#wrote this tipsy it’s entirely unedited

[raphmybeloved]

A Nice Day

A little oneshot for @idiot-mushroom 's where we belong au.

Snapper is used to being looked at.

It’s an occupational hazard as a Nexus fighter but even outside of the arena there are very few places he can go without drawing the eyes of others. The giant distinctive helmet and the two body guards that usually flank him don't help.

(Sometimes he thinks big mama wants it that way. That a simple collar wouldn’t be enough and that she needed something big, something impossible to miss so that everyone knows he is hers.)

He tries to ignore the eyes most of the time but it can be hard. Draxum taught them hypervigilance and it's one of those lessons that are impossible to forget.

It’s because of this that he knows he and his brothers are being watched. Not glanced at or ogled like many do when they see a Nexus champion on the streets but truly watched. 

His brothers can tell they are being watched too. He can tell by the small defensive hunch of Orange’s shoulders and the way Red-Eyes keeps rolling his neck to stretch as a cover for him making a sweep of their surroundings. 

They are all ignoring it though because today is such a rare type of day and they don’t want to ruin it. 

Three of them. Soft-shell couldn’t get the time off but the rest of them are free of responsibilities. Free of expectations and due to some sweet talking and bribery they are even free of Snapper's bodyguards for just a few hours to do whatever dumb stupid thing they want.

Currently that thing is trying to see if any of them can clear a fountain in a jump with a skateboard Red-Eyes stole from the surface and an impromptu ramp made from a broken bench. It’s genuine harmless fun and even though Snapper is dripping wet from failing and tumbling into the fountain he can’t stop himself from smiling and laughing.

It would be a perfect day if it wasn’t for the eyes Snapper feels trained on them. 

Still, it's easy enough to ignore until Orange misjudges his landing and although he clears the fountain the board shoots out from under him and is propelled up and through the glass window of a nearby home.

All four brothers wince at the sound of shattered glass and quickly a four eyed yokai woman with the face of a bat exits and angrily storms toward them.

Automatically Red-Eyes slips between everyone else and the angry yokai arms out in a pacifying gesture.

“Ma’am I am so sorry we ca-”

“You hooligans need to leave before I call the police.” The woman says cutting Red-Eye off. 

“It was an accident. We can pay to have your window fixed. Really we are so sorry,” Red-Eyes says. He’s always been the best at interacting with normal people and Snapper is more than willing to step back and let him speak. 

“No,” the woman says walking closer to them. “I don’t want anything from one of Draxum’s lackeys,” she spits and Snapper watches Red-Eye fliches ever so slightly and he feels the anger he’s constantly trying to tamp down start to rise.

“Hey,” he says, stepping between the bat-faced woman and Red-Eyes. “That’s uncalled for, he was just apologizing.”

The woman if anything just looks more riled up.

“Oh I suppose you just expect me to bow down to you then. The champion of the Nexus. Ha! I’ve seen how you fight, you’re little more than a monster,” she sneers. “If there was any justice in the world you would be put down as the beast you are.”

Her words make Snapper physically stumble back. He’s not stupid, he knows what people think of him. He knows that to most yokai he is The Barbaric Kappa. Big Mama’s champion and nothing else. It still hurts a little to have it thrown in his face.

In his moment of hurt Orange steps up. 

“Hey Lady, back off. I don’t know what your problem is but everything was an accident. Someone will come fix your window.” Orange says, anger evident in his tone as he stands on his tip-toes to try to meet the woman face to face. 

For a moment the woman and Orange just stare at each other, then the woman lets out a huff. Orange takes that as a sign of an interaction completed.

Snapper can feel the tension in his body leaving but then Orange turns his back to the woman and both Snapper and Red-Eyes are a second too late as the woman rakes sharp nails across the back of Orange’s skull and everything is happening so fast and someone is screaming and there is blood. Orange’s blood.

(Years ago Draxum and Big Mama both learned to never have any of Snapper’s brother's punished where Snapper can see it happen.)

All Snapper can feel is that anger. The all encompassing rage that both terrifies and protects him. 

At the sight of his brother's blood Snapper loses himself.

He comes too in a jail cell barely aware of anything except Red-Eyes’ voice calm and steady rambling about something. A comic maybe?

“So then Jupiter Jim attacks the thing with an honest to god hairdryer. Like I have no idea how it works but something about the heat throws the creature off enough to- Oh,” Red-Eyes stops suddenly. “You back with us big guy?”

Snapper blinks and takes in the sight of his brother. Red-Eyes plastron and face are splattered with blood, not a lot but not an insignificant amount either. As memory of what happened returns, Snapper whips his head around looking for Orange.

He finds him quickly at the other side of the cell similarly splattered with blood. He remembers sharp claws to the back of his head.

“Orange,” he chokes out. And his brother quickly rushes over.

“Hey hey hey. I’m here. I’m okay, you’re okay,” Orange tells him in a calm soothing voice. 

“Your head-” he starts to ask but Red-Eyes cuts him off.

“His head is fine. Scratches already healed.”

“The blood?”

There’s a beat before anyone answers.

“Not any of ours.”

The cell falls quiet and in the quiet Snapper can’t help but think. He take’s in the amount of blood splattered onto his brothers and then the volume of blood on his hands. An average Yokai can’t lose that much blood. Snapper tries not to think about what that means.

Silence lingers for maybe half an hour before there’s footsteps and a jingle of keys and Big Mama accompanied by a guard enters.

“Oh my sweetest-darling dear,” Big Mama exclaims running straight up to Snapper bypassing his brothers without so much as a glance. She embraces him and despite himself he melts into the hug.

“My poor darling,” she says, still holding him tight. “What a terrible fizzy-wizzle you found yourself in. Don’t worry. Mama will take care of everything.”

He hates the feeling of comfort her words bring. She steps back and takes his hand, pulls him up and starts to lead him out of the cell, Orange following close behind. Right as she leaves the cell Big Mama turns to look back at Red-Eyes.

“Draxum is on his way to collect you.” She says. Red-Eyes isn’t quick enough to mask the expression of panic before Snapper can clock it.

“Don’t worry yourself sweetie-pie,” Big Mama says as she leads him through the police station. He can feel accusing looks from the officers but he tries to pay them no mind as he keeps up with big mama’s personal stride. “It will be like this whole unpleasantness never happened.”

Snapper glances down at his hands, coated with blood and thinks for a second about the Yokai woman.

As he walks out of the station a step behind the most powerful woman in the hidden city facing no consequences for actions he can’t even remember he wonders if the woman who called him a monster was all that wrong.

[sociallyawkward--fics]

Last Christmas

Here it is, lol. The fic I wrote last night with Wham!’s “Last Christmas” on repeat for literally Three Hours Straight lol. It is entirely unedited except for me having a friend read it over briefly and them go “you’re missing a period here” and nothing else lol. Please be kind though, I have not written for months and any Christmas fics I’m posting are more just warm-ups to get me back to the level of writing I was before I accidentally took a break, cuz no way I’m jumping back into my Big Projects without getting myself back up to par lol

ALSO, I know Jaskier seems like,,, really aggressive towards Yen in this fic. She's not meant to be a villain! Jaskier just is jealous and sad so he takes it out on her a little bit, which is definitely not the right thing to do but I think it's a very human thing to do. After this I imagine them going for coffee or smth and just lovingly trash-talking Geralt and realizing "wow we can actually be decent friends" lol

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Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandoms: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types; Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game); The Witcher (TV); Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski

Relationship: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia; Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg; Triss Merigold; Zoltan Chivay; Iorveth (The Witcher); Eskel (The Witcher); Vernon Roche

Additional Tags: eskel triss iorveth and roche are barely-there btw; Jealous Jaskier | Dandelion; Mistletoe; Getting Together; Misunderstandings; Miscommunication; Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg; Alcohol; Drinking; Smoking; (very briefly) - Freeform; Communication; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings; Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia; Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia; Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion; Mutual Pining; Kissing; Hugs; Alternate Universe - Modern Setting; Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers; Alternate Universe - No Powers; Holidays; Christmas; Christmas Party

Word Count: 3614 words

[ao3 link]

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It took an embarrassing amount of time for Jaskier to work up the courage to leave his car. Instead he sat there, heat off and car growing increasingly frosty, forehead against the steering wheel as he bemoaned his own very existence. He did not want to go to this party, which was very out of character for him.

But Jaskier couldn’t take another repeat of last year’s holiday party. And he knew the second he saw Geralt, he would be back there again.

They had both been decently tipsy, which was their first mistake, but Jaskier knew that neither of them were drunk. That’s why he had been so shocked when Geralt made the first move, pressing him up against the wall to the men’s room and ravishing his mouth. They’d gone home together to Jaskier’s flat and had a wonderful night together, but Geralt had been gone come morning.

They never spoke of that night. And by the next week, Geralt had been back in his on-again, off-again relationship with Yennefer.

Jaskier thought he’d gotten over it. As much as he didn’t regret it, it was clear that Geralt did, and he wasn’t going to push his feelings onto the man when they were so clearly unwanted. It was a miracle their friendship survived it, with how testy they had been with each other for weeks afterward.

Jaskier took a deep breath and tightened his scarf around his neck, finally leaving his car to make his way into the hotel ballroom that Foltest had booked for the night. At least their work holiday parties weren’t held in the offices, Jaskier wouldn’t have been able to force himself back to work after last year if they were.

Jaskier’s traitorous eyes immediately sought out Geralt the moment he walked in. He wasn’t hard to find, with his striking silver hair and refusal to wear anything but black. He stuck out like a sore thumb, in the sea of red and green and gold. But god, did he look good. Unfortunately, he was already occupied with the only other person in the room who refused to wear color: Yennefer. 

Jaskier forced his eyes away, directing them instead towards the makeshift bar. Zoltan was already there, and, judging by the red on his cheeks, already several drinks in. Jaskier couldn’t exactly judge. He was going to need quite a few drinks to get through this night as well.

“Good old Dandelion!” Zoltan crowed as he approached, words only slightly slurred.

“Zoltan,” Jaskier greeted with an easy smile, nodding at the bartender. “When are you ever going to give up on that silly nickname?”

Zoltan snorted. “You’re the one who calls himself a flower, Julian.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Fair enough.”

Soon enough, Jaskier had a drink in his hand and an earful of Zoltan’s voice, accent only growing thicker and harder to understand the drunker he got. He was barely following what Zoltan was talking about, anymore. Something about his ex father-in-law’s business tanking? He seemed rather pleased by it, in any case. Jaskier probably would be to, if he wasn’t still so anxious.

“What’s got a stick up yer ass?” Zoltan asked after a while, winding down from his latest story.

“Just… not in a partying mood, I suppose.”

Zoltan laughed uproariously. “You? Not in a party mood? Never thought I’d see the day!”

Jaskier gave a half-hearted smile, knowing Zoltan was too far gone to notice that fact, and let his eyes wander the crowd. After a few drinks, he was beginning to feel pleasantly tipsy. The idea of lasting out the party was actually beginning to feel manageable, though he still felt like giving Yennefer and Geralt a wide berth. They always exploded at these things, and Jaskier didn’t want to be caught in the middle of that.

Again.

That was one fight their friendship almost hadn’t survived, and it was the worst six months of Jaskier’s life. And that was including the past twelve months after the last holiday party.

“Come on, Dandelion,” Zoltan said, and Jaskier’s attention was drawn back to the bar. “Sit down for a game of cards with me! Or perhaps a round of dice?”

Jaskier laughed, his first true laugh of the night. “I know better than to gamble with you, old friend. It’s about time I mingled, don’t you think? Give the masses what they desire.”

Zoltan laughed again and gave him a sloppy wink. “Go get ‘em, tomcat. I’ll find some other poor fool to swindle.”

Jaskier grinned. “I don’t doubt it.”

Jaskier slipped away from the bar and into the crowd. He greeted people with hugs and kisses on the cheek, making them laugh and shove him away with teasing grins. He twirled between groups of people in a carefully perfected dance, muscle memory even with the alcohol in his system.

Unfortunately, that muscle memory rather quickly led him to Geralt’s current circle of companions. Yennefer and Triss were there, clearly making an intense effort to not be at each other’s throats. Eskel was there, which wasn’t surprising: as much as a sweetheart as he was, Eskel’s social skills definitely needed some development, and he tended to use Jaskier and Geralt as a social crutch (despite the fact that his brother was even worse with people than he was). Iorveth and Vernon Roche were on opposite sides of the little circle the group had formed, and Jaskier dreaded that disaster waiting to happen.

Really, how did Geralt attract such dramatic people to him so easily?

Despite how suddenly off-kilter Jaskier felt being so close to Geralt, last year flashing through his mind, he knew he couldn’t show it. Geralt would notice, and then it would be awkward for them both, and Jaskier would never forgive himself for ruining Geralt’s Christmas two years in a row.

So he flitted around the group, being his charming self. His smile felt forced as he gave Iorveth and Roche (very awkward) one-armed hugs. His stomach churned as he kissed Triss on the cheek. His balance felt off as he waltzed into Eskel’s arms for one of his patented bear hugs (though that was likely the alcohol, now that he thought about it).

“How is it that you’re already drunk, Jaskier?” Geralt said as Jaskier pulled out of Eskel’s arms.

Jaskier shot him a cheeky grin. “Not drunk, my dear--friend. My dear friend. Merely tipsy.”

“With a stutter like that forming?” Yennefer teased, holding out her hand.

Jaskier indulged her dramatics and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, chest burning white hot all the while. His smile was probably slightly too-sharp when he stood back up again, but he couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

“The heavier side of tipsy, perhaps,” Jaskier replied, smoothly sliding in beside Geralt to drape himself over Geralt’s shoulders.

A chorus of titters and chuckles went through the circle and Jaskier furrowed his brow. He rubbed his face and ran a hand through his hair, searching for imperfections but finding none. He then looked toward Geralt for an explanation, but the poor man looked just as confused as Jaskier was.

“Aren’t you wondering why none of us were standing all that close to Geralt?” Triss asked, that coy smile Jaskier was all-too-familiar with making its way onto her lips.

And now that she mentioned that, it was odd. Yennefer was usually glued to Geralt’s other side, and Triss was almost always trying to butt her way in. Her jealousy tended to be a great deal more obvious than Jaskier’s, deliberately trying to provoke the two of them. Jaskier simply got drunk and wrote songs about unrequited love, he knew better than to try and put himself between them.

Roche rolled his eyes as Jaskier and Geralt still just stared at the group rather dumbly. He pointed upwards and their eyes followed his finger.

Geralt, very unfortunately, was halfway into a doorway. Taped to the top of the frame of said doorway was a little sprig of green. Jaskier felt his heart stop. He had to swallow to keep the bile from rising up in his throat. He pulled away from where he was leaning on Geralt. The group was still laughing and teasing good-naturedly, but Jaskier felt like his world was crashing down around him. He looked toward Eskel for help, being the kindest of the group.

Only Eskel just shrugged with a grin. “It is tradition.”

“Oh come on, now,” Yennefer said, her voice twisting around Jaskier’s throat like a noose. “We’re all adults here. Just get it over with.”

Jaskier slowly met Geralt’s eyes. He was impossible to read, even moreso than normal, and Jaskier felt that familiar pit open up in his stomach. He needed to get this over with and then smoothly make his escape. Perhaps claim he’d had more to drink than he thought and needed to call a cab.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked quietly, barely more than a whisper.

Jaskier gave him a small smile and leaned forward. He pressed a feather-light kiss to the scruff of Geralt’s cheek before pulling away, his heart not able to take much more than that.

Jaskier couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he walked away.

Jaskier’s kiss was a barely-there peck to the cheek. Before Geralt could even hope to respond, he was gone.

The group’s teasing had quieted down, and Geralt dared to look up. Iorveth and Roche seemed confused, not close enough to the rest of the group to be caught up on the drama. Eskel seemed torn between beating himself up and beating Geralt up. Triss seemed guilty.

And Yennefer was just smug.

Geralt found himself grinding his teeth. Of course she was behind this (though it was clear that Triss had some hand in it, as well). Their most recent breakup, for once, had been amicable. The past few years had been hell for them, trying to make their relationship work even though they both knew it was never going anywhere. Jaskier was Yennefer’s last straw.

Geralt was more horrified that Yennefer had so easily picked up on his feelings for Jaskier than hurt by the breakup. If she had picked up on them, then surely Jaskier had?

Is that what that hauntingly sad smile Jaskier gave him before he kissed him was for? Did Jaskier pity him? Was he trying to let Geralt down easy?

“Go after him,” she said simply.

“Yen, this isn’t one of your games--”

“No,” she replied, voice suddenly terse. “So stop treating it like one and act like an adult, Geralt. I think we’ve all had quite enough of you two being like this, and it only got worse after last year’s party.”

“Which you still won’t talk about,” Triss chimed in, raising an eyebrow.

“So go talk to him.”

Geralt resisted the urge to growl. “Fine.”

Jaskier wasn’t hard to find, when you knew him as well as Geralt did. He liked to be high up when he was upset, saying it made him feel like he was getting some perspective on his problems. Geralt liked to joke that it was because he was more at home with his head in the clouds.

Jaskier was on a balcony overlooking the city, a pack of cigarettes sitting on the railing. A lit one rested between his fingers, the smoke curling into the air and entwining with the condensation trailing from his lips thanks to the cold air.

“I thought you quit,” Geralt said quietly.

Jaskier turned his head, not far enough to face Geralt but far enough to let Geralt see the wry half smile on his lips.

“You know how the holidays are,” Jaskier replied, taking a long drag from his cigarette and turning back to the cityscape.

Geralt moved forward to lean against the railing next to him, letting out a heavy sigh and watching the white vapor twist into the air. He didn’t know how to have this conversation. Between the two of them, Jaskier was by far the more emotionally intelligent one. With him shutting down like this, Geralt didn’t know what to say.

“Are you… okay?”

Jaskier snorted. “Yeah, Geralt. I’m great.”

Geralt considered the words for a few moments, turning around the tone of voice in his head. “Sarcasm,” he decided. 

It was much easier to decipher when he himself was using it, rather than try to pick out when others were.

Jaskier sighed, hanging his head. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Geralt shook his head. “What’s going on?”

Jaskier took another drag of his cigarette. “Nothing, Geralt. Don’t worry about it.”

Geralt let out a frustrated growl, not sure how else to express himself in the moment. He snatched the pack of cigarettes off the railing (breathing out a sigh of relief when only one was missing -- the one between Jaskier’s fingers) and ripped the lit one out of Jaskier’s hand, tossing both items over the edge of the balcony.

“What the fuck, Geralt?!”

Geralt stared at him. “You told me last time you quit to not let you start up again.”

Jaskier groaned and put his head into his hands. “Shit. I did, didn’t I?”

Geralt hummed an affirmative.

“Aside from saving my lungs, was there something you needed, Geralt?”

Geralt leaned back against the railing, clasping his hands together. “To know what’s had you acting so weird all night.”

He felt Jaskier’s eyes on him, could see him staring out of his peripheral, but Geralt kept his eyes on the lights of the city. With all the light pollution, it was probably as close to stars as they would get without driving out to the mountains.

“You really want to know?” Jaskier asked eventually, his voice low.

“Yes.”

“Tonight I was pressured into kissing the man that broke my heart, about a year ago now.”

Geralt flinched back, finally looking over toward Jaskier. Jaskier was still staring at him, his blue eyes almost seeming to glow in the dark of the balcony.

“Who--Who broke--”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, face remaining impassive.

Geralt hesitated. “I broke your heart?”

Jaskier sighed and turned away, looking toward the horizon. “Last holiday party, we went home together. We made love for hours. I told you I cared for you deeply. And when I woke up, you were gone.”

Geralt wanted to say something, wanted to defend himself, but his voice felt like it was glued in his throat, unable to escape.

“Barely any time had passed before you were back in Yennefer’s pocket, not a thought given to us. And we never talked about it.”

Geralt swallowed. “I didn’t realize--”

Jaskier threw his hands up in the air, a frustrated laugh escaping his lips. Geralt’s frown deepened when he saw Jaskier’s eyes glistening.

“Didn’t realize what, Geralt? I thought I was being pretty obvious about the fact that I’m in love with you!”

“Yennefer and I broke up,” Geralt said, deciding to tackle the topic he knew how to talk about first.

Jaskier snorted, leaning his back against the railing and crossing his arms. “What else is new?”

Geralt shook his head. “For good, this time.”

Jaskier only stared at him. Geralt huffed out a breath as he searched for his words, running a hand through his hair.

“You know how… Sometimes, you can have a great friendship with each other, but when you try to date you end up being really toxic and horrible to each other? That’s me and Yen.”

“Could’ve told you that three years ago. Oh wait, I did.”

Geralt sighed. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t listen, Jask. I just… I wanted it to work so bad, we both did. Even though we knew it never would.”

Jaskier looked down at his feet. “I know. I’m sorry for snapping like that.”

“It’s okay.”

Jaskier looked back up at him. “So what was the final nail in the coffin? What sealed the deal for you two?”

Geralt looked away, choosing a specific building to look at and staring at it intensely. His fingers itched to fiddle with something, but he forced them to stay still, clenching the freezing metal of the railing.

“I love Yen. But she and I both realized that I would never love her as much as I loved you.”

The silence stretched on for far too long and Geralt could feel his skin prickling with anxiety. His throat felt like it had swollen shut, making it difficult to breathe and impossible to get any words out. He wanted to look at Jaskier, see his reaction, but his body was locked in place.

“And if you love me so much, Geralt,” Jaskier said, his voice even more icy than the balcony railing leeching the warmth from his fingers, “why did you leave me?”

Geralt gave into the urge to fidget, reaching up for the pendant on his chest. His fingers were clumsy and numb from the cold, making him fumble, but the action was still soothing.

“I didn’t realize you meant it. Jaskier, you flirt with everyone. You’ve probably slept with half the company, and while I don’t judge you for that, I couldn’t help but feel like I was just the next notch in your bedpost.”

Jaskier dropped his face into his hands. “God, Geralt, I only slept with most of those people to try and get over you. You had Yennefer, and I was just me. I knew you would never choose me over her.”

“I am now.”

Jaskier stayed silent for a moment. “And if I decide that it’s too late?”

There was an uncomfortable burning feeling behind Geralt’s eyes and he did his best to push it back down. 

“Then I would respect your decision, and hope we could still be friends come tomorrow. I don’t want to lose you, Jask.”

Jaskier didn’t reply.

“I’m sorry I made you wait so long. I’m sorry I was so blind to your feelings.”

“And say we did do this,” Jaskier said, his voice still guarded. “What about Yennefer?”

Geralt shook his head. “There’s nothing left for me and Yen. We’re done hurting each other for a relationship that will never feel good.” Geralt couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his lips as he tacked on, “Plus, with the looks Triss has been shooting her, I don’t think Yennefer will be too lonely.”

Jaskier shot him an incredulous look. “Triss and Yennefer hate each other!”

Geralt chuckled. “Yeah, when I was involved. Yen can, quite frankly, be a jealous bitch, and Triss certainly wasn’t letting up on the flirting.”

Jaskier searched his face. “And Triss?”

“There was never going to be any me and Triss, and she knew that. Honestly, I think her flirting these days has been more to toy with Yen than to actually try and woo me.”

Jaskier turned his gaze toward the night sky, a muddy brown-black-orange that ruined any hope of seeing the stars “Huh.”

“They both know there’s only one person I’m looking to woo me, anyway.”

Geralt watched Jaskier break out in a goofy, giddy smile, clearly involuntarily based on the way he quickly bit his lip to try and suppress it. Slowly, carefully, Geralt reached out for one of Jaskier’s hands, tugging gently until his arms came unravelled.

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shook his head. “I’m sorry, too. I should’ve said something.”

“Can I hug you?”

Jaskier’s goofy smile was back and Geralt felt his heart clench. He hoped to see that smile so much more.

“Only if I can kiss you,” Jaskier replied, bouncing on his toes a little.

Geralt grinned. “I find that an acceptable trade.”

Jaskier laughed then, pulling him into a tight hug. They stayed like that for a long while, sharing heat and just soaking in each other’s presence. Slowly starting to accept that this was real, that this was happening. Geralt clenched his hands tightly into Jaskier’s sweater.

And then, some long minutes later, they pulled back from the hug just enough to press their lips together. It was soft and chaste, but by no means short. Geralt decided that kissing Jaskier felt like coming home.

They slipped away after that, deciding not to head back to the party. Their friends would assume things, sure, but they didn’t care. They had lost time to make up for, they could make up for not saying goodbye later.

Geralt drove them home, back to Jaskier’s flat just like last year. Jaskier fiddled with the radio as the streets blurred around them, trying to find an appropriately-themed holiday station. He burst into cackles the second he found one.

“Tell me this is not Wham!,” Geralt begged.

Jaskier was laughing too hard to reply.

“I hate it,” Geralt said, despite being on the verge of laughter himself. “I hate it so much. Stop laughing, it’s not funny.”

“It’s so funny!” Jaskier wheezed, clutching his stomach as he doubled over in his seat.

Jaskier had only just barely calmed down by the time they got to his flat. They curled up on his ratty old couch with some hot chocolate and put on a Christmas movie, but it became more background noise than anything. 

Instead they talked. They talked about their past together and how it hurt them, and their future and how they would prevent that from hurting too. They talked until Geralt’s throat was sore and Jaskier was nodding off on his shoulder. Geralt couldn’t find the energy to carry him to bed, so he simply readjusted their position on the couch to be something more comfortable and settled in to sleep himself.

“L’ve ‘ou” Jaskier breathed out against his neck.

Geralt smiled, closing his eyes. “Love you too, Jaskier.

[jcmorgenstern]

"#hey where's the fic where chaotic bisexuals jace and clary are in a relationship with clary's estranged brother's foster mom#literally lease my crops are DYING i NEED cougar lilith i NEED#(mundane AU 20k rated M or E) #im gonna have to write it myself arent i" // perhaps Lilith is beside herself over Jonathan leaving, and this is a chance to feel closer to him through people important to him. perhaps I love this idea.

tags from this post (thank you anon!!! i went a little fucking crazy and wrote this which is entirely unedited.....rip in pieces)

It had been a year and a half since she had seen Jonathan last. He had been hers in all the ways that mattered (but never flesh and blood) until he wasn’t, a stabilizing weight by her side cut loose. Sudden as that, she was in freefall. A prestigious editorship at a major fashion magazine turned to ball and chain, the envied life of a socialite the vanity of a mere woman, a luxurious New York loft to the dreaded empty nest. At her third strong drink in an evening, she could feel the thin coat of dust layering her womb, a mausoleum. Her son and one frivolous argument too many did what scores of small men had tried and failed to do.

On balance, she supposed she ought to proud it took her this long for the bland Promethean cycle of waking-working-talking-eating-sleeping-repeat to wear her down, and ashamed she gave in at all. A good mother, she knew, would never be caught where she is now--standing out in an ill-fitting tinsel dress she wouldn’t have been caught dead in two years ago, avoiding the eyes of men too young for her (beneath her) in favor of one in particular.

I only want to look, she’d told herself as she’d scrabbled at the bottom of her purse (Himalaya Birkin, years out of style, a metaphor dangling in crocodile skin off her arm) for her keys. Just to see. Get close. Watch.

It had been complete coincidence that she’d found out about the art exhibit in the first place. An invite to a wretched student affair from a once-great school grasping for relevance in the cynical age of the internet stuffed in with her morning mail delivery, ordinarily not worth a second more of her attention than it took to sweep it into the trash. The name was what caught her attention, an instinctive flash in the pan--Fairchild.

He didn’t go by Fairchild, of course. He was a man, and why would a man wear anything but the name of another man? At the threshold of adulthood, Jonathan shed the vile name of the woman who had given him up in favor of a ghost of a father. Her own, she realized now, had never been in the running. And so he called himself Morgenstern, an ugly name sealing him off from her like foreign territory. Morgenstern had a terrible finality to it.

She didn’t answer a single email or call the rest of the morning, snapping at any EA foolhardy enough to raise a word against her. By noon, she knew the girl and her boyfriend from smiling model pictures on Instagram, incomplete snippets of life from Facebook and Twitter. The wordless temptation finally had a face and a name and an achingly familiar mane of red hair. Fairchild was the name of his sister by blood, the girl for whom his birth mother had scraped together enough love to keep.

She picked the weaker link first--the blond. Men gave themselves away more easily than women, basking in every oozing ounce of attention. She took his measure in-between smiles and small conversations, observing him over the shoulders of conversational partners she took no interest in. Well-built, handsome, artfully disarranged hair, a James Dean sort of affable. The type girls wished for long after he’d moved on from her entirely. She could see him in the glossy pages of a fashion magazine and allowed herself to hate him, dip the fashionable one syllable of his white-hipster name in poison. Jace.

The second hour she allowed herself closer, indulged in scratching the surface. Uncomfortable in worn jeans and leather jacket surrounded by talk of Bosch, Mondrian, Xiaodong, he was here for his girlfriend, treading water in the art world to lend her a familiar face. He flirted with the girl at the bar more out of obligation than interest, reading off his come here often? lines stiff and atonal. By the time she drifted up beside him at the bar, she had given him enough nuance she could have convinced herself to like him.

“I don’t suppose you could get me one of those?”

It came out easy, like slipping into clothes from another life. Her first job as waitress faking pretty rouged smiles through propositions and comments and ass-pinches, or her first magazine internship weathering the same. He was drinking beer, and she couldn’t stand beer, but men had a peculiar weakness for women who drank their own kinds of drink.

He turned, bemusement turning to something else as she deliberately met his gaze. He was lovely up close, and all in a dizzying rush she felt the barest spark of that indescribable satisfaction she’d been chasing, found the ghost of Jonathan’s angular features in the broader contours of his face. His too-polite smile broke the spell. “I’d love to, but I don’t think my girlfriend would like that very much.”

The waitress smile slipped off. Put him in his place. “It just seems you’re the only one who can get any service around here.”

His smile turned instantly sheepish. “Oh, uh--sorry.” A quick word with the bartender, and soon she had her very own mug of alcoholic piss. He visibly cast about for a line of conversation, and it raised her ire that she couldn’t tell if he did it out of flirtation or pity. “Are you with the gallery?”

“Oh, no. I’m with Poise magazine. We like to browse local shows for rising talent. Keeps us fresh.” She gave a half-flicker of lash at fresh. The cover story was self-indulgent--the answer she gave only mattered to herself. She wasn’t searching for her son where she knew he wouldn’t be found. The flirtation was by rote. “Are you an artist? We’re always doing submission intake.”

It was an old and familiar lie. General licensure was the best any hopeful would get without prior connections.

“Me? No way.” He was warming up to her, rising to her charm like a snake from a basket. How old was he? He couldn’t even be half her age. “Clar--my girlfriend, she’s the artist. I’m here for her.”

For her, not with her. There was a distinction. She cued up the smile she used for interviews. “That’s lovely. What kind of artist?”

“A painter.” For a second, Jace’s expression was almost shy. “She landed the art school gig, but her mom taught her. It’s kind of her last connection to her, you know? Painting keeps her mom alive.”

The enormity of his statement quavered between them like a note from a tuning fork struck on an edge. She felt her expression flicker and melt like wax--Jocelyn was dead. Was it cancer, murder, a hit-and-run? Half-thoughts spooled out in her imagination, part vindictive and part lurid. Did he know? Did he think of her the day he learned she was dead, wish for her to put her arms around him and let him cry into her? She savored the imaginary heat of his short, hitched exhales on her neck, the precious hot droplets of salt falling on her skin.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m an ass,” Jace was babbling. “Did you--have you lost a parent too?”

For a moment, she could have laughed at him. Her father was buried, her mother entombed in a home somewhere conveniently out of mind. With a strange, electric jolt she realized he had assigned her fallen expression to the closest thing at hand, unbiased by that all-encompassing occupation: mother. A mother must have lost a child; a person could lose a parent a lover or a friend. It had been so very long since she’d been seen as anything but.

“Jace! JaceJaceJace--there you are!”

A mess of red-gold curls bounded by her to plant a messy wet kiss to Jace’s cheek. They kissed, young dewy-skinned and unabashed, and she watched with a feeling unlike Jonathan creeping on the edge of her thoughts. Jace broke away first, pulling her back into conversation. “This is, uh, Clary. Clary, this is--” he broke off, embarrassed.

Clary spluttered in the middle of knocking back the last of a sidecar, whipping around to stare at her with something wide-eyed and akin to wonder. “Don’t you--? Don’t you know who she is? Editor at Poise? The Lilith?”

“Not exactly,” Jace admitted.

Clary paid him no mind, cocktail glass immediately moored at the bar. She looked up at her and once she saw past the stars winking in the girl’s eyes, she could see they were the same soft hazel as her brother’s. Clary was drunk, and brimming with it from her ugly artistic blouse to her blunt art-student-lesbian bangs to the untamed curl of her hair. “It’s really you,” she gushed. “I’ve been following your blog forever, and your twitter--I’m being so embarrassing, aren’t I? Can I...can I have a picture?”

Lilith disliked her with a magnetism that pulled the girl in close, letting Clary slip an arm around her waist and hold up a phone too big for her small, delicate-boned hands. In the phone’s screen she could see herself frozen in real time, her red lips lifting in a waxen smile. Next to the peach-fuzz facewash-clean of Clary’s skin, her fashionable makeup and Oscar de la Renta dress looked old and severe, black and gold metals oozing out of her like a snake shedding skin.

“You were my first-ever crush,” Clary was saying with tipsy candor, and with a strange bump Lilith realized Clary was talking to her, not her boyfriend. Her words rushed out in a graceless rush, difficult to make out over the music and wordless chatter drowning her in a dull roar. “I’d spend hours cutting out your photoshoots from magazines, making collages--it drove mom crazy, all those internalized gender roles and whatever. She realized later I just thought you were really hot.”

The full blushing import of Clary’s words hit them all at once and Clary flushed a blotchy pink all the way to the roots of her hair and touched her free hand to her cheek. “Oh my god, I’m fucking drunk.”

Lilith became suddenly aware her hand was still on Clary’s warm waist, trapped under her arm. This was all unscripted, unrehearsed; she felt as flustered as Clary looked, thrown off by the noise and the heat and the alcohol she hadn’t even drank. She was wearing perfume, something cheap and cloying, and in a strange moment Lilith could imagine Clary spread out over a glossy page, slim peachy legs and delicate collarbones bold and daring out from under the heavy drape of a dark dress.

She reached for something cutting to take the girl down to size, but what came out instead was a genteel, “That’s very flattering.”

Clary gave her a pinched little smile in return, the very pink tip of her tongue darting over her bottom lip, and her blush did not abate. Lilith looked to Jace, who was looking between them with something uncertain in his eyes.

A strange, smouldering sensation had risen in her chest, thick and suffocating as a plume of smoke. Her hand did not so much as tremble when she raised a hand to tuck away a stray curl, the color so much lighter when it caught the light. Clary’s face swam before her eyes, raw and pink from crying over her dead mother.

“You’re very sweet,” she said, and there was a husky quality to her voice that only came on with one or two glasses of red wine. Her heart was pounding out a dull, insistent throb rising in time with a painful lump in her throat.

Her phone vibrated in her bag, breaking the spell with a start. She pulled away to relieve the sudden alcoholic flush and dug into her bag with utter disregard for her nails, feeling for the familiar cool rectangle of her phone. When at last she managed to disentangle herself citing creative emergencies needing her immediate attention and a whole host of familiar excuses, it was only then she realized on habit she’d given Clary her card.

The taxi ride back to her apartment was blissfully silent, dark except for the rising crests of light along the near-silent streets. Her own face hovered ghostly in the window, close enough to touch. Her fingertips met glass with a flash of red-gold and her eyes seared with a sudden heat, the ache in her sternum widening.

Her thoughts lingered on him as she greeted the front desk clerk, beside her in physical form in the elevator, hovering at the margins like a melancholy raincloud as she launched into her nighttime routine. Squalane cleanser to remove makeup, wash face before an exfoliant chemical blend, a layer of hydralaunic acid and then niacinamide to hydrate, an retinol under-eye cream to top it all off. The ritual grip of her thoughts relinquished only once she’d folded herself under the covers in her nightclothes, receding as she fell into the uneasy lull of sleep.

This time, the thought of him was mixed with traces of red and gold.