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restless-witch · 5 months

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nothing in the world is mine, but my love, mine

hey hey I did a one-shot for once, I've posted it on Ao3 here but I know some of y'all like to read fic on tumblr so it's below the cut

Comments and likes always appreciated <3

He clocks the bard as either noble or a romantic the moment he sees the gloves on his hands. They're subtle, as far as the custom goes, a dark olive colored kidskin with a simple flower button wrapped around his wrist and covering only his thumb. The Witcher always wears gloves of a kind, Jaskier determines after a few weeks on the path together, though out of utility. a quick soulmates AU where soulmates have matching marks on the sides of their hands // title shamelessly stolen from Mitski's "My Love Mine All Mine"

Rated: T for swearing

Fandom: The WItcher TV

Pairing: Geraskier (Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier), background Yennralt (Yennefer of Vengerber/Geralt of Rivia)

Language: English

It's not satisfying when the bards confirms both to be true on their way to investigate the devil but when they're being kicked by Toruviel, he thinks that if the bard was a full gloved wearing hack then they'd both be dead.

Which also isn't satisfying.

The Witcher always wears gloves of a kind, Jaskier determines after a few weeks on the Path together, though out of utility.

Apparently the most dressed down the witcher ever gets is a pair of fingerless gloves worn even to sleep. Something about improving his grip and tendon injuries- Geralt tenses up when he can sense Jaskier wants to ask if witchers even have marks. Jaskier can feel how fragile their friendship is. He doesn't press the issue.

He hopes that puts a mark in his favor.

By the end of the season, Geralt determines the bard has no less than seven pairs of gloves- yet only two of them are permitted to actually get dirtied. Two suede pairs to match the colors of his "lover's eyes" (unoriginally brown and blue), three pairs for wearing in town, and a scant two pairs for all his bathing, cooking, and laundry.

It's utterly ridiculous.

Before they part at Ban Glan for the winter, he tells the bard to get more sensible gloves before spring on the Path.

He's at Ard Carraig before he realizes he planned for the bard to join him again.

When he returns to Oxenfurt, the two pairs of gloves he has for washing are nearly worn to shreds- he throws them down on the table at the Wishful Warbler with a grin when Shani asks about his travels. He's going on real adventures with his-maybe-friend-Geralt and getting dirty and everything. He spends the winter as a research assistant to Professor Berlyn and learning to make stacks of washing gloves.

His friends, who largely only own a pair or two or have entirely dispensed with the custom, are overrun with gloves of varying quality. Priscilla generously accepts a stack whose thumbs must all be split open to accommodate even her dainty digit.

He manages to barter for a pair of amber saffron dyed kidskin gloves- painstakingly transcribing Metz's treatises on celestial calendars small enough for Valdo Marx to use them as crib notes.

It's worth it.

It's a true lark to set them along with his brown and blue gloves and he whistles when they meet up in the spring and he waggles them in Geralt's face and thinks Geralt is about to strangle him- before the ludacris stack of washing gloves topples out of his bag onto the witcher's lap and he can't help but bark a laugh into Jaskier's delighted face.

He knows the bard is, at least, serious about walking the Path when he drops the stack of gloves on Geralt's lap. It's a bit of a child's attempt at adulthood, he admits to himself because he knows it would crush the bard to know twenty years of life does not make a man.

Still, it dampens his concerns of noble nonsense a bit to see where the calluses from needlework have made his fingertips even more knobby alongside the ones from his lute. For all the work Jaskier puts into his hands- carefully filing down his calluses and nails when they crack and rubbing ointments in before he beds down- Geralt can see it's a dedication to practicality and not vanity.

The bard is unconcerned by the healing scars where broken strings have cut into the flesh or the uneven tan marks across the backs of his hands where the different gloves have sat.

Jaskier wonders, just a teensy bit, if Geralt's glove wearing excuse isn't a little... weak.

Always needing his full grip strength?

It's a lighthearted solstice evening where he's helping Geralt in the bath when the witcher turns his head to the side, immediately stands up and storms over to the next room (nearly cock out and everything if Jaskier hadn't thought to throw the bath sheet at him) and throws an unwanted suitor off the serving girl.

There's suds dripping out of Geralt's hair all over the floor that he knows he'll wipe up later with the very gloves he's wearing now and Jaskier thinks he is maybe falling in love, for real this time.

A handful of times, he catches the bard cooing over marks in taverns. He wonders if it's a bit- some flirtation over how a lass or lad with such lovely signs could possibly take up with a scoundrel like him.

It's not the most rakish bit he could suspect of the bard- though he notices the bard never takes off his gloves in return. He wears them even in the cities and hamlets where the custom is less common or replaced with simple patches of dyed skin.

It makes him seem damn right virginal to keep them on all the time.

Perhaps the bard's mark is something obscene- it's not unheard of. If that were true though, he suspects the bard would leverage it into some pickup line about his prowess in bed.

Perhaps the bard has no marks- a person blessedly free of obligation or destiny.

He thinks it would be a kinder fate for Jaskier to be free of those kinds of concerns.

Jaskier knows his fastidiousness with wearing gloves is a little unusual for the current fashion but he commits to the bit.

He thinks it's more romantic to have them revealed and thinks his are especially gorgeous; a simple sun on his right hand and a moon on his left, a small comet arcing over each and a few lines he thinks are wind or perhaps clouds. He's seen more ornate or filigreed marks- even the occasional mark with a splash of color- but his marks are so curiously endearing.

When he links his bare hands together he sees a miniature of the universe and hopes that one day, he may hold his soulmate's marks against his own and feel the world between their hands.

He'll admit he's kept the privilege of the reveal to himself; but he'll be a little selfish if it means he can know to watch their delight when he reveals a world in his hands- a world to share.

He's not sure where his soulmate will fit in this life he's made in Oxenfurt and on the Path, but he never could have predicted the love that's already sprung up in his life already.

It's a very late night, or a very very early morning, when Geralt asks Yennefer about her marks- the marks erased when she became a mage.

"Never had one," she says, teasingly tracing the edge of his gloves, "I never needed fate to find love."

In the dark, between a sigh and a moan, his gloves are cast away.

When the sun has properly risen and midday creeps closer, she holds hands between her own.

"Rather provincial, aren't they?" She brings the tender pale flesh of his palm to her mouth and bites playfully, "I'd expect nothing less of a Rivian."

"Not quite a Rivian," he says and gently wriggles his fingers against her jaw, smiling as she can't help laugh and let the marks out of her teeth, "are they to your liking?"

Her answer comes as a carafe of apple juice.

It's a hard day: starting with Geralt stumbling through a portal smelling of lilac and gooseberries and ending with Jaskier dragging a nearly-drowned Geralt out of a waterhag's shack.

Two baths were called- a rare luxury in a rickety town- for Jaskier knew a shared bath would end up with at least one of them more disgusting at the end. Geralt is, Melitele be praised, uninjured besides a black eye that blooms stark against the lingering potion-pale pallor he'd had earlier.

The two strip and Jaskier climbs into his bath: Geralt casts a look at the door and cocks his head and throws his pus-soaked gloves straight into the chamberpot.

They soak, side by side, and chatter tiredly and Jaskier thinks nothing of it when Geralt offers to perk up his water and he sees the moon and comet and dappled lines on Geralt's right hand as he casts Igni into the bath.

The smell of lilac and gooseberries and fucking are starting to sweat out of Geralt's hair and the memories of the wedding feast cut through him, unbidden, and Jaskier should have won another master's degree in performance for the way he blames the jump in his heart on the scalding water.

The curling misery he later blames on the thought of ridding the swamp stench from his boots.

Jaskier learns to knit gloves sometime around when Geralt forces himself to admit the bard is past boyhood. It's a rather domestic skill for Jaskier to learn in adulthood, though he claims they're easier to make and repair on the Path: which isn't a lie exactly and the bard does earn them a few coins fiddling with the needles in town and selling the gloves.

The knitted gloves seem to be his preference now- less prone to tearing as they wear and able to go longer without laundering. It's the threads of anxiety beneath it that give Geralt pause, he's been presuming Jaskier was unmarked entirely and wore the gloves for attention, but the longer he guards the little span of flesh the more Geralt thinks a tragedy must lie beneath the scraps of fabric.

Perhaps the person he shared his marks with had rejected him- though Geralt thought that unlikely given how firmly Jaskier had attached himself to Geralt's side despite him trying to outrun the bard for a year. Whoever shared his marks didn't stand a chance against Jaskier's persistence. Against his smile.

Perhaps the person he shared his marks with was already dead. Geralt didn't believe in the machinations of destiny or soulmarks, but that too twisted at him. Jaskier was a scoundrel, yes, but didn't deserve that so early in life. At the very least, it would explain why the bard wasn't concerned to muck with his fate by sharing his time with a witcher.

At the very least, he counts their time together as a blessing now, even if it's stolen from another.

Jaskier thinks it's finally time to come clean about his marks- their marks really. Not all marks are about just two people, he knows that, and Yennefer isn't the worst person to share a life with.

Honestly, he already does- Geralt's adverse to destiny but Yennefer would be sensible working out some kind of custody schedule if they didn't want to invite him in. He shares his life with Geralt, which is more than many soulmates get. He's not even sure he wants more of their lives shared, but the longer he keeps the marks hidden- the more the omission feels like a lie.

The more he knows he's lying to Geralt.

He figures it's an even shot Geralt that he'll never see him again or he'll be invited to winter at the Kaer.

It turns out he didn't even need the marks to drive Geralt away, being himself was enough.

"See you around Geralt."

A week after the dust settles and the Deathless Mother has been banished from their plane, Geralt notices Jaskier's gloves stretch from wrist to fingertip and when Jaskier is pulled into what is rapidly becoming Yennefer's lab, he can hear a sympathetic pained groan from Yennefer as Jaskier's fingers are rebroken.

Geralt knocked against the open door of Jaskier's room: Jaskier kicked another log into the fire-

Geralt should have thought of that.

"Come in," Jaskier said and settled back into the chair before his diary. Geralt saw a page with very few words and many drops of ink smeared across it.

Geralt took the poker and rearranged the wood of the fire to burn more evenly, "Yenn says you haven't been caring for your burns," he coaxed the fire into a more even burn and pressed it further back into the hearth.

There was a long silence, "I can't open the jar," Jaskier admitted.

"You know anyone here would help you, Jask-" he dragged a hand through his hair, had he really fucked it up that badly?

Jaskier's silence said what it needed to.

"I'm sorry I didn't make that clear, Jaskier," he said and saw Jaskier's gaze drop lower, to the page in front of him, "may I help you now?"

"I would like it if you opened the jar," Jaskier said, "I don't want to trouble you any further. And thank you for the fire-"

"It's not trouble, I should-" Geralt huffed a sigh, "I should have thought of it sooner. Thought of you sooner- please, let me help you."

Geralt could have heard a pin drop on the opposite side of Kaer Morhen as he waited for Jaskier to say something- anything.

He opened the jar of ointment and held on to it, even when Jaskier put a trembling hand out to grasp it, waiting for Jaskier to permit him to tend to the burns. Jaskier gave him a worn look.

Jaskier carefully took his gloves off- his fingers still wracked with the persistent tremors that made the single button at the wrists take an achingly long time to unfasten.

"The draughts help," Jaskier said softly, "but they will take time to subside."

They do not speak of the lute calluses that have started to thin and peel off entirely.

The gloves came off Jaskier's hand- revealing two palms and thumbs soiled by burns. There, amongst the gnarled scars, laid the burst remains of a sun and a moon.

Metz's treatise on the formation of the celestial spheres says the bursting of a sun creates a black hole: swallowing whole planets into its gravitational pull.

Geralt thought, perhaps, he should have considered his own marks when he wondered of Jaskier's for how often their hands touched.

"Don't-" Jaskier started, he took a deep breath and looked at the marks and not at Geralt, "please just the ointment, Geralt," he held out a hand again to take the pot from Geralt.

Geralt took the little pot of ointment, preciously carried in his saddlebags from Cidaris to Gulet to Kaer Morhen, and tugged off his own gloves as well. He carefully scooped out some of the ointment, the smell of dusk campion faint and familiar, and he warmed it between his palms.

He gently dragged his palms over Jaskier's before nimbly working the oil and medicine into his skin, taking care to rub into the creases between his fingers and the bumps of his remaining cuticles.

Yennefer says the draughts will help the nerves return and the ointment will smooth the burns.

Geralt was careful to be methodical and detached as he covered the marks with beeswax and the scent of campion. He cannot help but imagine the pain that forced Jaskier's sun and moon to bubble and split so wide; the layered burns that distort the comets into slashes of lightning.

He cannot help but wonder why Jaskier didn't leave him to rot.

He cannot help but wonder why soul marks are counted as a blessing when his sun and moon remain clear and smooth while Jaskier's have ruptured into glowing black holes. He must not be an expert, there must be a gap in his knowledge, for he'd once counted Jaskier's dismissal as a blessing.

"Easy there, Geralt," Jaskier said kindly, "there's no reason for all that."

Of course Jaskier could interpret the bite of Geralt's lip and the furrowing of his brow.

Geralt held Jaskier's hands between his own, their suns and moons nearly meeting where the burns didn't warp them, "I'd given up on seeing this," Jaskier said fondly, "our own little world in our hands." He traced Geralt's comet down to the bowl of the moon, "Thank you Geralt, you did a very good job."

"I'm sorry," Geralt managed, "I didn't know."

"I didn't really want you to, would you have received it well?" Jaskier said pointedly, then his voice softened, "it was bad enough I wormed my way beside you- this- Geralt,” he gently squeezed their hands, “This is more than I dreamed of.”

"You should want more," Geralt said, "You should ask for more. I'm sorry-"

"I've said the same of you," Jaskier laughed softly, a rare sound of late, "I've said the same of you many times. Perhaps we can work on this together."

#actual fic nothing in the world is mine but my love mine #geraskier #geralt/jaskier #the witch writes

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americaswritings · 2 years

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Finding a purpose

Warnings: Spoilers for s2 of the witcher, angst

Prompt: “I lost everything.”

Summary: What if Ciri hadn’t interrupted Yennefer and Geralt’s reunion and they actually talked about what happened to Yennefer?

Words: 2.2k

Pairing: Yennefer x Geralt

A/N: I know this is a little different from what I usually write, but I just finished season 2 of the witcher and had to write something! And let's be honest, they did Yennefer dirty this season. She went through so much and just looked so exhausted and worn out, I just wanted to give her a hug! I loved her reunion with Geralt (their chemistry is over the top!!!) but after that, well it went downhill from there... So I decided to rewrite their reunion scene and pretend things would have gone different from then. I hope you enjoy :)

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The sound of the heavy iron door opening interrupted the silence. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Ciri”, Geralt said, but a moment later he froze. A familiar scent filled his nose. His heart seemed to miss a beat as the realisation, who had entered the room sank in.

It couldn’t be her. He was certain he wasn’t dreaming, but the scent didn’t fade, her heartbeat remaining steady behind him.

Hope grew in his chest, interlaced with the painful memories thinking of her brought with it. Even though he had been told she was alive, had survived the fateful battle at Sodden Hill, he hadn’t been able to believe it until now.

He hadn’t dared to hope, hadn’t dared to imagine it, because he couldn’t bear losing her again. It had hurt too much the first time. And then the second, when he had believed her to be dead.

But his senses wouldn’t betray him. She was here.

Slowly he stood up and turned around, bracing himself for the moment his eyes would find hers while fearing it just the same.

She stood close to the door, so still that it seemed she had been caught by surprise just as much as him. She hadn’t expected to find him here.

Cautiously he walked towards her, speeding up his pace as he couldn’t bear the distance between them any longer. Yennefer moved forward, her lilac eyes wide with shock and her mouth slightly open.

He stared back at her as he crossed the last steps between them, not being able to take his eyes off her. “How is this possible?”, Yennefer whispered once he stood in front of her.

“I don’t care”, he confessed, shaking his head slightly as his eyes frankly searched her face.

She was just as breath-taking as he remembered her, and he felt his mind going blank as he drank in every detail of her features. He saw her eyes flicker to his lips, leaning in even closer. He could feel her warm breath on his skin.

They explored each other, seeking to take in as much of the other as possible, caught in each other’s embrace.

Geralt’s right hand reached for her neck, her cheek, her hair while his left hovered over her hip. He could feel hers reaching for his arm and then softly grabbing his face as she inched even closer.

But he wanted to take time for this moment. He didn’t want to rush into it, letting his desire for her overtake his senses. So his right hand got a hold on her cheek, guiding it softly away from his so he could see her whole face.

For a moment they looked at each other, a quiet understanding before slowly leaning in.

The kiss was gentle and unhurried. It was filled with a patience he hadn’t believed they were capable of, but after they had been separated for so long, they both wanted to savour this moment.

Eventually they broke the kiss, both leaning apart but not ready to let go just yet. Their foreheads connected as they tried to seek the others presence once more, a simple reminder that it was real. They were here, together.

After so much time apart, so many haunting dreams, it seemed impossible that the moment had finally come. Yennefer listened to Geralt’s heartbeat, steady and strong and she knew he was doing the same.

They were both alive, something which was a miracle on its own.

But as much they wanted to pretend that the world didn't exist, that time didn't matter, it did. Yennefer was the first one to let go, taking a step back which educed a sigh from Geralt.

"I thought you were dead", he admitted, the pain, which had been a reliable companion since the moment in Sodden when he had learned of Yen's fate, audible in his voice. "I thought I was sometimes", she stated, and suddenly her eyes seemed blank.

The emotions that had previously been there now gone. The passion she firmly held, something that most people feared but had always drawn him back to her was missing. She looked exhausted, numb even.

Her shoulders slumped slightly, her posture lacking its natural authority and confidence. She seemed smaller like that, like someone who would blend into the background, a strong contrast to the woman he had known. Yennefer had always stood out, drawing all attention to her and she had known and used that to her advantage.

But it seemed the woman in front of him wasn’t the one he had known. He had never seen her this way before.

Geralt frowned at her words, trying to make sense of their meaning but failing. He needed to know more, needed to know what had happened to her to make her lose her spark. But Yennefer wasn't open with emotions, never had been.

She displayed them if it would be of use for her, always a hidden motive behind her actions. But it had changed, back when they had hunted the dragon together. For the first time she had opened up to him, confessed to things she had never told anyone else.

Yet even then, she had used sarcasm as a defence mechanism, shutting down when it got too personal. He feared she wouldn't give him the answers he so desperately longed for.

"What happened after Sodden?", he questioned, keeping his voice calm, something he knew was a way to ground Yennefer. Something she had never revealed to him, yet he knew. He could read her more than she was aware of.

Yennefer would have been furious if she knew, he guessed, not being able to control how much of her he could see. But it seemed like she had ceased trying to keep up an act. She didn't hide her exhaustion, didn't try and pretend. It felt like she had given up and that scared him more than anything.

What could have happened to her that could have broken her will?

Yennefer remained stoic, but he felt her heartbeat speed up a little. "I survived. Most others did not." It was all she would say, but Geralt could see there was more to it.

He saw her eyes travelling his body, but not in a lustful way. It seemed like she was trying to memorize every detail of his in her mind.

"I dreamed of you", she suddenly confessed, causing him to lift his brows. "You did?", he asked in surprise and there was the hint of a smile on her face.

"When I was captured, dreams would come to me. Dreams of a better life", she revealed and for a moment she seemed to have left the temple. Her jaw was relaxed, gone was the tension she so often held in it. Her eyes held a rare softness to it as she relived the images of her dreams. Her lips were curved into the slightest smile.

He wanted to keep that image of her. It made her seem younger, covering up the harshness that life had forced on her.

But the moment was gone just as quickly. "Until they turned into nightmares", Yennefer added and back was the darkness that seemed to have invaded her, spreading in her body and tearing her down.

For a second her eyes flickered to his, but then she adverted her gaze to the ground. He stepped forward, an attempt to soothe her, but he could feel her shutting down.

"Yen", he hummed, but she didn't meet his eyes.

"What happened?", he asked again. The hurt of seeing her so broken only increased as he felt her slipping away. He had lost her too many times already, he wouldn't lose her again now.

"I lost everything", she suddenly choked out, meeting his gaze again. He could see the hint of tears in them. Tears she would never cry.

"What does that mean?", he asked.

He stepped closer towards her once more, but Yennefer turned away from him, facing the wall instead. He feared she had shut down again, but she surprised him.

"The brotherhood chases me. I have nowhere I can go without being hunted. Do you know how many times I have been in chains the past weeks?"

There was a bitterness to her voice, and he felt the urge to step forward, embrace her in his arms to show her she was safe with him. He wouldn't let them take her again.

But he knew if he did it, Yennefer wouldn't tell him more.

"You're one of the most powerful mages I have ever come across", he stated, wanting to remind her of her powers.

She didn't need to feel helpless. Her magic could help her regain her power, regain control, something she had sought as long as he knew her, but her heart jumped at his words.

She turned back towards him, the tears in her eyes gone and the dull expression back on her face. "I lost my chaos, Geralt", she stated. "I lost my magic."

The words were clear, not just a hint or an allusion but the truth. Yennefer would never admit to her weakness, but then again, this wasn't the fierce woman he had first met.

The war, what had happened to her, it had left its marks on her, changed her in ways he sought to understand.

"How?"

"At Sodden", was her short answer and he could sense her frustration even before it flamed up through her words. "I am fucking powerless! Without my chaos, I am no one. I have lost my purpose in this goddamn life."

There was desperation to her voice, anger, grief and betrayal. So many emotions that she seemed to have turned them off, much easier this way.

"You are more than your chaos, Yennefer!" She turned away from him again, but his time he stepped closer, touching her upper arm. It was a sign that he was there for her, if she chose to. Chose him.

"I have nowhere to go", she whispered, allowing herself the vulnerability as she was facing away from Geralt. She didn’t know if she could bear looking at his face right now.

The exhaustion, which was visible in her eyes, her whole body, now audible too. He slowly leaned her body into his chest and for a moment they both relaxed at the simple touch.

"You can come with Ciri and me", he offered, feeling hopeful yet nervous for her answer. It was what he had imagined since the day he had found Ciri, or she had found him, a life where they could all be together.

When he had seen Ciri with Triss, he had imagined it to be Yennefer instead. Yennefer who had always wanted a child. She had been the one to push him to search for his child surprise and despite what he had told her, he believed she would be a great mother to Ciri.

His heartbeat reflected the agony he felt as he waited for her answer, the answer that meant so much to him and Yennefer seemed to pick up on it. She turned back towards him and they were close, so close, that her scent almost overwhelmed him.

Lilac and gooseberries.

Yennefer studied his eyes and the intensity in her gaze nearly made him squirm, but he remained stoic. "You found your child surprise", she stated in surprise, and he nodded. "Why? You said you would never claim her."

"There were many things that changed my mind. You were one of them." It was hard for him to speak while she was so close to him. It was thrilling in a way, for his senses which were always balanced out to be affected by her so much.

It amazed him how much she could make him feel. Emotions that he had previously thought he wasn't capable of. True love being one of them. Desire. Hurt. Worry.

Her hand reached up to trace his cheek and he noticed the marks the chains had left on her wrist. Without her magic, she couldn’t heal.

"You really care about her", Yennefer observed. Her face was calm but firm.

He didn't say anything, didn't dare to move under her delicate touch, knowing the emotion in his eyes he couldn’t hide from her and his heartbeat would be enough of an answer for her. Even without her magic she had him under his spell.

He had never stood a chance.

Yennefer seemed to have gotten all the answers she needed. She rose on her toes and his eyes closed as her lips met his again. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, pull her closer if that was even possible, but she seemed so fragile right now. A word he would have never thought of ever fitting to Yennefer.

She had lost her purpose. He had seen it the moment they had broken apart after their kiss. Her magic had been everything to her. Now that it was lost, it seemed like that part of her had left a hole. It had allowed the darkness to slip inside of her.

But she was here now.

He hoped that being with Ciri, teaching her to control her own chaos would give her that sense of fulfilment she had always sought.

Yennefer softly broke the kiss. For now her previous plan seemed forgotten. She had come here for a reason, but she had never expected to find Geralt. Geralt and his child of surprise.

It changed everything.

And for once since the battle of Sodden Yennefer felt hope inside of her.

Maybe her purpose was more than her chaos.

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