor as Geralt puts the ring on Jaskier’s finger. He knows the size perfectly, he has bought many rings for his Jaskier, but this is the one that counts.

   At their wedding they have the band play their song. Jaskier insists that Geralt did it better, but they had a trumpet, and that is hard to beat. They dance cheek to cheek, so close Geralt can feel the heat of Jaskier’s skin and smell the champagne on his breath.

“When you kiss me, heaven sighs, And though I close my eyes, I see "La vie en rose” 

[katecake]

Scars

I needed me a Jaskel Soulmate AU where Jaskier knows his soulmate’s a witcher, but he also knows it’s not Geralt. After wondering how that would happen, I finally came up w/ this!!

__

Imagine a world where soulmarks exist. While not exactly rare, they’re still fairly uncommon.

Little Jaskier’s soulmark is on the inside crook of his elbow. The face of a fierce silver wolf. For as unrealistic and stylized as it is, it’s still undeniably a wolf. His parents sneer at it. The servants and teachers are all uncomfortable when they see it. Little Jaskier, though? Oh how he loves it. He doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know its significance. But he loves it nonetheless.

Jaskier’s only five years old when he learns what a Witcher is. He’s only five years old when he’s taught to fear Witchers.

Jaskier’s twelve and he’s being held down as he begs and pleads and screams. He screams as the other boys bring a knife to his soulmark, laughing all the while. Because, what soulmate could a monster have than another monster?

Jaskier’s twelve when he makes the connection between his soulmark and Witchers.

He runs away less than a week later, wound still fresh, and ends up somewhere outside Oxenfurt. He decides to stay there, study there. The injury scars. He keeps it covered at all times with black cloth. Sometimes, it’s so tight it hurts. He never shows anyone his mark ever again.

–

Jaskier’s twenty-three when he meets Geralt, and he immediately recognizes the medallion. It’s the spitting image of what his soulmark looked like. He feels some residual anxiety from meeting a Witcher, but has learned humans can be just as monstrous as they claim Witchers to be. The black strip of cloth on his arm is proof enough.

So he takes a gamble and follows Geralt. And he continues to follow Geralt for years to come. He learns everything he was taught was a lie (something he’s suspected since the moment that knife touched his mark). He makes it his goal to change the world’s mind about Witchers. And if he hopes, deep down, that if he continues to follow Geralt he’ll meet his soulmate? Well, that’s his secret fantasy.

–

Years pass and eventually Geralt invites him up to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Jaskier says yes in a heartbeat. He’s as giddy as he is nervous and babbles the whole trip up.

When they get there, Eskel’s the one to greet them at the gate, not that Jaskier notices. He’s too busy still babbling nervously about nothing at all and removing his packs from his horse. He struggles to hold everything as he goes over to the two, intent on introducing himself to this new witcher. Except when he finally looks at Eskel, his breath catches and he drops everything he’s holding. He can do nothing but stare, pale and shaky, at the scarred face in front of him.

He doesn’t register how the man shifts so he stands with his scars less on display. He doesn’t register Geralt’s defensive and angry tone. He doesn’t register the third, angry, man who threatens him for making his brother uncomfortable in his own home. All Jaskier can think about is the shape of those scars.

Lambert’s outright hostile to him, not that Jaskier blames him. Geralt’s also cagey and defensive. Even Vesemir, despite keeping the peace between the wolves and the bard, makes his disappointment of Jaskier clear.

It takes another two weeks before Jaskier manages to catch Eskel alone and apologizes. He wants to explain himself, but every time he tries, his throat tightens and the words die on his lips. So instead, he works to befriend Eskel in earnest.

The first time Eskel smiles at him, really smiles at him (an entire month later), Jaskier feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. The way Eskel’s eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his lips curl awkwardly, the way his whole demeanor seems to light up. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. He can’t keep the dopey smile off his own face the whole day.

Eskel smiles more after that, and it seems to be enough for the others. Lambert’s no longer actively hostile and Geralt’s back to himself. Vesemir no longer looks at Jaskier with disappointment either. And if Jaskier scratches at the crook of his arm, that’s no ones business but his own.

Until, one night when Jaskier has long since stumbled off to bed, Lambert asks. It's just the three of them, Lambert, Geralt, and Eskel, still drinking in the kitchen.

“So what’s,” Lambert pauses to hiccup, “what’s with the bard’s arm?” He asks.

“Hmm?” Geralt grunts squinting at the cards in his hand.

“That damn bandage of his,” he continues motioning at the crook of his own elbow. “Wears it when he– when he fucken bathes too.”

“Maybe it’s covering a scar,” Eskel offers, “or a weird birthmark.”

Lambert scowls. “He’s got plenty other scars.”

Geralt snorts. “And weird birthmarks too,” he adds thinking about the vaguely cock shaped birthmark Jaskier has on his shoulder.

Lambert grumbles as Geralt and Eskel continue playing their game of gwent.

“What if it’s a soulmark?” He eventually asks.

“Humans don’t present them as easily as we do,” Eskel says at the same moment Geralt says:

“Not a chance.”

The two stare at him, clearly wanting an explanation.

Geralt grumbles and downs what’s left in his mug. “Jaskier’s a hopeless romantic,” he explains. “Wouldn’t shut up for weeks when he saw mine. And then he wouldn’t shut up for the better part of a godsdamned year after we finally met Yen,” he pours himself another drink and downs that too with a shudder. “Believe me, if he had one, we’d know.”

A few hours later, when Geralt’s fighting to stay awake, Lambert slams his mug on the table. It startles Eskel and Geralt enough that they’re more awake than they were an hour ago.

“I wanna know,” Lambert growls.

“Then ask him,” Eskel says.

Geralt yawns. “He always changes the subject.”

Lambert nods vigorously as Eskel frowns. “Then leave it.”

“But I wanna know!” Lambert complains.

Eskel gets up. “I’m not doing this,” he groans. “I’m going to bed.”

Lambert calls him a bitch as he leaves and grumbles into his drink. He and Geralt continue drinking for a few minutes before Lambert asks, “You grab him and I pull that damn cloth off?”

Geralt, too drunk and too tired to think about all the times Jaskier’s flinched when grabbed by the elbow, nods.

It surprisingly takes them a few days to catch Jaskier alone. He’s confused when Geralt grabs him but otherwise doesn’t struggle. It’s not until Lambert pulls at his sleeve that he panics.

Jaskier thrashes in their grip the moment he realizes what they’re doing. Decades old panic grips him as he screams and begs for them not to hurt him.

Lambert and Geralt stay frozen as Jaskier fleas down the hall. Vesemir is there demanding to know what happened while Eskel runs past them to catch up with Jaskier. Lambert and Geralt can only stare in the direction Jaskier fled, the stench of his fear hangs heavy in the air around them.

Geralt knows what Jaskier’s fear smells like. It’s hard not to when Jaskier often gets too close to a monster, but he has never smelled of fear because of a Witcher before. Not when he’d first seen Eskel. Not when Lambert threatened to gut him right after. And not even when the snow had finally blocked off the path down the mountain and he was subsequently trapped in the keep with four unwelcoming witchers.

They don’t see Jaskier for a solid week after that. They know he’s still in the keep, they can smell him in the kitchen, in the baths, through the halls, but they don’t actually see him. Lambert’s on edge, quicker to anger, and Geralt’s quieter, more prone to get lost in thought.

They both try to apologize, in their own way, standing outside Jaskier’s door. Jaskier doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even make a sound. The only reason they know he’s in there is because his heart’s racing and he smells of anxiety and residual panic.

Eventually Eskel’s able to coax him out and he tentatively resettles into the routine he’s established for himself. Jaskier now has a constant underlying scent of anxiety to him. He smells of panic whenever someone focuses on his arm too long.

It all comes to a head one evening. Vesemir reaches to touch Jaskier’s elbow to get his attention. Jaskier flinches so hard he nearly throws himself into the hearth they’re sitting around. He doesn’t smell of fear, but his panic is palpable. Vesemir apologizes but Jaskier assures him it’s fine, even as Lambert storms away shouting abuse and Geralt slinks away miserably.

Eskel cracks that night. It’s late, the others have all gone to their rooms in their attempts to avoid Jaskier, and it’s just Eskel and Jaskier in the library. Jaskier’s leaning against him, fighting to stay awake as Eskel simply enjoys his company.

“What…” Eskel asks tentatively. “Happened to your arm?”

Jaskier tenses against him, heart rate picking up as his hand goes to cover the spot. He sits up slowly, stiffly, and Eskel immediately kicks himself. “Sorry,” he says quickly, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

But Jaskier shakes his head. “No it’s okay,” he says weakly. “It’s stupid really. It happened so long ago, almost thirty years,” he laughs shakily, voice impossibly quiet. “But I guess I still get scared someone’s gonna finish carving off my soulmark at times.”

Eskel feels like he’s been punched in the throat. Soulmarks are special. They’re Destiny’s will. All Witchers have soulmarks. Something about the trials make them emerge, almost like Destiny herself is desperately trying to preserve their humanity. Eskel knows his own soulmark all too well. Four little yellow flowers floating down a stream painted on his ribs. At times, if he just focuses on the general shape, they look like music notes. He knows the mark ties him to Jaskier. It’s why Jaskier’s initial reaction to him hurt so much.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel says lamely, because what else can he say? He could demand the name of the people that hurt Jaskier, but that won’t repair the damage. He could go after Geralt and Lambert again for their stupid stunt, but they’re suffering enough as it is and Jaskier doesn’t really hold it against them.

Jaskier barely shakes his head. “Don’t be. I’ve… actually wanted to show it to you for some time,” he admits quietly. His hands shake as he rolls up his tunic sleeve.

Eskel catches his wrist, stills the movement. “Stop,” he breathes. “You don’t have to.”

Jaskier leans towards him, his forehead coming to rest against Eskel’s. “Please,” he whispers.

Eskel reluctantly lets go. He watches as Jaskier halting works the black cloth off. There’s red marks across Jaskier’s skin where the edge of the cloth dug in too tightly. But Eskel’s breath and attention is immediately stolen by the mark. He feels fury and an unimaginable sadness wash over him in equal measures.

It looks exactly like the wolf school medallion. Or it would were it not for the angry scars distorting the right side of its face.

Eskel runs a thumb over it before he even realizes what he’s doing. Jaskier shivers at the touch and Eskel can smell the tears the bard is desperately trying to hold back. “I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean to upset you when I saw you. It’s just…”

“The scars,” Eskel murmurs. “They’re identical.” He has a sick feeling that Jaskier’s mark was defiled the same day his face was slashed.

Jaskier explains himself fully that night, as he cries in Eskel’s arms. It feels strange to finally show his mark again after almost thirty years. He’s not sure if he’s scared or relieved or if its even good or bad. It just is.

The following morning, he’s understandably exhausted and spends breakfast tucked against Eskel’s side. Lambert and Geralt get to the kitchen and try to leave before the even enter it. Jaskier reeks of tears and misery and Eskel. Eskel asks them to at least stay for breakfast. Lambert still wants to run but seeing as how Geralt pitifully sits down, he refuses to be the only one that runs and sits down too. Breakfast is awkward with how exhausted Jaskier looks and smells, they’re both happy to go off and do their chores for once.

Jaskier spends most of the morning sleeping in Eskel’s room. When he emerges for dinner, it’s almost like nothing’s happened. He’s back to his loud and carefree self. The smell of anxiety is almost unnoticeable now. Vesemir claps him on the shoulder and Geralt’s less quiet.

Lambert’s still unsettled, though, still easy to anger and prone to snapping. He doesn’t believe the bard’s act for a second. That level of fear can’t just be forgiven that easily. It has nothing to do with the fact that it was his plan that caused that reaction and made his brothers upset.

His brothers and Vesemir tell him the bard’s fine. Even Jaskier himself assures him that it’s okay. He doesn’t believe it for a second. No amount of chattering with Geralt, or helping Vesemir in the library, or spending nights with Eskel will convince him.

But maybe seeing how Jaskier lets Eskel settle a hand over his arm helps. Seeing how Jaskier smiles all shy and happy when it happens helps. Seeing how Eskel returns the looks helps. Seeing how Eskel doesn’t shy away when Jaskier touches his scars helps.

Maybe seeing and smelling how happy the two are helps ease the guilt. Because what else could be under that black cloth than a scarred over soulmark?

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

Geralt and his bros consume Black Gull (mentioned in the books as a hardcore version of White Gull with hallucinogenic properties) on the night of Moon Rage. This time, the moon... yells back

(u r a terrible enabler)

It’s been several winters since Jaskier was last in the keep, and he considers himself well-prepared for whatever the season chooses to throw at him. Geralt has warned him several times to expect the worst when he’s around his brothers, but truly - how bad can it get? Jaskier is quite content, so long as no one throws him from a balcony. 

He’s sat with Vesemir, chatting about not much while the other witchers are outside doing whatever it is they do on full moon nights. They’re talking about past loves, somehow - and the way Vesemir talks about Mignole makes Jaskier quite sure that all Geralt’s huff about not feeling anything really is just tripe - when the trio of wolves burst unsteadily into the room, Geralt being virtually carried between his brothers, his eyes dark and a black bottle of something gripped in one hand.

Something is not right. They collapse onto the bench next to Jaskier, and Geralt slams the bottle onto the table. Jaskier takes the bottle and gives it an experimental sniff, but before he can take a swig Vesemir is gently pulling it away.

“I wouldn’t,” he says, quietly.

Jaskier frowns, but chooses not to argue with the veteran wolf, instead placing what he hopes is a comforting hand on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt’s reaction is instant - his head snaps around, eyes wide, lips set in a defensive snarl until he realises who Jaskier is and relaxes almost as quickly, flopping bonelessly against him.

Utterly confused, Jaskier gives him a soft pat on the back. Geralt’s brothers, meanwhile, are laughing - laughing hard enough that there’s tears spilling down their cheeks and Eskel is nearly on the floor.

“I don’t - what-” Jaskier splutters, panic and range mingling, “You can’t just laugh at--”

“Ask him what happened,” Lambert cuts him off when he’s finally regained his breath, “Go on.”

Jaskier pushes Geralt away so he can look into his huge, fear-stricken eyes. “Geralt,” he says, using the soft voice he saves for children and Roach, “Tell me what happened.”

Geralt mutters something that Jaskier doesn’t catch, but judging by the uproarious laughter Lambert and Eskel certainly do.

“What was that, Geralt?”

“She shouted at me,” he mutters, horrified. “She saw me, Jask, she looked right at me, and she shouted at me. She said, she, she--”

He falters into silence, lip quaking.

Jaskier leans closer. “Who shouted at you?”

Geralt’s eyes dart around the room, looking for invisible assailants. He swallows, tongue licking at his dry lips.

“The moon,” he says, finally.

Eskel’s last scrap of control leaves him, and he falls completely off of the bench, dragging Lambert with him.

[contemplativepancakes]

loss of voice, written for @whataboutthebard

Jaskier & Aiden, G

Jaskier stirs honey into his tea, water splashing over the sides. Aiden watches him in bemusement from his spot on the couch in Jaskier’s chambers. “Not even a honey, I’m home?” he asks.

Jaskier supposes he could have given a greeting before he got home and went to make tea immediately, but this is an emergency of the highest level. He gestures at his throat. “I’m losing my voice,” he whispers hoarsely.

Aiden’s eyes widen, and he moves to get up from the couch, but Jaskier waves him off violently. Aiden settles back down with a huff. “Just because my leg is broken doesn’t mean I’m an invalid.”

Jaskier spares him the sternest glare he can muster up, but it’s not much when his heart is threatening to escape his rib cage because of the panic. The bardic competition is two days away, and he knew he shouldn’t have over done it with his practicing, but he simply has to beat Valdo. Valdo will crow about it and hold it over his head for the entire year if he doesn’t win, and what sort of an example will that set for his students?

“Come here,” Aiden says, patting the spot next to him.

Jaskier takes his mug and obeys, sitting down carefully so he doesn’t jostle Aiden’s leg. “I should really get Shani to come in and see how it’s healing,” he rasps.

Aiden shushes him, like Jaskier’s seen Geralt do to Roach a million times, and it’s hard not to take offense at being treated like a spooked animal. Aiden sets a hand over his heart, and Jaskier realizes he can hear how fast it’s beating, and his harsh breathing, too. Jaskier takes deliberate breaths until his pulse has slowed at least a few degrees.

“It’ll be all right,” Aiden says, but it’s a meaningless platitude.

Jaskier shakes his head. “I’m going to be laughed right out of Oxenfurt.”

Aiden pokes him in his side, more firmly this time. “Stop talking.”

Jaskier sticks his tongue out at him. The time they’ve spent together while Aiden’s been healing from his broken leg has made them much closer than Jaskier would have anticipated, and he leans into his side now, letting Aiden wrap an arm around him.

He bites his lip as he thinks about what he should do now. Call his performance off? He doesn’t want to just give up, but he’s completely and utterly worthless right now. He’s not even going to be able to teach his classes tomorrow. Fuck, he needs to let his assistants know.

Aiden must be able to feel his tension rising, because he tightens his grip on Jaskier. “Why don’t you get some sleep?” he murmurs. “Things always look better after a nap.”

It's a chore for Jaskier to not pull out his hair. “I’m not a child,” he whispers indignantly.

Aiden doesn’t let him go. “Didn’t say you were. Look, I’ll do it with you. Easy as pie.”

Aiden leans his head against Jaskier’s shoulder, and Jaskier does have to admit that Aiden feels very nice pressed against him. Muscular but lithe in a way Jaskier doesn’t get to enjoy very much anymore.

He finally settles back into the embrace and lets himself drift off, even though he still has no idea what he’s going to do about everything…

His nose twitches at the smell of something burning, and he cracks his eyes open to see Aiden by his fireplace, stirring something in a pot. “Trying to concoct something to just put me out of my misery now?” Jaskier asks, but he’s not sure that Aiden can even understand half of it with how he croaks each word.

Aiden scoffs. “I know a thing or two. This will help your voice.”

Jaskier tries not to get his hopes up too much. He’s had enough of Geralt’s mixtures to know that they don’t always do what they’re supposed to. “You should be resting. Your leg is never going to heal if you don’t let it.”

Aiden makes a talking motion with his hand. “You’re sounding like Lambert now, and that’s not a compliment.”

Jaskier scowls at him and gets up from the couch to peer into his bubbling pot. He wrinkles his nose. “Tell me there’s not drowner brains in there,” he whispers in outrage.

“It’s perfectly safe, and that’s all you need to know.” Aiden shoots him a winning smile.

Dear gods, this is going to be the death of him.

“I just want your voice back,” Aiden says, in a small voice. “I know… I know how it can be to lose something inherent to you.”

Jaskier looks down at him, frozen. For all of his posturing and story telling, he’s not that great when people try to be vulnerable with him, but he tries to paste on an encouraging face. Aiden swallows hard. “I was…captured, for a bit.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I know how it feels.”

Aiden scoops up his solution into a mug and offers it to Jaskier. Jaskier peers down into it doubtfully, but really, he doesn’t have anything to lose and everything to gain if it does give him his voice back. He waits for the steam to stop billowing from it before he takes a cautious sip. It sears his throat going down, and he has to concentrate so he doesn't gag.

Aiden’s watching him intently, though, so he downs the rest of it before he can talk himself out of it, breathing through his mouth as he tries to cool it down. His throat is in fiery agony, and he puts his hands around it until, suddenly, it’s like someone has iced it down for him, unbearable in a different way. He wonders for a second if Geralt was right, and he never should have let a cat witcher into his home.

“What—” he starts, but stops when he registers that his voice came out perfectly normal.

His eyes widen, and Aiden grins back at him. He immediately goes through a set of scales, laughing in sheer exhilaration. “I could kiss you,” he declares, spinning back around to look at Aiden.

“I don’t think Lambert would appreciate that.”

Jaskier lets out a gleeful exhale. “I’ll just have to think of another way to show my undying gratitude, then.”

He puts a hand on his chin. “I know! You’ll be the hero of my next song.”

Aiden has a startled look in his eyes now, but that’s what Geralt looked like at first, too.

He’ll come around.

[rebrandedbard]

If you are still writing 14?

Okay so this one accidentally went from a drabble to an actual fic whoops. The cure is totally inspired by the Rapunzel fairy tale, spoiler alert, where the prince falls in the thorn bushes around the tower and Rapunzel’s tears fall into his eyes, curing him.

14. “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”

wc: 4444 which is an awesome number I’m so happy lol

Robbed Blind

Someone botches a spell to steal Jaskier’s artistic vision and he’s cursed with blindness. Thankfully, he falls into the company of Ciri and Lambert. They journey safely to Kaer Morhen, but what could be the cure to his affliction?

-

She had found him, tripping over the strings of destiny, in Drakenborg. He’d been on his way to Oxenfurt when the curse took hold, and he had gone no further. Jaskier was haggard, gaunt, and looked quite worn. His hair lay flat from constant fussing. It was a habit Ciri remembered well from his visits, always combing a nervous hand through his hair before a performance. She had never seen it look so lifeless. He needed a mirror, she thought. She would soon realize that a mirror would serve him no purpose.

He was blind. He startled when she ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist. She’d been so relieved to see a friendly face that she’d run right into his arms, nearly knocking him from the stool in the corner of the tavern. Why should he not catch her as he’d always done? He’d been looking directly at her; she thought he’d merely not recognized her beneath the mud and hood.

“Let me go! Who are you? Stop—stop this now or I’ll give you such a wallop, I’ll—!”

“Jaskier!” Ciri cried, shocked. She flinched away from him as he elbowed her roughly against her temple. She rubbed the spot, standing out of reach.

Jaskier straightened up at once. “Is that—? Little cub, is that you?” he asked. He turned his head as if searching for her and reached out a hand, feeling the air. It was nowhere near.

Ciri took his hand. During their long weeks of travel, she refused to let it go again. She became his eyes, and together they started for Oxenfurt and the safety of its halls.

He’d woken up blind one day, he explained. No warning or explanation. The mage had told him what magic was at play. Someone had tried to steal his artistic vision and the enchantment had gone wrong, stealing from him his very sight.

“Is there not a cure?” Ciri asked.

Jaskier shook his head. “The mage said it was a botched spell. There’s no telling what will fix it, only that it must have something to do with artistic vision. The mage suggested it might be cured by the old methods: kisses and the like; gazing upon true beauty.”

He squinted and took her face between his hands. “I’m looking and looking at you as hard as I can, and I remember you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen when you were first born. So what do mages know? Have you become a pox-faced adolescent or scraggly Medusa? Ah,” he chuckled, “but you’d still be a fairytale princess in my eyes if you had the face of a basilisk.”

She laughed and squirmed out of his hands. “You were always very good at Blind Man’s Bluff. Do you remember when we used to play it? Back then, you were always stumbling; you aren’t stumbling as much anymore.”

“I’ve grown used to it, I suppose. But you are a princess—do you suppose a kiss from you might cure me? How are you with frogs? Ever wake a sleeping prince?”

“No, but we may try it. There’s magic in me of a sort, I know. Here, kneel a moment.”

Jaskier knelt on the dry road and closed his eyes, tapping the lid. “Right here. Give it a go,” he said encouragingly. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll practice on a frog and work our way up.”

Ciri kissed both eyes to be sure. “Alright. Open them. Do you see anything?”

She tried not to get her hopes up, watching Jaskier squeeze his eyes tight. He opened them, blinked several times, and gave her a sad smile.

“Not to worry, we’ll find a pond in no time,” he joked, trying to keep the mood light.

-

“Well! I go to find a cat and find a lioness instead. And a songbird. Must be my lucky day.”

Ciri put herself between the stranger and Jaskier, waving a large branch in warning. “Keep away,” she growled. “If you come any closer, I’ll scream.”

The scruffy man put his hands up and grinned. “I’ve heard what sort of screaming runs in your family. Trust me, I would rather not be around for one of them. Heard it knocked pretty boy flat on his back at your mother’s little Surprise party.”

Jaskier put a hand on Ciri’s shoulder. “Wait a moment,” he said. “I know that moniker. Geralt complained of it before.” He was quiet a moment, stirring up a memory. Then, he lit up, asking excitedly, “Did you say you were looking for a cat? A cat witcher, by chance?”

“Why? Find one up a tree?” the stranger pressed.

Jaskier patted Ciri’s shoulder and strode forward, extending a hand. “You must be Lambert! I’ve heard—” his hand buckled against Lambert’s chest, his stride clearing the distance too quickly “—oh, my apologies. I’ve heard about you before. I was hoping to see you under better circumstances if I ever got the chance. Or to see you at all, really. Damnable timing.”

Lambert looked at him, then took his hand. Ciri watched as the understanding settled in, for Jaskier was staring straight at the man’s forehead, a near lucky guess of his eye line. Lambert wore an expression of pity freely, knowing Jaskier could not see it, though his tone was light and cocky as before. “I always wondered what you saw in that sourpuss, following him as long as you did; now I know you didn’t see anything after all,” he joked.

Jaskier snorted. “It’s new.”

“Ah, so you’ve been blinded by love, have you?”

Jaskier flapped his hand until he felt the brush of Ciri’s sleeve at his side, then he tugged her forward and presented her. He cleared his throat, a tad flushed. “May I introduce Her Royal Highness, Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the Lion Cub of Cintra. Geralt’s child Surprise.”

Ciri tossed her branch aside. “You know Geralt,” she said.

“They’re brothers.”

Lambert sneered. “He got all the looks, Eskel got the talent, but I got the brains.”

“What little there were to be had,” Jaskier added.

“Oh, ho! You’ll fit right in at the keep, talking like that.”

There was a pregnant pause between the three of them. Jaskier nudged Ciri gently forward. “She’ll be safe there. And her wit is more cutting than mine.”

Ciri turned at once to protest. “But what about Ox—”

“And so would you,” Lambert cut in. “A dull knife and a dull wit can be sharpened, and I’d rather keep two knives in my belt than one, whatever their make. Don’t start that maudlin shit with me; you’re coming along.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to protest and Lambert raised a hand. Then, realizing how ineffective that was against one who could not see it, he recovered and smacked the side of Jaskier’s head to shut him up before he started.

“Come on; it’s a long and dull road we have ahead of us, and you’re my entertainment. I want to hear every embarrassing story you can supply. I’ve long run out of blackmail and I’m in need of fresh material. Besides, what better bait for a cat than a twittering bird? If you sing loud enough, we might pick him up along the way.”

-

They were all together in the great hall when at last he came. The figure stood in the doorway, a black dot against the stark white of winter outside. A pair of bags dropped with a thundering bang upon the floor, the sound echoing throughout the room, and the figure bundled up by the fire started awake in fright.

Jaskier patted the blanket beside him, made frantic by his sudden awakening. “Ciri? Ciri!” he called, for she had been asleep next to him what seemed only moments ago.

She paused only a moment to stare at the imposing figure in the light. Something in her shouted, compelling her to go to him. But Jaskier called for her in that voice wrought with panic once more. She flew from the circle of wolves to his side, abandoning her hand of cards, disregarding the man of destiny at the door.

“I’m here,” she said, taking his hands. “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always. I’m not going anywhere.” She and the others looked at each other, looked at Geralt, and said not a word.

Jaskier settled and took a deep breath. “I heard something crash. I dreamed—but never mind that.” He sighed, pressing his head to their joined hands. “I’m sorry. I know it’s safe here. I’m just not used to you wandering off just yet.”

“I know.” She stroked his hair gently. It was soft again, though not as silky as before. Lambert and Eskel had drawn him a bath for the first time in a long while, but he had not his customary soaps and oils. He was … less bright, his appearance dulled with his mood.

Vesemir had examined him. Countless hours, the wolves had huddled together in the old library, trying to find a cure for Jaskier’s condition to no avail. As time went by, the reality of his situation weighed on Jaskier. He could no longer read his notebook, nor write his music to be remembered. Ciri read his notes aloud and studied the art so she might transcribe them for him, but it was obvious how he felt.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he’d said.

And now he gave her that same false smile, the one that failed to meet his eyes. She missed the lines in the corners and wished they might come back. Perhaps they’d flown off with the crows, frightened of the winter snow.

“Go back to your game,” he whispered. “I’ll head up to bed.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” she offered.

He shook his head. “I know the way now. If someone will take me to the stairwell?” he prompted, raising a hand.

Ciri looked at Geralt. There was so little she knew of him—stories and songs … words spared in rumors and stolen from conversations where she lingered unnoticed to listen. What she knew of the wolf and bard she had pieced together with care. For all the tales Jaskier would tell, he would not disparage Geralt before her, and he would not tell the story of the dragon hunt. But dwarves talk. Stories travel and lesser bards would imitate the songs of greater. Witchers collect news of other witchers, and two adults would speak as adults when ale made easy speech. Jaskier had confided in Lambert those tearing words once flung at him upon the mountain. And thus she had put the final piece into place of the great mystery between them.

‘If life could give me one blessing…’

“Who will take him?” she asked. She kept Geralt’s eyes as she rose to her feet. “Who will take him into his hands?”

It was only the barest movement, but she swore she saw the wolf of legend flinch.

Jaskier sat up with a huff. “You make it sound so dramatic. Are we playing at a quest now? Very well, who is my knight errant? The princess has thus decreed a quest is in order: a quest up the perilous tower steps, my-my! Such a task!”

“I should think a white knight is the one suited best for the task,” Vesemir grunted. He shuffled his hand, eyes narrowed at Geralt.

The white knight in question let his cloak fall. He shook the snow from his arms and dusted them slowly, looking at each watching face in turn. His hesitation was clear. When none moved to claim Jaskier, he stepped forward cautiously. Without a word, he took Jaskier’s hand and lifted him to his feet.

Jaskier clapped an arm around his shoulder, hands patting the edge of his long hair. “Ah, thank you, Vesemir,” he said. His hand slipped from Geralt’s armour and he made a face, flicking his wet hand in the air. He prodded the armour curiously. “You’re soaked; I thought you said you’d sent Eskel for the firewood.” He prodded again and bumped against Geralt’s shoulder pad. He pinched it between his fingers, figuring out its shape. He hummed curiously. “What are you wearing? Did you go hunting?”

Geralt stared. Jaskier was not looking at him. Geralt looked at the circle of men by the fireside and there sat Vesemir in silence, watching. He was struck dumb. What … game was this?

“A knight needs a knight’s armour,” Lambert called.

Jaskier laughed. “Oh, of course. Such a soft touch; did you get all dressed up for Ciri? Have I woken in the middle of a game?”

Eskel tossed a card in the middle of the circle. “Yes,” he answered, “but we’ve just started on another, different game.”

“Very cold and calculated,” Ciri agreed.

“Cold and calculated. So a snowball fight has become a snowball war, no doubt born of the most complicated strategies. Shame on the lot of you. You ought to let your elders warm themselves before sending them on tasks. You’re young; you’ve got legs,” Jaskier scolded.

“It was his idea,” Eskel replied.

Vesemir nodded, keeping silent as the game unravelled.

Jaskier looped his arm through Geralt’s and stood straight and tall in an affected manner. “Come, my good knight,” he said, “and let us bid good night to these slacking youths.”

He started to walk in the general direction of the stair, Geralt turning them with truer aim. Geralt looked over his shoulder at the others, frowning. This was not the sort of confrontation he expected when next he saw Jaskier. If he ever saw him. And here was his child Surprise in their midst without a word of greeting or explanation, and the bard, the two of them together and settled within the walls of the keep.

It was too perplexing for him to puzzle out. And Jaskier was acting strangely. Where were his speeches? Geralt had expected him to argue on sight, or else to pretend all was right and greet him, “Geralt! How good to see you,” or, “Fancy meeting you here,” and play off the mountain like it never happened. Or at the very least to ignore him. But to call him Vesemir and take to his arm? What joke was he playing at?

The answer came as Jaskier dodged the first step and nearly fumbled upon the stair. He clung to Geralt’s arm with a cry and his other hand shot out to grope the wall. He flailed for it, feeling his way from the step outward, then sliding his hand up the side of it. He turned his head, looked at Geralt and laughed. “I’m still not used to these uneven steps,” he said. “Give me time and I’ll be able to find my way around unassisted. By next week, I’ll be able to navigate every pool in the hot springs, then you four will never see me fully dressed again!”

Geralt raised a hand to Jaskier’s face. He rested a thumb just beneath his eye. They were as blue as ever, nothing seemed amiss, and yet …

Jaskier’s smile weakened. He closed his eyes and pushed the hand away. “I know the three of you are working hard to find a cure. I know the jokes fall flat. But I must make them. If I don’t … Vesemir, if I can’t make light of it, the darkness I see will be all I have left.”

He turned toward the stair again, hand firm on Geralt’s arm, the other on the wall. “Right then. Up we go. Just one at a time,” he said. He stepped tentatively forwards, prodding his foot before him until he nudged the base of the first step. “Got it. First is always hardest, isn’t it?”

They carried on. Two steps, three, one after the other slowly. They were uneven by design: a final defense against those who would try to invade their stronghold. The spiral stair favored those who walked it every day, gave advantage to the men who would be at the top, swinging their swords to fight back those who would dare trespass unwitting. It was difficult enough for any stranger with sight. With Jaskier, it was a quest in itself.

Midway up, Geralt thought to carry him. They were going so slowly; it would have been easiest that way. He nearly offered, but stopped. If he spoke, Jaskier would know him. He began to reach an arm out to simply lift him, but Jaskier fumbled once more, his knee hitting the step with a mumbled curse. And Geralt heard him muttering through his teeth as he crouched upon the stair.

“I will learn,” he hissed. “This will not stop me. I refuse to be a burden to anyone. Never again.” He touched his forehead to the step and Geralt put a hand to his back. He was trembling.

When Jaskier rose again, he did not take Geralt’s arm. He reached out and took hold of the wall on either side, arms stretched wide to hold himself up. He proceeded to climb the stair alone. When Geralt reached out to help, Jaskier waved him away.

“No,” he whispered. “We’re nearly at the top. Just let me do this much. Please.”

And Geralt let his hand fall away.

Jaskier reached the landing with a powerful stomp, expecting a final step. He breathed a sigh of relief and sagged against the right wall. Geralt followed behind and patted his shoulder. Small congratulations. From there, Jaskier walked down the corridor, tapping when he came upon a wooden door. He passed three, tapped each with his knuckles, counting. When he reached the forth door, he opened it. In this space, he walked with ease away from the wall. He flopped confidently upon the bed and rested a moment as one does after a long journey.

He shucked off his doublet and loosened the laces of his boots. He set these aside at the very foot of the bed where they might easily be found again. He undid the back lace of his trousers, paused, and inclined his head toward the door.

“Are you still there, Vesemir?” he asked.

Geralt did not know how to respond. He stood fixed in the doorway, but dropped his eyes to his feet modestly. After a moment’s wait, Jaskier finished undressing and climbed beneath the heavy furs. A memory stirred—that was not the final task of the evening. What was the last of their routine each night? What was left undone that made this finality seem so abrupt? Geralt realized it in the darkness of the room. He had no candle to blow out.

The truth struck Geralt sharp as a blade to his gut. He stole through the door, walking quietly toward the bed. He sat on the edge, the furs rumpled beneath him, and listened to Jaskier’s breathing. He was not yet asleep—would never be, so soon—but he did not stir.

Geralt took his hand gently.

Jaskier squeezed it back.

“I only wish that had not been the last I’d seen of him,” Jaskier whispered. “I try to remember his smile now. For all my poetry, I can’t remember it clearly. His smiles were so rare, but I don’t suppose you need me to tell you. Or perhaps you do. I don’t know if he smiled here; I know nothing his life in this place. Were you so fortunate that they were commonplace?”

Silent footsteps creeped up the stair. Ciri had waited long enough to follow. Geralt heard no sign of her under the ringing words of Jaskier’s speech. Though he spoke no louder than the breath of the wind, every last syllable echoed like a clap of thunder in his ears.

Jaskier slipped his hand free and turned on his pillow, hugging it close. “I wish I might at least see Ciri now, know how she’s grown. They change so quickly at that age. Does she look like her mother? Does she look like him? Destiny makes strange things of those it touches. She was beginning to look like him, I once thought.”

She saw him well enough, looking through the open door. She crouched behind the wall, listening as she always did in secret, for the things he would not burden her with.

“I always did wonder what you looked like. Geralt spoke once to me of his brothers, his mentor. You’re still stories to me in ways. I know you have long hair, grey with age. I know Lambert is shorn, Eskel is shaggy. I know your voices, your height, and a hundred other things. But do you share his eyes? What color is the armour you wear? How does the sun set over the mountainside? The carpets before the hearth—what pattern is woven there? What thousands of stories do you keep in that library? What do the monsters look like illustrated in the great bestiary?”

He buried his face in his pillow. His voice was muffled, but both Geralt and Ciri could hear the husk in it. “I won’t feel sorry for myself. It doesn’t mean anything—just idle curiosity. It doesn’t matter how the carpet is woven or if you wear brown shirts or red. I’ve seen a lifetime of sunrises and sunsets and stars. I don’t want them!” he barked. He writhed on the bed, his face falling from the pillow, stained with tears. “I don’t! I never needed them, not one! I don’t care—I don’t! None of them are important!”

Geralt rushed forward and took Jaskier in his arms. Jaskier struggled, beating at his chest, and refused to be coddled. “No!” he wailed. “Don’t comfort me, I don’t need it! I don’t want it! I will not be pitied!” But for his hard words, he clung to Geralt’s armour, sobbing against his shoulder. “It’s unnecessary. It’s just a bunch of poetry. Useless poetry and songs.”

Jaskier pulled away, Geralt’s hands trailing from his back to his shoulders as he sat up. Geralt held him there before he could retreat more. Before he could think twice of it, Geralt leaned in, his hands cupping Jaskier’s face on either side.

“Vese—”

Something warm and wet fell onto Jaskier’s lashes. He heard a shaky breath, felt the warmth of it upon his face. Another hot tear fell into his other eye and he blinked in surprise, for it was not his own. He sat perfectly still in shock, blinking the falling tears away.

“They were never useless,” Geralt said. “They were always important—all of them.”

Jaskier twitched, raising his head by instinct up to look at the man who held him now. “You were—!”

“I’m sorry. For not speaking before. For … not speaking then. After. And for saying what I did that day.” He wiped the tears beneath Jaskier’s eyes away, an expression of pain twisting his hollowed features. “If I’d not sent you away—I don’t know what’s become of you, but I might have—I could have tried to prevent it. You would still have your sight.”

Jaskier covered Geralt’s hands. “No, Geralt. This is none of your doing. You can’t—”

A loud bump from the hall startled him. Jaskier turned at once to look.

“Ciri,” he breathed.

Ciri had a finger to her mouth and was glaring up at a tall man. They both cowed back, being caught. Jaskier looked between them as Geralt’s hands slipped away. He stood, walking toward them. He looked at Ciri, gaping, their eyes perfectly aligned. Jaskier fell to his knees before her and took her hands without fumbling.

“Ciri,” he said. “You’re so … my good gods, you’ve grown.”

All were still as he reached out, touching her face as though she were made of glass. He smoothed her hair away, taking all of her in. He laughed, new tears falling as he pulled her close and crushed her in his arms. “You’re so beautiful!” he cried. He stroked her hair, cradling her against him as tight as he dared. “And you!” He looked up at the witcher in the hall, reaching out to him and taking his hand. “Which one are you? Say something now, quickly. Let me hear your voice and know you.”

“Eskel,” he answered. And then Jaskier was up on his feet, pulling him into another embrace.

“Eskel!” Jaskier cheered. “Eskel, you look even more heroic than I ever imagined! Oh, let me look at you. Oh, oh! Lambert! Vesemir! Where are you, come forward!”

He dashed into the hall, only to turn on his heel for another look at Eskel, for just one more eyeful of Ciri. Over her shoulder, he saw Geralt sitting there on the bed, his yellow eyes wide, the tears still clinging to his chin.

“Oh,” Jaskier whispered. “Oh, I see. I see.”

He walked forward, gliding a hand beneath Geralt’s jaw. He touched his eyes with his other hand. Carefully, he wiped the last of Geralt’s tears away. It dangled, a little drop at the tip of his finger and he brought it close. He closed his hands around it, cradled them to his chest.

Geralt stood slowly before him. And he smiled.

Ciri tugged at Jaskier’s shirt, her head turned away politely. She cleared her throat and said, “Jaskier? Lambert and Vesemir are on their way up. And you’re … well, you’re not at your most presentable.”

Eskel averted his eyes, his back turned to the scene, however touching. “You might want to get a bit more dressed. And quickly,” he added, for Jaskier was standing in his smallclothes.

Jaskier snorted. “All of you, turn away for decency’s sake! We’re having a moment, here.”

“And what about me?” Geralt asked. “Shall I look away?”

It was nothing but empty jest and Jaskier smiled. “No,” he replied. “No, you’re looking where you’re needed. But I suppose to be fair …”

He clapped a hand over Geralt’s eyes. He leaned forward, whispering against Geralt’s lips. “There. Now no one can see. No one … but me.”

There were no witnesses to that first kiss. It was a secret Jaskier kept for himself.

However, the second, third, and forth had quite a startled audience, as Geralt and Jaskier both fell deaf to the clatter of footsteps in the hall. Ciri took it upon herself to usher the others from the room, explaining on the way. After all, with the curse lifted, she no longer needed to be Jaskier’s eyes. His mouth, however, was currently occupied.

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