#how did it turn somewhat into a lark character study??

[viva-la-bohemia]

The Aftermath

“Come on, get up.”

Lark groaned and clasped the outstretched hand of g-man, his gun-buddy, the man he had done Fortnite dances with at prom while nick and marco laughed from the side Grant Wilson to pull himself up. He looked around slowly at his friends co-workers and made a mental note to take care of the definite concussion that he had. Grant was unloading and reloading his handgun, a nervous tick that had somehow become normalized over the years. TJ, the man who got drunk with him for the first time on the roof of DADDIES and took all the blame when darryl found them, the man that convinced him to be the Ryan to his Sharpay in bop to the top when they auditioned for mamma mia in high school Terry’s glasses were broken in both lenses somehow, and he was flexing his arm in the way that he had done ever since his elbow had gotten popped out of the socket, oh so many years ago.

Lark’s brother was sat on the stairs, twisting his ring and glaring at his shoelaces, for some reason, as if he wanted to ground them into next month. Lark couldn’t quite say he disagreed with the sentiment. The next time he saw his nephew, ooh boy. No more late night Uncle-Lark-Can’t-Sleep-And-You-Spend-Too-Much-Time-Hyperfixating-On-Random-Shit-So-We’re-Going-To-Get-Ice-Cream trips, that was for sure.

He was snapped out of his stewing by Grant lightly hitting him in the arm.

“What the hell even happened, man?”

Lark dragged a hand across his face. “Nick’s kid broke the glass on the Whale’s tank,” Sparrow and Terry’s heads both snapped to him. Lark winced. “And then I ran in, slipped, fell into the tank, and shattered it.”

Grant’s jaw was practically on the floor. “Holy shit dude, how are you even moving right now?”

Lark smirked. “Dunno, but what I do know is that I’m gonna kill that teenager.”

The walk to the parking lot was silent, none of them wanting to actually admit that they had gotten their asses handed to them by their own kids. Lark pushed the door open into the parking lot, sopping wet, sore, and pissed.

He locked onto the kids and opened his mouth, about to relish in the rare gift that was yelling obscenities and Sparrow not scolding him for it. However, his joy and anger vanished quickly and his mouth closed with an audible click.

From behind him, Lark vaguely heard Grant’s gun drop onto the pavement in surprise and Sparrow gasp out a “holy shit”. Then Terry let out an anguished sob and Lark thought that that about summed it up.

their captor, the mean one, the head purple robe, the one who forgot to feed them, the one that tried to kill their dads, the one that tried to kill “spare-ow” because having two backups was unnecessary, the one that gave him his first scar that even henry didn’t know about, ron’s deadbeat dad that tried to kill his own son, the one who killed a man in front of his nephew, the one manipulating terry’s daughter

Willy.

Willy Stampler was holding the headless body of the very sixteen-year-old that Lark had been planning to yell at until he was blue in the face. Like watching a train crash, he followed the trail of blood to Taylor Swift’s head at the feet of Scary Marlowe, who was gripping a net so tight that her knuckles were white. Her jeans were splattered with blood. She looked horrified, and mere seconds away from sobbing.

Normally Swallows-Oak-Garcia normie, norm, his nephew, his star, his kiddo, his ice cream partner, Teeny the Teen was shrieking nonsensically on the ground, his knees appearing to have given out entirely, and he pulled at his hair as tears streamed down his face.

Lincoln Li-Wilson link, his godson, the kid who he’d watched take his first steps, the kid who’d somehow gotten taller than him in the years that he’d been banned from the Li-Wilson household, in all of his six-foot-three glory, was glaring at Willy with an intensity that could’ve killed a man.

Lark wondered why he hadn’t jumped at the man already, and then saw the cause. He was supporting the small DC-obsessed kid, the one that had spent two months monologuing himself into identity crisis after identity crisis and also apparently had a crush on his nephew? who was leaning his entire body weight on the taller kid, face blank except for a few stray tears working their way down.

Willy looked bored. Taylor’s body thumped on the ground as he checked his watch. “Ugh. I really thought that this would be faster, huh kiddo? Guess some parents just don’t care.”

Scary Marlowe teresa, terry the third, terry jr jr, the emo one, mini-him, edgelord supreme, the one he somehow knew the least even though they had sat at the same table at the wedding squeaked.

Her fingers flew free from their fisted prisons and Lark could see both the indent of the netting and the bloody crescents from her nails etched into her palms.

The net dropped heavily onto Taylor’s head (Lark choked back the bile rising in his throat) and his stupid pork-pie hat tipped off and onto Scary’s shoes.

Normal had stopped shrieking and was full-on sobbing into the ground. And then Row, his better side, his beautiful half, his twin, his six-minutes-older brother, the man that had saved his life time over time, the man that had taken him in without a second thought when he realized that Lark was sleeping on the streets, Sparrow Oak-Garcia stepped forward. His foot caught on a loose piece of gravel and it skittered across the blacktop, catching the attention of everyone.

Lark managed to drag his eyes away from the decapitated child in front of him and lock them onto Sparrow as he addressed the children with what he hoped would be their saving grace.

“Would this be a bad time to say I told you so?”

#Holy shit this was way longer than I thought it would be #literally my original idea was #the dads sopping wet sore and pissed: *Go into the parking lot and see Willy scary and Taylor’s head #Sparrow: ..is this a bad time to say I told you so? #WTF HAPPENED #how did it turn somewhat into a lark character study?? #Also I thought up spare-ow literally on the spot and now it’s canon to me #dndads #dndads spoilers #dungeons and daddies season 2 #dungeons and daddies #dndaddies #lark oak garcia #taylor swift

[coloursflyaway]

Let’s Repeat Our Chorus Triumphantly [2/4]

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier

Rating: E

Word Count: 8.000

Tags: Angst and fluff, fix-it of sorts, past character death, falling in love (and everything that goes along with it)

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

Read on AO3

It takes Geralt what feels like eons until he has understood Jaskier’ meaning; yet when he does, he’s convinced he must be mistaken. Still, he breathes out the bard’s dear name and watches Jaskier straighten, steel himself for what is yet to come, blue eyes darkening but never losing their resolve. “You can’t want me”, he finally says, trying to make sense of what cannot be and failing time and time again. “Why not?” “Why would you? You could have anyone, no matter how rich, how fair, how sweet.” “And yet, it’s you.” There’s a fierceness to Jaskier’s words, a desperation, and yet a smile tugs on his lips, as fond as Geralt has ever seen. “Out of all of them, it’s you. And it has been you for decades, so don’t dare to imply that my affections could be fleeting.” “I never would.”

And it’s the truth, because if Jaskier loves, he loves fully, loves passionately, and Geralt would never insult him by implying otherwise, even if Jaskier’s words sound wrong to his ears. Too dream-like, too perfect, too much like, if Geralt allowed them to be true, they would burn him to ashes with happiness. Never in a thousand years would he have allowed himself to consider that Jaskier could return his feelings, wouldn’t have dared to act on them if it had been the only thing to save him from certain destruction, wouldn’t have wanted to taint someone as sweetly hopeful and desperately romantic as Jaskier with the knowledge of his love. He’s not fragile, and yet Geralt won’t ever stop being afraid of breaking him. And yet, Jaskier is sitting in front of him, stronger than Geralt could ever be, watching him with eyes that burn with a hope so bright it ignites an ember in Geralt’s too-old, too-twisted heart, his heart beating as fast as a lark’s, his fingers clenched around the covers as if he has to keep himself from flying.

“By Melitele’s tits, say something, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice tears him away from his thoughts, from the blossoming, unfamiliar hope in his chest, because Jaskier sounds like he’s begging, a desperation in his voice that Geralt never wants to hear again. “Or, if you have no words left, then do something. Kiss me or send me away, but don’t just stand there and look at me like –“

He doesn’t get further, because he’s right, there are no words left in Geralt’s mind, not when Jaskier looks at him like that, when he sounds… when he sounds like he means it. His fingers move on their own volition, it seems, because Jaskier has asked him to, and Melitele knows, it’s not as if Geralt hasn’t dreamt of it, night after night for what feels like eternity. Without thinking, Geralt grabs him by the sheer chemise he wears and pulls him up from the mattress, fingertips brushing against soft skin, and there is no force in this world that could stop Geralt now. He kisses Jaskier with everything he has, puts every last bit of love, of devotion into the slide of his lips, into the touch of his second hand when it comes up to cup Jaskier’s face, the drag of his thumb across the bard’s chin. Even if Geralt doesn’t know how Jaskier could want him, as long as he does, Geralt will make sure he knows that he is loved in return.

It takes seconds or years for Jaskier to respond, to arch into Geralt’s touch, push closer, kiss him back with a passion that forces the air from the Witcher’s lungs. Instead, it fills every empty crevice of Geralt’s chest with golden-bright happiness, turns quiet pain into elation and acceptance into hope. Jaskier’s fingers thread themselves into his hair, pull him closer and allow Geralt to breathe again; when he does, he smells ranogrin and fool’s parsley and sweetness of Jaskier in his arms.

 Instead of visiting the merchant that requested his services, Geralt searches for another and finds a small shop, half hidden in one of the many streets. It’s as shabby as the other one, paint peeling and the windows turbid, the door creaking under its own weight as it swings open, revealing a room that seems to be made of shelves and shelves alone, each of them containing a myriad of different jars and boxes, an explosion of mayhem. Still, Geralt steps inside; they might not have everything he needs, but at least there are no bolts of silk to be seen, no velvet and brocade and lace. He finds a counter at the back, a boy of maybe thirteen years behind it, head resting on his crossed arms, until Geralt drops his coin pouch down next to his head.

He shoots up, dark eyes sleep, but a sheepish smile on his lips, revealing a missing front tooth and too much cheek to be taken seriously. “I’m sorry, I’m up, what can I do for you?”, he splutters, a slight lips softening the words as they drop from his mouth, and Geralt has had a soft spot for children that are too bright and not afraid enough for their own good ever since he found Ciri in the forest. So, he tries to smile and must succeed somewhat, because the boy doesn’t recoil when he sees that Geralt’s eyes are amber, that his face is riddled with scars. Instead, he leans closer, intrigue written across a round face.

“I need some herbs”, Geralt tells the boy, unsure if he hears what he is saying. “And a whet stone.” “You’re a Witcher, aren’t you?”, he gets as an answer instead, the words uttered with something like excitement in the boy’s high voice, all but stumbling over his lips in their rush to be spoken. “You kill monsters. How many monsters have you killed? Do you need the whet stone for your sword?” “I am”, Geralt answers, because it’s always been easy to humour children as long as they don’t cry the second they set eyes on him. Because he can see just of trace of Ciri in this boy, who has grown up to be the stubborn, kind, strong woman Geralt always knew she would be. “But I am afraid I have lost count of the monsters, there have been plenty of them.”

The boy’s expression transforms into something as misplaced as awe, as wonder, his brown eyes as wide as his open mouth. “Have you killed a wyvern? A rock troll? A bru-“ “That’s quite enough, Bram.” A woman appears from a door behind the counter, her red hair slung over her shoulder in a thick braid, and a fondly exasperated smile on her lips; she must be the boy’s mother, judging by how she ruffles his hair, and the way he pouts at her. “I thought you said you were old enough to help me in the shop, and now here you are, interrogating our customers.” Bram grumbles, and the woman looks over at Geralt, a hand still on the boy’s shoulder, as if she didn’t want to let him go just yet. Geralt understands; they do grow up so quickly. “I hope he didn’t bother you too much, you see, he’s grown up with all sorts of songs about your kind. Wants to go out and become an adventurer himself”, she tells him, and Geralt’s heart aches. “But for now, I can still keep him here to fall asleep when he’s supposed to be taking stock. Anyway, what can I help you with?”

“Need some herbs. Cortinarius, verbena, wolfsbane, if you have any. A whet stone. For my swords.” Beneath his mother’s touch, Bram’s eyes go wide. “I’ll have to look for the Cortinarius in the back, but I should have the rest. How much do you need?” “Just give me what you have.” The woman nods, clearly pleased, and turns around to walk back through the door she came from, presumably looking for the mushrooms; she leaves Geralt with a boy that seems to be burning up with questions. Geralt can’t do anything but indulge him.

“I’ve killed many wyverns. I’ve killed rock trolls and some of them, I let live. And I killed a bruxa too.” “What about a fleder? A siren?” “I’ve killed those, too.” Geralt doesn’t dwell in memories often and he doesn’t do so now, either, instead cocks his head and studies the boy for a moment. “How come you know so much about monsters? Know their names?” “The ballads. I know all the ballads.” Bram looks impossibly proud of himself, puffing out his scrawny chest as if to make himself look more imposing. “Learnt them by heart, although my teacher said I didn’t have to.” He knows the answer, knows that hearing it spoken out-loud will hurt as much as it will soothe, and yet Geralt can’t stop himself from asking. “Which ballads?”

“The ones the bard Jaskier’s written, of course. It’s said that he knew all the Witchers, but one of them he knew best. Not Eskel though, sadly, because he’s my favourite.” Bram looks at him for a moment, contemplating something, then asks, “Did he know you? Jaskier, I mean.” The question sends a shock of pain through Geralt, unexpected and white-hot, almost enough for him to make a sound and scare the boy away. Instead, he nods, grits his teeth before he can dare to answer. “I knew him very well”, he tells Bram, doesn’t add, I loved him. I love him still. “I’m sure he would be happy to know you still sing his songs.”

It makes Bram smile, which might be worth the pain; he still breathes half a sigh of relief when the shopkeeper pushes back through the door, pouches of herbs in one hand, a whet stone in the other. “There you go”, she tells Geralt brightly, putting the goods down on the counter. “I hope my little warrior here didn’t wear you out with all his questions. Is there anything else you need?” Geralt considers the question for a second, for two, looks at Bram’s eyes that are still so bright and reaches into his bag. The mere thought hurts, yet Jaskier would like it, he’s certain of it. “Yes”, he says.

He leaves them a few minutes later, the mother with her eyes wide with shock, Bram’s small hand clasped tightly around the piece of paper Geralt had ripped from the notebook Jaskier used to carry around with him. It’s just a sketch of Eskel, drawn in rough strokes in one of the winters they spent in Kaer Morhen, hardly worth looking at it, if not to remember the way Jaskier’s eyes used to glitter in the light from the fireplace, how he scribbled with one hand, while he held onto Geralt’s with the other. But Bram had looked at him like he had been given a kingdom instead of a sketch, wide eyes filling with happy tears. Jaskier would have loved it, even if ripping out the page had made Geralt’s heart bleed.

Art is meant to be shared, my dear heart, he can hear the bard sweetly admonishing him, can see him smile fondly at Geralt across the room. What other purpose is there for it? And thinking of Bram’s face, Geralt finds himself agreeing.

 “I hope you know that this means I’ll never let you out of my sight again”, Jaskier tells him, his voice soft and sleepy. He’s playing with Geralt’s fingers, fitting them against his own only to weave them together again, twisting their joined hands to press a kiss on calloused knuckles. “Not as long as I live.” Geralt hums in response; his lips still taste of Jaskier’s kisses, of this new love that he shouldn’t have, but has been gifted anyway. He’s happy in a way he has never felt before, his heart overfull with love and yet light as air, it seems. “Never again?”, he asks and can’t help but smile when Jaskier shakes his head immediately, shifts so he can lie down on Geralt’s chest, his chemise soft almost as soft as his dark hair. “In that case, we need to get you better winter clothes, otherwise you won’t like Kaer Morhen much.” “You want to take me with you to Kaer Morhen?”

Jaskier sounds surprised, but pleasantly so, only cuddles closer when Geralt hums his affirmation. “I’ll get to meet all the other Witchers? Hear the stories you share? See those majestic stone-hewn walls of the famed Witcher castle? Oh, Geralt, the stories I will be able to tell. The ballads! Darling, I’d love to go. Even more than I’d love to buy new clothes.” He leans down to press a kiss to Geralt’s chest, hot even through the fabric of his shirt, then moves up to leave another one on his throat, the corner of his mouth. They are sweet, affectionate, and Geralt cannot do anything but wrap his arm around Jaskier and pull him as close as their bodies allow, kiss him with all the love he holds inside his tattered body.

Jaskier’s lips are pink and swollen by the time they break apart and he looks so beautiful Geralt is afraid his heart might burst from the sight of it. “I never gave you an answer, did I?”, he murmurs, just before he presses another short kiss to Jaskier’s lips, feeling the other sigh against him. “I think you did. I could taste it in every kiss.” “It’s not enough”, Geralt says quietly, hates that his heart picks up its speed when there is nothing to fear, when Jaskier had bared his so easily before. “You don’t-“ “There is more than friendship between us”, Geralt interrupts, ignores how difficult it is to speak, because Jaskier deserves to hear him say it. “I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And I would have been content to just have your friendship, but this… this is more than I ever thought I could deserve. More than I could have wished for.”

Jaskier is watching him, blue eyes ever-bright and brimming with tears; he hides his face in Geralt’s chest for a moment, moisture seeping into the fabric of the Witcher’s shirt. But his voice, when he looks back up at Geralt to answer, is happy, if rife with emotion. “Ugh, Geralt”, he breathes out, trying to sound put upon but failing miserably. “Gone, all the heroic ballads I wanted to write about you and your brothers in arms. Now I will have to spend my days at Kaer Morhen writing love songs instead.”

 Geralt takes the herbs back to the inn; he meant to use the night to brew his potions, because he used up his last vial of Swallow in the fight against the griffin, but then his fingers touch a twig of ranogrin, the needles bristling against his skin like a lover’s touch, and everything is forgotten. His hands may shake, Geralt refuses to look down to see as he crushes a few needles between his fingertips and lets the scent of them take to the air. It’s painfully familiar, tart and aromatic, and Geralt has long since forgotten how his heart feels without it aching, but this new wave of anguish rips through him as if the pain was afraid that he wouldn’t have enough time left to feel all of it.

He doesn’t fight it, allows it instead, because he sometimes likes to pretend he has forgotten how to fight; because the pain is better than forgetting. It’s clean and sharp as it sinks its claws into Geralt’s chest, almost like a blade cleaving his tortured flesh, and Geralt raises the ranogrin spray to his nose, inhaling its scent deeply, letting it taint his lungs, his every cell. He’ll go down to the tavern later, hope to hear another of Jaskier’s ballads, even if he has to ask for it, but for now, Geralt breathes in and thinks of nights spent in the wild, only Jaskier’s body and a small fire to keep them warm, thinks of bathtubs filled with hot water and wet limbs, thinks of smelling ranogrin in the crook of Jaskier’s neck as they made love in the deepest night, the light of the early morning.

 The hand Jaskier weaves into his hair is shaking, his elegant fingers tangling in silver locks, and Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s neck, breathes in his scent, presses open-mouthed kisses against hot skin. Tastes sweat and lust, feels the thrum of Jaskier’s blood, the way his pulse jumps as Geralt thrusts into him again, sinking into Jaskier’s slick heat. It draws a growl from Geralt’s lips, the pleasure seething hot underneath his skin, making his nerves sing and beg for more. “Darling, dear heart, please”, Jaskier murmurs, asking for everything and knowing Geralt will give it, gladly. His legs wrap tightly around Geralt’s waist, as if he could pull him closer, his cock hard between their bodies, leaving sweet slickness on Geralt’s stomach with every of his thrusts.

It’s as easy to lose himself in Jaskier’s embrace as he always knew it would be, in lazy kisses and the heat of his body, the way Jaskier sighs his name when Geralt’s cock slides so deep into him that it becomes hard to distinguish where one of them ends and the other begins. Jaskier makes it harder still, slides a hand down Geralt’s back, across a spiderweb of gnarled scars, the other still in his hair, and arches into the next thrust, forces Geralt deep and deeper still into his waiting body. “Oh, I love you”, he half sighs, half moans, strokes featherlight fingertips across Geralt’s shoulder blades, down his spine, touching for nothing but touching’s sake. “I love you so much, there’s no words – oh, by Melitele, Geralt, just touch me, please, I need you-“

He sounds deliciously desperate, the fingers in Geralt’s hair tightening to pull his face from where it’s still buried in Jaskier’s neck. Perhaps out of a sense of self preservation, because nothing could have prepared him for how Jaskier looks right now, in his arms and yet losing himself to the pleasure Geralt is trying so hard to give him. His hair is matted with sweat, his skin flushed and vibrant even in the dim light of the fireplace, his eyes screwed shut so that dark lashes fan out like shadows across Jaskier’s cheeks. And his lips, oh, they’re kissed red and swollen, parted just enough to let out another moan when Geralt drives into him, and Geralt has to kiss him, even as every thrust sets his own body aflame with lust, with love.

Jaskier tastes like honeyed wine and juniper berries, kisses back as hungrily as Geralt kisses him, parting his lips easily to let Geralt lick into his mouth, drink down his moans as Geralt slides a hand between their bodies to wrap calloused fingers around Jaskier’s cock. It makes Jaskier cry out, the sweetest sound Geralt can remember ever hearing, the other’s whole body pushing up against as if he was begging for Melitele to meld them together. He shudders, fingers moving aimlessly through the Witcher’s hair, over his back, as if to find something to hold onto, but then Geralt pulls out and thrusts back into him, his hand moving across Jaskier’s cock, and it’s enough to finally make him come.

What tumbles from his lips is a jumbled mess, part plea, part prayer, part Geralt’s name; he spills between them, his body clenching around Geralt’s cock tightly, spasming as if to milk his orgasm from him. It only takes a handful more thrusts until Jaskier pushes Geralt over the edge with his body, his hands, the kisses he leaves on shoulders and cheeks and lips alike, the soft nonsense he mutters in between. Geralt’s vision whites out, his mind overtaken with pleasure, with Jaskier, as he spends himself deep within the other, clinging to Jaskier like he’s the only thing still tethering him to the ground.

 When Geralt makes his way to the tavern again, the sun has sunk until it’s grazing the roofs of Lindenvale’s many houses, its light dimmed but still golden, hiding away the dirt and the dust, the cracked mortar and the crumbling bricks. It makes the village look prettier than Geralt can ever remember seeing it and he takes it in, lets it fill his heart with a sense of melancholy he is not used to. If anything, he would have expected the scent of ranogrin and heartbreak to burn away his ability to feel himself ache, but this sort of pain still reaches him, softer than the fierce blade before, but lingering within him just as easily.

Compared to the last time he set foot in it, the tavern is full of people, the light coming from the fireplace tinting them amber, just like the sun outside would, the muted hum of conversation not quite enough to be called comforting and yet not far from it. The singer is nowhere to be seen, the seat Geralt watched her perform in before empty, but Geralt orders an ale from a disinterested barmaid, ignoring the looks he gets from some of the other patrons, the sneers, the confusion, the thinly veiled interest. He’s used to them and has been too tired to care for what feels like centuries. Instead, he sits down at a table that will allow him to see whoever comes and goes, and resigns himself to waiting.

It seems like a good crowd for a bard, pleasant and relaxed, but not rowdy, just drunk enough to loosen the coin in their pockets enough if someone plays them a familiar tune. Geralt knows those crowds, needed to learn how to read them; he just hopes that the bard returns to take advantage of it.

 Jaskier is laughing, breathlessly clinging to Geralt’s shoulder, his cheeks flushed impossibly pink even in the pale moonlight. “Melitele’s tits”, he chokes out, still between bouts of laughter that spill from his lips like pearls, shining and precious, even if Geralt couldn’t feel less like laughing. “They really wanted to lynch us. Who would have thought? I don’t even know how this fucking town is called, but they really must have hated one of my songs.” Jaskier is still giggling, fingertips brushing across Geralt’s shoulder, his breath warm against his skin, apparently oblivious to the fact that Geralt is seething, wishing Jaskier hadn’t pulled him away when he did, but had instead allowed him to teach the patrons a lesson about what happened if you did as much as look at his bard the wrong way.

It had started off as a pleasant enough evening. They had stopped in the smallest of villages, because Jaskier had been begging for a warm meal and the tavern had looked nice enough, but the peace had only lasted until Jaskier had reached for his lute, plucking away at a few strings as if trying to decide which song to start.   He’d been looking so content, so beautiful in the warm light that Geralt had almost reached out to touch, but then a man from another table had turned around and asked Jaskier his name. Maybe it should have been enough to tip Geralt off, the hostile undercurrent of his words, but he’d been distracted by the line of Jaskier’s neck, the way his lips curled as he answered, the pretty way he had smiled and cocked his head, so obviously flattered by the attention. Only that the man had obviously not meant to flatter.

Which had caused them to end up here, Jaskier out of breath and still chuckling, smoothing his hands across Geralt’s shoulder as if he had never been in any danger at all. “Which one do you think it was? I don’t think Toss a Coin would warrant this kind of behaviour, do you? Unless they really like elves, I guess. Or Elaine Ettarial, if they really don’t like elves. No one could really hate Her Sweet Kiss that much, right? Unless they’re Yennefer, but – “ “Jaskier”, Geralt grits out, interrupting a stream of words that otherwise wouldn’t have stopped for a long time, turning to grip Jaskier’s shoulders, forcing the bard to look right at him. “This isn’t funny. You could have been hurt.”

“But could I have been? Really?”, Jaskier pulls a face, looking at Geralt with his eyes bright and his lips curled around soundless laughter; there is fondness in his gaze, trust, and still too much mirth for Geralt to feel comfortable, even as his heart swells with familiar affection. “I don’t think so. Not as long as you’re with me.” And Jaskier looks at him like he knows that Geralt would conquer the world for him, if he only asked for it, and Geralt doesn’t know how to disagree when Jaskier is right. Again, he breathes out the other’s name, but there is no heat behind it; how could there be when Jaskier is looking at him like that, shuffling closer as if he thought Geralt wouldn’t notice. “Exactly.” And he beams at Geralt, before leaning in to steal kiss right from his lips, short and sweet, as if to say I told you so. Geralt lets him. “Now, darling, have you any idea how many bards would kill to have this kind of hatred directed at them?”

 It’s only when Geralt is at his second ale, trying and almost failing to keep on hoping, that the bard walks through the door. She looks the same, her hair dark and her eyes still blue enough to make Geralt ache, even as his heart becomes a fraction lighter. There is no reason for it that Geralt can discern but it feels so important to hear at least a few of Jaskier’s words, as if a few familiar notes could somehow save him, a man who’s long since given up on salvation. His eyes catch the singer’s, and there’s a look of recognition that passes her face, just for the fraction of a second her gaze softens, her hand reaching for the lute she has slung across her back. It stops midway, but Geralt thinks he still understands the meaning, nods and settles down to wait.

 “You must be Ciri”, Jaskier greets, smiling down at the girl with a tenderness Geralt has seen before in the bard’s face, but not too often. His blue eyes are kind and he holds out a hand, waiting patiently for Ciri to step forward and take it. Geralt tries to encourage her, touching her shoulder as if to tell her it’s alright, but she’s been through hell and back and it must be so hard to trust, even if someone smiles at her so sweetly, asks for nothing in return. “You have nothing to fear”, Geralt tells her anyway, keeping his voice as calm as he can, keeping his hand on her shoulder. “I told you about Jaskier, he’s…”

For a moment, he stops, not certain how to go on. Not sure if there are words to describe what Jaskier is to him; if there are, Geralt is certain that it would take a poet to know them. But he can’t stop now, because Jaskier is looking at him, eyes wide with surprise and curiosity. And it hits Geralt that they never talked about it, never defined what it is between them, and that, while it matters little to him as long as Jaskier is at his side, it’s the bard who is the romantic, who values words above most other things.

“He is everything to me. If you trust me, then trust him, because everything good about me, it belongs to Jaskier.” Geralt just hopes that Jaskier understands what he means, has heard the word as Whatever you want me to be, I’ll be it, gladly. And he might have, because Geralt has never been good with words and yet Jaskier is looking at him as if he had written him a sonnet, cornflower eyes shining wetly, bright with devotion. He looks like he wants to say something, something that Geralt desperately wants to hear, but he must have forgotten Ciri, at least for a moment, because it startles him when the girl steps forward, losing his touch and yet not stopping until she has grasped Jaskier’s hand in his. And nothing matters anymore, because Jaskier looks down at her, the devotion still in his eyes, and Geralt knows that Ciri has found a new family at last.

 At first, the bard plays songs that Geralt might have heard before in passing, meaningless tales of love and sex and loss, some cheerful, a few of them sad, but none of them manage to touch Geralt in the slightest, even if he has felt every emotion she sings about a thousand times. But there is no soul behind the words; they will be forgotten again before they get the chance to spread across the Continent, immortalising the women, the men they praise. And yet, Geralt can’t fault their creators for trying when he has seen first-hand what a song can do, which emotions the right words can evoke. So he bides his time, orders another ale and a bowl of stew, listens to the pretty bard sing, flirt and joke in between the songs, accepting drinks from admirers and smiles from everyone, and there is something achingly familiar about the way her eyes sparkle, how she soaks up the attention and Geralt is charmed by her like the rest of the patrons are. He’ll ask her for another of Jaskier’s songs once the crowd quiets down, once she has had her fill of the adoration she deserves, even if her voice isn’t the one Geralt yearns to hear, even if her eyes are the wrong shade of blue.

 The nights in Kaer Morhen have never been as warm as they are now with Jaskier next to him, his hair splayed across the pillows like a halo. It’s getting longer, because Jaskier refuses to let Geralt cut it, who can’t bring himself to mind when it makes it so much easier for Geralt to pull Jaskier down to kiss him when Jaskier is fucking him. Or when Geralt can drag his fingers through it and make Jaskier hum contently, lean into his touch like he does now, rolling over so he can look at Geralt with soft blue eyes. “Do you remember the first winter we spent here?”, Geralt asks and chuckles when Jaskier takes his hand to put it in his hair again.

“Of course.” Jaskier’s lips curl into a smile at the memory; he hums when Geralt scratches his nails against the bard’s scalp, cards calloused fingers through his silky hair. “I don’t think I could ever forget it. The look on Vesemir’s face when you didn’t arrive alone, like a father who was disappointed at the spouse you had brought home with you. Long nights spent in bed… and a few mornings too. You teaching me how to use a dagger in the courtyard and me going along with it because I liked how close you’d have to stand to me.” Jaskier snuggles even closer, his skin soft and warm against Geralt’s as he curls against his side. These might be Geralt’s favourite moments, nothing but them wrapped up in each other, in the way they always seemed to just fit against the other, flaws and virtues alike. He could stay like this forever, playing with Jaskier’s hair and having his beloved’s eyes resting on him, twinkling with mirth and affection.

“You never were a natural at combat”, Geralt teases and smiles when Jaskier laughs softly, swats at his chest playfully. “Lambert and Eskel used to bet how long it would take for you to just drop the dagger and drag me off to our room.” “I never knew that! I used to wonder why they’d hang around so much.” Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, if the grin spreading his lips wide is any indication, even as he shakes his head in disbelief, causing Geralt’s fingers to drag across his scalp. “They do make a good audience for my songs though, so I can’t even be mad at them. They could be a bit more adoring, but that’s what I have Ciri for. And you. Especially you.”

 “You a Witcher?” A man steps up to him, weathered face and thinning hair, his cap held between his hands, his fingers nervously kneading the material. “My Melissa said there was a Witcher around. Said that he helped old Alfred with a monster and gave her son a drawing he is still chattering about, so maybe he could help us, too.” “I am a Witcher”, Geralt tells him, but it doesn’t seem to help with the man’s nerves; for a moment Geralt wonders if he grew up with tales about Witchers that would steal children to sacrifice them to an unnamed god, if he learnt to fear them more than the monsters. “Maybe I’ll be able to help you. What’s the problem?” “It’s a dragon-like thing, but with a face. My Melissa, she calls them sirens, says you Witchers could kill it.” The man has leant forward, blocking Geralt’s view of the bard who is taking a break, chatting with one of the barmaids and nursing a tankard of ale. He sounds hopeful, if still nervous, and Geralt’s body pleads for a few days of rest, knowing it will not be heard. “We’ll pay you well, us fishers, we have put together a decent sum if you can just kill it before it takes another of our sons.”

And that is it, Geralt knows he won’t be able to say no, no matter how meagre the reward, because he once thought he’d lost his daughter; it’s a fate he won’t be able to subject anyone else to. “I’ll do it.” He watches relief flit across the man’s face, pure and sudden; it’s these moments that Jaskier used to be fondest of, found the most inspiration in, and so Geralt allows himself to take it in for a second before he nods jerkily. Look, my love, he thinks, ignoring the way it claws at his heart, I’m helping, I’m doing what you asked of me. “Tell me where I can find it and tell me your name, so I can collect my coin afterwards.” “Just at the edge of two, there’s a small lake, just enough to sustain a few families. It must live in it, or around it, for it stole Olaf’s eldest right out of their boat just a fortnight ago. We haven’t dared to fish there ever since.” There is sorrow in his tone; he must have known the boy that was killed, must have cared for him. “Sten is my name, but you can ask any of the fishers and you will get your coin.” He seems to hesitate for a moment, and Geralt expects a warning, or another detail, but instead Sten just shakes his head slightly, then looks at Geralt earnestly. “Thank you, master Witcher. May Melitele be with you.”

 “I’m sure Ciri is alright”, Jaskier tells him in the softest of voices, sliding his arms around Geralt’s waist from behind. “Yennefer and I might not always see eye to eye, but she cares deeply about Ciri, and even if her training is harsh, I am certain that she’d never do anything but love and guide our little lion cub.” Geralt hums in response, keeping his eyes at the window for another few moments before turning around and facing Jaskier. He’s wearing a smile on his full lips, blue eyes crinkling at the edges, and Geralt loves him just as much as he did twenty years ago. “It is only that, usually, her letters sound more cheerful”, he finally answers, sliding his arms around the bard’s middle and tucking his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck to breathe in his scent, a hint of ranogrin clinging to his skin still. “But, if anything was truly wrong, Yen would tell me, you’re right. You always are.” “I’m going to remind you of that”, Jaskier teases for a moment, slides his fingers into Geralt’s hair to soothe him. It works, just like it does every time. “And she would. Ciri is growing up, nothing more than that. We’re lucky, really, that she only complains about lessons and the quality of food. You should have seen me at her age, I would have driven you up the wall.”

Geralt can’t help but chuckle against Jaskier’s throat, feeling his pulse hitch when he presses closer, even after all these years. “You still do that without any excuse you can make for yourself.” And Jaskier laughs, drops a kiss to the crown of Geralt’s head, then another, as if one hadn’t been enough. “Well, you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you, dear heart?”

His voice is so warm, so loving that Geralt aches all over in the sweetest of ways, like his chest is trying to find space to fit Jaskier inside of him, keep him there forever. Because he will lose him, one day, and as much as he pushes the thought away, it comes back unerringly, forcing him to lay awake at night with Jaskier perfect and beautiful and infuriating and alive in his arms, and contemplate how there could possibly be a world after this. Finding that maybe, the answer is that there cannot be. But Jaskier can’t know, can’t be burdened with Geralt’s pain, so he swallows it down and instead fills his chest with Jaskier’s scent, with the way the other strokes his hair and holds him close, like Geralt is precious, breakable. He might be right about that, too. “I wouldn’t, no”, he breathes out and finally pulls back, just enough to look at Jaskier’s dear, dear face. “And now take me to bed and show me just how insufferable you used to be.”

 The night is coming to an end, Geralt can taste it in the air, the shift of atmosphere, the yawns from the other patrons that come more frequently now, the songs that the bard plays turning calm and just a little longing. He wonders if she plays them with someone in mind, if there is someone she yearns for. And Geralt is about to get up and approach her, ask her for just a few lines, barely enough to soothe his aching heart, when their eyes meet across the room, hers still so bright, so blue, so wrong. She seems to sense his restlessness, because she shakes her head a little and raises the lute once more.

Geralt recognises it immediately, the first notes washing over him like summer rain, trace his face like a lover’s fingertip, each of them bittersweet, so full of love that Geralt has to close his eyes to keep his composure. Years have passed since he last heard it, perhaps decades, and yet the music is ingrained in the tireless muscle of his heart, in the marrow of his bones, the blood that floods his veins. He thought it lost and it would have made sense, for it was never one of Jaskier’s more popular songs, too solemn for it, but it had been dear to Geralt, because Jaskier used to breathe the words into the space between his shoulder blades, used to whisper them late at night as a promise when he knew that Geralt couldn’t be soothed anymore with touches, with kisses. Hearing them now, sung with an unfamiliar voice, is almost too much to take, leaves Geralt’s mind reeling, unsure if he can’t take it or if he welcomes the pain.

“A flickering candle, the fire went out, a cold wind blew perceptively”, the bard sings and Geralt can feel Kaer Morhen’s cool walls, can feel the draught against his skin as he curled around Jaskier to keep him warm. Can hear Jaskier grumble when he kept smudging ink across his notebook because the candles kept going out, can hear Eskel tease him about it, pretending he doesn’t want to know if Jaskier is writing a ballad about his adventures this time. His hands ball into fists under the table and Geralt cannot open his eyes, because he didn’t have any tears left to shed this morning, but he might have them now.

“And the days pass”, she sings and Geralt knows the words like he used to know every freckle on Jaskier’s body, but they still slice into him easily. “And time passes in silence, and imperceptibly…” His chest has never been large enough to carry Jaskier’s heart in it, and Geralt feels it now, perhaps more than ever, feels it expand and swell, full of decades of love Geralt couldn’t bestow upon anyone, full of Ciri’s pained eyes when she knew he wasn’t sleeping, full of Triss’ kind words, full of Yennefer’s worry. “You’re with me endlessly”, the nameless bard sings and breaks his chest open, drowns Geralt until he doesn’t know if he won’t just end like this, eyes closed and hands balled into fists, tears not coming because there is no space for them to stem from when all of Geralt is drowning in his impossible love. “And endlessly, something joins us but not perfectly, for the days pass and time passes in silence and imperceptibly…”

 “What are you writing?” They are camping somewhere on the shoreline west of Crow’s Perch, something they don’t do often anymore, but Jaskier had asked for it, had declared it romantic to spend the night under the bright stars, rocked to sleep by the distant sound of waves crashing against land. And Geralt had agreed because saying no to Jaskier should become easier but does the opposite instead, had built a fire and spread out their bedrolls while Jaskier had sat down to scribble something in one of his countless notebooks. “Oh, so now you care about my writings? After decades of pretending you couldn’t care less if I wrote my ballads about Vesemir and Coën instead?”, he teases instead of answering, but looks up at Geralt anyway, ink on his chin, smeared down the pale line of his neck, begging Geralt to kiss it off Jaskier’s skin.

He still doesn’t do more than hum as a response, causing Jaskier to roll his eyes dramatically, but keeping a smile on his lips anyway. “Do not worry, my dearest Witcher, it is about none other than yourself”, Jaskier continues, sounding fond and loving, but there is something else in his voice that Geralt thinks he will have to decipher. “But it isn’t yet finished and you will only get to hear it once it is. It is…” He trails off, something so uncharacteristic that Geralt looks up from where he was starting to prepare their dinner. Jaskier looks pensive, like he needs to find the right words to say this and yet isn’t certain if he has learnt them yet.

“It is something very dear to me”, he eventually continues, speaking every word slowly, as if checking and rechecking if it is the right one. “And something I think could become dear to you too. Something that I maybe should have said before and will have to say another thousand times once it is finished. Something I have to yet keep to myself, not because I want it to be a secret, but because you, my darling, are everything to me, and you deserve to hear it when it is everything it should be and nothing but.” The words mean nothing to Geralt, but seemingly so much to Jaskier that Geralt doesn’t dare to disagree, only nods and watches gratitude bloom and blossom in the cornflower blue of Jaskier’s eyes.

“Thank you”, he says softly, and Geralt knows he wants to go back to writing, but he stops Jaskier for just another moment, shuffles over on his knees from where he was slicing a rabbit apart so he can make Jaskier look at him. He takes care not to get bloodstains on Jaskier’s skin, the silk of his breeches, and is rewarded with a smile, with Jaskier’s eyes, inexplicably, suddenly shining with unshed tears. Geralt uses a calloused knuckle to try and catch them, but Jaskier just chuckles, averts his head for a moment; when he looks back at Jaskier, the tears are gone. “I’d do anything for you. Letting you keep one secret is no hardship”, he tells Jaskier, and thinks he can see the tears return just as Jaskier surges forward to kiss the words right off his lips.

 Geralt hasn’t yet opened his eyes when the bard approaches him; he can hear her footsteps clearly even over the hum of noise that surrounds them, the drag of a wooden chair across the floor and the sound of her sitting down, resting her elbows on the table. “You’re the one he sings to, aren’t you?”, she asks with the brashness of youth, not even waiting for Geralt to look at her, sounding like she has no idea what kind of havoc she has wreaked within his chest. “You’re his Witcher. The White Wolf. Geralt of Rivia.”

It’s harder than it should be, his lids so heavy that Geralt thinks he could sleep for days without waking, his heart heavier still, but he forces his eyes open and meet her blue ones. She looks enamoured with the idea of them, fascinated, and if Geralt had any space left within him to feel, he might hate her a little bit for it. Instead, he nods, and watches her interest blossom further as she leans forward, blue eyes fixed intently on Geralt’s scarred face. “I never thought you’d still be alive. It’s been decades since Jaskier passed, I thought… with the way he sung about you, if you felt the same way about him, you wouldn’t have survived much longer.”

Surely, she doesn’t mean for the words to be cruel, Geralt can see that even as they cut into him, scorch his skin and claw at his tattered heart, but they are. He has heard them a thousand times before, but they have never lost their bite, the insinuation that he has ever done anything but love Jaskier with every fibre of his being more painful than any song could ever be. And he should allow the pain to transform into fury, like he is prone to do, because it’s easier to let his head be flooded with rage than with an ache so ancient it has found its place within Geralt’s bones. He should chase her away, but he doesn’t have the energy left for it, hardly knows how to keeps himself upright any longer.

“You’re mistaken”, Geralt tells her instead, banishes the memory of Jaskier’s pained eyes on top of that mountain, the way his voice used to break when they fought, his bloodshot eyes after one night in which Geralt had just left, needing to clear his head after they had spent the evening yelling, but never considered that Jaskier would wake up alone and broken and unsure if his promise of forever meant the same as Geralt’s after all. Instead he thinks of Jaskier scrambling up after Geralt had returned later that morning, tripping over his feet in his rush to reach him, wrapping his arms around Geralt so tightly he made it hard to breathe. Tears soaking into Geralt’s shirt, who didn’t know what else to do than to hold Jaskier, stroke his hair and whisper, over and over again, you won’t lose me, you won’t ever lose me, my love. Tells the bard, who’s still watching him, the one truth he has left inside of him, “The only reason I am still alive is because I loved him just as much as he loved me.”

#the witcher #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #geraskier fic #geraskier fanfiction #geralt of rivia #jaskier #also i still don't know how tags work nowadays