#if geralt does not fall at this mans feet then I WILL....

[mylarena]

Watch "The Ride of the Witcher | The Witcher: Season 3 (Soundtrack from the Netflix Original S..." on YouTube

Give it a listen!

[inexplicifics]

💛 or 💙 pretty please, Oh great Inex!

“Geralt!” Jaskier cries delightedly.

Geralt hesitates in the doorway. Jaskier is clearly drunk - not so drunk as to be falling over his own feet, but well past tipsy - and so are the others at his table. Geralt has faced selkiemores and leshens and nightwraiths without a qualm, but drunk bards give him pause.

Unfortunately it seems to be too late to perform a strategic retreat, so he girds his loins and heads for the bards.

There isn’t a chair available - the tavern is very crowded, enough that he has to squeeze his way through the crowd, which rather bafflingly does not give way around him the way people usually do for a large and well-armed man in armor, even leaving aside the whole ‘witcher’ thing - but Jaskier gets up at once and gestures grandly for Geralt to take his seat, almost knocking the hat off of a man at the next table. Geralt sits down before Jaskier can become even more effusive in his gesticulating. Jaskier, naturally, sits on his lap.

Jaskier likes to dress and act like he is a waifish and delicate man, but in point of fact he’s six feet tall and astonishingly sturdy, and Geralt grunts a little as Jaskier’s full weight lands on his legs.

“Oh, shush, darling,” Jaskier says cheerfully, and -

Well, Geralt assumes the bard means to plant a messy kiss against Geralt’s cheek, that being something Jaskier has done before while in his cups, but Geralt has turned his head to try to say something to a harried barmaid as she goes by and Jaskier is drunk enough to be clumsy and -

Well. It’s not a great kiss, all things considered, being rather sloppy and off-center, but it is most definitely Jaskier’s lips on Geralt’s.

“Huh,” Jaskier says, pulling back and blinking at Geralt as the other bards catcall and whoop. “You taste like mint.”

“I was at the bathhouse,” Geralt points out. They had mint to chew in addition to the usual array of soaps and oils, and Geralt does like feeling clean when the option is available.

“Yes! Your hair’s all shiny and cleeeean,” Jaskier coos, running his fingers through Geralt’s unbound hair gleefully. “Look! Isn’t it lovely? Like moonlight on snow!”

All the other bards nod and giggle, because becoming a bard apparently means that you’re incapable of calling white hair white like any sensible person.

“That wasn’t a very good kiss,” Jaskier informs Geralt solemnly. “I’ll do better next time.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow and hums dubiously. Jaskier bops a finger against his nose. “Don’t you ‘hm’ at me! I will, you’ll see.”

“Like you did with Demyan, last midwinter?” one of the other bards asks with a sly smile, and Jaskier turns to expostulate at her indignantly.

Geralt rolls his eyes and winds an arm around Jaskier’s waist to make sure his bard doesn’t fall entirely off his lap. Jaskier will have forgotten all about this by tomorrow morning.

(Jaskier doesn’t forget.)

(Or here on AO3!)

[jaskiercommabard]

Hi can I request “Let me do this, please.” for geraskier please and thanks 💛

I'm sorry this took so long! I am a slow writer on a good day, and I was planning on doing like a 300 word drabble but Geralt said NO. 2500 words or I feed you to Roach

Read on AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Geralt, help me, please,” Jaskier screams. 

Not Jaskier.

It is not Jaskier, but that doesn’t keep the blood from rushing in Geralt’s ears as he hunts the thing that has his voice. 

Jaskier is safe, back at the inn - probably sleeping by now, or else terrorizing the pretty barmaid Geralt had left him flirting with. He’s safe, far away from this barren, gore-filled clearing, unless-

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have followed you.”

The voice is thick with tears, wobbling pitifully. The cries continue, ricocheting mercilessly through the forest. 

“I’m afraid.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Geralt, Geralt. I’m here.”

He is not here. The only trace of Jaskier comes from the strip of thick linen blocking Geralt’s vision, the barest memory of lemongrass and cinnamon hitting the air when he tugs the fabric more securely over his eyes. Beneath it, only rot. 

Geralt turns in a slow circle, blade raised and ready to strike. He’s spent all day tracking the location of a nightwraith that has been calling young men to their deaths in the forest, and now the moon is high. Geralt is not a young man, so he is relieved to find - in a stroke of his peculiar sort of luck - that the nightwraith isn’t overly particular about which hearts it rips out and leaves at the edge of town. 

“There you are,” it coos, the tone familiar and melodic. “I tried so hard to find you.”

It’s a perfect mockery of relief and exhaustion, the same sigh that greets him after a long day riding or a long night performing, and it’s close. Its feet fall just like Jaskier’s, a little heavier on his right side where his hip is starting to give him trouble - Geralt can almost see the unevenly worn soles of his boots crunching toward him through the blanket of leaves on the ground.

It's late enough in autumn that Jaskier would be grousing about the cold, and as soon as the thought crosses his mind, the creature's teeth begin to chatter.

“There’s something out here. I’m frightened. Why won’t you help me?”

Closer, now. Close enough for Geralt to lunge at it, and the gasp that falls into the quiet air when his sword finds the creature’s flesh belongs to Jaskier, too. 

The strike falls short of a killing blow, thrust out blindly as it is, and does little more than confuse and enrage it. Soon the voices are overlapping, shrieking above him, losing their soft edge. Vicious wind tears around him and he’s caught in a squall of Jaskier weeping, Jaskier laughing, Jaskier howling in pain. It is behind him and before him, above him and around him, oppressive, inescapable. He has no choice but to rip the fabric from his eyes and-

And there is Jaskier, where Geralt knew he would be, kneeling in the dirt with trembling hands pressed into his side. A gruesome stain slips out from beneath his fingers, so similar to the red of his doublet that it only makes the fabric darker, and a matching ribbon of it falls from his mouth. 

It’s a nightmare Geralt has woken from a thousand times, Jaskier all blue and pink and red, too red at the end of his own sword.

"Why?" the thing mouths, but it's lost, crackling out somewhere in the air instead of falling from his lips. The creature wields his voice like a weapon as it loses control, twisting that sweet tenor into something that stings his ears. 

The taste of blood coats Geralt’s mouth and fills his nose, real and hot and nauseating. It's a strong illusion, built from grief and malice, and it has to end, now, before he cracks beneath the weight of it. He has no choice but to sprint past Jaskier to reach the corpse on the other side of the clearing, but even his enhanced speed is no match for a wraith this powerful. Fingers colder than ice wrap around his ankle and he is flung like a doll to the ground, knees singing with pain as they crash into the earth.

“Let me do this,” he shouts over the roaring wind, twisting back to face the wraith. He’s foolish for it, maybe, but it’s easier to argue with a monster when it wears a face he squabbles with a hundred times before breakfast most days. “Please. Let me help you!” 

For a moment, the frigid hand on him only tightens. It’s enough to make his bones creak, but then Jaskier’s face softens, rippling out from the center. That familiar mop of messy hair turns golden, tumbling easily over a set of round, narrow shoulders. Finally, blue eyes turn maple brown - upturned and mournful, a perfect match to the farmer who had begged Geralt to find his missing daughter. 

They had looked just like hers, watery and wide, when the man chased him down outside the alderman's hut. Find my girl, he had pleaded, pressing a stack of old coins into Geralt’s palm. Bring her home, however you can.

The flickery image of the girl nods once, just the barest dip of her chin as she releases his ankle. It’s enough for Geralt to lurch away, extending his hand to cast Igni over the too-small body decaying in the dry grass beside them. For a moment, above the rot and char and heat, the air is washed out with a breeze of sweet hay and lilies, and then she is gone. 

What’s left behind is a maelstrom of untamed rage and malice, once more with Jaskier’s face, flickering now as the illusion struggles to hold itself together. Something sick and sharp blooms in Geralt’s throat, but he raises his sword anyway. He wavers, and the wraith smiles with his friend’s mouth. It’s all wrong - all sharp, dripping teeth jutting out from endless black, and that is just enough to snap Geralt back to focus. 

The wraith shrieks, the witcher springs. It still has Jaskier’s tears and Jaskier’s hands and Jaskier’s sweet, wide eyes when it dies on Geralt’s sword.

**

The pleasant hum coming from the warmly lit hall of the Merry Magpie rises when Geralt stalks in the front door, its patrons ruffling like rattled hens at the sight of him. He forgoes the bar entirely - he’ll collect his coin from the alderman and deliver it along with a box of ashes to the farmer in the morning. Tonight, he’ll tend to the cold spike of grief and guilt settled in his own chest.

He can’t shake his unease as he climbs the stairs to the shadowy upper floor of the inn - it rolls around in his gut, sends his shoulders bunched halfway to his ears. It’s irrational, he knows, but the feeling only winds itself more tightly around his spine when he shoves open the door to their shared room and finds it empty. 

Geralt swallows around the sharp thing creeping higher into his throat. The bard isn’t far, not with his lute and songsheets strewn about the bed. He’s just as likely to be in a room around the corner with that freckled barmaid, or out behind the inn with the stableman he’d been making eyes at all day, or-

“In here, Geralt!”

In his panic, he’d missed the thick humidity of the room and the scent of Jaskier’s soap, missed the familiar tick of his heart beating quarter-time against Geralt’s own. 

“That is you, Geralt?” he continues, calling from behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room. “You’d better be Geralt, or you’ll have some explaining to do to my outrageously large and occasionally violent very best friend in the whole wide world-”

His voice swings up an octave when he turns to find the witcher only a few paces from him.

“Merciful gods, witcher, you really have to stop doing that. It’s…unnerving. I am unnerved. Has anyone ever told you you’re unnerving?”

Jaskier has. Frequently, but Geralt is so caught up in staring at his throat working, whole and unhurt, that he doesn’t answer. 

“Fuck. Are you alright?” Jaskier asks as he rounds the steaming basin in the center of the room to close the space between them. His tone is tempered now, low and even, the way it is when he soothes Roach while Geralt picks pebbles out of her shoes. Geralt wets his lips but only nods, and careful hands rise up to pet him over anyway. 

There’s a peculiar crease in his brow, a dimple beside his frowning mouth that, surely, no creature could ever mimic. It only deepens as he works away the armor to uncover Geralt piece by piece, unable to find any visible injury. The help only slows him down, really, but Jaskier is warm and real and his waist fits neatly into Geralt’s palm where his hand has drifted, so he lets himself be fussed over. 

The bard is chirping away as he always is when the thorns start to prick at Geralt’s stomach again.

“Jaskier,” he tries to command, but it comes out strangled, “I need you to stop talking.” 

The bard squawks indignantly, swatting at his shoulder where he’s masterfully knocking loose a pauldron that needs its latch replaced.

“You are so rude, do you know? You’re terrible to me.” 

“Jask. Stop.” 

Either Jaskier hears the plea he’s trying to swallow, or Geralt is bleeding out on the forest floor and hallucinating, because he snaps his mouth shut obediently and steps back. That’s wrong, that’s worse, so Geralt tightens the hand on his waist to draw him back into the circle of his arms. 

He presses his face into the space beneath Jaskier’s jaw, because he wants to, and because he can’t help himself. His other hand drifts into the gently curling hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, damp with sweat and steam from the bath slowly cooling beside them. He startles slightly at the touch, but Geralt only noses in further. 

After what has been only a moment for Geralt but certainly a small eternity for the bard, he speaks softly into the top of Geralt’s head.

“Just tell me what’s wrong, dear. Please.” 

“It had your voice,” he whispers. Jaskier scoffs indignantly, but it’s missing some of his usual bluster. 

“I can assure you, nothing and no one on this Continent has my-” 

He cuts himself off, tensing in Geralt’s hold as the words hang above them.

Luring our men into the forest, the innkeeper's wife had said. They all heard it - their wives, lovers, calling to them in the night. It drove them mad, ripped their hearts out.

“It had my voice.”

He understands, and the meaning is cutting through the air like an arrow let loose too soon, flying outside Geralt's control.

“And you had to…?” Jaskier grimaces, all blunt teeth, and leans back to drag a thumb across his throat. Geralt nods tightly, follows the motion with his eyes and then with the tips of his own fingers. That familiar sparrow-heart pulse jumps up to meet his touch in the same soft and perfect spot where Geralt had plunged his sword. 

“Oh, love,” he breathes, and it twists in Geralt's stomach like a fist. He slides his eyes away to track a bead of sweat falling from Jaskier's temple, and he can smell it - lemongrass and cinnamon, salt-sweet skin. No copper, no decay. 

Though his blood moves too slowly for it to show, Geralt feels the flush high in his cheeks anyway, where it might blossom on a human's face - where it does begin to blossom on Jaskier's. It pricks strangely beneath his eyes, makes his tongue slow and clumsy. 

“Did you know?”

A startled noise bubbles out of Jaskier as he meets Geralt’s gaze, but his eyes are fond and soft, wide with something that looks like wonder. Geralt leans into the tender brush of knuckles across his cheek, forgetting for a moment why he ever stopped himself before.

“That you love me?” He laughs, high and soft and musical. It's unbearable. “I suspected. Did you?”

The answer sits on his tongue like the last bite of an apple tart, lives in his throat like a shared skin of good wine, scratches at his chest like an ancient shirt stitched together by a musician's cautious hands.

“I must have. I-” he shakes his head as if the right words might tumble out of him. Jaskier only sighs, an easy smile stuck on his face as he raises his palm to Geralt's cheek. It's the same look he has when they meet each other on the road after a season apart. 

He can’t reconcile the smile and the screaming, the image of the wraith still exploding like a bomb behind his eyelids.

"I'm sorry," he says, nonsensically. His thumb is back at the hollow of Jaskier's throat.

"For what?"

"I hurt you." 

I cut you down as you begged me not to. As you cried out for me to help you. What does that make me?

"Show me," he whispers, just loud enough to hear over the peculiar tangle of their heartbeats. There is an unfamiliar look on his face, something curious and patient, something that makes him sweat even as the room is cooling. 

Geralt swallows hard, presses his thumb into the top of Jaskier's throat, dragging it down until it meets the loosely gathered laces of his chemise. Jaskier's hands fly up to untie them, slowly exposing each precious inch of skin that had been rent and torn by the blade. Instead of steel, Geralt pulls gooseflesh along in his wake. It blooms along with the sweetly creeping flush that spreads across Jaskier's collarbones - blood brought to surface by his hand, again, so different this time.

Geralt continues his path over Jaskier's breastbone, across the dip between his ribs, until he reaches the spot above Jaskier's navel where his sword had struck its final blow. He follows the path again with the flat of his hand, up over a rabbiting heart until his palm rests in its place against Jaskier's neck. His breaths have gone thin and quick, the way they did when he was dying. 

He's not dying, now - no, Jaskier is very much alive when he closes the meager space between them. He's alive when he tips their foreheads together, and Geralt wonders how he could ever have been fooled, seeing this face without the crinkles near his eyes and the easy flush in his cheeks. He’s so alive when their lips brush and it’s all sweet and hot, no ash left in the breath they share.

Geralt knows what Jaskier sounds like with steel in his throat, now, what he sounds like drowning in his own blood. He’ll never unlearn it. It's only fair, he decides, that he should know what Jaskier sounds like when his lips find that same place, when his tongue follows.

[teatitty]

Okay so I'm generously calling this the Dandy Guardian AU until I think of a better name but essentially this is the rundown [had to put this under a cut because it got long WHOOPS]:

In the book version of events, Dandelion isn't present when Geralt is in Cintra and calls the Law of Surprise, but he does know about what happened. I can't recall if we ever see that convo in text or if it's just background knowledge but that's not important right now

When the Fall of Cintra happens, Dandelion already has his ear to the ground, the walls and the crowds to follow Nilfgaard's movements - Oxenfurt's bards are the best bet anyone has for gathering information about the invading armies because they are spread so wide around the continent and have so many connections

Dandelion's first thought is not to send word to Oxenfurt about Cintra's fall. His first thought is Geralt, and his blasted Child Surprise. He starts tracking his way to Cintra, hoping that he might be able to cross paths with Geralt in the surrounding territories to assure himself that his friend didn't get caught in the middle of that Fall

Meanwhile, Ciri knows she has to find a Witcher by the name of Geralt. She knows he is her destiny. She has no fucking idea where to start looking for him, but she's on the run from Nilfgaard, terrified and anxious and stressed, and in her bag, to her surprise, she finds a well worn copy of a hidden book of Dandelion's poems, all of which are to do with Geralt's adventures. Mousesack had given it to her in secret when she was six, and it had been one of her favourites ever since

She quite forgot she had it in her bag

Cirilla has no idea where to find Geralt. But Dandelion might. Dandelion, she thinks, is her best bet to track her own destiny

And of the two of them, Dandelion isn't a very hard man to find. His bright plumage and singing laughter leaves an easy trail of rumours and tracks to follow. Curiously, whenever she asks about where she might find him, people don't tend to question her. They look at her with sympathy - and sometimes pity - and ask if she has anyone else she can rely on

"No," says Ciri, sombre and trembling. "I only have him."

It's not a lie, exactly, and she's gotten quite good at hiding her aristocratic accent. They point her to when they last heard of his presence. They ask if she needs any help. She thanks them for it, because she is still polite, if angry and confused and oh-so-very lost, but she declines any further company

She goes on.

Every night, she opens up that little book of poems, and tries to imagine what the man described in them is like. It's the closest thing she has to knowing Geralt the Person rather than Geralt the Cursed Witcher

Cirilla is three weeks' worth of travel out from Cintra's borders when she finds Dandelion. It's a little more accurate to say she's dragged over to him - apparently, a blonde, freckle faced child asking about such a famous bard is a quick titter of gossip in the grapevine, and she quickly discovers why it is that nobody ever asked her why she wanted him, and always looked with sympathy or pity at her plight:

Dandelion's hair is blonde. Hers is paler than his own, but he is blonde, like her, and his eyes are bright and clear. His face, though worn and tired, is fair and freckled just like hers, and he is just as surprised as she is when she finds herself shoved in front of him and announced to be his "illegitimate daughter"

"Whoever you got unlucky enough to knock up," says the other minstrel who guided her, "the poor lass seems all alone now. From what I heard, you're the only thing she's got left in the world."

Whatever the minstrel says next is lost to her - for a few aching moments, Dandelion looks panicked. And then something shifts. His face softens. "You look dead on your feet, darling," he says. "Come on, lets get you upstairs and clean you up a bit."

Cirilla doesn't trust strangers. Oddly, Dandelion doesn't feel like one. Perhaps because she has spent so many nights reading his work. Or maybe it's because he's a friend of her destiny. Either way, she quietly follows him up to his room, and when the door is closed, he says, "You don't know where Geralt is, do you?"

Ciri does not.

Her lip trembles. Her shoulders shake. When she finally heaves a sob, Dandelion does not crowd her. But his hands are gentle when he moves her cloak from her shoulders. His voice is soft as he brushes her hair and hums a quiet song

Dandelion never met Pavetta in person. But he once saw her in a painting, and he's seen plenty of Calanthe's likeness over the years besides. Ciri looks a spitting image of them both. Privately, he's impressed at how well she could hide her accent. But she is still just a child, and Dandelion has much more experience with putting on such a performance. He's worn many a different mask with many a different voice over the years, and he had heard traces of her native Cintran beneath the roughness of her croak

Cirilla is alone. But she is also alive, and Dandelion knows, with a confidence born of years by Geralt's side, that his Witcher would never let himself die before finding this girl safe

When the morning comes, he begins to take her North

[artistsfuneral]

Have I posted this one already?

Deep into meditation a person may easily lose track of time. The more important it is for a witcher to be sure of their surroundings before falling into a calm state of rest. Being one of the more infamous monster hunters out there, Geralt of Rivia rarely meditates in populated places, but after spending weeks trudging through one monster infested forest after the other, Gunther's tavern felt like a quaint spring meadow to him. After saving said tavern keep's hide when he was a hip-high lad, Geralt has become a welcome guest around town and it only takes one good meal and a tankard of ale that isn't watered down – not as much as many taverns try to get away with –, for his body and mind to relax enough to fall into the familiar trance.

He returns to his senses almost two hours later. Like sugary candy, the shadows around him try to stick to his mind. He wills them away, wondering if he may have gotten too comfortable in this corner of the world as he lets the noise of the tavern wash over him like flowing water.

The sound of rushing blood and dancing hearts mix with the cacophony of stomping feet and clinking tableware. Men and women raise their voices, talking over each other, one's laughter louder than the other. The barmaid rushes past him on swift feet. She takes his emptied plate and refills his cup without thinking twice. Her attention is clearly fixed on the bard who's twirling through the busy tavern room. Almost everyone is watching him, enthralled and with sparks in their eyes.

A familiar feeling blooms in Geralt's chest and he can't help but to think that this very moment has happened before. A bit different, perhaps. In a place that wasn't this kind, where the people eye him warily and he won't be served because of what he is and what he was forced to do.

He tries to dismiss these thoughts as something ridiculous, as a side effect of weeks spent with no other soul than Roach, but the bard chooses that exact moment to spin around and Geralt has to brace himself. It feels like all the air inside his lungs has been forcefully pushed out and he has suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

He has never met the young man before and yet it feels like the world is pulling Geralt towards him. There's just something about him. Something about that face, those blue eyes, the way the sun seems to brighten when the bard smiles as he spins around.

The crowd cheers and the witcher can't help but to think of it as odd. Last time, he thinks – because it sounds right – last time it wasn't like this. The people weren't transfixed with the bard's singing, didn't adapt to his rhythm as they were doing it know. Clapping hands, stomping feet and nodding heads. It is a popular song, one that every child from around here knows by heart. It's not a song the bard wrote by himself and Geralt blinks in confusion because of it.

There is absolutely no reason for Geralt to know this man. And yet he does. It's a strange feeling.

[astaldis]

Whumpers-Monthly Issue no 28 - Falling

On The Run - Chapter 2: Down the cliff

Fandom: The Witcher (TV)

Whumpee: Cahir

Caretaker: Yennefer

Published: 2022-01-01; Completed: 2022-03-11; Words: 30,667; Chapters: 12/12

When they reach the edge of the cliff, they are both breathing heavily and shivering in the cold ocean breeze.

"That looks like a feasible place to climb d-down." Cahir points at a spot to their far right, his teeth chattering slightly. There the cliff is less high and steep and leads to a lonely little half-moon-shaped beach, which would look quite romantic if the sand was white, not black like the cliff.

"How do you know there is a cave for us to hide in down there?"

"I d-don't. But see that darker spot in the r-rock face? C-could be a cave."

"Could be anything," she huffs, but still follows the Nilfgaardian as she has no better plan, or any plan at all. They'd just have to take the chance.

Luckily for Yennefer, Cahir slows down considerably as they walk toward the targeted spot, most of his energy reserves apparently spent. When they finally arrive, he looks more likely to collapse again than to be able to climb down a cliff. But he stays on his feet and closely inspects the cliff face, searching for the safest route down.

"Here. I go first. You follow after." He indicates the place with a nod, gets down on his knees and starts to swing his legs over the edge. His arms are shaking as they have to bear most of his weight until his feet find a safe hold in the rock.

"Sure you can handle the climb?" Yennefer is really worried now. This is so not a good idea. "I didn't save your neck and went to all this trouble just for you to break it."

"Worry about your own neck," he grinds through teeth clenched in concentration while continuing to descend. Yennefer looks on as Cahir's upper body and head slowly disappear from sight. Stubborn idiot! He could at least rest a little first. What if he falls and breaks his bones? She is not going to pick up the pieces, that's for sure. However, in case he does crack his neck, having to continue the escape on her own is not exactly a delightful prospect, despite the man being a bloody-minded, bigoted White Flame zealot and a pain in the arse most of the time. Although they do not look much alike, the Nilfgaardian definitely reminds her of a certain Witcher more often than she cares for, too. Similarly grumpy and obstinate. Typical alpha male behaviour. Which she hates with a vengeance. And, totally in spite of herself, finds annoyingly attractive - in Geralt, needless to say, not the Nilfgaardian. An attraction that has brought her nothing but trouble and heartbreak.

When Yennefer cautiously looks over the edge of the cliff some minutes later, Cahir has already, and against all odds, made it down the first, rather difficult part of the climb and is now standing on a broad bridge-like ledge leading to the easier middle section.

"Come!" He motions her to start climbing.

Cursing her long dress, Yennefer squats down next to the cliff and gingerly moves her legs over the edge. As she is considerably shorter than the Nilfgaardian, it is even more difficult for her to find a safe foothold in the rock. Several times she fears that she might fall. Will Cahir be able to catch and save her if she does? Or rather, will he even try to catch her if she falls? At least the dark, almost black rock seems to be pretty solid and does not crumble under her weight or between her fingers. Unused to this kind of adventure, her fingertips are already hurting badly, her carefully manicured nails probably broken beyond recognition. Inwardly Yennefer breathes a heart-felt sigh of relief when, eventually, she feels strong hands grip her around the waist, helping her down the last few steps until she is safely standing on the ledge next to the Nilfgaardian. Of course, she cannot admit to him that she actually liked the feeling.

"I had it under control," she grumbles.

"'Course you did. But better safe than sorry." He lets go of her waist, turns around and starts to climb down the rocky slope lying before them. Although it is easier, it is still no walk in the park to navigate their way down, sometimes hopping from rock to rock, sometimes squeezing through a narrow crack in between big boulders, sometimes slithering down a steep, gravelly patch more or less on their butts. It takes them a lot longer than anticipated, too, to reach the last part of the descent, another sheer-walled drop of approximately fifteen metres. Yennefer starts climbing when Cahir is almost half way down, trying, wherever possible, to use the same ledges, protrusions and cracks as the Nilfgaardian. It is slow going and not only physically, but also mentally straining as she has to concentrate hard to not make any mistakes, any wrong movement threatening to send her plummeting down the cliff. But she is making steady progress, even catching up on Cahir a little. Now she can hear his heavy breathing from hardly more than two metres below her.

Yennefer looks down cautiously. Not very far to the ground any more. A few more strenuous minutes and they'll have made it. In one piece. Carefully placing her right foot on a narrow ledge a little further down, her eyes trained on the rock face again, she proceeds.

Suddenly, there is the frightening noise of something, or rather someone, falling and heavily hitting the ground. Fuck! Of course, things would not go as smoothly for them as she imagined just seconds ago. From the precarious position she is in at the moment, Yennefer cannot look down to find out what has happened and is relieved when she hears Cahir swear. Not dead. That's something.

When Yennefer finally reaches the ground, the Nilfgaardian is sitting in the black sand leaning heavily agains the rock wall, very pale and sweaty, his eyes closed, but there is no blood anywhere, at least not that she can see, nor is any limb at a weird angle. So, probably nothing broken. He is holding his right foot with both his hands though. Exhausted, Yennefer sits down next to him.

"You alright?"

[rurousha]

Connor and Jaskier

Just an idea inspired by a post saying Connor should be allowed to wield a sword by @celestialtoy

Connor gets sucked through a portal somehow and ends up in The Witcher (Netflix) universe. After a few missteps, he realizes he definitely needs to pass as both a human and not a complete weirdo. He trades his modern clothes for local ones with a confused but delighted tailor.

Jaskier is running from the Mountain Divorce. On his way to Oxenfurt, he has to camp out near the road. Without Geralt, the night is too cold and too empty. Then he hears movement (freaks out a little) and whistling. He goes to the road and finds a young man traveling alone. In the dark. He has no weapons, no food, no supplies.

"What are you doing out here?" Jaskier asks.

"I am walking to Oxenfurt," Connor responds.

"In the middle of the night?"

Connor looks around. The terrain is rocky, and there is little light from the moon. Right. This is not something a human would do.

Jaskier just thinks this is the recklessness of youth (which certainly isn't something he's familiar with). He invites the clearly lost man to camp with him and they travel together to the next village.

A village of mostly elves that is, obviously, having bandit trouble. Jaskier gets in their faces out of habit. And then realizes Geralt isn't there to back up his threats. Not reckless at all.

Bandit goes to punch Jaskier in his beautiful little face, but Connor intercepts. There is quite a brawl. Weapons are drawn. Connor picks up a piece of junk sword and handily beats everyone.

"Wow," Jaskier says. "That was great. Where'd you train sword fighting?"

Connor looks at the sword in his hand. "Never used one before in my life."

Jaskier and Connor decide to travel together. Well, Jaskier decides. Connor's not great at saying no. And he's lonely. He misses Hank, and he's alone in a strange world. He fiddles with his collar since he doesn't have a tie and does coin tricks to amuse locals.

But Jaskier's not an idiot. He eventually realizes that Connor doesn't eat and rarely sleeps. Even when he does sleep, it's... odd. Too still.

"You're not human, are you?"

"I... am."

"It's okay if you're not. I've got loads of friends that aren't human."

"Oh."

"You don't have to tell me. But I'm not gonna hurt you or anything."

"I'm... an android."

"Alright, so I don't actually know what that is."

"It's, I'm, a robot. Or, I don't know, an automaton."

"Oh, like a golem."

"Yes!"

"But golems don't talk. Or think. Or look like people."

"Oh. Well, where I'm from, they do."

"Are you from a different sphere?!"

"How did you figure that out?"

"Please, I am educated in the seven liberal arts, you know. And I know all the sorceresses on the Continent." And a witcher, he doesn't say. "Wait, are you headed to Aretuza to try and get someone to get you home?!"

"Yes!"

"Oh, definitely do not do that. Someone will definitely realize you're not human and will try to dissect you or something."

"Oh."

"Look, we'll find Triss or Keira or someone. We'll get you home."

And when Connor smiles at him, Jaskier knows he's in trouble.

At some point, there's a griffon. Connor takes a hunting bow from a seller while the griffon is turning for another fly-by attack.

"Uh, Connor. Connor, griffon!" Jaskier shouts as he ducks under an awning. "Have you ever used a bow before?”

"No." Connor tugs on the string and bends the bow to feel the tension in both. The griffon dives for him. He draws an arrow. He shoots the griffon directly through its eye and into its brain. The beast falls and skids along the ground only to stop inches from Connor's feet. "But it seems pretty self-explanatory."

And there's romance, because they're both suckers. Jaskier is in love with Geralt, who doesn't want him around anymore. Connor is in love with Hank, who he never quite got the courage to confess to. But they've both come to enjoy and trust each other too.

Connor gets very embarrassed when Jaskier tries to initiate something physical. He admits that he doesn't have any of the parts Jaskier would be used to seeing.

Jaskier takes this as a challenge. He helps Connor explore his own body to find sensitivities and points of pleasure. Connor, it turns out, likes having the seam around his thirium pump teased. He loves when Jaskier buries his fingers into the hidden port of the back of his neck. Jaskier learns what static sounds like that day. Connor is too shy at first to let Jaskier see his white chassis underneath his synthskin. But it fades in spots during sex, and Jaskier is fascinated and delighted. Connor's shyness disappears quickly in the face of Jaskier's sincerity.

And Jaskier, well. When Connor bodily lifts Jaskier up against a tree and hooks his thighs over his shoulders to take Jaskier into his mouth, Jaskier nearly loses it. He's ten feet in the air, using a branch to not tip over, and Connor has no gag reflex. Melitele have mercy.

But eventually they find a sorceress willing to break several laws of nature on a whim. They get Connor home. A portal opens in the bull pen of the Detroit Police Department in the middle of a work day.

Hank, who has been working himself to nothing for the past month trying to find Connor, quite reasonably freaks the fuck out. He's not alone. Then Connor steps through.

"Oh God. Connor." Hank no longer cares about the hole in time and space next to his desk. He pulls Connor into his arms.

Then Jaskier steps in behind him. "Wow. This is... different. Oh hello." Jaskier waves at several gawking officers.

Connor turns to hug Jaskier goodbye. "I'll miss you, Jaskier."

"Yeah, I'll miss you too, Connor." Then he looks at Hank. "You must be Hank."

Hank nods confusedly.

"You be good for him, yeah?"

He will. He absolutely will.

"Good man, then." Jaskier turns back, and the portal closes behind him.

Reed: "What the fuck just happened?!"

[yeraskier]

imagine geralt and jaskier sitting in a tavern and then jaskier goes oh gods and rolls his eyes and his whole scent goes sour because of whatever he’s looking at

then geralt turns around and he’s never seen this man a single day in his life but he automatically recognizes him based off of jaskier’s (very… colorful) description of the way he dresses and the way he speaks and the way he acts.

valdo marx. geralt hates him already.

and the bastard spots them and jaskier just gets even more irritated as valdo approaches them, smirking like a conniving ass

and then the lesser bard finally reaches their table and he’s all like jaskier, all smug. geralt’s desperately wants to punch him

and jaskier’s all like marx

and theres some clear tension there and geralt doesnt like this one bit because his bard is clearly very unhappy about this whole situation

so before valdo can even say another word, geralt stands to his feet and gets all up in his space like you know that time that brothel owner said geralt didn’t scare him and geralt walked closer? that’s exactly what he does this time.

geralt just stands there silently, barely three inches of space between them, and stares

it works even better because valdo is apparently less of a man than that brothel owner was and geralt can practically feel him getting ready to piss himself

that cockiness falls from valdo’s face immediately and he looks genuinely worried and then geralt just tilts his head to the side and valdo’s honest-to-god stuttering (jaskier cant believe it) and goes yes, well i see you have company jaskier so i’ll just be going now

and valdo flees

then jaskier’s on his feet and clapping and rambling

oh my god that was amazing! did you see that? of course you saw that you did that! i mean i could’ve handled that on my own but i’m so glad you did he nearly shat himself! amazing! wonderful wonderful

and then he yanks geralt in and smacks a wet kiss on his cheek with a loud MWAH! and jaskier’s beaming as he walks away, talking about getting geralt gallons of ale

and geralt is just standing there, shocked and blushing

[fangirleaconmigo]

I Will Bring You Ruin

Prince!Jaskier x Gladiator/Bedwarmer Geralt AU.

Part 6. Rated Mature.

MASTER LIST OF CHAPTERS

Geralt wakes up feeling a lightness in his chest. It is the first time he has felt such a thing in a very long time. He gazes at the ceiling and a soft smile flickers onto his face. But then, he remembers where he is. He sees the bars. He smells the reeking pot in the corner. He hears the shouts of the guards waking the others for training.

As the memory of where he is washes over him, he feels grief. He sees Ciri’s face in his mind’s eye, and a sob almost breaks free of his throat. This is his morning routine. Remember. Suppress grief. Lay quietly until numb. Allow the rage to spread. It is the only thing that can get him onto his feet.

But today something else, try as he might to deny it, pulls him to his feet. It is the thought of the prince, of his face, making its way through the gloom of Geralt's existence again. 

He reminds himself that this is just a fantasy in which he is meant to play his part, like a puppet in a show. The prince may not have taken his body, Geralt had fallen asleep. Asleep, but he is still just a bit player for the people who get to be real humans.

This is a fantasy. Not a quick fuck of a fantasy, but a fantasy nonetheless. This young man is a romantic, that much is clear. He is drunk on plays and ballads where the beauty falls in the love with the beast. Where star crossed lovers kill themselves in impulsive acts of idiocy. A doomed love affair between a prince and a slave is just the thing for a man like that. He will visit Geralt until he can convince himself that Geralt loves him. And then he will take Geralt. 

He will call it love.

Then he will be gone. 

There is no other way that this fantasy can end.

Geralt gathers every last bit of spite and anger that he can into his heart. He buckles it around him like armor. Then he moves through his day, trying to deny the feeling of eagerness that leaps into his throat whenever he hears the gates open. It is just fun. He just needs something other than chamber pots and entrails in his life. That is it. He will not let the man in any farther. He will not feel anything for him.

He is worked into a tension that feels almost frantic by the time the sun began to lower itself in the sky.  His leg jiggles. His palms sweat. He snaps at Zoltan during training. 

By the time the gates opened and the prince sweeps in, Geralt is worked into knots. Yet the moment he sees the prince’s handsome face and unbridled smile, the knots unspool.

Geralt gathers himself before he steps up to grapple, hoping that he seems inhospitable. Closed off. He believes that he does. But the prince still has soft eyes and a soft smile and it makes Geralt feel violent. 

The guards are still watching intently, but are not so tense or combative. 

Geralt forgets about them. He focuses in on the beautiful man who insists on delivering himself to Geralt like the day’s catch wrapped in brown paper.

He wants a fantasy? Geralt will give him one, and he will indulge his own.

They grapple again, and just like the day before, Geralt does not hold back. Now that he understands the effect he has on the man, it is even more enjoyable. There is something darkly satisfying about having the doe eyed prince fall apart underneath him when he presses to his backside and whispers in his ear.

He is a royal, and Geralt is a slave. Gladiators may be glorified slaves. But they are slaves nonetheless. Yet when the Witcher wraps his waist in a hold and whispers good lad, he can literally feel the prince’s knees buckle.

Geralt lets him wiggle away just a little. Just to make him think he is learning something. He lets the prince think that he is free, only to sweep his legs out from under him. The young man makes an undignified noise when his sudden fall is only broken by Geralt’s arms.

Geralt finally sees fear in his eyes when he gets the prince in a snug hold. And first Geralt thinks he is finally afraid of him, and something bitter and disappointed curls in his gut. But then man yanks back his pelvis and Geralt understands. The prince noticed that he was pressing the hard line of his cock into Geralt’s thigh. He clearly thought that until that moment, he was hiding his desire. That he was hiding the lust rattling him so hard that the hinges were about fall from his tenuously contained self control. 

Geralt chuckles darkly and whispers a warning for him to be careful about what he may unleash. Again his lust surges. It is deeply amusing. Even if Geralt could not scent lust, even if it didn’t emanate from him like steam, it would have been clear. After all, there is a reason he is so fascinated by Geralt. There is a reason he is weaving this turgid romance about rescuing him. The romance he will forget the very instant the princess smiles his way, with her dowry and her beauty, and her inherited power.

Geralt feels something crinkle in his tunic and he realizes that while he was brooding, the prince slipped him something. He manages not to react or tip off the guard.

At the end of the session, the prince slips away again, red as a beet, having obviously enjoyed himself as much as Geralt had.

Geralt does not touch the parchment until it is late at night and everyone else is asleep. The guards never sleep, obviously. But they do leave them alone, checking once per hour that they are still in their cells with a cursory glance. 

The parchment is thick and luxurious and smells lightly of the kind of soap that the prince uses. His cock twitches involuntarily from sensory memory.

Dearest White Wolf,

Since we have already slept in the same bed, and wrestled one another in a decidedly homoerotic manner, I am hoping it isn’t terribly presumptuous to now write to you. If I have breached any gladiator etiquette, do let me know. 

Geralt snorts. But his eyes trace eagerly.

The quality of this letter shall be constrained by the fact that I do not know what your interests are or what entertains you, and unfortunately you cannot write me back to enlighten me. However, I am already something of an expert on witchers. So I shall attempt to entertain you with a tale of a mighty witcher.

What follows is an absurd, outlandish tale. The protagonist is a witcher, if he were being imagined by someone blasted on fisstech. Wherever he goes, grateful citizens laud him. They pay him handsomely, and feed him his favorite meal, which is wild boar that has been slain in a fair fight. He derives his magic from some kind of mystical rainbow colored slug.

It only gets more ludicrous from there. Geralt scoffs and snorts his way through it. By the end he is chuckling.

Underneath the story is a sketch of a witcher (meant to be him due to the white hair) fighting some creature that is labeled a dragon.

The letter ends with…

I shall see you in training tomorrow, at which time I shall attempt to prove myself worthy of actual instruction, rather than a never ending display of my athletic inferiority. Do not misunderstand me. It does not harm my ego. I am rather enjoying it. But I hope you will see that I am sincere, and that I can be taught.

Yours,

Julian (though my friends call me Jaskier, and I hope someday that life offers us an opportunity for you to see me as such)

Geralt swears to himself in the dark of the tiny cell. He spits every curse he can remember, in every language he has ever heard.

PART SEVEN

------

Author Note: I think I can share a few more of these drafts without messing up the larger story, so keep your eye out. But a full fic is still coming. I have a thirty chapter outline and twelve of those chapters are filled out with a summary/draft (like this one). So today I'm going to start fully fleshing out the chapters. They'll be like this one, only with more detail, more physical environment, and more supporting characters and subplots so I can fill out an entire story.

I will update the master list and tag people soon so they can catch up, in case they want to read it at this beginning stage.

Since I'm not posting yet on AO3 I miss getting comments on chapters so let me know what you think so far in the replies or reblogs. Though, I will start posting on AO3, probably in a few weeks, depending on my progress. I want it mostly done before I do that, so I don't stress about what to write next or how long it takes me.

Thanks for your support of this fic!!! <3 <3

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Of Monsters And Men

(Season 2)

Chapter 3 - What Is Lost

Summery: With Ciri's training your main focus for the time being, you try your best to help her gain needed confidence within herself to become something great. While aiding Geralt in this strange new world of taking care of someone other then yourself.

Warning: blood, fluff, slight smutish mention

Word count: 8893

Masterlist - Of Monsters And Men Masterlist here

Walking across the courtyard of Kaer Morhen does your gaze find Ciri hacking at a scarecrow looking dummy. She gives it her all as she does her absolute best to complete the required technique that Geralt had shown her to use. Suddenly the sword falls from her grasp and onto the ground as she huffs and snatches it right back up again.

Your eyes shift over to Geralt who's seated on a wooden bench a couple feet away. Smirking mischievously to yourself do you find your place standing next to him soon enough, "Didn't know you were so crafty." You tease as he looks up from his materials seated upon his left knee.

"Y/N." He says in a playfully threatening manner, knowing all too well about how you love to mess with him in any way possible.

You just take a piece of his long white hair to twirl absentmindedly around your finger while you watch him create his new armor, "Say, I believe there are a couple far more interesting and productive things you could be doing other then this."

He looks up to your beautiful face already looking down at him, he raises an intrigued brow, "What do you have in mind?"

"Oh this and that."

"Hmm."

You tug on the lock of hair before tilting his chin up with your two fingers, "I think we let the poor girl rest for the evening and we...me and you, can have some time together. Alone." You add with a halfheartedly stern look, "None of your damn brothers trying to bother us, not Ciri, not Vesemir...just me and you. What do you say to that?"

"I'd say it's a little cold to be taking our clothes off."

You shake your head at this, "Only our pants."

"Just our pants? That sort of defeats the purpose of making love."

"Not really. We both get to feel good and see each other's face, it's a good deal."

"I like seeing all of you." Stupid face of his smiling at you like that.

"Then take your clothes off. Obviously not right here right now, but you know...later."

Geralt glances over at Ciri who's none the wiser to this interesting conversation you and him are currently having. "It's kind of cold in our room, our blankets are limited."

"You're out here in pants and one top, might I add, with the sleeves rolled up as well. Do you actually ever feel the cold or have you been deceiving me this whole time? Or maybe, maybe you just don't want to fuc..."

"I do." He says quickly, giving you a knowing look that means business, "I do. But I don't want to speak of this right here."

You glance at Ciri, "She can't hear us."

He sighs, "Fine. Tonight after dinner is had." He removes your hand from his chin to kiss it gently in his hand, "Then I am all yours."

Breaking out into a satisfied grin do you wiggle your brows at him, "All mine? Oh, Geralt I think I'll also be all yours, if you'll let me." You're such a saucy thing sometimes, you and your damn flirting, thinks Geralt.

"You know I will." He muses with a half smile upon his lips you'd like so much to kiss. However the sounds of Ciri's hacking at the straw dummy sort of kills the mood. You turn an inquiring brow at the steadfast girl hitting her sword against the man of twigs, straw, and worn out leather armor.

She swings at it in a calculated motion over and over again until the wooden sword flies from her grasp and onto the snowy ground it goes, "Shit." She lets slip in an irritated tone, hand reaching down to pick up the fallen weapon before assaulting the straw dummy once again.

"That's enough. We'll start fresh tomorrow." Says Geralt as he stands, left hand holding a dark piece of armor he'd previously been working on.

"No, I can do it." She protests while continuing to hit and smack and thwack. He walks over to where she stands when the wooden sword slips from her grasp yet again. This time when she reaches down to grab it does Geralt's boot press the weapon into the ground so she cannot pick it up.

Her dirt smudged face looks from the sword to the boot and then up to him, defiantly as ever, he looks down at her fondly, "You need rest." He leans down to pick up the sword, "Anything else will have diminishing returns." Walking away from her do you wander over to his side as Ciri watches, not wanting her training to end.

"Sir Lazlo, he protected me in Cintra, and he said less then perfect means death." You both turn, giving the attention she never asked for yet you're curious about her reasoning to keep at it with the straw man. Less then perfect means death. She's willful and fierce you'll giver her that much, however she is growing slow from fatigue even if she's unaware.

You raise a brow, "Your stomach's growling loud enough to wake the dead, if that counts." She purses her lips together and starts walking as both yourself and Geralt turn away.

"Hunger makes for good sauce."

"Also makes for shitty lunges." Adds Geralt as Ciri swiftly snatches the wooden sword from his hand. You conceal your amusement when all of a sudden does her expression shift to a deeply unsettled one like she's just seen something alarming. You can feel the abrupt change in her mood that has yourself turning to where she stands, almost bewitched in a way.

"Ciri?" Her enchanting blue-green eyes look up at you from out of the trance, expression still a bit disquieted, you take a step towards her, "You are safe here. I swear this to you, okay the leshy shit was an unfortunate exception but I protected you then. I will protect you now, as will Geralt."

Her frown is apparent upon her thin face as Geralt stands by your side, "Was it the Black Knight again?"

"No." She whispers quickly.

"If he's still haunting you.."

She begins to walk forward, "Who's turn is it for lunch?" And away she goes, clearly not up for a little chat about her weird dreams and inner turmoil's that you know for a fact are still bothering her. She survived the destruction of her kingdom and all that she held dear, you don't expect her to just shove it all in the past. Things like such tend to arise without warning, it is only natural after all.

Geralt's golden eyes are you as you watch Ciri walk across the snow and into a doorway she goes, you don't even look at him, "I know."

"If she would only.."

You turn to face him now, "We're lucky she told us about the Black Knight, I know you want to help her as much as I do. But she's still afraid, give her time to open up completely alright? When she's ready."

"I don't want her to hold it all in."

"I know you don't. Neither do I, but I have a feeling whatever comes to her at random isn't just flashes of that night in Cintra."

Geralt looks puzzled by this, "What do you mean?"

"Well isn't it obvious?" You ask him though his confusion doesn't falter, "Ciri's special, and not just in the, 'a pretty little princess with an intriguing eye color', type of special. She's a princess with a magical mother who died under mysterious circumstance, who's now daughter that's in our care has probably inherited something of the like. Remember Geralt, I was there too at that banquet, I saw what Pavetta did and I see the same eyes in her that I see in Ciri now. That girl has something in her that is so incredible, I can feel it whenever she is near me...since the very start."

He sighs, "I just wish she would talk to us about, about whatever she's feeling. I want to help her Y/N, I don't want her to be afraid."

You reach your hand out, taking his do you smile at him fondly, "Let her find it in herself first. If she asks, we'll answer. Now come you old wolf, let's get something to eat or maybe I'll have to take a chunk out of you first."

He chuckles as you nod for him to start walking towards the door, "You'd like that." He muses.

"Maybe I would." You retort, "I think it best we never get to that point though, I happen to like your body despite how pale you are."

He glances at you questioningly, "I'm not that pale."

"When the full moons out and you're under it can I practically see you glow in the darkness. It's quite a talent actually I'm very impressed, not many people I know who can do that. And you're not even a mage.."

"Alright, how's the hand Y/N?"

You narrow your eyes at him, "What are you implying?"

He smirks while looking away, "Nothing. Nothing at all, it's just I can touch silver without it giving me burns. Looks like you saved yourself from falling all the way into a fire, never had known you to be so clumsy."

Touching the faded white wrapping of your hand do you glare at him, "Keep talking Witcher, I'll put a rat in your bed, a dead one!" You cackle as he grins with a shake of his head, "I'll make sure it's a couple days old too, all gross and smelling of death, a bit of bone showing. Rub it all over your pillow too."

"Detailed. Very nice Y/N."

"Yes I know, I like to plan things thoroughly, meticulously, it's the best scare tactic of all."

"And why do I feel as though you have thought of this before?" He asks while walking through the doorway just as you do the same.

Walking down the hallway do you shrug, "There was a time, just once when I felt I needed to do this to someone."

"Uh huh."

"What? He was a real dickhead!" You protest as he listens in for an answer, you roll your eyes at him, "Alright, so some lords son who was giving me more conversation then I was looking for wouldn't shut up about his prejudices towards the elves and he was handsome in his own right, listen it was before we knew each other and I was looking for a good time. Anyways, he wouldn't stop yapping like a farm dog about it so that night I made him fall asleep and I found a rat and well. I did what I did."

"You are....something else." Says Geralt slowly.

"I know, I know. Not my most classy thing I've ever done but he deserved it. Handsome bastard with a sour voice and even more venomous thoughts. For the elves, and my kin, I think he was against them too I can't remember I may have been a bit off."

He raise a brow at this, "You drank?"

"Yes, I did..." He gives you a look as you give him a gentle shove in return, "What? It was his grandfather's funeral I couldn't just not."

"You got drunk at a man's funeral and wanted to sleep with his grandson?"

"Well not after all the shit about elves and vampires." You counter as he chuckles, "I wasn't gonna put up with that fuckery at all, though now since I think about it I might have been the reason for his illness the week after."

"No please continue."

You nervously laugh, "Uh, well um...I was only there to look after a mage for starters....and he uh.. started to get really sick and uh well I chose to leave soon after he began coughing up blood."

"Y/N." Says Geralt like a disappointedly surprised mother.

You simply shrug, "Forces beyond myself made that happen I swear." You snicker at his perplexed reaction before jogging up a flight of stairs and then another until at last have you both made it to the front doors of the evening all just as Ciri has arrived to push one of the doors open.

She walks down the few steps as you follow a short distance behind, Geralt shutting the door closed as you pick up the last part of Coen and Lambert's conversation, "What do you call a Witcher with no brains?" Asks Coen as Lambert sits across from him.

"Lambert." Quips Ciri as she saunters past them headed for the metal fire pit with a cauldron of soup hanging from the side.

Coen laughs, "Okay, now she's funny."

You smirk at their foolery, paying them no mind as you walk towards the cauldron and table of bowls and spoons standing right next to it as other Witchers eat from their tables opposite of Coen and Lambert. Geralt trailing behind you as you eye up the wonderfully smelling soup, still hot much to your gratefulness.

When you reach the table has Ciri gotten her bowl, you take in the sight before you, "Oh lovely, brown water with some flavoring originated inside a hundred year old bottle of old herbs." You jest, picking up a bowl anyways, "I can only guess who's turn it was this time." You glance over at Lambert who's none the wiser.

Moving to the side does Geralt take a bowl, "When you finish this, get some rest." He advises Ciri who looks up from her soup like she'd rather do anything else then that. He gives her a stern look, "Ciri."

Still appearing less then thrilled does she take her wooden sword off the table before turning around and walking out the doorless entranceway out of the evening hall. Not a single word spoken from her lips, you pick up a spoon to distract yourself from laughing. Poor Geralt's trying his best.

"Trouble with the pretty, pretty princess?" Teases Lambert in a less joking tone then you'd like, he straddles the bench to look at him easier from across the room.

"Leave it alone." Warns Coen, seated across from him. Oh you are not about to get into the middle of whatever this is.

"Why should I? He made his choice. Cost us a brother." He grumbles bitterly.

"That wasn't our brother." Says Geralt solemnly as he pours his soup, "Not by the end of it." With two bowls in hand does he turn to walk away, "And bitterness won't help us find what killed him."

"Oh, I know what killed him." He says louder as you halt in your place when Geralt stops walking.

"Leave it alone." Whispers Coen.

You can tell Geralt's conflicted yet Lambert doesn't say another word and with that does Geralt continue onward just as you follow behind. He walks through the doorway and into the long hall as you find yourself by his side, he stops again, gaze almost far away as he looks at nothing in the sunlight coming in through the glass.

Your eyes glance from the vacant hallway then back to him, "You alright?"

He purses his lips together, "Yeah."

"Liar." His brows furrow as he turns his puzzled expression to you, "You miss him. I know you do, but I won't press, go give that soup to Vesemir and I'll see if my stomach will hold this down. I'm going to feed the ravens, see you later."

"See you." Mutters Geralt as you give him a quick reassuring grin before turning to leave. ——

Sitting cross legged upon a ledge high about the half broken watchtower with an empty bowl of soup to your right and a raven to your left. Does your eyes scan out over the snow covered courtyard where Ciri happens to be hacking away at the straw dummy. Though her wooden sword does little damage, it's all in the movements.

A raven lands on your shoulder as you watch her hit the straw man in the torso over and over again. The dark eyed bird looks at you as you look at it, "Yes I know, she's a little weak on the left swing. But could you do that at her age?" The raven croaks. "Oh really? Sure, alright. You tell that to all the pretty raven ladies cause I don't think I'm impressed. What knightly old wolf bait you are."

Caw! Caw!

"Stop yelling I'm right here." Caw! It flaps its wings before nudging it's feathered head to your cheek, "What?" You suddenly hear the voice of Lambert down below as he speaks to Coen about Ciri's hacking away at straw and never doing that as a young boy in training.

Your scarlet eyes land upon her as she looks at them with great annoyance, "What did you do, then?" She retorts, challenging him.

Lambert chuckles as he looks from Coen to Ciri, "I don't think so. Some things are far too scary for little girls."

She takes a daring step forward, "I'm not little, and I'm not afraid."

"That's easy to say. But our road is a dark one." Lambert takes a step forward before pulling out his sword, "Full of dangers. Is that what you want?"

"I want to do what a Witcher does." She says defiantly, voice spitting with a tinge of frustrated anger.

Lambert laughs as he walks past her to swing his blade right through the torso of the straw man. He sheaths it back into the scabbard, eyes set to Ciri once more as he smirks with a little nod, "Come on then." He's says before walking off towards the side entrance leading to where the training course is kept. You watch them go, once on the path outside of Kaer Mornen's walls do you stand from your perch on the watchtower.

Caw!

You look at the raven still on your shoulder, "What? I want to see what happens." The black bird croaks before opening his wings and flying off to another part of the stone lined structure. You glance from the three walking down the trail to your empty soup bowl and back to them again, "I'll get that later. Time to catch some wind." You give the raven on your right a wink before bringing your feet to the edge of the towers margin. Oh how you love the wild wind in your face.

Your whole body leans away from the stone landing and quickly enough are you free falling rapidly towards the snowy earth. Immediately does your vessel disappear into a pack of bats  that squeak and flap in unison. Your many little dark bodies of fur and leather-like wings push on the air as your view of Kaer Morhen heightens. What a beautiful fortress it truly is.

You fly over the wall and a few Witchers on watch duty, across the rocky mountainside and over the path until you bring yourself lower to the earth. The two Witchers curse and jump as you fly your many bodies right past them all as Ciri on the other hand covers her head at the surprising intrusion.

"What the fuck Y/N?" Grumbles Lambert, pushing some hair back as you return to your original form right before their very eyes.

Ignoring him do you give a bewildered Ciri a little bow, "Apologies, I had not warned you I could do that."

"Yeah well what about a little warning to us?" Complains Lambert as Coen laughs, "Why'd you have to go through us huh? You almost scratched my face with your little vampiriness fuckery."

"Oh hush, probably make you a bit prettier." He looks at you like you've just offended his mother while both Ciri and Coen chuckle to themselves. You nod for them to follow, "Well come on, the sun doesn't last all day." You tease before turning to lead the way down the long path.

Ciri follows quickly after as Lambert looks at Coen rather annoyed, "I'll show her the sun."

"I can hear you!"

His face falls as Coen snickers before moving to follow you as well, "I didn't mean it." He mumbles before sauntering down the path right behind the three of you. No one says another thing the whole way to the training course until the four of you stop at the edge of the path. All eyes set to the rough looking Witcher obstacle course of wood and metal. What an ugly thing indeed.

"Try not to break a nail, princess." Mutters Lambert in a teasing manner as Ciri studies the odd contraption.

Looking at her do you nod towards the course, "Come on, let's meet her shall we?" You add with a reassuring grin before leading the three of them closer until at last is it right in front of you all. Quite intimidating if you were human faced with an old bastard of a thing like this.

Lambert walks over to a rope curled around a knob on the side, he undoes it before tugging on the rope hard, suddenly does the swaying poles begin to move back and forth rhythmically. Then the swiveling wooden blades move with the awakening gears, same goes for the small bridge as everything comes to life right before her very eyes.

He walks back over to the three of you, "Give it a try." Pushes Lambert verbally as he looks down at Ciri who's eyes have never left the moving course, "Go on."

The poles swoosh from side to side as she pauses a short moment before forcing herself to try. You know she's nervous yet Ciri is incredibly stubborn and takes a step forward. Making herself climb up the ladder to get upon the platform where the first task is held.

"Are you sure about this?" Asks Coen, side eyeing Lambert as you do the same.

"I'm just having a little fun." He muses, crossing his arms over his chest as you roll your eyes at him. Coen glances from Ciri about to take her first steps across the long thin board of wood to you.

You see his uncertainty, "She wants to become a great warrior like you two dipshits, remember? Who are we to say no?" Coen shakes his head at you while Lambert chuckles, all three of you now focusing your full attentions onto Ciri. She eyes up the three swinging poles, formulating a plan in her head, she moves cautiously and quickly across.

Yet her timing is off by too much and with that does the center pole knock her from the wooden board and straight down into the snow she goes with a breathy grunt. Laying there upon her back, coughing from getting the wind knocked out of her. Lambert takes a step forward, "Still wanna be a Witcher?" She breaths heavily, staring up at him defiantly with a mix of pained anger and frustration.

You tilt your head at her while crouching down to meet her level, "There. Use that fire in your heart and focus it on getting past the three poles. You got halfway across, that's something."

"Barely." Mutters Lambert as you swiftly stand before smacking his shoulder harder then he'd been expecting. Ciri pushes herself up as he rubs his sore muscle. You watch her do it again, falling again. She tries a third, fourth, fifth, sixth time, "That all you got, girl?" Lambert mocks as she lays upon the snowy ground in pain. Yet again.

"Come on Ciri." Says Coen, "Let's go back. You've had enough."

She huffs in frustration, pushing herself into a seated position as her greenish-blue eyes lock with your brilliant scarlet ones. Immediately she's fueled with a new found adrenaline, if a woman like you can be as badass of a warrior as she's heard and seen. She can too.

You watch as the girl rises to her feet, climbing up the wooden ladder before steadying herself on the board. Poles swoosh past as she moves swiftly across, she stops in front of the first, running through past the second and with that does she fly past the last one. Your smile grows at her achievement as Coen lets out an impressed, "Sheesh." Lambert a tad less dazzled as he only watches on.

"How is this thing still standing?" You ask as Ciri prepares herself for the wooden blades. "I'd have thought one of you would have secretly burnt it down by now."

"Believe me, we've thought about it." Muses Coen, "More then once."

All eyes are onto Ciri as she readies herself for the second task, carefully she moves but not carefully enough as one blade slices the surface of her left shoulder right open. She falls to the snow covered ground as blood flies from the wound, causing your pupils to dilate when the scent of fresh blood wafts into your nostrils instantaneously. You have to force yourself to halt at the primal hunger, swallowing, do you blink back the instinctual urge as she looks at her bloody slice in the fabric of her clothing.

"Nice try, princess." Pesters Lambert as she winces at the pain, "Admit it. You belong in a castle, not our keep."

Her dirt smudged face looks up at him, expression hard as stone that you can't help but smile. She's one obstinate lioness if you've ever seen one, she's got more fight in her then half of her kingdom's soldiers. You'd go over there and help her up but that damn tiny bit of blood is affecting you more then you'd like to admit. Damn blood, smells like absolute heaven in the air like fresh fruit just squeezed.

Instead do you cross your arms and take a step forward next to Lambert, "Now if I'd ever taken that advice, I'd be sitting in a pretty dress right now wasting my time away with fools of the court. As one princess to another, I'd say you try that again and show these dogs where you truly belong."

She purses her lips together, hands pushing up off of the snow as she sends Lambert a fiery glare. Practically stomping off towards the ladder as she decides to take your pertinent encouragement and put it into action. Your smile never falters as Lambert halfheartedly shoves you a little bit before walking back over to Coen.

"Fuck off Y/N." He grumbles as you turn to look at them.

"Come on boys, just fueling our little dragon." You muse as Ciri steadies herself before running across the shaky wooden board, through the swooshing poles and towards the turning blades she goes. Not choosing to give in anytime soon. And so it seems your words of support would do the trick as the minutes pass, soon turning into an hour as more of the Witchers arrive to see what's happening.

You stand down below with a good handful of them now, all watching intently to the show of one incredibly stubborn young girl against the Witchers training course. But as the time progresses do you start to worry for her actual health, she's undoubtedly bruised, clearly on too much adrenaline to feel a whole load of pain from that nasty cut too.

The cut crusted over in dried blood though it still seeps out a little into the fabric of her long sleeve shirt. That's gotta still sting yet she won't quit now, not when she's almost made it four fifths of the way through. "Y/N she's going to end up hurting herself." Says Lambert as you watch her run through the poles.

"She's already hurt herself. Let her do this."

"Y/N.."

"I know she has it in her." You snap, "Let her try."

He sighs before backing away, you're clearly not the only stubborn princess around Kaer Morhen either. Ciri makes it past the wooden blades, she then begins her ascent upon the planks of wood stuck into the rock wall. You hold onto your breath as she makes it halfway across before falling onto the snow. She gets up once again and charges past you all, up the ladder and atop the platform she stands.

Visibility wincing as she holds her wounded shoulder do you almost feel bad for a second. "I've told you once, and I'm not gonna say it again!" Shouts Lambert, "Stop showing off! Steady your legs. And breath, damn it! You're panting like a dying mammoth." She glances at him before racing past the swinging poles.

The Witchers cheer as you grin at her progress, she bends and moves quick past the turning blades, making it through with only a tiny cut on her cheek in the aftermath. "Stay calm, girl!" Shouts Lambert as she readies for the rock wall.

"Go on!" You add as she runs, jumping upon one of the planks sticking out of the rocks. "Well done Ciri! Now find your footing!"

She grunts when her legs push her to the next plank of wood then to the other when suddenly she slips, catching herself with both arms hugging tightly onto the wood. You old your breath as she struggles to acquire her balance once again, a few seconds go by before she's standing again. Thankfully she's able to make it all the way across and to the next platform where the moving bridge is kept.

She studies the tricky path ahead of her, an unsteady bridge, two hanging metal balls from chain, and finally the end if she's able to swing herself close enough. You watch intently as Geralt, Coen, and Vesemir find themselves as part of the audience. He glances from you to Ciri; she takes the leap and lands gracefully upon the bridge.

It swings with her abrupt movement but not enough to get her to the metal spheres, with two hands to either side of the rope can she use her momentum to swing the bridge harder. With a look of pure determination upon her face does Ciri jump, flying through the air as her hands grasp around the metal balls. The Witchers cheer louder as she swings back and forth and back and forth until at last she lets go.

Ciri lands hard upon the platforms edge where she falls off, landing roughly in the snow on her stomach. You suck in a quick breath at her pained grunt, however she slowly pushes herself up on tired arms as Geralt walks over to her. Ciri sniffs, breathing heavy as she brings herself to her knees, throwing her head to the side as she spits out a bit of blood. Luckily you've been desensitized enough with her blood being spilt today to ignore that.

Geralt makes a face as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, he stops to stand a few feet in front of her. He looks from the platform to her, "So close." Is all Geralt says while her stormy eyes look to him. She's unbelievably exhausted, a bruised and bloody mess but you can still see that unrelenting fire in her eyes. She is proud of herself underneath it all.

You walk over to them, "Well done for your first time on this bitch of a contraption. Now what do say we take a break from all this? Just for a little while."

She continues to breath heavily, swallowing does Ciri push herself up all the way to stand before you now. "Yes, just for a little while." She mutters tiredly.

You turn around and nod to the others, "Alright boys, shows over!" Your words are heard well as the handful of Witchers begin heading back to Kaer Morhen as the three of you hold back to let Ciri catch her breath. She holds her wounded arm as everyone leaves, you look at her curiously, "Stings huh?"

She shrugs, "It's not so bad."

You chuckle, "Girls are better at handling blood then most, but that was a right nasty slash you've gotten."

"Well, it did kind of hurt actually. But the pain has dulled since then, I'm just...I think I'm ready to go back now."

Geralt hums, "As would I." He turns to follow the last of his brothers trekking back down the path to the Witcher stronghold. You're right at his side as Ciri keeps a few feet behind you two, she's sore and hungry and less then excited to keep up an adequate pace with the rest of you.

But what a time that was. ——

Once back inside the walls of Kaer Morhen do you let Geralt tend to Ciri's wounds as you look through your extra clothing for something for her to wear. Considering her long sleeved shirt is ripped on the side and will need sewn eventually. Sifting through your drawer do you pull out a grey long sleeved top somewhat around her size, you close the drawer before rolling the shirt up.

But just as you're ready to exit the bedroom can you spot a blanket sticking out of your other dresser. A thick wooly one that's still in prime condition, snatching this up do you hold it close, heading out the door soon after. These two will probably make her discomfort lessen as she heals from the vigorous training today.

You walk down the hallways and past one or two Witchers going about their business until at last have you reached the corridor of Ciri's floor. But just as you're about to reach her door can you hear the beginning of a conversation between herself and Geralt. You pause, not wanting to intervene on this precious time together so instead do you eavesdrop through the cracked door.

Ciri sits on her bed, focus upon the bloody slice upon her left arm where the clothing is cut and the skin is injured. She looks upon it with distain, "I almost had it." She says while Geralt rips a piece of fabric near a small table that he's crouched by. She quickly gets up to take it from him, "I can do it."

She walks back to the bed as Geralt purses his lips, "You can do anything." He says halfheartedly before standing and making his way to her side with a clearish colored healing lotion in hand. He kneels down by her bedside before dipping his fingers in the substance and applying it to her cut. Ciri winces at the painful contact as Geralt looks to her, "Doesn't mean you have to."

She stares at him like she doesn't completely understand his simplistic meaning, or maybe she doesn't want to admit she could benefit from some help. He sighs, knowing the stubbornness of Ciri, "When a Witcher cracks his skull, all we need to do is stick him in a cot and fill him with veratrum, spurge, and hawthorn. Chances are, he'll survive. And when Y/N is sliced by a steel sword, the wound heals instantaneously, with a silver one...it takes a little more time. But she will live either way....You do not have that luxury." He stands once more, turning to fetch something from the table.

Ciri's brows furrow, "But you said we catch fear. That you have to face it. You mustn't just give up."

Geralt returns to her side, "That's right." He bends down just a little to wrap the cloth around her arm, "But you have to train first."

She chuckles in annoyance, "Well, then let me train."

"I am."

"No, your not. Not enough." He continues to bandage her arm as she looks to him defiantly, "I want to be a a great fighter....I want to be like Y/N. And not just against sacks of straw."

Geralt finishes the wrapping to look to her seriously, he kneels down, focus sincere and true as he speaks to her, "I have known many who wanted to be great fighters in my time. Do you know where they are now?"

Ciri pauses a moment as she searches his face for an answer though she gets none, "Where?" She asks softly.

"In cemeteries." He explains, "And you are not like Y/N, no one is like her. The lens through which she sees the world and lives in is different then our own. She is a natural in her element Cirilla, that is a place you will never get. But do not dismay."

Ciri quickly gets up with a huff, clearly not wanting to hear that from Geralt in the slightest. She's frustrated with the lack of hard training, she's frustrated that the Black Knight still lives, and she's frustrated that you're so talented with a blade and she's not. She's seen you duel Coen in the yard once and send him to the ground in less then twenty seconds.

Cirilla wants that more then anything, she wants to kill, she wants her enemies to hurt.

These words from Geralt are ill taken and unwanted as she stomps out of her room, you move out of her way even before she's made it to the door so it looks as though you've just arrived. When she pushes the door open do you meet with a coy smile, "Brought you some things. A new shirt and a warmer blanket."

Ciri glances at the two objects in your hands while slowly walking away, "Thank you Y/N, I have to go." And with that said is she off, hastily making her way down the hallway and out of sight as you stand there alone. Well alright then.

Turning to find yourself in the opened doorway of Ciri's room does your eyes land upon Geralt who's focused on something attached to a cracked spot in the wall. "Staring at walls now? Who knew Geralt of Rivia found interior design so fascinating?" You jest as he turns his attention over to you now.

He points a hand towards the cracked wall, "There's just, there's something odd about this. Give me a second." He says as you look to wheres he's pointed to. A place in the wall of rock that's looked to be cracked and uneven, where a root of sorts sticks out from the grey stone. He walks over to it and pulls on the root, chunks of stone falls to the ground.

"Dirty it up why don't you...oh? What's that?" He pulls his hand out of the small hole where a blue cloth rolled up in weak roots is shown. The roots being from Eskel a few days past when all that leshy shit was happening. He pries off the thin roots to reveal some type of blue clothing with golden lions patterned onto them. He stares at the strange material for a moment before looking back up at the broken part of the wall where it was previously hidden.

"Was that a magic trick you just did for me?" His gaze drops from the hole to you standing by the bed, he looks very concerned, "I'm going to take that as a hard no."

"Sorry." He mutters, "I wasn't sure. Had to know." He holds the clothing material up, "Can't say I know what this means however."

"Give it here, let me take a look." Geralt hands you the blue blanket like object with the golden lions, "Hmm, interesting indeed. Almost as though the roots were reaching for it by how this was found, wouldn't you say?"

"I was thinking that too."

You hold the fabric up, "A last piece of Cintra. But what would that damn leshy want with it?"

"I don't know." He mutters as those golden eyes land upon the blanket and rolled up shirt on the bed, "What's that for?"

"Ciri. A blanket for the cold considering this room has an open window with snow coming inside. And anyways, I figured she'd need a new top while I sew the one she's currently pouting about in."

He lets out a breathy laugh, "You were listening weren't you?"

"I'm always listening." You add with a wiggle of your brows, "There's not a whole lot that happens around here that I don't know about. Especially since Witchers are incredibly boring when not fighting monsters."

"Are we?" He asks a tad bit surprised, though he finds your reasoning amusing nonetheless.

"Oh very much so." You nod, "I think I'd rather listen to Jaskier play that fucking lute all day then listen to your brothers teach me about proper sword techniques. Or maybe I'd rather drown."

He chuckles at this, "They enjoy having someone other then one another to talk to."

"Well I hope some new wondrous face makes themselves known soon, because if Lambert tells me about the occurrence when he caught a hawk one more time I think I'll have to poison myself."

"We do have stuff for that laying around."

"Fantastic. When it's done just leave me there until my body lets it pass through and I'm back with the living. But then I'll need you to knock me out or something because I can't say I'd like to hear about that hawk again...or even the mora."

"I'll do my best."

"Good. Now let's get out of here before she comes back and gets even more moody about it." You hand him the blue material, Geralt stuffs it back into the stone before closing it up the best he can and following you into the hallway. Both of yourselves choosing to have a nice long stroll around before telling him to head to your room for bed while you get some dinner. It's been a long day after all and sometimes you just need some time away from everyone else. ——

Kicking the door behind you does it slam loudly against the wall causing Geralt to whip around ready to use his magic on the beast ready to pounce on him. You stand there with two hands full of bread and dried fish wrapped up in a thin cloth, "Geralt we really gotta stop meeting like this." You muse as he relaxes, "What are you doing?"

"Making my armor." He says while sitting against the beds far edge with the torso piece on his lap, "I'm just about done too."

"I wonder how long this new armor will last you this time? I'm going a couple months if things around here get a bit more exciting." You add, kicking the door shut before walking over to him to set the food onto the bed, "Which may come to pass sooner then we're anticipating."

"How so?" He asks over his shoulder as you tear off a chunk of bread.

"Ciri. There's just something she's not revealing to us and I can feel it. The girl sees things Geralt, things that show themselves to her or rather call to her to see them. Now I don't dabble with magic often because I don't trust it. But she's got it flowing through her veins so I can't help but notice."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean clearly she's got some hidden supernatural talents underneath all that hair of hers." You explain, "It's strange, it's hard to describe for someone not like me but I can feel it, sense peoples emotions from the pheromones they let off. And magic? Well you know I sense that shit anywhere, I've always been able to. And with her, Geralt she's got something going on and I'm not sure about what exactly. I don't think she completely knows either."

He sets his finished armor down on a table and returns to the bed to sit upon, "You know this for certain?"

"I do. We've never seen her show off this power but I know it's in there. Like with Pavetta, looks can be deceiving and I believe...I know, Cirilla has a power inside of her that's not understood yet. And with this leshy and the times when she has a "moment" I think something beyond her is trying to call to her or something of the like."

"Hmm."

You rest a hand on his thigh, "Geralt. Remember I lived with mages for a handful of years in Aretuza, I know when magic is influencing someone. And Ciri is conflicted by this whatever it is, maybe it's the leshy, maybe it's the Black Knight, maybe it's something else altogether? But I have to know so I am certain she is safe, I will not let this haunt her anymore."

He sighs, "You think we should seek this out don't you?"

"I do. What do we have to lose?"

He looks to you uncertain, "Her life."

You pat his thigh, giving him a reassuring grin, "She is stronger then you know. Believe me, I've seen her perseverance more then once....and I'll tell you something else. She does not scare easily."

"Alright. Tomorrow we get to the bottom of this. But for now we rest."  He says while taking the loaf of bread and biting off a chunk while you eat your dried fish.

"Hmm. You know this isn't too bad but I can't help but wonder where it's from?"

"Local river I assume."

"That's the thing. Where's the closest river from here?"

His brows furrow in thought, "Half a days ride."

"To a large stream or actual roaring river? Because this fish is quite big when not dried to these thin slices of meat." You add while holding up the whitish pink strip, "Smells of spices and herbs and salt, not terrible I must say which is good I suppose though it matters not a lot to me."

He chuckles, "Right. I've seen you chase down a deer with nothing but your hands and pure will alone."

"Well when you're stingy on arrows and a bow for that matter you've got to improvise."

"Yes, but I don't believe you cooked it."

You smack his arm, "I'm half monster have you forgotten? Sometimes I do beastly gory things and make a goddamn bloody mess about it too. Weird though, I've somehow managed to keep a Witcher with me this whole time and he hasn't once tried to stab me in the heart. If you'd like to know I do pride myself on that."

"Well I could say the same." Muses Geralt, "Witchers hunt vampires from time to time, maybe I seduced you first?"

You narrow your eyes at him, "You're pulling a long con on me?"

He snorts, "Would it be believable?"

"Can't say it would. But nice try, because when it comes down to it I know you're completely utterly enchanted by me no matter what you say or anyone else."

"Anyone else?" He questions with a puzzled look though his smile never once falters.

You shrug, "Your brothers. They uh, how do I say this kindly, uh...they think I'm a hell-spawn of darkness."

"oh."

"Well not all of them." You add, "Just some, a few, less then five. Probably around a solid four, I might have Clovis convinced I don't mean to suck the life out of everyone here. Not that I need to convince anyone because if people need convincing it means I want them deceived. Then that would mean I do have malicious intent which I, in fact, do not possess."

Geralt chuckles at your rambling before swallowing the last of the dried fish and leaning back into the softness of the bed. He closes his eyes as you take the small thin cloth covered in crumbs and set it off to the side. "Well if it makes you feel any better. None of them would dare harm you." Reasons Geralt.

You lean on your right arm to look at him resting, "Aww, I love not getting stabbed to death in the middle of the night. Really brings me a sense of comfort living in this place."

He snorts before opening his brilliant golden eyes to look upon you, "Now I understand you don't sleep as long as we do, but can you lay here and preferably shut the fuck up." He muses as you break out into a fit of laughter, looking away from him to try and keep your giggles as quiet as you can.

Finally does your crimson gaze turn to him, "Well if you insist. Now scoot it over your fatass is taking over half the bed." He gives you a look as you move to lay down, "What? Would you rather have me sleep upside down from the ceiling?"

He shifts over causing the bed to shake a little with the force of movement, "You can do that?" He asks as you lay next to him on your side turned to your big muscled Witcher.

"You've been with me for how long again?"

He playfully scoffs, "I've never seen you do that before. Didn't know you could do that too, guess the situation has never arisen."

"I can do anything." You counter with a wiggle of your brows, "But I must say laying here in this bed is nicer then the wall, did I ever tell that back in my home in Alcatraz I used to sleep inside a coffin?"

"Did you?" He asks with a little yawn.

"It was very comforting actually, like I was being hugged all over. Very dark, no light, no bothersome people to come crashing through my room to wake me. It was very nice. I do miss it from time to time."

He closes his eyes, letting out another little yawn, "I can't tell if you're being serious or not."

Your eyes study his peaceful face as you press a gentle hand to his cheek, "Not. I had a huge room fit for royalty with a big window facing the forest, I had a very comfortable bed in there too. I do miss that, I miss my coven, my kingdom in the mountains....I miss my mother the most. I have not seen her in centuries."

Geralt lays there, highly enjoying the sensation of your finger tips trailing lines around his cheek and jaw, "We could visit sometime if yo.."

"No." He's cut off by your quick intervention, "As much as she is kind to all living creatures within their right, she's not fond of Witchers. Unfortunately."

"Maybe it's for the best then." He whispers, you close your eyes and almost fall into a dream when his voice breaks the silence after a long time, "Does she know of me?"

"I'm sure she does, but not because I have told her. It's been centuries since I've seen her Geralt, however she has little spies all over the Continent that tell her things. There isn't a whole lot that goes on in the world that she doesn't know about."

"Hmm."

You smile though your eyes keep shut, "She loves me too much to harm the ones I love. Because if she found you as a threat, by now she'd have ripped your heart out and stuck you on a pole outside the castle. Goodnight."

He lets out a tired breathy laugh at this abrupt ending, "Goodnight Y/N, sleep well my love."

"Yes.....love you." Comes out in a hushed whisper while you hand slips from his cheek to rest against the mattress as you let yourself drift away into slumber. ——

After a peaceful nights rest does yourself and Geralt walk through the doorway into the evening hall as he carries a piece of armor with him. You're greeted to the sight of Ciri practicing sword work with Coen as her verbal guide. She points the wooden sword towards the fireplace before kneeling, doing a little twist and coming back up again. She stops her movements as you both walk further into the room now. Aware that you're here.

She looks at Geralt a bit anxiously, "You said I couldn't train more yesterday. Not today." Hopeful he won't be mad at her.

"That strange feeling that you get like someone's coming after you, can you describe it to me?" Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth instead.

She doesn't say a word for a brief moment before looking back up at him, "I don't know."

"When you think about it, what's the first word that comes into your mind?"

"A pull." She says softly, "It's...it's like I'm being pulled."

"Pulled towards what?"

She diverts her gaze away from his, "I don't know." She says while taking a seat on the wooden bench. Clearly not anticipating this is the first thing he'd have said to her this morning, she still doesn't really want to talk about it. It all still feels so weird.

Geralt shares a look with you as you give him a slight nod before moving to kneel down by Ciri, "If you were to follow that feeling, where would it take you?" She swallows, eyes parting from yours as she looks straight ahead, closing her eyelids to retrieve full focus. You know she's letting her power open up to the beyond, you can feel it.

Eyelids closed can you see the movement of her eyeballs underneath the skin. She sees the beyond through another lens. Heartbeat quickening as her mind races at the sights before her. After a short while does her eyes of green open with two words slipping off of her tongue, "The woods."

And so it begins.

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Thanks for reading my Geralt lovers! More adventure to come!!! And smut, we’re getting there ;)

Tagged: @littlewhiterose​ @galaxypox​ @maan24​ @lilacs-lavender​ @letseatnow​ @certainwonderlandperfection​ @rafecameronswhore​ @diegos-butt @seninjakitey​ @haleypearce​ @ashleyforeverareject​ @beck07990​ @kmuir1​ @a-girl-who-loves-disney​

[samstree]

my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight (2/4)

Geralt shows up in Oxenfurt as promised after Jaskier has a particularly rough night. Apologies are made.

(3k, rated teen, read on AO3)

Jaskier meets five more people who are like him.

The first week, he greets Marta with a nervous smile, sits amongst the rose bushes and simply listens. On the fifth week, he starts to speak. The sun is hanging low when he waves goodbye to each of his friends and leaves the florist’s garden with lighter steps. He passes the luthier’s shop, doubles back, and steps in.

The tender skin on his fingers no longer hurts as much, but he rubs them nervously when ordering a new lute.

The Sandpiper must look the part.

The ships sail from Oxenfurt’s coast to Cintra every other day, and it’s starting to look suspicious to stay in The Beekeeper well into the night if he isn’t buying any drinks. So, Jaskier begins performing.

Essi helps him stretch his fingers afterwards, showing him a few neat tricks here and there. They stand by the dock, talking about nothing and everything as the ships disappear into the night. It’s only when he completely loses sight of them can Jaskier let go of the tension in his shoulders.

A man tries to buy him a drink one night. He declines.

It happens again, and again.

Summer is near the end when the rejection wavers. It’s only a slight pause. Two days later, a woman drapes her hand on his elbow and tilts her head towards the bar, and Jaskier hesitates. He stares into her eyes for a moment, meeting the clear sign of lust and curiosity, and feels a yes by his lips.

Jaskier bolts right out of the door.

The lute bounces on his back when he hurries down Oxenfurt’s cobblestone street, his lungs burning and heart pounding. He feels bad for waking up Marta so late into the night, but the florist does not seem to mind. She makes a cup of mint tea while a shiver runs down Jaskier’s body despite the lingering summer heat.

He tells her of how he wants—has been wanting for weeks whenever an offer of ale is made to him, how he sometimes doubts at night if he can go back to the casual way of drinking before, how his skin buzzes when his friends pour each other a cup of mead at dinner.

She doesn’t interrupt. She never does.

“When will I stop wanting?” Jaskier asks, tired to the marrow of his bones. “When will it get easier?”

The sadness on her face is a palpable thing, one born from the same tiredness carried over from years ago. “It doesn’t,” she answers, “but we must go on.”

And he has to make peace with this reality, one where the battle never ends. Jaskier isn’t sure he can do that over one night. It feels like grief in a sense: acceptance is somewhere down the road. He just doesn't know how to get there yet.

In the end, Jaskier falls asleep on a settee in Marta’s living room with his lute by his feet. He wakes up even more tired, but relief washes all over him. He lets out a long sigh like he just escaped with his life—getting too close to drinking tends to have that effect.

That’s when he hears what woke him up in the first place:

A deep voice, conversing casually with Marta, rumbling faintly from the garden and reaching Jaskier in a murmur. There’s a laugh in it, reserved, lazy, kind.

Geralt.

Jaskier can’t help saying the name. It’s the same name his heart sings with every beat. He pads across the room and stops at the entrance, the thin blanket still wrapped around his shoulder, and here Geralt is—safe and relaxed and speaking softly with Marta with his back to the doorway, utterly oblivious of Jaskier’s presence. They are sitting at the small table set up right next to the lilac trees, where the seven of them gather on Sundays.

Seeing Geralt so at ease, Jaskier thinks very briefly that he might still be dreaming.

It’s Marta who notices Jaskier first, and Geralt follows her gaze. He stands immediately, his hands hanging awkwardly at his side.

“Jaskier.”

There’s so much joy in a simple whisper of his name.

“Hi,” he answers, feeling raw and exposed.

For a while, they just look at each other. Jaskier drinks in the sight of his witcher and wishes time could stop for him, so he can memorize everything that has changed in his absence, every new scar, every thin line by his eyes…

Marta clears her throat.

“We were just talking. Your witcher here is a curious one. He knows so much about my plants. I never knew a few of them also have medicinal effects, isn’t that a wonder?” She takes another look between them and tiptoes past Jaskier, her hand on his shoulder reassuringly. “Anyway, you have the garden until I have to open the shop.”

“Thank you, Marta,” Jaskier says absently, still looking into Geralt’s eyes. The sun is rising high in the sky, and the gold is nearly blinding.

“I was lucky.” Geralt is the one who breaks the tension. “Got here last night but couldn’t find you at the academy. The maid at The Beekeeper said you went this way, so I asked around.”

“You found me.”

“I found you.”

It occurs to Jaskier that last night was a long time ago. He cocks an eyebrow. “Did poor Marta find you sleeping outside her house like a lost puppy?”

The way Geralt looks away tells Jaskier all he needs to know. “Well, you invited me here,” he says.

“The fall is weeks away. I bet it was still hot sleeping outside.” Jaskier finds stubbornness suits him a lot better than yearning. “The leaves have not turned color yet. If you want to see Oxenfurt covered in gold, there’s going to be a wait.”

“I’ll have to stay, then.”

It comes so casually Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat.

“What about Ciri?” He takes a step closer and watches Geralt’s body gravitate towards him in return. “And Yennefer? I thought you were traveling elsewhere.”

Geralt practically melts at the mention of Ciri’s name.

“They are safe, Jaskier. Don’t worry. She’s learning so fast, and growing up so quickly. An old dreary witcher is not always what she needs. They are traveling south together. Yen was looking forward to it too.”

“Oh.” Jaskier is so happy for them. “That’s good, right? I’m glad.”

“It is.” Geralt takes another step until his hand rests at Jaskier’s elbow and slides down to catch him by the wrist. “I’m sure the leaves will be nice, but I also came here for something else.”

He holds up Jaskier’s palm and presses a small box into it.

“It’s a xenovox,” Geralt adds. “I have an identical one. If you talk to it, I can hear on the other end. Yen also made a charm for it, so I can open a portal whenever I need, linking their locations.”

Jaskier turns the small device over and observes the carved patterns on it. It’s a lovely thing, an even lovelier gesture, but some parts of him doubt it. Geralt, showing he cares? the darkest part of his mind whispers. Your ears deceive you.

“I talk to it, and what, you’ll come running?” Jaskier jokes, because if it’s a joke, it won’t hurt as much. “The White Wolf, at my beck and call?”

But Geralt’s eyes gleam with seriousness. “Yes, of course,” he answers unthinkingly. “If you need me, say the word and I’ll be there.”

Jaskier opens his mouth but finds no retort. He closes it with a snap to not look like a fool.

“Marta was also telling me how you ended up here.” Geralt pauses, watching Jaskier’s reaction, but all he does is wait for the blow to land. Nothing Marta knows is a secret to Geralt. Jaskier can’t feel any more shame than he already does the day he left Kaer Morhen.

He is ready for Geralt’s disappointment, however it may break his heart to pieces again.

But he isn’t ready for what Geralt ends up saying.

“She told me how strong you are, and how much progress you’ve made,” Geralt adds as Jaskier stares in surprise. “I know I don’t have any right to be—it’s all you and you alone—but I’m proud. Jaskier, I’m so proud of you.”

The sun is too bright. That must be the reason the world is blurring in front of Jaskier’s eyes.

“That’s not what you’re supposed to—” Jaskier trails off for the tears in his voice. “It’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

“Oh? What am I supposed to say?”

Geralt is giving him that look, like he’s only indulging Jaskier with his silly questions.

“You only say practical things, Geralt. You need my help; you want me to teach Ciri politics; you could use an extra pair of hands. You don’t—you never tell me you’d be there for me, and you never say you’re proud of me.”

“Don’t I?” Geralt hums. “I wanted to. Always. Just didn’t think I could.”

Jaskier chuckles tearfully. “Then why now?”

There’s a moment of silence. Geralt sucks in a deep breath and closes Jaskier’s fingers around the xenovox. He’s contemplating the answer, his brows furrowed adorably and Jaskier wants to smooth it away. Too bad Geralt is holding his hands.

“You are strong. I will never doubt the strength that hides under your gentleness again.” Geralt says finally. “But when you can’t be, you have me. I’m here today so you know I’m with you in this, all of this.” He gestures to Marta’s garden. “If one day you can’t stay strong all by yourself, just ask, and I’ll be there. I can’t fight this battle for you, but I can listen. Whatever you need to say, whatever you want to sing, I will listen, Jaskier. And I will find the strength for you.”

The xenovox hurts the scars on Jaskier’s fingers, but he pays no mind. He holds on to the small box and cradles it to his chest. Tears are streaming down freely when Geralt pulls him into an embrace, steady, patient, and lets Jaskier cry into his neck.

“Damn you, witcher,” Jaskier sniffles. “I miss the days when I was mad at you.”

“Hmm. I certainly don’t.”

Despite everything, Jaskier laughs, and snot and tears are staining Geralt’s shirt. He is such a mess, but Geralt is here. It’s the first step, he reckons. He remembers the awkward tension in the flower shop whenever Sonia visits, and he remembers watching it fade slowly, painstakingly, day by day and week by week.

It gives Jaskier hope, that they can heal too.

~~

That night, Jaskier takes Geralt back to his room and offers him mint tea.

“You smell like it,” Geralt comments, taking a sip. “It’s nice.”

“Oh.” Jaskier scoops another spoonful of honey and mixes it in his cup. “Didn’t know you could notice.”

“I always notice.”

There are more meanings behind those words, and Jaskier realizes that Geralt has been eyeing at his fingers since the garden.

“Apparently not, if this took you so long.”

He means it as a tease, aiming at the easy banter they used to exchange over Geralt’s heightened senses and his smugness. Jaskier used to think the witcher should be taken down a peg, lest he thinks too highly of himself for his sharp eyes and noses. A humble human can only do so much.

But the comment has tensed up Geralt’s whole body, making the crestfallen expression return to his face. A pang of regret hits Jaskier, souring the honey in his mouth. For all he likes to compare Geralt to a puppy, he sure doesn’t enjoy kicking one.

“Never mind. It—I—” Jaskier ends up spluttering, his fingers curling around the cup, hiding from Geralt’s sight. “It’s nothing, just a scratch, really. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Will you show me?” Geralt asks, carefully.

Jaskier nods, sits next to Geralt and puts down his drink.

Geralt works efficiently, digging out salves and balms from his pack and flattening Jaskier’s right hand over his knee. His brows are pinched so tightly Jaskier wonders if he can crack a walnut there.

Jaskier hisses when the salve touches his scar.

“Sorry,” Geralt murmurs, his focus unwavering. His fingers work like magic despite the initial stinging, massaging the delicate skin there gently. He blows on it from time to time, the coolness making Jaskier flinch. “Don’t move.”

He catches Jaskier’s wrist and rubs small circles there, his sword calluses rough and sending a shiver down Jaskier’s spine.

“I think that’s enough,” Jaskier suggests—because he doesn’t want to embarrass himself.

“I’ll need to apply it twice a day. There shouldn’t be any pain in a few weeks, but the scarring is old, so it may not disappear fully.” There’s guilt on Geralt’s face again, and Jaskier gives him a stern look. “Don’t give me that look, Jask. I’m not one of your students.”

“I will look at you however I want. You were being mean.”

“I just traveled all the way here to see y—to see Oxenfurt, because you asked, and I’m being mean?”

“To yourself.” Jaskier tugs at Geralt’s hand to get his point across. “Also, you need to apply it twice a day? Can’t just leave the jar with me?”

Geralt freezes like a child caught reaching for the cookie jar. The lighting in Jaskier’s quarters isn’t good, but there's no mistaking the dust of pink that slowly appears on the witcher’s cheeks. Oh, Lambert and Coën are going to love this if Jaskier ever tells them. Shame he won’t; this moment will belong only to him.

“It’s your dominant hand, um,” Geralt clears his throat. “It won’t be convenient.”

“Dominant hand?” This man is too ridiculous when he’s trying to be sweet. Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up in amusement. “Alright. My thanks.”

Geralt’s eyes drop to where their hands link, his lashes obscuring his emotions. Jaskier’s pulse thrums under his fingertips, fluttering nervously.

“I shouldn’t have,” Geralt starts, his head dropping low. “That day in the kitchen. I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you.”

Jaskier’s heart quickens in his throat. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Geralt shakes his head, letting out a sigh. “You were hurting, and I didn’t even know. I thought we were alright. You came back to me, after all, and you always come back to me.”

“That’s the crux of it, isn’t it?” Jaskier smiles sadly. “I always do.”

“It’s what friends do, you said. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of it.”

There’s a sinking feeling in Jaskier’s stomach. “Are you saying you regret it?” He swallows. “Do you regret asking for more of me? Of us?”

Jaskier isn’t sure if he will ever recover if Geralt’s answer is yes. Luckily, he doesn’t need to find out.

“Never.” Geralt cradles Jaskier’s hand in front of his chest. He presses a kiss to his knuckles. “If there’s one thing in life I can never regret, Jaskier, it would be you. I just learned that, for now, it’s time for me to be a friend in return.”

“I see the word is sticking with you,” Jaskier teases.

“Well, it's got a nice ring.”

Geralt watches him, earnest and patient, and Jaskier lets out a relieved exhale.

“It’s all I ever want, Geralt. I just never dared to hope.”

“Please do, if you still could,” Geralt says softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 ~~

The next morning, they wake up in Jaskier’s too-narrow bed together. The morning light paints the room serene and quiet.

Jaskier has fallen asleep on Geralt’s arm, but the witcher greets him with the softest look, even though his arm must have lost all feelings. He always looks soft now. There is a tiny smile on his face whenever he sees Jaskier.

And Jaskier may have tested it a few times while they are getting dressed, popping up in front of Geralt to see his eyes crinkle at the sight of him each time.

“Come on, we have a city to see.” Jaskier gestures at the door, offering an arm for Geralt to take, which he does eagerly.

They walk down Oxenfurt’s busiest market with their arms hooked together, and Jaskier insists on buying the hairbands that Geralt won’t stop looking at but refuses to admit he likes. The silver embroidery against the dark material suits him too well. Jaskier has to look away before his face gets too warm at how dashing his witcher looks.

Marta greets them at the shop, and gives Geralt a very gentle talking-to about the perils of sleeping on the street. They leave with a small bundle of forget-me-nots, and Jaskier tucks one under Geralt’s hairband.

To Jaskier’s delighted surprise, Geralt offers to sit at his lectures.

“Aren’t you tired of hearing my voice all day?” Jaskier realizes the mistake as soon as the question leaves his mouth.

“Now who’s being mean?”

Geralt’s eyes narrow in the dangerous way that makes Jaskier’s breaths come out hard, and the danger morphs into mischief. Oh no, he’s planning something.

“Geralt,” Jaskier warns but it falls on empty ears. Geralt catches him by the forearms and a tickle fight descends upon him in full force, drawing out a surprised yelp. “No, Geralt!”

They laugh, stumbling into each other, and by the time Jaskier arrives at the nearly packed lecture hall—decidedly late—there are still tears in his eyes and a grin on his face. He refuses to look at the corner where Geralt sits, but finds himself failing at the end of the class.

The forget-me-not is still in Geralt's hair, bringing a speck of blue to the moonlight silver. It's a bit crooked, so Geralt has to right it with his fingers once in a while to keep it in place.

[julek]

read on ao3

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice calls through the noise of the streets, making him turn. He’s wearing a long coat, blue like the ocean and trimmed with white fur, and is graciously carrying a remarkable amount of shopping bags in his arms as the door to the luthier’s shop closes behind him. “Fancy meeting you here, my friend.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow as Jaskier falls into step beside him. “Bard,” he nods.

“What are you doing here, of all places?” He gestures with an armful of satchel and lute, a bright pink notebook peeking out of one of his bags.

“Provisions,” Geralt says, eyeing his, for once, almost overflowing bag. “I’m stocking up. Heading North soon.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, and the feather on his — rather ridiculous, if you ask Geralt — matching blue hat falls just shy of his eyes, clear and bright in the midday sun. “What a funny coincidence.”

Geralt hums. “What do you mean?”

Jaskier playfully swats Geralt’s shoulder, and he’s so pleased with himself Geralt can almost smell it. ��Why, it must be fate,” he says dreamily. “I’m also heading North myself!”

“How come?”

“Well,” Jaskier begins, and his tone indicates there’s a story to be told, and no, Geralt, you won’t be getting out of it, as he loops his arm around Geralt’s, “as it turns out, I was invited to take up residence in a castle for the winter.”

“Really?” Geralt asks conversationally, his eyes discreetly scanning the price of rolled oats as they stroll across the market street.

“Really,” Jaskier confirms. His eyes also wander around, trailing after a shiny pendant by a stall. He shakes his head, bringing himself back to the present. “An acquaintance of mine realized he and his family would well benefit from my presence this season.”

“Hmm.” Geralt clicks his tongue at the outrageous number scribbled on the price tag of a deck of Gwent cards. Soul-sucking bastards. “And they’re paying you how much?”

Jaskier splutters, not-so-playfully swatting Geralt’s shoulder. “How dare you imply such a thing! I do not sell my company, no matter what one talentless wastrel Valdo Marx may tell you. Of course they’ve invited me as a friend— I’m basically part of the family by now. They’ve been insisting I visit them for years.”

“And this... friend of yours,” Geralt says distractedly, scanning a pair of leather boots on sale. They’re too thin. “How come I’ve never heard of them?”

“Oh, he’s just shy. Or so he says— you should see him drunk.” He takes some inexistent lint off his coat. “He’s addicted to his work — though sometimes he’ll indulge in some small luxuries. Card games and bubble baths, you see.”

“Hmm.” Geralt offers his coin to a merchant for some fresh thyme. “He sounds interesting.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “Yeah, no. He thinks he’s a big deal, you know— carries himself with importance and purpose, but he’s actually quite dull. You see, he practically had to beg me to come with him this winter.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Jaskier continues, carrying Geralt over to a stand with dried flowers and notebooks on it. “So sad, indeed — he was so worried I’d turn him down.” He inspects some dried lavender. “Showered me with praise and gifts.”

“Huh,” Geralt says, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why’d you accept, then? If he’s such a drag?”

“Well...” Jaskier considers, his face scrunched up, the way he does when he’s thinking. “He’s awfully sweet, you know. So attentive, so caring... he’s always there for me.”

“Sounds like a good guy, then.”

“Mmm— hey!” Jaskier exclaims as he’s steered away from an enticing stand full of books. He scowls at Geralt. “He can be an arse, actually. I forgot to mention that bit.”

Geralt smirks. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier says, inspecting his nails as Geralt checks the price of a tall bottle of Skelligan rum. “You are not the one about to spend four months holed up with him, locked away in a freezing fortress.”

“You’re right,” Geralt agrees. “But there’s this one idiot my brothers are forcing me to take to Kaer Morhen with me, so I understand your pain.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes so hard they’re almost closed. “Really!” He says, yanking Geralt by the arm with more force than necessary as they continue to walk through the market stalls. “He sure must be wonderful, if your brothers are so adamant about having him there.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Their judgment is clouded. Too many potions can do that to a Witcher.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Jaskier says under his breath. “Why don’t you just ditch this lovely, handsome, sorely misunderstood friend of yours? Why not leave him behind?”

They’ve reached the end of the square, the murmur of the market now behind them. “Well,” Geralt begins, and his tone indicates that they’ll have to leave soon, and no, Jaskier, we can’t stay another day, as he turns to look at Jaskier, “Unfortunately,” he moves forward, until their noses are brushing, “I’m in love with him.”

“Oh,” Jaskier whispers, his breath warm against Geralt’s cheek, lips curled around a smile. “Well, I couldn’t possibly blame you. The man does sound marvelous.”

Geralt slips his hands around Jaskier’s waist, his fingers playing with the fur of his coat. Roach’s waiting for them — he can hear the impatient stomping of her feet in her stall across the street.

He smiles. “He is,” he murmurs, “even though I’ll have to hire four mules and a cart just to carry his doublets.”

“And hats, dear,” Jaskier adds with a grin.

“Oh, yes. And hats.” Geralt nudges his nose against Jaskier’s, reveling in the way it makes him laugh. It tickles, he’d told him once. “Too bad you’ll be locked away with your boring friend. You won’t be able to meet mine.”

A cart drives by, bringing Jaskier closer into Geralt’s touch. Tipping his hat back, he wraps his arms over the Witcher’s shoulders. “Well…” He sighs, like it’s such a hardship to be enveloped in Geralt’s warmth. “Maybe I was a bit harsh on him. He’s quite lovely, in truth.”

The air is thick with the scent of fresh bread from the nearby bakery. “He is, hmm?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, coy. “He’ll even hire four mules and a cart, just to carry my doublets.”

“And hats,” Geralt reminds him.

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier says with a giggle. “I’m rather glad he invited me to come with him, you know. I’ve got something important to tell him.”

“Yeah?” Geralt squeezes his waist. “And what’s that?”

Jaskier licks his lips. “That I’m in love with him, too.”

Geralt can’t contain his smile as he leans forward and kisses him, sweet and soft. Jaskier tastes like honey — probably from licking it off his fingers from those pastries Geralt bought for him early in the morning, as bait to get him out of bed — and he sighs happily into his mouth.

“Well,” he says when they part, flattening his palms on the front of Geralt’s armour. “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time together.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees. “You too.”

Jaskier kisses him one more time, a quick peck to his lips. “Take care. And do give your friend my regards. I hope to meet him someday.”

“Will do,” Geralt says solemnly.

They look at each other for a minute, a staring contest gone to waste as Jaskier’s lips curl around an unbidden smile. Geralt can’t help but mirror him.

“So,” he says brightly, taking Geralt’s hand in his own and starting toward the stables. His eyes gleam and Geralt loves him. “Do we have enough carrots and apples for Roach for the way up? I don’t want her taking it out on my hair, Geralt, you know how she gets…”

[jaskiersvalley]

Cookie Cutter Boyfriends

The bakery wasn't new to the area but Jaskier was constantly surprised by the variety of people who came and went. There were a couple of regulars but fewer than he'd anticipated. Some people he wished would come back, others he was glad to see go. However, the two beefcakes that just walked in, Jaskier prayed to any listening deity that they would be back repeatedly.

"What can I get you gents?" Jaskier asked with his most winning smile.

Eyes like molten honey scanned the selection and Jaskier wanted to tuck the strands of white hair behind the man's ear to see his face better.

"Cookies. The personalised ones."

"A fine choice," Jaskier trilled and pulled the tray out. "I can put any name or message on there for you. Even a phone number, if you want to give it to a special someone."

So maybe Jaskier was flirting and hoping for a number from the man for himself. But it seemed to fall on deaf ears.

"Write Eskel on one," the man said, carefully spelling out the name while the other smiled at him indulgently. It had Jaskier's heart fluttering at the sweetness.

"And what shall I put on yours?"

"You should put a heart on either side of Geralt's name," Eskel piped up with a snicker. He got an elbow in the ribs for it but didn't seem to mind.

Obliging, Jaskier did as told, curling the most perfect hearts he could onto the cookie. Done, he popped them in a box and put them on the counter by the till. "Anything else I can do for you today? Does your, uh, friend want anything?"

Geralt's eyes widened before saying, "He's my boyfriend."

Of course he was, the two looked beautiful together and Jaskier sighed internally. However, he couldn't help but note the look horror on Eskel's face. Hopefully he hadn't accidentally helped Geralt out himself and his boyfriend when they were trying to keep things a secret.

"Well, good for you both!" Jaskier mustered up a smile and nodded at the small rainbow flags by the till. "I sometimes do flag cookies if the mood strikes. Usually on a Friday."

The transaction was processed in silence and at speeds. Jaskier could only watch as the two bundled out of his bakery and, as soon as the door closed behind them, Eskel was asking Geralt something, face torn between despair and entertainment. If Jaskier could trust his lip reading, he could have sworn Geralt had said something along the lines of "I panicked, okay?".

Somehow, Geralt and Eskel became semi-regulars. They didn't pop in on a specific day each week but they were bound to appear either independently or with each other. Each time they did, Jaskier watched them with heart eyes. Eskel was broad, almost apologetically large but kind and gentle. He was quite the sight to behold but Jaskier had an even softer spot for Geralt who really looked like he needed to relax. So, whenever he came by alone, Jaskier slipped an extra cookie in his bag or asked him to be a taster for a newer cupcake flavour.

It was all going well until Geralt came into the bakery with someone new. Another well-built, handsome man but with a sharp edge to his energy. He made a beeline for the display case by the till.

"Please don't knock on the glass, it scares the muffins," Jaskier said by way of greeting and got a bark of a laugh.

"I'll be careful, don't you worry. It's Geralt you need to keep an eye on."

Which Jaskier diligently was. Well, he was checking out Geralt's backside. Tearing his gaze away, he cleared his throat.

"I'm glad Geralt has brought a friend along today."

"Friend?" The man stood up straight with a hand over his heart. "Geralt, what have you been telling people? I'm his boyfriend!"

Which just didn't compute. Geralt had called Eskel his boyfriend. The mild panic of figuring it out was interrupted by a low growl of "Lambert" that was both a threat and fond exasperation.

"What might people think?" Lambert cried out dramatically. "Are you ashamed of our love?"

A hand clamped on the back of Lambert's neck and Geralt stood next to him, not letting go. "Jaskier, a couple of dark chocolate and ginger cookies please and a tray of lemon muffins."

Hastily putting everything in boxes, Jaskier tried not to let his imagination go too wild. Maybe Eskel was Geralt's boyfriend but so was Lambert. It wasn't unheard of really. It gave hope to Jaskier that they might take a liking to him and invite him home for a wild night. He could only watch as they walked out and the first thing Geralt did was cuff Lambert on the back of the head.

Things only got more weird. The next time Geralt was in, he was trailed by another man. Lithe, seemingly on the edge of bursting out giggling and he made a beeline for the counter.

"You're Jaskier, right?" The man held a hand out. "I've heard so much about you! I'm Aiden, Geralt's boyfriend."

Face schooled into something carefully blank, Jaskier nodded. "A pleasure to meet you."

"I think the pleasure is all mine." The wink was followed by a blatant once over and a low whistle. In the background Geralt closed his eyes, jaw twitching as he visibly counted backwards from ten. This time Aiden was the one who asked for a dozen cookies with an array of pride flags on them, two of each, pan, bi, ace, nonbinary, trans and demi. Oddly, the polyamory one Jaskier had started making since meeting Geralt and his boyfriends was left unrequested. The two left and Jaskier rubbed at his temple, trying to figure out just how four incredibly attractive men had found happiness with each other.

Only a week later Jaskier was waiting for a customer to make up his mind. He was the most silently intense man Jaskier had ever encountered and he really wished he'd hurry up and leave. Alas, he was taking so long, looking over everything in the display cases like the choice was of the utmost importance.

"I'll take two cherry and almond slices."

Cutting said cake, Jaskier was relieved and hoped that once the man had gone, he'd not be back again. The sound of the bell above the door had him looking up and Geralt stood there, alone for once. However, he eyed the man by the counter with a closed off expression which remained as the man took his slices and walked past Geralt, shoulders brushing.

"Geralt.

"Cahir."

It was awkward and Jaskier tried not to pry. But curiosity won out. "Another boyfriend."

From the door Cahir laughed. "He wishes."

For a moment Geralt stared at the ground before squaring his shoulders. "They're not my boyfriend. They're dating Eskel."

Immediately Jaskier adjusted his internal monologue to reflect the new pronouns. Though what Geralt just said made no difference.

"Are they a paramour to your polycule?"

"No." Geralt shook his head firmly. "Cahir and Eskel are a couple. So are Lambert and Aiden."

Not understanding, Jaskier wet his lips and cast a glance around. His eyes landed on a familiar group on the sidewalk outside the shop, making no attempt to disguise the fact they were all watching. Cahir and Eskel were leaning shoulder to shoulder as they munched on their cake. Meanwhile Lambert leered and Aiden sent him a thumbs up.

"I'm not sure I understand," Jaskier said. "I thought you said they were all your boyfriends."

Feet shuffling on the spot, Geralt cleared his throat. "Lambert and Eskel are my brothers." Which made even less sense and Jaaskier hummed, desperately trying to understand without asking whether Geralt really just admit to being in an incestuous relationship.

"I'm not dating any of them."

But you said-"

"I panicked." Geralt was watching Jaskier intently. "You were cute, flirty and I panicked. I wanted to ask you out."

A giggle bubbled out of Jaskier. He couldn't quite wrap his head around it but that wasn't a problem in the moment.

"Well then, how about a personalised cookie, on the house?" He grabbed Geralt's favourite and, with a flourish, wrote his own name and number on it, dotting the 'i' with a heart. Handing it over, he smiled. "I told you these cookies were great for phone numbers."

Outside a cheer went up as Geralt's family decided that the outing had been a success.

[cherryjuicegf]

death of a poet

for @whataboutthebard september 16 whump prompt: major character death || geraskier, T, 1.8k, angst, implied/referenced suicide (kind of)

ao3

The greatest act of love, they say, is to die for it.

Jaskier laughed, always laughed at this concept. There’s no doubt, of course, one’s whole life lost as a declaration of love, the highest sacrifice. But not the only one. And it amazed him, how people never seemed to acknowledge anything else, how fairytales of noble knights ended with them throwing their lives away, and for what? For love. Always for love. There was no doubt, and if there was, who was he to utter it?

Still. He wondered, the roots of the poet he was meant to be growing inside him, blooming since childhood. And he wondered, why, why die for love, why not live for it? Why waste this blooming of hearts in the eternal darkness, in grief and the wailing complaint of what could have been? Why, when there is so much beauty in the love of living things? He wondered, always wondered. And his mother smiled, with this faint bitterness of unexpected knowledge, and whispered, you can live for love if you want, sweet child, but one day you’ll understand.

Yet he didn’t understand. And he hated it, hated that he didn’t. Hated that he couldn’t find anything to try and understand in the first place. One day he would understand, yet people smiled at him, flowers bloomed in spring, birds sang on the branches, the wine tasted so sweet and the strings of the lute sounded so magical in the evening hush. And he wondered, always wondered, when would the day come, and what greater love there is, that you’re willing to die for it, even if you don’t lay eyes upon it ever again?

The fire in the hearth suddenly goes out.

A tragic fate, the mage had laughed. True love’s kiss. No one could ever love a monster.

I love him. He’s not a monster.

He’s not?

Geralt’s eyes are glowing in a light Jaskier hasn’t seen before, in a light he never wishes to see again. They’re glowing, and something unworldly glows with them, laughs with the evil memory of fairy tales, and evil sorceresses and true love’s kisses. As the blade glistens dangerously close to his eyes, as he walks backward in trembling steps, he thinks they’re so far away from what would make a beautiful fairytale to tell children before sleep. There will be no happy ending here. Somehow he knows.

There’s a tickle on his fingertips, burning.

The sword whips beside his ear and he stumbles back once more, panting, breath coming out strained. He raises his head, looks at Geralt. Or what he remembers was Geralt. Because now what he sees seems foreign, cold, and the amber in his eyes doesn’t warm him like the sun anymore, instead burns, like a fire which he willingly, inevitably steps into. There’s a lump caught in his throat, a sob screaming to get out. And, as though on instinct, with the strongest pang of guilt numbing his bones, he has to remind himself. He’s not a monster, he’s not a monster. He’s not Geralt. Geralt is not a monster.

For a moment, for the barest of seconds, he meets Geralt’s, no, the man’s eyes and, like the fool, like the poet he is, he hopes. “Geralt,” he says and his voice shakes weakly with the terrifying hint of denial, “Geralt, it’s me, please.” The air is ripped by the blade once again, he steps back, eyes still locked with amber. A whimper. “Come back to me, love, please. I love you, come back.”

For a moment, for the barest of seconds, the sun entering from the narrow, stained window reflects on Geralt’s eyes and something familiar glints behind them, a distant scream of a heart wailing to get out. But it’s only for a moment. Because Geralt growls and lowers his sword again with maniacal force and Jaskier screams, ducks and falls on his knees in an ironic parody of a plea for mercy. There’s a feeling of wetness on his bicep and he hisses as crimson blood stains the white sleeve. Not his fault, Jaskier reminds himself, not his fault.

It’s not his fault, yet he wants to cry as he stares into his eyes, cold like the blade that threatens to tear him to pieces, cold like the countless winter nights he’s spent without him, cold like his hand as he grasps it desperately, pushes him back in a failed attempt to trap him, in a foolish, hopeless hope of making him throw the sword away.

A true love’s kiss, he thinks, and almost laughs, because it sounds more like a death wish. And he’s starting to think it will be.

And then he sees Geralt raising his hand and before he has time to think about it, he’s being swept back with the most violent wind, and falls head first on the wall behind him. And slumps to fall on his knees. But there’s a sudden sting on his abdomen and he opens his eyes just in time to see the silver blade pointed on tender skin and jolts back with a gasp, stuck on the wall. “Fuck, Geralt,” he pants and looks at him and, for some reason, he expects his stare to be requited. It is. But it’s empty. It’s empty, and the sword on his stomach tickles painfully and the room is whirling. He blinks hard, gasps again. He can’t hold on, he knows.

And as he gazes at Geralt, he remembers. Warmth. Faint smiles, fingers down his back. Lips tasting of sweet wine, and flowers on his hair, and sleepy eyes staring at him before dropping, and love, and safety, and home . And finally, finally he understands.

He hates that he understands. But then again, the blade is cold like a hug full of regrets and Geralt’s eyes are empty and, oh, what he wouldn’t give to see those eyes, familiar and warm and looking at him again, even if it’s for the last time. He hasn’t much left to give, truth be told. Only his hope, and his life, and he feels them both competing for which is going to reach the end of the line.

“Geralt,” he whispers, again, and that spare root of hope he had starts to rot. “Geralt, please, don’t...” Are those tears? His eyes are burning. “Wake up, love, it’s me.”

What hope? He knows there is not. He knows, because it’s empty, forever empty, and the blade stings deeper and he pleads, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, as if it means anything anymore, as if it’s Geralt.

He understands. And knows, if he’s to die, he has to die the way he lived, by love, as a poet. For love, then. As a poet, and for love.

So he straightens himself, eyes steady on Geralt. And takes a step forward against the blade.

It’s numbing, the pain. Another step. He gasps, chokes on his own blood. Another step, and Geralt stares, empty, blade steady in place as though on purpose, but there’s a familiar glint somewhere in there now, a familiar fear. Jaskier is close. His feet are giving in, his breath is shortening, and it’s a pity really, such a torturous death.. He’s close. So close that he can rest on Geralt’s shoulder, and he feels the blade ripping his flesh, his insides, his everything. He coughs up blood, chokes, eyes rolling to the back of his head. And he feels the blade dripping behind him. And he feels Geralt’s breath on his skin. So he cups his face in a shaking hand, and leans in.

It’s nothing. A brush of lips, tender in all its agony. It’s nothing. The world is blurring. It’s love.

It’s nothing.

The sword slips away as he falls, leaving behind nothing but a puddle of unending blood and slowly consuming darkness and he thinks, it’s supposed to be bright, it’s supposed to hurt less now.

He thinks, he’s supposed to spare himself from Geralt’s anguished look when he comes to, and realizes.

Instead.

“Jaskier!”

He doesn’t feel the pain. Only his body, lifted from the floor, and the scorching blood and the arms, those arms that hold him so tight he wants to scream all the apologies, all the regrets of the world. He doesn’t need to. They all echo in Geralt’s eyes.

It’s sweet, the pain. It’s melodic, the plea. Jaskier, please, stay with me, you fool, you’re alright, stay with me.

He wants to laugh. He’s long gone.

The greatest act, to die for love. A fitting ending, for a poet. He wishes someone will write it, this story, their story, and maybe give it a happier ending. Maybe they will go to the coast. Maybe they’ll end up closing their eyes together, holding each other tight, and maybe there’s no blood, only bitter tears of happiness.

It’s a fairytale. It can’t be tragic.

I love you, you’ll be alright, please, please don’t leave me alone.

A forehead pressed against his and he stares at Geralt and, oh, how he misses him already, and how bright he looks in his sorrow, how beautiful behind the veil that slowly falls between them. Jaskier parts his lips, chokes. “Geralt,” he croaks and it sounds like a sob uttered by every single wilting flower in the world. “Geralt, look at me.” He raises a trembling hand on his face, his fingertips leaving smudges of blood over the falling tears.

Geralt doesn’t look. Only stares at the wound, and back at Jaskier, unfocused, horrified, numb, as though it won’t happen if he doesn’t acknowledge.

It’s darker now, and there’s a last grip holding him back, and Jaskier knows it’s the warmth of Geralt’s hug, always is. “If I die for you, will you live for me, love?” he whispers and finally, finally Geralt turns at him, eyes wide, and Jaskier smiles, something close to a wince, as though it’ll hurt less like that, letting go.

Geralt shakes his head. “If I refuse will you stay alive?”

A huff. Painful. “No. No, I don’t think so.” It’s silent like the breeze now, his voice. Jaskier wipes the rivers of tears on Geralt’s cheek and smiles again, and this time it’s genuine, probably because it’s the last one. “It’s alright, hush. You’re not alone.” Shaking, he removes silver strands away from Geralt’s eyes, and slumps, leans on his shoulder as though finally resting. “Hush now, my love. Let me look into your eyes one last time.”

He does. He looks. It’s the same eyes, same as always, warm and loving, like a tender caress.

To die for love. How tragic. But what is a poet’s love, if not the most heart-wrenching tragedy?

The bloodied hand gently falls on the floor.

There’s a streak of red light coming through the stained window, and rests on blue eyes, mistaking them for the peaceful sea after a storm in their stillness.

They stare, forever open, and somehow forever warm.

They stare, and Geralt finally stares back. And slowly, agonizingly, like a sob echoing in eternity between the pages of every promised fairytale, he screams.

[kueble]

for the “i love you” responses: 25 <3

Thanks for the prompt! I hope you don't mind some slightly angsty (but hopeful ending!) Geraskier. And really, it's me here. We all know they're unbelievably happy in like 6 months tops.

Teen, no warnings, 1200 words

---

Jaskier can feel Geralt before he sees him, like some sort of a sick sixth sense he’s picked up over the years. Perhaps it’s the way the crowd parts to make room or the surprised gasps that follow the witcher wherever he does? Regardless, he doesn’t look at him, won’t let him ruin this performance, and finishes the song with a flourish. Coins rain down at his feet, and he tips his hat at the audience before scooping them up and begging off for the night.

He has an ale thrust into his hands as he makes his way across the bar to where Geralt is hiding in the shadows. He looks good, which is a damn shame, because Jaskier had been hoping he’d look rough and beaten up if they ever met again. Chugging half the ale, he saunters over to the table and perches on the edge of it, his feet still firmly on the ground and ready to carry him out the door should it be necessary.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Jaskier spits out, careful to keep the edge in his voice. He’s done letting his heart get trampled on and is better at keeping his emotions in check these days. It’s a lie he tells himself apparently, because no one that’s recently graced his bed has gotten his heart racing like the man in front of him. It’s pounding now, beating in his chest like a caged animal trying to get out, and he has to focus on looking bored.

“I looked for you. Right after,” Geralt says slowly, and Jaskier cuts him off with a snort and a wave of his hand.

“Let’s not pretend this is anything more than it is. I’m sure you’ve some need of me, or else you wouldn’t be here. I get it. I’m not - nor have I ever been - your friend. No need to pander to the poor emotional bard here. Plain and simple. Why are you here?” Jaskier asks, taking another long pull from his mug.

A sip that’s quickly spit out, because Geralt’s answer was not at all what he’d expected.

“I love you.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Geralt?” he asks, clearing his throat as he chokes on the ale. He slams the mug on the counter and reaches out to grab the imposter by the face, pressing his silver rings against its cheek. Only nothing happens, not a damn thing, and he tilts his head and narrows his eyes at whoever is in front of him.

“It’s me,” fake Geralt says with a grin. “Good job with the silver, though. I see you’ve picked up a few things throughout the years.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Jaskier scoffs before pulling his hand back. “Mages don’t react to silver. Prove you’re not just wearing Geralt’s face. Tell me something only he would know.”

“You sang to me,” Geralt starts, and holds up a hand to stop Jaskier’s quick protests before he can open his mouth. “Yes, you sing to everyone, but you’d sing me to sleep. I used to pretend to ignore it, but your songs helped me sleep when I was too weary to even form proper thoughts. My favorite were the silly lullabies you’d sing to me, all that nonsense about witchers and dreams and how you hoped I’d have sweet ones. They uh...they helped.”

“Fuck, it is you,” Jaskier whispers, sliding from the table to the bench before he falls over. He looks down at his hands and plays with one of his rings, spinning it around his finger as he tries to collect his thoughts. “What’s happened to you?”

“My daughter-” Geralt starts before Jaskier cuts him off.

“Your child surprise?”

“My daughter,” he says again with a glare. And there’s the Geralt he remembers. Jaskier can’t help smiling as he listens to his explanation. “She’s...she’s changed me a lot. I care for things in ways I never thought possible. I once told you that I didn’t need anyone and I didn’t want anyone needing me, but that’s no longer true. Apparently I’m lonely without you, and once she figured out what was missing in my life, she all but threw me down the mountain and told me not to come back alone.”

“So she convinced you that you’re in love with me? And what? Wants me to come back with you so we can all play happy family?” Jaskier asks, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone.

“She showed me that I can love. I didn’t think it possible, but if I can love a child, then I can surely love you. My upbringing left no room for love, but apparently that didn’t stop it from happening. I’m yours if you’ll have me,” Geralt says softly.

Jaskier looks at him - really studies him - and fuck if he doesn’t want to leap into his lap and take what’s being offered. But his heart broke that day on the mountain and he isn’t ready to jump back into anything. They could take it slowly perhaps, just ease their way into things and see what life has to offer?

“I fear that I don’t find myself quite ready to forgive you,” Jaskier admits, his chest tightening as Geralt’s face falls. He nods sharply and goes to stand, but Jaskier shakes his head and continues, “Not ready yet, but we could work on it? I don’t have a list of demands or a guide to follow here, but I am more than willing to give you a chance.”

“Probably more than I deserve,” Geralt says with a shrug.

“Perhaps, but we all know how generous I am,” Jaskier laughs out. Geralt smiles back, and something seems to slot into place. “Generous enough to buy us both a decent meal with all the coin I’ve earned tonight. What’s the plan from here?”

“There’s a war.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” Jaskier snorts, rolling his eyes as Geralt grunts at him.

“How am I supposed to know what you’re aware of when you’re out here gallivanting around like some kind of crimson peacock? The hat’s new,” Geralt says, chuckling deeply in a way that still makes Jaskier shiver. “We leave at dawn and we do our best to avoid Nilfgaard. I’ll protect you with my life if it comes to it. My daughter is safe at home should I fall.”

“And once we make it to your home?” Jaskier questions, wondering if he’ll mention his feelings again. Part of him is still stuck on that unexpected declaration from earlier.

“Then we prepare and train and plan,” Geralt tells him, grinning before adding, “and maybe we find out where your feelings lie.”

“Still working through that,” Jaskier says cautiously.

“I meant what I said,” Geralt assures him before signalling for the barmaid. Jaskier orders dinner for them both, falling into their old routine with frightening ease.

He’d always imagined their reunion would be more dramatic, though he supposes accusing Geralt of being a doppler makes a decent story at least. They spend dinner getting to know each other again, figuring out how they fit at this stage in their lives, and Jaskier thinks that this is so much better than having Geralt grovel at his feet. He would still like to see Geralt on his knees for other reasons though, and something tells him they just might get there.

[horsedadgeralt]

Jaskier, walking, no, sliding down the mountain. Bag slung lazily over his shoulder, blisters on his feet and tears on his face. Holding his lute tight because he’s scared that if he let’s go, he might just fall apart.

Maybe it’s raining. Maybe the sun is shining and it feels like the greatest mockery to him, like the gods themselves are laughing at him. How stupid of him to think that Geralt would have ever wanted to go to the coast with him. That the feeling of friendship, of— Whatever it was, that it was mutual.

But it’s not, and so he runs down the mountain and straight into another man’s arms, anything to distract him, anything to forget those yellow eyes and white hair and goddammit, why do his eyes water up every time he comes across a dandelion?

His lute is his anchor, gives him something to hold on to and if he’s not playing, he’s writing, pouring his soul and tears onto pages upon pages of hurt.

Burn, butcher, burn. But the only person burning is Jaskier, the alcohol his throat and then Rience his hand.

Somewhere in the harbour of Oxenfurt lies his lute, battered and broken, and isn’t that just the most fitting thing? The one item containing all the memories, grounding him when everything hurts just a bit too much is what gets destroyed first. Because of Geralt.

Because somehow, the mountain wasn’t enough.

The worst part though is that even when the flames are singing his skin and he screams like he’s never screamed before, all he wishes for is Geralt.

His Witcher in shining armour, always coming in at the last moment to slay the beast and save him.

And save him he does, only too late, the I’m sorry and I need your help not enough to grant Jaskier the closure he needs, the cracks in his heart too big.

Still he follows him, to save the Witcher’s cub, nearly dying in the process because of a stupid rock. hiding underneath a table. Somehow he makes it out unscathed, but he doesn’t feel relieved. How can you celebrate being alive when everything worth living for got taken away from you?

Jaskier realizes he truly isn’t needed when he sees Geralt and Yennefer standing outside the castle with Ciri, standing too close for two people hating each other.

He doesn’t join them, just looks out into the distance.

It feels like the mountain all over again.