#or he just really wanted him and geralt to be happy by the sea ;-;

[gothiethefairy]

any fanfic about jaskier being connected to the ocean somehow is always an automatic "good shit this is good shit right here!!" for me

we all took jaskier's pleads to go to the coast by heart and i love that about us.

[roughentumble]

anyway the royal woman "explains" everything to geralt, and suddenly he feels like an outsider all over again. he doesnt understand anything on land, all he's doing is holding jaskier back from his future. he feels stupid, for ever dreaming of a cottage by the sea with a prince. he decides to leave. jaskier sees him go, but isnt fast enough to stop him, is only fast enough to see a flash of scales as geralt regains his tail and hides away at the bottom of the sea.

jaskier visits the beach every day, hoping for geralt to come back, now that he knows geralt isnt just his friend, but also his handsome rescuer. and geralt knows because he hides by the dock, hoping to see jaskier finally moving on. but he doesnt.

geralt hides. he stays hidden. it's what's best for everyone, he reasons. he cries, merfolk tears turning to jewels on his cheeks. he feels foolish. he feels like he'll cry himself a whole new ocean.

he collects them all, takes them to yen to trade. they're very powerful and very rare, after all, a sea witch could do a lot with them. he manages to communicate to her-- his legs are gone but the deal still holds, he traded his voice-- that jaskier stays on the shore, that he cant live his life there. he wants yen to use her magic to make him leave, so he can move on and be happy with his fiancee. she considers his deal, then tells him to visit the beach in three days, when the sun is high overhead. she takes the gems.

she finds jaskier there. on the beach. and she makes him a deal, too. come to the beach in three day's time, when the sun is high and only when it's high, wearing two shirts and two pants. and he'll get the answer he seeks. he asks why she's doing this for him, and she says she's simply an interested party. and who is he to look a gift horse in the mouth?

when geralt arrives, the beach is empty. blessedly empty. his heart aches, because belonging and joy and a future has fled him, but at least jaskier can move on. he lays his head on the sand and rests.

a hand grabs his arm, tight. tight enough he cant slip away. his head jerks up and he sees jaskier, standing there, clinging to him like a lifeline. "geralt! it's you, it's really you! why did you leave me?" he begs

geralt twists and squirms, but he doesnt want to hurt jaskier, and he's at a disadvantage on his belly in the sand. it comes out, eventually. he signs that jaskier has a life. a future. "you cant stay on this beach forever. you have a fiancee. you'll be king." his face is screwed up in agony.

"oh geralt," he says, pets geralt's hair, pushes it out of his face. "that's not true at all." geralt's head whips around to stare at him. "im not engaged to anyone. and im too far down the line to gain the throne. what made you think that?"

geralt feels dumbfounded. betrayed. unthinkably foolish. "i dont understand." he signs, because he doesnt. he doesnt understand kings and princes and being the 8th son, he doesnt understand jaskier's eldest brother has a brood of children of his own, all of them more ready for the throne than jaskier will ever be. jaskier tries to explain, but mostly what it makes geralt get is that he was lied to, and he bought it. he wants to bury himself in the sand.

"geralt, darling, who told you all this? why did you think i was leaving you?" and geralt tells him, tells him about the royal who misled him, who wanted jaskier's hand and his position. and jaskier's face grows dark. "no. no, i wasnt promised to her. and i certainly never will be, now."

geralt's head is spinning. "it doesnt matter," he signs, "it's too late. you cant live your life stuck on this beach. i gave up my legs."

jaskier shakes his head. "of course i can. who cares about that?" jaskier says, breathless, "i always wanted a cottage by the sea."

and geralt cant help himself. he surges forward, lips meeting jaskier's. jaskier holds him tight, cradling his face so sweetly. its everything they wanted but have been denying themselves for so long

geralt doesnt know how, but when he pulls away he /knows/. he can feel it in his throat. merfolk sing to communicate, and he thinks back, remembers the tune they'd been singing on the ship before it capsized all that time ago. twists the words to make it his own he sings soft and sweet, a low murmur; "my heart is pierced by cupid / i disdain all glittering gold / there is nothing can console me / but my jolly sailor bold"

jaskier gapes at him. "his eyes are ocean waters / and his hair is like a foal's / i will follow where he leads me / wherever he may go"

"you-- your voice-- geralt, how" he starts, heart beating out of his chest, and geralt just shakes his head

"i have no idea. i just knew it was back."

"took you long enough to figure it out." yen says, and they both whip around to stare. she lounges back against the dock like she hasnt a care in the world. "honesty was all you needed to get back your voice."

"you set me up." geralt says, because she did.

"and it worked out for you." yen says, because it did.

"you know the sea witch?" jaskier asks, and they both snort.

"we're on again off again." yen replies dryly, "though it seems off again for the forseeable future." just to make them both turn red.

she removes a bottle from the bag she has slung around her hips. she holds it out to him. her eyes are softer then before. "merfolk tears. a powerful ingredient. since i did no magic here, i figure you could take back half the payment." geralt looks shocked. "plus a few other ingredients."

he takes it from her carefully. "you wont be a merfolk with legs if you drink this." she warns him. "you'll be human. your tail, your gills, the depths of the sea, will be lost to you forever. no going back."

he thinks about it for all of a few seconds before tilting his head back and swallowing it all. "that's what i figured." yen says quietly, a soft smile playing on her lips.

it hurts worse than the last time. scales slough off in so much bloody viscera, and jaskier's eyes well with tears as he holds geralt through it. yen stays for it all.

when it ends, finally, with geralt whole and human in jaskier's lap. there are scars on his legs, starting at his feet and running in a straight line all the way up to his crotch, as if his fin had been ripped in half. but he's whole, and he's human, and he kisses jaskier again. and again, and again, and again.

when they part for air, jaskier panting and geralt naked as the day he was born, jaskier's face lights up and he says "oh! that's why you told me to wear two!" he peels off one of two shirts to give to geralt, who looks at him quizzically. "i thought it was a magic thing, you sneak."

"it's a sort of magic." yen says, smiling slyly. "just remember, geralt-- you owe me for this." he nods in agreement, and she slinks back to the depths, the air too dry for her to stand much longer.

jaskier lends geralt a pair of pants as well, too tight but better than nothing. they walk back to the castle together, hand in hand. and in a few years' time, they get that cottage by the sea

[aramblingjay]

Let the sea birds cry Geraskier, pre-relationship (1K)

Jaskier wants Geralt to have a holiday. In the summer, when it’s warm and sunny, and preferably by the coast. He resorts to creative measures to make that happen. Or: When Jaskier said “we could head to the coast”, it’s because they’d already been there once before.

ao3

“I want to go to the coast,” Jaskier says brightly one evening.

Geralt looks up from counting potions (there’s a few he needs to replenish, but the current stock will tide him over until they come across an herbalist) to Jaskier lounging against a log beside the fire, popping nuts into his mouth between words. He looks, despite every evidence Geralt has seen to the contrary over the last seven years, like he belongs out here amidst the forest, as familiar to walking the Path as Geralt himself.

“Hmm?” Geralt asks, because Jaskier hates when he doesn’t respond, and Jaskier looks too beautiful illuminated in the red-orange glow of the firelight to sulk.

Nearly a decade of experience must mean Jaskier correctly parses that particular hmm into the intended set of questions, because he responds as though he’s heard Geralt verbalize every one of them explicitly.

“Anywhere along the coast, I’m not picky. Yes, I do mean now. It’s the birth of summer, the season of sun and warmth and happiness, Geralt. This is the perfect time to take a break. Just for a week or two. No contracts, no monsters, just sun, sand, waves, and music.”

The request hasn’t come entirely out of nowhere. Geralt is aware that Jaskier has a fondness for the coast, likes to winter as near to the water as he can manage without actually going for a swim (or encountering any of the numerous nobles he’s pissed off, which can be a difficult proposition in some coastal towns). And he’s often wondered how many years Jaskier can keep this up, being his companion on the cold and dirty and dangerous Path without complaint, when a man of his talent and nobility could certainly afford to spend his days in much greater comfort.

Jaskier deserves better. He deserves two weeks relaxing by the coast, away from this life.

Still, it feels like stabbing himself in he heart with a dagger when he says, “Okay. You should go.” There’s a flash of hurt in Jaskier’s eyes that he doesn’t understand, but hates all the same, and Geralt tries to rephrase. “I want you to enjoy the coast. In summer, when it’s warm. You should—you should go? Yes.”

He feels clumsy, closer to the child fumbling with his new senses after the Grasses than the decades-old monster-killing machine he knows himself to be. Jaskier always manages to draw out that buried part of him, somehow.

The hurt in Jaskier’s eyes dissipates, leaving something—sad? Fuck, now he’s made Jaskier sad. This is why Geralt tries not to open his mouth if he can help it.

“Geralt, I didn’t mean I want to leave you to go to the coast. I meant, I’d love a holiday, and we’re—well. I meant that we’d both go. I’m aware you have to walk the Path, et cetera, et cetera, but I’ve yet to see any stipulation on exactly how long you have to be out here in the muck killing monsters continuously for it to count. And we took down a whole—okay, yes, you took down that whole striga nest a week ago, which surely counts as multiple monster hunts all in one, so really, if you ask me, we’re ahead of schedule and due a vacation.”

The very idea of abandoning the Path for several weeks to relax by the seaside is abhorrent. Witchers don’t go to the coast and rest. That isn’t—that isn’t how it works.

“Jask, I—” Geralt doesn’t know how to say this in a way that won’t upset him. He wants Jaskier to go, Jaskier deserves to go. But as with many things, the Path means Geralt can’t just do as he pleases. “I can’t,” he finishes inelegantly.

Jaskier frowns. “Okay, don’t think of it as a vacation then. Think of it as a contract. I’m going to the coast, and because I’m just a poor, helpless bard, I need a witcher bodyguard to make sure I don’t get killed before I dip my toes in the sand. You in? I can pay you, make it all proper and everything.” He sounds so earnest it hurts, eyes wide and gleaming.

“I don’t want your coin,” Geralt snaps, because that’s the easiest part to focus on.

“Is that a yes?” Jaskier asks with barely-contained glee, seeing through his surliness as always.

Could this work? Technically, there’s no rule book he’s ever seen that dictates what does and doesn’t constitute a contract. And Jaskier looks so eager—and as much as it’s a ruse, the bard truly would be highly likely to run into trouble if he travelled alone—and it wouldn’t be his first time accompanying Jaskier somewhere he would never go himself, just the longest journey he’s had to undertake to do so.

“Fine.”

Jaskier punches the air in delight, and Geralt can’t find it in himself to regret this.

-

The coast is everything the Path is not.

Warm, so warm. Sun in the sky for hours on end, lighting the sand a brilliant white. Even the sand is warm. It nestles between his fingers like a friend that’s too attached, and Geralt loves it so much he pulls off his boots and lets it nestle in his toes, too. Soft and warm.

The rustle of the ocean is different than the trees, but the quiet, rhythmic hum-whoosh of the waves seeps into his very bones, and he starts to wonder if maybe he could become a coastal Witcher, hunting only drowners and the occasional sand monster.

And then there is Jaskier. If he looked strangely at home on the Path, he’s positively unleashed here—strumming his lute jauntily at every man, woman, and child who walks past, earning more than a pretty copper for his trouble, and immediately wasting every single coin on some special kind of salted sea nut they don’t make in the woods.

(The nuts are good, Geralt can admit that much, but it’s not worth all the coin they have.

The way Jaskier smiles after every bite though, wide and dimpled and unabashedly happy, that might be.)

It’s inevitable, in some ways, that after two weeks covered in nothing more nefarious than sand and saltwater, pulling out his sword only to clean the ocean rust off and put it back under the bed—after two weeks of looking at Jaskier in the golden light of the coastal sun—he wakes up in the morning to the bard snoring in the other bed, hair askew, drool spilling into a little puddle by his mouth, and thinks—

Oh.

[cherryjuicegf]

to my lover from another life

For how many lives does a romance last? (All of them, is the answer).

for @samstree the happiest of birthdays to you you're a star ♡ || 2.5k, G, fluff, amnesia from old age, reincarnation [ao3]

As he gazes at Jaskier from afar, he is reminded of a painting.

There he is, in his bright yellow doublet, as though the setting sun has left a piece of it behind to lead the way, sitting in the middle of the deck among the boats with scribbled names. The sunset glows around him and on the sea, lining his posture with the brightest of oranges and pinks and reds, like the painter could not decide on a single hue to depict the beauty of the landscape.

A small smile curves Geralt’s lips. Of course they could not decide.

He approaches with small steps, light with this feeling of calmness he rarely lets overwhelm him in life. But now the deck is so quiet and the faintest of waves are rocking the boats and echoing on the shore. In the distance, a last sea gull chases the fading daylight.

The deck creaks as he walks and Jaskier turns to look at him. As though he was expecting him, a wide grin forms on his face. “Geralt,” he says and Geralt prays his name is as beautiful as the poet makes it sound. “Come, sit with me.” He looks happy. Geralt could never refuse.

He thinks he must pay more attention every time Jaskier’s smile is so genuinely happy. A voice in his head whispers that it’s less often than he thinks.

He sits beside him, limbs dangling alongside his though far less wildly, and looks at the notebook on his lap. “What are you writing?” he asks and this too he should ask more often.

Not that Jaskier doesn’t tell him anyway.

Only, perhaps, to see the way his blue eyes light up at the question and his cheeks almost blush, or it’s just the sunset. Both are equally beautiful on him.

Jaskier hums in pleasure and straightens his posture as if to recite. “This, my friend, is going to make one of my greatest ballads. I can feel it. It is already my favourite.”

Geralt chuckles. “You say that at least once a month.”

“Hush,” Jaskier laughs and nudges him softly on the arm. Then suddenly his voice becomes quieter ever so slightly, a change only Geralt could ever hear. “This is different.”

“How so?”

The poet stares at him for a couple of seconds and his eyes are somehow brighter than before in their wistfulness, like looking in a mirror and seeing more on the reflection than there already is. And he just can’t grasp it. “Because of the story, of course.” His words echo gently like the waves. “It’s the story of my lover from another life.”

The sky is on fire, swimming in his gaze and painting his hair golden, then red. Geralt longs to run his fingers through them. From this close, he can count the few freckles on his cheeks.

A low hum escapes his throat. “What are they like?” he says and hears Jaskier’s heart beating faster as though thankful for indulging him. Little he knows Geralt is indulging his own hope. 

Hope that in another life, maybe, it would have been easier. It would have been him.

Jaskier heaves a deep sigh and lets his shoulders slump. While he speaks, the smile on his face becomes sweeter still. “Oh, a miracle, really. Makes you forever grateful to have met them,” and Geralt thinks how anyone could ignite this feeling except for Jaskier himself. The poet glances at him with the corner of his eye. “They are… My lover is kind and sweet and gentle, although they manage to hide that well when they need to, when life needs them too. And, gods, they are so strong. And funny, they make me laugh even without trying,” he huffs, shakes his head. “They make me happy by simply existing.”

It is what you deserve , Geralt wants to say but he doesn’t, so eager now to learn how Jaskier is loved. 

“My lover… Well, I know them like the back of my hand, and they know me. They can read me with a single look, and it takes a simple touch to take my breath away.” Jaskier looks at him smiling, and Geralt hears his breath hitching. “They are beautiful, so beautiful when laughing, when they concentrate, when they sleep, so that I can stare at them forever. And patient, and wise although a little dense sometimes,” he laughs. He is so captivating when he laughs. “And despite everything, they know how to love. How to make me feel loved with a single gesture, a single glance. And then I know that, finally, I belong there, by their side. But most of all…” He hasn’t torn his eyes away from Geralt, gazes locked together as though the lingering rays have wrapped themselves around them. Jaskier swallows, voice even softer than before. “Most of all my lover is a good person.”

Geralt can feel his breath stroking his face warm and there is something so peaceful and honest about the way Jaskier talks. So loving that he dreams of that life, dreams of what it would be like. To be loved by him.

There is something so tempting about Jaskier’s lips, he realizes now maybe for the millionth time. 

But he is frozen and the sun has set and Jaskier shivers suddenly, as though waking from a dream of his own, and lowers his head. “You picked a good moment,” he laughs, almost tentatively. “You see I…” He raises his look to the sea. “I love him so much I can’t even put it in words sometimes.” Another laugh. “Me!”

It is too difficult to look away from him. Geralt decides to keep staring. “He sounds like he loves you as much. You are lucky.”

Jaskier smiles and looks at him. “Oh, I am!” Then he clears his throat and his smile fades, voice quieter. “I am.”

A hand, beside his. Warm. Tingling.

“Sometimes I wish there was another life,” Geralt says before he can think and maybe it is the breeze that makes his words flow, maybe the longing that is choking him and he aches to let it spill down his lips. “One where we could make things different.”

He shouldn’t wish for it. He wouldn’t. But he cannot help but hope that maybe, given another chance, he would be less of a coward and he would get to stroke Jaskier’s hair, and pull it behind his ear. Maybe even kiss him.

Jaskier chuckles beside him and now he sounds merrier than before. Gentler. “I think we have plenty of time in this one.”

Maybe. Maybe they do. Geralt takes a deep breath and turns to look at the sea, hoping he will find comfort on the way it resembles Jaskier’s eyes. He wants to imagine another life. But then again, Jaskier may not be in that one. And he may remember anyway. And how could he ever live on his memory alone?

Suddenly, he is afraid. “Do you think there is another one though?”

But instead of an answer he just hears a scoff and a laugh and something along the lines of goddamn dense before he feels a hand on his face and turns around, and Jaskier is kissing him.

Jaskier is kissing him. And oh, his lips are so sweet and soft and careful as though he himself is ready to let go and Geralt can’t help but kiss him back, can’t help but keep him close, closer than ever. And there between breaths and smiles and the breeze that cannot break through them, there he finds that their lips fit so well, like puzzle pieces. Like their cracks were made to flood each other.

Like he has done it before, and he always knew how.

Jaskier pulls away, grin impossibly wider and now this is it, now he is happy. And Geralt knows that he only can compete with any other lover, in this or another life, but he is more than willing to love even harder to win.

“I think,” the poet says, words barely coming out, “that even if there is one, we will be together anyway.” A smirk then, cunning. “You can’t escape me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Geralt laughs and kisses him again.

 —

“Tell me, witcher, did you ever marry?”

Geralt averts his gaze from the dancing fire of the hearth and looks at the man on the armchair beside him. And he looks and looks and there is this hollowness where once it would have been his heart but then again what more could he ask for now, now that the man’s hair is grey and the laugh lines of his face are carved just a little too deep, and his blue eyes are only loving because a distant instinct seems to lighten them so.

What more could he ask for now except sitting beside him silent even when he has so much love to spare yet?

A small smile curves his lips and is met with a cunning look. Oh, he hasn’t changed a bit. Not really.

“I have a story,” Geralt says and his voice is quivering but he pays no mind. He mustn’t now. Only, as he speaks, he feels like searching for the right paper sheets through the drawers of his heart and it hurts to pull them out, but here they are. “About a lover from another life.”

Laughter, silent and kind. “Heavens. I didn’t think you were the talkative type.”

Geralt chuckles and shakes his head. He really is not. But there is not much he can do to retain the memory. “Well, he is. He talks all the time, about everything and nothing at once.” He takes a deep breath. “He has a way with words, such that when his eyes darken in thought and you truly listen to what he says, you can fall in love over and over again, with every word. And when,” a laugh, choked, “when he doesn’t speak he looks at me in a way nobody has ever looked in my whole life and even though I was always supposed to protect myself… There is no safer place than his eyes.”

A pair of blue eyes is staring at him now, curious and content. “You are lucky, then.” The voice is hushed.

Geralt swallows down the lump at his throat and nods. “Oh, I am. Even more, when I get to hold him. When he lies beside me and traces my arms and makes me proud of a skin that I always wanted to crawl out of.” His hand aches to hold on to something too far away. “He is always like this. Calling me out when I have always known how to stay hidden. As though he has entered my soul and stumbled on it, and it started spilling out.

“Do you miss him?”

The fire cackles and it’s funny, really, how he does and does not at the same time, how he knows he will. How he still hopes for more time. Foolish. “I do,” he admits and cannot bear to raise his look. “But it doesn’t matter. We had plenty of time, and I am grateful for it.”

I think we have plenty of time in this one.

They did. But Geralt doubts there will be a day when his chest doesn’t ache with all the love remaining inside, and gods, it never ends. He doesn’t want it to end. 

Only now he bares it in pieces. In a cup of tea, a blanket for the cold, the fire of the hearth. A caress, sometimes, when it’s dark. And he could, if he had to, he could do this forever even with the memory of another life, and if he had to he would build it again every day from the start, and never get tired. He does. Because again he is met with that smile, and it is always like the first time, like then. 

And what more could he ask for now?

Suddenly he remembers how the sunset painted blue eyes and raises his head. “Jaskier, “ he says, just to say something, just to feel the taste of his name and see these eyes look at him and have him fall in love, again and again.

But Jaskier is already asleep.

 —

A man drags the chair and sits on the coffee table across him with the widest grin on his face.

Geralt wonders if this is his way of approaching strangers but he was never one for social cues anyway. Still, he rolls his eyes and glares at the man who seems not to have the faintest hesitance in his gestures. “I’m here to drink alone,” he says and tries to get rid of him with the power of will and a scary stare.

The man throws his head back laughing. That’s unusual.

Then immediately as though realizing what Geralt thinks he would like to know, he clears his throat. Yet the smile remains. Geralt would be lying if he said he had seen a more charming smile. “Okay, broody,” the man smirks and it’s getting under Geralt’s skin but not in an exactly annoying way. “The thing is,” he leans forwards on the table, “you’ve been staring at me for ten minutes and have not taken a single sip of your coffee. Or drink. Or whatever, anyway.”

“Hmm.”

The man raises his eyebrows expectantly. Geralt squints at him. Well, perhaps it is true. Perhaps he has been staring and perhaps even now he is unable to tear his gaze away because this man makes something in his heart stumble and his palms sweat and now, as he looks into his eyes, he thinks he could grow to fall in love easier than he ever has. His eyes that look at him so steadily he feels as though they’re baring him open with their blue and ripping his heart in half and reading all the sheets hidden inside it.

And it’s all just too intimate.

He shakes his head, averts his gaze. “Sorry, it’s just… I thought I knew you from somewhere.”

“Strange.” He looks at the man again as he tilts his head. “I thought the same.” And for a single moment, Geralt can see how his lips quiver as though he is swallowing a million screams all this time and how his eyes glisten with something close to longing. For a single moment. Then, a hand outstretched. “I’m Jaskier. And I have a story for you.”

It’s almost funny. Such that Geralt can’t help but smile and take Jaskier’s hand. He may know him indeed, or he may not. But it is late in the afternoon and he has nothing to do and they have plenty of time to get to know each other now. A voice tells him he would like that.

So he complies. “I’m Geralt. What kind of story?”

Jaskier’s eyes shine with the most striking blue and he smiles wider, blushes. “Oh, my favourite one. It’s the story of my lover from another life.”

[idlebeks]

A Savory Assortment of Fic Recs Part 2

Part 2 of the miscellaneous fandom recs I've gathered. Here you will find KinnPorshe, Sense8, Color Rush, We Best Love, Cal Leandros, The Witcher and Until We Meet Again

KinnPorshe

Where Power Resides by Laughsalot3412

Porsche snorts and ducks his head to hide a smile. It’s something Kinn would find cute if another man did it.

It is not cute on Porsche, because Kinn is about to serve him up to his sadistic cousin as a chew toy, so nothing Porsche does is allowed to be classified as cute.

Also, Porsche is the most annoying person Kinn has ever met.

(After epsiode 2, Kinn gets Porsche through a punishment by using bdsm power dynamics. He does it so well that it earns him the love of his life. Also, there are brothers. Just so, so many brothers.)

The power in the taking by iffervescent

They warned him, when he started working for the Theerapanyakun clan. Forget leadership, forget duty to his people, forget all that – they warned him. Kinn Theerapanyakun, clan heir: obsessed with power.

Porsche should have fucking listened.

Sense8

Felix+ by Chancy_Lurking

Felix Brenner and the Cluster.

Color Rush

whale fall by noona96n

a whale fall occurs when the carcass of a whale has fallen onto the ocean floor and create complex localized ecosystems that supply sustenance to deep-sea organisms for decades - this is a series of 'insert' & future fics that are canon compliant, just spicier and Yoohan/Yeonwoo relationship started out a lot more ambiguously

Tangled up in Blue by Madd4the24

"Run away with me," Yoohan said, pulling at Yeonwoo's hand, desperation and worry etched into his features. "Run away with me so we can be together. If we stay, they'll tear us apart. I won't get to have you anymore, Yeonwoo, and they might hurt you. Run away with this idiot and be happy with me."

"You are an idiot," Yeonwoo replied. "Where would we go? What would we do? Use your brain. We'd be caught right away. We're seventeen."

Once more, Yoohan implored, "Run away with me right now. While we still have a chance. Before the last bus leaves. We have to at least try."

Yeonwoo shook his head, "Running away will only make it look like I've kidnapped you even more."

"Only," Yoohan replied, "if we get caught."

(Or rather, Yoohan and Yeonwoo actually run away together, and build a strangely satisfying life together until their past comes barreling in reminding them that you can't ever really escape who you used to be.)

the great yawning beast by AceOnMain (Sangrylah)

Yoohan is not taking constructive criticism on his relationship, thank you very much.

movement of eyes by minkit

Yoohan had always wanted to be someone special, being a Probe for a Mono however had never crossed his mind.

the color rush scene from ep1 through Yoohan's POV.

We Best Love

The Lucky Ones by LadyAscalon

They don't eat Pei Shouyi's ramen. He doesn't blow Gao Shide's cover, and Shide gets his wish: he and Zhou Shuyi are friends through graduation and beyond.

Everything is fine until Shide brings a boyfriend home.

What the heart wants (and is going to get) by iffervescent

Gao Shi De has been in America far too long. Zhou Shu Yi decides this is unacceptable, and goes to get him.

Cal Leandros

Flickerflash by SouthernMoonshine

A collection of short drabbles from all over the series, fast and quick like the silvery flickerflash of light from Niko's katana

In Your Head by BottleRedRosie

Niko needs to sort out his head. Falling off a building can do that to a guy. Oneshot. Niko-centric. Niko and Cal POV. Warnings for language and non-graphic adult situations.

The Witcher

A Song of Selfish Hearts by gremble

Geralt loses a chunk of his memories, meets an overly-friendly bard, and comes to the obvious conclusion: that somewhere along the way, he apparently lost his godsdamned mind and decided to take a human lover on the Path with him.

you met me at the perfect time by suzukiblu

“You could’ve died,” Geralt says in a strange tone, and Jaskier takes one look at him and realizes—oh, he’s going to have to do something about that, isn’t he.

when life gives you lemons by ShanaStoryteller

The only good thing about Oxenfurt is the brothels.

Geralt thinks Jaskier is a whore, but really he's just an opportunist.

best friends means you get what you deserve by suzukiblu 

Jaskier wakes up in Posada. He’s been a lot of other places, but Posada is the one where he wakes up.

The one where someone needs him enough to make him exist, rather.

of music and motion and love by WriteThroughTheNight

When Jaskier was four, he slipped his mother’s watch and went to the field to gather a bouquet of dandelions. He climbed back into the yard, as stealthy as a child really cared to be, and crept over to the barn. In the barn, lived a secret. (The man he thought his father said the secret was a monster, a plague. His mother said the secret was his sister.)

OR

Jaskier comes from a far humbler background, and would really like to know why Yennefer never came back for her youngest brother.

Until We Meet Again

Have You Ever Been Alone (in a crowded room) by Madd4the24

It starts with the sliding glass door to Pharm's condo being open--cracked open only a few inches, letting wisps of cold air travel into the comfy room. It starts with Dean beginning to notice small things, innocent things, things that in isolated incidences, mean nothing. It starts with a feeling of unease, and the distinct notion that something is wrong.

It becomes, however, a mystery that gnaws at Dean until he can't sleep, can't eat, can't focus. Who is opening doors and windows? Who is moving Dean's shoes around, Pharm's books, their personal items? Who is Dean writing to at night?

And more important, when Dean wakes in the morning, who is writing back to him on the pad of paper placed on the bedside table?

forever? forever. by Jamilton_and_Lams

As short as it was; it was their forever.

aka slices of life from Intouch and Korn.

[flowercrown-bard]

For the fic writer ask! (The wording might be funky I did one from memory)

7. Share a snippet of one of your favorite prose passages you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

thank you, dear <3

7. Share a snippet of one of your favorite prose passages you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

It was so to talk like this, so right. To tease each other as if no time had passed since they had last done so; as if they had all the time in the world left to do so. Without any further preamble, Jaskier began to talk in earnest. His voice didn’t hold the tone that could command a room filled with an enraptured audience. Instead his voice was soft and gentle and willing to crack with excitement, perfect imperfections plain to see. As he painted pictures with his words of the towering clouds coloured like wine and damasked roses, the way the sun reflected on the sea, looking almost like Geralt’s eyes, he sounded like a man in love. In love with the world he described almost as much as with the man he was describing it to.

This is the MCD chapter of my old!Jaskier fic "Birds still sing when they fall from the sky". it's a very heavy fic and after this chapter, things go really bad for a while, but I really wanted to make the last day Geralt and Jaskier have together sweet and happy and I think I succeeded. Also this is the chapter/scene that inspired the darling @thingr2 to make fanart that i hold very dear in my heart, so i must have done something right with it

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

“You know exactly who I’m talking about.” Jaskier looked at him as innocently as possible. “Do I?” “The witcher, Geralt of Rivia, your dearest friend.” His blood ran cold. Geralt of Rivia. How the hell had they made that connection? For years, Jaskier had just been a bard, travelling on his own. How could they have linked them? “I am not his friend.” Jaskier had never seen a colder smile in his life than the one that stretched across Cahir’s face now. “Now, we both know that is a lie, don’t we?” “It’s not.” He wrung his hands. “Go ask Geralt of Rivia yourself. I am sure he would tell you the same.”

this goes pretty much for every piece of dialogue between Cahir and Jaskier in "Always Lose-Lose", but I had the goal for the way they talked (i won't say what goal, just in case anyone wants to maybe read the fic without being spoiled) and i think in this section i managed to put in all the foreshadowing and details i wanted

ask game

[magic-multicolored-miracle]

The Witcher S3 Ep4: The Invitation AKA I Was Definitely Not Prepared

There were moments where I had to fully pause the show and collect myself. Because I knew I only have 2 episodes left and there were a lot of things that hadn't happened yet. But I still wasn't expecting them to happen all at once or send me on that wild emotion rollercoaster

Is Emperor CreepyDad just like this with everyone? Just stolling into Cahir's room while he sleeps and eating his food. Boundaries dude.

Aww, Cahir actually cared about Fringilla? That's sweet. And misguided cus she didn't give two fucks about him

Also, Cahir's been back in the good graces for at least a day. Can't we get him some time to clean up? Greasy hair and a dust-stained shirt aren't exactly courtier attire...

Aww, poor dear is having a crisis of faith. You shut the fuck up with your shitty advice CreepyDad. He needs guidance and help

Excuse you Artorius. Yennefer is a gift and you should be grateful. What, pray tell, have you fucking done lately to fix anything, besides sit around moaning about it all with Stregobitch?

"No more secrets" is a tough, possibly impossible, ask.

Also I hate that it's still The Brotherhood when at least half of them are women. And this weird vote by banging, which is new?

You would know all about that, wouldn't you Geralt?

Those are some dramatic-ass invites. I respect it

She's right Yen. You are good at this stuff

Triss is right to mistrust, but I'm worried for her investigating

Triss and Istredd? Not a pair I would have thought (and I suppose technically it's pair the spares) but it actually makes a load of sense, romantically or otherwise. I'm here for it

That's an interesting theory. A wrong one most likely, but interesting. And might put you in the right direction at least

Ooh here we go. This is The Episode. I'm not sure I'm ready, but I'm so ready

Don't forget, Ciri's granddad was from Skellige. She knows the sea (I almost did)

Jaskier's little perched pose and expression. He is loving this, and subtly egging the pocket-sized princess on

Hold on, I gotta put everything down and prepare myself. The moment I've dreaded and been waiting for...

He comes with backup singers?! Why didn't we collectively think of that? Of course he does!

His troupe are all much prettier than him

Are we still doing this between the two of you, Yen? It's just very strange and bordering on petty in a way you aren't usually

Oh right. I forgot the Queen of Redania was assassinated by "Nilfgaard"

Of course you and Sabrina knock boots and get along. You're both egotistical bitches who I want to like (but at least in her case I just can't. You still have your chance)

Vengeance, not scorn. Justice and Vengeance are two sides of the same coin.

Aww. Proud Dad

As much as I know this is important, I really want to know what any of Vizimir's half-comments in the background mean/the context where they make any sense

Hah! Outplayed the spies, nicely done Yen

These dramatic fucks. I think the whole band is "Valdo Marx" like Bon Jovi. That's what I'm going to run with.

Maybe listen to the professionals next time, Boris

Looks like all that obstacle-coursing with Lambert and Coén paid off

What and who the fuck was that? Because I am going to personally fight them

They got what they wanted from her though, in a way. Ciri's location is "with Geralt"

"Be careful who you trust" she says in front of the snakiest witch they know 🙄 I thought you were supposed be smart, Triss

Oh Ciri, you and your moral compass

Fringilla looks good with this vibe and crowd. Happy and free works for her

How is the bartender not noticing this?

Why are boats the interesting part?

Aww bonding time! I love Jaskier and his goddaughter/niece mocking her parents. 😂

And that they've finally reunited, but I do kinda want to know what was actually said to lead to that "sag into a hug" moment

Oh Jaskier, surely someone warned you about playing games of luck or strategy against Cirilla of Cintra, an absolute shark in the streets of her youth

Aww. Jaskier 🥺 that was really sweet. And probably exactly what she needed to hear. And then topped with a lullaby? I can't

Radovid, what are you doing?

The fact that Jaskier knows he's not a fighter, but is fully ready to throw himself into danger to keep it from Ciri, even for an extra moment. And risk his prized possession as a weapon. 🥺💖

Oh. Oh! I didn't realize this would be in the same episode! Oh god! I'm not prepared for Emotions!

"The only good part of this mess was meeting you." Bitch you can't just say something so gut-punching like that.

🥺😭😍🥺 the gifs were nowhere near enough for this. I need it seared into my brain. The emotion in their voices, and in their eyes, the desperation and terror in their breaths. It's all...perfectly heartwrenching.

I believe now, more than ever, that this is going to hurt Jaskier in some way, and that is going to break me. I would almost rather the strike against the show for "Bury Your Gays" and killing the Princeling than have him betray Jaskier

Careful Dara, speaking up apparently is a good way to get permenantly silenced around here

She's not wrong Cahir...you have proven fairly unreliable

What's the mission? Why won't you tell us?

Reinforcements? Are Philippa and Dijkstra planning to attack the Conclave? And if it's taking their messenger 2 days to get there, how are they getting back by first dawn? Not that they're getting there at all now, but I want the deets of what the plan was so I can decide how stupid it might have been

I support Geralt's plan. We just stab the shit out of Stregobitch until he stops smirking, or wasting oxygen

What the hell is Philippa wearing? And Triss's hair...

Ooh I love these parallel pairs plotting. But it makes me think Stregobor also has a second. It might just be Artorius but...I have my doubts

What is Tissaia unsure of? Not the conclave she's been so passionately backing, right? But what else is there?

Yen looks gorgeous, and I like that it's drawing from Anya's heritage with her hair but I don't know if I actually like her outfit. It feels out of sync somehow

Holy cliffhanger Batman

[samstree]

Prompt word: present (any form of the word)

“Geralt! I think we've found a winner!”

Jaskier's voice comes through the back of the changing room, muffled by the drapes, but the excitement is not to be contained.

“Hmm.” Geralt hums without any heat. It's not that he doesn't want to believe Jaskier. Only the bard has eventually said no to every outfit he's tried on in the past three hours, picking out inconsequential details just to throw out the whole thing. At this rate, Jaskier will need to go buck naked while being handfasted.

“May I present to you—” The drapes slide open, and Jaskier steps out with a dramatic bow. “—The most dashing groom in the Northern Realms.”

Geralt looks up with a long-suffering sigh, and freezes to the spot.

It’s…perfect.

The doublet is pale blue, like the cloudless sky over the sea, the trousers an identical match, making Jaskier’s eyes pop. The cut is slim, showing off his waistline and the curve of his butt all the while complimenting his broad shoulders. The embroidery is subtle, stretching down his back with a silvery glint.

It’s beautiful and vibrant and eye-catching, just like Jaskier. He will, indeed, make the most dashing groom in the Northern Realms.

Geralt’s heart sinks and the word is out before he can stop himself.

“No.”

Jaskeir’s smile stills with confusion. “Why? It’s my favorite so far.”

“Um…” Geralt splutters. “The color doesn’t suit you.”

“You mean the color of my eyes? Jaskier looks almost offended. “No way.”

Yeah, that was a desperate blow, a failed one too. Geralt curses himself silently and attempts to salvage his mistake. “Perhaps it is fine then.”

“Right?” Jaskier skips over to the body-length mirror and preens, twirling around and almost dancing on the spot. “Valdo will love it! I know he will! Did you know that, when he professed his love to me, he just blurted out ‘your eyes are so blue!” like a buffoon? Oh, that man…”

“I know the story, you don’t need to—”

“…I was so smashed. Had been smashed for days, and bawling my eyes out in my dorm room. At least that’s how he found me, and for the first time, he was being nice! Oh, that night… Who would have thought all the jabs and insults were only there to get my attention? That sweet man… Sweet and stupid, stupid man.”

Jaskier giggles to himself and Geralt wants to be anywhere but this shop.

He doesn’t want to think about the reason Jaskier was crying for days and drinking his sorrows away. He doesn’t want to think about how the other bard offered Jaskier comfort at his lowest and thus captured his heart.

It’d be a knife through the chest.

Instead, Geralt makes sure there’s a smile on his lips for Jaskier. It’s what his friend deserves, softness and support, and Geralt vowed to do better after all.

He’s trying to do better. By the Gods, he’s trying.

“This one it is,” Geralt answers. “You do look lovely, Jask.”

With that, Geralt stands from the settee and turns to leave the shop. The air is too thin and he needs a break from the merriness, but a hand catches him by the elbow, the warmth burning into his skin.

Jaskier is right there, his eyes so blue.

“Thank you, Geralt,” he says, tentative and for once serious. “I’m glad we made up. Really. I’ve missed you, and I’m so glad you got here just in time for the most important day of my life.”

The look on Jaskier’s face is of pure happiness, of the promise of marrying a man who loves him whole-heartedly, and of having his best friend back.

So Geralt holds the smile, letting the knife twist without mercy, leaving his heart in a million pieces.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Swimmingly

a quick little Mermay ficlet

arranged marriage - royalty au

tw: Geralt’s canon-typic self-loathing, misunderstandings with a happy ending

---

“I don’t want to meet him,” Geralt hears the stranger yelling. His words echo down the long hallway that separates the royal family’s private living chambers from the rest of the Southern palace. Geralt’s fanlike fins are trembling with nerves and he tries with all his might to make them to stop; the young Prince of the Northern Sea doesn’t want to appear cowardly before his betrothed, whose tone seems imperious even from such a distance. 

The voice grows louder as the speaker comes closer and Geralt feels the ripples of two approaching figures as they flow through the water to batter gently against his skin. People here in the Southern Kingdom have different movement patterns than his own people and Geralt focuses on that singular detail as he hears the voice continue: “What if I simply refuse to accept the marriage contract and leave before the wedding vows are spoken? It’s not like Papa can make me go through with it if I really don’t want to.”

He must have heard the rumors, Geralt frowns, his head lowering of its own accord until he’s staring at the ground, his arms crossing self-consciously over the front of his chest. He knows about my hair and the strangeness of my eyes. He’s heard that I’m cursed, that I’m the bastard son of the King and Sycorax the sea witch. He’s heard about my strange scar and my impulsivity. He’s probably already terrified of m-

Geralt’s self-effacing thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a sharp inhalation. The Prince of the Northern Sea flinches at the shocked gasp, his tail wriggling uselessly in a vain attempt to distract from his shamefully pink face. The voice from before speaks again, but this time it chimes sweetly, sounding more like song than conversation. “Nobody told me that my husband-to-be was so lovely.”

Geralt’s blush only grows darker and he wishes for the ground to open up and swallow him, fins and all. He can’t bear to glance up at his betrothed now. He doesn’t want to see the mocking look the Southern Prince is no doubt wearing. He wants to raise his hands and cover his ears, sure that the next words from his future husband’s mouth will be sarcastic remarks about his appearance. 

“Are you mute, dear heart? If you are mute, or if you choose to be mute, I can learn to speak with my hands as I have seen others do. If you are simply overwhelmed, nod once, and I shall cease speaking immediately.”

Geralt nods gratefully and allows his eyes to flicker up a bit, taking in the gorgeous, deep royal-blue of his betrothed’s long and heavy tail. It curls in the water around them, shimmering and nearly iridescent in the filtered, wavy light of the midday sun. His fins are sharper than Geralt’s, pointed at the tips and only half a shade lighter than his scales. It’s lovely, and the Northern Prince wonders if his own tail, a deep green that verges on metallic, is pleasing to his betrothed’s eyes. His fins are fanned like those of betta fish and their contrast is markedly fascinating. 

The attendant that had been following the Southern Prince down the hall disappears in a flash, no doubt to summon the kings, leaving the two young mer-royals unchaperoned. 

“Are you afraid of me or something?” Geralt’s future husband finally asks, breaking the awkward silence.

Geralt shakes his head. “Just… nervous.”

“Ah, I see,” his betrothed swims closer. “Is it because of the rumors you’ve no-doubt heard about me? That I am pompous and fanciful and insincere, that I would rather sing that plot wars, that I am witty but otherwise empty-headed. Let me assure you that they are all mostly incorrect. Except for the battles one, I do prefer music to war.”

“Huh?” Geralt’s head snaps up in surprise. He finally meets the other Prince’s eyes with his own and hears another soft gasp. He flinches back, away from the pretty brunette before him, and moves to turn away. Before he can, however, the other man catches him by the arm. 

“Wait! Your eyes-” the stranger pulls him close and Geralt feel his cheeks practically glowing “-They’re even lovelier than your hair, and I thought that was the most gorgeous detail I’d seen so far. Truly, dear heart… you’re gorgeous. How did I get so lucky?”

“Don’t tease me!” Geralt cries, pulling harshly against the grip on his arm. “Please! I can’t take it!”

“No! I’m not teasing! I’m being quite serious, uh…” the Southern Prince releases Geralt’s arm and tangles his hands together anxiously in front of his abdomen. “I don’t even know your name; no wonder you think I’m being insincere. I’m Jaskier, Crown Prince of the Southern Ocean Kingdom. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I’m, uhm… I’m Geralt. Second Crown Prince of the Northern Kingdom,” he bows shallowly. “It’s very nice to meet you… Jaskier.”

“I like the way it sounds when you say my name,” Jaskier grins, closing the distance between them again, this time on friendlier terms. “It sounds like a caress.”

Geralt’s cheeks must be on fire. Oh, how they burn.

“You’re sweet when you blush. Your face almost matches the color of your Father’s tail.”

“You’ve met my Father?” 

“Only once, and very briefly. I saw him passing the library on his way to make our marriage arrangements.”

“Oh,” Geralt was smiling a little bit now, “Well it is nice to meet you. And you are very pretty, Jaskier.”

“Would you like to get to know each other better?” Jaskier asks. He sounds incredibly earnest and Geralt raises a curious eyebrow.

“Did you mean those things you said about my hair and my eyes?”

“Every word.”

“I don’t think you’re pompous or insincere, Jaskier. And I’d love to get to know you better. First and foremost, I must know if we are to be married, what’s your favorite book?”

“Oh, my dearest future husband,” Jaskier winds his arm through Geralt’s, grinning brightly. The way the word husband rolls so easily from his tongue sends the Northern Prince’s heart racing. “We are going to get along swimmingly.” 

[bonelessghoul]

the witcher and the sea (3)

Summary: When the Witcher and Princess Moira sail out to Undvik on their unprecedented journey, the distant Isle greets her with monsters beyond her comprehension and puts her strength to the test. But Moira receives more than she bargained for though when she realizes just how more complicated her life is as her relationship with the Witcher grows.

Words: 9.4k

note: hi hope whoever is stil reading this is enjoying it! I would love to hear some feedback as always :) 

Part One | Part Two

Sneaking down to Urialla Harbor was the least of Moira’s problems as she walked off to the far end of the harbor that was its own little town almost considering this is where the shipbuilding took place. Many ships were standing tall and new or simply in for repairs from the harsh waters of the Isle, but the one distinct man that stood overlooking it all was Bjord.

Lowering her hood, Moira told Geralt to wait behind her while she stepped up on the massive pier to meet the shipbuilder.

Bjord was old, having been responsible for almost every ship that came from An Skellig and a close member to her family. He reminded her of the Witcher in a sense, except his strength came from years at sea that sanded his permanently sunkissed face down and hair tied back as white as sea salt. Even in the winter months, he could be found standing there without so much as a coat.

“And what do I owe the pleasure to, Princess Moira.” said Bjord, bowing before her.

But Moira opened her arms, hugging the man with a welcoming smile.

“You’re not going to like it.”

Bjord huffed, crossing his arms as he looked down at her, his lips in a frown even if it was hidden by the white hair that surrounded his lips.

“Let me guess, you need to borrow one of my ships?”

Glancing back at the Witcher who awkwardly stood there a few yards back, she nodded at him.

“Technically, he does. King Bran is sending him on a mission to rescue soldiers from our navy after trying to defeat the beast that has been lingering on Undvik.”

While Bjord could be seen scrutinizing the Witcher, she watched his face instantly turn when she mentioned what he was needed for. She thought of Rotty, Orin, and the other soldiers with the hope that they were still alive even if it meant they were freezing and terrified and it pained her so, but it was better than imagining corpses.

“Who didn’t return?” Bjord gasped.

“Rotty, Orin, and a few others.” she said, lowering her head.

Bjord had known those boys as well as he knew her. They practically grew up running around these docks pretending to be pirates and sailors before they ever really knew what their lives would be as soldiers or a princess.

“And Bran wanted you to guide the Witcher on this quest?” he asked, his eyes narrowing at the man behind her.

“I know you of all people are skeptical of his kind, but yes. Actually—no, but you know those two are my closest friends, Bjord. I am going with him to help.”

Moira would beg on her knees if she had to as she watched him press his hands to his hips and turn to look at the four ships at his disposal. Men were working on them now, but her eyes were already on one that looked ready to sail.

“Fine.”

Letting out a breath of relief, she opened her mouth to speak and thank him but he put his finger up.

“If anything happens to you, I will not be responsible for your sneaking around, Princess. And if so much as a scratch gets on my ship, you will owe me twice the more coin I am expecting for you having me cover this up.”

A smile spread across her lips and she hugged him again.

“I promise I will make this up to you, Bjord!”

Waving the Witcher over, she turned back to the shipbuilder.

“So, which one am I taking?”

Judging by the look on Bjord’s face, she could tell he wasn’t happy about which one she was allowed to take, but Moira had never been more excited to take the Schooner he had owned for years.

Putting the hood of her cloak over her head, the two boarded the decently sized wooden ship while Bjord ordered a few men to help her clear off the deck and unfurl the fore and aft sails from the two masts that stood tall above her head. She worked alongside them as well, making all the necessary preparations to sail and knowing every little step like the back of her hand.

“Are you sure you don’t need help for your journey?” Bjord asked as he leaped back down on the deck.

Moira leaned over the edge of the ship, smiling down at him.

“Eist has taught me everything about sailing since I knew how to walk, Bjord. We will be fine.”

The man sighed and put his hands on his hips one more time.

“I hope you bring them back, Princess.”

Bjord gave a salute to the Witcher as well, and Geralt nodded back.

“Me too.”

When Moira turned back around and begun to guide the ship out of the harbor, she stood on the quarter deck with the thick, wooden wheel under her fingertips. Her hands were a little shaky between the sea breeze that welcomed them and the fact that she hadn’t done this in a while, but Geralt ascended the stairs to stand alongside her and she held herself together a little more under his watch.

“For a Princess, you would make a pretty good pirate.”

Moira grinned, her eyes staying out on the deep, blue gray waters beyond her and the sight of Ard Skellig in the distance.

“I’m not a pirate.”

“Could have fooled me, considering you’re dressed like one.”

Her grin fell and she looked down at herself . She was suited in black leather, everything from her boots to her corset, and the blouse she wore underneath. Even with her cloak, she knew Undvik was colder this time of year and wore a tailored jacket lined with fur that came down to her mid thigh.

“I am not!” Moira scowled. “If anything, I’m dressed more like you.”

The Witcher hummed in response, to no avail, and Moira pulled out a compass to make sure they would be headed in the right direction after they came around Ard Skellige.

“How long until we arrive?” Geralt asked.

Moira put a lock of sorts upon the wheel to keep them sailing straight for the time being and could finally put herself at ease as she took a seat on the bench that was seated by the wooden handrail.

“About an hour.”

As she looked up at the Witcher, she could see that he moved a little too quickly to the bench opposite of her just several feet away and that his face seemed whiter than usual.

“Not a fan of being on the sea, Witcher?” she chuckled.

Geralt looked up at her, his face hard as stone with the frown her wore.

“No.” he replied, his voice deep and raspy like it always was but she couldn’t take him seriously even now.

Time passed slowly as she let Geralt adjust to the way the ship rocked in the waters, her head leaning over the edge to glance back at her home that grew smaller in the distance. The sea had a pleasant smell to it, but as her chin rested upon her arms, she could still smell the lemon and sandalwood soap that she owned.

From behind, Geralt stared out ahead at the sea where another Isle was coming into view. His breaths were slow and deep still to keep his stomach from churning, and in the midst of the salty air the only thing that could keep him grounded was that lemon and sandalwood smell. From the first day he arrived, which felt like it could have been a week ago at this rate, he smelled it and at first when he thought he couldn’t stand it, he knew she was the only one who wore it and something about that tore him up inside.

When he thought he couldn’t be distracted from it, Geralt’s head sharply turned around at the sound of something splashing in the water.

Leaning slightly, he could see her hand dangling over the edge, making wave like motions with her fingers.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked, raising a brow at her.

Moira turned around, the blob of water she pulled up like a string now hovering over the deck before splashing against the wood.

“Just toying with this curse I have been burdened with.”

“It wouldn’t be a curse if you had the proper training.” he offered.

Moira slumped back against the wooden rail and sighed, looking to see where their ship was at now and knew she would have to change their course once they passed this northern end of Ard Skellig. She knew her magic was a dangerous toy, one that Saorise always said she should never use the way she did now, but it made her feel less crazy when she knew she could control just an ounce of it at least.

“Saorise teaches me basic spells. But I won’t need proper training because I will never use it.”

“Unless to pass the time while we sit on this ship, right?” Geralt retorted, his face lighthearted even if his voice was not.

“If it’s the only thing keeping me from going insane over possibly losing my best friends then yes. If you want to judge my life choices furthermore the next ball of water I can muster up will land upon her head.”

Geralt smirked. “And I will throw you overboard, Princess.”

Moira couldn’t resist a gentle laugh if it meant masking the way her chest tightened at his smile and decided to stand up to prepare to wrap around the Isle where they would soon find Undvik.

“Well, before you throw me overboard, is there anything you can tell me about this Ice Giant? We haven’t seen one here in Skellige, not since my father was just joining the navy but I don’t recall stories of them ever attacking it the way they did yesterday.” Moira said, turning the wheel a few notches.

“I’ve never encountered one, but other Witchers have in the past.” Geralt said. “They’re giants, ruthless to humans but easy for a Witcher to take on alone.”

Moira raised a brow at him. “Alone, huh?”

“Princess, your only job is to find your friends while I handle the giant.”

Moira bit down on her tongue as she focused on the map that nearly blew out of her hands, making sure her compass was pointing in the right direction now as they turned around the Isle. She knew he would refuse her help, and as Undvik grew closer, maybe it would be for the best as her nerves tightened up inside of her ready to snap as easy as a frail piece of string.

“Is that understood?” Geralt asked, standing on his feet now.

Moira nodded her head, feeling the winds grow colder now.

“Understood, Witcher.”

~ Undvik was the least populated Isle of Skellige.

The people that did live there often lived in villages of no more than ten people and never ventured into the woods where the Ice Giant supposedly lived. A gray haze seemed to surround the small island as they docked at the small harbor where no taverns or inns were built but just the quiet and empty homes of the villagers covered in a thick blanket of snow.

Ice seemed to build up, breaking at the tide that washed onto the sand and she tried to dispel of any of it as the ship came in.

Pulling her cloak around her a little tighter, Moira and Geralt unboarded the ship and began their trek from the sand to the forest.

Arnie had said that according to the villagers, the Ice Giant lived off the main hunting path by about a mile. There was a frozen lake just before the mountain where a dark cave was nestled at the base of it which is where he thinks they all got separated. He said she would recognize it immediately because it reminded him of the bay they would play at as children where the Drowners infested now.

Trailing behind Geralt was a bit more strenuous than she expected though with the thick snow they marched through. His strides were longer than hers, but she continued to try and step in his own footsteps left in the snow.

“You’re breathing too loud.” Geralt said, breaking the silence they had shared since they broke off the hunting path.

“I’m trying to keep up.” Moira panted, her arms balancing her as she leaped into the next footprint he left in the snow.

Around them, dark pine trees towered them with their thick spines and every sound seemed to be matted down by the snow. She was lucky it was still morning or else she would not have seen a thing with how much shade this dense forest cast over their heads.

They were moving slightly uphill now, and she could tell by the way her legs burned with every step, but soon enough when the ground leveled out, their world seemed to brighten a bit as they came to an opening.

Geralt stopped at the edge of the small lake and she stopped just shortly behind him, her eyes immediately falling upon the cave that was on the other side. It wasn’t at the base like Arnie had said, but rather up a few notiches where the land moved uphill around the lake.

“Where is it?” Moira asked, eyes frantically searching around. “Where are they?”

“Moira.” Geralt nearly growled.

But it was hard for her to keep her composure as she saw nothing but ice and rock before her, and her breaths became heavier.

“They are usually sleeping during the day. I just need to lure it out here.” he said, pulling out a small glass bottle from his belt pockets.

Moira didn’t watch as he chugged the black liquid down, her eyes still scanning every inch of the lake and the land around it for signs of any human life. She thought the darkness of the cave made her soul feel cold, but when her eyes turned back to Geralt, she gasped slightly at the sight of his face.

The Witcher’s eyes had gone black and every vein beneath his skin around his eye sockets had darkened too. She didn’t mean to be scared at first, only having been so thrown off by the sight of it, but she was still as enthralled as she was terrified over what he had turned himself into just now.

Without any words exchanged between them, he tossed the bottle onto the ice.

The sound of the glass breaking across the frozen lake echoed, but there was an even deeper, more resounding thud that came from elsewhere followed by a roar that sounded as human as it didn’t.

It rattled her bones and she looked over at the cave, watching a disfigured man with skin as blue as frost and as tall as the gaping entrance itself even hunched over come through to stand on the solid surface and look directly at them.

“Stay on this side and find your friends. Don’t try and intervene while I keep the Giant on this side.” Geralt said, his voice more terrifying than before.

Moira was strucken with fear, never having seen something so monstrous in her life, but on the other hand, Geralt was already charging off to the side to reach the mountain and meet the creature halfway.

Moira didn’t want to waste anytime though as she ran the fifty or so meters between her and the cave entrance.

“Rotty! Orin!” Moira screamed.

But it was hard to focus when she watched Geralt withdraw his sword and fight the Ice Giant that was armed with a bludger the size of the Witcher himself. As they fought on the other side of the lake, she kept her eyes out for her friends and kept calling out their names as she neared the cave entrance.

“Rotty! Orin!” she tried again.

Moira paused just short of the cave, taking deep breaths that burned at her throat as she rested upon a tree. She wanted to wait for a sound or any hope at all before she marched into the black hole that was the cave. It was hard to hear when the heavy thuds that came from the Ice Giant and its roar shook the air around her.

But then, she heard it.

A weak cry.

It was her name.

Looking up to the cave entrance, she saw a full head of blonde hair and a nearly frozen face that belonged to Orin who was leaning against the cave wall.

“Moira!” the man croaked out.

Everything kicked into overdrive in Moira, ignoring the burning in her legs as she bolted through the snow and eyes never leaving his face. The relief she felt seeing him alive made her almost faint.

“Orin!” she called out, her smile beaming now.

Moira’s feet dug into the snow, her arms wrenching at her sides as she tried to propel herself up the short hill where they waited. As she made it up top though, she saw Geralt get flung across the lake in their direction and her breath hitched as he slid across the ice.

“Geralt!”

She paused for a moment, watching him struggle to get up, and she glanced back at Orin who was dragging Rotty out by his side as her mind tore itself in half on who to help.

“Moira, run!” Geralt ordered, looking at her with his black eyes before turning around to face the Ice Giant that had its eyes set on her as it came towards Geralt.

With wide eyes, Moira took off towards the boys and immediately tossed her arms around their shivering bodies. The life she could still feel within them was all she needed to ignore the way her muscles burned in hers.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Princess?” Rotty asked, managing to laugh even if his lips were blue.

“Saving your asses.” she said, pulling back from their hug.

Then, Moira glanced down at Geralt, a force of some kind blowing out from his hands and sending the giant staggering back into a tree that collpased under its weight. They were too close to the cave for comfort, but he was getting him a little bit further away now.

“We don’t have time to catch up. I need you to get back to the main path that you took up here its just a straight shot from here. There’s only one ship docked and its ours, theres blankets, food and medical supplies.” Moira barked out, guiding them forward.

“Wait, you’re not coming with us?” Orin asked, glancing back at her.

Geralt was handling his own, but even with his fast movements underneath the Ice Giant, he would be here for ages before he took the monster down.

“He needs my help.” Moira said, withdrawing her sword. “We will catch up. Just hurry and go!”

The raised ground that wrapped around the lake could take her right to the Ice Giant’s head if she calculated every step correctly. She paused, taking it all in, envisioning her plan in her head as she watched Geralt painfully try to and weave in and out of the Giant’s legs. It seemed that every hit was like a needle to stone with the way Geralt’s sword nearly bounced off of the monster.

Moira knew he would be pissed if she dove in, but he needed her help and she swiftly withdrew her sword.

Even as every instinct told her to run away, Moira took off sprinting along the path and leaped off when the Ice Giant was close enough, raising her sword and bringing it down on its shoulders with a satisfying plunge into its blue skin. It cried out and writhed around while she still barely hung on.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Geralt shouted.

“Helping!” Moira called back, dangling from the sword and looking down at him.

But the sword came loose, and she fell several feet to the not so soft snow where she lost her balance. Looking up at the giant from this angle though made her freeze up entirely, her head not even coming up to its knee but as it started to take a step towards her she knew it was going to crush her if she didn’t move. But before she could even think of her next step, a pair of arms and a force twice her size barreled into her, and her body was once again in the air before it landed not in the snow but on someones chest.

Raising her head, she was staring into Geralt’s equally confused black eyes as they caught their breaths.

“This is certainly not the time or place, Witcher.” Moira joked, her mortified face going red in the coldness as her now undone hair hung over him.

“I agree.” Geralt said through gritted teeth, rolling her off of him before they stood up together to face the giant that seemed confused as to where they went. “You need to leave. Now.”

But from behind them, the ice started to crack viciously and as the two of them turned around, Moira’s eyes fell upon two pairs of dark, sickly gray clawed like hands trying to escape. Her heart started thumping as the arms grew longer and the hands violently grabbed at the surface, and she held her sword a little tighter now.

“What is that?” Moira rasped, throat going dry.

Geralt didn’t reply, his black eyes patiently waiting for the creatures to show their faces.

Then, in a split second, their screeching voices broke the surface as they burst through the ice and into the sky. Wings as dark as their hair and the tails they had for legs spanned around from their bodies and Moira’s lips parted slightly, horror stories of these Nixa came to life before her and made her feel like a scared child in her bedroom once more.

“Fuck.” was all Geralt said.

When Moira looked at him, they shared a look of mutual understanding that only took seconds to register. She hoped to the stars that that’s what he was aiming for because she knew she couldn’t leave even if she wanted to at this point. With the Ice Giant behind them and the two Nixa in front, Moira raised her sword and tried to stay at Geralt’s side.

It all happened in a blur.

The two Nixa swarmed down them, trying to lash each of them with the ends of their sharpened tails.

Moira swung her sword, her wrist aching as it bent in every possible way, and she could no longer pretend like she were fighting with the boys but instead, a real monster now. The force behind her swing felt slow and she was getting sloppy with exhaustion, something that made her only panic more.

It was a matter of dodging and trying to swing at them when they could, but with the Ice Giant still pursuing them, Geralt had used what little magic he possessed to send a transparent, wave like force to shove the Nixa away and had called for her to turn around. Once they did, they had dodged the bludger that the Giant swung down in their direction, and Moira dove to the side while Geralt dove to the other.

But while Moira’s blood was pumping, she had stormed towards the Giant, her sword coming down from over her head and with all the might she could find in her tired arms, she created a deep slash going across the heel of the Ice Giant.

Even she had inwardly cringed after what she had done, dark blue blood spurting out at her knees.

“Moira!”

With defeat, she turned around, wishing for just one moment that she could take a breath but as one of the Nixa came soaring down at her with its sharply toothed mouth agape, pouring out a screech that ached her ears, flames came soaring past her vision from Geralt’s palm and the Nixa was only momentarily wounded as it rolled to the ground.

The screech it made only sounded worse now, so much so that Moira was nearly doubled over keeping her ears covered. She felt Geralt’s hands on her back, trying to get her to stand straight, and she opened her eyes that had been squeezed shut and she was pulled to look at him.

“Can you keep her still?”

“What?” Moira asked.

“You said your Mage taught you a few things. Can you freeze the Nixa’s wings while she’s down so I can kill it?”

Nodding, Moira raised her shaking hands, but as confident as she tried to appear, her mind was raking through the little bits of Elder speech Saorise had taught her for simple spells. She tried to push her hands out, feeling that hum of power while her blood was rushing through her, hoping for an ounce of something. But the panic that settled in as the monster began to turn and its wings started to flap made it harder to focus.

“Moira, now!”

She whispered a little saying, a simple one, that she was taught and shut her eyes.

It was supposed to be simple, but the force that poured through her hands nearly knocked her back and she planted her feet as the chill of her magic flowed through her and out towards the wings of the Nixa, pinning her to the tree behind it.

The use of that power made Moira feel like she could do anything, and she wouldn’t have stopped if Geralt hadn’t pulled her arms down. She almost felt weak without it, standing there in awe at what she had done as she watched him light the monster into flames.

The cry it made was painful, but Moira stood there, numb to it all as everything caught up to her. She was winded, especially from using her magic when a simple spell had turned into something that sucked the life of out her it seemed.

Nonetheless, she was proud of herself in that blissful little moment, smiling to herself as Geralt turned around to face her.

But then a pair of claws had tore into her leg, yanking her away and turning her whole world upside down before she could even realize it was happening. Her sword dropped having been snatched so suddenly and her body now hung upside down as she became face to face with the Nixa’s tail and instead of Geralt beneath her she now saw the frozen sheet of ice that was the lake.

Moira screamed out when the Nixa’s claws dug further into her calf and she writhed around, trying to get out of its grip even if it made her skin tear more.

When the Nixa had let go, there was only a sweet, split second of relief before Moira had realized that her descent to the ice was further than she though. Her stomach flipped inside of her and when she hit the ice, her body nearly bouncing at the impact. Stars danced across her vision so much that she thought she had slipped away, and a numbing sensation washed over her. She wasn’t sure if it was the ice that cracked or if it was her bones.

Everything inside her was churning, thorbbing at the pain that echoed through ever fiber of her being, and Moira curled up on the ice, every movement making her want to cry.

While her ears were ringing, she could hear Geralt calling out her name, and Moira forced herself to roll on her back after removing her bow and arrows. They were within her reach, but she was too scared to move again.

The Nixa had been hovering a dozen yards above her, taunting her like it were waiting for the right moment to finish her off. With her brain bouncing against her skull, she wondered if she should even bother to move out of the way with whatever she had left. But whether it be pure spite or the fact that she simply did not want to die like this, Moira forced herself on her knees, feeling something pop in her shoulder.

Ignoring the pain and the way her entire body movements were slurred, Moira lifted her bow and picked one of her brand new arrows out.

Once more, the Nixa screeched and Moira knew she only had seconds to get this right.

Grunting, tears stung her eyes as she raised her arrow to the air where the Nixa’s wings were flapping, ready to descend upon her. Geralt had been running towards her, but Moira knew that if she couldn’t rely on anything else, she knew this she could at least count on this to save her.

Crying out as she withdrew the bowstring, her shoulder burning in pain, Moira released it and watched as the bow went straight into the Nixa’s chest.

Its heart wrenching screech didn’t phase her as it collapsed to the ice and Geralt was quick to swing its sword down on its head. Moira’s arms hung at her side, and she realized her calf was bleeding out onto the frozen lake, her blood nearly black against the ice. Nothing phased her at all in this moment, and she wasn’t sure if that was good or just downright terrifying.

Geralt came over to her, kneeling in front of her as he instantly brought a hand to her face to lift it up.

“Princess, are you alright?” he asked, his eyes now normal and back to their golden glow.

There was no words when she could only focus on the leather glove that held up her face, and she knew she was silly for getting so caught up over the way his eyes poured over her given everything that happened.

“Am I alright?” Moira asked, raising a brow.

Then, she laughed. Maybe it was shock, her only way to release the trembling feeling that overcame her as tears blurred her eyes.

A flash of worry crossed his face, and he let his hand fall as his eyes drifted towards the ice.

“That was the most fun I’ve ever had.” Moira answered honestly.

When Geralt looked back up at her, she felt her smile fade when she realized he was looking at her like she were crazy.

“You’re in shock.” he frowned, standing up and extending a hand out to her.

Moira took it with her arm that wasn’t in pain, and tried to stand up, but her attempts were futile from the wound in her calf that made it difficult to put pressure on. Geralt didn’t seem to mind though and slid his arm around her as they shuffled off the ice, the two of them exhausted and beaten.

“If I was in shock I’d be screaming bloody murder like the Nixa.” Moira commented. “If I don’t gloat about what I just did back there I might cry and I do not want to cry, Geralt.”

“How do you know about them?”

“I live in Skellige. My brothers always told me scary stories to keep me from the ocean whenever I wasn’t allowed to. I just never thought I’d actually face one.”

Geralt hummed in response, and once they made it to the land, they stopped and turned to look at the Ice Giant. It looked confused, making its inaudible roars out towards them as it waved its bludger in the air.

“Shouldn’t we have tried to kill it? I mean, that was the purpose of all of this.”

Geralt sighed. “I’ll have to come back another time, preferably alone. Your friends are safe and that’s all that matters to the King for now. I already put you in enough danger.”

Moira scoffed at him, shrugging out of his hold on her.

“Alone? You wouldn’t have made it out alive if it weren’t for me.”

Once more, out of spite, Moira pulled out her bow and arrow again, and even if the movement in her shoulder made her want to spill hot tears, she knew she couldn’t have done all of this for nothing and wasn’t letting the monster live.

“Moira, what are you doing?” the Witcher sighed.

Moira narrowed her eyes at the Giant’s head. “Proving a point.”

The bow released, soaring over the lake and straight into the Ice Giant’s head right between his eyes. As she put it away though, she was nearly shuddering from the pain that kept tearing through her shoulder and quickly swiped away a tear.

“That isn’t enough to kill it.” Geralt said, crossing his arms.

Moira didn’t respond though as she watched the Ice Giant start to wave in the air as it rocked on its feet, slowly staggering before its entire body collapsed and fell into the lake, crashing through the ice as its cracks echoed throughout the forest that surrounded them.

“That hopefully should.” she said, glancing at him.

Turning around, Moira tried to walk, limping as she did so with the Witcher trailing behind her. After how proud she was of herself, she expected more from him given how much he refused her help or didn’t bother to thank her. While the cold snow seemed to numb the pain in her calf, internally, she was fuming.

“You know, you are one ungrateful, stone cold bastard of a Witcher and—”

Moira yelped as Geralt’s arms came underneath her, and there was a small tinge of panic that tightened in her chest as she had grown tired of being swept off of her feet again. While she wanted to fight the Witcher who walked with a proud smirk on his lips as he carried her now, Moira herself found a way to relax and his hold and sighed, unwilling to admit that she was grateful for not having to put any weight under her leg.

“Is this your way of thanking me for my help, Geralt?” Moira teased.

She felt his chest rise and fall as he exhaled.

“I don’t want you to risk your life for me like that, Princess.”

Moira had her head on his shoulder, the chill of the air finally seeping through her clothes now as the adrenaline melted away, and she stared up at the pine trees that towered above them. Everything that had just happened left her shaken, but it felt like it happened within seconds, like it weren’t even real.

“That’s the thing…” Moira started slowly. “I hated seeing you fight alone and wanted to jump in to help, but there was something else there. I wanted to fight and use my magic, not to risk my life for someone, but because I actually wanted to do it for myself. It was freeing.”

To put it simply, maybe she did find herself caring for the Witcher but as Saorise said: she liked danger. Whether it be a person or a thing, Moira was never going to be able to walk away.

“It was so freeing that I ended up having to carry you back to the ship, right?”

Moira smiled weakly, resting her head back down.

“Shut it, Witcher.”

~

When they returned to the ship, the boys had been waiting with the blankets and food Moira made sure to pack for them. They were quick to ask a dozen questions when they saw that Geralt had to carry her back, but Moira assured them she would explain while she got them out to sea back to An Skellig.

“Won’t they tell your family that you came with me to rescue them?” Geralt asked, coming up behind her.

Moira glanced up at him, pulling her cloak around her shoulders a little tighter with her good arm. She was sure that the other one had been broken in one way or another but knew Saorise could heal it right up.

“They’ve kept a lot of secrets for me. This won’t be different.” Moira said.

There was a pit forming in her stomach though, worried for just how she was going to slip past her family covered in blood with a possibly broken arm and torn up leg. It wasn’t even her family she was worried about, it was every guard posted at every corner in the castle.

Moira glanced at Geralt again, and he had been eyeing her like she would collapse at any given moment.

“I’m fine, Geralt. I’m just going to go check in on them.” she assured, leaning on the wooden railing as she made her way down.

Rotty and Orin were quick to jump up to her side, but she put her hands up.

“You’re all frostbitten and starved. Sit down.”

They listened to her regardless, and she took the nearest seat on a crate as they ate everything in sight and sat on the floor with their heaps of blankets piling them. To her relief, the third soldier they had found was asleep in the corner, having suffered the most wounds.

“I’m sure you have questions.” Moira sighed, watching their eyes drift up to the Witcher.

“You think?!” Rotty exclaimed. “You know who that is, right? That’s a fucking Witcher!”

Moira rolled her eyes, glancing at Orin who didn’t say much but seemingly agreed with his friend.

“You two think I don’t know that? After I left you all the other day, my brother apparently requested his presence in An Skellig to help with our Drowners problem. But when I found out from Arnie that you two didn’t return, I insisted that I come and help rescue you lot.”

Rotty’s face fell at the mention of Arnie.

“He’s fine, by the way.”

“But are you?” Orin asked.

Somehow, just after not even two days, the always neatly combed blonde hair was outgrown and out of place, same as Rotty and his now scratchy looking beard. She couldn’t have imagined what they went through in the darkness of that freezing cave, and that hurt her heart more than what she witnessed today.

“I’m fine.” Moira shrugged. “You two know me better than anyone. Fighting that Ice Giant and the Sirens should put me at a higher rank than half the men in the navy.” she laughed.

Their eyes widened, and her smile grew. “You fought a Nixa?!” they both cried.

Moira nodded and laughed harder, leaning down to lift up her pant leg underneath her boot to reveal the nasty claw marks left by the Nixa’s hand. It was raw as she peeled away her pant leg from it and soon to be infected if they didn’t get to Urialla Harbor soon enough but as she flashed it off to them.

They looked whiter than they did before when she first found them nearly frozen to death.

“Moira!” Rotty gasped. “And to think you were just some snotty little Princess who liked to play with the dogs.”

“You knew I never was, Rotty.” Moira taunted, wincing as she covered her leg up.

“Oh, please don’t go there.” Orin laughed, his face cringing.

Orin then tossed her a blanket which she caught with her good arm and wrapped it around her shoulders. The three of them continued to catch up, but the Witcher had been tugging at her thoughts the entire time. Occasionally, she would glance up at him and she would find him already staring down at her, each time making her heart skip. Even as she talked with Rotty and Orin about every greusome detail, the trio finding a way to laugh about it all, Moira could only think of the way he carried her back to the ship.

Geralt had been thinking of it too, but not as much as he thought of the Nixa dropping her midair to the ice.

He wasn’t sure why his heart had stopped in that very moment, hanging on bated breath as he waited for her to move just a little while he ran towards her.

Of course, no King would be happy to find that his little sister had been murdered by a monster he was meant to finish. But something about the way she inserted herself into everything, no matter the danger like a root from a tree, had grown on him.

But as Geralt watched her laugh and smile among her friends the way she did when he first saw her, a grim realization came to him; he couldn’t protect her if she fought beside him and defeat a monster at the same time. It could never be both so long as he thought of her losing that smile.

~

Upon returning to An Skellige, the boys returned home as their first order of business and Geralt had successfully managed to sneak her into the castle with Saorise’s help. The Mage, however, was not happy with her one bit.

“How the hell did you manage to steal a ship and go all the way to Undvik?!” she cried as she heated the bathwater.

Moira winced, not with every movement, but instead the shrillness of Saorise’s voice when she was angry. She wanted to argue that she didn’t actually steal a ship, but knew she’d be smacked upon the head for such an answer. Instead, she let herself suffer as she stripped herself of her clothes behind the screen.

“You could have died, Princess, or worse, Birna could have found out and have immediately sent you off to the next bachelor Prince in the Continent!”

“She’s already planning on it.” Moira sighed, glancing at her pulsing, bruised shoulder that was too swollen to move.

“What was that?” Saorise asked, her voice dangerously low.

“Nothing, nothing.”

Moira stepped out from behind the screen with a silk robe over her body, limping towards the bath where steam rose from its surface. Despite how pleasant it looked; Moira wanted to hide within her own skin as she awaited what else her Mage was going to say. Saorise, with one hand on her hip and the other on a bottle of soap that she poured in the water, had taken one look at her torn leg and her eyes widened.

Moira thought she would scream.

“Oh my stars you are going to put me in my grave.” the woman said, running a hand over her face. “No, you’re going to put yourself in a grave first at this rate.”

Moira dropped the robe and immediately sunk into the water, the scorching heat welcoming to her shoulder but making her hiss when her open wound touched it.

“You need to clean it.” she said, pushing her leg into the water.

“Ow!”

Moira tensed as the pain shot up her leg straight to her core, making the water shake as she immediately sat upright and bit down on her tongue to keep from crying.

“I can’t clean a dirty wound, Princess.”

Once it subsided, Moira exhaled and sunk back into the bath,  the lemon and sandalwood soothing to her senses.

“I know you’re angry, Saorise but—”

The woman gave her a look that made her instantly quiet, her nose flaring as she looked down at her like she had just committed treason.

“I’m not angry, Moira, I am beyond my wits trying to find out where you thought this was okay! I know you would mess around with the boys, and I know you love your bow and arrow, but this was reckless! You could have died, Moira, whether or not the Witcher was there!”

“Well, Geralt was there and honestly we wouldn’t have been able to rescue them if it was just him there!” Moira argued.

But the second she raised her voice back, Moira was overcome with shame and looked away. She expected this—no, she deserved it. Saorise had covered for her dozens of times and she knew that if she were in her position, she would be worried too. Maybe it was her age, as Saorise would say, but Moira could not see the problem. She should be the one being celebrated right now for what she did.

“I’m going to have words with that Witcher. He should have never let you go with him.”

“It’s not his fault.”

“Right, you’re not an easy person to say no to.” Saorise huffed, beginning to work on healing the bones in her shoulder.

They sat in silence for a while aside from the grunts of pain Moira made as the healing process began. As the time passed, Moira only began to feel more guilty for putting her through the aftermath of her own actions and every word Saorise’s words began to sink in. Amidst all of the guilt though, she couldn’t deny the thrill of the day and all that had happened.

“I’m sorry.”

Saorise leaned forward, the long and curly dark hair falling over her face as she looked down at her.

“No you’re not…and that’s okay.”

Moira sighed, leaning her head back as her shoulder could now move semi freely without pain and the Mage moved her stool to the front of the tub where she could work on her leg. Now, watching the sad expression that sat upon her face as she worked delicately on her wound, Moira felt crushed.

“I’m not sorry for helping the Witcher save my friends, and I am certainly not sorry for how much fun I had today fighting those creatures. But I genuinely am sorry for putting you under this stress and having to take care of me.”

Saorise smiled at her, shaking her head.

“Moira, I’ve spent two decades guiding your brothers who don’t listen to a word I say and patch them up after wars you were too young to ever understand. But aside from all that, you were like the daughter I never had. So while I sit here and advise you and patch you up, I yell at you the way I can’t yell at your brothers because I love you.”

Moira chuckled at that, imagining Saorise yelling at Bran or Eist.

“I love you dearly, Saorise. Imagine if you weren’t here and it was Birna who became my motherly figure.”

Saorise laughed with her. “Then I would surely pray to the Gods for any man who tried to tell you no.”

“You mean you already don’t?”

As all wounds were healed that evening, for the first time in a while Moira greeted her bed without the anticipation of staying awake into the nightly hour for something exciting. Most of her candles were still light, her curtains drawn back for additional light from the nearly full moon to peak into her room, all so she could see the little book in her hands.

With her back against the headboard, the diary that once belonged to her sister sat in her hands. She would read it occassionally, and on top of that book sat her own diary where she wrote in now.

Moira poured out everything that happened today from the gaping, rotten mouth of the Nixa to the Ice Giant to the relief she felt when finding Rotty and Orin onto the paper. But the one thing she couldn’t put into words was the Witcher.

Her sister and mother were true women of royalty based on written and spoken words alike and Moira always tried her hardest to embody what she knew of them in her life every day. She wore her dresses, learned everything she needed to learn about court, and spent years learning what it took to be a Queen someday.

But as she wrote down today’s events, her mind was sucked into a tide when it came to Geralt because the side he brought out in her was not a side she was raised to show. He was complicating everything she thought she expected from her life. Adventures and monsters she only ever dreamed of were made possible today. Magic she feared became her greatest strength. Whereas her mother and sister sailed ships and helped trained the armies, Moira felt a breath of fresh air when it came to what she did with Geralt who made everything she was only ever frowned upon for become something bigger.

Nonetheless, found herself smiling at the words upon the paper as she described the undescribable ways he made her feel today even if it would horrify anyone else. Saorise was right; he was danger, and she was unequivocably pulled to it.

But then, her wandering thoughts were swiftly interrupted by a knock at her door that made her jump from her skin. At first, she wanted to pretend she was asleep but couldn’t hide her curiosity now as she slipped from under her covers.

Grabbing the candle, her bare feet tapped against the cold floor and she went to the door, figuring it was Saorise.

When she opened it though, Moira’s head tilted up to find the face of the Witcher standing at her door without his usual armor and everything within her shifted at the sight, taken back from his unexpected visit.

Fuck.

“Uh, good evening? Is everything alright?” Moira asked, not realizing how tired her voice was until she spoke.

Geralt had glanced around, seemingly unsure of himself, and she tilted her head at him as the chill of the drafty hallways came through her door and nipped at her ankles.

“Yes, I was just coming in to check on you—your wounds, from earlier, I mean.” he said, then lifting a familiar sword. “And you lost this. I wanted to return it.”

Moira had never heard him sound anything less than certain, and while she was thrilled to see him, she was more concerned of any watching eyes. Quickly, she peaked her head out into the hallway to make sure no one was near before gently pushing him into her room and shutting the door.

“I’m fine.” Moira said, quickly deciding to light the wood that sat in her fireplace. “I suppose you can see that considering I’m walking around like a frantic boar.”

Then, as she was turned away from him, she winced at her own poor choice of words. Once the room was mostly lit with the warm, flickering glow of the fire, she took a seat at the edge of her bed.

“I hope I didn’t disturb your sleep. I only meant to stop by.”

Moira waved him off. “Nonsense, I was awake anyway just doing some reading. Plus, it wouldn’t look right if we were chatting at my doorway.”

Geralt was still standing, looking around for a place to sit before his eyes fell on her dainty little chair to her vanity. Even Moira had to question why he picked such a small chair for his stature but shrugged it off.

“What were you reading? I thought princesses needed their beauty sleep.” he mocked.

She snickered. “I’m still reeling from what happened today, I wasn’t planning on falling asleep for a little while longer. But I was reading my sister’s diary. I do it on those nights I can’t sleep.”

Geralt then tilted his head at her, seemingly thrown off by the mention of her sister.

“You have a sister?”

“Had.” she corrected, watching his face fall a little. “She died when I was about six years old, falling ill after she had my nephew Crach. I don’t remember her much so it’s not all that sad, but I was given just about everything she owned. Reading her journals help me know her if I can’t remember her.”

An awkward silence filled between them after she swiftly dismissed her dead sister. If she were being honest though, it was hard to mourn the death of something she only had vague memories of that hardly felt more than dreams.

“Anyway, how are you doing since I last saw you today?” Moira asked, grabbing her silver shawl from the edge of her bed to slide around the shoulders of white nightgown she wore as she tried to change the subject.

Geralt sat uncomfortably in the wooden chair, and she feared he would break it. But it was a perfect spot for him, sitting right under the moonlight that made his hair more silver than white.

“I’m fine, Princess.”

Moira opened her mouth to protest, but he instantly corrected himself and said her name instead.

“That’s better.” she chuckled.

“I had a lot to hear from your Mage today.” he mused.

Moira went along with his faked excitement and raised her brows. “Ah, so did I. She was so thrilled about our little adventure today.”

Geralt’s lips curved, but it disappeared as quickly as it appeared on his face.

“Your brother was very grateful for my actions today, since I clearly went on my own. He paid a visit to your friends as well apparently. I would have stopped by sooner, but he insisted I join him.”

“That’s Bran.” Moira nodded. “He always wants to honor those who do him favors.”

“Well, he’s a good man.”

“And so are you.”

The words came out a little quicker than she wanted to, but Moira still meant them.

“What I mean is that not many would have taken that initiative to go and save people they didn’t know, especially when they’re only here to fix a smaller problem.”

Geralt’s smile returned, and Moira’s eyes found themselves focusing on his lips. Few men here compared to the Witcher at all, she realized.

“I know a certain Princess that would have done the same thing.” he shrugged.

“That might have been the nicest thing you’ve said to me since your arrival to Skellige.”

“When have I been anything less than cordial with you?” he asked, raising a brow at her.

Moira laughed. “You may not be a mean person, Geralt, but you have the emotional intelligence of a rock.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, his grin unwavering. “That is something I have yet to hear. I will add it to the list of things people have to say for the Witchers.”

Even with the witty remarks and fleeting smiles, a sinking feeling had been growing within her since he first stepped foot in her room. Part of her began to wonder if he felt trapped or if this was wrong, the inner formalities of her life speaking loudly in her mind as she thought more and more that she should tell him to leave.

“I didn’t mean to keep you here, if you were only stopping by, that is.” Moira said, eyes falling to her lap as she played with her fingers. “There’s a really good tavern my friend works at in the village if the castle is a little too boring for your liking.”

“What makes you think you were keeping me?” Geralt asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

Moira paused, glancing around as his words mulled over in her head.

“Um, well…I’m not quite sure.” she laughed nervously. “I never have guests in my room other than Saorise and our handmaids, let alone this late at night. I’m not really sure how to make someone welcomed.”

“You really are a modest Princess deep down.” Geralt said, dropping his head as he made fun of her.

“Oh, will you stop!” Moira laughed, reaching for a pillow behind her before tossing it at him.

The Witcher caught it with ease and gently tossed it back to her, giving her something to wrap her arms around as she crossed her legs and let it sit in her lap. She could stare at him this way, sitting in her room in the middle of the night without any worry from the outside world on their minds. Maybe she was a little modest, embarrassed at having a man in her quarters so late, but Moira was never one to tread on the careful side.

Only two nights ago, Moira never would have thought she would be awake in the midnight hour talking with a Witcher who made her heart beats in ways one may only feel when looking at a beautiful, rare sunset when they knew those colors could never be mirrored again.

“Well, how about I make it easier for you and let myself out?” Geralt asked, beckoning to the door as he stood up.

“That would be the appropriate thing to do, Witcher.” Moira smiled.

Nodding at her, Geralt crossed her room towards the door and her eyes followed him with every stride. But then, he glanced back at her.

“I’m glad you’re alright. Goodnight, Moira.”

“Goodnight, Geralt.” she waved.

With the fire crackling at her feet, Moira slid under her covers that night and there was more on her mind now than before. Her cheeks were warm to the touch and she was certain it wasn’t from the fire when she was replaying every word he spoke in her head.

[roughentumble]

I Didn't Kiss You Right Before, Can I Try Again?

Tags: Fix-It, Time Travel, Blood and Gore, Body Horror(mild)

Words: 6,752

Description: Geralt is sent back in time to make different choices during key moments, unaware of how it happaned or what's going on. All he has to go on is the strange urge to keep moving, and the dizzying feeling this has all happened before.

Also on AO3

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Geralt wakes up in a daze.

There's something on the tip of his tongue-- like when you don't remember a dream, but you remember the shape of it. He fights to recall it, because it seems so big, so important, as the last strands slip through his fingers. His body wills him to stand up, and so he does, as if he could chase the fragments that way, but moving only seems to dislodge them further. He doesnt even recall falling asleep. He sees-- Jaskier, a few feet away with his back to him, far enough he'd have to call out to be heard, and everything is hazy as he stumbles over, some sort of need he cant name thrumming under his skin. He could get angry about it, or-- or...

He places a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, and Jaskier whips around in surprise, blinking owlishly at him. Jaskier starts to say something, brow furrowed with concern and sympathy, but Geralt cuts him off with a squeeze of his shoulder. "I think you were right. We should go to the coast."

Concern gives way to joy, like the sun breaking through the clouds, lighting up his entire face. "You-- really? Actually, you'd want that? What caused the change of heart, did you whack your head or something?" He waves his hand in dismissal, keeps speaking before Geralt can interject. "Doesn't matter, really, what matters is that you did. I'll pack my things right away, and we can load up dear old Roach, and I can compose a stunning ballad out of this whole mess because I am a miracle worker, and-- oh you'll just love the coast I'm certain of it! Fine wine and pearls and the salty sea stretching out forever over the horizon, and the sunsets, oh! To die for, truly!"

Perhaps he did hit his head. There's dirt in his hair, more than usual, and he doesnt think he woke up in a bedroll... but he can't find it in himself to care. It all came out so easy, and something about it had felt right. He reaches out to take Jaskier's hand in his own, and Jaskier only trips over his words for a moment, glancing down at them in confusion, then smiling even brighter, if that was even possible. That feels right, too. In the same way he cant put his finger on. He'll examine it later, when he's a little more awake. For now he just pulls Jaskier gently by the hand towards camp, so he can do that packing he was talking about.

They leave the mountain, and the cursed dragon hunt, behind, without much fanfare or a word to the others.

 

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He doesnt like the coast much, as it turns out. Sand isnt great for poor Roach's hooves, salt sticks in his long hair making it unmanagable, and the large swath of ocean in front of him makes him edgy in a way he doesnt want to put a name to, because Geralt of Rivia does not do being afraid. It's all logic, is what it is, giant sea monsters lurk in those depths, and surely no witcher is equipped to deal with their likes. A certain healthy cautiousness makes sense, he reasons.

He likes Jaskier at the coast, though.

Happy and free, laughing, backlit by the sun, sand on his cheek and pants rolled up to the knee. Fancy shoes dangling from his fingers.

Foolish bard, he thinks, stepping closer, brushing away the sand, foolish, silly little bard, never brings the proper footwear anywhere we go. Out loud he says "I'm in love with you."

He watches closely the play of emotions across Jaskier's face, the joy morphing into shock, disbelief, mouth gawping open like a fish. In the next moment he's dropped those fancy shoes to grab Geralt's head, yanking him down into a kiss that's equal parts frenzy and passion and finally coming home. They kiss until the water laps up to their ankles, arms tangled around each other.

The incoming waves claim just one of Jaskier's fancy, impractical shoes, and he curses the sea, running into the water as if he could fish the thing out, or else batter the sea into compliance. Geralt laughs, and laughs, and pulls Jaskier from the salty sea to kiss him again, and again, and again, even as he complains about his lost shoe. "You'll be compensating me for that, witcher," he warns, shaking his finger.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Geralt responds, breathless with joy, and Jaskier sinks into his grip.

 

========

 

"I want you to come with me. To Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier stares at him with open-mouth. It isnt an offer given lightly. Even in all their years of on-again off-again, Geralt never extended this particular invitation to Yennefer. Maybe he was too scared of being known, or too scared of being trapped in one place-- if things went sour when they couldnt just leave, would it go away for ever? She's gone away forever anyway, for all his clinging and carefully calculated space. She said no, and he found-- he found--

Years he's spent, dragging his feet. Years, and with Jaskier it's so old and yet so new, and he's decided that he is sick of the waiting, of the right pace. He wants Jaskier with him, now and always. "This winter, the two of us. Up in the Blue Mountains."

Jaskier is nodding before Geralt can finish speaking, tears welling in his eyes. "I want that too, love. Gods, you know I'd follow you anywhere." And then he laughs, free and joyful and it's the best sound Geralt's ever heard in his life. Jaskier reaches out, touches his cheek, like he's confirming this is real, and Geralt leans into his space to press their foreheads together. Inhales the scent of his tears mingled with pure joy, and it smells like the ocean.

 

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They keep heading south, because it isnt time to head north yet, and because Geralt's got a feeling he'd really like to disprove. Can't explain where it comes from, exactly, just that he feels a tug, senses a rumbling in the earth, hears whispers on the streets. He climbs the rocky outcropping while Jaskier waits by Roach, idle and bored. He wants to be wrong. Wants it so badly he hasnt even shared his theory with Jaskier. He looks out over the path below.

He is not wrong.

A sea of black and gold. Cintra is the gateway to the rest of the north, and it's about to fall.

 

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He tells Jaskier to wait in the Cintran marketplace. If this works, Geralt will be able to meet him there without injury, or at least be able to send someone to fetch him. If it doesnt, he'll need to resort to drastic measures, which should put him in Jaskier's path too. He's grateful for this decision when he ends up surrounded on all sides by Calanthe's men-- he has no doubt Jaskier would be able to extract himself from the danger as he always does, but he still doesnt like seeing it. He holds a knife to the throat of an old friend, and wonders why it feels familiar. Wishes that it didn't.

When they fall through the portal, dodging Calanthe's trap, Jaskier is far enough away from their stall that he doesn't hear the commotion-- presumably, anyway. Geralt wishes he could see him, just to confirm he was safe, confirm he actually made it, but he's too preoccupied to linger on the thought.

He's led through bullshit and lies, attempts to buck fate, but he can feel the tightening noose of destiny and knows its all pointless. He'll walk away with his child surprise, it's just a matter of whether that leaves him with a target on his back.

Calanthe orders him gone, and Eist escorts him.

"I remember when you honored the Law of Surprise. What changed?" Geralt asks, needs to provoke something real out of one of them, desperately hopes for a chink in someone's armor.

"I had a granddaughter," Eist throws at him blithely.

"So protect her," Geralt says through gritted teeth. The conversation feels like one he's had a million times. "What if Calanthe's wrong? What if they come and Ciri is trapped?" He presses.

"I fight side by side with my Queen," Eist replies, unmoved.

"You put too much faith in that woman."

"Well, you weren't there. After Pavetta died, Calanthe would wake up howling in the night. The Lioness, nearly broken." Eist shakes his head, looking off in the distance as he relives the memory. Geralt's temples throb, lips ghosting over the words along with him, wondering why the hell it's so familiar. "Someone who's able to pull themselves out of that, they'll have my confidence 'till my final day."

Geralt wants to scream. It's not enough. It isnt enough. Why do their minds never change?

"I need your promise you won't come back." Eist says, and Geralt pauses in the entryway, weighs his options.

It's so godsdamned familiar. And yet, he can't say anything but the truth. "If I hear Ciri's in danger, you know I can't do that."

"I know."

The bars fall.

Jaskier was browsing nearby. He hears the clatter, and comes running. It's so like them-- somehow they always find each other.

He calls for Geralt, running up to place his palms on the bars, face screwed up in fear and outrage.

Guards close in, shouting at Jaskier to step away from the prisoner, and Geralt whips around to face Eist. "Don't hurt him." Geralt pleads.

"He's your companion. A weasly little thing, there when you claimed the law of surprise in the first place. How do I know he won't try to break you out? Or take the child surprise for you?" Eist asks, and Geralt's stomach plummets.

"You're a reasonable man, Eist. I understand your commitment to Calanthe, but Jaskier hasnt done anything. He isn't bound to Ciri by destiny, he has no claim to her. Nilfgaard is nearly at the border, don't doom him by locking him in the dungeons when he's harmless." He grips the bars tighter, knuckles turning white from the strength of his grip.

Eist looks considering, so Geralt presses on. "Please. As one old friend to another, he's just a bard. Don't punish him for my folly."

"We were never old friends," Eist disputes. "...but I don't see the harm one bard could cause." Relief hits Geralt like a tidal wave, and he lets out his breath in one big exhale. "I don't think I've ever seen you scared before." Eist cuts a look at him, and his eyes seem to pierce through Geralt. He steps closer to speak in a low tone. "Nearly at the border, you say?"

Geralt nods, trying to project just how seriously he means it. "I wouldn't lie about this."

Eist thinks for another moment, then says "I'll get him a guest room in the castle."

Geralt's knees nearly buckle with relief. A guest room he can move freely in, and the castle will be the most well-fortified place during the inevitable seige. Jaskier has a chance of survival. "No!" he hears for behind him, and he turns his head to stare at jaskier.

"No, Geralt, I won't leave you! They can't imprison you, you havent done anything!" He presses, tears of fury welling in his eyes. He knows what's coming as well as Geralt does, and he stinks of fear. Geralt walks to the other side of the small cell to grasp Jaskier's hands through the bars.

"Jaskier, it's alright. I'll be right where I need to be. It's destiny, remember? I just need to know you'll be safe while I do it." Jaskier looks unconviced, but Geralt squeezes his hands tighter. "Promise me you'll stay in your room. Promise you'll wait for me. Promise."

Jaskier blinks back tears. "I promise," he says, and Geralt lets out another sigh of relief. He leans forward as Jaskier does, foreheads as close to touching as the bars will let them.

"Alright. Let's go." Eist says, and a guard finally steps forward to place a hand on Jaskier's elbow. He looks Geralt in the eye, shoulders squared, a silent promise that they'll see each other again.

Geralt meets his gaze. And then he's taken away.

 

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"This is Cirilla. Ciri, this is--"

"Ah-ah, let me do my own introductions, I get to say it so rarely, after all," he says, cutting Geralt off and turning to Ciri. His shoulders roll back, posture straightening, carrying himself with a sudden air of gravitas. "My name is Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Graduate of Oxenfurt, master of the seven liberal arts, and esteemed poet and minstrel, better known throughout the kingdoms as the famed bard Jaskier. At your service." He bows deeply, a fluid, graceful movement, and when he comes back up he looks rather pleased with himself.

There's a beat of silence. "...my partner." Geralt finishes his earlier statement, eyebrow raised and thoroughly unimpressed. Ciri mostly just seems surprised. "Don't worry, you get used to the chatter."

Jaskier splutters, cheeks turning red in offense. "You! that was a perfectly lovely introduction, you great big oaf, I don't know why I put up with you!"

Ciri giggles nervously, then claps a hand over her mouth, a much needed moment of levity for the young girl. It can't last forever, though. Geralt says "We need to go to Sodden Hill."

"Why?" Ciri asks, dread filling her stomach at the thought of all that destruction, and Geralt places a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"I think Yen is there and I need to find her," he explains, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"Always chasing the old witch," he says, with maybe an undercurrent of jealousy, insecurity. It's something Geralt will need to address, but not now. Not like this.

"Come on, bard," he says as he mounts roach and pulls Ciri up with him.

"Oh, left to walk as always while she gets the royal treatment? Just a simple, gruff 'come bard', like I'm some dog who'll heel for you, I see how it is. So much for partner," he says with a sniff, and Ciri giggles again, still a little uncertain. Geralt bites back a smile.

"You can walk the other way, if you please," he replies, and Jaskier sputters once more.

They quiet as they reach the battlefield, empty but for destruction and corpses. Jaskier holds his nose for the stench.

Geralt steps away from them to speak to the first person he sees, a woman in obvious shell-shock, looking around as if she's lost everything. Perhaps she has. She looks at and yet through Geralt as he speaks to her, seeing him without seeing him. Then she speaks, and all of Jaskier's disdain falls away with a gasp, hand flying to his chest.

"Yennefer is dead."

It hangs in the air, dampening sound, stilling the trees. Yennefer is dead. She is no more.

Geralt's heart pounds in his ears, and he has so much and so little that he wants to say. He opens his mouth, and then stops. Feels so faint, blinks away the fog in his mind, as certainty overcomes him.

"No, she isnt," he says, and Tissaia looks at him with such pity, like he's in shock. And he doesnt know why he said it, except that it feels true. He feels almost lightheaded, shaky on his feet, anchored only by his knowledge that Yen is alive.

"We are bound by fate. I would feel it if she were dead," he says, and he doesn't know if that's true, but he knows the certainty, and has no other explanation for it. It makes something like hope flicker across Tissaia's face, warring with the absolute desolation.

"It can't be," she says, unwilling to trust the words of a strange man she's never met, one who couldnt know.

"I'll find her," he says. "We'll meet again."

 

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"I'm sorry." Jaskier says, his voice so quiet. Ciri is uneasily asleep, and Jaskier and Geralt sit around a fire.

"There's nothing to be sorry for. We'll find her again." Geralt says, because it has to be true. It feels true. It must... it must...

Jaskier lays a hand on Geralt's arm, his voice soft and sympathetic. "Then I'm sorry she's missing," he says, even though he clearly doesnt believe it.

The jealousy and insecurity have bled away now that she's gone. Now that he thinks she's gone, anyway. "All our old fighting... it was all so petty. even up till the last--" he stops himself, changes tracks. "...it was all so pointless. I know I pulled you between two people you cared about very much. And I'm sorry for it."

"I never minded. Not really, not the little stuff. You and Yen wouldn't be yourselves if you didn't bicker." Geralt says, and Jaskier shoots him a wane smile. He leans in to kiss Geralt's cheek.

"Then I promise I'll find something to be catty about when we find her again," he says, tucking Geralt's hair behind his ear. "Just-- I know this insecurity is gauche, considering the circumstances of her... disappearance. But if we do see her again, you'll still pick me, right?"

"Yennefer means very much to me. But now that I have you, you're it for me, Jaskier. I promise." He leans in to kiss Jaskier on the mouth, short and quick and still so emotional. "She's my destiny, but you're my choice."

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath, and pulls geralt in for another kiss.

 

===========

 

"Tell me, friend, who changed you."

Geralt smiles to himself as he considers his answer. "Yennefer. Ciri." He pauses, looking over at his companion, currently fiddling with a tchotchke on a shelf. "...Jaskier." Said man turns around when he hears his name, then freezes as if caught, item still in hand. When he meets Geralt's eyes, though, he smiles, and Geralt smiles back.

"Well, you've the girl and the bard. But where is this lovely lady Yennefer?" He asks, and Geralt's smile falls.

"...She's gone," he says, and Jaskier's mouth twists.

"Last we heard, she was dead." Jaskier says gently, and Geralt flinches. He still refuses to believe it.

"She isn't," Geralt insists, "but... wherever she is, she's still lost to me. Who knows where she's gone to lick her wounds."

There's silence for a moment, pity etched into Nivellen's eyes. "...I am sorry," he says, and Geralt nods. Let him think what he likes. Geralt knows better.

 

===========

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Eskel says that if he had a princess surprise he would fuck her, and Geralt feels blind rage rising in his chest, overpowering his mind as he thinks to Ciri, little Ciri, broken Ciri, his Ciri. A child.

Eskel would never say that, Geralt thinks to himself, the absolute wrongness of it all settling over him like a cloak. Something in his chest urges him forward. He wants to take Eskel aside and slap sense into him, wants to know what happened to his most trusted brother, his most beloved, his other half, but he feels that same faintness in his head. He's starting to notice it, but it doesnt want to be noticed, it leaves him foggy and confused.

A vague impression seats itself in his mind. it almost sounds like 'I should have...' but it's gone just as quickly. He moves as if in a dream, filling a tankard with white gull, dosing it with sedative hidden away from when they were boys, when they needed to subdue witchers for medical treatment in a full keep.

Eskel takes the mug and drinks it so fast, drinks like he's trying to outrun something, drinks like there's horror nipping at his heels. He falls asleep at the table, and Geralt volunteers to bring him back to his room. Vesemir offers to help, and he has no excuse to turn him down when carrying a full grown witcher's weight is such an ordeal, though he sweats under the collar when Eskel cant even drunkenly stumble between them, fully dead to the world. Vesemir must know something is wrong. He must.

They get him to his room with a lot of grumbling but no real issues, throw him down on the bed. "He drank himself into quite the stupor," Vesemir says with shrewd eyes, brow furrowed.

Geralt doesnt know what to say. "What's going on here, Geralt?" He asks, and Geralt's stomach plummets.

"I have to-- I can't explain, I just have to--" he starts, struggling for the words. "Something is wrong. He's hurt." Vesemir sends him a look that screams 'duh'.

"So you drug him to work on him in secret? This isnt like you." Vesemir says, and Geralt gets the crazy urge to laugh, because it isn't like him, he doesnt know what the fuck he's doing, except that he must.

Witchers are allowed to lick their wounds in private, they're allowed to come home angry and changed. Geralt pushed them all away after Blaviken, and none of them held him down, forced him, none of them acted like the mages that made them. He feels sick.

"We have to. Vesemir, we--" he starts, grabbing Eskel's shirt and lifting it to look at the damage. Vesemir holds out a hand to stop him, and then they both fall still with a gasp. There, in his chest, right above his heart, is a piece of embedded wood.

It's big, not like a splinter, maybe the size of a fist, with spindly roots that anchor it, spreading out like veins under the surrounding skin. It pulses, just a bit, and embedded within the center of it is something else, a chunk of rock that almost looks like obsidian. Rock gives way to wood gives way to flesh.

"We have to get it out of him," Geralt says suddenly, going for the knife at his hip.

"We don't even know what it is," Vesemir says, though the disgust is plain on his face. "What if removing it kills him? It could be in too deep."

"And what, just let it grow? It's right above his heart, it'll kill him soon anyway. And it's moving." Geralt says, and Vesemir looks pained.

"...I'll keep him out using somne," Vesemir says, "we need to get it out fast but careful. Don't leave a single branch behind."

They nod to each other, and Geralt heats up the knife using igni, lets the flames lick the blade, then he gets to work.

Eskel screams in his sleep, fighting against the drugs, against Vesemir's hold, the first touch of heated metal enough to make his whole body tense. The wood contracts, roots tightening visibly beneath his skin, and Geralt grits his teeth. One by one he pries them out of his guildsman's flesh, the wood sizzling and popping when touched by the hot blade. Blood streams down Eskel's chest, and he screams again, whole body arching.

The roots convulse in the open air, trying to return to the safe haven of his veins, only to be cut off and thrown to the floor. A new root tries to grow in the old one's place and Geralt cauterizes the stump, pressing the flat of the knife to it to produce even louder sizzling. If the thing could scream it would be, and Eskel convulses once just like the thing in his chest.

Suddenly, footsteps. The others had heard his screams. Lambert bursts in, shouts "What the fuck's going on?!" and Geralt shakes his head, knowing what a strange scene they make, how threatening he looks holding a red knife.

"There's no time!" He says.

"Go get every healing potion in the keep, now!" Vesemir shouts, struggling not to break his own concentration. There's stillness, and then some of the gathered witchers run to do as told, while the rest watch in silent horror.

Geralt gets his nails under the edges of the thing and begins to lift, Eskel once more arching up to follow him. It moves agonizingly slow, tearing Eskel's flesh as the bark is dragged past his delicate muscle tissue. It seems to go on and on as Geralt pulls, and to his own horror, he realizes something. It isnt just growing out, it's growing down. Down into him, down towards his heart.

Sweat drips down Vesemir's forehead from holding the sign so firmly and so long. The root on the bottom extends down into Eskel's chest, down towards his heart. Geralt has to act fast and careful all at once.

His knife wasnt made for cutting wood, but he pushes it between the lump and Eskel's body anyway, carving away at the spot where the root connects to the whole. There's so much fucking blood, he can barely see, and he has to drag the knife back and forth to get even the tiniest bit of progress, utterly devoid of leverage or the proper teeth to dig into the plant's flesh. Then, finally, with a twist of his wrist, he snaps the wood chunk free from the root, cauterizes it, and throws it to the floor. Only one last step.

He pushes flesh aside and sees the root go down, wrapped firmly around a rib, and then...

His heart. Beating. Right out there in the open, skin and muscle shoved aside to make way for that thing. The root is wrapped around the heart, squeezing, causing his convusions, and geralt feels sick, but there's no time to stop or wait. Vesemir's control is slipping. Blood is flowing faster now.

His fingers slip through blood and fat and viscera and things meant to be kept inside as he tries to untwist the root from the shock-white of Eskel's rib bone. It snaps, apparently brittle now that it's disconnected from the whole, and Geralt throws another piece at his feet. His hands aren't clean, aren't washed, but there's no godsdamn time, so he slides a finger down beside his other half's very heart and hooks the back of the root. Pulls so slow, so careful.

It pops free with a spray of blood, and all falls still.

"G'r'lt?" comes slurred from the bed. "Did th't come outta' me?" Eskel asks, and then immediately falls unconcious once more.

Vesemir slumps against the wall. "Gwain, Coen," he says, panting just a bit, "the pig we were keeping for meat? Slaughter it. We need a skin graft, clean and quick. Everard, Merek, sutures and everything else we need to clean and bandage."

Only Lambert remains, pale and silent, staring at the floor where the pieces of now inert wood rest. Time seems less linear, suddenly, and nobody has much clue how much time passes. All they know is that Lambert cleans up the pieces of foreign blood-soaked thing into a jar for safekeeping, and the supplies filter in. Eskel gets healing daughts poured down his throat, and Geralt keeps working to stitch his chest together with pig skin, wont let anyone else touch him. They both breathe easier once the final stitch is in place, and Geralt steps back with shaking hands as the other witchers wipe down his skin, slather it in healing poultices, and cover him in bandages. Geralt falls asleep on the floor, trembling, without the sense in his head to clean away his brother's blood.

When Eskel wakes up, he thanks them. Tells them his head felt wrong, something whispering in it, ever since that leshen got one lucky shot. Says the leshen didnt look right, didnt act right, that he couldnt remember how to kill it once it embedded in his chest. "It's like it went to seed in him," Vesemir says in horror, and everyone shakes their heads, and they dont know what to do. But Eskel is there. He is weak, and he is bedridden, and he is there.

Finally, Kaer Morhen can rest.

===========

Vesemir doesn't think these flowers are the answer. He doesn't recognize them-- though if he knew every part of the formula, it wouldnt be lost to him as well. Still, though, it doesn't sound right to his ear, even if he doesn't know as much about flora as one might if they'd dedicated their life to the study of it. He can imagine, though, being desperate enough to believe it. He thinks back to Eskel, and how they'd almost lost him to such a stupid error. He feels the loss of their way of life, their traditions, weighing on his shoulders in a way he never thought he'd face in his lifetime.

The little scrap of paper in her hand is so innocuous. And even if it's wrong, or merely an approximation of what once was, he feels the need to keep it, to catalogue it, preserve it as he has everything else in the keep... even the unsavory ones. The metal rack so many boys died on, that countless others were changed in, chained in, sitting in the basement like it's a coffee table. Like it's nothing. Like it isnt horrific.

But it's all he has. And it's what they needed.

His fingers curl around the paper. "How many other people know of this blossom? Would be likely to put two and two together?" He asks.

"Not many at all, I would imagine. Even fewer would know how to apply the knowledge, or enough inner workings of witchers to make the leap. And it's only a theory, anyway, I can't confirm it as of yet," she replies, watching him closely.

Their numbers, so weakened, so devastated. The continent is running out of monsters, but it hasn't run dry just yet-- witchers are still needed, and they're dwindling. And yet...

He flicks his fingers, and the page goes up in flames. A little cast of igni, and suddenly the secret is unknown once more. "Can't let anyone know how we're made; sorcerers have been after the information for as long as there have been witcher schools. No telling what havoc they'd wreak across the continent if they had the recipe. And... there will be no more boys."

He looks at the ashes in his hand, and he aches in ways he doesnt have words for, for the life he had and the men he lost and all those boys. "I thank you for your diligence, and your offer," he says diplomatically, "but I urge you to forget what you've discovered, and tell no one. And if you do decide to divulge our secrets, then I can only pray your approximations were wrong."

She had looks surprised when the fire burst to life, but understanding settles across her features.

There will be no more potions. No more blood spilt for these old stones. And there will be no more boys. He never even mentions their clandestine conversation to Ciri. She deserves her choices, but she's a traumatized child, and he's an adult. He doesnt need to burden her with this.

 

===========

+++++++++++

"Yennefer of Vengerberg." Jaskier says in awe. Can't believe Geralt was right. Can't believe she's alive. "Should've known you wouldnt stay dead, rotting necrophage that you are," he says, catty and mean and a little breathless because she's alive. But then her arms are around him, and she's hugging him so tight he can barely breathe, and he lets out a shocked grunt. "Uh? Hugging? You're hugging me, you do know you're hugging me, right?" He asks, mouth running faster in his confusion.

"Oh Jaskier," she says, "it's so good to see you."

"Good. To see me. Did you hit your head at Sodden? Is that where you've been all this time, wandering the countryside mindlessly?" He asks, and she snorts. Snorts! Like he's funny! Which he is, but she's never admitted it before.

"Oh how I miss when my problems were as small as a single sing-songy twit." She says fondly, taking him by the shoulders and leaning back to take a look at him.

"Now I'll never admit to having said this, I'll deny it if you ever try to tell... but I am very glad you're not dead, Yennefer." It comes out so damn soft, and for all their bickering it's hard not to be soft about someone you've known at least ten years. He cradles her arms in his palms, so they're both holding each other but at arm's length. "But I really must ask, where the hell have you been? We've been looking for you."

"It's a long story," she says evasively, and he narrows his eyes.

"Ah, well, if it's long then you certainly wouldnt want to tell it twice," he says, and leads her down the corridor, towards a closed door. "Here," he says gently as he pushes it open, "I figure if you're here, you'd like to see Geralt, too."

The room goes so still. "I knew," Geralt says. "I knew we'd find each other." And Yennefer runs into his open arms for a hug, stress melting away as she tucks her face into his neck. For the first time in a long time, she feels safe.

Jaskier watches them fondly, shoulder resting against the doorway. They'll have time for questions and answers. For now they can just be happy the world has a touch less death in it.

 

===========

 

"Yen," he says gently. "I'm sorry for what I said. You would make an excellent mother."

Yen's face does something complicated. "Geralt--"

"Ciri will need one," He says, and Yen recoils in shock, to hear him offer it so plainly.

"So-- what, you want you and I to play house with your little orphan?" She asks, and it comes out harsh, but she doesnt take it back. Geralt shakes his head.

"It wouldnt be like that. I'm... I'm with Jaskier now." Geralt replies, and that makes Yen's eyebrows fly up in shock. "We wouldnt be... together like that. But we would be friends. Partners. Equals. I think it might be good for us, to take the heartache out of the equation. And Ciri needs a teacher, someone like you. I think you'd be good for each other." He pauses, and when Yen has nothing to say to that, he says "Think about it."

She steps through a portal with Ciri anyway. She sees him beg them not to leave, and she walks away anyway. But his offer rings in her head as loud as Voleth Meir's promises, and halfway to their destination Yennefer brings them to a stop. Ciri is so bright. So bright and beautiful, and with such great power, hair like Geralt's and a heart like Geralt's, so hurt and yet longing so deeply for love, and she looks at Yennefer with such trust. So much trust, and she's leading this doe-eyed girl astray, what could be hers, what should be hers, and Yennefer is tired of sacrificing and sacrificing and sacrificing. She loves hard and she loves vicious and she loves selfishly, and when Ciri demonstrates her powers Yen thinks My daughter did that. My. Mine.

She thinks You cannot have her, she thinks You will not take this from me, she thinks, I will no longer have no choice. I have a choice. I am making it.

And she turns on her heel and leads Ciri in an entirely different direction. She leads Ciri away from doom that Ciri never even knew was hanging over her head. Voleth Meir screams, and she walks away anyway, down a road where she knows an equally angry Geralt will find her. She only hopes she can talk him out of his rage before he sends her away.

 

===========

 

"I want to know where Yennefer of Vengerberg is going." Geralt says to Codringher and Fenn. They look at each other, and then back at him.

"And you think we know this? We don't keep track of every person on the continent, Geralt." Fenn replies

"I don't have time for games. I just need something, anything. Where was she recently. She has--... someone very dear to me. And I must find them." Geralt says, hands balled into fists.

They exchange a look. "We truly can't tell you her whereabouts. She hasnt been seen in quite a while. All that's known is that she was mumbling to herself last she was seen, before she vanished."

"What was she saying?" He presses, and Codringher looks thoughtful.

"Something like 'turn back to the forest, turn back to your mother'?" He says, scratching his chin.

"Turn your back to the forest, hut hut. turn your front to me, hut hut." Geralt says, understanding dawning on him.

"Could be. Our ears on the ground didn't hear it any clearer." Fenn says, seemingly annoyed that there's information she doesn't know.

"I know where she's going," he says, throws a bag on coins on the table, and leaves as quick as he came.

 

===========

 

Geralt has his sword drawn before they even see him, terror lancing through him at the idea of Ciri being taken, being given to that demon. Ciri shouts with joy when she spots him, then with fear as he presses his sword to Yen's throat. She lets him, no fight in her.

"I couldn't do it. I turned back. Back to you," she swears, and Geralt glances between the two of them, trying to assess if Ciri is alright.

"Geralt, what are you doing," she begs, looking so young and so frightened.

"What did she promise you? Money? Power?" Geralt asks, betrayal running deep, burning him up inside, because he'd trusted Yen, and first chance she got she ran off with his child. His. to sacrifice her to something old and foul.

Yen looks decimated. "...I can't be Ciri's teacher. My magic... it's gone." Yen says, answering his original offer and his most recent question all at once and geralt startles at that. Then she whispers, soft and broken and desperate, "Geralt, she's in my head."

Suddenly Geralt sees her for what she is. Someone very hurt, and very alone, who fought through the promises and manipulations of a demon to bring his daughter back to him. He slowly lowers his sword and pulls Yennefer into an embrace. "We'll fix it." Geralt promises.

 

===========

It doesnt get any easier to ignore Voleth Meir, but she looks around and sees Kaer Morhen, and the family that she's been welcomed into, and remembers that she's allowed to stay. That she has fought tooth and nail for every inch of her life until now, and she can keep fighting. That Ciri is hers.

She teaches magic anyway, without demonstrations. It's hard for Ciri, and it's hard for Yen, but she isn't as worthless as she feared she'd be powerless. Ciri looks up to her. Ciri hugs her. Ciri asks her hair be plaited for dinner. Ciri is her choice, and she makes it every morning.

Until one morning, it changes.

It starts small, just a creep, just a tickle. But she snaps her fingers, and a book by her bedside begins to float.

She'd burned herself out, ran her magic dry, scorched the channels it flowed through, but it healed. It came back with time. It was always going to come back with time.

She collapses to her knees and sobs, sobs like a child, for what has been returned to her.

And without her magic to tempt her, Voleth Meir loses her foothold in Yennefer's mind. The whispers quiet and fade until theyre nothing but a memory.

And finally, Yennefer is free.

 

===========

When Geralt lays down that night, he dreams.

"I've found a djinn," Dream Yen says,

and Geralt sees himself ask "Another one?"

"Except I won't try to tame this one," Yen says, insists that it could be the answer to their problems. "We could keep Ciri safe, teach her how to use her powers, if we phrase them just right the wishes could be the thing that saves us."

The scene changes. Once more, he has a seal in his hand. "I wish I had the hindsight not to get into these problems anymore," he says, because he never makes the right choice.

The dream falls away with the sunlight streaming in, bright on his face. He looks down around him, at the little family he's created; Jaskier by his side, Ciri's head in his lap and feet near his face, Yennefer asleep on a cot with her hand on Ciri's. And he decides that this time he did make the right choice. He decides that he's happy.

[jaskierswolf]

Alright but, for the hug prompts, maybe 24 with some 5 on the side? Maybe Gerlion possibly? ❤️ Love you!

Hug Prompts

_____

Dandelion was feeling needy. He’d had a decidedly luke-warm audience that night and all attempts at writing afterwards had just been a disaster. On top of that, it was cold out and Dandelion’s toes were nearly freezing off in his boots. Their room was drafty and Geralt liked to keep the window open regardless of the temperature. The fresh air helped him to sleep apparently, and well, Dandelion had learned early on in their friendship that he wasn’t very good at denying Geralt anything. The witcher didn’t want much in life, so if an open window made him happy, then Dandelion wouldn’t argue.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He’d definitely complain about it, but he wouldn’t say no.

All he wanted in return was a hug from his dear friend, but no amount of pouting and sighing dramatically was getting Geralt’s attention. The witcher was too busy scribbling at the desk, updating his bestiary, which was just no fun. Dandelion had braided and unbraided his own hair three times already, and tried to improvise something fun on his lute, but nothing was holding his attention.

He just really needed a hug.

So he sighed again, rolling onto his stomach and pouting at Geralt, resting his chin on his hands. “Geralt?”

“What, Dandelion?”

“I’m bored.”

“Hello bored, I’m Geralt,” his friend replied without even taking his eyes off his grimy old witcher book.

Dandelion snorted petulantly and rolled his eyes. “Oh haha!” he muttered. “You’re hilarious.”

“No,” Geralt paused and Dandelion could hear the smug expression that Geralt surely had on his face. “I’m Geralt, or were you not listening the first time, poet?”

“Urgh!” Dandelion grumbled, flailing his arms in the air as he rolled over again onto his back, his hair fanning out behind him as he landed. “You’re impossible, and don’t you dare say it!”

“Say what?”

“You know what!”

Geralt just chuckled, but still didn’t stop writing in his damned book.

A plan started to form in Dandelion’s head, desperate times really did call for desperate measures, and he was desperate. So he shrieked, a perfect impression of his usual cry whenever he got too close to a fight, and, just as he predicted, Geralt jumped to his feet, already reaching for his swords. Dandelion was, for once, faster, and he leapt into the witcher’s arms with a gleeful cry. His friend grunted at the sudden weight, but didn’t drop him.

“What the fuck, Dandelion?”

Dandelion giggled and buried his face in Geralt’s neck. “I needed a hug,” he explained, snuggling up to Geralt with a contented sigh.

_

Taglist undercut:

@geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @comfyswitcherblanketfort, @fontegagrilledcheese, @dani-dandelino, @dapandapod @unyielding-as-the-sea @officerjennie @feraljaskier @geralt-of-riviass @kueble

[pillage-and-lute]

(For next time you’re looking for prompts) I really like your writing, and when I thought of this I wondered what you’d do with it: Geralt and Jaskier are together, but agree to pretend not to be for their next stop. Maybe one of them wants to win an old bet, or Jaskier’s not 100% sure his betrothal to a local noble has been officially dissolved, whatever, (not homophobia), fluff and high jinx ensue. Anyway I hope something unexpectedly nice happens to you today.

Hi Dahliavandare! Thanks for the blessing in my inbox  🥰

This ran away from me, tons of backstory about Jaskier’s family. Just, way too much.

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

“Geralt, darling,” Jaskier said hesitantly. “I have an errand we need to run, and I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

Geralt hummed noncommittally. They were resting at their camp outside of Hagge and the warm summer air and the feeling of Jaskier curled against him had lulled him into a warm, fuzzy stupor.

“You see,” Jaskier continued, fiddling with the buttons at his cuffs. “I’m a noble, and you know that of course.” He laughed awkwardly. “And I’ve been lucky enough to pawn most of those responsibilities off onto my much savvier sister, but there are certain niceties that landed families observe that--”

“Spit it out,” Geralt grumbled, although not bad naturedly. 

“I’m betrothed,” Jaskier said. “And we need to go to Gwendeith to break it off.”

Geralt turned to look at his beloved. “You’re engaged?”

“Betrothed!” Jaskier yelped, then saw Geralt’s expression. “Oh, dear heart, there’s a slight difference in meaning, especially to nobles. Engaged implies an intent to marry--”

“And betrothed doesn’t?”

“Well, sort of, but I’ve been betrothed practically since I was born, engaged would imply I’m sort of planning the wedding. It’s a contract, a social contract. My family and my betrothed’s are pretty minor nobles, so really it’s just a way of saying ‘maybe someday our kids could marry’. It isn’t the hard and fast marriage it might be if I were, say, a prince.”

“Then why do it?” Geralt asked. Most of the time he was happy to understand as little of the lives of the gentry as possible, but Jaskier was important.

“Honestly,” Jaskier sighed. “I think Papa arranged it because he cared for me, Mama too.”

“It takes away your choice,” Geralt began.

“It doesn’t. A betrothal like mine and... Iliana, that’s her name, only met her twice, it’s sort of social insurance. Especially for her, but for me as well. Nobles are supposed to marry, so, if at some point neither of us had found love we could marry one another. For Iliana there’s the security of having a husband, although from what I’ve heard she can handle herself fine, and for me its assurance of heirs if that sort of thing concerned me, and companionship for us both.”

It sounded...mostly sort of logical to Geralt.

“But I love you,” Jaskier said. “And I don’t want to be betrothed to anyone because I love you and, someday, whenever you get over you allergy to the concept of commitment, I’m going to put a ring on you.”

Geralt hummed gruffly but said nothing. There was a slim golden band hidden away in his bags and he be damned if Jaskier got to propose first.

“I will. Anyway, I need to tell Iliana. I’m sure she won’t mind. I met her once when I was seven and again when I was nineteen.”

“Nineteen, when?” Geralt asked. Most of Jaskier’s nineteenth year had been spent at Geralt’s side. Most of every year after that too.

“Just before I met you. I had travelled east to meet her originally, and was going back west when we met.”

“Tell me about her?”

“Illiana? Oh, well, she told me that she was fine leaving the betrothal in place because it’s standard, but that she doesn’t care for men in that way so she’d never give me heirs and would have my balls nailed above her door if I ever told her she had to.”

“Sounds like she’d get along with Yen.”

“I fear they’d take over the world,” Jaskier said. “Anyway, I told her no worries since, honestly, heirs just aren’t important to me. Then we agreed that when either of us found love we’d break the betrothal and that would be that.”

“Hmmm.”

“No, Geralt, tell me what that means. Is that a ‘okay, let’s go to Gwendeith’ hum? A ‘I’m angry that you’re betrothed’ hum?”

Geralt shifted to poke the fire. “It’s a ‘I think there’s more you need to tell me’ hum.”

“Ah,” Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s the thing. We have to go in person because a letter would be rude, but also...we have to pretend not to be together, while we’re in Gwedeith.”

“Why?”

“It’s politics, dear heart. It would be shaming to Iliana, socially. Personally, I don’t think she’d care, but it’s a courtesy thing.”

“I don’t do a lot of lovey stuff anyway,” Geralt said. 

“You think you don’t,” Jaskier said. He began to unroll their bedroll.

“What do you mean, Jaskier?”

Jaskier turned to him, smiling indulgently and gilded in the firelight. “Our lives have molded around one another, my love. When I stand beside you your hand goes to my back or my shoulder. You order dinner for me because you know just what food I like. When I’m tired you don’t have to ask what’s wrong, you just lift me onto Roach behind you.”

Geralt hadn’t even realized he did, but he knew it was true. Jaskier leaned over and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s slightly furrowed brow.

“When my boots are wearing thin you buy me new ones before I even notice. When I’m cold you give me your cloak. If I fall asleep with my head on your shoulder you’d rather sit like that all night than disturb me.”

Geralt shrugged awkwardly. “You buy me beeswax,” he said. It seemed a fair retort. Jaskier bought him beeswax to put in his ears when cities or sometimes monsters were too loud for Geralt’s senses. “You only buy light scents, even though I know you like bolder perfumes.”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, taking one of Geralt’s large, scarred hands. “We love eachother very much, and it’s obvious to people who care to look.”

“That could be dangerous,” Geralt began, his head spiralling towards worry for Jaskier’s safety, but Jaskier cut him off.

“No, dear heart. It’s obvious to those who care to look. The sort of people who would hurt me for loving you, well, most of them think you can’t love, so they don’t look for love, and they don’t see.” 

Geralt sat back. People saw what they expected to see, it was true. 

“We’ll travel to Gwendeith,” he said. “And unbetroth you.”

Jaskier kissed him and his lips tasted like the jerky they’d eaten for supper.

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

The trip to Gwendeith was long. It was at the very edge of any map, past Posada to the east, tucked into the Blue mountains.  They traveled along the Dyfne river, taking the occasional contract but making good time. This far from anything, there were few people to be troubled by monsters. 

They stopped in Posada one night, eating dinner in the corner of a familiar tavern. This time, however, Jaskier was much better received and the bread ended up on the table rather than down his trousers.

Past Posada, and almost to the end of the Dyfne river, Geralt asked, “Why did your parents pick Iliana? How did they know of her?” Lettenhove was entirely the other side of the continent, a tiny island off the coast of Poviss with two villages and a couple flocks of sheep. 

Geralt only knew of it from Jaskier’s descriptions, which were mostly stories of the ice cold sea and rocky cliffs. He tended toward calling it ‘idyllic’ and ‘picturesque’ altough occassionally ‘the arse end of the world’ and ‘colder than an ice giant’s ballsack.’ The first time Geralt had taken Jaskier to Kaer Morhen he’d feared for his bard’s safety in the cold of the mountains, but Jaskier hadn’t even blinked an eye, merely bundling up in a hugely wooly cloak and mittens. 

“Ah, well,” Jaskier said. “Long story, but Papa was in Temeria, see, since nothing ever happens in Lettenhove, because we have more people than sheep, he get’s sent on diplomatic missions a lot. He’s good at it, and he can be spared. He loves it too, even though he’s sort of retired he still does them. Takes Ma, calls the trips his little “sunshine vacations”. 

“You get your personality from your father, then?” Geralt asked. Jaskier didn’t talk about his family much, and Geralt got the sense that, rather than this being because they were horrible, Jaskier simply missed them too much. 

“Definitely. Ma’s lovely, and brilliant with just everything to do with her hands, but she’s not good with people. I got her looks, though.”

“I should thank her, then,” Geralt said, smiling. 

Jaskier chuckled. “Yes, she’s the reason for the long lives, too, fantastic story.”

“Finish the one about your father and Gwendeith first.”

“Right, so Papa was in Temeria, and so was Iliana’s father, sort of the mayor of Gwendeith, as I understand, although not back then. He’d gotten robbed, though, and Papa had won a horse and quite a lot of gold in a card game. It might have been Gwent, I can’t remember. If you ever meet Papa you should ask him. Anyway, he gave the extra horse and gold to Iliana’s father.”

“So your betrothal was a debt?”

“Goodness, no. This was years before I was born, Papa hadn’t even met Ma yet. No, they struck up a friendship, because when Iliana’s father got home he had a mage send a message to Papa to thank him and they struck up a friendship.”

“Sending messages by mage? That’s expensive for a penpal.”

“Ah well, that actually ties in to the story about Ma. Ma’s got magic, just a little, she’s a hedge witch of a sort. The issue is, hedge witches mostly use plants, and Ma couldn’t grow grass, so she mostly works with wood. Anyway, she has a friend, her very best friend, is a mage. They grew up together, and my Auntie Szarlotta sent my Papa’s first few messages back to Iliana’s father.”

Geralt smiled atop Roach. Jaskier’s storytelling pace was as familiar as Roach’s saddle, and it was calming in a way. 

“So, Auntie was sending Papa’s message when Ma came in to visit. That’s how she met Papa, because she’d only just moved to Lettenhove. Auntie says it was love at first sight, but Papa insists that Ma turned up her nose and ignored him for months.”

“Which one is it?”

“Knowing Ma, probably both. She’s a little like you, so the second she realized she liked Papa she ignored him so she wouldn’t have to deal with it.”

Geralt huffed good-naturedly.

“Anyway, Auntie Szarlotta agreed to send Papa’s messages for free, and she even included a way for Iliana’s father to send them back, so long as he wrote his response on the back of the same paper. She always timed it though, so that Ma was over when Papa was there. And I guess the rest is history.”

“Except the immortality.”

“Right, well, Ma got really sick when she was pregnant with my sister, I was little so I barely remember but Papa was so worried, and Ma looked really pale. Well, Auntie got really worried, freaked out a little, and she found all these old spells to try to make Ma well again. I remeber the light, she was working in a room of the old lighthouse and I could see the light of her spells from my window. Anyway, eventually she tries some on Ma, but they don’t work, and she just keeps trying.”

Geralt had an image of a frantic sorceress being watched by a young Jaskier through a crack in a door. 

“But I suppose some of those old spells need a little time to work because nothing at all worked and then they all sort of worked at once. There was this big, bright light and then Ma was well, and she and Papa haven’t aged a day since then.”

Geralt glanced at his lover, who looked the same at fifty as he had at twenty. “And you don’t age? What about your sister?”

“Ksenia hasn’t aged either. She looks like Papa, just so you know, grey eyes, blonde hair. She’s got two kids, now, but I haven’t met them.”

“Do the kids age?”

“Right now they’re very young,” Jaskier said. “I didn’t stop aging until nineteen or twenty, so I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.”

“How do you know she has kids?”

“Oh, well, Auntie Szarlotta sends letters to me, but we travel and it’s hard to send them right to me, so I just pick them up at Oxenfurt.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. He needed to go to Lettenhove. Jaskier had met his sort-of-family, he should meet Jaskier’s. 

“I’d love to go see them...” Jaskier said, wistfully. 

“Who?”

“My niece and nephew, they’re almost two and three years old now.”

Geralt picked Jaskier up by the collar of his doublet and placed him onto the back of Roach. 

“We’ll spend the winter in Lettenhove this year,” he said as Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s waist.

“Really?”

“Hmmm.”

Geralt needed to ask Jaskier’s father for his hand in marriage, anyway.

-- -- -- -- -- -- 

They made it to Gwendeith just after mid summer, riding into the little town at noon. Despite the season, the little mountain valley was shaded and cool. Jaskier shivered slightly and Geralt had to resist the urge to pull his cloak from his pack. From that point forth, they weren’t supposed to be in love.

Fuck.

They had to request a meeting with the mayor, which didn’t surprise Geralt. In a town such as this, logging and mining were the main industries. Trading for food to last over the winter began early and was of the utmost importance. That left Geralt and Jaskier, unfortunately, sitting with a man who introduced himself as Sir Boris.

Apparently he was a retired knight who acted as a sort of captain of the guard, except there wasn’t much of a guard. His wife Lady Olenka joined them and the two of them talked about their grandchildren until Geralt could feel his eyes rolling back in his head. 

At any other time, Jaskier would have placed one gentle hand on his wrist, which would have fortified Geralt, but they couldn’t. 

“But you’re here for Iliana,” Sir Boris was saying. “Dreadfully sorry you can’t see her today, I’m afraid there’s been an issue with the lumber trade to sort out. You’ll just have to have my darling Lenka and I as company until that’s done.”

He sent a huge wink to his wife, a slim, elegant woman, who chuckled and playfully hit him on the shoulder, to which Sir Boris pretended to be wounded before throwing back his head and laughing hugely. Everything the old knight did was huge, he was a large man with a round, red face and large belly and a laugh that could shake walls. 

“It’s no trouble,” Jaskier said. “I’m sure preparing for winter is a year round project here.”

“Oh of course,” Lady Olenka said. “But once it’s here we can all relax, and spend time with family.” She leaned forward as if imparting a delightful secret and said in a stage-whisper, “Boris has been our town’s Father Winter for the last four years.”

Jaskier made impressed ‘ooh’ noises and Geralt tried to at least look like he understood that. 

Boris laughed again. “It’s this lot,” he said, slapping his round stomach. “Better than some old geezer with a pillow down his shirt, eh?”

Geralt hummed in agreement. 

“And you must make a lovely Mother Winter, Lady Olenka,” Jaskier said politely.

She smiled, lines crinkling around her eyes as if drawing a road map. “It’s not as important as Father Winter, of course, but I rather pride myself that I plan a very good Midwinter festival.” Geralt got the sense that behind the modesty she was quite proud, and, he suspected, with good reason.

“But, you must tell me,” she said, modestly changing the subject. “Is there to be a missus Pankratz, now that you’ve come to see Lady Iliana?”

“I am a man in love,” Jaskier said. “And I am hopeful that an engagement will come soon, yes.”

“Oh dearie that’s just lovely,” Lady Olenka said, patting Jaskier’s cheek. “And you’re such a nice boy too, little young looking to be betrothed to our Lady Iliana anyway, although she’s a very dear woman.”

“We just love her,” Sir Boris said. “She’s a great mayor, not keen on marriage, but nobody minds, she just seems to have adopted the whole town as family.”

Lady Olenka patted her husband’s broad shoulder. “It was smart of you not to bring your love here, though. There’s some nobles here from Lyria, that’s who she’s been trading with, and I think they’d like any excuse to disparage here.” She lowered her voice again. “You know how those lot are about having women in charge.”

“I can’t relate,” Sir Boris laughed. “Lenka’s the ruler in our house.” That got a laugh because it had to, and because Sir Boris’s laugh was surprisingly infectious. 

“Good on you bringing a bodyguard too,” he said once the laughter had abated. He slapped Geralt companionably on the back, which was like being hit by a friendly battering ram. “Witcher too, don’t get many up here, but I bet you’re the safest man in a hundred miles.”

“Oh, dear, don’t you know?” Lady Olenka said. “Lord Julian here is a bard as well, he goes by Jaskier and sings all about witchers.”

“Really?” Sir Boris said, looking at Jaskier. “Blimey, imagine that. Good on you, finding a niche in the market.”

Geralt’s ears were beginning to ache. Friendly though Sir Boris might be, he didn’t seem to have a volume level below ‘deafening’. He was tired and overwrought and he just wanted to cuddle up with Jaskier in a bed. It wasn’t even suppertime, though.

They sat through another hour of hearing about Boris and Olenka’s eighteen grandchildren. 

“And three great-grandchildren,” Boris added proudly.

Geralt was thankful Jaskier could carry the conversation. He longed for a kiss, though. Now that he knew he couldn’t have one, his lips fairly ached for one.

Supper was a large affair, with one of Boris and Olenka’s children’s family over for dinner as well. Geralt was seated across from Jaskier between two small children who, apparently, needed to be separated at dinertimes to prevent bickering. They contented themselves instead by asking Geralt every question they could think of, often making him wrack his brain for child appropriate answers.

It wasn’t just witchering questions, either. He answered such questions as “Why is the sky blue?” (Because it’s Melitele’s favorite color). Immediately before answering “How big are dragon scales?” (The small ones are like pebbles and the big ones are like shields.)

Jaskier smiled at him over his bowl of stew, eyes sparkling. Geralt loved children, and Jaskier loved seeing them adore Geralt.

“So, Lord Julian,” Boris and Olenka’s daughter began. “Your lady love, tell us about her?” She smiled Lady Olenka’s warm smile and Jaskier did a good show of seeming bashful. 

“My love is unlike any other,” he began. “And if you’ll pardon my saying so, I’m a poet, and so must wax poetic.”

“Wouldn’t settle for anything less, lad!” Boris bellowed cheefully.

“My darling has fair hair, like moonlight,” Jaskier said, and the table oohed appreciatively. Geralt felt his ears get hot.

“And eyes like summer,” the bard continued. “I could get lost in them. No eyes could compare.” Geralt kicked him under the table, but Olenka was sighing sympathetically.

“But of course,” Jaskier said slyly, my heart is best held by my love’s lips.”

Boris chuckled knowingly. “I’ll bet it is, my boy,” he said, winking. Olenka slapped his arm, but she was smiling. Geralt felt hot.

“I’m afraid, however that my lover is quite modest, and won’t appreciate me extolling too many virtues,” Jaskier finished. “So I must finish with, I love them very much, and it is for them alone that my heart beats.”

Therewith leaving every person at the table (those above the age of twelve, at least) with misty eyes, Jaskier helped Lady Olenka clean up supper. Geralt helped put the dishes away.

After dinner they were led back to the mayor’s house. “I’m afraid the negotiations don’t seem to be finished,” Lady Olenka said. “I had hoped they would be quick, but it seems not. If the issue wasn’t resolved today, I wouldn’t bet on them being resolved too early tomorrow, either. You two don’t have pressing business elsewhere?”

“No, my lady,” Jaskier said, although if they lingered too long they wouldn’t make it to Lettenhove for the winter, as it was, it would be close.

“I’m sure she’ll be able to see you soon,” the lady said. “Here’s your room, and Master Witcher, your room is just at the far end of the hall.”

She said goodnight and Geralt hoped she couldn’t see the slump of his shoulders.

Separate rooms.

Jaskier smiled ruefully at him and they parted for the night. Geralt’s bed was large and comfortable, with clean linens and feather pillows, but he barely got a wink of sleep.

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

The next morning found Jaskier and Geralt breakfasting in the tavern, owned, apparently, by another of Boris and Olenka’s grown children.

“Did you sleep well?” Jaskier whispered over a plate of sausage and eggs.

“Fine,” Geralt grunted.

“I couldn’t sleep a wink,” Jaskier said. “Want my last piece of bacon? I’m stuffed.”

Geralt took it gratefully, slipping Jaskier his fried slice as a trade. No matter how Jaskier protested that he was stuffed, he always had room for a fried slice.”

“Terrible woman,” said a nasal voice at the next table. “Just impossible to do business with.”

“I agree, overemotional, you know how they get,” agreed another voice. Jaskier made eye contact with Geralt. The accent was Lyrian.

“Not even married,” said the first speaker. “What a disgrace. If my daughter got to her age without children I’d just die of shame.”

Geralt pitied his daughter.

“Oh of course,” said the second man. “Attractive, though, for an old maid.”

The first man snickered cruelly. “Thinking a little wooing might soften her up?”

“It always does, women like that, they’re just angry because they haven’t found a man.”

“Won’t your wife mind?”

“Are you going to tell her?” Both men laughed unpleasantly.

A serving girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, came around the tables, presumably one of Sir Boris’ many granddaughters. She took their plates onto a tray and smiled when Jaskier slipped a few coins onto the tray as a tip.

At the next table  one of the Lyrian’s snapped their fingers impatiently. The girl rolled her eyes. Geralt was pleased to see that, although she served him professionally, as she walked away she ‘accidentally’ tread on his foot.

“What pathetic pieces of shit, the pair of them,” Jaskier said as they stepped out into the sunlight. 

“Hmmm,” Geralt agreed. Then he looked around quickly and pulled Jaskier into an alleyway, urging the bard deeper into the shadows. 

“What? Geralt di-”

Geralt smushed his lips gracelessly to Jaskier’s, crowding him up against the wall. Jaskier’s hair between his fingers was so familiar and comforting, as was the little sigh Jaskier let out.

They pulled apart and Geralt rested his forehead against Jaskier’s. “That’ll tide me over for a while,” he whispered. Jaskier smiled.

“Are you master Julian?”

The pair sprang apart, looking in alarm at the red headed boy at the far end of the alley. 

“Yes...?” Jaskier said.

“Only, Pa said to come find you, and he said you’d be with a big man dressed all in black.”

“And you found us here?” Jaskier asked.

“Didn’t know you’d be here, did I?” Said the boy, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. “It’s the shortcut through to the tavern, but then, I figured he’s the only big man in black around.”

Geralt inclined his head, feeling his ears go hot.

“Lady Iliana has time to see you now,” the boy continued, oblivious to the awkwardness. 

“By all means...lead the way,” said Jaskier.

They were led out of the alley and back to the mayor’s house by the messenger boy.

“Out of curiosity,” Jaskier asked. “Is your grandad Sir Boris?” 

“Yeah, that’s him,” said the lad. “He made me a toy sword for my tenth birthday too.” He pointed proudly to the wooden sword tied at his hip with some string.

“It makes you look a proper hero,” Jaskier said. Then he pulled out his coin purse. “A copper for bringing us the message and...another to not tell anyone what you saw.”

The boy looked between the two of them shrewdly.

“Not even my best friend? I tell Mikhail everything.”

“Not until Geralt and I have left.”

“Three coppers total,” the boy said promptly. Jaskier handed them over good naturedly and the boy flashed a gap toothed grin before taking off.

Geralt and Jaskier shrugged at each other, before finding their way to the main room of the mayor’s house. A broad shouldered woman of about fifty poked her head out of a door.

“Julian?”

Geralt and Jaskier went inside.

“You look well,” Iliana said, sitting behind a large desk and gesturing to a couple chairs. “You havent’ aged a day.”

“And you look as lovely as I remember,” Jaskier said.

“Flirt. Come to ask me for heirs?”

Jaskier shuddered. “No, my lady. I remember your threat well. I think you know why I’m here.”

The two Lyrians barged through the door. 

“Did I ask you to enter?” Iliana said, coldly. Geralt felt an unusual curl of fear set up in his stomach, she was a distinctly fearsome woman.

“Well,” said the first Lyrian.

“You were so beautiful, I couldn’t wait on seeing you again,” said the second, slimily.

“Oh I say!,” Iliana said, standing. She placed her hand over her chest in a delicately offended way, which was ill suited to her. “You sir are too bold, and in front of my betrothed too!”

The Lyrians looked, panicked, at the people sat in the chairs. As Geralt was seated in the chair nearest the door, and therefore nearest them, they came to the wrong conclusion. The blood drained from both their faces.

“What an insult!” Iliana continued. “You should be ashamed! What a lack of diplomacy!” 

Beside Geralt, Jaskier snickered. She was laying it on a little thick. 

“Why,” she continued. “I ought to write to your king! I’ve never been so insulted. And I’m sure my beloved will want to sort out this insult too.” She fluttered her lashes at Geralt. 

Geralt nearly jumped out of his seat, but thankfully his brain caught up. He stood, growling a little theatrically and placed one hand on the hilt of his steel sword.

“Our apologies my lady,” the first man said hurriedly.

“Our mistake, we’ll just--” they dissappeared out the door.

“What a fearsome couple,” Geralt heard whispered as the door swung shut.

Iliana sighed satisfactedly and kicked her feet up on her desk. “It seems I should thank you,” she said. “That is going to make negotiations much easier.”

“I’m sure you always get good deals,” Jaskier said.

“Yes. I get the deals I want.”

“You know why I’m here,” Jaskier said.

“Yes.”

“Do you agree?”

“To disolve the betrothal? Of course. Never found a lover for myself so I never bothered but, well, I just don’t do romance.”

“Some people don’t,” Geralt said, thinking of Eskel.”

“Indeed,” Iliana said, smiling warmly at him. “Not all of us have a soulmate to sing us songs.” She laughed at their surprised faces. 

“Oh you fooled them, and you may have fooled Boris and Olenka, but I’ve heard your songs, Julian. It’s written right into everything you do.”

She began rummaging in one of the drawers in the desk. “I don’t mind, of course. So few people know we’re actually betrothed...there it is.” She pulled out an old piece of paper. “I’ll just rip it up if that’s fine by you. You’ll have to do the same to yours of course.”

“We’re going to Lettenhove this winter,” Jaskier said. “I’ll do it as soon as I find it.”

Iliana smiled again. “Father always did say that your dad had a horrible filing system.”

“He filed all his papers on the floor, yes, although I imagine my sister is neater.”

Iliana tore the paper in half without ceremony and placed the contract in the waste paper bin. “Lettenhove is very far away, Julian, will you get there in time?”

Jaskier glanced at Geralt. 

“I don’t know,” Geralt said.

“No matter,” said Iliana. She began writing something on a new sheet of paper. “Our logging teams float lumber all down the Dyfne and Pontar rivers. Show this to the dockmaster at the tip of the Dyfne and our riverboat captains can get you to Novigrad.” 

She pulled out another sheet of paper. “Once you’re in Novigrad, show this to the harbormaster and he’ll get you to Lettenhove.” She looked at their shocked faces and smiled. “Our lumber is the best, and it’s used in everything, including ships. I’m willing to cash in a favor in order to get rid of a useless betrothal.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Jaskier said bowing deeply. “I’ll have my Aunt Szarlotta send a message once our betrothal is fully extant.”

Iliana stood and shook his hand. “I’d appreciate that.”

“Our fathers were penpals,” Jaskier said. “Perhaps we should keep up the tradition?” 

The mayor inclined her head. “I’d like that. I may be too busy to write often.”

Jaskier waved a hand. “I can only pick up messages when I pass through Oxenfurt, but I like to make friends with powerful people.” 

The two of them shared a smile.

“Not to rush you out my door,” Iliana said. “But I do have a lot to do, winter comes early up here, and I know it does as well in Lettenhove. even with my help, you two should leave soon.”

Geralt and Jaskier left that afternoon, just after a hearty meal at the tavern.

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

Across the continent and some weeks later, Jaskier and Geralt stepped onto the docks in Novigrad.

“I don’t think Roach liked the river boats,” Jaskier said as Geralt led her off. Roach whinnied and shook her mane emphatically.

“Sorry, girl,” Geralt said. “You’ll have another long boat journey, and this time I doubt we’ll stop so you can run about on land.”

“Nah,” Jaskier said, as they walked toward a tavern for supper. “Boats from Novigrad to Lettenhove stop around the coast on the way, she’ll get plenty of exercise. It’s something to do with the currents.”

He petted Roach’s muzzle softly as they stabled her at the inn beside the tavern and Geralt felt his heart go out to his bard. Jaskier cared so much for Roach. Geralt thought again of the gold band in his pack.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s eat.”

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

Slightly more than a month later, after a slow, coastal boat journey, and then another between Inis Porhoest and Lettenhove, Geralt, Jaskier, and their faithful horse, stepped off the final boat.

“Welcome home, Master Julian,” said a fisherman on the dock.

“Does everyone here know you?” Geralt asked.

“Pretty much, there’s only about three hundred people here.”

News spread fast among three hundred people and Jaskier and Geralt were greeted enthusiastically at the door to the very small castle. A blonde woman who could only be Ksenia, Jaskier’s sister, flung her arms around him, and withing a moment Geralt was being gathered into the hug by a slightly older looking couple.

“Julek,” said the blonde man, pulling back. “My boy, you’re home, and you brought this stunning man, wow, what a looker.” 

“Papa, don’t be embarrassing,” Jaskier said. Geralt flushed clear to the roots of his hair. Apparently when Jaskier said he had his father’s personality he meant all of his father’s personality.

They had dinner as a family, including Jaskier’s niece and nephew, Cecylia and Prot. They had questions for Geralt, and he was grateful for the practice he’d had in Gwendeith. It was an enjoyable meal over all, and afterward Jaskier was distracted by his Aunt Szarlotta while Geralt slipped away to ask Mr. Pankratz a very important question.

The two of them returned to the main hall to see Jaskier pretending to be a dragon, while Cecylia and Prot bravely fought him with butterknives, but he straightened up when he saw the look on Geralt’s face.

Geralt took his hand and Jaskier squeezed it three times, it was their code, asking if Geralt needed to go somewhere that wasn’t so hard on his senses. Geralt smiled and shook his head, swallowing nervously around the lump in his throat.

He got down on one knee and pulled out the gold band. “I’m...I’m not good with words.” Geralt swallowed again, wishing he could borrow Jaskier’s eloquence for five minutes or so. “Marry me?”

The words were barely out from his mouth before Jaskier was tackling him to the ground, pressing kisses all over his face.

“Oh Geralt!” he said. “Wait--”

Jaskier looked up at his mother, who smiled and was handed a paper by his Aunt Szarlotta. Mrs. Pankratz ripped the betrothal contract in half.

“Yes,” Jaskier said, laughing. “I will marry you!”

Then they kissed on the chilly stone floor.

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

Dear Lady Iliana, Mayor of Gwendeith

The former contract has been voided. 

Szarlotta of Lettenhove

P.S. Geralt and Jaskier are engaged and send their love.

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

Holy Cow. 5603 words. I...I don’t even know what to say. I hope you like it.

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Stranded and Geraskier? 🧜‍♂️

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier Warning(s): non-human anatomy, tentacles (in every possible way), choking/breathplay Rating: explicit

Summary:  While exploring a cave, Jaskier gets trapped by the tide, but the inhabitant is more than happy to find a way to help him pass the time.

I took this idea and ran with it! Thank you for the opportunity to write octo!Geralt, I've been wanting to for a while now <3

There is a reason they say the northern end of the beach is off-limits, but Jaskier has always been inquisitive and rather terrible at following instructions, so it's no surprise that he ends up there anyway. He's been staying on the coast for a while now and while he always loves coming back, he's feeling a little restless lately. So he's taken to taking strolls along the beach in the early morning or the evening while he's not performing, but today he has the entire day free, so he's come a little earlier than usual to try and settle himself.

But the usual route isn't doing anything for him today. The sand is still soft and warm on his feet and the waves still crash rhythmically on the shore, but he just wants something new. So, when he reaches the end of his normal walk and comes to the gated off area at the northernmost end of the beach, he slips past the gate and continues. Nothing immediately jumps out at him as dangerous, so he just strolls along, shuffling his feet through the sand.

The beach is usually quiet, but right now there isn't another person in sight and Jaskier revels in the silence, humming to himself as he goes along. When he comes to the point, he follows the tapering beach around to a point and beyond it, there's a little more land that leads into a rocky outcrop. He can't get past it, but he could climb up it and sit in the sun, looking out over the ocean.

He wades through the water where it rises to midway up his shins before reaching the other side, but when he reaches the stone ledge, he spots what looks like a cave. And he can't just not go look at it. So he takes another quick peek just to ensure no one else is around and hurries toward the opening in the rock. The sun above is bright, but the overhang of rock offers some relief from the heat, so he takes his time.

The entrance is, in fact, the mouth of a cave and Jaskier grins to himself, slipping inside. It's not deep, but at the back there is a drop-off and a tunnel that leads further. He walks forward steps around the gaping hole in the ground, careful to keep his footing as he aims for the tunnel. It's dark, but he can still see a little - well enough to continue on for the time being - and up ahead there's a faint glow that piques his interest.

So he doesn't stop when the light starts to fade, just heads toward the glow at the back of the tunnel. It's some ways down, but he does eventually come out into another cave with a smooth rocky floor and another tunnel leading off. But what interests Jaskier more than anything is the plant life. It grows on the walls and ceiling and it glows.

It lets off a faint bluish glow and Jaskier leans up to inspect it. Some of the plants grow little purplish flowers, but most of them resemble moss or vines and Jaskier would be inclined to call them plain if they grew in a forest and weren't luminescent. But they are and he's fascinated by it.

He spends more time than he should inspecting all the different types of growth - there are at least four distinct plans he can see all growing together - and it's not until the light from the opposite end of the tunnel begins to fade that he realizes he should turn back. He has a performance tonight and he'd like the chance to bathe and change beforehand.

He slips from the room he's in, heading back through the tunnel, but the ground beneath his feet slopes downward and he doesn't realize until water splashes around his ankles. It startles him at first; there was no water on the way in, but as he reaches the main cave, he realizes what has happened.

He's spent too long exploring and the tide has come in around him, too far now to walk out the way he came in. And Jaskier is a good swimmer, but water swirls dangerously where the hole in the ground is, pouring quickly into, it and he's not a strong enough swimmer to keep from being sucked down. Even as he considers it, the water swirling around his feet rises higher and his only option is to turn back the way he came. Which is not a great option, but he doesn't really see what else he's supposed to do.

But he turns around and heads back through the tunnel. The incline is more than he remembers, and judging by what he knows of the tides - very little - he thinks he should be safe to hide out here until it goes back down again. He finds a bare patch of wall and drops to the ground to lean against it, sighing softly as he listens to the water rising in the tunnel. It splashes against stone and Jaskier shuts his eyes, focusing on the calming sound of it. Maybe the time will pass more quickly if he can just have a little nap.

But the more he listens, the more he hears and there's a slick, sliding sound he's been assuming was seaweed caught in the current, but when he focuses hard enough, he can hear something not unlike breathing. His eyes flash open and he scans the room but sees nothing. Then, out of the corner of his eye, there's a shadow.

Jaskier's heart races because he knows the kinds of things that live in the sea; sirens, drowners and any number of animals that would be happy enough to eat him alive. So he presses himself against the wall and keeps quiet.

Something long and thin slips over his foot, curling around his ankle, and Jaskier's eyes flash open. He hadn't even realized they were still shut, but when he looks up there's a person in front of him, or at least he looks like a person. But as he comes closer, Jaskier realizes he only looks human from the waist up. Below the waist is a mass of dark tentacles, sprawled out all around him and propelling him forward.

Jaskier shudders at the sight of him, but as he approaches, the fear dissipates a little, replaced with intrigue. The man - if he can be called that at all - doesn't seem angry or upset and he has a friendly enough expression. He slips closer, sinking lower so he's face-to-face with Jaskier and it becomes clear that he's just as curious about Jaskier as Jaskier is about him.

"Uh, sorry," Jaskier mumbles, "I didn't mean to intrude, I just ah-" one of the tentacles reaches out, tipping his chin up and sliding across his jaw. "I just got trapped-?" His voice rises at the end like a question, but the creature just cocks his head at him.

"The tide," he says and Jaskier nods. He's got a beautiful voice, deep and rough and in any other situation, incredibly sexy. But while Jaskier isn't discriminating in his choice of partners, he's still feeling rather trapped.

"Mmhm."

"It won't go down again until morning. Unless you can hold your breath for a long time, you'll have to spend the night."

"Oh." Jaskier is caught off guard by the lightness of his response and he looks up at him. "You don't mind?" he asks and the creature just smiles at him, an odd sort of smile that makes something in Jaskier's stomach flip.

"Stay," he says, "it'll be hours before the tide is low enough for you to leave again."

"You're not going to eat me?" The creature laughs and slides a little closer, peering at him.

"No. I've never had a… human in my home before. I'm certainly not going to kill you." He chuckles softly and swishes away to the other side of the cave, but Jaskier is caught on the sound of his laugh, a warm, welcoming thing that he'd like very much to hear again. And, well, he has all night.

"Sorry," he says, rising to his feet and following the creature to the other side, "I don't know what - who - you are."

"Geralt," he says plainly, "I'm a cecaelia. We've been here longer than most, but many of us don't come so close to the surface, so you wouldn't have met many."

"Haven't met any," Jaskier confirms. "We're told to stay away from the creatures who live in the sea." Geralt lifts an eyebrow at the word creature, but doesn't say anything about it. Jaskier makes a mental note not to repeat it.

"And you," Geralt prompts, "what's your name, human?"

"Jaskier," he huffs and I get the point. "Do you live here alone?"

"Yes, unless you count the fish who filter in and out with the tides."

"You must get lonely."

Geralt gives him a look that from anyone else he might consider flirtatious, and it stirs something inside him that he quickly tamps down. This isn't the time to get turned on. Especially not by someone who's not human.

"Occasionally. I'm used to being alone."

Jaskier isn't sure how to respond to that, so he lets the conversation drop. He wants to assure him, which is a strange compulsion because he doesn't even know Geralt. Two hours ago he couldn't have cared less about a man living on his own in this cave. But now…

He looks him over, following the line of his body from his strong jaw and thick chest down to the mass of tentacles that never quite seem to stop moving. Even when Geralt is still, they shift under him like he's trying to settle, though he seems calm. More like an unconscious motion, maybe. But Jaskier is fascinated by them. He wants to touch, to feel, but he knows well enough to keep his hands to himself when unwanted, so he switches focus.

"So what's it like living down here?" he asks, looking around the cave as though he hadn't spent ages exploring it already.

"Quiet," Geralt says tiredly, "peaceful. But that's not what you want to talk about, is it? You can ask," he hums.

"I just-"

"Jaskier, we have all night down here together. Ask."

"Do they ever stop moving?" he blurts and heat creeps into his cheeks at the abruptness of it, but Geralt just chuckles softly.

"When I sleep. When I'm relaxed."

"Then what's wrong, now? If you're not relaxed."

"I have… questions of my own."

"Okay," Jaskier says, "ask away."

"Can I… touch you?" he asks and Jaskier's breath catches.

"If you like. I have nothing to hide."

Geralt shifts forward, reaching out to brush a tentacle under his chin again, tipping his head up and moving it side to side. It feels like an examination, like the time he fell ill and had to be taken to a healer, but Geralt's touch is much softer, much more delicate than that.

"I've never met a human before either," he says conversationally, "you're… softer than I expected."

"Softer?" Jaskier laughs, "how so?"

"Your… skin looks thick and rough, but it's soft, smooth." He presses the tip of the tentacle against his cheek, pressing in gently. "Like a jellyfish," he adds and Jaskier laughs again.

"Is that bad?"

"No," Geralt hums, tilting his own head as he turns Jaskier's. "I like it." Another tentacle curls around the back of his neck and Jaskier breathes deeply, trying hard not to think too much about the touch, about how it feels like a lover's touch.

He's had countless lovers slip a hand around his neck to pull him closer and he leans in without thinking, letting Geralt have full control over him. Geralt grins and smiles knowingly at him, sliding the tentacle from his neck to his shoulder and down over his chest. The tip of it slips into the gaps in Jaskier's shirt, poking at the buttons holding it closed.

"Why do you wear these?" he asks, not looking up from his exploration. "Don't they get in the way?"

"No," Jaskier shakes his head and hates to admit that he sounds a little breathless. "They keep me warm. I'd freeze in the cold weather without clothes. And they keep me covered. It's not polite to walk around naked all the time."

"For humans," Geralt amends and Jaskier nods. "I'm not human." Jaskier chokes on the implication, but Geralt just meets his eyes questioningly.

"You can take it off, if you want."

Geralt doesn't need to be told twice. He fumbles with the button at first, but when he brings up a second tentacle to push at it, he has much more luck. Jaskier wants to tell him he could just use his hands, but there's something fascinating about the potential of having those tentacles on his skin. Once the buttons are undone, Geralt shoves the shirt back off his shoulders leaving it half-tucked into his trousers.

He frowns at Jaskier's chest, running his tentacles over his skin. Jaskier gasps when he brushes over a nipple and leans into the touch instinctively. He draws back just as abruptly, gasping as he realizes what he's doing. He doesn't have a chance to apologize before Geralt's touch lightens. He doesn't pull away, but he tips his head at him.

"Should I stop?" he asks, but the tone of his voice implies that he doesn't want to.

"I just- Geralt you don't know what you're doing."

"I do," he hums, "this part of you, I understand. It feels good for you?"

"Yeah. Do you- do you want to make it feel good?"

"If you'll let me," Geralt hums, "I've always been… intrigued by you, by humans." Jaskier grins and pushes forward, sliding one hand down the length of the tentacle exploring his chest.

"Can I touch you, too?"

"Of course, I'd like that."

"You realize what you're offering, right? Not that I'm opposed, but I want to make sure we're both on the same page, here."

"Jaskier," he hums, "we have all night and I'd very much like to fuck you if you're amenable."

Jaskier's skin prickles and he lets out a little groan. Maybe he should feel weird about Geralt wanting to fuck him just because he's human, but he's vibrating at the thought of it already.

"Please," he whispers and Geralt moves immediately.

He wraps one tentacle around his waist, hauling him in and holding him close. He tugs the shirt from Jaskier's trousers, chucking it aside as Jaskier straddles him, careful where he puts his knees so he doesn't hurt Geralt. But Geralt keeps him off the ground, hovering slightly so Jaskier's front presses against him firmly, but so he only barely touches Geralt's tentacles or the webbing between them.

Jaskier presses himself forward, conscious of the fastenings on his trousers as he grinds against Geralt's torso. Tentacles wind around his hips and chest and thighs, slipping against his skin then pausing to suck at it. It sends shivers up his spine and goosebumps break out over his skin. The feeling is so foreign, the feeling of suction all over his skin, but it feels good and he leans into it.

Geralt's hands settle on his shoulders, slowly sliding down, and Jaskier glances up to meet his eyes. Geralt's have grown dark, but there's still a sliver of gold around his pupils and Jaskier finds himself entranced by it, how it shimmers and almost glows even in the low light. He touches Geralt's face, traces the line of his cheekbones and runs his thumb against his lip.

"You're beautiful," he whispers and Geralt's hands slip to his waist, pulling him up against him. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes."

Jaskier leans in and Geralt meets him halfway, kissing him hard and nipping his lip with teeth sharper than they ought to be. Though Jaskier supposes he doesn't have much for a frame of reference when it comes to cecaelia. He deepens the kiss, letting Geralt's tongue slide into his mouth, thinner and more pointed than his own. He licks into him, fingers digging into his skin as he grips his thighs, and Jaskier just holds on for the ride.

All his experience with other people means nothing when faced with Geralt and he's feeling a little out of his depth as he's laid back against the stone floor again. Geralt breaks the kiss long enough to squirm in between his thighs and then reaches down, fumbling with the clasps of Jaskier's trousers. He gets them undone and shoves them down his legs, immediately getting his tentacles back on his bare skin.

"Oh," Jaskier gasps, "oh, that's good, Geralt."

"Feels good?"

"Very. Keep going."

Jaskier shuts his eyes as Geralt's tentacles slip between his legs, brushing against his balls before squeezing around his thighs. Geralt hums and gets his arms around Jaskier's waist, sliding one hand down over his ass.

"Tell me what to do," Geralt says, tilting his head to kiss Jaskier's jaw, "tell me what feels good."

"Anything," Jaskier hums, "just touch me."

"Like this?" Geralt asks, sliding a tentacle around his torso and Jaskier nods, eyes fluttering as suction cups catch on his nipples. He moans softly, reaching out to run his hands up Geralt's chest and Geralt pushes into the touch. "You like that, too?"

"Yes." Jaskier revels in the surprising warmth of his skin, soft and smooth over firm muscles and he slides his hands up over his shoulders, pulling Geralt close to kiss him again. He sighs into his mouth and Geralt deepens the kiss, pressing further against him.

He's got Jaskier almost completely bound now, wrapped tightly and held just above his lap, but he moves forward, tipping him back and laying him on the ground. Abruptly, all of the tentacles around him are gone and Jaskier is left alone and suddenly cold on the ground, but it doesn't last long. Geralt slides up over his thighs, settling himself there where he has full access to Jaskier's body.

He runs tentacles over his chest and Jaskier stretches out, pushing his arms up above his head to give Geralt better access to him. His touch feels good, like a massage. Geralt doesn't hesitate to touch anywhere, pushing his thighs apart and sliding between them, sliding up around his balls as another curls around his cock, squeezing experimentally.

Jaskier gives a little whine and Gerakt's eyes flash up to meet his. He does it again, harder this time and Jaskier squirms under him. Geralt's eyes go wide and he grins as he slips his tentacle up the length of him and Jaskier nearly chokes because he's doing it on purpose now. The arm around his balls squeezes a little too and Jaskier tenses up immediately, expecting pain, but it's… good. He shudders a little as his thighs spread further and then Geralt's squeezing again, wrapping around him.

It's not something he's ever done with anyone before, but Geralt has no idea what he likes and doesn't like, or even what feels good for humans, so he's exploring. And evidently, Jaskier is learning a thing or two, also.

Geralt moves on, sliding back up his stomach again and Jaskier shudders as they slip over his hips, over the sensitive skin just above his cock. He wants to let Geralt continue his exploration, but he wants the pressure around his cock again, wants to fuck into the heat of him. Geralt's skin is thicker and rougher than his own, but it's smooth and it feels good against his prick and he just wants.

"Geralt," he whispers, "come here." Geralt cocks his head and leans forward over him. He runs his hands up Geralt's chest, slipping over his shoulders and around his neck to tug him down.

He nips at Geralt's lips, nuzzles at his neck and rocks up against him. He's hard already Geralt's skin just feels so fucking good against his heated cock. He jerks again, pushing up hard and tangling his hands in Geralt's hair. He slips one hand out of Geralt's hair and wraps his hand around Geralt's tentacle and pulls it down between them, sliding it alongside his cock until Geralt gets the idea and wraps around him.

"You like this?" he asks and Jaskier moans softly, rolling his head back as he lets out a breathy yes.

Geralt makes a thoughtful sound and squeezes firmly, eliciting another moan and he seems very pleased with himself. He strokes him a couple of times, slipping right up to the head and sliding around him as he goes. It's intoxicating and Jaskier doesn't know if his own hand will ever be sufficient again, after this.

But Geralt still delights in finding the new things and he slips away shortly, slipping up to play with Jaskier's nipples again and Jaskier just groans. Geralt perks up, grinning at him.

"Do you want this?" he asks, slipping over his aching cock again. Jaskier nods and Geralt strokes him exactly twice before winding down around his thighs and squeezing.

"Geralt," Jaskier groans, "please."

"What do you want?" he asks, a smirk spreading across his face. Jaskier could kill him, the bastard. He's toying with him.

"You know what I want."

"Do I? Remind me."

Jaskier groans and grabs for the tentacle again, wrapping it around himself and thrusting up into the coils. He moans softly, dropping his eyes shut and slips his hands around the coiled arm, keeping it tight around him.

"Seems like you've got it under control," Geralt teases, but before Jaskier can even argue, he's leaning down over him, nipping at his collarbone and squeezing around Jaskier's cock.

"Oh, Geralt, please."

His hips buck hard and Geralt coils and uncoils around him and it's a delightful feeling like nothing he's ever felt before. Jaskier whimpers and his hips jerk up into the loose coils, immediately aching for the touch again. But Geralt seems to have lost his taste for teasing now and holds tight around him, ensuring Jaskier's entire cock is engulfed by him, jerking abortively up into the grip of him.

And Jaskier could cry with how good it feels, the rough slickness of Geralt's skin creating a burning need that spreads through him and he's gonna come in no time like this, but he doesn't even mind. Because after he comes, he gets to touch Geralt, to figure out all the little things that turn him on and he looks forward to it with delight.

Geralt pulls him back to the present with a sharp bite to the join of his neck and Jaskier cries out, jerking hard into his tentacle.

"Sorry," Geralt hums, already licking over the mark, but Jaskier shakes his head.

"Fuck, don't be. Do that again."

Geralt lifts his head to look at him then tentatively lowers his head, brushing his lips against the skin of his neck before kissing him. He nibbles lightly at his throat and sucks softly before nosing under his jaw and biting down hard on the side of his neck. Jaskier gasps and moans and his cock jerks as he comes hard, still encompassed by Geralt's body.

Geralt continues with the slipping, almost like wringing a cloth, and Jaskier is breathless and gasping, already swelling again under the touch by the time he pulls away.

"Fuck me," he breathes, "Gods, Geralt you are incredible."

Geralt hums, but his attention is clearly diverted and when Jaskier looks up, he's playing with the come on his chest, slipping the tip of one tentacle through it and lifting it up to sniff at it. Jaskier wrinkles his nose, but then Geralt's putting it in his mouth, flicking his tongue out to taste it and his gut clenches. That… should not be as hot as it is.

Geralt grins down at him and climbs up over him, pressing something warm and wet against Jaskier's cock as he settles himself.

"You look good," he hums, "when you come." Jaskier just groans and presses up against Geralt's underside. He gets a little gasp in response and grins to himself.

"What is that?" he asks, "do you- how do cecaelia fuck?"

Geralt doesn't answer, but shifts again, pressing harder down against Jaskier's prick. It catches on something and Geralt lifts himself just a little, keeping himself steady as he maneuvers Jaskier's cock inside him without so much as touching it.

His eyelids flutter and he moans softly as he sinks down on him, fully engulfing Jaskier's cock and clenching around him.

"Feels fuckin' amazing," Jaskier huffs, though that might be the sensitivity talking. He's not used to coming and immediately being (mounted) afterward, but he's not complaining.

"Mm," Geralt affirms, "it's been a long time since I've taken something inside, but-" he groans as Jaskier shifts his hips and drops forward, leaning on his elbows. "Fuck me," he whispers before leaning in to kiss Jaskier's neck. "Please, fuck me."

Jaskier doesn't need to be told twice. He slides his hands down, settling on the swell of what would be Geralt's hips and holding him down. He rocks into the tight heat, eyes rolling back as Geralt clenches continually around him, and nuzzling against his head.

"Gods," he breathes, "fuck Geralt, does this feel as good for you as it does for me?"

"Feels good," he huffs, "really, really good." He bites at Jaskier's skin and shifts himself forward before sliding down fully on Jaskier's cock again and rising up to sit on him.

Jaskier glances down, running his fingers down Geralt's waist and pauses when he reaches a bump. Geralt's breath catches and Jaskier presses more firmly against it, massaging the spot until Geralt lets out a low, rumbling moan.

Beneath his fingers, the skin parts and Jaskier pulls back abruptly, but Geralt reaches out, pulls his hand back against it.

"Please," he mumbles, "it's been… a long time since anyone has touched me like this."

Jaskier lets his fingertips trace the seam, slipping just barely inside when Geralt shudders. Geralt keeps a firm hand around his wrist, holding him there and Jaskier is intrigued as to what feels that good. He doesn't have to wait long to find out.

Beneath his fingers, something slips free from the slit, thick and red and very much dick-like. He flicks his eyes up to Geralt's, holding his gaze as he wraps his fingers around the head of it. Geralt groans and his cock slips further out, slipping into Jaskier's palm. Jaskier curls his hand around him, stroking evenly until Geralt's fully unsheathed and Jaskier's fingers can no longer press into the slit at the base of him.

"Good?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nods, rocking up into his fingers and back onto his cock. "How come no one touches you like this?" He can't possibly imagine fucking someone like Geralt and not wanting to touch every inch of him.

"I haven't seen another cecaelia in years," he breathes, "and it's not as good on my own." He flexes his hand showing off clawed fingers and Jaskier nods, understanding.

"How do you touch yourself normally?" Geralt licks his lips and Jaskier follows the motion with his tongue, rolling his hips up into him. Geralt raises a tentacle, wiggling it at him.

Jaskier reaches out with his free hand, wrapping his fingers around it, lifting it and running his fingertip along the lip of the suction cups as Geralt holds it aloft. It shivers under his touch and Jaskier grins as he looks up to see Geralt's face pinched up in pleasure, sharp teeth digging into his bottom lip.

"Does that.. do you like that?"

"Geralt nods silently," pressing the tentacle more firmly into his grasp.

"What if I-" Jaskier starts and Geralt's eyes go wide as he slips his palm along the underside of the tentacle and brings the tip toward his mouth.

The limb twitches toward Jaskier's mouth and as he wraps his lips around it, the rest of the wriggle around him. Jaskier sucks it into his mouth and Geralt groans. It doesn't seem like the kind of thing that should feel good, but he likes having his fingers sucked, so he assumes it's something similar to that.

He winds his tongue between the cups, tracing the shape of each of them before taking it as deep as he can, sucking hard. Geralt groans, withdrawing a little before pushing back between his lips and Jaskier hums around him. He lets Geralt take control, leaning back on one elbow, one hand still slipping against his hip as he rocks.

From here, he has a perfect view of Geralt's cock, jutting proudly from his body as he fucks himself on Jaskier's cock. He's slick and dripping and Jaskier aches to get his mouth on him, to suck him off and make him come in his mouth. He squirms with the desire, sucking hard on the limb in his mouth instead and Geralt jerks forward hard.

He surges forward, keeping Jaskier's cock buried inside him as he winds tentacles around his arms, pushing them up above his head and holding them there. His hands slip down over them until they reach Jaskier's, twining their fingers together and using him as leverage to rock back onto him.

Jaskier squeezes tightly, even as sharp claws press into his skin. Heat swells within him and he knows he won't last with Geralt riding him like this, but he gives in to it, clearing his mind of everything but their bodies moving together. His head falls back, but instead of hitting the hard floor, the blow is softened by another tentacle, slipping up to cushion him.

"Can I-?" he asks and Jaskier doesn't even wait to hear what he's going to ask before nodding enthusiastically.

Beneath him, two more tentacles wrap around his thighs, squeezing tightly and pushing them apart. A third slips between, pressing against his balls and then slipping back behind, into the cleft of his ass. Jaskier squirms and rocks against it, pushing himself further into Geralt's cunt. He groans around the tentacle still in his mouth and Geralt presses against his hole and that's all it takes for Jaskier to tip over the edge.

He shakes through his orgasm, still sucking on the tentacle in his mouth, though his finesse fails as Geralt continues to rock onto his cock. Pleasure zips through him and he squeezes hard around Geralt's fingers, holding him tight as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over him. He's still shaking as Geralt clenches around him and it's so fucking good Jaskier can barely breathe.

Geralt withdraws the tentacle in his mouth and bends to kiss him, slow and soft despite Jaskier's breathlessness. It's a little uncoordinated, and Jaskier pants against his mouth, but a warmth spreads through his chest as Geralt's tongue slides against his own. He hums against him and Jaskier just lets him lead, his eyes dropping shut.

"You're beautiful," Geralt breathes as he draws away. His lips drag against Jaskier's skin and Jaskier shudders as goosebumps pop up in the wake of Geralt's mouth.

"You didn't come," Jaskier mumbles, slipping his hands into Geralt's hair. "Wanna make you come."

"And you will, but I think you need a minute or two." He wraps a tentacle around Jaskier's cock and stroking slowly. But Jaskier is soft, though it feels good when Geralt touches him again.

"Dunno if I'll get hard again," he says but he's already feeling it, the first tendrils of pleasure swirling in his gut. And he knows he can get hard again, has done it in the past, but he's already a little overwhelmed and he doesn't know if it's gonna happen tonight.

But Geralt isn't worried about that. He strokes him again, slips up and rocks against his soft cock, kissing his neck and chest and squeezing his nipples between his fingers. Geralt is persistent and it doesn't take long before Jaskier's cock swells again under his touch. Geralt shoves a hand down under himself, squeezing Jaskier's cock and kissing his mouth.

"Want you to fuck me," Geralt hums, nipping at his lip. "Wanna feel you."

"Fuck." Jaskier drops his head back as Geralt's fingers slip up over the head of his cock, his thumb pressing teasingly into the slit. "Fuck. Yeah, okay."

Geralt tugs him up and slides off of him, turning around and bending over to lean on his elbows. He sticks his hips up, moving his tentacles to the side so Jaskier can fit in between them. He does, running his hands over Geralt's hips and down his back. Tentacles wrap around him, holding him and pressing him lightly forward, slipping up over his shoulders and suctioning to his skin.

From here, Jaskier can see his hole properly and he rubs against the ridged entrance, circling it with his fingers before pushing inside. And Geralt groans at the intrusion, dropping his head shut and pushing his hips up further.

"Good?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nods.

Encouraged, Jaskier slides his fingers inside, eased by Geralt's own slickness. He works into him easily, feeling around inside and thrusting gently. Geralt groans softly, encouragingly, and Jaskier works in a little quicker, adding a third finger without any effort. He fucks into him until Geralt is panting beneath him, tentacles clenching around him and twitching.

It feels good to be able to make him feel good and Jaskier delights in the little popping feeling of suction cups against his skin as Geralt lifts his arms and replaces them, squeezing around his limbs. He moans loudly as Jaskier's pace increases and as he squirms, Jaskier realizes how close he is and he's determined to make him come with just his fingers. So he rubs into him, feeling around until he hits something that makes Geralt gasp.

He grins, dipping down to kiss Geralt's spine as he brushes against the mound again.

"Like that?" he asks.

"Fuck. Yes."

"Wanna come on my fingers?"

"If you'll still fuck me."

"Of course, my darling. I'd be delighted to fuck you. Take you apart and make you scream on my cock."

"Yes," Geralt whines, "fuck, Jaskier."

"Mmhm," Jaskier hums, "soon darling, come on."

He slides his free hand around, slipping around the base of Geralt's cock. He slips his fingers into the slit, pressing into his cock before wrapping around it and stroking slowly. Geralt bucks into the touch, gasping and moaning and with a final thrust as Jaskier presses against that spot inside him, Geralt comes.

Jaskier pulls his fingers back, now completely slick and he slides his hand over Geralt's hip, still stroking his cock even after Geralt shudders under him. Geralt seems perfectly content to fuck into Jaskier's fist, but Jaskier is impatient now, his cock hard and aching between his legs.

He wraps a hand around himself, stroking a couple of times before pressing himself against Geralt's entrance. He's still sensitive, but it feels good and as he rubs himself against the slick skin, the sensitivity gives way to pleasure.

"You feel good," he mumbles, "want you. Fuck."

"Come on," Geralt encourages. He squeezes around his thighs, nudging him forward and sucking at his skin. "Wanna feel you."

Jaskier groans and pushes in, pulling Geralt's hips against him. He curses softly as Geralt wiggles his hips and pushes deep, keeping himself steady. One tentacle slips up around the back of his neck and into his hair, tugging lightly and Jaskier snaps his hips forward hard, pulling a low groan from Geralt.

"That's it," Geralt coos, "I know you want to come again, hmm?"

Jaskier just groans as he rolls his hips forward, letting Geralt adjust before thrusting harder. And it does feel good. It feels so good and he wants more of it. He fucks into him quickly, pushing his hands down Geralt's back and pulling back again.

A tentacle slips between his cheeks, grinding against his hole but not pushing in and Jaskier rocks back onto it, groaning loudly. He's surrounded on all sides, bundled up in Geralt's limbs as he fucks him and he loves the firmness of the tentacles around him, of the warmth and slickness and he groans as his cock throbs inside him. The one around his neck teases, slipping up to press at his lips, pulling his bottom lip down and pressing between them.

The limb tightens a little, slipping around his throat to push between his lips and Jaskier barely manages to groan out a soft harder, before his mouth is otherwise occupied. Geralt seems to get the idea though, tightening his grip on his neck just a little and Jaskier's eyes nearly roll back in his head. He fucks forward almost absently, focused on the suction cups clinging to his throat and the firm weight of it around him.

And fuck, it feels amazing.

He pushes harder, changing his angle to try and hit that same spot from before and when he does it's gloriously clear. Geralt slumps against the floor, arms stretched out in front of him, whining as Jaskier aims for the same spot again, rutting ceaselessly into him. His head is foggy with lust, enhanced by the slow intake of his breath and he's creeping close before long. But he doesn't want to stop, can't bring himself to stop.

He sprawls over Geralt's back, getting a hand around his cock again and playing with the tip. He slips his fingers around and inside, drawing back to the base and pressing into his slit and Geralt whimpers delightfully with each touch.

"Gonna come-" he mumbles and it's all the warning Jaskier gets before Geralt's jerking into his hand and coming all over him. He shudders and pushes back, and as he clenches around him, Jaskier follows, coming hard and dropping against his back.

The limb around his neck slides away and he inhales deeply, mumbling softly against Geralt's bare skin. He shuts his eyes and breathes in the scent of him, surprisingly strong for someone who lives most of his life presumably in the ocean. He listens to Geralt's heartbeat under his head and smiles softly to himself.

But he doesn't have much time to relax, only enough to catch his breath before Geralt is squirming under him, wriggling free and bringing Jaskier up to lie on his chest. He runs his hands through his hair, holding him gently around the waist with two tentacles and he just looks at him. His eyes are still dark, but they're soft and fond and it's too much, so Jaskier buries his head in Geralt's neck. He already struggles with becoming too attached to people too quickly, the last thing he needs to do is wind up falling for a cecaelia who he has no hope of continuing a relationship with.

But when Geralt kisses him, he shuts his eyes with a soft sigh and it doesn't feel wrong. It should feel wrong, he realizes, sleeping with someone who isn't even human, but he supposes Geralt is more like an elf in that sense. Elves are basically human, just slightly different. Half-elves are a thing, as are quarter elves, so why should Geralt be any different.

Evidently, Geralt thinks he's thinking too much, because he pulls himself up into a sitting position, drawing Jaskier up into his lap. He's still kissing him, but he wraps his arms around his waist this time, letting his tentacles slip down to wrap around his legs, smoothing along the skin and coiling around him. As long as he lives, no rope or bond will hold him quite as nicely, as securely as Geralt does now.

Jaskier deepens the kiss, licks into his mouth despite the heaviness spreading into his limbs. His eyes are heavy and he's not sure he could get up on his own, but he doesn't want to stop, doesn't want Geralt to let him go. Not yet. So he continues kissing him, wrapping his hands around the back of his neck and running fingers through still-damp hair.

But Geralt clearly has other plans and when Jaskier feels the tip of a tentacle pressing up between his cheeks again, he can't even find it in himself to say no.

"Don't know how good I'll be," he hums, ducking to kiss the side of Geralt's neck. "'M tired."

"We can stop," Geralt says, but Jaskier shakes his head before Geralt can even pull away.

"No," Jaskier breathes, "I just- I don't know if I can make you feel good."

"You do," Geralt hums, leaning in to meet him halfway in a too-soft kiss. "Being inside you feels good, you sucking on me feels good. You feel good."

The probing tentacle presses a little more firmly, and it's dry, but Jaskier isn't complaining. Geralt pauses.

"You're not slick?" he asks and Jaskier shakes his head again.

"No, men don't- you gotta use something, it doesn't happen naturally."

Geralt hums thoughtfully and then the tentacle is slipping away and Jaskier is disappointed for a moment before it reappears, sliding smoothing against his skin before pressing in. He's slick this time and it takes Jaskier's sex-addled brain a minute to realize Geralt used his own slick and that does something to him that he can't quite explain. Geralt pulls him in close and Jaskier whimpers as the tentacle presses into him, sinking deeper than any cock has ever reached.

He holds his breath, waiting for the pain, but there's none, even as the thickness of the limb stretches him open. Geralt touches him softly, and then another tentacle is pressing at his hole and Jaskier can only whine into Geralt's chest. The second one doesn't push as deep, pressing right up against his prostate and Jaskeir doesn't think he can come again tonight, but as Geralt bumps against him, his cock twitches against his thigh.

"If we had more time," he mumbles, "I'd like to see how many can fit." Jaskier nearly loses his mind at the words so calmly spoken, and he wants to tell Geralt that he would absolutely be willing and happy to try that, but right now keeping his body upright is hard, so he just moans against him again.

"Can I fuck you?" Geralt asks and Jaskier huffs a laugh.

"'S that not what you're doing?"

"I mean with my cock," he hums, "I'd like to fuck you properly."

"Gonna have to discuss how you fuck properly if this isn't it," Jaskier mumbles, "never been so fucking full in my life." Geralt rocks up against him, breathing shakily as their cocks rub together.

"It'll be good," he breathes.

"Not saying no," Jaskier huffs, "I want you every way. Just not sure-" he gasps as Geralt thrusts deeper into him with the second tentacle "-how it could be better than this."

Slowly, carefully, Geralt slips out of him, using the same tentacles to wrap around his own cock, guiding it to Jaskier's hole as Geralt'shands slip up his back to steady him.

"Good?" he asks and Jaskier nods, shifting to adjust to the new sensation. Geralt's cock is smoother than the tentacles, thicker at the tip, and tapered and cool. When he pushes into him, Jaskier wraps his arms around his neck, holding him and shifting slowly to adjust. It's the temperature more than anything, but he likes the feeling of it inside him and he warms up soon enough.

He can't imagine how hot it is for Geralt, but it's hard to read his expression, just wide-eyed and staring as he sinks into him. As he settles another tentacle slips up his back and around his neck. Its grip remains loose, but it prods at his lips and Jaskier opens to him easily. Geralt pushes into his mouth, fucking his mouth with short, shallow thrusts as a third tentacle wraps its way around Jaskier's cock, leaving him completely engulfed.

His mind swirls with mindless thoughts of pleasure as Geralt fills him fully and wraps his way around him. He has very little movement, but he doesn't feel trapped. Instead, he just feels pleasantly held as Geralt moves under him, thrusting into him with slow, languid thrusts.

His cock is angled just so that it hits his prostate with the first thrust and doesn't stop, continually bumping against it until Jaskier is breathless and completely limp in his arms. And when Geralt dips down to kiss him, brushing damp hair out of his eyes, he's panting. He looks good like this, all dark eyes and parted lips, putting all his energy into holding Jaskier up and fucking him and Jaskier can't find the words to properly describe how Geralt makes him feel.

Then, just as he doesn't think he can get any more full, as he doesn't think he can take much more, a tentacle presses around his rim, sliding around the girth of Geralt's cock where it's buried within him.

"Please," Jaskier finds himself mumbling, "please, Geralt, I need it-"

"Shh," Geralt whispers, his voice unsteady as Jaskier squirms against him. "Let me take care of you." The tentacle presses in, winding around Geralt's cock inside him and shifting steadily.

He's so full he can hardly think, so overwhelmed and oversensitive and he can't do anything but cling to Geralt's shoulders and bury his face in his neck.

"Please," he whispers, "gonna come, please-"

He didn't think he could but his cock aches, throbs with the need to come. He needs it so bad it hurts and all he can do is grind up against Geralt as best he can in his bonds.

One of Geralt's hands comes around to hold the back of his neck and the other slips to his chest, thumb rubbing over his nipple and Jaskier very nearly comes right there. He whines and whimpers, writing amongst the mass of tentacles and Geralt kisses him hard, pinching his nipple and Jaskier thrusts into the coil of his tentacle, crying out as he comes.

Pleasure tears through him, bordering on pain as Geralt continues fucking into him, but it's so good, too good. The tentacle slips from his mouth, sliding back to cradle his head as it drops back and Geralt leans in to kiss him. He's twitching around him now, his cock snapping into him until Jaskier's seeing stars and then, with a groan against his parted lips, Geralt thrusts deep and shudders, pressing Jaskier tight against his chest.

After a moment, he continues rocking lightly, gently leaning Jaskier back so he can look at him. His expression is soft and he pulls a tentacle to take the place of his arm as he runs his fingers down Jaskier's chest.

"Feeling okay?" he asks and as Jaskier just groans softly in response, Geralt chuckles. "We've still got a few hours left until the tide is out far enough for it to be safe for you."

"Geralt," Jaskier huffs, "you're incredible, but I can't-" Geralt laughs again, dipping forward to kiss him.

It's soft and gentle and for a moment, Jaskier lets himself be drawn in, wrapping his arms around Geralt's neck. His cock brushes up against him and he whines at the sensitivity, but Geralt shifts, laying him down on the ground and slipping off to the side.

It's cold without Geralt around him and he feels suddenly very alone, but Geralt gets a hand on his hips and pulls him closer. Jaskier cuddles in, rolling onto his back with one leg slung over Geralt's.

"It's been a long time since I've had company," Geralt says, "do you mind if we just… talk?"

"That sounds lovely," Jaskier hums, "I don't think I'm up for a whole lot more than that tonight," he turns his head, flashing a grin at Geralt and earns himself a kiss for it. It worries him a little, how easily he responds to Geralt's affection, how readily he gives himself over to him. His mother always told him he'd end up hurt because of it, but he never fully understood what she meant before, but he thinks he might now.

"What would you like to talk about?"

Geralt asks many things about where he lives and what it's like there, how far it is whether Jaskier is happy there. Jaskier is happy to tell him anything he wants to know, but as time goes by, he starts to nod off, worn out from being fucked so thoroughly. Geralt just pulls him in and curls around him as he drifts, pressing his nose into Jaskier's hair.

When Jaskier wakes, Geralt is still there, breathing softly against him, though not asleep, and it only takes a moment to realize Geralt is the one who woke him.

"The tide is out if you want to go," he says softly, fingers coming up to slip through his hair.

"And if I don't?" Jaskier mumbles, shutting his eyes again and turning to throw his leg over Geralt's again, pressed against his chest.

"It'll be a while before the next tide-" he starts but Jaskier cuts him off with a grin, leaning up to kiss him softly.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to stay."

"Mm," Geralt hums, lacing his fingers with Jaskier's, "and why is that?"

"Because I like it here. I like the beach, I like the company. I'd like to get to know some of them better." Geralt scoffs, but when he rolls his eyes, his expression is fond.

"I wouldn't be… opposed to that, either."

"Good," Jaskier grins, "because I'd very much like to do this again sometime."

[flowercrown-bard]

I was today years old when I found out that cornflowers can also be white/purple and pink.

My first instinct was to never refer to Jaskier’s eyes as being the colour of cornflowers again. My second instinct was to write this instead:

Soulmate AU

word count: ~3k

pairing: Geraskier

Content warnings: blood, injuries

The Colour of Cornflowers

Jaskier’s eyes were the colour of the sky, of the sea, of sapphires. At least that was what people said, when they tried and often succeeded in wooing Jaskier. People who had been lucky enough to have found their soulmates and foolish enough to risk that happiness for a bard who would leave them come the morning.

Geralt would never understand those people. They had something so precious, so special and they were willing to throw it away for a pretty pair of eyes.

Geralt never understood those comparisons to sky, sea and sapphire either, and not only just because he had never seen the colour of either of those things. They just sounded so… cliché. As if someone tried painfully hard to sound like a poet. And didn’t the sky change colour during the dawn or at night? Did every body of water have the same colour? And didn’t some lord or another once proudly present his differently coloured sapphires, knowing full well that Geralt wasn’t able to distinguish between them anyway?

And he never would. It wasn’t uncommon for people to never see the world in colour – soulmates were rare and it wasn’t unheard of that some people lost all sight of colour after rejecting their soulmates for whatever reason.

But all of those people could at least still hope to have the world burst into colour at some point in their lives. Unlike Geralt.

“It is a mercy,” Vesemir had said when he had explained to the frightened boys that would become witchers or die in the trials that they would lose the ability to ever find their soulmates, “that you won’t have to go through that. You won’t get distracted by searching for them. And you won’t get your hearts broken.”

Because even then, Vesemir hadn’t made them believe what everyone else accepted as fact: That witchers didn’t feel, didn’t love.

Vesemir had known better. And he had known that that didn’t change a damn thing. A witcher would fall in love all he wanted, no one would ever accept a witcher’s love.

When Geralt had been younger, he had told himself he would be different. He had thought himself a knight that would one day rescue a damsel or meet a stable boy who loved horses as much as he did. He had thought they might fall in love – for who wouldn’t want to love a hero? – and they would be happy together, Destiny and soulmates be damned.

And then he had saved his first damsel. When she had seen his face, she had screamed and vomited and passed out. And Geralt for the first time understood what Vesemir had meant when he had said it was a mercy not knowing one’s soulmate.

Whoever was cursed to be a witcher’s soulmate, they would draw back in horror once they saw the sickly yellow of their eyes – at least that was how Geralt’s eyes had been described to him – and they would reek of fear rather than of love when they realised just whom Destiny had bound them to.

No human should have to get punished with such a fate. And Geralt knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from shattering if he ever saw disgust on his soulmate’s face.

So it was better that he would never know if he ever met them. It was better that he would never see the colour of Jaskier’s eyes.

He didn’t need to anyway. People never shut up about them, after all.

Between all of those descriptions that made Geralt want to roll his eyes, there was one that somehow got stuck in his mind, no matter how he wanted to shake it off.

Cornflowers.

For some reason it sounded right. Geralt was sure a poet, or even just about any man who was better with words than him, would be able to create a beautiful and meaningful connection between Jaskier and the preciousness of gems, the ever-moving sea or the freedom of the sky or other such sappy nonsense.

But cornflowers…Jaskier had named himself after a flower, hadn’t he? And cornflowers weren’t so different from buttercups. He had heard farmers complain about them, about how difficult they were to get rid of once they had started sprouting in their fields.

Geralt’s lips had twitched upwards when he had heard that and looked at Jaskier who had returned his side-eye with a cheeky wink, as if he knew exactly that Geralt was thinking about the way Jaskier had attached himself to Geralt no matter how hard he had tried to prevent that.

He tried no longer.

He had grown used to Jaskier’s presence. No, it was more than that. He had gotten to appreciate it. To enjoy the humming and chattering. To relish in the feeling of Jaskier running his fingers through Geralt’s hair. To feel his stomach twist in anticipation when he saw Jaskier again after months spent apart.

And when they were apart, Geralt found himself looking at cornflowers, unable to stop his lips from twitching into a soft smile. He might not be able to see their colour and never would, but that didn’t change the fact that they reminded him of Jaskier and of how he hadn’t drawn back in disgust or flinch from his touch even once.

Of course it helped that Jaskier had never seen his eyes in colour either. He couldn’t have. Because if he did, then surely he would have reacted in some way. No one, not even Jaskier was that good an actor.

True, his songs about Geralt often featured descriptions of his eyes – of honey, gold and sunflowers – but Geralt didn’t need to see colours to know that those descriptions were ludicrous. Predatory, sickly, creepy. That was how his eyes were normally described. Jaskier must have just heard the word ‘yellow’ and then asked other people for other, more pleasant things of the same colour. For surely, no one who had ever seen his eyes as they really were would think of something so kind that the first time Geralt had heard it, he had to leave the room for he was sure that he wasn’t able to keep the fondness and admiration he felt in that moment out of his eyes.

Fleeing hadn’t helped, of course. Jaskier didn’t need to sing of honey-eyes or silver moonlight-hair to make Geralt’s chest clench and his fingers itch to reach out and pull Jaskier close.

A single smile from him was enough. A quiet moment shared by a fire. Laughter and bad jokes as they travelled side by side.

Witchers could love and in those moments, Geralt was more thankful that fact than he had ever been for anything else. Loving Jaskier was beautiful.

And it was the most painful and terrifying thing Geralt could imagine.

Never in his life had Geralt been as scared as he had been when he had seen Jaskier run towards him while he was in the middle of a fight. For a terrifying moment, when the griffin’s talons had hit their mark and torn deep gashes into Jaskier’s chest, he had thought this was it. This was how Jaskier died. Because of him.

But as Geralt had dropped to his knees next to him, pressing his hands against the wounds and pleading with Jaskier to stay with him, Jaskier hadn’t blamed him, hadn’t yelled at him or tried to evade his touch. Instead he had lifted one of Geralt’s hands to his lips and pressed a soft kiss against it, heedless of the blood sticking to them.

Jaskier’s eyes had fallen shut and Geralt’s blood had run cold.

His eyes had opened again, later, when Geralt had bandaged up his wounds and brushed his hair out of his forehead tenderly, the same way Jaskier sometimes did with Geralt’s hair when he woke up, drenched in sweat and with his heart racing from a nightmare about the trials, about the day he had lost all hope of ever finding his soulmate.

When Jaskier’s eyes had fluttered open and his face had broken into a smile so soft as if Geralt was the most beautiful sight Jaskier could imagine, Geralt had known. He could never let something like this happen again. As long as Jaskier was with Geralt, he was in danger.

But Geralt had also known that he wouldn’t be able to get rid of Jaskier – neither would he be strong enough to push him away, nor would Jaskier ever willingly go.

Not until Geralt did the unthinkable. Through friendship, through deadly injuries and insults being spat at them, Jaskier stayed with Geralt. But even he had his limits. Even he wouldn’t be able to stay with a witcher, knowing he was loved by him. By a mutant, monster, butcher.

Geralt knew it, the world knew it and surely Jaskier himself knew it too: Jaskier deserved better than someone like him, better than being loved by someone like him. Confessing his feelings to Jaskier would be the last straw that would finally make Jaskier act upon this knowledge and go find someone good enough for him. Someone who wouldn’t put him in danger. Perhaps even someone who could tell Jaskier that his eyes looked like cornflowers and see it too.

Geralt knew that saying the words would irrevocably drive Jaskier from his side. He knew the moment of rejection and disgust would forever be branded in his mind. It would be the thing Geralt would remember when he got injured on a hunt while knowing that Jaskier wouldn’t be waiting for him with a worried look and tender touches.

And yet. Geralt couldn’t bring himself to just say it. He only got one chance to tell Jaskier how he felt, and although it would end in Geralt being shattered and alone, he wanted to relish the moment, the chance to let himself believe for even just a moment that Jaskier wouldn’t push himself away.

So Geralt waited and planned. A part of him knew that he was selfish, that he was only drawing this out so that he would get to keep Jaskier by his side a little longer. Another part of him wanted it to be perfect. He wanted Jaskier to think back to Geralt and remember someone who had tried despite everything to give Jaskier a confession that he deserved.

Except, Geralt wouldn’t ever be able to give such a thing to Jaskier. He wasn’t good enough for him and neither would anything he could ever give him be.

He didn’t have poetic words or grand gestures.

A simple gesture would have to be enough. Maybe it would even help to make Jaskier leave.

It was pure coincidence that they passed the field that day. Jaskier’s hair was lighter than normal in the sun and his smile was bright and easy. Geralt let himself look at him like this one last time. Jaskier was beautiful. Too beautiful for someone like Geralt.

Geralt shouldn’t get to keep him. He had to do it. Now.

Taking a shaking breath and clenching his jaw as if that would stop his hands from trembling, he bent down and plucked the cornflowers right out of the field.

To Geralt they were different shades of grey, ranging from almost white to dark grey, but to anyone else, they would be blue. Like Jaskier’s eyes.

As much as Geralt had always told himself that it was a good thing that he wasn’t Jaskier’s soulmate, he now wished more than anything, that he would have gotten to see the colour of Jaskier’s. He didn’t need to see the world in colour. Knowing blue would have been enough.  Then he would have more than grey flowers to remind himself of Jaskier when he was gone.

“Jaskier.” His voice came out slightly hoarse and he had to clear his throat.

It was of no use. As soon as Jaskier turned around and laid eyes on the flowers Geralt held out to him, his throat tightened again.

At the same time, Jaskier’s eyes darted between the flowers and Geralt’s face, searching for something, looking almost achingly hopeful. Though for what, Geralt couldn’t tell. Perhaps Jaskier was for once silently pleading Geralt not to continue talking.

He did it anyway.

“Jaskier, I…these are for you.”

He took a step closer to Jaskier, half-expecting him to draw back. Instead Jaskier too came towards him with hesitant wonder in his eyes and took the flowers from Geralt’s hands. Their fingers brushed and the simple touch sent a jolt through Geralt. This would be the last time he would ever get to feel Jaskier’s skin against his.

“Geralt.” Jaskier sounded choked and there was a watery shine to his eyes that made Geralt’s chest tight and his now empty hands ball helplessly into fists. “Those are beautiful.”

“Like you,” Geralt said, before he had time to think and swallow the words. “Like your eyes. They – cornflowers. They look like your eyes.”

Jaskier stared at him for a long moment but he didn’t move. Geralt knew he had to say more, had to get Jaskier to turn tail and leave Geralt behind, but the words got stuck in his throat and burned like shards of glass cutting into him.

Still, as the moment dragged on, it seemed that Geralt didn’t need to say anything else. Jaskier let out a strangled sound, clearly supressing something else. Not for long, though. Not a heartbeat later, a laugh tumbled from Jaskier’s lips and once that first chuckle was out, he wouldn’t stop himself.

Ice pierced Geralt’s heart and he had to look away. For the first time he couldn’t bear to look at the way Jaskier’s face lit up as he laughed. He should have known. Jaskier was kind, but he was also expressive beyond believe. Geralt had no doubt that he would have tried to let him down gently, but it seemed that the idea of a witcher trying to be romantic was too ridiculous for even Jaskier to keep his composure.

“Oh, oh Geralt,” Jaskier said in between laughs, gasping for air and wiping away tears that had spilt free with his free hand. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t laugh. You’re being very sweet, it’s just-“

“I know. You don’t need to say it. I know.” Geralt interrupted, suddenly desperate not to have Jaskier say it out loud. Seeing him leave was one thing. He could still pretend that it was no different than when they separated for the winter. But hearing Jaskier outright tell him that Geralt’s feelings were a joke to him – Geralt wouldn’t be able to bear it, to have these words join the ones of hatred and disdain that he remembered whenever he lay awake at night, kept awake by self-doubt and shame.  

“Oh, I don’t think you do,” Jaskier said and his smile didn’t falter, as if he wasn’t tearing Geralt’s heart out with it. “It’s just…Geralt, I know you can’t know this, but…my eyes are blue.”

“I do know.”

“Yes, well, but these flowers aren’t. They are lovely, of course, but this one for example is very clearly pink.” He tilted his head to the side like a bird as he looked at Geralt with mirth in his eyes. “You know, it’s almost the same colour your cheeks get sometimes when I sing about you.”

A painful spike shot through his heart. The flowers weren’t blue. The one thing he had known to do to try his hand at a romantic, albeit simple gesture and he had messed it up. Of course he wouldn’t be able to do even such a simple thing. Of course Jaskier would –

His thoughts came to a screeching halt and his eyes widened as the full meaning of Jaskier’s words came crashing down on him.

The flowers were pink. Jaskier knew, he saw, that they were pink.

“You can see colours.” He had meant for it to be a question, but it came out as a bitter truth.

Jaskier’s cheeks darkened. “I…yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to find out.”

“Why-how long?”

Jaskier swallowed nervously and his eyes darted away for a second, before finding Geralt’s again, pleading and scared. He clutched the flowers to his chest as if he feared Geralt would tear them off his hands.

“You know how long,” he said softly, almost apologetic. “Ever since I first saw you.”

“No.” Geralt shook his head. This wasn’t- this couldn’t be. He had expected Jaskier to flee from him, to tell him that he didn’t feel the same way. He had never expected him to be cruel. “No, you don’t – You can’t be. I can’t be.”

“I’m sorry.” The apology tumbled out of Jaskier’s mouth fast enough to slur the words together and his hand shot out to seize Geralt by the wrist. The touch burned him even through his clothes. “I know you don’t like Destiny. I never should have said… I don’t want you to force you into this. You must believe me.”

Geralt’s mind went blank. It almost sounded…he shouldn’t be foolish enough to believe this. He shouldn’t feel hope burning in his chest, but the way Jaskier said it….it didn’t sound as if he himself hated the idea of being soulmates with a witcher.

“You wanted me to choose you?” Geralt asked bewildered, still unable to comprehend.

Jaskier’s eyes softened and his smile turned into something bittersweet. “That was all I had ever wanted. I always thought you wouldn’t, but now…Please don’t take this back. Don’t tell me this isn’t what you chose, just because it’s the choice Destiny wanted you to make.”

Geralt’s brows drew together. “I couldn’t care less what Destiny wants me to do.”

Jaskier’s face fell when Geralt pulled his wrist out of his grip. After a moment of hesitation, Geralt lifted his now free hand to cup Jaskier’s cheek.

Jaskier let out a soft gasp, before leaning into the touch with an unknown desperation.

“I choose you,” Geralt said, his fingers caressing Jaskier’s skin. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jaskier said urgently. “I would choose you time and time again, whether Destiny wanted me to or not.”

Geralt’s throat went tight once more. “You know I can’t see colours. You know I won’t ever be able to compare your eyes to something and know it’s what they look like.” His gaze dropped to the flowers in Jaskier’s hand. “I can’t give you flowers the right colour.”

Jaskier let out a watery laugh. He turned his head and kissed the palm of Geralt’s hand, before taking one of the flowers – perhaps a pink one, perhaps one of a different colour entirely – out of the posy and tucked it behind Geralt’s ear.

“It doesn’t matter. The colour never mattered. They are beautiful. Because they come from you.”

“You are beautiful,” Geralt echoed. “Because you are you. Colour or no.”

His hand trailed down until he was gently holding his chin, titling his head up ever so slightly.

“Jaskier?” he asked, one last hesitation, one last chance for Jaskier to choose to take his words back.

Jaskier made his choice.

He leaned forward and pressed their lips into a soft kiss.

Geralt had always known that loving Jaskier was beautiful, but in this moment Geralt learned for the first time, that nothing, no flowers and no colours could ever be as beautiful as it was being loved by Jaskier.

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Follow My Lead

Happy late birthday @dani-dandelino 💖💖 I love you so much it isn’t even real!!! I cant wait to squish you and give you the best tall person hug I possibly can! (i wrote this while blasting taylor in your honor)

Warnings: they drinkin, seeing old exes, cheating exes, accidental-ish love confessions, mutual pining, fake dating, and they were roommates 👀

________________

“Oh shit, I’m too drunk for this,” Jaskier scrambled to pull Geralt into a darker corner of the bar they’d descended upon for Lambert’s birthday, “I can’t see her here. Fuck.”

Geralt rather tactlessly looked over his shoulder at Jaskier’s ex, now ordering a drink and sitting at the bar with what looked like a date. 

“Don’t look Geralt! She knows you’re my roommate,” Jaskier hissed and dragged Geralt around a corner so he wouldn’t blow his cover. Their breakup had been… rough. Olivia had cheated, then told Jaskier he’d never find someone like her. For three months he’d managed to avoid the venomous woman who lived just two blocks over from him and Geralt’s apartment. And now she was right fucking there and he wanted to cry.

“Jask, take a breath. You don’t have to talk to her if you don’t want to,” Geralt held him by the shoulders and tried to get him to make eye contact. He was far too preoccupied with watching the corner for an incoming ex. 

“I’ll tell her I’m dating a doctor. Uhm… and they’re not here because…. Doctors Without Borders! Ha! See?! I’m fine Geralt, why are you looking at me like that?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, “I have a better idea. Follow my lead.” 

Stumbling and barely saving his cocktail from sloshing everywhere, Jaskier trotted after Geralt. To his horror, he realised they were headed straight for Olivia’s spot at the counter. Geralt didn’t skip a beat, linking arms with Jaskier and winking at him.

Well that didn't help at all. Jaskier’s stomach did a little backflip, even as he clung to Geralt, the alcohol swirling in his veins making it much easier to lean on him. He was momentarily distracted by how nice it was to lean his temple on Geralt’s shoulder, even if it was an awkward angle, and he went a little weak in the knees when Geralt leaned against the bar and pulled him close while they waited for the bartender to get to them. 

Jaskier whispered, “What are you-”

Only to be interrupted by Olivia, “Jullian! Hi! How are you darling?”

He felt Geralt’s grip around him tighten just a bit as she spoke and something deep in his chest purred at the protective gesture as he plastered a blindingly fake smile over his features, “Absolutely lovely, dear! How are you?”

“Good! I’m just here with Valdo,” she gestured over to the man sitting next to her at the bar. He looked like the black haired, greaseball version of Jaskier and it took everything in his liquor addled brain to keep from scoffing. Then it hit him. 

“Oh! The Valdo! Well it’s good to put a face to the name,” Jaskier barely kept from gritting his teeth. 

Geralt hugged him tighter, leaning down to stage-whisper in his ear, “We can go if you want. Lambert can go without birthday shots, love.”

Love?! 

Fuck, Geralt never called him Love. Not even at their drunkest, highest, or most deliriously tired. It had him scrambling for a moment, just looking up over his shoulder at Geralt in absolute wonder and… and probably a little too much affection.

“No! Lambert needs his birthday shot of cheap tequila. Thank you though, sweetheart.” 

The pet name rolled off his tongue far too easily. Normally he kept the pet names to a minimum for Geralt. He’d noticed a bit of bristling early on so he just- held back. Now it felt sinfully indulgent to call him that when he wanted… fuck what did he want?

Luckily they were rescued from the awkward introduction by the bartender asking for their order. 

“Eight shots of Casamigos please! And one lemonade chaser and a shot glass of grenadine please!” Jaskier piped up, whipping his credit card out of his pocket too fast for Geralt to stop him. 

“I thought you said cheap?” Valdo scoffed. 

Geralt frowned, half stepping between him and Jaskier, “It is? It’s no Barrique de Ponciano?”

Jaskier was really trying not to laugh now. They’d n e v e r bought something that fancy, nor would they ever. But they’d been googling the most expensive bottles of different alcohols the other night and Geralt had drunkenly tried for a whole half hour to pronounce the name of this particular tequila. 

The look on Valdo’s face was magnificent. Olivia’s eyebrows disappeared behind her betty bangs and Jaskier felt the purring beast in his chest get louder. 

He reached up to pat Geralt’s cheek, “No need to spoil me tonight.” 

Olivia leveled them with a piercing stare, doing that annoying ‘creating suspense’ thing she liked to do before she said something she was proud of, “I’m glad you two finally got together. I think you’ll be good for each other.”

Geralt did the remainder of the talking while Jaskier stared at him in shock. Unfortunately that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to sink into Geralt’s embrace like this all the damn time and hear his nearly imperceptible huff of annoyance at comments people made. Nothing would please him more than feeling Geralt’s stubble pressed against his temple when he pressed a kiss to his hairline every day and he did his best in his drunken state to memorize it in case it never happened again. 

He came back from his dazed fantasy to Geralt guiding his hand down to his belt and it took him a panicked moment to realize he was meant to hold on while Geralt lead them back to the party carrying the shots. 

Jaskier offered a quick “Toodles,” and flipped Valdo off with his free hand when Olivia turned her back, but they were soon lost in the sea of people. Without really thinking, he took his shot with the group and dumped the grenadine into his lemonade. Well he was thinking.

And he didn’t stop thinking, staring off into space until Geralt nudged him with his elbow, giving him a concerned look. 

“What the fuck was that?!”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Geralt shrugged, popping a mozzarella stick in his mouth and speaking around it, “And you didn't have to lie your ass off.”

How Geralt was still so calm was beyond Jaskier. Well, it wasn’t, he’d been sure his roommate had absolutely no feelings for him whatsoever, but part of him had held out for a sliver of hope and that part was the dominant part right then. 

“Love?!”

“Are you- mad? I thought it would help sell it…” Geralt rested a hand on his elbow to guide him away from the group.

Jaskier knocked back what had been left of his cocktail before the shots and could feel the regret in advance. It was never a good idea to talk about important things either drunk or hungover but here he was, about to flip shit on Geralt for… being a good friend?

“I’m not fucking angry, I’m yearning!”

The second, much more intense, wave of regret hit him when Geralt’s eyes went wide and his hand dropped from Jaskier’s arm.

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” Jaskier snapped, wiping a hand over his face, “And don’t remind me about this in the morning if I forget.”

Before he could make his escape with his tail between his legs, Geralt gripped him by the shoulders and trapped him in a kiss so frantic and needy his head was spinning when they parted. 

“Jask?”

“Hm?” He had to remember to open his eyes, lost in the tingling ghost of Geralt’s lips on his and the firm grip still holding him close. 

The grin Geralt was sporting was far too cheeky to be allowed much longer but Jaskier refrained from kissing him again to hear what he had to say, “Can I remind you of that in the morning?”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Jaskier mumbled as he wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck and pulled him into another kiss, this one much softer but no less satisfying than the first.