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asweetprologue · 4 years

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Prompt: Favorite Food Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: G Content Warnings: None Summary: Jaskier gets Geralt a gift, and it makes Geralt realize he doesn't know enough about what Jaskier likes. He forms a plan to figure it out. ao3

The small cheesecloth package that was dropped in front of him wasn’t necessarily a surprise, but the way that Jaskier hovered as Geralt picked it up was.

“What’s this?” he grunted, sniffing the air subtly. The little package smelled like honey and flour and cream, and the thick, sweet smell of-- “Are those dates?” He pulled the cheesecloth off to reveal a neat little tart, gently browned on the edges, about the size of his palm.

“It is!” Jaskier leaned over him slightly, his arms holding several more packages. He continued, sounding a little nervous. “I know you don’t usually enjoy sweets, but I know the dates are your favorite. Must feed that witcher metabolism, no?”

“No,” Geralt eyed the tart. “Our metabolism is more efficient, not faster.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, deflating slightly. “Well, if you don’t want it I guess I can--”

“How did you know that date was my favorite?” Geralt interrupted, looking back up at Jaskier. Oddly, he could see the bard color slightly at the question, an appealing pink spreading across his cheekbones.

“You bought a jar of jam from that merchant from Toussaint, remember? You never buy jam, unless it’s for me, so I assumed you must have a preference for it. I mean, unless you don’t, which is fine, I can… Well, not eat it, I hate dates, but I’m sure I can find some mangy child to give it to, or a dog, or something. Do you hate it? You hate it.”

Geralt picked up the tart and bit into it, giving Jaskier a raised eyebrow. It was honestly more of a miniature pie than a tart, the flaky crust filled with dates and prunes covered in a custardy filling, sweetened through with honey. The flavors burst across his tongue, the tart still warm. Jaskier must have picked it up at the market and come directly here to give it to him. Geralt swallowed the first bite, looking into Jaskier’s apprehensive face, and said, “Thanks.”

Jaskier visibly relaxed, shuffling onto the bench across from Geralt and beginning to relay the events of the morning market. Geralt hummed where he was meant to and sipped his watered down ale and ate his tart. If Jaskier noticed his absent mindedness, he said nothing.

Jaskier… knew what his favorite fruit was. The knowledge should not have come as a shock, Geralt knew. Jaskier was often getting him gifts - oil for Roach’s tack, new clothes when Geralt’s last threadbare shirt gave out, potion ingredients when he ran low. Sometimes he bought Geralt useless things, little bobbles or trinkets he saw that he thought Geralt might like or find amusing, and Geralt kept them safely at the bottom of his bag, or in his room at Kaer Morhen. He cherished those things, things that told him Jaskier thought about him when he wasn’t near. It was nice, to be thought of.

But for some reason this little gift felt different. Jaskier had known his favorite food, and Geralt had never told him. Dates weren’t particularly common in the North, and it was rare that they were far south enough to meet merchants who carried them up from Nilfgaard. Geralt could remember when he’d bought the jam, hoping it would last him a while, but he couldn’t recall a single other time in recent memory that he’d eaten dates, or even mentioned them. He didn’t tend to wallow on things that were unavailable to him.

His eyes lingered on Jaskier as he spun a tale about haggling in the square. No, Geralt didn’t make a habit of wishing for what he couldn’t have.

Still, there was a problem at hand, one he had to solve. Jaskier knew Geralt’s favorite food. He might know Geralt’s favorite everything. Did he know that Geralt’s favorite color was blue, the wide, free color of the sky on the first day of spring? Did he know that Geralt’s favorite thing to drink wasn’t wine or vodka, but warm honeyed milk like his mother made when he couldn’t sleep as a tiny child? He certainly knew that Geralt liked the scent of chamomile and sage best in his bathwater, and that he preferred cotton shirts over linen, and that he would pick a song with a sad ending over a happy one. If he’d been paying this much attention, there was probably quite a lot that Jaskier knew about him, without Geralt having said a word.

And he didn’t know a thing about Jaskier.

What was Jaskier’s favorite color? Was it blue, like the doublets he so often wore, or was that just to match his eyes? Did he really like wine the best, or did he just like it better than ale? What was his favorite season? His favorite weather? Did he go to Oxenfurt every winter because it was where he could find work, or did he prefer Novigrad, or Vizima? Geralt could tell how Jaskier was going to react every time someone recognized him on the street, anytime a young lad or lass winked at him, even what he might say if Geralt gave the right sort of hum. But he didn’t know much about him, at the end of the day.

He needed to find out. As they packed up their belongings and set out on the road once again, leaving the small town behind them, Geralt ruminated on what could be done to rectify this situation. He couldn’t very well just ask Jaskier about all these things. After all, Jaskier had figured it all out with nary a word from Geralt. He didn’t need to ask; he was paying attention. Which made Geralt’s chest feel oddly warm and heavy, knowing that Jaskier was watching him, paying heed to his reactions and filing them away. Maybe it should have felt invasive, to know that he was being read so easily without his knowing, but instead it just felt… nice. To be known.

He wanted Jaskier to feel known too. He wanted to know Jaskier.

He would start small. Jaskier had given him food, something he knew Geralt would like. It couldn’t be that difficult to figure out what Jaskier liked. Geralt could start bringing him small things, pass it off as returning the favor, and guage Jaskier’s reaction. It would be simple, he mused, eying Jaskier from atop Roach as they walked side by side. His hair was mussed slightly from sleep, still, and he hadn’t bothered to fix it before heading out for the day. No one to impress, Geralt guessed, just the two of them and the road. He liked Jaskier this way, less pinned up and proper, more open. Letting Geralt see him without all of his armor, because that’s what it was, as surely as the leather on Geralt’s back was his. Right now, Jaskier was an open book. All Geralt had to do was pay enough attention to read him.

It was not easy to figure out what Jaskier liked.

The problem, Geralt quickly found, was that Jaskier was enthusiastic about almost everything. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. When he disliked something, he made his distaste abundantly clear. He was dramatic, which should have made it even easier to determine what delighted him the most. Geralt expected that, when he found it, poetic stanzas would be flowing like wine from Jaskier’s tongue, praising whatever it was. He had no reason to expect Jaskier to be subtle about his preferences.

And he wasn’t. The issue was that he seemed to react with the exact same level of excitement about everything Geralt brought him. On the first day they arrived in a new town, Geralt went to the market and brought Jaskier a small basket of strawberries, which Jaskier enthused over for half the morning. Geralt was pleased. Maybe it had been that easy, and he’d intuitively known what Jaskier liked. Maybe he had unconsciously been paying attention all along. He congratulated himself on figuring out at least one piece of the puzzle, and began thinking about how he might approach the next step.

But then he unthinkingly bought Jaskier a few sweetbreads when he was out the next day getting lunch. He’d been getting himself some, he thought of Jaskier sitting in their shared room, composing a ballad about the hunt Geralt had been on the night previously. He’d brought him the extra meats, and Jaskier had nearly the same reaction. Gushing over the gift, thanking Geralt for thinking of him. Lamenting his own forgetfulness, for getting so caught up in his work that he would forget to eat, as Geralt expected he might have. And Geralt was confused, because he didn’t think a few offal from a market stall in a half pint city in Velen was what Jaskier would like. Certainly not something he could call a favorite.

But he’d reacted the same to the sweetbreads as the berries. So Geralt was back to square one.

He reevaluated his metrics. So Jaskier reacted that way to anything he liked, apparently. It was odd; Geralt had seen Jaskier enthusiastically dig into a wide variety of foods over the years, but he didn’t praise them and rave about them the way he had done the berries and the meats. So he must have legitimately enjoyed both of them more than he would any old dish. But neither of them had seemed to outweigh the other. He still didn’t know what Jaskier liked best.

Over the next several weeks of their travel, Geralt bought Jaskier enough tortas and crepes and stews that he knew it was boarding on suspicious behavior. If it was any other situation, any other two people, he knew it might come off like courtship. Every time he offered Jaskier some new morsel, he could feel the back of his neck grow hot at the implications. But Jaskier only ever grinned in delight at whatever Geralt offered him, flushed and pleased no more or less than he had been at all the others. If he suspected any sort of foul play, he never said anything.

It was infuriating. After three weeks of spending more coin that he cared to count at markets and roadside stalls and taverns, he was no closer to figuring out Jaskier’s favorite food than he had been at the outset. It all seemed to go over well, which was gratifying, but he couldn’t tell what Jaskier liked the most of it all. Maybe he just wasn’t as good at reading Jaskier as he thought. He’d thought he was a master of it, at this point - he could tell when Jaskier was tired during a performance, even though his smile never flagged; he could tell when Jaskier was being dramatic about an injury and when he was actually in pain; he could tell the difference between righteous anger versus petty versus hurt. In most respects he felt like Jaskier was an open book, but there was nothing in his reactions to Geralt’s gifts that said he was anything less than entirely pleased to receive them.

He was running out of ideas. Giving Jaskier gifts one at a time was clearly not working; either none of them were right, or Geralt was misremembering Jaskier’s enthusiasm for the ones in the past. He needed to give Jaskier a selection and see for himself what was best, side by side.

It took another week to plan, mostly due to location. They needed to stay in one place for a few days, so that Geralt could collect the things he would need, and it was rare that the two of them were in one town for more than a day. Large contracts were few and far between, and it never took Geralt more than a single night to clear out some ghouls or drowners from an area.

As luck would have it, however, they were only a few days out from Carreras. Geralt pointed them in that direction, claiming that they would likely be able to find multiple contracts in one place there, and that Jaskier could take a few days to play for their small selection of inns and taverns. It wasn’t entirely a lie; there probably would be more contracts posted in a larger settlement, which would mean a solid few jobs to refill Geralt’s pockets. He would need the extra coin to execute his plan.

The first two days of their stay were filled mostly with real work. The city had been having issues with contaminated water, which sent Geralt out to investigate all the wells, and by the time he found the drowner that had fallen into the water supply a full day had passed. He was able to fill another two contracts on their second day, but the triple confrontations over less than 48 hours left him feeling bruised and exhausted.

It was Jaskier who suggested it, in the end. Pulling a comb through Geralt’s hair as the witcher let himself soak in the bath, Jaskier said, “What if we stayed for an extra day or two? The crowds have been good, and Barclay - the innkeeper, I don’t know if you’ve spoken to him - he offered us a discount if I play tonight and tomorrow.” His hand fell to Geralt’s shoulder, warm and comforting. “You could… take a few days.”

It had been his plan to stay, but Geralt felt an ache behind his breastbone at Jaskier’s careful suggestion. Always trying to take care of him, as if Geralt were someone who needed protecting, someone who deserved something like a vacation. He didn’t think he did, but it was nice, as always, to think that Jaskier cared. “Hmm,” was all he said, a soft sound of agreement. His eyes slipped shut as he basked in the quiet content of Jaskier’s company, and they said nothing else on the matter.

The next day he felt rejuvenated, the burn of overexertion in his muscles faded after a hard night’s sleep. Jaskier had played after getting him out of the bath and settled into bed, but he’d returned later, smelling of sweat and rosemary and catgut. Geralt had slept well with his solid weight by his side, pressed into the too-slim bed.

He spent most of the day preparing. The market was busy and bursting when he found it in the afternoon, though not as packed as he was used to seeing in larger settlements like Novigrad. There was a bakery on the corner from which the rich scent of fresh bread spilled out into the square, and the people at the stalls were standing around amiably, chatting about local affairs and peddling their individual wares to one and other. It was a homey little trade network, and despite his strangeness, Geralt didn’t feel unwelcome.

He made several minor purchases before he found his way to the bakery. It wasn’t as crowded as he’d feared, and he waited until the one or two customers before him had made their way out. The woman working the counter was twig thin despite her occupation, thin blonde hair tied up away from her face and covered by a light cloth, probably to keep flour out of it. Her eyes were blue, pale as diamonds. Geralt couldn’t help but think that Jaskier’s were nicer.

He made her nervous, it was easy to see, but she quickly warmed to him when he told her what he was looking for. Whether it was his gold that excited her or his plan, he couldn’t say, but regardless she helped him pick out his desired items with enthusiasm.

“If you’re planning to use them later tonight, I can make up a basket and have it ready for you. So nothing goes cold,” she explained, her forearms resting on the counter. “The pies are really best that way.”

Geralt nodded, and handed over her coin.

Jaskier would be back soon from where he was playing the lunch crowd at one of the taverns. Geralt rushed back to their room and put the purchases he had with him at the bottom of his pack, a blanket spread over them. Jaskier returned not fifteen minutes later, flushed and grinning. A successful performance, then. Good. When Jaskier was in a good mood he was more amenable to doing what Geralt said. “When do you play this evening?” Geralt asked, not looking up from where he was cleaning his sword at the small table they’d been provided.

Jaskier set his lute case down gently against the wall and then flung off his doublet with much less care, flopping down on to the bed. Geralt forced himself to keep his eyes on his work, though the image that awaited him - Jaskier, spread out, his shirt falling open to reveal the smooth line of his throat and his sharp collar bones - burned against the back of his eyes anyways. “Not until nightfall,” Jaskier answered with a content sigh. “After the dinner crowd. Why? Do you have plans?”

“Do you remember where we stopped on the first day, the hill just before town? By the brook.” He set his steel sword aside and reached for the silver, which was the one that truly needed attention. So many contracts in a row had left her chipped in a few places, and dull all around. Geralt set his whetstone down, but didn’t draw it across the blade yet. Waiting for Jaskier’s answer. He felt his stomach twist with something like nerves, which was ridiculous. This wasn’t anything risky, anything that Jaskier would read into - probably. Probably.

“Sure,” Jaskier answered easily.

“Can you meet me there?” Geralt asked. “An hour or so before you have to play?”

He heard Jaskier sit up, could feel the bard looking at him curiously. His gaze warmed the side of Geralt’s face, and he refused to look up and meet those bright blue eyes. “Did something happen? Do we need to get out of town?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, amusement bubbling up within him. “No. Nothing bad. Just… meet me?”

Jaskier was silent for a long moment, long enough that Geralt gave up and turned to look at him. He was regarding Geralt with a curious expression, almost guarded. But all he said was, “Alright. I can do that.”

Geralt nodded, satisfied, and returned to his task.

He left before Jaskier, stating the need to drop by the herbalist's shop and that if he wasn’t back - as he didn’t intend to be - that Jaskier should go to the meeting place on his own. Geralt made his own way back to the bakery, where his basket of goods was waiting as promised. He tipped the girl well, and set out with his pack containing the blanket and other purchases on his shoulder, and the basket on his arm.

It was a nice evening, warm and thick with the last hints of summer. It would be fall soon; he could taste it in the faint hint of decay that lingered on his tongue whenever he took a deep breath of the air beyond the city. But for now it was still hot enough during the day that the evenings were comfortable. Geralt found his way back along the road to where they’d stopped to water Roach at the nearby stream, just before the landscape dropped down into the shallow valley that held the large town. He made his way off the path, far enough away that they wouldn’t be obvious from the road, to a raised patch of earth that looked down over the fields as they spread out below. It was a lovely sight, the landscape rich in the evening light, the dying sun casting the rooftops of the city in rich gold. Jaskier would appreciate the scenery, at least.

Geralt quickly set up, laying out the blanket and pulling out the supplies from the basket. He’d maybe gone slightly overboard. There was a meat pie, several stuffed rolls, a hearty cabbage stew in two small bowls kept covered by plates tied to them; a loaf of fresh rye bread, with cheese and jam and honey to go with it; berries and apples with cream; a plethora of desserts, including an entire apple pie, along with little marzipan candies and several little cakes. Two bottles of wine, one white, one red. As he laid out item after item, Geralt felt unease stir within him. It was too much, he realized, seeing it all together. That had been his goal, after all, to see Jaskier eat as many things as possible, to get a sense, at least, of where his preferences lay. But this was overwhelming. Jaskier would realize something was amiss. A picnic, laid out in perfect detail, in the warm light of the evening, fields spread out beyond them and the forest to their back. It was obviously, sickeningly romantic, he realized. So very obviously beyond what one might do to spend an hour eating dinner with a friend. Panic rose in his throat, choking him, and he grabbed one of the wine bottles, thinking to put it away. If he could put some of it back, maybe it wouldn’t look so much like--

“Geralt?”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, fighting the desire to curse, and turned around. He hoped none of his apprehension showed on his face.

Jaskier was a few feet away, carrying nothing but his lute on his back. He was looking down at the spread with a shocked expression, eyebrows pulled up nearly into his hairline and eyes open wide. “What’s… all this?” he asked, his gaze flickering back up to meet Geralt’s.

“Dinner,” Geralt grunted, putting the wine bottle down. In for a penny, he thought grimly.

He watched several different expressions flicker across Jaskier’s face, too quick to parse. For a moment Geralt thought he looked almost… sad, or maybe anxious, but then he broke into a wide grin. The honest delight pouring off of him made Geralt let out a slight sigh, relief blooming in his chest. “Oh, well isn’t this just wondrous,” Jaskier laughed. He pulled his lute from his shoulder and set it in the grass beside the blanket, and folded himself down amongst Geralt’s offerings. A hand reached up towards him. “Are you going to join me?” Jaskier asked, raising a playful eyebrow. Geralt grumbled, but carefully sat down next to the bard and began dishing out the food.

It was good, all of it, but Geralt hardly paid it any mind, focused entirely on Jaskier’s reactions. The constant flow of conversation was interrupted every time Jaskier took a bite of something new - “This is delicious, have you tried this yet?” and “We must find out what spices they used for this stew, it’s absolutely the best I’ve had in months” and “Geralt, where did you find marzipan? Look at these little things, the details are impressive.” Throughout it all, Geralt watched his face, listened to his words, paid attention to what he returned to and what he didn’t.

And by the end, he was ready to tear his hair out.

Jaskier seemed to enjoy everything. He finished every helping he took, praised every dish, thanked Geralt for each and every selection he’d made. Even with so many choices, it didn’t seem to matter. Jaskier liked them all, but Geralt couldn’t tell what he liked the best. Not the way Jaskier apparently could do for him.

Finally Jaskier flopped back into the grass, one hand on his stomach. “I don’t think I’ve been so full in years,” he groaned, staring up at the sky with heavy eyelids. “Probably since the last banquet I played at. You really outdid yourself, my dear.”

Fuck it. He had to ask. “Anything you liked in particular?”

Jaskier hummed, closing his eyes. “Mm, how could I choose? Everything was so lovely.”

Frustration clawed at him. Before he could stop himself, Geralt heard himself ask, “Do you even have a favorite food?”

Immediately he clamped his mouth shut, jaw clenched hard. He hadn’t meant to ask that. He wasn’t supposed to, he was supposed to--

“Oh, I don’t know if I have a favorite favorite,” Jaskier droned, blinking his eyes open to peer up at the sky again, this time with a thoughtful expression on his face. “There’s just such a range, you know. I suppose when it comes to desserts, there’s these custards that they make in Toussaint, have you had them? Tiny things, very sweet, with saffron and cinnamon. Delicious. We’ll have to get some next we go so far south.”

Geralt was hardly listening, even though he knew that had been the entire point. He’d failed. Jaskier had told him the answer to his question, which meant he was never going to have the chance to prove that he could learn Jaskier as Jaskier had learned him. He couldn’t prove his friendship, his affection, through his actions. Jaskier would never be interested in Geralt the way that Geralt was in him, but he’d hoped he could at least let some of his true feelings bleed into his actions, into the careful way he paid attention. Jaskier had already done so as nothing more than Geralt’s friend. Now he would never be able to pay him back in kind, not truly.

Jaskier turned his head to look at him, brow furrowed curiously. He must have been silent for too long. Geralt quickly schooled his features into neutrality, but some of his distress must have peaked through, because Jaskier frowned at him. Geralt could feel the incoming conversation before Jaskier even opened his mouth. He tried to get ahead of it, talking over the beginning of Jaskier’s soft inquiry. “We should head back,” he grunted, rising abruptly to his feet. “You have to play.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, in a tone that made Geralt’s stomach fill with dread. That was Jaskier’s no nonsense, absolutely-you-will-not-be-getting-out-of-this tone. He turned back towards Jaskier, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The bard had clamoured to his feet when Geralt stood up, and was now stepping around the blanket towards him. Geralt wanted to retreat further, to shove the remains of the picnic back in his bag and hide the evidence, but he knew it wouldn’t save him. He was being too obvious, and Jaskier knew him too well.

The bard eyed him suspiciously, but there was a note of concern in the way his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?” Jaskier asked, this time a bit softer. “I thought we were having a lovely time.”

“We… It was. It was nice. I just think it’s time to go.” Jaskier gave him a shrewd look. Not buying it then. Geralt sighed. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s not you.”

“I certainly hope not,” Jaskier chuckled. The sound was thin, like that was exactly what he had been worried about. “You’ve been acting strange for weeks. I wondered if-- Well. But if it’s not about me, it’s something else? Are you trying to butter me up for something? Is there a big scary adventure you’re about to tell me I’m not allowed to come on?” His gaze turned sharp again, but this time there was something like fear underneath it. “Are you leaving me behind?”

“No,” Geralt said quickly, his hands rising in a placating manner. “I’m not leaving you, Jaskier, I swear it. It’s just…” He petered off, unsure how to continue. How to explain.

“It’s just what?” Jaskier demanded. “Why have you been so damnably nice to me lately? Are you dying?” His eyes widened. “Am I dying?”

“No, Jaskier, of course not, just--”

“Then why the gifts?” Jaskier spread his hands around their little picnic, an easy example of exactly what he was talking about.

Geralt’s resistance shattered. “I was trying to figure you out,” he snapped. “I don’t know you, not like you know me. You know everything about me. You pay attention, even when I don’t say anything. You knew I liked dates because I bought jam months ago. You know me better than anyone, but I don’t know you. I don’t know what your favorite food is, or your favorite color, or what you like to wear, or what your favorite kinds of songs are, or your favorite season. I’ve been looking. I tried to figure it out, I tried to bring things I thought you would like and see what you liked best, but it seems like you like everything. You don’t always… say what you mean. I can’t tell when you’re faking and when you’re not.” Geralt was tense, fists clenched at his sides, jaw hard. He knew he looked angry. Jaskier probably thought he was mad at him, for some reason, but all Geralt felt was fear. He wasn’t good enough. Jaskier had to see that now. Geralt had known him for years, and he couldn’t even say whether Jaskier preferred blueberry jam to strawberry. What kind of friend was he?

A hand took his, gently pulling his fingers apart. He jerked his head over to stare as Jaskier stepped forward to slip their fingers together, squeezing softly. When he looked up, Jaskier was regarding him fondly.

“My favorite color is yellow,” he said. “I wear the silk doublets a lot, because they’re in fashion, but I prefer a linen shirt because it’s not as sweaty. I like songs about adventure, but books about romance.” His other hand lifted to brush a bit of hair away from where it was stuck to Geralt’s warm cheek. His expression was difficult to look at, earnest and painfully affectionate. Geralt was trapped by those blue eyes, like falling into a clear sky. “And my favorite season is spring. You could have just asked.”

Geralt swallowed. “You never had to. I just didn’t want you to… I don’t want you to think that I don’t pay attention.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, laughing a little, “I know you’re not always paying attention. I’m talking constantly. There’s a lot to keep up with. I know you tune me out most of the time, it’s fine.”

“I’m still paying attention to you,” Geralt insisted, because it was important, critical that Jaskier know that even when he wasn’t listening, he was still attuned to Jaskier. His presence, his voice, the sound of his heartbeat always in the back of Geralt’s mind. Whenever the bard was around he could scarcely focus on anything else.

“Knowing my favorite color or food or what have you isn’t what proves that you’re my friend,” Jaskier said, still smiling. “You know me. It’s alright.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me if you didn’t like the things I brought you?” Geralt asked, feeling unmoored. “You acted like you loved everything.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, but his chuckle was nervous. The hand he held in Geralt’s was sweaty, and his heartbeat, always in Geralt’s ears, was a bit fast. “Well, they were from you,” he said with a half shrug. “Of course I loved them.”

“But they weren’t--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaskier interrupted, soft but firm. There was a slight, bitter twist in his lips that Geralt wanted to wipe away. “I just… like to know that you’re thinking of me.”

They were standing so close together. Jaskier’s hand was in his, palm to sweaty palm. They were nearly of a height, but Jaskier was just the tiniest bit shorter, so he had to tilt his chin up ever so slightly to meet Geralt’s eyes. Now it was Jaskier who was tense, his shoulders squared as if to absorb a blow. He nervously dragged his teeth over his lower lip, leaving the hint of an impression in the soft flesh. Geralt watched raptly, swallowing against the urge to soothe the spot with his tongue. “I’m always thinking of you,” he finally said.

Jaskier took a shuddering breath, and Geralt watched as his eyes dropped down to flicker over Geralt’s mouth before they dragged back up to meet his gaze again. “When I saw all of it spread out like that, I thought maybe it meant something,” he said, nearly a whisper.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, helplessly. He lifted the hand not clutched in Jaskier’s toward his neck, tracing his fingers along the delicate line of Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier’s other hand came up to fist in Geralt’s shirt, inhaling sharply at his touch. It was an intoxicating sound, making his head spin more than the bottle of wine they’d consumed between them.

“Did it mean something more?” Jaskier pleaded, his eyes bright. His hand clutched at the fabric over Geralt’s heart, the fingers between his own tightening in a deathgrip. “Did it?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, and leaned forward to kiss him.

Jaskier gasped at the first press of their lips, opening for Geralt easily and without hesitation. He tasted like sweet white wine and meat pie and marzipan, and Geralt greedily mined the flavors from Jaskier’s tongue. He tried to pour all of the things he found himself unable to say into the press of his teeth against Jaskier’s lip, into the flick of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and the way his fingers tangled delicately in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier gave as good as he got, humming encouragingly into Geralt’s mouth and hauling him closer by the hand in his shirt. He didn’t release Geralt’s hand from where he held it in his own, and Geralt made no move to extract himself.

Finally, Jaskier pulled back, panting against Geralt’s lips as he set their foreheads together. His eyes were closed, and Geralt watched them flicker open, savoring the dazed expression on his face. “I think I’m going to be late to play that show,” Jaskier rasped, and a thrill went through Geralt at the sound. And indeed, the sun had begun to set, dipping over the edge of the mountains in the far, far distance, coloring the air around them in rich purples and reds. Jaskier’s face was soft and ethereal in the glow, and Geralt never wanted to let him go, never wanted to leave this moment.

“Why spring?” Geralt found himself asking.

Jaskier smiled, and his face softened even further. “Because it’s when I get to see you again, of course. You should have known all along; you’re my favorite.”

It was a corny sentiment, and by Jaskier’s grin he knew it, but Geralt couldn’t help the way it warmed him up from the inside out, radiating out from within him and making his lips pull into an answering grin. He leaned in and kissed Jaskier again, and again, and a third time, in quick succession, each more soft and lingering than the last. When he was finished Jaskier had that dazed looking expression back on his face, and Geralt decided it was a good look on him. “Want to know something?” he asked, teasing. Jaskier nodded, the hand on Geralt’s chest snaking up to wrap around his neck, holding the both of them close. Geralt leaned in to press his lips just behind Jaskier’s ear, to press his secret against the soft skin there.

“You’re my favorite too,” he rumbled, and Jaskier laughed, bright and joyful, and both of them knew that it was true.

This is my last s&s fic!! So excited to be done with the challenge, and happy that I was able to finish! Thank you to all those who encouraged me over the last two months, your kind words and support mean more than I could say <3

tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire, @theamazingbard

#geraskier #geraltxjaskier #the witcher #witcher #witcher fic #fic #fanfic #my work #sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo #s&s #fluff

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writinglizards · 3 years

Text

what I’m afraid to say

Part 3 of the train fic I was involved in!

part one | next

The healer eventually lets Jaskier leave after almost two weeks. By the time she does, they're both going a little stir crazy.

"Here," Madriga tells them both, handing Jaskier a small container of ointment, "it's mostly healed, but this will help with the scarring." Jaskier nods absently and Geralt's stomach drops out.

Realistically he'd been aware that the wound would scar but it's… it’s something else to be told, to realize that Jaskier is going to carry the mark of Geralt's failure on his skin.

"Thank you Madriga, darling," Jaskier says, smile winsome, and the woman rolls her eyes.

"Just get out of my home," she grouses, and they do so, gladly.

The sun is high in the sky as they set out, not quite midday, but close, and Jaskier babbles as they go, munching on a chunk of hard bread. His step is remarkably even, even if Geralt keeps worrying about him. He's…he's still not fully recovered, still a little thin. Two weeks in a bed have worn on him, and Geralt's worried he's going to tire easily, that he's going to need help and not ask, that—

"Geralt," Jaskier cuts into his mental downward spiral, "you okay?"

Geralt merely grunts in response.

"Oh, don't give me that," he sulks, "I know when you're in a mood, darling. You get all—" he breaks off, making a constipated face that does not resemble Geralt in the slightest, "—grumpy."

"I'm fine," he growls out, irritated. Then, much softer, "How are you?"

Jaskier shrugs one shoulder, "Tired," he admits, but he catches Roach's reins and tugs her onward after him when Geralt tries to stop, "but not so tired we need to take a break. Really Geralt, there's no need to fuss."

Geralt doesn't argue, only because he knows it's an argument he's going to lose even before he opens his mouth. Jaskier has that look about him, the stubborn one that says it doesn't matter what Geralt's about to try—he's set his mind and he's going to follow through, by the gods.

They make it another few hours before Jaskier admits he maybe needs a rest (his hand is pressed to his healing side, breathing gone a little shallow) and Geralt finds them a spot almost immediately.

"It's fine Geralt," Jaskier grumbles when Geralt tries to tug him down to sit on the rough forest floor, tries to get a look at his side, "I'm just out of practice. Two weeks in bed will do that to you."

"But you're holding it," he accuses. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"Because it aches you idiot," he says, not unkindly, "it's fine."

"You didn't say it ached before," he huffs. He knows he sounds petulant, but he's worried, damn it all.

"Because I knew you'd hover," Jaskier sighs. "Honestly Geralt, you're a little predictable."

"Hm."

He doesn't let Jaskier help with setting up camp, forcing him down next to where he's hastily dug out a little fire pit before setting to work gathering firewood and setting a few snares. It's early enough in the evening he might as well.

"Think we'll catch anything?" Jaskier asks when Geralt comes back with another armload of firewood. Jaskier's already got a small cookfire going and Geralt frowns.

"I told you I'd do that."

"Yes, and you took too long. I took care of it. No worries."

"You need to rest."

"Geralt, I am tired of resting. I did! For two weeks! It's fine."

"I'm just—" I'm just worried, he thinks, but the words are lacking. It's more than that. I love you, I don't want to see you hurt, I've already failed you, please let me help.

"I know," Jaskier says placidly, even though he cannot possibly fathom what Geralt means, what he feels.

They settle, despite Geralt's fussing. There are enough provisions to go around now that they've had time to stock up, and Jaskier eats his hard bread and cheese with relish, humming happily.

It's almost normal, and Geralt lets himself be lulled into that sense of normalcy, the easy companionship that is sitting around a fire with Jaskier, right up until Jaskier pulls out the little container the healer had given him.

He tries not to watch as Jaskier struggles out of his doublet and hooks his fingers in the neck of his chemise to pull it over his head, hissing when it pulls at the wound on his side.

Geralt sighs, hard. "Jaskier, let me help."

"Ooh, would you?" he asks, shifting closer so Geralt can get his hands around the thin fabric of his shirt. "Thank you, Geralt."

"Hm." He tugs the fabric gently over his head, helps him move his arms in such a way that it doesn't tug at his side too much. He's careful not to touch his skin as much as possible—he knows it would be addictive, to have a taste of that soft, supple flesh under his palms only to know he can never have it again. He almost forgets why he's undressing Jaskier until he catches sight of the thick, angry lines against his side, and his hands still, the shirt hanging in his grasp.

"Geralt?"

"It's—" he reaches vaguely for his side, fingers hovering but not quite touching.

"It's scarred," Jaskier says softly, "you knew that."

"I hadn't seen it," he murmurs, pulling his hand back. It's…upsetting to look at. Knowing it's Geralt's fault. He can't fix it, not anymore, but— "Can I?" he asks, gesturing to the ointment. Jaskier hands it over without a word.

When Geralt twists off the cap, he's hit with a wave of scent, heavily medicinal. He can detect hints of celandine underneath other herbs he's less familiar with. Jaskier wrinkles his nose in response.

"That smells awful."

"Should cut back on the scarring," Geralt reminds, trying to keep his tone even and unaffected, "let me see?"

Jaskier twists, presenting his side to Geralt's careful attention as he coats his fingers in the ointment.

"Careful, I'm ticklish," Jaskier teases, and then Geralt's fingers are brushing against the first ridge of the scar, and they both go very, very quiet.

The ointment has to be rubbed in, has to give the skin time to absorb it so that the scar will soften and fade, with time. It will never be gone, exactly, but it will help Jaskier look a little less like he's been mauled by a cockatrice.

He lets out a soft, shaky breath and goes boneless under Geralt's hands, tipping a little further to the side, exposing more of the three jagged slices trailing from just below his ribs to just above his hip bone. Tentatively, Geralt runs his fingers along one of the angry, slightly raised lines. Jaskier's breath stutters.

"Okay?" His own voice is huskier than it should be, but he can't help it—Jaskier's soft and warm under his fingertips, alive, and it's hard to reel in the surging emotion in his chest, try as he might.

"Okay," Jaskier confirms, and then drops uncharacteristically silent again. He doesn't say anything as Geralt moves on to the second jagged scar, or when he pauses to coat his fingers in more ointment, presses them deliberately back to Jaskier's skin.

I love you, he thinks as his fingertips drag across Jaskier's side, and he paints the emotion into his skin with the ointment. I love you, I love you, I love you. Words he cannot, cannot say. He will not bind Jaskier to himself that way.

"Done," he murmurs softly in a voice that barely breaks the quiet. He doesn't want to disturb this odd hush that's fallen over them, doesn't want to upset Jaskier. Because he can't imagine Jaskier isn't upset with the thick, angry lines scoring his side. It's a scar. It's a mark.

Jaskier sighs shakily again, sitting upright and twisting away, out of reach. Geralt misses the closeness immediately.

"Thank you, Geralt."

"Hm."

He doesn't help him re-dress, although his fingers itch to. Instead, he pretends not to see how Jaskier struggles into the worn nightshirt, how he pants with exertion afterward.

When he lays out across his bedroll, Geralt finally lets his guard drop, anticipating a long, quiet night with the fire between them, the crackle of the dying embers, the hush of the forest. Normal.

"Geralt?" Jaskier is softly tentative, curled under his furs.

"Hm?”

"Would you—would you sleep with me tonight? Not—" he cuts off abruptly, blushing, "—not like—just sleeping. I...I missed having you close."

Something in Geralt's chest roils at the guilty admission, something he refuses to let bubble to the surface. Jaskier had slept in the healer's hut for two weeks while Geralt had been forced to stay at the inn. He had...missed him, it was true, but he'd never thought—

"Please?"

He doesn't verbally respond, just lays his bedroll out beside Jaskier's and settles down, too close and yet impossibly far. He couldn't close the distance even if he wanted to. Jaskier feels no such impediment and immediately rolls closer, tucks himself along Geralt's side, sighing with contentment.

"Thank you, Geralt," he hums softly, sleepy and sweet. Reluctantly, Geralt settles an arm over his waist. It's just to make sure he doesn't roll onto his bad side and hurt himself, he reasons. It doesn't matter that Geralt wants to hold him close to his chest, tuck him in there beside his heart where he can protect him from everything, himself included.

"Go to sleep, Jaskier," he says, and the bard shifts in the circle of his arm murmuring gentle nonsense. His heart beats even and true, and Geralt's beats back a slow and steady response—I love you, I love you, I love you.

#witcher #witcher fic #geraskier #lizard writes #rating: teen

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thefanficmonster · 4 years

Text

You Call It A Mess, We Call It Baking

Corpse Husband x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Swearing

Genre: Tons of fluff

Summary: A friendly argument via Discord leads to a baking session. Said baking session leads to a kitchen looking like it was the victim of a tornado. The lesson here is: don’t leave Corpse and Y/N in the kitchen together.

Requested by Anon, thank you so much for your request, hope I captured what you wanted well and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Corpse’s POV

I’ve been sitting in a Discord call with Y/N for about three years now, keeping her company as she’s editing some footage Sean sent her earlier. In the meantime, I’m reviewing the recently submitted stories by my viewers, reading some lines I find funny or downright terrifying to her.

“When I went in the kitchen to check on the cake, it was already out of the oven, a sticky note next to it on the counter that read: ‘smells nice’. My blood ran cold.“ I read the eerie sentence that is suggesting one of my most frightening scenarios - a stalker getting inside your house. I get chills just imagining what was probably going on in the sender’s head when they saw that.

“Jeez, it’s been so long since I’ve cooked something other than omelet.“ I hear Y/N reply absentmindedly, completely neglecting the fear factor of what’s going on in the story.

“Good job missing the point.” I chuckle, my eyes continuing to scan the email until my brain actually comprehends what she said, “Wait, you mean to tell me you have baked anything ever?! No offense, Y/N, but I was honestly doubting your ability to make an omelet as well. In all the years we’ve been friends I can’t remember you ever not saying ‘I hade takeout’ when I asked you what you had for dinner.”

The scoff that comes through my headphones is the most adorable thing ever. She’s one to easily take a joke and never get offended by anything, but I know how heated she can get with her sarcasm. If I’m being honest, I’m always here for it.

“There are many things you don’t know about me, Corpsy. A girl’s gotta have some aces up her sleeve.“ I can just imagine the narrowing of here eyes and the tilting of her head as she says that. She has a very specific way of expressing her thoughts. When we first met I accidentally made the comparison to one of those children’s books that have pictures, stories and small buttons for audio. That comparison has stuck with me and I look back at it very often. To fully catch her point, you don’t just listen to her. No, no, no. You focus on every change in her face and body. The way she looks away during certain parts of her speech, the way her voice plays with several different tones at once. Her posture while speaking. Just like those books - you don’t just listen to the audio, you look at the pictures and read the text.

“Well you know how much I like playing poker, why don’t you come over and throw those aces down.“ The last thing you should ever give Y/N is a challenge. She won’t only homerun it, but will never let you forget it either. When we met she was a girl with self esteem in the negatives, so seeing her brag about her achievements to me always brings me joy.

The details I’ve listed are pretty in-depth, aren’t they? That’s because I don’t want to let anything slip when it comes to her. This realization hit me early in our friendship and it was only like two years in that I finally connected the dots - this investment in her of mine was not simple nor platonic. Come to think of it, I reckon it never was.

“No way, I’m not changing out of my pajamas just to come to your house.” She laughs, once again making me picture her full body reaction to her statement.

I smirk, knowing I’m about to bring out my main weapon, “Oh come on, I’ve seen you in pajamas countless times. You can just admit you don’t wanna embarrass yourself. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

I can sense her fuming even though she’s like two miles away. “I’ll be there in 15.”

She hangs up before getting the chance to hear me lose control of the laughter I’ve been suppressing.

Man, I love this girl.

Y/N’s POV

“It’s on.“ I say as soon as the door in front of me swings open to reveal the smug smirking face of my bestfriend. The foundation of my tough, unbothered act is shaken up by the outburst of butterflies in my stomach which occurs every time I see him. I can never look at this man and not turn at least a little red in the cheeks.

It’s been long since I self-diagnosed with the malicious ‘falling for someone who would never reciprocate my feelings’ illness. I’ve been living with it for a while. What medication do I take? Dating other guys. One bad relationship after another, scolding myself that every one of them has been a desperate attempt to get him to change his gaze on me from ‘best friend’ to something more. Hell, I don’t even know how to define that ‘something more’. I once even tried to admit my feelings, but I was so vague and so incoherent that I didn’t understand myself, so how was he supposed to grasp my downright sad excuse of a confession.

“No ‘hello’, no nothing?“ He moves aside to let me in. I walk right past him with a sassy flip of my hair to mask the nervousness of being aware that his eyes were on me, “Rude.“ He murmured with an obvious smile in his tone.

He looks as cute as ever, black sweatpants and a black tee, hair messy as though he has just rolled out of bed. I can say with the upmost certainty that he’s the only one who can pull of that hairstyle.

I hide mine as I throw on the apron that’s hanging by his fridge, ready to take over his kitchen and put those aces of mine to use. I can’t help but furrow my brows when I see him enter the kitchen behind me and lean against the counter. That’s when I notice the counter is lined with all the ingredients I’ll need for the cake I had in mind.

“OK, what do we do first?“ he claps his hands together, straightening his posture as he gives me a expectant look.

It takes all my brain cells to prevent me from freezing up completely. I’m not usually like this, mind you, I’m a lot better at keeping what’s going on inside my head camouflaged. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I don’t have much time to dwell on that. If I do, he’ll pick up on it right away.

“Um, we are not gonna do anything. I will be here baking, and you will remain outside the kitchen until I’m done. If you need something, ask and I’ll bring it to you. I can’t have you sabotaging my project, impostor.” I narrow my eyes at him like he’s the most dangerous of threats. And he is, for my mental sanity.

He fakes a hurt expression, clearly fighting to the best of his ability to hide how much he’s enjoying messing with me. “We’ve known each other for five years, Y/N. Don’t you trust me?”

I lean over the counter to where we’re about two feet apart and whisper, “Not. Even. A. Little. Bit.”

He smiles, “You’re just trying to get away with making this cake by watching a YouTube tutorial. Admit it, you can’t even crack an egg properly.” His eyes are now as narrowed as mine as we stare each other down at a proximity that’s rapidly raising my body temperature and heartbeat. It’s not fair. I’m a mess around him so he automatically has the upper hand.

As expected, I give in, “You better not mess around though.”

After I force him to give me several different oaths, we start. I’m working on the batter, he’s working on the frosting. We decided to decorate it with crimson and dark purple frosting. We’re both really pick about the color shades so he’s currently struggling to get the crimson perfect.

“Let’s make it a layer cake.“ He suggests out of the blue, “Two layers, nothing crazy.“

I think it over for a moment or two before shrugging, “OK, but then you better grab a bowl and help me with the second layer. You know how to make the batter, right?”

He confirms that he does and walks out of my line of sight. I hear him open the fridge as I whisk the eggs I have cracked with the sugar.

“You want something to drink?“ He asks while rummaging through the fridge.

I decline, try to focus on the recipe that I have somehow memorized to the smallest of details. As I’m reciting the it silently to make sure I didn’t skip any steps with the batter, I feel something cold run down my back causing me to scream.

“What the fuck was that?!“ I turn around and glare at him just as the ice cube slips out from under my hoodie and falls to the floor. The fucker’s laughing whole heartedly, not giving a damn that he just gave me a mini heart attack. Mainly cause I thought it was a roach or something, and he know I hate bugs.

“You do realize how boiling red you are, right? You look like a lobster. I thought you needed something to cool you down.“

Instead of being annoyed, I do a full 180 and decide to play his game, “Yeah, I know...” I trail off, reaching my hand back towards the bowl of flour. Grabbing a a handful of the white powder I throw it at him before he can even catch on. Needless, to say, his outfit and hair aren’t so black anymore. “Ah, I knew your hair would look good with snowflakes in it, but you can never be too sure.”

“This means war, Y/N.” His smile is borderline malicious, getting me excited for what’s to come.

Him and I have always had these so called wars, but never like you’d imagine. We are silent, strategic, subtle. Neither of us knows when the other will attack until it’s too late. That’s why instead of going for a counter-attack right away, he heads to complete his mission of making the batter for the second layer.

All is quiet except the noises of the utensils clinking together every now and then. I keep a close watch on him out of the corner of my eye and I notice no sus behavior. That is until I see him take a spoonful of his batter and eat it. I whirl around at the speed of a gust of wind, eyes wide, “Do you want to fuck up your guts.” He ignores me as he takes another spoonful, bringing it close to his mouth. This time, I grab onto his arm causing the contents of the spoon to spill on my hoodie.

I roll my eyes, unbothered by the brown stain that by some miracle missed the apron and fell on my grey hoodie, “Don’t. Eat. The. Batter. Copy?“

“Paste.“ He nods, smirking with pride as he puts the spoon aside.

I sigh and return to my side of the kitchen, focusing on the next task: poring the batter into the circular baking tray which he, for some reason, has two of. He repeats the task soon after me and we put the two trays in the oven. I help him with the frosting, getting the shades close enough to what we had in mind.

After about five minutes of the crusts baking, a wonderful smell spreads throughout the kitchen. At this point, all we have to do is wait for the oven to signal that our cinnamon crust is ready to be taken out, wait for it to cool down and then frost the cake.

“It smells really good.“ He comments, turning his head to look at me.

I’m sitting atop the kitchen counter and Corpse is standing next to me. This is the only time him and I are at approximately the same height. The realization brings a thought to my mind, one that makes me feel like an evil mastermind.

“Hey, remember earlier when you said I couldn’t crack an egg properly?“ He hums affirmatively, “Well...“

The carton of eggs is within arm’s reach. I grab an egg, chip it off the side of the counter and crack it apart above his head, its contents coating his hair. “How’s that for a proper egg crack?” I ask victoriously.

He lets out a surprised sound, something between a gasp and a laugh. Shaking his head to get the yoke to fall down, he says amusedly: “I don’t know...you tell me.”

Too late for me to do anything. There’s milk all over me.

The malicious smile on his face is replicated on mine and now it’s really on. However, as we reach for the items meant to be out weapons, the oven dings.

Frosting the cake goes about as well as you expect: there’s more frosting on us than the cake itself.

“Let’s make amends, please. I’m so not looking forward to taking three showers tonight.“ I say, raising a white napkin and waving it around.

“Fair enough.“ He shrugs and we shake hands.

As I’m about to pull my hand back, he holds onto it, making me look up at him. Our eyes lock and I suddenly regain that same shakiness and vulnerability I always have around him. It never leaves me, I just manage to ignore it. The sound of my panic is muffled by the sound of my heart thumping the loudest it has ever.

Expectedly, he is the bold one who makes the first and final move. The move to end one era of us and start another. His lips touch mine and all fades. It’s just him and I. The friends who were never just friends. The cowards who suck at dealing with emotions. The fearful little kids that are afraid of rejection because we both mean so much to each other, to the point of suffering to prevent the possibility of losing one another.

We embrace who we are, finally admitting that friends is not what we are meant to remain forever.

The kiss might’ve been brief, but the meaning it carries makes it the most valuable moment of my life. One I’ll cherish forever. Something in his eyes tells me he will too. That’s all I need. That’s all we need. No words are necessary.

Suddenly, our bubble bursts as a result of his ringing phone. He lets go of one of my hands and takes his phone from the counter.

“It’s Dave”, he smiles, picking up the call and turning to get me in the camera frame. “Hey Dave, look who’s here with me.“

I wave at the camera and at the baffled face of Dave. “Hi!”

“What, in the name of God, is that mess?“ He raises both his eyebrows as his eyes scan us and the kitchen behind us.

“You call it a mess, we call it baking.“ Corpse and I look at each other and smile, blushing as red as the streak in Dave’s hair.

“Am I missing something here? Did I call at a bad time?“ He asks, still struggling to rationalize what he is seeing.

“Yeah, you actually did. I’ll call you back.“ Corpse dead-ass hangs up on him, putting his phone away before turning to me, “We have more important matters at the moment.“

He kisses me again, this time more confidently. His arms wrap around me and prep me up on the counter, insinuating that this kiss won’t be as short as the last.

#corpse husband #corpse #husband #corpsehusband #corpse husband fanficiton #corpse husband fanfic #x reader #reader #fanfiction #fanfic #corpse simp #request #requests open #romance #friends to lovers #love

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inkmemes · 3 years

Text

this country ( 2017 - 2020 ) sentence starters ↪ taken from the bbc mockumentary. trigger warning for mentions of religion, death, sex. alter as you see fit ♡

“i like the underdog.”

“don't be a fucking dick.”

“everyone comes together on days like today and just forgets their utter hatred of each other.”

“everyone who's anyone's going to be there and there are people from my past that would love to see me slain.”

“there's a tea rooms there and under the counter they've got a panic button and if i take one step inside, they can press that. the police will be there in three minutes.”

"he whatsapped me the other day asking us to go laser quest with him and i ... well, i clicked on it by accident, didn't i? so he knows i've seen it."

"i mean, i get it, but it's not making me feel nothing."

“it's baffling. i'm baffled by the entire situation, if i'm honest.”

“what the actual fuck? what the actual fuck? you have fucking lost your head, mate. you have lost your fucking head.”

“when i get hold of you, i swear to god i will fucking deck you.”

"someone's just been throwing plums at my house. i'm going to kill them. i can't believe it. i can't believe it. all over this. plumming on here, plumming on that. plum on the sofa, look! there's nothing left that hasn't been plummed."

“i've had a target on my back since the day i was born.”

“thank you very much, enjoy your free potatoes.”

“do you know how small your brain is?”

“hogwarts is that way, dumbledore.”

“he used to say i looked like the puppet off the dolmio advert.”

“there's a kid crying over there. do you want me to...? i can tell him to shut the fuck up if you want?”

“he genuinely looked like a moomin.”

“on my first day of karate club, karate master goes to me, [name], i don't know why you're here because i can't teach you anything. if anything, you should be teaching me." and just gave me his black belt.”

“you know that little old blind man? yeah, when i was punching him in his face, the lens from his glasses broke and cut my knuckle.”

“some things are just best left in the past, where they belong.”

“what's the point in knocking if you're just going to walk in anyway?”

“it was a miscarriage of justice though, cos what people forget is 12 out of them 20 hostages actually found it funny.”

“i lied so much i still don't know what's real life and what's plain lies.”

“i'm so glad you're out of that lying phase.”

“he likes to be the only person on the road, so whenever he sees a car coming the other way he just pulls over.”

“nasa went through hundreds of them in the '60s. and now every time i see a really bright star in the sky i can't wish on it, cos in my head i'm thinking, ‘that's probably just a spacecraft with some monkey bones in it.’”

“you absolute traitor. that's my cheese - it's my fucking house!”

“don't you dare eat that cheese. you eat that and i will smash this. i promise you, i will smash you with this.”

“fuck! you switched them!”

“yeah, i can see it's fucking burnt, sherlock.”

“i honestly am ashamed to know him, sometimes.”

“if you knock on someone's door, don't take no for an answer. get into their house. if they say, ‘leave my house’, stay. and if they say, ‘i'm going to call the police’, you walk upstairs and see if there's anybody else upstairs to sell to.”

“she looks like uncle fester.”

“right. i'm going to piss in their flowers, then.”

“you really need to go home. your mum's called the police and everything.”

“you're also fired from being my best mate, by the way.”

“in business, there will always be setbacks. i don't drink my own juice, fray bentos doesn't eat his own pies. but that's business.”

“do you know what, i don't actually want to play this any more, because it is actually very, very boring.”

“i'm ashamed of myself, that's not usually me, so don't get the wrong impression.”

“i genuinely think one of them fancies me as well.”

“it's fate her moving across the street.”

“the problem with finding a girlfriend in the village is that most of the girls you meet round here are old-age pensioners.”

“yeah, i am looking for a relationship, but thing is i've just got so many trust issues, yeah, with being fucked over massive in the past, so no matter how much i get close to someone now i'm thinking in the back of my head, ‘shit, am i going to get fucked over?’ because i've been fucked over in the past massively. my last relationship proper fucked me up.”

“i went through a really dark phase. listening to papa roach and just blowing everything up with them little french bangers.”

“shut up, you don't know what you're talking about!”

“i don't like the man. i know he's my uncle, but i don't like him.”

“it's just malicious lies, that's all it is.”

“i'm not saying i've got a cruel heart, but if she ain't willing to take me as i am rather than the monster i've become, then she can literally just jog on back to sea with all the other fish cos i don't care.”

“what do you look for in a boyfriend?”

“the key to dating, yeah, is the two rs and the three ts. 'respect, rapport, and talking, talking, talking.' don't ever let that ball hit the ground. good relationships are built on great conversation.”

“on a date, you've got to tell them all the interesting stuff about you, because that's what they'll be interested in.”

“he said to me, he goes, ‘you can't smoke on here.’ i said, ‘i'm not smoking, i'm vaping.’ the look on his face when i said that. i don't think he knew what vaping… what a vape is.”

“you would make me the happiest mouse if you say yes and become my spouse.”

“here's a tip, [name], next time you take a chick out on a date, don't bore her to tears.”

“roses are red, violets are blue, i've got five fingers, the third one's for you.”

“get out of my way, pipe cleaner.”

“[name] phoned me the other day at three in the morning saying, ‘come quick,

there's a hedgehog in the garden that looks exactly like grandad.’ so i got up, i got dressed and i ran over to [name]'s as fast as i could and then i just stopped in the middle of the street at three in the morning and thought, ‘what the fuck am i doing with my life?’

“you're joking me? because if you are joking me, that is massively harsh.”

“oh, let me get a song up on youtube. you're going to absolutely love this, [name]. here we go… listen to this. oh, for fuck's sake, advert.”

“let's go down the pub and get shitfaced.”

“where do i see myself in five years? well, me and [name] will have a flat in the middle of the village and all of our furniture will be inflatable and we'll have cable and it will pay for itself, because we're going to use the spare room to breed quails, because their eggs are worth fucking shitloads.”

“is this about the calippo, still? because you offered to buy me that.”

“if he wants to go, good luck to him, i say. i reckon he thinks that i can't live without him, which is a laugh, because he went a whole weekend away once and i got on all right. i just ended up following this cat around the village.”

“i've got to do what's right for me, at the end of the day, instead of worrying about other people.”

“how about you say sorry? sorry for the massive knife that's hanging out the back of my back because of you.”

“oh, and while you're stabbing me in the back, feel free to bend down and kiss my arse.”

“can i just ask you an honest question? why would you want to leave the village when we've got a pub and a shop?”

“i think you don't know how lucky we have it to be doing nothing with our lives, like. we're all going to die, anyway, so what's the point in doing anything?”

“i want ownership of the words fucknut and dickmilk.”

“i had this come through the post. and i've got a few concerns about it. firstly, this guy on the front looks really arrogant. not the sort of guy i was expecting, if i'm honest.”

“this is starting to stress me out a little bit.”

“why are you trying to stress me out? you know i'm already stressed out as it is.”

“the bloke that used to live in there, right, kept hearing strange noises coming out of his attic at night. and he'd go to the fridge and find that food was missing from the fridge. so he thought, ‘i'm just going to go up to the attic and check this out.’ and he found an entire family of peruvian panpipe buskers just living up there. and he thought ‘i'm just going to leave them to it, ‘cos they're not really doing me any harm.’ and then, a few years later, he thought, "well, i'll just go up to the attic to check on them. ‘see if they're all right.’ and it turned out they'd all died of asbestos poisoning. yeah, he doesn't live here any more.”

“some people will always be scared of me, and i can't change that, no matter how nice i am. but there's a balance to be had between being nice and being feared.”

“don't really like catching up. it's not my thing.”

“i just watched this video of this girl doing a random act of kindness on youtube. she basically paid for this old man's shopping at the till. and this old man was, like, about 90 years old. and he's so fucking old, like, you could see through his skin. and he just starts bawling his eyes out. he's like, ‘you're fucking joking me, this ain't fucking real life.’ i just thought... i want to make someone feel like that. ‘cos that's... i really… that's what i want to do.”

“i'm not dead. just can't be arsed to text her sometimes.”

“you know, correct me if i'm wrong, but four texts a day is complete madness. no-one can keep up with that.”

“i am doing kind things selfishly.”

“i was at midnight mass one year, right, someone got tipped off i was there. as i was coming out the church, someone tries to shoot me with a crossbow.”

“well, i haven't seen the film, have i? that's why i came here - to watch the fucking film - like a normal human being.”

“i've made an effort by coming here tonight. i didn't want to come.”

“i had to wheel him here from his house in an asda trolley, cos he was just too heartbroken to move.”

“sometimes you don't know what you got until you ain't got it any more. like blockbuster's. i just took 'em for granted - and then, one day, gone, and you spend ages trying to figure out what went wrong, and then you realise it was your fault all along.”

“i thought you said you wanted to fix things.”

“she wanted it to go that way, and it just wasn't gonna go that way. she even got me thinking that they'd get back together… ..but that's manipula.... manipulative people... do that. and he's better off without her.”

“that wasn't much to write home about.”

“it's fucking dead, isn't it?”

“basically, somebody's been sending me threatening letters, and i don't know who's doing it - and i am concerned, because my peripheral vision is poor, so, if somebody attacks me from the sides or snipes at me from an upstairs window, i am fucked - but my hearing is excellent, see? so i just need to spend a few days inside honing my sonar, and i'll be fine then.”

“if you don't like the work, the circus is in town and they're always looking for clowns.”

“his soul is just going to crumble to dust.”

“this really is not a good situation for me. a physical threat is something that i can deal with, but a sexual thing is not my area of expertise.”

“just really fucked in the head, mate.”

“what have i done? i haven't done anything wrong.”

“do you know how sad that is? that is so, actually, sad. that makes me sad for you, that you can't take a joke.”

“i think i just got a bit carried away with the whole thing.”

“your finger's going up my arsehole, mate.”

“i'll hold the back of your head, so you don't bash yourself.”

“when i lie in future, i don't want a massive lecture on how bad lying is, cos deep down, you're the worst of us all, mate.”

“i'd quite like a coke.”

“it's going to be like gluing a breadstick back together, because… like, as if a breadstick's been in a blender and it's all… ...the pieces smashed up.”

“like, this one time i started a fight club in the village hall, and i got a black eye from beating myself up. but it made my enemies think, ‘fuck, if she can do that to herself, what the fuck can she do to me?’”

“i'm absolutely 1,000% sure i've broken it in two places.”

“i knew this day would come.”

“i should be in tk maxx, getting the bargains that i deserve.”

“unlike you, [name], i'm not a fashion disaster.”

“i'm still warm in my grave, and she's sucking off the pallbearer.”

“you know, it took me ten years to get over [name], and i only went out with her for half a day.”

“i swear to god, if i see him here again, i swear to god, i will have no hesitation in just going up to him and just planting one on his face.”

“right, then keep your nose out of my business, yeah? nosy old cock-womble.”

“[name]’s attitude to me is puzzling. if i walk past her in the street

and say hi, she'll tell me to fuck off. yet every year, she sends me a really sweet, nice christmas card. you know, there's just no consistency there.”

“he's good-looking up close, isn't he?”

“don't show me any weakness, because i will take advantage.”

“no, put the brick down, you fucking psychopath.”

“when i asked him, he just said, ‘come to my office now,’ which means we're in the fucking shit, cos we're always in fucking shit.”

“i shouldn't be paying you at all.”

“i've always had a son. i talk about him all the time.”

“he's my son. he's not my dog.”

“it reminds me of the wicker man. i don't really know why.”

“i just find it weird how you can be so close to someone and they can be such a big part of your life, and then the next minute, you're just sort of strangers in the night.”

“i don't want the emotional implications.”

“well, about five years ago, i sold my birthday to my mum for about 200 quid, which means my mum's legally entitled now to never celebrate my birthday ever again for the rest of my life. not even, like, a happy birthday cup of tea, or a moonpig card, nothing - which is the worst decision i ever made in my entire life.”

“he deserves that anyway, because he's been sexting my nan, so…”

“what's this surprise? cos i need to know whether it's going to be worth this walk.”

“i always see them banners above the motorway, and i always thought, ‘who the fuck does them?’ well, now i know. people like me.”

“did you know you can't get stung by a stinging nettle if you grab the leaf top and bottom, like that? it's only when you touch it on the sides, it stings. agh, actually, that stung, then.”

“pez dispenser, they're cursed. they are, i'm not even joking. honestly, when i had one of them, i had the worst bout of bad luck i ever had in my life.”

“i swear down, it's a short cut. it might be a pleasant walk, we might enjoy it.”

“i'm not scared of the fox twins. i'd just like to sit them down and ask 'em plainly, ‘look, guys, what is going on? ‘cos this has just gotten completely out of hand now. you know, stop walking on your knuckles, stand up straight, be the best version of you that you can be. get a job, even. there's a trolley boy who works at tesco's, you know, who may as well have been raised by wolves. if he can get a job, you guys can walk it.’”

“yes, there has been talk of strange goings-on in the woods, ghost sightings and the like. but… ...they're never from particularly reliable sources.”

“i live with a ghost. there's a ghost in that house. he's like a civil war cavalier, with all the hair and the hat and all that. and every time i walk into the living room, he doffs his cap. and on his shoulder, he's got this crow that barks at me. it means i spend less time in the house, really. not because of him, because he's-he's quite peaceable. but the crow is malevolent. and i'm not having that. i can't share my house with a malevolent bird.”

“that's haunted as fuck.”

“am i going mad here, or does that, to you, look like that's where just ghost will hang out all the time?”

“look at him, little red riding twat.”

“if he's got an attitude with me, i swear to god, i'll just grab the steering wheel and drive us all into a wall.”

“it's a bit annoying, actually. cos this is not the first or the second time i've had to tell you, really, is it?”

“his sparkle has just gone.”

“you know my dad actually wrote the song wonderwall on the back of a beer mat in the space of ten minutes, don't you?”

“i've just got a tiny, tiny, tiny little favour to ask you.”

“when i think of [name], i think of someone who is very loyal. and very, very stupid. sort of more stupid than loyal. sort of 70% stupid, 30% loyal, probably. because she's very loyal. but extremely stupid.”

“do you know what? i actually don't think he loves you at all and i don't think he's ever loved you.”

“all right, that's harsh and unnecessary, but fine.”

“frankly, she is behaving like the antichrist.”

“i literally just got here.”

“you are such an unemotional slab of ham, [name].”

“i've got so much shit on that man you would not believe.”

“there's something in my eye.”

“i just can't quit him, you know?”

“yeah, we might have a fiery relationship, but when we're together, it's just… it's just pure chemistry, isn't it?”

“i'm not proud of it, believe me. but at the end of the day, i'm a very vindictive person, you know? it is what makes me me.”

“i basically went out and bought an alpaca off gumtree for £500. of all the mistakes i've made in my life, that was possibly the largest. definitely the physically largest.”

“yeah, i really don't wanna talk about that.”

“her only loyalty is to herself, staffies, and the tv channel dave… ...which, in my opinion, is a tv channel made by knuckle-draggers for knuckle-draggers.”

“i can't move on till i've seeked revenge, unfortunately.”

“if that was in france, that would be fine, but we're not in france.”

“the only thing we had in common, really, was stealing, and that was more my thing that i got him onto. but it just goes to show, you know, some friendships last and some friendships don't, but that's just the way it is.”

“you know it was me that got you sacked, don't you?”

“the thing i learnt about friendship is, you gotta accept each other's flaws, no matter how toxic they may be.”

“shit-stirring from beyond the grave.”

#rp meme #rp prompt #rp starters #rp sentence meme #rp sentence starters #this is the nichest meme ive made #but this show is so fucking funny okay

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contemplativepancakes · 4 years

Text

enough to drive a man mad

~7k geraskier fake dating, because that is what this fandom needs. read on ao3 here!

Jaskier smells anxious. He reeked of apprehension all of yesterday, not to mention the fact that he hasn’t been able to sit still or stop tapping his foot on the wooden floorboards this morning.

It’s grating on Geralt’s last nerve.

“What, Jaskier?” he finally growls.

Jaskier jumps, almost falling out of his chair from where he sits tapping his quill idly in his notebook.

“What?”

“What has you so worked up?”

Jaskier looks Geralt in the eyes before glancing away again. He clears his throat. “Nothing.”

Geralt grunts.

“Oh, don’t sound so unconvinced,” Jaskier complains.

Geralt rolls his eyes, turning his back to Jaskier to finish settling all of his things into his pack. He wraps the glass jars carefully and tucks them between Jaskier’s shirts, so they don’t break. “If nothing is wrong, you’re ready to go then, right?”

Jaskier grumbles, but he tucks his notebook away and gets to his feet.

They make it about three hours before Jaskier finally broaches the subject.

“So, Geralt,” he starts. “Dear friend of mine.”

Geralt doesn’t even bother to look back at him. Nothing good can come with this as a conversation starter.

“Have I ever told you about my parents?”

“No.”

Jaskier sighs. “I suppose not. Well, they’ve written to me. They want me to visit.”

Geralt thinks back to the letter an innkeeper had handed to Jaskier a few weeks ago, the one that made him eerily quiet the rest of the night and that he had clammed up about when Geralt questioned him. Jaskier was perky and practically completely back to normal the next morning, so Geralt had almost forgotten about it. Apparently, Jaskier had not done the same.

“Hmm.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Dreadfully inconvenient for you. What will you do without your loyal companion?”

Geralt frowns. He hadn’t even thought about that, just registered the smell of unhappiness coming off of Jaskier at the thought of his parents. Jaskier is rather helpful, though. He’s never afraid to step in the middle of pay negotiations, inevitably getting Geralt more coin, and he’s certain Jaskier has stopped them from getting kicked out of at least three towns after Geralt had stumbled back to the inn covered in viscera.

“Do you want to visit them?”

Jaskier trips over his feet, and Geralt dutifully looks away, pretending not to have noticed. “Not particularly. But I have to.”

Geralt won’t pretend to understand how a typical human family works, so he just accepts Jaskier’s words at face value. He’s never felt obliged to return to Kaer Morhen every winter; it’s something he looks forward to—to seeing his patchwork family. But Jaskier deliberately never speaks of his family, and gets twitchy every time anyone brings them up, so Geralt had accepted it as one of Jaskier’s many quirks and moved on.

“Hmm. Well, I can travel with you there, at least. I’m sure there will be contracts in the area somewhere.”

Jaskier flushes red. “I was...I was actually hoping you would come with me.”

“What? I’m sure that’s not what your parents had in mind when they wanted you to visit. They wouldn’t want to meet me .”

“Well, they said it’s unbecoming for someone of my age to be a bachelor. And, so I. I, um.” Jaskier scratches the back of his neck. “I told them I wasn’t. And I maybe sort of perhaps insinuated we were together.”

Geralt can feel a stress headache brewing.

Marilla looks down at the letter in shock.

Dear Mother,

I fear I am not quite as much of a bachelor as you suppose. Have you heard any of my songs? I have gone and fallen head first into my muse. Typical, foolish me, but I’ve never been happier. We’ll visit soon.

Julian

She doesn’t like to think about Julian’s songs, about how he couldn’t even keep the name she had given him. She thrusts the letter to her husband. “He’s coming to visit,” she says in disbelief. “When’s the last time we saw him?”

Ethbert considers this as he reads the letter. “At least five years.”

“And I can’t believe he hasn’t spoken of this ‘muse’ any sooner. I’m not sure I believe him.”

Ethbert gave Marilla a placating smile. “He’s probably just ashamed he hasn’t found himself a wife yet. We’ll find out when he comes, doubtless with an excuse about where his beloved is.”

Marilla sniffs. “You’re right.”

Nell looks down at the scene in the kitchen with wide eyes from her spot crouched down between the banisters at the top of the stairs. Her brother? With a wife? She could scarcely imagine it. She thinks back to the last time Julian was here, the way he had boasted to her about his conquests for hours, away from the prying ears of their parents.

Well, surely if he had someone, he’d have talked about her in his songs. She resolves to get her hands on some of his music. She’ll solve this mystery before Julian even gets here.

“The first thing to know is that they’re awful,” Jaskier says, ticking down one of his fingers as he walks along beside Roach, seemingly uncaring of the dust that’s drifting up from her hooves and onto his doublet. “Well, except for my sister. Be nice to my sister, please, Geralt.”

“I’m nice to everyone.”

Jaskier stifles a laugh. “Mm. Be extra nice to her, then.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You need to loosen up, too. They’re never going to think we’re together when you look all...constipated like that.”

Geralt huffs.

“You’re lucky opposites attract,” Jaskier says, before dragging a hand down his face. “This is never going to work, is it?”

Nell squints at the lyrics spread out before her. This doesn’t sound very romantic to her at all. Maybe a breakup song? She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss , Nell hums. She can’t help but notice there’s three different people the song is talking about, though. Odd. She shakes her head and moves onto the next song.

This one is just a ditty, so Nell turns the page to see a song about the witcher Jaskier travels with. And then another, and another. Is he all Julian writes about? She expected to see love songs, not this nonsense. She goes through more of his catalogue, briefly regretting spending her allowance on the songbook, but she supposes it supports her brother, after all.

She’ll just have to see what she can wheedle out of him while he’s here.

Finally, after flipping through no less than four more songs about the witcher, she lands on one titled “The Eternal Flame.”

Interesting.

Around your house, now white from frost

Sparkles ice on pond and marsh

Your longing eyes grieve what is lost

But naught can change this parting harsh

Spring will return, on the road the rain will fall

Hearts will be warmed by the heat of the sun

It must be thus, for fire still smolders in us all

An eternal fire, hope for each one

There, Nell can read some romance in. She rubs the ends of her hair together in thought. This one song certainly isn’t enough proof that Julian has actually found a wife. More like he’s still pining over some old flame. It doesn’t seem like he’s written very many good love songs at all.

Nell rolls her eyes, thinking back to all the raunchy songs in his catalogue. Typical.

There’s the squeak of the door opening downstairs, and Nell hastily slams the book shut and hides it under her mattress. She doesn’t want Julian seeing and getting a bigger head, after all.

She straightens her dress and runs down the steps, eager to see if Julian’s by himself, which is her guess. She comes to a skidding halt when she sees who is with him.

Oh.

She supposes he does write love songs, after all.

Geralt shifts uncomfortably from the scrutiny Jaskier’s family is giving him. He wraps an arm around Jaskier’s shoulder, hoping he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. He looks over to Jaskier for help, and Jaskier shrugs off his arm and takes Geralt by the hand, leading him forward to meet them.

“Mother, Father, this is Geralt. Nell, this is a very large, scary witcher who will eat you up if you don’t behave.”

Geralt frowns. He thought Jaskier told him to be extra nice to his sister?

Nell laughs, a delightful, tinkling thing that reminds him of Jaskier’s. “He’s going to like me better than you by the time he leaves.”

Geralt looks back to Jaskier, only to see him sticking his tongue out at her. Right. Their relationship is definitely more antagonistic than Jaskier had prepared him for, so Geralt is glad he had Lambert to prepare him for these things.

He’s not sure his interactions with Lambert would be appropriate to apply to Jaskier’s sister, though, so Geralt will let Jaskier handle the ribbing.

“Nice to meet you,” Geralt finally says. “Jaskier’s told me a lot about you.”

Which, of course, is a lie, but Geralt knows that’s the polite thing to say.

“He’s never even mentioned me, has he?”

When Geralt waffles, Nell sniffs dramatically and casts Jaskier a betrayed look.

Jaskier shoots that look right back to Geralt, and Geralt is so impossibly out of his depth right now. “Hmm.”

“Now look what you’ve done, you’ve made him regret agreeing to meet you in the first place!” Jaskier cries.

“That’s quite enough, Julian,” Jaskier’s mother cuts in, and—Julian?

He shoots Jaskier a puzzled look. Obviously, there was a little more he should have told Geralt before they came here.

“Well, I’m afraid we are absolutely knackered; we’ve been riding all day. I’m going to head upstairs…”

Geralt shoots him a look.

“I mean, we are going to head out to the stables and make sure that Geralt��s very polite mare is taken care of.”

“We have someone—”

“No, no, Geralt is very picky about who cares for his horse.”

With that, Jaskier drags Geralt out of the house and to the barn. “I thought the goal was for them to like me?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier snorts. “Gods, no. The goal is to have them believe that we’re in a relationship, and they would never believe I would choose anyone they actually liked .”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Geralt. It’ll be fine. Just stop acting like you’re terrified of me every time I touch you. Maybe we should practice.”

Jaskier gets a gleam in his eye as he darts a glance back to the house, and then his very warm mouth is on Geralt’s. Geralt’s surprised for a second before he relaxes and kisses Jaskier back. He’ll show Jaskier he’s not terrified of him. Geralt would scoff if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied.

Geralt brings one hand up to rest on Jaskier’s jaw and one to wind through his soft hair. Geralt strokes his thumb over Jaskier’s cheekbone, and Jaskier melts against him, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist and tugging him closer.

“What was that for?” Geralt says, trying to keep his breathing even after they pull away.

Jaskier peers around him and looks back up at the house. “Well, they were watching through the window. Figured we’d give them a show. Alas.”

Jaskier turns and heads to the stables. Geralt trails behind him, surreptitiously bringing a hand up to his medallion to make sure it’s not vibrating.

He is in way over his head.

Nell stares at them with wide eyes from her bedroom window. She had...not exactly doubted them when Julian showed up with his witcher in tow, but she hadn’t exactly believed them, either. Who could let Julian trail around after them for years and not get sick of him?

If she hadn’t witnessed them kissing with her own two eyes, she never would have believed it. She pulls the book out from under the mattress and looks at the songs again, this time with a more critical eye. She can’t believe she didn’t see it before. Especially “Her Sweet Kiss.” She’d never admit it to Julian, but she’s glad he won over whoever this her is. He looks happy, in a way that he never did while he was here.

Her mother calls for her, so Nell sighs and puts away the book. She runs down the stairs. “Yes?”

“I need help with supper.”

Nell sets the table, noting they’re using the fancy silverware, which is a surprise, because her mother has never taken a particular interest of what Julian thinks of her before this, so this is an interesting time to start. She’s sure their meal is going to be a very uncomfortable affair. Well, not for her, unless it starts to become painful to hold her laughter in.

She can’t wait.

She’s just finishing arranging the cutlery when her mother turns back to her. “Can you believe Julian? I knew witchers were for hire, but I didn’t think their services extended to...this.”

Nell barely holds back a snort.

Jaskier looks over to Geralt and suppresses a sigh. He had just planted a hand on Geralt’s thigh, and he’s sure his parents think that he just stabbed Geralt, from his reaction. He scoots his chair closer over to Geralt and drapes an arm over his shoulders. “Relax,” he whispers into Geralt’s ear.

Geralt does, marginally, but Jaskier can still see the doubt on his parent’s faces.

Jaskier’s father clears his throat. “So, Geralt, um. I suppose we know what you do, but, um. Um.”

“Honestly, haven’t you heard any of my songs? They are all the very true accounts of what Geralt gets up to,” Jaskier butts in.

Geralt takes a gulp of wine from his goblet to avoid commenting.

Jaskier notices, and elbows him in the ribs. “Geralt loves my songs, right?”

Jaskier’s parents are staring right at him, and it’s more than a little unnerving. “Right. They’re...very romantic.”

Jaskier’s grip around Geralt’s shoulders tightens. “Thank you, darling.”

Geralt is sure Vesemir once told him witchers can’t blush, but his face feels hot all of a sudden, and everyone is looking at him expectantly.

Geralt takes another drink.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Geralt’s been so nervous about meeting all of you. The poor dear is overwhelmed.”

Geralt shoots him a glare, before softening the look into something more akin to convincing Jaskier’s parents that they’re very happily together. Jaskier hastily bolts down the rest of his dinner before he drags Geralt up the stairs and to his room.

He shuts the door behind them, leaning against and tugging at his hair. “There’s no way they’re buying this,” he moans.

“I thought I was being rather convincing.”

The corner of Geralt’s lips twitch, so Jaskier hits him with a pillow. “You did not, you brute! Geralt if you’re doing this on purpose—”

“Hey, hey,” Geralt soothes. “I’m not. It’s just. Acting is not exactly on my list of talents.”

Jaskier crosses his arms and huffs. Geralt tugs him over to the bed and makes him sit down, plopping beside him. “What can I do?”

Jaskier throws his arm over his eyes and lays back, rather over dramatically, if you ask Geralt. “Nothi—Well, actually.”

Geralt does not like the sound of that. He was offering more to be nice than anything.

“We have to have sex.”

Geralt’s mouth goes dry. “What?”

Jaskier scoffs. “This is no time to act the blushing virgin, Geralt,” he says, before his hands are on Geralt’s clothes, tugging them and unbuttoning.

Geralt jerks back, but Jaskier is already done. “There. Nice and dishevelled.”

Geralt gapes at him for a moment, giving Jaskier the opportunity to muss his hair. Geralt growls.

“I know, I know. That took you hours to accomplish.”

Geralt catches his wrist. “Just, hold on a second. What are we doing?”

“We have to consummate my childhood bed, Geralt,” Jaskier says, completely seriously. “Or at least make my parents think we did.”

Jaskier starts moving his hips on the bed, making the headboard brush up against the wall with every gyration. “Mmm, fuck, Geralt, right there!” he cries.

“ Jaskier!” Geralt hisses, but Jaskier pays him no mind.

“You feel so good, darling!” He throws Geralt a wink, and Geralt tries not to combust.

Jaskier undoes three of the buttons of his doublet, revealing a thicket of chest hair. Geralt casts his eyes to the ceiling. Gods help him. “You know, you don’t have to be so stoic all the time, dear heart. You can let me hear you,” Jaskier says, pointedly prodding at Geralt.

Geralt shakes his head furiously. This is not what he agreed to.

Jaskier gives Geralt a put on sigh before clearing his throat quietly. “Oh, Jaskier,” he says in a deep voice.

“That doesn’t even sound like me,” Geralt whispers furiously.

Jaskier just arches an eyebrow, and Geralt knows that’s a challenge. He swings his leg over Jaskier, straddling him and trying to ignore both of their pounding hearts. It’s the heat of carrying out their plan, Geralt is sure, and not at all Jaskier’s proximity.

Geralt rocks the bed back and forth, making the headboard slam against the wall now.

Gearlt gives a half hearted moan, and Jaskier gives him a glare. “You’re making me sound like a terrible lover who’s left you horribly unfulfilled!” he hisses.

Geralt rolls his eyes and gives a more enthusiastic moan this time. Geralt begrudgingly keeps this up for a few more minutes before he grunts and clambers off of Jaskier. “A little quick to the finish line?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt shoots him a rude hand gesture.

Jaskier gasps in mock offense. “Why don’t you go get me a wash rag?” he suggests.

Geralt glares at him; this is taking the charade much too far, if you ask Geralt, but he follows Jaskier’s direction to the bathroom—where Jaskier’s mother is standing. Geralt suddenly becomes conscious of what a mess he must look like right now, thanks to Jaskier. “Hello again,” Marilla says.

Geralt grunts and nods to her, before remembering he should probably say something, anything. “Hi.”

Geralt grabs a washcloth and flees.

When he gets back to Jaskier, Jaskier is sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest, scribbling away in his notebook, the inkwell balancing precariously on the mattress. He still has his buttons undone, and Geralt curses himself for even noticing.

“Did you run into anyone?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt’s disgruntled expression must be answer enough, because Jaskier rubs his hands together in delight. “Excellent.”

Marilla scurries back to her room, completely scandalized. She can’t believe they would...defile her home like this. It’s bad enough that Julian couldn’t choose anyone they suggested for himself, and now he brings home a witcher ? He’s trying to make her gray even faster.

She shuts the bedroom door behind her and looks to Ethbert. Her expression must linger on her face, because he asks her, “What?”

“They—” She makes a floppy hand gesture.

“Are you sure? What would a witcher want with Julian? There’s something not right about this.”

Marilla fans herself. “I know. They’re not even wed. It’s impropriety, is what it is.”

Ethbert squints doubtfully.

Geralt is not a morning person. When Jaskier first discovered this, he was puzzled. Geralt is the only person who dictates his schedule, so no one would yell at him if he chose to sleep until midday.

The more Jaskier thinks about it, though, the more it makes sense. Of course Geralt would wake up at the asscrack of dawn; he probably thinks of it as a punishment or some other such self loathing nonsense.

It’s certainly more of a punishment for Jaskier, because he’s the one that has to put up with Geralt’s bearish attitude every morning.

Geralt blinks awake and squints at the rising sun like it’s personally offended him, and Jaskier closes his eyes, not wanting to be caught staring.

“Morning,” Geralt grates out.

Jaskier’s lips twist into a wry smile. “Good morning.”

“I know you weren’t asleep,” Geralt says, sounding annoyed. “You could have woken me up.”

“Mm. And deal with a grumpy witcher first thing in the morning? I don’t think so.”

Geralt scoffs. “I’m not grumpy.”

“Right.”

Geralt swings his legs out of the bed and begins getting dressed. Jaskier stretches into the warmth Geralt left behind, tugging the blankets up over him.

What? He never said he was a morning person, either. “Where are you going?”

“Into town.”

“For what? Do you need things for potions? I’ll go with you.”

“No, no, I’m just going to see if there’s any contracts; you stay here.”

Jaskier gives a sly grin. “Does my family make you nervous?”

“ No .”

“Hmm,” Jaskier says.

“Shut up.”

“Well, don’t go gallivanting off without telling me where. You know I worry.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “No need.”

Jaskier adopts a high pitched voice. “Why, thank you, Jaskier, my dearest friend. I’m so touched to know someone is looking out for me.”

“It’s pretty sad if you have to imagine someone to be your friend.”

Jaskier splutters as Geralt walks out of the room, a smile tugging at his lips.

Jaskier sighs as the door shuts behind him, wanting to bundle himself back in the blankets and Geralt’s scent, but he resists the urge and stumbles out of bed to pull on his clothes.

He makes it down the stairs and to the kitchen, picking up a bowl of eggs and whisking them, the need to be helpful overriding his desire to collapse in a chair and go back to sleep.

“Good morning, Julian,” his mother says stiffly. “Where’s your beau?”

Jaskier lets himself smile at the image of Geralt’s reaction to being heard of himself referred to as Jaskier’s beau .

“He’s out looking for a contract. He’ll be back for lunch, I’m sure.”

He gives his mother a bright grin. He thinks he should have made Geralt suck a hickey on his neck, but, to be honest, he’s not sure if he could have beared that. Geralt had already been so unbearably close to Jaskier when he straddled him. Jaskier’s not sure what had possessed Geralt to do that, all the while expecting Jaskier to keep his hands to himself.

He’s not sure Geralt’s looked in a mirror anytime in the past fifty years because of the whole monster-staring-back-at-him thing (complete horse shit, in Jaskier’s humble opinion, not that Geralt cares to listen to it), but Jaskier is forced to look at him every day, and he suffers.

He suffers every time he trails behind Geralt atop Roach, watching the subtle shift of his back muscles as he rides, and he’s devastated when Geralt deems Roach too tired to carry him and leads her in his tight leather pants. If Geralt hadn’t been wearing just such a thing when Jaskier met him, Jaskier would be convinced Geralt does it just to personally spite Jaskier.

To doom him to look but not touch for the rest of his life. As such, he had never expected Geralt to actually agree to this whole charade. But, he did, and now here they are. Here they are, with Jaskier knowing exactly what Geralt tastes like (less onion than one would expect), but still having to not just kiss the blank looks Geralt likes to give him right off his face.

It’s enough to drive a man mad.

Geralt looks at the pitiful notice board and sighs. He tugs down the one prospect to examine it more closely. Something is stealing a farmer’s sheep. There’s a few possibilities for what it could be, ranging from minor nuisances to things that he shouldn’t even mention to Jaskier because he’ll nag at Geralt until he lets him tag along, and those are always the kind of jobs that Jaskier should be nowhere near.

Geralt’s not sure how someone with the survival instinct of a fly larva is still alive, especially when he insists on following Geralt around, but Geralt’s not going to let Jaskier get hurt on his watch.

Geralt pockets the notice and goes to talk to the farmer who set the contract, but he has very little useful information to tell Geralt. All he offers is that the sheep have been disappearing without a trace. Geralt walks the edges of the property and a bit into the woods, doing a cursory inspection for the carcasses, but he doesn’t find them, either.

Hmm.

Geralt turns and heads back to Jaskier.

Geralt’s acting out of sorts when he returns from town, so Jaskier tugs him aside. “What’s wrong?”

Geralt just grunts and shakes his head.

Jaskier sighs. Typical. “Weren’t there any contracts?”

“There were, just—I don’t know what it is. But I’m sure it will be fine.”

Geralt even tries to give him a bracing smile, and even though it looks more like a grimace, Jaskier knows it’s not good if Geralt has stooped to trying to comfort him.

Jaskier hums at him and leads him to the table where his family are waiting on them for lunch. Jaskier keeps a hand on Geralt’s knee, because he’s allowed to, at the moment.

He delights in watching Geralt make awkward conversation with Nell, but it seems like they’re quickly warming up to each other. Jaskier’s mouth goes dry at the thought of them teaming up on him. They would truly be a menace.

Jaskier’s mood is quickly soured when they finish eating and Geralt insists on heading back out.

“Shouldn’t you wait until the morning? You know, be well rested?”

Geralt shrugs. “It’s been taking the animals at night. Better chance of finding it if I go now.”

“Geralt, we’re not exactly short on coin right now. Why even go?”

“If I don’t take care of this, who will?” Geralt huffs. “This farmer’s livelihood is at risk.”

Jaskier grins. “Geralt, you unbearable softie. You make me look callous.”

Jaskier darts a glance over to his family, who are pretending not to watch them. He takes that as license to tug Geralt in for a chaste kiss. Geralt stiffens against him, and Jaskier is just about ready to pull away, before Geralt starts kissing him back. He makes it decidedly less chaste, and Jaskier puts a hand on his chest. He lets himself savor it for one, two, three seconds before he takes a step back.

“Geralt, there are children present!” he says in a scandalized tone, grinning at Nell.

She glares, and he shoots her a wink.

Geralt clears his throat, and Jaskier jerks his attention back to him. “Right. Well, if I’m not going to talk you out of it, be safe.”

“I always am.”

Ethbert watches as Julian paces back and forth as he waits for the witcher to return. “Sit down,” he says gruffly.

Julian looks at the clock, then out the window, completely ignoring him. Ethbert snorts. Good to know nothing’s changed, then.

“Surely it can’t take this long to murder one measly little thing,” Julian mutters.

“He’s fine,” Ethbert says. “It’d take a lot to overpower a witcher, right?”

Jaskier sits down in a huff, and Ethbert starts to wonder if maybe their relationship is less of a farce than he thought. It’s certainly an odd one, and he’s still clueless as to what they could possibly have in common, but Julian is painting a convincing picture right now, especially as he tugs his cloak off the hook and settles it around his shoulders.

“Where are you going?”

“To find him!”

Ethbert jerks out of his seat with a splutter. “You can’t be serious. You think you’re going to be able to handle whatever a witcher couldn’t?”

Julian pauses. “Well, no. He’s probably lying in a ditch somewhere, slowly bleeding to death. Oh gods, what if he’s out there bleeding to death?”

Julian becomes even more frantic and rushes out the door and to the stables.

Ethbert resigns himself to a long night.

Jaskier clambers onto one of the smaller mares. He doesn’t have the patience to go through the whole process of putting all the tack on, so he clings to the horse’s neck and prays he doesn’t fall off. He digs into her with his knees, and away they go.

Jaskier has no idea which way Geralt went, but there’s some fairly fresh hoof tracks in the wet dirt of the road, so he follows them and hopes they’re Roach’s. Eventually, they go off the road, and Jaskier is left to squint at trampled grass. He wonders if Geralt would be proud of his tracking abilities, and he smiles thinking about the inevitable jab. Jaskier would respond with something about how Geralt was no better than a dog sniffing the air, and all would be well.

But first, he has to find him. Jaskier slows the horse to a walk as the trail becomes fainter, squinting as he looks at the ground. He comes to an outcrop of rocks with an opening just big enough to go inside, and he dismounts his horse cautiously. He certainly doesn’t want to deal with whatever calls this place its home.

Jaskier notices blood, and his heart kicks up a notch. It’s a rust red color, so it’s not very recent. Jaskier follows the splatters, and as he goes, they get brighter and brighter, until Jaskier’s heart threatens to burst out of his chest with the panicked tap dance it’s doing.

It certainly doesn’t help matters when he finds Roach wandering through the woods by herself. “Where’s Geralt?” he asks, and she snorts at him helpfully.

Jaskier casts a look at the blood glistening under the leaves underfoot and knows Geralt has to be close. Roach gives an agitated whinny before she turns and trots off, and Jaskier rushes after her.

In the end, Geralt’s not all that far away. Jaskier sees his hair before he sees anything else, and then he’s sprinting over to him with little thought for anything else. Jaskier drops to his knees beside Geralt. He looks paler than normal, even though Jaskier hadn’t known that was possible

There’s so much blood, and he’s not moving. Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Geralt? Geralt?” he asks, his voice getting louder and more panicked. “Geralt?”

Jaskier resists the urge to shake him and jostle whatever injuries he has, but there’s bile rising in his throat, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do—

His eyes latch on to the infinitesimal rise of Geralt’s chest, and the pressure on his own suddenly lifts. He shuts his eyes for a moment. Geralt isn’t dead, and he can work with that.

Jaskier takes a closer look at Geralt and finds there’s a chunk missing from his side. It’s still bleeding freely, and Jaskier tries to resist the urge to be sick. He works Geralt free of his armor with shaky hands, so he can take a closer look.

Geralt moans and starts to stir, and Jaskier plants his hands on Geralt’s chest. “Just stay still; you’re going to be fine.”

“Jask?” Geralt slurs.

“Yes, yes, it’s me, and you know I’m far too stubborn to let you die.”

“My pack—”

Jaskier could slap himself for not thinking of that. “Right. Um, your potions.”

He whistles for Roach, and she approaches skittishly. Jaskier glances back down at Geralt, and his eyes are slipping shut. Jaskier tightens his grip on Geralt’s shoulder. “Geralt! You have to stay awake. Do you hear me?”

Geralt murmurs something Jaskier doesn’t quite catch, but his eyes open wider. Geralt’s pupils are so dilated, there’s barely a ring of yellow left around the outsides. Jaskier clambers up to look through Roach’s saddlebags, and his heart clenches when Geralt’s hand comes up to clutch at him as he moves away. “I’m not going anywhere,” he soothes.

He rustles through the saddlebag. “Fuck, Geralt, do you really need so many tiny bottles?”

Geralt gives him a weak chuckle before he hisses in pain.

“Which one do you need?” Jaskier asks, hoping Geralt is coherent enough that he’s not about to poison himself.

Jaskier pulls the pouch out of the saddle bag to show him the options. Geralt points to a few, and Jaskier eyes them doubtfully. He uncorks them anyway, sitting back down and settling Geralt’s head into his lap, helping him get the elixirs down, even when Geralt tries to bat his hands away.

“Save your energy for something useful, would you?” Jaskier tuts.

Jaskier prods at the wound in Geralt’s side, jerking his hand back when Geralt winces. “I forgot just how delicate you were, my apologies.”

Geralt barely manages a huff at that, and Jaskier furrows his brows in worry. He pulls Geralt’s shirt away from the wound, biting his lip as it pulls skin away. The wound looks a sickly green underneath all the blood, and Jaskier gasps a little. This is much worse than he thought.

“Geralt, it’s—Geralt?”

Geralt’s eyes have slipped shut, and Jaskier scrabbles at him, trying to make him wake up again, but he stays stubbornly still. The only thing giving Jaskier even a tiny glimmer of peace is that his chest is still rising and falling.

Tears are threatening to burst to Jaskier’s eyes, but he pushes them down and takes a deep breath. Somehow, he manages to heave Geralt across Roach. Roach snorts, disgruntled, and Jaskier runs a hand over her flank, trying to soothe her.

He looks around, but he has no idea where the mare he rode out here went. Oops. Hopefully it will wander back to his parent’s estate, but if not, well, will they even miss it?

Jaskier gathers Roach’s reins in his hand and leads her back towards town at a steady trot.

When Geralt comes to, he’s sweltering. He seems to be in a tomb of blankets, and the fire is roaring in the corner of the room. The room? He’s not quite sure how he got here; he would have expected to be lying on the cold ground instead of a soft and yielding bed. There’s even less lumps than he’s accustomed to.

He groans when he tries to move, and there’s a rustling from beside him. Geralt looks over to see Jaskier jerking from his chair to fuss over him. Jaskier’s eyes are red when he finally looks up.

“You promised me you were going to be safe, you terror,” Jaskier sniffs.

Geralt doesn’t have his wits about him enough yet to be dealing with crying bards. “Hmm.”

“Geralt, you—What was it?”

“A cockatrice. It got me with its tail; spit a little poison at me just for fun.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “You wouldn’t know fun if it bit you in the ass.”

This makes Geralt look even grumpier, if possible. Jaskier’s glad; he much prefers that to the slack expression Geralt had had while he was sleeping, and Jaskier was terrified he wouldn’t wake up.

Jaskier looks back at him, and Geralt can’t help himself when he reaches out to swipe away Jaskier’s tears with his thumb. “I’m fine,” he murmurs.

Geralt tosses the covers off himself so he can see his wound. It’s wrapped rather nicely, and when Geralt pokes at it, it feels like there’s some kind of poultice under the bandages. He raises his eyebrows at Jaskier, waiting for an explanation.

“A healer.”

Geralt’s surprised Jaskier found someone who would treat him; most people aren’t too keen on helping witchers.

“I yelled at him until he helped you,” Jaskier admits.

Geralt huffs a laugh. “I’m sure he was terrified.”

Jaskier finally cracks a grin. “Hey, you’re not the only scary one around here.”

Jaskier’s eyes drop to his hand, the one that was just on his face, and fuck, what was Geralt even thinking, but Jaskier reaches out and puts his hand over Geralt’s.

“I was worried,” he says softly. And then, sharper, “Don’t you dare say hmm .”

“Hmm.”

Geralt laughs, and there’s a warmth that settles in his chest when Jaskier does the same.

“You’re incorrigible,” Jaskier finally says.

There’s a lengthy silence, and when Geralt looks up, Jaskier is staring back at him.

“You got the trophy, right?”

“Geralt, my ears must be deceiving me. You cannot possibly be worried about that right now.”

“How else am I going to get paid? Last time I checked, you liked to eat. It needs done before something else drags the carcass away.”

Jaskier sighs and huffs and does everything short of stomping his feet before he gathers his cloak from the back of his chair. He glares at Geralt before he slams the door shut behind him.

Geralt rubs a shaky hand down his face.

He’s an idiot.

Jaskier grumbles to himself as he makes his way back out into the chilly night. His advances are obviously unwelcome, if this is the kind of punishment Geralt is doling out to him. Well, that’s fine. Jaskier will just let him bleed out next time.

Okay, he won’t, but that doesn’t mean he won’t consider it for a few seconds.

Stupid emotionally repressed witchers. He can’t say he wasn’t hoping something would happen with Geralt while they were here, but he should have known better.

Jaskier trudges all the way back to near where he found Geralt, pointedly not looking at the blood stain on the grass. He’s fine , he reminds himself. Jaskier pokes around for a little bit until he remembers the cave he had seen earlier and some vague knowledge that cockatrices prefer them.

He’s half expecting another to show up as he plucks some feathers and cuts off the head, for good measure. He almost gags as his knife goes roughly through the bone and sinew, but he manages to keep his supper. He looks around for any last creatures that are just waiting to murder him, but none appear.

He sighs and makes the trek back.

When he arrives, Geralt is sitting at the table, talking to his family, and Jaskier wonders for a moment if he should be concerned about a doppler. Nell is eating up every word Geralt says, and Jaskier hopes she has pried some good stories out of him that Jaskier can repurpose as songs later.

For now, he swings the cockatrice head up onto the table, and silence falls. “There you go, love,” he says cheerfully.

Geralt is looking back at him with a peculiar expression, and he rises from his chair stiffly. Jaskier rushes over to him to help, and Geralt reluctantly drapes an arm over his shoulder. Geralt leads him to the bathroom, and Jaskier makes sure to say loudly enough for the rest of his family to hear, “Well, if you needed help holding it you only had to ask.”

Geralt huffs in exasperation and shuts the door behind him. Jaskier raises his eyebrows in question. “Did you actually need help, or…” Jaskier trails off, and then Geralt’s lips are on his, warm and hungry, and anymore of Jaskier’s thoughts fly out of his brain.

His arms automatically come up to wrap around Geralt’s waist, until he registers that this is Geralt , and he puts a hand on his chest. “Um. Do you need your head checked out, as well? I thought it was your side, but I can go get the healer again.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier’s not convinced Geralt hasn’t sustained a lasting brain injury, but then Geralt is saying, “I should have done this a long time ago,” and kissing him again.

What is Jaskier to do but kiss him back? It’d be terribly impolite not to, after all. When Geralt finally pulls away, Jaskier asks breathlessly, “What was that for?”

Geralt shrugs, considering. “You looked kind of hot carrying that cockatrice head. The trachea hanging down really got me going.”

Jaskier stares at him in disbelief for a beat before they both dissolve into laughter.

“You’re an idiot,” Jaskier says. “You’re my idiot.”

Ethbert looks across the table, where what his son is doing can only be called terrorizing his witcher, and harrumphs to himself. This is not exactly who he pictured Julian ending up with, to say the least.

He wonders the etiquette for having a son in law older than he is. He supposes he’s going to have to find out.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #fanfiction #contemplative writing

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panda-noosh · 4 years

Text

lost in translation {draco malfoy x reader}

words: 11.8k

summary: draco finds a notebook filled with beautiful, painful words. he keeps it for himself. he promises he’ll give it back to the rightful owner when he eventually finds them.

genre: angst

notes: support my writing or ask about commissions! - masterlist - i literally don’t know what plot is any more okay. also i listened to i love you by billie eilish on loop whilst writing this so feel free to put that on if you want.

---

draco sees the words every time he closes his eyes.

repeated stanzas, never leaving him alone. a mouthful of words no mind should ever be able to conjure. a haunting imagination capable of driving even the sanest people out of sanity.

he found the book on a winters day at hogwarts. christmas time was just round the corner, meaning most of his friends had already fled the castle in favour of homes, somewhere out in the muggle world, where they could spend the holidays with families who cared for them as families often cared for each other.

draco decided to stay at hogwarts.

he didn’t want to - not really. his father was just being difficult, and he wanted to face the man even less than he wanted to spend the holidays with people like potter and teachers who didn’t like him because of his family name.

he is entirely on his own this holiday season, and it depresses him more than he would ever be willing to let on.

because, you see, the thing with draco malfoy is, weakness has been a taboo subject amongst his family for as long as he can remember. his father drilled into his conscience that malfoys always have their heads held high, that they must be able to cope entirely on their own in any circumstance, because that’s what strength is. needing no one. fending only for yourself. living life to get what you want without worrying about anybody else.

this is why draco doesn’t sit with the other students during the christmas feast. instead, he finds himself traipsing through the library, poking at spines of books so old the writing has been smudged and worn, the contents made up of words once spoken in england, now lost to time.

the place smells dusty. it makes him sneeze, and he grimaces when he pulls his finger away from a shelf to see it coated in a thick layer of dust which he hastily wipes on his already gravy-stained robes. his stomach grumbles with the reminder of the christmas feast waiting downstairs for him - all he needs to do is pull a chair up and dig in. none of the teachers will mind. the students might be a bit iffy, but when has draco ever cared about what they think?

instead, he slumps against the wall, pulls a book into his lap and starts to read.

he’s so engrossed in the old text that he doesn’t hear the library door opening. he doesn’t hear peeve’s taunting cackles until they’re right over his head, peeves pointed toes very nearly scraping his slicked back hair.

draco’s head snaps up. above him, the poltergeist laughs, throwing his head back.

“peeves!” draco scrambles to his feet, swatting at the poltergeist. “oh, for christ’s sake, do you ever give it a rest?”

“all alone for christmas, are you, malfoy?” the poltergeist taunts. “surely daddy can afford you a way home with all that money the dark lord’s been shovelling into his pockets!”

draco’s face burns. “go away, you annoying little roach, before i get the hoover!”

peeves only laughs harder. “what a threat that was! wait till i tell the headmaster about that one.” and before draco can say anything else, peeves has grabbed a single, tiny book from the edge of a bookshelf and dropped it on draco’s head.

it crashes against the crown of his skull and bounces to the floor unceremoniously, flipping open upon the carpet. draco makes to yell, his fury bubbling over, but his voice is lost to the sudden emptiness of the room as peeves does what peeves does best and disappears.

draco groans through gritted teeth, rubbing the spot the book bounced from. it aches a little bit, which is surprising considering the size of the book. not a textbook. not really anything any of his teachers would ask him to check out of the library. instead, it’s spiral bound, the words not typed, but handwritten in sloppy scrawl, like the author was in a rush when transferring their thoughts onto paper.

draco frowns; why should a book such as this be in the schools library?

he picks it up by the corner, as if afraid the book might bite him - it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. the book, however, makes no strange movements. draco feels no strange, magical pull coming from the pages. in fact, if he were to use his common sense, he would believe the book to be straight from the muggle world.

that alone should have been enough to deter him, but his father isn’t here, so he opens it and starts reading.

the first few pages are awkward poetry. awkward essays, a person’s thoughts and opinions filtered with the fear of someone reading over their shoulder, perhaps. draco can tell the author was holding back, but the further he flips, the looser said author seems to become. they start using words. just words, so beautiful and magical and heartfelt that draco finds himself enraptured with every one. he struggles to put the book down, curling into his tiny corner in the library, enamoured by such language. he wonders for the brief moment he is able to take his eyes off the page if perhaps the book has been cast under a spell, if perhaps there is a spell in this world that puts heaven and hell into words and has transferred it to the very book he holds in his hands.

draco has spent so long getting lost in the talents of wizards that he sometimes forgets muggles have talents and hobbies, too. there are creatives in the world who can create emotions from such small things. there are people outside the world of magic and wizardry who can do magical things, too.

he has the evidence in his hand.

---

he keeps the evidence in his hand all throughout the year.

he comes back to it after particularly stressful classes to remind himself that not all is bad; that’s the magic these poems and essays have on him. he could probably recite each one word for word, but he never does, because they belong to him now. he’s claimed them as a comfort blanket, something he needs to get through the day. he’s found an addiction within these words that he can’t let go of, not just yet, not until he figures out who wrote them.

and that’s really all it boils down to - he wants to put a face to the mind that created the world he so desperately wants to share.

it’s a tuesday afternoon in feburary when blaise asks him about the book.

“are you ever gonna share what’s in that notebook you keep carrying around?”

the question startles draco. he thought he was being so subtle. he hardly ever brings the notebook out to face the light of day, only ever reading it behind the curtains of his poster bed in the dorms.

nonetheless, he doesn’t deny it’s existence. he doesn’t want to sound stupid.

he pokes at the vegetables on his plate and, without looking up, mumbles, “not really any of your business, is it?”

blaise scoffs. “alright, be like that then. you carry that thing around like a little girl and her secret diary.”

“are you trying to tease me, blaise? because you just sound stupid.”

blaise rolls his eyes; he’s one of the few people that don’t get properly offended when malfoy fails to bite his tongue.

“and anyway,” draco continues, “i don’t carry it around. it stays in my bed.”

“oh, really?”

“yes, and that’s where it’s staying.”

“so is it yours, or did you take it from someone?”

draco pauses. “it’s mine.”

“i’ve never seen you write in a notebook before. not even in class.”

draco shrugs; he hasn’t got a very good answer to that, because the statement is true. he tends to get others to write his notes for him when he can get away with it.

blaise sighs. he leans back in his seat, folding his skinny arms across his chest. “so are you a poet now? some kind of shakespeare?”

draco raises a brow. “some kind of what?”

blaise waves a dismissive hand. “it’s a muggle thing. just answer the part you understood.”

“i’m not a poet,” draco grumbles. “the poems in the book aren’t even mine. i found it when i was in the library a few months back, and thought it was interesting.” he shrugs like it’s no big deal, like this notebook has always just been a background prop in his everyday life. “it’s stupid, really. muggle stuff.”

“so why are you so obsessed with it?”

“i’m not obsessed!” draco’s grip tightens on the edge of his chair; he’s tired after a long day of quidditch practice, and honestly, he doesn’t want to deal with his friends bullshit any longer than he has to. “now, blaise, can you start minding your own business before we have some issues?”

that shuts blaise right up. together, they eat the remainders of their dinners before draco excuses himself and leaves the table. his mind is reeling, heart thumping both with embarrassment and annoyance; he knows he’s popular amongst the slytherins. in a way, he asked to be centre of attention when he started mouthing off about the importance of the malfoy household all those years back, but it’s frustrating that he can’t even do a bit of light reading without getting asked about it. he thought he was being so subtle, keeping the curtains closed every time he read, never taking the notebook from the confines of the dorms, never uttering a word about it to-

his shoulder crashes into yours.

“shit.”

draco stumbles back, catching himself on the wall. he’s too dazed to say anything, but his anger is rising, and he’s prepared to start yelling-

but then he opens his eyes and sees you there, fumbling with a pile of posters that have spilled across the glossy corridor floor. draco blinks, glancing from you to the posters and back again.

“i’m so sorry,” you mumble. “so sorry. i knew the pile was too high, but hermione had to go to-”

“why don’t you just-” draco flicks his wand. immediately, the posters gather in a whirlwind and fly into his outstretched arms, a neat little stack, good as new.

you look up, dazed. your eyes are gorgeous, plagued with evidence of exhaustion, but riveting nonetheless. draco recognises you only vaguely, and the few memories he has of these quick glimpses have never left him dissatisfied.

“oh,” you say after a moment. “right. spells. magic. i forgot about that.”

draco narrows his eyes.

you stumble to your feet, wiping trembling hands on your robes. it leaves a streak of dirt against the black, and that’s when draco sees the red and gold lining of house gryffindor.

“sorry,” you repeat. “i mean, thank you, for - like - helping me. i completely forgot i could just-” you swish your hands in a mock gesture of wand-movement before laughing awkwardly. “weird, right? that i would - uh - forget that in a school of magic. when i’m a wizard. ha ha.”

draco nods, because he really has nothing to say. he can’t keep his eyes off you, your awkward movements, the way you don’t even flinch at the sight of him. most gryffindor’s would be hurling insults at him by now - hell, he would be hurling insults at the gryffindor’s, too, but his words are caught in his throat and he can’t even properly function.

so he looks down at the pile of posters in his arms.

“CREATIVE WRITING 101!”

you snatch the first poster off the pile as if that will stop draco from reading it. “it’s nothing. something stupid, really.”

he looks at you again. “you like creative writing?”

you shrug.

“that’s such a muggle hobby to have. where’s the fun in it?”

and for the first time this entire meeting, you scowl. you hastily snatch the posters out of draco’s arms, struggling to keep them neat and tidy in your own, but when draco raises his wand to help you out a second time, you swat his hand away and say, “i don’t need your help.”

“you’re going to drop them again-”

you’re already backing away. “you don’t need to come, you know. me dropping these in front of you wasn’t a bloody invite.”

draco blinks. “i didn’t mean it like-”

you run a hand through your hair, nearly stumbling over your own shoes yet again. draco lunges forward in his attempts to catch you, but you yell something incoherent in his direction, apologise profusely to a first year you nearly elbow in the nose before you turn on your heel and head back the way you came.

draco stares at your retreating form, unable to fully comprehend what he did wrong. he doesn’t think he said anything offensive, let alone anything that would prompt you to nearly wipe yourself out in your attempts to get away.

but then again, he isn’t really sure why he cares.

----

it’s weird how - after one brief meeting - you suddenly appear at every corner draco takes.

he never noticed you in his potion’s class before, but now he can’t avoid you. you sit at the back, a pen lodged between your teeth, brows furrowed together; despite your eventful meeting with draco only a few days prior, you don’t seem to have nearly as much interest in his sudden presence as he has with yours. he keeps glancing at you, not-so-subtly turning in his chair every now and then just to make sure you’re not some kind of illusion. nobody in the classroom is acting like anything is out of place, so maybe you have been his classmate for a while, and he just never noticed.

he finds that a little hard to believe, but he has to take reality as it comes to him, or else he’ll go insane.

he doesn’t talk to you for nearly a week, because he’s a little afraid of what you’ll have to say. he’s a little afraid you’ll say nothing at all, that you might have forgotten who he is entirely.

it’s you who makes the first move.

it startles draco nearly out of his skin. he’s packing up his stuff, ignoring goyle’s ramblings to his left, when you slip your hand in his robe pocket. he jumps, spinning around just enough to dislodge your grappling fingers, and he’s seconds away from whipping out his wand to hex you when he freezes, eyes meeting your own, heart immediately plummeting into his stomach.

you smile, wide and polite. “hello, old friend.”

“can you get out of my pockets?” draco hisses, swatting your hand away when you make another attempt to dive into his robes. “what do you want?”

“a pen,” you reply. “i broke mine.”

“i don’t have a pen.” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his quill. “i have a quill.”

“aaaah, my bad.” you snatch the instrument from him before grabbing his hand. he yelps, stumbling a little bit. he beams bright red when the noise he just made actually registers in his head, and he makes a mental note to scold goyle for snickering behind him.

“what are you doing?” draco demands. he tries not to get too flustered at the height difference between you - your head could very easily rest in the crook of his neck, and he hates that he kind of wants to experience what that feels like.

you scribble words into his palm. “this is the time and place for the creative writing clubs first meeting.”

draco blinks. “what?”

“time and place for the-”

“why do you want me to go?”

you scowl, not once looking up from the jagged lines of draco’s palm. “i don’t, but hermione’s asked me to gather as many people as i can find, and i think you kind of owe me one after being so rude the other day in the hallway.”

draco falters; so you remember.

“i wasn’t being rude at all,” he grumbles. “you’re just sensitive.”

“maybe.” you drop his palm and shove his quill back in his pocket. “if you want to come, be my guest; it’s going to be a lot of fun. lots of - uh - writing and stuff, i can assure you.”

draco scowls. “i won’t be going.”

“okay.”

“so this entire conversation was pointless.”

you fold your arms over your chest, as if challenging him. “okay, draco. i’m not forcing you to come if you don’t want to, but - you know - i’ll save you a seat or whatever.”

and draco doesn’t understand why that is the promise that tears him down, why that is the thing that makes his mind up for him. even as he gives you no solid answer, he knows he now has plans automatically built into his schedule to see you again, no matter how much he dreads the thought of it.

he looks down at the writing on his palm, and his heart stops.

just for a second. a brief moment of death, before life is pushed back into him when his brain kicks into overdrive and he’s certain he’s going to pass away for real with how fast his heart is suddenly beating.

he blinks rapidly. goyle is saying something, and the students are filtering out, but draco is lost, lost, spiralling as he recognises the messy scrawl, smudged even though it shouldn’t be, messy but coherent, familiar and amazing.

he’s read heaven written in this exact same handwriting. he’s read heaven, and hell, and earth, and space, and the moon, and the stars, and he’s experienced an entire new existence written in this very handwriting. it’s the same handwriting that covers every single page of his sacred notebook, hidden in his pillow case back at the dorms. it’s the same handwriting that gives a form to the aches and pains and anxieties of the person who has just walked away from him, the person who’s brain draco has lived in since christmas.

----

“you’re actually going?”

“it’s the least i can do.” draco fixes the collar of his robes, ruffles his hair a little bit. “i did nearly wipe them out in the hallway a few days ago.”

“that was an accident.” pansy throws herself across draco’s bed, as she often does when she wants the attention he has never given her. he simply glares at her reflection through the mirror, silently willing her to get up and leave so he can set off for the history of magic classroom in which the creative writing club is meeting tonight.

pansy, however, doesn’t take the hint.

“i just think this y/n person is trying to get in your head,” she continues. “your head, your bed, all of the above...”

draco’s face warms. “you can think whatever you want, pansy, but i’m going whether you like it or not. in case you’ve forgotten, you have absolutely no say in the way i live my life.”

pansy rolls onto her stomach, tugs on the back of draco’s robes. “oh, you’ve made that very clear, malfoy. don’t come running back to me when you show up to this stupid muggle club and get ostracised for being who you are.”

draco clenches his jaw, stepping out of pansy’s reach all without turning round. he knows she’s right, of course - there is no doubt in his mind that he is going to show up tonight, only to be met by the usual hostile glares he gets from everybody outside the slytherin house. he brought it upon himself, and he knows that - but he’s trying to fix it. he’s trying to prove himself as a good person to you.

to the world. not just you.

he swallows and turns. pansy stares up at him, hands curled beneath her chin, that sleezy little smile on her face. draco grimaces, points to the door and says, “the girls dorms are up the other staircase.”

pansy’s smile falls. she scowls, stands up and leaves without another word. draco doesn’t care that he’s pissed her off - pansy, in recent months, has become a little bit too much. he’s given her the most wiggle room he can provide, and she has done nothing but bombard him further.

he shakes the thought of his friend from his mind as he walks over to his bed and digs around in his pillow case. inside, he finds the poetry book he so desperately cares for, flicking to a page he has marked; he’s highlighted a few passages, and he reads them over as he steadies his breathing. this is such new territory for him. if his father finds out what he’s up to right now, he’ll be getting a very stern speaking to, possibly even a back-hand to the face if his father is in a particularly bad mood.

but then draco remembers your expression, your hand digging around in his pocket, your stumbled words that somehow manage to pull together so beautifully when you want to express yourself.

he has to see you tonight, whether it’s in a creative writing club or not. he’ll take just running into you in the hallway again, but to reach that point, he has to actually leave the dorms.

he stuffs the book back into his pillow case, flattens a particularly frustrating strand of hair, and walks out the door.

---

the history of magic classroom is dimly lit.

draco has seen pictures of muggle poetry readings before; they kind of remind him a little bit of exorcisms, and the set-up he’s currently walking into is no exception.

there’s candles lit upon every desk, the lights dimmed to create some kind of ambience that draco doesn’t understand. people are sat in a circle - people in every colour of robe, though draco is the only slytherin, it seems. this makes him a little nervous, and he hovers in the doorway, eyes tracing the scene in desperate search of you.

he spots you in a matter of seconds. you’re leaning over a candle, frowning into the flame like you can’t quite understand why it’s flickering like that.

draco makes a b-line for you.

you look up only when he’s by your side, and immediately your expression brightens. those eyes of yours widen a little bit, a smile adorning your face. you straighten up, grab draco’s arm, and he’s certain he’s going to explode.

“you made it!” you exclaim. “i can’t believe you actually came, mate; full of surprises, you are.”

draco frowns, feigning frustration, like this is something he went out of his way to attend. “why are you staring at the flame so intensely?”

“i’m staring at the flame so intensely-” you put on a pompous british accent, just to tease him, and draco doesn’t mind, “-because apparently you can turn the flames a different colour with the right spell, but it’s not working for me. watch.”

you elbow draco in the side, prompting him to shuffle over and give you more room. draco folds his arms over his chest, watching as you kneel down until your cheek is very nearly pressed against the desk. you point your wand at the flames and wave it, just once, but nothing happens. the flames barely even flicker.

you blow it out in frustration. “fuck that.”

draco laughs. he doesn’t know where it comes from, but it’s bursting out of him at the sight of your furrowed brows, and your pouting lips. you scowl at him, and it startles him how unsurprised you are to hear such a noise escape a man like draco malfoy.

draco shakes his head and nudges you to the side. “watch.”

you grab his wrist. “no. nope. absolutely not.”

“what? i’m gonna-”

“you’re gonna show me up, is what you’re gonna do, and i didn’t ask for it.” you pluck his wand from his fingers and stuff it back in his robes. draco has to fight the urge to shudder, your fingertips tracing across his ribcage as you fumble for his inside pocket.

you pull away then, shaking your head. “it doesn’t even matter, anyway; you show me up in every other class we have together.”

draco scoffs. “and i can assume you’re going to show me up tonight, so we’re even.”

you grin, because draco is right, and you both know he is right.

you make a bit more idle chat before the final people make an appearance, and you’re finally asked to sit down. draco is confused to see hermione granger being the leader of this group of creatives, as he’s almost certain he’s never read anything more beautiful than your work; surely you should be up at the front, guiding people through the craft of writing, a craft you have so brilliantly perfected.

draco sits beside you and says nothing. he fiddles with his fingers, coughing into his fist, rolling his eyes anytime someone makes a stupid suggestion. honestly, granger can talk forever, and draco is starting to get bored within the first ten minutes. all he wants is to hear you recite something, or for you to just. . . say anything about any of your pieces; draco could probably do it for you if that didn’t look creepy and uncalled for. he could stand at the front of this group and recite whatever piece of poetry he wanted from the notebook he took so long ago, and then maybe you’d get the recognition you deserve. maybe then you’d be able to share your potential instead of just sitting by draco’s side in a circle of poet-wanna-be’s.

finally, hermione turns her attention on you, however.

“y/n,” granger chirps. you jump, fumble with your wand, let it drop on the floor to roll beneath draco’s chair. he rolls his eyes and picks it up for you as you struggle to respond to hermione’s summons.

“uh, y-yeah? yes? did you ask me something?”

hermione’s brows furrow. “do you ever pay attention to anything i’m saying?”

“sometimes,” you reply, sheepishly. “definitely sometimes.”

hermione rolls her eyes. “anyway - i was just wondering if you’ve done any writing recently that you’d like to share.”

draco tenses. he flicks his eyes to his left to see you awkwardly ringing your hands in your lap, biting your lower lip.

“uh....”

“none?” hermione demands, eyes popping. “but i thought-”

“i’ve been a bit busy,” you grumble. “it’s not that big of a bloody deal, hermione, goodness me.”

“well, yes, i - i know that, but-” hermione gestures vaguely. “this is a creative writing club. i asked all of you to bring something with you. do you not even have an old piece of writing you could share with us?”

“nope.”

draco’s heart leaps. “what?”

and suddenly, all eyes are on him.

he slouches in his seat, but keeps his gaze on you. you stare back at him, eyes wide, clearly shocked at his contribution.

“you’ve got nothing?” he prompts.

you can’t even reply. you just stare, and draco knows he’s being confusing, is aware that maybe he should just shut his mouth. or, better yet, do everyone a favour and walk out before he says any more stupid things that will do nothing but embarrass both you and him.

“okay,” he grumbles, folding his arms over his chest. “okay, fine. that’s fine.” he looks up, meets hermione’s eyes. “you know what, granger, i don’t think this little club is my cup of tea. i’m going to head back to bed.”

hermione blinks. no one says anything when draco stands and walks out, but he expected nothing less. he wasn’t welcome there in the first place. he should never have even made an appearance. he should have stayed in bed and let his feelings fester until he fell asleep.

feelings are stupid anyway.

----

he ignores you.

in fact, he starts treating you how he treats everybody else - like they’re beneath him. a habit he once wanted to escape from has yet again become his comfort blanket, the thing shielding him from talking to you. every time you try making conversation, he sneers and walks off, barely even giving you the time of day.

in truth, he knows what happened is no big deal. everyone probably forgot about it as soon as he left the room, getting absorbed in their own works of poetry. however, draco knows you want to discuss it, that you probably want answers he is far too afraid to give you. if he starts explaining why he said what he said, he’ll have to talk about the notebook, and then you might ask for it back, and draco is selfish because he doesn’t think he can give it back just yet. it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

and so, he just ignores you.

he sits in potions and pretends you don’t exist. he walks past you at lunch and doesn’t even give you a smile. he looks over your head every time you stand to wave at him. he doesn’t want to risk any inkling of conversation trickling in between you.

pansy notices this, of course, but draco isn’t surprised. with how closely pansy has taken to watching over you and him, it would be more surprising to think she hadn’t caught on to the situation.

she sits beside him at lunch, slamming her tray of greens down just loud enough that a few heads turn - including your own. draco quickly snaps his eyes down to his plate, trying to pretend he wasn’t just staring at the back of your head.

“so,” pansy begins.

draco licks the stuffing from his fork.

pansy leans in, elbow hitting against his. “so. how did it go?”

“how did what go?”

“your little date with y/n! you never updated me on it!”

draco scowls. “that was days ago, pansy.”

“exactly. so now that i’ve got you trapped, you can fill me in on all the details.” she leans even closer, if that is possible. draco can smell the old woman’s perfume wafting from her robes and has to take a glass of water to quell the itch it summons to his throat. “y/n doesn’t look too happy with you, i’ll say that much. i sit behind them in care of magical creatures, and they’ve been awfully quiet since the club meeting; care to explain?”

“why is it any of your business?”

pansy grins. “because i told you someone like y/n wasn’t worth the trouble; a gryffindor, draco, really? were the robes not a big enough red flag for you?”

draco scowls. “first of all, pansy, y/n and i are just friends, and have always been just friends. i’m not doing anything to impress them.”

pansy scoffs, finally moving away to start spearing at her dinner with her fork. “how stupid do you think i am? how stupid do you think we all are? goyle doesn’t keep your little infatuation a secret, you know. he told us all about how close you and y/n get in potions together.”

draco’s grip tightens on his fork. “close isn’t really the right word.”

“the bickering? the way they make you laugh? the way you help them with their potions when they’re struggling so snape won’t tell them off? that sounds awful close to me, draco.”

he has no answer to that. his chest aches, memories of such delightful times flooding his mind and making him crave it all again. he remembers those times when he would glance over his shoulder to see you running your hands through your hair, struggling to comprehend what on earth snape has just ordered you to do; if it was anyone else, draco wouldn’t have given them the light of day, but seeing the fear in your eyes every time snape gave you even the briefest flicker of attention saw draco abandoning goyle to come save the day at your desk.

“so what went wrong?” pansy continues. “a lovers tiff?”

draco closes his eyes. “it was nothing, pansy; just me being an idiot again.”

pansy gasps, eyebrows shooting up her forehead. “you? being an idiot? and you’re openly admitting to it! goodness me, y/n must be a lot more skilled at magic than they let on, huh?”

“i don’t know what to do.”

it’s a plea. draco knows it’s a plea. in his heart, the cracks are beginning to form, and he can’t pretend any longer. he watches the back of your head - has been watching the back of your head since the meeting, because that’s the only glimpse of you he will let himself have. it hurts to see you laughing, smiling, slapping ron weasley on the arm. it shows you’re healing, moving on from your attempts to get draco to listen.

he’s ruined everything.

pansy leans forward. her voice is softer now, surprisingly kind. “draco, are you serious about this? i know i’ve been teasing, but do you actually like y/n in that way?”

draco bites the inside of his cheek. he remembers the times he had with you, how he used to laugh so freely with little care as to who heard. you teased him and made him feel normal, and he isn’t sure when his appreciation for you went past the poetry you wrote and emerged into you as a human being, but it’s happened, and he’s nodding to pansy’s question before he can think better of it.

pansy draws back, letting out a shaky breath. “wow, okay. . . this is definitely new territory for me. for you. i’m not sure how to go about it.”

“i took their notebook from them,” he mumbles.

pansy raises a brow. “their - their notebook?”

“y/n writes,” he explains. “beautiful things. addictive things, and i found their notebook in the library over christmas and i kept it for myself. i only found out it was theirs a few days ago, but. . . i never told them i have it. i got scared to.”

pansy pauses. draco’s never used that word in a sentence before. it sounds fake, like he’s made it up and just thrown it at the end of his sentence for the fun of it.

“well, that would be a good place to start, i think.”

his eyes snap up. “what?”

“give them their notebook back.” she says this like it’s obvious, raising her brows. “it’s a good way to start a conversation, and once the conversation’s been breached, you can go on to explain everything else - it’s pretty simple when you get your head around it, draco.”

he blinks. it does make sense, but again, there comes that burning protectiveness he can’t seem to shake.

selfish, selfish, selfish.

he glances over at the gryffindor table. you’ve got your head thrown back again, laughing so loudly and so carefree that draco’s heart trembles because he isn’t the one making you laugh like that. it’s ron. it’s harry. it’s everyone who thinks he’s an awful human being, bringing joy to the one person who’s ever seen him as decent. they’ve probably told you a joke about how draco’s scum, how he’ll never amount of anything, how he claimed his spot at the top purely because of his father.

fury pools in the pit of draco’s stomach. he spears his food with his fork, pushes away from the table and walks out of the dining hall before giving pansy an answer as to whether he simple plan is one he’ll actually take into consideration.

but now that he’s storming through the halls towards the slytherin common room, he knows it’s not something he can just consider. he can never move on with you with your notebook stuffed in his pillow case. he needs to be honest, and he needs to apologise, and these are all things he struggles with greatly, but all things he needs to learn before he loses you for good.

---

the notebook hasn’t seen the light of day past draco’s dorm since christmas.

it feels weird carrying it so freely now, slowly making his way through the halls with it pressed against his chest, the spirals digging into his lower arm. people look at him, but nobody bats an eye at the notebook, and why would they? it’s not suspicious. most of them probably think it’s nothing more than a school notebook, used for taking notes in classes.

still, his anxiety runs at a million miles per hour. he wants to yell at anyone who even glimpses the tiny square peeking from over his arms. he wants to tell them it’s none of their business.

but he doesn’t. he keeps walking until he’s reached the gryffindor common room.

it’s just his luck that ron weasley is the one stood outside. the ginger lad spots draco immediately, and it’s reflex when draco scowls and says, “got nothing better to do, weasley?”

ron glares. “what are you doing here, malfoy? the slytherin common room is back the way you came.”

“good thing i’m not going to the slytherin common room.” he nods towards the portrait hole. “is y/n in there?”

ron pauses. “what do you want with y/n?”

“i need to talk to them.” he swallows before gently unravelling the notebook from his arms. “i accidentally grabbed this in potions - i need to give it to them.”

“right, give it here then.” ron reaches for it, and draco stumbles back. he stumbles, not even bothering to swat ron’s hand away as pure panic seizes him. ron pulls back hastily, eyes widening at draco’s response.

draco, through gritted teeth, says, “just go get y/n for me, will you?”

ron stares at him a second longer before turning on his heel and walking back into the gryffindor common room. draco tries calming himself down in the minutes it takes for ron to reappear with you at his side.

the attempts are futile.

the minute he lays eyes on you, his heart starts thundering in a way that confuses him to no ends; he shouldn’t feel like this over someone so ordinary, and in truth, that’s what you are. you’re a student, just like him, struggling through school life, just like him. you go about your day in almost the exact same way as he does, and yet he’s never before felt so intrigued by another individual.

when your eyes meet his, you don’t smile. you don’t even look surprised. you grip the front of your night gown, glaring at him, not saying a word in greeting; draco’s mouth has gone dry, however, and saying anything is the absolute last thing on his mind when you’re standing in front of him, hair a mess, more beautiful and casual than he’s ever seen you.

ron is the one who has to break the silence. “he said he’s got a notebook for you.”

draco inhales sharply, suddenly remembering the artefact clutched in his hands. your eyes drift to it, and for a moment, you look puzzled. your eyebrows scrunch together, head tilting a little before you say, “that’s mine?”

draco thrusts it in your direction. “please take it.” he turns to ron. “and you - please leave.”

ron looks offended, looking at you for back-up, but your eyes are peeled on the notebook, not paying even the slightest bit of attention to ron. in the end, the weasley man rolls his eyes and stalks back into the gryffindor common room, leaving the corridor empty besides you and draco.

and draco feels every sliver of tension like it’s been injected into his bone marrow. flashes of his behaviour play on loop in his brain, the way he ignored you, the amount of times he scowled at you every time you tried speaking to him; he never meant any of it, of course, considering you’re the most fascinating person he’s ever come across, but he did it anyway, and that’s what he has to patch up.

somehow, he has to patch this up.

he looks to the floor, tucking the notebook back against his chest when you don’t take it from his hands. the silence is crushing, but draco has absolutely no idea what to say to fill it in - pansy made this all sound so easy; he would hand you the notebook, and a conversation would immediately stem from that.

but no. draco’s mind has gone completely blank, and you still look furious, and neither of you are doing anything to resolve the mess he has made.

finally, however, draco can’t take it any more. “i found your notebook.”

“yeah. ron said.” you pluck it out of his arms. “where did you even find this? it’s so old.”

“in the library.”

“the library? what was it doing there?”

draco shrugs. “how would i know that?”

“considering you’re the one who stole it-”

“i didn’t steal it. i just didn’t know who it belonged to.” a lie. he shouldn’t be lying. that’s a bad way to go about things. “i mean, i took it back to my dorm with me, kept it safe, but - like - i was of course going to give it back once i figured out who the owner was.”

you hum. “i’m sure you were.” you flick open the pages, immediately spotting a passage draco has highlighted in bright orange pen. “you tabbed it?”

he shrugs. “sometimes i read it when i got bored.”

“i should be angry at you for that, you know - that’s a big invasion of privacy.”

“yeah. you should be.” he looks up sheepishly. “are you?”

you pause, eyes continuing to drift over the pages of your own work, work you haven’t seen or reread since at least christmas time. you don’t look impressed, or angry, or anything at all, really. you just read the lines and nod, as if taking inventory.

then, you look up and say, “i’m more angry at the way you’ve been treating me this past week.”

draco wilts. he knew it was coming, that this was the main source of hostility for the both of you, but he really thought the presence of the notebook would somehow buy him some time, maybe make this conversation a bit easier.

you snap the notebook closed, shoving it into the pocket of your night gown. “you didn’t even tell me what i did wrong!”

“you didn’t do anything wrong!”

“then why were you acting like that? why couldn’t you just talk to me?”

draco squeezes his eyes closed, trails his hands through his hair, tries to calm down before he says something he’ll immediately regret. “you know, it’s a lot more complicated than you’re making it out to be.”

you pull back, puzzled. “how is it complicated? you’re nearly eighteen years old, draco! it shouldn’t be complicated to talk to someone when you’re mad at them!”

“ i wasn’t mad at you! i thought you were mad at me!”

you throw your head back and laugh, and this is the very noise draco has been craving for days, but he doesn’t want to hear it now, not here, not in this context. you’re not taking him seriously. you’re not listening.

“this is the stupidest thing i’ve ever heard,” you cackle. “is this about the fucking club meeting? you think i gave a shit about what you said?”

draco shakes his head. “again, love, it’s not as simple as that.”

“then explain it to me. explain to me what the hell was going through your head to make that switch flip so suddenly.”

something inside draco snaps, a string he didn’t even realise was being pulled so taut.

“do you wanna know what’s been going through my head recently?” his voice drops, your expression faltering. “it’s that fucking notebook of yours. it’s been all i can think about for weeks, because i can’t wrap my head around the idea of you being the author of those poems.”

you blink. “w-what?”

“you’re so carefree. you’re so. . . so you, y/n, and it seems impossible to me - unfathomable! - that you could be thinking such harrowing thoughts and not a single person has picked up on it besides me - and i’ve only done so by complete accident.” he inhales, runs a hand through his hair. “i’ve read your poems a thousand times over, and even though i know they came from you, i still can’t put your face to the words. i still can’t figure out how on earth you and that notebook are related in any way, and it’s been driving me insane. i want to help you, and it’s driving me insane.”

again, you blink. the corridor goes quiet. draco’s breathing slows, stabilises, and he has no idea what he’s just said, or if any of it makes sense, but there is a weight off his chest that provides such a great amount of relief he wants to cry.

finally, you swallow. your knuckles protrude from your hand with how tight your grip on the notebook is. your eyes stray to the ground, throat bobbing, mouth opening for just a second before you seem to think better of it and go silent again.

draco takes a step back. “look, you can have it back,” he says. “i don’t want it any more. i don’t - i don’t need it any more. but i just want you to know i’m sorry, and i never wanted to hurt your feelings. i was just. . . feeling things, and it wasn’t normal for me, and i got scared.” he raises his hands in mock surrender, taking another step back. “feel free to never talk to me again. i’ll understand.”

he waits for another second. hope springs to his chest, hope that you will tell him not to go, that you’ll forgive him on the spot and the two of you can live happily ever after, but it doesn’t work that way. you meet his eyes and nod, before turning on your heel and heading back into the gryffindor common room.

---

“how did you mess that up again?”

draco presses his knuckles into his eyes, as if pushing goyle’s words out of his brain. he should never have told the other slytherin about his encounter with you, but goyle was the first person on the scene, and malfoy just lost control; he needed to rant to someone. he needed to get it off his chest.

and it seems now goyle has suddenly developed a perfect memory, as two days after the meeting in the corridor, he has not let the subject drop.

the two sit together in defence against the dark arts; their teacher has long since left the classroom in search of some more work sheets for them to get cracking with, and the class has erupted into an expected chorus of conversations. draco wants nothing more than to put his head on the table and ignore the world, take this break as a chance to catch up on some of the sleep he has been robbed of these past few weeks, but goyle doesn’t let him go that easily.

the bigger boy leans over and taps draco on the back of the head. “come on, man, talk to me. there’s got to be something we can do.”

“there is nothing,” draco barks through gritted teeth. “and i’m sick of repeating myself, goyle, so shut your trap before i shut it for you.”

goyle sighs, leaning back in his seat. “so y/n just. . . didn’t even say anything? they just walked off without a word?”

“they did, which i took as a clear sign they never want to see me again.”

“do you not think you might be looking too deeply into that reaction?”

draco glares, eyes bloodshot, probably more terrifying than they have ever been. “tell me where on earth i could have looked too deeply.”

goyle shrugs. “well, you did admit to spilling this massive, emotional speech over them in the middle of the night - maybe they just didn’t know what to say at the time. i bet if you go up to them now and ask for a follow-up conversation, they’d be more than willing to sit down and discuss everything.”

“there’s nothing to discuss. i said everything i wanted to say, and y/n rejected me - i’m man enough to take it at face value and move on.”

a lie, of course, but draco just wants goyle to shut up. he wants to continue sulking on his own, because that’s what he does best. he doesn’t need friends patting him on the back, trying to cheer him up. he knows he’s messed up, and he’s willing to suffer in solitude for his stupidity.

“i’ve just never seen you act like this around anyone.”

draco’s head snaps up. “what do you mean?”

but he knows exactly what goyle means, because goyle is telling the truth. nobody has ever made draco this stupid. nobody has ever plagued his mind like this, and it’s driving him insane.

goyle folds his beefy arms across his chest. “i’m not saying it’s a bad thing, draco; sometimes it’s nice to see you unravel a little bit. god knows you’ve had a stick rammed up your ass for long enough.”

draco rolls his eyes. “well, there’s no point in dwelling on it; nothing is going to happen. whatever friendship y/n and i had is gone, and i’m just gonna have to accept it.”

goyle scowls, but draco pays him no attention. instead, he goes back to idly tapping his pen against his bottom lip, trying desperately to put his own words into play. he just needs to get over you. he needs to go back to the cold hearted, uncaring wizard he was raised to be, because that was the only version of himself that never got hurt. he never let himself get hurt. it’s strange how you walk into his life, and suddenly that entire side of him is being stripped away, replaced by this oversensitive, overthinking, annoying piece of shit who suddenly relies on someone else to get them through the day.

draco hates it, but he hates the idea of not having that even more.

----

“so are you going to tell me why y/n won’t talk about you?”

draco looks up, his scowl a reflex when he makes eye contact with ron weasley. he stands over him, arms folded over his chest, wearing a set of school robes with little burn marks pecked into the material; draco has half a mind to tease him for it, before finding he has absolutely no energy to do such a thing right now.

instead, he leans back against the tree he has been sat under, gazing at the sky as mountains of homework piles up in his dormitory - piles of homework he has yet to touch, because every time he tries focusing his mind on a single task, it veers off and he can’t do anything.

ron raises a brow at draco’s silence. “no? you’re both gonna keep your mouths shut?”

“i don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“no, of course you don’t.” and then, ron does the most surprising thing - he slumps down next to draco, their shoulders clicking. “i’m gonna take a wild guess and say you fucked things up again.”

draco swallows, closing his eyes. “again, none of your business, weasley.”

“good answer. it makes perfect sense now.” ron nudges his arm. “what happened?”

and draco knows it’s out of character. of all the people he could rant to, ron weasley should - and always has been - the absolute last on his list, but he looks at ron and he’s reminded that he is your friend, that ron makes you laugh, and he’s probably cheered you on during this uncomfortable time with draco. with that knowledge comes a sense of warmth, a gratefulness he’s never felt before, one he doesn’t completely understand.

but he leans into it, because he’s too tired to fight it off. with his cheek pressed against his knees, he tells ron the whole story, from start to finish. he goes back as far as christmas, that god-forsaken day in the library when he wanted nothing more than to enjoy a nice bit of light reading whilst he ignored the rest of the students downstairs, how peeves had dropped that notebook on his head, and he’d grown attached to it, rereading the poems every day until the day he had to surrender it back to you.

“sounds quite stalkerish,” ron comments.

draco scoffs. “it does, doesn’t it?”

ron sighs, shifting slightly. in the distance, a group of first years run screaming away from the whomping willow. a stone gargoyle shakes its winds atop the astronomy tower. such beautiful sights, and yet draco can’t feel a thing.

“okay, look,” ron says. “don’t get any of this twisted, alright? i still hate you. more than i thought humanly possible.”

“cheers.”

“but, i care about y/n. a whole lot. they’re like family to me. they’ve been miserable these past few days, and it’s starting to take a toll on me. so, i’m here to give you a bit of advice.” he turns, leans in, lowers his voice. “don’t give up so easily.”

draco jerks away. ron snickers, leaning back against the tree, gazing out at the green grass without a care in the world; draco, however, is stunned, heart racing though he doesn’t even know why. those words just hold so much hope, a hope he hasn’t let himself feel since it happened. he was slowly coming to terms with the idea of never talking to you again, and here ron weasley walks into the scene, ruining everything - like always.

draco splutters, swallows, pulls himself together. “w-why do you say that?”

“i thought it was obvious, mate,” ron replies. “y/n clearly has a soft spot for you. god only knows why, but that’s neither here nor there. all i care about right now is the fact they’ve been moping around for days, not even laughing at my jokes or anything. it’s getting exhausting when all you need to do is talk, and this entire thing could be resolved.”

“it’s not as easy as that.”

ron raises a brow. “oh? and why not?”

draco opens his mouth to respond, because he’s certain he has one. however, when he thinks about it, there really isn’t a decent answer to that question; he’s young, dumb, embarrassed. he stole your notebook, gave it back, confessed his feelings and then fled the scene - the only reason he hasn’t spoken to you since that fateful day is because he doesn’t want to bring up his own embarrassing gestures ever again. the quicker he buries them, the better.

but at the cost of you? maybe he should rethink it.

ron laughs. he stares at the side of draco’s face, pure amusement dancing across his features. draco scowls, because that’s what draco always does when he sees even the slightest flicker of joy on the weasley boys face; it’s become routine by now, even if he doesn’t feel the same contempt he’s so used to.

“it’s bizarre, isn’t it, that i’d be the one giving you relationship advice,” he says.

“it’s bizarre you’re helping me out at all, to be honest.”

“i’m not as heartless as you like to think i am, malfoy.” he stands, wiping his hands down his robes, smearing muck on the already dirty cloth. “if anyone asks, we were arguing and i won.”

draco blinks. “thank you, weasley. i mean it.”

ron rolls his eyes. “i’m sure you do. now never speak to me again.” he turns on his heel and strolls back down the hill without a second glance in draco’s direction.

----

draco’s heart is going to burst from his chest.

he’s been in this state far too often these past few weeks. he wants it to stop. he wants to go back to a life where he didn’t have a care in the world, where he owned this school, where he had the confidence that has carried his family name for decades.

the only way he’s going to reach that point again is by sorting things out with you.

or at least letting you know how he feels, because he can’t deny any of it any more. he can’t go around pretending you mean nothing to him. no, he still can’t explain where these feelings came from, if they started with the poetry and grew, or if they started that very day he laid eyes on you in first year and thought you were the prettiest one of his lousy classmates. he can’t explain any of it, but he doesn’t need to try. he doesn’t need to go as far back at that. all he needs to do is talk to you, let you know that you have changed him in very scary ways, and then he can move on. no matter your reaction, he can move on.

at least, that’s what he tells himself as he walks through the school corridors in search of you. it’s already getting dark, the january days lasting what seems like only a handful of minutes. students are flooding from their last classes of the day, and it’s only when draco spots a gryffindor bustling through the crowd does he stop.

he grabs the unsuspecting student by the arm, not even surprised nor offended by his look of pure disgust. draco simply grins, because that’s reflex for him, before saying, “have you seen y/n l/n anywhere?”

the boy furrows his brows. “i saw them talking to filch when i was walking to class. what do you want with them?”

draco raises a brow; talking to filch? what could you possibly want with argus filch of all people?

draco shoves the gryffindor away, thanking him with a nod before he turns and starts towards the caretakers office. he’s never been there before, mainly because he’s never wasted his time trying to hold a decent conversation with the caretaker, but he finds it in good enough time - an ordinary brown door, decorated only with the name ‘argus filch’ written across it in what looks like normal, muggle sharpie pen.

draco racks his knuckles against it, uncertain if he’s doing any of this right. in all his years at hogwarts, he’s seen filch in his office only a handful of times, and even if he just happens to be in his office now, what will draco even ask him? what he was talking to you about? if he somehow knows where you went after the conversation was over?

he waits there, however, because he has no other leads, and he needs to talk to you. he needs to get this over with, or else he won’t be able to sleep, and he can’t afford to be groggy during quiddith practice; he’s been performing bad enough these past few weeks, and if he can just get this off his chest-

the door swings open.

it isn’t filch.

“argus, i promise i’ll be done in-”

you pause. your eyes widen. your mouth snaps closed, grip tightening on the door frame, and draco is certain he’s going to explode at any moment.

“y/n.”

your name is a whisper, barely audible over the sound of his racing heartbeat. he doesn’t even know if he said it, or maybe it was just a thought. at this moment in time, the two things are interchangeable.

“draco.” you swallow, shuffle awkwardly, look to the floor in a rare look of timidity. “w-what are you doing here?”

“i was looking for you.” he speaks fast, like he’s running out of time, and maybe he is. maybe you’re only giving him a few seconds before the memories flood back and you slam the door on his face, ruining his chances once and for all. maybe you think his attempts are idiotic, embarrassing, and you’re only letting him talk out of pity.

but you don’t slam the door on his face. not at all. you stand there, looking more beautiful than draco has ever seen you, even though nothing has really changed.

draco swallows, curling his fingers into fists. “someone told me you - you were in here.”

your eyes snap up. “i didn’t tell anyone where i was. that was kind of the whole point.”

draco nods like he understands, because part of him kind of does - hiding away, pretending you are the only person to exist. it’s a comfort sometimes.

“what do you want, draco?”

and just like that, everything he wanted to say is swept from his brain.

you fold your arms over your chest, one foot tapping rapidly against the floor. “d-did you have anything to say to me?”

you almost sound hopeful.

“ron told me not to give up so easily.”

you pause.

draco rushes on, because he knows he hasn’t done this right. he’s gone so far off script, and he hasn’t even got to the main point of his argument.

“i don’t listen to weasley - ever. quite frankly, his advice is usually more detrimental than helpful, but - but he told me earlier to come find you. he told me you weren’t doing so good-”

“ron-”

“and i don’t know if that’s true on your end, but it’s true for me.”

you blink.

draco exhales shakily, running a ringed hand through his hair. “i’m not doing so good, y/n. i don’t like the way we left things. i don’t like the fact that we left things at all. i should have explained myself a bit better, or come to you sooner, but you know how i am. god, you know how i am better than anyone else in the world, so please, please understand that i’m trying so hard to put my dignity aside to let you know how much i care about you.”

there is a silence. a silence so heavy that draco feels crippled beneath it, unable to do anything but wait in anticipation for a response he might not even deserve. he’s done so many things wrong - not just with you, but with life in general. he is a bad person, and he knows this, and he’s trying to change, because you don’t deserve a bad person.

you swallow. he watches your throat bob.

“i don’t know if i believe you.”

your words are a whisper, but they shatter everything around him like they were screamed at the top of your lungs.

he shakes his head dumbly, like that is answer enough. he wants to say something to argue his case, but his tongue feels heavy and a cloud has passed over his brain.

“draco, i don’t know if i believe you,” you correct, sounding almost desperate. “y-you treated me like shit for no reason. you took my notebook and didn’t give it back. you’re a dick to my friends-”

“i know,” he bursts through gritted teeth, like he is in physical pain. “y/n, i know. i know, and i’ve been beating myself up over it for weeks. but that’s what i do - that’s what i’ve always done. i play the victim card and blame everybody else for my wrongdoings, and it’s childish. i’m trying to stop. i’m really, really trying.”

you open your mouth to respond, but draco takes one look at the tears in your eyes and barrels on, suddenly desperate to dig himself further into the dirt.

“you know what? i don’t even know why i’m here. i’m sorry. i should just - i should just leave you alone and let you get on with your life. you and i were never meant to be together, and i just need to accept that and move on.” he can’t stop talking. he can’t stop hating himself. “i’m sorry, though. for everything i did to upset you. for every stupid thing i said or did - know i didn’t mean it. from the bottom of my heart, y/n, i would never hurt you. never. so that’s why i’m gonna go. i’m gonna leave you alone. i’m g-gonna support you in whatever you want to do in the future. as long as you’re happy.”

he tries for a smile, because that’s the way you’re meant to end these things, isn’t it? you smile, and you shake their hand or something, but draco can’t bring himself to do that, so he turns on his heel instead. he turns away from you, knowing this will be the last time, that there is absolutely no going back, no matter what horrible advice ron weasley gives him. he needs to get over you. he needs to let you go once and-

“draco.”

you grab his wrist and he stumbles. he stumbles because of your grip, but he stumbles, too, because his name on your lips will never get old. it’s music to him, music he never listens to because his father always said it was a waste of time. he basks in it, spinning around to meet your eyes, and his heart crumbles at the tears now rolling down your cheeks.

his own eyes widen. “y/n-”

“you’re so stupid,” you sob. “so fucking stupid, do you know that?” you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in for a desperate hug. you sob into his shoulder, and draco is frozen, hands hovering over the small of your back, unsure how to take this reaction. “you’re literally the most idiotic person i’ve ever met in my life. how is it you? how is it always you?”

draco blinks. “how is what always me?”

“everything!” you wail, hugging him tighter. “it’s just always you, draco. always.”

and draco still has no idea what you mean, but he’s learning to understand that maybe he doesn’t need to know what you mean all the time. maybe he just needs to be there for you to yell and cry and make no sense, and that will be enough.

he wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck. he’s never been any good at hugs, but he’s melting into this one.

“idiot,” you whisper into his neck. “thinking i’m just gonna let you leave like that. . . thinking i don’t like you back. . . thinking i’ve stopped thinking about you for even a second these past few days. . .”

draco holds you tighter.

you pull away after a moment, quickly swiping your hand beneath your eyes. they are puffy now, red-rimmed, and draco knows he will have to explain this to ron in some way or the other without giving ron the benefit of knowing his advice might have actually been beneficial for once.

“i think we both messed up a little bit,” you mumble through sniffles, wiping your nose on your sleeve. “my reaction wasn’t exactly very helpful, was it?”

“well. . . no, but-” draco exhales. “i meant what i said, y/n; i never meant to hurt you. i would never do that.”

your smile trembles. draco has only a second to smile back before you’re throwing your arms around him again, pulling him in for a hug that he is getting strangely fond of.

----

your pen scratches against the paper. draco can’t sleep; he doesn’t really want to sleep, despite the hours of classes and quiddith practice he has to endure in a few hours time.

you never sleep. not really. draco is convinced you live entirely off caffeine and words, staying up into the early hours of the morning with that notebook of yours, your muggle pen darting back and forth over the pages. he scolds you for it sometimes, but he’s always smiling, and you always roll your eyes in response.

now, however, he has one arm thrown over your shoulders, watching you work. it’s already three in the morning, but he’s too enamoured to bother falling asleep; he’d rather stay up and watch you work.

“bic,” he says out of nowhere, shattering the hours of silence the two of you had collected.

you pause, looking up. your eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. draco smiles.

“what?”

“bic.” he nods at the pen in your hand. “that’s the name of your fancy muggle quill, isn’t it?”

you frown, taking another second to catch onto what he means, despite the clear explanation he has just given. however, it eventually dawns on you, and you frown even more.

“oh, right. yeah. bic. that’s the brand name.” you place it in draco’s hand. he holds it close to his face, squinting to read the tiny letters written in the plastic. “the best pens in the world, i’d say; much more practical than those bloody quills we have to use in class.”

“nothing wrong with our quills,” draco says, tilting the pen back and forth, examining every inch of it. “mine cost me a good lot of money.”

you scoff, snatching the pen back. “i’m sure it did. waste of a good lot of money, too, when you could have just bought a pack of twelve bic pens for a fiver.”

draco furrows his brows. “a fiver? what’s that in real money?”

you roll your eyes, smiling fondly, and it’s that very smile that has draco leaning forward to peck you on the lips. it takes you out of your work, which he knows will frustrate you in the morning when you wake up to see you didn’t get as much done as you might have liked, but for now, he doesn’t really care. not when you’re melting against him, dropping your dumb bic pen into the crease of your notebook so you can cling to him with both hands.

there are some days when draco thinks you love him only out of pity. he was the boy who lost himself to his feelings for you. he was the boy who came crawling back, the boy who was lost when he didn’t have you by his side. some days, draco has to ask you if you really want to be part of this relationship.

but then you go and kiss him like this, and he is left with no doubt that you’ve meant every single “i love you.” then you go and hold his hand at the gryffindor table, smile fondly at him as he bickers with your friends, and he knows this relationship is not a chore for you. maybe, if he lets himself hope, he can convince himself that you love him as much as he loves you.

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy fanfic #draco malfoy fic #draco malfoy fanfiction #malfoy #malfoy fic #malfoy fanfic #malfoy fanfiction #draco fic #draco fanfic #draco fanfiction #draco #harry potter #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fic

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izzy-b-hands · 2 years

Text

A convo with the crew, pizza, and a step closer to Izzy's end. Sort of.

NSFW because everyone gets horny and needy and kissy here and there. Tbh by the end of this they might constantly be on each other, we'll see.

---

The bar isn't too full yet, and Roach waves them in.

"Just can't stay away from here, can you?" he jokes with Stede.

"What can I say?" Stede chuckles. "The Revenge is one of my babies. I worry about her even though I know she's in the best hands."

"Here we go," Roach sets a couple of pizza boxes on the counter, and gently taps Louis' tiny hand as it peeks over the countertop. "Wait until you and Dad get home, down there!"

Izzy lifts Louis up, propped on his hip. "Better?"

"Thank you," Louis says. "Hi Roach!"

"Hi Louis," Roach laughs. "You like Dad's new friend?"

"New boyfriend," Louis corrects him. "But he's not my new dad yet."

Roach grins. "Not yet? You'll let him know if and when, right?"

Louis nods. "He's pretty cool though."

"High praise!"

"Olu!" Alma cries in response to the voice behind them, and turns to it.

"This is my general manager, Oluwande," Stede says as they turn to him. "He keeps things under control when I'm gone. And when I'm here too, honestly. I fear I'm as much chaos as anyone else that comes in."

"You're alright," Olu smiles. "Thank goodness it's been getting dark earlier again. The extra prep time is a boon."

"Everything is all good then?" Stede asks. "You know any of you can call if you need me."

"We're good," Olu says. "Alma! Been a good day?"

"Yeah," she smiles. "What about here?"

"Been fantastic," Olu replies. "Jim and Frenchie are performing stuff from their new album tonight. Want me to record some of the show and send it to Dad so you can see it?"

She nods eagerly.

"Consider it done," Olu says. "Wee John is gonna DJ after them, and Buttons has some free form poetry to recite if needed."

"And tomorrow, that new band is coming in still?"

"Yeah, Flock of the Chords? Something like that," Olu replies. "Their manager confirmed it already; they'll be here."

"Stop worrying," Roach teases. "Go home and eat while that pizza is hot. This is one of your weekends off, Stede."

"Thank you guys," Stede says. "Alright then. Louis, let Izzy set you down."

"My legs are tired," Louis protests, and clings to Izzy.

"I don't mind," Izzy says. "Your legs need pizza to work again, don't they?"

Louis nods dramatically, leaving Roach and Olu chuckling as they leave.

"I feel bad," Izzy says as they finish up dinner. "I've been here for months, and never knew you did food at your bar. And that it was so good! I've been missing out."

"You've got plenty of time to make up f-" Stede cuts himself off. "Oh. Actually, you don't! Well, good that your last meal was something of Roach's."

"Last meal?" Alma asks suspiciously.

"I'm starting a diet tomorrow," Izzy replies quickly. "So I'll have to cut back on pizza."

Alma nods, but her gaze lingers on him for a moment.

"Okay," Stede says. "You two, upstairs. You can play, read, whatever. In an hour though, start cleaning up for bed. Izzy and I will be down here cleaning up, or in the basement room. If you need me, come get me."

The kids head upstairs while Izzy and Stede clear the table.

In comfortable silence, they put away leftovers and clean dishes.

Then, they head to the basement.

"So, I'm thinking extra sheets, blankets," Stede says in the basement room. "Water for me. Do you think Jack and Ed will bring over some blood for them and you, after?"

"Think so," Izzy replies. "You're... you're really chill, fine, with this. Dating a vampire."

Stede shrugs. "Doesn't matter to me. Like I say, we've got supernatural family members already, so it's really nothing different for me. The kids don't know exactly about them yet, just that they have some aunts and uncles with different needs. We can tell them the same thing for you."

"And letting me be turned in your house?"

"You'll be safe, and warm, and looked after," Stede replies. "I wouldn't want you anywhere else."

Izzy nods, as tears prickle the corner of his eyes. "Can I kiss you?"

Stede chuckles and smiles and pulls him in for the kiss. Izzy wonders if his lips will feel warmer, when they kiss after he's turned.

"Stede," Izzy says as they part. "There was a second part, of what I asked of Ed. Not just about me. I..."

He hesitates. He should have asked Stede. He offered him up without even thinking, because of how badly he wanted him.

"I asked Ed if he would be willing to turn you too," Izzy says shakily. "But only if you want, and really, it's obscene that I didn't ask you first about that; it's wrong-"

"It isn't, actually," Stede interrupts. "I've dreamed about being turned since I was a kid. Higher up on my list than owning my own bar, even!"

The tears fall, and Izzy lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Seriously? You mean it? You aren't just saying that so I don't feel bad?"

"I mean it," Stede says. "The way you got into it with Ed...that was my dream, at that age. So to be able to still sort of do it, even now..."

He blushes. "I didn't think I'd get to live out anymore dreams, not at my age."

"You'll have a lot more time for that now," Izzy says.

"With you?"

"So long as you'll have me."

They promise the kids they'll be called down when Ed gets there, but there's a near-constant pattern of small footsteps back and forth from the top of the stairs.

"They'll get tired eventually," Stede smiles, but he looks exhausted.

"I think you've beaten them to it," Izzy says. "Go rest."

"I'll be getting plenty of that after midnight; I can wait," Stede says, then smirks.

In another moment, it lands. "Terrible. Absolutely terrible."

"Eternal rest, right? I think that one's good. Would that make Ed like me more?"

Izzy smiles. "He grows on you, doesn't he? Even when he's an asshole."

"I'll admit the kiss was a major factor," Stede says. "But I'm curious about him. Maybe we did just get off on the wrong foot, if he's coming around now to us."

Izzy shrugs. "We'll see how he is when he gets here. Are you sure you don't want to nap before all this?"

Stede stands from his chair, and offers Izzy his hand.

"Is that a yes?"

Stede smiles and leads him by the hand towards the basement. "Sort of. We could nap, or-"

He turns, and presses Izzy against the wall of the hallway. The kiss is needy and wanting and is almost immediately interrupted by the doorbell.

"We should get that," Izzy says with a sigh.

"Mhm," is Stede's reply, mouth busy trying to leave marks on Izzy's neck.

He decides he'll simply bring Stede along that way, both of them giggling as Stede pulls Izzy close again with each step.

"Finally," Ed says when they swing the front door open.

He's blushing at the sight of them though, and Izzy doesn't expect Ed to break and swoop in to his other side.

"Hey," Jack waves as he walks in and shuts the door for them. "See, told you to give Steve a chance."

"Stede," Izzy corrects.

Jack nods. "You know the kids are watching from the stairs, right?"

Stede's head snaps up from Izzy's neck. "Fuck!"

"I got it," Jack says. "You three go do what needs doing. I'll keep the kids busy until then."

Stede frowns. "I don't kn-"

"Got this at the library," Jack interrupts, and pulls a copy of twilight from behind his back. "Kids still like this, right?"

"Alma regularly bothers her werewolf extended family with questions about it, why aren't they more like the book werewolves," Stede says wearily. "So yeah, she'll be your best friend for that. Louis will just be happy for a bedtime story."

"Alright then," Jack smiles. "Have fun, be safe, don't wear anything you wanna keep after this!"

"What does he mean by that?" Stede asks.

"I'm not explaining rapid decomposition and recomposition in front of your kids," Ed hisses. "Where are we-"

Stede's eyes light up. "The hidden room! Come on, you'll love it."

Jack heads upstairs, and Izzy follows Stede and Ed down to the basement. The slight concern that they might need more than a few towels for clean up follows as well.

#text post #ofmd fic #stizzy #steddyhands #vampire au #this chapter fought me like a motherfucker so its like. barely up to standard for me #but i am done with looking at it so i can move the fuck on akdbkdfnk

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eratobard · 3 years

Text

To Break a Curse

I could not help myself. I was so inspired by this fanart by @scalesnart that my fingers go to writing right away. It’s not done, but I wanted to share what I had so far. It ended up being longer than I intended. ^^;

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geraskier

Rating: T (for now)

Summary: Geralt gets transformed into a female due to an unfortunate encounter with a mage. Jaskier and Geralt work to find help breaking the curse.

Tag Warning: Sexist comments, swearing, suggestive language

~~~

“Stop it,” Geralt growled. His voice was still fairly deep, but a little less gruff sounding than usual.

Jaskier groaned as he covered his face with his hands, “I can’t help it.”

“Try harder,” Geralt gripped Roach’s reins tightly as he continued to trudge down the path.

Jaskier sighed and jogged to keep up pace with him, “It doesn’t help that your clothes… don’t fit anymore.” Jaskier’s eyes scanned the length of Geralt’s body. After their encounter with a mage, Geralt’s hips were fuller, his chest was larger, and his body… curvier. To put it simply, Geralt was now female in the biological and physical sense. He was also a head shorter than Jaskier, which was endearing.

Geralt huffed as he ran his hand through his hair, “Not much I can do about that at the moment.”

“Well… maybe I can help--”

“No,” Geralt growled, more fiercely this time.

“Just- hear me out!” Jaskier reached out, grabbing Geralt’s shoulder. He spun around on his heel, bearing his teeth. Jaskier quickly raised his hands, “I get it! You’re… unhappy about the situation, but I promise I’ll be a complete gentleman.”

Geralt eyed him warily as he shifted his shirt. The fit wasn’t too bad, but it was baggy around his shoulders now that they weren’t as broad. His pants were… tight because of his bigger hips, but loose in other areas. Not quite right for his new shapely form. He didn’t know why the mage chose to transform him into the most curvaceous woman. As Jaskier put it earlier after it first happened, ‘His looks matched those of Yennefer’s.’ That’s all he needed as a Witcher.

Jaskier tilted his head, “So? Can I help? Please?”

“Fine, but!” He pointed a finger at him warningly, “You try anything-”

“Please Geralt, I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of women, especially those who are my friends,” Jaskier placed his hands on his hips.

Geralt nodded, “I know… but, the way you’ve been looking at me since… since the mage changed me… what if part of it was some kind of seduction spell?”

Jaskier’s face reddened. He averted his gaze, “Sorry… I just…” He cleared his throat, “You make a gorgeous woman Geralt. It’s hard not to look.”

Geralt would have blushed if he was able. He cleared his own throat as he looked away. He held his arms out to the side, “Just… get it over with.”

“Wh-what?” Jaskier squeaked as he stared in shock at Geralt.

Geralt frowned, “My clothes?”

“Right!” Jaskier forced a laugh. He ran his fingers through his hair to calm his heart. It had almost leaped out of his chest from where his mind had gone.

Geralt tried to calm his own heart as Jaskier reached out, gently adjusting his shirt so it was more centered on his body. Jaskier’s tongue instinctively stuck out as he concentrated on tightening the shirt. He circled around behind Geralt, and pulled the extra cloth back toward his waist. Geralt bit his lip to suppress a moan. His skin felt more sensitive since the change, and the gentle way Jaskier touched him combined with the soft cotton against his… breasts was stirring something in his unfamiliar groin.

Jaskier tied the extra cloth back then moved to grip Geralt’s pants. Geralt quickly reached back and gripped his wrist, “What are you--”

“I was just going to… sorry, I should have warned you, I was only tightening it around the waist so your pants didn’t fall while you were fighting,” Jaskier explained calmly.

Geralt released his grip and nodded, “...sorry, this whole thing is putting me on edge. We need to find Yen as soon as possible.”

A sharp pain dug into Jaskier’s chest. He forced himself to focus on the task, ignoring the feeling of jealousy. The mage had cackled about Geralt finding ‘True Love’s Kiss’ to break the curse. Afterward Geralt insisted they find Yennefer. Of course if anyone could break the spell it would be her. The fact that Geralt suggested her so quickly hurt, but what could Jaskier say?

Hey Geralt, why don’t we try kissing? I’ve only been yearning after you for the past decade. He sighed. It didn’t matter what his feelings were. It only mattered who Geralt loved. He pulled back from Geralt, “Done.”

Geralt moved a bit, testing out the limits of the adjustments Jaskier made. The clothing definitely fit better. “It’ll do for now.”

Jaskier smiled, admiring his work, “I don’t think I did too bad a job. Going clothes shopping with Priscilla and Essi during my time at Oxenfurt had it’s benefits.”

Geralt grunted in agreement, “You’ll have to help me pick out something in the next town. Who knows how long it will be till we find Yennefer.”

Jaskier’s smile faltered as he nodded, “I’d be more than happy to help you Geralt.” He resumed walking next to Geralt. He fidgeted with the strap on his lute as he tried to look anywhere but at Geralt.

Geralt rolled his eyes, “Jaskier…”

“Y-yes?” Jaskier’s gaze magnetized to Geralt. His face was flush as he quickly glanced over his body.

“I can feel you… not staring.”

Jaskier huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, “What do you expect me to do Geralt?! A goddess stands next to me. One worthy of writing ballads about, but I’m not allowed to take in her beauty.”

Geralt scoffed, “A goddess? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s still me under all this.”

‘That’s the problem,’ Jaskier thought bitterly.

After a few more painstaking miles they finally reached the next town. Jaskier went to rent them a room while Geralt procured them a table and food. Despite being a woman now, Jaskier was still notoriously better at getting a deal than Geralt so they fell into their normal tasks. Geralt hadn’t been sitting long before a drunk nearby leered at him.

“Hey gorgeous,” he slurred as he leaned out of his chair across the space between their tables, “I’ve got a seat for you right here.” He patted his lap, and crudely gestured at his groin.

Geralt growled menacingly at the man, but it didn’t seem to have his usual affect, “Fuck off.”

The man snorted as he stood up and stumbled over, “Playing hard to get eh?”

“No, no, she really isn’t,” Jaskier said from behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder, “She’s with me.”

The man glanced at Jaskier and scoffed, “Her? With you?”

Jaskier laughed, “Yes, I know. Hard to believe a woman such as her would want to be with me, but it’s quite true. Right darling?”

Geralt glared at Jaskier, but understood what he was doing. Some men were willing to back off if there was competition. “Yes,” he grit out.”

Jaskier beamed, “See? Now why don’t you head back to your table.”

Some men. They weren’t so fortunate this time.

“He your brother?” the man pointed at Jaskier, “‘dat why he tryin’ ta protect you?”

Maybe it was the mage, maybe it was the long walk, or maybe it was the fact they were looking for Yennefer, whatever it was, something in Jaskier snapped. He gripped the man’s collar and yanked him back. He pulled him face to face to ensure he got the message as he spoke to him menacingly, “If you don’t back off you’ll find your dick separated from your body.”

The man’s eyes widened and he stumbled back, “Apologies s-sir…” Jaskier was pretty sure he had made him piss his pants as the drunk made a fast retreat.

Geralt gazed at Jaskier in amazement. A shiver ran down his spine. Not of fear, but arousal. He clenched his fist to hold back the emotion. He wasn’t used to how this body dealt with arousal. He also wasn’t used to Jaskier acting that way. Usually Geralt had to step in and be the menacing one when drunks hit on a disinterested Jaskier. He was also used to finding the bard attractive, and ignoring it. This time had been different and taken him completely off guard.

Jaskier grinned as he sat next to Geralt, “Sorry, I know you can take care of yourself, but men don’t seem to be able to take the hint. Especially when it comes to gorgeous women such as yourself.”

Geralt’s heart beat rapidly in his chest. He looked away, “I can see that.”

Jaskier raised his hands, “I get it. I’m sorry. I’ll stop mentioning it. I know it makes you uncomfortable.” He grabbed his bowl of stew and started eating it.

Geralt shook his head, “...I… it doesn’t bother me when you say it.” He took a swig of ale before partaking of his own stew.

Jaskier smirked, “Oh really? Well, honestly, you should be used to it. You are a gorgeous man too. I’m surprised you don’t beat off women with a broom.”

Geralt scoffed, “Because I’m a Witcher.”

Jaskier quirked an eyebrow, “Right… well, that didn’t seem to stop that drunk from trying.”

“He was too distracted by my breasts to notice the medallion,” Geralt laughed.

Jaskier glanced at the medallion that was currently resting between Geralt’s breasts. “Ah, yes,” he laughed with him, “I supposed he would be.”

Geralt’s face warmed, but he smiled as he continued to joke about other topics with Jaskier. This was the most normal he had felt with him since the transformation.

Then it was awkward again.

Jaskier stared at the single bed in the room, “I um… didn’t think to ask. Sorry. They usually give us two beds… I guess they assumed…”

Geralt waved him off, “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Jaskier scowled, “Nonsense Geralt. We don’t know what sleeping on the floor in your new body would do to your back. If anyone needs to be in tip top shape it’s you. I’ll take the floor.”

Geralt sighed, “Fine.”

Jaskier smiled and nodded as he started to unpack some of his things, “Then it’s settled.”

“We’ll share the bed.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened and he stared at Geralt in shock, “I-- wha- I’m sorry?”

Geralt crossed his arms over his chest then decided against it when they pressed against his breasts. He placed his hand on his hip instead, “We’ve shared before. It shouldn’t be any different now, right?”

Jaskier’s eyes roamed over Geralt, his cocked hip, his pink pillowy lips, his perfectly curved body. His voice cracked, “E-exactly… no problem.” He ran his hands over his face in an attempt to quiet his rapid heart. ‘Melitele help me…’ Jaskier groaned internally.

~~~

Jaskier stared at the ceiling as he laid stock still in bed next to Geralt. It had been difficult already for him to sleep next to Geralt with his feelings, but he got used to it. Now though, there was something different about Geralt being a gorgeous woman instead of a gorgeous man that set his body aflame. He wanted to reach over and stroke his soft skin. Trace his fingers over his supple breasts. Maybe even wrap his lips around his nipples as he listened to Geralt’s sweet moans of pleasure while he fingered him open.

Jaskier bit his lip and swore internally. He needed to stop thinking this way. It was only making it worse. He tried singing a ballad in his head to distract himself, listing facts about old musicians he learned at Oxenfurt, the various styles of music. He huffed. It was going to be a long night.

Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heart beating rapidly. The scent of arousal coming off of him wasn’t anything new. His feeling of arousal at smelling his arousal was new. Well, not new, but it had been awhile. When he first started traveling with Jaskier, the constant scent of arousal had been hard for him to handle. Especially with his own attraction for Jaskier. He had become accustomed to ignoring it. Now his arousal felt different. It was still a burning heat in the pit of his stomach, but there was a desire. An itch between his legs he wanted to scratch.

He couldn’t help but picture Jaskier between his thighs, licking at his wet folds before his tongue pushed deep inside him. He could almost feel Jaskier’s calloused fingers on his skin, tweaking his hard nipples before roaming over the expanse of his body. Geralt grit his teeth and pushed the thoughts out of his head. He listed the monsters in his bestiary and how to effectively kill them, the plants needed for his potions, and other random information. Fuck, it was going to be a long night.

~~~

Jaskier hummed as he awoke to the feeling of a soft body pressed against him. He smiled as he ran his hands down their back, nosing at the top of their head and inhaling the sweet scent of-- “Geralt!” Jaskier’s eyes snapped open and he quickly pulled away.

Geralt woke shortly after Jaskier and also moved back, staring at Jaskier in shock. Mostly because of his own actions. He had seeked Jaskier out unconsciously in the night. It had felt nice, but it was wrong. Especially while he was in this form. “S-sorry I didn’t…”

Jaskier waved him off, “I’m a cuddler, I’m sure it’s my fault.” He shifted his pants awkwardly. The action drew Geralt’s attention to the bulge in his pants. Jaskier’s face was bright red, “I… you know how it is… in the morning…”

Geralt nodded quickly and turned away. “I’ll get breakfast,” he grunted, “while you… sort yourself out.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier meekly replied, biting his lower lip in embarrassment.

Geralt made his way down the stairs toward the dining area, and tried extremely hard not to think about what Jaskier was doing in their room, on the bed where they slept. Why did everything have to feel so fucking awkward between them? Stupid mage.

TBC

#the witcher #fem!geralt due to spell #fem!geralt #jaskier #geralt #geraskier #panerato writing

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jaskierek · 4 years

Text

Wildflowers

Part 1 Part 2

Summary: Geralt and Jaskier had been friends for over two decades before Geralt forced them apart. Afterwards, he’d looked everywhere. The bard was nowhere to be found. Not even magic could find him. What had happened to his friend? ao3

Eight years into their partnership, Geralt was commissioned to rid a village of a nasty foglet that had taken up residency in a swamp at the centre of the neighbouring forest. The blacksmith, Filip, lived closest to the forest edge and had three young daughters who he feared for. He had collected money from the villagers in order to afford the Witcher’s services and had insisted on showing Geralt the way. He’d said the forest had many low-lying bogs and marshes, especially during this time of year.

Jaskier had been eager to join the Witcher, despite knowing that his outfit would return ruined, yet he’d been relegated to the role of babysitter.

“Come on, Geralt!” He whined, watching the Witcher swing his swords onto his back and collect the moondust he needed.

“No.” Came the simple response. Jaskier huffed.

“Honestly, why can’t Filip hire someone from the village for a night or leave the kids on their own? It’s not like they’re infants, and there’s three of them for goodness’ sake.”

“All of them have yet to reach the age of ten,” Geralt said in that rumbling voice of his as he walked up to the bard, gear on and a vaguely scolding look on his face, “and why hire someone to babysit when we’ve got a lovely and willing nanny here for free?”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped dramatically and he sputtered, trying to get past the offence and form a coherent sentence in response to Geralt’s shit-eating grin.

“You - I - listen here, Witcher - while I am lovely, there is no - how -“

The Witcher simply patted Jaskier on the head a bit harder than necessary, and stepped out of the room Filip had given them to get prepared.

“Ready?” The blacksmith asked. He stood in the doorway dressed in a thick, wool coat, hood over his head and straw-blonde hair peeking out from under his coif. He held a glass lantern in one hand and a sturdy, steel sword in another.

“You won’t need that.” Geralt grumbled, walking towards the man. Filip took what Jaskier knew to be an involuntary step back. The bard still winced. There was still a ways to go in Geralt’s image rehabilitation he was learning.

“I could help.” Filip countered weakly. Jaskier admired the man’s bravery, most tended to let the Witcher do what needed to be done with no care for his return or survival. Jaskier also didn’t doubt that Filip could have been of help. The man stood tall, with rounded shoulders from years of smithing, the thick coat only making him look bigger. He could definitely have been of help if-

“Silver swords kill beasts, your steel won’t do much harm.” Geralt said, walking past and heading to the door. “Better to just stay out of the way.”

Filip paused for a moment.

“Yes, well, I think I’d like to take it. For my own peace of mind.”

Geralt studied the man over his shoulder before seemingly accepting that there was not much else to say on the subject and the two left. Jaskier tapped his foot uncertainly before running to the door and swinging it open.

“Oi! Witcher! I am very much not willing and this is very much not for free! I am expecting compensation!” He yelled out to the shrinking figures.

“Fuck off, Jaskier.” Jaskier could just make out Geralt’s gruff but amused reply through the whipping of the wind. He smiled and returned inside, only to be faced with three pairs of large brown eyes. Startled a little, he smiled tentatively. Unlike their father, all three girls had reddish-brown hair and gentle features.

“You must be Filip’s daughters.” He said in way of greeting. He received an eerily unison blink. “Right uh…you should be in bed.”

“Where’s daddy gone?” The tallest one to the left asked.

“He…he went to go show his friend something.” Jaskier responded, trying not to worry the children.

“That man is a Witcher.”

Jaskier paused, not really knowing what to say and eventually settling on a slow “yes, he is.”

“Daddy’s not friends with Witchers.”

“Well, he is now.”

“But Witchers can’t have friends.”

“Now that’s just not true. Who told you that?” Jaskier asked, a bit peeved. They just blinked again and didn’t respond. “Ok, well, that’s not true because I’m friends with a Witcher.” He huffed, whether or not the friendship was mutual was still a bit in question for him.

The girls stared at him silently and Jaskier was honestly at a loss. He hadn’t had much experience with children, apart from singing the occasional fairy tale or nursery rhyme.

“Would you like me to play you a song?” He asked, fingers twitching to hold his lute.

“No.” They all said monotonously. Alright, really, were all children this difficult? And this…synchronised?

“You really should be going to bed then.”

“Can you paint?” The smallest one asked suddenly. Jaskier frowned at the question, a bit confused.

Thats how Geralt and Filip found him three hours later. Paints and unfinished artworks scattered around the floor and at the centre of it all, a very colourful bard. He sat on the floor, legs spread out as three auburn-haired little girls stood around him, paintbrushes in hand.

Filip laughed loudly. “I just bought them all paints and parchment two days ago.” He commented, taking his coat off.

“You don’t say.” Jaskier responded sarcastically as one of the girls poked at his temple with a green brush. He had rolled up his sleeves and trousers to give them some more space to work and also to avoid as much paint on his clothes as he could. It hadn’t worked very well as evidenced by the many drips and smears on his purple doublet. His face, arms and legs were covered in mostly yellow smudges, with a couple of green and pink accents here and there.

The girls hadn’t reacted much to their father’s return, nor to the intimidating presence of the Witcher. Speaking of, Geralt was currently leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking very entertained. Jaskier tried to communicate with his eyes that he was in dire need of aid, yet the cruel man did nothing but observe the multicoloured bard and the three little girls dancing around him.

“Ok, girls,” Filip said, coming over and kneeling beside them, gently removing a paintbrush from the youngest’s hand, “time to say goodbye and go to bed, hm?”

“Do you like our painting, daddy?” She asked, blinking those big brown eyes at him. They all looked very pleased with their work. Filip’s eyes looked over to Jaskier, giving him a once-over and smiling apologetically.

“Yes, love, it’s gorgeous as always. Now bed?” He tried again, reaching out to the others. Jaskier didn’t know how happy he was at being called an “it” but decided to hold his tongue for now. The brushes were all handed over. They themselves were smeared with paint as well, nowhere near as much as the bard though. He was more canvas than a bard at this point.

Filip told Geralt and Jaskier that he’d wash the girls - and their sheets - tomorrow and that they could have the bath for tonight, both men in desperate need of a wash.

Geralt, in a rare show of mercy, allowed Jaskier to go first. He sat by the wall, listening to the bard complain about how difficult the paint was to scrub off. He couldn’t help but let out an amused huff occasionally, earning a sour look from the bard.

“Oh, how you revel in my misery.” He muttered. Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Now we know that you’re not cut out to be a nanny after all.” Geralt teased.

“All things considered, I think I did an alright job.”

“Jaskier, you’re yellow.”

Being glared at by a wet bard sitting in yellow water was not the most intimidated the Witcher had ever been.

Not long after, Jaskier stepped out of the wooden bath and Geralt stepped in.

The Witcher melted into the tub as Jaskier’s nimble fingers threaded through his hair. Albeit, a bit rougher than usual. He had started using his own soaps and oils on Geralt, leaving his hair soft and shiny. He could tell Geralt liked it, despite his complaints that it left him smelling like rose water and cloves. It was a pleasant scent though.

“Why’d they paint you yellow?” Geralt asked placidly, eyes closed. Jaskier laughed softly.

“I told them what my name meant. I was meant to look like a field of buttercups, I presume.” He replied fondly. Geralt hummed. They bathed in silence for a while until Jaskier said softly; “the second eldest one is called Julia. She told me the name means strength.”

Geralt said nothing, sensing the bard’s mood had changed.

“I had a sister once.” Jaskier continued. Though surprised, Geralt made no comment. “Her name was Julia.” Silence fell again as Jaskier gently pushed Geralt’s shoulder. The Witcher moved at the pressure, allowing the bard to tilt his head back and rinse his hair off.

“Julka przed samotnością nie odczuwa lęku, bo to dziewczyna pełna wdzięku.” Jaskier said, more to himself than to the Witcher.

“What does it mean?”

“In the face of loneliness, Julka is not afraid,” Jaskier whispered, recalling the old saying, “because she is a girl full of grace.”

Geralt clenched his eyes tighter, not knowing what to say in the face of Jaskier’s gentle grief.

Geralt had stared down that same face of loneliness. Could he say that he’d confronted it fearlessly?

Jaskier ran his fingers through the Witcher’s hair one last time and gave it a hard tug.

“That’s for calling me a nanny again.” He remarked weakly. Geralt opened his eyes, watching Jaskier walk away and change into his night clothes.

The face of loneliness seemed to blur.

Filip allowed them to stay the night and they left early the next day. Geralt was prepping Roach when Filip’s three young girls ran up to him, the one in the middle holding a bag of coin. The blacksmith was crouched in the doorway, watching them with a small smile.

“This is for you.” The one in the centre said very seriously, handing over the payment with an air of importance. Not an ounce of fear showed on any of their faces. Geralt felt vague concern over their survival instincts.

“Er…thank you.” Geralt said awkwardly, taking the money. He was about to stuff it into Roach’s saddle before he thought better of it and placed it gently into his breast pocket, patting it to reassure the girl that he’d keep it safe. She smiled brightly at him and the three of them blinked at the same time. Geralt could only blink in return, not knowing where to go from there.

“Goodbye, Jaskier’s friend!” They announced and scurried off. Jaskier was just coming out of the house as they ran past, giggling. He jumped out of the way with a yelp, eyes following them bemusedly. Looking back to Geralt, he raised a brow. The Witcher simply shrugged. Jaskier laughed.

No, loneliness did not feel as present anymore.

—

Eleven years into their familiarity, Jaskier asked a question.

“I wonder what it feels like to die.”

Geralt had sensed his miserable mood all day. He’d been quiet and he hadn’t touched his lute or hummed a melody and strangest of all, he’d done what Geralt had told him. He’d stayed at the camp when Geralt had taken a contract to get rid of a wild boar and he’d collected firewood with no complaints when told.

Geralt sensed Jaskier’s unhappiness, he knew something was wrong, yet he didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to help. The very fact that he wanted to help, instead of revelling in the silence, came as a surprise. Jaskier’s statement was even more of a surprise. The casual way he said it jarred with the reality that this was the first thing Jaskier had said in hours.

They stared at each other from across the fire between them. Jaskier’s cornflower eyes lustreless and not expectant of an answer.

“I know what it feels like.” Geralt responded, own voice gruff from disuse. He could tell that he’d startled the bard. Jaskier’s blue eyes suddenly cleared and glinted with concern.

“How…how do you know what it feels like to die?” Jaskier asked and Geralt was surprised by the emotion behind his words.

“There are many ways to die, bard.”

Jaskier frowned.

“How do you know what it feels like to die, Geralt?” Jaskier pressed.

“I do not know what death feels like, but I am familiar with the journey.”

Geralt didn’t know whether he was skirting around the question on purpose. The initial response to Jaskier’s statement of a question had come unbidden and honest. Now he could feel heat under his skin and an urge to sneer and turn tail. He couldn’t do that though, not now, not with Jaskier as he’s been all day.

“Geralt, you-“

“Jaskier,” He cut him off, then stopped himself. He took a breath, “I can’t imagine a Witcher who isn’t familiar with the experience.” Jaskier shut his mouth and remained silent, an unspoken offer to continue. Geralt accepted the moment of quiet, taking the opportunity to arrange his thoughts and suppress the grief that had suddenly swelled in him.

“When boys were recruited to become Witchers, they underwent mutations that most did not survive.” Jaskier nodded, this Geralt had told him before, “They put elixirs, poisons and mutagens into our tea for days beforehand and when we were immobilised, they injected them directly into our veins. Most who did not die immediately, died by the third day. Those who did not die by the third day, went mad from the pain -“

Geralt stopped, hesitating, eyes drifting to the writhing flames between them.

He remembered their glassy eyes, unseeing. Nothing existed but their agony. They’d scream themselves hoarse, shredding vocal chords and vomiting out blood. He knew that he must’ve been the same but he could not remember anything he did while undergoing the mutations. Nothing existed, nothing mattered, but the torment.

Geralt looked back at Jaskier, who’s gaze remained strong and level, though sad.

“After we went mad with pain, they injected us again. We were all restrained, of course, otherwise we would have torn our skin off to find some relief. This round of mutagens induced seizures, hallucinations, and in our weakened state, our body had to fight the viruses. On the seventh day, three out of ten boys woke with cat eyes, the rest were dead.”

Geralt closed his eyes for a moment.

“I did not…I woke up with human eyes. The mutagens hadn’t worked on me to the extent they had worked on the others. I was uniquely resistant.” The words sounded bitter. “They gave me a couple of extra rounds and that’s why you won’t ever find another white wolf, bard.”

Jaskier remained silent. Geralt saw tears had slipped down his face, the reflection of the fire turning them gold. Geralt couldn’t stand the thought of tears being spilled for him but he stayed quiet, he found he had no more words to give.

“That’s not dying.” Jaskier finally said, voice unwavering through the tears. “That’s not dying. That’s torture. That’s something that no one should go through, let alone a child. You don’t know what it’s like to die, Geralt, and you won’t know for a long time to come.”

Geralt didn’t know who he was trying to convince.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“Jaskier,” The Witcher tried to make his tone gentle, “Witchers don’t retire. I know what it’s like to bleed out. That is likely my fate.” Jaskier flinched and looked down at his hands, clenched around each other, knuckles white. Golden tears slipped between his fingers.

“What does it feel like to bleed out?” He whispered so quietly that Geralt wouldn’t have heard him had he not been what he was. He frowned, but complied.

“You’re thirsty and your tongue feels swollen. Your vision becomes distorted and blurry. You feel a numbness as your head pounds with pressure. You can’t stand for long, so you’re left bleeding out on the ground, trembling and sweating, feeling like you’re going to vomit.” Jaskier’s shoulders were trembling. Geralt couldn’t stop. “You feel like you just want to rest your head forever.”

Finally, Jaskier broke, a sob breaking out past his lips, only for more to follow. It felt like the whole day had been building to this breaking point and Geralt itched to hold him. Let Jaskier release all that had been welling inside him. Geralt stayed, staring at him through the fire, sure that his own grief was showing.

“Geralt?” Came Jaskier’s small voice, head finally rising to look at Geralt. His eyes were red and tears fell freely.

“Yes?”

“Has this happened since we’ve met?”

A pause.

“Once.”

“You didn’t tell me.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, yet it sounded hurt.

Geralt suddenly felt guilty. He hadn’t thought it information that Jaskier needed, or wanted, to know. He’d clearly been healed and the next time they had run into each other had been months after the incident. Geralt himself hadn’t thought much of it. Yet now he felt guilty, it felt as if he had withheld something from the bard. He didn’t know why the thought of him keeping secrets from the man sparked a pain in his chest. He couldn’t stand to look at the hurt in those blue eyes so he looked away.

“I understand why you didn’t, Geralt, I don’t blame you…just - just please -“ the bard’s voice broke. He took a moment to breath in, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Please tell me, whether I’m around to help or not. I can’t - I can’t be a part of your life and not know. I -“

“Okay, I will.” Amber eyes locked with blue, reflecting the same flame. They gazed at each other for a time. Then, the bard rose on unsteady feet, rounding the fire and sitting beside the Witcher.

“I meant what I said. You won’t know death for a long time, dear friend. You will live for a good while yet.” He stated with no room for argument. Geralt couldn’t help but smile.

“Does destiny will it?”

“No,” said his friend, “I do.”

And so they sat for the rest of the evening. Golden eyes and golden tears.

—

Fourteen years into their friendship, there was a meadow.

It was spring and the meadow was blanketed by buttercups and dandelions and daisies and wild lupine. It was a messy quilt of colours that beckoned the bard forwards. The Witcher had taken notice of Jaskier’s love for spring, he’d taken note of a lot of things. He watched Jaskier run into the field, voice bubbling with laughter.

“Geralt look at this! It’s exquisite! We have to break here.” He was grinning at Geralt in his faded blue doublet. Geralt ached at that smile. He reluctantly agreed. How could he not?

That’s how they’d spent an all too rare afternoon lying on a sunny patch of grass. Geralt listening to the bard talk and hum, feeling the gentle heat from the sun-warmed ground seep in through his clothes, and when he opened his eyes he watched. He watched birds flit between trees and leaves shuffle in the breeze. He watched the bard blow a dandelion, blue eyes following the fluff as it glided through the air. Then those blue eyes turned to him and Jaskier smiled.

“You know what I’ve always wanted to learn, dear friend?” Suspecting another long Jaskier ramble, Geralt closed his eyes and hummed noncommittally. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to braid a flower garland.”

“Hmm, you don’t already know?” What with Jaskier’s love for spring, Geralt would have assumed that something as simple as making a flower crown would have easily found its way into the bard’s skill set.

“I suppose I’ve never had the opportunity.”

“Hm.” Geralt responded, mulling it over. They lapsed into a calm silence, well as much of a silence as one can get with a humming bard collecting flowers.

It was noon and the sun was overhead, its brightness filtering through his eyelids.

The humming stopped and he heard an excited “Geralt?”

“What, Jaskier?” He sighed.

“Teach me how to make a wreath.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on, you grumpy Witcher.”

“No.”

“But just look at these beautiful blossoms, it’d be such a shame not to put them to use.”

“Flowers have no use to anyone other than bees. Unless you’ve found some verbena or white myrtle.”

“How cynical of you, I can hardly believe it.” Geralt snorted at that. “Flowers have many uses, some of which I will detail to you now.”

“Please don’t-”

“Flowers are used for beautiful arrangements, placed at the centre of dinner tables or on mantelpieces, for magnificent perfumes that attract even the most stoic, and they create the most darling garlands, of which I am dying to learn the craft and am imploring my dear friend to teach me.”

Geralt groaned and opened his eyes to glare at the bard who was grinning cheekily at him.

“You are a pain in my ass, bard.” He acquiesced, knowing that Jaskier would take it as the acceptance that it is.

Sitting upright, he saw that Jaskier had already collected a bundle of wildflowers. Cornflowers and daisies and a myriad of others lay between them as they sat crosslegged, facing each other. Geralt’s hand immediately drifted to the cornflower nearest to him.

“It’s easier when you have a circle of string to wrap the stems around,” Geralt began, glancing back up at the sun-lit blue eyes looking right back at him, “but we’ve no string to spare. So once you’ve picked your starting flower, you pick another and wrap the stem a way’s down the stem of your first. Then you pick a third and wrap it around the stems of the first two.”

“A bit like braiding.”

“More like weaving,” Geralt explained, already a couple of flowers down his chain, “and then you keep adding more.”

Quiet settled between them once more. Geralt looked up every so often to check the bard’s progress, watching his nimble fingers weave his crown of flowers, rarely faulting. His eyes would wander up to Jaskier’s face, the bard’s brows frowning in concentration. The Witcher allowed himself a small smile. Jaskier had once told Geralt to alert him whenever he’d do this, hating the thought of wrinkles between his brows. Geralt of course never did. After all, it wasn’t his job to look out for the bard’s skin when it wasn’t being threatened by beasts or cuckolded spouses.

Geralt finished his garland first, realising that it consisted mostly of blue cornflowers and yellow dandelions and buttercups, broken up occasionally by reds.

“Complementary colours.”

“Hm?” Geralt asked, looking up at the bard.

“Yellow and blue. They complement each other. Honestly, Geralt, it’s simple colour theory.”

Geralt levelled him an unamused look, sending him back to work. Not long after, he watched the finishings of Jaskier’s own crown. An eager gaze slid up to Geralt’s face, eyebrows raised suggestively.

“No.” Came Geralt’s instant response.

“Please Geralt.” Jaskier whined. “No one’s here, your reputation is safe.” Geralt grunted, scowling at the bard whose big, blue eyes were pleading with him. With a sigh he reluctantly agreed. How could he not?

Jaskier’s own wreath was more varied than Geralt’s, with white daisies and purple aster and multicoloured poppies. Geralt let Jaskier shuffle closer, raising himself up on his knees so he could crown his Witcher in blossoms. Geralt watched his delighted face as he arranged the flowers just right, fingers grazing and pushing back the Witcher’s white hair. Geralt resisted the urge to lean into the touch. The gentle hands fell to his shoulders, warm gaze falling to look into yellow eyes.

“I’d write a song about this, a Witcher in a flower crown, if I didn’t think it’d be very unpopular.”

Geralt growled, glaring up at him.

“Ah, yes, and also because you’d gut me on the spot.” Jaskier added on. “I must say though, you look very dashing.”

Geralt didn’t say anything to that. He continued to stare up at the bard, glad that the man was happy, and content to be in his presence in a rare moment of peace.

“Now, my dear, I must wear yours.” Jaskier said. Geralt blinked then looked down at the wreath in his hands. Jaskier sat back, awaiting his floral coronation. Geralt smiled softly as he placed the crown on Jaskier’s head. It was a bit big for the bard’s head and pushed his fringe further into his eyes as it slipped down his head slightly. Snorting, Geralt pushed the brown hair from Jaskier’s face, fingers brushing his cheek as he pulled back. He found himself longing to touch him again but pulled away at the look of wonder in the bard’s eyes.

Jaskier went on to make another garland for Roach, making a show of crowning her “Lady of the Meadowland”. It was all very ridiculous so Geralt closed his eyes again and lay back onto the sun-warmed grass. He heard Jaskier amble over, felt his presence as he lay beside him with a deep sigh.

Geralt cracked an eye open to look at him. His eyes were closed. The sun turned his brown hair bronze, blue and yellow petals resting there crookedly. Geralt couldn’t help but think that Jaskier belonged here.

He belonged among the sun and the wildflowers.

—

Sixteen years into whatever the fuck they were and Geralt had been hired to kill a Griffin.

Fucking griffins and their fucking talons.

Geralt felt the ground pull at him magnetically.

He’d lost a lot of blood.

He stumbled to the ground.

He would have been content to press his feverish face into the cool, damp grass and simply lay there, if it hadn’t been for a single thought in his head.

Jaskier.

“Please tell me, whether I’m around to help or not.”

Fuck.

He pushed himself up shakily, a stab of pain pierced through the pressure in his head. He tried blinking past the faded edges of his vision and the spots floating between the trees like black will o’ the wisps.

He stumbled forward, hands pressed to his stomach. They didn’t do much to stop the heavy flow of blood gushing out of him. His fingers were numb but the rest of him was warm, so warm. He had to make it back, he couldn’t die without seeing Jaskier one more time. He couldn’t die here alone.

The face of loneliness came into focus amidst the blurry forest.

Somehow he made it back to the camp. Jaskier’s back was to him. He was stroking Roach’s snout, singing to her softly. It was a lullaby Jaskier sang whenever either of them couldn’t sleep. Geralt smiled in relief, the pressure in is head lifting slightly at the familiar sound.

“Jaskier.” The bards name fell out of him like a breath. Finally, he let the ground pull him down.

He woke up again in rather large bed, head cushioned on a feather pillow. Looking around he saw a glass of water on the desk in the corner, a painting of a long-bearded, angry-looking man on the wall across from him and a silk sheet covering him up to his bare chest. He frowned. This was not the typical establishment he was accustomed to.

Shifting slightly, he felt a weight on his arm. Confused, he looked to the right to find a mess of brown hair resting on his bicep. Geralt blinked, eyes widening. Jaskier was clearly asleep, curled around his side, head on his arm and hand resting in Geralt’s loose fingers. The Witcher suddenly felt warm and couldn’t help but tighten his hand around the bard’s.

While closing his hand, he involuntarily closed his other one, feeling something hard and cool under his fingers. Lifting it to his face, he saw that it was actually a stone, vaguely triangular in shape, with a wonky hole in the middle. What was strangest however, were the smudgy yellow flowers that had been painted around the hole. He assumed they were flowers as he could just make out some petals and wobbly, green stems.

Putting the mystery aside for a moment, he placed the stone down on the bed beside him. Removing his covers gently so as not to wake Jaskier, Geralt felt along his bandaged belly. The pain wasn’t too bad, more of an ache than anything and that could’ve simply been from the blood loss.

He wondered where they were. Their camp hadn’t been too far from a town, but that meant that Jaskier had somehow lifted him onto Roach and galloped through the forest and into town in search of a healer. Geralt knew that the bard was strong, muscle lined his arms and legs, tightened his stomach when he stepped into cold water. Almost two decades of joining Geralt on the path had given him a rather large build. Nevertheless, a limp Witcher was no easy feat to lift, especially onto a horse.

He felt Jaskier stir beside him. His head was still towards him but he could tell he’d opened his eyes because he promptly covered the Witcher back up with the silk cover he’d peeled off earlier. Geralt shifted and suddenly big, blue eyes were looking up at him. From this angle, he could see that the bard’s feet had been hanging off the edge of the bed from his position on Geralt’s arm.

“Geralt!” He exclaimed, smiling brightly. “You’re awake.” Geralt gave a soft grunt in response. “How are you feeling?” Jaskier asked, sitting up. He realised he was still holding onto Jaskier’s hand, so he let it go reluctantly, allowing the bard to pull it out of his grip.

“Like I lost most of my blood.”

“Ha ha.” Jaskier said humourlessly. Geralt sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

“Are you upset with me?” He asked finally. He knew Jaskier was upset but he didn’t know what kind of upset it was. Angry? Sad? Annoyed?

“I was,” Jaskier began. Geralt’s jaw tightened and Jaskier grasped his hand comfortingly. “But then I realised that I had no reason to be upset with you, I think my feelings of fear and concern got a bit muddled. Geralt, I was fucking terrified.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault, it was just…a lot.” Geralt winced and looked back to the bard. He was looking at their joined hands, blue eyes hazy and far away. Geralt didn’t know what he was seeing. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He gave Jaskier’s hand a tight squeeze, bringing him back. Jaskier smiled at him sheepishly.

“Were you surprised to wake up?” The bard asked. Geralt thought for a moment.

“No.”

“No?”

Geralt raised a brow, not entirely knowing what Jaskier wanted him to say. No, he wasn’t surprised. His only thought had been Jaskier. That he wanted to see him again. He wasn’t thinking much of being healed or waking later. Yet now that he thought about it, there wasn’t much doubt in him that Jaskier would help him in whatever way he could.

A thought came into Geralt’s mind.

“What’s this?” He asked, raising the painted stone. A blush tinged Jaskier’s cheeks pink.

“Ah…it’s a - it’s a hagstone.”

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I see that, why was it in my hand and why is it covered in flowers?”

“Well, if you don’t like it, I’ll take it back.” Jaskier said pettishly, reaching for it. Geralt pulled it out of his reach.

“No, I want it.” Geralt said, grinning. Jaskier dropped his hand and huffed, looking away.

“Remember when you left me to babysit those three girls a couple of years ago?”

Geralt blinked, vaguely recalling three sets off big brown eyes.

“They painted you yellow.”

“They painted buttercups, just…on me.”

“They painted you yellow.”

“Yes, okay, thank you.” Jaskier sighed, rolling his eyes. “The hagstone dropped out of my pocket and they…painted that too.” He smiled sheepishly.

That was nearly a decade ago. Geralt couldn’t believe he’d held onto it for that long. He pulled it closer so he could examine it genuinely. He could make out the smudgy, yellow petals attached to green stems. They were dotted around the stone, growing in a cluster. The yellow paint had remained fairly unfaded. Geralt rubbed his thumb over the stone.

“You can keep it if you want.” Jaskier said. Geralt turned to find him already looking at him, eyebrow raised and smiling. The look of sincerity on the bard’s face had Geralt looking away.

“Why did you put it in my hand?”

“They’re for protection and healing. Surely you know that.”

Geralt knew what they were for, theoretically. The protective powers of witch stones were a myth though, just humans placing undue importance on an unusual rock. In reality, it was just that. A rock. One that had been eroded by water or animals. Geralt didn’t say anything though.

He didn’t know if he could say anything. Jaskier had carried this stone with him for a decade, maybe more, hoping for protection and now he was giving it to him. A Witcher who, by all appearances, didn’t want nor need luck. The bottom line was that the bard wanted him safe and Geralt had absolutely no way of dealing with that.

“They’re also used to keep witches away,” Jaskier continued, “useful incase we ever cross paths with Yennefer again.”

Geralt snorted.

“She’s a sorceress.” He countered

“And I’m a musician. It doesn’t mean I’m not also a bard.” Jaskier sniffed disdainfully. He pushed himself up the bed so he was leaning against the headboard and sitting next to Geralt. He continued to talk, allowing the Witcher to simply listen and think about how close their hands were between them.

—

Twenty two years since they met.

The wind bit at him, seeking to push him off his feet as he looked down at the snarling Witcher.

“Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shovelling it?”

“That’s not fair.” He couldn’t help protesting weakly.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.” Geralt gritted out between clenched teeth, amber eyes burning with emotion, he was practically shaking with it.

Jaskier stood and watched as the Witcher turned and stormed further away from him. Tension and aggression written into the way Geralt’s shoulders tensed, fists tight, arms loose, ready to attack. Jaskier had seen Geralt like this before, more times than he could count, but it had never been directed at him. No matter how many times he irritated the Witcher or inadvertently gotten them into trouble, Geralt never had more for him than a hard glare and some frustrated shouts.

This was different. This felt final. This felt like the end. The inevitable conclusion to his tragic love story because fuck him, he’d fallen in love with a man sworn to someone else.

“Right, uh,” Jaskier managed to get out, suddenly finding it difficult to breath, “right, then,” he tried again, looking away, eyes blinking rapidly, “I’ll - I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.” He turned and walked away, his attempt at casualness flimsy and transparent.

While Geralt berated destiny, fought against it and ignored it wholeheartedly, Jaskier accepted his fate because he had always known it was coming.

But, damn, did it hurt.

He didn’t get the rest of the story.

He stuffed all of his belongings into a bag, slung his lute over his shoulder, gave Roach one last, teary-eyed hug and ran. Geralt had walked away from him, both physically and metaphorically, and now Jaskier needed as much space between them as possible. He ran down the mountain, tripping on uneven paths and scratching his hands bloody. The burn in his lungs and chest felt poetic.

In the last two decades of his life, he and Geralt had always found their way back to each other after weeks or months apart. Sure, he’d keep an ear out for news of a Witcher but most of the time, Melitele save him, it had been a gods-honest accident. The romantic that he is believed it to be fate, and perhaps it was, but he knew now that it wasn’t the kind sort.

Fate was cruel and maleficent, making him believe that their hearts were intertwined when in reality it had been a ploy to torture them both in the end. Destiny left Jaskier heartbroken and Geralt with a life he didn’t want.

—

Some part of his mind registered Jaskier walking away.

Most of it was focused on containing the pain.

He had felt it slowly bloom in his chest at Yennefer’s weak “that’s why we can’t escape each other?” Anguish and bitterness in her voice. From there it had unfurled and spread throughout his body, the emotion burning him from the inside.

His being was now solely fixated on not letting it spread further.

Again, some part of him registered that it already had, it had spread to the bard, it had lashed out at him.

He felt like a flaming whip pulled taught. He felt in in his shoulders, his fists, his jaw.

He breathed in deeply.

His eyes were wet. He tried focusing them on the green valley below.

He breathed out and sunk to his knees.

He waited for the rushing noise in his head to stop.

His cheeks were wet.

He turned around. Yennefer was gone. Jaskier too.

So were their things when he returned to camp.

He breathed in and wailed.

—

The world was dull to him. The trees were not as green. The shades of blue across cornflower petals didn’t look the same anymore.

The world was quiet to him. Too quiet. Something was missing.

Never did he think the world would be dull and quiet. It had always been the opposite, too much, too loud.

He missed Jaskier desperately.

He hadn’t found him again since the mountain.

He could tell Roach missed him too.

Snippets of songs and melodies that had Jaskier’s mark drifted here and there. They were never him. How strange it was to hear others recount his own tales when he had grown so used to Jaskier being the only one.

For the first six months, he’d kept an ear out for any gossip of the famous bard but he had always seemed to arrive just a few days behind. Two months later and the chatter had dried up. No one had seen the bard, no one sang any new songs of his. He had searched the continent, gone to the coast, gone to Jaskier’s own town and found no sign of him.

It was like he had ceased to exist and so, Geralt’s world was dull and quiet.

The face of loneliness had never been clearer.

After those first eight months, he’d also started sleeping poorly.

Before, he’d been a light sleeper, ready to jump out of his bedroll fully aware and ready to defend. It came with being a Witcher. Although, admittedly, the nights spent in inns, on a relatively soft mattress, with a sleep-warm bard next to him had left him sleeping a bit deeper, waking a bit dazed.

Yet after those eight months, he’d slept restlessly. He’d dream of a weeping willow, drooping sadly. He’d dream of an open field and oddly wake up feeling caged.

When he himself found no sign of the bard, he’d gone to one of the few people he trusted, Triss Merigold. He had given her an old undershirt that Jaskier had forgotten to take with him. He made her try for three days before she had finally said “I really am sorry, Geralt, but truly, I can find no sign of your friend.” Geralt took the soft material back. “I fear he’s -“

“Don’t.” Whatever look he’d had on his face made her snap her mouth shut. Dark eyes looked at him with pity as he had turned, dropped some coin and left.

He’d go to Yennefer next.

“Geralt,” she greeted tensely, “didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.”

Geralt had found Yennefer a few months after the dragon contract. They’d agreed that though they cared for each other deeply, it was best for them to have space, to move on. Geralt hoped desperately that one day they would become friends. Yennefer, though difficult and battle-hardened, remained fair and kind, one of the only people with whom Geralt shared easy conversation.

There was a longing between them, one that both knew was not falsified by the djinn. Neither knew what sort of longing they felt. One of friendship, companionship, understanding? Time and space would let them learn.

“I know,” He muttered apologetically, “I need your help.”

“You look awful.” She simply responded. Geralt winced. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

The Witcher opted for silence. He knew that she had heard him and knew that she was studying him, pondering his request.

“What do you need?” She asked finally, tone not one of acceptance but of curiosity.

“Jaskier.” The word came out sounding more distressed than he had intended. It was harder to maintain a mask through sleep deprivation. Yennefer’s expression briefly shifted to one of concern.

“What happened?”

Geralt’s throat suddenly felt compressed. Those two words somehow confirming that something had happened. Something had to have happened if he and Triss couldn’t find him.

Fear was a terrifying emotion because he truly didn’t know what he would do to end it.

“I…I don’t know. I can’t find him and neither can Triss.” Geralt pulled out the same shirt he had given to the other sorceress, gripping the folded fabric tightly in his hands. He looked up at Yennefer to find her looking right back with a sort of unease. “Please,” he said, offering the garment to her, “track him if you can.”

She stared at the shirt apprehensively, gaze snapping up to Geralt’s, looking for something. Finally, she sighed and turned to walk over to a large bookshelf, pulling out a thick, yellow-paged tome that had clearly not been removed for a good while.

“You’re lucky night is falling,” she said, stepping outside, not waiting for Geralt to follow. He did. “If regular tracking didn’t work, we’ll have to do it the hard way.” She walked to the middle of her large garden, sitting cross-legged in the grass, wine-coloured dress pooling around her. Geralt approached, ready to be told off and to step back, yet Yennefer said nothing as he sat down across from her.

The sorceress flipped the tome open to the centre, each side resting on a knee. Each side also being a couple inches thick. Tucked into the middle, between the two pages was a thin, silver geometrical compass. Yennefer lifted it with an elegant hand and placed it over one of the many configurations on the page. Geralt’s limited knowledge allowed him to surmise that they were astronomical. He looked up to the sky and the stars that he only knew to use for navigation.

“The shirt.” Yennefer said sharply, snapping his gaze back down to her and her outstretched hand. Shirt in one hand, compass in the other and tome on her lap, she began to speak. It was some variation of Elder. Geralt, only knowing the basics of the root language, was left clueless as the space above the book began to glow.

The light transformed the yellowed pages gold, illuminating Yennefer’s perfect features and making her look all the part of the powerful mage he knew she was. She dropped the shirt on the grass between them. Violet eyes looked up to the stars, compass travelling across the golden pages of the book. She flipped back and forth between the pages, her eyes shooting between stars. The compass twisted in complicated circular motions across configurations.

The light began to die slowly, Yennefer’s words slowing to a stop as she closed her eyes, clearly disappointed. Geralt’s stomach dropped and he felt like he might throw up the paltry dinner he’d had a few hours earlier.

“Yennefer, please -“

“I’m not done yet, Geralt.” She responded sharply before taking a breath, “I need something personal to him, something with an emotional connection. I may not be able to find his physical body,” because he may be dead was left unsaid “but I can perhaps find his spirit.”

Geralt tried to keep the devastation off his face at the implication.

An emotional connection. He knew immediately what to give her. A small pocket in the side of his leather armour held a painted witch stone. He gently pulled it out, rubbing his thumb over the messy petals of the buttercups. Yennefer didn’t comment on the item, though she looked at him with pinched brows. He placed the stone in the sorceress’ outstretched palm.

The golden light returned and Geralt watched as the sorceress studied the stars, measuring out constellations and distances in her book. Geralt had never been one for religion but he prayed, prayed for something.

Again, the light faded and Yennefer looked to him with a frown.

—

He’d been looking for tracks in the large forested area Yennefer had pointed him to. He’d been looking for two days and nothing had been found.

Honestly, he didn’t know what he was looking for. Yennefer had been unable to find his body but had found his spirit? Were they no longer attached? Geralt’s mind had been filtering through the different options of what that could mean, but even Yennefer didn’t know what to say. The thought that he might be dead was an unwelcome one in his mind.

It had recently rained and the ground squelched and shifted under Geralt’s boots. Most of the tracks had been washed away by the rain. Geralt lead Roach through the trees, eyes catching on imprints in the ground and broken shrub twigs. All signs indicating animal presence rather than human.

The forest was familiar to the Witcher, he’d been here before. He didn’t think much of it, he’d been to most places on the continent, the Path taking him wherever he needed to be. Yet when he tried to recall the memory tied to this place, it was not one of necessity or danger. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it.

Giving up on the meagre prints, he let the memory lead him. His feet found a forgotten path. Boots had flattened the earth so compactly, it was likely to last a long time. But it was littered with leaves and branches, clearly not trod on for a long while. He remembered the path, it had not looked so different the first time he had found it. It had soothed him that though this forest may once have been peopled, it was unlikely that they’d run into trouble.

They. He hadn’t been alone in the memory.

Vague and distant chatter tugged him forward, the line between reality and recollection blurring. He let go of Roach’s reins, trusting her to follow. He surged through the trees, pushing aside branches. Sunlight and grass filtered through the trees.

Spring.

Buttercups, dandelions, daisies, cornflowers.

A laugh ringing in his ears.

“Geralt look at this! It’s exquisite! We have to break here.”

The Witcher burst through the line of trees and froze. A field of green grass. It was familiar, but not just from the memory. A shiver down the back of his neck. Dread tightened his chest. His eyes landed on a weeping willow, its leaves pale. He didn’t remember it being here the last time.

Uneasily, he made his way towards it. It sagged so low that Geralt could not quite make out its bark. The pale leaves almost sparkled in the sun from the wetness of the leaves.

The Witcher crouched lower as he got closer, seeing a body through the drooping leaves. His hand hovered over his sword. He stopped before the wall of pallid green. The person behind had not moved, clearly unaware of his presence. He reached a hand out and pulled the leaves away, one hand still on the pommel of his sword.

His eyes landed on the man sitting on the damp grass, leaning back against the tree.

Geralt felt like the air had been punched out of him, body becoming immediately slack.

Wide shoulders. Soft, brown hair. Blue, inquisitive eyes.

“Fuck-“ the word came out sounding more like a sob than anything else, “Jaskier”.

Geralt took two steps forward and collapsed on his knees.

“Jaskier.” He reached out to touch him, to feel him warm and safe.

He felt nothing. His fingers slipped through.

A shimmer and a blur and the bark of a willow tree.

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