#that people are hoping to /avoid/ by being t4t

[commsroom]

Do you enjoy t4t eiffera headcanons because I just think they have t4t vibes

oh, i feel SO guilty for this one... i've actually been trying to write a post about why eiffel/hera as a cis guy/trans woman relationship resonates with me... like, the things that make hera read as trans to me are canonically things eiffel does not experience and is often kinda ignorant about. a big part of their relationship development relies on eiffel learning to decenter his own perspective and recognize that certain things will impact hera more profoundly because of who she is. eiffel reads as especially cis to me in a way that not many characters do, and part of it is... it's not that his backstory, lack of self-awareness, or various other faults could only belong to a cis guy, but those things would read very differently if they were written with any other intent. in eiffel's pop culture worldview, he conceptualizes himself as the everyman, the 'default' person, and i think there's something very intentional that's being deconstructed, with that context.

that said, though: i know how personal trans headcanons can be, and if you resonate with eiffel in that way, i think that's wonderful.

[aroace-ventplace]

I'm seriously wondering if I'm aroace, and the thought terrifies me. I'm scared of being alone forever. Because I want a connection like romance, but something just icks me about romance itself. Sex is definitely off the table, but I'm also wondering if that's partly because of the fact that I'm trans and don't feel comfortable in this body. But being aro scares me even more because I don't want to be alone forever, and I just. Don't know what to think.

the feeling you're describing, of desiring romance in theory but not in practice, is a sentiment i've seen a lot in aspec spaces. sorting out those personal questions of "is finding a romantic partner a genuine desire of mine, or just an echo of what society says i should do? what actually appeals to me about the concept of partnering, and how would that relationship need to look for me to get what i actually want out of it? how do i deal long-term with the fact that this world just isn't built for nonpartnering people?" has been difficult for many of us, and is a lifelong process for some people. i don't have any easy answers for you; all i can do is say that many, many people also struggle with the things you've described. personally, i'm now at the point where i see my aromanticism as something to be celebrated rather than dreaded - we're all outsiders in a world made for two, and that's metal as hell <2

non-graphic discussion of sex and dysphoria under the cut, just in case people want to avoid it:

i'm a trans man with pretty severe all-around dysphoria - top, bottom, height, voice, you name it. i've been transitioning for three years and i've been dysphoric for many more. the way my dysphoria intersects with my asexuality and aromanticism is nebulous at best: there's definitely a connection, but it's very hard to determine exactly how far it goes. here's some questions i've asked myself:

am i uncomfortable with romantic relationships because i'm afraid the other person will view and treat me like a girl? (yes - but when i think about being in a relationship as a man, or any other gender, i still feel repulsed by the idea.)

am i uncomfortable with the idea of having sex because i'm uncomfortable with my own genitalia? (yes - but when i think about theoretically getting bottom surgery and having sex, i still feel repulsed: relatively less so, but still very strongly repulsed.)

would my discomfort be resolved if i were to be in a t4t relationship, where i know the other person sees me as my preferred gender? (well... i would feel more comfortable, but i don't think it would resolve that fundamental repulsion. even when i'm around other trans people, i can usually tell that my relationship to sex and romance is not the same as theirs.)

transitioning changes some people's relationship to sex, and doesn't change others - "t will make you horny and gay" is a pretty common half-joking anecdote among transmascs, and transfems have anecdotes about estrogen/progesterone doing the exact opposite for them. personally speaking... nope, i didn't turn horny and gay! well, mostly. my libido did increase, but in practical terms, it's had no impact on my orientation; i consider myself just as aroace as i was 10 years ago. what i'm getting at here is that it's different for everybody - transness and transition can affect sexuality in complicated ways, but there's never any guarantee that your experience will be the same as anybody else's. whatever your personal relationship to dysphoria, transition, and sexuality is, i hope you can eventually reach a point where you feel comfortable with yourself!

[trans-advice]

Hi! This gets a little heavy, which I hope is okay.

I'm a young adult, trans, and living in a red state. I don't have the means to pack up and move elsewhere. I'm old enough that I technically could have come out or taken steps to transition by now. I just haven't.

I'm the type of person who thinks about it for days if a cashier gives me a weird look. I need everyone to like me so much. The "authentic" me and the people-pleasing conformist are fighting. And the conformist is winning. (I'm getting a good grace in gender conformance, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve, lol.) I don't feel mentally healthy about it.

Keeping in mind that I'm surrounded by Republicans, it doesn't even feel maladaptive. It just feels normal except for the part where I'm never happy. I'm not brave, and any plan I make for my future has to reckon with that.

I don't know. Can someone please tell me there's hope for me?

Yes there's hope.

Personally, I think you're probably doing well on the "don't debate fascists/transphobes" PSA's from 2016, so take comfort in that. If you are not out, then maybe it will be easier to leave people, or at least move out to somewhere else. Granted, rent is high, but still, housing discrimination. If you can't move away then basically try to be away from the republicans you're surrounded by as much as possible.

Coming out was originally meant for new people within lgbtqia+ spaces, like bars & parties. Then from those spaces it got repurposed by people who already had ties to other lgbtqia+ such as communities, friends, or college campus version of GSA's (called lgbtqa which combined the lgbtq acronym with the soffa acronym). Point being, if you are surrounded by transphobes, and you don't have community ties yet with say t4t spaces or lgbtqia+ spaces, then do not come out. It take groups of people to oppress & it takes groups of people to undo that oppression. It would be wiser to figure out how to move from place to place, whether across state lines or not, in order to gain more access to affirming spaces, than it would be to come out like right now.

I'm not sure how what the range of bravery, but basically when people were like "don't debate fascists" online in 2016ish, that also means don't debate transphobes today. Avoid talking to them as much as possible. I would consider just travelling around until you get some plans for how to move away.

The thing is I don't think you're wrong to be thinking about people who give you weird looks, if anything I think channeling it into some action plans might be needed. I would pay attention to your physical vulernabilities & the layout of places so you can have an escape plan. In your example maybe remember who the cashier was & where you were at in order to decide whether you try going somewhere else. (Although scary to learn about, look up "fatal funnels" & "containment", they are easier to spot.)

If you can protect the pages from hostile eyes, then if you want it analog, then maybe a note book where you dedicate 1 page to an index of zipcodes & then you write encounters on pages with those zipcodes, maybe using google maps or something to find the zipcode. Lowkey I'm thinking of Loewen's Historical Database of Sundown Towns. (Because 'erf in english is white [supremacist] feminist in spanish.)

Likewise look into places where you can get away from Republicans would be a good idea. Like where are spaces where you can be alone that are relatively safe & that you can leave safely as needed? The mentality I'm talking here is the kind where you lay your head at a fast food restaurant table while waiting for your food & then getting up. Or where do people sneak out to take a smoke break. Whether you use this for rest, or for something trans affirming, is up to you. The point is to get yourself to spot opportunities for some refuge for some things. Basically this also applies to trying to so self-care so that you have less problems later.

Good Luck, Peace & Love,

Eve

[moonlightserenadeeznutz]

Transgender Dysphoria Blues

T4T Dean and Seamus oneshot for day 8 of pride! 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️ (With a slight aversion to accuracy with Dean knowing about binders, and Seamus wearing one, which I’m pretty sure weren’t really a thing in the early 90s- at least, not proper ones- but you may correct me if I’m wrong).

When Dean arrived at Hogwarts, aged eleven (and eight months), he was almost certain there’d be no one like him at all, which was ironic considering that he was a wizard in a wizard school. His mother had been accepting, but he knew that most of the muggle world wouldn’t be. Would the Wizarding World be the same? Dean had tried to read as much as he could on the subject, with as many Wizarding books as he could find when he and his mum went to Diagon Alley. He now knew all about transfiguration and metamorphmagi and werewolves and animagi, but he hadn’t found anything about people specifically like him. He just hoped that in a world where humans could transform into animals, or inanimate objects, or change their appearance at will, a boy being born a girl wouldn’t feel like anything out of the ordinary.

And Hogwarts was certainly nice. Everyone there only saw him as a boy, they called him the right name and used the right pronouns and the only thing they cared about was who would win the Quidditch matches, and Dean himself cared mostly about that as well; he didn’t think he’d ever like Quidditch as much as football, but he certainly found himself invested, usually screaming at the referee.

Seamus found it funny, seeing Dean have a one-sided argument with himself from the stands. Although, Seamus wasn’t one to talk. Usually they were both shouting at the pitch, hands flying everywhere, until it was almost just for fun on their part.

The two were inseparable, although they were both rather secretive sometimes, Dean especially, as he’d spend a lot of time in the hospital wing and wouldn’t allow Seamus to come with him.

But one time, Seamus didn’t listen. They were in third year now, and Seamus was starting to get a little tired of Dean hiding from him, or lying to him. So when Dean excused himself to go to the hospital wing, for his usual appointment once every two weeks, Seamus decided to follow him.

Bad idea.

All Seamus saw when he arrived at the infirmary was Dean being handed a small vial of some clear-looking potion and drinking it. It seemed completely unremarkable, and Seamus couldn’t see what the big deal had been; why he had never been allowed to accompany his friend to the hospital wing. But Seamus was careless, and he suddenly realised that Dean had spotted him. Shit. Dean looked furious.

“What the hell are you doing?�� Dean demanded when they were both outside the wing, out of ear-shot from Madam Pomfrey. “I told you not to follow me.”

“Why not?” Replied Seamus, determined to defend himself. “You were just taking a potion, I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“That’s not the point, the point is you went behind my back. That’s not what friends do.”

“Friends don’t keep secrets from friends.”

“They do when the secret is personal enough.” Seamus didn’t respond, in fact he didn’t get a chance to, because Dean simply pushed past him and continued down the corridor, leaving him standing outside the infirmary, angry and confused at his friend’s behaviour.

~ Dean had never fallen out with Seamus before; they’d had a few arguments here and there of course, a few bouts of the silent treatment, but never had they truly stopped talking to each other. Never had they deliberately avoided each other and refused to make up. The others noticed, of course they did. When two people who had hung out basically every day for the past three years suddenly ceased to do so, it didn’t manage to fall under the radar.

That being said, the others decided to leave the two alone, to sort it out for themselves and not get involved. It was only Neville who actually made the effort to try and get them to make up.

“You two should really talk about why you fell out,” he advised one day to Dean, the two sitting together in the courtyard underneath the arches, sheltering from the rain. “Otherwise you won’t get anywhere. Just sitting in silence.”

“He’s stubborn. He won’t want to talk.”

“You don’t know that if you don’t try.” Dean thought about it, and knew Neville was right, although he didn’t want to admit it. He groaned.

“Fine. I’ll go find Seamus.”

~ Dean guessed that Seamus was in the dorm room, since it was starting to get late. Seamus tended to be in his pyjamas almost as soon as classes had ended, which everyone assumed was for comfort purposes, although Dean was the only one who had noticed that Seamus never changed in front of anyone. He always changed when the room was empty, and even in that case, still changed behind the curtains of his four poster.

But Dean didn’t think much of it, which he soon regretted because when he walked into the dorm room he could hear rustling noises from Seamus’s bed, the usual sounds of him getting undressed, and instead of letting Seamus know that he was there, he just pulled back the curtain.

He knew he shouldn’t have done it, but he almost forgot that they weren’t on speaking terms at that moment; so used to their close relationship was he that he didn’t even think about warning his friend.

“Shit, Dean, what are you doing?!” Seamus rushed to cover up his chest with his pyjama shirt, but it was too late. Dean had seen what he was wearing underneath.

“Seamus... you’re wearing...”

“Go away! Why would you just come in without warning me?!” Dean backed away.

“I’m sorry... I’m really sorry I wasn’t thinking...”

“Piss off!” Dean couldn’t do much except walk out of the dorm room entirely, apologising profusely on his way out, cursing himself over how badly he’d screwed everything up even more.

And to make matters worse, Neville bumped into him outside, wanting to know how it had gone.

“Terrible,” was all Dean could say. “Worse than ever.”

“What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter.” It wasn’t his place to go into detail, especially not now. He needed to fix their friendship, not wreck it completely.

Dean had no idea what to do next, he didn’t think he could face interacting with Seamus again, but he knew he had to. A lot of things were running through his mind. What Seamus had been wearing, maybe it was just...? A crop top? But why would he be wearing that underneath his pyjamas? But if it was what Dean was thinking- a little notion in the back of his mind- what did this mean? That Seamus was like him?

No... he couldn’t be. What were the odds of that happening? But still...

Luckily, Dean didn’t have to decide on whether to talk to Seamus or not, because Seamus decided for him.

“Hey...” Dean was sitting alone in the astronomy tower, a good place to think. It was empty, and quiet. Although he sat here so much that it didn’t take Seamus long to find him. Dean looked up at the boy, hearing his voice.

“Hi...” Seamus sat down beside him, bringing his knees to his chest.

“First of all,” Seamus began. “That was a dick move.”

“I know. I’m really sorry.”

“Whatever. Second of all, I take it you saw... what I was wearing.” Dean nodded. “Do you know what it is?” Dean was surprised at how calm Seamus was being. He had expected his friend to lose his temper completely, yell at him for ages and then ignore him forever. But Seamus seemed to have thought through what he was going to say. An unusual occurrence to say the least.

“I think so.”

“Well what do you think it is?” Dean didn’t really want to say, in case he got it wrong. But Seamus clearly didn’t want to say either, and Dean didn’t want to put him into an even more awkward position.

“It’s... one of those things that binds your chest. Makes it flat. Right?” Seamus looked at him, not expecting Dean to know, and hopeful at the fact that he did.

“Yeah. It is.”

“It’s for... people who were born girls. But are actually boys.” Dean didn’t know why he was continuing, but Seamus didn’t reply, which means Dean was right. Seamus was like him. “Like me.”

“What?” The room was getting darker, but the shocked look on Seamus’s face wasn’t difficult to miss.

“You’re like me. Trans. We were both born girls, but we’re boys.”

“You’re... like me?”

“Yes.” The room was quiet. Neither really knew what to say, but they both had an immeasurable amount of questions running through their heads. It wasn’t easy holding them in.

Seamus gave up first.

“That potion I saw you take. Does that have anything to do with you being trans?” There was no point in hiding it now, it would be pretty stupid to do so. So Dean nodded.

“Yeah. I’ve been taking it for a year now. It’s a transfiguration potion, turns my female hormones into male ones. I have to take it once every two weeks, but it’s good.”

“Oh...” Seamus looked down at his feet. “So... that’s why your voice dropped. And I suppose, you don’t get your period or anything?”

“I took it early, so no. Not really. I suppose sometimes, if it happens to coincide on the days when the potion starts to wear off, but even then, not much.”

“Right. And your chest?”

“Potion stopped it from growing. My chest is flat.” Dean felt a little awkward, but he couldn’t work out why. Not until Seamus stood up, clearly annoyed by something. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. My mother would never let me take that potion. Doesn’t want me changing my body. All she does is let me pretend to be a boy.” Seamus mimed air quotes when he said pretend, the word laced with bitterness.

“You’re mum’s not okay with it?”

“No. Not really. She humours me. That’s about it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. That really sucks.”

“How do you know?” Seamus finally turned to him, his anger directed right at him. Dean stood up as well, so they were both more or less at eye level.

“Sorry?”

“How could you possibly know when you’ve got everything? All the right hormones and shit with your fancy potion. No period, no chest, just everything’s right. You don’t have to make your voice deep, it just is. And you can grow facial hair and everything. How is that fair when all I’ve got is a bloody hair cut, a sports bra I charmed with a binding spell, and a mam who keeps calling me the wrong name?” He stormed out at that, but Dean rushed after him.

“Woah, woah, Seamus...” Seamus stopped, but his fists were clenched in anger. “That’s not fair. I’m sorry you’re not in the same position as I am, but I’m still trans. I still have to deal with a load of shit all the time. I was still born a girl, and I can’t change that. I know you’re angry, and you should be. But not at me. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just trying to... I dunno... be happy.”

“Well why can’t I be happy too?” Seamus stared at him, still angry, but there was something else as well. A different anger, not at Dean, just at everything. Dean knew how he felt, really he did. Whether Seamus believed him or not.

Dean didn’t really think about his next action, he just wrapped Seamus up in his arms, and Seamus didn’t protest.

“You can be. I promise. I’m going to help you, okay?” Seamus nodded into his shoulder. “You’re not alone, Shay.” They finally pulled apart, but they stayed standing in front of each other, and Dean put a hand on Seamus’s shoulder.

“Just because you can’t take the potion, doesn’t make you any less of a boy,” Dean added. “Your body means nothing, flat chest or not, period or not. If you know you’re a boy, then you are one.”

“I know. I just wished my body matched, you know?”

“I do. Really. And if that’s what you want, then it’s going to happen. I promise.” Seamus had been looking down the entire time, but he finally looked up, and smiled at Dean. Dean smiled back.

He was glad they had finally made up.

[littleoddwriter]

t4t zsaszmask?

You're Just Like Me | Roman Sionis x Victor Zsasz | ZsaszMask

Hope you enjoy! :)

summary; Roman reminisces about a past moment between them, while they lie in bed.

notes; Mention of Sex; Talk about Surgery; Mild Anxiety due to Paranois and Implied Medical Traumas; Blood; Scars; Self-Harm (canon-typical); Trans!Roman Sionis; Trans!Victor Zsasz; HRT; Top Surgery; Surgical Scars; Binding; Coming Out; Accidentally walking in on someone (not sexually); Established Relationship; Domestic; Kissing; Admiring one's body (specifically scars).

They were lying in bed, after just having had a post-coital shower. Roman lay on his side, his head rested on Victor’s upper arm as he was on his back, their legs tangled. His right hand gently stroked over the twin surgical scars on Zsasz’s chest, marvelling at them. They were still fairly new, only six months, and Roman just couldn’t keep his eyes and hands away from them, much like any other scar on Victor’s body.

It wasn’t only that he admired them, but that he desired them. Because in a way, he was jealous as he still hasn’t gotten surgery.

Obviously, he could get it very easily; he was the one who paid for Victor’s after all. He just had a few more emotional and mental hurdles to overcome before he could will himself to let a doctor get to work on him. It was fine, though. His chest wasn’t too conspicuous, especially not when he was wearing a binder, which was ninety-percent of the time, except for right now, while he was lying there with Zsasz and no one else would be able to see him.

When the two of them had met a couple of years ago, there had been an instant connection as it was – they found that they were very similar to each other. And at first that had meant their sadistically violent, cruel streak and disdain for humankind. Later, they had found that apparently it went deeper than that, when they realised that they both sat in the same boat.

They were both transgender men.

Sure, Roman had kind of guessed that Victor was most likely trans as well, because he very much recognised the signs from himself in his partner in crime.

The fact that Zsasz hadn’t even been on HRT at that time – whereas Roman has been on it for two years already then – gave him away to him, too. He never bothered to bring it up, though. It wasn’t his business and if Victor wanted him to know, he’d tell him – that was how he went about it himself, after all. Roman usually didn’t tell anyone that he was transgender. Why should he? It wasn’t something people needed to know, unless he was to have sex with them, and then it was only so they wouldn’t be too surprised upon his lack of typically male genitals.

In the end, Roman guessed that he should have probably given Victor a couple of hints that he was more similar to him than he’d thought. That way they might have been able to prevent the situation that had ensued when Sionis found out about Zsasz for good, purely by accident of course.

It was after a kill.

Victor had gone into the bathroom to mark himself up and Roman had genuinely thought he had been done already, because he couldn’t hear anything from inside, and at that time it was the only working bathroom. So Sionis had just opened the door without thinking and thus found Victor still standing in the middle of it. He had still been shirtless, blood on his fingers and running down his chest, which had been two small mounds at that time. Zsasz had turned around the second the door had opened and was on Roman all too fucking quickly, knife pressed against his throat.

“Fucking lock the door next time!” Roman had yelled and felt Victor press the tip of his still bloody knife into his throat, quieting him for once in his life.

“If you even think of telling anybody, you’re a dead fucking man,” Zsasz had rasped in his ear – and really, Roman hated the way it had turned him on.

“I won’t. Don’t worry about it,” he had answered truthfully, voice strained from trying not to move his throat too much, lest the blade might have drawn some blood.

Zsasz had lingered a few moments and just looked at Sionis through the mirror opposite them. Then he had finally let go of him and put his shirt on very quickly, after he’d carelessly stuck a band-aid on the fresh cut, and had left the bathroom.

Roman had come back out few minutes later, and found Zsasz sitting on his usual seat at the dining table. His leg had been bouncing and he had been playing with his knife, hunched over like always. He had been nervous.

“You really don’t need to worry about this, Mr. Zsasz,” Roman had said, coming to a stop on his partner’s right.

Victor had nodded, “Good. I’m not worried.”

But he still wouldn’t even look at him.

Heaving a deep sigh, Sionis had relented, despite his paranoia nagging at the back of his mind not to do it, “I’m like you, Victor. And it’d be really fucking hypocritical of me if I used this against you in any way. I may be cruel, but not that cruel. ‘Kay?”

That had gotten Zsasz to finally look back up at him, his mouth slack, wonder in his eyes, “Yeah, okay. Thank you, boss.”

It had been a ridiculous situation that they could have easily avoided, but it had worked out well for either of them after all.

“What are you thinking about?” Victor asked, tilting his head to make eye contact with him, rudely ripping Roman out of his reminiscence of that particular moment in their lives.

“About how we found out about each other,” Roman confessed with a small smile on his lip.

“I think about it a lot, too.”

“Because you got to know what it’d feel like to have your knife against my throat?” A knowing smirk graced Roman’s features when his assumption was proven right as Victor nodded, licking his lips.

“Why did you think about it?” Zsasz asked back.

Roman shrugged, lightly scratching his nail over the pink surgical scars, “Not sure.”

They were quiet again for a little while, content with their breathing being the only sounds in the otherwise silent room. Sometimes, Roman would move his hand and stroke over some of the tally marks on Victor’s pectorals and stomach, revelling in the knowledge of why each of them was there. His fingers would always find their way back to the surgical ones, though, no matter what.

Frustration built up inside him. He wished he wasn’t so concerned about doctors abusing their power over his unconscious body, or that his skin wouldn’t look perfect for a few years, until the scars were barely visible at all anymore.

“You know I hate doctors and don’t trust them either. But I came out alright. I’m sure if I sat in the OR with you, while they’d work on you, it should be fine. That way I could make sure they aren’t messing you up. Right?” Zsasz murmured, laying his hand on top of Roman’s and stopping his movements.

Roman tensed up for a moment, anger twisting his features, and he breathed in and out deeply a couple of times. “I don’t know. It’s a nice idea, but I don’t know if that would help. What if the scars won’t heal as well as I’ve seen on others? What if they do mess up and you don’t notice it early enough?”

“I doubt that’d happen. You take care of your skin like no one else does. The scars wouldn’t ever stand a chance, boss. And I promise you, I’ll notice everything. The doctors won’t be able to mess you up when I’m there.”

“You’re just saying that.”

Zsasz only looked at him in answer and Roman relented, heaving another deep sigh.

“’Kay, I’ll make an appointment with the same surgeon you’ve had then.”

Victor grinned and planted a kiss on Roman’s temple and then on his lips, too.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured against Sionis’ lips.

Roman rolled his eyes, but smiled into the next few kisses, his heart swelling as he felt warm on the inside.

[notquiteaghost]

come on out and live

the witcher, geralt/jaskier + geralt/yennefer, 2k

established relationships, trans woman geralt (& yennefer), nonbinary trans man jaskier, #T4T, sequel to gnawing through the bars, let! geralt! have! nice! things!

also on AO3

When Geralt is ten, she’s a boy.

She’s a boy, because they’re all boys, because Witchers are men, because the spells only work on men. She has short hair and she wears trousers and she spends her days fighting, because they all do. She can’t remember any different, not clearly, not with anything other than a strange, aching kind of longing she doesn’t understand.

She’s a boy. She doesn’t like being a boy. She doesn’t like a lot of things — the sound of swords clashing, the reddish vegetable they put in the stew sometimes, when the older boys try to explain things to her that she knows. Life, she’s learning, is a lot about putting up with things.

She says, once, late at night when they’re the only two awake, right into Eskel’s ear the way they do with secrets, “What if I’m a girl?”

And Eskel hums, and thinks, and says, “Then the Trials won’t work.”

Geralt doesn’t want to be a man.

Geralt wants to be a Witcher.

Eskel rolls over to face her, the set of his brow solemn. “If you’re a girl,” he says, “then the Trials won’t work. If you aren’t, then they will.”

“So I can be a man, or I can die?”

“You can run away.” Geralt’s lip curls, some mix of anger and revulsion, and Eskel presses their foreheads together. “I’ll come with you, if you want. We’d be okay, together.”

Running away, Geralt knows, is just another way of dying. They’re far from any other people, and they wouldn’t be able to take horses, and they wouldn’t know where to go. Boys who run away don’t make it — they’re brought back, one way or another.

Geralt doesn’t want to die. She wants to be a Witcher.

“If the Trials work,” she says.

“If the Trials work,” Eskel agrees.

One night, when the weather is foul and the bed is warm, and against all his better judgement, Geralt allows Yennefer to rest her head on his ribs. Trace over his scars with her fingertips, make that kind of intimate conversation he’s only ever otherwise had with Jaskier. The only light is from the moon, through the window, and Geralt doesn’t know how to tell Yenn he’s no good place to unburden secrets without her thinking it’s the softness in her voice he’s protesting.

“I was a boy, once, you know,” she says, apropos of nothing but the mood settled over the both of them. “Before Aretuza, anyway.”

Geralt can’t help but tense. Yenn, of course, notices.

“If that’s a problem—” She starts, sits up. Geralt shakes his head, sharply, thankful she knows him well enough to let that silence her.

It takes him several moments, to gather the words.

“Witchers are men,” he says. It would be far easier to let her just pluck this from his mind, but she knows him too well to do that when he isn’t actively dying. “The Trials, they’re designed for men. It’s a delicate magic. Many die.”

“Ah,” Yennefer says.

He doesn’t need to say, It was all I knew, I was a child, It was no choice at all. Doesn’t need to explain the isolation, the pressure, how easy it is to sacrifice your happiness when you’ve only caught the smallest glimpses. How it wasn’t about happiness at all.

“Another thing we have in common, then,” she says, and Geralt very abruptly wants to throw something. She notices, she always notices, and her voice is the closest to gentleness it ever is when she says, “I’m sure there are still ways—”

“Don’t.”

“If I just knew more about the mutagens—”

He growls, and sits up, swings his legs out of bed entirely to put his back to her. “Everyone who knew is dead. Everyone who could have helped is dead. I can’t—” He clenches his fists. Something ugly and roiling is filling up his chest, curling up his throat. “We are not the same.”

A lie.

They’re exactly the same, but Geralt is a Witcher, and Witchers don’t get what they want. Mages, the world can’t roll over for quick enough. Witchers aren’t so lucky. He does the work, and he’s good at it, and that’s enough. That’s plenty. It has to be.

Yennefer, of course, would rather die than settle. Would rather die than compromise.

Geralt can’t die. Geralt is necessary.

“Okay,” Yenn says. Less gentle, more stubborn. This isn’t over, because Yenn is relentless, but she knows when to call truce. “Does your bard know?”

Geralt curses.

Of course Jaskier doesn’t know. Jaskier doesn’t— Jaskier is so set on reshaping the world for Geralt’s sake, so sure it’s only not already rolling over for him too for lack of trying, so hopeful. It hurts, sometimes.

All the reasons Geralt keeps letting Jaskier close, though, are all the reasons Jaskier and Yenn can’t go longer than an evening without ending up at each other’s throats. So, thank the Gods, she doesn’t press. Doesn’t try and tell him Jaskier should know, he should let Jaskier help. Does, instead, wrap a hand around his arm and tug until he lies back down.

“There’s a man,” she says, as she once more arranges him and the blankets to her liking, “in the next town. Several people would very much like him dead.”

Geralt hums, and lets her promise him an opportunity to make his sacrifice worth it, and doesn’t speak again.

Sometimes, Geralt thinks Jaskier might also be a mindreader.

He knows, of course, that there are many nuances to people that are lost on him, and that knowing them is no magic. Jaskier has to be good at reading people; it’s half his job. But, sometimes, Jaskier doesn’t just correctly read Geralt’s body language, or hear entire sentences in his Hmms. Sometimes, it seems Jaskier reaches right into the core of him, and plucks free things even Geralt didn’t know he was harbouring.

They’re at the banquet for Jaskier.

This is a thing Jaskier does, and if Jaskier got his way then they wouldn’t spend a single second apart. There’s no hidden motivation to him inviting Geralt, beyond wanting to spend time with him and introduce him to his friends and send him insane with the sight of that dress. They’re here for Jaskier, because Jaskier doesn’t know. No one ever knows, unless Geralt tells them.

It’s a small gathering, only three dozen or so people, and they all greet Jaskier by name. Are delighted, truly just delighted to finally meet his fabled White Wolf. They smile wide, embrace Jaskier tightly, don’t try to embrace Geralt. Ask about a line in a song, a monster they heard tell of, if Jaskier still kicks in his sleep something awful. There’s music, songs that everyone but Geralt knows, and dancing, and enough noise to drown out banquets three times as large.

Jaskier asks him to dance, mouth curled in that smirk that always makes Geralt want to drop, immediately, to his knees. Geralt can’t find the strength to say no, and he’s clumsy, wrongfooted, but he’s not the only one, and the press of Jaskier close to him is intoxicating.

The whole night, no one calls him Jaskier’s man. No one calls him man at all, only Wolf, only friend. Something in their tone, too, reassures they don’t mean to monster him, don’t see only claws and snarl. He’s Jaskier’s Wolf.

And, once they’re back at their room, it all won’t leave Geralt’s head. Jaskier wearing a dress, and none of his friends batting an eye — Geralt wearing a shirt and pants and medallion, and everyone still taking care not to assume — the woman with a deeper voice and a well-groomed beard who asked about Geralt’s swords — the joy, palpable in the air, bright as sunshine — Yennefer’s voice, I’m sure there are still ways.

Naturally, Jaskier notices. Presses. Asks What do you want? as if Geralt’s answer matters. Says You’re a woman as if it’s that easy, that simple, an irrefutable truth. An inconsequential fact.

It guts Geralt. It always does.

Come morning, Jaskier wants to make plans.

“Where was Yennefer, last?” He asks, as he hands a plate of breakfast to Geralt and climbs back onto the bed. Soon, they’ll need to leave, to make it to some minor court Jaskier is playing at in good time, but Jaskier has clearly decided they’re having this conversation before Geralt can disappear into the woods to avoid his questions.

“There’s nothing Yenn can do.”

Jaskier raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Oh, does she know you think that? She’s the most powerful mage on the Continent, you know.”

Geralt huffs. “Witchers have to be men, for the mutagens to work. The magic is… complicated.”

“But they’ve worked,” Jaskier points out. “You’re mutated. That can’t be undone, surely.”

“No,” Geralt allows. “But I could die.”

That shuts Jaskier up.

The breakfast is good — only bread and cheese, nothing fancy, but good bread, the sort only ever found in well-off towns. Maybe Geralt will track down the baker before they leave, buy a loaf or two. They’re well enough for coin.

Jaskier’s brow is still furrowed in thought, as they eat. The various enchantments has had did, of course, carry their own level of risk. That’s not the root of the problem.

“…Yennefer worked it out, didn’t she,” he says, between bites of bread. “And offered her help, and you dismissed her out of hand, because you’ll never let yourself have anything good when you could suffer instead.”

Geralt looks pointedly at Jaskier, sat on their bed, wearing one of Geralt’s shirts.

Jaskier huffs. “That’s not the rebuke you think it is, dearest, when we both well remember each time you tried to chase me away. All knowledge of the mutagens is lost?”

There was a time, once, when Jaskier wouldn’t dare ask a question like that. Geralt misses it.

“There are books,” she admits. She could lie, but Jaskier knows Eskel, now, and lying would only delay the inevitable. “But they were for reference, not teaching. If you don’t already understand, they’re of no use.”

“For making a Witcher.”

Geralt nods.

“But we don’t want to make a Witcher,” Jaskier points out. “We want to slightly alter the Witcher we already have. And, yes, that’s no less dangerous, but Witcher books might be slightly more forthcoming about general care and maintenance, no?”

Dammit.

Dammit, why must he be right.

Geralt stands, and busies herself pulling on her armour. Jaskier knows she needs time to collect her thoughts, but she finds it easier when her hands are moving.

So far, everything Jaskier’s decided is for Geralt’s own good has happened, regardless of her feelings. Jaskier is the ocean, if the ocean were capable of warmth and gentleness; no one can outlast his determination. Jaskier has decided Geralt deserves this. The only way it isn’t happening is if one of them dies.

Yenn, also, likes it when Geralt is happy. And she already has something of a personal vendetta about the Trials, and how little she knows of the. She would overthrow one of the smaller countries, for the chance to look through Kaer Morhen’s library.

“…Come winter,” Geralt says, after she’s moved on to cleaning her swords, and Jaskier has packed the rest of their belongings away, “We’ll go to Kaer Morhen. And bring Yenn.”

Jaskier beams at her.

“Do you think Eskel still remembers he owes me?”

Two winters previous, Geralt had nearly lost an arm to a manticore days before she needed to leave if she wanted to beat the snow, and Jaskier had refused to leave her side. So, reluctantly, she had brought him to the Witcher stronghold. Vesemir had been insufferable, and Jaskier had managed to get Eskel and Lambert to believe his naive-and-hopeless-noble routine long enough to swindle the both of them at cards.

“I’m sure you’ll remind him,” she says, and sheathes her sword. “Where was it you’re playing?”

Jaskier allows the conversation to shift, now the matter is settled to his satisfaction, and starts on one of his long, rambling diatribes about the sins and spoils of the court they’re headed to. They head out the inn, to the stables, and Geralt lets the rhythm of Jaskier’s words set Roach’s pace as they head out of town.