#I do love me some Geralt in purple

[eeriefeelingsat3amuwu]

So, because my friend wanted me to draw hunky men in corsets, have some Kaer Morons, in all three versions.

Sketch:

Lineart:

Final:

Yes I did forget their pendants, yes I realized it after I finished doing lineart, yes I am mad at myself. Anyways, hope y’all enjoy lol-

[donaweasley]

Promises to Keep

Pairing: Geralt x Fem!Reader

Plot:

Geralt is tasked with protecting a princess but his feelings keep poking at him, urging him to shed his tough armour and give in to his heart. But the witcher is a righteous man. He won’t succumb to his feelings so easily. Will he?

Some pining, some fluff that will lead to a “part 2” of this story.

Warnings: A bit of m.at.ure stuff. K.i.d.s better stay away!

Read time: ~15 mins

Note: This story has been based in a timeline before the fall of Cintra, and so, Geralt has not yet started his quest for Ciri. Oh, and he doesn’t fall in love with Yennefer. 😉

Prologue:

Geralt of Rivia has been tasked with many a difficult missions but the hardest of them all was probably not killing but protecting a person. That person was a princess whose parents had specifically called for Geralt to take their daughter under his wing as Nilfgaard marched towards their doorstep.

The princess could fight; she had been in battles but Nilfgaard had morphed into something entirely different from what the Continent had previously seen. It was as though Hell itself had poured into their army, leaving a trail of ash and blood wherever it went.

And so, turning all cries and protests from the said princess to deaf ears, her parents sent her away, in return of an assurance from her that, should their kingdom fall, she would come back and restore it to its glory, flying their banners from every nook and corner.

They knew she could, they had said.

The journey with Geralt had not been easy, moving from camp to camp, from inn to inn, not to mention the complications of his profession. But time gradually made things easier for them both, eventually bringing them to a point where they could comfortably pose as husband and wife so as to protect her identity, and avail a temporary shelter in a village.

And even though they were living a lie of being a married pair, their hearts often wished to forget reality, and enjoy the bliss of domestic life with one another. To be with each other unconditionally, forgetting all rules and boundaries.

But Geralt was a man of ethics, and she did not want him to bear the burden of guilt just because her stupid heart could not stop fluttering for this kind, brave gentleman with a heart of gold!

And thus, neither, for fear of straining what they already had, could ever utter their feelings to each other. After all, they had promises to keep.

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

A few months ago:

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

She hurt herself on the thick leather armour as she flung her arms around his neck. But she did not care. That was a pain she would happily endure if it meant seeing Geralt at her doorstep safe and sound.

He smelled of sweat and blood and the swamp. He probably tasted like it, too. Alright, so what? The man returned after three weeks from the edge of the Continent. And perhaps from the edge of life. She couldn't care less about what he smelled or tasted like. But did he really…? She was very close to confirming her assumption - almost there - when Geralt suddenly remembered his place: the protector of the princess, a mere witcher.

“Princess,” the rich baritone vibrating in her ear woke her up from her purple dream. She could not help but lean back when she found her “husband” doing the same.

Geralt spread his arms slightly, and smiled with that usual softness in his eyes that came to the forefront only when she was around. “Safe and sound. Just like I had promised.”

“I am honoured!” She jested, and stepped inside, making room for Geralt to do the same.

“Give me a minute. I'll draw a bath for you. And once you have cleaned that mess off you, you'll have a warm dinner waiting,” she smiled and turned to make her way to the bath when Geralt gently but firmly held her wrist.

Neither could deny the spark that coursed through their veins at the contact. But neither would confess. Involuntarily, the witcher’s thumb made faint circles over her veins. Once he realised what he was doing, he slowly released her but their fingers lingered over the other’s before finally making some room between them.

Geralt pleaded with her to stop fussing over it all but the woman was ecstatic! Who could stop her from doing everything she could for the man she was falling in love with! Not even the strongest witcher.

And so, she hopped away to prepare a warm bath for him while he busied himself with the relieving task of removing his armour and weapons.

Geralt lay in the bath, pondering over the unsaid things that have been passing between the princess and him. Especially the ones that happened that evening. They had never been this close before, and it only made his breath shallower every time he thought about it. His mind wandered away unleashed every time his drunken heart slipped into fantasies of what could have happened had he not pulled away from her embrace…or what might happen if he allowed himself a bit more liberty with his feelings…

A gentle knock on the door startled him, bringing him back to the reality of the small room lit by two candles, back to the fact that the woman living under the same roof with him was his mission, not his real wife, as the villagers knew her to be. There was no way a witcher could dream of having a wife and a family, let alone with a princess!

“Need anything?” The voice was gentle, happy…it was caring. It made Geralt smile to think that someone cared so deeply for him, that he was actually having a domestic life, even though a fake one.

“Your company would be nice,” he quipped.

Geralt grinned wickedly. He did not need to see her to know the blush creeping up her ears and cheek.

Over the months their relationship - real or fake, whatever that was - had built into a strong bond, one that was made of cares, banters, challenges, huffs (and not just from the witcher), puns of all kinds and fluttering heartbeats. And though neither backed down during the banters or the puns, either one of them definitely ended up with blood rushing up their cheeks.

(Y/N) bit her lip and rolled her eyes. Two could play this game. Taking a deep breath, she cracked the door open. It startled Geralt, and she could tell it without seeing his wide eyes and parted lips.

“I believe you have a lot to talk about from your adventure?” She slowly walked in, eyes straining to look anywhere but at him.

She did not receive an immediate response. How could she! Geralt was spellbound by the boldness of this woman! It was inspired by his own recent boldness, perhaps, he wondered.

He cleared his throat, “Indeed.”

She picked up a small wooden stool, and sat with her back to him. “You were saying?”

“I would detail everything but are you sure you can stomach all that? And before dinner?”

Glimpses from his previous tales crept back, and she gulped at the gory imaginations that his words had painted in her head. Perhaps she could not. But would she confess? No!

“I’m tougher than you think, witcher.”

This was their usual way of addressing each other: “Witcher”, with a sarcastic stress in the middle of the word, and “Princess”, with a vanity enveloping the word.

When they had set out for their journey, she had requested him not to call her “princess”. “I have a name, and I would like to be addressed by it,” she had insisted. But Geralt had decided on maintaining his propriety.

When asked whether he would like to be addressed as Geralt or Witcher, he had simply mumbled, “Whatever you like, Princess.”

“Witcher it is then.”

And that has ever been going on, until recently when some rare moments witnessed them addressing each other by their names, and not what they were to the world.

In the small bathroom now, she heard a slosh behind her, signalling the rise of the large man from his bath. She tried her best to stop her shameless mind from picturing his wet body, dripping with water as he stood and stepped out of the tub, as he reached for the towel nearby and dried himself with it before wrapping it low around his waist. But the quiet of the night made sure that every little sound and movement reached her ears, leaving her a slave to her unabashed imagination.

Geralt grunted, the sound coming from right above her head.

“I know you can’t take it…Princess,” the last word was practically breathed on the shell of her ear.

Leaving her a total mess, Geralt sauntered out of the bathroom with a promise to indulge her in his stories after dinner.

That night, in the faint light of the moon, nimble fingers traced the contours of the witcher’s face as he slept - brows slightly arched, lips parted, face as serene as a dawn in Spring. She watched him breathe peacefully, devoid of the cares of the world, until a small smile cracked at a corner of his mouth. With eyes still closed, he placed a hand on hers and brought it to his lips. A chaste kiss was all it was, and yet it had her heart thundering. He had never - ever - shown any affection other than soft looks and gentle smiles.

“Sleep princess,” he rasped in a sleepy voice.

He opened his eyes once, to watch her smile at him, before holding her hand snuggly and drifting back to sleep.

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

Present day:

The sound of the door cracking open brought her back to the present. Quickly slipping a little more below the soapy water, she gripped the hilt of her sword.

It was Geralt. The moment he set one foot inside, his eyes went wide. It took him hardly a second to swing on his heels, to look away, but the sinful image had planted itself in his head. Probably for eternity.

“Pardon me. I…I did not know… I thought you were done. I just returned from outside; I did not notice that you were not anywhere else. I…”

“Geralt!” His name. She spoke his name! That, along with her soothing tone put an abrupt end to his string of stammering apologies. “It’s alright. I know you had no ill intentions.”

Shifting uncomfortably on his feet for a couple of seconds, he asked, “Do you need anything?”

Her lips stretched into a smirk as she recalled an old conversation that had occurred under very similar circumstances.

“Your company would be nice,” she quipped, just like Geralt had a few months ago.

The witcher recognised the joke immediately. A small smile escaped his usual serious features.

“I believe you have a lot to talk about your first kill,” he jested just like she had back then.

The sigh that filled the room made Geralt wonder if he had said something uncalled for. She was shaken by the incident but if she was making jokes now, she must be recovering. Right?

“(Y/N),” Geralt called without looking at her, “are you alright?”

“No, if truth be told,” came the confession.

He understood. Keeping his gaze focused on the floor, he took a few large steps until he was standing near the foot of the tub. In one smooth move, he was sitting on the floor with his back to her.

There was something about Geralt that made her feel protected all the time. Even in her most exposed and vulnerable state, she felt safe and comfortable with him around. And it was not just the love she felt for him. It was something else. It was something…very “Geralt”.

“The monsters we kill haunt our minds till long after. You never get used to it no matter how many kills you have made,” he sighed.

(Y/N) listened quietly. He was a man of few words, and at most times it seemed as though he was not even listening. But he always understood every single unexpressed emotion, every single unsaid word that she carried within her.

“Every time I close my eyes or every time I hear something, fear grips me,” she shivered at the thought. “You are right. I'm haunted by its memory, and … I cannot seem to shake the thoughts off. No matter how hard I try! I cannot even be courageous enough to convince myself that it is all in my head!” She slapped the water in frustration.

Unlike the witcher, killing monsters was not her profession nor did she volunteer for it. But what she did volunteer for was accompanying Geralt to a trip to the river caves for some herbs. Despite the witcher’s efforts to shield her inside the safety of their home, she managed to argue her way out of the proverbial safety net. Which is what led to the unforeseen event of her first close encounter with one of the many monsters that had become part of Geralt’s life. It also led her to, for the first time, being at the receiving end of Geralt’s fury for risking her life .

‘You were very courageous back there,” Geralt smiled at the memory of her driving her sword through the neck of the drowner, thus saving his own neck in the process.

“I had to be! Couldn’t just stand there and watch my favourite grumpy fellow die!” She jested about it but a shiver ran up her spine as she spoke. “It was disgusting, you know? I can still feel all the blood and slime on my skin.”

“It was also very brave. You saved my life!”

He had thought that his statement would make her proud but he was met with silence.

She spoke after a while. “You do know that I shall not be able to live anymore if something happens to you, don’t you? I shall only survive.”

Geralt’s heart suddenly felt very heavy in his chest. What she said was known information to him. Somewhere in his soul, he knew that she loved him. But to hear it aloud was totally unexpected.

“I shall be fine, princess,” he used his most assuring voice. “Do not worry about me.”

Unseen by him, a smile formed on her countenance. “I know, witcher.”

“Maybe we could talk about something else?” He suggested. “Take your mind off the monster?”

“Hmm… How is Jaskier?” She suddenly asked.

Geralt almost turned his head towards her in surprise. Almost. She was naked, having a bath, and the first “something else” that came to her mind was the bard??

“Jaskier?” He asked. “You wish to talk about Jaskier now?”

“Well, you wanted to talk about something else!”

Was that jealousy that she was sensing in his huffs? She hoped it was.

“He must be fine. I do not know.” He ended the topic as quickly as it had begun.

“Hmm.”

The princess laid her head back on the tub and closed her eyes. There was a comfortable silence. So comfortable that she did want to leave, did not want to do anything that might disturb the moment. Even though it was getting late. Even though Geralt still had to wash himself.

Geralt still has to wash himself! Shit! He must be hungry!

Her eyes shot open. “I’m sorry, I forgot you have to wash up, too! I shall be quick.”

The sudden splash of water pulled Geralt out of his own reverie, inadvertently causing him to turn around so as to ask her not to hurry. But the sight before him left him speechless. It was fortunate that she was too busy to see him else he would never have been able to face her in shame. Geralt turned back and shut his eyes as soon as he snapped out of his trance. But that did nothing to erase the image imprinted in his mind. Not that he wanted to.

She had pulled herself up slightly, as she tried to reach for the towel on the nearby stool. In the light of the candles, her body glowed golden as water cascaded off every curve of her body… down the side of her neck, her shoulders, two perfect globes that highlighted particularly well in the candlelight, perky nipples that had hardened in the water, the beginning of a lustful waist…

He did not hear her step out of the tub, did not hear the rustle of clothes as she got dressed, no. His mind was replaying the same thing over and over again. There was an evident twitch somewhere down his body. He faintly heard something about dinner and changing the water. The creak of the door pulled him back.

“I shall…” His voice was hoarse. “I shall change the water. You may leave.”

The change in his mannerism surprised her but then both his voice and attitude were gravelly most of the time. With a small “alright”, she exited, leaving him to his thoughts.

Dinner was quiet as Geralt tried to suppress the feelings bubbling inside him. He wanted to look at her and lose himself in her eyes. He wanted to tell her how he felt. Wanted to show her what it meant to unleash months of bridled love that he had been carrying within his entire being. He wanted to…

Gods! There were so many things that he wanted to do. But every time he talked himself into taking one step forward, his reality made him take two steps back.

And so, once again, he retired to bed without telling her anything at all about the whirlwind in his heart.

Geralt woke up sometime in the middle of the night, sensing some movements near him. Once sleep stopped fogging his senses, he realised that it was (Y/N) tossing and turning beside him in her sleep. Not only was she being restless, she was mumbling something incoherent that only got louder with her movements. It hardly took him a couple of seconds to realise that she was having a nightmare!

Geralt tried to wake her up: called her name, shook her. But she was trapped deep in her own head. He thought he heard something like his name but could not be sure. Seeing his efforts go in vain, he took her face in both hands and shouted her name while shaking her once more. He wasn’t sure if it would work but luckily, it did. With wild eyes she stared at him, as if trying to figure out where she was, trying to put up a wall between her horrid imagination and sweet reality. When she finally came around, she threw her arms around Geralt’s neck, causing him to tumble to the mattress with her below. Once again, he fought with himself as a wave of relief washed over him, eventually crashing into a strong desire to keep her encased in his arms and caress her for the remainder of the night.

“I dreamt that you were…” she almost sobbed. “That I had…” She couldn’t bring those bitter words to her tongue.

Geralt understood.

“You will never lose me. I shall always be by your side. I promise.”

In the dark veil of the night, in those weak moments, he made her a promise that even he did not know how he would keep, for she would be married to some royalty some day; she would have to go away, leaving him with his solitude and monsters. He could not keep her to himself nor could he watch her be with somebody else.

But that was a worry for another day. Right then, she was in his arms, and no one else’s. Even if for a moment, she was his. He lay on his side and pulled her to his chest. A hand cradled her head, drawing soothing lines through her hair, until her warm breath on his skin had become stable.

Geralt never seeked help or answers from the gods; he did not believe in them. But as he kissed the crown of her head that night, his lips prayed for her safety and happiness, and if possible, for her to be bound to him for eternity.

He knew he was being selfish. He did not know who heard his prayers or even if there was someone who might hear them. But he whispered them anyway, believing that it was the only way to make his wishes come true.

***

[ozai-the-bonsai]

Tame the Dragon

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 |

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!reader

Summary: Daemon has asked you to marry him, but you have to wait to talk with King Viserys until Rhaeneyra and Laenor's wedding takes place. As you and Daemon try to hide the affection you feel for one another, everything gets more complicated with you being betrothed to Jason Lannister.

Warnings: I’m not a native English speaker, strong language, incest, mention of sex, mother abusing her daughter

Taglist: @disneydaddyevans @mirandastuckinthe80s @xicesam @mariamyousef702 @eddiemadmunson @dont-try-pesticide @sweetybuzz25 @hc-geralt-23 23 @schniiipsel @ttae-yong @syrma-sensei

A/N: @schniiipsel requested me to write a few more chapters to the series, so here I am! To be honest, I am not entirely pleased with this part since there is not much of an action in it, but I had to build up the story :) There are a few more parts I'm currently planning to write, we will see :3 If you want to be added to the taglist for the series (or for my future works about Daemon Targaryen in general), just let me know!

| Part 4 |

You woke up to the feeling someone gently caressing your cheek. When your eyes slowly opened, you were greeted by Daemon’s soft smile, which was reaching his purple pupils. A similar smile formed on your lips as you spoke. “Morning.”

Daemon cupped your face and leaned into you to leave a small kiss on your lips. “Morning, sunshine.”

“I could get used to this,” you whispered against his lips while running the fingers of your left hand in his silver hair, “waking up to the sight of you.”

Daemon chuckled as his lips wandered down to your neck. “I wasn’t aware that you were so eager to have me by your side, Princess.” He spoke in between kisses. “Or rather in your bed.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “I though you’ve had enough of this tease the Princess game last night.” You said as he raised his head to look at you.

“I can never get enough of you, Y/N.” He told you before pressing his lips against yours. Even though the kiss started out passionately, it quickly evolved into a rather soft and loving one. Then, Daemon slowly parted your lips. “Come now, we should get dressed.”

Both of you were, seemingly, lost in your own ocean of thoughts for no one said a word while you two got dressed. Since Daemon only had his nightwear, he wore them once again; you changed into a black dress with long sleeves and a low-cut.

To break the silence and ask the question which had been roaming in your head since last night, you cleared your throat. Daemon looked at you with questioning eyes as he brought a glass full of water to his lips. “Will you talk with the King about… us?”

Daemon paused before taking a sip from the water. “About the marriage?” he asked to be sure. You nodded at him. He drank some water before responding to your question. “I will, Y/N, I still stand by what I told you last night. But,” taking a few steps towards you, Daemon cupped your face, “not today. My brother has too many things to worry about and I don’t think it’d be the best idea to tell him that I want to take you as my wife, who is still betrothed to Jason Lannister. We should wait for a time in which he is in a pleasant mood.”

You had completely forgot about the wedding.

The celebrations for Rhaenyra and Laenor’s wedding were beginning at the present day with a feast at night, then, for the remaining six days there was going to be a tournament during the day, and a feast during the night. All the Lords and Ladies from the noble Houses and families were gathering at King’s Landing.

Which meant that Jason Lannister would be there, too.

You nodded at Daemon’s words. “Of course, I have forgot about the wedding,” you spoke quietly. “You know your brother better than I do, so I trust you in this. But Daemon, please be quick.” You closed your eyes as you took a deep breath. “I don’t know how long I can bear this wedding nonsense with Jason Lannister.”

Daemon left a quick kiss on your lips. “I will, I promise.”

The doors of your chambers were opened.

You, instinctually, tried to step away from Daemon as you thought of a sensible excuse for having him in your chambers at that time of the morning in his nightwear. However, Daemon didn’t let you step back as he held your hand.

The moment your mother walked in from the doors; you knew all hell was about to break loose.

With a deep frown on her face, Delaena Targaryen looked at you and Daemon. “What is happening here?” She asked with a demanding tone as Ser Ryden closed the doors. When her looks wandered down to see you two holding hands, her eyes widened. “I want an explanation, now!”

Slowly, Daemon let go of your hand and began walking towards the door. “You will have the explanation you desire, Delaena, when the right time comes.” He told your mother with his usual Daemon-attitude. “I will see you around, Princess.” After winking at you, he opened the doors and left your chambers.

You could literally see the fire of her rage inside her blue eyes as your mother turned to face you. “You stupid girl, what have you done this time?” She spoke between her gritted teeth, holding you firmly from your arm. You tried to shake her off, but you stopped struggling when you heard her gasp -she had seen the marks on your neck.

Then, she slapped you.

“How could you let him touch you, Y/N?” She literally screamed at you as you held your cheek and took some steps back. Your eyes were filled with tears -not because it physically hurt you too much, but your pride was badly hurt. “Your uncle? That troubled man?!”

“He is the only one,” you spoke after wiping away the tears, “who doesn’t use me to mend their political shit!”

Your mother let out a condescending laughter. “Do you really think that he cares about you?” she asked with a scornful tone. “All that Daemon cares about is power, Y/N. And you are a bigger fool than I have thought if you really do believe that he will change, just for you.”

You began to shake your head hysterically. “No, you don’t know what you are talking about!”

You knew that what you shared with Daemon was something special. You had been feeling it in his touches, in his kisses, and in between his words. He had been the one asking you to marry him -there was no other way he could get even more specific.

No, she is simply trying to confuse me. I will not let her push me away from Daemon.

“Fine, believe in whatever you want,” your mother told you as she threw a red, silk scarf at you. “Use this to cover those fucking marks on your neck, for the Gods’ sake! Your husband will be arriving shortly and the last thing I wish is for him to see you like this, marked by your uncle!”

You didn’t realise how hard you were clenching your fist -your long nails had sunken so deep into your palm that blood started flowing down between your knuckles.

Delaena Targaryen pointed at you in a threatening way before she left your chambers. “This will be the last I hear about this nonsense about you and Daemon. I won’t warn you again.”

[Time Skip]

When you returned to the Dragonpit, you had been riding your dragon, Virion, for hours.

After your fight with your mother, you knew you needed some time away from everything and everyone not to do or say something you would regret -you needed time to calm yourself down. Of course, the only way you could be by yourself, was up in the sky, accompanied by your dear Virion.

You hated your mother deeply for everything she had been putting you through; however, she was still your mother -even the thought of cutting your ties with her completely made your heart ache.

It is so unfair, you thought, that she could be so cruel to me, but I cannot mirror the same to her.

As if she doesn’t love me at all.

With the sleeves of your dress, you wiped the tears rolling down your cheeks. You gave yourself the permission to cry only when you were alone with Virion (or when you were being scolded by your mother); however, back in the Dragonpit, someone could always walk in on you.

While you were floating in the sky, you had a lot of time to think about the situation you were currently in -that you had to wait for Daemon to talk with King Viserys and in the meantime, you had to act completely normal around him. Which was, of course, going to take a lot of effort since his mere presence was enough to intoxicate you.

About Jason Lannister, you had decided to keep your façade around him as best as you could, trying to give him the image of the Targaryen Princess he thought he was going to marry, so that no further complications would arise before the King was informed about the situation between Daemon and yourself.

“I knew I would find you here.”

A smile formed on your lips upon hearing his soothing voice coming from behind you. After placing one last kiss on Virion’s nose, you turned back to face Daemon, who was leaning at the wall with his hands crossed over his chest. You could make out a small smirk on his lips.

“I must say that you know me rather too well, my Prince.” You spoke with a playful tone while you walked towards him. “Don’t you think so?”

Daemon’s eyes were lingering on your lips. “In that case, I would wish to know you too well more often, Princess.” He said, causing you to giggle at his words. Then, he leant into you and pressed his lips against yours. You shared a short, but passionate kiss.

You sighed. “I find it so hard to hold myself back when you are around me,” your voice was slightly louder than a whisper. “Tonight is going to be a proper challenge.”

Daemon winked at you as he made you hold his arm. “But it makes the sex even better -the more you long for it.” You were blushed, but at the same time, you were quite turned on. “Come now, Princess, your mother was looking for you everywhere.”

You didn’t even try to hide it when you rolled your eyes. “What does she want this time?” You asked with a weary tone as you walked to the exit.

“The Lannisters are here, enjoying a little chat with my brother.” Daemon responded, you could clearly feel the annoyance in his tone. “He is expecting you, too.”

“Great,” you muttered under your breath. “I have no desire to see that fuckface.”

Daemon chuckled at your words; it always amused him how much hatred you could actually carry under that pretty face of yours. “Your enthusiasm to spend some time with your future husband astonishes me, Princess.” He teased you, which he enjoyed quite much.

“Says you, who was quite eager to crush the said husband's head, if I recall it correctly, my Prince.” You teased him back as you walked towards the Godswood. Daemon sent you a deep look, which sent shivers down your spine, because of excitement, for he was giving you the exact same look as he did the previous night before he fucked you on that damned table.

I cannot let my mind wander off to the memories from last night, doesn’t matter how tempting they seem. You casted one last longing look at Daemon as you arrived at Godswood. For the moment I recall them, the more I want him, again.

“There she is,” you heard King Viserys speaking, which brought you back to reality. “My beautiful niece!” As he casted a look at Daemon, whose arm you were still holding, he smiled at you. “I see that my brother was right -you were with Virion, I assume?”

You immediately wore your political façade as you nodded at the King’s words with a soft smile on your lips. “You of all people, your Grace, know how much of a passion I have for flying.”

Your eyes slowly met those of your mother, who was standing next to a tall, golden-haired, and fairly handsome man -Ser Jason Lannister. His younger twin brother, Ser Tyland Lannister, was speaking with the other members of House Lannister. Upon seeing the warning look inside your mother’s eyes, you slowly let Daemon’s arm go.

“I didn’t now you had such a close relationship with your Uncle Daemon, Princess Y/N.” Jason Lannister told you as he handed you a glass of wine. You tried hard to resist the urge to roll your eyes at his words. As if he knows anything about me. Idiot. But before you could answer, Viserys spoke.

“Yes, Y/N has always been special to Daemon -a relationship which sometimes makes me jealous.” The King said; of course, he had little idea what he was really talking about. You bit the insides of your cheeks to prevent yourself from laughing; however, Daemon showed little to no effort as he snorted. You sent him a warning look.

You took the glass from Jason’s hand as you sent him a fake smile. “Daemon has been the one closest to me ever since I lost my father, my Lord.”

“Rather too close, I would say,” your mother spoke with a somewhat scolding tone. Her silver dress was literally shining under the sun. Your eyes winded at her words. She added. “It is quite unusual for an uncle to care so deeply about his niece -not to mention that it is Daemon we are speaking of.”

What is she doing?

Daemon placed his left hand on the small of your back as he spoke. “Unlike you, Lady Delaena, I am capable of showing love.” You could see your mother getting tenser by the second. “Of course, I would not expect you to understand, since you are, in the first place, incapable of showing love and affection to your own daughter.”

You could swear your mother had gone red in the face. Viserys looked weary as if he had been expecting Daemon to make a scene. Jason Lannister, on the other hand, was very much shocked at the turn of events.

As if he hadn’t done enough to taunt your mother, Daemon left a small kiss on top of your head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a small business to attend to.”

The confusion inside Jason Lannister’s eyes quickly turned into jealousy as he watched Daemon walk away.

[Time Skip]

The hour you spent with Jason Lannister felt like a year.

To let you two get to know each other better, Viserys and Delaena had left you two alone in the Godswood for an hour. All Jason could talk about was his golds, his castle, and how fine of a knight he was. It could have bored you to death if you had to endure it a little longer.

From a fair perspective, Jason Lannister was a fine man, and the lion was probably the dream of many ladies around Westros. However, being a dragon, you found little joy in playing with the lion -he was too small, too weak for you. Of course, you knew very well that you could wrap him around your little finger with ease if you gave him the slightest bit of attention, but there was no fun in it.

He was no fine match for you.

After the King and Delaena Targaryen returned to the Godswood, you quickly started a conversation with Viserys about how fine of a knight Jason was and left the two of them talking about their adventures as you walked away silently. Pouring yourself a glass of wine, you heaved a sigh as you sat down, the voices of the others fading into the background.

Upon hearing the footsteps approaching you, you turned right to look at the person. The look inside your violet eyes softened almost immediately when you saw Daemon walking towards you.

“Have you come to rescue me?” You asked him while you made place for him to sit near you.

Daemon casted a look at his brother and your betrothed before seating himself. “It doesn’t seem like you are in need of that, Princess.”

You took a deep breath as you leaned back, your eyes were on Jason, but you could feel Daemon looking down at you. “Have you ever seen a dragon eat a lion, Daemon?”

Your questions caused him to snort. “I have seen many dragons eat many sheep, but a lion? No, I haven’t.” He responded and took the cup from your hands, which made you turn your eyes to him. “But I would love to see such a thing. Must be quite amusing, I assume.”

You watched him as he drank from the cup he took from you. At that moment, all you wanted to wish for was to be betrothed to Daemon, so that you would be free to kiss him and taste the wine on his tongue at the present moment.

He was all in black, other than his silver hair and pale skin. Even though you loved it more when the moonlighted melted in his hair; the sunlight gave it a breath-taking touch, too.

When he saw you looking at him as if he was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen, he took a deep breath and placed the cup on the table in front of you. “Y/N,” he breathed out your name, causing the memories from the previous night to resurface. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Why?” You found yourself asking with a low tone, which held the longing you felt for him.

Daemon’s eyes wandered to your lips as he spoke. “It makes me want to rip off your dress and have you right then and there.”

The urge to place your hands around his neck and pull him into a kiss was so strong that you had to fold your hands on your lap. “I find myself thinking about last night,” you whispered at him, your look racing between Daemon’s purple eyes and his soft lips. “Every time I lay my eyes on you.”

Daemon took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The way he struggled to hold back was turning you on so much that you could feel yourself getting wet. “Bisa bantis, tolī se kisalbar, jaelan naejot māzigon naejot ao, dārilaros, se qogralbar ao ēva ao epagon nyke naejot tepagon ao iā keligon.” Daemon spoke in High Valyrian, still maintaining a low voice so that no one would hear him. [Tonight, after the feast, I want to visit you, Princess, and fuck you until beg me to give you some rest.]

You found yourself sighing when you heard his words, trying not to rub your thighs against each other. “Kesan sagon jurnegēre naejot naejot ziry, ñuha dārilaros.” [I will be looking forward to it, my Prince.]

The intense moment you were sharing with Daemon was interrupted by someone calling at you. When you saw that it was none other than Jason Lannister, your pain in the ass, you couldn’t help yourself but roll your eyes. Daemon snickered at your reaction.

“Princess,” Jason Lannister said as he approached you and Daemon. “Would you be so kind to join me on a ride? I have brought the finest of our horses.”

You forced a kind smile to form on your lips as you stood up. “I would love to, my Lord, but I should get ready for the feast -it is getting quite late.” You could see the disappointment inside Jason’s eyes but at the same time, there was a hint of jealousy, too. “I will see you tonight.”

[icarustica]

u said u could make the last prompt angstier. do it i dare u

77 - "you were my best friend" round 2 electric boogaloo

(this one is actually on my archive page i'm very proud of it thank u anon for pushing me to finish it)

tw - implied major character death (none actually occur)

♥♥♥ sorrow ♥♥♥

“Listen, we’re out of wine, alright? The–the fucking besotted ladies who were all swooning over that fuckin’ bard bought us out, alright? The last I’ve got is this cheap Redania and that won’t… okay. Sure, I got it!” yelled the cook from across the bar. 

Geralt, midway through drinking himself into oblivion, blinked owlishly, looking up.

Bard.

He’d found himself in Lettenhove, chasing after a lone drowner traveling up the Sinet river. It ravaged every fishing operation it came across, and Geralt figured once the bastard was dead he’d have fishermen practically throwing coin his way.

“Uh-huh. And of course the flashy boy’s got a whole procession and everything,” scoffed the cook, once he’d snatched the last bottle of cheap wine from underneath the counter. “Everyone all dressed up. Throwin’ flowers. Singin’ that song about that witcher.”

Geralt rose.

The cook looked, and his ruddy face paled. His tirade stumbled to a stop.

“The bard,” Geralt said gruffly. “Jaskier?”

The cook nodded, suddenly solemn. “Y-Yes,” he said. To his credit, he wasn’t afraid. Just… nervous, for some reason. “That’s the one. Our own hometown hero.”

Geralt’s mildly tipsy mind raced.

Why would Jaskier be back in Lettenhove?

Why would there be a celebration in his honor?

His mind landed on the only possible answer.

Marriage. The damn bastard had gone and got married.

The wine - ladies who’d desired Jaskier throwing themselves into alcohol. The procession, the flowers - a celebration fit for a lord.

“Of course,” Geralt grumbled, taking the last swig of his tankard. Misery clawed at his gut - all the unsaid words. All the said ones, the terrible ones spoken in biting mountain air. The one I’d been lucky enough to care for… gave up on me.

Geralt swallowed, lashes fluttering as he turned. He gave up on me.

“Witcher,” called the cook as Geralt walked to the door.

He paused, turned back, and met the cook’s suddenly soulful brown eyes. The cook shifted, still clutching the wine. “If you want to find him… Appleshon hill.”

“When?”

The cook’s brows furrowed. He shrugged. “Any time you like.”

Geralt walked up the hill - steep, with just a sparse cobblestone path to guide him. On the way, he was stopped by an old woman with a cane. One of her eyes was milky blue. “Witcher,” she said.

Geralt bowed his head a little. 

“Where are you going?”

“To see Jaskier,” he replied. “The bard. I suspect there was some big fuss about him around here recently.”

She looked at him kindly, then toddled forward, reaching far upward to card her hand through his hair. She inspected it with the eye that worked, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You are his witcher, then.”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

He felt that sinking in his chest again, the unpleasant ache. “I don’t think he’s calling me his anything nowadays.”

“Hm.” Her gaze turned sad. “I suppose.”

And, without another word, she pressed a bouquet of scraggly wildflowers into his hands. Dandelions. Daisies. Little purple things Geralt didn’t know the name of. He swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes firmly trained on their scattered leaves as the old woman turned away.

What a lovely gift, for a lover.

What a dismal apology.

He continued on his way.

Again, he was stopped, this time by a tall man dressed in black, with a large leather satchel. His face was drawn, gaunt. “Ho there,” he called. “Witcher.”

Geralt nodded, slid his eyes away, fully intending to keep going up the hill - he could see the crest now, the shambling stone wall dotted with ivy. Ten minutes, maybe five, and he would be there, closer to Jaskier than he had been in years.

He ran over his speech in his head - all the small things to say, all the large ones to hint at.

“Witcher,” called the man again, voice rough and broken. One dark eyebrow cocked. “What business do you have here?”

“Visiting a friend,” Geralt replied with a sigh, turning to face the other man on the path. 

“No monster-slaying?”

“No.”

“Ah.” The man cocked his head. “Say, if you were ever in the mood to kill a monster, and wanted it remembered… well, I noticed your bard has gone rather into retirement.”

Geralt winced.

“Too soon? Sorry,” the man chuckled, in his gentle timbre. “Well. I’m a writer, not a bard. My name’s Hoid - in case you’ve heard of my work. Perhaps the witcher would like to try stories instead of songs?”

For some reason, anger welled up in his belly. Geralt quieted it with a long breath, in and out. He assessed the man again, from the silver on his shoes to the black stubble on his chin. By all rights, he should have liked this man more than Jaskier - the easy way he talked, the simplicity of his clothing, the wickedness of the knife at his hip…

But it wasn’t Jaskier. It wasn’t his fucking bard. 

“No,” Geralt growled. “Never.”

The writer tilted his head forward in a single nod of acknowledgement. “I understand. Goodnight, witcher, and good luck.”

Geralt watched the man’s back for a long time as he made his way back down the cobblestone hill. 

The door was made of wood. And even Geralt, at his considerable height, could not see over the stone wall. He swallowed the lump in his throat, preparing himself for whatever may lay beyond it –

Jaskier, incensed. Yelling. Screaming at Geralt, ripping his paltry flowers to shreds.

Jaskier, happy. Having forgotten Geralt and his dirt and monsters years ago.

Jaskier…

Geralt swallowed, hand clenched around the wildflowers. He ran through his speech again, through the careful words that had given him the strength to climb those last few steps. Summoning courage, he pushed open the thick wooden gate.

Headstones.

Geralt blinked, and suddenly things seemed to move in slow motion - the crashing of an ocean miles away. The birds circling one bare tree. The headstones all dotted in a row, a tomb or two along the side of the gray wall.

He swallowed, feeling like the continent’s worst fool.

Time moved like a dream. He walked along the headstones, every running word in his mind frozen. He let the heads of the wildflowers scrape the top of the stones, reading name after name, hoping, praying, for something he was too terrified to name.

Nordand Allsor - A Loving Father

Ophela Dart - When The Wind Moves The Tree, Think Thee of Me

Stormund Brekker - Lover, Took Too Soon

Jaskier

Geralt’s mind almost didn’t register it. The last in the row, nestled beneath a tree. He stood there for a long moment, expression blank as he read it, over and over again.

JASKIER.

Bold letters.

Geralt knelt, knees thudding in the dirt. How could he have thought it was a wedding? The flowers, the sad looks, the sudden kindness to a witcher - it couldn’t have been anything else. Jaskier would not be in Lettenhove otherwise. Except to be buried.

Geralt shoved his hand in the dirt, some animal part of him wanting to dig up the fresh earth, needing to touch him, to hold him, to cradle him in his arms and–

He let out a shaky breath, feeling the cool earth in his fingers. Most of him couldn’t believe it, that his bard had gone and died without him.

Geralt slammed the flowers right below the headstone.

His chest shook.

It felt like–

It felt like Jaskier himself was trying to climb his way out of Geralt’s stomach and into his throat.

The thought of it almost made him laugh, the memory of Jaskier’s voice when it became panicked. How ridiculous the man was. The next time Geralt saw him, he’d tell him–

It thudded into him again. A relentless realization, a chain reaction of simple things, the simple fact that he was now a memory, just some man. Geralt imagined fifty years down the road, when he was old and slow and he would have to tell his brothers about the time he had a friend. The time when someone loved him.

“Fuck,” he said, and it shocked the silence away. Now he could hear his own shallow breathing, hear himself tremble, his heart thudding away in his ears. “Fuck.”

His speech.

He’d had a speech.

“I’m sorry,” he started, because that was the beginning, wasn’t it? That had always been the beginning, when he’d imagined this, Jaskier in front of him, gold and alive and sweet and gentle and tough and angry–

“Fucking hell,” he spat at himself. He rubbed his eyes with the hand not grasping at the dirt. He sat up, shakily breathing, trying to find some semblance of composure. He held onto his meditation with a white-knuckled grip, feeling his own spine shake like a tiny dog. He trembled, but he did not break.

He owed him that.

He owed Jaskier dignity.

“I owe you a lot,” he said. “I owe you my life, certainly.” He swallowed. “Friendship. Coin, probably. I think when you… when you left, off that mountain, I took some of your coin with me.” He grabbed his coin purse, and with shaking hands pressed all the gold coins he had into the dirt. “There,” he said. “I…”

He had to pause. To allow his racing heart to return to his body, to let his clouded mind settle on the dirt and the stone in front of him. The sky rumbled, unhappy with his meager apologies.

“I think, though, we both know our friendship is a lot more than an exchange at this point,” he continued, and the words cut up his throat. “I’m truly sorry, Jaskier, for everything I…” he trailed off as he stared at the headstone. 

JASKIER.

He reached forward to press his thumb into the indents. “You were my best friend,” he confessed, and the wind howled and tears pricked at his face. “In the whole world. The whole damn world. And I know it’s too late,” he added, hoarse. “Far too late. I should have been there to protect you, but I was a fool, Jask, I was a fucking bastard to you and I…”

He hung his head. “I wish I could be better to you,” he said, raw. “Give you things you deserve.”

Geralt swallowed.

“You deserve… me. If you want me.”

“Geralt?”

His eyes flew open, staring at the dirt.

Not a good time to start imagining things, Geralt.

“Melitele, I–”

Geralt turned his head, eyes widening, and–

There he was. Dressed in simple, plain clothes, a string of red around his neck, scruffy and long-haired but smelling of wildflowers and chamomile and apples–

Jaskier put a hand over his mouth.

There was a moment of silence, as Geralt, on his knees, felt his heart slow, then quicken, as shock thudded through him again. 

“I can explain,” said Jaskier quickly, holding up a hand. “Those were very nice words, okay, I just–I didn’t want to interrupt, it looked like you were having a moment–”

Geralt stood on admittedly shaky legs, looking at him, just…

He was alive.

The embarrassment of the moment was overshadowed by the beating heart he could hear over the wind.

One moment he had stood, the next he’d wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s very warm, very alive body, pressing his face into the space between Jaskier’s shoulder and his neck. He breathed him in, only briefly wondering if he was allowed this, allowed this contact, before Jaskier’s hands gripped him back.

“Now, listen,” said Jaskier carefully after a moment. “There was a very nasty escapade involving my mother wanting me back to rule over Lettenhove. I had to fake my death. It was really quite an adventure but I can see how you sobbing over my grave–”

Geralt grumbled, deep in his chest. “Not sobbing.”

“Practically sobbing. Really close, in fact.”

Geralt leaned back, and held Jaskier’s chin in his hand, feeling that pulse again. Alive, alive, alive. “Weeping,” he said very seriously.

Jaskier laughed, blue eyes twinkling. Then they faded. “Wait. You’re serious. Geralt, I’m fully prepared to forget what I just saw if you want me to. I swear, even the part about you owing me your life–”

Geralt brushed his hair out of his face. “Don’t joke. I was mourning,” he said, and his voice was still rough. “I never want to mourn you again.”

“Oh,” breathed Jaskier, soft as a whisper. “Well, that’s very–”

Geralt kissed him, soft as anything.

-♥icarusty

[xieyaohuan]

A Love-Hate Relationship (Squealing Santa 2k22)

A/N: Happy holidays, @amazingmsme! Hope you enjoy the fic! Big thanks to @hypahticklish for hosting this year's @squealing-santa (it's my first)!

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Prompt: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer Geralt/Jaskier Jaskier/Yennefer ~Jaskier accidentally lets it slip that he likes being tickled & they take advantage ~ Geralt & Yennefer have fun bullying their favorite bard & turning him into a giggly puddle

Word count: ca. 1400

It’s early in the morning when Jaskier wakes up.

He yawns, stretching his arms above his head as he exits the tent. The air is crisp, and he can feel the grass crunching underneath his boots.

Geralt and Yennefer are already outside, sitting in front of the fire, warming their hands, drinking tea.

“Good morning!” Jaskier announces. “Another beautiful day!”

Geralt grunts something unintelligible that sounds suspiciously like “Morning.” He looks grim as usual, but Jaskier has known him long enough to know how to read his face; he’s in a better mood than most days.

Yennefer is scowling at Jaskier from underneath the hood drawn deep into her face, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea. Do you ever shut up, bard? Her eyes say.

“Good morning to you as well. Did you have sweet dreams?” Jaskier gives her his most cheerful smile. “I slept wonderfully,” he continues without waiting for a reply he knows won’t come — Yennefer is not a morning person.

He trudges over to Geralt, who is stirring the fire with a stick.

“What are your plans for today? Kill a koshchey? Slay a striga?” Jaskier is hardly paying any attention to the steady trickle of words pouring out of him like a waterfall. “Banish a banshee? Mangle a mamune? Tickle a kikimora?”

Geralt tears his eyes away from the fire, glaring at him. “I wasn’t tickling that kikimora,” he grunts.

Jaskier grins. He’ll never get tired of reminding his friend that his fight with the monster just a few days ago certainly looked like a tickle fight.

“Oh, but would you like to though?” He asks. He just can’t resist; Geralt is too easy to tease.

Geralt exhales forcefully, not dignifying his question with a reponse.

“Or perhaps you’d like to be tickled by a kikimora?” Jaskier offers. “Perhaps some other monster? Oh let me guess-“

“Don’t like getting tickled,” Geralt cuts him off gruffly.

“What?” The bard feigns shock. “You don’t like being tickled? That’s unheard of.”

Geralt only scowls at him in response, but Yennefer looks up, suddenly interested in the one-sided conversation that annoyed her so much just minutes ago, her deep purple eyes meeting Jaskier’s. “So you like being tickled?” She asks, and Jaskier swears there’s a hint of a smile on her face.

“Of course I like being tickled! Everyone likes being tickled,” he proclaims, perhaps a bit too carelessly, he thinks in hindsight.

“You do?” She gets up, taking a step towards him.

Jaskier gulps. He’s only now noticing the look in her eyes, that dark, amused sparkle that suggests she’s not trying to make polite conversation with her question.

He can feel his cheeks blushing slightly. “Maybe… just… just a little bit?” He ventures, shrinking back as she takes another step towards him.

The truth is, Jaskier has a love-hate relationship with tickling. He’s so ticklish it’s invariably unbearable while it’s happening, but he’s also irresistibly drawn to the thought of somebody’s hands dancing over his helpless body, finding all his sweet spots, making him laugh uncontrollably until all he can do is beg them for mercy.

“Hmm,” Yenn says. “Just a little… I see.”

“I… I think I better go… feed Roach! Yeah, yeah, I gotta feed Roach, he’s not had breakfast yet, I bet he’s really hungry, wouldn’t want to let him starve, would we,” Jaskier awkwardly attempts to change the topic. He’s trying to squeeze past Yennefer, but his legs have turned to pudding.

Perhaps it’s because he’s dealing with an ancient mage thrice his age who likes power just a little too much and has a loose moral compass around wielding her own. Or perhaps, it’s just her eyes and the thought of what awaits him next that are freezing him in place. All Jaskier knows is that he can’t move, and it’s beginning to dawn on him that, perhaps, just perhaps he has made a mistake with his overly honest admission.

“He likes being tickled. Did you hear that, Geralt?” Yennefer is beaming, all the morning grumpiness wiped off her face, replaced by a devious smile.

Geralt looks up, rolling his eyes. “It was hard to miss.”

Her smile is getting wider. “I say we should verify.”

Before Jaskier fully realizes what is happening, she has pushed him to the ground, straddling him. He tries to wiggle out from underneath her, but she’s effortlessly pinning him in place with just her knees.

“Oh, damn.” He chuckles nervously. “I’d completely forgotten that you’re so much stronger than you look.”

Yenn does not respond, but her hands are hovering over his stomach, wiggling slightly, and just seeing those hands is turning Jaskier to jelly.

“Wait, wait, wait!” He wails. “I’m not ready! I’m not-”

Before he can get out another word, she’s attacked his sides.

Jaskier lets out an involuntary eeeeeek, trying to suppress the giggles welling up inside of him as her hands move down and start squeezing his hips.

When Yennefer unbuttons his doublet and pulls up his shirt, scribbling her fingers directly over his exposed skin, he can’t hold back anymore.

It’s just too much.

Jaskier throws his head back and starts laughing. All his efforts to fend off her hands are failing. She’s too fast for him, her fingers alternating between tickling his stomach, his ribs, his sides.

“Help!” Jaskier manages between bouts of laughter. “Geralt, help! Help me!”

He knows he’s made another mistake when he catches a glimpse of his friend’s face. Instead of telling Yennefer to cut it out so he can continue to drink his tea and stare into the distance in peace, Geralt gets up and walks over slowly.

He grabs Jaskier’s wrists and pins his arms above his head effortlessly with just one hand, leaving his other hand free to-

“Nohohohh,” Jaskier squeals. “No, no, no, NO! Wait!”

His protestations are falling on deaf ears as Geralt’s hand starts dancing over his belly, finding Jaskier’s most sensitive spots with surprising ease, the bard’s pleas drowned out by hysterical laughter.

“I think we have a sweet spot riiiight here!” Yennefer is digging her fingers into his lower ribs while Geralt is pulling up his arms up, stretching him until he can't move a muscle, and somehow, that’s making the tickling so much worse.

Being immobile and so completely at the mercy of his friends is doing something to Jaskier’s brain, making him panic, screaming at him to escape at all cost, his dignity be damned.

“Alright, alright!” He cries between giggles. “Please! Plea-plea-pleheahease!!”

“Please what? ‘Please don’t stop?’ ‘Please tickle me some more?’” Yennefer is pinching his thighs, sending jolts through his entire body, making sure that all that comes out of Jaskier’s mouth is more desperate laughter.

“Hmmm…” Geralt hums, his face still a mask. “I think you do like getting tickled.” He turns his head to Yenn. “What do you think? Is he enjoying it?”

“Oh, just look at him,” Yennefer says, laughing now, “he’s loving it!”

Jaskier can feel his face flush, and it’s not just from all the uncontrollable giggling and squirming. He is loving it, in a twisted kind of way, but there’s also something about hearing those words said out loud that’s making him flustered.

“I’m sorry!” He squeals, not quite sure what he’s even apologizing for — teasing Geralt a little too often? Talking too much? Being so deadly ticklish? “I’m sohohohohorry!”

“Oh, are you now?” Finally, there’s a smirk on Geralt’s face, and between fits of helpless laughter, Jaskier can’t help but feel proud to have made his friend smile.

They take turns pinning and tickling him until Jaskier can’t tell up from down and left from right.

“Stop!” He cries, his legs kicking helplessly. “Mercy! Mehehehehehercy!”

“But I thought you liked it so much,” Yennefer teases. “Why would you want us to stop?”

***

When they finally do stop what feels like hours later, Jaskier collapses on the ground, gasping for air.

He’s still panting minutes later when Geralt and Yennefer have returned to the fire and resumed drinking their tea, but there’s a content smile on his face. “I can see why you won that tickle fight the other day, Geralt,” Jaskier calls. “That kikimora didn’t stand a chance.”

Geralt glares at him, but then his glower turns into a mischievous grin. “Oh, you do love it, don’t you?”

“Nononono wait no wait wait!” Jaskier squeals as Geralt pins him to the ground, attacking his ticklish belly once more.

It’s only the morning, and it looks like it’s going to be a long day.

[latinafangirlx]

Love In The Dark

Summary: Geralt is trying to keep you in the dark about his witcher self but how are you suppose to love him when he won't allow you to know him

Word count: 677

A/N: Based on Adele's song-Love In The Dark

___________________________________________________________

Geralt has his back turned to you with his arm brought up to his face to hide the lingering affects of a potion he took not long ago to slay a monster.

He didn't anticipate you being awake so late in the night, but you were.

It had been 2 weeks since you saw him leave to the nearby kingdom to slay a striga terrorizing the king and his subjects to death.

It was a monster that even Geralt feared for his life, so of course you jump at the chance to greet him home no matter the hour.

"Please, stay where you are Don't come any closer"  Geralt spoke.

"Geralt" you said with a sigh, "Don't try to change my mind"

You were referring to your decision of wanting to be with Geralt despite his brutal tendencies and line of work.

But he was most afraid of you seeing him in his murderous stage and having you beyond fearful of his terrifying gaze while the potion was wearing off.

"The more you distance yourself, the harder it is. Please accept that I am willing to accept you as you are and what you are...." you trail off softly as you approach him brooding stature, him still hiding his gaze.

"I can't love you in the dark It feels like we're oceans apart"

"The distance is what keeps you safe. You must stay home on my hunts and can only approach me when my potions have worn off. In this adrenaline state, I am scared to have you see the monster I am...what would come to be if I hurt you?" he replied gruffly.

You outstreach towards him but he catches your hand and holds it.

"Geralt" you began, "You may think of yourself as a monster but I do not. You were once human and I believe that despite the witcher mutations, you can still feel love. Love that burns greater than the desire to kill. You have given me something that I can't live without. You mustn't underestimate that when you are in doubt"

He let out a small gruff but still held your hand in place.

"We can't carry on like this is fine, Geralt" you told him as you tried to peer through his dirty long white hair, "Look at me please".

"I can't face your breaking heart" Geralt replied and let go of you.

You used this chance to reach out and cup his cheek, feeling some outgrown stubble.

He hummed softly and allowed it.

"I'm trying to be brave. Please show me" you said softly and carassed his cheek with your thumb.

"I love you Geralt of Rivia, please let me in your world. Every word I've said, you know I'll always mean" you spoke to him.

He turned halfway so you could see some dark veins swimming around his eyes.

"It is the world to me that you are in my life Y/N" Geralt said in his hoarse voice.

"I want to live with you, not just survive with you" you tell him. He then lets you gently turn his face to your direction and there it is. His inner monster released on his face.

His eyes are pitch black with a look of purple bruising around, black swimming veins and prominent canine teeth.

His expression is soft and expecting you to scream, vomit, and pass out.

Instead, you run your thumb over his cheek in a loving manner and show no fear, no repulsion.

Just love for the witcher.

Geralt places his hand over yours on his cheek.

"You're not repulsed by me?' he questioned.

"No Geralt" you gently smile, "I'm happy for our beginning".

He lets out a small smile, almost undetectable. He felt so much relief.

Your eyes gleam into his, fear or repulsion never crossing your mind. Just endlessly admiring the pure darkness and reflection his eyes give.

You then reach for his hand and tell him he's in dire need of a bath.

He softly chuckles and agrees, following you .

[havenoffandoms]

Without Your Kisses (I’ll Be Needing Stitches)

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier (Geraskier)

Warnings: None

Summary: 

It was probably what most people would call a peaceful evening. The sun was slowly setting behind the hills, basking their surroundings in warm hues of orange and red, giving way to an inky purple, cloudless sky. The first stars appeared on the canopy above just as the hot summer air progressively cooled with the impending evening. There was no noise, no disruption, nothing that would otherwise indicate that something was just about to disturb the peaceful silence that had settled over the Gwenllech valley.

Until-

“Son of a bitch”

Notes: Guess who’s back (back, back), back again! It’s been a long hiatus (sorry!) but hopefully this wee Geraskier drabble will make up for it :) 

It was probably what most people would call a peaceful evening. The sun was slowly setting behind the hills, basking their surroundings in warm hues of orange and red, giving way to an inky purple, cloudless sky. The first stars appeared on the canopy above just as the hot summer air progressively cooled with the impending evening. There was no noise, no disruption, nothing that would otherwise indicate that something was just about to disturb the peaceful silence that had settled over the Gwenllech valley.

Until-

“Son of a bitch,” a loud, some would say dramatic, voice shrieked unexpectedly, startling a murder of crows out of a nearby tree which took flight in a cacophony of hoarse caws and grating coos. “That fucking hurts, you brutish, brusque, uncouth bastard witcher-”

“Stay still,” Geralt snapped, his eyes shooting up to glare at his companion. “You know, I have very little sympathy for you right now.”

“Don’t remind me!” Jaskier hissed in anticipation of the pain, even though Geralt was nowhere near his injury yet. “You are showing an incredible lack of empathy considering the love of your life is on death’s doorstep.”

“You’re not dying, Jaskier. It’s just a dislocation. You will live.”

“I might die from pain if you keep tugging at it like the brute you are!” Jaskier complained in a snippy tone, eyeing his dislocated knee like it might catch fire any second. Geralt heaved a deep sigh as he tried to find the right words to placate Jaskier and convince him that the next step was crucial to his recovery.

“I need to relocate the kneecap before we immobilise the leg. If I don’t, you’ll probably have to walk with a limp or a cane for the rest of your life. Is that really what you want?”

“I can sing and compose just as well with a broken leg,” Jaskier maintained stubbornly, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. Geralt felt like strangling this ridiculous peacock of a man.

“Good luck getting off this mountain in spring with a dislocated leg. Unless you’re happy for your only audience to be Vesemir.”

“You wouldn’t leave me up here all by myself.” Annoyingly, Geralt found himself agreeing with the bard. He was all up for teaching Jaskier a lesson, but he wasn’t cruel. If Jaskier asked, Geralt would probably carry him down the mountain.

“Even if I felt so generous as to help you down this mountain, I certainly wouldn’t be spending my time taking you to various bardic competitions because you couldn’t be bothered to properly heal your leg.” That was already a few inches closer to the truth, although Jaskier really didn’t need to know just how far Geralt would go to keep him happy. “And you know what will happen if you don’t show your face at those competitions, do you?”

Jaskier scowled at Geralt, clearly in a stroppy mood, but Geralt knew that he had hit a nerve already. With a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Geralt delivered the final blow.

“Would you rather put up with the pain for next few weeks while your leg heals properly, or live for the rest of your life knowing that you let Valdo Marx win the prize that you have been holding for five years straight?”

“Eight years,” Jaskier corrected Geralt vehemently, a new heat to his tone that Geralt rarely got to witness from his bard… unless, of course, the topic of conversation turned to Valdo Marx. “Eight years, and he will not take that from me, the opportunistic bastard.”

“So, does that mean-”

“Yes, yes , fine!” Jaskier relented, his gaze turning pleading as he met Geralt’s eyes again, “but do be gentle with me dear, alright? I am a delicate bard, unused to the harsh lifestyle you and your brothers have come to call normal over the centuries.”

“Delicate is not the word I’d use.”

“Oh, pray tell witcher, what word would you use to describe your sweetheart?” Jaskier challenged, raising an eyebrow quizzically. “Choose your next words wisely, or you might end up sleeping on your own tonight.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Geralt deadpanned, fighting the smile threatening to break across his face as Jaskier scoffed in affront.

“That’s it, you’re sleeping in Eskel’s room tonight! Or Lambert’s, or Vesemir’s, I don’t care. Not with me, that’s for-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted the bard, his tone turning softer and patient like it did when he tried to coax stubborn Roach into compliance, “that’s enough trying to distract me from the task at hand. The quicker I do this, the quicker you can go back to whatever it was you were trying to do before you fell down the stairs.”

“Not my fault your stairs are dangerously slippery!” Jaskier defended himself, though there was no mistaking the edge in his tone. Geralt had been in the witchering business long enough to recognise fear when he saw it.

“Jaskier…”

“Alright, alright.” Jaskier readjusted himself so his back was pressed against the wall, grimacing when the action tugged at his injured leg. Geralt nearly winced in sympathy, though he knew that showing his own discomfort would only encourage Jaskier’s panic. After taking a composing breath, Jaskier closed his eyes and declared that he was ready with all the confidence of a rock troll ice skating over thin ice.

“I’ll count down from ten,” Geralt said reassuringly, watching Jaskier tense at those words. “You need to relax, Jask, or it will hurt more.”

“Said the man whose knee is currently still in the correct socket…”

“I’ve suffered enough dislocations in my lifetime to know what I’m talking about,” Geralt retorted, if a little defensively. “Deep breaths while I count down. Ten, nine,...”

Predictably, the knowledge that he still had another eight seconds before the pain came was enough to encourage Jaskier to relax ever so slightly, which was exactly what Geralt was counting on. He knew he had to work fast if he wanted to keep Jaskier’s pain levels at a minimum (and if he could simultaneously spare his and his brother’s ears in the process, well, that would be the cherry on the cake).

“Eight,... one.”

With practised movements, Geralt extended Jaskier’s leg with his right hand, and with his left pushed the dislocated kneecap back into line with the rest of Jaskier’s limb. A sharp cry and several passionate ow, ow, you lying, conniving bastard later, Geralt managed to gently lower Jaskier’s leg to the mattress and rise from the bed to look for anything that could serve as a brace for the next few days.

“You said you were counting to ten !” Jaskier accused, still panting and wiping the rogue tears rolling down his cheeks.

“No, I said I would count down from ten. There’s a difference.”

“There’s a difference,” Jaskier mocked Geralt in a forced baritone before flipping him the bird, “here’s what I think of your apology!”

“I wasn’t apologising,” Geralt remarked casually all the while rummaging through his chest for spare knee pads that he might use to immobilise Jaskier’s leg, “I needed you to relax your leg and that wouldn’t have been the case if you knew when to expect the pain. You tensing at the wrong moment could’ve made things worse.”

“Is that so, or are you lying to me again? You know, like when you gave me ten seconds to prepare myself and then snapped by knee back into place after three seconds!” said Jaskier petulantly, earning himself a pointed eye roll.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“And you’re being a little bitch!”

“Would an apology make it all better, dear?” Geralt snarked in response, his patience slowly waning. When he looked up and met Jaskier’s hurt expression, however, something old and tired twisted in his chest. Guilt washed through him despite his better judgement at the sight of Jaskier’s pout, his wet cheeks and the arms crossed over a strong chest. With a heavy sigh, Geralt rose to his feet and walked to Jaskier’s side of the bed. Wordlessly, Geralt leaned down and pressed an apologetic kiss to Jaskier’s temple, taking a minute to nuzzle at the fine brown hair and inhale Jaskier’s familiar scent.

“Forgive me, little lark,” Geralt whispered genuinely in Jaskier’s ear, voice soft and contrite. “I didn’t mean to cause you any more pain.”

Jaskier physically deflated at the tender words, groaning under his breath as he leaned into Geralt’s touch.

“You do make it difficult for me to stay mad at you, dearest witcher.”

Jaskier tilted his head so that his nose brushed against Geralt’s, silently beckoning for another kiss which Geralt was weak to refuse. Their lips met in a slow, loving kiss that went straight to Geralt’s toes, and when Jaskier pulled away Geralt almost felt compelled to chase these delectably soft lips. He managed to reign the urge in, just about.

“You’re forgiven, of course. Thank you for returning my knee to its rightful location, my love.”

“Hm.”

“Ah, yes. I love you, too. Boorishness and all.”

“Ain’t I lucky?”

Despite the teasing tone, Geralt’s words were spoken with the kind of hidden sincerity that many people wouldn’t have known to look for if they didn’t know Geralt well enough. Not Jaskier, though. Geralt was an open fucking book to Jaskier.

“Yes, you very much are, dearest.”

[sir-robyn]

For the snippet ask game: 🌈, 👁️, or 🐙

-sol

hehehehe thanks sol <3333 doing all three cause why the fuck not

👁️- a visually describe snippet! feat Jaskier

It was a perfectly lovely summer evening, with dusk creeping in like a heady purple mist over the headland, the sun casting its final displays of gold and pink ribbons across the sky and sea like a dying goddess in her final spectacular moments. Jaskier scribbled furiously in his notepad, the description of the sunset practically pouring out of him onto the pages. Such a sight deserved to be cherished and remembered, and though Jaskier’s cursive scrawl tried its very best, nought could stand to capture such beauties of nature; still, he would like to have some sort of trigger for this memory in the years to come, something to read and take him back to this idyllic place.

The slight sea breeze tousled the wispy hairs that tickled his jaw, more refreshing than chilling. He delicately set down his notepad upon his knees, letting the ink air dry, and reached for the bottle of whiskey he’d brought out as company.

🐙- character being snarky, feat Kiera and Lambert (more fluffy than snarky but yk)

“You don’t need to do that, you know,” Keira calls from where she’s leaning against the doorframe, smiling at Lambert out in the yard.

The pile of firewood had already been plenty stacked, but now it was overflowing, and excess of chopped wood laying in chunks about Lambert’s feet. He wipes his brow and grins back at her, all sharp teeth and playful snark. “Not much else to do, when I’m not allowed in the house.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m making salves,” she sighs, as if talking to a petulant child. “And you always complain the smell of them boiling makes you feel sick.”

“You could make them somewhere not in the house.”

“Oh but Lambert, that would involve moving all my very heavy equipment, and my poor, weak, womanly arms couldn’t possibly handle the weight.”

Lambert snorts loudly and buries the blade of the axe into the cutting stump.

🌈- two ‘lines’ which show character growth, feat Jask and Yen <3

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt ground out.

“No!” His hands flew up in outrage. “She will kill me! Geralt, you stupid fool of a golden-hearted man— she will kill me. So no. I choose to live.”

“Oh, Melitele’s tits no. I, naught more than a mere humble bard, could never hope to assume anything about the both bewitchingly beautiful and bloodthirsty Yennefer of Vengerberg.

“But I’d like to think,” Jaskier’s voice was suddenly soft, in a way that Yennefer wasn’t ready for. The tenderness of his gaze pierced her heart and unsettled her stomach. “I’d like to think that I possibly know my friend well enough that I could tell even one as strong as her needs some comfort in these dark times.”

[extrxmegxnius]

TAGGED BY: NO ONE I STOLE IT, COME GET ME.

TAGGING: just take it whatever byeee

                                          ✧･ﾟ   𝐃𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄.

★  ⸻   WHAT'S YOUR PHONE WALLPAPER?

It's a neat frosty purple to blue gradient along the edges of my phone and black in the middle. Light coming from the void. Makes my phone look like it's glowing.

★  ⸻   LAST SONG YOU LISTENED TO? 

Not Dead Yet, Lord Huron. Please. Listen to......everything they make. Their music is worth more than the band's weight in gold.

★  ⸻   CURRENTLY READING?

Hf;ksf;kdjhksadjg I'm reading a few books technically but I hardly make time for them. The Body Keeps the Score, The Happiness Trap, Rise of Kyoshi, Rooster Fighter (HIGHLY RECOMMEND!!!), The Witcher: Sword of Destiny, the Hellsing manga... I put too much on my plate but I WILL EAT IT ALL.

★  ⸻   LAST MOVIE?

It was this bizarre Belgian movie called A Town Called Panic. Stop motion toys and a wacky plot that seemed like it came from the mind of children. Good stuff!

★  ⸻   LAST SHOW? 

Adventure Time!! I didn't hop on that train when it was popular but I'm loving it now. Marceline is my big fave.

★  ⸻   WHAT ARE YOU WEARING RIGHT NOW? 

Black athletic shorts and a PJ top because it is hot asf at night.

★  ⸻   HOW TALL ARE YOU? 

5'8" and some change.

★  ⸻   PIERCINGS / TATTOOS? 

Just my ears I'm afraid, although I think those holes are closing because I don't like any of the earrings I have lmaooo. I'm planning on getting a tattoo this year though.

★  ⸻   GLASSES / CONTACTS?: 

nop I have good lil eyes ((((((for now)))))

★  ⸻   LAST THING YOU ATE?  

Zucchini pasta and Dr. Pepper for dinner at work lmaoooo

★  ⸻   FAVORITE COLOR(S)? 

RED. I like. I love. It makes me feel so excited but also moody at the same time. I feel like it makes sense for who I am in my head.

★  ⸻   CURRENT OBSESSION?

ALUCARD MY LOVE- I mean, Hellsing.

★  ⸻   DO YOU HAVE A CRUSH RIGHT NOW?

jk i'm a married lady.

★  ⸻   FAVORITE FICTIONAL CHARACTER? 

Seto Kaiba, hands down. I loved him as a kid, still fond of him now. Although I really do like Alucard and Geralt of Rivia as well.

★  ⸻   LAST PLACE YOU VISITED?

Place? What kind of place? I was just at work, and recently I took a trip into town. If you mean further away, I was in Rome last summer.

I have nothing else to add. Adieu.

[transholmes]

The Mandragora

Summary: Dandelion, Geralt and an evening at The Mandragora.

A/N: Trans masc/enby Dandelion, referenced past transphobia briefly mentioned, soft Gerlion. Book/game Geralt, book/game Dandelion. Set sometime post B&W.

For @witchersummercamp prompt, fireworks.

Can also be read on AO3.

-

Dandelion gazes up at the magical fireworks silently lighting up the sky in yellows and purple above The Mandragora. Geralt’s arms are wrapped around his waist, the witcher’s chest pressed against his back as he too watches the dazzling display. In the courtyard beneath the balcony upon which they stand is filled with people milling about, enjoying the performances, playing in the water or watching the fireworks like they are. 

The Toussaint summer night is hot, though here by the river the soft breeze makes the heat tolerable. 

“I thought you hated fireworks,” Dandelion observes. 

“I hate the explosions; the lights are beautiful,” Geralt says. 

“They are very pretty,” Dandelion observes, as another bout of lights burst across the darkness, shaping itself into the form of a dragon. 

Geralt snorts. 

“That’s not what a dragon-” 

“Oh hush,” Dandelion says, gently slapping his wrist. “You can go one evening without correcting people about monsters. Besides darling, it’s art. It isn’t meant to be accurate.” 

“So you always tell me.” 

They watch the display in silence. Dandelion leans his head back against Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Thank you for this lovely night,” he says. 

“You’re the reason we’re here, you’re the artist. We wouldn’t have been invited otherwise.” 

“I was invited. You didn’t have to come.” 

Geralt’s arms tighten around him. 

“I know being invited to join The Mandragora means something to you, of course I would come.” 

Dandelion caress Geralt’s cheek, tracing the lines of age now lining the witcher’s face. 

“Yes, but I know how much you dislike these kinds of parties.” 

“The wine is good. And you didn’t make me dress up.” 

Geralt is indeed dressed the least fanciful of the attending crowd. A pheasant among peacocks in his plain – if well-made – black shirt and trousers, unlike the colorful outfits around him, like the scarlet Dandelion is wearing. In its own way his understated dress manages to stand out more because of its stark simplicity and the stark contrast to his white hair, that it has drawn more gazes than anyone else’s attire. 

“I like you in black,” Dandelion says, running his hands across Geralt’s chest. “It makes you look... enigmatic.” 

“If you say so.” 

“In any case, I’m glad you are here.” 

More fireworks shower them in blood red. 

Blood. 

Last time they were in Toussaint it nearly ended with both their death, had ended with so many companions’ deaths. 

“What are you thinking? You suddenly look so serious,” Geralt asks. 

“About the last time we were here. About... how it all ended.” 

Geralt grows somber as well. 

“I wish, I wish it could have been different,” he says. 

“So do I. For some of it.” 

Dandelion rests his head against Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt holds him close, closing his eyes. Through his eyelids he sees the lights change from red to purple then over blue and silver to green. 

“I wish I had been braver,” Dandelion says. 

“I’m glad you weren’t. You just would have died with the rest.” 

“Oh, not about that. I know I would have been beyond useless in that fight. I meant about us, about myself and what I really wanted.” 

He sighs softly. 

It had taken him far too many years to accept that Geralt loved him just as he is.  

For Dandelion other people's love for him had always come with terms and conditions, from his parents who couldn't love the son they had but always insisted he be the daughter they thought he was, over his countless partners who always wanted something of him he couldn't give them, demanded he be someone he wasn't. And in all cases he ended up leaving rather than sacrifice who he was. 

Geralt had never asked for such a sacrifice, had never wanted him to be any other than he was and loved him all the same. But that had taken Dandelion years, decades to figure out and then even more time to run away from what he concluded had to be an impossible dream. That he could never give Geralt what he wanted and besides there had been Yennefer at the time. By the time he had sorted himself out and begun to find the courage to say something it had been too late. Far, far too late and all he had thought he'd have was memories and dreams of what could have been. 

The second chance he, they, had been granted when Geralt had returned from the dead had not been without obstacles. Getting from there to here had been an even longer and more painful journey, but here they were. But for all that Dandelion takes joy in what they have he do wish that the getting here had been less arduous. 

“Not sure it would have changed anything,” Geralt answers softly. “I had things of my own to deal with. And even if it had I'm not sure it would have been better. We could just as well have ended up tearing each other apart.” 

“Perhaps you're right.” 

Gerald’s fingers twin into Dandelion’s hair as they rest their foreheads against each other, Dandelion's hands resting at Geralt's waist. Golden lights shimmers down around them. 

“We're here now,” Geralt concludes. “That is all that matters in the end.” 

Dandelion smiles. 

“You are very right about that,” he says. 

[officerjennie]

Stepping Stones

CW: Geraskier, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt (Jaskier), loss of friendship (with Priscilla; past), brief mentioned shit treatment of witchers (non-descript), ghosting

Summary: As they walk through the Lettenhove gardens, Jaskier opens up about a past hurt that still cuts him deep

Taglist: at the bottom - let me know if you want on/off it

“Do you ever feel like you were just…someone’s stepping stone?”

Jaskier had been oddly quiet that day, out in the garden. His expression solemn, his fingers winding round and around themselves, his eyes far off. It had been a few weeks since he’d brought Geralt to Lettenhove, since he’d introduced his love to his family, and despite Geralt’s reservations they’d been generous and kind enough to the both of them.

And Jaskier had fit in so well amongst his family, despite their differences. His love of the arts, his hatred of being confined to a political role. For those few weeks, he’d seemed happy and at home, laughter in his eyes and a tune on his lips just as easily there than anywhere else.

Which was why Geralt had worried something was wrong that day, walking in the garden with a quiet Jaskier rarely cloaked himself in. He’d stayed patient and waited, hoping when Jaskier was ready to talk that it was something Geralt could help him with.

But stepping stones… Geralt shook his head. He’d been stepped on all his life, but there had never been any goal beyond putting him and his kind down.

Jaskier’s hand wrapped around Geralt’s arm, a sigh on his lips. When Geralt placed his hand over Jaskier’s, the bard’s fingers were cold.

“Mother asked me how Priscilla was.” 

There was a sadness to his words Geralt had no knowledge of. When Jaskier spoke, he frowned, and tugged on Geralt’s arm gently. Geralt let himself be led further on into the gardens, the endless winding paths of bushes, flowers, and shrubbery. 

Not all of them were in bloom this late in the year. He was thankful for it, able to breathe without being overwhelmed by their scents. Jaskier stopped on occasion to get closer to the flowers and inhale deeply just to take them in.

“I haven’t talked to Priscilla in, fuck, years?” He snorted without humor, his smile lacking it as well. “Years. I used to call her my sister.”

That name was not familiar to him, though Geralt didn’t kid himself into thinking he knew everything of Jaskier’s past. Just as Jaskier didn’t know all of his. He squeezed the bard's fingers, rubbing them with his thumb, hoping to warm them.

“Back in Oxenfurt - even after our studies, we were all so close. Valdo, Priscilla, myself, and several others. I couldn’t imagine not having them in my life, the lot of them, and most of us still keep up with each other.

“Priscilla, though…” 

The celosia were in full bloom. Vibrant pinks and purples, even yellows mixed in with the rest. Jaskier ran his free fingers over the flowers lightly, his pace a meander. Somewhere nearby water sussed over the rocks of a koi pond. Geralt thought it was perhaps the most peaceful place he’d been in decades, and wished the quiet and peace could bring Jaskier some modicum of comfort.

“It had always been her dream to go to court.” The sensation on his fingers became too much, Jaskier shaking his free hand and stuffing it in his pocket. “She hadn’t come from a noble family, never had anything to do with politics and shit like it. So she dreamed of playing in the courts of royalty.”

Stepping stone. Geralt frowned, watching Jaskier out of the corner of his eye.

“We wanted to see her do it, of course. Priscilla, our Priscilla, singing her own songs at balls. In front of kings and queens, just as she’d always wanted. And you know what?” Jaskier looked at him then, fondness touching the crows feet around his eyes. “She did it. Even had a duke take a liking to her.”

Weeping willows reached over the path up ahead. Geralt ducked underneath some of the branches, holding them up so Jaskier didn’t have to. As they worked their way towards the center of the gardens, more and more trees blocked the sun, the air around them growing colder. Jaskier huddled close, and Geralt spared a kiss for his forehead.

Underneath the trees stood statues. Some were old, covered in ivy and worn with age, their features still distinguishable but faded. Others were newer, the ivy still working its way up their bodies. Geralt wondered if they had been sculpted to look like anyone that Jaskier had known, or if they’d just been commissioned to fill in blank spaces in the garden.

“She stopped talking to us.”

They had reached a larger space. Circular, a fountain in the middle sculpted to look like leaping koi. Beneath the fountain was the koi pond, though it looked more modern than the ones Geralt was used to. He’d seen many that had been made to look as if it was just a part of nature carving itself into the space around it. Though the koi here were exceptionally bred, beautiful and vibrant patterns flashing just under the surface of the water, Geralt preferred the other koi ponds to this.

Jaskier led them over a small bridge to the fountain, and they sat down on the edge. As soon as they were seated Geralt wrapped his arm around Jaskier, pulling him up close, feeling him shiver from the cold. They’d have to go back inside shortly, though Geralt could manage to keep him warm enough in the meantime.

“I don’t know why she stopped.” He huddled up as close as he could to Geralt, sighing deeply, sorrow tinting his scent. “As soon as she was in the good graces of a court, it was like…we just didn’t exist to her. No response to our letters. No meeting up with us in Oxenfurt anymore. We all tried but she just dropped off the face of the earth, too busy with the man who fancied her and the courts she’d always dreamed about.”

Geralt tucked Jaskier up under his chin, running his hand over his back. Tension had started to build in the muscles there while he talked and Geralt did his best to stave it off, to help his bard stay relaxed and calm. 

“After so many years, the others just… Dudu doesn’t want to talk about her. Valdo hates her. And I just…miss my friend. But I’m not sure I ever was her friend.”

The chill was creeping over them as the sun began to set. Jaskier shivered and Geralt did too, though neither moved, huddling closer together as Jaskier tried to not shake apart.

“Geralt, I miss her.” 

With a gentle tap to Jaskier’s knee, Geralt got his attention, and signed, “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. 

Jaskier bit his lip, and Geralt caught the tear that rolled down his cheek. All he could do was wipe Jaskier’s tears away and do his best to keep him warm.

--

@fontegagrilledcheese @damnbert @mothmanismyuncle @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @jaskierswolf @oldandkinky @blooodymoon  @kan0chan @silvermintnightprincess @flowercrown-bard @sharinalein @concussed-dragon @hayleynzlive @feral-jaskier @sweetiepieplum @stonedstargazer666 @deafeningnightcollection-things @luteandsword @kmuir1 @little-boats-on-a-lake @dani-dandelino @rurousha @renewlucifer

[keyrousse]

WIP Morning Whenever

Thank you very much for the tag, @andordean. And yes, I do have something, but as it's a part of a rewritten chapter, it's not really edited (it's the first draft for that piece). But, ah, well. Gave myself some Feelings writing it.

Tagging @noetikat and @do-androids-dream-ao3acc, because you two cheer me on so much and I love and appreciate it :)

Geralt has amnesia. A friend calls:

“You didn’t change, my friend,” Dandelion cuts in. “You’re still the same, I know it. The principles are still there, and they are what I was drawn to when we first met. You only improved on closer acquaintance.”

“Thanks,” Geralt manages. He wants to ask how Dandelion knows that his principles are intact, but then maybe it’s something his friend only believes in — and he wants to believe in it, too.

“I’ll keep in touch. Get better, my friend,” Dandelion says, his voice breaking again, and ends the call.

A couple of minutes later Geralt receives a photo: a selfie of a blond man dressed in purple, a pretty blond woman in a patchwork, colourful blouse, and a dwarven man with a mohawk on his head, dressed in greys and greens.

Cheers from Priscilla, Zoltan and me, comes the text message right after.

He stares at the photo. He knows he feels something, looking at the three faces of his apparently close friends, but he can’t define it. He knows his mind wants to feel something, but it’s like he’s locked in a dark room and banging on the door, fighting to be let out. The door is closed, though. His friends are kept away from him.

And the key is far away, in a place he doesn’t know and has no way to get to.

[quickficss]

The Witcher Character Symbolism (Last updated Sept 13 2022)

Ok so I’m a sucker for symbolism, and as a writer I know the importance of it. It’s like little hidden clues throughout the story to notify observant viewers to what’s really happening. The symbolism within the Witcher is pretty obvious to me but may not be to others, thus I’m writing this. (I’m only going off what I’ve read so far in the books, not the games or Netflix series.) I’m also trying to find what these symbolisms mean to the slavic culture specifically because the language it was first written in is polish. If I’m wrong on anything feel free to correct me. I will be updating as I read through the books as I’ve only read the first three. I’m a slow reader but I want to memorize everything.

Geralt

Obviously Geralt is constantly referred to as a wolf or a white wolf. Wolves have been used for mythological and spiritual significance all around the world. They’re most commonly contributed to strength and loyalty. Some cultures make them the symbol of the warrior, and other cultures make them the symbol of the devil. In Slavic culture and Serbian poetry, the wolf is a symbol of fearlessness.

In Slavic mythology there is a God named Dažbog, whose earthly body is that of a white wolf. Dažbog is the God of the Sun, believed to be the ancestor of all Slavs. He was also considered the God of Nav, Slavic underworld of the dead. This could have nothing to do with Geralt and is just a coincidence, or it could be a nod to the fact some people see him as a good person and others see him as a blood hungry monster driven to kill. Idk I just thought it was cool.

Dandelion/Jaskier

Ok so we know at this point Jaskier is polish for buttercup, but is translated to Dandelion in the English translations for the book. I’ll look into both these flowers and the colour yellow, because both flowers are yellow and I think that may be important.

Dandelions symbolize growth, hope, spring, and transformation because they transform from yellow flowers to fluffy white puffs. They are also sometimes associated with wish-making and healing.

Buttercups symbolize joy, happiness and friendship.

Yellow symbolizes a ton of things, but mostly joy, hope, and the sun.

In the books, Geralt considers Jaskier to be a close friend he can rely on. They easily have friendly banter and get along fairly well, even when they argue or disagree on some topics. I think these flower symbolism’s show what Jaskier means to Geralt as well as what his destiny is. As a young man Jaskier had wanted to get away from his family and responsibilities to become a traveling bard, a wish he fulfilled. He helps Geralt heal and grow multiple times, and is known to bring happiness (mostly) wherever he goes.

Yennefer

In the books we are constantly reminded of the fact she smells of Gooseberries and Lilacs. She wears black and white and has purple eyes.

It was difficult for me to find anything on gooseberries because of a 1890 novel named “Gooseberries” but this is what I was able to find. Gooseberries typically allude to a happiness you don’t yet have, are trying to obtain, or you will never have.

(Purple) Lilacs symbolize first love, spirituality, beauty, pride, and infatuation. There are more but these are the most common ones. Again I think this alludes to what Yen means to Geralt and her character. She’s prideful and a powerful sorcerer. She’s ultimately forced to be drawn to Geralt because of the last wish he made, causing them to sorta forcefully fall in love. We know Yen isn’t Geralts first love, but she is the main love interest.

Black and white together often symbolize the balance of two opposites. Black typically means death, mystery, power, elegance and sophistication. White typically means cleanliness, goodness, serenity, and integrity. As someone who often wears black at white, I know it causes an eye catching contrast, making one stand out a bit.

At the end of “Blood of Elves” this conversation between Ciri and Yennifer takes place:

“What are you looking at like that?” “At that tree, That linden tree.” “And what’s so interesting about it?” “Nothing, I am simply feasting my eyes on it. I’m happy that... I can see it.”

A linden tree is symbolic for maternal love and fidelity. This illudes to the fact Yennifer now wishes to be in a motherly role for Ciri, and to be faithful to her in that role. Its very sweet.

Ciri

Ciri is represented by a sparrow. A sparrow symbolizes power, empowerment, vigilance, and community. They are mostly seen as symbols of hard work. They are known to be responsible and dependant on one another. Throughout history sparrows have been harbingers of both good and bad luck.

Triss

Triss Marigold has the flower Marigold right there as her last name. Marigolds symbolize despaired love, affection, and a drive to succeed. (as well as death in Mexican culture but I don’t think that applies here). In the book Blood of Elves, Triss is constantly trying to get in Geralts pants despite him continuing to politely turn her down. She states that she envy’s Yennefer, She mistakes his kindness for romance. Another character even points this out:

“Never make the same mistake, little Witcher-girl,” he(Yarpen) murmured, indicating the wagon with his eyes. “If someone shows you compassion, sympathy, and dedication, if they surprise you with integrity of character, value it but don’t mistake it for… something else.”

Despite all that, she still wants to succeed at winning Geralts affection.

This is the end of the post for now. I may be reading too much into it but I love doing it. I think it’s fun and others may enjoy it. This will be updated later so save this post or check in occasionally. Reblogs appreciated.

[pass-the-salt]

I posted 5,480 times in 2022

That's 2,986 more posts than 2021!

35 posts created (1%)

5,445 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

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I tagged 5,479 of my posts in 2022

#the witcher - 930 posts

#fanart - 615 posts

#art - 610 posts

#doctor who - 575 posts

#our flag means death - 494 posts

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#photography - 303 posts

#black sails - 281 posts

#witcher fanart - 258 posts

#dracula - 188 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#maybe i just have my rodney loving goggles on but good lord it is eminently clear to me how much rodney feels responsible for collins' death

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

hiiiiiiiiii it's me again, another prompt, here it goes “We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?” + either geraskier (cause i'm a simple bee) or your choice

hiiiiii again bee i'm a simple salt so have exactly 100 words of geraskier (implied, anyway) in a thunderstorm!! (send me a character/pairing and a prompt and I’ll write you a drabble!)

Jaskier hates getting wet. It makes his clothes stick to his body, which makes him want to crawl out of his skin. Unfortunately for him, it's started raining, and Geralt has stopped walking. 

"Geralt," Jaskier begins, "we're in the middle of a thunderstorm, and you want to stop and feel the rain?"

Geralt doesn't turn around. "Lighting's not going to hit us."

"That's not—"

Now Geralt does turn around. "You don't like the rain," he says, softly, like it's a revelation. "Okay. Let's find shelter."

If it wasn't for the rain, Jaskier would be rooted to the ground with shock.

20 notes - Posted April 25, 2022

#4

hi. hello. how about 45. “Tell me a secret.” for some soft geraskier in these trying times?

hello. it's not mentioned, but the grass they're lying on is very soft, so I hope that suffices! (send me a character/pairing and a prompt and I’ll write you a drabble!)

“Tell me a secret,” Jaskier says. It’s a pleasant summer evening, and they’re lying next to each other in the grass, looking up at the stars.

“Why?” Geralt asks.

“I’ll go first,” Jaskier continues, undeterred. “I love you."

Geralt snorts. "That's not a secret."

"It is!" Jaskier insists. "There's a lot of people that don't know that about me."

"Not for lack of trying."

"Tell me a secret?" Jaskier says, again.

Geralt relents. "Okay. I love you too."

And Jaskier beams. It's no secret that Geralt loves him, but if it makes Jaskier smile like that, he will gladly pretend.

26 notes - Posted April 28, 2022

#3

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34 notes - Posted April 20, 2022

#2

Knight’s Spurs

G / wc: 857 / summary: When Geralt arrives back from a hunt, he gets a rather unexpected welcome.

also on AO3 here!

It's not often that Geralt comes back from a hunt being welcomed by the town that hired him, though it's been happening more often lately. He doesn’t quite understand it, but who is he to deny what the world sees fit to throw his way? Sooner or later, it will change, but he is in no hurry to see that happen.

(He’s not entirely stupid, he knows Jaskier has had something to do with it—what he doesn’t get is how Jaskier ever managed to do it, or why he even bothered to in the first place. Or why he’s still doing it.)

Perhaps the most baffling part of his welcome is, after he’s received the reward—which they gave to him, just like that—a child comes up to him (to him!) and offers him a tall purple flower. He freezes, unsure of what to do, acutely aware that the townspeople are all watching him. He wonders if the child knows no one’s ever offered him a flower before.

“Thank you,” he says softly, as he takes the flower in his hand. The child grins, then runs off, presumably to join their parents.

Then the moment’s gone, the people continue to go about their day, and it’s like nothing ever happened. Except for the fact he is still holding that flower.

“Geralt!” he hears a voice from behind him. It’s Jaskier, bouncing up to him, as if excited to see him. “You’re back! How did it go?”

“Fine,” Geralt replies.

Jaskier pouts. “How am I meant to write a ballad on just the word ‘fine’? Honestly, Geralt, do you not know how songwriting works?” Geralt raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t specify.” Jaskier huffs. “I’m not letting you off that easily, trust me, tonight I'll—why are you holding a flower?”

“A child gave it to me,” Geralt replies simply. “I accepted it.”

Jaskier blinks. “Why?” “You’d have to ask the child. I didn’t. Would have been rude”

“Right, yeah, that’s—never mind.” Jaskier runs a hand through his hair. “I expect you’re tired and dirty—” he pauses, quickly glancing at Geralt, “—yep, definitely dirty, so I’ve taken the liberty of asking for a bathtub and some hot water. Let’s get you bathed, and since it’s this late, it’s probably best if we stay the night, I’ve asked, they don’t mind, I just had to give a concert, quite enjoyable, really—”

Now that he’s mentioned it, Geralt would like a bath, actually. Jaskier prattles on all the way to their room, and Geralt lets him. So long as Jaskier doesn’t need him to pay attention to all of it, he can talk as much as he likes.

“...and so I thought... Geralt? Are you planning to hold that flower in the bath, too?” Jaskier’s voice cuts through his reverie, and belatedly, Geralt realises he probably expects a response to that question.

“...no,” he grunts, and lays the flower on the table next to the tub.

The rest of the evening proceeds as normal. Bathing takes a little less longer, because he didn’t get as dirty, but that’s not entirely out of the ordinary. A little more out of the ordinary is the flower, and if he carefully puts it next to his bedside, no one needs to know.

(Jaskier might know, but he doesn’t comment on it. Geralt appreciates that.)

The next morning proceeds as normal, too. Geralt wakes up feeling refreshed, but that’s not entirely out of the ordinary. A little more out of the ordinary is the flower, still where he’d put it last night, and if he carefully picks it up to take it with him, no one needs to know.

(Jaskier might know, but he doesn’t judge him for it. Geralt appreciates that.)

“I see you’ve still got the flower,” Jaskier says, smiling softly, and well, that answers that.

“I have,” Geralt confirms.

“I hadn’t thought you were one for flowers,” Jaskier continues, idly playing with his hair. “You continue to surprise me every day.”

Geralt shrugs. “I couldn’t very well refuse it, even if I loathed flowers.”

Jaskier knits his brows. “Couldn’t you?” he says, so quietly Geralt isn’t sure he meant to say it at all.

“Why would I have?” Geralt replies. “It’s not like the flower was going to hurt me. And besides, people probably would have gotten angry if I’d made the child cry.”

Jaskier smiles at that, but this time, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Geralt doesn’t know what to make of it. When Jaskier stays quiet, he doesn’t know what to make of that, either.

No need to dwell on things he doesn’t understand. He tucks the flower behind his ear, so that his hands are free. “Are you ready?” he asks Jaskier, who nods—still not saying anything—and stands up. “Let’s go, then.”

After they’re out of town, Jaskier starts rambling on about something or other—Geralt isn’t quite paying attention, but he knows Jaskier doesn’t mind that—just as normal, and Geralt almost forgets he’d been silent for as long as he was. Almost.

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45 notes - Posted May 20, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

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85 notes - Posted April 9, 2022

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[keirametzbrassknuckles]

Would love to hear about Drumming Song or Salt, if you want to!

Salt is actually not a Witcher fic (surprising, I know, who even am I?). It's my take on a selkie and fisherman fic that is not about selkies at all featuring John Bridgens and Henry Peglar from The Terror. It's actually a reworking of a very old Les Mis fic I wrote in middle school and going through and picking the wheat from all of the chaff I wrote at 13 is kind of fun. Baby me kind of went off in places NGL.

Drumming Song came about because I decided that Eskel would make a great drummer. It slowly spiraled out of control from a cute fic of Geralt getting hot and bothered watching Eskel play to an absolute heartbreaker of a fic involving complicated sibling relationships, drug abuse, abandonment issues, the inherent trauma of growing up as an outsider in a small town, and being unable to break the cycles of abuse forced on you by circumstance. Y'know... all that fun stuff.

I've been trying to beat it into shape for a while but I can't really get it to say what I want it to yet. Dropping the beginning under the cut though because it's dear to me:

It's very soft but CW for mentions of child abuse anyway

The interior of the little roadside farm stand is dark and hot as hell, smelling of dirt and hay and vegetables slowly rotting in their crates. A fly hums over some tomatoes. In the corner a fan makes a halfhearted effort to move the blistering air around. 

It’s Geralt and Eskel’s turn to mind the shop while Gweld, Tristan and Aubry help Vesemir with the day chores. They’re Vesemir’s farmhands much more than his sons and while the old man is kind he’s never gentle and works them accordingly. It’s better, though, than what he left; here he never goes hungry, never goes cold and he gets to shower every day. Best of all though, he met Eskel. Eskel is kind, and beautiful and Geralt loves him with the kind of star-struck twelve-year-old puppy love that is worth its weight in gold. Eskel, for all intents and purposes a sage and ancient fourteen, is the sun his planet orbits around, the steady, reliable center of his universe. If all Geralt ever knows is this one sun-struck summer, this buzzing heat, Eskel and the dirt streaked across one chestnut-tanned cheek, he thinks he’d die the happiest boy in the world.

They have the stereo on, huddled around it pressed closer than the warmth warrants, sharing a carton of fresh blueberries, unwashed and slightly gritty.  Geralt is sweating so badly his shirt is sticking to his back but every now and then his and Eskel’s hands collide or their shoulders brush and Geralt feels like he’s swallowing the sun; some brightness in his chest lighting up like a firefly in the darkness.

“Listen!” Eskel says, eyes lighting up as the drum solo begins, as though this is the first time he’s heard it, as though they haven’t listened to it so many times it’s practically worn a hole in the tape “and then it goes…” 

Geralt isn’t listening to the song, too busy watching the way Eskel mimics the drum line with two outstretched fingers in the air; the roll, the six one-two punches, the thunderclap of the cymbal. His fingers are long and beautiful, scabbed knuckles and all, tips of them stained purple with berry juice that Geralt wants to lick off even though he’s not entirely sure why.

“Something on my face?” Eskel asks. He’s smiling that private smile that he seems to reserve exclusively for Geralt and it makes his cheeks burn. 

“No” he says, looking away quickly “I just…”

A customer wanders in, unknowable beneath her wide-brimmed sunhat, sending them shuffling apart and pretending to look busy. Geralt’s skin is buzzing like he’s just swallowed an entire hive of bees, and his mouth tastes dusty, dry suddenly. He glances at Eskel over his shoulder only to find Eskel looking back at him, dark eyes full of some emotion that Geralt can’t put a name to. 

“Have you ever thought about what we’re gonna do after this?” he asks Eskel that evening as they’re shutting up the chicken coop. 

The sky is turning bruise-colors at the edges, the last rays of the sun striking out gamely over the mountaintops in spears of bright against the dark. Crickets squeal in the long grass and in the patches of shadow at the edges of the forest the fireflies have already begun to make themselves known. Eskel carries the now-empty feed bucket and is drumming his fingers on it in a rhythmic roll that sounds like incoming thunder. 

“Maybe” Eskel says, shrugging, pausing his drumming on the bucket for a moment before rolling into a syncopated tap tap tap rhythm that sounds like rain coming down on the roof of the greenhouse. 

“Do you think we’ll do it together?” 

That gives Eskel pause.

“Maybe” he says again, like a record stuck in a scratch repeating the same words, voice quiet in the dark. 

“Well I’d like that” Geralt says, feeling sure about something for the first time in his life, resolute “We could get a house on the seaside and a drum set for you so you could play….” 

He gets a little tangled up in himself after that, not sure what adulthood is supposed to look like. His experience of most grown ups so far has been acrid smoke and gnawing hunger in his stomach and dark rooms full of too many people who wouldn’t hear him no matter how hard he cried. Eskel, he knows, came from somewhere worse; somewhere that he wakes in the night begging to escape from. Geralt doesn’t want that for them, that re-treading of old patterns or falling into ruts (“it’s about breaking cycles” one of the caseworkers had said to Vesemir once when they’d thought they were alone “these boys are all stuck in it whether they want to be or not. It’s about keeping them out of the shit for as long as you can”); rather, he wants some kind of soft and open brightness that he can feel at the tips of his fingers but can’t manage to name. 

“I’d like that” Eskel says, taking the bucket by the handle properly so he can grab Geralt’s sweaty, grimy hand in his own “I’d really like that”

That night they sleep with the windows open, the dust-hot wind rolling in from the hay fields coating their tongues. As soon as he’s sure Gweld and Aubry are asleep Geralt slips from his own bed and into Eskel’s, shadow quiet. He curls up against Eskel’s side, wrapping one skinny arm across that broad ribcage. Eskel smells of clean soap and fresh laundry, the fabric of his t-shirt soft and worn-in beneath Geralt’s cheek. He has his headphones on and the steady hum of the tape player is a metronomic white noise in the darkness; whir, rewind, whir, rewind as Eskel plays and replays his favorite song.  His hand settles at the small of Geralt’s back, fingers drumming drumming drumming against his spine. 

[samstree]

See Clearer

A lesson in self-love. Jaskier helps Geralt see something.

(general, 1.6k, read on AO3)

Geralt cannot find his glasses again.

It must be the eighth time this week, and he’s getting frustrated. Ever since Jaskier has convinced him to purchase these blasted devices from that eye healer who is not even a healer, he’s spent half of his reading time looking for it instead of having it aid his reading, as it’s supposed to.

“Make it for people with trouble seeing,” he mutters under his breaths while turning over all the blankets on their bed, “but, of course, make it fucking invisible.”

Geralt clenches his teeth and considers cursing a pair of glasses that has the audacity to be made of actual glass.

The bed is a mess, and he’s turned over every corner. Still, there’s no trace of it. He stares at nothing for a second, doubting his reality. In the end, he admits defeat and finds Jaskier in the living room, who is busy fussing over a new painting at his desk.

“Have you seen my glasses?”

Jaskier’s eyes are fixed on the painting, his fingers smoothing down the wooden frame. He’s not even looking up. “Have you checked your pocket?”

“Yes, I’ve checked my pocket.” Geralt is not growling. He’s not. He’d get made fun of for growling in their home.

“And your head?”

“Jaskier.” Geralt lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Will you get up and help me find it? It’s not on my—” His hand catches on something very similar to the metal frame of the glasses, which is resting on top of his head. Has been this whole time, apparently. “Fuck.”

Geralt goes still, standing in the doorway with his glasses safely found, feeling very smart.

“Happy to help, dear,” Jaskier says with a smile and a charming wink, and finally lifting his eyes. “Come here then. Look at this with me, now that you can see again. Where, do you say, we should hang it? Bedroom? Living room? We could use more landscape in the kitchen too, am I right?”

It takes a few long seconds for Geralt to will the embarrassment away and sit next to Jaskier. He puts on the glasses on his nose and looks down through them, and realizes that the painting looks familiar.

Too familiar.

It’s a simple painting, in the grand scheme of things—mountains in the background, a meadow that stretches into the distance, a chestnut mare standing against the rising sun, grazing on some flowers. Geralt’s fingers trace the lines in the same way these brush strokes traced these shapes.

“It’s mine,” Geralt says, surprised.

“Mm-hmm. I asked Eskel to send it over in a parcel. Did you know postage from Kaer Morhen is astonishingly cheap? Although I suppose he carried it to Ard Carraigh first, so really, it’s not that long a journey to the coast,” Jaskier babbles on, his face beaming with joy.

Even with the glasses, Geralt has to squint to make out the ribbon in Roach’s mane, a gift from a little girl, who loved the mare so much she had to leave her with something. It’s the same girl who gifted Geralt the paint and brushes for helping her cat down the roof.

The ribbon ends up being a frantic purple streak in the painting, showing how much of an amateur Geralt was. It’s the first and only painting he has done in his life.

“What do you say, another gem added to my collection?” Jaskier doesn’t wait for a replay before holding it up vertically and measures it against the wall. “Really, it is the most precious of them all. The space above our bed must make way now. Roach looks so dashing in there—”

“Don’t,” Geralt interrupts, frowning.

There’s a beat of silence before Jaskier turns his head, the smile still on his lips. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not good,” Geralt answers with the truth. Compared to the expensive art collection Jaskier has kept since his retirement, Geralt’s roadside scribble is nothing. “It’s ugly and…worthless. We have good art already. Why would you want to look at this?”

The comment slips out of his mouth on reflex. After all, Geralt was the one who kept the painting in a box and stashed it in the basement of Kaer Morhen. He’s always known his creation isn’t worth much, let alone deserving of Jaskier’s attention like his array of fine arts. He’s only speaking the truth.

But, for some reason, Jaskier’s smile fades.

He’s still holding the frame uncomfortably, the wood digging into his white knuckles. All happiness seems to drain from Jaskier’s being, and his scent sours.

“That is, um—” Jaskier swallows, his lips forming shapes before abandoning them. “It’s rather unkind of you.”

Even though Geralt can never miss the change in his scent, Jaskier keeps his face neutral to show no signs of hurt. It’s there though—the cloying smell of hurt and sadness. Geralt has sworn to never hurt Jaskier like this, to never make him smell of heartbreak again, but here they are.

He moves forward to soothe Jaskier, but the word makes him pause.

Unkind. It’s their old argument about Geralt not being kind enough to himself, always putting himself down. Jaskier has accused him of it many times over the years, and sulked at length when Geralt dismissed him.

It doesn’t matter, or at least, the way Geralt sees it. So what if he cannot accept kindness for himself? It doesn’t hurt anyone. He still treats his family gently, treats Jaskier gently, because he loves them so very much.

But then, there is the sour smell of Jaskier’s hurt.

Geralt’s cruelty is nothing new, but instead of himself, its sharp edges have cut into Jaskier deeply.

“Wait,” Geralt breathes. “Jaskier, I—”

“Is it not enough that I love it?” Jaskier’s voice is small, his eyes dimmed and his hands are still holding onto the painting for dear life. “I guess not. Well, then.”

“No, Jaskier.” Horrified, Geralt takes the wooden frame of the painting and sets it down against the wall. With both their hands free, he wraps around Jaskier’s wrists and brings them close. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The smile that Jaskier forces on his face is nothing like the genuine thing from a moment ago, but he lets himself be guided to Geralt’s embrace, ending up in the space between the witcher’s legs.

“I don’t want to fight,” he says, squeezing Geralt’s hands. “Not over this again. I can’t change your mind, and I should have learned by now. You just—” Jaskier pauses. “—you refuse to see it, even in a painting.”

Why won’t you see yourself the way I see you? Jaskier’s question echoes in Geralt’s memory, overlapping with every iteration of the same fight. Why must you insist on hating yourself? Don’t you know how much it hurts?

Every time, Geralt assumed that the person Jaskier was trying to protect was him, when he failed to see any good in himself and tried to push Jaskier away as a result. He assumed that, in hurting himself, he could protect Jaskier.

How wrong he was.

“Forget it.” Jaskier sniffs, looking away. There are no tears, with Jaskier being stubborn like this. “I’ll send it back. You won’t have to look at it anymore.”

With that, Jaskier tries to pull away. His shoulders sag in the way that speaks of tiredness, of losing a battle too many times to the point of indifference.

But Geralt sees it now.

He doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s hands. Instead, he follows to a standing position so they are eye-to-eye.

“I see it now,” Geralt says, feeling a weight lifted off of his chest. The revelation hits him at full force, and suddenly all those fights turn bitter at the back of his mind. How could he have been so blind? “I was wrong.”

In hurting himself, he cannot avoid hurting Jaskier in the process.

Of course. Of course.

“No, you don’t.” Jaskier shakes his head. “After so many years, you still can’t bring yourself to be kinder. You still don’t know how much it hurts—”

“You,” Geralt adds, and Jaskier’s eyes meet his in shock. “It’s you I’ve been hurting. That’s where I’m wrong. I thought it makes no difference if hate…a painting. It’s only my painting.”

“But I love it,” Jaskier repeats.

“You do. So I shouldn’t have.”

“No?”

Geralt takes Jaskier’s hands and places a careful kiss into his palms. “No.”

“Will you try?” Jaskier asks. “Try to see the beauty in it? The way I see it?”

“Hmm.” Jaskier’s fingers are rubbed tender from holding the wooden frame, so Geralt kisses them again. “Roach looks good.”

“She does.”

He searches his heart and finds looking at his creation for the good in it actually feels nice. He traces each brushstroke, trying to remember that morning, that quiet loneliness that he used to mistake as home.

“And the sunrise,” Geralt muses. “It was a beautiful day. There was dew on the ground, and we were alone. The light looked like gold.”

“My favorite color.” Jaskier looks directly into Geralt’s eyes and cups his chin. “What else?”

“It’d look nice on our wall. Because you love it.”

“I love it,” Jaskier whispers. “And I love you.”

His voice breaks at the last word, shaky and soft, and Geralt hears the plea hidden underneath.

“I can try, Jaskier.” He’d try anything for Jaskier. “To be kinder to myself.”

“That’s all I ask.”

They gravitate towards each other, their forehead almost touching, but there’s a pair of glasses in the way. Jaskier chuckles, his fingers resting on Geralt’s temples. “Close your eyes,” he asks, so Geralt does.

The small weight on his nose is moved to the top of his head once again. When Geralt opens his eyes, he still sees Jaskier, his eyes tender and loving, with his real smile glistening warmly.

Geralt sees Jaskier, clear as the blue sky.

It’s all the reasons he needs to see himself in kinder ways too.

~~

Geralt wears reading glasses here. Well, he's old, and he'd look cute. Plus, he'd act like *a dad* when he can't find them. Imagine him in reading glasses in your free time please.