#AND THEN SHE DIES IN CIRIS ARMS ……. SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jaskierswolf · 4 years ago

Note

😏 Hey, it's me, back again. On my knees, begging for more filth. I want some post mountain grovelling. I want Geralt on his knees. One of Jaskier's hands in his hair, holding his head still. The fingers of Jaskier's other hand in Geralt's mouth. <insert Gopher gif here>

Forgiveness

Not exactly filth? There is smut... but it caught plot. For those wondering... Jaskier's hair and beard looks something like this.

Rated: E

Length: 2.5k

CW: dom/sub vibes, subspace, oral sex

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Fear was not something that Geralt was accustomed to feeling. The trials had made sure of that, but the trials were created with monsters in mind, not bards. There had been a time when being afeared of Jaskier would have seemed preposterous. The worst thing that could have happened was the bard getting too close to a fight and getting hurt because of Geralt, but even then, Geralt had never been scared of Jaskier, more scared for him. Losing Jaskier to the witcher’s way of life would have been unforgivable, so Geralt made sure it didn’t happen.

Jaskier was gone.

And yet he still wasn’t safe. Geralt had torn his own heart into pieces to keep Jaskier safe, and now fucking Nilfgaard was destroying everything. Rumour had it that the army were looking for Jaskier, looking for a way to Geralt and to Ciri. So it was time for Geralt to swallow his pride and make amends. He’d travelled to Oxenfurt with his young ward in tow to search for his dearest friend, the man he’d broken. Ciri had been a surprising blessing in his life. Just like Jaskier, she had brought light to his life when there had been none, and he was beginning to realise that isolating himself did not make him stronger. His friends, brothers, lovers were more deadly than any sword or sign. Alone he was just one man, motivated by survival and a sense of duty.

For Ciri he would tear down the Continent.

For Yennefer he would climb the highest mountain.

For Jaskier…

He sighed. For Jaskier he would break his own heart, and for Jaskier he would try to make it right again.

It was more terrifying than any manticore or griffin.

A knock on the door, that’s all it would take. Instead he was just lurking outside the office, an elaborate “Professor Pankratz” painted in fine golden calligraphy on the panelling. Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose, every instinct he had was telling him to run, take Ciri back to Kaer Morhen for the winter and leave Jaskier. Surely no harm would come to him at the academy.

“Are you going to stare at my door all day, Geralt, or shall we go inside?”

Geralt’s eyes widened as he spun around to face his friend. He hadn’t heard Jaskier’s voice in years but there was no mistaking the lilting accent and the playful way that he spoke. No one else spoke quite like Jaskier. The bard’s voice may not have changed but Geralt was taken aback by Jaskier’s appearance. His hair, which had always been short and scruffy in the decades that Geralt had known him, was now long, the ends ticking just below his chin. The long locks were tucked behind one ear, and his fringe had grown out. But it was the beard that really drew Geralt’s attention. He’d never realised that Jaskier could grow a beard, he’d never even seen the bard with stubble before, and yet here was Jaskier sporting a thick beard that was as rich in colour as his hair, no sign of any grey despite his age.

He looked beautiful.

Piercing icy blue eyes burned with cool fire, and Geralt was reminded why this trip had worried him. Jaskier had been his most loyal friend, and despite his profession, the bard was dangerous. His tongue was sharp and his temper was short, for Lillit’s sake, he’d even tried to condemn a man to death with the blasted Djinn.

“Well? Come on, witcher, get inside or get out,” Jaskier said with the cool authority of the professor he had become. Gone was the eighteen year old fool that Geralt had met in Posada.

“Right, yes,” Geralt grumbled and stepped aside so that Jaskier could open the door. He trailed in after the bard, feeling very much like a dog with his tail between his legs.

“I never expected to see you at my door, Geralt,” Jaskier muttered as he busied himself around the room, sorting out his books and scrolls from his satchel, carefully placing his ink bottles on the messy desk, and shrugging out of his teaching robes.

Underneath the dark robes, he was wearing an elegant dark green doublet with matching breeches, gold thread stitching at the seams. To Geralt’s surprise, the bard's doublet was fully buttoned, hiding both the chemise and the mass of chest hair that Geralt knew was underneath the emerald fabric.

“I never expected to come,” Geralt admitted.

“Excellent, now you can leave again, it was good to see you old friend. Close the door on your way out.”

Jaskier’s words stung, a dagger between his ribs, poison running through his veins, but Geralt couldn’t give up, not without a proper fight. “I came to apologise.”

“Oh, ho, ho, that’s rich, witcher. What’s next? You’ll go and fetch your Child Surprise?”

“Ciri,” Geralt mumbled.

That seemed to have an effect, Jaskier froze, his back to Geralt. The bard slowly spun round and peered at Geralt. “So you finally found her?”

“I did.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jaskier sighed, pushing his hair from his face and scratching idly at his beard. “Did she mention me?”

“She did.”

“So, tell me Geralt, are you here because you want to apologise, or because the princess demanded it?” Jaskier’s tone was sharper than any witcher sword, this was the man who had destroyed a knight’s honour with a few well-placed rhymes and catchy songs just because he had insulted Geralt, and Geralt wasn’t used to being on the receiving end.

“Nilfgaard are coming, Jaskier. I couldn’t leave you in danger. They are looking for you, because of me.”

Jaskier scoffed, throwing his arms up, almost knocking an ink bottle flying. “Nilfgaard, wow. Yup, yes, should have expected that.”

“I’m here to protect you,” Geralt growled, “and- and because I miss you.”

“Miss me?” Jaskier hissed, stepping forward so that there was barely any space between them, his sweet chamomile scent now flooding Geralt’s senses. “You should have led with that, witcher.”

“I-”

“Fine, you want to apologise. On your knees, grovel. I won’t follow you blindly again, Geralt. I need to know you won’t hurt me. You want to protect me?”

“Yes,” Geralt answered without hesitation.

“Then know that no one on this Continent has ever hurt me like you did on that fucking mountain. Forgiveness will take time,” Jaskier said haughtily, and Geralt dropped to his knees. He finally saw Jaskier’s rage for what it was; a shield. Jaskier was trying to protect himself… from Geralt.

“I am sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt said, his voice shaking but sincere. “I only ever meant to protect you. I lashed out. I was hurting after Yennefer. I shouldn’t have said those things to you, but-”

“Hollow excuses.”

“But I was scared,” Geralt finally glanced up, and oh what a sight. Jaskier was looming above him, his hair almost coppery in the candle light. He looked like a messenger from the gods. “My life is a dangerous one. I fucked up Yennefer’s life with one breath, how could I possibly risk doing the same for you?”

“You already did.”

“But you’re alive,” Geralt whispered quietly.

“I would have rather died, Geralt,” Jaskier hissed.

“Don’t be so dramatic, bard.”

“If it meant giving up my life with you. Life with you was the greatest adventure, there was never a dull moment. I got to live every single day. Now look at me, I’m trapped in a cage without the best friend I’ve ever had,” Jaskier spat. “So you’ll have to do better than that.”

Geralt lowered his gaze once more. He was running out of options, but there was one more card that he held close to his heart, rarely even admitting it to himself. They say that love can conquer anything. It hadn’t been true for him and Yen, but perhaps the sorceress had been right and their love was just an illusion created by his wish and the spell she’d cast on him.

“I love you,” he whispered, loud enough for human ears to hear but still a quiet admission, one he’d never said out loud before.

Jaskier didn’t say anything. Instead, there was a gentle tug at Geralt’s hair as Jaskier pulled the tie from its place. Geralt stayed still, letting his words hang in the air. The bard’s fingers began to gently run through Geralt’s hair, each touch sending warm tingles down his spine, and he felt his breathing relax almost into a meditative state. Jaskier had done this before when they were on the path, braiding Geralt’s hair whilst he meditated, but this felt different, there had never been this spark burning between them before.

There had never been those words lying heavy on Geralt’s tongue before. “I love you, Jask,” he repeated, his voice more slurred this time and he felt almost as if he had been drugged, his head feeling foggy. The haze got thicker with every stroke of Jaskier’s hand through his hair.

“Oh, dear heart,” Jaskier cooed, his voice sounding almost like a dream. “You have no idea how long I’ve yearned to hear those words.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt mumbled. “Forgive me, Julek.”

“In time, my darling, in time,” Jaskier breathed, his scent sweeter now, something akin to arousal. It was hard to tell through the fuzziness in Geralt’s head.

There was a low whine, that Geralt vaguely registered as coming from him. Heat was beginning to thrum through his body, and he slowly realised that at some point he’d shut his eyes, completely submitting to his bard in his attempts to earn Jaskier’s forgiveness. He felt Jaskier’s fingers cupping his cheek, hooking under his chin. Geralt whimpered as he struggled to open his eyes.

“There you are, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, “apology accepted, dear heart.”

“Jask…”

“I know, I know, I’m here,” the words washed over Geralt like a warm breeze.

“I- I- want…” Geralt didn’t know what he was asking for or what he wanted, but his head was spinning and suddenly the hand in his hair wasn’t enough. He’d gone so long without seeing Jaskier, and now that they weren’t together, it was like a dam had broken. All the things he’d been denying himself for years…

“Shh, Geralt, I’ve got you,” Jaskier hummed, and before Geralt could protest, he felt the press of Jaskier’s fingers at his lips. Eagerly, Geralt opened his lips, taking the digits into his mouth and sucking gently. He gazed up at his bard, drunk on the feeling of his own arousal.

Geralt had never seen Jaskier in his element at Oxenfurt before but the calm way in which Jaskier commanded the room was enticing. This was Jaskier’s office, his space. Geralt was the guest here, not the other way round. Usually Jaskier had to fit into Geralt’s life, but now it was Geralt’s turn, kneeling at the professor’s feet, a willing student, begging for another chance.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, cocking his head so that his long hair fell in front of his eyes. “Do- do you want this?”

Geralt hummed around Jaskier’s fingers, nodding his head. It felt like a stupid question. How could he not want this? It was everything he’d never let himself dream of. He tried to say yes, but the word was muffled by Jaskier’s fingers.

“Gods, darling, you look so beautiful like this,” Jaskier cooed, and there was a sharp tug in Geralt’s head. He moaned around Jaskier’s fingers, vaguely aware that his cock was now painfully hard in his trousers. “That’s it, my love, sing for me.”

Geralt moaned again, sucking at the fingers in his mouth, enjoying the weight on his tongue. He’d never done anything like this before, but with Jaskier it just felt right. When he’d come to Oxenfurt he hadn’t expected anything like this to happen. He’d been praying to whatever gods were listening that Jaskier would forgive him, anything more than that had been an impossible dream. Geralt’s eyes fluttered shut and he hummed happily, shifting his weight until he was in a more comfortable position, the one he used for meditating. Like this, he could sit at Jaskier’s feet for hours should the bard wish.

But instead, Jaskier pulled his fingers from Geralt’s mouth. The emptiness left an ache deep inside Geralt that he hadn’t expected, but Jaskier’s other hand cupped his cheek, tilting his head so he was forced to look up at the bard. There was an undeniable fondness in Jaskier’s eyes, and between the beard and the extra weight he’d put on now that he was settled at Oxenfurt, he looked so warm… cuddly.

And Geralt wanted him.

“Can I- do you want my cock?” Jaskier stumbled over the words, a break in his previously mask of calmness. “We don’t- it’s just a suggestion…”

“Yes,” Geralt breathed, gazing up at the man he loved. In fact, he could think of nothing he wanted more in that moment. He swallowed, his mouth dry as he shuffled forward to nuzzle against the bulge in Jaskier’s trousers. Jaskier groaned as Geralt mouthed at his erection through the fabric. “Please, Jaskier.”

“Go on then, witcher, please me.”

Geralt’s fingers shook as he untied the lacing at the front of Jaskier’s trousers, and they moaned in unison as he finally took the tip of Jaskier’s cock into his mouth, the taste of precum bitter on his tongue.

“Gods, Geralt, I never thought I’d see the day…”

Geralt just hummed, licking at Jaskier’s slit before bobbing his head, slowly taking more into his mouth. There was another tug at his hair and he hummed, relaxing into his movements as Jaskier slowly began to rock his hips, gently thrusting into Geralt’s mouth. All the while, a steady stream of soft praises fell from the bard’s lips. Geralt had never felt particularly aroused from sucking cock before, but at Jaskier’s feet, the gentle words lingering in the air and the rhythmic touch of fingers caressing through his hair, he was closer to cumming than he thought possible.

He gasped as he pulled back, biting back a moan as he rested his head on Jaskier’s thigh. “I- Jask, fuck…”

“Shall I take you to bed, darling?” Jaskier cooed, gently pulling Geralt to his feet.

His legs were shaking and he fell into his bard's waiting arms, burying his nose in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. Geralt hummed as he kissed Jaskier’s neck, the soft bristles of the bard’s beard warm against his skin. “Your beard is soft,” he murmured, running his lips along the edge of the beard until they were ghosting over Jaskier’s lips, a tease of a kiss yet to come.

Jaskier laughed, pressing their foreheads together. “The luxuries of Oxenfurt, my dear witcher.”

“Smells good too,” Geralt hummed, finally capturing Jaskier’s lips in a chaste kiss. The bard moaned quietly and his fingers dug into Geralt’s side, pulling him closer. “Smells like home.”

After a few moments of being lost in each other, Jaskier finally took Geralt’s hand, lacing their fingers together and leading him through the office to the bedroom that lay beyond. They had a long way to go before Geralt was truly forgiven but this was a start.

This was their start, their new beginning, a new chapter in their adventure.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #professor pankratz #wolfie’s witcher writing

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comfyswitcherblanketfort · 4 years ago

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i think you will like this prompt 👀❤️ geralt going to a professional cuddler (jaskier) because he's been deprived of touch for so long that it started to make him sick.

yes i'm asking you to make geralt cry again bc i love the way you do it 🤭

Did I want to make him cry? Yes. Did Jask let me? No. The bard wanted the witcher to have a nap and I had to comply. Apparently I don't make the rules even in my own writing??? I’ll make him cry soon though lol

Warnings: lmao our boy is unprofessional af, touch starvation, som big awkward, but nothing intense.

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Geralt bounced his knee as he contemplated bolting out of the waiting room. Well it wasn’t so much a waiting room as it was a seating-heavy foyer into a historic-district flat, but it served its purpose.

He took a deep breath and tried to still his leg. He was doing this for Ciri, because she was worried, and he could at least admit to himself he hoped to be able to sleep better.

A man about his height with wispy brown hair and a soft smile under twinkling blue eyes emerged from one of the doors, calling out his name and waving him forward.

“Geralt? Hi, I’m Jaskier Pankratz. Pleased to meet you.”

Geralt found it odd that he didn’t offer to shake his hand but was rather relieved. If this started off like a business transaction he might not be able to take it seriously. Jaskier quickly went over his paperwork and had him sign one last release form before he directed him to a long plush looking couch.

Jaskier sat at one end and Geralt planted himself at the other, picking at his nails and scrambling for something to say. Anything. Even a dumb question would do at this point.

“It’s okay to be nervous. Perfectly normal, actually.” Jaskier’s reassurance was nice, but not entirely helpful.

“Hm… okay.”

“What are you nervous about? Or can you put a finger on it?”

Geralt took a breath and shifted a bit to face Jaskier, “I’m out of my depth.”

Jaskier smiled, draping his arm over the back of the couch and extending one leg so his foot was hanging off the edge, “That’s alright. You don’t have to do anything you want to. We can just start by touching hands or knees. If that’s uncomfortable that’s okay. Hell we could sit back to back and pretend the other isn’t actually there.”

Geralt huffed, “My daughter would say that’s cheating.”

“She may,” Jaskier tilted his head with a soft expression, “but I have a feeling you show her a very different side of yourself.”

“I do,” Geralt nodded, “but I’m not paying you for therapy.”

“Nor am I qualified,” Jaskier laughed. Something about the sound melted a bit of the iceberg in Geralt’s chest and he cracked a small grin. He rested his arm over the back of the couch and laid his hand next to Jaskier’s. His fingertips could brush his wrist if Geralt had the stones, which he didn’t. Jaskier just rolled his arm over, resting the back of his hand directly in Geralt’s palm.

He was painfully aware of every cell in his arm. It felt like jello and electricity but it was nice. Really nice.

Geralt just stared at their hands for a bit before he smiled.

Jaskier scooted closer, sliding his hand up Geralt’s arm and giving him goosebumps as he laid his hand on his shoulder, “How you doing?”

Geralt snorted, to which Jaskier looked confused, “My daughter had a Friend’s phase. It just- Joey always hits on people with that line,” he explained.

Jaskier blushed bright red, “Oh! No! I didn’t- I mean, you’re certainly nice to look- bollocks. I’m sorry. Not what I meant.”

It was Geralt’s turn to reassure, laughing as he did and resting his own hand over Jaskier’s shoulder, “I got what you meant. And- uh. Thank you.”

“That was extremely unprofessional. I’m sorry.” Jaskier shook his head, closing his eyes in embarrassment.

“Better than thinking your client’s gross. Do you have that sometimes?”

“Not for a long time.” Jaskier confessed.

They chatted like that for a while, chatted almost like they were on a date. They talked movies and old sports injuries and Geralt spent a while gushing about Ciri getting into a top Kinesiology school. As the conversation flowed Geralt shifted closer, only in increments, before Jaskier gave his hand a light tug, pulling him so Geralt was tucked under his arm.

Jaskier continued talking like nothing had changed, like he couldn’t hear Geralt’s heart beating out of his chest. Geralt slowly tilted his head till it was resting on Jaskier’s collar bone, testing the waters. After a minute or two, when he’d relaxed into the position, Jaskier brought his arm off the back of the couch to trace lines up and down Geralt’s arm.

It was intoxicating after so long without any kind of touch.

Geralt’s eyes started to flutter closed and he wasn’t keeping up with the conversation as well as before.

Jaskier brushed a hair out of his face and whispered, “Do you want to lie down?”

Because he was so tired or because he didn’t want Jaskier to let go of him until the day he died, he nodded and let himself be pulled so he was laying on top of Jaskier, using his chest as a pillow. He drifted between sleep and wakefulness for a minute or two, part of his mind absolutely baffled and outraged by his circumstances, but it had been so long since he’d felt so peacefully sleepy.

When he woke it was to Jaskier carding his hands through his hair, “There you are. Any fun dreams?”

“Oh, shit…” he mumbled, “I have to go, don’t I?”

Jaskier rested his other hand on his shoulder, “Not yet. I wanted to wake you up slowly. I see that’s not really an option with you,” he chuckled.

Geralt hummed and laid his head back down, “Toddlers do that to you.”

Jaskier sat them up, not missing the opportunity to keep Geralt cradled close to him as he gently coaxed him back to the land of the living.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Geralt sighed, “My time’s up.”

“Doesn’t have to be. I’m not booked for another hour,” Jaskier hummed, placing a kiss to Geralt’s hair.

Both of them froze.

Jaskier breathed, “Oh fuck.” before launching into what was probably going to be a lengthy apology about professionalism and conduct before Geralt cut him off.

He tilted Jaskier’s chin toward him and kissed him, not for too long, just long enough to get the frantic man to shut up, “There. Now we’re even.”

“I- I can’t see you anymore,” Jaskier stammered.

Geralt nodded and sat back, untangling himself from Jaskier, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m-uh- not awake yet.”

“No,” Jaskier reached for his hand, “Not like that. Do you… Would you like to go for a drink later?”

#geraskier #geraskier cuddles #professional cuddler fic #professional cuddler jaskier #geraskier modern au #geralt is a good dad #good dad geralt #geraskier fic #geraskier fanfic #the witcher #the witcher fic #geralt of rivia #jaskier #jullian alfred pankratz #we are here for some naps and a date #idk what to tell yall #it just happened

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hum-my-name · 4 years ago

Text

Title: Dear God, Dear Heart, Don't Cry

Prompt: role reversal (comforter/comforted)

Pairing: None (Gen -- Ciri and Jaskier friendship)

Rating: General

Warnings: N/A

Also here on AO3

@whataboutthebard

Prompt: Role Reversal (Comforter/Comforted)

Jaskier comforts Ciri after she wakes from a nightmare. As the night goes on, though, Ciri finds that Jaskier's hiding fears of his own.

Ciri twists against the forest ground, the dirt beneath her hard and dry. Sleep rests against her with the cruel press of nightmares— memories of Cintra’s fall, the days she spent alone and afraid. Even after finding Geralt, the bad dreams persist.

Yennefer tried teaching her how to keep her powers from lashing out in the dark, protecting her from the things seen only in her head. Alongside her, they’ve picked up Geralt’s last sidekick— a smiling bard they’d sought out after hearing of Nilfgaard’s plans to capture him. A reunion of sorts, they told Ciri. A new family, she hoped.

But her old family screams in her head as she shuts her eyes to sleep. Her grandmother whispers vague words, cryptic promises to lead Ciri through the trials of her life. They echo like ghosts when she dreams of the loneliness she felt after her grandmother died— the empty days of running and hiding and nothing more.

Geralt says sleep will help her recover, but Ciri still faces each day with weariness in her bones.

Ciri wakes with a start from another such nightmare— dark trees and shadows that move like spirits, taunting her attempts to escape her isolation. A scream lodges in her throat; tears don’t sting her eyes, but her breath hitches as though she’s crying, all the same.

“Ciri? Darling, are you alright? Ciri?”

Jaskier appears beside her, hands soothing up and down her arms as those kind blue eyes flicker across her face. He guides her fists into open palms, stroking his thumb across her fingers to ease the tension from their hold. He never looks away from her, never does anything more than smile and ask if she’s okay.

“I was alone again,” she whispers. “I don’t know how to stop feeling so alone.”

Jaskier adjusts so he’s on his knees beside her. He brushes tangled hair from her face, making soft shushing noises; it scares Ciri, too, how easily he calms her, how easily she can look at him and hope for that touch of optimism in her heart, as well. Though he’s seen her crush trees with her screams— and though Nilfgaard wanted him dead because of her— he’s never looked at Ciri with anything less than that overwhelming fondness.

“You’re with Geralt and Yennefer, and they love you so much,” he says. “You’ll never be alone again. Not if they have anything to say about it. I’m sure you’re stuck with them for good, now.”

Ciri smiles— a soft thing, a slight thing.

Something in his words, though, pokes against Ciri’s mind, drawing her brows low in confusion.

“What about you?” She asks.

Jaskier starts, covering his small shock with another reassuring grin. “I love you, too, of course. I always will.”

But he doesn't say she’s stuck with him. He doesn't say she’s with him. Only Geralt and Yennefer— only those two.

Ciri blinks, a new fear rising in her chest as she tears her gaze from Jaskier’s eyes to look at the full picture before her. The lute hanging across his body, the boots yanked up his legs. The bags at his side. The note in his pocket.

Here, at last, the threat of tears rises.

Ciri tosses herself against him, mangling his balance as she reaches for the paper sticking out from his trousers— a traveling outfit, she realizes. Jaskier gasps at the impact, trying to keep quiet even as he hisses Ciri’s name, asking what she’s doing. She turns from him, wiggling out of his grasp, and reads what words he means to leave behind.

My dearest Witcher , his letter begins, I’ve come to the realization that the best thing I can do for you— and for myself— is to—

“Leave?” Ciri reads. “You’re leaving us?”

Jaskier winces when she turns back towards him, his guilt written across his face. “It’s what’s best, Ciri. I should—”

“Is it Nilfgaard?” Ciri asks, casting the letter aside to face Jaskier once again. “Have they threatened you? We can stop them, Jaskier. We’ve got Yennefer and Geralt. They’re strong enough that no one can hurt us ever again.”

They’re the same words Jaskier’s used to ease Ciri’s panicking mind. The same calm, however, doesn’t settle across Jaskier’s eyes when he hears them; in fact, Ciri’s convinced she sees the opposite.

“Yes, that’s just it,” he says with a soft whisper. “Geralt and Yennefer can protect you better than anyone else. Certainly better than a traveling bard.”

“But what does that have to do with you leaving?” Ciri asks, uncomprehending. Why would Jaskier want to leave somewhere so safe? Why would he risk the dangers of capture by going off on his own? She thinks back on what she knows of Jaskier, trying to make the pieces fit. “Do you plan to teach at Oxenfurt again?”

“Maybe,” Jaskier says, though he wears that smile all grown-ups wear when they’re playing along with childish beliefs. It unsettles something in Ciri’s chest.

“And, when you’re done, will you come back?” She asks, almost afraid of the answer.

And— oh, here. Here’s where the pieces fit. She watches as Jaskier looks past her to Geralt’s sleeping figure, a veil crossing over his eyes— a sadness that says he cannot cross whatever line he’s drawn out for himself.

“I don’t think I will.” It’s not a whisper— nothing more than an exhale of words Ciri’s not sure she was supposed to hear. “I’ve already disturbed your little family far longer than I should have.”

Ciri doesn’t respond as understanding dawns upon her, the slight breath of epiphany escaping her throat. The words on his page suddenly make a tragic sort of sense— the pieces of what he believes is best for Geralt, the pieces about what’s best for him. The lower lines about apologies and burdens, of promising to stay out of their way.

No one’s told Ciri about what happened to this trio before they found her, but she gathered there was some sort of fight. Cruel words and a sudden distance. When they found Jaskier, he and Geralt spent all night talking. She remembers Jaskier crying. She remembers Geralt holding him as he fell asleep.

When Ciri’s grandmother and grandfather fought, such moments often brought the end of the argument— at least, on the outside. There were times, though, where hurt feelings took longer to fade, festering over until the other realized the damage beneath the happy facade.

Perhaps, Ciri thinks as she looks at Jaskier, that’s what happened here. A bard who pretended to forget the pain to keep it from spreading to those around him— a pain that, somehow, convinced him that it’s best if he leaves. Sneaking away at night like a pet who’s wandered off to die alone.

In Ciri’s silence, Jaskier gathers his things. He stands, brushing wrinkles out of his doublet and cloak. He looks at Ciri, frowning in apology.

Ciri doesn’t let that feeling last for long, shoving herself to her feet so she can properly toss her arms around his waist. Hugging him. Holding him. Keeping him in place so he doesn’t dare take another step away.

“Ciri,” he says, though he makes no move to push her off. “Come on, now. I have… I have to go. I don’t fit in here, darling. I couldn’t possibly live with myself if I held your group back any longer.”

“You’re a fool,” Ciri says, spitting the words so they don’t tremble in her throat. Jaskier’s already one foot out the door, so to speak; Ciri can’t mess this up, she can’t fail. “You’re an absolute fool if you believe we don’t need you.”

“Oh, dear.” Gentle fingers brush down her hair. Pressed against Jaskier like this, she can feel how his breaths shake on the edge of a sob. “I’m afraid that’s just not true.”

Ciri tilts her head awkwardly, looking up to meet his eyes. “Are you calling me a liar?”

Jaskier smiles sadly. “I’m only suggesting that you don’t know all the facts. And the facts are that I’m simply a bard. If we’re attacked, I’ll be no good in a fight— just another person for those two to protect. I tell stories, Ciri, I don’t live them. Not like Geralt or Yennefer do. They’re the heroes. I’m just… support. Barely that, really.”

“You’re important,” Ciri presses. “Who cares if you can’t fight? You do something so much harder than that, anyway.”

“Do I?” Jaskier still speaks like he’s indulging her fantasies. “And what is that? Irritate Geralt with my songs? Bother Yennefer with my jokes?”

“You make them smile,” Ciri says, grinning when she hears Jaskier gasp softly at the exclamation.

“Yes, well,” Jaskier says, stumbling over words as his cheeks pinken, “forgive me if I don’t actually enjoy being the butt of every joke. Just because they laugh at me—”

“No, not that,” Ciri says, releasing him long enough to pinch his arm teasingly. “I’ve seen it, you know? The way Geralt looks at you when you practice your music at night. Like he’s remembering a hundred other nights just like that. You’re too focused on your lute to ever notice, but he smiles when you find a new chord you like or when you get excited over a lyric. He’s so happy that you’re here, Jaskier. He looks at you like he regrets not looking at you like that before.”

“I’m sure it’s just—”

“And, Yennefer, too! It’s harder to spot, but I’m good at watching people. She likes talking with you, Jaskier,” Ciri says, voice picking up in volume and speed as she tries to get him to listen, tries to make him understand. “Before we found you, she was so tense, all the time. Now, she smiles— just in her eyes, just a bit— whenever you two talk about all the idiots you two know. When you make jokes about villagers who are mean to witchers, she smiles. When you tease her— like so many people are scared to do— she smiles, Jaskier, I promise she does.”

Jaskier doesn’t speak for a long while, mouth opening and shutting soundlessly— this world-famous poet failing to find words as Ciri holds him tight, hiding her wet eyes against his shirt.

“They’ll be so hurt if you leave us,” she whispers for just the two of them to hear. “They won’t say it, but I know it's true. You didn’t see Geralt when he heard about Nilfgaard’s plans for you, how scared he was. If you leave, it’ll break everything. I’m scared that, if you go, they’ll never smile again.”

More silence. Ciri takes steady breaths, easing the panic in her chest before it can erupt into sobs. Jaskier’s beaten her to the crying, anyway, his voice wet with quiet tears as he finally speaks.

“And what about you, dear heart?” He asks. “Do I make you smile, too?”

Ciri laughs. She doesn’t look up— if she does, she knows she’ll give in to the emotion growing in her heart, the desperate thing that wants to cry like a child.

“Of course,” she says. “You make me smile most of all.”

“Ah, well, then.” Jaskier, at last, brings his arms around Ciri, returning her embrace. “How could I possibly leave? It seems you’re stuck with me, princess.”

“Good,” Ciri asserts, tightening the hug. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#ciri #jaskier #wuvthebard #watb #my writing

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exactlyenoughglitter · 4 years ago

Text

Glastonbury

Pairings: Avallac’h/Ciri/Eredin Warnings: NSFW, elves, reality manipulation + unreliable narrator AO3 Link

The bells are ringing.

‘Galahad?’

Sometime in the night, the rain had stopped. Instead, a thick white fog had rolled out across the marshland. In such fog sounds travel far.

Where am I? the girl wonders. Everywhere. Nowhere.

Ciri treads along the soggy ground, unable to find her way either to the Roman road or the chapel. For there must be a chapel at Glastonbury – a chapel, where they toll the bells at dawn, midday, and sundown.

Why would anyone toll the bells at night?

Somewhere high above a wolf moon hangs above the marshes – glowing eerie red.

‘Galahad?’

She bounds against the echo of her own voice. The witcher-girl leans against a crooked tree, her warm breath melding with the fog. It is damp. The darkness rustles – everywhere, nowhere. There is a strange smell in the air... something putrefying and sickly sweet, or...

... apple blossoms?

She blinks.

Water touches her boots. Mist rises above the lake.

Faintly, Ciri mouths names; they belong to those she has given away to the cold, wet fog – a fog beyond which there is nothing more.

In the eldritch glow of the moon the mist swirls, milky white, like in a witch’s cauldron. She looks around for a boat. There is no boat. No unicorn. There is only the mist and the bells. And she cannot find the way.

Morgana said it depends on who seeks what the mists show. As man sees reality thus it becomes.

Looking down, the girl gasps.

The restless lake water slides underneath her boots like a fine dance floor. Her entire form freezes in incomprehension before a niggling thought occurs to her: people in this world say that fairies can walk on water. Fairies and unicorns. Finally forcing her foot to move, despite a quaint sense of foreboding that overcomes her, Ciri exhales like she has held her breath for an eternity; the dark swirling ground under her feet holds. It holds! With that, however, a tremendous gushing resounds in her ears and she realises that the lake water is pushing further in-land; the marshlands here flood periodically.

‘Ciri?’

It echoes in her mind quietly but clearly – like the ringing of icicles.

Through the mists, across the waters, the witcher-girl runs in the night until the echo of bells becomes more distinct and the putrid-sweet smell of apple blossoms strengthens. Until mussel shells crunch under her feet, until she finds herself on an alley of trees that are closing in on the entrance of the chapel under a bright red moon. Her mind though, is made up.

With the name of the knight on her lips and the images of the witcher and the sorceress in her head, she draws her sword. And bare hazel and alder branches crackle mournfully, giving way under her blade. Their remains rip at her clothes, but she cares not. She notices naught and can say naught, for her lungs are full of the smell of rot and the lake water clings to her footsteps like a smelly, dark ooze.

Yet in the mists, across the threshold to somewhere, Ciri’s voice dies a white death in her throat.

In the cold stone chapel under the Spiral Hill of Ynys Gwydrin, a knight lies in his soft white cloak, his skin snow white and his lips bright red as summer apples. You would think a kiss might wake him, but the ashen-haired girl knows it does not. She knows. She knows too that his lips taste of wine and not the blood of Christ, but it does not matter.

They stay like this before the altar while the bells ring in the fog – somewhere, everywhere, nowhere.

It’s because of that cup! It’s that stupid Grail, this stupid land and these stupid priests, and these stupid people who believe them. There is no justice, no salvation, and no grace given in the universe!

‘For once you understand, little butterfly.’

The soft, lambent hair on the back of her neck can barely rise, touched as if by the breath of a ghoul, before strong fingers crawl across her scalp and her scream pierces the air under stone-vaulted ceilings. He steps unceremoniously across the corpse of the knight, pushing her stooping form in front of him into the bright shaft of moonlight illuminating the altar. If not for the height from where his arm draws her upward, she would kiss her teeth against the stone.

She twists, grinds her teeth against the pain. The putrid aroma of sweet apple blossoms overwhelms her and she looks: at the height of her eyes, a locket of rubies glows on his chest.

A heart – everyone has a heart.

She reaches for a weapon.

Even corpses.

Yet in the looking glass image of enchanted gemstones a different world altogether unravels in a torrent of liquid fire, inside which the sword of the witcher-girl – the blade that does not discriminate – submerges back into the Lake.

‘Did I not tell you,’ the elf says, tightening his grip around her face, around her neck, at which her own arms shoot up, ‘we would meet again.’

Ciri’s heart races in her constricting throat to the fading echo of bells in the night in which small, even teeth smile at her before the altar stone of Ynys Gwydrin – the faeries’ glass castle, the Spiral Hill.

It depends on who seeks what the mists show.

Fey light plays in his green eyes, stirring its poison, making it drip on her lips as he watches from above – with indifferent curiosity – over her struggles. Red, red across his shoulders, red around his neck, red on his... red, red, red... Air rushes back into her lungs, sweeter than ever somehow despite the rot of the hunter in it.

She stumbles. For a moment it goes dark in front of Ciri’s eyes as the whistling in her ears grows to an unbearable level, but oblivion does not take her. That would be too graceful in a graceless universe. Instead, she feels the contours of the warrior’s arm brush hers, dragging slowly around her, back again. She shudders at the strange, new sensation his touch, now benevolently bestowed, instils and tries to move – only to have a solid thigh restrict her. It makes her realise. It makes her flush. Ciri opens her eyes.

Eredin Bréacc Glas is observing her over the edge of an elegant golden kylix.

The Grail...

She watches how the elf dips the chalice against his lips, how the prominent Adam’s apple in his neck jounces once, twice; she watches how the penetrating eyes of the Sparrowhawk close briefly in what looks like genuine bliss. He drinks. She cannot tear her eyes away from him even if she still tastes the faint notes of wine off of Galahad’s lips on hers. She is expecting for whatever is meant to happen to happen.

It never happens.

Her hopes never happen.

Only a grim, mocking smile visits the elf’s glistening lips. ‘Your turn, butterfly.’

‘What did you do to him?’ she growls. ‘Why don’t you die? Die! Why don’t you, damn you!?’

‘Do not talk nonsense. Drink.’

He pushes the kylix under her chin and some of its content sloshes onto her breast. Suddenly, Ciri notices herself: she is in an elaborate deep cut dress of dark red – finer even than what she had worn in the world of the elves – adorned with jewels. Royal is too soft a word for it. With horror she realises that she does not remember how she got to be this way.

‘Drink,’ he repeats.

And Ciri almost screams for the second time: refusing to confront the predatory gaze in front of her she witnesses instead how a faint smile spreads on Galahad’s blue lips. The knight’s lifeless eyes, previously full of inexplicable peace, stay glued on the ashen-haired girl while the blackening, algal waters of the lake begin to swallow him. With bubbling, as in a witch’s cauldron, the lake draws the Grail knight into its fathomless embrace.

‘Is our hospitality too good for you?’ the elf asks. She almost does not hear. She is trying to get away from the water.

Eredin lifts his hand, knowing she will not do anything to rebuke him, and stills her like one would a frightened animal. She almost does not notice. Almost. He traces a meandering line from Ciri’s jawline to her breastbone, to sternum, to the exposed curve of the girl’s chest where he lets his fingers toy with the lace trimming. Slowly, Ciri returns to the elf.

‘What more could you possibly want?’

With a rough movement the elf plunges his hand underneath the expensive fabric, his large palm spreading over the rounded out curve of the girl’s breast. She wonders if he likes it better this way. She wonders why she asks herself something like this. She will not escape his watchful gaze as he pursues the heavy intake of breath, the way her eyes fill with panic, desire, shame. The way she shifts away from her nightmare onto the altar stone – onto the ancient sacrificial stone of the Druids – unable to really do more than part her knees before his large form and allow him everything anyway.

Eredin knows. And she knows that he knows.

Ciri shuts her eyes and thinks, desperately, of a place – but all places are as one place and only place. Here is her place, the only place, and elsewhere there is nothing but fog, nothing but water which washes up against her bare calves, cold as the phantasmal hunter’s scornful laughter against the side of her inflamed neck. Cold as the frost left in the wake of the Sparrowhawk’s lips closing over the girl’s heated pulse, claiming the rapid thrills of her heart.

She moans. Cool metal touches her lips. She accepts.

She drinks and knows at once it is blood and not wine that coats her tongue, before tasting the precious nectar again when Eredin claims her mouth, washing away all false sacraments of humanity.

‘You belong to us.’

It echoes inside her skull like the ringing of icicles.

‘Turn around,’ the elf orders, placing the chalice in-between her shaking hands. ‘He wants to watch your face.’

Freezing stone greets her belly where his hand pushes down on the small of her back, leaning her small form over under the strange moonlight that shines from nowhere. Her mind fixates on his words and she looks curiously. By a fireplace that opens in-between the statues of two mother-of-pearl unicorns Ciri thinks she sees the Alder King lounging in a tall chair, legs spread wide apart. The darkness is rustling around itself, making it difficult to recognise things for what they are, but the girl remembers.

Eredin dips his fingers in the kylix in front of her nose. Some of it lands on her brow.

Ciri feels what these fingers do: how one firm hand traces up and down the back of her thighs, spreading her open until the fabric of the royal dress must tear, while the other dives in-between her legs; how a pair of demanding lips suck onto the side of her neck as her small frame is being subjected to a series of trembling pulsations at the merciless pace of his fingers over her clit; how she sounds like – how wet! – absolutely laving at the presence of the predator, at the feel of his solid weight against her rear.

‘What a prized prey you are, Zireael,’ he breathes.

Her eyes open and close against her will. She feels her lithe form being pried open for sensations, but her mind does not entirely comprehend everything. Firelight soaks the light hair of the Old King with its glow and in a daze she watches how a shadowy shape of a giant python winds its way around his broad shoulders, lazing about his neck in a slow, perpetual movement. The elf looks entirely undisturbed, perhaps even unaware. Something in her clamours to warn Auberon, to speak out in time – this time – against the danger in order to avert the course of such Fate as has already run its course.

Has it... run its course?

The girl hears cloth and leather rustling behind her. The red in the chalice, in the fires, in her – it joins in filling up her pupils with the desire pushing upon her from the mists. In a short moment her stomach floods with writhing warmth at the weight of Eredin’s cock in-between her buttocks. She doesn’t want to think, she wants... she wants. And bucks against one of his powerful thighs leaning on the stone beside her hip as he grinds himself lazily against her. The slap, when it comes, tears a genuine cry from her throat. It firms her up. Again! It disperses all traitorous thoughts in her head. Except one: she discovers she wishes to be embraced as suffocatingly as the elf who wishes to look at Ciri’s face as she is taken by his rival.

He can hear me, Ciri thinks. He can hear me whining like a bitch in heat for somebody young and strong, somebody who would steal away all from him – his throne, his power, that child...

The mild chuckle that reaches her ears pours over the girl like cold water over a stray kitten – unsurprising, and yet absolutely petrifying. The fair-haired elf by the fireplace cocks his head slightly to the side; it is not the Old King who wants to look at her so. Why how could it be? The flame-kissed aquamarines glow rather, like icicles.

Ciri is really quite comically shocked.

A furious blush dyes her cheeks. Quickly averting her eyes, the girl’s breath nevertheless hitches in her throat, because unexpectedly she finds herself staring into an abyss opening up below in the depths of swirling black water. It is everywhere: bare, pathless, infinite. Starless. Shrouded in the mists. It is impossible to find one’s way in such a place.

Where am I?

She makes out a slow procession of shadows, curving like old bones as they tread their way toward eternity in the bowels of the lake. There are people she knows there; people she has killed and people she has loved.

‘You are where you belong, Loc’hlaith.’

Avallac’h’s voice rings familiar this time, and somewhere – perhaps only deep within this mirror realm – a seagull’s shriek carries through the thick white mists. Is it welcoming her? Or is the borrowed time leased with its life simply running out?

It is the elf from her nightmares who yanks Ciri out of the sorcerous whirlpool of illusions, though. By a leather noose, formed, it seems, of Eredin’s own belt. Simultaneously, the girl feels him withdraw his fingers from in-between her buttocks.

Like a mare. He will take me like a disobedient mare.

‘Drink,’ he says shortly. ‘Trust me when I say it’s for your own good, little butterfly.’

‘Go on,’ she hears in her head. ‘You know what the right thing to do is, don’t you, Zireael? I may wonder why others must die for your selfishness, but in the end, the choice is always yours.’

As she lifts the sacred chalice to her lips for the second time under the eyes of elves, Ciri almost does not feel how the dark-haired one sinks forward and inside her. Almost. She is shielded, she later realises, by the bright aquamarines burning into hers, feeling like a blissful caress against their dark brother’s bruising attentions.

Red trickles down from the side of her mouth at the first languid thrust. Her back arches, but Eredin keeps it incurved. Neither are his fluent fingers leaving her unattended, slipping ever so often inside her sopping entrance, but it is altogether more difficult this way around. And she cannot look away from the other one – from the fair one she had offered herself willingly to. As he pushes forward for the second time Ciri senses a strange spell snap around her and squirms, finally allowed to fall entirely back inside her body, into the hungering depravity of sensation.

‘Such funny thoughts guide you, Swallow,’ Crevan says quietly.

He has stood up, approaches, and Ciri shudders, feeling the commander move deeper inside of her and covering her small form entirely with his for a moment.

‘Behave,’ he whispers, drawing his lips along her ear. ‘And we shall reward you.’

As he pulls away and focuses on his own pleasure, Ciri faintly wishes to clench her eyes at the discomfort but can only groan softly. The surface underneath her is cool and smooth. The air smells differently too – of formalin. Through a haze of pleasure she glances up and sees Avallac’h standing over them, looking at her quite calmly.

‘Where am I?’

‘Does it really make a difference?’ the dark-haired elf threads his free hand softly through her hair. ‘Crevan designs such things on the fly. Or, “as Fate chooses”.’

Though sarcastic, for a moment he sounds almost like he could be pitying her. Almost. But instead of a heart in his chest, the King of the Wild Hunt carries a locket of precious stones.

She swallows. ‘It makes a difference to me.’

The girl’s head feels increasingly like full of cotton wool – like something or someone is calling to her from beyond the haze – and her eyes dart around wildly as she supports herself on her elbows. What had looked like a small stone chapel shrouded in the mists on an island of priests, in a world of the Knights of the Round Table, seems so no longer.

‘Has anything ever been as it first appeared?’

Crevan crouches before her. At first, he lifts his hand, curling his long fingers as if to stroke the girl’s cheek, but decides against it in the end and reaches for the golden chalice instead.

‘Do you like my magic, luned?’ he asks.

Ciri recoils: snakes crawl off the kylix and around Crevan’s forearms where they wind in an infinite green spiral, eating themselves. Aen Saevherne smiles gently, smelling what’s inside the chalice, and pours it away. For some reason his move makes her irrationally worried. As if it was all an illusion and a trick. As if Galahad had really died for nothing.

She also realises that the Sage is reading her like an open book.

‘Is this how you must be handled?’ Avallac’h looks at her from close up. ‘Like he thinks.’ He nods toward the other elf and Ciri hears a quiet chuckle among sounds of the flesh she is too ashamed to admit make her heady with want, even as her swallow heart rips in her throat with fear. ‘With a leash and a stick and a carrot?’

Ciri wonders how Avallac’h can stand this – to so calmly look upon her, who bears the eyes of his Lara, while she is like this.

Go ahead, look! Look and may you choke on it! Both of you.

A myriad of emotions seems to flash behind the sorcerer’s bright, pale eyes. He puts his palm under her chin, drags his thumb slowly across her lower lip. Then he stands up.

‘I wish I had met your ancestor who put this burden on you,’ he says, easing aside the robe under his belt. ‘In fact, I wish I had met him much like this.’

Ciri feels the touch of his hard flesh against her cheek. She looks up at him. She doesn’t... but the elf caresses her head insistently, looking at her reassuringly, and soon Ciri understands why people subject themselves to this. He feeds her his cock slowly and suddenly she feels so very small. And embraced on all sides – suffocatingly.

Avallac’h’s head falls back.

‘Beautiful.’

It passes in a flurry from then on.

He fucks into her mouth in a manner that does not allow her – not once – to interrupt the nestling of the weight of his flesh in her throat. What he has done to make it possible she does not know, but it does not hurt as much as she expects. He talks to her, too. She groans around him repeatedly, enjoying the caresses of his hands in her hair and along her bulging neck, and is tempted to simply close her eyes and yield entirely to the tight fullness, the pleasure in her belly. But he wants her to keep her eyes on him and the straining belt around her neck guarantees it in its own way. Thus, she behaves, and while taking both of them at once discovers that there is something comfortable in having something put in your mouth; right before Crevan’s hands tighten in her ashen hair and he leaves copious amounts of creamy cum under her tongue, on her lips, dribbling down her chin – he wipes it with his cock – and streaking against her rosy cheeks.

Avallac’h kisses her before she has swallowed, and she swallows. Drinking in him, as she has drank from the cup of god. And he laughs softly in-between rapid breaths as she writhes through her own orgasm, deaf and blind to the world.

‘Do you have anything at all in this laboratory, Crevan,’ she hears a familiar voice uttering once the buzzing in her head has subsided, ‘which does not scour the living daylights out of you, nor turn you into a mindless sycophant? To drink, I mean.’

‘Of course,’ the Sage replies lightly. ‘Many things. Who would I be if I did not know how to obtain and create things of which even you might not have heard of?’

The girl does not understand how Eredin responds, but she hears the Sage of the Alder Elves snort – quite good-naturedly.

Exactly so Ciri’s eyes flicker open, the press of the metal table against her cheek considerably warmer than usual from the presence of her own person on it. Avallac’h is beside her, cleaning his hands inside a small purple cloth. Noticing her staring, he offers Ciri a clean one for her own use, but the girl can do nothing but stare.

A crimson mage light hangs high above in the darkness, glowing with strange fey light as if it was the hour of wolf’s moon. Small milky-white mist is rolling out of several cucurbits at the edge of her line of sight. She smells formalin and apple blossoms. Fresh, sweet blossoms.

‘There is vodka in the disinfectants cabinet,’ the sorcerer says offhandedly to his collaborator, his attention entirely preoccupied by the girl whose emerald eyes have never looked quite as big and beautiful as in that very moment.

Perhaps it is the misty wetness of them that so makes them resemble infinitely deep and green lakes upon which white fog spreads like on top of a witch’s cauldron.

‘My darling girl,’ the elf coos fondly, taking her in his arms without much effort and seating them both where it feels more comfortable. ‘Did we frighten you?’

For a time that drags on into the infinite Ciri wonders if she has forgotten how to speak.

‘You are blushing,’ Crevan notes with a smile, caressing her face, her cheeks and scar, unbothered by the ugliness. Touching slightly upon her swollen lips. ‘That’s very good. Very healthy.’

Silently, Eredin appears by their side, swooping out of the darkness with a sought-after bottle in one hand and two glasses in another, one of them filled.

‘A drink for the Lady,’ he says with a small bow to Ciri.

Avallac’h accepts the glass for the girl, since Ciri sits on his lap as if frozen like a small marble doll in the most glorious ruined red dress. The commander shrugs and pours himself one, downs it, and flops down on a crimson couch.

‘Is this –’ she begins, too silently even for herself to hear. ‘Is this all about power for you?’

‘Of course it is about power, Zireael. Everything is. Even love.’ The elven sorcerer looks at her thoughtfully. ‘Though humans often like to mistake one for the other – and more often, I think, power for love – what you witnessed here, on your own skin, were different kinds of power and how power can be wielded. I am sure if you think about it a little longer you will also come up with some answers for the most important question of all – why is power wielded as it is? I will gladly answer all of your questions in this regard once you do so.’

‘You may think you can be more than you are because of your exceptional ancestry,’ Eredin’s voice cuts in from the couch. ‘But you are what you are, my butterfly. Do not ever mistake yourself as more to any of us.’

She doesn’t see Crevan’s almost imperceptible annoyance. Her thoughts flood with the Sparrowhawk’s rasping voice by her ear moments before he had spilled himself across her back. It is too real to be a dream. It is too close to skin. Too present... as if she is back in those moments again and again...

‘A dh’oine whore, whose little life cannot sustain much more than the one thing you know so little how to care for. Yet you crave it all the same, like a natural. You want life put inside of you. You want the Young King not the Old King. Fortunate little butterfly – you will never have to live long with the after-effects of all these beautifully intense first experiences.’

Avallac’h is scrutinizing her closely.

Her fingers are clutching painfully at the front of his robes, she realises. It seems she has nestled closer to him unconsciously in the middle of her thoughts. She can tell the elf likes it, though his expression betrays little.

‘Do you know what will happen now, Ciri?’ Crevan asks her quietly.

She looks into his clear aquamarines.

‘Now we will make a child with you,’ he whispers against her lips. ‘A beautiful fairy child who will make you and me very happy.’

He begins to lift her but she puts her hands on his chest, clinging to that shred of long-forgotten love that she has seen in his eyes – something that has twisted and snapped too many times to be quite right again.

‘But I am not –’

‘I know you are not,’ he cuts her off. ‘That is alright. My blood is very good too, you see. And those genes in you which truly matter will be more than enough.’

‘Please. Please, Avallac'h!'

‘Please?’ he looks at her kindly, at her hands clutching his bigger one. ‘What is it, Ciri? This is good, very-very good. It is good you came here to us of your own free will. I will be patient with you; gentle. Kiss you... here? Or do you wish me to put you on that table, over there,’ he nods with his head into the darkness from whence they came. ‘I don’t want to do that, luned. It will hurt us both very much this way and you and I have been hurt enough, don’t you think?’

He strokes her hands.

‘Can we not wait? Do we have to – right now...’

‘Right now is a very good time.’

‘Right here, with him –’

‘Who?’

She blinks and looks around. There is no one else.

Where am I? Everywhere. Nowhere.

The fair elf lord kisses her hand, his laughter ringing like icicles or tiny bells. A locket of rubies glows on his chest.

A heart. Everyone has a heart.

‘Oh, Ciri, you are so very adorable,’ his hands lift her easily as he positions himself at her entrance. ‘You’ll soon forget all about him. Now, relax.’

Ciri awakes.

Mist swims before her eyes.

Somewhere, in the mists, the bells of Glastonbury are ringing.

#civadin #cirillach #ciredin #ciri #avallac'h #eredin #cirilla fiona elen riannon #crevan espane aep caomhan macha #eredin breacc glas #aen elle #the witcher #wiedzmin #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher 3 #arthuriana #sorry not sorry

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dat-carovieh · 4 years ago

Text

Let me comfort you

Ship: Bombard (Lambert/Jaskier)

Rating: E

Wordcount: 1.2k

Tags: Season 2 Spoilers, Post S2 E8, Hurt Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frotting, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Resolved Sexual Tension

Read on AO3

This fic assumes that you have finished watching Episode 8 os Season 2, so if you haven't, maybe better read it later. You have been warned.

Lambert pushed Jaskier aside as Ciri was holding him up, leading him to a bench in the room. His hair was still lifted into the air as he looked after them for a couple of seconds until he realized that his comment has probably been inappropriate for the current time.

Since him and Ciri had reached Kaer Morhen, he had gotten along with Lambert really well. But he had not interacted with him just after a really shitty fight and especially after some people close of him had died. He should have shut his mouth and thought for a moment before he spoke. Quickly he hurried after them. Ciri seemed to be exhausted as well, which was totally understandable after everything that happened. Jaskier turned quickly and put a gentle hand on Lambert’s shoulder.

“Let me help you,” he said. Lambert looked at him with a sigh.

“I can do it,” Ciri insisted.

“I’m sure you can, but you don’t have to, maybe go and check on Geralt, I got him,” Jaskier reassured her. Geralt probably didn’t need his daughter to check on him but she wouldn’t have gone if Jaskier had told her to go to Geralt for her sake. He hadn’t known Ciri for long but he knew her well enough. She agreed and after Lambert had slung his arm around Jaskier she went over to Geralt who immediately pulled her into his arms.

Jaskier heaved Lambert over to the bench and lowered him down.

“I guess, asking you how you feel would be stupid,” Jaskier said. Lambert snorted.

“Splendid,” he replied, typical for him.

“Yeah, that’s what you look like,” Jaskier replied. They both avoided looking around over the bodies lying around. Instead, they were looking at each other, Lambert’s arm still on Jaskier’s shoulder, Jaskier’s arm around Lambert’s waist. Lambert leaned forward a bit and their foreheads touched slightly, the Witcher closed his eyes for a moment. This wasn’t a side Jaskier had gotten to know from Lambert yet but he wasn’t complaining.

“I don’t wanna interrupt a romantic moment but can I have a look at your injuries?” Yennefer’s voice sounded in front of them. Reluctantly Jaskier pulled back but left his hand on Lambert’s hip and Lambert also didn’t pull back his hand.

It only took a moment for her to look over all of Lambert’s injuries before she left them again. Around them everyone was doing something but Jaskier couldn’t pay attention to them.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?” Jaskier asked carefully. He didn’t want to impose, unusual for him but he had already fucked up. Lambert didn’t reply, instead he just buried his fingers in Jaskier’s hair and pulled him closer. Jaskier pulled his hand back from Lambert’s hip and instead pushed his curls out of his face as they moved in more until their lips met. The kiss felt desperate, Lambert was clearly looking for comfort right now, Jaskier would gladly provide whatever he needed. He had done something similar with Geralt before but with Lambert it was somehow different. He had quickly developed feelings for the Witcher after he had arrived at Kaer Morhen.

They were pulled apart again after a short time. Everyone had suffered losses and everyone needed to help cleaning up, preparing a proper funeral for the fallen Witchers.

The rest of the day went by in a blur for Jaskier, in the evening, everyone went back to their rooms pretty quickly. Jaskier felt the low mood, he was playing a quiet tune on his lute, humming under his breath. Lambert got up from where he had been sitting after he had finished his beer. He grabbed Jaskier’s lute and pulled Jaskier up.

“Coming with me?” he asked. His face didn’t give away an emotion but his eyes showed that he was clearly hurting. Jaskier nodded. Lambert put the lute down to the ground. He was still gently holding Jaskier’s arm and pulled him out of the room. As soon as the door to Lambert’s room had closed behind them, Jaskier found himself pressed against the door. Jaskier wrapped his arms around Lambert and pulled him closer, their lips crashed together. Jaskier’s tongue scratched against Lambert’s teeth, they were sharper than human teeth, it made Jaskier groan as he pressed closer.

The kiss was sloppy and Lambert’s hands were uncoordinatedly pushing first Jaskier’s coat off and pushing his shirt up. Jaskier grabbled at Lambert’s shirt and pulled it up as well, Lambert allowed him to pull it off as he lifted his arms. Jaskier used the moment to get rid of his own shirt and threw them both through the room. He let his hands slide over the toned upper body in front of him. His cock was twitching in his pants. Lambert’s hands appeared on his but, lifting him up a little. Jaskier wrapped his legs around Lambert’s waist and their lips crashed together again. He was pulled back from the door again and carried over to the bed.

Lambert lowered him to the mattress surprisingly gently. They both kicked off their boots before Lambert joined Jaskier on the bed. The skin of the Witcher felt hot against Jaskier’s chest and he pushed up against him more. As he kissed down Jaskier’s neck, Lambert’s beard was scratching over the soft skin. Jaskier moved his hands through the red curls before he moved them down and dug his fingers into Lambert’s butt for a moment before he hooked his fingers under the waistband and pulled down the pants the Witcher was wearing. Lambert lifted his hips a bit so Jaskier could pull them down. He wiggled a bit to get them off and kneeled up over Jaskier, to get rid of Jaskier’s pants as well.

Jaskier looked down between them, admiring the huge cock, settled between more red curls. He could only look for a moment, before Lambert leaned down again, trapping Jaskier under him again, now Jaskier was looking into these dark amber eyes.

“Hey,” he whispered and gently stroked Lambert’s cheek. Lambert lifted an eyebrow but smiled at him. The smile didn’t really reach his eyes but Jaskier had the feeling, he was able to at least take his mind of things a little bit. Lambert lowered his body completely onto Jaskier and their cocks met, Lamberts hot length pressing against Jaskier. Immediately his legs wrapped around Lambert as they started to move against each other. Their movements were slow at first but got faster as the arousal got more and more. Jaskier felt Lambert clinging to him, his nails digging into his shoulders as they were rutting against each other desperately. He felt Lambert’s breath against his neck.

The moment Lambert came, he grabbed him so hard, Jaskier was sure he would bruise, but he didn’t mind. He felt his orgasm wash over him as Lambert’s cum was shooting against Jaskier’s belly.

They kept clinging together after they had come, panting heavily, Jaskier was raking his fingers through Lambert’s hair. He knew he was about to fall for the gruff Witcher, but right now he didn’t mind. He had been able to help him dealing with what had happened and this was what was counting right now.

#my writing #my Witcher writing #The Witcher #Witcher season 2 #The Witcher spoilers #Witcher spoilers

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queenxxxsupreme · 5 years ago

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I’m daydreaming and just imagining reader being self conscious of her body after giving birth and geralt just being fluffy and sweet and not liking her putting herself down and yeh

A/N: This makes me soft. I hope you like this babe!!

Warning: This fic does have quite a bit of mentioning of body image issues and postpartum issues many women face. I did my best to google things because I’ve never had a kid so I don’t know what postpartum is like but I hope I did somewhat decently with it.

You gazed into the mirror, admiring the way the deep red silk material of your dress hugged your chest. You brushed your hand down the material and over your stomach, frowning as your eyes settled there. The little smile that had been on your lips faded almost instantly.

You didn’t like the way the dress looked, the way the material seemed to amplify your slightly sagging stomach. Now that you were focused on it, your stomach seemed suddenly much bigger than it actually was and the thought of wearing that dress in public made you sick. You couldn’t go to Cirilla’s birthday celebration looking like that.

You turned your back to the mirror, biting back the tears as you shook your head.

You just had Bram not even two months ago, Y/N. You just need time to bounce back and everything will be okay!

No matter how many times you told yourself that, there was another voice in the back of your head that spoke up, growing louder and louder as it pointed out all of your insecurities.

The extra weight you’d put on. The way your arms jiggled when you moved them or the way a double chin formed when you looked down. The way none of your clothes fit comfortably, except for your maternity clothes.

You reached behind yourself to pull the ties on the dress, letting out a breath as the material loosened around your torso. You pushed the dress down and let the silk pool at your ankles.

The door to the room opened and you hastily moved to retrieve the throw at the foot of your bed.

Your husband stepped in, brows drawing together as he saw you move quickly, snatching the throw and using it to cover yourself.

“It’s just me, dove.”

You nodded but still kept the throw tight to you, holding it just beneath your chin.

He stood there for a moment, assessing what had just happened. Was something wrong?

“Are, um, Are you ready? Yennefer is growing rather impatient.”

You chewed on your bottom lip for a moment, dropping your eyes to the floor as you shook your head.

“I-I don’t feel good, Geralt. I don’t think I should go.”

“What do you mean?” Geralt took a few steps towards you but you shook your head, stepping away from him until your back bumped into the wall.

His breath caught in his throat, shoulders tensing up as he watched you carefully. Your eyes were full of too many emotions for him to decipher them all. Fear. Worry. Dread. Concern.

“Y/N.” He murmured your name.

“Just-Just go without me, okay?” You whispered, trying to force a smile on to your lips as you shook your head but the tears in your eyes swelled up and blurred your vision. “Take Bram. I-I know Eist and Calanthe would love to see him and-and Ciri adores him.”

“Please tell me what is wrong.” Geralt quietly begged. “You were so excited to go earlier today. We’ve been talking about going all week.”

“Yes, but I-I just….” You trailed off, unable to come up with a good answer, one that wasn’t necessarily the truth. You didn’t want to tell your husband that you were ashamed of your body, of the body he claimed to love so dearly.

“Cirilla would be devastated if you didn’t come.”

You closed your eyes tightly, shaking your head as your head fell forward. One hand clutched the throw to your chest while the other covered your face.

“I’m so sorry, Geralt.” You cried quietly. “I-I’m sorry. You deserve so, so much better.”

Wordlessly, Geralt crossed the room. You didn’t even notice this so when his hand took ahold of your wrist to pull your hand from your face, you flinched. He carefully pried your hand from your face and then hooked two fingers beneath your chin to tilt your head up.

He used the pad of his thumb to brush the tears from your damp cheeks. His liquid gold eyes were studying you, concerned, worried.

He had an idea about what it was that could be upsetting you. You were holding the throw to your body as if it was your life source. You were shielding yourself from his eyes, from your husband’s eyes. He’d seen you naked before. Hell, he witnessed you give birth to his son. There could only be one reason why you were suddenly hiding your body from him.

“Please tell me why you think that I deserve better?” He whispered, warm breath fanning over your face.

“I-I’m the size of a fucking cow, Geralt.” You dropped your gaze to focus on the wolf pendant. “My stomach is all wrinkly and there are stretchmarks all over me. I-I look disgusting.”

“Y/N.” He said your name with a scolding tone, though he was gentle. “You are not disgusting. You are the woman I love.”

“The woman you love died when she had a child.” You muttered.

Geralt took your chin in his hold once more and tilted your head up.

“The woman I love brought my son into this world.” He kissed your forehead. “I love you, Y/N. How you look doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does!” You couldn’t help but raise your voice, pushing against his chest but you would’ve had better luck pushing a brick wall. “You fell in love with me, why? Because-Because of my charming personality? Fuck that, Geralt! My personality is absolute shit!”

You were just angry with yourself. He didn’t deserve your outburst and you knew this.

“I fell in love with you, Y/N. With the stupid jokes you tell me and the way you smile when you see a cow in a field or a children chasing each other. I fell in love with how you treated me when we first met. I wasn’t a witcher to you. You didn’t treat me like some stupid mutant. You are kind and generous and I can’t imagine myself with another.” He shook his head.

“But all of that, all of you falling in love with me…. There’s a sexual aspect to it too.” You told him, adamant on getting him to admit that you were hideous. You wanted the truth. You didn’t want him to lie to you to make you feel better. “You liked me, my body, what I had to offer in that sense.”

He sighed heavily through his nose.

“When I fell in love with you, Y/N, I fell in love with all of you. This body, your body, made my son, and this body feeds him. Now is no different than before. If anything, I actually enjoy this.” He brought his hands up to your shoulders.

“You enjoy me looking like a cow?”

“Stop saying that.” He softly demanded, shaking his head. “No, my love. You are warm and comforting and so fucking sexy. This is bigger.” His hands trailed to your backside, squeezing you firmly. “And so are other things.”

His eyes shamelessly looked down at your chest, which was poorly covered with the throw.

“I enjoy every part of you, dove, and I am in love with you. With your thighs and how warm they are in my hands. With your stomach and how soft it is when I lay my head upon it, and how you carried my son for nine long months inside of you. Nothing could ever change my love for you, Y/N.”

You almost believed him, but then that voice continued to tell you that he was lying. You shook your head, eyes falling to the floor again.

He put his hand on the throw and tried to pull it away from you but you held it firmly.

“Dove. Let me.” He murmured.

You hesitated, still holding the throw with white knuckles. You finally let it go and held your breath, eyes squeezing shut tightly.

You expected a gasp or some noise of repulsion. You expected him to flee even.

But instead, he pulled you in for a hug, large arms wrapping around you and drawing you into his chest.

“You are the most beautiful being I’ve ever seen in all my years.” He breathed into your hair.

The breath you had held left your lips and cries shook your shoulders. You melted into his touch, burying your face in his chest.

“You are strong, Y/N. You carried Bram for nine months, and it wasn’t easy. I know it wasn’t. Watching you struggle with the aches and pains and with the loss of balance and the sickness…. I love you.”

“But I’m-I’m covered in stretchmarks. My stomach, it’s-it’s-,”

“It is beautiful, just like you. They make you who you are now. You’re a mother, Y/N.” Geralt pulled away to look down at you, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear. “And the best one I’ve ever seen.”

You looked down at your stomach for a moment.

“You don’t…. You don’t think it’s gross?”

He gave you a little smile before leaning down to kiss your forehead.

“No, my sweet dove. I don’t think it’s gross. And neither should you.”

You closed your eyes and leaned into his touch.

“If you truly don’t want to go, then I can take Jaskier and Bram with me.” Geralt rubbed your back with one large hand. “You can stay here and get a bath, maybe catch up on some much needed sleep. Do you want to go?”

“I do.” You nodded. “It’d be lovely to see Calanthe and Eist.”

“Then let’s get you dressed.” Geralt kissed you softly and then picked up your dress that you had discarded on the floor.

Taglist: @pressedinthepages @MishaFaye @whitewolfandthefox @ayamenimthiriel @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @wolfyland07 @belalugosisdead @persephonehemingway @romancebibliophilia @keira-hulmaster @dinonuggs69 @greatestauthorofmygeneration @shadow-hunters-lover @dancingwith-thesunflowers @tedi-fach-las @thecomfortofoldstorries @raspberrydreamclouds @natkowaa @disasteren @weathervanes-my-oneandlonely @onlyhenrys @crazybutconfidentaf @wackylurker @criminaly-supernatural @magpie343 @permanently-exhausted-witcher @hina-chans-stuff @the-space-between-heartbeats @havenoffandoms @carriebee1 @ger-bearofrivia @naominami @thefirelordm @writingawaymylife @reaganjenelle @badassspaceprincess @theawkwardpedestrian @scarlettwitcher @badassspaceprincess @swimswimsubadivehelp @just-a-sad-donut @summersong69 @an--actual--human--disaster @rubyqueen819

#geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #the witcher netflix #the witcher #geralt #the white wolf #white wolf #geralt fluff #kacey answers #geralt request

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samstree · 4 years ago

Text

You are too well tangled in my soul (4/5)

In which Geralt tries to apologize, Jaskier has some unexpected encounters and Roach is the best.

(love confession, kaer morhen, 6.1k, no warnings)

read on AO3.

War breaks out.

Nilfgaard mercilessly scorches the continent, and Jaskier survives. The next time he sees Geralt, there’s a lost princess in tow.

The girl has pale blonde hair, just as Jaskier remembers from when he performed at her birthdays. Her green eyes are big and wary, staring at the bard from behind Geralt’s armored bulk.

Jaskier wouldn’t blame her, from what he learned from his encounters with Nilfgaard the girl must have been through hell. And from what he heard about Cintra, well, she has more demons to run from other than the evil army. She looks exhausted too, hair dirty and eyes alert, studying Jaskier intensely.

“You were at my birthday. You sang the songs.” The princess’s crisp voice breaks the silence.

“Yes, Princess Cirilla. I was at three of your birthdays, though you were too young to remember the first two.” he bows. “Jaskier the bard, at your service.”

She softens, nodding at Jaskier’s gesture. Her lips tug upward.

“Just Ciri.”

“Ciri, then.” Jaskier smiles at her.

“I loved your singing. It was beautiful.” she bites her lips, pausing, before putting her arm around the witcher’s. “Geralt only said we were looking for a friend. I didn’t know it was you.”

The mention of the name snaps Jaskier’s attention back to the witcher, who remains motionless and silent. This entire time, Geralt has been staring at Jaskier’s face, like he could blink and the bard would disappear. Jaskier stares back, and the bruise in his chest throbs anew.

“A friend, uh?” he feigns nonchalance and fails, suddenly his throat feeling dry. “Now you use the word, after all these years. Thought you’d keep insisting on not being my friend until the end of time. Thought I gave you life’s blessing –”

“Jaskier,” Geralt exhales. The word is barely a whisper, but it’s enough to stop the bard from landing a blow. The witcher doesn’t seem to have more words, despite continuing to look at Jaskier with remorseful sorrow.

Good. The pettiest part of Jaskier thrills at his regret, after all he’s the one who spewed all the venom on top of that mountain.

But one look at Geralt, Jaskier realized that he is just as tired and disheveled as the girl, if not more so. Being on the run from Nilfgaard is no fun, he learned that from personal experience.

Knowing Geralt, he is going to neglect his needs in favor of Ciri’s, gritting his teeth through everything. Jaskier finds himself searching all over him for injuries, familiar worry bubbling of its own volition.

Jaskier cannot even stay mad at him for long. Damn him.

“Why are you looking for me then?” he asks.

“I –” Geralt pauses. “Nilfgaard is looking for us. Hunting us. They want something, and they are willing to raise armies to chase us across the Continent.”

He tightens his hold on Ciri. The young princess looks away with a haunted expression.

“And they are also trying to hunt down whoever might know your location. They’ll torture them for the information.” Jaskier adds. His two near escapes are too vivid in his mind. The first time he only got away by the skin of his teeth. It turns out he’s not so bad with a dagger when faced with two Nilfgaardian footsoldiers.

As for the second time, he may have had help from an old friend. Not that Yennefer would be thrilled if he ever called her that. The story of his life, he thinks, it seems to be.

Realization dawns in Geralt’s eyes. “You already know they are looking for you. Are you – did they get to you, Jaskier?”

“Get to me? No,” Jaskier chuckles tightly. “I wouldn’t be standing here, would I? Your secrets are safe, Geralt. Not that I knew your whereabouts for the past year. They didn’t get anything from me, if that’s your worry.”

“No. Fuck –” Geralt curses under his breath, frustrated. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

Jaskier challenges him, raising an eyebrow. Geralt struggles for words and starts to look like his usual brooding self again. It is Ciri who speaks up.

“Come to Kaer Morhen with us. It’s the safest place on the Continent,” the girl says.

Jaskier breathes, stunned. Of course, it makes sense for them to go. It is a home for Geralt. He remembers the first time Geralt told him about the witcher keep, in that greenhouse, a lifetime ago. To him, it is as much of a myth now as it was back then.

“You are sweet, Ciri. But I don’t think Geralt would want that.”

There’s a bitter tang in those words. Ciri scrunches up her brows, confused. “But he’s the one who wanted –”

“What Ciri meant,” Geralt interrupts, “was that Nilfgaard is still out there looking for us. When they can’t, they’ll come for you again.” Desperation bleeds into his tone. Or is it annoyance? “Come with us, Jask. You’ll be safe in Kaer Morhen.”

“I can take care of myself.” Jaskier’s resolution is swaying despite his pride.

“Jaskier…”

“Geralt.” He stays emotionless, waiting for the Witcher’s reasoning, but it doesn’t come.

It is the lost Cintran princess who decides for Jaskier.

“Can you just come with us?” her voice is uncertain, and it tugs at Jaskier’s heart. “Please?”

Jaskier looks into her green eyes and only sees the loss she endured. The fall of Cintra reached Jaskier like a punch in the gut. He thought Geralt’s Child Surprise – the bright-eyed little girl who danced to his songs – was lost with it, so when those soldiers started questioning him about her escape, Jaskier only felt relief. Now, the lone wolf stands protectively next to the lost lion cub.

Jaskier is glad Geralt went to find her, truly.

He finds himself nodding, and Ciri brightens up ever so slightly.

“So, you are the boy?”

The dark-haired witcher says upon meeting Jaskier for the first time at the gate of Kaer Morhen when Geralt and Ciri have gone to stable the horse. He’s the same height and build as Geralt, only his shoulders are just a bit wider. Unlike Geralt, his hair is a muddy brown, and three nasty scars run down the right side of his cheek, making him look almost grotesque.

“Pardon?”

“The boy Geralt kept seeing.” His eyes fix on Jaskier with amusement, the golden color eerily identical to Geralt’s.

“Oh, I didn’t know anyone else –” Jaskier is rather surprised that another witcher knows about Geralt’s condition. “Yes, that’s me. But I’m hardly a boy anymore.” He extends a hand. “Jaskier.”

“Eskel.” The Witcher takes it with a friendly smile. Huh, not all of them are broody and rude.

“So you know about our…” Jaskier trails off for lack of a descriptor. Their bond? Their relationship? They certainly are not in one.

“Not much. If you’ve known my brother for this long, you’d know how little he talks.” Eskel offers an understanding pat on Jaskier’s back. “He just came back here one year and couldn’t shut up about an annoying bard. Then he came back another year. Disappeared in the middle of the day, and scared the shit out of us. We’d thought he was cursed out of existence by some angry mage. When he came back, out of thin air too, he looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost.”

“Not a ghost, only the same bard. As a boy.”

It makes sense, according to however little they know about the mechanism of it. Wintering at the witcher keep is the longest Geralt is away from the bard, so destiny has to drag him to Lettenhove. It would be hard to sail away from your anchor.

“Guess I’m too much of a nuisance. He can’t escape me even here, in his own home.”

“He never –” Eskel seems surprised at Jaskier’s remark. “I might need to have words with my brother, bard. And he was only upset because he worried for your safety.”

He smiles tightly. “It’s kind of you to say, Eskel. Though you don’t need to protect my feelings. I understand now. I would take myself off of his hands if I could.”

Too bad he can’t. Even if the invasion blows over, destiny would still work against Geralt’s attempt at free will at every opportunity.

He ignores Eskel’s inquisitive eyes as they stroll into the stone castle when Geralt and Ciri rejoin them.

Geralt is trying to apologize.

He knows by the way Geralt follows him outside, and onto the trail behind the keep, somehow with guilt written all over his posture. It’s a nice place for a walk and for Jaskier to clear his head and compose under the pine trees.

Geralt has tried several times in the past few days. Every time they are left alone, the witcher assumes an expectant look on his face and begins to find words. Every time Jaskier interrupts him before it starts, making up whatever poor excuses he can find. Every time Geralt swallows and lets him go. He puts on a stoic face but Jaskier always sees the disappointed droop in those amber eyes that anyone else would have missed.

Jaskier can’t avoid it anymore, between the fresh smell of pine – his favorite scent in the world – and the sky, there’s nowhere to hide, so he stops to face it.

“Just say whatever you want to say,” he lets out a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt blurts out without a beat. “I never should have said what I said. I didn’t mean any of it, Jask. I was upset and I took it out on you. It wasn’t fair.”

Jaskier blinks.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“You’ve followed me for twenty years. You’ve known me for even longer. Fuck, Jaskier. Your whole life, you’ve known me, and yet you chose to stay.”

“I did,” he whispers, “but you tried to push me away, like everything else destiny forced upon you.”

The hurt in those golden eyes is unbearable to watch, so Jaskier averts the burn of his gaze to take a deep breath. The smell of pine fills his lungs, crisp and soothing.

“It was a mistake. I know that now, Jaskier.” The contrite is unmistakable. Geralt’s gravelly voice is as pained as Jaskier feels. From the corner of his eyes, Jaskier notices Geralt reach into his pocket for something. It is a small notebook, leather-bound and abused at the edges.

It’s his notebook.

It’s their notebook.

“I’ve kept records of everything, just like you did.” he holds out the book for Jaskier to take. “I’ve seen the future, you –”

“No!” Jaskier steps away as if the book might burn him. “You can’t use it against me, Geralt. You think I’ve never seen the future? I know where we are going. I know I’ll still choose you, because how can I not?” his voice breaks at the possibility of him leaving Geralt by choice. “But it doesn’t make it alright. I can’t just forgive you and pretend we are fine, just because the future says we should be.”

Geralt lowers his hand and the book with it. “I meant that…I understand you now. Why you would stand by me when no one else does, when it’s so much easier to just leave.”

“And how exactly did you arrive at this grand revelation?”

Geralt softens, his lips quick upward ever so slightly. “I saw you. In a little cottage by the sea, years from now, happy.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches. He’s so used to knowing all different versions of Geralt, so used to having the upper hand in this little dance, that the idea of his own future laid out like this makes him queasy.

“You told me – or will tell me, rather – why you spent your entire life choosing me when I’ve done nothing but push you away.” Geralt’s voice breaks at the obvious regret in it.

Because I love you, Jaskier thinks. I’ve loved you for too long.

He’s become so familiar with the notion it’s as easy as breathing.

“What do you want, then?”

“A chance. To prove myself again,” Geralt pleads. “To prove myself a worthy companion to you. Because you are my friend, my best friend. You have been since you were so young and I was just blind to it. Jaskier, I –”

I love you.

“– I choose you too. If you’ll let me show you. For the rest of my life, I’ll prove it to you every day, because I –”

I love you.

“– I love you.”

The words come out soft and reverent, the whisper so careful as if to avoid the birds overhearing him. Geralt stills after the confession, his eyes fixed on Jaskier in earnest.

For a moment Jaskier believes the declaration an echo of his imagination, conjured up from years of longing and heartbreak. But when he holds his breath and looks into Geralt’s resolved eyes, the truth washes over him like a cool shower on an autumn morning.

Deep in those ember eyes is the same affection he’s seen many times, during those too-short visits from his older Geralt, in the teasing smirks he carried at the corner of his mouth, or in the sweetness hidden behind his kiss, under a cold Cintran sky and addled by too much ale. It’s in the way Geralt takes him apart with deft fingers and gentle touches, over and over again throughout the years.

It’s the same love that propelled Geralt to ask for his trust and his faith when this moment comes.

“You love me.” Jaskier muses.

“I do. I have… for a while now.” Geralt’s breath forms in the crisp mountain air. “I understand if you don’t feel the same way, Jask. But please believe me when I say it. I love you. It’s the truest feeling I’ve ever felt in my life. Without any djinn magic, or destiny deciding what’s best. Please, at least have this much faith in me.”

After all this time Geralt still thinks it’s possible for Jaskier to not love him back.

I’m going to make mistakes, the older Geralt once said, don’t lose faith in me.

He made a promise after all.

“Okay,” Jaskeir exhales.

“Okay?”

When he looks into the amber glow again Geralt looks expectant.

“Okay,” Jaskier repeats, “You have it. A chance for us to try again, if you want it to go back to… before.”

Geralt exhales like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. “It won’t be like before. I’ll do better, I give you my word.”

The sincerity is palpable in Geralt’s expression. The words come out so solemn and he’s clenched his jaw tightly. It looks like he just might break something if Jaskier doesn’t give him an out.

A smiles tugs at the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. And they say he’s the dramatic one.

“Oh, relax, you big oaf, before you hurt yourself. Of course I believe in you. It might be the most words I’ve ever heard from you. Didn’t think it was possible.”

He pats Geralt on the arm, before resting his hand there and squeezes. If Geralt leans into the touch, he doesn’t mention it.

“You,” Jaskeir continues, “You are forgiven, Geralt. I’ve always known I’d forgive you. You are not the only one who’s seen the future. Even if fate didn’t tell me to, I would still know you to be the best man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I would choose to stay by your side every time.”

The shuddering breath that chokes out Geralt’s throat is almost like a sob. Rumors say witchers can’t cry, but Jaskier learned it not to be true long ago, and he can see how much Geralt is affected right now.

He reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear before resting his hand on the spill of silver on his shoulder, and revels in the familiar feeling of silky hair against his palm.

“As for the other thing.” Jaskier thinks back on Geralt’s heartfelt confession, not sure if he has truly wrapped his head around it. “I think… I’ll need some time before we can do something about it.”

Geralt nods, his warm hand coming up to capture Jaskier’s wrist in a loose grip, the pad of his thumb stroking slightly again. Jaskier’s chest warms at the motion.

“Take all the time you need, Jask. I’ll be right here.”

They spend the winter in the keep, in this safe bubble they created.

Ciri’s progress is obvious even to Jaskier’s untrained eyes. Her stance becomes more confident every day, her moves faster. The clanking of blunt swords echoes above the training ground as Jaskier watches from a bench in the corner, plucking his lute absent-mindedly.

The lion cub is starting to look like her grandmother, with her hair tied back and the sword cutting through the air with force.

The rise in confidence is doing her wonders. Her smile is becoming more often as winter settles in. The first time Ciri laughed out loud at the usual tomfoolery Lambert starts at dinner table, all four witchers and Jaskier stopped to stare at her for a brief moment before joining in.

Later that night, Geralt got emotional when it was just him and Jaskier, cleaning up in the kitchen.

“It’s just… it’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh.” Geralt’s throat bobbles when he says, and Jaskier’s heart breaks for them both, so he takes the plates from the Witcher’s hands and pulls him in for a hug, one that’s a little too tight.

In the courtyard, flurries of snow fall steadily as Ciri disarms Geralt with a twist of her wrist, the heavier sword flying off to the side. She squeaks in excitement.

“Take that, old man!”

Geralt goes to collect his blunt weapon, his chuckle rumbling deep in his chest. “You only did it because I let you, Ciri. Your enemies are not gonna let you disarm them for practice.”

Her pride morphs into a slight pout before it’s tucked away by her regal stance. They’ll make a warrior princess out of her after all.

“You just can’t let me have this one, can you?”

“Yeah, old man,” Jaskier chimes in. “Just admit your loss. I’m sure the White Wolf should know when he’s beaten.”

From Geralt’s glare, Jaskier knows he’s enjoying this too much, but he just can’t get the proud grin off of his face. Ciri sends him a smug smile when she puts away her weapon and gears.

From a distance, Lambert and Eskel are sheathing their training swords as well when Jaskier notices the snow falling harder by the minute, sending a shiver through his body despite the heavy coat wrapped around him. Ugh, his fingers are numb now.

“All right?” Geralt is all packed up, cheeks flushed from the exercise. He’s only wearing a simple tunic and yet it looks like the cold does not affect him at all. Ridiculous witcher biology.

Mischief lights up in Jaskier’s mind when he puts down the lute and walks towards Geralt, before putting his freezing palms flush against the Witcher’s neck.

“Jaskier, what – Fuck!”

He expects Geralt’s usual grunts and retaliation at the blatant offense. Roughhousing has never been a stranger to them, especially now that they are at ease in their friendship again.

What he does not expect is the concern that appears in Geralt’s eyes after a moment of shock and the warm hands that gently cover his.

“Oh Jask, you are freezing.” Geralt’s brows furrow in seriousness, calloused fingers starting to rub the back of Jaskier’s hands in a slow rhythm. Now that he notices, the heat radiating off of Geralt’s skin is lovely, tingling the numbness in his rigid hands and sending a different kind of shiver down his spine. “Gods, you might get frostbite like this. Don’t you have gloves?”

“Er – that’s not…” Jaskier stammers, suddenly aware of their closeness and the lack of everyone else on the training ground. Thank fuck they’ve all gone inside before his foolish prank. “I – I lost them…?”

Now Jaskier is the one blushing, but Geralt pays no mind to his embarrassment and continues to rub heat back into his exposed skin.

“I’ll make you new ones then. Can’t let a lutist lose his fingers,” Geralt murmurs.

The urge to kiss this sweet man is overwhelming, Jaskier has to look away from the beautiful golden yellow to calm his fluttering heart. It’d be too soon. He’s still raw from what went down in the past year.

Thankfully Ciri calls for them to get inside before they freeze over. Jaskier pulls away to answer her, immediately feeling empty without the warm touch. Now he’ll settle for walking to the great hall where a hearth is lit with Geralt by his side.

A week later, Jaskier finds a pair of newly knitted gloves on his bed. They are made with Geralt’s favorite wool – a thick, soft material – and fingerless so he can play. When he slips them on, the urge to track Geralt down in the keep and kiss him all over fills him again.

Roach bites down on the second apple Jaskier offers her and munches gracelessly.

Jaskier pats her mane while she tries to chew off the fringe on his doublet. Now that he’s reunited with her master, Jaskier can spoil the mare as much as he wants. Not that anyone objected before. The mare clearly has a soft spot for the bard, Geralt is just too stubborn to admit it.

He is just saying goodbye to Roach when the familiar swoosh of magic startles him.

Destiny’s pull rarely works when they are together, so much so that Jaskier has almost forgotten about it for the months he’s within Kaer Morhen’s walls. On top of that, what greets him is not the bulk of a witcher.

Standing by the stalls is a scared little boy.

Jaskier is terrible with guessing children’s age, but this boy is definitely no more than six or seven, wearing plain summer clothes and holding a small bucket for dear life. The boy has a head full of dark curly hair and tears streaking down his cheeks. His brown eyes are wide and full of terror.

“Ma? Where are you?” he calls out, voice horse from crying.

Jaskier is stuck where he stands, too shocked to react. Somewhere next to him, Roach snorts nervously at the volume of the child’s cry.

Geralt once told him how he ended up in Vesemir’s care, when both of them had too much to drink on the eve of Belleteyn many years ago. They only meant to celebrate a hunt well done and Jaskier’s successful performance at the festival, but the drinks kept coming on the courtesy of the pub owner. Before Jaskier knew it, the Witcher was too gone and started to get melancholic in his inebriation.

For once in their lives, Jaskier was the one with some sanity left and promptly put Geralt back to their shared bed.

With the sound of people singing and dancing around bonfires in the distance, Geralt curled into himself, looking uncharacteristically small, and told Jaskier the last time he saw his mother.

“I stood there for so long, by the road. But she was gone,” Geralt slurred the words. “I kept waiting for her…”

Those words, combined with too much ale, broke Jaskier into a million pieces.

“It was so long ago. I don’t even remember what she looks like, the color of her eyes. Or my eyes, before…What was the color of my eyes?”

Jaskier had no answer.

That night, he listened as Geralt drifted off, thinking the witcher would forget about the confession come morning. Or was it Geralt who thought Jaskier never remembered? No matter what reason, Geralt never talked about it again and Jaskier respected that.

And here Geralt is, no more than seven, on what is probably the worst day of his life – having just been abandoned by his mother by the side of the road. He looks confused and cried-out, still clinging to the bucket so hard that his tiny knuckles are turning white.

His eyes are brown.

That’s all Jaskier can think.

The boy’s tears keep falling, and whatever heartbreak Jaskier felt on the night of Belleteyn, it’s not a match for now.

“Hey, it’s all right,” Jaskier shushes as gently as possible. He lowers himself in front of the boy, keeping the movement slow just to not upset him further. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Where is my ma?” young Geralt sniffles, and Jaskier doesn’t know how to answer that. The layers he’s wearing clearly cannot hold out the cold in the dead of winter. The boy is shivering.

“I’m sorry I don’t know where she is. But, here, put this on.” Jaskier shrugs off his coat and wraps it around the boy’s small frame, half of it pooling on the ground. He tries to coax the bucket out of the boy’s hands but he grips tighter.

“Where is she? Where did you take me?” the boy demands in panic.

“I promise I haven’t taken you anywhere, okay? Ger –” Jaskier catches himself. He’s a complete stranger to the child. He shouldn’t know him. “It’s too cold out here. We can go inside and wait for her there. Is that all right?”

The boy shakes his head. “Ma’s coming back to find me. I need to stay.”

“Okay, okay.” Jaskier tries not to panic, but he feels so helpless. He doesn’t even know where to put his hands so he tightens the coat around the boy’s shoulders. “How about this, I’ll find some help for us. Maybe someone from that castle can help. I don’t even know what would happen if they see you like this but…what other option do we have, eh?”

Before he can even get up, Jaskier finds the boy dropping the bucket and clinging to the sleeve of his doublet, the water spilling everywhere.

“No, don’t leave,” the boy says weakly, “Please.”

The boy’s chubby cheeks are streaked with tears, turning red in the mountain air. Jaskier wipes the wetness away with the pad of his thumb, his other arm still in the boy’s grip.

“All right. I won’t leave then, I promise.” Jaskier does his best to smile reassuringly. The ache in his chest makes it difficult but against all odds, it works. The young boy calms down just a little.

“I’ll stay with you, all right? But for now… do you want to make some new friends?”

Jaskier introduces the child to Roach, and he gets less afraid as soon as he sees the horse and reaches out to pet her. With their ridiculous height difference, it looks almost comical. The mare, ever the sweetheart, lowers her head as if she senses something familiar in the boy. She nuzzles his little hand and his eyes light up.

No matter how young, it seems Geralt will always enjoy Roach’s company above anyone else’s. Jaskier watches in wonder at the exchange before him. The boy’s distress dissipates gradually as the mare licks him and showers him in affection.

“Can I keep her?” the child giggles as Roach chews on his hair.

Jaskier smiles, “Sadly no, but maybe you’ll see her again. Who knows.”

All his life, Jaskier has known Geralt as the powerful witcher, his friend and protector. But right here, he’s just another ordinary child who loves giant animals. Only his future holds something no child should ever have to endure.

Jaskier wishes life wouldn’t have to burden this gentle boy, harden him into the warrior that he is now. This moment could last forever for all he cares, so this young boy wouldn’t need to go back to face the path ahead.

He doesn’t know how long they have here, undisturbed by the four witchers inside the keep, or the magic pulling them apart.

“Can I tell you something?” Jaskier says as the child runs his fingers through Roach’s mane. He turns around to look at the bard curiously with his beautiful brown eyes. “Do you know you’re a very good boy? And when you grow up, you’ll become a very good person.”

“Ma says I should do good.”

“She’s right.”

“And doing good is hard… sometimes.”

Jaskier swallows the lump in his throat. “That too. Life is difficult, unfair even. But you are strong, stronger than you’ll ever believe. Remember this, and you’ll find a way.”

“I’m strong?” the boy looks at Jaskier expectantly. His tiny frame is drowned in Jaskier’s coat.

“The strongest.” the bard nods.

“Like a knight?”

“Better than a knight.”

The smile that lights up the boy’s rosy cheeks is the most wonderful thing Jaskier has ever seen, better than the northern lights on these mountains. But their moment seems to have come to an end.

The swoosh of magic Jaskier knows by heart brushes by his ear, and Roach suddenly brays anxiously in her stall.

“I feel weird.” The panic returns to the boy’s voice.

“It’s okay. It means we have to say goodbye.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Never.”

“But why do we have to say goodbye?” his tiny voice gets tight and scared once more. Jaskier shushes him gently.

“Because we’ll see each other again.”

“And horsie too?”

“Her too.” Jaskier nods solemnly.

The boy waves nervously at Jaskier, and then the mare. His big brown eyes bore into Jaskier’s with hope and trust, a trust that will be returned decades from now, for him at least.

“Goodbye.”

Once again, Jaskier is left alone. Snow falls silently in the courtyard like it has been for days.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Jaskier goes through dinner without a word, no matter how the four witchers try to engage with him.

Eskel is his usual self, nice and respectful, not prodding after noticing Jaskier in a weird mood. It’s something Lambert physically cannot do, because he constantly asks Jaskier what is wrong, trying to get a response out of him.

“You smell miserable, buttercup, like you are about to pass out.”

Jaskier imagines the tight smile he offers is not the most convincing, since everyone only gets more concerned. Ciri puts her hand on his arm as a silent question, and when she can’t get an answer she starts brooding just like Geralt.

Jaskier would laugh at their likeness if not for his mind racing so fast.

Geralt must have noticed the moment he came back from the stables. He has not let Jaskier out of his sight since, his worry silent but not pushing. After dinner, Jaskier can still feel the weighted gaze on his back, following him all the way back to the bedroom.

He leads Geralt into his room at the end of the hallway and shuts the door. With a soft click of the door, Jaskier turns to throw himself at the witcher with a force that would have knocked over any other man, but Geralt only catches his momentum, solid and steady. He buries his nose into Geralt’s shoulder and lets the familiar smell of pine and soap fill his senses.

“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice rumbles out of his chest, deep and patient. “You know, Lambert was right. You smell so…sad.”

“I made you a promise.” Jaskier’s voice is muffled by Geralt’s shoulder.

“What?”

“I made you a promise. Years ago for me, and years from now for you. To always have faith in you, even when you make mistakes.” Jaskier extracts his limbs and looks into the confusion in the flowing amber. He presses their lips together, sweet and lingering, like they have all the time in the world. The kiss tastes like the lost years between them, all the laughter and heartaches, the lust and yearning, and the dust and smoke from war. He pulls away.

The last time he kissed Geralt, it was by the side of a road, full of rage and hurt. This time, it’s hope that rises like a winter sun, cozy but not sweltering.

“This is me keeping that promise.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt swallows, composing himself, “You know I won’t hold it against you. It’s not fair for you to be pressured into this just for something I haven’t asked of you yet. I meant it when I said you can take all the time you need, because I did fuck up, and I’m so –”

“Don’t apologize again,” Jaskier interrupts, “I know how sorry you feel, how you’ll still feel even years from now. Just – don’t.”

He presses his forehead to Geralt’s and they breathe in tandem. Maybe he’s still affected by the memory of Geralt as a child, scared and alone, unaware of the hurt he’s about to receive. The trials, growing up away from home, training to become a weapon, the glares people cast at him. Jaskier shudders to think, desperately needing to shield his witcher from the world, but he was powerless in the stable this afternoon. He is not powerless now.

“How about a promise you did hear from me?” he asks.

Geralt frowns in confusion, waiting for him to explain, so Jaskier cups Geralt’s jaw to study him again, his thumb resting exactly where he wiped tears off of the boy hours ago.

“They were brown.”

The confusion in the amber eyes only grows.

“Your eyes, before the trials. They used to be brown.”

Geralt still looks at him incredulously. When it comes out like that, Jaskier probably sounds crazy.

“Your mother left you by the side of the road. She told you to get water, and when you got back she was gone,” he swallows, “You waited, holding a bucket of water. You waited until you went somewhere else. Somewhere cold, there’s a horse and snow and –”

“Oh.”

Realization dawns on Geralt like a lightning strike. He stares at Jaskier in disbelief.

“All these years –” he whispers, “How is it possible? I thought it was a dream. Vesemir told me it was a dream, that I was in so much shock that I conjured it up in my mind. A horse in the snow, chestnut brown, and…”

“And me,” Jaskier almost chokes out, “It wasn’t a dream.”

Geralt looks pained. All this talk about that day must be dredging up terrible memories and Jaskier never wants to hurt him on top of that.

“Do you remember what I said before you went back?”

To which Geralt chuckles tightly.

“That whole day was a bit hazy in my memory, Jask. Vesemir was right in that I was in shock. And I’ve tried so hard to forget about that day, to bury it so I don’t have to think about it.” he holds on to Jaskier, studying him in a new light. “I just remember that you made me feel so warm, Jask. You were the only good thing on the worst day of my life.”

The ache in Jaskier’s chest lessens somehow at those words. For whatever reason destiny decided to weave their fates together, he’s grateful for it just for that moment’s solace alone.

“You knew you were leaving.”

“I did. Now that I know, it was the first time I ever got pulled through time. To you.”

“I did promise we would see each other again.” Jaskier smiles.

Geralt pauses for a moment. Gradually, the golden yellow lights up like the most beautiful constellation in the night sky.

“You promised to never leave me.”

This time when their lips come together, it’s quiet and natural, like a piece of puzzle falling into place. Jaskier backs Geralt towards the bed, and they almost fall over onto the mattress, breaking the contact.

Geralt chases him with heated fervor, to which Jaskier gladly returns with a soft moan. He’s missed his witcher after all. Any space separating them at this moment needs to be closed like it personally offends him.

Tomorrow morning, Jaskier will wake Geralt with fingers through his hair and lips pressed to his forehead. Tomorrow Jaskier will tell him how much he loves him, over and over again. It won’t be the first time Jaskier has uttered the words, but it will be the first affirmation Geralt receives. Tomorrow Geralt will crinkle his eyes and return the words sleepily while dragging Jaskier back under the covers.

Tomorrow they’ll start a new chapter, together.

For now, they fall into each other under the night sky of the Blue Mountains, in a small room with a roaring fire burning in the hearth, tucked away from war and heartbreak.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #time travel #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fic #geraskier fic #geralt apologizes

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king-finnigan · 5 years ago

Text

5 times Geralt failed to ask Jaskier out and 1 time he somehow managed

Yen calls him immediately after he’s sent her the text. “What’s going on? You said it was an emergency?” She sounds slightly worried, and Geralt realizes that ‘Need help. Emergency.’ does sound like something to be worried about.

“I wanna ask Jaskier out.”

She lets out a long-suffering sigh, and he could swear he hears a ‘fucking finally’ muttered away from the receiver. “Cool, sure. So what do you need my help for?”

“Asking him out.”

She laughs softly. “Seriously? You’re a grown-ass man, surely you can ask someone out, right? You’ve done it before.”

He keeps quiet, and blesses all his lucky stars that she isn’t here to see shame rise red to his cheeks.

“Wait-“ He hears her let out a startled laugh. “You’ve never asked someone out before?”

His silence is confirmation enough.

“How the fuck did you manage to go your entire life without asking someone out?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Whatever. Alright, so, here’s what you gotta do-“

---

He’s waiting outside the doors of the cinema, bouncing on his heels a bit. Jaskier’s always a bit late – fashionably late, as Jaskier himself calls it – which is fine under any other circumstances, but the movie won’t wait for them, so it sets Geralt’s nerves on fire.

Finally, Jaskier shows up. With Triss and Sabrina in tow. To what was supposed to be a date.

“Hi!” Jaskier greets him brightly. “Hope it’s alright that I brought Triss and Sabrina. A movie is just much more fun when there are more people, you know? Hope you don’t mind?”

Geralt smiles tightly, and shakes his head. Later, after the movie, he rereads the text he sent Jaskier a few days earlier, and realizes he maybe didn’t really make it clear that he intended it as a date. Great. Something to remember for next time. Though he’s not gonna ask Jaskier on a movie date again. Firstly because Jaskier apparently likes it better when it’s not just the two of them, and also because they stumbled into their seats ten minutes late, and he doesn’t think he’s gonna survive that kind of embarrassment again.

II.

Okay, so clearly Yennefer’s plan didn’t work out. Maybe he should ask someone else.

It takes a while before Eskel picks up, but Geralt immediately relaxes when he hears his brother’s voice. “Yeah?”

“I wanna ask Jaskier out. I need your advice.”

Eskel breathes out something that sounds suspiciously like ‘finally’. It’s quiet for a while, as Geralt gives his brother time to think.

“Flowers,” Eskel eventually says. “Jaskier likes flowers, right? He seems like a flower kinda guy. So give him flowers.”

“Okay, thanks,” he says.

“By the way, can I borrow your drill? I’m making a shed and mine broke.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Okay, thanks. Bye.” Eskel hangs up, and Geralt drops his phone on his bed, thoughts mulling over how best to handle this.

---

He shuffles from one foot to another as he waits for Jaskier to open the door, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a bouquet of different types of orange flowers. It had caught his eye at the florist, because of its obnoxious colours, and he figured Jaskier would love it.

Finally, the door opens. And immediately slams shut again, Jaskier’s high-pitched shriek muffled from behind the wood. “Fucking shit!”

Geralt frowns, and knocks on the door. “Jaskier? Are you alright?”

A muffled sneeze, followed by: “No! I’m allergic to flowers.” Another three sneezes, in quick succession. “Very.”

Great. Just his fucking luck. “Uh… r-right,” he stammers. “I’ll- I’ll throw them away, then.”

He apologizes for it later, and Jaskier tells him not to worry about it, though he’s hardly able to string the sentence together through several sneezes and wet sniffles, eyes red and swollen.

III.

Okay, so no movie date, and definitely no flowers. Maybe he should call someone else. He considers calling Lambert for a second, but he knows that would probably be the worst idea of his life – Lambert would either laugh in his face and hang up, or he would suggest something ridiculous like a bungee-jumping proposal or some shit like that.

Instead, he calls his dad. He’s always been able to rely on Vesemir for advice, so he supposes this time won’t be any different.

“What’s wrong?” his dad asks as soon as he picks up the phone.

Geralt frowns. “Nothing. I’m calling for advice.”

It’s quiet for a while. Then: “Alright, but disposing of a body is a lot harder than you think it is. Just take that into consideration before you go through with it. So first you gotta-”

“What? No, I wanna ask Jaskier out.”

Silence. “Oh. Who?”

“Jaskier. You met him last Christmas. Brown hair, blue eyes.”

“That loud-mouth that kept following you at the party?”

“Yes.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and Geralt could swear he hears a muffled ‘thank the gods’, as if Vesemir is holding his hand over the receiver. “Try flowers.”

“Already tried that. Nearly killed him because he’s allergic.”

“Hmm. Take him to a nice restaurant.”

Geralt nods, and he realizes embarrassingly late that Vesemir can’t see him. “Alright. Thank you. But, what you said about disposing of a body, what-“ The line clicks. Vesemir’s hung up.

---

“Hey, there’s this new restaurant, a few blocks away. Di Mare, I think it’s called. Wanna go there, maybe next Saturday?”

Jaskier snorts at him, incredulous expression on his face. “That place? No thanks, way too fancy for me. What do you take me for, a rich person?”

“Jaskier, you’re literally royalty.”

“Nah,” Jaskier continues, ignoring him, “let’s just order take-out. Have a little movie night.”

Geralt nods, hope shining in his chest. “Yeah, sure.”

Jaskier grins at him, pulling his phone out. “Cool! I’ll text Yen and Triss, let them know. Been a while since we all hung out together.” Oh, fucking brilliant.

IV.

“Triss? I need your help.”

“Sure, what can I do?”

“I wanna ask Jaskier out.”

“Oh, yeah, Yen told me about that. So I figure you still haven’t managed?”

“Clearly.” He doesn’t mention the fact that so far, she’s come between his plans twice. He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings, and she’s obviously not doing it on purpose.

It’s quiet for a while. “Uh… Flowers are a big no-no, he’s allergic to those.”

“Figured that out by now.”

“The hard way?”

“The hard way.”

“Yikes. Hmm. Restaurant?”

“No.”

“Fuck, then I’m fresh outta ideas, chief. Wait, no. There’s this new coffeeshop just around the corner. Jask loves coffee, no way you can go wrong with this one.” Geralt highly doubts it, but thanks her anyways and hangs up.

---

The barista makes heart-eyes at Jaskier the entire time they’re ordering, and when they go to sit down, Jaskier turns his cup and finds the guy’s phone number written on the side. He immediately pulls out his phone and sends the barista a text. Geralt tries and fails not to sulk.

“Hey.”

He blinks, then frowns at his five year-old neighbour who’s blocking the exit of the apartment building, looking up at him with a glint in her eyes that she always gets when she’s about to drop snowballs through people’s mailboxes.

“… Hi.”

“Heard you were trying to ask your boyfriend out,” Ciri says.

“He’s not my boyfriend. And how’d you know that?”

“Gran-gran says the walls are thin and you talk loud when you’re on the phone.”

“… Okay.”

It’s quiet for a while, her gaze intent on him the entire time, and he starts to feel uncomfortable, shuffling on his feet. Sure, the effect may be mollified by the fact that she’s missing her front teeth, but she’s still very unnerving.

“… Ciri, can I leave n-“

“You should ask him out.”

“That’s why I’m trying t-“

“Just ask.”

“Ciri-“

“Give him alcohol. Grown-ups like alcohol. Then ask.”

He sighs. “If I promise to do that, can you please let me pass so I can go to work?”

She holds up her hand, pinkie finger extended. “Pinkie promise.”

He hooks his little finger through hers. “Pinkie promise. Now can I please go?”

She nods solemnly, and steps to the side. He’s halfway down the stairs when she calls out to him: “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”

He looks back, sees her staring at him, face blank and grave, and he turns back, getting out of there as fast as he can. What the fuck?

---

Geralt’s walking to Jaskier’s door, two cups of coffee in his hands. Sure, the giving-Jaskier-alcohol part of Ciri’s plan wasn’t the greatest, but he couldn’t deny that simply asking Jaskier on a date might be effective and solid, because it’s so simple.

Except, just his luck, as he walks to Jaskier’s door, Jaskier barges out of his apartment, and smashes into Geralt, coffee spilling over both of them.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Jaskier exclaims, throwing his hands in the arms exasperatingly. He sighs, his foul mood evident on his face. “Guys and coffee seems to be a deadly combination for me, lately.”

“I guess it didn’t work out with the barista, then?” He somehow manages to keep his hope out of his voice.

Jaskier sighs and shakes his head, fishing a paper tissue out of his backpack to wipe at the front of his shirt. “Yeah, no. Total hipster, and he couldn’t stop talking about himself. Like, yada-yada-yada, you like old music, we get it, now can we please talk about me?” He sighs, seems to give up on saving his shirt. “Guess I’ll have to go back inside to get a new one,” he mutters. “Anyways, why are you here? Is there something going on?”

Geralt swallows, shakes his head. “No, just wanted to bring you some coffee. Sorry about uh…” he waves his hand a bit “that. Gotta go.”

He rushes out of there, ignoring Jaskier’s inquiring “Geralt?” behind him.

+ I

“So you’ve finally turned to me for council,” Lambert says in lieu of greeting when he answers the phone.

Geralt sighs.

“I want to hear you say it, Ger-Ger. I’ll help you but I need to hear you say it.”

“Don’t call me Ger-Ger.”

“Say it.”

He sighs again, a headache starting to form behind his eyes. “Fine. I need your help.”

He can practically hear Lambert’s self-satisfied smirk. “Lucky for you, I’ve got just the idea…”

For some reason, Geralt doesn’t exactly feel lucky.

---

The first pebble he throws misses its target, and he cringes as it nearly hits Jaskier’s downstairs neighbor’s window. He tries again. This time it hits its mark, but there’s no sign of life from Jaskier’s apartment. He tries again. No response. And again. No response. He throws three pebbles against the window in quick succession.

Finally, a light turns on and Jaskier opens the window, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Geralt? It’s one in the morning, what-“

He looks down at his phone, frantically searching for the song that Lambert recommended- fucking Lambert. He never should’ve agreed to this, and he’s going to kill his brother once this is over. Finally, he finds the right song. It’s the same one as in that one movie Lambert told him about where this guy held a boombox over his head or some shit – ‘something Jaskier will have definitely watched’, his brother had reassured him. Finally, he finds the right song, and holds his phone over his head, volume as loud as possible, and-

“WANT A BREAK FROM THE ADS?-”

Geralt closes his eyes in horror as the ad continues playing, several lights turning on in the windows of the apartment building. Jaskier on the other hand, is- gone.

Geralt frowns, turns the ad off, and looks at Jaskier’s window, painfully empty. Suddenly, the door to the building opens, and Jaskier comes staggering out, wheezing and clutching his stomach as he makes his way towards Geralt.

“That-“ he says between giggles “that was the funniest and most adorable shit I’ve ever seen.” He hiccups, starts laughing uncontrollably again. “What…?”

“Lambert’s idea.”

Jaskier laughs again, desperately holding on to Geralt’s shoulder as to not keel over. “Of- of course it’s his idea, oh gods-“ He hiccups, finally calming down a bit. “Isn’t this from that one movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t it a romantic movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you trying to ask me out, Geralt?”

“… Yeah.”

Jaskier smiles softly. “I accept. But please- next time, you can just ask. There’s no need to go through all this trouble.”

Geralt resists the urge to smack his palm against his face. “Alright, I’ll remember that for next time.”

Jaskier looks back, sees multiple lights on in the windows, sees some neighbors frowning down at them angrily. “Better wrap this up or they’re gonna call the cops on us.” He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss against Geralt’s cheek. “Goodnight, Geralt.” He turns around and makes his way back to the apartment complex.

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #drabble #5 + 1 things #fluff #crack #everyone in this is a chaotic bastard #and i regret nothing #literally no one asked for this #but i do what i want babey #feral hours #fuck you spotify ads #modern au #the thing ciri says is shakespeare btw lmao

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jaskiersvalley · 5 years ago

Text

Forever Yours

@alwenarin You cannot leave this in the comments and not expect me to be inspired! This will also beautifully fill the ‘whump’ square on my bingo card for a discord server. So thank you!

CW: Witcher Trials

Winter was upon them and Eskel couldn’t leave Cahir behind. Over the last couple of months they’d quite grown on each other. Sure, it wasn’t always easy, the first time Cahir lost his temper at having to once again leave town without pay or rest, it hadn’t been pretty. He’d raged, Eskel had to all but bodily haul him away from the line of pitchforks. Looking back on it, the memory was quite bittersweet because Eskel hadn’t had someone so up in arms on his behalf before. Nobody defended a witcher. Well, Geralt’s bard did but he was a rarity. And now Eskel had his own bottled lightning in the form of Cahir.

“I know I’ve said it before-” Eskel sighed. They were in the last tavern before climbing the mountain to Kaer Morhen. “-but Kaer Morhen is a bit of a mixed bag.”

“I know,” Cahir echoed back and stole a parsnip from Eskel’s plate. “Lambert’s a dick, he may have Aiden with him who is an enabler of the worst kind. Geralt will grunt, Jaskier will sing, Ciri will challenge anyone to a fight and Vesemir is the long suffering father figure. We’re been over this a lot.”

At least Eskel’s jaw snapped shut and he looked down in embarrassment. He knew he was fussing but his family was a lot. More than most people could usually cope with. It took a couple of years before any of his guests ever felt comfortable.

They made the trek over a couple of days and dismounted as they rode into the courtyard.

“Eskel!” A voice greeted them and who was probably Lambert hopped down from a windowsill. “You picked up another one?”

“Shut up Lambert,” Eskel growled but gave his fellow wolf a hug despite his scowl.

“Another what?” Cahir demanded, not quite sure what it could mean.

A voice from behind him almost purred. “Another pet project. I’ve heard about them over the years. I’m Aiden.” Shaking the offered hand, Cahir looked the man over. Witcher, no mistaking that but of a different ilk to the wolves. “Why don’t I show you around while Eskel catches up with his family?”

One solid, warm hand grabbed Cahir by the shoulder and Eskel looked looming next to him.

“He’ll come with me.”

“Oh I bet I will!” Aiden winked and Lambert brayed. The two of them took off, hollering for the whole keep to hear about the fact Eskel wasn’t alone.

Just like the warnings, Cahir found that Lambert was indeed an insufferable arse who was absolutely egged on by Lambert. Geralt had taken one look at him and grunted, Jaskier was chattier than all the witchers combined. However, the biggest surprise was Ciri. She had taken one look at Cahir, gasped and ran to him.

“I’ve seen you in my dreams!”

That wasn’t ominous at all. It also led to a long discussion where Geralt looked more constipated than ever before. They’d thought Ciri’s dreams had been under control but it turned out they changed to less distressing.

“He used to be covered in blood. Now he just has yellow eyes.”

The table erupted in murmurs and arguments then, whether the dreams were literal or if they were symbolic. After all, Cahir’s eyes were most definitely not yellow, not in any light.

A boon of the discussion that lasted for days was that the teasing had stopped. Cahir had been able to gather that he wasn’t the first companion Eskel had brought home. Not by a long shot. He always seemed to pick up strays, broken people scattered along his Path. And every single time he was helpless to resist. All he offered was a helping hand, to be a crutch until his newfound companion was ready to stand on their own feet. Or they died in his arms. No matter what, it always ended with Eskel’s already bruised heart shattering a little more. The others thought him foolish for putting his heart on the line so often. Lambert had found another witcher as a companion. Meanwhile, Geralt had a sorceress and a powerful child surprise who were both quite attached to their bard. There was no doubt that Jaskier would enjoy a lifespan longer than that of an average human. But Eskel? He had Cahir, a regular human and they didn’t have powerful friends. They all knew that this was borrowed happiness they were living with.

While the others were all hung up on Ciri and her dreams, trying to tease them into something meaningful, Cahir sat back and mulled things over. He’d found happiness. After everything that had happened, he found he wasn’t prepared to let it go. Cahir wanted more than a blink of an eye with Eskel. So he started trying to find a way, any way to extend that time. He trained with the witchers each morning, learning from them but also teaching them tricks that he’d picked up in the army. When he wasn’t dripping sweat and getting bruised to the point of looking like a dropped peach, he was in the library, studying. Two heads were better than one, Cahir was determined to be useful on the road with Eskel.

It was in the library that Jaskier found him, looking a little hesitant.

“Nilfgaard is still looking for you. They’ve doubled the price on your head.”

“And how would you know that when we’re all cut off from the world at large?” Not that Cahir had anything against Jaskier but he was dubious about how he could possibly hear about new information when so isolated.

He didn’t expect Jaskier to flop into a seat next to him with a scowl.

“As one intelligence officer to another, I won’t reveal my methods but I’ll share what’s relevant to you.”

A little irked, Cahir sniffed. “Ex-intelligence officer. My loyalties are to Eskel and his family, not Nilfgaard.”

If anything, it seemed to make Jaskier nod. “You’re just like them. A witcher in everything but body. You’re a good fit for Eskel.”

With that, he got up again, deciding he had had enough of sitting still. The damage had been done though and Cahir’s mind was working overtime. Jaskier had hit the nail on the head so to speak and an idea was blossoming in Cahir’s mind. He mulled it over until dinner. When everyone was quietly eating, he didn’t clear his throat, didn’t set his utensils aside with purpose. Instead, as if asking someone to pass the salt, he said, “I want to do the trials.”

Though it was quiet before, an absolute silence engulfed the room. The witchers all stared at him dumbfounded.

“No. Absolutely not.” Eskel looked as close to panic as a witcher could.

“We said we’ll never force the trials on anyone ever again,” Vesemir added, looked at Cahir gravely.

“Then it’s just as well I’m asking. You’re not forcing.”

It was Lambert who whistled and shook his head. “We knew you were batshit but this is a whole new level. You don’t want to do the trials, trust me.”

“Yeah, you really don’t.” It was the most sombre Aiden had even looked. If Cahir had to guess, he looked harrowed and haunted.

Nobody seemed keen on Cahir’s idea. Even as he outlined that he wanted to try, knew the outcomes and possibilities. But if he wanted to have a chance at Eskel’s side for more than a passing moment, he needed this.

It caused several heated arguments between him and Eskel. NIghts where Eskel held him close to his chest and buried his nose in Cahir’s hair. There were no tears but they both knew if Eskel could have, he would have sobbed.

“I can’t lose you. Not like this,” Eskel whispered.

“Would you rather lose me on the path? Watch me bleed out when we weren’t quick enough? Blame yourself for my death?” It was a low blow but Cahir could steep lower. “When Nilfgaard catches up with us, they won’t hesitate to take me. At least as a witcher I’ll have a fighting chance at defending myself.”

“But I can protect you!” Eskel wasn’t giving up on the notion. “You don’t have to do this.”

“No, but I want to.”

The battle was won. With Eskel on his side, it was a matter of time before Vesemir acquiesced. All the knowledge was still in the library, the parts that were destroyed, he still remembered. Fencing instructor or not, he was a Master at the keep and so knew the ins and outs as well as anyone else.

“We only ever did this to boys who were more resilient than adults. They didn’t bounce back. There’s no telling what this will do to you.” The warning was meant well but Cahir shrugged it off. He watched as the potions were brewed.

One last night before they administered the concoctions. Eskel didn’t sleep at all, neither did Cahir. They were wrapped around each other, wordlessly clinging. Both of them knew the risks, the likeliest outcome but Cahir was set. This was his choice and if he died, that would be on him. There was no way Eskel could take on the guilt of his death too.

There was no point in eating breakfast, Lambert had cheerily informed him he would only throw it up and choke so Cahir sat with the others while they ate. It was silent in a way it hadn’t been before, more like a wake than breakfast. Once everyone was done, Jaskier stayed behind with Ciri while the others walked down to the old laboratories. There was a bed set up with straps.

Nobody needed to prompt Cahir, he stripped out of his clothes until down to his underwear. He stepped forward and Eskel’s hand on his chest stopped him.

“Are you sure?” There was a silent pleading to in his voice, begging Cahir to reconsider. “It’s okay to change your mind.”

“I want this. I want the chance of a life with you. Your lifetime, not mine.”

It was Geralt who strapped him down, surprisingly gentle. Wrists, forearms, biceps, chest, hips, thigh, shins and ankles. Last but not least, a strap went around Cahir’s forehead.

“One more thing,” Lambert stepped up and he fed a strap under Cahir’s neck. “Open up.”

The thickest part of the leather was placed between Cahir’s teeth and buckled against his cheek. One last squeeze to his hand from Eskel and they all stepped back as Vesemir approached, needle in hand. The prick of it wasn’t pleasant but Cahir had had worse. He’d been tortured by Nilfgaard. This couldn’t be worse. Except he could feel the burn of the potion up his arm and he couldn’t jerk away from it. The straps held him tight as the burn consumed him, flowed through his veins. Everything around Cahir stopped existing except for the pain. It was unrelenting, melting his bones, deafening him. The bite of the straps into his skin paled in comparison. He didn’t know if his throat worked anymore or if he stopped being able to scream.

Unfortunately, the witchers bearing witness to it all knew Cahir could scream. They heard every cry, wretched moan, watched as the straps rubbed his skin raw, dug into the flesh. Eskel couldn’t bear it. He fled up the stairs, trying to block the sounds out. There was no escaping them though, just like as a child, each time the trials were administered, the whole keep echoed with screams.

“It’s okay.” A hand on his shoulder drew him back into the present and Jaskier offered him a wisp of a smile. “He’s a tough bastard.”

Tough or not, it didn’t prevent the screams from taking up residence as the soundtrack to Eskel’s newest nightmares. It was even worse when they bubbled off into pained groans and breathless gasps. The potions helped dance a fine line between life and death, reshaping its victim into something barely human.

It was a peak followed by a lull. If only one potion had been enough but it was multiple dosages of different poisons. One by one, the younger witchers rotated out of the lab, needing a break to deal with the memories it was all bringing back. Even Vesemir needed a break. Eskel couldn’t bring himself to go back down, too terrified to see the results of the potions on Cahir. He couldn’t bring himself to go down and see a broken, lifeless body. Already, Geralt had told him that Cahir had managed to dislocate joints despite the straps, that bruises littered his body along with everything else pain wrung from his body.

“It is done,” Vesemir announced. “The last potion has been administered.”

Which meant another six hours for it to burn through Cahir before they could start to hope that he had pulled through.

“I’ll sit with him,” Jaskier offered. “You all go relax. Let me deal with this.”

It gave the witchers an excuse not to have to deal with a body if Cahir didn’t make it. They didn’t need that kind of guilt on their conscience. Well, they’d know their trials killed Cahir but they wouldn’t have the physical memory of having to carry one more of theirs to a pyre. It was the least Jaskier could do.

He walked down into the lab and tried not the gag at the stench of urine, vomit and who knew what else. Cahir twitched and trembled on the bed, looking worn ragged. At least he was moving, his chest heaving breaths slowly and shuddering on each one. Settling in, Jaskier waited until the worse of it had passed before slowly undoing the straps. Cahir didn’t move once. It was getting a little unnerving and Jaskier had to really pay attention to see each breath, heartbeat slower than a human’s so the pulse he tried to feel in a wrist was thready and sparse.

Jaskier almost missed the way Cahir rolled to his side, panting softly. Dry heaving, he shivered and cried out weakly. Immediately, Jaskier was up.

“You’re okay. The worst is over.” He tried to reassure and pulled a light throw over Cahir. It got kicked off with a disoriented moan. Of course, Jaskier realised, witcher senses were heightened. So probably everything was too much for Cahir in that moment. Walking around to crouch by Cahir’s head, Jaskier swept sweaty, lanky hair from his face. “Was it worth it?”

Behind Jaskier, the air shifted and he knew Eskel stood behind him. It was confirmed when Cahir opened his eyes and fixed his newly yellow gaze on the figure behind Jaskier.

“Yes.

#eskhir #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #eskel #jaskier #geralt of rivia #lambert #aiden #cirilla fiona elen riannon #whump #witcher cahir #long post #tldr: cahir gets turned into a witcher

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henryobsessed · 5 years ago

Text

The Widow and The Widow - Epilogue

Jaskier sat to their right playing beautiful tunes on his lute. Jaskier finished his song his face wrinkled which reflected in the warble of his voice as he spoke to Julia "Ahh the good old days, adventures and romance, monsters and money" Geralt growled low as Julia laughed "You didn't go on any of those adventures Jask you were too busy playing with the children"

Word Count: 1950

Warning: Grief

A/N Awwww I didn't want to do this ending but I knew it was needed.

First I want to say Thank you for finishing this book with me, For my first story I know there may have been a lot of mistakes but I wanted to get the story line out.

If your willing and would like to help I am going to edit now so can you comment of the Chapter that you think need the most immediate correction? Which one did you think was weakest?

Which chapter was your favorite?

Epilogue

The Sun was dipping over the garden, the sky was streaked with pinks, reds and deep hues of purple. It had been a full day of laughter and joy, as the estate's families had all returned to celebrate Julia's 98th Birthday. That morning Geralt had bathed his beloved in kisses and cuddles before helping her bathe. She had dressed in her favourite dress the Royal teal satin dress that she had cherished for many years, it was slightly too big for her now thinning frame but it still lit up her face whenever she wore it.

Geralt had settled her in her garden on a special day bed that Tobias had made for her so that she could enjoy the sunshine and watch the children play. Today there were many children running around the garden playing hid and seek and running underfoot of the Adults who were eagerly catching up after some time apart. Jaskier sat to their right playing beautiful tunes on his lute. Jaskier finished his song his face wrinkled which reflected in the warble of his voice as he spoke to Julia "Ahh the good old days, adventures and romance, monsters and money" Geralt growled low as Julia laughed "You didn't go on any of those adventures Jask you were too busy playing with the children"

Laughter rang out from her lips as Jaskier pouted and then smiled a devious smile as he began to strum "Toss a Coin...." Even before he could finish the sentence Geralt gave him a look that silenced the old man. "No fair Geralt, I need to revel in my youth. You still look that same as you did when we first met and Julia and I, well we've seen better days." Putting a soft wrinkled hand on Jaskier arm Julia smiled and said "It's ok Jask, why don't you play me Caleb's favourite lullaby. I always loved that song" a gentle sweet smile formed on Jaskier's face as he began to play a gentle lullaby that almost succeeded in taking Julia away into slumber.

As the morning's festivities moved into lunch and then Mid-afternoon a large cake was bought out for Julia. Large enough to accommodate the myriad of candles adorning the top, she asked the children to gather around and help her blow them out. Geralt loved how much she enjoyed her great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren. He knew however that today she would not have had the breath to blow out one candle let alone 98. He sat behind her as she lay comfortably against his chest, their familiar position as the procession of Gifts were paraded before her. First came Tobias and Renee who both looked remarkably young for being in their late 60's easily mistaken for being in there 40's. Followed by Wilfred and his family and their children and Amelia and her family and their children.

As they moved forward Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert and Cohen bowed low before her Julia the only one looking even remotely as old as Julia was now was Vesemir his frame slightly bent and eyes watery but he looked in his mid 80's rather than the possible 600yrs that he was. The brothers blew her a kiss each and they moved along to allow Visenna and Yennefer a chance to present there good wishes presenting the only Gift Julia would agree to accept today a small bottle of her favourite Honeysuckle oil.

As each servant presented before her Julia remembered her cherished ones those who had passed on ahead of her Nessie her beloved cook who had become a cherished friend. Ruth and Hannah who had died in an outbreak of the pox 20 years earlier along with Jolnar and Petra. She had done all she could for them and it still it haunted her knowing she could not save them.

As the last couple walked near, she recognised both the beautiful lady standing before her and her handsome son standing taller than his father broad shoulders carrying their youngest child. No longer a teenage girl but a regale Queen, Cirilla had rightfully taken her place as the Queen of Cintra along with her husband Caleb beside her. She and her children now ruled the lands of Cintra and had enjoyed peace for many years. Ciri and Caleb kneeled before Julia and took her wrinkled hands in theirs. There eye's meeting, Ciri's full of unshed tears as she kissed Julia on her hand whispering "Happy Birthday Mother, I love you" handing their youngest to Jasker who was happy to cuddle with his nephew Caleb leaned forward and embraced his mother. His deep baritone voice whispered "You're looking well today mum, has dad been looking after you?" the cheeky glint in his eye speaking to how well he knows his parents the even after all these years their passion for each other had never wavered.

Now Geralt had Julia wrapped up in his arms in their favourite place, a blanket sitting over their bodies snuggling on the day bed in the healing rooms looking out over the place where so much love and warmth was met today. As the stars began appearing Geralt whispered to Julia "did you enjoy today my love?" he could hear her gentle soft breathing as she nestled further into his arms "Yes, it was so good to see everyone. This place seems so quiet when they are off living their lives" Geralt hummed in agreement as he ran his fingers through her hair now just as white as his own. They stayed that way for quite some time just enjoying the stars and each other's warmth until Geralt felt something change. It was an imperceptible shift in the way Julia was breathing he looked down at her, as their eyes met. Her pale now milky blue eyes smiled as she said "Take care of them my love" and with that she breathed one last breath and was gone.

He had known it was coming, they had prepared for this moment since Julia had started to feel her strength decline, but it didn't make the feeling of loss any less. Rather than moving Geralt relaxed into the day bed content to hold his beloved in his arms for just one more night.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Visenna placed a hand on Geralt's shoulder, she had found him sitting on the day bed looking out at the stars. Thankfully the family had been still in town allowing for a funeral to take place before they all went their separate ways.

At the contact of her hand on his shoulder she sat as he turned, and her son curled into her sobbing. No matter how much they had planned for this, talked about this she knew he would feel the grief and loss for many years to come. She was just glad she could be here to comfort him, to walk it thought with him. She knew he would be ok, that the love of their large family would help him remember the good times. To remember the love that Julia had shown to so many, and to celebrate the life that they had together. Still right now it was raw, and he needed to be allowed to grief so she did what she could she held her son and let him cry.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a few months since Julia had passed and Geralt was only just beginning to start to feel more that just the loss. He had woken in his empty bed his arms aching to hold her again. Just wanting to feel close to her he went out to the stables and saddled Roach. The chestnut mare had been a present to him from Julia after Rose had passed away. They had clicked straight away, and roach had been a faithful companion. Today he knew where he needed to go, to their special place. Getting into the saddle he urged Roach into a gallop as they flew over the hills, past the Witcher keep that now rose up to the east of the main dwelling, past the orchards and finally to the river. He had pushed Roach fast needing to feel the wind and adrenaline through his veins.

Here, he found their favourite place, the watering hole had not changed too much since that day he had proposed to her. The trees were still strong and created the sound of waves as the wind rustled the leaves. The birds had come and gone, and now new generations occupied their branches. Even the ant's nests continued their cycle completely unperturbed by the destruction of their colony all those years ago when he had landed his beloved directly on top of their home.

Sitting down on the same bank he shut his eyes, picturing her face he spoke "We miss you Julia, I miss you. Your smile and your hugs. I miss your constant prattle about the grandchildren, and your worry about their safety. I wish you could have lived as long as I did, and that I wouldn't have to live without you" He opened his eyes looking at the water, he realised the biggest thing he missed was the peace that she exuded. Even in her worry she was peaceful.

As he sat a voice seemed to carry on the wind from long ago, her voice as it recited "The lord is my Shepard I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil, my cup overflows. Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." As the words swirled around his mind a peace settled in his heart. It wasn't just Julia that he had missed is was the presence of her unnamed God that seemed to follow her wherever she was that he missed.

Speaking to the wind his deep voice carrying around the river he said "I know you, I watched you work through Julia's hand, her compassion, her heart for her family for her patients for me. I saw you work your miracle to bring us the child she so longed to have. If she's with you I want to be there too. I have never believed in higher beings, help me find you. I want to know you like she did" With that a peace greater than he had ever felt before wrapped itself around his heart. In that moment he knew without a shadow of doubt that he would continue to protect and love the family he had on this earth, and that he would one day see Julia again. Filled with a renewed strength and peace he went to Roach mounted and set off for home.

THANK YOU FOR READING THE WIDOW AND THE WITCHER

Previous Chapter Twenty Nine Masterlist

I have Tagged people who follow me and who I follow if you want to be removed or added please let me know :)

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#thewidowandthewitcher #geralt #geralt x ofc #the witcher #henry cavill

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thewitcherstan · 5 years ago

Note

Prompt where Geralt leaves Jaskier in charge of Ciri and when he comes back its just... Chaos?

To be fair, Geralt should have known better than to leave Jaskier and Ciri to their own devices for any longer than a day.

But he couldn’t very well have them distracting him while he hunted down a drowner. The last time Jaskier had accompanied him on such a hunt, they’d both nearly died, if only because Jaskier simply can’t seem to shut up, even when faced with what would be most people’s worse nightmares.

So yeah, with Ciri now tagging along with them and as curious as ever, Geralt figured it’d be safer for everyone to leave them both at the inn for a couple of days. He left Jaskier in charge with a stern, “Don’t let her wander off.”

Jaskier had given him a mock-salute. “But of course not.”

“And don’t get anyone knocked up while I’m gone. We have enough to deal with without you buttering the wrong.... biscuits.”

“Aw, Geralt, euphemisms sound so crass when you use them.” At Geralt’s responding glare, Jaskier had given him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Besides, my faith lies with you and you only, my dear.”

“Great,” Geralt had responded, not feeling at all reassured.

A sentiment which he finds is completely justified upon his return, when he hears a mixture of shouting and cheering as he approaches the dingy tavern a couple evenings later.

He walks into the tavern and is somehow entirely unsurprised to find a crowd surrounding Ciri and Jaskier, who are facing off two large men bearing swords, one holding a ridiculously colorful coin bag which Geralt immediately recognizes as Jaskier’s, a purchase Jaskier had insisted was essential.

If they weren’t in immediate danger, the picture before him would be rather amusing. Ciri, with the dagger Geralt had given her to use until they arrive at Kaer Morhen, where he can finally start her formal swordsmanship training, and Jaskier, looking reluctant but ready to swing his lute.

Geralt swiftly pushes his way through the crowd, crossing his arms sternly.

“I believe that doesn’t belong to you,” Geralt grits out to the man holding the bag, and the man laughs.

“Oh, yeah? What’s it you? I think we’re all owed a little compensation after listening to this bloody banshee wail for three days straight,” he sneers, gesturing to Jaskier, and Geralt feels a low growl building in his chest.

“Just because you don’t have any qualities useful enough to earn you money doesn’t mean—”

Geralt closes his eyes for a second. Jesus. “Fiona,” he grits out to Ciri. “Quiet.”

She huffs, but closes her mouth. Her dagger, he notices, is still raised threateningly, just as he’d taught her, and he can’t help but feel a rush of pride. He turns his attention back to the two men.

“Hand over the bag and leave,” he orders, and they laugh.

“Oh no, witcher. That wasn’t part of the deal, you see,” the first man says, and Geralt shoots Jaskier a look.

“Deal?”

“Little Miss Princess and your side bitch here agreed to a duel for the money. We win, we get to keep it.”

Geralt shoots them an incredulous look, and they both shrug sheepishly. This, he thinks exasperatedly. This is why I always traveled alone.

“Great. I’m on their team,” Geralt announces.

“Ah, but three against one isn’t fair play, witcher!” one of the men protests.

Geralt quirks an eyebrow at them before turning to Jaskier and Ciri. “Fiona. Out.”

“What!” she protests, enraged, and Geralt barely resists the urge to sigh. So much for keeping a low profile.

“Fiona, dear heart, why don’t you sit this one out?” Jaskier says soothingly. “I’d rather like to have this all settled quickly.”

“I can handle myself better than you can,” Ciri mutters, too low for anyone but Jaskier and Geralt’s witcher hearing to pick up.

Exactly, Geralt thinks. And no one can know that.

She cringes when she meets Geralt’s stern gaze and sighs, lowering her dagger and stepping out of immediate danger, and Geralt can’t help the wave of relief that washes over him. She, at least, is safe for now.

He turns back to the men. “Great. Now we’re even.” Geralt feels a sense of grim satisfaction at hearing how their heartbeats speed up in fear.

“Whatever. Time to exterminate this witcher scum, yeah?” the man says to their gathered audience. There are a handful of cheers, but for the most part, everyone is waiting with baited breath. Tired of playing, Geralt pushes himself in front of Jaskier, and swiftly makes the first move.

From there, the time passes quickly, Geralt dancing forward and back, swinging his sword in smooth arcs and sharp jabs, opting to disarm the men rather than kill them altogether. As much as he’d admittedly like to, he refuses to commit needless murder in front of Ciri, who has seen way too much of it for a lifetime.

Within minutes, both men are incapacitated, and Geralt snatches up the bag of coin, jabbing the unconscious man viciously despite himself. That, he thinks, is for threatening my bard and my kid.

Geralt straightens up and glares at the people around him. “Get these men out of here,” he growls out to no one in particular. He turns to Ciri and Jaskier. “You two. Upstairs.”

His face must say a lot, because for once, they shuffle out in front of him without protest. Geralt snatches a tankard of ale up before following them. He figures he’ll need it.

They make their way upstairs and Ciri and Jaskier quickly make their way inside, sitting on the edge of Geralt and Jaskier’s bed while Geralt stands in front of them.

“Jaskier, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“Oh, I see,” Jaskier huffs, offended. “Just assume it’s all my fault, Geralt.”

“You’re the adult,” Geralt says, trying not to roll his eyes. “It is your fault.”

“Actually, it really isn’t his fault,” Ciri cuts in.

“Ciri, he’s right—”

“When those men took his bag, I was the one who challenged them to a duel.”

This time, Geralt really does sigh. “Why.”

It’s more of a statement than a question.

She shrugs. “To be fair, they looked like they’d lose against a gust of wind, so I really wasn’t all that worried,” she tells him.

“You can’t afford to not be worried!” Geralt snaps. “You don’t have the training to not rely on your abilities, and using them in the open could literally mean life or death for you right now.”

Her face falls a bit, and Geralt immediately feels a rush of guilt, though he stands by the sentiment. But looking at these two reckless, beloved idiots sitting before him, his chest aches at the thought of something happening to them.

He takes a deep breath and moves forward, crouching in front of her. He tentatively takes her hands into his, knowing that, just like Jaskier, Ciri responds best to touch and kind words, though not to the same degree as the bard.

It is a softness he’d scorn in anyone else. But he loves these two for it.

“Ciri,” Geralt starts, trying to get his words right this time. “You know as well as anyone that this world does not take kindly to people like us. Powerful people. We cannot afford to be reckless. I know this is difficult, but I made a promise to your grandmother, and to you. We will reach our destination shortly, and then I promise, you will have more freedom. Do you understand?”

She looks down at him and sags, all traces of playfulness leaving her face. For a moment, she looks like a lost, terrified child—and, really, she is—but then her face hardens in an echo of Queen Calanthe’s fierceness and nods.

“I understand,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry, Geralt.”

He squeezes her hand gently before reaching up to tenderly brush her hair out of her face.

“Go wash up while Jaskier and I talk,” he tells her kindly, getting to his feet again. She gets up and darts around him, grabbing his ale and taking a swig.

He reaches out to swat at her, but she darts away with a laugh, all at once the picture of a playful kid again. Jaskier shakes his head as she disappears into the washroom.

“That’s what you get for always letting her sip from your tankard,” he says pointedly. “She likes the stuff a bit too much, yeah?”

“You really think the daughter of Calanthe has never tasted beer before?” Geralt asks him, raising an eyebrow.

“Good point,” Jaskier admits. For a moment, there’s silence, and then Jaskier slumps. “Alright, go ahead. Lay into me.”

Geralt studies him for a moment, watching him squirm. “I’m not mad,” he says eventually.

“You’re—wait, what?” Jaskier says incredulously.

“Do you want me to be?” Geralt asks, amused.

“Well, no,” Jaskier sputters. “But I thought you were furious, what with the whole grouchy, ‘You. Upstairs,’ bit and the fact that we challenged some big scary men to a duel.”

Geralt tilts his head. “Annoyed, maybe. But not mad. You and Ciri are still healthy and in one piece. You did as I asked. Those men were shitbags, you couldn’t have stopped that.”

Jaskier sighs in relief, happy that Geralt isn’t furious with him. He tugs Geralt down onto the bed next to him, placing his head on the witcher’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry about Ciri. The duel,” he mutters into the crook of Geralt’s neck, listening to Geralt’s answering rumble of laughter.

“It was hardly a duel. You two really probably would have gotten by without my help,” Geralt comments.

“Yes, but I was rather hoping to avoid harm to my lute,” Jaskier admits.

“Shit, I definitely shouldn’t have stepped in then,” Geralt jokes.

“Geralt!” Jaskier whines. “Don’t be rude.”

“Can’t help it. It’s my default,” he says as Jaskier falls fully into his lap. “Tired?”

“Mmmm,” Jaskier replies sleepily. “Hard work keeping a child alive.”

“Think of how I must feel. I have to keep two alive.”

“Shhhh,” Jaskier says, too tired to be properly offended. Besides, he knows Geralt loves taking care of them. “Sleepy.”

“Rest, then. Long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“‘Night, Geralt,” Jaskier slurs tiredly.

The witcher runs a gentle hand through his hair, sitting back and allowing himself to relax.

Trying to parent his wild Child Surprise alongside his bard, who has just as much of a penchant for mischief as their child, is a lot of work sometimes, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

#some cheesy stuff for u!!!!#this kinda got away from me whoops #idk its probably not chaotic enough but oh well #i just think ciri and jaskier would be a cute and disastrious duo #geralt is the gruff dad & jaskier is the fun dad who’s almost like a brother #geralt of rivia #geralt #geralt z rivii #the witcher #jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfiction #geraskier #ciri #cirilla #princess cirilla #ciri & her two gay dads #hope writes #fanfiction

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headtothecoast · 5 years ago

Text

buzzfeed unsolved!geraskier

monsters do very much exist and geralt is still a witcher who is approached during the winter to join buzzfeed after their recent hire jaskier suggested he wanted to look at mysterious historical disappearances and monster lore and do a series on it. the problem is a lot of the information is false and they need help debunking online rumors. so jaskier finds geralts witcher service online (yen dealt with that, basically twisted his arm into having a website) and calls him asking if he’d be interested in doing the series.

hunting isn’t reliable work and having fairly steady income would be nice, even if the guy is a little annoying so geralt agrees to fact check except then jaskiers cohost gets sick (not what really happened to the guy before shane) and he asks him if he could please film an episode or two they were so close to finishing the first season for release and no one else knows the material so geralt agrees to that to.

and when he meets the guy face to face he’s wearing heels and looks a little embarrassed saysing sorry, one of the other series needed a guy to wear heels for a day and i’d already agree to the filming for their episode. hope you don’t mind.

and geralt definitely doesn’t mind because the guy looks good in heels and then geralt is being pestered about being a witcher and wow your hair and eyes, you look like a -

and geralt waits for the word monster with clenched teeth but it doesn’t come

- model! seriously, i’m surprised no ones tried to scout you before...

and while geralt doesn’t exactly listen to the rest of that, he is relieved that the guy isn’t scared of him.

so they get mic’d up and jaskier is explaining how it’ll go and that usually there’s some banter back and forth so if geralt has any thoughts on what he’s talking about to please interrupt him because it’ll lighten what they’re talking about for audience you know and geralt nods and they’re ready to begin.

so jaskier is setting the scene and doing a voice over that is downright lyrical and he’s talking about information on vampires and that the family thought to have gone missing because of one bought several pounds of garlic and geralt snorts quite loudly and jaskiers like what, not enough garlic?

and before he knows it geralt is saying, no it’s just i know who started that rumor, friend of mine knew a guy who was allergic so when he went around complaining about vampires trying to find him by friend told him to fill his house with garlic.

were there actually vampires after him? jaskier asked, smiling.

oh hell no, the guy was anemic. vampires and witcher’s can smell that from miles away, he was having us on and lambert decided to give him a taste of his own medicine.

and the rest of the episode goes like that, geralt reading stories and jaskier commentating and asking questions and between takes geralt asks jaskier why he was so interested in monsters.

well, originally it was because of the songs. you know, the factually inaccurate but beautifully written ballads about werewolves and vampires and harpies and i wondered how much was true? buzzfeed didn’t like that so instead we changed it to more disappearance type stuff because apparently i get too sucked into musical theory... and geralt has no doubt that’s the case.

little by little they become friends. jaskier invites geralt out for drinks and geralt invites jaskier to his house to see the remains of recent kills so jaskier can make the episode more real.

when the first season is released jaskiers cohost quits for unrelated reasons and jaskier is heartbroken, going to geralts house unannounced and crying because he had thought it was good and now no one else would do it with him and before he’s aware of what he’s doing geralt is agreeing to do the series with him. so long as it doesn’t interfere with hunts and jaskier is hugging him and geralt offers to make dinner and that’s that for the night.

except people love the series and it has an almost overnight following and yes some youtube comments are mean but most people love geralt and his dry humor and jaskier for his bright personality. and sure, sometimes jaskier will read a comment about being over talkative or geralt will find the comments calling him terrifying and monsterous but they always make sure to send each other the good ones.

and maybe during the off season of shooting jaskier has plans to visit geralt but is a little early and doesn’t think he’d mind but when he lets himself in geralt is shirtless and has a nasty wound in his shoulder and is just continuing to bleed so of course jaskier rushes over panicked and helps him stitch himself up and lays him out on the couch because there’s no way he could carry him upstairs so he sleeps on the other couch and prays for geralt to be alright.

and in the morning someone opens geralts front door and it’s a woman with bright blonde hair who’s smiling as she lets herself in and says sorry didn’t mean to wake you, i forgot my laptop and i have a group project later. tell dad to call me when he wakes up so i know he’s alright. thanks for patching him up, when i was over last weekend he told me all about you so it was nice to meet you jaskier and then she’s gone and jaskier is sitting dumbfounded because he didn’t know geralt had a daughter

and geralt is sitting up and looks confused but relaxes when he sees jaskier and says you know i meant to tell you about ciri but it really never came up. i don’t see her mother very often and she spends most of her time there. thank you for fixing me up last night, didn’t realize there’d be two and then he’s standing and jaskier is rushing to sit him back down you could have died did you know that? and geralt is smiling lightly as jaskier talks about how worried he was and oh goodness you must be hungry i’ll bring you something but melitele above don’t you dare stand up again until after breakfast

and then that’s just how things are with them spending the night at each other’s places between prep work for the show and jaskier patching geralt up on hunts until one day jaskier brings up the next topic of the show and geralt freezes.

see, there’s this story about someone called the butcher of blaviken, killed almost 40 men and there’s rumors about what type of monster it was but - geralt? are you okay? geralt!?

and geralt doesn’t realize he’s leaving until he’s in his car and jaskier is calling him but he shuts his phone off and just he couldn’t handle hearing jaskier call him a monster or reliving what had happened.

and thankfully jaskier gives him a day all to himself and doesn’t call him or show up at his place or anything and geralt tries to push those memories out of his head but fails and decides to sleep it off and when he wakes up he can smell something cooking and goes downstairs to see yennefer making breakfast like she had when they were married and his chest feels tight but he sits down and waits for the explanation.

so ciri called me last night saying that a friend of yours, glad you have one of those by the way, had called her crying and saying you had left his place looking upset and you wouldn’t answer your phone and it was maybe something he said about blaviken so she called me. i know you’ve got that little youtube show going and i can only imagine that what this is about but geralt, you can’t keep running from it forever. and her smile is soft like it used to be before they just stopped talking like they used to and he lets himself remember how he’d loved her and he gets up from the table and says thank you yen, for breakfast and gives her a hug which startles her and when she leaves it’s only after geralt texted jaskier to come over to talk

and jaskier comes over anxious and sad and geralt tells him everything about renfri and blaviken and stregobor and jaskier listens quietly and at the end geralt’s face is tucked into jaskiers shoulder and he’s crying and jaskier is telling him they don’t have to do that episode ever and he’ll throw out the file and oh geralt i am so sorry, you’re not a monster sweetheart, it’ll be okay i promise

and whenever people tweet out mean things about geralt on social media jaskier goes feral and doesn’t care about the ramifications and geralt starts to lighten just a little and then one night they’re at a bar and someone sneers at him and jaskier lays the guy out, breaks his nose and geralt is hauling him out of the bar saying what the hell were you thinking you could’ve been arrested jaskier and jaskier isn’t even listening he’s still shouting at the man but he looks and geralt and says serves him right the bastard - i’m not letting people say that shit to you anymore, melitele knows you don’t deserve it. you’re the best man i know geralt you don’t deserve to be treated like shit if i want to punch someone i’ll damn well punch them because no one gets to -

and geralt cuts him off with a kiss because never has someone cared this much, to be angry over the words of others and to resolutely stick with him and defend him. and when jaskier kisses back geralt knows he’ll do anything to keep this man at his side.

#geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #jaskier #the witcher #yennefer #cirilla of cintra #buzzfeed unsolved #buzzfeed unsolved!geraskier

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nastybuckybarnes · 5 years ago

Text

I See Fire

Pairings: Geralt x Reader

Summary: Geralt reunites with a Mage he thought was nothing more than a distant memory, but their chemistry is hardly forgotten. When a new threat arrives in Cintra, you fight for a kingdom you do not know, and you fall for a man who you may not be able to have. You’re forced to decide between what you want and what you need.

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Language, Violence, Injuries, Fluff

Word Count: 4K

A/n: So many posts guys! I’m feeling pretty good, I hope it lasts! Enjoy this little thing which is a sequel to my other fic By The Fire

~*~

You bound through the trees effortlessly, bouncing from branch to branch with the grace of, well, an elf.

Geralt simply watches from his seat upon Roach, smiling slightly to himself. Jaskier has taken it upon himself to find a comfortable position upon your own beautiful white mare, chattering away about his time away from Geralt.

"Where are we heading?" You ask, hanging onto a branch with one arm and smiling at the two men. Geralt huffs out a breath of air and smiles gently at you before shaking his head. "Cintra." You nod slowly, mulling over his words. "And what, might I ask, awaits us in Cintra?"

Jaskier looks between the two of you, brows drawn together.

"Ciri. Geralt's child of Surprise? He likes to visit her as often as possible. And I'm sure our impromptu visit to Cintra has nothing to do with the fact that a certain mage is said to be in the kingdom." You frown at his words and Geralt glares at him.

"A mage? Who? Why is she of importance to us?"

"To us? No, not us. To Geralt and his cock, yes." You nod slowly, looking at Geralt for confirmation. The way he avoids your eyes is confirmation enough and you pull yourself back into the trees. Geralt shoots Jaskier a glare then climbs off of Roach, following the soft whoosh of you climbing the trees.

"(Y/n). Come here." You watch as he looks around for you, pondering what you're going to do. You decide to hear him out, after all, it's not like the two of you are married.

You drop down from the trees, landing with a soft thud on the grass.

"Yes, Geralt?" He jumps slightly then shakes his head, "damn elves." You can't help but smile at that.

"Yennefer, the Mage, she's a part of my past. Jaskier knows not what he speaks about, this you already know." You nod. In the few months that you've been travelling with Geralt, you've learned that the Bard can't exactly be trusted to tell the truth. And when he joined the two of you only two weeks ago... you experienced his stretches of the truth firsthand.

"Yennefer is my past, and you are my future." You smile and take his hands in yours.

"I trust you, Geralt." He kisses the scarring on your left ear then sighs.

"We should continue if we want to get to Cintra by nightfall." You nod and press a soft kiss to his cheek before turning around and jumping into the nearest tree.

"Damn elves," he whispers again, shaking his head with a smile.

~*~

"Geralt!" A young girl exclaims, running towards the Witcher before he's even finished getting roach comfortable in the Palace stables.

He spins around, hugging the small girl tight to his chest. You watch from behind your horse, intrigued by Geralt's blatant display of affection.

"Ciri! I've missed you." She giggles and pulls away from him, her piercing eyes finding yours immediately.

"Who's she?" She asks, walking towards you. Geralt smiles softly, a look you don't see often enough, and follows Ciri towards you.

"This is (Y/n)." You bow your head to the princess, a small smile on your face.

"Your highness. I've heard nothing but good things about you." She smiles and looks over her shoulder at Geralt.

"She's an elf?" She asks, eyes glued to your ears. Geralt nods then crouches down in front of the young princess. "But we cannot go advertising her heritage. There are still many people who wish to do harm to the elves." Ciri nods, looking at you with curious wide eyes.

"Geralt!" You step backwards as an older man walks forwards, smiling at The Witcher.

"Mousesack. It's been too long," Geralt says, voice monotone as ever. The druid smiles and hugs his friend.

"Come to visit the princess, have we?" He nods, hand resting on Cirilla's shoulder. "I'm sure that's not your sole purpose for visiting, now is it? You've heard that Yennefer is here, haven't you?" There's that name again. You can't help the anger that bubbles in the pit of your stomach.

Flipping your hood up, you grab your small pack off of your mare's side and walk out of the stable, heading towards the gate to the city.

"(Y/n)!" Jaskier catches up to you in an instant, glancing at your face. "What's wrong?" You shake your head and flash him a smile. "I'm simply scoping the area. I've never been to Cintra before. Perhaps you'd be willing to show me all the great city has to offer?" He smiles brightly and begins talking about his many adventures in Cintra. As the two of you walk, Geralt stares after you with furrowed brows.

"What is it, Geralt?" Mousesack asks. Geralt simply shakes his head and walks with the druid and Cirilla into the Palace.

~*~

"(Y/n) there's to be a feast for the Queen's return! Are you not joining?" You snort at Jaskier, shaking your head as the two of you walk through the forest towards the Palace.

"And have any one of the knights in there behead me for the fun of it? I think I'll pass, Jaskier." He sighs heavily and shakes his head.

"Can you at least sulk in the Palace? Or somewhere close by? Maybe even just stand in the corner of the room and watch. I'm going to be singing. Don't you want to support your greatest friend?" You look at him with an amused glint in your eyes and he laughs, happy that he got you to smile genuinely.

"Maybe. But I don't want to be just standing alone in the corner all night." He shrugs, elbowing you in the ribs, "maybe Geralt will come and spend time with you?" You shake your head with a chuckle. "No, he has his mage. I wouldn't want to impose." Jaskier sighs and shakes his head. "You know Geralt is head over heels for you. He and Yennefer have a past, yes. But you and he... you have a future." You shake your head with a scoff. "Geralt and I could never have anything. I'm an elf, he's a Witcher. Do Witcher's even have feelings?"

"This one does. I can see it when he looks at you. He does care for you. He might not show it in the best way, but he does care for you. He's not good with feelings. He likes to play into the whole stereotype of Witcher's not having any feelings."

"Fine. I'll join you. But only for a short amount of time."

~*~

Joining the Bard, you decide, is the worst decision you've ever made.

You're standing awkwardly near the doors, hair framing your face and covering your ears and hand twitching the daggers strapped to your thigh.

Upon Jaskier's assistance, you're wearing a dark grey dress that falls to your feet and drags a tad when you walk. The waist is cinched by a thick silver belt, and a couple of small charms dangle from the waist. It's a beautiful gown, but far too impractical for your liking.

You watch as Jaskier performs for the knights, lords, and other noblemen in the room, all laughing drunkenly while they wait for the Queen's celebration to truly start.

You observe the crowd through skeptical eyes, watching for any hostile move.

One thing that quickly catches your attention is the striking purple eyes of a beautiful woman. Although her beauty is stunning, it's the arm around her waist that gets your attention. Geralt holds the woman close to his body, a half-smile on his face as she tells him something.

He looks at her with admiration in his eyes, something you've hardly ever seen in the amber eyes of the Witcher.

He leans down, nose brushing over the shell of her ear, then whispers something that has her eyes widening for a moment before a sly smile spreads on her face.

Deciding that you've seen plenty, you make your way out of the throne room without being spotted and head to Jaskier's bedroom to change back into your practical clothing.

You spend the rest of the evening in the stables with your horse and Roach, finding comfort in the presence of the animals.

The moon rises high above you and guests slowly trickle out of the Palace as the party dies down. You decide that you've sulked for long enough and square your shoulders, heading into the Palace to congratulate Jaskier on what was probably an incredible performance.

As you're heading down the long corridor where the guests are staying for the night, you pick up the familiar deep voice of Geralt.

Chancing a glance over your shoulder, you feel your heart fall into your stomach at the sight before you. Geralt and who you're assuming is Yennefer, locked in a tight intimate embrace, her body naked and pressed against his as he pushes the door shut. You pull in a shuddering breath then continue on your way, keeping feelings locked inside of yourself as you seek out your one true friend.

~*~

"We're under attack!" Someone shouts, rousing you from your light slumber. Jaskier bolts upright, looking around frantically as you grab your bow and a quiver of arrows, along with your sword.

"(Y/n) what's happening?!" He asks. You look over at him with your eyebrows raised. "Just how am I supposed to know?" He nods, lips pursed slightly. You roll your eyes and load your bow then swing open the door to the room. Your eyes pinpoint the dark colours of Nilfgaurd, an obvious enemy of Cintra, and you let the arrow fly from your bow.

It lodges itself in the neck of one of the knights and the surrounding men turn to you.

"Stay hidden, Jaskier," you whisper, loosing another arrow that finds its mark with ease. The Bard hides underneath the bed and you fight the urge to roll your eyes, Firing arrow after arrow at the men that storm the hallway.

A door further down flies open and Geralt and Yennefer come out, swords drawn and ready for the battle that awaits.

Anger boils your blood but you otherwise ignore the pair, aiming and firing and taking down man after man.

When you run out of arrows, you join the Witcher and the Mage in the hallway, sword held steady in your dominant hand. You fight and you fight hard, slitting throats and puncturing stomachs, fury fueling you as you catch another glimpse of Yennefer.

She and Geralt fight gracefully together, as if they've been doing this for centuries, and that's when it dawns on you that that may be the case. They've been doing this for years before you came along and they very well may be doing this years after you're gone. You're nothing more than a temporary fixation.

That idea is only solidified when Geralt grabs Yennefer by the arm and pulls her into a searing kiss, the intimacy fueling their power and amplifying it until it knocks down all the men in the hallway, leaving the three of you standing.

Jaskier hesitantly peaks out of the room, his eyes widening when he sees the two of them then softening when he turns to look at you. You spin on your heel and walk to the other end of the hallway, mind made up.

You're going to leave. And you never plan on seeing the Witcher again.

"(Y/n)!" Jaskier calls, running after you. You don't slow, in fact, you move faster, dashing through hallways and down a flight of stairs.

"(Y/n) Wait! At least let me give you a proper farewell!" You stop at the base of the stairs, chest heaving with the emotions fighting to escape.

"Why? Why lead me on the way he did?" You ask softly, eyes wet with tears as you look up at the Bard. He slows, the pain in your voice making his heart break.

"I don't know (Y/n). But maybe we should let him explain himself. He may have a very goo-" "No! I will not hear another word out of his mouth. He thinks himself above the humans when he really is no better. He's no less of a monster than they are," you spit, eyes locking onto a movement behind the Bard's shoulder. You meet the purple eyes of Yennefer, your rage only getting more intense. You turn on your heel and wipe a splotch of blood off of your forehead, heading towards the intense sound of fighting.

"(Y/n) please!" Jaskier shouts. You ignore him, so caught up in your racing thoughts that you don't notice the men hiding in the shadows until the three of them jump at you.

Your shoulder catches the swipe of a dagger and you gnash your teeth together, fighting harder against the three of them. You successfully get two of them to the ground, only for the third to kick you in the stomach. You collapse onto the floor, the wound in your shoulder gushing blood around the knife embedded there. The man towers over you, a sinister smirk on his face.

"Well well. An Elf. Thought you were extinct." You take a deep breath, rip the knife out of your shoulder, then swipe at the back of his ankles. He falls to the ground with a yell of pain and you flick your wrist, the dagger silencing his cries as it pierces his chest.

You push yourself to your knees, pain flaring through your whole body at the effort. You're suddenly overtaken by immense heat, your vision blurring as you force yourself to stand upright.

"Jaskier..." You stumble towards him, falling into his arms as everything starts to fade to black.

You collapse against the Bard and he starts to panic immediately.

"Geralt!" He cries, slowly lowering you to the floor to inspect your wound. You've gotten worse wounds and never been fazed, but the way you so quickly crumpled to the ground has his heart racing in his chest.

"Geralt!" He repeats, jumping when the Witcher appears beside him, his amber eyes widening when he sees the state of you on the ground.

"What happened?" He asks gruffly, two fingers pressed to your pulse point. It's weak but fast.

"She got... her shoulder. But..." Geralt pulls your tunic down and feels fear pierce his heart. The wound is gushing blood, but worse than that, a dark blackness is spreading through your veins from the gash.

"Poison," he whispers, eyes flashing up to your face. You're covered in a light sheen of sweat, eyelids fluttering rapidly.

"Yen!" Geralt calls, desperation in his voice. The mage presses two fingers to your forehead and closes her eyes, frowning for a moment before standing and walking to the man with the dagger in his chest. She pulls it from him and wipes the blood on his corpse before wrinkling her nose.

"This is dark magic. Not only poison but a curse as well. This is something even I cannot heal." Geralt grinds his teeth together.

"So we just let her die?!" Jaskier demands, looking between the Mage and the Witcher. Geralt flares his nostrils and shakes his head, scooping you up in his arms and hurrying out of the Palace.

"Geralt, there is no place you can go where they can heal her. Her fate has been sealed," Yennefer says sadly, following him towards the stables.

"No. There is one place. Although I cannot guarantee they'll accept us." Jaskier furrows his brows for a moment then shakes his head.

"No. If they don't kill us then she will for bringing her there." Geralt simply hums, carefully situating you on Roach's saddle before hoisting himself up then tugging you so your back is against his chest, legs straddling the horse.

"Get on her horse. We don't have much time."

"Where are you going?" Yennefer demands, looking up at the Witcher with an unreadable expression on her face.

"There is only one race who's magic is strong enough to eradicate dark magic." Realization sets in and Yennefer shakes her head.

"A banished Elf won't be helped." Geralt ignores the comment and with a light nudge to the ribs, Roach takes off running, Jaskier following close behind on your horse.

~*~

Your body is incredibly stiff. That's the very first thing you notice. The next thing you notice is the dry air that's burning your nose with every inhale.

You open your eyes slowly, wincing against the yellow light pouring into the room. You keep your breath steady as your eyes scan the room, the rocky walls familiar in the worst way. Your stomach does a flip and you glance to your left, every nerve in your body on edge as you see the man that stands there.

"You almost died. Poisoned and cursed with dark magic." You say nothing, instead, you push yourself into a seated position, a dull ache throbbing from your shoulder.

"Why am I here?" You ask softly, looking around.

"You got stabbed with a blade that was enchanted. You were brought here to be healed." You shake your head. "At what cost?"

The man cocks his head to the side in confusion.

You kick your legs over the side of the hard bed, ignoring the way your shoulder burns.

"You may have the Bard fooled, you might even have the Elves fooled, but you cannot fool me. What is it you want, Filavandrel?"

He pushes off the wall, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes linger on your scarred ear.

"When you left, I searched for you. I admit I was harsh in my words, but I never thought... I never truly thought you'd leave for as long as you did. You branded yourself as the 'Princess without a home', but you've always had a home. You could've come back." You scoff and shake your head, looking East of his eyes.

"You told me that if I left I would never be welcomed back. That I wouldn't have a place here anymore. What did you expect? You banished me, cut me off from my only family, my home." He sighs and steps towards you, his blue eyes glossy.

"I was harsh, I said things that I didn't mean and I pushed away my only family. But you're here now, you're back, and you will always have a place here, with your people. They need you and they've missed you. I've missed you. So if you'll accept my offer, you'll have a place here, with your people." You look down at the ground, memories of why you're here coming back to you.

Your eyes flash around the room again, more thoroughly this time, and Filavandrel smiles knowingly.

"He's waiting outside, along with the Bard. They've been bickering for the past two days." Your eyebrows raise. "Two days?" You question softly. He nods and heads towards the door.

"I do not wish to see him," you say suddenly. Your brother smiles sadly and looks down.

"He cares deeply about you, that much even I can see." You scoff and shake your head.

"I'd like to be alone, please. I need time to think." He nods and grants you your privacy. It's shattered moments later, however, by the door opening and a large figure entering.

"You're awake," is all he says.

"Yes, Geralt. I'm awake. Now that you've seen for yourself, you may leave." He shakes his head, eyes cast downwards.

"I'm aware of how my actions may have been perceived, but-" "No, Geralt! That's not how you apologize! You told me I had nothing to worry about when it came to Yennefer. I was told that she was nothing more than something of the past, and yet you went with her to the celebration, you were in her chambers, no doubt getting your cock wet. You should've told me, at the very least."

He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, seeming frustrated.

"What Yennefer and I had... it was something like I never experienced before. Yennefer was a reminder of simpler times. Times when relationships were nothing more than physical touches. But you? You've complicated things. Because with you it's far more than simply physical intimacy. You've carved a place in my heart, as much as it pains me to admit. You've become a piece of me. One that is not easily replaced."

"It didn't seem that way," you whisper, flashes of him and Yennefer together plague your mind and you wince slightly.

He exhales and you can almost hear the internal battle before he finally speaks. "You... frighten me." This confession shocks you into looking at him. His eyes are trained on the floor, brows drawn together and hands clenched into fists at his sides as if it physically pains him to speak.

"You open me to being vulnerable, to... feeling things. It's terrifying and exhilarating and I hate you for it. But I cannot hate you for showing me love. You've shown me something that I haven't had. Something I've only ever dreamed of. An idea I gave up many decades ago. And yet here I am, pouring myself to you because hurting you is the last thing I want to do." His eyes meet yours and you see nothing but regret and truth in them.

"But you did, Geralt. Do you understand that? You say you don't want to be vulnerable because it's frightening. And it is. But the scariest part about giving your heart to someone is the fact that they have to power to break it. If you're so afraid of me doing that to you, why would you do that to me?" Your voice cracks and you curse yourself for getting so emotional.

He's silent and you sigh heavily.

"I cannot continue pretending that you are not hurting me when you are. I cannot trust you when you tell me that Yennefer is something of the past when she clearly remains a part of your present. You crave simpler times? We all do. That doesn't give us the right to hurt those that we care about." He steps towards you, slow enough for you to move away or tell him to stop if you want to.

When he's right in front of you he lifts his hand, the rough tips of his fingers tracing over the bandage by your collarbone.

He shakes his head, hating himself for not being there to protect you, hating the fact that he hurt you.

"I may never be able to express how much I regret causing you pain, how much I wish I could go back and change it." He rests his hand on the gauze, the warmth of his skin warming you through the layer between your skin and his.

He lowers his head, forehead against yours as he lets out a shaky breath.

"I love you, (Y/n). I may not say it often, but I mean it. You mean the world to me. Yen... she represents something that was fleeting. Brief pleasure. But you? You're a deeper desire. I feel the effects of you deep in my veins, in every breath I take."

Your bottom lip trembles, silent tears dripping down your cheeks as your emotions overwhelm you.

"If you wish to stay here with your brother... your people... I will understand. I will not force you to follow me, especially after I've hurt you. But you should know that you will always have a place with me, beside me. And no one will ever take that place." He presses a gentle kiss to your lips, soft and comforting and far too short. He's pulling back and stepping away from you, his eyes on yours.

"I'll leave now, but I will always have you in my heart, no matter what you choose to do."

He leaves then, and you find yourself with a decision before you. A difficult and quite possibly impossible decision.

Go with Geralt, leave your brother and your people and face the dangers that await the Witcher, go on countless adventures and be with the man you love, even though he may hurt you again.

Or, be the leader your people need. Join your brother and build bonds with the elves that remain, help build up an army and create a force stronger than men. One strong enough to take back what is rightfully yours.

Your decision is between your responsibility and your heart, and you hate yourself for knowing what you need to do.

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