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fangirleaconmigo · 2 years

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I LOVE Uncle Lambert & Ciri gen fics, and think far, far, too much about the trials, so when this prompt went up on twitter almost three months ago on @ / witcherprompts:

Summary: Book or game canon: Ciri asks Lambert why the laboratory doors are locked and if that’s why she can’t be a full witcher

I've been thinking about it ever since. And so I have finally written my 'Uncle Lambert and Ciri talk about the trials' fic.

It's on ao3 and I've put it below.

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Ciri was hurt. Geralt rarely spoke to her that way. Angry. Gruff.

“I know you aren’t telling me the truth. Why can’t you just tell me?!” She shoved her choppy fringe out of her face. It wasn’t quite long enough to tuck neatly behind her ear, so it flopped back into her eyes. “Being a witcher isn’t just the pendulum. I know that, I’m not stupid.”

Geralt drew in a breath and let it out with a slow hiss. When he spoke again, he gritted each word out through his teeth. “I’ve told you the basement laboratories are off limits. I’ve told you a hundred times. And yet?” He stood slowly from the table, where his lunch sat uneaten. He held up a butter knife. The evidence of her bad behavior glinted at her obnoxiously. “I find you trying to jimmy a lock?”

“But--”

“Go to your room, Cirilla,” he barked. “I won’t ask again. And if I find you down in the basement one more time, you’ll be locked in your room til spring.”

Ciri was not ready to concede. Eskel, Coën and Lambert sat at a nearby table. She accosted Cöen with wide, pleading green eyes. He was the soft touch.

“Coën.”

But he only smiled gently. “I’ll come up and play with you later, Ciri. Do as you're told.”

She tried Eskel next. He always followed Geralt’s lead but it was worth a try. “Eskel.” He just rubbed his scars and kept his eyes carefully trained on Geralt. That was a dead end.

Things were getting exceedingly dire. She turned to Lambert.

“You heard him, princess,” Lambert growled, his tone brooking no argument.

She set her lips in a hard line. “If you were me, Lambert, you wouldn’t like it either. You would want to be told the truth. You wouldn’t want to be lied to and treated like an idiot.”

She expected Lambert to shout at her too. But he looked stunned. She knew she had gone too far. She stormed out fast, before Geralt could reproach her.

Ciri lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling all afternoon. She alternated between feeling guilty and feeling righteous. She planned her apology to Geralt. Then she marshaled her best arguments hoping to demand an apology from him. But the longer Geralt took to visit her, the more her resolve began to crumble.

Coën came up for a bit, but he refused to talk about Geralt. He played jacks with her and brought her bread and cheese before he went back to his evening chores.

The night wore on and she knew they would have eaten dinner, and they would be breaking out the white gull now. Ciri loved sneaking down to the hall during the late evening, when they sat around the fire, deep in their cups. Their eyes shone and they smiled easily. They patted each other on the shoulders and told stories. They held adult conversations that she would not normally be allowed to hear.

She wanted to sneak down there now. But she didn’t want Geralt to shout at her again. She always felt so brave in his presence. But as soon as she was alone, the fear caved in on her. But now he was angry with her. Perhaps more than she understood.

Just as the tears began to well up in her eyes, footfalls sounded in the hall. She drew in a soft sharp breath. Then, feeling overwhelmed with happiness, relief, anxiety, and guilt all at once, she squeezed her eyes closed. She would pretend to be asleep.

The door creaked open, and the footfalls neared her bed. Then there was the sound of someone plopping into the chair next to her bed and sighing. It was not Geralt.

“You aren’t fooling anyone, princess. If you’re asleep, then I’m a unicorn.”

Her eyes jerked open. “Lambert.”

It was dim in the room, but she saw him staring back at her without saying a word. She slowly pulled herself up to a sitting position.

“Um. I’m sorry I said that to you. I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah you did.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek. “Yes. I did. And I still do.”

He settled deeper into the chair with a tired sigh. She waited long moments for him to speak again.

“You were right. I wouldn’t like it either. When I was your age...well...I woulda done a whole lot worse than stamp out of a room when I was hot under the collar. But if you expect him to change his mind, you’re wrong. He isn’t going to talk to you about it.”

“Why not?

He leaned forward and rubbed his face. The candle by her bed had burned down, and the little light there was, played across his eyes. They looked like they glowed in the half light.

“That’s how he is.”

“But I’m not stupid.” Her fire was back. “I know something else happened to make you all witchers. The way Triss got angry about the herbs you gave me? And then the laboratory being off limits? And he won’t explain it to me. All he does is shout!”

Lambert looked at her carefully. He was quiet for a long moment and his glazed eyes were seeing things Ciri could only guess at. Finally he spoke, in a careful voice, softer than she had ever heard him speak. “Cut him some slack, Ciri. He never had anyone to show him how to be a father. We’re all...we’re all proud of how well he’s doing. But he isn’t perfect. No one is. But that’s why we’re here to help him. Right? Can you do that?”

Ciri huffed, feeling rather petulant. Why did they all think of Geralt, and not her? “But what about me? Why won’t he let me in? Is it because I’m a girl? Because that doesn’t matter. I’m doing so well in training, even you say so. Aren’t I good enough?”

“Oh, princess.” He sounded tired. She was not dissuaded.

“I want eyes like yours, Lambert. I want to be like you. And Geralt. And Eskel, and Vesemir, and Coën. I want to do whatever you all did. Then Geralt will think I am a real witcher.”

“Look at me, Ciri.”

She looked at him, the expression of accusation unmoving on her features. She crossed her arms.

“This,” he pointed at his eyes, “isn’t an award. It’s torture. We would never. And I mean never do such a thing to you, Cirilla. Do you understand? Do you understand that? We would never let anyone harm you, ever.”

They thought she was a baby. “I don’t care. I could do it. I want to do it.”

“Do you want to know a secret, Ciri? One that no one wants to speak inside these walls?”

Ciri fell silent. A secret was a true honor. “What?”

Lambert leaned forward, meeting her eyes intensely, almost defiantly. “The trials aren’t necessary to make a witcher.”

Ciri scoffed. “Yes they are!”

Lambert did not waver. His voice was firm, and laced with anger, though she knew the anger was not directed at her. “No, princess. They aren’t. They are just needless torture. A waste. They are more painful than you can imagine, and they kill most of the boys they perform them on. Just babies Ciri. Dead. And it’s for nothing.”

“No.” She could not believe it. “No one would do that. Not if it was for nothing.”

“Yes. They would.”

“But why?”

“Because mages don’t give a fuck about foundlings with no one to look after them. And so instead of going through the time and expense of finding a better test to identify those with abilities, they killed most of us. Just to find out fast and cheap.”

Ciri’s breath blew out, stunned by the casual cruelty. The murder of so many children. Suddenly, she could see Geralt as a boy. Lambert. Cöen. Eskel. Terrified like her. But instead of being protected, being harmed and mistreated.

She hadn’t really thought of them as people who were kids once, just as grown ups who took care of her. She pulled the covers up around her neck, stunned by her realization. Her world felt turned upside down for the millionth time in her short life.

“Then what makes a witcher?” Her voice was tiny. Lambert’s face changed. It was like a curtain opening. He looked at her as though she were precious.

“We do, Ciri. We do. When we go out there and do our jobs. When we do our jobs and aren’t paid. When we do our jobs and are paid. When people thank us. When they don’t thank us. When they hate us. When they love us. When we have nowhere else to go but here. When no one else will take us in but us. We are Witchers, Ciri, because we say so. And you are one of us. You are Kaer Morhen’s very first witcher girl.”

Ciri’s hand darted out and she wrapped her smaller fingers around Lambert’s larger, rougher one. She didn’t know what to say. Her chest ached. But it was a good ache. It was the first time she felt like she had a home since she watched her grandma’s body sail down from the parapet.

Lambert cleared his throat. “I’m hard on you, girl. I know it. And I’ll keep being hard on you. That’s because I want you to be safe, and because I know you can do it. If I really thought you were too soft and spoiled to learn our trade, I wouldn’t bother with you. Or I’d give you a stick and let you swing it around like a lunatic and just say, oh good job, Princess, bang up job.”

Ciri giggled.

Lambert squeezed her hand, and pressed a quick kiss to it. Then he stood up with a groan. “Fuck. Gettin old. Alright.” He leaned down and mussed her hair. “Cut your old man some slack, girl. Aren’t queens supposed to show their peasants mercy?”

Ciri giggled again. “I will try.”

“Good.” He started towards the door, then he turned as though he had forgotten something. Ciri’s eyes had adjusted now, so she could see his shadowy form and make out his features. “Ciri. I’ll tell you another secret.”

“What? What is it?”

Lambert looked around the room, then at her, as though he was deciding whether to tell her. His face looked flushed from white gull, but it formed into resolve. “I wanna open them,” he said, “the way you. I wanna open the doors to the lab.”

“You do?”

“I do. Only unlike you, I want to burn them, and everything in them to cinders.”

Ciri pushed herself up on her elbows and stared. Lambert always did exactly what he wanted. The thought that he was denying himself something confused her. “Then why don’t you?”

Lambert rubbed his whiskers, in a gesture that looked a lot like Eskel. “Because,” he sighed, “he needs them to be closed, and so I leave them closed because that is what love is. So no matter what I think, if you get those doors open against his will, I’ll tan your hide myself. I won’t wait for his permission to discipline you. I hope you know I’m not blowing hot air. I’ll do it.”

Ciri nodded silently, chastened by his honesty.

He shut the door behind him and Ciri listened to his footsteps fade.

She was almost asleep when she heard footsteps again. The door creaked open, and Geralt stood over her with a small plate and a mug.

He didn’t say a word when she sat up and gobbled down the treats. He just waited patiently then smiled and wiped the jam off her nose.

He didn’t say anything about what had happened, and neither did she. He just climbed into bed with her and opened his arms. She leaned her head on his broad shoulders.

“Tell me a story, Geralt. Tell me the one you told me the day we met in Brokilon.”

Geralt smiled at some far off memory. “The one you listened to so well? I was so proud of you when you scurried up that tree like a little creature.”

She smiled so big, her cheeks were sore. “Yes. That one. The cat and the fox.”

He gathered her into his arms and squeezed. “Alright. At your command, little witcher girl.”

#the witcher #the witcher books #lambert #geralt of rivia #cirilla fiona elen riannon #my fics on ao3 #lambert & ciri #dadralt #geralt & ciri #descarada writes #descarada writes gen fic

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peppers-writing · 3 years

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Robot Vampire

CatShifter!Jaskier and poor Advice Columnist/Witcher Geralt

Tags: nudity but in a casual oh yeah i’m naked oh well let’s cuddle, fluff, humor

Written for flashfic whoo; thank you to @resident-beekeeper, @astaticworld, @king-finnigan, and @the-third-bard for helping me out w/ this one.

On A03 here.

“Stop it.”

The ball of fur writhes furiously by his hand.

“Jaskier, I said stop.” Geralt wonders how life keeps throwing him the slimiest, most rotten of bones.

“Ow! Fuck, no biting!” Jaskier snaps his jaw and turns away to curl in on himself. Geralt goes back to typing. The article’s due by the weekend and it sadly will not write itself. When he’d signed up to be a journalist, Geralt’d figured they’d just have him writing the monster and or pet forum. Easy work.

Sadly, he’d been hired as an advice columnist, an agony aunt. Even sadder, Jaskier refuses to turn back into his human form today.

He’s distracted by a soft paw rubbing against the back of his hand. Pitiful, pitiful eyes look up at him, ears flattened and oh no. Geralt takes a deep breath and steels himself. “No, I already gave you all of my salami.”

Jaskier gives him the dirtiest look with his startling blue eyes and Geralt makes a note to check his shoes for surprises before he puts them on. He shifts on the bed, sitting with his legs criss-crossed underneath him.

His flatmate... Geralt should’ve known. The rent was too cheap and the ad was only looking for nonhumans. Geralt should have known, but Lambert had done a background check and he hadn’t said. It’s no excuse; Geralt should’ve known that there was something up with the shit-eating grin on Lambert’s face when he’d given him the go ahead.

The ginger cat burrows under his wrist, tail flicking idly as he reads what Geralt’s got on his screen. Jaskier adores Geralt’s job, the dirty drama he gets on a daily basis soothes his flea-ridden soul.

This week’s question is an especially wonderful one.

Dearest White Wolf,

My partner is a doppler. I, of course, have no problem with this— I love them with my entire being, I could wax poetic on their beauty, inner and out. But dating a doppler does come with its issues. Namely, I keep forgetting their latest face. Now, it’s a spooky thing waking up to a face you don’t know. I thought I was giving them a kiss good morning, but when I opened my eyes, it was a face I’d never seen and I yelped before promptly falling off the bed.

Now, my partner won’t stop laughing at me for it. They take one look at me before bending over in laughter. They’re beautiful when they laugh, I love them incredibly, but I would like to cuddle them without having them shake in barely-contained laughter behind me. Just for one night.

Please advise, Wolf. I await your answer.

Yours,

Touch-Starved

Jaskier yowls from beside him, clicking his teeth at the screen where Geralt has one awful sentence written.

Dear Touch-Starved,

I am sorry to hear that.

Thank you,

White Wolf

The cat chitters at his reply, no doubt adding embellishments and cooing over the nature of Touch-Starved’s relationship but it’s in Cat and Geralt, luckily, does not speak it.

“Will you shut up if I give you scritches?” Jaskier yowls before tilting his chin up. His tiny head presses into Geralt’s giant hand as he pets his flatmate. He continues to type with his left hand with his friend successfully distracted.

Dear Touch-Starved,

I am sorry to hear that. Take a picture of their face

Thank you,

White Wolf

His hand is very suddenly attacked by a blur of orange and claw.

Dear Touch-Starved,

I am sorry to hear that. Take a picture of their faceakdfhadsf

Thank you,

White Wolf

Geralt is a monster hunter by profession (the writing’s a side job, to pay the rent and the like) so he does not yelp. When Jaskier will inevitably make fun of him later, he will deny it because he is a monster hunter by profession and Jaskier’s accusations are untrue because he did not yelp.

He picks Jaskier gently, cupping his legs and furry ass as he brings him to face level. “You’re a bastard,” he tells him, voice even, “Please let me work, bastard man.” Jaskier, impossibly, rolls his eyes and hops out of his hands and onto his head. He makes a nest of it and settles down comfortably. Geralt rolls his own eyes and turns back to his work, praying for a text from Vesemir. Where was a kikimora-that-wants-to-eat-you when he needed one?

The document stares at him.

Dear Touch-Starved,

I am sorry to hear that. Take a picture of their face. Set it onto the lock-screen of your phone.

Thank you,

White Wolf

He stares back. Jaskier’s tail brushes against his ear. It’s good enough, time to move onto the next one. It’s a miracle they pay him for this shit; something about his straightforward, gruff answers keep his readers entertained.

Jaskier meows from his perch, before hopping down onto his lap. “What, am I not giving you enough attention?” He scratches behind his friend’s ear and rubs his hand down his back and up his tail. “I don’t know why I put up with you, stinky bastard man. You're an awful, stinky bastard man, I don't know why I do.” The shapeshifter yowls and pounces on him; Geralt very suddenly finds himself flat on the bed with a naked Jaskier on his chest, scowling down at him.

“I do not smell!”

Geralt throws his head back and stares at the ceiling, contemplating his life briefly. He looks up again at his friend, his brown hair mused and his blue eyes annoyed. “You’re awful, get off of me.”

“Not until you admit I don’t smell! I may be a small furred animal at times, Geralt,” he pokes a finger into Geralt’s breastbone none too gently, “but I do not smell.”

Geralt groans, long-suffering. “You’re right. You don’t, now get off of me.” Jaskier looks at him a moment longer.

“No, I don’t think I will.” His eyes shine. He lays down, resting his cheek against Geralt’s chest, and settles in. “It's quite warm here.” Geralt could push him off if he wanted to. He considers it briefly and doesn't.

“You’d be warmer if you put clothes on.” Jaskier peers up at him, brows scrunched before his face smoothes out as if just now realizing the feeling of his air-chilled iron nips press against Geralt's chest. He contemplates, shrugs, and settles in again.

Geralt flutters his eyelids in annoyance even if he doesn’t mean it much, and pulls his duvet over to cover his friend. He closes his laptop with his big toe and wraps his arms around his friend’s waist.

Jaskier makes a happy noise and snuggles into the warmth.

The doppler issue can wait until tonight. Geralt shifts and settles in for an afternoon nap with his dumb shifter friend.

#geraskier #jaskier #geralt #the witcher #the witcher fic #My writing

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falcor-thee-luck-dragon · 4 years

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Of Monsters and Men

Chapter 6- Betrayer Moon

Summary: Temeria holds a beast that has been said to have slaughtered many. With the sweet sound of coins offered you’re ready for another wild hunt.

Warnings: lil smut we starting out with, gore and blood as per usual, fluff

Masterlist

Outside the winds are cold and snowy as the night cascades its great darkness over the land of the Continent. But none of that holds any kind of significance as you lay in the warm bed of a village tavern, Geralt's muscular body pressing flush against your heated skin. You hold tightly onto the tousled bed sheets as he thrusts into you over and over again, nothing but the sweet sounds of his grunts and your pleasant moaning filling the darkly lit room but for a simple fire in the hearth.

He deliciously rocks you into the mattress as he gently kisses your sweaty temple, sending bolts of electricity coursing throughout your entire being as you await your building climax. With each new thrust of Geralt's manhood into your entrance, you try and hold back a scream but to no avail. He quickly silences you with a heated kiss, both of your tongues dancing in the dark with one another as he pushes your legs apart even more, his large body taking you all in.

He's a lot to handle but you can take it, no matter what he throws at you. Soon he's a moaning mess as he dumps his load into your clenching walls, hitting your own high just the same, you suddenly claw at his back as he pumps himself into you a couple more times before slowly leaning up to take a good look at your blissfully beautiful face. He gently pulls out of you, falling onto the bed at your side as the both of lay in silence, the only viable sounds coming from your heavy breaths and the crackling of the fireplace.

"So, I heard something interesting today." You begin, turning on your side to lean yourself into his chest as he stares at the ceiling, a satisfied smirk gracing his handsome features.

"Do tell." He quietly mumbles.

"I was conversing with some of the whores by the market today, asking about what interesting creatures have met their eyes and whatnot. When wouldn't you know it, another Witcher had come through this very village." He raises an eyebrow, curiosity catching his interest quick, "Said he fled Temeria with some miners coin when his ass was supposed to be killing their monster. I think foul play." You inquire, absentmindedly running your fingers over his battle scars, Geralt's intrigued by your words but is honestly enjoying himself too much to care about anything else at the moment.

Sighing in deep content he shifts his golden gaze onto you, "Tonight I will blissfully ignore my problems." He muses, closing his eyes as you continue to lightly trail your fingers against his skin, "Just uh...keeping doing that." A drunken smile gracing his sweaty face, as you break out into a grin while your eyes fully take in his glistening muscular form that's laying butt-ass naked right next to you. Oh, how did you get so lucky with a man like him?

The rest of the night is spent inside one another here and there, until you both fall asleep in an exhausted heap of tangled limbs and messy blankets. The next morning you two get dressed and head for Temeria, Geralt wisely leaving Roach with the stable boy until you both come back to retrieve her, whenever that may be.

The hike to Temeria went rather smoothly, no one to bother you and the cold of the winter weather doing nothing to freeze you, considering you're practically immune to feeling cold, another wondrous perk of being half vampire.

As you walk out of the shadowy woodland you look up to see a large abandoned castle stout upon the top of a rocky hill, thick forest surrounding it. Looking ahead you notice as the trail suddenly dives into the earth, lamps held up by steel poles guiding the way in, but before this you stop to read over a poster pinned to a wooden pole.

"Temeria, realm of monsters and cowardly kings." You turn to Geralt with an amused smirk upon your face, "Well it's nice to know they don't hold anything back." You laugh before turning to walk down the descending trail, Geralt smiling as he watches you go.

Your time in the mines was a quick one, the miners and the kings men on the verge of a tiny battle that was stopped by Geralt's calm inquisition. The high guard or whoever the fuck, lead you and your Witcher out of the mines and into the shadowy snow covered woods, you're guessing with interior motives but nonetheless you follow.

As you're walking next to Geralt, with the kingsmen on their steeds to either side of you; all of a sudden you catch the scent of another being lurking in the shadows. Another heartbeat thudding in the night, then not even ten seconds later do the guards fall from their horses, enchanted by some sleeping spell. Geralt quickly pulls out his silver sword as you bare your opened hands, emitting crackling purple lighting from your fingertips, this is sorcery at play and you know just how to fight it if need be.

"You can put down your sword...and calm your lightning. I'm not here to hurt you." Speaks a woman's calm voice, her shadowed silhouette walking into view.

"Says the witch hiding in the woods." Mutters Geralt defensively, sword still held out in front of him as you slowly lower your hands, dissipating away the lightning. You can tell this mage has come with no ill intent, even if you don't adherently feel very fond of such beings, you're wise enough to understand that not all are terrible.

"Sorceress." Corrects the curly haired woman.

"Witch." He growls darkly, you lightly touch him on the shoulder, silently asking him to calm is unneeded anger, he slowly brings his sword to his side.

"Triss Merigold. I serve King Foltest." She serenely replies. A simple mage.

"So he makes a show of kicking us out...then sends his errand girl to slip me some coin so we kill his monster." Proclaims Geralt smartly, believing he's just figured her out.

"Not a very original plan for a king." You add, your brows furrowing in thought.

"It's my plan. My coin. And I don't want you to kill the beast. I want you to help me save it." Assures Triss.

"Save it?" You ask.

Wanting to hear more she takes you both into her area within the castle where she goes into more detail about the happenings in the woods. Geralt leans against a counter as you sit on a wooden table, the both of you facing Triss who stands by a desk and chair directly in front of you.

"Six years ago, stable hands statred vanishing at the castle above the city. Before long, citizens were disappearing throughout all Temeria. Foltest's royal guards soon realized the creature was coming from the crypt where the king's sister Adda is buried. Rumor has it she was having an affair with a young man in town when she died."

oh the drama, you wanted to laugh when she said that but wisely chose against that.

"Was she pregnant?" You finally ask, your curiosity getting the better of you. Maybe that's why this beast is killing people?

"If she were, that would make her child the sole heir to the throne as Foltest never married." Explains Triss as her expression changes to a thoughtful one, "The king fled the castle, ignoring the rising death toll. After Nilfgaard overthrew their king, the Brotherhood couldn't risk it happening again, so they sent me here three months ago to cure the creature."

"Vukodlaks are freak mutations." Says Geralt, mind reeling with what this creature truly is.

"They can't be cured." You add as Triss' brows furrow, "A vukodlak is a type of mutated werewolf, its a beast that conceptualizes in the womb of a dead woman, this woman however must be pregnant. It's rare, but it happens."

"How strange, maybe if I take you to the creatures latest victim then you might have some understanding as to what it actually is."

"Worth a try."

Triss leads you and Geralt through the pre-burial section under the castle where all the dead lay awaiting their final home in the ground. The place reeks of death, spices to mask the dead smell, and too many salts and herbs doing their part to delay the decomposition process.

"Two thousand orens if either of you can tell me what exactly killed these people." Says Triss as all three of you scan over the cloaked bodies laying on wooden tables.

"You didn't want the people to know that it bested a Witcher. And you let them believe that he fled with their coin." Mutters Geralt.

"You two clearly weren't acquainted." At the end of the long cavernous room does she stop at a stone tub of white salt and sand, you can smell the dead man underneath. You walk past both of them before standing in front of the tub.

Taking a breath, you reach down to wipe away the white sand until the caved in chest of the fallen Witcher is revealed. You stick your hand inside the opened chest cavity to gather a mental image of what could be missing. You look over at a curious Geralt, "His hearts missing along with his liver."

"Only one creature I know is that picky an eater. A striga." Explains Geralt while you remove your wandering hand from within the broken rib cage to wipe it off on your pants. You then turn back around to face Triss and Geralt, noting how the mages face begins morphing into that of befuddlement.

"Strigas are old wives' tales." She replies, not completely sure of herself.

You shrug, "They're very rare as are the vukodlak, but they can happen. However the only way to make one is through a curse." You add, crimson eyes trailing over the mutilated body of the dark haired Witcher. So this is really what became of that other Witcher, better him then Geralt, nonetheless he fought bravely.

"Someone wanted Adda dead." Realizes Triss as Geralt hums in agreement.

"But the curse didn't stop with Adda. It turned her daughter into a monster." Triss' head tilts in surprised puzzlement at your troubling knowledge.

"Her daughter?"

"Strigas are female. This striga's a princess." Concludes Geralt with a sigh, his gaze searching for your own perplexed expression as you turn around to face him and Triss who still looks rather disturbed.

"Well then, lets see if this king of yours is willing to let us help." You quip at Triss as you begin leading the way out of the large burial room. "Can't be that difficult now can it?"

——

"Miss Merigold, you were dispatched to settle a family affair, not to enlist a mutant mercenary and a rouge hybrid for a game of sleuthing." Argues one of the kings guardsmen as King Foltest hungrily rips apart a turkey leg, rather disgustingly if you're being honest. He even smells of meat and sweat.

"This is no game, Captain. Tonight is a full moon, Geralt and Y/N have already proved themselves to be invaluable. We believe we can cure the creature." Implores Triss urgently as she vouches for you, Geralt, and her pertinent point at hand. You just lean yourself against the rooms wallpaper as Geralt stands next to you, feeling a bit doubtful that she'll be able to convince any of them.

"You say she's a girl. Then you will refer to her as Her Royal Highness." Directs the kings guard before his other man, who instructed for you and Geralt to leave Temeria only yesterday, walks over to give his two cents.

"Segelin." He says introducing himself before continuing, "I believe urgency warrants flexibility in a court decorum. The Witcher's theory is nonsense. Princess Adda was the people's angel. Who'd wish to murder her?" Implores the man Segelin as his eyes wander over to you and then to Geralt, eyeing you both suspiciously.

"What about her lover?" You inquire, folding your arms over your leather armored chest.

"Seditious rumors. Idle courtesans trading out boredom for jealousy." Quickly replies the kings guardsman giving you a distasteful look.

"Perhaps if you'd call off your guards, if we were able to search the abandoned castle, we could find clues as to who cursed her." Explains Triss, attempting to convince the king. That's not a bad idea.

"Except, these two monster hunters would kill the princess as she sleeps, and collect the miners' coin." Argues Segelin as you simply roll your crimson eyes at the grey bearded man. What's got water up his breeches?

"Call her a princess. Call her a unicorn if you'd like to." Begins Geralt, "She grew inside Adda, feeding on her petrified womb."

"Have you no respect?!" Shouts the guardsmen defensively, the king just continues his gruesome assault on his turkey leg as he listens.

"Mutating. Growing for years till she got so hungry..." Geralt steps closer, the guardsmen laying a quick hand upon the hilt of his sheathed sword as Geralt continues unfazed, "she was forced to slither out. Rotten muscle, bent bones, two spidery legs, claws dragging in the dirt." You watch in satisfaction as the kings eyes flash with disgust. You've got him.

"An overgrown abortion." You add shrewdly, pushing yourself off of the wall as you walk next to the long table, the kings face cast down in deep thought as the other men throw you nasty glares.

"Enough." He snaps, setting down his half eaten leg of turkey.

"Your Highness?" Begins the loyal concerned guardsmen.

"Leave." Growls the king menacingly, his men nodding before making their way for the door, Triss, Geralt, and you following.

Opening up the door first, Geralt politely opens it, offering his hand for the others to follow out, you giving him a wink as you tail the guardsmen who's last to leave. As soon as you reach the doors entrance you quickly shove the guardsmen into the hallway before Geralt quickly shuts the doors on all of them, making sure to lock it as they shout their angry protests.

You listen to the pounding on the wood as you calmly walk past Geralt to the right side of the long table, leaning your hand onto the clothed wood as he casually rests an arm over a great oaken chair, opposite of the king.

"Who's the princess' father?" Immediately asks Geralt with a curious tilt of his head, the king glaring bitterly.

"My men will kill you two, bastards." He warns darkly, Geralt pulls his arm away from the chair to slowly approach him, you standing your ground while he walks past you.

Eyeing up the plump king, you slowly drag your fingers over the wood while taking small steps closer, "Your threats don't shake me, but it's funny...you learn your sister was murdered, and you didn't even flinch." Your sly remark has the king's eyes staring daggers at his roast turkey, while Geralt hums in agreement, walking himself towards a window before turning around to lean himself on a wooden cabinet as he faces the king.

"But the moment I mention the girl's father.." King Foltest purses his lips together, his eyes downcast onto the floor, "Why were you never married?" Questions Geralt smoothly, the king lets out a sigh as he leans back into his chair.

"You are speaking to a king." He proclaims with no heat is in his words, other then something else that he seems to be hiding from you both.

"That's exactly my point. Why not produce your own heir? Why not kill the striga and avoid this revolt? Why drag this all out?" Suggests Geralt, his brows furrowing together at the strange reason for everything that's happened. You walk over closer to the king, his beady eyes following you the whole time, you've already figured out the possible truth. And why must it be so disgusting too?

Raising an eyebrow, you reveal a small smirk to the glaring king, "Between the three of us, and I would dare not tell...who is the striga's father?" King Foltest appears to want to say something, almost willing to answer your question. But instead he looks to the window as he slowly rises from his seat, bringing his gaze back over to Geralt.

"I remember hearing stories about Witcher's when I was a child." He says, voice low and gravely while eying up Geralt, turning his sullen gaze upon you now, "And that of dhampirs. Is it true what they say? That you're neither living nor dead, unkillable but for silver?" Sneers the sweaty king, anger emitting from his every word, "That the mutations that grant Witcher's their...abilities. Also erase your emotions? Must be." He criticizes sharply eyeing the two of you with hate, "Cause only a person devoid of all heart could accuse a brother of bedding his murdered sister while urging him to kill her." Suddenly the doors burst open, a small handful of yelling guards racing in with their weapons bared, you don't even flinch as a second later the king throws a hand into the air, silently commanding them to halt.

He turns to you then back to Geralt, "Leave Temeria. Never return." His command is noted as Geralt gives him a nod before turning to walk out the door. You follow suit and smile at a nervous guard who looks like he might have just shit himself. The both of you silently walk out of the castle, deciding to make a new plan of attack.

——

Crouching on the roof of the abandoned castle as the wind and snow blows past your face, you slowly crawl closer to the front gates. Where two incredibly anxious guards converse about how much longer their post is until they may leave. Quietly you pull out a loose piece of the castles roofing, before chucking it into the direction of a crow where the bird and the ceiling make a loud rackety noise as they take off elsewhere. To your utter satisfaction the two nervous guards yell and book it down the cobblestone pathway and away from the castle.

Well that was easy enough.

Pleased with your harmless mischievousness, you decide to find your own way into the castle while Geralt takes the front entrance. You find a broken rotting part in the roofs wooden beamed structure where you then purposefully slip through, falling down to the floor, catching yourself at the very last moment as you levitate your body the rest of the way for a silent and painless landing.

The castle smells of mystery and dead rats as you walk quietly throughout the gloomy thing, suddenly your ears pricking to the sounds of Geralt and Triss rummaging around in someone's room down the hall. With a smirk upon your lips you stalk closer, listening to them speak about letters from Adda's mother as they both begin walking for the door.

As soon as you catch sight of Triss' oblivious face do you finally make yourself known, turning your skin the color of bluish pale grey, the whites of your eyes turning to black as your scarlet irises practically glow red. You hiss, baring your pearly white fangs, her face contorts into pure dreadful fear as she lets out a surprised scream. Geralt suddenly rushing to her side, his magic at the ready before his concerned face slackens to throw you an amused glare.

Cackling you turn back into your more presentable self, "You two find anything?" You wheeze as Triss gathers her bearings.

Breathing heavily she practically stares daggers at you, "Oh yes, just a fucking heart attack!" She breathlessly retorts, throwing you a harsh glare as Geralt walks past her. The corners of his lips pulling up into a smirk as he catches your entertained gaze, you smiling back at him like a fool in love.

"You're an ass." She mutters, shaking her head at you while she follows Geralt down the dreary shadowed hallway. An enthralled grin upon your beaming features as you tail behind them.

——

Once back inside Triss' lair of sorts within the castle walls, unbeknownst to King Foltest, the three of you let Segelin in on what they found in the ruined castle. He stands, eyes cast onto the letters, "A Queen Mother cursing her own children for their affair." He plops the old papers onto a table, "This could destroy the throne." He says dismally while leaning, both hands pressed to the wooden table.

"Sancia wanted Adda to get rid of the child." Says Geralt, concluding all that appears to be written down in those letters between Adda and her Queen Mother.

"It seems she refused. Repeatedly." Adds Triss while you all stare at the back of the man.

Segelin sighs, "And now she's taken that curse with her to the grave."

Triss clasps her hands together, "You've served the family for decades. Was Sancia involved in dark sorcery of any kind?"

He turns to look at her, "No. Of course not." His expression reveals no faults, yet you feel something is not right here. He's not nearly surprised enough about all of this.

Touching a dangling green plant that hangs out over a wooden cupboard, you raise a brow at him, "What was your relationship to Adda?"

He rests his hands casually against the long desk behind him, "Well, I like to think that she saw me as a confidant." He smiles, "And a protector, even. We used to talk at great length about her troubles. She could be very naïve."

"She ever mention her brother?" Asks Geralt from his place by the wall, a foot or so away from you and Triss' plants.

Segelin looks down at the letters, "Certainly not like this."

"She was ashamed." Says Triss as Segelin turns to face her.

"Or she was frightened. What if the relationship was not.." He pauses a moment like he can't even bring himself to say it, his eyes trail over the three of you, "..consensual?"

Geralt hums in thought at this indeed interesting bout of information, he looks to Segelin, "You think he raped Adda, then cursed the child to cover it up?"

"Well, kings have done more for less."

Geralt's eyes fall elsewhere, "True." He mutters as you mull over everything previously said. This doesn't sit right with you at all.

You take a step away from the plants, "There's only one wrinkle, though." Both Triss and Geralt watch as you stand almost threateningly in front of Segelin, they have not a clue what you're doing. The greying man eyes you nervously, you narrow your eyes at him, "Your scent was on her sheets."

Triss takes a step foreward, "Y/N?"

Your crimson eyes never leave him once, "Old ones...and new ones."

He leans away from you, "What would I be doing in a dead girl's bed?" He accuses, face shifted into a repulsed grimace. You lean in closer so that your mouth remains mere inches from his ear, he's visibly uncomfortable.

"I smelt what you were doing."

You move backwards to stand in from of the conflicted man, he says not a single word as you patiently wait for him to break. The moment lasts a couple seconds more, you can hear how loud his heart is pounding within his chest. His lip quivers, breathing increasing with anxiousness, "Foltest had no right!" Shouts the angered man while you scowl and step away, "He seduced Adda! Abused his position. He was always nagging her for attention. Always nagging! But he didn't love her....I did."

"You cursed the woman you loved?" Denounces Triss like a disappointed mother.

Segelin shakes his head, "I cursed Foltest, not her."

"Countless are dead because of your jealousy."

"Countless are dead because of Foltest!" Protests Segelin, "He spoiled Adda with his seed. He refuses to kill this striga. He lies to his people. And yet you wag your finger in my face."

"If you wanted him to suffer, you could have just exposed the affair." Counters Triss while the three of you stare down the heated man.

"And hurt Adda?" He says softly, "Never. Her memory will not be sullied, not while I'm alive to protect it." Geralt glances from you to him.

"Tell us how to lift the curse."

Segelin pauses a moment before looking defiantly up at your Witcher, "No. Foltest will watch as Temeria turns against him. Just as he turned Adda against me." Geralt hums in response.

Fed up with his excuses you walk up to him, he slightly cowers back before keeping straight again, a snobby expression upon his greying features before you crack him across the temple. Sending him falling to the ground in an instant as he plunges into unconsciousness.

"Y/N." You turn to face Triss.

"What? You were all thinking it."

——

Waiting atop the crumbling castle roof where this striga is soon to be, you watch from above as Geralt and King Foltest speak about how you and him will handle the princess. He gives the king Renfri's brooch as a gift for the princess incase Geralt does not live to see the light of day. You watch the king and his men finally leave, letting Geralt enter the dying castle as he looks up towards the roof for a second before turning his gaze for the wooden doors.

Taking the same route as earlier in the day, you soon find yourself in Adda's room. Segelin tied pathetically to the wooden beams of the dead princess' bed as your unwilling captive. Geralt brooding by the window as he thinks of what to do next, none of you truly having a solid clue as to what should be done about this royal striga. You watch when the greying man glares at you, blood smeared across his lips from your abrupt assault not even an hour ago.

"The both of you! This is madness!" He cries angrily, tugging at his cloth restraints, "What are we doing here? What's happening?" He wonders while searching desperately around the room for a nonexistent answer.

"How can we lift the curse." Mutters Geralt, his leather armored back to you and Segelin.

Segelin shakes his head, "No! This is not right. Foltest must pay for what he did." Whines Segelin once more, you simply fold your arms in irritation as the man looks to you for a sign that you care, which you most defiantly don't.

Rolling your eyes, you scowl at him, "You're already too blind to even comprehend your own faults. This is what you get for your childish actions." You mutter bitterly as he glares hopelessly at you, frustration clearly evident on his dirty face.

"Carry me out. I order you." Demands Segelin as Geralt turns around to face the desperate man. "Tell us how to lift the curse." He orders, Segelin huffs in frustration, avoiding Geralt's intimidating gaze.

In a blur of black and grey your hand is suddenly around his neck as his eyes go wide in stunned alarm, your squeeze isn't enough to choke him, but you're hopeful it's enough to change his mind. "I'd advise you to listen well, your life is already standing on the edge of a knife." You hiss maliciously in his ear before releasing him, he lets out a dramatic gasp as his wide eyes follow your every movement.

He turns his attention from you to Geralt as his mouth opens to finally answer, "Sh-She was hiding from the Brotherhood. She sold me a lamb....Sh-She told me to wait until a full moon, to wait and then to kill it." He stammers, Geralt crouching down to meet his eye level, "And then I recited some silly chant. And then I bathed in the lamb's blood until sunrise. Until the rooster crowed three times. And that is all. I swear. I swear. Now please let us leave." Begs Segelin desperately as he fruitlessly pulls against his constraints, your face falling into a frown, understanding immediately what this idiot has done.

"What was the chant?" Wonders Geralt, his brows furrowing in thought while he stares daggers at Segelin who looks down in frustration.

"Uh..It was years ago." Protests Segelin as he tries to think up the chant, "It was Elven. Um..." Suddenly he begins reciting an Elven curse, your eyes going wide in realization as Geralt shares a quick wary glance with you before racing over to his bag of potions, earning a confused expression from the bound man.

"Wh-what is it? The..I...I've done what's been asked. What more can I do?" He wonders in blissful ignorance as you let out a pissed off huff of air.

"You've done more than enough you perverted fool, unless you can keep a fucking striga out of her crypt until a fucking rooster crows three times." You snap while unsheathing your dagger, his face falling in frightened understanding as Geralt fumbles around with his potions, trying to find the right one to take before the action starts.

Segelin's eyes go downcast, his whole aurora turning to pure dread, "You're gonna have to fight it till dawn." He murmurs softly, staring at the far wall as Geralt downs a potion, his eyeballs turning into two pools of inky darkness. You turn, hastily walking for the door as Geralt quickly follows behind you.

"No. No. Come back here! Please. Please! You'd leave a man bound to die in such indignity?" He cries desperately, pulling on his restraints but to no avail.

"You're not a man." Growls Geralt as he takes his place by your side, the two of you walking down the dreary hallway as the snow falls lightly from outside the nearby broken windows, you catching the scent of the beast on the cool night air.

"Remember not to kill the princess, Y/N" Implores your Witcher with a smirk, you simply roll your eyes.

"We'll see if you can last till dawn my love, I don't doubt it." You retort, a suggestive tone hidden in your voice that's most definitely caught by Geralt.

The hallway breaks off into another section of the abandoned castle, you giving him a nod before turning in that direction, deciding it best to take on the royal beast from two sides if he gets caught up in some trouble. You silently walk down the dusty corridor past rotting wood and broken glass, cracked pieces of stone and the occasional human bones.

The enthralling shriek of the striga bellows throughout the castle walls, it's high pitched scratchy scream sounding like a knife that's stabbed you in the ears. Without another thought you race down the entrance-way towards the sounds of a great messy struggle, the princess has found Geralt, and she doesn't seem too pleased.

Turning round another stony corner, you halt dead in your tracks as your scarlet eyes zero in on the striga who's completely manhandling your Witcher, throwing him this way and that, deflecting every punch he's throwing at her. He suddenly rips a lamp from the wall and uses it to crack her across the side of her grotesque wrinkly head. She stumbles back at the violent impact, pain running throughout her body before she quickly recovers, hurling him backwards with a fiercely strong blow.

As Geralt falls onto his back you swiftly race down the hallway as the striga climbs on top of his armored body. She doesn't hear you coming, or when you electrocute her without warning, sending her flying into the nearby wall as she screeches in pain. You stop to help Geralt up, your right hand crackling with energy as he stands and glances down at the light emitting from it, then over to the pissed off princess. Who almost immediately recovers from her abrupt assault, she stands, her umbilical cord dragging as she stalks over towards the two of you.

In an instant she charges, a piercing scream sending your ears into agony at the frantic noise as Geralt lunges for her, grabbing her shoulders as he throws her against the brick wall.

For the next couple hours would you and Geralt take turns beating on the striga, down this hallway and that, into doors and wooden walls, crashing into cabinets and breaking more cracked windows through the struggle. Every fucking time she would recover and throw it back at you ten fold, like nothing had even happened in the first place.

Racing across the hall to Geralt's aid, you electrocute the royal beast just before she's about to bite into his exposed jugular, she falls back as you get closer, preparing to hopefully knock her ugly face unconscious for a while. You're slowly getting more and more fatigued with every couple minutes that fly by, this fucking striga giving you a real run for your money. No matter how much stamina you have.

But as you get within a few feet from her, she whips around, slashing you across the face with her razor sharp claws. Sending you flying into the wall as a hot stream of blood pours out of your freshly opened wounds. Dazed, you try and raise yourself from the ground and watch as Geralt gets pinned down by the striga once again. You blink back your blurry vision, painfully raising your hand as lightning brightly emits from your opened palm and fingertips just as Geralt uses his magic to break the stone flooring from right out under him.

Himself and the striga immediately falling through the broken floor and straight to the crypts below. Rising to your feet, you can feel as your facial wounds begin to fuse the skin back together again, your injury a thing of the past except for the strips of blood that mark it's path.

You hastily limp over to the hole in the ground, looking down to find Geralt laying in the rubble before slowly getting up. Without another thought, you jump down, landing hard on a pile of rocks as the unconscious striga lays motionless next to you. Pulling yourself up from the wreckage, you tiredly shuffle over to the center of the room as Geralt puts an enchantment onto the doorways so that the creature cannot escape.

"I don't know about you but I could think of ten different ways we could have spent tonight." You jest, breathing heavily as you hold onto your aching side, Geralt hums in reply before turning around and freezing, his face morphing into wariness as he gives you a concerned look. You turn around to see what's bothering him, only to find absolutely nothing, which is most definitely the problem.

"Oh fuck." You whisper as Geralt cautiously walks over to you, the both of you looking around the room as you stand back to back.

You hear a dull rapid thudding of a heartbeat before suddenly the striga jumps down from the crumbling ceiling to pounce at Geralt, she lands, whipping her hand across your chest as she picks him up, throwing him into the nearby stone pillar. You stumble back at the abrupt impact, watching as Geralt gets his ass beat by the pissed off striga, it throws him into another pillar, quickly turning around to race for the open doorway. But before it can get through, the white force field knocks her back, she snaps around once more shrieking in rage, bolting on all fours towards Geralt.

You pull your bruised and tired body onto your feet, reaching your hands out to send volts of hot white lightning into the vessel of the striga, sending her into a cruel stone pillar as she screeches in misery. When you look to your left a beautiful streak of orange sunrise emits from an opened spot in the roof, you breath heavily as the striga and Geralt take notice of the sunlight. Your eyes go wide as the creature races for the safety of her dirty crypt, you trailing behind her as Geralt jumps to his feet to follow.

Your boots pound against the gravely stone of the abandoned crypts as you valiantly throw yourself onto the furious princess while she attempts to launch herself into her resting place, she falls into the wall as your hands smack onto the cracked floor.

"Get in the fucking crypt!" You scream at Geralt as he makes a mad dash for the opened tomb, heeding to your rushed words without a second thought.

You watch as he falls into the stony coffin and shutting it just as the striga launches herself onto the thing, her cries and horrid wails sounding noisily throughout the large drafty room. Picking up a fist sized rock you chuck it at her, cracking her perfectly across the back of her grotesque head.

"Your royal pain-in-the-ass, come and get me." You taunt, lightning crackling from your fingertips as the angry princess snaps her attention to you.

She jumps down and immediately pummels you into the rocks as you send harrowing sparks of electricity into her body that thankfully throws her backwards, your vision going blurry once again. Gods your head hurts. Dark spots cloud your sight as you rest on the rocks in exhaustion, your side most definitely hurting as your eyes flutter closed.

You awaken to the sounds of Geralt as he opens up the tomb and steps out to walk over towards the princess, a concerned and astonished expression crossing over his dirty features. Pushing some ruble from your legs you finally stand and slowly walk down the small stairway as Geralt leans down to see if the princess is actually okay, considering her naked mud covered self is facing away from you both.

You can hear as her heartbeat picks up in pace, but before you're able to warn him, the princess turns around and in a confused rage pins him to the ground just as she sinks her teeth into the side of his neck. She falls back in fear as Geralt's pained gaze finds your own bloody face while you race to his side. Your eyes going wide as he lays upon the stony ground, blood seeping out from his mouth and ripped neck as you try and put pressure on it.

Tears slowly begin building up in your shimmering irises, "No. No. No...Geralt, look at me...look at me." You desperately plea as his golden eyes try and stay open for you, but he's slipping as more blood spurts out from his wounds, "Don't you fucking leave me you prick, not now of all times, or places. Geralt!" You cry as his eyelids flutter shut, his breathing slowing down as you try and cover his bleeding neck the best you can, not sure what to do. If you leave and try to get help he'll bleed to death, but if you stay then his chances are less grim but still uncertain.

Your mind swirls with what's the best course of action when suddenly you hear the rushed steps of Triss coming to your aid, and just in the nick of time.

——

Leaning yourself into the welcoming comfort of Triss' plush lounge chair, you watch as she mixes some more healing ingredients into a marble bowl at her work counter. You touch the side of your torso where a white linen wrap tightly hugs around your aching side where you fell on Geralt's silver sword. It throbs under your soft touch, but due to your immaculate healing capabilities your wounds will not bother you in a couple days time.

Turning your head lazily to the right to find a sleeping Geralt laying on the bed, recovering from his own injuries, you idly smile at his peaceful yet considerably less dirty form. Suddenly his eyes fly open, a puzzled expression upon his handsome features as Triss calmly turns around.

She smiles fondly at him, "Your scars. You heal quite nicely, if not for Y/N's blood you would most certainly be dead." She concludes knowingly as Geralt gives her a confused look, "She dropped some of her blood into your wounds to speed up the healing process. It was more effective then I had first realized." He turns to face you, a relieved sigh escaping from his parted lips.

You smile back at him, "Don't worry about the princess, she'll be fine, Triss has arranged for her to stay with the Sisters of Melitele." You chime in with a shrug, "Also she had her first bath."

"You should know Foltest issued a statement. The honorable Lord Ostrit gave his life to slay the vukodlak. Miners are gathering ore for a statue." Adds Triss with a grin as Geralt attempts to get up, "Anyone else would've killed the princess. You both chose not to." She finishes as Geralt painfully rises into a sitting position, a grimace upon his sweaty face.

"We'll take our coin now. I need to get back to my horse." Grunts your eager Witcher as he sits on the side of the bed, pressing his hand against his wrapped torso. Triss only grins in reply, walking over to hand him the leather sack of coins. He quickly takes it with a nod, Triss turning to flash you a knowing smile before excusing herself from the area.

Turning to Geralt with a frown, you search for his eyes as they glance around the room before landing on you, "Lay down you idiot, I watched you bleed out and go as pale as a ghost." You lightly argue, he sets the coins onto the makeshift bed as he finds your frowning gaze once more, "If I hadn't been there to give you some of my blood...fuck...you'd be dead. So don't you dare try and get up or I'll give you a reason to be in pain."

His stern face suddenly breaks out into an amused grin, "I'd rather not face your wrath my dear, although I wouldn't mind a couple more hours here if you decide to lay next to me." He suggests with pleading eyes, ones that know exactly how to win you over.

Leaning into the soft back of your seat, you cross your arms over your chest, "You're sweating, honestly still smell a bit, and your sheets are stained with blood..." You add with an inquiring raise of your brow, "How could I ever say no to such an alluring offer?" He breaks out into a beaming smile at your humored words, his heart just about fluttering in his muscular chest as you suddenly rise to your feet, walking over to him before crawling over to his other side near the wall. You turn to face him, a hand propped up against your head while you watch him lay down once again. His back touches the mattress as he turns his head to face you, a blissful smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"Yes. That's the face right there, the suave steely golden eyes that I've fallen in love with. No matter how beat up you get...you still make me feel things."

"What kind of things, hmm?" He wonders with a lazy smirk as he watches your face break out into a small smile.

Trailing your delicate touch over his old scars, you look over to him with tired eyes, "Things I wouldn't even dare share with the very stars in the sky, nor the moon herself. And I tell her everything." You muse before leaning over to kiss his exposed shoulder. You listen as he hums in delight while you scoot yourself close enough that your whole body is flush against his, "Just sleep for now, love. You've had quite the rough night...and that's putting it lightly. I honestly thought for a moment that...that uh...I might have lost you." He searches for your hand, holding it tightly as a small way to comfort you while he locks eyes with your own downcast ones.

"I wouldn't dare think of ever leaving you alone in this world, not for a second. Y/N you mean more to me then all the coins and jewels combined, more then...uh..."

Laughing you shift your face to gently kiss his bare shoulder before looking up at him once again, "Geralt, there's not a lot of things that you love. That's honestly some short list you've got there...but it matters not, I'm your favorite person in the world and that's all I need to know."

He smiles adoringly at your closing eyes, sleep tenderly calling to you by the second as you hug him closer. He stays silent, wanting to listen to the calming thumps of your relaxed heart beat as your mind drifts into slumber. Closing his own tired eyes, he finally lets sleep take him into darkness where no monsters of any kind wait to hurt him. He's safe in your arms as you're safe in his, the two of you blissfully enjoying one another's company after a taxing hunt.

Tagged: @notahappytree @ashleyforeverareject @sokkasdarling @kmuir1@haleypearce @diegos-butt (@auds24 sorry idk why ur name won’t work)

#the witcher x reader #the witcher x you #the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt x you #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x you #Of monsters and men fic

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d-andilion · 4 years

Text

okay day

part 1/ part 2/ part 3//

febuwhump day 26: recovery

(geraskier, depression, ptsd, hurt/comfort, 947, ao3 link in notes)

Jaskier is getting better. Geralt has to remind himself of the fact a few times a day now. It’s so hard to see, especially on bad days, but it’s happening.

Being at Kaer Morhen is helping, he thinks. The stability of being in one place for a while is doing Jaskier good, giving him time to settle and learn to be comfortable again. And it’s quiet here, for the most part. Jaskier had never been the type of person to enjoy silence before, but it puts him at ease as of late.

Today was an okay sort of day. Not good, not bad, just okay.

Jaskier spent it wandering through the halls, a preferred activity of his since they arrived. Geralt offered to walk about with him, but he wanted to be alone, which was fine. It was. Geralt knows his hovering doesn’t help, so he’s made himself fine with Jaskier wanting to be alone. Who would have thought Geralt would be the clingy one?

Geralt only bothered him to offer meals, but Jaskier didn’t want much to eat today. Just a bit of cheese around midday and Geralt had a hunch that he only took it to get him to leave. He worried when Jaskier didn’t eat, and his worry set the bard’s teeth on edge, though he never said so.

That was one of the times Geralt had to remind himself that Jaskier was getting better. Walking alone and eating crumbs is what passes for a middling day now, and even that is leaps and bounds better than what it could be. An okay day is always better than a bad one.

Their first few weeks at the keep were riddled with bad days. Jaskier woke up with dreams all through the night, screaming more often than not, and it took forever to calm him back down. Morning came shedding light on the bruise-like spots under their eyes, and Jaskier would stay in bed. Not to sleep, just to stare up at the ceiling with an empty expression.

Geralt left and returned with breakfast that would lay untouched until he took it away again hours later. Eskel all but forced him to nap in the afternoons, offering to keep an ear out just in case. When Geralt came back, he found Jaskier in the same position he’d left him or in a chair staring blankly out the window if he was lucky.

They fought a lot those first weeks. After a few days of Jaskier refusing to get out of bed or eat more than a nibble of bread, Geralt would try to coax him up. Jaskier would snap at him, and Geralt would snap back, and it all ended in screaming and slammed doors. Geralt would come back after a few hours of sparring his frustration away, and they would make up, but it repeated a few days later.

It was the only time in all of this that Geralt really started to lose hope. He was exhausted beyond words, stretched to his limit from the arguing and the looks from the others and watching Jaskier suffer in his own mind every day. His muddled brain started to convince him that it would always be this way, that Jaskier was beyond any help he could provide, that what they had was broken beyond repair.

But then Jaskier got up. He drank thin broth and stretched his legs wandering the halls. Geralt did his best not to gape, though the others were less successful at hiding their shock. It was the first okay day. Geralt learned to treasure them.

As they grew more frequent, Geralt found himself in the same place as before, sick of stagnation and wishing for more. He had to remind himself how huge Jaskier’s progress was. Remind himself that getting out of bed was a battle won, even when it didn’t feel that way. That walking aimlessly about the keep was a triumph worthy of parades.

This middling, okay day ends as they usually do. Geralt returns to their room after supper to find Jaskier sat up in bed reading by candlelight. It’s the same book he’s been reading for more than a fortnight now. Some days he just stares at the same page for hours, but it looks like he’s made it through at least a chapter tonight.

Jaskier folds down the page to mark his place as Geralt approaches and meets his eye with a smile. It’s small, hardly more than an upturn of lips, but it’s genuine. Geralt thinks of his big smiles, the ones that round his cheeks and squint his eyes, and makes a private vow to see one each day when all this is behind them.

They don’t speak while Geralt undresses and climbs into bed, but that’s alright. Reading and a smile are more than enough for now. Once Geralt is situated under the furs, Jaskier snuggles close, leaving his candle burning. He likes to have at least one lit while they sleep, even with the fireplace roaring.

Geralt barely has to move at all to press a kiss goodnight to Jaskier’s forehead and receives one in return to his jaw. He doesn’t try to sleep right away, listening instead to Jaskier’s breath as it gradually slows and sleep claims him.

Tomorrow might be a good day, or just okay, or maybe even a bad one. It doesn’t matter because there are more okay days than bad now, and someday there will be more good days than the others combined.

Jaskier is getting better. It’s slow and unsteady, but sure as the sun rises and sets each day, Geralt will see his smile again.

more from febuwhump

#really can't leave this verse alone huh #febuwhump #febuwhumpday26 #my fic #mine #gj fic #geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt jaskier

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make-an-ass-of-me · 4 years

Text

Midnight

“Shift over,” Jaskier said, accompanying his command with a playful shove in the small of Geralt’s back.

Geralt groaned and wriggled himself across the bed wondering why inns never catered for travelling companions. There was always only one bed…

“I thought you were looking for another bed tonight,” he grumbled.

“It’s a rare occurrence, but I do fail to find bed mates occasionally.” Jaskier lay down beside him and pulled the covers over himself until he had all of his share and some of Geralt’s too. “Besides, I thought you’d come here looking for a whore.”

“I changed my mind.”

“I’m not surprised with the prices here. Not that I ever pay, so what would I know about the price of a fuck? Still, I understand this is an expensive bawdy house.”

It was expensive there and they’d paid Jaskier a good amount to perform on top of his tips, plus the usual night’s bed and board. The sheets were clean which said a lot about the quality of the place.

Geralt paused and debated whether or not it was worth responding to Jaskier. He wanted to sleep but he hadn’t passed two words with anyone all night and Jaskier was always chatty, even at inappropriate times like this. Geralt was hungry for human contact, it was true.

“There’s nothing to kill around here,” he said, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. “My purse is full enough but you already got me the bed and the meal.”

“Am I to provide you a lover too?” Jaskier quipped, quickly adding, “No, don’t answer that. Don’t get my hopes up.”

If he meant himself or a whore it didn’t matter. Geralt couldn’t respond to that. He never let the conversation go in that direction, not with Jaskier.

After a moment’s silence Jaskier propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at Geralt in the dark.

“I suppose we could share a woman. I mean, we’re already sharing a bed and you don’t do men so…”

They could share a woman. They could share a man.

“A whore’s a whore, male or female. They’re all capable enough.”

“Really?” Jaskier choked. “Well I have learnt something new about you tonight. Only took a decade too. I could ask if they’ve got one of the men free.”

“It’s midnight, you’re not bringing a whore into the room now. Can I sleep?”

“Of course, sorry, you’re right, it is late.”

Silence. Geralt closed his eyes and tried not to think about what Jaskier would look like with an eager lover between his legs. Male or female, they both had mouths and surely it would go that way. Mouths are cheaper than arses or cunts after all.

Then, “I just have one question.” Jaskier hadn’t even moved. He was still staring down at Geralt.

“At midnight?”

“No, it’s not important.”

“Goodnight then.”

“But I do wonder.” Another pause. “Aren’t you going to ask me what?”

“You’re the nosey bastard, not me.”

“Well, you tell me you bed men and then expect me to not have any questions and just go to sleep next to you. I’m curious, that’s all.”

Geralt opened his eyes and sat up. Jaskier was right, this needed to be dealt with. “I won’t rob you of your innocence if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“No?” Jaskier almost sounded disappointed and Geralt definitely didn’t want to deal with that.

“I’ve managed to avoid it the other hundred nights we’ve shared a bed, haven’t I? Now, can we please go to sleep?”

“Yes.”

Geralt lay back down, using the opportunity to reclaim a little of the covers he lost when Jaskier got into the bed. He rolled so his back was to Jaskier, signalling the conversation was over.

Jaskier lay down too and for a moment there was blissful silence. If Jaskier had wanted to discuss anything but this Geralt would have indulged him and been secretly grateful for the company. As it was, he’d just created a problem for himself and he’d deal with it in the morning.

“It’s just I don’t understand why you’ve never responded to me.”

Geralt audibly groaned, manners be damned. “In what way?”

“Well, I’ve been flirting with you shamelessly since we met and you ignore me.”

“I don’t ignore you.” He could be ignoring Jaskier now and he’s not.

“You don’t encourage me either. I’d given up on you.”

No he hadn’t. Geralt still noticed the comments and the looks even after ten years of friendship. He did ignore them. Jaskier was companionship when he needed it, but he came with temptations Geralt wasn’t prepared to give in to.

“Can we talk about this in the morning?” he asked with a sigh.

“But it’s awkward now so we may as well talk about it. You owe me that as your best friend.”

“We’re not friends.”

“That’s what you always say and yet here we are sharing this bed. I was your friend earlier tonight too when the innkeep fed us. I’m your friend when it’s convenient.”

“So why ruin it for a quick fuck?” Geralt hadn’t meant to say that, let alone for it to come out so quickly or so harshly. “Jaskier, I’m sorry—"

“You’d prefer a slow one?” Jaskier asked. “Look. I know you like sex or you wouldn’t spend good coin on it. So tell me why you’d rather throw money away than have an arrangement with me.”

An arrangement. It wasn’t like Geralt hadn’t considered it. In the early days he tried to avoid Jaskier because he considered it a bit too much and it had taken time to become easy with Jaskier and easy with the idea that he could withstand the temptation. At first it got harder every time, but eventually it became second nature to live off stolen looks and fleeting thoughts of happiness. A part of him even enjoyed the thoughts, because he knew he could flirt back with Jaskier and it wouldn’t be met with revulsion. He just couldn’t allow himself to do it.

“Have you considered I might not fancy you?” he asked.

“Preposterous! If you like men you’ll like me.”

Geralt couldn’t have expected any other answer from Jaskier. “You are ridiculous,” he muttered.

“I’m re-evaluating all the times you’ve looked at my cock when I’m bathing.”

He had stolen the odd look but he didn’t think Jaskier had noticed. “Can we please just go to sleep now?” Geralt growled, feeling the skin of his face flush hot.

Jaskier was silent a moment, then he said, “All right.”

For the next ten minutes Jaskier shifted about the bed, sighing and huffing and generally being a nuisance, but he didn’t say a word to Geralt. Geralt wished he’d lied and pretended he had no interest in men, but he wasn’t the lying type and with anyone but Jaskier it wouldn’t have prompted such a response.

Of course it was Jaskier, who Geralt knew better than any man alive, and he’d still told him the truth.

After a while Jaskier said, “You can’t sleep?”

“Not with you talking.”

“I wasn’t talking.”

“Jaskier.”

“All right. Look, just tell me honestly what’s wrong with me.” He sounded so wounded.

Geralt sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I just don’t have relationships.”

“Oh. Well, I was expecting a fuck, not a relationship.” Jaskier chuckled softly. “You do like me, don’t you?

“Fuck off.”

“No further proof needed. The way you growled that I can tell there’s a chink in your armour.”

“Shut up. I’m not going to sit up all night while you play with me.”

But Geralt didn’t leave the bed.

Jaskier rolled over and placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “You could lay back if that’s more comfortable.”

“Jaskier!”

“What? I’m just offering.” He withdrew his hand but replaced it a moment later, squeezing Geralt’s shoulder gently. “It doesn’t have to be a relationship,” he said softly. “One kiss. Give it a try.”

He would have given it a try years ago if he intended to actually see this through. It wouldn’t be good for either of them and Jaskier ought to know that.

“If I kiss you, I won’t put up with you kissing anyone else afterward.”

Jaskier’s hand gripped him a little tighter. “Who says I’ll want to kiss anyone else after I’ve kissed you?”

“You will. I can’t give you what you want. I just can’t.”

“You’ve given me a decade of companionship already and I fully expect a decade more whether or not you kiss me. You might as well.”

Jaskier pulled gently and Geralt rolled onto his back. Their eyes met in the dark, Jaskier’s shining in the moonlight.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” He leant over Geralt and placed the softest, sweetest kiss on his lips. “There,” he whispered. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?

“No. That was far too easy.”

“Easy enough to kiss me again?”

Jaskier leant back over but this time when he kissed Geralt his tongue demanded entrance and his hand roamed down to Geralt’s chest as he pressed his body against his side.

When Jaskier finally pulled back, Geralt said, “I’m not going to get any sleep tonight, am I?”

“You don’t sound like you mind that too much now.”

Geralt didn’t mind at all.

#jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #Geralt #geralt z rivii #witcher fanfiction #the witcher #geraskier #fanfic

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king-finnigan · 4 years

Text

these four walls (supposed to save you from yourself)

part 1, part 2, part 3. also on ao3!

~~~

“Stop fidgeting with it!” Triss slaps his hand away from the bandage around his neck. He lets it fall limply as she takes the scarf from the chair, wrapping it around him.

“But it itches,” he whines, fingers twitching against the side of his leg.

“Good. That means it’s healing.” She sighs, letting her hands rest on his shoulders, ducking to meet his eye. “Listen, I know it’s annoying and I know it itches but you’re doing so well. Don’t mess it up by reopening the wound, alright?”

He nods, shifting his eyes to look past her, catching sight of himself in the mirror. There are still some bruises peeking above the edge of the scarf and he can see the dark circles under his eyes from all the sleepless nights – the ones where the nightmares won’t go away, the ones where furious golden eyes fill every inch of his mind until he feels like he’s choking all over again.

But besides that, he looks… fine. Surprisingly and suspiciously fine, even though he very much feels like he’s not; even though he has trouble sleeping and concentrating and the doctor’s words of possible brain damage keep echoing through his head; even though they had to cut a hole in his throat to allow him to breathe, for crying out loud.

Despite everything, he looks… fine.

He sighs, taking his coat from the bed, shrugging it over his shoulders as Triss grabs the duffel bag. “Shall we go, then?” she asks.

One last time, he looks around the hospital room he spent the last week in before he nods and heads for the door. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

---

He has to assure Triss he’ll be fine five times before she finally goes, leaving him alone in his empty apartment with the lasagne she made for him in the fridge and a sad-looking ‘get well soon!’-balloon hanging around in the corner of the living room.

He sighs, dumping the duffel bag on the bed, zipping it open and pulling his dirty clothes out, pushing them into the washing machine and slamming the little door shut. He turns it on before wandering over to the hallway, expressly ignoring that stupid fucking balloon in the living room, shivering as he turns the thermostat up.

He turns around, leaning against the wall and pulling his sweater closer around himself, looking around his apartment.

It’s strange. In all the years that he’s lived here, the place has never felt emptier than it does now. Maybe it’s because he’s still a bit used to the hospital and the people who kept walking into his room to check up on him. Maybe it’s because it feels weird having this big a space all to himself after the small hospital room he was in. Maybe it’s because Triss spent nearly every waking moment by his side and he’s lonely now that she’s gone.

But that doesn’t really make sense, does it? This is the same apartment he spent years of his life being alone in. The same place he decorated so long ago with Ikea furniture and tacky posters and ugly patterned pillows. This is his home.

But then his eye falls on the guitar case in the corner and things make a little more sense.

He walks over to it, sitting on the couch and pulling it into his lap, clicking the locks open. Some part of him foolishly hopes that it’s fine this time around, that it has somehow magically healed over the past few days.

But when he swings the lid open, the spark of hope snuffs out.

He lifts his guitar up by the neck, pushing the case off his lap to replace it with the instrument. Slowly, he lets his hand trail over the jagged edges of the hole in the side, his fingers pressing into the sharp points, splinters burying themselves into his skin.

He still finds it hard to believe, even now. Triss told him it happened either before or during the struggle – either when Geralt grabbed him by the neck and Jaskier had reflexively dropped the instrument, or when the nurses were trying to save his life. No one knows for sure. He supposes it doesn’t matter, in the end.

He strums the strings softly with his thumb, tears pricking behind his eyes when not a single sound comes from the guitar.

It shouldn’t feel like grieving a loved one this much. But it does.

He puts the guitar back in its case carefully, smoothing his hand over the body one last time before he closes the lid, clicking the locks shut again.

He helps himself to some lasagne in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop and idly playing with the edges of the bandage around his throat as the food heats in the microwave. He eats it in front of the tv, chewing and swallowing slowly, eyes glued to the screen as his mind wanders – back to the hospital, back to the ward, back to golden eyes.

He wonders if they’ve restrained Geralt because of what happened. He wonders if he’s playing chess by himself if they haven’t. He wonders if he misses Jaskier. He wonders if he’s finally gone to one of the group therapy sessions. He wonders if Geralt can still feel Jaskier’s skin on his hands the same way Jaskier can feel Geralt’s on his neck.

He wonders a million and one things, letting them drift through his mind like clouds across a clear, blue sky, eyes staring unseeing at the screen, the food turning to dust on his tongue, grating against his throat every time he swallows it.

When he’s done, he turns the tv off, quickly washing his plate and fork in the sink before making his way over to his bedroom. He changes into his pyjamas, smiling softly when he finds fluffy socks that definitely weren’t there before sitting on his desk – he’ll have to remind himself to thank Triss for those later.

He looks at the clock. It’s only seven but he’s already so, so tired, all those sleepless nights taking their toll on him, and he crawls beneath the blankets, turning the lights off and closing his eyes.

He drifts for a while as he ignores the slight itching of the healing wound in his throat, where the doctors had to cut him open to stick a tube into his lungs – his throat had been so swollen he couldn’t breathe by himself and they couldn’t intubate him the traditional way. He remembers waking up in the emergency a few hours later, disoriented and confused, in pain and breathing without the feeling of air wheezing through his throat.

Triss had been by his side – his childhood friend always is – and had told him about the tracheotomy, about the tube and what it meant.

And then the doctor had walked in. Possible brain damage, he’d said. We’ll have to monitor the situation, he’d said.

Signs of brain damage may include being unable to concentrate, insomnia, and memory loss, he’d said. He’d asked if Jaskier remembered what happened. Jaskier had lied and said he vaguely did. With time, the memories had come back, luckily, but that doesn’t stop him from worrying, still.

He pushes those images away for now and loses himself in the memories of strings against his fingers, of chess pieces clicking on the board, of golden eyes looking at him with slight amusement right before Jaskier would lose a game. Memories of soft hums that Jaskier had to translate by himself, of sunlight spilling through the window and casting silver hair in a halo, of the side of a scarred hand touching his.

Scarred hands, wrapped around his neck, golden eyes, furious and boring into his, a voice that used to softly hum growling at him.

His eyes snap open, staring up into the darkness as his throat constricts, panic flooding his chest like a tidal wave that’s broken through a dam. He sees a shadow in the corner – a shadow in the corner, oh god, there’s a shadow in the corner, oh god, oh god, oh god – and he sits upright, quickly turning his bedside lamp on.

The shadow is just his wardrobe.

He sighs, letting himself fall back onto the pillows, looking up at the ceiling as tears prick in his eyes. He wipes them away furiously, hand drifting down to fiddle with the edge of the bandage. The urge to scratch at the wound always gets worse at night, for some reason.

He looks at the clock. Eight. It’s barely even night, though; he’s still got more than enough time to get some rest.

He lays on his side, eyes glued to the clock as he waits for his mind to start drifting again, to find the doorstep that leads to sleep.

He watches as the clock passes nine, ten, eleven, twelve, one, two.

He turns off the light.

Hands around his neck, golden eyes that don’t recognize him, Geralt’s voice growling at him.

He turns the light back on.

A sign of possible brain damage is insomnia.

He groans in frustration, wiping his hands over his face before he sits up straight again. This is useless, he’s never gonna get the sleep he needs like this.

But he’s tired enough as it is already, and how the fuck is he supposed to get sleep if not like this? His eyes drift across the room in search of an idea of some sorts before they land on the chess board on his desk.

He pushes himself out of bed, dragging his blanket along with him as he pads his way over to the chair. He sits down, pulling the board towards himself, hand slowly coming up to reset the pieces back in their correct places. He’s about to take two pawns to switch behind his back when he realizes it’s just him – he’s gonna have to play both colours, now.

He starts with white. Moves a pawn. Turns the board. And, bloody hell, this is really hard. He has to resist the urge not to favour one colour over the other, to make a move he won’t immediately be able to counteract, and he briefly wonders how Geralt can even do this. No wonder he was so eager to play with Jaskier, doing this on your own is an absolute nightmare.

He sighs, leaning his chin on his lower arm on the desk as he contemplates his next move, brows furrowed in concentration as he stares at the pieces that are now at eye-level. He moves a pawn, turns the board with one hand. He blinks at the white pieces, eyelids lingering where they meet for a second. He opens his eyes again, tries to figure out his next move.

He sighs, letting his head tilt to the side, resting the side of it on his arm. His eyes drift shut again. He doesn’t bother opening them again.

He dreams of scarred hands moving chess pieces, of golden eyes glinting with amusement before Jaskier admits defeat, of a soft hum when he asks if they can play another game. His guitar is whole and in his lap. His throat doesn’t hurt when he sings a love song.

---

He wakes up aching, the uncomfortable position at the desk wreaking havoc on his back and neck. He would’ve been freezing if it weren’t for the blanket around him and the fluffy socks on his feet.

He sits up straight, groaning in discomfort as his spine cracks painfully, his neck popping when he moves his head to look at the clock. Six in the morning. Well, at least he managed to get four hours of sleep – it’s better than nothing. It’s better than being plagued by nightmares.

He gets up, dumping his blanket on the bed and shedding his pyjamas as he makes his way to the bathroom. He needs a shower. A good, long one.

He looks at himself in the mirror as the water heats up, gaze drifting to the dark circles under his eyes at first. They’ve gotten a bit deeper over the past night – of course they did. Four hours isn’t enough to keep him well rested on the best of days, so they’re definitely not enough to catch him up to all the sleep he’s lost over the past week.

His gaze drifts lower, still, to the ring of sickly green and yellow bruises adorning his neck, some spots of purple and blue still visible here and there. He raises a hand to tentatively touch at the bandage, picking at the medical tape that holds it in place with his nail. The doctor said he would be allowed to remove it after he’d gotten home and reasonably, Jaskier knows he should before he gets into the shower. Yet part of him fears what he might see.

His fingers tremble when he plucks at the tape some more, slowly peeling it off his skin, eyes glued to his reflection as he pulls the gauze away.

It’s… underwhelming, really. They cut a hole in his throat to push a tube into his lungs and a week after they’ve removed it, the wound is barely even there. Just a small dip in the skin of his throat, an angry red as a thin, horizontal stripe runs across it, a little longer than the nail of his thumb.

It’s there, of course, and it stands out against the pale expanse of his neck but… that’s it. Jaskier wonders what he was so afraid of in the first place.

He’s shaken out of his reverie when steam starts to fog over his reflection and he takes a step back, taking one last look at the mirror before he gets into the shower. He turns the heat way up, letting the water scald his skin, letting it turn as red as the scar on his throat as he stands there, head tipped back, eyes closed against the onslaught, his mind drifting far, far away.

He’s never understood meditation, has never understood how someone can just stand or sit there and do nothing and have a clear mind – his thoughts have always been so, so loud, especially when he has nothing to grab his attention. But here, in the shower, as he’s enveloped by heat and the repetitive sound of water falling onto the ceramic, as he falls into a half-sleep, mind completely empty and feeling at peace for the first time in a week, he understands a little bit better.

He only snaps out of the half-sleep to wash himself when the water’s growing cold and he can no longer control the clacking of his teeth as goosebumps raise along his skin.

He wraps himself into a bathrobe afterwards, padding into the kitchen to grab some cereal. The milk in the fridge isn’t his – it probably would’ve gone bad if it was – and he has to once again vouch to himself to thank Triss the next time he sees her.

He pours himself a bowl and wanders back into his bedroom as he eats, eyeing the chess board on his desk. There are a million things he could be doing, now that he has the rest of the month off to recover, a million things he’s put on his To-Do-list years ago. He could take that vacation to Hawaii he’s always wanted to take. He could learn how to play a new instrument. He could repaint his apartment, go to that coffeeshop a few blocks away, go on an actual date, for once.

He could buy himself a new guitar.

But after years of putting all those things off, after years of longing for time to do the things he wants to do, he finds himself only wanting what he shouldn’t be.

Is he really gonna do this?

He finishes his cereal, dumping his bowl in the sink for future him to worry about before he rummages through his wardrobe, pulling out a soft sweater and some old, faded jeans. He hastily dresses and grabs his things, remembering at the last possible second to bring a scarf – something light and frilly that he bought on a whim from a vintage store a while ago. Who would’ve known it would come in handy someday?

He pauses in the doorway for a few seconds, looking back at his guitar case gathering dust in the corner.

Is he really gonna do this?

It feels weird not to have it on his shoulder, like he’s missing part of himself somehow. He sighs, looping the scarf around his neck, making sure it covers his healing wound before he closes the door behind him with a decisive click.

He’s really gonna do this.

---

“Buttercup? What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

He smiles and shakes his head as Triss’ hands come to rest on his shoulders, brown eyes concerned as they look him over. “I’m fine,” he says, softly grasping her wrists. “I’m here for Geralt.”

She meets his gaze, confusion furrowing her brow. “Are… are you sure you wanna see him? Buttercup, he…” she drops her voice to a whisper “he nearly killed you.”

He nods. “I know.” He lets his eyes drift through the common room of the mental health ward, smiling lightly as he sees Dara and Ciri sitting at one of the tables, playing Uno together. It’s good to see the girl out of her restraints. He wonders if that means she’s healing – mentally and physically.

“Buttercup.” His eyes snap back to Triss. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. You’re in no way obligated-“

“I know,” he repeats. “But I want to see him. I want to talk to him.”

Something in her gaze softens and she nods. “Alright. But at least take someone with you. I won’t let you go in alone. Not again.”

He nods. “Alright, fine.”

---

“Knock, knock,” he says softly as he raps his knuckles on the doorframe, stepping into the darkened room, the nurse – Istredd, if Jaskier remembers correctly – following closely behind, though lingering in the doorway when Jaskier presses on.

Geralt isn’t sitting at the table by the window or at the foot of the bed, even. Today, he’s sitting on the side of the bed, back turned to Jaskier, head bowed to look at his lap. Jaskier gets the sneaking suspicion he’s been sitting there like that for a while, now. A long while.

Something in him longs to reach out, to run his hands along the knobs of Geralt’s spine, to press his fingers into the tight muscle of his shoulder, to push down with the heel of his hand and work the tension out of Geralt’s back before running his fingers through those silver locks, gently unknotting the tangles.

And something in him longs to shrink back, to run out of this room and never come back, to forget the memory of Geralt’s hands squeezing his neck shut.

He ignores both and steps towards the table by the window, where the chess board is set up, ready for a new game. He plucks two pawns off of it, switching them behind his back a few times before he wanders over to Geralt’s bed, standing in front of the man.

Golden eyes refuse to meet him.

Jaskier stretches his arms out, a pawn in each fist. “Choose,” he simply says.

Geralt just keeps staring at the floor, elbows on his knees and hands hanging limply between his legs. He doesn’t look up at Jaskier’s voice, doesn’t hum or frown or shake his head or acknowledge Jaskier’s existence at all. It’s just like the very first few times Jaskier came here.

And it’s so, so very different than all those times as well.

The Geralt he met had an air of dignity around him – bordering on pretentiousness. He’d been stoic and calculating and composed, intimidating in a way Jaskier had never seen before.

But this Geralt- the Geralt right in front of him, is anything but. He’s a mess, hair tangled and knotted together, a stubble on his chin and cheeks, back bent and shoulders slumped, the skin of his wrists rubbed red and raw.

This Geralt looks… defeated.

Part of Jaskier pities him. Another part tells him the last thing Geralt wants is his pity. A different part remembers the feeling of hands around his neck.

“Choose,” he says again, hands slightly trembling as he clenches his fists around the pawns, the edges digging lines into his palms.

Geralt doesn’t look up.

“Choose,” Jaskier bites out, voice shaky and on the verge of breaking, an edge of desperation sharpening his tongue. “Goddammit, I’m not gonna play chess on my fucking own, so choose.”

“Leave.” Geralt’s voice is soft and raspy and deep enough to send shivers down Jaskier’s spine, had he not been preoccupied with the fact that Geralt just spoke to him.

“Choose,” he grits through clenched teeth nonetheless.

“Leave.”

He lets go of the pawns, barely aware of the sound of them clattering against the floor as his hands fall limply by his side, blood rushing through his ears and a light sheen of red covering his vision. “No. I won’t fucking leave.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Geralt tilts his head up, golden eyes briefly meeting his before they drift down to the scarf around Jaskier’s neck, to the greenish bruises that are undoubtedly peeking out above the fabric.

“I hurt you.” Jaskier knows he doesn’t imagine the flash of pain that shoots through those golden eyes.

He scoffs, fighting the urge to lift his hand and reflexively cover his throat. “I’m fine. It was really nothing serious.” Possible brain damage, the doctor’s voice rings through his head.

Geralt stands up abruptly, suddenly so close that Jaskier’s fight-or-flight kicks in, the part of him that remembers scarred hands around his throat growing louder and louder as he takes a step back, then another when Geralt takes a step towards him.

“Rivia!” the nurse in the doorway shouts in warning, but Geralt doesn’t relent, stepping closer and closer as Jaskier backs further and further away. His hands are shaking, eyes wide and breath coming out in soft pants, sweat gathering on the back of his neck as he steps back until his shoulder blades meet the drywall.

The button the button the button the button-

“Rivia! Final warning!” the nurse calls out from the doorway as Geralt’s hand comes up.

He’s so close to Jaskier now, crowding into his space, body heat radiating against his skin, golden eyes boring into his and Geralt’s scarred hand comes up to Jaskier’s throat and the button the button the button the button-

Geralt pulls the scarf away. It floats to the linoleum floor as golden eyes drift down to the ring of yellowish green that adorns Jaskier’s throat, to the angry, red scar in the middle, dipping into the small, barely-healed pit in his skin, where the doctors pushed a tube through to his lungs.

Flashes of regret, anger, hurt and a million other things Jaskier can’t bring himself to identify spark across Geralt’s face, his carefully crafted blank mask falling away for just a few seconds.

“It’s really nothing,” Jaskier says, voice trembling and nearly cracking. Golden eyes shoot up to meet his.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Geralt whispers. He turns abruptly, stalking out of the room, pushing past the nurse to disappear into the hallway – where to, Jaskier doesn’t know.

He stands there for a while, trying to process what happened, trying to figure out what to do next. After five long, agonizing minutes, he bends through his knees to pick his scarf up, carefully winding it around his neck again before he looks around the room one last time.

And then he leaves.

---

Golden eyes that don’t recognize him drilling into his, strong hands squeezing his neck shut as he gasps for breath, fingers clawing at Geralt’s wrists. His eyelids fall shut and everything goes to black.

He wakes up in a hospital room, staring up at the white ceiling as he breathes without the feeling of air wheezing through his throat, a tube in his neck connecting him to an oxygen machine. He tries to move his head when he hears a voice by his bedside, but he finds himself unable to do anything. He can’t shift his eyes, clench his hands, wiggle his toes. He can’t do anything but lay there and try not to panic as the voices approach his bedside.

“I’m sorry, miss Merigold. He’s gone too long without oxygen, there’s too much damage. He’s braindead.”

He hears Triss cry next to him, feels her hand on his and he tries- tries so desperately to turn it around and clench her fingers in his- but he can’t. He can’t even fucking turn his head to look at her.

“Miss Merigold, I’m sorry but we’re gonna have to ask you if you know how he felt about organ donation.”

He wants to scream no, wants to shout out that he’s still there- he’s not dead for god’s sake, he’s not dead. He tries, tries so hard, with all his might and he can’t. He can’t even cry out of frustration, out of fear.

But it’s too late. A gloved hand with a butcher’s knife appears into view, quickly followed by a familiar face, framed by white hair. He wants to sob out his relief. Geralt’s here, Geralt will look at him and realize Jaskier’s still in here and will stop all of this from happening.

Golden eyes drill into his, a spark of recognition lighting them up.

“Oh, hello, Jaskier,” Geralt says in that deep voice of his. “Are you still with us?”

Jaskier wants to scream yes, wants to laugh because Geralt knows- knows Jaskier’s still there, knows not to cut him open.

With an effort that drains him from all the energy he has left, he nods minutely.

Geralt grins. “Good,” he says, before he brings the knife down into Jaskier’s neck.

He shoots up in bed, gasping for air as sweat cools on his skin, hands fisting the sheets painfully. He needs a minute to remember where he is before he can start the conscious process of unclenching his hands from the bedding, one of them gingerly coming up to brush against the spot in his neck where the doctors put a tube into his throat, where Geralt stabbed him in his dream.

He sighs, reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp. He needs to squint his eyes a little to get used to the sudden light but once he’s used to it, his gaze drifts over to the clock. Two in the morning.

Well, at least he got… an hour’s sleep. Great.

He sighs, pulling the damp and tangled sheets from around his legs, padding his way to the bathroom. The water is cool and refreshing against his skin, the sound of it rushing from the tap drowning out the last remnants of the nightmare.

He meets his own gaze in the mirror, meets flat, tired eyes and the shadows underneath them, meets the scar in his neck and the ring of yellowish bruises that still adorns the skin above it, meets sweaty and matted hair and furrowed eyebrows. He looks like hell.

He considers calling Triss. It’s the middle of the night but he knows she would gladly help him through it until the sun rises again, knows she would help chase the nightmares away.

But that’s the thing. If she heard about the nightmare he had – heard that Geralt was in it – she would probably tell him not to go back, to stay far, far away from the ward and try to forget all about him. And she would probably be right to tell him that, it would work and with time, the memories would fade and the nightmares would disappear. Jaskier would be able to live his life without ever seeing Geralt again and without ever thinking about him again.

But that’s the thing, too. Jaskier doesn’t want to never see Geralt again, doesn’t want to never think about him ever again. He wants…

He wants…

What does he want?

He sighs, frustrated at his own inability to decipher what it is, exactly, that he does want. He turns the light in the bathroom off and wanders back into his bedroom, letting himself fall down in his desk chair, leaning his chin on his folded arms as he looks at the chess board.

He wants that.

He wants to play chess with Geralt – not even with anyone else, just Geralt. He wants to sit in that hospital room with the blinds halfway up and the sunlight illuminating them both, hurting his eyes with how bright it is. He wants to look at Geralt and fiddle with his guitar and play a love song before he realizes his king got cornered. He wants to see that amused glint in those golden eyes, that twitching of the corner of those full lips, that soft hum of that deep voice when he asks if they can play another game.

He wants to remember that every time he thinks of Geralt, not those hands around his throat.

More than anything, though, he wants to make new memories, too. He wants to hear Geralt talk to him, wants to hear what his life’s been like so far or what kind of music he likes or even how to properly play chess – because Jaskier keeps losing and it’s infuriating. He wants to hear Geralt’s opinion on his music, wants to hear what season he likes best and what his favourite colour is. He wants to hear why Geralt plays chess so much, why he doesn’t join the group therapy sessions, what he wants to do after he gets out of the hospital.

More than anything, he wants to finally get to know Geralt.

He nods to himself. Yes. That’s what he wants. Now he just has to figure out how to get it.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up four hours later.

---

“You speak.” It’s the first thing he says to Geralt, the next morning.

Geralt’s once again sitting on the edge of his bed, head bowed and shoulders slumped, elbows on his knees, hands limp between them. It’s the same position as the day before, and Jaskier briefly wonders if Geralt ever even moved at all throughout the night.

Geralt, though, doesn’t look up. Keeps his mouth shut.

Jaskier scoffs before walking to the chess board, picking two pawns – he briefly realizes that the ones he dropped on the ground yesterday are back in place – and switching them behind his back as he takes the two steps back to Geralt.

“Listen, I know you can talk, you did it yesterday. So don’t play coy with me, Geralt. Now,” he holds his hands out, a pawn in every fist, “choose.”

Geralt ignores him. Jaskier can’t help but notice that the stubble on his cheeks has grown, and so have the shadows under his eyes. Did Geralt even sleep?

He sighs. “Alright, listen up, you ass.”

Geralt’s eyebrows twitch together slightly, the first sign of acknowledgement Jaskier has gotten since he stepped foot in the room. He considers it a small victory.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m getting tired of playing chess against myself and I’m tired of sitting at home all alone. It takes me an hour to get here, you know. So I’m staying until you fucking play me cause I’m not wasting two hours every day just to talk to someone who keeps ignoring me. If I wanted that, I’d just go visit my family.” He takes a deep breath, trying to temper the fire in his chest. “Now choose.”

“Why?” Golden eyes meet his as Geralt tilts his head up slightly.

Jaskier frowns. “If you’d rather I choose, then that’s fine with me-“

“No. Why do you come here?”

He huffs out an annoyed breath. “To play chess with you.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Cause I don’t know anyone else who can. Now can you please fucking choose? My arms are growing tired.”

Golden eyes stare at him and a hundred minute expressions shift across Geralt’s face in half a second, too many for Jaskier to identify, too many for him to know what it means in the long run. Then, Geralt’s face goes blank like a perfectly wiped slate, the mask of indifference Jaskier got to see the very first day back in place.

It’s a million times better than the defeated expression Geralt wore yesterday. Once again, small victories.

Geralt’s hand comes up to tap Jaskier’s left fist.

He grins in triumph. “Now, was that so hard?”

He turns around to set the pieces on the chess board, turning it so the right side is facing Geralt’s – still unoccupied – chair.

He could swear he hears a “You have no idea,” behind him, but he ignores it, settling in the other chair, back in his usual spot.

“Shall we play, then?”

---

They don’t talk for the rest of the two hours Jaskier’s there, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. Quite the contrary – Jaskier’s sure that if he had his guitar with him, he would feel inspired enough to actually write music. But alas, his guitar is broken and gathering dust in the corner of his living room. He tries to ignore the pang of hurt he feels every time he remembers.

After a while, though, he loses focus, his ability to concentrate not what it was before… the incident. A sign of possible brain damage is having trouble concentrating. He ignores the doctor’s voice in the back of his head as well.

He announces his departure and gathers his jacket from the back of the chair, hand automatically coming up to make sure his scarf is still in place. He’d kept it on the past two hours, both because the lack of sunshine streaming in through the window makes the room quite cold and because he doesn’t want to remind Geralt of everything that happened every time golden eyes look at him.

He doesn’t need Geralt’s pity. He doesn’t want it either, for that matter.

In the doorway, he turns around one last time, looking at the man sitting at the window. He expects Geralt to be looking at the chess board like he always is whenever Jaskier leaves, but this time, golden eyes are on him already.

“R- right,” he stammers. “See you tomorrow, then?”

A beat of silence, and he could swear something changes in Geralt’s face – something minute, something barely there, but something nonetheless. “See you tomorrow,” Geralt says softly before turning back to the chess board.

---

He actually sleeps well that night.

---

It continues like that for a week or so. Jaskier comes back to the hospital, plays chess against Geralt, they exchange a few polite words and Jaskier leaves again. Every day, it gets a little bit easier to breathe and – at Triss’ insistence – he buys himself a nightlight so he doesn’t have to try to sleep with the lights on.

“Geralt?” he asks tentatively one day, moving his bishop. “Can I ask you something?”

The corner of full lips pulls up. “You just did.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ha ha, you’re hilarious.” It’s quiet for a few seconds. “But seriously, Geralt. I want to ask you something.”

“Hmm.” By now, he knows this particular kind of hum means he’s got permission to go on.

“Why… why haven’t you gone to any of the group therapy sessions yet?”

Something in Geralt’s face shifts, like a shadow falling over his features. A certain tenseness makes its way to Geralt’s muscles and shoulders and his movements are stiff when he pushes a pawn over the board. Jaskier has the distinct feeling that if he were to leave it at this today, the blinds would be pulled all the way down tomorrow – they’re half-raised now. For some reason, they’re always half-raised whenever Geralt’s having a good day.

“You see,” he continues, looking at the chess board without really seeing anything, desperately searching for a way to say what he wants to say without screwing up. “You’ve been here a while and I can’t imagine… I can’t imagine it’s pleasant to be here, all locked up with nowhere to go.”

He looks up to gauge Geralt’s reaction who, after a few seconds, shrugs. “’S not half bad,” he mutters.

Something tight and knotted in Jaskier’s chest unfurls slightly. “I’m just saying, if you were to… play along with what the doctor and nurses are demanding, you’d be able to get out of here. I know my face is a blessing, but you might want to see some other ones, right?”

Geralt gives a noncommittal shrug, but once again something in his face shifts, something sad making its way to his eyes. “Is that why you’re here?” he asks the chess board as it stands forgotten between them.

“Is what why I’m here?”

Golden eyes look at him, calculating and so unsure Jaskier has to resist the urge to get up and hug Geralt. “Because you’re trying to fix me.”

Jaskier sighs, eyes stinging slightly. “W- what?”

“You can’t. You can’t fix me.”

He reaches across the table and Geralt startles slightly when Jaskier cradles one of his hands in both of his, golden eyes flickering between his face and their now intertwined hands.

“Geralt, I’m not trying to fix you. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?”

He bites his bottom lip, trying to fight back the tears from glazing over his eyes, trying not to show how much Geralt’s insecurity hurts to hear. “I… I wanna get to know you.”

“Why?” Once again, a question so simple yet so devastating.

He smiles softly. “Because I think, Geralt of Rivia, that you’re a person worth knowing.”

“I’m not.” Geralt tries to pull his hand away but Jaskier tightens his grip, holding him in place.

“How about you let me be the judge of that? Because…”

He turns Geralt’s hand in his own, trailing his fingers down a scarred palm before hooking them around Geralt’s. Golden eyes remain focused on their hands and bit by bit, Geralt’s fingers curl around Jaskier’s, who smiles softly and rubs his thumb against the back of Geralt’s hand.

“Because,” he whispers again, “from what I’ve gathered so far, I think you’re a person very much worth knowing, my dearest Geralt.”

Golden eyes look at him, open and sincere and insecure and hurting. “You’re a terrible liar,” Geralt says softly.

He holds that gaze, bringing their hands closer and turning them until he can press a soft kiss against the back of Geralt’s hand.

“Then you should know I’m not lying,” he whispers back. “All I’m asking is for you to trust me. That’s all. Please, just trust that I’m not lying to you.”

A few seconds pass, golden eyes never leaving his even as a million minute changes flash through them, betraying Geralt’s inner thought process so much Jaskier feels like he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t. But he holds Geralt’s gaze and waits.

Eventually, Geralt nods.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #jaskier #geralt #geraskier #king writes

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queenxxxsupreme · 4 years

Note

Can I please request angst prompts 17 + 50 with Jaskier x female reader, please? Thanks so much!!

A/N: Sorry this took such a while to get done!! It ended up a little longer than I intended but I hope you like it babe!! Here is my masterlist. Here is the link to go to if you’d like to add yourself to my taglist!

17. “Am I the reason you cry every night?” 50. “Do you even know what love feels like?”

Your jaw was clenched so tightly that it felt as though you were close to shattering your teeth. Your fingers fisted your skirt beneath the table, clouded eyes set on the decorative centerpiece that rested in front of you.

Jaskier was sitting across the table from you with two ladies on either side of him. One had her arm draped across his shoulders while the other hand her hand on his forearm. They were asking him about his journeys with Geralt, about how exciting it must be and how heroic he was for putting himself in danger.

Beside you, Geralt cleared his throat. You turned your head to look at him, taking a steady deep breath through your nose.

“Tell him.” The witcher spoke quietly.

“Tell…. Tell him?” You drew your brows together. “Tell him what?”

“How you feel.”

You brought your eyes down to your hands.

You had confided in the witcher after you slept with Jaskier the first time. Ever since then, you’d become a little closer to the White Wolf.

“It’s clear as day in your eyes, Y/N.”

“If it were that easy to see, then he’d see it too.” You spoke through clenched teeth, not really mad at him but more at yourself for being so stupid. You heard stories the bard told, about how he was a lover, how he loved to share his passion with many, many women.

You felt stupid for thinking that after the first night with the man, he’d be yours. He wasn’t known for his commitment. He enjoyed women far too much.

You felt stupid for thinking that someone so magnificent would be interested in you. That someone so radiant and joyful would be interested in you.

You stood to your feet, your chair scraping against the floor so loudly that everyone nearby looked in your direction, including Jaskier.

You excused yourself from the table and left the ballroom, hoping to find your way out of the manor and to your horse so you could ride far, far away.

“Y/N!”

You almost turned on instinct upon hearing the bard call your name. But you kept going. There was no reason to stop and talk to him, no reason to even acknowledge him. He hadn’t acknowledged you all night except to tell you earlier that your dress was stunning.

“Y/N! Hold on a bloody moment!” He moved quicker, jogging to catch up to you.

“I am quite busy, Jaskier.” You said.

“With what, my darling? Were you not enjoying the party?” He gestured to the ballroom behind you both.

How dare he call you that? How dare he call you such a sweet and tender name when he just used you for a good wrestle in the sheets?

“No, I wasn’t. Now please, Jaskier. Leave me be.”

His hand wrapped around your arm and he pulled you to a stop.

You locked your jaw, casting your blurry gaze to the floor so you wouldn’t have to look up at him.

“Y/N.” His tone softened.

In your head, you cursed at him, calling him every foul name you could think of. How dare he say your name so gently that your heart nearly collapsed from the weight of unrequited love?

“Please look at me, dear heart.” He murmured tenderly, reaching out to hook two fingers beneath your chin.

Just before he could touch you, you stepped away from him, eyes flickering up to meet his.

“Don’t you dare put your hand on me.” You said, your voice low and cold.

His brows drew together, but he said nothing.

“Why can’t you just leave me be, Jaskier? Why can’t you just let me leave?”

“I-I only wanted- I wanted to know what was wrong. You seemed rather upset when you stormed out of the ballroom.”

“I’m not upset, you bastard.” You shook your head, bringing your hand up to rub your forehead. “I’m-I’m furious.”

“Why? What happened?”

You gazed at him for a few moments. There was no way he didn’t know why you were upset. There was absolutely no way. Was he that stupid?

You took a deep breath, not wanting to say anything mean and harmful, and met his gaze.

“Because the man I am hopelessly in love with doesn’t feel the same way. Because the man I am hopelessly in love with uses me for when he has no other whores around. Because the man I am in love with completely ignores me and makes me feel like nothing but a passing whore. Because I cry myself to sleep at night knowing I’ll never be enough for him.”

You didn’t even realize the tears in your eyes had trailed down your cheeks until a breeze blew through the corridor from an opened window.

You brought your hand up to your cheek, brushing the tears away.

Jaskier stood there, lips parted and a dumbfounded look on his face.

“Am I…. Am I the reason you cry every night?” He whispered, angelic voice quiet and timid.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” You shook your head, turning to leave but he wouldn’t let you.

His hand once more found your arm and he pulled you around to face him.

“I love you too, Y/N.”

While you wanted to be happy and ecstatic at his words, you couldn’t.

You shook your head, prying his hand from your wrist and stepping away from him.

“Do you even know what love feels like, Jaskier?” Your voice cracked.

He looked offended that you’d even ask him that.

“Of course I do-,”

“Then don’t tell me that you love me.” You shook your head firmly. “Don’t tell me that damned lie.”

“But I do love you! I love you, Y/N-,”

“No, you don’t!” You shouted, stepping towards him as the anger in your veins bubbled like hot water. “You don’t love me, Jaskier! If you loved me, you wouldn’t leave in the mornings before I wake up after we’ve slept together! You wouldn’t ignore me when there are other women around! You wouldn’t let women throw themselves at you!”

You paused, needing to breathe for a second.

“You wouldn’t make me feel as though I am not good enough for you, Jaskier.”

Now Jaskier was the one with tears in his eyes. He took shallow breaths, trying to control himself as he listened to you.

“You don’t love me.” You shook your head, taking a few steps away from him. “You just don’t, Jaskier.”

When he said nothing and only held your gaze, you turned to walk away.

“I-I thought all you wanted was the sex, Y/N.”

You didn’t stop walking.

“I heard you talking to Geralt!” He raised his voice. “I heard you, Y/N!”

You turned to face him, confused.

“What are you talking about?”

“The night after we first shared a bed. Six weeks ago. You two sat by the fire while I went to get some wood. He-He said you had beautiful eyes and a cute smile.” Jaskier’s voice broke off. He shook his head, wiping his cheeks with the sleeve to his doublet. “I-I backed off because I thought-I thought that maybe you and Geralt….” He trailed off.

“And even after that, we still slept together.” You reminded him. “Three times actually. What the hell do you think I did that for if you thought that I was interested in Geralt?”

“I don’t know, Y/N.” He admitted, shaking his head. “I-I thought maybe it was some way to get him jealous. Maybe make him pay more attention to you. I don’t fucking know.”

Exasperated, he ran a hand through his chestnut hair and turned his back to you.

“I don’t fucking know.”

You watched him for a few more minutes, your heart beating fast in your chest.

“I don’t fancy Geralt, Jaskier.” You shook your head. “He was trying to cheer me up after I told him about you leaving before I even woke up.”

Still, Jaskier said nothing.

“I am going to bed, Jaskier.” You told him, and turned to leave.

You hoped that he would stop you, that he would call out your name once more in that angelic voice of his.

But he didn’t.

***

Hours later, you were laying in your room at the inn. You had been staring at the ceiling for a while, your mind racing and wandering, keeping you from resting.

A knock on the door to your room made you jump. You turned your head to look towards the door.

“Y/N?” Jaskier spoke. “Y/N? Are you asleep?”

“No, Jaskier.” You answered, pushing yourself into a sitting position.

There was a moment of silence.

“May I come in?”

You looked down, closing your eyes as you tried to think of why he’d want to come into your room in the early hours of the morning.

“Yes.”

The door opened and Jaskier stepped in. He leaned against the door, eyes finding you.

“Hi.” He sheepishly smiled.

You returned the smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes and it wasn’t honest.

“I-I can’t sleep.” He admitted, stepping towards your bed. “I just…. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You brought your eyes down to your hands.

“Can we…. Can we talk?”

You nodded, gesturing for him to sit down at the end of the bed.

He took a seat and looked around the room.

“This isn’t at all how I wanted to tell you that I am in love with you.” He murmured quietly, shaking his head as he fiddled with the strap to his lute that cut across his chest. “I didn’t want you to be crying. I-I didn’t want you to be angry at me.”

“What did you want?” You asked softly, curious.

He glanced up at you very briefly through his dark lashes before returning his gaze to his lap. A little smile came to his lips.

“I-I wanted it to be somewhere absolutely gorgeous with the moon shining down on us as we lie on a blanket and watch the stars. I wanted there to be wine and snacks, and maybe even a few sweets. I wanted to make it meaningful.”

The smile slowly disappeared, replaced by a frown that didn’t belong on his face.

“But instead, I-I made you cry and you’re angry at me-,”

“I’m not angry at you, Jaskier.” You cut him off. “Only upset that you’d think I’d use you to make Geralt jealous. Do you honestly believe I think that little of you?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve had plenty of women use me to get to Geralt.”

His words broke your heart and made you feel guilty.

You pushed the blankets from your legs and crawled down to the foot of the bed where he rested. You sat next to him on your knees, placing one hand on his cheek to turn his head towards you.

“I don’t want Geralt. Only you.” You brushed a few pieces of his brown locks from his eyes and smiled a little when the frown on his lips disappeared.

He pulled your hand from his cheek and kissed your knuckles.

“I think we both could use some rest.” You smiled shyly as you let your hand fall to your lap. “In the morning, we can figure things out between us.”

He nodded, taking his fingers through his hair once more.

“That sounds like a good idea.”

You settled back into bed and watched him take off his doublet and boots, then he clambered into bed with you. You buried your face in his chest, smiling happily as his arms wrapped around you.

There were still many things the both of you needed to discuss, things that needed to be explained. But now wasn’t the time for that. Now was the time for sleep.

#jaskier x reader #jaskier angst/fluff #jaskier ask #jaskier angst #jaskier fic #dandelion #the witcher #netflix #joey batey #kacey answers #anon #angst prompt

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viking-raider · 4 years

Text

Before You Go *Song Fic*

Summary: You break up with Henry and realize how stupid you were.

Pairing: Henry Cavill/Reader

Word Count: 1,053

Rating: G - Angst, Fluff, Heartbreak, Making up

Inspiration: Before You Go - Lewis Capaldi (x)

Author’s Note: Tell me what you think!

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I fell by the wayside like everyone else

You should have known, it wouldn't have worked out. You knew, about his track record with relationships, nothing bad, on his part at least, but many of them hardly lasted a year. Yours with him last just over a year, before it became too much. You and Henry spent more time arguing about things, than actually being boyfriend and girlfriend. So, you broke it off with him.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, but I was just kidding myself

You had tried to convince yourself that you hated him, it felt like he had ripped your heart out, but you were the one that broke up with him, you were the one that ripped his heart out, he begged you not to break up with him, that he'd do whatever it took to keep you, but you didn't.

Our every moment, I start to replace

'Cause now that they're gone, all I hear are the words that I needed to say

Once you moved out of his place, you started over, you didn't take anything that made you think of him, which was ninety percent of everything you owned. You spent so much time mourning those things though, at least they would have been a distraction from all the imaginary conversations you had with Henry in your head, or out loud, in the middle of the night, in the dark bedroom in your flat, laying in your ice-cold bed, without the heat of his body against yours. All the words you wish you had said to him, the ones you needed to say and get off your chest, but it was too late now.

When you hurt under the surface

Both of you were putting up a fake front in front of everyone, family, friends, fans and co-workers. Brushing off their repeated tries to ask if you were all right.

“No, I'm over him. I've moved on, I went out on a date with someone last night!” You told one of your co-workers, two months after the break-up, which was a total lie; the only date you had the night before, was with a bottle of wine, on your couch, watching sappy Romance movies, where the couple always got back together, in the end.

“I'm fine, I'm respecting her decision and I'll work through it.” Henry told his brother as they talked on the phone, for the millionth time

Like troubled water running cold

Neither of you could function properly, without the other.

Well, time can heal, but this won't

It had been six months, You and Henry still hadn't gotten over each other. So many nights spent typing out mile long text messages, apologizing for breaking up or begging to be taken back, before deleting them. Close calls, dialing the other's phone number, while going on a serious pub crawl with friends. Time was not making it easier to get over the relationship, it was only making the pain worse.

Was there something I could've said to make your heart beat better?

The first text sent between the two of you in the dark and lonely months apart. Sent at three in the morning, after laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling with his thumb poised over the send button, before finally managing it, and almost crying, when he saw the notification that you had read it two minutes later; laying awake, doing the same thing he was, but, you left him on read, as you cried yourself to sleep.

If only I'd have known you had a storm to weather

Almost a year after the break-up, you learned Henry had been struggling with an issue, that you had no idea about, and it crushed you. You had broken up with him at the height of his struggle with it. You had been so selfish and didn't know his struggle, and left him cold and unsupported, in the middle of it.

Was there something I could've said to make it all stop hurting?

You asked him, as soon as he opened the door of the mews, tears already in your eyes, realizing how, absolutely stupid, you had been with the man that you loved more than anyone in life, who you had crushed in his weakest moment, instead of helping hold him up. Henry crushed you against his body and sobbed with you, pulling you backwards into the house and shoving the door closed, sniffling into your neck.

It kills me how your mind can make you feel so worthless

You told him, knowing how he had felt worthless from all the criticism he had gotten for his movie project, only wounding that insecurity he already had as a child. “Why didn't you told me?”

Was never the right time, whenever you called

He answered, only pulling back from you a little bit.

Went little by little by little until there was nothing at all

“And you were gone.” he explained to you, brushing his fingers through your hair.

Our every moment, I start to replay

It didn't matter, choices were made and he respected your choice to cut him out of your life. So, he made the choice to keep loving you, from afar. You looked up at him, with tenderhearted love.

But all I can think about is seeing that look on your face

He said, smiling down at you, his fingers brushing against your cheek and through your hair, his heart fluttering and skipping beats.

Would we be better off by now, If I'd have let my walls come down?

You asked him, unable to help yourself as you hugged your arms around his waist and pressed your cheek to his chest, never wanting to let go of him again. You had been afraid to really let Henry in the first time, maybe if you had, you would have seen his struggle and worked through it with him.

Maybe, I guess we'll never know

He replied, hugging you against him, content to never let you go again, either. Both of you decided to work it out between you and got back together, striving to get it right and let each other in, never hiding that storm that you might be weathering; weathering it together.

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buttercup-of-kaer-morhen · 4 years

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Of Thorns and Buttercups

~Ch 5/?~

(Beauty and the Beast AU, Kiiiinda. It has definite elements of the original story cause I’m a sap for Fairytale AUs. I hope you enjoy. Also shout out to @sophiakuso1 for being my beta. Here you can find Beginning or Previous) Geralt tries to figure out how to break the curse while battling with his feeling this time.

Note: Lew is pronounced Lef because it is polish just as a heads up.

Primary Tags: Beast! Geralt, Belle! Jaskier, Memory Alteration Via Curse, It really only affects Jaskier right now Also on AO3!

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Geralt sat in the destroyed room that night after dinner, staring at the cage. He was specifically trying to not think about the fact that not only was the bard trapped in the cursed castle with him, but the bard also somehow lost his memory, most likely due to said curse… and it was all Geralt’s fault. The guilt swirling around in his chest was sickening and unwelcome. He just kept dragging the bard down with him. Geralt ran circles through his mind trying to figure out what he should do about the whole damn thing. After a while, he decided that it would be better at that point if he were to just stay away from the man as best as he could. If he did, then Jaskier would slowly realize he was wasting his time on a monster like Geralt, just like on the mountain. Geralt just had to figure out how to get Jaskier past the thorn vines keeping them imprisoned, but the witcher had a sinking feeling that it would require the curse being broken.

Geralt sighed, finally looking away from the silvered metal vines trapping the cluster of buttercups and realized the moon was high in the sky, much further in its journey than when he had fetched the bard to eat. It felt like he was not only losing time, but it also couldn’t move any slower. Watching the clock or trying to solve a problem in his head to pass the time was like watching tree sap drip in winter, but if he got lost in his thoughts, it flew by without him realizing. The memory of the almost completely dead rose and the warning of petals falling had dread creeping up his spine. He had a limit on his time, whether it was choosing to go fast or slow, until who knows what would happen, and it was all very similar to waiting in a dungeon for his own execution. Except this time, he had a bard to drag to his death with him and he had no idea where to even start to try and stop it… Except the weird journal!

He wanted to smack himself for almost forgetting about its existence. He quickly collected the small book again and settled back onto the edge of the bed. He first flipped through, discovering that it was a journal of someone of the castle rather than magical notes or something of actual use, and oddly enough it only had the first few pages written in. Although it was just a journal, it reeked of magic, as did everything else in this place, which irked him a bit. Would nothing be easy?! A magical personal journal was most likely useful, but he didn’t know how yet until he actually read the damn thing. He sighed before settling further into the nest of fabric so he could at least be comfortable while slogging through the first entry that was most likely fraught with exaggerations he’d have to weed through. He did hope that more pages would fill as he read however, because perhaps there were magical inscriptions and spells on later pages… He could only hope.

[The Date is Unreadable]

The years grow long since I came to my lord’s court and was given the honor of my knighthood. We have fought many battles side by side and I have completed every task, be it political or mundane, which he has given me. Although this life leaves me fulfilled, I feel as though I am missing something. I crave the companionship of another outside that of my fellow knights, my lord, and the countries that seem ever present now. Although the ladies I have been introduced to as of late are fine of figure and mind, none fill the hollow feeling that has steadily grown in my chest.

I almost thought all hope was lost when while I was in the village today, I came upon the fairest maiden I had ever laid eyes upon. Her delicate features and poise rivaled that of any woman I have encountered across the lands on my travels. Her timid and delicate disposition only lends to her outward appearance, for as soon as I caught sight of her eyes, I could see the wild freedom that burned within. The fierce look called out to me and it lit my soul ablaze, but before I could make my way to her across the market, she was gone. Now I am haunted by the ethereal grace the lady has left instilled in my mind.

It is not my will to cage or steal away her free spirited nature. I only wish to partake in it with her so I may feel alive like I once did while seeing the world in a new light provided by her fire. I plan to go to my lord upon the sun’s arrival and I will beseech him to help me find her so that I may earn the permission from her family so I may be allowed to court her. I pray this evening for everything to work in favor of us all.

Geralt sighed heavily through his nose as his head fell back against the plush and he looked at the elaborate ceiling above. So far it was exactly what he feared it would be, the over-dramatized tellings of some Knight’s life that reads more like one of those sappy romantic tales Jaskier would constantly rave or sing about rather than an actual succinct telling of events. He couldn’t understand how any of this connected to the curse, but he begrudgingly decided to read on and see where he ended up.

[The Date is Also Unreadable on this Entry]

The leaves on the trees have turned to the colors of fire, and the world looks as though it has been set ablaze. I have only just returned from meeting with a neighboring lord, during which time I have gone nearly half a season without even a name of my lady love. Oh how she still torments my heart day and night with her absence. It is as though she has bewitched me, and I have no hold over my own self at present. My mind is filled almost entirely by her, and my only wish, if I am unable to win her affection, is to formally meet her.

My lord sent word that he would make enquiries on my behalf while I was away and now that I have returned, anticipation steals my breath. My fellow knights jest that I should have followed the path of a bard for how I constantly prattle on at them, waxing poetic of her spirit and sketching her form from memory, as we travel between our destinations. Although I know it is only light fun on their part, I find myself getting sentimental as I ever grow closer to the middle of my life. I wonder deep in the night whether I would have been more suited to another life but, it is quickly dismissed as nonsensical at this stage. My lord has also made mention, as we are good friends, he feels as though we are practically brothers with how much trust he allows me, and he will be glad to hire me as the official court bard if a change of profession ever truly struck my fancy. They all mock kindly but it warms me at my core to know there are those in my life who indulge my whims.

Still, Sir Gregor questions why I will not simply give my heart to one of the many ladies of the court who fancy me, and proclaims me mad in the head for not doing so. I have given up on trying to explain the incredible sensation she has left within me. He will never understand such yearning and passion that has filled me since I took the sight of her in for the first time. I feel pity for the man, but as I rest tonight, I hold hope in my heart for what my lord has to say come morning.

Geralt found reading this to be akin to dying slowly. Plodding through someone’s desperate yearning was the worst torture he has had to endure yet but at least there was something that hinted at magic in this passage. Geralt also observed that several pages were sketches of a beautiful woman with light hair, tawny skin, and dark eyes. He could not tell if the drawings were exaggerated by the knight’s besottment or if the woman could have possibly been fae or magic of some kind, glamoured just enough to hide the obvious parts while maintaining unnatural beauty. It could have explained why the curse magic was so strong and tricky. Magic was tricky in general, but fae magic was notoriously known for being a bitch, and he had been warned off from meddling in their affairs a long time ago for that exact reason… Now, here he was, knee deep in the shit. He’d have to figure it out one way or another. Deciding he’d be better off just reading the damn thing to completion rather than dithering on about what it could be, he turned his attention back to the book.

To his frustration, the rest of the pages remained blank. Unable to hold in his anger from hitting one road block after another, he threw the damned thing across the room with a growl and it landed with a satisfying rustle of paper before sliding somewhere out of sight. Unable to stand laying around anymore, he got up and began pacing through the quarters barely containing his aggravation. He wondered what to do now. That had been his last lead other than the meaningless riddle the beast had given him. He wanted to go out and train so he could take his frustrations out on something, but no, Jaskier was out there thinking he was just some random beast, and Geralt really didn’t want to add to the image his form presented currently. He wanted to break the curse, but he kept hitting wall after wall! He wanted… No. He needed someone to help him fix this entire mess, but there was no way for him to contact anyone other than the man who no longer remembered him. No wolves or powerful witches or plucky bards who glued themselves to Geralt’s side day and night were there to help him this time around.

“Fuck…” The defeated syllable slipped from his lips as he sank to the cold stone floor while holding his face in his hands, the fur feeling strange but increasingly familiar under his touch… Jaskier had called him a beast. Geralt had never thought the bard would ever-- He had been the only one who hadn’t ever called the witcher a monster or recoiled at the sight of him. On the contrary, he would often defend Geralt from villagers who called him vile names, and even went as far as to attack the truly aggressive offenders… But now the Witcher was a beast with no name. The bard’s voice uttering the word kept repeating over and over again in his head. Geralt only had himself to blame. If he hadn’t yelled, if Jaskier had still been by his side, then maybe the troubadour would have never lost his memories.

He had been so caught up in his own spiraling thoughts, Geralt almost didn’t notice the other voice suddenly filling the room. “Oi! Mopin’ about are we?” The warbled feminine voice cleaved through the once silent space but it came from seemingly nowhere as he scanned the area. Getting up, he searched as the squawking continued up until the point he came into view of a fractured mirror that had been hidden behind a moth eaten drape. As he looked in confusion at the mirror, due to the fact that the reflection was certainly not his own, the visage of the old hag from the town moaned in disappointment and shook her head at him from behind the reflective silver backed surface. “You fool Witcher! I-- I sent you to break the curse, not become cursed yourself, you nitwit!” She scolded with an exhausting scowl. If she were in her youth, he was sure she would remind him of Yen in some ways.

He couldn’t help growling in frustration as he met her steely scowl with his own. “How was I expected to break a curse you refused to give me proper information on?! And you seem to still have some magic, so why not do it yourself if you knew how to?!” He tried to keep himself from snarling at the hag, but she was infuriating and the worry, as well as the earlier frustrations, were just compiling together.

She took a moment to settle herself before sighing and gathering her thoughts, he assumed. In a calmer tone, she spoke again. “I cannot tell you about the curse in depth… Only pieces, and I cannot go there like yourself.” Her voice slowly became graver as she spoke and looked him directly in the eye. No lie then…

He grit his teeth before saying anything else, more civilly as Jaskier would have called it. “Why?”

“I just can’t… but I can help you as best as I can. This ain’t your curse, but you’re stuck with it--” It suddenly occurred to him that her accent was different from when they had met in her old shack which was… Odd.

“I know. I’m the making of my own curse. The beast said it before he died. Also, why do you sound different now?” He interrupted her as his annoyance rose again.

“Shut it, you daft tit! Don’t interrupt me when I’m trying to help!” She spat at him, shaking a frail fist at him from behind the glass while once again scowling at him. Then after a beat, she continued. “Came to these lands years ago from far off and regretted it. Folks don’t take kindly to those different, so I glamoured my voice.” She clarified with an eye roll. Yup. Definitely Yen if she were to ever age.

He chewed over the words as he felt some of the tension seep away. “Fair… So what can you tell me that will actually be useful?” He asked, sagging slightly, the memory of Jaskier looking at him in fear and no recognition was still a fresh would in his mind.

“Hmmmmm… Though the curse is harsh, it’s not cruel. Born of grief it was…” The hag looked as though she were fighting her own mouth before she sighed once again. “Although it imprisons, it’ll give you everythin’ you need to break the curse. Don’t be a fool. If anythin’ appears there, then it’s for a reason. Make use of it or dither till you die in a prison of your own design. Only you can figure why you’re cursed.” She spoke critically but at least it was something useful to which he nodded in thanks thinking that her image would fade then. “Witcher! If you’re in dire straits, knock thrice on the looking glass and think o’ where you wanna see, or to whom you wish to speak. Only I’ll be able to answer back, however.” She offered hastily and after he nodded again, she was gone in a blink of an eye. The mirror now only held his own beastly reflection.

He mulled over the words, realizing the night had grown long after that disaster of a dinner and it was now the witching hour; If he didn’t try to sleep now, then he would be tired and upset the next day, and he really didn’t need himself snapping at the bard again in misplaced irritation. So, he laid in the shredded nest of a bed and thought more on Jaskier. If he was brought here for a reason, then why steal his memories? And why would Geralt ever curse himself? Perhaps the magic was twisting a subconscious thought from the back of Geralt’s mind into something strange and problematic. But still, why the bard of all people? He drifted into an uneasy sleep thinking about all the new information.

When he woke, the world was bright outside the crystalline windows, and there was a fuzziness to the world that followed waking from a deep sleep. The room was better around him, healed of the scars of broken and shattered furniture. He supposed this had been what the hag had spoken of; the keep was providing things slowly. He moved through the morning muzzy headed, letting his body rely on muscle memory as he went through several tasks of morning preparation. His head was clearer by the time he visited Roach in the stables where she waited patiently to be tended to and given exercise. He saddled her and checked it twice over before seating himself in the saddle… which was odd, seeing as he was so much bigger now that he was cursed, but she made no indication that he was too heavy or bothersome. The fogginess was back and his concerns evaporated as he rode out into the fiery forest. The foliage in hues of red and orange rushed past as he went further and further, nearing the small hidden lake between the castle and the town. Its waters shone gold as though the water were a dragon’s hoard of coin and riches in the early hours, but the beauty of it could not compare to the figure standing at it’s banks.

Geralt barely remembered getting down from Roach or silently moving forward to observe the figure more closely, but then his mind cleared again and realization washed over him that the figure was in fact Jaskier. The bard was peacefully gazing out at the calm waters, but he wore odd clothing that Geralt swore he had never seen him in before. Instead of his usually short doublet, he wore a well fitted jacket of some sort that trailed all the way to the floor in the back and the front, but had slits up to the hips to show his well fitted trousers and tall boots. A part of it irked Geralt to no end, because it looked good, but strange and unlike the man at the same time. It was all reminiscent of a dress yet not. It was almost a coat he could imagine Yen wearing, but the garments were a soft blue trimmed in accents of red. It was a nostalgic reminder of Jaskier’s outfit from when they first met.

The situation was so bizarre that Geralt wanted to question what was happening but before he could think, his body took an unconscious step forward snapping a twig under his heel. Jaskier’s coat whirled around him as he spun and caught sight of him, but there was no fear in his eyes, only confusion and curiosity. “Apologies my lady, I did not mean to frighten you. I was merely curious when I spotted a figure as I rode passed. Are you all right?” What the fuck was that? Geralt understood that it was his voice that spoke but the words were not his own. Icy understanding filled his gut and he knew now that this obviously had something to do with magic.

“Very kind of you sir. I was just wanting to enjoy the still beauty of the morning and happened upon this lake.” Jaskier smiled brilliantly at him, his voice sounding exactly how Geralt remembered but there was an edge to it that sounded off. Unnatural. This was definitely not Jaskier.

“I… I’ve seen you in the town but I’ve never had the pleasure to meet your acquaintance in person. I hoped to speak with you, if not just hear your name. I am Lew.” Geralt introduced himself with a foreign name. That was definitely not his name, and he hated how it felt coming out of his mouth, but he seemed to have no control over himself. With dawning horror, Geralt now understood that this was someone else's memories that he was now occupying. It could have been Jaskiers, or someone else from the castle, or even the writer of the journal. Geralt couldn’t be sure yet, and the bard couldn’t be ruled out immediately since the witcher realized he knew practically nothing of Jaskier’s past… It just kept getting messier and messier as he was dragged further into the spell. Whoever wove the threads of this magic somehow got it completely tangled into a ball of shit.

“Ania. I have only come to live here a year or so ago, which is why we most likely have yet to meet formally.” Jaskier spoke in an amused tone, but Geralt was pretty damn sure that was not his bard’s real name. It was Jaskier. Maybe it wasn’t the bard’s memories after all. Geralt was going to have a difficult time remembering this was not actually the bard himself then but only the spell filling in a face with someone he knew. It was already getting so confusing in his mind, so Geralt decided to just keep using the name attached to the face he knew instead of using the ones he’d heard. Deciding it wouldn’t do much good to fight the memory, he settled in and let everything happen around him. The troubadour looked so much softer now than when they were ever on the road though. It made something in his chest flutter, but he was unsure if it was actually him or the owner of the memory feeling it.

The witcher found himself wanting to say more, ask more about Jaskier, but the words had left him and his mouth refused to work. It felt like it was his only chance and it was fleeting right before his eyes. The strange visage of the bard suddenly looked off into the distance behind himself before returning a sheepish look to Geralt. “I… I have to go.” His voice was hesitant as Geralt slowly reached a hand out to the man, as if not wanting the bard to leave, but still unable to find the words. Jaskier smiled gently, before biting his lower lip as though he were trying to decide something. The witcher didn’t understand why he was paying such close attention to everything Jaskier did but he was. “I hope our paths cross again, Lew.” And with that, the man fled into the forest with his jacket fluttering behind him. Geralt would have followed, curious as to if this person was human or not and get answers, but it would appear that the original “Lew” had been frozen with indecision in that moment. His heart raced, which felt strange to Geralt, but then things melted away and the Witcher was once again opening his eyes to the sunlight streaming through the windows. This time however, the room was still destroyed and the light was the cold shine of a winter morning. Geralt found himself staring up at the ceiling in complete bafflement, unable to really understand what the curse could have possibly thought he’d glean from that experience. He sat up in a huff and couldn’t help the puff of agitated words that slipped out of his throat. “What the fuck…” Then he was out of the chambers and headed for the stables to tend to Roach. If anything calmed him down and helped him to organize his thoughts, it was quality time with the mare.

#geraskier #Witcher #the witcher #witcher netflix #fanfic #geralt x jaskier #gerlion #Beauty and the Beast AU #beast!geralt #Buttercup's Writings

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tibo30 · 7 years

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What if Fringilla shows up again in Geralt’s life ? It’s short , probably not that good but it something been in my mind for a long time. ————————————————————————————————

“Yen..stop this and open the door this is not funny !” “Who said it’s supposed to be funny!” He was banging the door of his house , his OWN house . “I’m getting ready for bed Geralt, so please stop and find another place to spend the night..and probably the next few nights and think about what have you done” “It was a fling yen, I forgot about her the moment I walked out the door of her bedroom” “Enough ! Now go , I don’t have the desire to hear one more word from you!” He gave up eventually, she won’t open the door and if they continue this argument the whole estate would wake up . He was wearing only his white shirt and leather pants , and with no coins in hands .. a tavern wasn’t a choice at all. He eventually decided to go to Marlene, the sweet old woman , probably the oldest in the state apart from him and Yen. He knocked on her door lightly, few moments later and she opened the door and gave him her characteristic knowing smile. “The lady in a bad mood tonight?” “Not exactly” he touched the back of his neck “we had a fight” “Hmm , come in master witcher” and so he did , he then lied on the couch, where he always spend those nights when Yen took the whole house for herself. Marlene gave him a blanket and a pillow and before she left to her own bed she asked “wish to talk about it?” “Later perhaps?” He said as he covered his eyes with his hand. “As you wish, have a good night” “You too ”

Fringilla’s unexpected visit started the fire. After she aided everyone on their battle against the wild hunt , Emhyr thought that she earned his amnesty, she stayed away from the spotlight after that .. till She appeared in the duchess feast and showed up in Geralt’s face , hugging him and saying how much she missed THIS . Yen as expected from someone with her pride and grace , kept her composure but Geralt knew that later on , this night won’t end happily at all . And he was right , she teleported to the estate without him and shut the door of the house behind her. When he dismounted Roach and got her into the stable, he went to the door and tried to reason with her, but she was furious , Geralt knew he wounded her pride . Geralt knew fortuitously from Rita about the history between Yen and Fringilla, in sodden hill. What happened between them made it even worse.

He was tired, he needed a good sleep but he couldn’t, it wasn’t for Marlene’s unbearably small couch but the guilt was eating him . And then it popped up in his mind, Marlene must own a spare key , they always wake up to find their breakfast ready. so he searched for it and he found it in the most obvious place to hide a key .. under the doormat. He slept for what left of the night hours and forced himself to wake up early . He told Marlene she can sleep till noon if she likes and then he left . He entered the house as quiet as he could, wasn’t a hard task for a witcher after all . He entered the kitchen and made one of Yen’s favorites for breakfast..pancakes with freshly made berries sauce.

He opened the door of their bedroom gently and poked his head slightly into the door “aa .. I made .. you see .. I-I thought you would like you know .. som-” “Spare me the awkwardness and get in already ” She said , as she propped her head on her arm , she was still in bed , messy hair and deep voice. He gulped slightly and did as she said . He sat on his side of bed and put the tray in front of her and turned and gave her his back , he was literally afraid of her reaction, but deep down he knew he couldn’t blame her , it was his fault, his and his alone. He heard her shifting and then he heard the clatter of the fork and her chewing and swallowing. “Why don’t you eat?” “I’m good” “You just woke up” “It’s-” “Here take this ” He turned to her holding the fork out to his direction, he opened his mouth and took the bite. They shared the rest of the meal in silence, a silence he didn’t like..it was uncomfortable. When the plate was empty they were both staring at it , Yen’s unreadable and Geralt was taking a weary glances of her.

Yen suddenly spoke while staring at the plate “how was she ?” “I’m sorry Ye-” “This not what I asked ” She looked at him this time with violet storm in her eyes “what ? No smart retorts? What is it with Fringilla? Lost your memory? You were under a spell?what is it ?!” “I’m sorry” “Stop cowering and talk to me!” She screamed . He was still staring at the empty plate with sullen expression. “I have no excuses , I’m just sorry” She was breathing heavily with anger , and then she relaxed a little . “It’s better when you admit your baseness rather then giving dull excuses ” She lied on her back and stared at the ceiling , her eyes heavy with exhaustion, she didn’t sleep well last night . He realized he was defeated by now, he grabbed the tray and went to the door. He left the tray in the kitchen and was about to open the house door, Regis’s hideout? Or maybe a tavern.. or camping in the wilds .. he was planning where to spend maybe the next two months. “Witcher!” He heard her calling for him. When he entered the room she was laying on her side , facing the other side , naked. “Close the door, undress and come to bed , you didn’t sleep well either” He though he heard the angels singing, he did as she said as fast as he could , one can’t trust her mood. He lied on his back next to her, few moments later and she turned back to him and rested her head on his chest , her hand caressing the scars on his shoulder. She nuzzled his neck and sighed deeply. “Thanks for the fancy breakfast witcher..” She whispered..she was getting sleepy . “Hmm, anything the lady wishes for ” She chuckled, and his heart flutter.. “I don’t want to ruin the peaceful moment but you better keep her away from me , from our home and certainly from you..” “Hmm” “And you awe me a long night on the unicorn ” “Hmm” “I make the rules for that night” “Hmm” … “She was-” “Shhhh sleep witcher..” and he did .

#the witcher #the witcher 3 #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #geralt x yennefer #fringilla vigo #fanfic

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king-finnigan · 4 years

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Ok so you know those fics where Geralts hair is damaged by a monster and Jaskier fixes it? Modern au, but Geralt still hunts monsters and lives with his platonic friend (crush) jask. One night he comes home and his hair is wrecked so jask helps him cut it but he realizes too late that the clipper doesn’t have a guard. This would 11/10 help me cope with how my sister did the same thing to me :( lol

I now have an incredibly drastic short side cut and a guilty sister. Luckily we aren’t going out so it will grow lol. I just feel like that’s something (messing up clippers) Jaskier would do.

A/n: oh noooo, I’m so sorry to hear that! I hope your hair grows back quickly! Hope this little fic helps lmao. (Also I added a bit onto the story because I have one (1) hobby and I can and will use it in my writing)

Jaskier looks up from his book when he hears the roaring of Roach’s engine outside the living room window. He can’t help the wild grin that spreads across his face, though he takes a moment to gather himself as he walks to the front door – he doesn’t really wanna show Geralt how glad he is to see him after spending the last few days on his own. After all, Geralt’s just a housemate, nothing more. Definitely not Jaskier’s crush. No, sir.

His composure falls when he swings the door open and finds his Witcher in the driveway, his hair a veritable fucking mess. He bursts out into laughter, which earns him a glare from Geralt, who pushes past him, into the house. “Don’t mention it,” he grumbles.

Jaskier closes the front door behind him, leaning against it as he watches Geralt dump his laundry by the washing machine under the stairs, his face as still as ever, the tightening of his jaw the only sign that he’s in a really bad mood. Of course, Jaskier’s never let that stop him.

“So what happened, Witcher? Run into a lawnmower?” Geralt glares at him again, and Jaskier grins. It does really look like a mess – a large chunk of hair missing from the back of his head, some loose strands hanging at random lengths around it.

He sighs, folds his arms in front of his chest. “Alright, I’ve got an idea. There’s no way that’s gonna look good for the next…” he waves his hand a bit “year or so? At least until it grows back to full length, which is gonna take a while. So, what if… I give you a new haircut?”

Geralt looks at him, narrows his amber eyes. “No.”

Jaskier scoffs, leaning his head against the door, looking up at the ceiling. He notices a spider web in the corner and makes a mental note to vacuum it up later. “Come on, Geralt. We both know your hair’s gonna look like shit if we don’t do something about it. And you know,” he shrugs, “maybe it’s time for a new look. You’ve had the same haircut for… what? Sixty years? Don’t you think it’s time for something new?”

Geralt sighs, his shoulders slumping a bit in defeat. “Fine, I’ll go to a hairdresser tomorrow.”

Jaskier scoffs, pushing himself away from the door to start loading in the washing machine. “No, you won’t. You told me you don’t want a stranger with scissors getting anywhere near you, like, a year ago. Oh, don’t give me that look, I actually listen to what my housemate says, unlike some people.”

He straightens again, slams the washing machine door shut. “Look, Witcher, I’ve got perfectly good scissors and clippers in the bathroom. I’m perfectly adept at cutting my own hair and maintaining it, so doing yours would be easy as fuck. Your options are trusting me, trusting a stranger, or looking ridiculous.” He shrugs, picking his book from the living room table, walking up the stairs as Geralt continues staring at him. “Your choice.”

---

A knock on his door startles him out of his concentration. “Yeah?” The door opens a crack, and he sees Geralt’s amber eyes peering at him. “What is it? Changed your mind?”

“Hmm.” The door closes again, and Jaskier can’t help the slow smile that spreads across his face as he closes his laptop and gets up. He finds the Witcher in the bathroom, his hair clean and slightly damp from, presumably, a shower – though still very much a mess.

“Alright, so…” He waves his hand vaguely. “Any ideas? What do you want to do with it?”

Geralt’s frown deepens, and he looks at himself in the mirror. “I don’t know.”

Jaskier sighs, purses his lips. “Alright, let me see.” He moves to stand behind Geralt, carding a hand through the soft locks, assessing the damage. “Yeah, definitely gonna have to go for an undercut, here. Or a crewcut, if that’s what you want?”

“No.”

“Okay, undercut it is.” He takes a step to the side so he can see Geralt’s face in the mirror. “Do you want the top to be, like, the same length as my hair, or like, as long as it is now?”

Geralt seems to hesitate, eyes flickering between himself and Jaskier, probably trying to imagine how he would look with hair the same length as Jaskier’s. Finally, he seems to decide, and nods once. “Long.”

Jaskier grins, pushing past Geralt to rummage in the cupboard under the sink. “Alright, please do take my desk chair from my room, master Witcher, and I’ll be with you shortly.”

He doesn’t miss Geralt’s eyeroll, though the Witcher does as he’s told, walking out of the bathroom, returning with Jaskier’s chair. Usually, he does his own hair standing up, but Geralt is an inch or two taller than him, which would make it hard to do his hair – it’s easier if Geralt sits down. Which is what the Witcher does, before Jaskier even has to ask. He grins again, and moves to stand behind Geralt, hairtie in hand. He gathers the hair at the top of Geralt’s head, tying it up in a messy bun, so he doesn’t accidentally cut it off, before he takes the heavy scissors.

“Alright, we’re gonna have to cut off the longer parts first, before I shave it.”

He sighs, taking a lock at the back of Geralt’s head, before looking up, meeting amber eyes in the mirror. “You ready?” Geralt nods, once. Snip. The lock falls to the ground, Jaskier’s eyes following it all the way down. He sighs again. “Alright, let’s continue.”

---

Before long, the back and sides of Geralt’s head are significantly shorter, and Jaskier lays down the scissors, flexing his stiff fingers a bit, before taking the clippers.

“Hmm. Maybe start with 9 and work our way down? That way we can always cut it shorter if it’s too long.”

Geralt sighs softly, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Just get it over with.”

Jaskier grins. “Don’t like clippers?”

“Too loud.”

He nods, even though he personally enjoys the buzzing of the clippers, enjoys the feeling of them scraping against his head, but hey, to each their own, he supposes. He turns them on, setting them against the back of Geralt’s head. He heaves a soft sigh, before moving the clippers up, and-

Oh, fuck.

He forgot to put the guard back on the clippers. Meaning that those 9 millimeters he planned on leaving on Geralt’s head have turned to… well, 0. He can’t hide the horror on his own face as he looks from the clippers to the bald patch he managed to create on Geralt’s head.

“What did you do?”

He looks up at Geralt’s reflection, at the amber eyes studying his face intently, a storm brewing beneath the surface.

“Jaskier, what did you do?” the Witcher repeats, and Jaskier swallows thickly.

“I, uh… Forgot the guard. And now…” He points at the back of Geralt’s head sheepishly. “No hair.”

Geralt’s jaw tightens, and a muscle starts pulling at the corner of his lips. Usually, when he looks like that, he goes outside for a few hours and comes back home with bloody knuckles and bits of bark clinging to his skin. Except today, it seems, as Geralt deflates in the chair, tension leaving his shoulders. “Fine.”

Jaskier blinks, frowns. “What?”

“I said ‘fine’. Just do the rest like that. It’ll grow back.”

Jaskier bites his trembling lip, guilt flooding him as he sets the clippers against Geralt’s head again.

---

“It’s a bowl cut.”

Jaskier frowns. “No! It’s… a very short undercut.”

“It’s a long bowl cut, Jaskier.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek, fidgeting with his fingers, as he looks at Geralt, who’s staring at his own reflection. “Okay, maybe it is, but… It’ll grow back? Eventually?” He swallows, looks away. “Geralt, I’m- I’m so sorry, I-“

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not, Geralt, I fucked up and I’m so s-“

“Jaskier. I said it’s fine.” The Witcher sighs, walking to the bathroom door. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Jaskier.” He closes the door a little bit harder than he usually does, and Jaskier flinches.

He sighs, spending the next half hour cleaning the hair from the bathroom floor and brushing it out of the clippers, guilt mulling in his head. When he’s done, he rolls the desk chair back to his own room, sitting down on it heavily. He fucked up, he really did. And there’s no way to fix it, either – Geralt will have to walk around for the next few weeks with, well… basically a bowl cut. A long bowl cut, but a bowl cut nonetheless.

He sighs, leaning his chin on his hand, trying to find some way to fix it, when his eye lands on a crochet hook in his penholder. It’s been a few years since he’s done crochet, but it can’t be that hard, right? He suddenly remembers the box of wool under his bed, and a plan forms in his head.

---

Turns out relearning crochet is hard, and he spends the entire night hunched over his work, pausing and unpausing the tutorial over and over again, clumsy fingers working even clumsier stitches. But by the time the sun rises, he’s done it. He’s managed to make a beanie for Geralt. Of course, he’s not sure if it’s gonna fit – he had to use his own head for measurements and added a few stitches to make it a bit bigger – and the colour is… questionable, but it’s there, in all its uneven and bright yellow glory.

He looks up when he hears Geralt’s door open, and sprints into the hall, nearly bumping into the Witcher’s broad chest. Geralt frowns, looks down at Jaskier’s disheveled clothes, still from the previous day, at the circles under his eyes, and scoffs. “What did you do?”

Jaskier frowns, takes a step back, because being this close to Geralt is making his heart do weird things, and hides his work behind his back. “Why do you always think I’m up to something, Geralt?”

“Because you always are.”

Jaskier nods. “Fair enough.” He sighs, chewing on his lower lip. “Look, I’m sorry for what happened yesterday, I really am. So, I uh… made this. For you.” He holds out the beanie, depositing it in Geralt’s hands, who frowns at the misshapen lump of wool.

“What is it?”

“It’s a beanie.”

“It’s yellow.”

“That’s the only wool I had left.”

“You could’ve just bought one, you know that, right?”

He sighs, rolling his eyes. In all honesty, he did forget about just buying one, but Geralt needs to learn how to appreciate a nice gesture, really. He stretches out his hand, reaching for the beanie. “Look, if you don’t want it, you can give it back.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline when Geralt snatches his hands away from Jaskier’s, clutching the lump of wool against his chest. “No.”

“No, what? No, you don’t want it, or no, you’re not giving it back?”

It’s quiet for a while, amber eyes looking at his face intently. Finally: “Thank you.”

That surprises him even more. “For what? Fucking up your hair or making a shitty beanie?”

Geralt grins, a sight that leaves Jaskier slightly breathless. “For trying.”

Jaskier feels a blush creeping up his cheeks, and smiles. “Well, thank you for putting up with me trying.” Before he can think twice about it, he takes a step forward, planting a soft kiss on Geralt’s cheek. The Witcher merely looks at him wide-eyed, and regret curls in Jaskier’s stomach. He’s about to take a step back to flee back into his bedroom, when Geralt’s hand closes around his wrist, stopping him.

He can only stand there, heart in his throat, as Geralt leans forward, softly kissing him. It’s just a feather-light touch, but it’s enough to leave Jaskier breathless and desperate for more – so when Geralt moves back, Jaskier closes his hand around the back of the Witcher’s neck, pulling him closer again, deepening the kiss this time.

He does have to come up for air, eventually – and regrettably – but the sight of Geralt grinning at him makes up for the lack of kissing. He smiles softly. “You know, Witcher… that bowl cut is actually really growing on me, you sure you don’t wanna keep it that way?”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

#Anonymous #squish answers #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #drabble #the witcher

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