#so that he could politely turn them down and yes yennefer was right there every single time he did it
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teatitty · 8 months ago
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I fully believe that the reason Dandelion has several fiance's is because of his abysmal understanding of proper social cues. He has absolutely no idea when someone is courting him and by the time he's clicked into it he's stuck in a "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck" situation because how do you politely tell someone that ribbons have been crossed and you had no idea you were being courted and you also kiiiiiind of have no desire for marriage? Especially when those courting rituals are area and culture specific?
Hint: you don't. That's how you end up with several fiance's all thoroughly pissed and/or grievously upset and now have to quickly bolt from the whole situation so you don't get forced into the marriage anyway or get beaten to death in the streets
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pillage-and-lute · 4 years ago
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Prompt: fake realtionahip/marriage, whoever you like!
Ooohoho! This has been chilling as a draft for ages, now I have completed it. *mildly evil laughter*
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The funny thing about Geralt, Jaskier thought as he did up the buttons on his best doublet, was that he really didn’t lie. He said things that weren’t true, but they were usually things he believed, or thought he believed because he was tired or grumpy. Sometimes he told half truths. He didn’t lie though.
It wasn’t even as if he didn’t have a poker face, Geralt’s face was all poker face, he just hated lying. Normally it wasn’t an issue, but tonight, Jaskier reflected, it wouldn’t be ideal.
Jaskier had heard through some whispered words at a pub that a bunch of Nilfgaardian nobles were having a gala, and the temptation of finding out what political secrets they could was two strong for their odd little family. So Geralt and Jaskier were going undercover.
There had been quite a bit of debate about that. Jaskier was obviously going. He’d grown his hair longer and had a bit of scruff going, and to be frank, all a bard really needed to disguise themselves was a new name, people saw the clothing and heard the music, but rarely remembered the face. Yennefer would have been the ideal partner in crime except for a crucial thing.
When Yennefer had been changed by magic, her eyes had been left the same. Somehow, the transformation had solidified them, and no spell would change them. Her eyes were too distinctive, and so she would stay behind with Ciri. That left Geralt, and since the ball was only for the nobility, he would be the fiance of Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.
Damn.
See, Geralt didn’t lie, and that was bad enough. Jaskier wouldn’t be able to rely on Yennefer’s in-depth knowledge of the nobility and that was worse. Worst of all though, was the fact that Jaskier would have to spend a night full of wine and dancing pretending to be in love with, and engaged to, Geralt. Who he loved.
And who had, not three months ago, blamed Jaskier for every bad thing in life.
Since then Geralt had caught up with him half-way down the mountain and there had been some grumbled words about how Jaskier ‘wasn’t actually, exactly, a total curse’. Not a glowing review, but then Cintra had fallen, and they had Cirilla and they’d found a wounded Yennefer and it had all gotten so very busy.
Jaskier cast a last look in the mirror as the door to his room creaked open. He turned, expecting Geralt, but it was Yennefer.
“I suppose,” she said, eyeing him. “That this is as good as you get.” It could have been said cruelly. A year ago it would have been. Now, though, the words were fond. 
“I like the kohl, it goes well with the wrinkles at your eyes,” she winked. He smiled. There were no more wrinkles now than had been twenty years ago, and they both knew it.
“I wasn’t sure about the eyeliner,” Jaskier said, trying to sound haughty. “Overdramatic eye looks are your thing.”
Yennefer chuckled and sat on the end of the bed. “A tiny smudge of eyeliner is hardly overdramatic.” She studied him approvingly, then looked at him. Her expression was frighteningly soft.
“Have you told him that you love him?”
“Never,” Jaskier said, fiving his cravat in the mirror.
“Why ever not?”
“It would only be the mountain all over again,” Jaskier sighed. “I tried, you know. I spent years trying, and then on the mountain, I thought I was being clear...”
“What did you say?”
“I asked him to leave it all, just for a little while, with me. I thought we could go to the coast.”
“The coast,” Yennefer said from her spot on the bed. “As in Lettenhove? You wanted to show him where you grew up?”
“Partially. I could explain the immortality business easier if he met my sister, but mostly I just thought it would be peaceful.”
Yennefer snorted. “With Geralt? Peaceful? He’d spend the whole time fighting drowners and telling you not to write about mermaids because they’re vicious.”
Jaskier smiled wanly. “That’s pretty peaceful for him.”
“But he said no?”
“He didn’t say anything,” Jaskier said. “Then he, well, you know, he spent the night in your tent.”
“Ah,” Yennefer said. “For what it’s worth, I hate that it happened too.”
“He doesn’t though!” Jaskier cried, whirling around to face her. “He wants it to happen again! And you! You don’t want him but he wants you while I want him!” The frustration of the whole situation and nerves for what was to come were overwhelming. “And you’re here, trying to help me,” he said more quietly. “Why?”
“Because I like you,” Yennefer said, simply, standing from the bed. “And I like him. I also never, ever want to kiss him again. The djinn is sitting, somewhere in my chest, telling me I love him, but the feeling is...sick. It feels like love, as well as I can remember, but it’s poisoned and twisted and I want no part in it.”
Her purple eyes pinned Jaskier to the floor.
“And that poison pales in comparison to how much you love him. He deserves that.”
She swept out the door, tossing a “Sort it out,” over her shoulder.
Well.
The next knock at the door was Geralt, Ciri in tow. Jaskier hoped the witcher hadn’t heard any part of his and Yennefer’s conversation, but he suspected that no one overheard conversations that Yen didn’t want them too. 
“Dandelion!” Ciri said, leaping at him and using the name she’d first met him under. “You look nice! Like a prince in one of your stories!”
Jaskier blushed and thanked her quietly as he scooped her up and tossed her, laughing, onto the bed. 
He looked at Geralt for his opinion.
Oh he looked so good too. Yennefer had charmed him so that anyone else would see a different man in Geralt’s place, but to Jaskier he looked just the same. But he was wearing white. 
A white chemise, the collar and cuffs with fine red embroidery, with a cream colored cape, half length so it fell just to Geralt’s hips. It was embroidered too, green and pink and so many other colors, despite being overall still mostly cream. The pants were the same creamy fabric with a stripe down each side. Dark boots and a wide, decorative, dark belt completed the look.
“Wow,” Jaskier said.
“Rivian traditional clothing,” Geralt muttered. 
“I thought you’d hardly actually been to Rivia,” Jaskier said,.It was a better choice than the other thoughts in his head, which were half-formed screams about how absolutely skin tight those pants were.
“I haven’t been, but my...character is.”
“Right,” Jaskier said, dragging his eyes above Geralt’s shoulders. “My fiance, Ludomir of Rivia.”
Geralt said nothing.
Jaskier kicked himself for mentioning the fiance thing.
“We should go,” he said.
And they went.
The lord’s castle was small, as castles go, and the guards at the gate didn’t even bother to check their invitations. With all the other lords and ladies streaming past, no one would guess that the pair were out of place. Jaskier and Geralt enterred the ballroom and Jaskier felt his stomach drop straight through to his shoes.
The walls were positively lined with Nilfgaardian soldiers. Geralt’s shoulders stiffened too, but they steered themselves to a feast table as if nothing was wrong.
It took them almost a full circle of the tables to find the two little cards for ‘Viscount de Lettenhove’ and ‘Guest’. Getting onto the guest list had been laughably easy, and Jaskier just sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the stupid title was finally useful for something.
They sat in their places and guests populated the seats around them. There was a lady next to Jaskier who already smelled of the strongly alcoholic sherry that was being served. Her hair, probably a wig towered, and was strung all over with so many pearls and little tiny golden ornaments that when she stepped outside she must surely be attacked by magpies.
“My lady,” Jaskier said, as chivalrous as he could around a mouthful of her rose perfume. “I’m afraid we haven’t had a chance to be introduced.”
“Oooh,” she giggled, “You’re sweet, I’m Dame Au’Vigne, and I can see by your card that you are the Viscount de Lettenhove, I knew your father.”
Yes, Jaskier thought. I remember, he turned down your proposal. Jaskier had been a lad then, barely eight years old, but he remembered through a child’s eyes a mountain of lace and perfume who had offered to marry his father while actually at his mother’s funeral.
“It’s a pleasure,” he said. Heinous bitch, he thought. He remembered rumors too, which are always a bard’s stock and trade, that Dame Au’Vigne’s husbands were always wealthy, usually handsome, and all of them had shockingly short lifespans. 
Rumor also had it that she was backing Nilfgaard financially and had been playing the shipping stock with insider knowledge of their movements. A very good person to be seated next to tonight. 
“May I introduce my fiance, Ludomir of Rivia,” Jaskier said, gesturing to Geralt. Geralt nodded and hummed, somewhat politely.
“How handsome,” Dame Au’Vigne stage whispered. “Where ever did you find him?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Jaskier said.
The lord of the castle stood up and gave a droning speech. It was full of euphemisms about ‘upholding standards’ and ‘fostering strong relations’ that boiled down to ‘I’m an untrustworthy bastard who believes that allowing the deaths of my people en masse is fine so long as I make money.’ It was depressing, too, as Jaskier looked around the ballroom to see so many people nodding in agreement. 
Traitors and bastards, the lot of them.
Geralt’s face hadn’t changed even an inch.
“So,” Dame Au’Vigne said as the appetizer course was served. “You two aren’t exactly in a honeymoon phase, are you?”
And she was right, for a couple, newly engaged, Jaskier and Geralt hadn’t acted the part yet at all.
“I’m afraid,” Jaskier said, inventing wildly. “That we’re both just a touch nervous, the engagement is so new, you see, and this is our first event,” he took Geralt’s hand, above the table, so Dame Au’Vigne could see. “As a couple.”
“Oh how sweet,” she said airily. “You know, they’ll have dancing between the courses, it’ll be a great way for you to wet your social feet. Sir Erdin and the lady in the lavender dress,” she pointed across the ballroom. “They’re newly engaged as well.” She lowered her voice.
“Sir Erdin is very supportive of the cause, word has it he’s in with the very inner circle,” Dame Au’Vigne giggled, as if being in the inner circle of a murderous group of intruders was as delightful as a recent engagement.
“How interesting!” Jaskier said, affecting a jealous and impressed tone. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Geralt’s eyebrow twitch, the way it did when he was listening hard.
“Oh yes,” Dame Au’Vigne said. “And Lord Snapcase, in the corner, he...” and she went on, was the marvelous thing, she couldn’t seem to help herself but gossip about everyone. And she had all these details about how they were helping ‘the cause’. Destiny must have finally decided to throw Jaskier and Geralt a bone.
Then the appetizer course was finished and Jaskier felt much less lucky. Dame Au’Vigne was ushering him and Geralt out of their seats to dance. It wasn’t one of the quick, hopping around, switching partners dances either. No, the band seemed insistent on only slow, romantic music. 
Awkwardly, Geralt slid one large hand around Jaskier’s waist and they turned in slow circles on the dance floor. The witcher’s face looked like a thunderclap.
“Try and look like you’re having fun, darling,” Jaskier said. Please don’t look at me as though holding me is torture, his inner self begged.
“Hmmm,” Geralt said. Jaskier leaned in.
“Really dear heart,” he leaned in even closer, lips almost touching Geralt’s ear. “People are going to suspect something,” he said in the barest of whispers.
“Let them,” Geralt hissed back in the same fashion. “We’ve got the information, we can leave.” 
Jaskier, keeping up appearances, tossed his head back and let out a delighted shriek of laughter, as if Geralt had just told him a joke or, perhaps, made a wonderfully indecent proposal.
“Later, perhaps,” he said, stage-whispering for the sake of those around them. Leaning in again he whispered for real, “We can’t leave until the party’s over, no one else will, they’d send some of those soldiers after us for sure.”
The music changed, and Geralt and Jaskier’s slow circles changed speed with it. 
Geralt hissed in his ear again, “I don’t see why I had to be your,” this close Jaskier could see Geralt’s jaw working with distaste. “Lover.”
“Fiance,” Jaskier said, trying not to let his heart sink. It couldn’t possibly go any lower. “There’s a difference.”
They said no more to each other, and after the second dance, declined the third to sit back at their seats and await the arrival of the soup course.
The man sat beside Geralt was some old military man, mostly mustache and the rest of him was a rather musty and very old fashioned uniform. It had gold braid and a colonel’s insignia. The hat that sat next to his chair had a plume. 
He leaned over to Geralt and said, rather loudly, in a voice that implied tone deafness, to both volume and social situations, “Just marrying him for the money, eh?”
People to both sides of Jaskier and Geralt looked around. Dame Au’Vigne looked at them askance.
“Hmmm,” Geralt said. It was a negative answer to the colonel’s question, but the man didn’t take it as such.
“Often is the way,” the man nearly bellowed. “My missus hated me right up to the day she died.”
Jaskier curled in on himself. The role of Viscount wasn’t a big one, mostly administrative and, these days, completed by his sister Rowena, who was better at sitting behind a desk. Still, argued a battered part of his long ago but still proper upbringing. The name of Pankratz was being dragged through the mud. Lots of these people would know the name too, these sour, vindictive, unpleasant, murderous people. And they’d know the gossip, would have taken part in the gossip about ‘Young Julian running off to be a bard,’ (this generally said with the same tone as is usually leant to slave trader) and how ‘he’ll never find a good marriage now,’ how he was ‘a disgrace to the name.’ 
And here was their long awaited confirmation. Jaskier-Julian, couldn’t find a good marriage, was being wed only for his money. Of course, more than half the pairings here were only in it for the money, but to have it said, so loudly too, and before the wedding had even happened, it was social condemnation.
Jaskier looked down at the table cloth, his face hot. He’d faced social condemnation before, of course, he’d survive. What hurt was that Geralt wasn’t really protesting, Geralt couldn’t even pretend to like Jaskier, not for a single evening. Twenty years he’d done a good enough job of acting to convince even Jaskier, mostly, apart from the punches and the insults and...maybe Jaskier had been a little blind to the truth but still. 
It was ruining their cover though, so he protested quietly. “Not just for the money,” he said, patting Geralt’s hand where one fist wrapped around his goblet. “My fiance is just shy, that’s all.”
The damage was already done, but the old colonel hiccupped. “Well lad,” he said, giving Geralt a slap on the back. “This ale’s pretty good so drink up. Got me through three years of happy marriage, strong ale did.” The man took a slug of his own drink. “And fourty seven more unhappy years.” He guffawed hugely and unpleasantly, little drops of ale flinging from his mustache. 
Wherever the soul of the unpleasant man’s dead wife was, Jaskier felt sure she was happy to be away from this miserable old drunk.
Geralt, however, was looking at Jaskier. Their eyes met. Jaskier knew he probably looked as hunted as he felt, and his cheeks were probably still burning from the embarassment. Still, it seemed as though Geralt was about to say something. His golden eyes were full of emotion, but Jaskier couldn’t parse out what kind. 
Whatever kind it was, it caused Geralt to take the colonel’s advice and drink like there was no tomorrow. 
Great. Jaskier had driven his companion to drinking. 
He felt a little like doing so himself. 
The soup course was good, hot and savory, but underspiced. Geralt slurped it up gratefully. Jaskier knew that rich food was usually too much for his senses if it was spiced to Jaskier’s taste.
More dancing. Jaskier didn’t stand, at first, assuming that Geralt would rather sit and drink more. There were some snickers as people judged him. Geralt stood though, and he offered a hand and led Jaskier to the dance floor.
“You need to act drunk,” Jaskier whispered in his ear. “If you were a normal man you would be.”
“I am acting,” Geralt rumbled.
“You’re very steady for a drunk,” Jaskier sniffed.
“You said I was shy, now I’m less shy,” Geralt whispered. “And I’ve been drinking. So...drunk.” It was torture, being held like this, having that voice in Jaskier’s ear. That hand, so warm cupping his own. He wanted to cry.
A couple whirled past them. It was the Dame Au’Vigne, gossiping to some new dance partner. A snippet of her words caught them.
“-de Lettenhove. Entirely loveless of course. Unlovable, his father said once, of course as a bard-” then the tide of conversation and other dancers stole the rest of the words.
Jaskier sagged. His father hadn’t been a nice man, and unlovable wasn’t the worst of what he’d been called in his life, but now, with Geralt so close and so disgusted by the prospect...well, it hit a little close to home. 
“Laugh,” Geralt whispered in his ear.
“What?” Jaskier hissed.
“Like before, laugh like before, but...more so. Pretend I said a dirty joke.”
Jaskier did, heads turned as he pretended to laugh, half scandalized and half delighted at something Geralt said.
Geralt even chuckled along with him. Then his hand crept down Jaskier’s back to his hip. It wasn’t dirty. It was just so,so spine tinglingly close to dirty.
It was almost worse. If Geralt had gripped his ass that would have been bad, but this, Jaskier was left to speculate. He had a very active imagination. The couples next to them were giggling and tittering, scandalized, but not too much, at the pair.
They danced all three dances. During the second dance Geralt spun Jaskier out and then back in flashily, dipping him over one arm like a dainty maiden. Jaskier, who was no dainty maiden, knew the strength that elaborate dip must have taken and his head spun. The third dance was slow, and once again they simply held one another and turned in slow circles. Except Geralt pressed their cheeks together in a way that was so intimate that Jaskier finally gave in. Just tonight he had Geralt, all of him, his attention, his warmth. 
There was only so much a bard could take, and Jaskier gave in to the fantasy.
“I wonder how Yennefer is,” Geralt whispered. “And Ciri.”
It was like having cold water poured all over him. Jaskier’s fantasy shattered as soon as it had formed. Of course Geralt wasn’t enjoying this, of course his mind was elsewhere. He had a beautiful sorceress to think of, even if they weren’t sleeping together. Geralt and Yennefer and Ciri made the perfect, happy family. Where did Jaskier fit in to that?
He pulled back a little, already missing the warmth of Geralt’s cheek against his own. They finished the dance stiffly.
Back at the table, squished between Dame Au’Vigne and the colonel, the main course was awful. Jaskier couldn’t judge it on the food, which he barely tasted. Dame Au’Vigne and the colonel, however, had apparently come to the conclusion that Geralt or, Ludomir, rather, was marrying Jaskier for the money and the sex. They tittered, loudly and drunkely, to those around, and Geralt leaned in.
“Surely we can leave after this course,” he whispered.
Desperate to be rid of the charade, Jaskier thought. To not have to be engaged to me. “Can’t,” he whispered. “Have to stay for dessert and more dancing, else it looks suspect.”
“Hmmm.” It was a displeased hum.
“And, there will be small talk, with dessert. You need to say something, people will think you’re mute.”
“You two twitter into one another’s ears all the time,” Dame Au’Vigne said loudly. She was fully drunk off the sherry and very loud. “But not one kiss,” she lowered her voice, as if trying to be discreet. It didn’t work. “Is it truly as loveless as they say? I know you aren’t waiting until marriage.”
As who say? Jaskier thought. The only person quite that invested seems to be you.
“Not loveless,” Jaskier said. It seemed weak even to his ears.
“Surely you’ll join the dancing again, then,” Dame Au’Vigne said. 
“No,” Jaskier said, fiddling with his napkin. “I’m feeling quite too full to dance, ate too fast, I’m afraid.” He hoped she was too drunk to notice he’d picked at his plate. It seemed she was.
“Lovely little veranda, get some air there,” said a man who, according to Dame Au’Vigne, was shipping weapons to Nilfgaard behind the backs of multiple heads of state.
Jaskier nodded,stood, bowed, and made his escape. He sighed, but wasn’t surprised to find that Geralt had followed along behind. Of course he wanted to escape the party too, but Jaskier wanted to escape...him.
To his shame and surprise, he found tears in his eyes. The pressure of sitting in a room chock full of people who wanted to kill him, combined with the fact that every last one of them reminded him of being bullied in school, and add to that that he was supposed to be fake engaged to Geralt...it was too much. Fake engaged and even in their fake engagement Geralt didn’t like Jaskier. 
Jaskier’s rational brain knew that Geralt did like him, mostly. He just didn’t love him.
Jaskier leaned his elbows on the railing, overlooking some moonlit gardens, and felt the tears roll down his face.
“They think I don’t like you,” Geralt said quietly.
“Yes,” Jaskier said. He knew Geralt could smell the salt of his tears or whatever, but still turned his face away so the witcher couldn’t see.
“I danced with you though.”
Jaskier chuckled wetly. “Nobles dance with people they hate all the time.”
Geralt was quiet for a minute then, very gently, he took one of Jaskier’s hands. “I don’t hate you.”
It was too much, Jaskier started crying in earnest, sobbing.
“C’mon, Jaskier, I like you. A lot.” Geralt was, for him, panicking clearly. Jaskier almost smiled. He was so bad at dealing with other people’s emotion. And his own.
“You’re my friend,” Geralt said, a little stuntedly. “You know I’m not a good liar.”
Too much. Twenty-two years and he finally said the word ‘friends’ and Jaskier wanted more. He whipped around to face Geralt.
“Tell me the truth, then, Geralt. Tell me you love me, it doesn’t have to be the truth for forever, but can you love me just for a night? Can you make it the truth for tonight?” Jaskier’s tears were ugly and blobby and drying up fast but he continued.
“Because I’ve loved you so long I don’t know any other truth,” He leaned forward and planted his forhead on Geralt’s collarbone and sniffled through the last of his tears, curling one, shaking fist into Geralt’s lovely pale cape as he cried. “Just this one night, Geralt, love me back.”
He hadn’t meant to say any of it, was half expecting Geralt to toss him off the low balcony into the bushes below. 
Instead Jaskier was lifted by two strong arms and sat down on the railing. Warm, delightful lips pressed against his and suddenly he was being kissed within an inch of his life. 
“The truth, you want,” Geralt said, pulling back and panting. “Is the only one I can give. I can’t pretend to love you.” Here Geralt looked into Jaskier’s eyes, like being struck by lightning. “I only love you, no pretending, I swear it.”
“But-” Jaskier was cut off.
“They think I don’t like you,” Geralt said, furiously. “I think you think I don’t like you, Jaskier I like you, I love you so much I don’t know what to do and I’m...I’m not good with words. Or emotions.” Geralt’s shoulders dropped a little. “I just am, and the way I am is... The way I am is better with you.” 
Geralt’s face screwed up with anguish. “And I’m the reason you think I don’t like you, it’s my fault and that feels so...so bad. Yennefer’s been working with me on the feelings thing and always says ‘bad isn’t a feeling’ but I can’t tell you what all the feeling is.”
Jaskier was staring, mouth open, as frustrated, stilted, fumbling words left Geralt’s mouth. They sounded angry, but only at himself. Geralt was looking up at him as if seeking benediction.
“Tell me you love me again,” Jaskier said.
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you.”
“Again.”
Jaskier giggled as Geralt lifted him and spun him around before tucking him in close and kissing his forehead.
“I,” he said.
A kiss to Jaskier’s nose. “Love.”
A deep, breathtaking kiss to his lips. “You.”
There was nothing left for Jaskier to say except, “wow.”
Geralt smiled, that lovely warm little smile he saved for special times and offered his arm to Jaskier. “Shall we?”
They paraded back into the ballroom and danced the final dance of the set. Geralt whispered a suggestion of what he’d really like for dessert and this time Jaskier didn’t have to fake the scandalized giggle. “Back home, perhaps,” he said.
Dessert meant more conversation with Dame Au’Vigne, which was of course unbearable. There was plenty of Champagne though, which was pretty good, and the bubbles seemed to fill Jaskier all the way up. He took pleasure in picturing the downfall of all these horrible people when Nilfgaard was finally defeated for good.
He especially enjoyed sticking it to her gossip when he fed Geralt a strawberry with cream from his fingertips and recieved a kiss in thanks. Geralt was clearly enjoying himself too. He had a sweet tooth, and that certainly helped, but his hand that never left Jaskier’s under the table was a much better clue.
They walked back to the inn, flushed and warm in the cool night air, bidding farewell to the other drunken lords and ladies all filtering to finer inns or grand coaches. 
Then they were alone on their path back, Geralt’s witcher senses confirming their isolation. Then, Geralt, who never told lies, whispered sweet nothings into Jaskier’s ear the entire way home. Jaskier believed every single one.
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It’s done, this one’s quite long and I loved writing it. Geralt is useless at playing pretend, but very good at loving Jaskier in his own way. I imagine his emotion lessons with Yennefer must have been rather intense. 
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My dearest bouncey! I have a prompt for you if you like: Witchers as a 90s/2000s boyband 😂🤷‍♀️💖💖💖
Ellie, darling, this started as 500 words and turned into like 3.2k words and also a piece of art so... thank you so much. also shout out to my amazing art pal @mawbwehownets for the little comic!!
this contains lots of 90′s/early 2000′s nostalgia so there is also that
tw: hornyish, smooching, perilous music video situations (corny)
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“Do I have to?” Geralt groans, letting his forehead thud down against the linoleum surface of their tour bus’s shitty dining table.
“Yes,” Vesemir says. His tone leaves no room for argument or whining. “But what if I let you pick the winner personally?”
“There have to be like fifteen thousand letters to go through! How will I manage that in less than two days?”
“There were a few more than fifteen thousand applications, Geralt. There were probably closer to five hundred thousand.”
Lambert wolf whistles and Aiden claps.
Geralt grimaces and keeps his face hidden against the table, releasing a slightly muffled: “Fuck.”
“Language,” Vesemir frowns. He tugs gently at Geralt’s loose ponytail and the singer lifts his head up from the table again, looking at his manager with beseeching eyes. “Anyway, we’ve narrowed it down to about fifty. You can go through those and choose whichever person you’d like to play your love interest. But you have to give me an answer by Friday. The shoot is in three weeks and whoever wins this stupid competition will need time to make arrangements.”
“I thought we were footing the bill for their food and their hotel room,” Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What would they need to arrange?”
“Not everyone can board their pets at the flick of a wrist, dude,” Lambert scoffs from his seat on the couch. Aiden lies draped across his lap, as usual, and the two of them are halfheartedly watching The Lion King. They can only watch movies when the bus is stationary, otherwise the VHS player might move too much while running and damage the film inside the cassette. Even taking advantage of such a rare opportunity, Lambert and Aiden still seem more interested in each other than Jonathan Taylor Thomas’s voice acting. 
“Lambert has a point,” Vesemir sighs. He scrubs his hand over his lightly whiskered face like a tired grandparent and sighs again, more heavily. “It’ll be good for you boys to have a normal person around for a few days. Maybe they’ll be able to put some things into perspective.”
Geralt can only roll his eyes a little bit and thank his manager regardless of his own feelings; he and the rest of TW5 owe the seasoned musical expert their entire careers. Without Vesemir’s help and mentorship they would never have made it past their first disastrous record deal. They certainly wouldn’t have reached the heights they’re at now, enjoying international fame and recognition. 
The begrudging frontman accepts a heavy plastic bin of file folders from Vesemir and sets them down next to his bunk. “Are these organized in any particular way?”
“Nope.”
“Cool.”
Geralt digs his hand into the pile and pulls out a piece of pale-pink stationary, eager to get started and, by extension, get finished. He can already tell that it’s going to be a long couple of days.
---
“I want this one, please, Ves.”
“Huh?” Vesemir looks up from his palm-pilot. Geralt is standing in front of him and trying to hand him something. 
“I want this guy to be in the music video with me.” Geralt holds out the letter again, fingers trapping the accompanying polaroid headshot with great care. A pair of bright blue eyes stares up from the photo, highlighting the subject’s bright smile and unruly mop of messy brown hair. Vesemir tries to hide his amusement; totally Geralt’s type, if the big oaf could admit to having one.
“Alright. I’ll get everything in order. We start shooting in two and a half weeks so get your asses to the gym, please.”
“Yes, Ves,” all five young men chorus. 
“Tomorrow,” Coen mutters a moment later than everyone else, not glancing up from his composition notebook. Vesemir nods in understanding. Coen is the best lyricist of the lot and it’s easier to let him work when inspiration strikes than beg him to focus when he can’t get a solitary idea to stick.
“So why’d you pick that one, Ger-bear?” Lambert drawls. Aiden nods and leans against Lambert’s side. Geralt can’t help the mild jealousy that overtakes him every time he sees his bandmates touch each other with such casual affection. He wants that intimacy, that softness behind the veneer of famous indifference. He wants someone to hold. 
“Yeah. What drew your attention to that poor unfortunate soul. Was it the floppy hair, the big blue eyes, or the dopey grin?” Aiden smirks.
“Hmm.”
“Fuck you,” Eskel sighs, looking between the two troublemakers with the tired gaze of an eldest sibling, “Fuck you for even asking in the first place and expecting a straight answer.”
“Straight is the furthest thing from his answer,” Lambert chuckles. He is promptly smacked in the head with one of the couch’s hideous throw pillows. The youngest member of the band rubs the side of his face and chuckles, “Alright, I deserved that one.”
---
“Holy shit!” Jaskier practically screams. “Holy motherfucking shit!”
“What!?” Yennefer comes flying around the corner. “What’s wrong!?”
“Nothing is wrong, Yenna! Everything is awesome! Everything absolutely fucking rocks!”
“Did you get hit on the head by a falling branch between here and the mailbox or what? You were whining about your finals work not five min-”
“Look at this!” Jaskier shoves an open envelope into her hands and cuts her off. Yennefer reads the watermarked documents once. Twice. Her eyes almost pop out of her head when the words and their meanings finally sink in. 
“Are you fucking with me right now?”
“No, I am absolutely not!” her giddy roommate cheers, bouncing up and down in place. “I did it! I won!”
“Holy shit.”
“I know! I get to kiss Geralt deRiv!” he practically cackles. Then freezes. “Holy fuck I get to kiss Geralt deRiv.”
“You said that already,” Yen teases. She shoves the paperwork back into his hands and grabs a takeout menu from the junk drawer near her hip. “Since you won the makeout lottery, you get to buy lunch. Lucky bastard.”
---
“So this will be your dressing room,” someone’s underpaid PA says, ushering Jaskier into a small, bright room. “Priscilla will be here shortly to get you into hair and makeup.”
“Oh, uh- thanks!”
“Yup.”
And with that, the young man disappears back down the hallway toward the sound stage. Jaskier jogs his leg anxiously as he waits for Priscilla to arrive, nervous and otherwise totally alone in the huge grey building. As the minutes tick by and his heart rate rises, Jaskier’s intrusive thoughts make an unwanted appearance: What if they forget about me being here? What if there’s been a mistake and they accidentally hired two love interests and I just sit in here for hours all alone while-
“Hi!” a bright, peppy blonde woman flies through the door and startles him back to reality. “Nice to meet you, I’m Priscilla! You can call me Priss; I’ll be doing your hair and makeup for the video this week!”
“Oh… hi. I’m Julian, but I prefer Jaskier.”
“Lovely! Well, Jaskier, is your hair naturally this color?”
“Y-Yes?”
“Perfect! I don’t want to mess with such a lovely shade of natural brown, but do you mind if I give it a bit of a trim? I have a few ideas for styles right here in my book- How do you feel about some feathering back here? I think-” she fluffs a few of the hairs around the nape of Jaskier’s neck “-I could really bring out the curls if I adjusted the length a bit and used some product.”
“Just, uhm, go for it, then! Feel free to make me as pretty as possible!” Jaskier declares. He’s committing to this experience wholeheartedly, determined to allow himself every opportunity for positive change. He wants to really let himself enjoy it, and he needs a haircut anyway. Priscilla spends an hour washing, cutting, drying, and styling his hair into a lovely fringed sweep across his forehead. It ends just above his brows, giving his face a slightly softer shape than usual. He grins over his shoulder, “I love it! I’m going to miss you when I’m back at Oxenfurt. Good stylists are so hard to find.”
Priss blushes and nudges against his shoulder, “Oh, you little charmer.”
“I mean it,” he says, examining himself in the mirror. “I look like I could really be worthy of a heroic rescue! This is going to be such a fantastic memory, and I appreciate it. Thank you so much.”
Priss bites back a genuine tear and smiles, “Now that your natural prettiness has been mildly enhanced, let’s get you over to wardrobe, shall we?”
“Wardrobe? Do I have, like, a costume? What’s the music video even about?”
“They didn’t tell you any of this when you got here?”
“Not… not really.”
“Well, my darling, I think you’re really going to like it; they’ve got you in Versace for the first scene.”
“Versace!?” 
Then Jaskier is being ushered into a bright, colorful room full to bursting with grim-faced, middle-aged women and he loses track of his only braincell for the rest of the morning.
---
“You must be Julian!” Lambert declares, bounding up to him and grinning. It’s a feral, animalistic grin and Jaskier resists the sudden urge to take a step back.
“I prefer Jaskier, if you don’t mind too much,” Jaskier corrects him quietly. Lambert rolls his eyes in a long-suffering kind of way and throws a meaty arm around the shorter man’s shoulders, completely ignoring the wardrobe technician’s wincing as he wrinkles the expensive silk jacket. 
“No need to be quiet and polite around here, my dude. We’re just a bunch of rowdy idiots, aren’t we, guys?” 
“Hell yeah!” Aiden calls back. Eskel sighs like the put-upon nanny in a Victorian Redanian comedy. 
“Speak for yourself,” Coen barely lifts his frosted tips up from his book long enough to speak. Geralt is-
Holy motherfucking Britney Spears on toast.
Geralt is the hottest thing Jaskier has ever seen in his short, unfulfilled-until-right-now life. Forget Ralph Macchio. Forget Leonardo Dicaprio and Kate Winslet and Winona Ryder. This man is… Geralt deRiv is… he’s the picture of perfection. And he’s right there, standing in front of an elaborate party set with his thick, beautiful arms crossed over his chest and his eyes trained on the floor, as if willing it to swallow him whole. Jaskier realizes that he probably didn’t have any choice in the matter; maybe this was just as awkward and uncomfortable for Geralt as it was for Jaskier. 
“Ger-bear!” Lambert whoops, yanking Jaskier closer to the brooding frontman. If only he were brave enough to struggle for escape; alas. “This is your boy-toy for the week. Goes by Jaskier, apparently.”
“Nice to meet you,” Geralt manages to grunt. “How did you like the script?”
“I haven’t uh- I haven’t actually seen it?”
“Shit. Fuck. One second,” Geralt huffs, disappearing into the crowd of technicians and machinery operators and PAs. Jaskier loves him already, for real. Sure, he was pretty in the music videos and promo material, but the way he said fuck like it was the noblest word he could think of… Geralt interrupts his train of thought by coming back with a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. He shuffle-shoves them into Jaskier’s arms immediately. “There you go.”
“Thank you!” Jaskier smiles. It’s genuine and shy, more tenuous than his usual goofy grin. He flips through the pages, glancing between the script to his expensive suit, “So I’m guessing we’re at a party for this scene? Or something?”
“This is… where we meet. This is where… you and I uh…”
Jaskier’s eyes scan the page as Geralt’s ability to speak slowly leaves him. 
Lover ENTERS LEFT, dressed to the nines. Lover adjusts their tie/boa and takes a look around the room. S/He looks sad and a little hopeful. PULL BACK to Geralt, who approaches slowly. Their eyes meet. HOLD SHOT. PULL BACK as they move towards each other. Geralt pulls Lover into his arms and they begin to dance.
“Oh, wow.”
“I hope it’s okay! If you’re not comfortable with that kind of thing we can-”
“I’ll be alright, thank you. I came here to put my acting chops to the test. Well, that and meet my favorite band, of course. Thank you again, by the way. It’s been wonderful so far and I really appreciate you allowing me to be here.”
“Allowing? Psh. Geralt ha-” Lambert is cut off by Aiden, who elbows him sharply in the side. “Ow! What the fuck, babe?”
“I knew it!” Jaskier crows, distracted. “I knew you two were an item!”
“They’re not exactly subtle.”
“They never confirm anything either,” Jaskier retorts. Geralt shrugs his acknowledgement and moves back towards the set. Jaskier follows after the taller man like a lost puppy, eyes flicking from one thing to the next, hungry for detail even in his anxiety ridden state. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience and he doesn’t want to waste a solitary second of it. “This is incredible, really just...wow. You guys do this all the time? You get to make tiny little movies for already great songs that you get to perform for millions of adoring fans? And you get paid!?”
Geralt hadn’t ever really thought about it like that. He’d been raised in the industry. He’d signed to Kaer Morhen Records as an early teen because his mother was a member of the Board of Directors and he’d been making music ever since; an outsider’s perspective to things was… new. A little strange. “Yeah, I guess that is pretty much what we do.”
“Wow.”
“It’s not that exciting, I promise.”
“Have you ever written a fifteen page paper about the history of lute-string design and manufacturing?” 
“No.”
“Then kindly shut the fuck up about what I should consider exciting,” Jaskier grins. Geralt is immediately and irrevocably smitten. Fuck. It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes! “So, which door am I entering from?”
“Left,” Geralt points. Jaskier skips over and begins to introduce himself to the sound and lights crew. His smile seems to be as infectious as his cheer and soon the entire set crew is smiling at one another. There’s been a literal shift in the atmosphere; if he didn’t know any better, the TW5 frontman thinks Jaskier might be some kind of magical creature, because he can’t just be human. Geralt is well and truly fucked, and everyone in the band already knows.
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---
“What do you think?” Jaskier asks, slipping anxiously from behind the changing screen. The Versace is gone and in its place are a pair of tight, high-waisted blue pleather pants and a billowing white shirt, which has been strategically ripped in several places to reveal slivers of the lightly tanned skin that lies beneath. He looks like he’s in desperate need of rescuing. He looks like every fantasy Geralt has ever had about the perfect guy. He looks like a fucking dream.
“Nice,” he says.
Lambert and Aiden wolf-whistle and cheer as they approach. Aiden claps twice, loudly, and shoots Jaskier a set of finger guns, “Hot damn, baby. You single? You lookin’ to mingle? Because I am bi and spoon like a Pringle.”
“First of all, babe, I love you but that was the most horrific combination of words yet known to man. Second of all, yeah, I’d dump Aiden for you for sure,” Lambert adds. Jaskier is at a total loss for words. His mouth hangs open and his breath comes in uneven little gasps for a moment.
“Uh… I- Thank you?”
“Oh god, Eskel! Eskel, he’s short circuiting, do something.”
“You absolute-” Eskel groans and makes his way over to the gathered group. He tugs Jaskier away and over to the other end of the set, where a comically huge rocket/bomb (Jaskier can’t tell) is standing at the center of a vaguely science-themed room. A laboratory, maybe? Or like, a really weird spacecraft? A hospital run by rocket scientists? It doesn’t matter, it’s the Evil Lair of the Villain and that’s where Jaskier is being held captive. “Here, Cameron and Elise will help you get set up for the next scene. I’m sorry about the boys they’re... gay?”
“I understand,” Jaskier nods sagely and Eskel relaxes. Then for comedy’s sake he adds an equally dramatic, “I too am... gay.”
The set dresser, an electrician, and a few specialists (likely a rope rigger among them) come over and tie Jaskier to the bomb/rocket/villainous mechanism, ending his conversation with Eskel, who is now in a much better mood than he was before. 
Jaskier is told to make sure his hands are crossed behind the small of his back and the director instructs him to wiggle back and forth “as convincingly as possible without actually getting loose or moving the ropes too much”. Which is manageable, he supposes. 
“Then, when the chorus comes up, we’ll get a few shots of the boys dancing in front of you,” the director continues to explain. That’s… kind weird, but okay. I’ve seen weirder. “Then we’ll do the action shots, with Geralt rescuing you. Are you okay to do the kiss, or would you rather not? We have dynamic shots with or without, so it’s totally up to you.”
“I’m fine with that,” Jaskier smiles shyly. “I consent to be smooched.”
“Adorable,” Lambert calls. Jaskier blushes and the director shoots Lambert a glare. 
“He’s already pink enough, don’t make me change my gels you little shithead!”
“Sorry, Pierre!”
“Fucking sorry my ass,” Pierre grumbles beneath his breath. Then he smiles at Jaskier. “Do something nasty to him for me, will you? Not too nasty but… just a little?”
“I’ve got your back,” Jaskier winks. 
“No plotting! Not fair!” Aiden whines.
“You have a team,” Pierre retorts. “Now I have a team.”
“Rules are rules,” Eskel sighs. “Now can we please shoot this damn video?”
“Right,” Pierre claps, getting everyone’s attention. “Places!”
---
Geralt races up the stairs, trying to keep the long sleeves of his black mesh shirt from catching on any of the set pieces. The solid black t-shirt he’s wearing underneath makes his arms and back look bulkier than normal; it’s a visual technique to make him look larger than Jaskier, whose billowing white shirt will hide how wide his shoulders actually are. Fuck, those are some nice shoulders. And the smattering of dark chest hair that peeks from the front of the college student’s shirt? Geralt wants to bury his face in it.
Okay, focus. 
He reaches the top of the set and rushes towards Jaskier, ripping the ropes from around his torso and pulling him close. He cups the back of Jaskier’s head with his upstage hand, framing the slightly smaller man for the camera and making him seem even shorter, another trick of angles and body posturing. Geralt plays Jaskier like an instrument, bending him back by placing his downstage arm around Jaskier’s waist, pressing their mouths together and holding them still for as long as it takes the director to yell, ��Cut!” with a satisfied tone of voice. 
Geralt’s suspicions are confirmed when Pierre laughs and claps some more and cries, “Print it, lads! That was a one-take wonder!”
He tries to ignore the way Jaskier’s shoulders slump as if disappointed. “Good job,” he manages to say.
“You, too.” Geralt wishes he could keep a picture of Jaskier smiling in his back pocket forever. No other sight could light up the world so effortlessly. “Thanks for being gentle.”
“I’m trying to sweep you off your feet,” the singer shrugs. Jaskier wiggles his eyebrows and follows Geralt down the narrow set stairs.
“Are you, really?”
“Is it working?” Geralt asks, turning to look up at Jaskier. The student pauses to look at him and his foot catches on an uneven board. He topples forward with a short cry of surprise and seems surprised when Geralt reaches out to catch him. “Jaskier!”
“Oh my god!” Lambert races over, Aiden hot on his heels. “Are you okay, dude?”
“I’m fine,”  Jaskier laughs, a little breathless. “Just a little shocked.”
“You should take him to get a snack or something,” Eskel says, nudging his shoulder against Geralt’s. “He’s been busy all day and hasn’t even been to craft services.”
“You haven’t eaten?” Geralt asks, honestly baffled. Jaskier shakes his head, face heating once again. He wishes he could stop blushing, but Geralt’s presence seems to make it impossible. He wraps one arm around the younger man’s temptingly slender waist and leads him towards the food carts. He shoves a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of punch into Jaskier’s hands, not giving him a chance to argue. “Here, I’ll have something, too.”
“Thanks,” Jaskier smiles, understanding that he is, in turn, being understood. They sit comfortable folding chairs off to the side, food spread across their laps. Jaskier laughs and chats around his mouthfuls, pulling things from Geralt like his favorite color and his least favorite nicknames. Songs he liked and dances he disliked. 
“You made it fun again, today,” the singer smiles. “Thank you for that. I wish you could be here for every video shoot.”
“Looking for another member of the band?” Jaskier jokes, doing some half-hearted jazz hands. Geralt shakes his head and laughs. 
“I wish we were,” he sighs. “But I guess five is the magic number.”
“Makes the dances look cooler,” Jaskier nods. “I agree with whoever made that decision. I wouldn’t dare ruin the aesthetic.”
Geralt laughs again and Vesemir turns to look, honestly shocked at the volume of the sound. 
“Plus, you can’t be the frontman if there’s no front.”
“Shut up,” Geralt chuckles, still grinning broadly. 
Vesemir makes a phone call.
---
2 Weeks Later, Backstage in Kaedwen
---
“He’s been sulking like this ever since Jaskier went back to Oxenfurt,” Lambert whines. “C’mon Vesemir, do something.”
“What do you want me to do, make Geralt’s boyfriend appear out of thin air?”
“Not my boyfriend,” Geralt growls, stomping past his bandmates and manager. He can’t help but feel grumpy. Jaskier had been like the sun, bringing light and wonder to everything he touched, and without that joy around it doesn’t seem worth the extra effort to smile. So he’s been moping. 
“Fucking hell,” Vesemir sighs. “Thank goodness I thought ahead.”
“What do you mean?” Eskel asks, joining the little group in the hallway outside the dressing room. “What did you think of?”
“Three,” Vesemir smiles, glancing at his watch. “Two… One…”
“Boooooys,” echoes a high tenor. “Where’s my welcome wagon, Vesemir?”
“Jaskier!” Aiden practically screams, leaping out of the dressing room and flying down the hall. Lambert follows at a sprint and Vesemir hears the resounding oof oh fuck of both giddy musicians hitting their mark. 
Geralt comes back down the hall at a jog, eyes searching frantically. “I thought I heard-”
“Geralt!”
Vesemir’s heart clenches in his chest at the way Geralt’s face lights up. At the end of the hallway, surrounded by spilled luggage and apologetic boyband members, is Jaskier. Geralt floats to him, it seems, like he’s dreaming the whole thing. Jaskier takes his hands and then releases them and wraps his arms low around Geralt’s hips instead. 
“I missed you the most,” he whispers, just for Geralt to hear. “Couldn’t sleep without listening to your CD. I know it’s silly but I really like you.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers reverently into his shaggy brown hair. “What are you doing here?”
“I was going to do my thesis on pop culture’s relation to music history,” he says. “And then the manager of TW5 called Oxenfurt and offered me the opportunity to do some… first hand research while I worked on finishing the paper.”
“R-Really? You’re going to be here… every day?”
“Do you… do you not want me he-”
Geralt kisses him before he can even finish the question. It’s a stupid question anyway, of course Geralt wants him here. Wants him right here, kissing him silly. The singer presses his lips desperately, crushingly against Jaskier’s; he never wants to part from this man again. He never wants to be without that glorious laughter and contagious liveliness. Who knew that life could be so full of delight and happiness if he only let it? 
He kisses Jaskier for all he’s worth and more, pouring his heart and soul into it. When they pull apart, both gasping for air, Geralt asks, “Stay with me, Jaskier? You don’t have to do anything I just-”
“I’d love to be the big spoon,” Jaskier winks, whispering again. “Thank you, Geralt, for the rescue.”
244 notes · View notes
all-hail-the-witcher · 3 years ago
Text
say yes to the plus one
the sequel to say yes to the drinks. which you should read first. i am so tired. just have it. 
__
ship: geraskier
warnings: none
editing: ish
words: over 3k but under 4k
genre: floof
__
After getting drinks with Geralt, Jaskier could not stop thinking about him. He found himself taking more time with his appearance each morning - something that he hadn't even thought would be possible - hoping that Geralt would come into the store.
But Geralt still hadn’t come into Kleinfelds since the day of his trunk show. Jaskier tried not to be disappointed. He knew that he was very busy and it had been a one off that he had even met him in the first place.
Still, he couldn’t help but think that the two of them had something. There must have been some sort of chemistry between the two of them. Why else had Geralt asked him to get drinks after he had made that awful slip up with the magic fingers? Surely, he must feel something for him.
He had been texting Jaskier though, so Jaskier knew that he was at least still interested. Every message that he got wishing him a good morning or about some funny wedding dress design or of a picture of Geralt’s Pomeranian, Roach, made his heart flutter. There just had to be a future for them, right?
So, Jaskier went through yet another day of busy appointments at Kleinfelds, hoping that he would run into Geralt.
Late May into early June was always a busy time for them. Jaskier didn't personally understand the appeal of getting married in a zillion degree heat, but to each their own. This was by far his least favorite part of the year though. He spent every hour at work on his feet, hardly getting a break as he rushed from appointment to appointment: checking on alterations, making sure that every bride was getting their dream dress, and providing tweaks to designs when necessary to prevent bridal meltdowns.
It was nothing short of exhausting.
“Jaskier!” Camille, one of the consultants, called to him at around mid afternoon.
He had just spent the last hour trying to get a very adamant, very conservative mom and a very eccentric bride on the same page. He needed a daiquiri. Or three. Still, he turned around and put on his brightest smile.
“Yes, darling?”
“You’re needed down in alterations,” she said with a sweet smile.
Jaskier nodded and turned back through the salon to walk down to alterations. He hated going to alterations. If he was needed there, it usually meant that shit had hit the fan in some sense. He braced himself for a long afternoon.
He walked up to the manager, about to ask her where he was needed, when a shout from behind him made him jump.
“Jaskier!”
And a swell of desire rose up in Jaskier’s stomach because he knew that gravelly voice. Quickly, he straightened his tie, thankful he had worn his good pink one today, before taking a deep breath and turning around.
“Geralt!” he said, trying furiously to keep his cheeks from flushing. “What a lovely surprise.”
“Surprise?” Geralt’s brows furrowed together as he walked up to Jaskier, his wolfs head cane clicking across the floor. He was wearing a light blue button down today with the sleeves cuffed to his forearms that made his golden eyes pop and Jaskier had to struggle to keep his eyes on his face. “I texted you this morning.”
Jaskier’s eyes widened as he reached into his blazer pocket for his phone. Sure enough, there were two messages from Geralt. The first was a picture of Roach, lying in a patch of sun in his apartment. The second was a message that read:
Hey, I’m going to be at Kleinfelds today doing a custom fitting. Can you help with the appointment?
And Jaskier had never even seen it. Much less responded.
“Oh Geralt, I am so terribly sorry,” Jaskier said quickly. “This is our busiest time of year and I have hardly had a moment to think today.”
“You don’t have to help,” Geralt said sincerely, concern clouding his eyes. “I don’t want to push you too hard with the rest of your appointments, but I just figured that since I was here, I would ask.”
“No, no darling!” Jaskier said, rushing to reassure him. “Of course I will help! Helping you is much better than dealing with emotional brides and entourages that aren’t on the same page.”
“It’s alright Jaskier,” Geralt said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I know you just want to see my magic hands at work again.”
This time, Jaskier did flush bright red. “ You! ” he said outrageously, gaping at Geralt’s audacity to bring up his slip up from last time. “You need a nap!”
But Geralt just laughed, a glorious sound that sent shivers down Jaskier’s spine. “I think you’re the one who needs the nap, Jaskier.”
Jaskier shot him an incredulous look. How dare he make such assumptions, and how dare he be right?
“Anyway, the fitting is for my brother’s fiancee,” Geralt explained. “I made her a custom dress and she’s coming in for her fitting today. There was a shipping delay, so we only have time for one fitting before their wedding next week. I was hoping you could help.”
Jaskier could see the tension that had creeped its way into Geralt’s broad shoulders and the worry that was clouding his pretty face.
Jaskier placed a reassuring hand on Geralt’s arm. “Of course I’ll help, darling. Helping resolve wedding dress disasters is my specialty. Er- not that your dress is a disaster,” he said quickly, amused by the way that Geralt’s eyebrows had shot up. “Nothing that you design could ever be a disaster, the way that you work lace and beads is just divine, not a disaster. Not in any way a disaster. What I meant was the fact that she only has one fitting, that’s the disaster. Not your dress.”
“My magic fingers are quite incapable of creating a disaster dress, you’re right,” Geralt winked.
Jaskier resisted the urge to smack his shoulder. “You are never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Nope.” Geralt looked far too pleased with himself. “Can you grab the dress for me? It’s on the rack for the day. And can you bring it to room 13?”
“Of course,” Jaskier said. He’d let the magic fingers comment slide for now. Geralt looked far too attractive with his moonlight silver hair in an artful bun, tendrils framing his face, for him to stay mad at him for long. He had never been able to resist a pretty face.
“Thank you.” Geralt moved past Jaskier and began to make his way to the room. Jaskier turned to watch him walk down the hall. His ass looked far too delicious in those gorgeous, fitted navy pinstripe pants. He just had to appreciate it. It would be a crime not to.
Distantly, he wondered if his ass looked just as delicious without the pants on. And was he wearing boxers or briefs? Oh who was he kidding, he had to be wearing at least briefs with pants like those. But what color? Geralt seemed like the type of man to appreciate a fun pair of underwear and-
Jaskier. Get your head out of the gutter.
He made a beeline to the rack and grabbed the dress. He had already left Geralt waiting long enough.
“Here you are,” Jaskier said, hanging the dress in the room.
Geralt fidgeted with his shirt sleeves, eyeing the bag. With a pang, Jaskier realized that he was nervous.
“I’m sure she’s going to love the dress,” Jaskier said, putting as much sincerity as he could into his words. “You are one of the best designers in the industry, Geralt.”
“I know,” Geralt said. “But I’ve never designed for someone that I know before, there’s more risk involved if they don't like it. Cause she’s put all her trust in me and what if she doesn’t like it? This is her only fitting. There isn't time to make anything else."
“Geralt,” Jaskier placed his hand over Geralt’s where he was still fidgeting with his sleeve. “She’s going to love it. Don’t doubt yourself so much, it ruins your pretty face.”
Fuck, did he just really say that out loud?
Geralt’s doubt dissipated as he looked at Jaskier amusedly. “You think my face is pretty?”
“Well who wouldn’t?” Jaskier said, trying and failing to backpedal. “It’s a plenty beautiful face, I mean you’ve got a nose and eyes and everything and…”
“I would hope I have a nose and eyes, yes,” Geralt laughed. Then, he leaned in, as if telling Jaskier a secret. “I’ve also heard that I have lips, too.”
Jaskier was saved the embarrassment of having to respond by a consultant escorting who Jaskier assumed to be Geralt’s brother’s fiancee and her entourage into the alterations area.
“Geralt!” a pretty girl with dark, curly hair said as she stepped up to hug him.
“Hi Triss,” Geralt said, giving her a polite hug and waving to the rest of the entourage. “Are you excited?”
“Of course I’m excited,” she said. “It’s only a week away, Geralt. This better be every bit as perfect as you said it would be.”
“It will be.” Geralt’s smile was easy, as if he hadn’t been freaking out about the appointment moments before.
“And who is this?” Triss asked, turning to Jaskier.
“Oh, everyone, this is Jaskier. He’s a consultant here and my friend,” Geralt said.
“Hello!” Jaskier said, giving everyone a wave.
“Jaskier, this is Triss, the bride to be. She’s marrying my brother.” Geralt gestured to the woman with the dark hair standing in front of them.
“Hello darling,” Jaskier said, shaking her hand. “You look just gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” Triss smiled.
“And this is Triss’s friend Yennefer, Yennefer’s daughter Ciri, my other brother Lambert, and Lambert’s husband Aiden,” Geralt said, pointing at the people sitting on the bench.
Jaskier waved to them all and gave them his best customer service smile.
“Tell me about your fiancee, darling,” Jaskier said to Triss.
“I am getting married to Eskel,” she said, her face lighting up immediately. “We’ve known each other forever and he is perfect.”
“Forever is an understatement,” Geralt said. “They went to kindergarten together.”
“Oh, a childhood love story!” Jaskier clapped his hands together. “How romantic! Let’s hope you have a dress to match.” He turned to Geralt.
“Well darling,” Jaskier said, gesturing to the garment bag that Triss’s dress was in. “Would you like to do the honors?”
Geralt stepped up to the garment bag, his shoulder taught with anxiety.
“Take a breath, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, just quiet enough for only Geralt to hear. “She’s going to love it.”
Geralt nodded once before unzipping the bag and pulling out the dress. Jaskier couldn't help but gasp.
“Oh my god, it’s gorgeous,” Triss gasped next to him, taking Jaskier’s words right out of his mouth. “Geralt, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“You haven’t even put it on yet,” Geralt said, stepping away so that the entourage could see it as well.
“I don’t have to to know that it’s everything I wanted and probably more,” she said, giving Geralt another hug. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Geralt said and Jaskier thought that he saw a light blush tinting his cheeks. Was Geralt embarrassed? Oh that was just adorable…
The dress itself was gorgeous, just as Jaskier suspected it would be. It was a glorious ivory color that seemed to shift under the lights to be a gorgeous pale blush pink. The skirt appeared to be A line and was sleeveless with a high neck. The bodice had an intricate lace and beading design that blended into the skirt. Jaskier knew that the dress was going to be amazing but Triss was right, Geralt had really outdone himself.
“Would you like to put it on, darling?” Jaskier asked.
Triss nodded, still not tearing her eyes from the dress as Geralt stepped out of the dressing room and Jaskier closed the curtains behind him.
He helped Triss into the dress, zipping up the back effortlessly.
“Oh it fits you like a glove darling,” he remarked. “Almost like it was made for you. Oh wait-” he smiled at her. “It was, wasn’t it?”
Triss laughed at his terrible joke - bless her - as she fingered the lace and beads on the front. “I wasn’t expecting it to look this beautiful,” she whispered.
“Well then let's spin you round, darling,” Jaskier said, taking her hand as she turned to face the mirror. “That’ll really shock you.”
“Oh my god.” She clapped her hands over her mouth as she gaped at herself in the mirror, turning from side to side to look at herself better. “Oh my god .”
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Jaskier smiled at her. “Geralt is far more talented than he gives himself credit for.”
“Tell me about it,” Triss said distractedly as she continued to stare at the dress. “This is absolutely gorgeous. I love it. Eskel’s going to love it. Everyone’s going to love it.”
“Stop feeding pretty boy’s ego and show us then!” someone shouted from the other side of the curtain.
“Fuck off, Lambert!” Triss called back. “I’m having my bridal moment,” she whispered, tears springing up in her eyes as she continued to stare, utterly transfixed by the dress.
“Here, darling,” Jaskier said, pulling his pink pocket square out of his breast pocket. “You don't want to get your mascara on the dress now, do you?”
Triss dabbed at her eyes and took a deep breath before handing the handkerchief back to Jaskier.
“Are you ready to show your entourage?”
“She better be!” Lambert shouted from outside again.
Triss let out a watery laugh. “Yeah, I am.”
Jaskier drew back the curtain as Triss turned around.
“Oh, Triss,” Yennefer said, tears unmistakably clouding her eyes. “You look gorgeous.”
“Holy fuck, Geralt,” Aiden muttered as he stared at the dress, his jaw dropped. “ You designed that ?”
“Hey!” Lambert elbowed him. “I already said that pretty boy doesn’t need his ego inflated any more than it is!”
“Okay but fucking look at the dress, Lambert. It’s fucking gorgeous. And I’m half fucking blind. ”
Lambert shrugged. “Yeah I mean it’s nice. It’s a dress. It’s fabric. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Say she looks beautiful!” Aiden nearly shouted, smacking Lambert’s shoulder. “And that Geralt did a great job because if you don't I swear your ass-”
“Boys.” Triss crossed her arms. “There are children present.”
“I’m nineteen!” Ciri protested, throwing her hands up.
Triss ignored her. “There are children present and this is my fitting. So Lambert, shut up and tell your brother he did a good job.”
“You did a good job not fucking it up, Ger,” Lambert muttered.
“I’ll take it. And Aiden? You can finish that sentence later,” she said with a pointed look.
She turned to Jaskier, who had been watching the entire exchange with raised eyebrows. “Sorry about them, they are always like this.”
Lambert flipped her off. Aiden threw up a peace sign.
“Well,” Jaskier said, trying to contain his laughter. “Clearly they are meant for eachother.” He was just glad that he hadn’t had to diffuse the situation. He was tired of telling entourages to get along.
“It’s a good thing they got married then,” Geralt said, standing slowly and walking over to Triss. “You like the dress then?”
Triss once again read Jaskier’s mind and playfully punched Geralt’s shoulder. “I fucking love it . I was right, it is everything I wanted and more. Thank you.” Her eyes were shining with tears again and this time, it was painfully obvious that Geralt blushed when he looked down at his shoes.
“Of course, it was my pleasure,” Geralt said, squeezing her arm. “I’m glad you and Eskel are finally tying the knot, I couldn't imagine a more perfect match for him than you.”
“Geralt,” Triss sighed, the tears pooling in her eyes spilling over again. “You didn't need to make me cry more! The dress was enough!”
Geralt just laughed. Jaskier silently passed Triss his pocket square again.
“Is there anything big that you want to change or do I just need to adjust the fit?” Geralt asked.
“Just the fit,” Triss said, dabbing at her eyes again.
Geralt nodded and set to work, silently slipping into the zone, pinning and adjusting and occasionally stepping back and squinting at his work. Jaskier knew that Triss and her entourage were talking, but he didn't even pretend to be paying attention. He was much more content to watch Geralt work, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the fabric as he made the already gorgeous gown look somehow even more phenomenal.
“Alright,” Geralt said, stepping back. “I think that that should be good, spin round for me.”
Triss turned to look in the mirror.
“Does it look okay?” Geralt asked and Triss punched his shoulder again. “Ow!”
“Geralt if you don't stop insulting your frankly quite stunning work, I will have to steal your little demon dog,” she said, looking over the dress in the mirror. “But yes, everything looks good.”
“Roach isn’t a demon,” Geralt pouted, and oh fuck wasn’t that adoreable.
“That fucking dog almost bit my hand off!” Lambert shouted from the bench.
Geralt made several rude gestures at him and Jaskier nearly swooned. Fucking hell he was gone for this man. And it was only the second time that he had seen him.
“Jaskier, can you get her out of the dress?” Geralt asked. “Be careful with all the pins.”
Jaskier nodded, very much at a loss for words.
“C’mon darling,” Jaskier said, tugging the curtain closed behind Geralt again.
He undid the zipper on the back of Triss’s dress and helped tug the dress off her shoulders, mindful of the many pins that Geralt had put in it.
“Have you and Geralt known each other long?” Triss asked.
“Oh, no not at all,” Jaskier said, glad that he was standing behind her and couldn't see the flush of his cheeks. “He helped me with an appointment a few months ago and we went out for drinks after and we’ve been texting occasionally, but that’s it.” He didn’t say that he wished it was more.
“You went out for drinks on the day you first met?” Triss asked, letting her voice rise. “That’s interesting, Geralt doesn’t often go out with people that he’s just met.”
There was a shout from the other side of the curtain, but it was muffled almost immediately, the sound of a hand slapping over someone’s mouth unmistakeable.
“Well, it had been a long day and we were both in need of one. Step out for me, darling,” Jaskier said, picking up the dress and hanging it back up.
“I’m sure you were,” Triss said from behind him as he zipped the dress carefully back into the garment bag. Before he had the chance to ask what she meant, she was opening the curtains and walking back outside to her entourage.
Jaskier picked up the garment bag and followed her.
“It was lovely meeting all of you,” he said, waving to the entourage. “Triss, darling, I hope you have a wonderful wedding and Geralt, it was nice seeing you again.” He turned back down the hall to go hang up the dress for Geralt to deal with later. He should get back upstairs, hopefully nothing too dire had happened in the salon during his absence, even if the break had been nice.
He was just turning to go up the stairs when he saw Geralt walking purposefully towards him, his cane clicking quickly against the floor.
“Jaskier!”
“Oh, hi again!” Jaskier said. “I was just going to head back upstairs, we are still very busy.” He gave Geralt an apologetic smile. There was nothing that he would rather do than stand and talk with Geralt.
Geralt winced. “Then I guess you probably shouldn't have helped me with the appointment.”
“No, no!” Jaskier said quickly. “It was my absolute pleasure, Geralt. And honestly? The salon was driving me a bit insane, so it was quite a nice and much needed break.”
“Well thank you for helping,” Geralt smiled. “I think it went well.”
“It definitely did, darling,” Jaskier said. “She loved the dress, just like I told you she would.”
Geralt rolled his eyes and looked down at his feet, placing both hands on top of his cane. “Actually though, I had something to ask you before you get back to work, if that’s okay. I don’t want to keep you.”
“The only thing you’re keeping me from is crying brides and disapproving mothers, and there is only so much of that that my poor soul can take,” Jaskier said. “I’d rather stay here with you and your-” he cut himself off before he made another terrible slip up. He had already learned his lesson from last time.
“With my magic hands? Or my pretty face?” Geralt asked smugly.
Jaskier sighed, ignoring him. “What was it that you wanted to ask me?”
“I have a plus one for Triss’s wedding next week,” Geralt started.
“And you haven’t asked anyone yet?” Jaskier asked. “Geralt, what have you been doing?”
“...Designing dresses?” he said sheepishly.
Jaskier swore his heart melted. He just looked so cute. How on earth was this allowed?
“Well, you better ask someone,” Jaskier said. “You’re running out of time.”
“Yes I know.” Geralt looked at Jaskier and smiled. “Jaskier, what are you doing next Saturday?”
“Saturday?” Well…” Jaskier trailed off, trying to remember what was coming up. “That is technically my day off, but I might still come in because we have just been so busy and we’re getting a new collection in and I’m going to have to….wait….” his eyes widened as he finally processed what Geralt had been asking him. “Are you….are you asking me..?”
“Would you like to be my plus one to Triss’s wedding?” Geralt asked, his golden eyes somehow sparkling in the atrocious fluorescent lighting.
“ Oh ,” Jaskier gasped. “Yes. Yes I would love to.”
“Great,” Geralt said, breathing an audible sigh of relief. “I’ll pick you up at 1pm. It’s formal. Be ready.”
Oh, Jaskier would be ready alright. He walked back to a salon with a huge smile plastered across his face.
__
may be a ch 2. havent decided. 
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waiting4inspiration · 4 years ago
Text
Darkness before Dawn XVII: Dawn
Summary: Geralt returns to you and admits that he does love you. But when the dawn comes after a long dark time for you, you realize that it seems you can’t have the man you love and your family’s kingdom at the same time.
Warnings: angst, fluff, mentions of murder, mentions of hauntings, itty bitty smut, strong language, magical themes, it’s a bit longer than what I normally write
Word Count: 3,805
Darkness before Dawn Masterlist II The Witcher Masterlist
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No portal opened for Geralt. He waited and waited, but nothing happened. Eventually, he decided to figure out where the hell he is and make the journey back to Eronia and he didn’t care how long that would take. All he cares about is finding out if he managed to save you and if he broke the curse. 
It will take almost a week on horseback to get back to Eronia, Geralt figures out. A week to find out if he failed or succeeded. But, he thought, if he hadn’t heard from Ida in some way it could only mean that something’s happening in the castle. They must be occupied with something else. Something bad most likely. Geralt only hopes that it doesn’t have to do with you. 
There are only so many times where he has failed at a job. And though he knows that he can’t save everyone, there’s still a tinge of guilt and disappointment when that happens. And when it comes to someone whom he has grown close to, someone he’s grown fond of, maybe even come to have love. 
Yes, he’ll admit it. He’s fallen in love with you. 
His affections go deeper than they can ever go with Yennefer and he’ll admit that to Jaskier, Ida, your father. He’ll admit that to you. If he ever sees you again. 
Perhaps it’s a good thing that he’s traveling back to you. It gives him time to think things through. There’s no doubt that things are complicated. You’re the heir to a throne and he’s a Witcher. There’s a good chance Dominic won’t approve of the match and, as Uza said, his sterile nature will prevent you from producing an heir and your father’s line will end. Not to mention what people will say. 
Witchers aren’t normally seen in good light and no relationship can change that. People will talk bad about him - not that he’s used to it - and about you. That’s something he can’t bear to think of. It’s something you don’t deserve. Not after everything you’ve been through now. 
He barely gets his thoughts together when the castle appears in the distance. A week has passed and he hasn’t thought of what he will, or should, do. 
Getting into the city, Geralt sees that things are different than before he left. There seems to be an almost somber atmosphere. People walk around silently, some with sorrow on their faces as they filter out of the temple. Others walk in with flowers in their hands. Geralt knows these are the signs of death from someone in the royal family, especially when he notes the missing flag from the castle. 
His mind goes what he hoped for a week won’t be true and it urges him to speed towards the castle. 
People marvel at his appearance and he hears them saying “There goes the Witcher.” “No doubt he’s here to receive his payment.” Geralt doesn’t pay attention to their words. He just has to know if his suspicions are true or not. 
The guards don’t even stop him from entering the castle. They just stare at him as he passes, pushing the door open so he can walk into the throne room. “It is what she wants and I am instructing you to see it carried out,” Dominic orders a man walking beside him as they cross the hall. 
Upon seeing Geralt, Dominic stops in his tracks and turns to face the Witcher that walks towards him. The man takes this as his time to leave and he does so quickly with a quick bow of his head to the King. 
“Geralt of Rivia. I did not think you would return.” Dominic almost sounds disappointed, something that confuses Geralt for a moment as he comes to stand in front of the King. “No doubt you have come to collect the coin I promised you.”
“No,” Geralt quickly says causing Dominic to frown. “I’ve come to see if (Y/n)- the Princess is alright.” 
Dominic nods his head, his bottom jaw tensing as he turns his gaze across the room. “She’s in the gardens.” Those words make a wave of relief wash over Geralt and he breathes out a silent sigh as Dominic raises his hand to point him in the right direction. “You’re free to see her, if you wish,” he states, giving the Witcher a reassuring nod. 
Geralt turns after nodding thanks in return. You’re alive and that’s all that he needed to know. Hearing that you’re out of your room only means that you’re doing well. Well enough to move around. When he sees you, he can’t stop the smile growing on his face. 
You’re painting, standing by yourself, seemingly stronger than ever. And laughing at the scene in front of you. Jaskier is in a pose with his lute, pretending to serenade Charlotte and making jokes that are the cause of your laughter and your sister’s. You’re in a better state than he thought you would be. 
Jaskier catches Geralt standing in the distance and drops his foot off the bench as he smiles brightly. “Geralt! It’s about time you returned!” Your head snaps over your shoulder at those words and you slowly place your paintbrush down. “I want to hear every detail about how you saved the Princess of Eronia from the claws of death.”
“Jaskier,” Charlotte hisses, grabbing his arm before he can walk towards Geralt and pulls him back. “You can interrogate him later. Give him time with (Y/n), hm?” she suggests, nodding to you as you slowly start to walk forward. 
Seeing how invested you and Geralt are in each other, not really paying attention to anything else around you, Jaskier chuckles as he turns to walk away with Charlotte. 
Geralt walks forward, intending on meeting you halfway. His stare never leaves your face and he can’t stop himself from standing close to you. So close, all he has to do is lean down to close the space between you two so he can kiss you. “You came back,” you whisper, making him smile.
“I needed to know if you were alright,” he says in a low voice, his hand reaching out to take yours resting at your side so he can entwine his fingers with yours. 
You chuckle, drop your gaze to his hand and bite your lower lip. “I’m sorry we didn’t open a portal-”
“I don’t care,” he cuts you off, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters,” he whispers and your eyes flutter shut at the feeling of having him so close to you again. 
“Kurst killed my mother and there was nothing I could do to stop him.” Geralt drops your hand and cups your face in his hands.
Geralt doesn’t feel sorrow for your mother’s death. Not after what she offered him to do. Your mother was a horrid person and she got what was coming to her, he thinks. “It wasn’t your fault.”
You nod lightly, bring your arms up to wrap around his neck. “I’m glad you came back,” you whisper before he leans forward to press his lips to yours.
Knowing that Jaskier and Charlotte might be watching, you use magic to grow a wall of shrubs to block their view and to give you and Geralt some privacy as he deepens the kiss. This is why you came back, why you decided not to stay in the spirit realm. You could never replicate this kiss, this moment. Nothing will ever compare to this, or the next time he’ll kiss you. Being in his arms, under his touch is worth more than a thousand lifetimes. 
You hope it lasts. Knowing Witcher’s nature, they’ll move on to the next job as soon as their current one is done. You hope that Geralt doesn’t do this. You want him to stay in Eronia. With you. You will fight anyone who opposes it because you don’t think you’ll love as you love Geralt. 
If he stays, not sure what he will do. Perhaps he can become your bodyguard. But what a scandal it would be for a Princess to have her lover as her bodyguard. You’re sure you can find a way around this mess once you are queen. Or perhaps, even before then. Surely you can talk to your father about it and hope he will listen to you. 
But, Geralt has other ideas. It’s in your kiss that all that thinking he has done over the week that he finds his answer to what he wants to do. And he pulls back, keeps his forehead pressed against yours as he breathes out a deep sigh. “We need to talk.”
You were afraid he would say that. Still, you know that it has to be done. You’ve learned that almost everything can be solved if you just discuss it. Since you’ve gotten your strength back, you’ve continued learning how to be a Queen and how to rule a kingdom. You’ve learned a lot, but learning about politics will never be as fun as learning new magic spells and conjuring things from thin air. 
“Come with me,” you whisper, leading him out of the gardens and back into the castle. 
He follows as close behind you as he can while avoiding stares from others. He knows the path you’re leading him through goes to your chambers because he’s walked it many times before. And it will always feel great knowing that it’s just you and him, that no one can suddenly disturb you two when you close the door behind you. 
He watches you as you walk towards him, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth and your gaze on your folded hands. He knows that you have a feeling about what he wants to talk about when you don’t look up at him after a while. “We knew this was going to happen-”
“Why does it?” you cut him off, lifting your gaze up to him as letting your hand unfold from each other. “Why can’t you stay?”
Geralt shakes his head, his jaw tensing as he turns his head to look away from you. “You know why.” He knows you’re not stupid. You know why he can’t stay. 
You take a small step forward, reach out to turn his face back to you, make his gaze lock with yours as you rest your hand on his chest. “Tell me anyway,” you challenge, wondering if you can use your skills of persuasion and debate on him to try and get him to stay. But you also have a feeling that his stubbornness will prevail. 
“If I stay, it could ruin your family’s name.” 
That doesn’t sound like his words. It makes you frown and take a small step back, pulling away from him as you stare with a slightly open mouth. “What did my mother say to you?” you ask, feeling that she must have something to do with this. Of all people, you didn’t think that Geralt would care about reputation. Why else would he have kissed you in the first place if he wanted to protect what people think of you and your family? No, reputation was your mother’s thing and you know how her words could ensnare someone’s mind and make them doubt...everything. She must have gotten to Geralt. 
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does because you need to know that she was wrong. Whatever she said to you was wrong and it shouldn’t affect you because she’s dead and I’ve made sure that her body will be burnt to destroy her spirit because I know how powerful her words can be, Geralt,” you ramble, stepping farther and farther away from him as you shake your head in disbelief. 
You thought that with your mother now dead, you wouldn’t have to worry about her affecting your life anymore. You can’t believe that this is happening. Everything seemed to be going well and now she’s trying to take the one thing you want so much away from you. You see her in your dreams, laughing and mocking you, saying that you can’t even get rid of her now that she is dead. She tells you that she will never leave you. And in fear, you’ve ordered that her body be burned instead of buried because you know that fire kills the spirit too. Even though your curse is lifted and you shouldn’t be able to see ghosts anymore, the fear will never leave you. 
Geralt, seeing you retreating from him, takes a step forward and reaches out to take your hand. “Do you love me?” you ask, stepping out of his reach again as his head snaps you to you. 
“I do love you,” he whispers, and his heart almost beats again within the long silence between slow beats. He’s had a week to think about, spend a few nights thinking about it and he doesn’t feel like he’s lying when he says it. 
You take a step closer, drop the concerned look on your face and reach up to touch the side of his face. Your fingers touch the bottom of the scar on his temple as you gaze into his golden eyes. “I would fight for us because I love you too. I would fight for people to accept you more than I would fight for them to accept me, someone with magic prowess, being on the throne because I love you too.”
Word has gotten out about Charlotte’s parentage and how you are next in line for the throne of Eronia now but also that you have taken after your mage Aunt. Long story short, many Kings and queens and Sorcerers aren’t sure whether it is a good idea or not. They’re afraid you could become too powerful as a ruler and a mage. 
Geralt smiles down at you, his head leaning into your touch as he steps closer to you to rest his hand on your hips. Your words won’t change his mind, but he won’t tell you that. It’s best to make you believe you have won this fight. 
He touches his nose to yours, touches your lips with his lightly as his hands run up your sides. You breathe out a shaky sigh, your body trembling at his touch as his hands stop at the laces on the back of your dress. Then, as he pulls on laces, he presses his lips to yours in a kiss that makes your eyes fall shut. 
You feel your dress become loose around your shoulders as he starts to walk backward towards your bed. At the foot of your bed, he turns around so your back faces the bed. His hands travel up your arms so he can take your face in his hands. His kiss grows deeper, your hands drop to start unbuckling his armor. It’s a lot to go through, but it’s not long before you get to the shirt he wears underneath the armor that now lies on the floor with his iron sword. 
Geralt moves the hair away from your neck as he breaks the kiss, tilts his head to kiss along your jaw and then down your neck as you let your dress fall to the ground. Then, he runs his fingers down your naked arms making goosebumps appear and a sigh falls from your lips. He lowers you to the bed, hovering above you as his lips return to yours. 
Your hands fall on his back, pull his shirt up out from being tucked in his pants. And when you touch his skin and trace his scars, he groans against your lips and settles between your legs when he nudges at them with his knee. 
He breaks the kiss for a moment, only to sit up to pull his shirt over his head and toss it to the side. Instead of kissing your lips again, he drops his head in the bend of your neck and kisses down your body. You drop your head against the bed, stare up at the ceiling with your heart hammering in your chest as Geralt’s lips move down the valley between your breasts. “Geralt,” you mutter, your fingers weaving through his hair as you press your body against his. 
You run your hands over his broad shoulders and down his back when he comes back up to kiss your neck, his hand grabbing the back of your thigh and making your leg bend next to him. Pushing his trousers pasted his hips, he moans against your skin. You feel his hardness poking against your thigh and it makes you shake in excitement. 
“I’ll always love you,” Geralt whispers in your ear, making your heart swell and a smile grows on your face. As his lips return to yours, he rolls his hips against yours and slowly pushes his cock into you, making you moan and your eyes roll back in your head. 
And with the sun starting to set outside, the golden light filtering into the room makes the moment between you and Geralt all the more special to you. 
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Geralt watches the sun dawn, his arm wrapped around your shoulder and your head on his shoulder. You’re fast asleep, your naked body pressing against his and the sheet covering your lower body as well as his. He’s glad that no one was looking for you last night because it would have ruined the moment. The moment that he won’t forget and he’s sure you won’t either. It was tender and passionate at the same time. And when you let the moment take you over, you let everything go and it turned out to be the best night he’s had in a long time. 
Turning his head down to you, he takes in a deep breath and slowly leans down to gently kiss the top of your head. As you moan and shift in your spot, Geralt takes that chance to pull his arm out from under you and shift to the edge of the bed. He stares at his armor and clothes lying in a pile on the ground for a moment before looking back at you.
He wishes he didn’t have to do this, but it’s what he decided to do. He wishes he could stay with you, but he has other things to do. He can’t stay in Eronia. 
Slowly and silently, he stands from the bed and starts to put his clothes back on. He leaves his armor off, not wanting to risk waking you up with the cluttering noise. Then he’ll have to explain everything and he can’t see you heartbroken. 
Before he leaves your room with his armor in hand, he looks back at you one last time, glad to see that peaceful look on your face as you breathe shallow breaths. He’s glad he’ll have this image in his mind on his travels. 
He doesn’t even think of collecting his fee from the King. He doesn’t care about that anymore. It’s best if he gets out of Eronia and put it behind him. Most of the castle is still asleep, so it surprises him to see Ida standing beside Roach when he comes to the stables. “I knew you’d be here,” she says, gently petting Roach’s neck as she smiles at Geralt. “Which is why I must ask; Are you sure you want to do this?” 
“I’m sure,” he grumbles, walking past her and placing his armor on a post so he can get his saddle. 
Ida turns around to face him, folds her hands in front of her and steps forward. “And you don’t want to say goodbye to her?” she asks, earning a hard glare from him and she raises her hands in defeat. “Alright, I won’t nag. I’m just saying that things could go a lot smoother if you were honest to her and told her the truth.” Geralt looks away from her as he places the saddle on Roach’s back and starts buckling and tightening the straps. “You know, there is a legend that Witchers only truly love one person in their life,” she mentions, taking a small step towards him when he freezes at her words. “You don’t want to lose something like that if it’s true, do you, Geralt?”
He sighs, drops his head for a moment before he looks at Ida. “No, I don’t,” he murmurs, pulling the last strap tight and then turning around to pick up his armor again. 
Nodding her head, Ida glances down at her hand as she conjures a small, white flower which she hands to the Witcher. “I hope that this will help you find what you’re looking for,” she softly says, her words making Geralt’s eyes snap up from the flower to look at her in surprise. “And you do deserve this too.” She hands him a bulging pouch of coins. His payment. 
Geralt takes both items even though he’s hesitant about the pouch. Still, you can’t buy food without money. “Look after her, Ida,” he grunts as he put the pouch and the flower in a satchel before taking the reins on Roach to lead her out. 
He knows he didn’t have to tell her that. He knows that you’ll be in good hands without him.
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A knock on the door makes your jolt awake with a skip in your heartbeat and before you can tell whoever it is to wait, the door swings open. You grip the sheets close to your body and quickly look down next to you where you expert Geralt to be. And your heart falls in your stomach when you don’t see him. 
“Gods, I knew you had a fun night,” Charlotte playfully teases when she sees the state you’re in but you don’t pay attention to her words. 
Your eyes start to search the room, only to find Geralt’s things gone along with him. It’s like he wasn’t even there. Your head drops and you bite your lower lip when you feel tears starting to surface. Charlotte notices your sadness. “What happened?” she softly whispers, sitting down next to you and places a hand on your covered knee. 
Shaking your head, you look up at her with a forced smile on your face. “He left,” you say, your voice breaking as a sob breaks through your throat. Your hand shoots to your mouth as Charlotte pulls you in for a strong hug. 
“And he didn’t say goodbye?” she asks, gently stroking your back as you lean against her shoulder, sobbing. 
You don’t answer. You don’t say that he did or that he didn’t say goodbye because you guess that last night was his way of doing just that and you didn’t even realize it. 
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some-stars · 3 years ago
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my first fill for @yenraltbingo for the prompt “fisting”! also available here on ao3. content notes: D/s, bondage, edging, and it is, as you might expect, explicit.
*
Yennefer is saying...something.
Geralt doubts she expects a response, given the magical gag in his mouth that’s reduced him to incoherent moans, but he struggles to concentrate on her voice anyway.
"Wow, they think it’s absolute garbage." She flips a page in her magazine and glances up at him. "We saw that one, remember? You liked it more than me, but I thought it was all right."
The invisible hand inside him twists and gyrates as it slides slowly deeper, then back out again. Another muffled whine escapes his mouth, and Yennefer smiles.
She’s been reading movie reviews for...a while. He lost track of time at some point, but apparently she intends to get through the entire magazine. With a mighty effort of concentration, Geralt focuses his hazy gaze on the periodical in her hands and judges that she’s about three quarters through. Belatedly he realizes she’s speaking again, but he only hears the tail end of it. 
"—doing all right over there?" There’s an edge to her voice—not cruel, but a rich dark pleasure that he can almost taste, and the knowledge that she’s enjoying this as much as he is makes him shudder all over as her magic hand moves inside him. It’s big, bigger now than when it first slid in, and every small movement sets off lightning up and down his spine.
"You’re not much of a conversational partner like this, you know," Yennefer tells him with a hint of a smile. "Luckily for you, you have other charms."
He moans obligingly, struggling as much as he can in her invisible bonds that hold his arms and legs tight. None of his movements, of course, do anything to dislodge the fist that’s slowly tormenting him with pleasure. He would have come ages ago if his body had been left to its own devices; as it is, he’s been teetering on the edge for long enough that his desperation almost outweighs how good it feels.
He knows Yen isn’t as uninterested as she seems—he can smell her arousal, has been smelling it for quite a while—but even her feigned indifference to his plight turns him on fiercely. She’d mentioned it as a joke, during the discussion the morning after one late night when he’d deliriously begged for her whole hand while she was fingering him. I could do it from across the room, you know, she’d said. Maybe catch up on some reading. The thought of it had left him instantly hard—Yen taking him apart slowly, luxuriously, and all the time at a cool distance, watching him as he fell to pieces, not even touching him.
Her eyes had lit up at his reaction, much the way they light up now as she watches him pant and writhe. "Oh, Geralt," she says fondly. He feels the hand swell again inside him; he’s so sensitized now that the stretch is almost agony, it burns so good and sweet and hot. "You know," Yennefer says, flipping the magazine shut, "I don’t remember a single thing I’ve been reading about for the past half hour. You are terribly distracting."
Gagged as he is, he can only mumble something resembling an apology. She chuckles.
"It’s all right," she says, and leans forward. For a moment he thinks she’s going to get up—cross the space between them, maybe even touch him—and his cock jerks, spilling another few drops of precome at the hope of release.
But Yennefer sits in her chair and only waves one hand, and the ghost hand inside him speeds up its movement, making him moan loudly. He feels a tear spill from the corner of his eye. Gods, he needs to come, needs it so badly, but part of him wants to stay like this forever, splayed out and wanting and fucked past the point of desperation. Because she loves doing it to him, he knows she does, and that’s almost better than an orgasm. Almost.
"Please," he moans, or something like it, into the soft formlessness that fills his mouth. Yennefer sighs.
"Yes," she says, "I suppose all good things must come to an end eventually. And you have been waiting so politely..." She flicks her hand again, and suddenly the sense of stoppage, of satisfaction just out of reach is gone, replaced by a second invisible hand caressing his straining cock while the first continues its thorough penetration.
It only takes a few strokes before Geralt is coming with a choked-off cry, hips bucking and straining against his bonds as he spills over his own chest. It feels like a long time, and when he finally collapses back against the sheets a wave of exhaustion crashes over him.
That’s not enough, though, to stop his reaction when he resettles his eyes on Yennefer and sees her hand between her legs working furiously and her gaze fixed solidly on him, lips parted and panting.
"Yen—" He surges upwards, finding himself finally free of all restraint, but she holds up her free hand to stop him and he freezes.
"No," she says, her voice slightly hoarse. "Stay there, I want to look at you."
So he sprawls on the bed, obediently still, and lets her look at him as she gets herself off. Maybe she’s been close to the edge herself, because it isn’t long before her eyes flutter shut and she bites her lip, fingers dancing over her glistening cunt, the flush spilling up her chest and throat that he knows means she’s coming.
He waits. Part of him is practically vibrating with how much he wants to touch her, but another part, a larger part, is content to wait, would wait for hours if she wanted, on the bed or in her lap or at her feet.
"Oh," she gasps finally, slowly drawing her hand away, "oh, fuck—oh, Geralt," and then she does stand up, walk over, push him flat on his back with one small hand in the center of his chest. "Fuck," she says again, a tone of reverence in her voice, and when she kisses him he almost melts in her arms with relief.
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jaskierswolf · 4 years ago
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hi wolfie it is i, the ramen man, i was wondering if you could write a prompt based on a baking competition tv show ? maybe even christmas themed if you want ?? no stress if you can't/don't wanna write it, i love u 🥺
This got... long? So you can also find on AO3
__________
Jaskier wasn’t stressed. He’d made this recipe a thousand times. It was his speciality!  No one made better chocolate brownies than he did but his presentation let him down. They were messy, gooey and delicious but this was a competition. They needed to look good too. He whined as he sat in front of his oven. Who made chocolate brownies for a cooking competition? Oh god he was an idiot.
He glanced around the room. Valdo Marx was busy finishing up his winter spiced cake and it smelled absolutely divine; the bastard. Plus he’d brought along some holly sprigs to make the whole thing look a bunch more christmassy. Jaskier had baked some orange slices to decorate his brownies. He also had some edible golden glitter for the top and a few spun sugar decoration for good luck. His secret ingredient though was Cointreau. The orange liqueur kept the brownies extra gooey in the centre without them being too rich.
He stared into the oven, chewing his bottom lip anxiously as he ran a hand through his hair. They were almost done. There was a shiny film over the top that would give the brownies a nice crunch. If he did well with these he would get into the next round; the final round. In that round they hand to create gingerbread houses, well more palaces. They had to absolute architectural masterpieces and he was shitting himself. Like his brownies, his gingerbread tasted amazing but it wasn’t always pretty. They were delicious and wonderful but not much to look at on the surface.
He’d only gotten so far because they tasted good.
“Come on, come on, come on!” He muttered and pressed his face against the glass.
He really needed to at least get to the final. There were smaller cash prizes for all finalists and the publicity from the competition would do wonders for his little bakery.
“How’s it going?” Triss Merigold, one of the presenters asked.
He shrugged. “Not much I can do until it’s finished baking. It always goes much faster when you’re watching this at home.”
Triss laughed. “Clever editing.”
“I just hope I’ve done enough,” he sighed. “Maybe I can charm the judges with my guitar skills instead…”
“Ah yes, they said you play. Is that a hobby?” Triss asked with forced politeness.
Jaskier scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. Well, I wanted to play as a kid. I was going to be the next John Lennon but you know how it is. My gran taught me how to bake and I became addicted. I still write my own songs for my YouTube channel though.”
“Wow! That’s amazing!” Triss made it sound like the least amazing hobby on the planet.
Luckily the oven timer went off at that moment and Jaskier was able to crack on. He pricked the brownies to make sure they were cooked through before setting it aside to cool. Whilst they were cooling he grabbed his tray of sugar decorations and the orange slicer.
“Bakers! You have five minutes!” Triss called out.
“Oh bollocks!” He groaned. He wasn’t going to have enough time to let it cool before decorating. Luckily the brownies tasted better warm but they were also harder to get out of the tin in one piece. He whined pitifully but dug a knife around the edge of the tin before slicing the brownies into the neatest rectangles he could manage. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
The camera man glared at him for swearing but he just stuck his tongue out. He was stressed, he was allowed to fucking swear! They were crumbling in his hands as he moved them to the plates. He cleaned up the crumbs as best as he could before showering them with edible glitter. He arranged the baked orange decorations as best he could so they looked slightly less terrible and then finally delicately placed the spun sugar on the top, only breaking two of the little shits in his hands.
“And stop!” Triss yelled and all the bakers stood back from their stations.
Valdo Marx was smiling smugly. His winter spiced cake looked fucking fantastic. On his other side stood Priscilla. She’d made cupcakes that were elegantly decorated to look like snowflakes, each one slightly different and beautiful. Next to Priscilla was Essi Daven. Her chocolate Yule Log looked amazing, Jaskier almost believed it was a real log.
Oh he was so going out.
He sighed and plastered a fake smile on his face as Yennefer Vengerberg re-entered the room.
“Time’s up bakers. You are apparently the best of the best but only three of you will make the final round. My expectations are high. I’m sure you’ll disappoint.” She smirked at them, violet eyes flashing dangerously. “Sadly, it is not only me that you must impress with these bakes.”
Jaskier felt his eyes widen. Shit, he’d forgotten that they brought in a second judge in this round. The bakers never knew who would be until they were introduced but it was always a famous chef and Jaskier suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe.
“Please welcome, my ex-husband… Geralt.”
Jaskier let out a pitiful whimper as Geralt fucking Rivia entered the room. The man was only his celebrity crush. He would be fine. It was going to be fine and holy shit he was even more gorgeous in real life.
Fuck.
“Now, as I am sure you are all away, Geralt and I have never once agreed on anything except our daughter. So this promises to be fun.” Yen drawled sarcastically.
Geralt chuckled and crossed his arms in front on his chest. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt and Jaskier’s entirely life was suddenly just Geralt’s arms.
They were so big.
“That is precisely why I was invited, Yen,” Geralt muttered with a fond smile. “Evens out the vote.”
“My vote is fine on its own.”
“Hmm. We’ll see.”
Jaskier zoned out the rest of the conversation as the other bakers made their way to the front to be judged. He was too entranced by the god stood before him. The long silver hair that was pulled up into a bun, revealing the oh so sexy undercut. Jaskier watched Geralt’s lips part as he tasted one of Priscilla’s cupcakes. He got some frosting stuck on the corner of his lips and Jaskier desperately wanted to help him lick it off, but instead Geralt’s tongue flicked out to catch it. Jaskier was weak.
He zoned back in long enough to notice with great satisfaction that Valdo’s cake was under-baked and a little bit shit, not even holly could save it. So Jaskier was still in with a chance, and then it was his turn. He was hoping the brownies would still be warm. If they’d cooled down too much then his presentation would probably fuck him over.
“Buttercup?” Yennefer raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “If you could stop drooling over my ex for two seconds, tell us about your… brownies?”
Jaskier’s fingers flexed and he tugged nervously at the edge of his shirt. “Ah yes. Umm. Hi,” He stammered and blushed as Geralt winked at him. “Brownies, orange. Chocolate orange brownies,” he swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. “I used dark chocolate mostly but there are chocolate orange chunks in there too, any orange flavoured chocolate is good. Orange zest, orange juice and umm.. oh ah, orange liqueur.”
“Aren’t you concerned the orange will overpower the chocolate?” Yen asked sharply.
Jaskier shrugged. “I make these every year. They sell well at the bakery.”
“Smells good,” Geralt noted.
“The presentation is shocking,” Yennefer countered.
“Yeah,” Jaskier admitted with a sheepish smile “but I can do better. If you give me a chance.”
Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re running out of chances.”
“Yeah but I’m cute.” The words fell from his lips before he could stop them. He clapped his hand over his mouth and blush furiously. “I am so sorry!”
“Hmm.”
“Let’s just taste them shall we?” Yen suggested.
Jaskier nodded, still hiding behind his hands. “Please.” He felt a hand on his shoulder and he yelped.
“Relax, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured in a low voice.
Jaskier’s blush deepened and he smiled up at Geralt. Oh those eyes were like honey, so warm and inviting. There was still a small smudge of frosting on his lips that Jaskier hadn’t noticed before but now he couldn’t stop staring. He wondered if Geralt tasted as sweet as he looked. “Thanks, Geralt.”
“Geralt, stop flirting and taste the freaking brownie.”
“Yes, dear,” Geralt sighed.
Geralt took a bite of his brownie and fucking moaned. A quiet whimper escaped Jaskier’s lips. God he was going to melt on national television but he didn’t care. He’d had a chance to meet his favourite celebrity and Geralt had liked his baking! It was honestly life goals. The only thing he had left to tick off was his wedding to Geralt by the coast. That had always seemed like an unreachable fantasy that helped him sleep at night but now Geralt was right in front of him… it didn’t seem quite so far away.
“Fuck,” Geralt moaned. Jaskier chuckled, that would have to be beeped out in the final cut. “This is amazing!”
Yennefer looked surprised as she tried her own forkful of brownie. “Not bad, buttercup. Not bad at all. It melts in your mouth.”
“And the orange is actually subtler than I expected.” Geralt gave him a fond smile and Jaskier had to remind himself how to breathe.
“Ah, umm. Thanks, Thank you, Geralt.”
“It looks like dirt,” Yennefer said cooly “but it tastes heavenly. Presentation has always been your weakness, Jaskier.”
Jaskier’s eyes widened. Yennefer hadn’t called him ‘Jaskier’ since the first round when Triss had mentioned it was Polish for buttercup. “I know. I know!” He whined.
“If you get through to the final then you will fail miserably unless you can change that,” she added with a raised eyebrow.
“Taste won’t save you, no matter how cute you are,” Geralt smirked.
“I know. Wait hang on what?!” Jaskier stammered at Geralt’s words.
“You did good, buttercup. Well done.” Yennefer said firmly and rolled her eyes. “We’re done here.”
“Thank you, Yennefer, Geralt,” He nodded, definitely not still blushing as his gaze landed back on Geralt. “Thank you.”
____________
Jaskier screamed into the cushions as he threw himself down on the sofa. He’d fucking done it! He was in the final! He’d never imagined in a million years! Not to mention that Geralt Rivia thought he was cute. He wondered if he would be able to get Geralt’s autograph or whether that was just weird considering he was one of the judges.
“Jaskier?”
Jaskier rolled over so he could see Geralt, forgetting that the sofa wasn’t that wide and falling onto the floor. “Oh fuck!”
“Are you alright?” Geralt asked as he came over to help him stand up. Jaskier gripped Geralt’s forearm as he was pulled to his feet.
All other thoughts left his mind as he stared at the muscles in Geralt’s arms.
“Arms…” He blurted out. “I mean! Shit. Umm, oh god.”
Geralt just laughed and steadied him on his feet. “Look, I wanted to ask…. once the show is over and I’m no longer a judge. Did you want to get dinner?”
Jaskier gaped at Geralt. “I’m sorry what?”
“Unless I’ve completely misread the situation. Fuck. Sorry. Look you can say no, I won’t score you worse because of it,” Geralt paled and crossed his arms in front of his  chest. “We’ll pretend this never happened.”
“No, Geralt wait!” Jaskier grabbed his arm. “Yes, ask me again after the final but yes. Dinner sounds great.”
Geralt smiled faintly and nodded. “Great.”
“Great,” Jaskier repeated. “It’s a date!”
Geralt nodded again. “I have to go. We shouldn’t be seen alone together until after the final.”
“Yeah, yeah. Of course.”
“Good luck, Jaskier.”
Jaskier grinned dopily as he watched Geralt walk away. It looked like Christmas magic was a real thing after all. “Yeah, you too.”
Wait. You too? Oh fuck it. _____________ Tag list: @alwenarin @slythnerd @davidtennan-t @flippinfricks @innocentcinnamonpun @marvagon @elliestormfound @geraskier-trashh @panerato @moonysourenza @artistsfuneral @victorieschild @hailhailsatan @wherethewordsare @havenoffandoms @bitchy-witchy-post-mortem @electricrituals @geralt-of-riviass @00qtee @kittynannygaming @stinastar @scribblesonmapleleaves @thecomfortofoldstorries @fontegagrilledcheese @anythinggoesfandoms @veritasrose @trickstermoose67 @nonegenderleftpain @ohheytheremiss @kueble @love-more-today-than-yesterday @kozkaboi
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viking-raider · 4 years ago
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HILL MANOR - Part V + Epilogue
Summary: You attend your first real ball. Henry and you share a common vision that ends up helping break the curse that could result in his death. You finally find out who murdered your father.
Pairing: Henry Cavill/You
Word Count: 14,702
Part: I II III IV
Rating: M - Language, Blood, Light Smut, Angst, Fluff, Cotton Candy Goodness, Nightmares, Happy Ending, Outlander and Sherlock Holmes Quotes
Inspiration: I’ve been wanting to do a Fic like this for some time.
Author’s Note: Thanks to the lovely @wondersofdreaming for being an excellent ear and genius to brainstorm with and beta this. You’re amazing! Tell me what you think!
Tag List: @jennylovelyheart, @peakygroupie, @jessevans, @rosie-loves-things, @ohjules, @mary-ann84, @omgkatinka, @the-freak-cassie-131, @heelsamizayn, @agniavateira, @cap-barnes, @romyr4, @michelehansel, @kaatelyyynn, @badassbaker, @mrsaugustwalker, @authentic-bish-face, @rizeandvibe, @severuined, @supernaturalvikingwhore, @bellastellaluna, @wondersofdreaming, @thisisntmyrightera, @michelle-1185, @winchwm, @royallylazy, @sofiebstar, @worldicreate, @agniavateira, @fantasygirlsuniverse, @witches-of-discovery-a, @xuxszx, @ayamenimthiriel, @keiva1000, @fantasygirlsuniverse, @itsreigns, @constip8merm8, @scorpionchild81, @mylifefallingupthestairs, @onlyhenrys, @luclittlepond, @ellixthea, @lebguardians, @geralt-yennefer-jeskier, @cherrybloomn, @p3nny4urth0ught5, @iloveyouyen, @hollydaisy23, @mcuimagination, @psychosupernaturalhero, @sweetlybigdragonn, @whitewolfandthefox, @moviemonzy, @the-soot-sprite, @hell1129-blog, @trippedmetaldetector, @captaingothgirl1996, @dont8mind8me8eue, @peaky-marvel, @desperate-and-broken21, @monstersnmoney, @dancingwendigo, @redhot-mystacism, @thereisa8ella, @black-ninja-blade, @oddduckthatgirl, @rosewinx, @henrythickcavill, @tinabean37, @hnryycvll, @msblkfire84, @romangenesius, @emelinelovesjc, @strangerliaa, @lovieebby, @pinksdaydream, @fanfictionaddiction99, @seb-owns-these-tatas, @oh-for-fic-sake, @henrycavill-yes, @daddys-littlewhitegirl, @elixasays, @magdelen69, @a-wxnderless-mind​, @cosmoeticss​, @inanna999​, @coloraturadiva​, @alexakeyloveloki​ @henry-owns-these-tatas​, @kinbhot4henners​, @escalatorpeep​
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The carriage pulled up out front of the Manor and you smiled seeing the Cavill family crest on the door, the well-dressed and immaculate driver in his seat at the front and the groom, who stepped off the back of the carriage to open the door for you and Henry. Henry appeared beside you, dressed sharply, and smiled at you, seeing your giddiness to attend your first proper ball. He kissed your cheek and stepped into the carriage with you and the driver got the horses going.
“Are you ready, my dove?” Henry asked, stepping out of the carriage and offering his hand to you.
“I am.” You replied, taking his hand and stepped out of the carriage, looking up at the grand house of architect, John Douglas, who had just finished moving into the house after two years of building it in his signature and popular fashion.
“Wow, it's really gorgeous.” You commented on it.
“That it is.” Henry agreed, looping his arm with yours, your hand resting on his forearm as you walked up, the sound of music and people flowing out of the open double doors.
You couldn't help the wonder in your big and bright eyes, it was like nothing you had seen before. The house was so grand, it was big and spacious, the endless sea of candles made the marble floors glitter with the Douglas family crest in tile on the floor, huge crystal and gold, twenty-eight candle chandeliers were in nearly every room, the rugs and tapestry were the finest Turkish and Persian that could be found and bought, gold sconces lining the walls at appropriate distances, two dual spiral staircases of highly polished ash wood with wrought iron banisters gave the foyer and cavernous feel in all its splendor. Henry grinned at your almost child-like wonder and excitement over the house, like you opened the best present under the Christmas tree.
“Ah!” A voice called, startling you out of your amazement and your eyes found Elizabeth Edmunds-Douglas, John's wife, the pair who had been married shortly before you and Henry married, after a three year courtship. “Mr. and Mrs. Cavill, how lovely of you to make it.” She cooed at you both, kissing cheeks with you, in greetings.
“It was very nice of you to invite us, Mrs. Douglas.” You replied, returning her greeting.
“Oh, by all means, please call me Effie.” She laughed, playfully slapping you on the arm.
“I'm going to see if one of my brothers are here.” Henry said, bringing his mouth close to your ear. “Will you be all right?” He whispered, glancing at your eyes.
“I'll be fine.” You assured him, kissing his cheek.
“Madam.” He smiled at Effie, bowing his head politely, before vanishing into the crowd.
“I absolutely love your dress.” Effie exclaimed, looking you over.
You were wearing a blue-gray, sleeveless, off the shoulder and patterned ball gown, matching ribbons in your hair and tied in a bow around your wrists, the turquoise and cooper dangling earrings Henry had bought you hung from your earlobes, with the newest addition to your jewelry box; an oval Ceylon and white sapphire pendant necklace, tying in the rest of your outfit with silvery-gray flats. You and Heather had scoured catalogs and dressmaker shops for the latest fashions for dresses, then had the dress you were wearing made in time for the ball at the Douglas's.
“Thank you so much.” You blushed, nodding your head to her, graciously.
“So, tell me.” Effie lowered her voice and leaned in closer to you. “Is it true, your father was murdered?” She asked, eyes panning around as if she was going to find the killer in the crowd.
“I-”
“Y/n!” Heather's voice chimed behind you. “You look amazing” She complimented you, giving you a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Oh, hello, Effie.” She smiled at the hostess, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek. “It's such a lovely party you have going tonight, and the house is so marvelous.”
You let out a soft breath of relief, grateful that Heather saved you from an awkward and painful conversation, that Effie would no doubt go and recount to the rest of the ladies at the party. Heather's stealthy glance at you, tells you that she knew where Effie was going, and you gave her a soft and thankful smile. Heather stayed by your side as Effie showed you both where the ladies were congregating, you took a glass of wine from the platter a waiter was carrying around the various occupied rooms and sat down in a comfortable chair in the circle of ladies, listening to them talk about household issues, fashion ideas, books they had read, their children and whatever else came up. You were really enjoying yourself, the camaraderie in the group of ladies, they were warm and welcoming to you, not like the parties your parents threw at Long Haven where everyone ignored you like the plague or did their best to be rude and impolite.
“Y/n, you and Mr. Cavill are just recently married, were you not?” one of the ladies, Mona, asked, turning her attention to you.
“Yes.” You nodded, taking a fortifying sip of your wine. “We've been married two months this week.” You informed her, nervously licking your lips.
“How are you finding it?” She asked, lifting a brow at you.
“Marriage?” You frowned at her. “I am finding it quite well. I rather enjoy being married, especially to Henry. He's very loving and attentive of me.”
“So, you suggest it?” Mona continued, and you felt like she was trying to trap you into something.
“I do, if you find the right man.” You replied, standing your ground and giving her a look that told her you weren't going to play a childish game with her.
Mona dropped whatever it was she was trying to pull out of you and the conversation turned back to something more lively and appropriate. It wasn't long afterwards, though, the dancing started and the husbands appeared to whisk their wives away to the dance floor. You smiled at Henry as you took your place on the dance floor with him, glad to be in his presence again.
“How are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, taking the lead as you danced.
“Very much.” You assured him, relaxing under his hands and guidance. “Are you?” You asked back.
“Not as much.” He replied with a smirk.
“And why is that?” You asked, lifting a brow.
“Because, I'd rather enjoy the night with you.” He confessed, an impish glint in his eyes.
“Then, why don't you?” You giggled up at him.
“I think I will.” He purred, bending his head to kiss you lightly on the lips. “Would you like a glass of champagne?” He asked, when the song ended.
“I would, thank you.” You nodded, moving off the dance floor with him.
“I'll be right back, then.” He smiled, kissing your cheek and going off to fetch some.
You shivered as a cold chill streaked down your back and turned around, expecting an open window, but instead found, with a startled gasp, the milky whiteness of an apparition. You could see your reflection in the tall, gilded wood mirror behind him, he was mostly solid from the head to the very top of his thin shoulders, then slowly became less so, until his mid-waist, where his hips and legs vanished completely. The only color on him was his black eyes and the floating wisps of blood from the gaping wound from a slit in his throat; his obvious cause of death.
He opened his contorted mouth and made a god awful sound that made your skin heat up and crawl, taking a deep breath you turned on your heels and headed straight out the open veranda doors and into the backyard of the Douglas estate, the white gravel crunching under the thin leather soles of your flats. Henry returned, holding the two glasses of champagne he promised, but found you not where he had left you. Setting the glasses down on a nearby table, he panned the room for you and just caught a split glimpse of you quickly retreating along the walkway looping the back garden.
Frowning, Henry made his way out there, using the advantage of his long legs to catch up with you. “Y/n?” He called out, when he was close enough, not wanting to startle you.
You stopped in your tracks, turning to look back at him and allowing Henry to see the frustrated expression on your face and the glassy darkness of your eyes. “I just needed some air. I didn't mean to abandon you.” You told him, your voice weak with unshed tears.
Henry shook his head at the silly notion. “Nonsense.” He assured you, brushing the pad of his thumb over your cheek. “What is it?” He asked, concerned.
“Just one night.” You sighed, shoulders slumping. “Just one bloody night, that's all I ask. One night without them bothering my peace and happiness.”
“Hm.” He nodded, pressing his lips together, understanding immediately. “I must admit, I didn't think there would be one, in such a new house.” He commented, tucking your hand into the crook of his elbow and continued walking with you.
“I'm not sure it is the house, more the grounds.” You elaborated, catching the sight of a small child, standing at the edge of the treeline surrounding the house and grounds. “Was there a house here, before Mr. Douglas owned the land?” You asked, lifting a brow at him.
“Yes, I believe so.” Henry replied, his brow creasing as he thought it over. “It was smaller and didn't contain as much land, as it does now. If I remember correctly, a widow lived here by himself after his wife died and his children moved away, but that was some years back.” He explained to you, the crease melting away as he looked down at you.
“Makes sense.” You answered, resting your shoulder against his.
“How about one more dance, then we'll return home.” Henry suggested, looking up at the darkening sky and bright thumbnail moon.
“I don't want to ruin your fun.” You replied, looking up at him, troubled.
“My love, my fun and happiness is wherever you are.” He smiled at you, pulling you to a stop and cradling your head in his hands. “I love you.” He whispered, kissing you softly on the lips. “So very much.”
“I love you, just as much.” You whispered back, returning his kiss.
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You hummed happily, as you lay naked on top an equally naked Henry, back at home in the perfect bliss of your bed chambers. Fingertips tracing circles and swirls over his chest and collarbone, ear pressed to the space above his heart, the steady and strong beat so reassuring and soothing.
“You are so beautiful.” Henry whispered, breaking the peaceful silence between you, brushing his fingers through your loose hair and chuckled as you blushed. “What? It's true.”
“Oh, I believe you.” You giggled, resting your chin on his chest, to look up at him.
“Then, why are you blushing?” He laughed, touching his fingertips to your warmed cheek.
“I don't know.” You replied, blushing even harder.
Laughing again, Henry rolled over and wrapped your legs around his waist, kissing at your neck and chest. You sighed softly, melting beneath him, brushing your fingers through his sweat damp curls and over his back, gripping his thrusting hips. Spent between attending the ball and staying up to the wee hours of the morning, you and Henry fell soundly asleep in each other's arms, content and satisfied.
You gasped, eyes shooting open and gulped down the thick wad of anxiety that had formed in your throat, then relaxed back against your pillow, the nightmare you were having still all too real and fresh in your mind. Sighing and glancing at Henry from the corner of your eye, he laid on his stomach beside you, arms folded under his head. You threw back the covers, pulled on a robe and went downstairs to the kitchen, not bothering to wake Abby, as you made yourself a glass of warm milk and started back upstairs with it. A bang somewhere, either outside or in, startled you, causing you to drop the full glass.
“Christ.” You sighed, rolling your eyes at your own silliness, you knelt down to start picking up the pieces of broken glass.
“Niece.”
“Good God.” You jerked and accidentally cut your finger with a piece of glass, blood dripping into the spilled milk. “Helena.” You sighed, glaring up at her as she stood in the doorway of the sitting room. “How are you even here?” You asked, annoyed with her persistence in troubling your life and marriage.
“Ruby Red.” Helena hissed back at you, then vanished as Abby's footsteps came into the room.
“Milady, are you well?” She asked, standing behind you.
“Yes.” You nodded, dropping your eyes back to the floor. “I just came down for some warm milk, and accidentally dropped the glass.” You told her, standing up.
“You've cut yourself.” Abby gasped, taking your bloody hand in hers.
“Very clumsy of me, I know.” You frowned back.
“Come, allow me to bandage it for you.” She begged you, pressing a handkerchief from her pocket around it. “I'll clean this mess up afterwards.”
“Very well.” You nodded, giving into her well meaning gesture.
Abby guided you back into the kitchen and had you sit down on a stool, at the long table there and disappeared for a moment, coming back with a small roll of bandages and a small vial of antiseptic. “It will sting for a moment.” She warned you, uncorking the vial and pouring a bit of it on your cut, making you hiss and tense up in response.
“My apologies, milady.”
“It's not your fault, Abby.” You assured her, watching her carefully bandage your finger.
“Are you all right, milady?” Abby asked again, moving about the kitchen and pulling out a teapot, filled it with water and set it on the stove to heat. “You seem very troubled, if I may be so frank.”
“You may.” You nodded, picking at the edge of your bandage.
“Is it with my Lord?” She dared to ask, brewing you both a cup of tea.
“Gods no.” You shook your head at her. “Henry's incredible. He's very doting, loving, attentive and supportive of me, in all things. I have only ever felt love and devotion from him.” You assured her, gratefully taking the steaming cup from her and nodding your head to the stool beside you.
“Then, what troubles you so?”
You chuckled, sipping your tea, if only this woman knew and understood the things you toiled with, you thought, glancing out the open kitchen door to the spilled milk and blood on the foyer floor. No matter where you went or were going, there was always a ghost stalking you, lurking over your shoulder; whether they said anything to you or not, and most of the time they didn't need to, you just felt it, as if it was your own.
“By my father's death, mostly.” You finally admitted, you had been so consumed in trying to find out the cause and resolution of the Curse, that your father's death and his murderer, still at large, had been pushed to the back of your mind, but it still nagged you in every way possible. “I fear that his killer will never be found and put to justice. That his poor soul will forever be restless.”
Abby frowned down at her cup, pressing her lips together. “I can not say I understand your pain, though I understand the loss of a father. My own father died, when I was just a wee lass of eight.”
“How did he die?” You inquired, lifting a brow at her.
“Consumption.” She sighed, taking a sip of her tea. “Took him quickly, but painfully.”
“I am so sorry.” You frowned, resting your hand on hers. “It isn't easy losing a loved one.”
“That it is not, milady.” Abby nodded, warmed by your kind affection. “I will pray, before returning to bed, that your father's spirit will find his just rest.”
You smiled gently at her, squeezing her hand. “I thank you, and will do the same for yours.” You promised.
After finishing your tea and thanking Abby for her kindness, you went back upstairs to bed, but frowned finding Henry laying on his back and blankets kicked off his naked body in agitation, throwing his head side to side with an expression pinched in anguish and distress, a heavy sweat pouring from his forehead. You quickly crawled into bed with him, wiping his face with the sleeve of your robe and rubbed his heaving chest.
“Ssshh, my love.” You cooed at him, affectionately, brushing his damp curls off his forehead as more droplets of sweat collected there. “It's all right, my sweet puppy.” You stroked the side of his face, trying to soothe and calm him. “It's only a dream.” You murmured, kissing his cheeks.
“No!” Henry suddenly screamed, bolting up right.
“It's all right, Henry.” You called to him, hugging him with one arm and rubbing his back with the other, feeling him shiver against you, the cool air of the room wafting over his sweaty body. “Ssshhh, you're all right now, Puppy.” You cooed at him, kissing his hair and temple, gently.
Henry panted and gasped for air.
“Come, lay your head, man.” You whispered to him.
Turning in your arms, Henry wrapped his arms around you, pulling you down on the bed and laid half over you, his face pressed to your chest, taking slow deep breaths, calming himself with the warmth of your body and the scent of your skin. You relaxed, cuddling and cradling his muscular body against your dainty one, rubbing the back of his tousled hair with the palm of your hand and humming a soft tune that Grace would hum to you, when you had a nightmare.
“I'm sorry.” Henry whimpered against the skin of your breast, nuzzling his head between them. “I didn't mean to wake you.”
You chuckled softly, running your fingers from his forehead to the nape of his neck. “I was already awake, love.” You assured him, soothingly. “What were you dreaming of?”
“Blood.” He sighed, pressing his ear to your ribcage, to the beating of your heart. “Blood, that was everywhere,--”
“Leaking from the walls and dripping from the ceilings, filling the room like a pond.” You added in, your eyes losing focus as you remembered the nightmare that had woken you, an hour before.
Henry tilted his head back to look up at you. “You had the same dream?” He asked, surprised.
“I did.” You nodded, licking your lips. “But,” You sighed and shook your head. “It's just a dream, Puppy. None of it is real, don't let it bother you now.” You whispered to him.
“And you?” Henry purred back, squeezing his arms around your waist.
“I'm used to such things, love. You know that.”
“Doesn't make it any better, Nugget.” He replied, a teasing smile on his full lips.
“No, but it'll do.” You chuckled, kissing his forehead and thinking about what Helena said to you downstairs.
Ruby Red.
Whatever was she hinting at?
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“You'll be back as soon as I can!” Henry called out to you as he got ready to head out the door.
“That's fine!” You called back to him, getting dressed for the day.
“What do you have planned today?” He asked, popping into the room and searching for something.
“I'm going over to Manchester.” You replied, adjusting your skirts.
“What for?” Henry frowned, pausing for a second to look at you.
“To visit a library.” You elaborated, satisfied with your skirts and turned to look back at him.
“We have a library here in Chester, Manchester is an hour away, both ways.” He pointed out, shaking his head as he continued his search for whatever he wanted.
“I know, but Chetham's Library has something specific I want and being the oldest library in Britain, it's libel to have it. I'm sure they have it, I sent a telegram to them a few days ago inquiring about it and they sent me a reply yesterday afternoon to express they had it in stock and would hold it for me.” You explained to him, watching him move about the room.
“What are you looking for?”
“My cuff-links.” He huffed, frustrated.
“They're where you left them, you silly boy.” You chuckled, going to the drawer of his desk and pulled out the silver links with his initials. “You put them there after the Morris' party last week.”
“What would I do without you?” Henry smirked as you secured his cuff-links.
“Probably be half naked and disheveled.” You giggled.
“I love you.” He smiled, cupping your face in his hands and kissed you, holding you close for a long moment.
You rested your hands on Henry's waist and stood there with him, feeling the warm and safe bubble that always formed around you both, when you were in close proximity. “I love you too.” You whispered back. “And might I add, you look absolutely dashing in a three-piece suit?” You said, looking him over in the navy blue three-piece suit with a charcoal gray dress shirt.
“So handsome.” You hummed, biting your lip.
“As long as you think so.” Henry chuckled, kissing your forehead. “Be careful on your way to Chetham's.” He added, stepping away from you to take his jacket back up off the end of the bed.
“I will.” You assured him, taking up your hat, pinning it in your hair and headed out to the carriage waiting to take you to Manchester. “Morning, Brandon.” You smiled at the driver as he handed you inside.
“Morning, Mrs. Cavill.” Brandon smiled back, closing the carriage door after you and hopped up into the driver's spot.
The hour's drive to the library in Manchester wasn't altogether unpleasant, you had never seen this part of England before and it was nice to see the rolling hills and small towns you went through on your way there, you felt the small world you were locked in for so long start to expand around you. You didn't think it was possible to feel any freer than you had already in marrying Henry, but found it pleasant to be proven wrong.
“I shouldn't be too long, Brandon.” You said, stepping out of the carriage and into the library, the pleasant smell of books greeting your nose, as you made your way to the front desk.
“Hello, Ms.” the Librarian smiled at you. “How can I help you?” She asked.
“I'm Mrs. Cavill, I sent a telegram the other day inquiring after a book that I was told was in and waiting for me to pick up.”
“Yes, of course.” She nodded, standing up from her stool behind the counter and bustled into a backroom for a few moments before coming back with a two-hundred page book in her hand. “Here you are, Mrs. Cavill. The Accurate Account of the Pendle Witches.” She said, reading off the spine. “An interesting subject.” She commented, getting you set to take the book with you.
“It is.” You agreed, nodding. “Just doing some research on family.”
“Was your family witches?” She asked, lifting a startled brow at you.
You chuckled, shaking your head. “No, quite the opposite.” You told her, amused.
“Witch hunters, then?”
“That's the rumor, I'm hoping to discover.” You replied, taking the book from her. “Thank you.” You smiled at her.
“Of course, have a good day, Mrs. Cavill.” She bid you, going back to her work.
Getting back to the house and getting Abby to brew you a pot of tea, you went up to your library and settled in with the book, flipping open to the index page, running your finger down the chapters and the witches they were named after, until you found Helena's, then went to that chapter. You started by skimming through the twenty page chapter, seeing if anything jumped out at you, and froze at the last page of the chapter, noting her burial.
'With justice brought to the head witch and murderess, Helena Shaw, her remains were interred in her family plot, in East Park Cemetery, London.'
You frowned, blinking at the yellowed page, why would Helena be buried in the family plot, when her brother, Walter, was the one that gave her up to the mob, who would then burn her at the stake on the family property; it didn't make sense at all. Confused, you flipped back to the start of the chapter and started reading it completely. By the time you finished the chapter, you didn't learn much of anything you didn't already know and only gave you more questions than you already had. You had just opened the front cover of the book, to start from the beginning, when rushed footsteps came down the hall and Maggie appeared in the doorway of your library, all out of breath, flushed and looking wild eyed.
“What is it, Maggie?” You asked, setting your book on the small table by the arm of your chair.
“It's Mr. Cavill.” She gasped, trying to catch her breath.
“What of him?” You gulped, feeling her anxiety start to infect you.
“There's been an accident at the mine.” She told you, all rushed out in one weak breath.
“Oh god!” You gasped, jumping up from your chair, gathered up your skirts and rushed down the hall with her, heading for the door. “Henry!” You cried, seeing him coming up the front steps with Charlie and Simon, a bleeding cut on his forehead.
“I'm all right, love.” He smiled at you, still his happy-go-lucky self. “I'm fine, y/n. I promise, it's nothing serious.” He assured you, catching you up in his arms and hugging you tight. “It was just a minor rock fall, nothing serious or dangerous.”
“It doesn't take much to kill someone, Henry. Especially with a head wound.” You fretted, gently holding his head in your hands and checking the cut at the edge of his hairline. “You'll need stitches, no doubt.” You sighed, relieved he was all right.
“I can have Abby do it.” He told you, kissing your forehead. “Did you get the book you wanted from Manchester?” He asked, as he sat in the sitting room with a glass of brandy after Abby stitched up his wound.
“I did.” You nodded, sitting close to him.
“What book did you get?” He asked, sipping his drink with groan as his head throbbed.
“The Accurate Account of the Pendle Witches, circa. 1680.” You replied, wincing as you heard him groan.
“There's a book on Helena and the Witches?” Henry frowned at you, surprised, then hissed as it pulled on his stitches.
“There is, they were the most public English Witch Trials the country has ever seen.” You explained to him. “But, this was the only copy of the book not in a private collection.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“Um, nothing we didn't already know about them.” You sighed, staring down at your glass of wine. “But, there is one thing.” You whispered, ringing your finger around the rim of the glass.
“What is it?” He asked, scooting to the edge of his seat.
“I don't know who, or if it was misinformation, but according to the book, Helena was buried in my family's plot, in East Park Cemetery.”
“Your family, no offense, allowed her to be burned at the stake for being a witch and murderer, then turned around and buried her in the sacred family cemetery?” He tried to grasp what you were telling him.
“Yes.” You nodded, taking a gulp of your wine.
“Have you ever noticed the other plots there?” He asked. “Seen, if it's true?”
You let out a deep breath and lifted your eyes at Henry, giving him a look that he instantly understood; you had hardly left Long Haven property long enough to visit the summer house in Suffolk, you had only seen the area of the cemetery your family was buried in long enough to bury your father, and then you weren't looking anywhere else.
“I have to go into London, next week, on business at the Port. Why don't you come with me, and we'll visit the cemetery to see her plot for ourselves?” He suggested, finishing off his brandy. “Be our own little detectives.” He smirked, trying to lighten your mood.
“I can go for a distraction.” You smiled softly at him.
“Good.” He smiled back, gently patting your knee.
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The cool sea air felt good as it whipped your skirts around your feet, you always got a faint whiff of it back at Long Haven, but you were too far for the full experience of it, and now that you did, you were smitten with the sea. Henry smiled over at you as he spoke to the captain and first mate to one of the many ships the Munro Shipping Company had in its employment. You stood on the pier, gripping the railing as you looked out over the water and waves, watching the seagulls dive at the water and the tangles of kelp floating by.
“Beautiful, is it not?” Henry asked, stepping up beside you at the railing, and took a deep breath of sea air.
“Completely.” You nodded, smiling up at him.
Henry rested his arm around your waist, his hand cupping your hip. “I would love to take you to St. Helier one day.” He said, softly. “Show you where I was born, take you to my favorite beaches there.”
“I would be delighted to see it.” You replied, gently smiling at the thought of it.
Henry smiled down at you, touched. “Shall we go see Helena?” He asked, a playful sparkle in his blue eyes.
“I am.” You chuckled, nodding at him.
It was a short fifteen minute carriage ride to the cemetery, then four or five minutes to reach the part of the forest of tombstones and mausoleums the McFayden section of the East Park Cemetery. It was beautiful, it was shaded by three large willow trees, it was cool beneath them, their canopies shielding the area from the cloudless sun.
One side of the section was reserved for the members of your family that wished to be buried in the ground and the other half held a large mausoleum. Your, however many, great-grandparents were the first to be buried in the mausoleum and held the prime and honored tomb in the center of it, both buried in a large marble coffin with their likenesses carved on top of the lid, their names, dates of birth and deaths stamped on a polished brass plate on the foot of the coffin.
Henry pushed open the wrought iron gate leading into the mausoleum and stepped aside, allowing you to go inside first. You paused, looking up at the McFayden name chiseled into the marble header above the doorway, gulped thickly and steeling yourself, you stepped inside the dank and musty air of the enclosed space, almost three hundred years of decaying flesh and dusty bones, even with the scent the mausoleum was still immaculate, the upkeep your family paid handsomely for. Sighing, you walked around the circular room, looking up and down the curving wall, five coffins high, several where still empty and open, the front panel waiting to seal in its new occupant the day of their funeral.
“I don't see her name in here.” Henry said, his voice echoing from the other side of the mausoleum.
“Or here.” You replied, meeting him in the middle. “I suppose she's outside.” You added, touching your fingertips to the chiseled name of your father on the panel that housed his coffin and body. “It's incredible to think it's been almost seven months since he died.” You whispered, a shiver running down your back; seven months for his death and six months, since you and Henry married.
“It's a wonder, where the time goes.” He agreed, staring at your father's name.
“It stops for the dead and keeps going for the living.” You whispered, turning and stepping back out into the fresh air and shade.
You stood there for several moments, eyes closed and breathing in the cool air, clearing out the musty smell inside the mausoleum out of your nostrils, before moving to the tombstones of the opposite side of the area; walking up and down the eight or nine rows. You were starting to think the book had it wrong, when you noticed a much neglected head stone against the brick wall that defined the borderline of the cemetery. A very cold chill raced down your spine as you neared it, your twisting gut telling you what it was before you ever reached it. The front of the stone was faded and very worn, but you could still just make out the letters of Helena's name.
Helena Marie McFayden-Shaw Born 30th of October 1588 Died 23rd of August 1613
“She ain't there there, you know.” A voice startled you. “Sorry, Miss.” An elderly gentleman apologized, tipping his dusty and tattered bowler hat at you.
You blinked at him, hand pressed to your pounding heart. “What do you mean not there?” You asked, finding your voice. “Her headstone is, why wouldn't she?”
“Her brother felt bad about giving her up to those witch hunters, and out of his grief, he had her headstone put up. But, no one's brave enough to tend to the grave of a witch, in the ground below or no.”
“How do you know this?” Henry asked, stepping out of the mausoleum.
“My family's tended this cemetery for generations.” He replied, leaning on the broom he was carrying. “I know just about every story and rumor about every grave in this place.” He explained, scratching his grizzled beard.
“Then, where is she buried?” You asked him, lifting a brow and tilting your head at him.
“Well,” He scratched at his temple, pushing his hat up off his sloped forehead. “Rumor I heard was she was buried by her old man.”
Your eyes shot to Henry, who's eyes shot to you.
“Her old man?” Henry frowned, looking the groundskeeper over. “You mean her husband, Evan?” He asked, trying to get him to give more information.
“Could be.” He nodded, still scratching his temple. “That's all I heard said on the matter.”
“Thank you.” You said, licking your lips.
He tipped his hat to you and Henry and went on his way.
“I doubt Evan's family would bury Helena with him, especially after she killed him.” You said to Henry, as you left the cemetery. “Even if it was his last dying wish or in his will.”
“I'm inclined to agree with you.” Henry replied, handing you into the carriage and following after you. “So, that only leaves one other person.” He sighed, rubbing the side of his face.
“William.” You both said at the same time.
“Well, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?” Henry said, resting back in his seat as the carriage took you both back to the train station.
“Do you know where he's buried?” You asked him, resting your head on his shoulder.
“I do not.” Henry shook his head. “But, I'm sure either my father, or my mother, do.”
You and Henry went to go see his parents as soon as you left the train, which was a surprise to Marianne and Colin, but still incredibly welcome. Showing you to the tea room and chatted for a little while, before finding the nerves and bravery to ask what was on your mind.
“Do you know where Uncle William is buried?” Henry asked, setting his teacup down on its saucer.
“Of course, he's buried next to your grandmother, Gladys.” Colin nodded, refilling his own cup.
“No, I meant great-uncle William.” He elaborated, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.
“You mean, William Richard Cavill?” Colin frowned, shaking his head at his son. “Born 1586 and died 1620. That Uncle William?”
“Yes.” Henry nodded, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, and took a bite of his pound cake.
“Why?” Marianne frowned, recalling the conversation the three of you had several months back. “Why do you keep bringing William up?” She asked, shifting in her seat to cross her ankles and fixed Henry with a purely maternal look that dared him to lie to her, making Henry gulp and clear his throat.
You looked between the three of them and felt the palms of your hand start to sweat with anxiety, but you summoned the composed genes your mother instilled in you and used them for some good, keeping your face calm and neutral and pressed your palms together in your lap. “Henry's been working on his own little family history project and wants to learn more about the men he's named after. He already knows a good deal about his great-grandfather, Henry, but not much about the great-uncle William he received his middle name from.” You chimed in, saving Henry as he started to break under his mother's gaze.
“Exactly.”
Henry added in, taking your hint and lead. “I know where great-grandfather Henry is buried and all about him. But, I don't know much about great-uncle William or where he's buried.” He explained, relaxing as his mother's gaze returned to normal and reached out to squeeze your hand.
“Well,” Colin sighed, rubbing the side of his jaw. “He was the only Cavill, before us, of any distinguished station, being the Chief Justice of Pendle at the time. So, he would be buried in St. Leonard’s Graveyard in Downham, Lancashire. I don't know the exact location of his grave site in the cemetery, but I'm sure there are records of that at the cemetery itself.”
“That's only about an hour away.” Henry said, looking at you.
“Yes.” Colin nodded. “I'm sure one of your cousins still lives there.” He added.
“Cousins?” Henry frowned. “He married?”
“Yes, he married in 1615 and had two children before his death.” He explained to his shocked son. “His poor wife died giving birth to their third child in 1618, as did the child.”
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The next day, you and Henry made the hour's trip to the St. Leonard's graveyard in Lancashire. Inquiring with the groundskeeper about where William's grave could be in the vast area, and after going through several log books, the son of the groundskeeper showed you where it was. Both you and Henry were shocked to find, not only William's grave, but the grave of his wife, Agatha, to the right of his grave, but a flat marker with Helena's name to the left.
“Dear God, he did have her buried beside him.” You gasped, pressing a hand to your heart. “He forsaked her love, hunted her down and burned her at the stake, only to have her later buried next to his future plot and one over from his legal wife's.” You shook your head, completely baffled. “He even named his surviving daughter after her.” You pointed to the plot on the other side of Agatha's grave. “And his son, Fredrick, next to her.”
“Maybe, he never did stop loving her. He was just trying to save face, so he wasn't considered an accomplice.”
You kept shaking your head at the markers, your brain struggling to wrap around the reality of the situations. “The castle where the witches were held is only a few minutes away from here, why don't we find out if we can check out the dungeon they were held in?” You suggested, looking over at him.
“All right.” Henry nodded, figuring it couldn't hurt.
“Can you help you, sir and ms.?” The man at the castle asked as you and Henry approached.
“We wanted to see the dungeon the Pendle Witches were held in.” Henry replied to him.
“I'm sorry, I can't allow that just now.” He replied.
Henry glanced at you and smirked, before pulling out a few notes out of his pocket. “Not even for a hundred pounds?” He asked, lifting a nonchalant brow at the other man, holding the roll of notes out to him.
The man's eyes panned around and took the money from Henry's hand. “Right this way.” He said, stepping aside and motioning to his left. You chuckled at Henry, shaking your head as the man showed the pair of you down to the dungeons, he smirked back at you, ducking his head to enter the hallway leading to the dungeons.
“I can give you twenty minutes, sir. Nothing more, before someone will notice.” He explained, taking a post at the door.
“That's more than enough time.” Henry assured him.
“It's the last door.” He pointed out, then ducked back outside to keep watch.
“There's almost nothing a bit of money can't buy.” Henry quipped as you walked down the dim hallway to the last cell.
“It does make many things in life a lot easier.” You agreed, hugging your shawl tighter around you as the cold and dank air chilled your skin.
“Well, this is it.” Henry sighed, grabbing the loop in the warped wood door and used a good amount of his strength to yank it open. “What?” He frowned at your slack jawed look.
“We're in the right place.” You mumbled, blindly stepping into the cell and looked up at Helena.
Helena hovered, as always, above the floor of the dungeon she last shared with her fellow witch-sisters. But, she was no longer the apparition you grew up knowing, she looked almost real and human now, but her eyes were still a pure black. You stepped closer to her, Henry standing in the doorway as he watched you stare up at what he couldn't see, but knew was there.
“She's here?” He asked for confirmation.
“Yes.” You nodded, licking your lips, studying her. “You've been trying to lead me here all along, haven't you?” You asked, blinking up at her.
“Yes.” She replied in an almost normal voice.
“Well, we're here.” You said, lifting a brow at her. “What now?”
Helena raised her arm and pointed to the stone bench built into the wall to your right. “Sit.” She whispered with a soft moan.
Frowning and shaking your head, you did as she said and sat down on the bench and Helena moved closer to you, reaching a hand to touch you and cup your cheek in her palm, making you gasp at the frigid feel of her touch and a white flash in your eyes.
“Y/n?” Henry frowned, stepping closer to you, but found himself physically incapable of going any farther. “Helena.” He hissed, knowing she was trying to prevent him from reaching you.
When the white flash faded from your vision, you could still see the cell you were in, but it was no longer the cell you entered with Henry, you didn't even see Henry any more. You saw the flesh and blood of Helena, like you were a spectator in the ceiling, watching her below as she sat on the bench you, in reality, occupied. She was alone in the cell, all the other witches had already met their fates and deaths at the stake, noose or the bottom of a lake. They were saving Helena for last, killing her sisters and dearest friends one by one, to torment her, teasing her with her eventual fate at their hands.
Her legs were drawn up to her chest inside her filthy skirt, gently rocking back and forth, her raven black hair filthy and matted; she looked so pitiful and pathetic, nothing like her normal self-assured and confident self before. She was twisting something around her dirty finger as she hummed softly to herself, you caught a glimpse of what it was as she twisted back to the top of her finger, it was a ring. A silver ring with silver roses on the band and in the setting on top of it was a red gem, a ruby.
It clicked in your mind, what she had said to you that night after your nightmare about the blood; Ruby Red. A Red Ruby, and it all made sense. William had affectionately called Helena his rose, he had given her the ring, its design like a rose.
Your vision changed again, farther back in time. Helena and William sitting on a blanket under a tree, enjoying the beautiful summer day in the shade, William's head cradled in Helena's lap. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small velvet box and opened it, level at Helena's eyes, presenting her with the very same ring.
“What's this for, Will?” She asked, as he sat up and took her hand delicately in his.
“It's my promise.” William replied, carefully slipping the ring on the ring finger of her right hand. “To always love you and to one day marry you, to have you by my side in this life and the next.” He smiled, kissing her affectionately.
But, sadly a month later, Walter had married Helena off to Evan Shaw, killing William and Helena's dreams of marrying each other. It didn't completely stop them from being together though, even with Helena doing her best to make do with being married to Evan, it wasn't a year, when he stopped coming to her bed, seeking the company of ladies of the night. So, She and William began seeing each other every chance they got and could, his love was Helena's only solace and sanity in a loveless marriage.
The vision changed again, to Helena pulling the ring over her finger and kissing the ruby, mumbling something under her breath before hiding it away. She dropped onto the middle of the floor, pressing her palms flat to the damp stone and threw her head back. Her eyes rolled back into her head, only showing the whites and red veins of her eyes showing as she chanted in Latin. Dark shadows formed a ring around her as she did, hurried footsteps coming down the hallway outside her cell echoing back to her, with raised voices. But, when they reached Helena's cell...
She was gone.
You gasped as Helena removed her hand from your cheek, red from the chill of her hand against your skin. Panting and trying to catch your breath, you waved Henry off. “I'm fine.” You gulped, rubbing the chill from your cheek. “I'm fine, Henry.” You sighed, looking up at Helena, who was pointing to a brick in the wall by your head. “What?” You snapped at her, drained.
“Ruby Red.” She hissed back, narrowing her eyes at you.
Standing up, you turned towards the wall and touched the brick, feeling how loose it was, and wedged your fingertips in the broken mortar, using your nails to grasp it and wiggled it free. “It's a false brick.” You said, shocked to turn the brick around and find a hollow opening. “Oh my god.” You huffed, a dirty and tarnished ruby ring slipped out; Henry's quick reflects catching it in his palm.
“It's the ring he gave her.” You blinked. “It's still here, after all this time.” You smiled at Henry.
“William gave this to her?” He asked, looking down at it.
“Yes, it was a promise ring.” You explained to him. “They wanted to marry, but my great-grandfather, Walter, arranged her to marry Evan. So, it never happened.”
“They really wanted to be together.” Henry sighed, rubbing his thumb over the loop of the ring.
“They did.” You nodded, glancing at Helena. “And, in a way, they did get to be together, in more than one way.” You said, looking back at Henry. “Almost two-hundred and fifty years and countless generations, later our families finally found the link to each other they had been looking for.”
Henry grinned at you, following your train of thought. “In us.” He blushed, brushing an escaped curl out of your face.
“Here.” You said, taking the ring from Henry's palm and holding it out to Helena. “He never stopped loving you, Helena. Let me prove it to you, touch it, and we'll take you to him.” You smiled back at Henry.
“How are we going to do that?” Henry asked, looking at you sheepishly.
“Ghosts can possess things.” You told him.
“Don't you dare let her possess you.” Henry snapped, exasperated.
You laughed and pat him on the cheek. “Relax, Puppy, I'm not. The ring works just as well.” You assured him, amused.
Henry looked at the ring and blinked several times, watching the Ruby glow, like the ember of a fire, for a moment, then dim. You closed your hand around it as footsteps came down the hallway, and quickly replaced the false brick in its place.
“I can not allow you to stay any longer.” The man from earlier said, appearing in the doorway.
“That's quite all right.” Henry smiled, composing himself and closing his hand around yours, leading you out of the cell. “Thank you so much, you were a tremendous help.”
“Happy to be of service.” He smiled back, even though he was utterly clueless on what he helped with.
Heading back to Helena's and William's graves at St. Leonard's, you knelt down between the plots and opened your hand holding the ring. “He buried you beside him, so you would always be at each other's sides in this life, and the next.” You said, pushing your thumb into the grass and soil between the graves and dropping the ring into the hole it left behind. “You can finally be together, like you always wanted to be.” You told her, covering it up and glancing at your own rings, the diamond of your wedding ring fit perfectly in the gap between the two heart-shaped diamonds of your engagement ring, interlinking your heart with Henry's.
You stood up beside Henry, taking his hand in yours and squeezed, overwhelmed by the moment. Helena hovering above her grave and watched as the ghost of William slowly solidified before you, over his own grave. The two spirits faced each other and smiled, reaching out to touch the tips of their fingers together. You smiled at them, then started, seeing the shadows of twelve others appear behind them and slowly became recognizable as the twelve witches of Pendle; Alice Nutter, Jane Bulcock, Katherine Hewitt, Anne Whittle, Ann Redfearn, Elizabeth Device, her daughter, Alison Device, Isobel Robey, Margaret Pearson, Alice Grey, Jennet Preston and Elizabeth Southerns.
Henry couldn't see them, but he felt the temperature around you and him change and grow cold against the warm day.
Helena looked away from William and to her sisters. “Rest now, sisters. Your time has come to do so.” She told them.
The twelve women looked at each other, then at you and Henry, at your linked hands, and wavered, their spirit forms losing definition as they started to lose their grip on the physical world, on their vengeance and reason for still being bound to the Earth around them. Henry's mouth dropped open seeing the twelve bright orbs of light appear suddenly.
“What--”
“They're finding their peace.” You explained to him, understanding what he was going to ask.
Helena floated over to Henry, one of her hands still clutching William's, and touched his cheek, making him shiver at the cold touch and see her ghostly face. “I free you.” She whispered to him.
“Thank you.” He gulped, blinked at her and felt a weight he never noticed was there before, lift from his shoulders and soul.
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You sat in the sitting room, enjoying tea time, while Henry was out at the office. It had been a week since the pair of you figured out how to break the curse and other than the usual spirit, you hadn't seen a hint of Helena and neither you or Henry had nightmares any more, supposing she had crossed over with the others. You sipped your tea and nibbled at your slice of hazelnut tea cake with moscato pears, that Abby had made that morning, when you heard a god awful wail, making you jerk with surprise and spill some of your tea onto the skirt of your dress.
“Abby?”
You called, setting your teacup and copy of the Little Dorrit done on the table in front of you. “Albert?” You stood up, using your silk napkin to dab at your wet skirt; but didn't receive a reply from either of them. “Maggie?” You yelled out, becoming nervous, but still received no answer, and sighed. “Kal, I hope you didn't get into the pantry again!” You said, going into the foyer and heading for the kitchen; expecting to find the fluffy Akita trying to look innocent with sticky marmalade on his snout and flour dusting his fur, for the third time in two weeks.
“Kal?” You squeaked, frightened, finding the kitchen empty.
The wail issued again, you spun around to the open kitchen doorway, your heart launched into your throat and your stomach giving way. “Papa.” You choked and swallowed, seeing the ghost of your father floating in the foyer.
“What a cruel world death is, when life's riches can not pay your way into heaven or out of hell.” He moaned, looking greatly pained. “Or right one's living regrets.”
“Yes, I know, you've said this before, Papa. Tell me something new, tell me who your killer is.” You begged him, daring to move closer to him. “Please, let me help you find peace.” You pleaded with him, tears welling up in your eyes.
“What a world, not even compassion of those you love can not free your bonds of life and death.”
You mewled, at a loss, pressing your hands to your face and broke down. As you sobbed another sound filled the room with your father's laments and moans, pulling your hands from your dripping face you saw Helena, standing on the other side of you. “Why are you here, Helena? You should have crossed over.” You sniffled, even more confused.
“One last unfinished business.” She replied, still making the strange noise and your face grew wide with shock.
“Oh, good god.” You gasped and flew out of the house. “Brandon!” You screamed, running into the stables.
“Madam?” Brandon answered, coming out of one of the stalls. “What is it?”
“Get the carriage ready!” You told him, out of breath. “This instant, we must go to Henry, with all due haste.” You explained, frantic.
“Of course, Madam.” He nodded and got to it. “Are you well?” He asked, as he hitched the horses to the carriage, concerned for you.
“I don't know yet, Brandon.” You replied, pacing up and down the walk out front of the house. “I really don't. But, what I do know, I hope to all there is in the world, it's not true.”
Brandon readied the carriage as quickly as he could for you and rushed into town, heading straight for the Cavill Enterprises office building. You barely waited for Brandon to pull the horses to a stop or open the door for you, before you were bundling up your heavy skirts and rushing inside the building and up to the floor Henry's office was situated.
“Hello, Ms.” the Secretary greeted you with a warm smile. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” You huffed, out of breath after rushing up four flights of stairs. “I'm Mr. Cavill's wife--”
“Oh, my dearest apologies, Madam, I didn't know.” The young man's face managed to somehow blush and blanch at the same time. “I am so sorry, I'm new here. I only started yester--”
“It's quite all right, I've only been to his office once before.” You assured the poor boy, feeling bad for scaring him so, you had only been to Henry's office one other time, and that was to attend a company event. “But, I need to see Hen—Mr. Cavill, right this minute, it can not wait.” You rushed out as he started to open his mouth. “Please.” You added softly.
“Uh..” the Secretary glanced between you and the door to Henry's office several times, his mouth hanging open. “Yes, of course. I think he's just doing some paperwork.” He said, standing up and moved around his desk, gently tapping on Henry's door, before opening a crack at Henry's bid for him to enter. “Um, Mr. Cavill, Sir.” He gulped, breaking out in a sweat, like he expected Henry to angrily fire him at that moment.
“It's, um, Mrs. Cavill to see you.”
“Y/n?” Henry's confused voice called back. “Let her in.”
He got up from his desk as the boy pushed the door open the rest of the way, and moved for you to go in. “Y/n, what is it? What's wrong?” He asked, closing the door behind you as he saw your flushed face and heard you still trying to catch your breath. “Come, sit down.” He gently took you by the elbow and guided you to a chair in front of his desk and fetched you a glass of water from a pitcher on a side table.
“Calm down and catch your breath, then tell me what this is all about.” He told you, leaning back against the edge of his desk, watching over you with patient worry.
“We need to go back to London, as soon as possible.” You told him, finishing your glass of water and breathing again.
Henry shook his head, not understanding. “Why, love?” He inquired, licking his lips and tilting his head at you, his expression so soft.
You opened your mouth to tell him, but your throat closed tightly around a sharp and cold knot of restrained tears. You didn't want it to be true, it couldn't be true! How could they do this? Why! Why would they do this! The pent-up horror and agony at the thought broke free and you burst into hiccuping sobs, your shoulders shaking and rocking yourself back and forth. Henry's heart clinched and he dropped to his knees before you, reaching out to pull you to the edge of your seat and cradle your head against his shoulder and rubbed your back, shushing and rocking with you. The door opened and the secretary popped his head inside the room, but Henry gave him an angry look, in full protective mode of you, and pointed a hard finger at him, a hint to get lost, which the boy did in all haste.
“Come, love.” Henry cooed at you, taking out his pocket handkerchief and wiping at your flowing tears and nose, caressing your hair off your flushed face. “Take deep breaths with me, y/n.” He said, taking a slow and deep breath in, nodding his head as you did the same, and let it out again. “That's better.” He smiled, tenderly, at you and got up to pour you another glass of water.
“Now, tell me, what makes you so upset and frantic?” He asked, kneeling at your feet again. “Why is it so imperative we go to London so quickly?”
You took several deep breaths and gulped down more of your water. “I--” You sighed, trying hard to keep yourself together. “I know who killed my father.” You choked out, clamping your teeth down on your bottom lip to stop the new stream of tears, threatening to fall, at bay.
Henry's mouth dropped open. “How?” He asked, eyes the size of serving plates.
“He came to me, at home.”
“He showed up at Lily Hill?” Henry coughed, shocked.
“As did Helena.”
“I thought she crossed over?” He blinked at you.
“As did I, but it seems not.” You mewled, twisting Henry's damp handkerchief in your trembling hands. “But, they, in no uncertain terms, revealed to me who did it.”
“Who was it?” He asked, he had been tormented over the mystery of your father's murder as you had been, Ulysses had become a second father to him.
You reached out and clutched Henry's hands and looked him in the eyes. “I don't want to say, until I am certain they're right. But, I doubt don't they are. It's purely wishful thinking on my part.” You sighed, chewing on your quivering lip. “Let us go to London and face them, and find out for truly certain.”
“All right.” Henry nodded, tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “We'll go right away.” He said, standing up and strode over to his office door. “Mr. Solo.” He called out to his secretary.
“Sir.” The boy squeaked, stumbling up to his feet.
“Hold all my appointments for today and likely tomorrow as well.” He told him, calmly. “I have very urgent business in London, that can not be ignored.”
“Yes, sir!” Solo nodded, like a broken bobble-head. “Right away, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Solo.” Henry nodded back and returned to you. “Come, my love.” He said, softly, taking your hands and pulling you up onto your feet, pressing an affectionate kiss to your forehead. “We'll go straight to the station and set out for London on the earliest train.” He assured you, supporting you out of his office and back down the several sets of stairs.
“Mr. Brandon, the train station, please.” He told the driver, handing you into the carriage and followed after you, wrapping a comforting and protective arm around your still trembling shoulders.
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The ride to the train station was quiet and traveling to London was even quieter, you just couldn't find your voice, overwhelmed and consumed by your grief and depression over the realization of who the murderer of your father was. Henry gave and offered all the support for you he could, the wish for the truth gnawing on him the whole time, but he didn't press you; knowing he would find out the truth soon enough.
Finding a carriage as soon as you were out of the station, you gave the driver the address and climbed inside with Henry, gripping his hand in both of yours, trying to use his touch and presence as your anchor and calm; he rubbed the top of your hand with his thumb and would occasionally kiss your cheek and temple.
It was a short ride to the residence of the killer, you took a few calming breaths as you stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door of the house, before you were able to muster the will to move up them, raising your trembling fist and knocking. The door opened and the servant glanced at Henry, then instantly beamed at you.
“Ms. Y/n!” They grinned, pleased to see you. “How good to see you! How are you?” They asked.
“To be determined.” You replied, gulping thickly.
“Please, come in.” They bid you both, stepping aside. “Come right this way, I'll have some tea brought in, while I announce your arrival.”
“Thank you.” Henry smiled at the servant, ushering you to a love seat and sat beside you. “Are you all right?” He asked, pointlessly.
“I will be, if it isn't true.” You replied, staring down at your hands, folded in your lap.
Another servant served you and Henry the tea and some raspberry scones, drizzled with honey. You barely sipped your tea and didn't touch the scones, your stomach far too upset to hold much of anything down. It was several minutes, before you and Henry heard the footsteps in the hallway outside the sitting room and the door opened again, two people stepping inside and smiled at you and Henry.
Henry's mouth dropped open, in shock.
“Y/n, Henry!” Grace smiled at you both and swept over to you, but stopped halfway, seeing the look in your face and the utter shock on Henry's, registering in her mind. “What is it?” She frowned, blinking between you both.
“Something, I pray with my entire soul, is wrong.” You whimpered at her, blinking several times as your eyes burned with fresh tears.
“What are you talking about, y/n?” She asked, blinking back at you.
“Is there a problem, y/n?” Joel asked, completely lost.
“Perhaps the both of you should sit down.” You suggested, licking your lips.
Grace's eyes never left yours as she moved to sit on the love seat opposite of you and Henry, Joel taking up the space beside her. “Would you like to tell me what's going on, y/n?” She asked you, as she shakily poured herself a cup of tea; feeling she was going to need it.
“I saw my father again.” You told her, quietly, eyes steeled and carefully watching her face.
“He still hasn't,” She gulped and licked her lips. “crossed over?” She asked.
“No, he's stuck here until he's murderer is caught.” You replied, carefully.
“Di-Did he tell you, who did it?” Grace asked, biting her lip.
“He's been trying too.” You answered. “But, Helena did, though.” You added, heart pounding in your throat.
“Do you know what they're talking about?” Henry asked Joel.
“About y/n's ability to see the dead?” Joel elaborated, bluntly, but politely.
“Yes.” Henry nodded.
“I do.” He nodded back.
“Both of them showed up in Lily Hill and my father was trying to tell me who did it, but only repeated himself. Helena helped him out by humming a very specific song, a song that you would sing to me, when I was upset. That's when, what my father told me, the night of his funeral, made sense. 'Death is such a far fall from Grace, no money can buy you into heaven, or out of hell.'” You explained to her.
“Tell me, I misunderstood them.” You begged her, eyes shining.
Grace was quiet and sipped her tea, her hands shaking as she held the teacup, when her tea was empty, she refilled it and looked across to you, her eyes shining back at yours. “They are not.” She said, very quietly.
Your eyes fell shut and silent tears slipped down your flushed cheeks, utterly crushed and devastated. Henry frowned at you, sympathetically squeezing your knee and wrapping an arm around you, just as heartbroken that the woman that was more a mother to you than Matilda ever was, and the sister you had always wished for, admitted to having a part in the death of your father.
“Why?” You choked, opening your red eyes at her. “Why, Grace?” You mewled, feeling lightheaded.
“We didn't do it, to hurt you, y/n.” Joel chimed in.
“You knew?” You hiccuped, frowning at him.
“I did, I had a hand in helping.” He nodded, biting the inside of his lip.
“Oh god.” You sighed, shaking your head and shrinking into your seat.
“There's several reasons it happened.” Grace told you, wishing so much to take your hands in hers and have you believe her. “The years of pent-up abuse they not only forced you to endure, but as well as myself. Knowing that your mother intended to try to change your father's mind about allowing that vile brute Elias to marry you, instead of Henry, and the ultimate reason why I stopped being your nanny.”
“And what reason is that?” You asked, trying to keep yourself together.
Grace sighed and reached for Joel's hand, squeezing it for reassurance. “Your father and I...” She gulped, the words sticking in her throat. “had relations.”
Your mouth dropped open. “My father had an affair with you?” You squeaked, gobsmacked.
“Yes.” She nodded, ashamed of herself. “It was in the last year of my employment as your nanny. Your father took a strong liking to me, and the foolish girl I was, took a fancy to him as well. We only shared a bed a handful of times in that year, but, because of one of those times, I became with child.”
Your mouth fell open even farther.
“Those months I was away from you, nursing a sick relative, I was really living in an apartment in London, your father had leased for me during my confinement and the birth of the baby.” She explained to you and Henry. “I had a little girl, your half-sister, Amelia.”
“Where is she?” You blurted out, shaking your head at her.
Grace sighed and sniffled. “Ulysses had her put up for adoption a week after her birth.” She told you, sadly. “It was a few months later that Joel and I met and started a courtship.”
“We decided on a short courtship and to marry as soon as possible, so Grace wouldn't have to deal with the abuse, especially since Matilda found out about the baby, and the pain she felt seeing Ulysses and be reminded of the child she didn't get to keep.” Joel added in, rubbing Grace's back.
“I didn't tell Joel about the baby until a month before your father died.”
“I told her it didn't matter to me that she had a child, out of wedlock or otherwise.” He explained. “That, if we could find the little girl, we could perhaps adopt her and raise her here, with us.”
“But, your father refused to tell me what adoption agency or family he gave her up too, and told me he never would. That if I, or Joel, or anyone for that matter, asked after her again, he would make their lives a living hell, that he had the money and influence to make them disappear. To make Amelia disappear.” She dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief. “I never doubted his words. But, I returned to him, the week before his death, and begged him one last time to relent and tell me where she was. He laughed and asked me, how much money it would take to keep me silent. Out of anger and passions, I slapped him across the face and told him, 'there wasn't enough money to buy him into heaven, or out of hell'. In turn, he told me that I would pay for my slight against him and so would Joel's practice as a doctor.”
“Grace came back home, incredibly distraught over the situation.” Joel said, frowning at his wife. “She couldn't take it any longer and we came to the conclusion to--”
“Murder him.” Henry cut in.
“Yes.” Grace nodded, biting her quivering lip.
“Which one of you did it?” You asked, looking between them.
Joel swallowed, looking from you to Henry and his wife. “Neither of us.” He sighed.
“In my profession, I meet and tended to people of all walks of life, from the very dirt poor to even royalty. One of my patients, a Leon Marshall, was rather low on the social ladder and had quite the disreputable reputation, as a dishonorable discharge from the royal military and was spent to prison for a variety of offenses. He suffered from an old war wound that festered every so often, and I would tend to it. I know, because he never made any pains to keep to himself, that he would rough people up, if paid the right amount.”
“I sought him out for the deed and he agreed to do it. He also agreed that no amount of money could get a man into heaven or out of hell. But, the right amount could send a man on his death's journey to whichever he is destiny for. I paid him three thousand pounds, and he contacted your father's office to schedule a false meeting, for a fictional business, in his hotel room at Southampton, and that's where it took place.” He told you.
“We, honestly, didn't wish him dead, just to make a point, perhaps scare him into giving up the information on Amelia. But, when your father saw him for who he was and he wasn't afraid. He mocked Mr. Marshall on a number of things, and Marshall grew angered. Mr. Marshall drew a knife and stabbed him several times, mocking your father back, asking him, if he thought, he had enough money to buy his way into heaven or out of hell.”
“Then, ran.”
“Where is this man now?” Henry asked, moving to the edge of his seat.
“Currently, he is incarcerated for the murder of a prostitute, that tried robbing him.” Joel sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“He needs to be tried for Ulysses's death.” Henry said, impassioned.
“But, if he's outed as the murderer of my father, the chances of him outing Grace and Joel, or at least ruining them, is very high.” You said, sounding and feeling like a zombie.
Henry turned his head to look at you, licking his lips and knowing you were right. But, they were as much to blame for it, as Marshall was, and to a degree, Ulysses was as well. He sighed and rested back against the couch and scrubbed both of his palms over his tired face. All four of you were between a rock and a hard place, and had no idea what to do.
The person you trusted your entire life and depended on for so long had helped in the killing of your father, no matter how vile and selfish he was. The war between going straight to the authorities to divulge everything you knew on the matter and just wanting to forget that you even knew and go back to life before you found out it was Grace and Joel, made you sickeningly exhausted and spent.
What were you going to do?
If you did go to the authorities, you would struggle to live with the thought of what they would do to Grace and Joel, as punishment.
If you didn't and tried living with it, you didn't know if you could live with that either. Especially, if it meant your father would never find peace and would continue to haunt you and Henry at Lily Hill Manor.
Your trust and faith in Grace was shaken and cracked, but you still loved her.
“We could just—give ourselves—up.” Grace gulped, glancing at Joel, she had struggled living with the knowledge and truth of the matter herself, especially seeing how it affected you.
“I can't do this.” You gasped, standing up and rushing out of the room.
“Y/n!” Henry called after you, standing up.
“Let her clear her head, Mr. Cavill.” Grace said, staring through the open doorway. “She'll be all right, after a bit of fresh air and a walk, she always is.”
Henry looked at the couple and lifted a brow at them. “If you wanted to find your Amelia, so badly, why didn't you just ask Thaddeus or hire a private investigator?” He asked, his hands flexing at his side.
“Crime is common. Logic is rare, Mr. Cavill.” Joel replied, ashamed of himself and his actions in the matter.
“Then, the devil’s due a soul, I’d say.” Henry replied.
You stormed out of the house, gasping for air, your lungs and chest tight with anxiety and heartbreak, eyes nearly blinded by fresh tears. You had no idea where you were going, or even where you were after Grace and Joel's home and grounds disappeared behind you, but you didn't even care. You needed to get away, far away, and get a hold of yourself again. The neighborhood of expensive homes and immaculate grounds melted away into the hustle and bustle of downtown London. You stopped and turned to stare at your reflection in a shop window, wiping at your eyes and taking deep breaths.
“Well, well, well.” A voice behind you chuckled, in sinister amusement. “Look who it is.”
You looked up at the reflection in the window, as he stood behind you, his arms crossed smugly over his chest. You groaned and rolled your eyes at him. “Hello, Elias.” You said, turning around.
“Trouble in paradise already, Mrs. Cavill?” He asked, smirking at you.
“Not at all.” You replied, rolling your eyes at him.
“Doesn't look that way to me.” He chuckled again.
“It is better to learn wisdom late, than never to learn it at all.” You answered him, with a cold stare. “But, in your case, you are incapable of either.”
“I see your husband hasn't curbed that harlot's tongue of yours, yet.” Elias hissed at you.
“My husband likes my tongue.” You smirked back, scornfully.
“My dearest Lias?” Another familiar voice called with the ding of a shop bell. “Oh, niece.” Bella huffed, sticking her nose up at you.
“Aunt Bella.” You nodded your head and rolled your eyes back at her.
“There you are, my love.” Henry's voice suddenly came, his arm wrapping around your waist. “Enjoying your window shopping?” He asked, eyeballing Bella and Elias.
“I was.” You replied, leaning against his strong body. “Then, I was interrupted.”
“Charming to see you again, Cavill.” Elias sneered, resting his hand on the small of Bella's back.
“And you, Wells.” Henry hissed, observing the pair of them. “Married, I see.”
“Yes.” Bella nodded, proudly, flashing the fat emerald ring at you and Henry. “Two months ago, we would have invited--”
“We wouldn't have cared to go.” You told her, your blood boiling. “Even, if you had actually thought about us, let alone the thought of sending an invitation.” You added, quite coldly. “How is Matilda?” You asked her.
“She's quite well, she's repaired to her Suffolk home, her physician believes the sea air would be beneficial for her health.” She told you, tightly.
“Good.” You nodded your head once, then looked up to Henry. “Let's go, love. My pleasure for window shopping has been greatly diminished.”
“That's a shame.” Henry tutted and turned away with you, leaving Bella and Elias staring after you both, shocked. “I'm so sorry, y/n.” He whispered, when you left the two behind. “I wish I knew what to say, to make it all go away.” He told you, leading you to a small bench. “I do--” He sighed and rubbed the side of his face. “I do hope that you won't be cross with me.”
“For what?” You frowned at him.
“I--” He sighed again, licking his lips and picking at his nails. “I, anonymously, sent a telegram to the authorities, on the matter of your father's death and Mr. Marshall's involvement in it. I re-framed from naming, or even hinting at, Joel and Grace's involvement in the matter.” He confessed to you. “Perhaps, Mr. Marshall will take his due for killing your father, and not bring them up in the ensuing investigation into the matter.”
“Henry.” You sighed, pressing your lips together, and sniffling hard.
“I know, you would have struggled, and do struggle, with what to do and how to act in the matter. You are far closer to Grace and Joel than I am, the same goes for your father.”
“He considered you a son.” You whispered softly.
“I know he did.” Henry replied, just as softly. “But, even still, you are far closer and more sensitive in the matter.” He ran his hand through his wind-blown curls, pushing them off his forehead. “As much as I care for your father's peace, your peace and well-being is by far more important and greater to me. So, if that means, I have to shoulder the heavier weight of whatever happens next, so you do not. Then, I will greatly shoulder it.” He told you, sincerely.
“I can bear pain myself.” Henry said softly, and took your hand in his. “But, I could not bear yours, y/n. That would take more strength than I have.”
You took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, wrapping your arm around his. “I know, Henry.” You whispered to him, kissing his cheek. “Thank you.”
“Of course, my sweet.” He whispered back, kissing the top of your head and gently patting your leg.
“Can you believe Elias and Bella married.” You laughed, suddenly finding it hilarious.
“Two people could not be so fatefully meant for each other.” Henry laughed back, shaking his head at the thought. “Both of them are near evil incarnate. Lord have the mercy for any children they have.”
“The sole opposite of us.” You chuckled, turning your head to kiss his shoulder.
“Thank God for that.” Henry snorted.
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You and Henry returned to Lily Hill Manor the next day, too exhausted for the return train home. So, you stayed in a hotel, the same one and very room, you shared on your wedding night. So much had changed between then and now, but the one thing that was still the same, if not stronger, was the love you and Henry shared for each other, the bond that connected you and the life you had created together.
A month after your return, Thaddeus came to visit you both; with news of the investigation.
The investigation was started after Henry's carefully sent anonymous note about Leon Marshall's hand in your father's death. Marshall had tried to implicate Joel and Grace in his murder, but the only connection found between them, was Grace's employment as your nanny and Joel's tending to the festering wound Marshall was prone to suffer in his left leg, from a bullet he sustained in war. It seemed that Joel was more careful about employing the ruffian to kill your father than any of you thought, and you all, all four of you, kept the secret.
You did however ask Thaddeus about the child Grace and your father bore together. His flush almost immediately at the mention of your little sister, giving away his knowledge of her, but confessed he had no idea where she would be, Ulysses had dealt with the matter on his own, not trusting anyone else with it; trusting no one to keep the secret. But, with Henry's help, Thaddeus promised to help you and Grace in finding her, anyway they could.
It took almost a year of private investigators, sleepless nights, paper trails, combing all the papers your father had in his office and possession. But, Thaddeus finally found the family your father had given your half-sister too.
It was a well-off family, at least he had done her that justice and not suffered her to some poor station because of the unfortunate circumstance of her birth. She had just celebrated her twelfth birthday, now a year older than you were, when she was born into this world. The family granted you and Grace permission to meet her and it was a good day. Grace never once stopped crying for finally seeing the daughter she never stopped loving or wanting, and you found another precious and good link in the world.
It was agreed on, that Amelia wouldn't be told about Grace being her mother and you, her sister, until at least her sixteenth birthday, when she would hopefully be old enough to understand. But, You and Grace would always be more than welcome in seeing her, whenever you wished it.
– A Year Later –
“All right, Kal.” Henry called, coming into the bedroom, finding Kal in bed with you. “You're in my spot, move.” He said, patting the Akita on the back to make his point.
Kal huffed and moved to the foot of the bed, resting his head on your shin. You laughed as Henry crawled into bed with you, kissing your cheek and lips before laying down on his stomach and gently rested his ear on your stomach.
“Hello, Little one.” He whispered softly to the swell of your belly and chuckled, feeling the teeny life inside it kick against his cheek. “Oh. you're growing so strong in your mummy's tummy.” He grinned, like a smitten schoolboy, rubbing the bottom curve of your stomach with his palm; pressing it where he felt the baby kick actively.
“Just a few more weeks, and they'll be out here with us, Puppy.” You cooed at Henry, rubbing his curls with your palm and fingers, part of your mind imagining those precious and beautiful chocolate curls on the head of your and Henry's babe.
Henry turned his head, kissing your belly just above your popped out belly button. “And you'll look just like your mum.” He whispered, his supple lips tickling your bare skin.
“Or your father.” You chuckled at him, ghosting the tips of your fingers over the nap of his neck.
He looked up at you and grinned, he was happy either way. He was finally getting all of the things he had dreamed of for so long. A beautiful, loving and intelligent wife and a child he created with you, there was nothing more in life he could ever want. Well, maybe a few more feet pitter pattering up and down the halls.
But, that would all come in due time, and he was in no rush, neither were you.
Two weeks later, on a beautiful and sunny day, you gave birth to your and Henry's daughter and amply named her, Lily Helena Cavill. Three years after Lily was born, you gave birth to your and Henry's second child, a son; Henry William Cavill Jr. You would also go on to have two more children with Henry, both of you wanting a large family, and you not wanting your children to know the loneliness of what being an only child was like. You had another boy, Eric Ulysses; it was your father that brought you and Henry together after all, and another girl, Daisy Grace.
Lily Hill Manor was no longer filled with the wails and sadness of ghosts, but the laughter and happiness of four happy, healthy, strong, completely loved and well-rounded children, and Kal's barks as he played with his two-legged siblings. You still saw the occasional spirit and sent them on their way, but you and Henry reveled at the joy of how everything finally came together, in peace and harmony at Cavill Manor.
-- FIN --
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ruffboijuliaburnsides · 5 years ago
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viper jaskier AU teaser
Did you want to read a bit of the setup for my Viper!Jaskier AU? well how about a lovely chunk of the first chapter to tide you over! That sounds like fun, right?
It is not out of edits yet technically, and it is not the entire chapter and I have cut out significant chunks of content so it remains new when I put it on AO3, but I am very proud of it. Please let me know what you think?
------------
Jaskier had, perhaps, been a bit too rash in storming down the mountain after the dragon hunt, effectively removing himself from Geralt’s life. Geralt from his life. Whichever way you cut it, they aren’t going to be travelling together anymore and… and good riddance, frankly.
Jaskier spent two decades as a stand-in for someone else, and he had borne it for the love of that fucking man, despite what little good sense he had. And in return he gets told off for having the audacity to try to cheer Geralt up after whatever happened with Yen that left him in such a foul and hateful temper? Oh yes, how dare he care about his friend – certainly that deserves sharp words about knowing when to shut up.
It was better than being alone, with the gaping ache in his chest as he tried to find his way to something that would fill the empty loneliness, that he'd felt every time he was without Geralt. But he’s done. He’s washed his hands of Geralt of fucking Rivia, and he’s glad of it.
Except that he’s not. Not really. Jaskier is in the next town down a random road, out of the town Roach had been stabled in at the bottom of the mountain, and his chest aches and aches and aches, the way it did before he met Geralt, the way it did every time they were apart. When he met Geralt it was a revelation how well he could fill that emptiness, and he stayed with the man for twenty years. Twenty. Years. Despite the harsh words. Despite the way he sometimes heard Jaskier and looked as if he’d just eaten a lemon. Despite the fact that Jaskier knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the witcher tolerated Jaskier because of someone he'd already fucking lost.. And then after Jaskier finally lost his patience with it and told Geralt as much, he had the audacity to try to claim that he’d let Jaskier stay for his own sake.
Which, frankly, was bullshit, and Jaskier knows it.
Which is why he is here, two weeks later, in this shit town, spending the last of his coin on another bottle of some sort of local liquor. It tastes like shit, but it gets you completely drunk, which is a good state to be in for the shit songs he’s writing and will never perform.
He says
It’s you and always you
I say
You never really saw me
Jaskier hums a bit, tucked into a table in the far corner of the tavern after having been booed into ending his attempted performance, trying to fit the scrawled (nearly illegible) lyrics to some kind of melody, and takes another swig of the bottle next to his journal. “Nah, that’s shit,” he mutters to himself, and scribbles it out loosely.
Maybe it should be a song that blames himself. He’s the one that turned it into a goddamn argument, after all. Geralt had snapped at him how many times, and he’d never taken it personally, but this time somehow was too much? Especially when Geralt was… already upset. He’s not sure what happened between Geralt and Yennefer, but he knows something happened, something not good, and yet he still pushed, and took it personally when Geralt didn’t respond well. Of course Geralt didn’t respond well.
Honestly, Jaskier only had himself to blame for being alone, after all that.
It’s been two weeks. Two weeks he’s been drunk off his ass and written a complete load of maudlin and frankly idiotic shite. He passes out at the table eventually, face planted into his journal and liquor bottle emptied down to the dregs.
The tavern owner apparently thought it best to let him sleep it off, because it's not until morning that Jaskier's roughly shaken awake and told in no uncertain terms to get out, and that his bardic services won't be needed again. Jaskier doesn't blame him; can’t keep a bard on hand if he largely sings depressing songs, he supposes. 
He starts walking out of town, hoping he actually has all his things, and decides to take stock, even if he's still a bit wobbly. He has his lute, his bedroll, a silver dagger Geralt gave him once "for emergencies", and his bag that mostly just has a change of clothes that probably needs washing pretty badly. A quick subtle smell test (which frankly, Jaskier realizes didn't need to be subtle, as there's no one on the road with him, but old habits and all) verifies that he does absolutely need a bath before he does anything else.
Right.
Geralt is gone. Jaskier has left Geralt. Geralt and Jaskier are no longer... whatever they were. Friends? It seems shallow to call them friends, but they weren't anything else. And maybe the leaving was his fault - Geralt was angry, and upset, and Jaskier knows probably better than anyone how much Geralt doesn't know how to handle strong emotions. Maybe Jaskier shouldn't have left. But he did leave.
They're done.
Geralt is gone.
Jaskier is alone.
It's an awful feeling, being alone, but Jaskier spent twenty years imperfectly filling a role someone else had filled before Geralt ever met him. Trying to fill a hole in Geralt's heart the way Geralt filled a hole in his. The problem is the shape of it: Jaskier's loneliness is broad and overwhelming and he's dealt with it as long as he can remember. Geralt's is shaped like a specific person.
And Jaskier is forty-two. He's too old to trail after a man with no interest in him like a lost puppy. He's too old to keep trying to wedge himself into a place he doesn't fit into, just so he won't feel lonely. He's too old to sit around for weeks crying over a broken heart he saw coming almost two decades ago; too old to be drinking himself to oblivion, and playing nothing but heartbreaking songs. He has the rest of his life to live.
So, metaphorically at any rate, he picks himself out of the dirt, dusts himself off, and keeps moving. He's still living, even if the life he'd built is in ruins, so now he rebuilds it.
[...]
It's been almost two years since leaving Geralt when he runs into the mage in Temeria.
He's played quiet inns and taverns before, and the key to those is generally to work at various familiar and relatively low-key songs until the audience responds, and work from there. But in this town, they seem to not want to engage, and he only plays for about an hour before he gives up, and asks for a meal and some ale.
"I wish you'd played longer," a man says, sitting down across from Jaskier. "You have a beautiful voice."
Jaskier glanced up at him, and considered what might be happening. The man was a bit older than him by all accounts, greying black hair and moderately attractive; his clothes weren't fancy silks or anything, but they looked finely-woven and well-fitted. And there was something about his eyes that set Jaskier on edge.
"Mmm," he said, something clenching nervously in his stomach. "No offence," he says lightly, with effort, "but I have a policy not to fuck mages. Professional courtesy and personal preference. You understand."
"I'm a bit disappointed on principle," the man says, with a hesitant smile. "But no, that's not why I wished to speak to you, Jaskier." 
Jaskier is almost more terrified by that than by the compliment. "I don't know where Geralt of Rivia is, either," he says, trying not to let any panic into his voice and failing miserably. "Haven't seen him in years, actually."
"My name is Doran," the man says gently. "I am a mage, though I'm mostly removed from the politics of the Brotherhood. And I'm not here to hurt you or ply you for information."
"Really?" Jaskier asks, dubious and still rather terrified, if he's being honest. "Not to be rude, but given my experience with magical personages, that seems highly unlikely."
Doran doesn't seem phased, though, and just leans forward. "You've a curse on you, bard. It seems rather nasty, and I... wanted to make sure you knew, I suppose."
Well. That certainly got Jaskier's attention quickly, and he freezes for a moment, his heart clenched. "A curse?"
"A curse," Doran verifies, nodding. "A strong one, too, as far as I can tell. Did you anger a wizard recently?"
Jaskier's pretty sure he hasn't, but he wracks his brain anyway, thinking back and trying to think of any magic users other than Yennefer that he might've pissed off enough to have a strong curse on him that he somehow doesn't know about.
"I... mildly irritated a sorceress nearly two years ago," he offers. "But I'm relatively certain she was much angrier at someone else. We have history, the irritation was mutual. Actually, I was off my game; I was probably more irritated than she was." He's starting to get jittery, turning moments over in his mind, turning himself over in his mind. 
"I doubt that would've been the source then, even for a touchy mage," Doran says thoughtfully. "Casting this curse would've taken a fair amount of effort." Jaskier's food and drink arrive, and he stares blankly down at his stew, his stomach souring. No, definitely not in the mood to eat anymore, and he pushes the bowl to the side.
[...]
"I should put this up in my room, if that's all right?" Doran nods his agreement, and Jaskier heads upstairs to stash his lute safely in his locked room. He pauses before going back downstairs, rests his forehead against the door, and takes a moment to breathe.
He's cursed, with a powerful and unknown curse, that could take effect at any moment, that he'd received at some unknown point in time, and if anything happens to him, Geralt will almost certainly never find out. Jaskier can't even be melodramatic and leave a letter for Geralt, because there isn't anywhere to send it. And it doesn't escape his notice that even now, with the spectre of something awful hanging over him, two years after he'd walked away, the only person he can think of is Geralt.
"Fuck," he whispers into the empty room. "Geralt, I swear to Melitele if this kills me, you'd better find out and grieve me like you were grieving your damn ghost for twenty years."
Then he takes a deep breath, straightens his back, and exits the room.
[...]
Jaskier sits on the cot and folds his hands in his lap to keep himself from fidgeting absently with any of the bottles or dried herbs within reach, like he would when he was six and fifteen and twenty-seven and now forty-four, and he waits.
"I'm making a tea that helps keep my magic focused," Doran says as he uses a small bit of magic to heat the water and herbal mixture he'd made. "Not something I need assistance with, generally speaking, but it will lessen the effort it takes to do, so I can focus my efforts on finding the shape of your curse and how to unwind it."
"That's fair," Jaskier says, jiggling his leg. Now that they were here and talking about magic and curses again, the calm he'd felt from the familiar movements and attitude has melted away entirely, like a chunk of snow on a burning log. "I can't imagine it's particularly easy. Seeing as how it's made of chaos and everything. Does that mean it's against its nature to be focused? I rather imagine it's a bit like my mind most days," he's trailed off into talking to himself, but Doran's standing in front of him holding an empty cup and smiling faintly. 
"I don't doubt it's similar, you seem to be rather chaotic yourself," Doran says, and puts the cup down, pulling a stool over so they're sitting facing each other. "Now, this shouldn't hurt, or feel like much of anything. I'm just looking for the magic of the curse, to try to see when it will activate and what it will do. All right?"
Jaskier lets out an anxious breath and squeezes his hands together tighter, then nods jerkily. It will be fine. And if it isn't, then he'll consider trying to find Yennefer. Doran reaches out and puts his fingers on either side of Jaskier's head. 
And nothing happens. Or, at least, nothing happens from Jaskier's point of view. He can feel this... flutter, almost, at the edge of his thoughts, that he's pretty sure must be Doran's magic, but other than that it's rather uneventful and anticlimactic. So he keeps still for a few excruciatingly long minutes before Doran opens his eyes and lowers his hands, looking solemn.
"Well, that can't be good," Jaskier says, trying weakly for levity and not managing it.
"It's some sort of transformation curse," Doran explains, sitting back on the stool for a moment. Jaskier's fingers flutter against the backs of his hands as he keeps them folded in his lap. "A very strong one. And it was set in place long enough ago that I can't see any part of you that isn't touched by it."
Jaskier's fidgeting stills, and his eyes narrow. "Wait. You mean it's a curse that's been waiting to take effect since I was a child?" 
"It's a curse that's already taken effect since you were a child, by all appearances," Doran corrects. "Whatever the transformation is, you've been living it since before you can remember."
Well. That was more upsetting and complicated than he'd expected.
[...]
He stumbles a few steps away from the door and bends over, hands on his knees, breathing deeply. Faintly he can hear the door close, and a small part of him is grateful that Doran is, if nothing else, polite enough to give him a moment of privacy to try to deal with this.
"Fuck!" he doesn't quite shout, and pushes himself upright, still trying to breathe evenly, so he can pace. "Fuck. Shitting tits, I..." Okay. He needs to not just curse. He needs to think this out, the best way he's ever known how.
"Right, Geralt," he says to no one, to the memory of his best friend for two decades who could barely stand him most of the time. "It seems that I've run into a bigger spot of bother than I thought, and I've been cursed since infancy. A transformation curse, no less, and no idea how it's changed me!"
Hmm, says the voice in the back of his mind, that he's so glad isn't here and wishes were here so badly he aches. It's thoughtful and concerned and definitely paying actual attention, rather than grunting assent while not hearing a word he says. Jaskier can— could tell the difference. Can imagine it.
"I suppose it could be something lovely," he says. "Secret heir to a throne somewhere. Or it could be worse, it's probably worse. Probably had some sort of horrible deformity and my parents were so mortified they cursed me to make me look normal enough for their perfectionistic standards." Maybe it's childish to let that much bitterness seep out in his tone, even if he's not talking to anyone but himself.
Could be, his imaginary Geralt says in this imaginary conversation he's having, and Melitele's tits, he can't even have an imaginary Geralt that is more conversational? But no, he can't, because he knows Geralt too damn well for a chattier Geralt to feel at all realistic. Damn the man.
"Whatever it is, it will change the way I exist," Jaskier continues, to the night air and a memory. "If it's from before I can remember, then it's..." his frantic pacing slows to a stop and his heart stutters. "What if I can't play anymore, Geralt?" he whispers. "What if I can't sing?"
His imaginary Geralt is silent.
But his own mind is not, it never ever is. If he can't play and he can't sing and he has more of his heart torn out of him... he will find a way to dust himself off and keep moving. He always has. He always will. If he stops, he'll drown himself, or find a dangerous lover, or try to help someone he has no business helping. And then he'll burn out the way part of him has been trying to do since he left Oxenfurt that first time at eighteen.
He's Julian Pankratz. He's Jaskier, the greatest bard the continent's ever known. He will survive and thrive after whatever this curse can throw at him.
"Right," he says, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "Okay."
[...]
:3 (I believe @brothebro, @wingedquill, and @storyinmypocket​ at the least will be interested in this!)
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queen18xo · 4 years ago
Text
I’m Falling Again
Fic for @geraskierminibang for @patchwork-doublet ‘s art :)
A man with short, messy chestnut hair sits on a stool. Various patterned tapestries hang from the walls behind him. On his lap sits a light wood acoustic guitar. He flashes a charming smile at the camera, his baby blue eyes shining beneath the studio lights. The camera slowly zooms in, focusing on soft, agile fingers as they pluck expertly at the acoustic guitar strings, his fingers pluck out a gentle rhythm, his sweet, melodic voice ringing out above the soft strumming of the guitar. 
"I'm in my bed 
And you're not here 
And there's no one to blame
But the drink in my wandering hands." 
The man on the stool looked to be in his early twenties; he had a young blemish-free face, his face was well structured, his eyes sparkling with a youthful twinkle. His fingers were graceful and moved across the strings with well-practised ease. His chestnut hair complemented his pale complexion; his cheeks tinted pink as he softly sang. As the lyrics spilled from his mouth, his pink lips pulled up into an easy smile. 
He wore a threadbare black t-shirt, the worn hemline drooping to expose his prominent collar bones, the shirt hanging loosely from his slim frame. 
"Forget what I said 
It's not what I meant 
And I can't take it back 
I can't unpack the baggage you left." 
His strumming quickened, the familiar chorus approaching, his voice rising a few octaves as he sang, passion coating every word pushed past his lips. 
"What am I now? What am I now? 
What if you're someone I just want around
I'm falling again, I'm falling again, I'm falling
What if I'm down?
What if I'm out? 
What if I'm someone you won't talk about?
I'm falling again, I'm falling again, I'm falling."
The final note rings out loudly; the man throws a disarming smile in the direction of the camera, one of his dainty hands running through his hair, pushing his fringe from where it's fallen into his eyes.
"Thank you for listening everyone; I'm Jaskier." Jaskier's eyes twinkled, his voice bubbles easily from his mouth, his arms flew around at his sides, their movements lightening fast, keeping up with the speed of the words falling from his lips. "So the song was one of my current favourites, Falling by Geralt Rivia" a shy blush coloured his cheeks as he spoke poetically about his favourite singer. "Yeah so for anyone that hasn't checked him out I suggest you do, it was a pleasure to entertain you, until next time." Jaskier threw a flirtatious wink at the camera, a slight blush still colouring his usually pale cheeks. 
The video ended, the screen turning black before several squares advertising other videos. Geralt stared at the screen slack-jawed, his mind reeling as he sat awed by the impressively diverse vocal range the singer showcased. Jaskier had a soft, sweet voice; however, beneath his voice's soothing sultry sound was a raspy quality that added a unique element to his voice. He effortlessly captivated people, his warm smile and bubbly personality were infectious. 
Geralt wasn't usually one to pay attention to others covering his songs; in fact, he actively tried to avoid listening to covers. A piece took months, sometimes even years to perfect, and he had no desire to hear others butchering his hard work. However, listening to Jaskier's cover of one of the least recognised songs he'd released became unavoidable when Cirilla, his 13-year-old daughter, demanded several times in the space of a week that he listened to the cover. 
It was rare to find genuine talent; everything was auto-tuned and over-commercialised, Geralt enjoyed the simplicity of watching a man and his guitar. The sight reminded him of when he had first delved into his passion for music. There was no doubt Jaskier loved what he was doing despite the struggle of being an unknown artist. 
"He's good, right?" A confident voice chirped from behind him; he felt the pressure of his daughter's entire body weight as she pushed down on his broad shoulders as she was bouncing excitedly behind him. 
"Hmmm, not bad." Geralt shrugged, chuckling at the affronted sound she released her mouth pulled down into a scowl. Geralt smirked, twisting his arm around to pinch the pink apples of her cheeks before removing himself from his desk chair. 
"Mum likes him; Mum says he's just your type." Geralt stops in his tracks turning to face his daughter, his eyebrows raised as he stares, shocked by her statement. 
He crouches down to Ciri's level, one knee on the floor as he watches her carefully "Cirilla, you and your mother need to stop trying to meddle in my love life okay, I am perfectly happy." His large hand cups her chubby cheek softly, he gives her a warm smile, settling the young girl with a fond gleam in his eyes.
~~~~~ 
Once Cirilla had been settled for the night Geralt sat at the kitchen counter, the stove’s overhead light bathing the spacious, tiled room in a soft glow. "Yennefer." Geralt growled in greeting, not bothering with pleasantries. 
"Geralt, polite as always." The woman snarked, her voice ringing loudly in his ear as she greets him. 
"Will you stop meddling in my damn love life." Geralt whisper shouted, his voice dropping an octave as he spoke. 
"What love life exactly Geralt?" 
Geralt growled lowly in warning his frustration with the woman steadily rising the longer she spoke, her voice, unlike Jaskier's, grating on his frayed nerves. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger drawing in a deep calming breath. "Just let it go Yennefer," Geralt breaths out suddenly tired, his shoulders sagging as he sits with the phone pressed to his ear. 
~~~~~~~
Several days later, Ciri came bounding through the front door, launching herself into her father's lap as he sat reclined on the sofa watching tv. "Dad, guess what?" She asked excitedly, the teen vibrating with excitement as she spoke. He didn't bother with a response just raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. "Jaskier, the guy that covered your song, he's my new music teacher!" She squealed her face flushed with exertion from the excited screeching and bouncing she was doing. 
Geralt had watched several more of the man's covers since seeing the cover of his song, Jaskier was relatively successful on youtube, he had gained a large following in a short amount of time. "What happened to Mr. Marx?" Geralt asked. He hadn't been aware Ciri's usual music teacher had left the school. 
"Dad" Ciri groaned, rolling her eyes exasperatedly, Geralt chuckled slightly over the girl's dramatics. "Who cares what happened to Mr. Marx! Jaskier is my new teacher, dad this is great." She squealed in his ear the shrill sound causing him to flinch away from the irritating sound. 
"Cirilla, calm down and stop screeching in my ear like a damn banshee." Geralt ordered rubbing a hand over his suddenly tired face. Geralt found it peculiar to think that the beautiful stranger must not live far from their apartment, his heart began beating heavily in his chest over the thought of possibly running into the man one day. 
Jaskier uploaded a new video weekly, Geralt had just finished watching the most recent video. The man had covered another one of his songs; however, it was a slightly more upbeat, more popular song but still not one of his mainstream hits. Geralt found himself idly wondering if he'd made the connection between Cirilla and him yet. Geralt could see boxes and various small homely items scattered around the floor in the background of the usually empty room, indicating he had recently moved into their area. Probably for the job. 
"You're still picking me up tomorrow right dad?" Ciri called from her room, across the house, the teen knew how much it aggravated him yet that never seemed to deter her. 
"Yes Cirilla, go to sleep." He shouted back, his deep voice loud in the otherwise quiet apartment. Since his divorce from Yennefer it was only the two of them left in the apartment, the large space often feeling empty, two people not enough to fill it. 
~~~~~~
Geralt arrived at the school late; he rushed from the car over to the school's courtyard, where his thought process was promptly derailed. Standing beside Ciri, was Jaskier, her new music teacher and the man Geralt had developed a hopeless crush on. 
He approached the two who barely noticed his arrival, both lost in conversation. Jaskier had a massive grin on his face, his fringe hanging messily across his forehead, his clothes rumpled from a long day of work.
"Dad!" Ciri called loudly as if he wasn't standing directly beside her. She smirked up at him, mischievously a trait she had unfortunately gained from Yennefer. The witch still making his life difficult years after their separation. 
"Cirilla." Geralt scolded the girl quietly for her obnoxious behaviour, Ciri looked up at him apologetically, her amber eyes glowing as she looked up at him. 
"Hi I'm - Oh my god." Jaskier gasped out, his dainty hand flying to cover his mouth as his jaw dropped in shock. His bright blue eyes stared up at Geralt beneath thick black lashes. 
"I'm Geralt, Ciri's dad." Geralt offered out his hand for the teacher to shake, flashing the man a small reassuring smile. Jaskier reached out, his small shaky hand grasping Geralt's in a gentle grip. 
"I love you." Jaskier blurted out his cheeks colouring," Oh my god I can't believe I just said that." Jaskier stated mortified, his blue eyes watery as his eyes bore into Geralt’s. "This is so embarrassing," the man laughed hysterically. 
Geralt motioned for Ciri to make her way to the car alone, waiting until the teen is out of earshot before calming the hysterical man down. "Hey, hey, it's alright." Geralt hesitantly pulled the man in his arms, leaving Jaskier enough time to decline the physical contact, not wanting to cross a line. 
Jaskier’s laboured breathing finally began to calm, the man pulling his head from where it leant against Geralt's firm chest. He stays tucked beneath the older man's muscular arms; his head pulled back far enough to meet Geralt's eyes. "I am so sorry; this is so unprofessional." Jaskier groaned, burying his head back into Geralt's chest to hide his embarrassment. 
Geralt chuckles, finding the man in his arms delightfully adorable, he was used to fans being overwhelmed by him, but none were quite like Jaskier. "How about you let me take you out?" Geralt asks timidly, Jaskier's small frame held against his chest. 
"God yes," Jaskier breathes out his heart thumping heavily in his chest as he curls further into Geralt’s secure hold, his anxiety petering off the longer Geralt held him safely in his strong arms. 
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Note
BABE. WHAT IF GERALT DRINKS A LOVE POTION!?! WHAT IF HE?? CoNfEsSeS!?!?
This is why I come crawling into your messages begging for prompts. You get me, boo. 
tw: love potion, Yen interfering but in a nice way
---
Yennefer had grown bored of watching the bard and Witcher dance around each other like courting swans. It had been years and they still hadn’t figured things out between them. It had probably been more than years; more like decades. The bard, something not-quite-human but not inhuman enough to be suspicious or a problem, was too frightened of losing Geralt a second time to say anything to him about his clear and obvious feelings. 
The Witcher, too self-loathing and repressed to express anything other than frustration or exhaustion, didn’t know how to say anything for fear of driving his only friend away for good. She’d been watching the two idiots circle each other in an endless loop of yearning for far too long and the sorceress was finally ready to give them a little push in the right direction. 
“Jaskier,” she drawled, approaching the bard after he’d concluded a public performance. “It’s been awhile since we’ve traded blows. How are you and that Witcher doing?”
“I am still the finest voice on the Continent and Geralt is the grumpiest Wolf Witcher to ever grace the halls of Kaer Morhen,” he winked. “How have you been, dear?”
“I remain the most ravishing woman alive, fortunately.”
“Of course,” he bowed in mock politeness. Their banter had gotten less fiery and more friendly after she and Geralt had come to their understanding about Ciri’s education. Split custody of an affectionate, exuberant magical child worked wonders for strained relationships, apparently. “What can I do for you on this fine occasion, Lady Yen?”
“Oh hush,” she came alongside him and elbowed him lightly in the ribs. He bumped his shoulder back against hers, falling into camaraderie as if they’d never parted. “I actually have something for Geralt this time, but figured you’d be easier to get a hold of. I was correct in that assumption, as per usual. I thought he might be missing his White Gull while out on the Path and I know how he stresses himself nearly to death, so I brewed up something fun for him to try.”
“He’ll be overjoyed to have an equal substitute to his Witcher liquor.”
She pressed a small vial of swirling gold liquid into Jaskier’s palm. There was a label hanging from the tag containing a blocky #9. The sorceress smiled warmly and shook out her heavy skirts, adjusting them to her liking before opening a swirling purple portal. “I have some things to take care of in the next county over, so goodbye for now, darling.”
“Good day, gorgeous.”
And just as soon as she’d appeared, Yennefer was gone.
---
“Geralt! Here, I’d nearly forgotten. Yennefer said this would work like White Gull next time you want to get pissed after a job,” the bard said, passing along the little golden vial. The Witcher pulled the cork, sniffed at it, shrugged, and put it away in his pack. 
“Remind me to thank her next time we cross paths.”
“Already thanked her for you,” Jaskier winked. “No worries.”
“You terrify me, bard.”
“You love me, Witcher.”
“Hmm.”
---
“Geralt, what’s wrong?”
“That wasn’t… that wasn’t White Gull at all, Jaskier.”
“What was it, then!? Are you going to be okay!?”
“It wasn’t poison. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, so what was it, exactly?”
“It was a-” Geralt clapped a hand over his mouth and shook his head furiously. He took a few deep breaths before releasing a muffled, “I can’t talk.”
“What do you mean you can’t talk? You barely talk as it is! Do I need to worry about you or not? Should I send for a healer or no? Was I duped by a very clever, portal-making doppler or was that really Yennefer?”
Geralt glared but kept his hands over his mouth. Jaskier could see from his seat beside the Witcher that he was trembling in place. His shoulders were set in a tight line and his legs were bouncing in place. He was putting a great amount of effort into staying as still as possible and even with his great Witcher willpower was failing him. Slowly, carefully, Jaskier reached out one of his hands but Geralt shook his head and pulled himself further away. 
“Geralt please tell me what’s wrong! I’m scared!” Tears started to well up in his eyes and his hands fluttered uselessly, desperate to touch but banned from doing so. Geralt hated seeing the fear mounting in Jaskier’s eyes, turning down the corners of his gorgeous mouth. “Geralt, tell me something! Anything, please.”
“Love potion,” the Witcher finally managed to grind out. 
“Oh. Do you need me to leave so you can, you know, deal with it?”
Geralt growled and turned away, hands moving from his mouth to grip at the tops of his knees. His fingers dug into the material of his leather trousers and he grit his teeth. “No. Not that kind.”
Jaskier stood anyway, legs wobbling, and took a slow step back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know, she said-”
“She knew what she was doing,” Geralt snarled, standing also. He took a measured step in the bard’s direction and Jaskier’s hands rose again; he wasn’t sure if it was an attempt to ward Geralt off or to welcome him closer. “She knew she was meddling.”
“Meddling!? Geralt wha- what’s going on?”
The Witcher picked his way easily over the forest floor, closing the minimal distance between them. One of his hands reached to grip at Jaskier’s waist and the other cupped the bard’s jaw, holding him still and tilting his head back so they were making firm eye contact. “She’s tired of watching us stay quiet, Jaskier.”
Jaskier, for his part, was trying desperately to summon words enough to answer, but Geralt’s calloused thumb was brushing back and forth against the skin of his cheek and it was incredibly distracting. “I- uh, I don’t know wha-”
The Witcher pulled him closer. There was no pressure, no point of contact that Jaskier couldn’t escape if he wanted to; he just really didn’t want to move. This gorgeous dream was too good to be true, but he was very much enjoying it. 
“Bard,” that low, hungry growl made Jaskier weak in the knees. “Do you love me, too, or do your racing heart and fluttering eyelashes deceive me?” 
“I do,” Jaskier breathed, finally relaxing into his darling Geralt’s comforting embrace. “I love you so incredibly much. With every fiber of my being.”
“May I kiss you?”
“Yes. Gods, yes.”
The thumb on his cheek never stopped moving. That soft caress was the only thing holding Jaskier to the surface of the earth, it felt like. If Geralt let go of him then he would certainly float away into space and never return. The Witcher’s lips, chapped and warm and slightly parted, lit against his as lightly as any feather falling upon the surface of a calm lake. It was a chaste, anxious brush of skin-against-skin and Jaskier whined when Geralt pulled away too quickly for his liking. 
The sharp, sudden sound broke something in Geralt’s resolve. His lips crashed down again and his hands tightened their hold on the bard, keeping him pinned in place for Geralt’s hands and mouth to eagerly explore. “Yes, Geralt, fucking finally.”
“I love you,” the Witcher murmured into his skin. He kissed his way along one pale collarbone and then the other, praying his love into every damp press of his lips. “I love you, Jaskier.”
“I’m writing Yennefer a thank you letter.”
“Shut up and kiss me again,” Geralt growled, the hand cupping Jaskier’s jaw moving down to encircle his waist. Better than I’d ever imagined, the bard thought, one leg lifting unconsciously up from the ground. Oh, my love, at last! 
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lets-play-gwent · 4 years ago
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Concerning Yennefer and Geralt
I would like to posit my two cents on the debate between shipping Geralt with Yennefer or with Jaskier. I’ve seen several posts talking about how they’re perfect for each other and Yen just has some flaws, but I politely disagree. (I don’t meant this to be a callout in any way-- we can all enjoy this fandom with our own opinions I just really want to be involved in The Discourse. Full respect to everyone who ships yennefer x geralt.) Rant ahead. 
I think Yennefer is demonized by some people a lot, and just generally gets a bad rap because people are intimidated by powerful women who don’t take nay shit. She’s not purely evil. She’s a complicated person with flaws, and her arc is unique and interesting to read/watch. 
However, I think she uses her power to manipulate people around her and treats Geralt like shit. I don’t think he is truly happy at many points during their relationship, but rather tolerant of her behavior because he’s infatuated and doesn’t believe he deserves or will get any other meaningful romantic affection in his life. He can’t be honest with her, walks on eggshells constantly to avoid pissing her off. “I’d rather drop dead, he thought. But he did not say it aloud. Contradicting Yennefer, as he knew, inevitably led to a fight, and a fight with Yennefer is not the safest thing” (Sapkowski, Sword of Destiny). A relationship with one person who has virtually no sense of self worth and another person who will fly off the handle and break things or hurt people if you disagree with her is not functional. She constantly invades his privacy by reading his mind; she knows he hates it, because he has told her multiple times, but she doesn’t listen and does whatever she wants. Yennefer also can give off rapey vibes, like the scene with Jaskier & Djinn in the Netflix series or all the times she uses the boner spell on Geralt when he’s tired after a hunt or distracted. Yes he wants that some or a lot of the time, but she just kind of does it without asking, which makes me feel icky. In a Shard of Ice, which is when Geralt and Istredd get in a cockfight because Yennefer can’t commit to either and strings both of them along, she tries to tell Geralt her feelings but turns it into a metaphor with an ice queen who throws shards of ice everywhere instead of saying “I care about you but I’m not in a stable enough place to be in a relationship right now” and gets angry at him for not understanding her cryptic messages.  
I absolutely agree that it is fantastic and important to portray relationships realistically, without all sunshine puppies and rainbows, because there is an ‘after’ to the happy ending that ought to be explored (I generally dislike the American version of The Office but they did a really good job of portraying Jim and Pam’s relationship realistically with ups and downs once they got together, I think). However, I also don’t want to perpetuate the narrative that you should stay with someone even if they treat you really badly, as long as you eventually have moments of bliss (especially during sex-- most of the sweet lovey dovey stuff between yen and geralt is when they’re fucking) and I think the way Sapkowski writes Yennefer x Geralt does the latter rather than the former. Don’t get me wrong, though, I do absolutely think that Geralt and Yennefer have to be together. Their destiny is tied to Ciri’s, specifically teaching her Witcher stuff and magic so she can do the child of elder blood thing. Geralt and Yennefer do not have to be in a romantic/sexual relationship in order for that to happen successfully! In fact, it would probably be better for Ciri if she could see a functional, loving relationship not based in competing power dynamics, unlike all those she had been around previously.
I’d like to reiterate that these are just my opinions and preferences-- no shade to people who ship Yennefer x Geralt! This is all super subjective, and I don’t think it is necessarily ‘toxic’ or ‘perpetuating abuse’ especially because we as fans, artists, and writers can insert consent and other functional relationship attributes into our ships. I personally would just rather give Geralt a sweet and loving boyfriend who cares about his feelings, as Jaskier/Dandelion does, in literally every single iteration of the Witcher. And I crave the gay representation. Therefore, I ship Geraskier, or maybe a nice polycule for the three of them.
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som3thingcr3ative · 5 years ago
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And I am Wanting
So, here it is...a slow burn, angsty, poly-amorous Geraskier fic. This beast is gonna be multiple parts, feature our boys Geralt the sass master and Jaskier the smol bean as well as an OC. 
It’s got canon-typical violence, respect women juice (tm) and everything else that goes with the beauty of the Witcher. 
Our story begins two months before Geralt meets Yennefer in a small town south of Rinde.
part one part two part three part four
Summary: Geralt seeks a bounty and finds something unusual waiting for him in the monster’s lair: Jaskier composes a song in honor of an unsung hero. 
Warnings: If you’ve watched the Witcher, you’re prepared. This gets a little more into Geralt’s feelings, but that’s about it. 
pairings: so far, mild Jaskier x OC, eventual Geraskier x OC. 
also, this is loooong. You’ve been warned. 
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Word of a beast with a price on its head had come from a local town: the Lord of the town promised a room for any who dared attempt to slay the beast, food for three nights and a great ransom upon return of the creature’s severed head. Geralt was intrigued. The disgruntled highwayman who’d told him spoke also of the town’s vigilante, a man who ‘cleaned up the streets’. It’s a town without rapists or child-molesters, the man had said. The only murderer is the vigilante, and people are calling his work just. They honor him. Whores have professed their undying gratitude.
Geralt sips his ale and wonders what the vigilante would think of him. Across the tavern, Jaskier has started his third run-through of ‘fishmonger’s daughter’. The Witcher feels his eyes twitch. He downs the ale and motions for another from the hesitant bartender; it’s his sixth- or so, he’s not really counting. When the barkeep fills his mug once more, he slams it back and lets his stools’ legs scrape loudly against the slatted floor as he stands, making his exit. He spares only the briefest glances for Jaskier, who is surrounded by drunkards singing along with him. The bard’s cheeks are rosy from drink, his eyes sparkling in the low light with the attention of so many on him.
The Witcher waits outside the tavern, leaning against the hitching post Roach is tied to. He strokes a hand over her ear and murmurs lowly to her as he looks around; the town is quite large by rural standards, boasting three taverns and two brothels, a church with a monopoly on the religious sheep of the place, and a rather palatial estate overlooking the main street. This estate is where he needs to go- he takes the whole thing in, from the neatly trimmed rose bushes out front to the large barn to its left. There is a circular cobblestone path for horses and coaches, tall columns guarding the entrance.
Jaskier stumbles out of the tavern, a little tipsy and with a wide grin on his face. Geralt grunts, sending the bard a short glare before he turns his back, throwing the reins over Roach’s head and mounting up. Together, Jaskier telling Geralt in great detail how amazing having everyone singing his songs was, they make a steady pace for the estate.
The first thing Geralt notices as a servant leads him into the dining room is the beautiful woman sitting to the right of who he assumes is the Lord of the town. She’s stunning, her features refined as he’d come to expect of nobility, her long hair let loose in ringlets that spill over her shoulders in waves of auburn. Her posture is perfect, hands clasped in her lap over a flowing dress. Every inch of her screams wealth.
Geralt doesn’t have to force himself to look away. While she looks like she can afford the price on the beasts’ head, she doesn’t look like the type to get her hands dirty- in fact, even at dinner her hands and forearms are covered by black silk gloves. She’s far too prissy for his taste.
“Geralt of Rivia!” The Lord of the town booms, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin as he stands up. He spreads his long arms wide. “I’d heard you were in town. Have you come for the monster? Who am I kidding, of course you have! Welcome, welcome!”
The Witcher steps into the dining room, Jaskier just behind and to his left. He knows he’s out of place with his dual swords, his black leather armor, but he couldn’t give less of a damn. Money is money, and this man has plenty.
“Please, sit!” The Lord continues. “I’d like you to meet my daughter, Lani.” He motions to the auburn-haired woman beside him. She inclines her head with a small smile, properly polite. Geralt nearly scoffs. Instead, he takes a seat at the foot of the table, Jaskier placing himself beside the woman. He kisses the back of her hand, turning on the charm. Geralt watches them for a second, seeing her polite dismissal of the bard. Jaskier doesn’t seem deterred- he keeps talking to her despite her lack of interest.
“I head you have a pest.” Geralt says, ignoring the way the woman’s green eyes lock on him.
“Yes, a werewolf. There’s a mage who has gone rogue around here, and the werewolf seems to be her pet. It’s a creature born, if the pattern of attacks mean anything, and it’s killing our businesses. My businesses, really, since everything in this town is mine.” He laughs, self-confident to the point of cockiness. “I’ll pay you handsomely if you slay it.”
“When.” Geralt corrects, but the man doesn’t seem to notice.
“I can’t have it threatening my daughter, you see. No suitor will want her if the land she is to inherit is plagued with a monster.”
The daughter’s eyes narrow, but she quickly composes her face into an emotionless mask. Geralt notices the slip, though. It seems she’s not content to be married off.
“We have rooms prepared for you, Witcher. Your…friend can stay in the adjoining room. Please, help yourself to whatever food and drink you fancy while here. I can’t offer an advance payment, you see, or too many fakes would come through those doors, but I promise payment in full as soon as the task is complete and the wolf���s head- human or otherwise- crosses my threshold. And only the head, mind you.” He clears his throat. “Apologies, Lani sweet, for such coarse language.”
Lani tips her head to him, but her eyes are still focused on Geralt. He shifts an inch, starting to feel uncomfortable. Her stare isn’t obvious, but it is disconcerting, and with her careful mask, he can’t tell what she’s thinking or why she’s staring.
“Where?” Geralt questions.
“It’s sheltered in the mountain just south of here, at the base. There’s a cave system there, it’s hard to miss. Just follow the creek upstream.”
Geralt nods and stands, turning to leave the room without another word.
 ~
“Did you see how beautiful Lani is?” Jaskier babbles as he follows Roach up a sloping hill. “She looks like a princess, or a queen. Oh, I could write a song about her beauty! Should I? Do you think that would woo her to me?”
Geralt huffs, rolling his eyes. Roach is sure-footed on the rocks, but he can hear Jaskier slipping every so often behind him. Nevertheless, the bard keeps up his steady stream of talking. They’re an hour into the woods, following the creek as Lord Corro (He’d gleaned the name from a passing servant in the hall) had said. There are fresh hoofprints in the bits of sandy ground between rocks, and only in one direction. Whoever had gone hadn’t come back.
The Witcher holds up a hand. Jaskier stops with a huff. “Are we there yet?”
Geralt glares at him, but his attention is diverted; just over the crest of the hill he can see the very top of a cave mouth. Inside, echoing just loud enough for his highly tuned senses to pick up is the sound of a fight. He hears a shout, a roar, a scream- and then a thud as something- or someone- is thrown.
He nudges Roach into a canter over the path, finding that the ground levels out and becomes less rocky the closer they get to the cave. Outside the mouth of the cave, a large black horse grazes amongst bones strewn haphazardly on the ground. It lifts its head and whickers, puffing itself up to full height as it watches Roach canter in. Inside, the sounds of the fight have resumed. Geralt catches the scent of blood, of sweat and something else- wood smoke? He turns his mare and jumps off, rushing into the cave.
The inside of the cave is littered with full skeletons, half-eaten corpses and fresh blood. There are several human bodies among the dead, but sheep and goats far out number the people. He even spots a few cows, their skulls resting in odd positions. Closer now, he can hear each grunt the human fighter makes, each glance of their weapon over the werewolf’s hide. The monster screams, then roars. For a second there’s nothing.
Geralt skids to a stop at the entrance to the main lair. The werewolf lays dead, skewered through the neck by a silver-plated sword. Standing over the corpse with a leg over either shoulder is a black-clad figure whose face is obscured by a mask and a hood- but Geralt can see that the blood dripping from their hands to the sword’s hilt isn’t werewolf blood. It’s their own.
The figure collapses, falling just to the side of the werewolf’s massive body, curled in on itself. Is it the vigilante? Geralt thinks, blinking at the well-made sword, the man’s black doublet and thick leather pants. He sure did come prepared.
As he stalks toward the too-brave human, he takes stock of the fight scene. It had been brutal, this much he can tell; there is human blood smeared across the ceiling and directly below, too fresh to belong to anyone other than the vigilante.
“You shouldn’t have taken on a monster by yourself.” Geralt admonishes the panting, nearly-broken figure on the floor. “That’s what I’m here for.”
He doesn’t answer verbally, instead pushing himself up with both hands firmly planted on the ground. As soon as he gets his feet under him, he’s scrambling backwards, away from Geralt.
The Witcher holds his hands up, seeing the vigilante reach for a dagger belted to his waist. “No need.” He says. “I only hunt monsters, not humans.” Still, no response other than ragged breathing. The man presses a hand to his ribs, hunched over. Clearly injured. “You need help.” Geralt comments. “I can help you.”
He’s aware of Jaskier finally catching up; the bard stands in awe of the scene before him, jaw dropped. Then he sees the vigilante, and notices that both of Geralt’s swords are still strapped to his back- though there is a sword stuck in the werewolf.
“Geralt?” Jaskier questions, confused. “Did he kill the monster?”
The vigilante drops like dead weight. Geralt rushes over, taking the dagger from a limp hand. His fingers come away slick with blood. Up close, the man is smaller than most men he’d seen. He pushes back the hood, noting that the man wears a tight black knit cap that lines up perfectly with the mask. Blood seeps from below the mask, so Geralt takes it off carefully.
“Oh.” He murmurs, shocked. The man, the vigilante, slayer of the werewolf, isn’t a man at all.
Lying unconscious on the ground before him, her body battered, is Lani, Lord Corro’s daughter. Blood drips from the corner of her mouth, but her face is unmarred. Up close, Geralt notices a small scar over her right eyebrow, a tiny imperfection on her otherwise unmarked face. She groans, face scrunching, then gags, rolling over to spit up blood. For a second she seems to gather herself, then her eyes land on his.
She reaches up, feeling for the mask, but when her fingers touch only skin her eyes widen. “Don’t tell my father-“ She says, voice hoarse with the blood coating her throat. Geralt pats her back as she falls into a coughing fit, spitting up more blood. When she flops onto her back, she gives him a side-eye. “Don’t tell anyone.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re injured.”
Her hand lifts to her ribs and she winces. “I’ll be fine. Just…don’t tell.”
Geralt looks to Jaskier over his shoulder. The bard has a comical look of surprise on his face, so shocked that he can do nothing but blink. Huffing, he nods. “I won’t.” 
Lani closes her eyes, nose scrunching in pain. She pants through bared teeth as she tries to lift herself onto an elbow, but Geralt is quick to push her back down. “Stay.” he says. 
“M’lady?” A girl’s voice calls out from behind them. “Oh! Lani!” Geralt turns to see a woman the same size as Lani rushing towards her. She wears the outfit of a handmaiden in Lord Corro’s house, her mouse-brown hair done up in a braid. Without even bothering to glance at the witcher, she kneels beside Lani and cups her face in one hand. “This is going to leave a mark.” She says. 
“You knew about this?” Jaskier’s incredulous voice questions from just over Geralt’s shoulder. His face is bewildered, and Geralt thinks- not for the first time- that the bard lets too much of what he’s feeling show on his face. “You knew that she’s the vigilante?”
The handmaiden cuts Jaskier a look so cold that Geralt’s eyebrows raise. “Of course I did.” She growls, already feeling down Lani’s side for broken bones. “I knew I couldn’t stop her, so I decided to join her. I’m the only one who knows.”
“Not anymore.” Lani coughs, wiping at her mouth. She glances only briefly to the blood on her hand before she warily eyes Jaskier. “Don’t. Tell.”
“Her father would disown her.” The maid explains. “Some of the men she’s, ehem, stopped are men who work for Lord Corro. He’d kill me if he found out I helped her.” She cuts herself off, looking to Lani. They share a glance that clearly means something to the other. 
“You can say it.” Lani says, gritting her teeth past a fresh wave of pain. 
“Lani’s been playing a long game. Lord Corro is the most corrupt person in town, and she’s been taking out his pawns one by one until she can bring him down, but it’s dangerous. If she were to be found out…”
Geralt’s mind reels. This is not the woman who he’d seen sit so demurely at her father’s side. This woman is cunning. She’s an incredible actress, and far more than he’d given her credit for. “He’s your father.” The Witcher comments. “Not many people would dare take on their own family.”
She bares her teeth, her smile bloodied. “He doesn’t deserve what he has. No one should be that rich while others suffer.”
Behind him, Geralt swears he hears Jaskier whimper. The scent that always clings to the bard intensifies. He looks over his shoulder to find Jaskier making heart-eyes at the woman lying bleeding on the floor, broken but victorious. 
“We have to get you back.” The maid murmurs to Lani. “Can you move?”
“She shouldn’t walk on her own.” Geralt says, wondering at the sudden protective urge he has over the woman. “I’ll carry her.”
Lani scoffs, but he knows her pride won’t get her upright. She sets her jaw, eyeing him distrustfully, but when he only holds out a hand for her she seems to deflate. He waits until she nods before he scoops her up with an arm behind her back and one under her legs. She groans in pain, eyes squeezed shut, body trembling. “You’re not like the others, Witcher.” Lani grudgingly admits from behind clenched teeth. “Most men wouldn’t wait for permission.”
Geralt hums low in his chest, knowing she can hear it. He doesn’t bother to answer as he turns around, noting that Jaskier is still reeling from the surprises of the day. “Are you coming, bard?” He burrs, amused. Jaskier nods, glancing back to see the maid following them.
The Witcher places Lani as gently as he can on the black horses’ back, frowning when she still grimaces in pain despite his best efforts. She’s a tough woman, but those are serious injuries, he thinks to himself. “You take the bounty.” She says to him, not meeting his eyes. “As payment for keeping my secret.”
He nearly shakes his head. She’d almost been killed in the fight, the bounty was hers by rights- but the part of himself that remained from his lessons says that coin is coin, no matter how it is gotten. “You killed it.” He says instead. “It’s your bounty.”
“She won’t take it.” the maid replies when Lani clutches her ribs, her face scrunching up in pain. “She’s stubborn like that. Either you take the money or no one will.”
“He’ll take it.” Jaskier jumps in. “Or I will.” When Geralt gives him a short glare, he shrugs. “Living on the road is expensive. We need to pay for food somehow.” Geralt’s lips twitch in annoyance but he realizes the bard is right. It’s a waste of Lani’s blood if no one takes the bounty. 
“Where will you go?” He asks instead. 
“Home.” Lani breathes, pushing herself upright in the saddle. She takes a few shallow breaths past her bruised ribs. “I’ve gotten good at hiding my injuries.” Geralt sees the sadness in her maid’s expression and knows it’s all too true. “Ready, Loretta?” 
The maid nods, swinging up unassisted into the saddle behind her Lady. Lani turns the horse toward the town, giving Geralt a lingering look. “I’ll see you there, Witcher.” She says, gritting her teeth as she urges the horse into a rolling canter. 
Geralt huffs, muttering a low ‘fuck’ under his breath. He turns toward the cave where the werewolf’s dead body waits. Jaskier, behind him, is staring after the two riders with longing in his eyes. 
“I want to marry that woman.” Jaskier murmurs, his cheeks pink. “She’s so… perfect.”
The Witcher grunts. “She’s her own woman, Jask. Can’t be tied down.” He stomps into the cave, finding the monster exactly the way it had been left. The blood on his leather is Lani’s, but no one in town would know that, so he decides to leave it as a sign of the battle. With a savage yank, he pulls the sword from the werewolf’s spine and uses it to sever the head in two blows. When the head rolls alone on the stone floor of the cave, Geralt takes a closer look at the sword, humming in appreciation of the wonderful craftsmanship. If Lani left it, then she left it for a reason, so he decides to keep it though it is smaller than he likes. 
The sun is nearing its crest when Geralt walks out of the cave with a new sword in one hand and a werewolf’s head in the other. Jaskier waits, already strumming his lute to a new tune; one of the witcher, victorious in battle against yet another monster. 
Lani sits stiff as a board in her seat beside her father. Her ribs throb with every shallow breath, her entire right side is an amalgamation of black and blue bruises, but the sleeves of her dress and her black silk gloves cover everything. Behind her, Loretta frets. She can feel the handmaiden’s eyes boring into the back of her skull, watching and waiting for a sign that she’s had enough. 
She’s about to give up when the double doors to the dining room crash open and in strides Geralt, bloodied and carrying the head of the monster she herself slew. 
A good excuse, she thinks, feeling rather pale. She puts the back of one hand daintily to her forehead, sighing just enough that her father hears. “Oh my,” she murmurs. “Father, I feel quite faint. You must excuse me.”
And with that, she rises on unsteady feet, using the back of the chair as balance to leave. As soon as she’s out of eyesight of anyone, Loretta slips an arm around her waist and takes half of her weight, guiding them both to her room. 
Lani doesn’t see Geralt unceremoniously dump the head to the floor, or her father hand over a large bag of gold coins. She lays in bed, aching all over and so tired as Jaskier serenades the Lord with a song of Geralt’s triumph over the beast. She hears the revel thrown in Geralt’s honor, the revel that goes on for hours until there’s a shallow knock on her door. 
“My Lady Lani?” Jaskier’s voice calls, muffled through the door. 
Lani motions Loretta to open the door, too weak to do much more. Jaskier is quickly by her side, gingerly taking her hand in both of his. “How are you feeling?” The bard asks, and Lani can see genuine worry in his eyes. 
“Everything hurts.” she confesses, in too much pain to put on an act. “Did Geralt collect the bounty?”
“He did. I made a song about his victory over the beast, but I wanted you to hear the real one, the one I’ll only sing to him or you. Would you like that?”
She doesn’t know why there are tears suddenly at the back of her eyes, or why seeing his soft gaze breaks down the walls she’s built for so long. “Loretta,” She calls, and instantly her handmaiden is there, helping her sit up. Jaskier helps too, his hands warm on her shoulder and careful not to hurt her any more than she already is. The bard fluffs her pillows behind her without being asked. “Thank you, Jaskier. I’d love to hear your song.”
And so, with Loretta sitting comfortably on her bed beside her, she watches as Jaskier kneels and swings his lute over his chest, strumming a few careful notes. 
“This tale begins with a proper Lady whose beauty knows no bounds, whose courage is unmatched, whose honor is worth more than gold. 
Defender of her land, protector of her realm, she is unknown to all but one.
She fought minor beasts, men whose deeds made them wicked, defeated their demons and emerged victorious. 
So when true evil came to her land
When a monster stalked her people, 
She did as heroes do and she hunted the creature.
When no man would stand up and fight, when cowardice was proven, she asked no recompense, no quarter, for there could be no mercy either.
When no man would fight, she said ‘I am no man’ and she proved her worth.
She fought the creature with every breath, she slew the beast with the last of her strength
And though battered by the monster, she didn’t cry for help. This valiant, beautiful woman had proven herself worth more than fifty men and yet she asked to remain hidden.
And so it is that no one will know her name, the glory of battle goes to another, the spoils of victory hers to give but not taken. 
But let not her tale end here. 
Let it not end here, but let there be many more victories in her future.’
Loretta is crying when Lani glances over at her. Jaskier’s eyes are soft, but there’s something glimmering in them from his song, and Lani feels the effects of it long after the last note fades away, like some sort of spell. “That was beautiful.” She whispers to the bard. “Thank you.”
Jaskier smiles, a smile that lights up his whole face. Geralt never compliments his singing, and more often than not he’s boo-ed out of taverns. “No, thank you, M’lady. Today you proved that it doesn’t take a Witcher for all monsters. There may be hope for us yet.”
Lani laughs, but it quickly dissolves into a coughing fit. Jaskier is quick to help, rubbing her back soothingly as she coughs. She leans into him for a minute, weakened by the fit, and his heart threatens to burst. He’d always been one to trust too quickly, but even he knew that from the moment he first saw her that she was unlike the others. He sets her back against her pillows gently, pushing a lock of hair out of her face. Her eyes are as green as he remembers them being from first glance, though they are pain-dulled and tired. “Get some rest.” he says, kissing the back of her hand once more. He can feel her callouses from weaponry and realizes why she always wears gloves. “You deserve it.”
“Thank you, Jaskier.” She says as he stands, moving his lute onto his back. “And please tell Geralt thank you too.”
“I will.” He replies. “But you are the one we should both be thanking.”
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sorrelchestnut · 4 years ago
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from the discard pile: Geralt, Emhyr, Yennefer
This was from what was supposed to be a long plotty story called “Strange Bedfellows,” which I finally admitted I’m not ever actually going to do anything with.  So instead here’s the emotional core I actually cared enough to write, which is essentially the follow-up to Geralt and Emhyr’s conversation at Stygga, which the game kinda... skimmed over.  The context, as much as it needs any, is that they’re in Nilfgaard for Ciri’s wedding, and in the previous scene Geralt and Yennefer saved Emhyr from an assassin at a banquet.
"Can I ask you something?"
"I'm sure I won't be able to stop you," Emhyr said, very dry.
Geralt briefly considered whether or bringing this up while Emhyr was trapped in bed was entirely fair.  Then he decided he didn't give a shit, and asked anyway.  "Why did you change your mind, back at Stygga?"
Emhyr was silent for a long time.  So long, that Geralt gave up on looking politely out of the window and twisted around to face him, curious what emotion had caught hold of his tongue.  Whatever it was, it wasn't visible, not even to Geralt's heightened vision.  His face was pale, but that was just as likely to be the blood loss; his jaw was set, but that could be anything from lingering pain to irritation at Geralt's effrontery.  Geralt was pretty good at reading people, after all these years, but he'd never been able to read Emhyr worth a damn.
"I suppose you'd like me to say that it was your blandishments that swayed me," Emhyr said, after a time.
Geralt snorted.  Figures he'd try a run-around.  "What I'd like is for you to tell me the truth."
"The truth is complicated, witcher.  Surely you've learned that much, if nothing else."
"I learned it years before the crown first touched your father's head," Geralt said evenly.  "That doesn't mean I don't have a right to ask for it."
"No, I suppose not," Emhyr said, glancing wryly at his leg.  "Very well then, if truth you would have of me, then truth you shall receive.  Your speech was not without impact; I won't deny you that.  'If the world is to be saved like that, it would be better for it to perish.'  Yes, I remember the words exactly," he added, to Geralt's no-doubt-surprised expression.  "There is very little I have forgotten about that day, our conversation least of all.  But that wasn't what changed my mind."
"Yennefer," Geralt said softly.  He'd suspected as much for years, but it was Emhyr's very unwillingness to say it aloud that confirmed his pet theory.  "It was Yennefer."
Emhyr's jaw worked, in temper or self-loathing Geralt couldn't tell, but one thing he'd never been was a coward, and after a moment he nodded.  "Yes."
Emhyr wasn't the only one who remembered that day.  Geralt could still hear Yennefer's words as if she spoke right into his ear.  Please, as far as possible, don't harm my daughter.  I wouldn't want to die with the thought that she's crying.
"You couldn't bring yourself to hurt Ciri," Geralt said.  "Could you?  Not even for the fate of the world.  No matter what you said."
"No," Emhyr said.  His voice was harsh.  "I knew it when I saw her, I think, but your lady's words were nonetheless… impactful, on that front.  Perhaps I would have understood sooner, had I thought there was a limit to my barbarity.  For I am of course a monster, far worse than any you were raised to slay, but even I…  I note you show no signs of leaping to convince me otherwise," he added, with something not unlike amusement.
"What, you want me to lie to you now?  You know what you are.  What you've done."
Emhyr nodded far more readily.  "Oh, yes.  And whatever you think me capable of, witcher, I can assure you I've done far worse.  And yet in that moment I knew that this one thing, this final monstrosity in a long line of them, was the one I couldn't bring myself to accomplish."  He shrugged, as if the memory didn't pain him, but Geralt saw faint lines of strain at the corner of his mouth.  "So I didn't."
"Just like that."  Geralt knew he sounded skeptical, but he couldn't quite help himself.  "Fifteen years you spent, working towards this exact end, and then just- never mind?"
"What do you want me to say?"  Emhyr spread his hands.  "I couldn't bring myself to do it; therefore, it couldn't be done.  And if it couldn't be done, then the prophecy that demanded it must have been false."
"Vilgefortz," Geralt said, still bitter all these years later.  "You trusted a prophecy given to you by Vilgefortz."
Emhyr shrugged again.  "He had, until then, been a very useful ally."
"Because he wanted to kill Ciri," Geralt said.  "After impregnating her, aborting the fetus, and taking the blood, as many times as it took to drain her power.  He wanted to make himself into a living god.  That was who you trusted?"
"I don't trust anyone," Emhyr said.  "And he was not the only one to espouse that particular interpretation of Ithlinne's Prophecy.  It was only after Cirilla's disappearance that I was able to lay hands on an older version of the text, one uncorrupted by imperfect translations.  Had I located it earlier, things might have been different."
"Yeah," Geralt said tiredly.  He knew that feeling, all too well.  "Gotta admit: really fucking wish you had."
"On that point, witcher, you and I can readily agree."
Geralt sighed and looked out the window again.  Why is it always towers, he wondered.  Thanedd, Stygga, Tor Gvalch'ca - even Tesham Mutna was a tower, once upon a time.  Just once, it'd be nice to have my world turned upside down in a nice sunny meadow or maybe an orchard.  Just for a change of pace.
Then again, Ciri had left him by the side of the road, and that had been the worst day of his life.  Maybe he should be careful what he wished for.
"May I ask you a question in return?"
Geralt turned back with a quirk of his eyebrow.  "It's not like you to ask permission."
Emhyr gestured wryly to his leg.  "The alternative seems discourteous, considering."
"Not like you to care about that, either."  But it turned out his curiosity was stronger than his desire to get the last word, so he flicked his fingers in absent permission.  "Sure.  Hit me."
And because Emhyr had never held back in his life, he didn't hesitate but immediately said, "Do you ever regret saving me, when Calanthe bid you to strike?"
"No."
Emhyr's pause was fractional, but it was long enough to know that Geralt had actually surprised him.  "That was definite."
"What's the point of regretting something when neither of us really had a choice?  All the shit you did, everything that happened because of that - it happened because it needed to happen.  Don't fool yourself, Duny.  It was all destiny.  Not just the parts that made it into the ballads."
A muscle in Emhyr's jaw flexed - yeah, didn't like that, did he, the thought he wasn't the supreme agent in his own life.  Good.  Let him get a taste of what the rest of the mortals felt.
"And is that the only reason?"
This time Geralt was the one holding silent, struggling with his response.  Not because he didn't know the answer, but because he did, and it might not be the one Emhyr wanted to hear.  And while he liked to tweak the tiger's tail as much as the next guy - okay, way more than the next guy - he had a feeling that if he got this one wrong, he was losing a lot more than just the emperor's forbearance of his usual disrespect.
Well, no other way but through, as Vesemir liked to say.  It wasn't like Emhyr wouldn't be able to tell if he was lying even if he did want to try it.  Might as well be honest and hope for the best.
"Ciri," he said.  "Without you, there never would've been her."
"Not, strictly speaking, true," Emhyr countered swiftly.  Not an unexpected answer, then.  Which wasn't the same as welcome.  "Pavetta was already pregnant.  That was, after all, the nature of your claim."
Geralt made a gesture, wiping away that argument.  "She would have existed, true.  Who knows, maybe she still would have ended up on your throne.  But she wouldn't have been Ciri.  She wouldn't have been the Witcher Girl."
"Are you so certain?" Emhyr inquired.  "As you say, destiny is a powerful thing.  And a river, denied its intended course, will jump its banks and carve a new one through unweathered ground.  How can you be so sure she would not have been promised to you regardless?"
Geralt snorted.  "You think Calanthe would have opened herself up to the Law of Surprise?  After watching you make a claim on her daughter?  No.  And I wouldn't have thought to ask, either - only did because you kept insisting, and that only happens for one reason."
Emhyr made a thoughtful little mhm noise.  "And so, for your intervention, destiny bound us together in that moment in time, so that it might create a savior of a very particular shape.  A witcher girl, a learned sorceress, a killer with a will of steel.  The child of the Elder Blood that would face the White Frost and save us all from extinction."
"Well, that's what the prophecy said, anyway," Geralt said.  "I never gave a shit about any of that.  All I cared about is that for a little while, she was mine."
After a long moment, Emhyr said, "You must hate me very  much."
Geralt didn't pretend to misunderstand.  It would have been easy: he had a lot of reasons to hate the Emperor of Nilfgaard, and every single one of them was earned.  But Geralt had never been one to take the easy path, so instead he said, "You know, back then - before Thanedd, I mean - everyone from Triss to fucking Djikstra was always so eager to tell me that I couldn't hold onto her, that she didn't belong with me.  Even Vesemir.  Even Yen.  But you know what's funny?  I never thought otherwise.  Crossed half the world to find her, but it wasn't because I thought I could keep her.  Only ever wanted to keep her safe."
"Interesting," Emhyr murmured.  His gaze lingered on Geralt's face, missing nothing.  "I was certain you blamed me for taking her away."
"Guess you had to be wrong about something," Geralt muttered, and rubbed a hand over his face.  "No, I always knew she was meant for bigger things.  Okay, so I didn't guess this," and he waved a hand toward the window, meaning the city, the realm, the bloody continent now held in the palm of Ciri's sword-calloused hand.  "But something more than slaughtering drowners at ten crowns a head.  And even if I did - what'd be the point blaming you, anyway?  It was Ciri's choice.  Think I'm going to be mad at her for trying to make the world better?"
"Interesting," Emhyr said again.  It was impossible to read his expression, but that didn't stop Geralt from trying.  "I underestimated you, it seems.  Again.  Not a condition I suffer often, and yet it's become very nearly a habit where you are concerned."
Geralt snorted.  "I wouldn't worry about it.  Doubt you'll have much opportunity in the future."
"Do you think?"  The effort of the conversation seemed to be tiring Emhyr out; even his hawkish gaze was beginning to blur.  "And yet here you sit, witcher.  And here I lie, when by all rights I should be dead.  I'm not so certain that we are done, you and I.  Destiny might have something in store for us yet."
                                         * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Emhyr fell asleep soon after, which Geralt figured was just as well; he needed a little silence in his head.  He didn't want to think about what Emhyr had said.  What was the point?  If he was right, fate would reveal her fickle hand sooner or later; nothing mere mortals could do to hurry it along.  You could go mad, trying to live your life like that.  And in the end it didn't matter - you'd do the right thing, or you wouldn't, and you could never know which was which, not really.  The best you could do was make the choices in front of you, and try not to let yourself regret.
It was about two hours later when he heard someone approaching down the hall.  Geralt roused himself from his light meditation and tracked the footsteps - one set of heels clicking against the marble and one set of soft leather slippers, designed to be nearly inaudible to human ears - until they reached the door.  It opened silently on oiled hinges, followed by the whisper of fabric and displaced air from a bow.
"Thank you, Mererid.  That will be all."
"Of course, my lady."
The door closed once more.  Footsteps tapped closer - quieter now, making an effort.  A gloved hand rested on his shoulder, delicate yet firm.  Geralt inhaled the familiar smell of lilac and gooseberries and relaxed for the first time since he saw light flash on the assassin's blade.
"How is he?" Yennefer asked, keeping her voice low.
"Better.  Sleeping.  He was up for a while earlier, though.  Didn't seem addled-"  Massive understatement.  "Just tired.  Probably good as new in a day or two."  He picked up her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, right where her cuff and glove left a gap.  The steady throb of her pulse under his lips leeched away a little more of the day's poison.  "What about Ciri?"
"Cloistered with Rousarde, Vattier, and about a dozen imperial accountants.  One of Vattier's men managed to track down the account used to make the payment, and they're currently following the thread through a series of shell companies at Central Banking.  Rousarde assures me it's only a matter of time until they find the source of the money."
"Must have a lot of it, whoever they are," Geralt said.  "Killing an emperor can't be cheap."
"If you combined all of the contracts you've ever completed in the entirety of your years on the Path, you might approach the payment that young man would have enjoyed had you not intervened."  Yen laid her palm against his cheek, stroking the hinge of his jaw with her fingers. Her gaze was very warm, though her glove was as cool as ever.  "You did very well, you know.  I didn't get a chance to say as much earlier."
"Wasn't the only one.  Potions wouldn't have done shit if you hadn't held him steady long enough for them to work."
Yen inclined her head in acknowledgement.  "Consider the practice I've had in that arena.  I could almost thank Avall'ach for getting himself cursed."
"Wouldn't if I were you."
"No, probably not the done thing."
They shared an exhausted smile, and then Geralt decided she was still entirely too far away and tugged at her wrist.  She gave him an unamused look, but acceded to his silent plea and stepped over the footstool to climb gracefully into his lap.  He held still, allowing her to arrange their limbs to her satisfaction, and then buried his nose into the silken fall of her hair and inhaled gratefully.
"You should get some sleep," she said, after a few minutes had passed.
Geralt didn't bother responding.
 "I know you must be very tired."
"Ciri said guard," Geralt said, and left the remainder unspoken, too obvious to need words: so I guard.
Yen's shoulders rose and fell in a sigh.  "You're going to sit here until Ciri comes to tell you otherwise, aren't you?"
Geralt didn't bother responding to that either.
Her head shifted on his shoulder, and he knew she'd turned to regard the bed, or more precisely its occupant.  "He looks quite peaceful like that, doesn't he?"
Geralt only barely held back a snort, which was sure to wake Emhyr as their quiet voices hadn't.  Not a lot of people laughing around the emperor.  "It's a trick."
"Yes, of course, but it's quite a good one."  She was playing with laces of his doublet, winding the string about her fingers and then unwinding it the opposite direction.  It made a tiny shushing noise, a fractional rasp of fabric against skin, that was oddly soothing. "He was awake earlier, you said?"
"Yeah."
"Did he say anything?"
"Oh, yeah."
He felt her frown against the side of his throat.  "It went that poorly, then?"
"Yeah- well, no.  I guess.  Hard to tell, with him."
"Of that, I am entirely too aware."  Shh, shh, went the laces.  Yen rubbed her thumb thoughtfully against the little v of skin below his collarbone.  Nilfgaardian fashion favored closed collars, but he'd had a rough day.  "What does he want from us, Geralt?  Really."
"You mean, besides saving his life?"
She let out an impatient huff of air.  "Yes, aside from that."
"I think... I think he wants absolution," Geralt said slowly, puzzling it out even as he spoke.  "Or- he wants to want absolution, and he's hoping like hell that's close enough to count."
"But why us?" Yen said, with a plaintive cast Geralt heard only very rarely.  "Surely Ciri-"
Geralt sighed.  "He loves Ciri more than any other person alive," he told her, too tired to be anything but honest.  "And I'm pretty sure he knows he doesn't deserve her."  He tucked her head a little more firmly under his chin.  "Would you be honest, if you were in his shoes?"
There was a brief, sullen silence.  "No," Yen said, finally.  "I don't even like it with you."
That was at least halfway a lie, and anyway, Yen didn't think she deserved him, either.  (She didn't think he knew that, but he wasn't an idiot.  He totally knew.)  Before, he hadn't been in any kind of hurry to disillusion her in case she noticed it went the other way around; these days, he was finally starting to figure out that they just about deserved each other.  Yen wasn't there yet, but that was okay.  They had time.
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trulycertain · 5 years ago
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Thoughts on the Netflix Witcher:
Not many people are tossing a coin to their Witcher, are they? Geralt still has to buy his own drinks, it seems.
Jaskier’s lyrics need, er, work, but Joey Batey has a lovely voice. 
Love the wardrobe design, Yen’s in particular. It’s distinctive, not always “pretty” in that it sometimes feels like medieval experimental haute couture, and combines sexuality with hard lines. It feels very her.
I love Freya Allan’s Ciri. Allan’s a really good actress, in my opinion, with a really hard arc to carry, and also apparently show!Ciri has the same effect as games!Ciri - that of me turning into Geralt and muttering “must protect” a lot and wanting to stab anyone who tries to hurt her. Her eyes are very cool.
I think it's interesting that in the books, Yen is clearly based off Polish archetypes and the wild raven curls are part of that; in both the games and the show, it's played down. (Not least because I've seen her in other stuff and Chalotra naturally has pretty poker-straight hair, so curling that for any length of time without the curls falling out, even with a ton of product, would be a pain.) 
My one issue is that I still think she looks a bit young and I would've been perfectly happy to chuck out the whole "sorceresses enchant themselves to look early twenties forever" thing, but actually... I also kind of really like the "soft-faced, soft-voiced enchantress is actually hard as nails" idea. It lets her presence speak for itself, which Chalotra does very well, and means people tend to underestimate Yen, which is also handy. I mean... I will always be frustrated by “somehow, conveniently, they look like a 22-year-old actress and a 35-or-so leading man”, but Chalotra’s work itself is good. It's different from the Yen in my head, but I like her performance and interpretation.
I like Triss, and I like seeing her here. I hope they’ll go more into their friendship. It’s been rocky at times, but I found it quite annoying how the games treated all that, as opposed to the books. This is one of those things where I’m really glad it’s adapting the books in particular.
Critical stuff, written in December, with warnings for discussions of consent and stuff:
The Last Wish is the short story where Geralt and Yen meet, with the capture of the djinn. I read it once, coming up for four years ago? now, so I'm really muzzy on memories and it might well have been like that originally. Now, knowing Sapkowski, who does pull this shit, it probably was. (I love his female characters as characters. It’s just that often, his gender worldbuilding bothers me. The two shouldn’t be different, but they often are.)
All right, so the sexual dynamics going on are... uncomfortable, and perhaps you get a bit inured to it in the books because there's just so much uncomfortable stuff, but it stands out a bit more starkly in the show, which has been better for it. (I do not like rapey canons. At all. I have no idea how I got into the Witcher; really liking the female mains and liking Slavic mythology? And the fact that the games and show were pretty good with how they treated it as part of someone's story rather than a "haha, look, so titillating" on-screen scene? And certainly, Calanthe and her people killing themselves to avoid enslavement, torture and rape is depressingly historically accurate. Anyway.) 
Things I'm bothered by:
The implication that the orgy is basically sex pollen/a possible humiliation tactic, rather than her manouvering her way into circles with everyone's embarrassing secret being "we like to willingly fuck the whole village," which would also have been political humiliation. I mean, you can make a point that she's had a background of being sexually and romantically manipulated most of her adult life - look at the Istredd thing, for a start, with the rectors - and is just shrug about it all, but. It's different from Stregobor's  illusion because these are real people. They all look like they've just come out of a trance and scrabble panickedly for clothes and their reputations, they look like didn't know quite where they were, and spells for that kind of thing had been established an ep or two earlier in the series.
So the first time Geralt and Yen meet, we've got non-con sex played for laughs, or at least played off as "yeah, she does that, don't worry about it" (which is fed into by Geralt's later enchantment, which I actually don't mind, humiliating him and then sending him to hang because he's in the way is somehow less objectionable to me? Maybe because i just hate non-con storylines that much, or maybe because it's less of a direct attack). And then when they meet, you've got: strong-arming him into a bath (sure, he says yes and I guess you can say he figured there'd be sex, but he seems surprised about it all), getting naked in front of him when he's already in a position where it'd be difficult/awkward to leave, the first kiss which has a pretext but was very specifically a kiss and which again, he's kind of too taken-aback/assessing to reciprocate... I mean, if all this sounds kind of OK, swap the genders; heck, even watching it at the time, some of it was pinging me as "hey, this sounds too much like rl things that have happened". 
Now, one can say, "Well, he stuck around, didn't he?" - hmm, OK, but you've got the trickier things of magical intimidation at play (even before the enchantment, he knows he's dealing with a powerful sorceress who fucks with people's heads) and just "eh, I guess I'll go with the flow" that can kind of characterise Geralt. And even Witchers freeze. And you can say, "Well, she could probably tell he was attracted to her, with magical mojo if not just through observation." Aye, but dude was kinda busy and on-duty and clearly mistrustful of her, so he would probably never have acted on it - and didn't, because of all those factors. The later thank-god-we're-alive/angry sex when they actually get it together? Totally fine with that, that seems about par for the course with those two.
I also feel like the fact that Geralt, who I fondly say is the biggest horndog in Temeria a lot of the time and will rarely turn down a bit of afternoon delight, doesn't make a move and stays questioning her, albeit amusedly, says a lot about where their relationship is at that point and the fact he's still trying to figure her out. (Not that that implies he's not interested; quite the opposite, mistrustful boffing is kind of a thing he does at times, and heck, look at Renfri.) And on Yen's part, it's definitely more of a power play than needing to save bathwater (I mean, she's pretty rich). 
Now, as said, the original story was prob at least a bit like this, because Sapkowski *eyeroll*, but considering the amount they changed (Istredd's entire backstory! A whole bunch of Yen’s! Yennefer's transformation! A bunch of other things), they could've probably adjusted this and/or at least put a different lens on it in the script. It's also frustrating because a lot of people I've seen make this argument are using it for "Yen is such a bitch, Geralt deserves better, I hate her." I'm not interested in char-bashing.  No, I love games!Yen (one of my favourite characters in... anything) and what of books!Yen I've read, and I really enjoy Chalotra's version... aside from these scenes. 
And aye, one can say that Geralt/Yen is about two people who've been shaped by a truly awful world learning to be better and of course they have their flaws (uh, completely ignoring consent is a pretty darn large one), but it's definitely played as intriguing/romantic/casual mischief. 
Update, as of January, when I went back to it:
I literally love every single other scene with her. Hmm. Also, I’ve spoken to a couple of people about this, and neither one of them had it ping to them as coercion. Perhaps I’m just overthinking things or not being good at romance storylines again.  Just... not sure, I guess. Nothing else bothered me. Is this my books knowledge being wonky? Am I being daft? If anyone else has thoughts, I’d be glad to hear them.
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thealfanator · 7 years ago
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The Steel that Warmed Us in the Night-Time ~ Chapter 6
Yennefer and Triss stared at each other from across the room.  The daytime sun leaked ferociously through the windows whilst also being remarkably soothing.  The innkeeper gazed upon the room with a casual boredom; it was ‘just another day’ after all.  The smell of beer stimulated the air like a bitter electric shock.  For what had seemed like days, the tavern was still noticeably empty – with people staying clear from it since the moment Geralt had arrived a few days earlier.
“I wonder how long they’ll be.” Triss brought up.  She felt awkward with Yennefer’s piercing, crystal-like eyes which failed to blink.  She merely nodded her head or grumbled a tiny sign of approval, then sighed.  Triss sighed too; trying to solve the everlasting grudge but failing miserably. Hunter watched from a distance, fondling over his own, large cup of ale.  His tired eyes dragged their way from Triss, then to Yennefer, then back again – constantly watching a competitive game of conversation.  Yennefer sighed again.
“They won’t be long, I hope.” She pointed out, “A couple of days?  It’s Toussaint, we’re talking about – as far as I know, Geralt loves fighting monsters in White Orchard rather than getting dressed up in a luxurious city…”
“He’ll want to escape the place as soon as they have the amulet.” Triss finished.
“Exactly.” Yennefer almost cracked a smile.  She looked at the floor with tired eyes, clutching her almost healed stomach wound.  From time to time, she prodded it with unsatisfying effect, exerting her frustration of not being able to mount a horse on an exceptionally thick, white bandage. She sighed again.
Geralt and Cirilla stood at the edge of the lively city of Toussaint, feet sinking slightly in the dancing, brightly coloured sand which slowly merged into a blinding pale green grass which coated the city’s structure.  Ciri laughed and enjoyed the bliss atmosphere whilst she looked around at the people who worked their day, carrying clothes, picking fruit or travelling along the cobblestone intestines of the city.  On the other hand, Geralt studied the layout once again, in a curious fashion.  He had been here before, but not in quite some time. They both shared a fascinated expression; green splodges of life dissolved into the red and white structures of the roofed tiles and infrastructure.  The air was crisp and Geralt could almost smell the delightful mood of the inhabitants here.  Flowers bounced around, overjoyed at every passer-by.  Geralt looked to Ciri.
“As much as you love it here, you know we have a business to do?” he prodded.
“Absolutely.” Ciri stared back, eyes still voluntarily open, drinking in the charm of Toussaint.
“Right…” Geralt, amusingly, did not look convinced. “I got good news and bad news. Good news first, we have large city to look for an amulet.  Bad news is exactly that! We have a WHOLE city to explore for an amulet, and further – we have no leads to follow.”  He sighed, “You ready to do some exploring?”
“You kidding?” Ciri chuckled, “I’d explore this town for days! Just say the word.”  They moved forward, deeper into the city.
           Geralt and Ciri decided to split up and take different roles so that they could expand their search for the amulet.  Geralt agreed he would delve deeper into Toussaint’s mazes and pathways whilst Ciri headed to a shoreline which surrounded a large, beautiful lake just off the side of the city.  Ciri continued to absorb the amazing nature of the place.  Her eyes as wide as a tiger’s, constantly observing the liveliness. People bustled around their business. She noticed that there were no true monsters here like in Velen; she hadn’t seen such purity and happiness to extents like this!  She walked up to a woman who, just outside her small cottage door, was picking some berries then washing them in a sweet-smelling bowl of water.
“Hello, Miss?” she poked politely, trying not to invade her business.  Luckily, the woman turned around without angry eyes but instead greeting her with immediate happiness.
“Yes, my love?” she croaked.  She was an older woman, with cloth-like clothing which seemed worn out from kneeling so much.  Ciri asked her about an amulet in the area – trying not to sound too desperate for an answer. The woman looked down at a wet patch of sand, but she was clearly in thought.  She stood silently, puzzled like a wise wizard in his tower.  After a few, awkward moments she replied.
“There was one… A man, a knight to be precise, who thought it would be funny to make a beast swallow it.  ‘Twas a peculiar beast; shaped like a bird – has feathers ‘n all that but it mostly stays underneath the lake there.” She pointed; Ciri followed her arm, “Every now and then, not often – mind you, does it burst out of the lake in rage, scaring all the people including me!  The rather expensive looking item as you said is clearly in its stomach. It looks too beautiful to ignore…” she trailed again into thought.  “Unfortunately, the rather arrogant man who forced it down its throat was also eaten. He may’ve deserved it, but I won’t wish death ‘un anybody!  It was a tragic day.”  Ciri looked down at the sand again.  It was almost like they were both sharing each other’s thoughts if only for a moment.
“Thank you so much.” Ciri said eagerly.  Just as she turned to leave, the woman called her again.
“Please, do me a favour and pick some of these gooseberries? I’d be ever so grateful.”
*
Meanwhile, Geralt stumbled into the city’s depths, wandering aimlessly and hoping for something to latch onto.  He randomly started asking people about an amulet in the area but found no immediate luck as they would usually keep their head down and slowly shy away.  He sighed again.  He sat by a bench, deep in thought.  The afternoon sun scorched his forehead and brought small entities of sweat to the surface like a father dragging his disobedient child.
“Hey, Witcher!” someone whispered.  Ears peeked up towards the sky.  The Witcher turned.  “I know somethin’ ‘bout that amulet you been askin’ about.” He cupped his hands round his mouth, trying to encourage his whispers.  He went across the busy street to meet the stealthily looking man who bent down into a crouch inside a doorway.  He was evidently one of the townsfolk and not a city guard, which was noticeable due to Geralt’s perceptive nature, and the fact he could see his ‘not incredibly expensive’ clothing.  “Let’s make a deal.”  They both leaned into the warm, wooden building and increased their whispers into a normal-sounding chat.  Geralt nodded, expecting more information.  “Look, I had a bottle ‘o wine which was stolen from me.  It was dear and I need it back.  I saw you, Witcher, ‘cause your kind ‘ave those swords! Please, fetch it for me and I’ll give you information about this task you’re pursuing.”  Geralt looked reluctantly at the man, but was forced to take on the quest.  He sniffed the area, picking up the trail.  For what seemed like eternities later, he returned from this mundane task with a frustrated look on his face and a bottle of half-drunk wine.
“I have it.  Now tell me about the amulet.” Geralt said as he passed the bottle back to the man.  Geralt had a headache from the frustration and had a rumbling sound and sensation in his head.  Trying to ignore it, he put his forefinger and thumb on his temple whilst leaning on a table.  It wasn’t until the wine bottle Geralt had just retrieved smashed on the floor after it fell off a shelf, that he realised the rumbling wasn’t in his head.  Books and ornaments shook, chairs wobbled. There was a vivid vibration through the floor.  The Witcher heard screams coming from outside.
“What the hell is that?” The man in the room screamed. Geralt used his hand to restrain the man from running wild.
“Wait here!” Geralt shouted above the chaos of sound, adjusting his swords in the process – ready for a potential fight.
           Geralt ran through the chaotic streets of Toussaint.  High pitched screams of women and children stabbed at his brain. He pushed passed in the opposite direction to the bolting people.  He cursed to himself, hoping that Cirilla was not caught in the mess.  Stalls were pushed over followed by the sprawling of food items which became bludgeoned with the feet of others.  After minutes of panicked breaths and the wish to move faster, Geralt came to a clearing.  Below him, past a few banisters and intestine-like pathways, he saw a large lake in the distance bubble and shake like boiling water.  He stood in shock, paralysed to the strange matter.  Decades of suspension and expectation passed before a griffin-looking creature burst out of the water, producing a storm of water which spread for what seemed like miles.  Shielding his eyes, Geralt noticed that this wasn’t a pure hybrid of a griffin, but instead a peculiar beast of a creature which he had not seen before.  It had jet-black feathers with a red-stained beak and large, evil eyes.  It zoomed into the air, screeching all around before diving towards the ground.
*
Ciri urgently shouts to the woman she was just talking to and others which crowded in awe around the beast.
“Get out of here!  Now!” She warned as she drew her sword.  The beast dived down towards the ashen-haired figure.  Ciri deflected its attack with a swipe of her weapon.  It was incredibly strong.  It continued to dip and dive around buildings and over the lake it had emerged from moments before.  Ciri continued to prick the creature.  Not long passed before she gave a powerful attack to it which caused it to spray blood, turning the sand to a stale copper-like colour.  It involuntarily smashed to the ground. Amongst the blood-spilling stomach, conveniently oozed the amulet.  The colour was coated with blood so much that Ciri couldn’t even see the glistening greens and blues of the gemstones which were embedded into it.  Geralt continued to look at the situation whilst desperately trying to reach her.  It proved quite difficult due to the high amounts of obstacles and great quantities of idling bystanders.  He looked a few dozen seconds later to see that he had made almost no progress at reaching her.  Ciri snatched the amulet immediately, breathing heavily at her achievement. Despite the situation, Ciri couldn’t help but grow a small smile.  They had retrieved their fifth amulet.  That counts six now; she almost forgot that the contractor already has one out of the ten they had to gather.  She continued to breath heavily, restoring the oxygen in her lungs.  The corpse of the bird lie a few feet ahead of her.  Geralt saw a bunch of city guards approach her with spears drawn.  They looked puzzled at the scene and, with their narrow minds, immediately grabbed Cirilla by the arms and dragged her like a cat held by its neck away from the situation.
“What are you doing?  I killed this creature!” Ciri yelled.
“Aye, you might say so, but let’s see what the queen says about the matter!  You could’ve meddled with other people with a bloody-stained sword like that!” one of the soldiers replied.
“Are you kidding?  You think I’d idly stand there and watch that monster bite away at the people of this city?” Ciri countered in shock whilst being continually dragged.
“We don’t know.” They blindly said from within their helmets. “For now, a holding cell is in order for you, missus, even if you are innocent!”  Ciri could almost sense their stupidity through their empty, iron suits. She failed to resist their physical prods as she helplessly flailed with them towards a jail cell far inside the large castle in the middle of Toussaint.  Geralt shouted at them and tried to push his way towards her, but he couldn’t make it and they couldn’t hear him.  He grew angry as he fell to the cold, hard floor, unable to keep himself upright in his shock.  After he came to his bearings, he stomped back into the alleyways of Toussaint in search for a better plan.
This is the start of ‘the Toussaint Trilogy’!  I hope you still enjoy the series.  It is very action packed!  Please feel free to leave me some feedback; direct message me or anything you like!  In the meantime, please - if anything - reblog because my mission is to expose my series to as many people as possible and increase recognition!  Nevertheless, have a great week :)
Link to Chapter 1: https://thealfanator.tumblr.com/post/161443706234/the-steel-that-warmed-us-in-the-night-time
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