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sourwolf-sterek32 · 8 months

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Broken Heart

Summary: You were the first and only female Witcher.

You and Geralt had been together since you were teenagers, training and fighting alongside each other for decades. However, when Yennefer of Vengerberg showed up, he chose her.

Now, years later, you go back to Kaer Morhen for the winter and come face to face with Geralt of Rivia, forcing old feelings to resurface once again.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Language, blood, injuries

Previous Chapter

Chapter 18-

You awoke with a pained gasp and sat up only for multiple hands to suddenly grab your shoulders pushing you back down. You thrashed in the people’s grip, your mind racing a thousand miles a second as you stared up at the strangers above you.

"Easy, Witcher. Easy. Your friend the sorceress bought you here." The dryad woman said calmly. "My name is Eithné. You are safe, but you are severely injured."

At the mention of Triss, you stopped trying to fight the strangers. The mage wouldn't bring you to them if they weren't trustworthy, and you trusted Triss.

You dropped back down against the makeshift bed the dryads seemed to have put you on. Your head was pounding and ribs aching, but it was nothing compared to the pain in your left knee. Vilgefortz’s staff had done some serious damage and you were almost afraid to look and see the extent of it.

You glanced between the strangers above you. One was stitching the gash on your forehead while the others were trying to fix your knee. You looked past them and scanned your surroundings realising that you were in a wooden hut before your eyes landed on familiar white hair on a bed across the room.

It was Geralt.

Geralt was here.

You were up and out of the bed before any of the dryads could stop you, but the second you put weight on your injured leg, you collapsed to the ground with a cry of pain.

"She just told you that you are severely injured." One of the strangers muttered.

"Milva, easy. The Witcher is in distress." Eithné said, glaring at the woman.

You ignored them both and dragged your body across the ground to Geralt’s bed. Your hurt leg burned in pain, but you gritted your teeth and kept moving until you reached his side.

"G-Geralt." You winced, pulling yourself up until you were sitting on the edge of his bed and let out a gasp when you looked at him properly.

Geralt's skin was paler than you had ever seen it. His face dotted with angry red gashes and cuts that were surrounded by darkening bruises. Even with his elixirs Geralt was never this pale. If it wasn't for his laboured breathing, you would have thought he was dead.

The dryads had wrapped his thigh, covering the broken bone but you could still see the dark bloodied stains on his pants from the injury.

"Fuck." You gasped taking it all in. "Heal him. Please-please just fix him." You glanced over your shoulder to Milva and Eithné.

"N...no." Geralt’s gruff voice murmured.

Your head snapped back in his direction instantly, the sudden movement making your bad headache worse, but you didn't care because Geralt just fucking spoke. He was awake. His eyes were closed but he was conscious.

"Geralt. Hey, hey, it's me. It's Y/N. The dryads will heal you and-and everything will be okay-"

"N-no... don't."

His voice was barely above a whisper, but you heard it loud and clear.

He didn't want the dryads to heal him. Why?

"He's refusing to let us help him. Says it's a waste of time." Eithné explained, appearing beside you and looking down at Geralt with a disapproving scowl. "His back is broken, same with his leg and he has... uh, other bad injuries. But we can't do anything until he lets us help him."

"Jesus Christ." You swore softly under your breath before turning your attention back to Geralt. "Why don't you want them to help you? Geralt? Hey, talk to me. Why don't you want to heal?"

"It... it-it doesn't... matter."

He forced every word out between laboured gasping breaths. Each word sounding painful like just the mere act of speaking was causing him agony.

"Why doesn't it matter?" You questioned, lifting your hand and cupping the side of his face while avoiding the worst of the cuts and bruises. "Geralt, please just talk to me. Why doesn't it matter?"

"... C... Ciri. We... lost her." He croaked.

Oh, no.

The tower of Tor Lara had collapsed. It was all coming back to you. The tower completely shattered, and Ciri was inside. You knew she was. Ciri was gone... your little girl was gone.

A strangled cry left your lips, and you quickly covered your mouth with your hands to muffle your sobs as tears streamed down your face at that horrible realisation.

Ciri was gone.

Geralt didn't want to heal because his daughter was gone. He had given up. Geralt had given up.

Suddenly a hand touched your good knee, and you looked down to find Geralt’s trembling fingers squeezing you gently. His eyes remained closed, and you figured it hurt him too much to open them, but you could see the slow tears escaping from the corner of his eyelids.

You leant down and wrapped your arms around Geralt’s shoulders, ignoring the sharp pain radiating through your ribs at the angle. You rested your head against his chest and hugged him while you cried and with great effort, Geralt raised his arms ever so slightly and hugged you back.

Within the next 24 hours, the dryads had healed most of your injuries with their healing waters, except for your knee. For whatever reason, that injury refused to heal. Eithné said that it might have something to do with your Witcher mutagen soaring through your veins because although the healing waters healed humans instantly, it was different for mutans.

"You're pushing yourself too quickly." Milva commented from where she leant against the tree watching you trying to jog through the woods with your injured knee.

You ignored her and continued jogging, your left knee screaming at you in protest with each step as you jumped over fallen logs and around rocks. You needed to get your body back into fighting condition. You had to keep training through the pain.

You jumped over the next log, but the second your bad leg touched the ground it buckled from underneath you and you collapsed down on the grass covered dirt with a frustrated growl.

"Told you!" Milva called out.

"What am I meant to do, huh? Geralt is refusing to get help. He's given up, but I won't!" You shouted, sucking in a deep shaky breath before you grabbed hold of the tree beside you and forced yourself back to your feet.

"Why?" Milva asked curiously.

"I can't give up. I can't!" You yelled, your voice breaking before you took in another deep breath. "I won't. Geralt has given up hope, but I can't... I have to keep fighting because if Ciri is still alive, she needs us. I won't abandon her."

"If you keep pushing yourself too far, you might not have a choice."

"I know how much my body can handle." You snapped, glaring at the woman who raised her hands in surrender.

"Whatever. I'm going hunting. Try not to die while I'm gone."

Milva threw her bow over her shoulder and walked away. You watched her disappear through the woods before you let go of the tree you had been holding onto for support and tested your knee out.

It hurt, but it always hurt.

Slowly, you put more weight onto it and when your leg didn't threaten to turn to jelly at the pressure, you began to take a few stumbling steps. Those few steps turned into a few more, and then a few more until you were walking around the small clearing in the woods without any issues.

Okay, that was a lie.

There were a lot of issues. The sharp pain for one and the fact that you were limping severely with each step was bad, but you were walking, so that's what you were focusing on.

You continued limping up and down along the dirt track, slowly increasing your speed until you were back to a jogging pace. It was nowhere near as fast as you would have liked, but it was better than nothing.

The jog barely lasted a full minute before you had to grab hold of the nearest tree to stop yourself from falling face first into the grass when your leg buckled from underneath you once again.

"Mother fucker!" You hissed, gripping the tree trunk for dear life and lifting your bad leg from the ground trying to do anything to ease the pain ripping through your knee.

"You're stubborn, Witcher." Milva’s voice suddenly called out.

Great, she was back.

You glanced to your left to find her emerging from the woods with a grouse hanging loosely in her hand by her side, but her eyes were focused on your bad knee as she walked over to you.

"Come on, I'll help you back to camp." Milva said, holding her arm out.

You opened your mouth to protest, but quickly closed it again because you knew you needed the help. You had pushed your knee too far and you both knew it.

Reluctantly, you draped your arm across Milvas shoulders, allowing the other woman to help you walk as you limped back into camp. Geralt was still lying on his bed. He hadn't moved an inch from when you had first arrived. His eyes fluttered open at the noise when you entered, and his pale face turned worried when he saw Milva help you sit on your bed beside his.

"Your girl is fine, Witcher." Milva reassured, noticing his panic. "Her knee needs to rest. Here, grouse. I caught it especially for you."

Milva held up the animal in her hand for Geralt to see.

"I don't want it." His voice was still rough, but it was the wheezing with each breath that had you more worried.

"Of course, you don't." Milva sighed, before she turned and began walking out the hut. "Ungrateful twat." She muttered over her shoulder.

You looked over at Geralt hating how dull his once bright golden eyes used were as he stared up at the roof of the hut blankly.

"You need to eat." You reminded him, despite having told him multiple times and not once had he listened.

"No point."

"No point? Geralt, how can you even say that?"

"Ciri is gone... I failed her." He mumbled, tilting his head towards you. "There's no point."

"There's no point?" You repeated in disbelief. "What about me?"

"Y/N-"

"No. I get it, okay? You wanna just lay here and wait for it all to be over because our daughter is gone. But what about me? I'm still here."

Tears burned in the back of your eyes, but you refused to let them spill. You were not crying about this. You had cried enough over the last couple of days trying to talk sense into Geralt and you were done with it.

"If you can't fight for yourself, then fight for me! Let them heal you, eat the damn grouse. Don't do it for yourself. Do it for me. Please!" You pleaded, blinking away the tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

"I'm sorry, little one." He whispered.

You shook your head as you stared at him, his body starting to blur through the tears in your eyes before you suddenly stood up, gritting your teeth at the pain in your knee before you limped out the hut needing fresh air.

You stumbled a few metres away from the hut before grabbing hold of the nearest tree. You took in a few deep trembling breaths trying to calm yourself down when sudden faint singing filled the air.

What the fuck?

You focused in on singing. The words were in Elven, but that voice... you knew that voice from anywhere.

It was Jaskier.

Not even a minute later, Milva wandered through the camp with Jaskier trailing behind her.

Holy shit, it really was him.

Milva pointed in your direction before she walked off, leaving the bard frowning in confusion as he watched her walk away before he glanced over to you and his jaw dropped. Jaskier sprinted across the forest camp towards you, and you pushed yourself away from the tree and took a few staggering steps towards him before practically collapsing in his embrace.

Jaskier stumbled back at the impact but kept his footing as you leant into him heavily and he wrapped his arms around your body and hugged you tightly.

The tears that you had been trying so hard to keep at bay finally started to spill and once the first one fell, the rest followed like a rapid waterfall. You buried your face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, your arms tightening around his body.

Jaskier didn't say anything for a solid couple of minutes, either too surprised to speak or realising that you needed this hug more than anything. He simply held you against him, kissing the top of your head and allowing you to cry in his arms.

"It's okay, sweetheart. I got you. I got you." Jaskier whispered while he rubbed soothing circles over your back.

His words only made you cry harder, and you hated yourself for it, but knew Jaskier wouldn't judge you.

Eventually you pulled away, wiping the tears from your face as you took a step back, but your leg instantly buckled under the sudden weight and if it wasn't for Jaskiers quick reflexes, you would have fallen to the ground.

"Fuck, she said you were both injured." Jaskier cursed under his breath, wrapping his arm behind your back to keep you standing as he looked down at you worriedly. "Are you okay? What is it? What hurts?"

"My knee. Just my knee." You winced trying to bend it, but unable to. "But Geralt..."

"What about him?" Jaskier asked, although by the sound of his voice he seemed scared of the answer.

"H-he isn't well. He's given up and-and he's refusing help, and he won't eat and-" You breathlessly explained before Jaskier cut you off.

"Breathe. Y/N, just breathe."

You took in a deep shaky breath before slowly exhaling, not even realising that you had been working yourself up into a panic.

"Can you take me to him?" Jaskier asked calmly.

"In there." You pointed to the wooden hut.

Jaskier kept his arm around your back and helped you walk as the two of you slowly made your way to the small hut before pausing at the open entrance.

"Geralt? Are you decent?" Jaskier called out, looking into the hut before glancing down at you. "He's never decent."

You opened your mouth about to warn Jaskier of the true extend of Geralt’s injuries but didn't get a chance before he was leading you into the hut, but very quickly froze when he saw the Witcher’s injuries himself.

"Oh my fuck..."

Geralt laid wheezing on top of his makeshift bed, his dull eyes locked with Jaskier’s before he glanced past the bard and looked at you.

Jaskier carefully led you further in the room before reaching Geralt’s side and you gingerly sat down on the edge of his bed with Jaskiers help before the bard grabbed a small crate and used it as a makeshift seat beside Geralt’s bed.

"Hey. Hey. Ah, you alright?" Jaskier hesitantly asked, leaning towards Geralt because it was very obvious that Geralt wasn't alright, but he had no idea what else to say. "I thought Triss would have healed you... both of you."

Jaskier glanced over at you briefly before looking back down at Geralt who reached over and grabbed the bard’s arm.

"What news?" Geralt groaned. "Is it Yen or Ciri?"

"Yennefer's fine. She's safe." Jaskier hurriedly reassured, and you felt your body relaxing a little at the news.

You might not like that mage very much, but that didn't mean you wanted her dead.

"Ciri's alright." Jaskier added and your eyes widened.

"She's alive?"

Jaskier glanced back at you with a look of shock, "you thought she was dead?"

"The tower... it collapsed and... is she okay? Where is she?" You frantically questioned, leaning forward and grabbing Jaskier’s shoulder. "Is she okay?"

"She's alright. She's..." Jaskier’s expression crumpled as his eyes started swimming with unshed tears. "I'm sorry. Ciri's missing."

The small sliver of hope that was blossoming inside you got ripped apart at those two simple words. Jaskier rested his free hand over yours and gave it a small squeeze when he noticed the tears rising in your eyes once again.

"Yennefer's hunting for her, but Nilfgaard, they... I came straight from Thanedd when I heard you both were here." Jaskier continued to explain, looking between you and Geralt. "Some of my old Sandpiper routes. There's this village, outside Roggeveen, and... they razed it... to the ground. I tried to find survivors, but... they were willing to kill everyone to find her."

Jaskier released your hand and reached for something inside his jacket before he pulled out a piece of paper and held it up for you both to see.

"Apparently, it worked. The emperor announced the celebration. She's on her way to Nilfgaard."

Geralt instantly met your gaze and blinked, his once dull eyes now burning golden yellow.

"What else do you know?" You asked, looking back to Jaskier.

"I just heard a Nilfgaardian royal carriage has been seen traveling."

"How long until Emhyr has her?" Geralt grunted.

"Your guess is as good as mine." Jaskier sighed, looking between the two of you uselessly. "What are we going to do?"

"Help me up." Geralt ordered.

"Wait, Geralt, no. I'm glad you've no longer given up, but you can't. Your back is broken." You hurriedly said causing Jaskier’s eyes to widen in shock.

"Yes, he broke his back and look at his leg." Milva's voice suddenly said, and you glanced over your shoulder to find her entering the hut. "Like your girlfriend and I have been saying, you can't leave unless you get better. And you won't get better unless you let us help you. You need more healing waters and plenty of rest. You too Miss Witcher."

You rolled your eyes, "I'm fine."

"Yeah? Stand up right now and tell me it doesn't hurt." Milva challenged.

You glared at her, and she just smirked before holding up the grouse that she had shot earlier and glanced over at Geralt, "grouse?"

Geralt sighed, "give me the damn grouse."

"Oh, now you want it."

"There's a very weird energy between you three." Jaskier commented, looking between you all in slight confusion yet amusement.

Eithné and her healers got to work on Geralt. They made him drink some kind of liquid that looked and smelt awful, but within a few minutes of drinking, he could lift his arms higher and had more movement. So whatever the liquid was, it was healing his back.

The healers pushed his broken bone in his thigh back in place and tied a few sticks around it as a makeshift splint before dousing it with the healing waters, however just like your knee, it didn't work.

"The waters weren't successful. Like I said to your girl when they didn't work on her knee. They're meant for natural beings, not mutants." Milva informed.

"Pack up. We leave in the morning." Geralt grunted, and you watched in shock as he sat up on the bed, swinging his legs over the sides like he hadn't just spent the past few days incapacitated with a broken back and leg, unable to move.

"Good, yeah. Uh, might I suggest we wait until your leg pus stops visibly oozing first?" Jaskier responded, but Geralt wasn't listening as he got to his feet and stumbled across the hut before grabbing the wooden walking stick one of the healers provided.

You watched in amazement as he staggered out the hut, Milva rushing after him shouting that he wasn’t in any condition to do so, but you knew Geralt wouldn't listen. The great White Wolf was many things, including stubborn. Once he had an idea or plan, he was doing it, no matter what. Whether his body was up for the task, it didn't matter because Geralt would do it with just sheer willpower alone if he had to and you admired that about him.

You stood up from the edge of his bed, but your bad knee was still protesting when you tried to walk. Jaskier was quickly by your side and laced his arm around your shoulders, helping you walk out the hut.

"Are you two gonna stop him?" Milva questioned in frustration.

"Not a chance." You easily replied because Geralt was back. He was no longer giving up, he was fighting, and like hell you were going to stop him.

"I've been telling him for months he needs to think about himself, not just Ciri-" Jaskier started to say before Milva cut him off.

"Oh, so you're not completely useless?"

"But I was wrong." Jaskier continued, glancing over at her before looking back to Geralt. "Protecting her, protecting his family, it's who he is. I'd have to kill him to stop him. And even in this sorry-arse state, I'm pretty sure he could snap me like a toothpick, so no. I'm not going to stop him. If he needs my help, he has it."

Jaskier glanced down at you with a questioning look, and you nodded before he helped you walk out the hut towards Geralt.

"So, you're all fucking lunatics!" Milva shouted before she jogged past you and stopped in front of Geralt who was struggling to walk with his makeshift walking stick. "You really think you're ready to go find your girl?"

You watched in shock as she kicked his stick out from under him forcing Geralt to grab hold of the tree nearby to stop himself from falling over.

"'Cause you'd be dead now. And she is no better with the bard helping her." Milva pointed at you and Jaskier. "Neither of you are in any shape to walk across the forest, much less the Continent!"

"Not right now. But we will be." You responded, looking over at Geralt who met your gaze with a small nod.

Next Chapter

MASTERLIST pinned to profile

Commissions open! Link in bio & DM for enquiries

A/N: I'm so sorry this chapter was so late. Work has been hectic and my grandma died. But I finally had a chance to update this story, I hope you are all enjoying it ❤️

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia fanfic #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia fanfiction #the witcher #henry cavill #jaskier #joey batey

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gingersimasnaps · 9 months

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So I've been thinking about Tissaia's death in The Witcher Netflix. I'm not going to dive into the fact she got herself fooled by Vilgefortz, that just a no go territory, because I refuse to believe TISSAIA of all the people would be so stupid, given the fact anyone with one brain cell could see Vilgefortz is no good.

BUT.

Her dead scene is so off. Yes yes, the guilt and the reason she unalived herself is basically the same as in the canon (which is surprising actually because when did the series gave a shit about canon?). The timing tho?

Tissaia hugs Yennefer as Triss knocks and informs them the vigil is starting (means everything is READY and Tissaia and Yen are the only two people missing). Yen goes while Tissaia says something about being there in a minute. Even if the journey from her office to the basement or vault or where the vigil took place would be across the whole Aretuza, it could be like 20 mins MAXIMUM between Yen leaving Tissaia and Yen running to find her dead.

In those 20 mins, Tissaia managed to write a whole ass letter, brush her hair, lit a pipe and smoke it, do her little "sometimes a flower is just a flower" spell and slit her wrists. In which fucking reality you manage to do all this in such a short time span?!

Second thing - when Yennefer feels the pain in her own wrists, it takes her like .3 seconds to realize what's happening, so she runs into Tissaia's office basically immediately. Again, even if it would be across the whole Aretuza, there's NO WAY IN FUCKING HELL she wouldn't be there in time to save her. She's a witch, she can portal herself to be there faster, and don't tell me you can't do that in Aretuza, because a) it's not Hogwarts and b) even if you really couldn't make a portal in Aretuza, it was in ruins, you could make 284 portals and dance between them. So, when Yen enters Tissaia's office, we see two big pools of blood, and again, no way in hell she would bleed such a big amount of blood in such a short time.

And okay, even if she would, THEY ARE WITCHES FOR FUCK'S SAKE! Yen could probably still save Tissaia! But they had to make her *just* weep and not actually do something to save her mother!

Now don't get me wrong, I'm actually glad Tissaia died (and I can't believe I'm saying this, but there was no plot for that character anymore, not to mention I ship Tissaia with Geralt and by Geralt I mean Henry and not Liam), but it could be done SO. MUCH. BETTER.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk :D

#the witcher #tissaia de vries #myanna buring #tissaia #the witcher netflix #twn season 3 #twn #yennefer of vengerberg #anya chalotra #rant post #Twn rant

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onyxonline · 8 months

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*Breaks down door*

QUICK TELL US WHOLESOME MOMENTS OF EVERY LOONATICS RELATIONSHIPS

Onyx when she opens her in box, visualized

Anyways to answer your question

I don’t know if you mean romantic or platonic relationships, so I’m sticking to romantic, in terms of wholesome moments I like to think Ace and Deuce have times where they show genuine concern for each other and might encourage each other to not always hide under the heroic facade. Lexi and Sapphire are the epitome of lovers that don’t care about ODA, the year is 2077 let the LESBIANS BE LESBIANS. For Triss and Duck, I think she would always encourage Duck to be more true to himself and that it’s okay to not be okay, etc etc.

As for tech/rev moments…….

> points at the whole show.

Need I say more?

#loonatics unleashed #loonatics oc #loonatics unleashed oc #Onyx's Whimsy Art

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jupitermelichios · 1 year

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i've got teen wolf on the brain rn, so here's every member of the hale/mccall pack listed by what their favourite video game is

scott: he has been playing world of warcraft since he was 11, and he has done basically everything it's possible to do in game, unlocked every trophy and epic mount, reached the level cap with multiple characters, and still he logs in almost every day, even after stiles got bored and moved onto other games

stiles: he gets bored of games fast, but he developed a brief but intense crush on the masterchief when he was a kid, so if asked he'll say halo

alison: she's not great at suspension of disbelief, and mostly can't be bothered with games, but she has a sims 2 build that takes nearly 30 minutes just to load because of all the mods

derek: hates playing any kind of video game, which is probably good because he would get so addicted to rts games if he ever tried one. does know a weird amount of game trivia and lore though, because he goes away and researches every one of stiles's new hyperfixations but then actually sticks with them, unlike stiles. do you want halo lore? because derek has it, and he is desperate for someone to share it with

erica: she tells people it's metro 2033. it's actually barbie horse adventures. it's her comfort game, okay?

boyd: he played the arkham games for erica, and he loved him, but he imprinted on kirby at a young age and nothing else will ever touch it in his heart

isaac: such a sucker for roguelikes. if he knew what kinning was, he'd probably kin zagreus from hades. the fact that failing over and over is built into the game and there's no punishment is reinforcement his brain desperately needs. erica has written at least one zag/meg fic specifically for him.

lydia: she went 18 years without ever touching a video game, and then stiles persuaded her to try the witcher 3, and she was instantly addicted. if she finds out someone romanced triss over yenefer, she will take this as a personal insult

malia: it took stiles years of trying to find a game that didn't make malia immediately want to put her fist through the tv screen, but then DMC 5 came out.

kira: she likes her games fast, plotless, and button-mashy, so she likes most fighting games, but she's an absolute demon at smash

peter: you might think i'm going to say peter doesn't play games, and it's true that he doesn't admit to playing games, but it's also true that he knows nearly as much about street fighter lore as derek knows about halo, and has a frankly insane number of combos memorised. he would literally rather die than tell any of the pack this.

liam: he plays COD, you know it, I know it

cora: jeff forgot to give cora a personality beyond 'plucky' so i have no fucking idea. lets say it's horror games, because i feel like one of these weirdos ought to have strong opinions about bloodbourne and no one else is picking up the slack

jackson: madden, obviously.

danny: he believes strongly that adding an actual ui to dwarf fortress ruined it, and he was very excited about the abilty to export eve online data into excel spreadsheets

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bambirex · 4 months

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2023 writing roundup

I was tagged by @dancingwiththefae, thank you! ❤️

I've written 24 fics this year, mostly Witcher and a few others (I'm not including the request compilations from tumblr)

Had to put some of it under the cut because I have long ass summaries lol

January

The Day Has Come Where I Have Died (Only To Find I've Come Alive) (geraskier, M, 2,785 words)

A familiar place forces Jaskier to relive the most horrifying experience of his life.

February

Me And Mr. Wolf (geraskier, E, 3,861 words)

Geralt looked at him differently, with an emotion in his amber eyes that Jaskier couldn’t quite decipher, but it looked like hunger. And Jaskier tried to signal to him that it was okay to act upon his desires (if they existed at all, of course), but all his attempts were futile. The tension, the lingering glances and touches remained, and Jaskier felt like tearing his own hair out every day.

(...)

All his frustrations oozed onto the piece of paper before him. That was the only way to truly let it all out, by making up an unabashedly horny song using his typical metaphors. It wasn’t as if anyone would ever hear it; this wasn’t the kind of song Jaskier would have ever played in front of a crowd. That was just for him, only he would know who the big bad wolf and the needy bunny of the lyrics were.

Well, Geralt would probably know, too, what with him living his life with the “white wolf” title plastered to him, and the fact he once fondly said that if Jaskier would be an animal, he would definitely be an over-energetic rabbit.

Lucky that Geralt would never find that song.

We Match (geraskier, G, 1,121 words)

Geralt and Jaskier compare their stripes.

March

Butterfly Lounge (geraskier, T, 1495 words)

Geralt has missed out on so much.

The Wonderful In You (trissefer, T, 4,080 words)

Five times Triss told Yennefer she loved her without outright saying it, and the one time Yennefer said it for real.

The River's Just A River (one-sided geraskier, T, 1817 words)

Jaskier needs to tell Geralt something important in order to move on with his life, even though he knows he cannot expect anything in return.

June

Tell It With Your Heart (geraskier, T, 2,504 words)

While Jaskier always says what's on his mind, Geralt works a little differently. That doesn't mean he cannot tell Jaskier how he feels - he just does that without words.

July

Sunshine For The Sunshine (geraskier, yennskier, radskier, Jaskier & Kaer Morhen wolves, Jaskier & Ciri, G, multichap, 2,127 words)

Jaskier being loved, spoiled and taken care of by everyone the way he deserves.

This Evil Romance (So Good I Never Wanna Waste It) (yennskier, E, 4,678 words)

"See something you like, little bird?"

On one hand, definitely. This woman was so incredibly hot, if Jaskier wasn't literally tied into a knot, she would have fallen on her knees to worship her.

On the other hand, judging by her unnaturally perfect looks, the dark lace and the ominous necklace - not to mention the fact she was smirking over a kidnapped girl - she was most definitely a witch. And that was not very good.

Jaskier wakes up tied up and disoriented in the company of a very sexy, but probably insane witch, and her first thought, of course, is that she is going to be sacrificed- but the witch has other plans. Really exciting ones.

August

The Heavy Burden That You Can't Bear (past radskier, Radovid/OMC, E, 2,212 words)

He grabbed the oil from the table and coated his fingers with it, cursing the way they shook. The mighty, unapologetic King of Redania. Radovid the Stern. The tyrant. Broken to the point he started breaking everything and everyone around him, punishing the world because punishing himself wasn’t enough anymore. The charming, witty player of a Prince long gone. Now he was just a lonely, angry King who has aged decades in a few years. More pathetic than ever.

The servant gasped as Radovid shoved two fingers inside him without warning. He squirmed as the king prepared him without any finesse, stretching him out quick. He probably didn’t even open him enough before he slicked himself and started pushing inside, if the way his breath hitched in a way that sounded more pained than pleasured was anything to go by.

Radovid grabbed the man’s hips as he buried himself inside. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the body before him engulf him. Tight and warm, silky heat. A quiet moan. Radovid let it all take him back to the memories that haunted his every waking moment.

Takes One To Know One (Breaking Bad, JesseJane, T, 1,117 words)

Jesse needs to tell Jane something important. Jane has some interesting info for him, too.

Good Enough To Eat (geraskier, E, 2,375 words)

“It’s true what they say about wolves,” Jaskier started, his voice much lower than usual- sensual and needy. He only talked like this when he wanted to play their game. Not even just regular sex, but the kind that they have discovered months prior due to a ridiculous, horny song found by accident. A sinful performance they put on for each other.

“That they like to take care of their pack. The big alpha would provide for his family, making sure they’re well-fed…”

Jaskier took one of Geralt’s hands and led it under the blanket and over his stomach. Geralt couldn’t suppress a moan when he felt his fingers dig into soft flesh, yielding like dough beneath his hand.

“Is this what it’s about, huh?” Jaskier huffed out a laugh, his breath hot and moist against the skin of Geralt’s neck. “The wolf wants to feed up the bunny so he would be happy and healthy?”

September

Keep My Heart In Your Gold (geraskier, T, 2,579 words)

Geralt always carries a brooch around with him. Jaskier wants to know why.

A Lesson In Patience (geraskier, E, 1,939 words)

“Fuck me,” he moaned against Geralt’s neck. He pushed his body against Geralt’s, rubbing his hard cock against his groin. “Now.”

Geralt smirked against Jaskier’s skin. He gave his ass a curt spank, making Jaskier let out a delighted gasp.

“Get on the bed, then,” Geralt told him. Jaskier nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste. He threw himself on the bed, opening his legs with a sultry look. Geralt stood at the foot of the bed, raking his eyes over Jaskier’s body, practically already writhing with need.

“What are you waiting for?” He drawled. “Don’t just stand there!”

Geralt retrieved the bottle of oil from the desk, keeping his eyes on Jaskier all the while. Jaskier pouted and huffed, then reached between his legs and started stroking his cock, unable to go without a bit of pleasure for a few moments. Oh, it will be delicious to break him in and show him it was worth waiting, Geralt thought with a smirk.

October

I Get So Hungry (When You Say You Love Me) (Jaskier/Geralt/Radovid, E, 3,439 words)

"What kind of animal would I be," Radovid drawled, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop himself. Jaskier sent him a strange look.

"Pardon?"

"In this game of yours," Radovid clarified. He tightened his grasp around Jaskier's hips. "What am I?"

Jaskier tilted his head to the side as he inspected his face. His eyes darkened, his tongue poking out to wet his lips.

"A fox," Jaskier concluded. Radovid hummed.

"Elaborate on that."

"Smart, cunning," Jaskier explained, teasing a finger down the side of Radovid's neck. "Crafty. Seemingly a harmless puppy, but you bite hard. Not afraid of a challenge. Leaner and not as tough as a wolf - but still very strong. And you have these sharp features and that reddish tint to your hair, so... a fox. Definitely."

Well, Radovid could make do with that information. It planted a new image in his head - one where that sweet, eager bunny was hunted by not one, but two apex predators at once...

It was as if Jaskier read his mind because he leant in really close to his ear and whispered "why? Would you like to join us?"

Te Engemet, Én Tégedet (Queen, Jimercury, G, 3,846 words)

Freddie suddenly sat up, excitement twinkling in his eyes. “Okay, so I did some research. They have a folk song, it’s really pretty. And I want to sing it for them on Sunday.”

Jim was sure his eyes were practically bulging out of his head, and that just made Freddie giggle again. “In Hungarian?” Jim checked, and Freddie nodded, his cheeks growing flushed with excitement.

“I want to blow their minds, okay? I want them to remember this forever.”

November

Chubskier Drabbles (geraskefer, geraskier, yennskier, radskier, Jaskier & Kaer Morhen wolves, Jaskier/Valdo, Jaskier/Vespula, Jaskier/original characters, Jaskier & Yarpen, E, multichapter WIP, currently 14,763 words)

Just a collection of short stories revoling around chubby Jaskier.

December

New Depths (geraskefer, E, 3,375 words)

Jaskier asks Yennefer to perform a strange spell on him. No one's ready for how much he actually enjoys the results.

Carve It Out (Killing Eve, villaneve, M, 1,413 words)

Eve brings her issues with her to the bedroom. Villanelle knocks some sense into her.

The World Is Yours, If You Seek The Good (geraskefer, M, multichapter WIP, currently 55,807 words)

Used and abused by humans, Jaskier and Yennefer believe they are alone and with no reason to trust anybody. That is, until they meet each other - and then, a couple of other strange misfits.

Maybe Loving Is Sharing (geraskefer, M, multichap, 24,108 words)

The plan is simple: help your best friend get together with the girl of her dreams. What could go wrong?

Well, when everyone is confused and pining but also very oblivious, pretty much everything.

It's A Game We Play (geraskier, yennskier, radskier, T, multichapter WIP, currently 40, 586 words)

Jaskier's daughter is about to marry the love of her life, and she decides she wants both her parents at her wedding. Only problem is that Jaskier has slept with a little too many people in his youth, so the identity of the other parent is a mystery. That does not stop the bride-to-be from inviting three potential daddy candidates and unleashing absolute chaos in the process.

Otherwise known as Jaskier's terrible horrible no good past decisions leading to terrible horrible no good outcomes. Also known as the Mamma Mia! AU nobody asked for, but I wrote it anyway.

Those Blue Memories Start Calling (Rush, Launt, T, 1,849 words)

James visits Niki before Christmas.

Every Night He'd Tuck Him Tight (But Never Left The Room) (radskier, geraskier, E, multichapter WIP, currently 6,472 words)

Jaskier finds himself back with Radovid against his will- while he still has strong feelings for him, he finds it hard to trust him again. What's even worse is that the guilt and pain has turned Radovid into a completely different person. A person who's desperate to keep the only good thing in his life, which is Jaskier, himself. Jaskier doesn't want to change his mind about putting his family first, so Radovid needs to find a way to make sure he will be the only one for the bard.

What follows is Radovid's even deeper descend into madness, and Jaskier's forced transformation into the perfect, pliant lover who won't need anybody else.

Tagging @wren-of-the-woods, @sokkas-first-fangirl, @carrottheluvmachine and whoever else wants to do this!

#fic roundup #tag game #the witcher fanfiction #Breaking bad fanfiction #killing eve fanfic #Rush fanfiction #queen fanfiction

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chaosandorder46 · 25 days

Note

i do have some questions about fanfics with you that are not on the list if that is okay? But also some from the list: 4 and 14 (for any of your fanfictions! or if you have 1 you want in particular to talk on). But also if you have any inspiration authors in the wheel of time & witcher settings? thanks!

Thanks for the ask anon!!!

I'll use I Might Love You More Than Coffee to answer.

#4 favorite line of dialogue?

“I don't like it Yenna. It's a red flag.”

A red flag?”

“Yes. She's basically a walking red flag in a perfectly tailored pencil skirt.” Triss said rolling her eyes.

Yennefer laughed. “You married a walking red flag with tits, so I don't really want to hear it.”

Sabrina cackled. “Bitch.”

Inspo writers:

There are so many great fic writers!

For witcher, I would say @troiings (https://archiveofourown.org/users/troiing) @arestlessrunaway (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runaway_Writer) @daerienn (https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydearmydearmydear) and (https://archiveofourown.org/users/JZXR7/pseuds/JZXR7) have written those kinds of fics that just stick with you!

I'm still pretty new to the WOT Fandom, and really need to do more reading there, but @lakeofsilverpike (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rae325) is amazing!

#the witcher fanfiction #wot fanfic #ask game

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slumberingcorpse · 9 months

Text

Music and Gunpowder

Geralt/Jaskier Fanfic Western AU

Part 1 “Riding Towards Destiny”

It happened so quickly. One minute they were having dinner like every night and the next they were being surrounded by the Pinkertons.

Geralt cursed under his breathe as his grip tightens around Roach’s reins keeping Ciri close to his chest as possible.

They almost got Ciri. If it wasn’t for Eskel—Christ…he didn’t even want to imagine it…

“How the hell did they find us!? Surround us no less!” Cöen asks breaking the tense silence surrounding the gang as their horse’s hooves thunder against the dirt road.

They were so focused in escaping with their lives they must’ve forgotten that we had the ability to do so.

“I don’t know! Do you have any clue on how this could happen? Geralt!?” Lambert accuses with his fiery eyes shooting daggers at the white haired outlaw.

Geralt knew he just wanted to get a raise out of me, like always. There’s nothing more that he wanted to do other than have another shouting match with him, but I knew it was a waste of time, Ciri however, didn’t.

“Yennefer would never do such a thing! You’re just full of shit!” Ciri shouts angry and disgusted by the even suggestion of such a thing.

Lambert scoffs, “I don’t know who’s more stupid! You or your hopeless father! Who else could’ve known!? Who else would’ve want us dead!? Especially after the incident with Marigold!”

“Triss? W-what are you talking about? What incident with Marigold?” Ciri asks with her blue eyes looking up at her father expectingly.

It was Geralt’s turn to glare over at his brother before sighing and looking back over at the young girl sitting in front of him. His mouth went dry.

He hoped to never tell her. The last thing he wanted is to trouble her even more, especially when it has to do with the stupid decision he made.

He can feel my lips tremble as he opens his mouth to explain but either by fortune or misfortune a loud thud catches all our attention.

Geralt whips his head back towards the noise only for his eyes to widen in horror seeing Eskel laying limply on the ground next to his horse.

“Shit! Eskel!” He hears myself say as he leaps off his saddle. Lambert and Cöen were close behind as they rush to Eskel’s side to help him sit down.

Thankfully, Eskel was still breathing, be it, harshly but it was better than nothing. Though with the bullet wound in his stomach bleeding like crazy, he might not be breathing for long.

“Eskel? Eskel? You hear me?” Geralt asks struggling to keep his voice from sounding panicked as the stench of blood fills his nostrils.

“W-wolf…I’m…I’m o-okay…j-just got dizzy…” Eskel slurs out hiding his pain from his younger brothers.

“Like hell you are! Blood loss is different from dizziness, you dumbass! Why didn’t you tell us!?” Lambert shouts not bothering to hide his fear and worry from anyone.

And yet, Eskel forced himself to smile up at his brothers, “I…I’ll be okay…I..I h-had worse…y-you know that.”

“Damn it! Where’s Vesemir and Aiden!?” Cöen curses looking around for their leader and fellow brother.

“I’m sure they’re fine. Cöen, give me some gunpowder! Lambert, start a damn fire!” Geralt orders.

“What are you planning to do?” Lambert asks.

“Damn it, Lambert! Just do what I say for once in your life!” Geralt snaps causing the younger man to finally nod and run to do as told.

While the other two are gone, Geralt quickly tears off a peace of cloth and presses it against Eskel’s stomach.

Eskel hisses in pain as he weakly smiles, “Hey, hey I’m o-okay…don’t cry…I’ll be o-okay…”

Geralt glances at him confused before following Eskel’s glaze and remembering about the young girl in his care.

Frozen in place was Ciri, starring at the blood on Geralt’s hands as tears run down her pale cheeks.

Geralt’s heart sank as he forces himself to turn away from her, “It’ll be alright. Just keep an eye out alright?”

Ciri doesn’t answer but Geralt can hear her turn around and walk away.

“G-Geralt…g-go to her…”

“Not now, you idiot, you’ll bleed out.” Geralt sighs focusing on the wound.

Soon enough, Cöen and Lambert rush back with what they need. Once the fire was started he takes out his knife and holds it over the flame.

“Alright, you two hold him down.” Geralt orders moving Eskel’s bloodied shirt out of the way. Unlike before, there was no back talk, Lambert and Cöen held Eskel down as Geralt pours the gunpowder into the wound before pressing the hot blade against his skin.

Eskel’s howls in pain as he thrashes around. Cöen turns away as Eskel claws against his arm. Lambert’s eyes fill with tears before squeezing his eyes shut to stop them from spilling. All while, Ciri’s soft sobs are heard in the background.

Geralt’s heart ached. Below him was Eskel. His best friend, his brother screaming and begging him to stop. Behind him was Ciri, his daughter sobbing in fear needing him by her side.

Soon enough, the screams stopped leaving nothing but the sound of crickets and crackling firewood to fill the void. Eskel, laid limp but breathing. He was alive.

Numbly, Geralt wraps Eskel’s stomach with the cleanest cloth he hand as the sound of hooves come closer. All of boy’s immediately reach for their revolvers but relax once seeing Vesemir’s and Aiden’s horses ride up.

“Thank god! Are you boys alright?” Vesemir asks getting off his horse.

“Eskel was shot, I…I stop the bleeding but…it’ll take a while for him to get back on his feet.” Geralt reports calmly.

Vesemir’s gaze softens as he walks over and places a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, “You did good, son. Go get yourself cleaned up. We’ll camp here for the night. We’re gonna be alright.”

Geralt nods before walking towards the small river next to the camp. With trembling hands he bends down to wash the blood off his palms and fingers before splashing his face with the ice cold water.

“I-is he…” Ciri asks with a trembling voice.

Geralt hesitates but finally turns over to her, “No, he’s alive. He’ll be alright.” He says trying to comfort her but instead Ciri just nods and looks down with tears running down her pale cheeks.

Geralt frowns and reaches over to hold her hands, “He’ll be alright. I…I promise. Trust me, he’s survived much worse. I mean who else can survive having dynamite blowing up next to him.”

Ciri shakes her head and cries, “I-it’s all my fault!”

Geralt’s heart drops as he cups her tear stained cheeks, “No, no, none of this is your fault. None of it.”

“B-but the Pinkertons, they want me! If it wasn’t my for me, no one would’ve gotten hurt!”

“Ciri. Cirilla, listen to me. None of this is your fault and I will never let them get a hold of you. No matter what I’ll protect you. I promised I would, remember?”

Ciri sniffles and nods as she wraps her her arms around Geralt. Geralt holds her close and tenderly rubs her small back, “Come on, let’s get to bed alright? I’m sure in a few days Eskel will be back up on his feet and you two will be out hunting together in no time.”

“G-Geralt…can I…sleep with you tonight?” Ciri softly asks.

Geralt smiles softly before kissing the top of her head, “Yeah, I can do that. Come on, princess.” He coos before leading her to their bedroll. Making sure they both were comfortable and warm, Geralt holds Ciri close.

It might’ve been the knowledge that Ciri was safe in his arms or the pure exhaustion after the turbulent day, either way, his eyes fail to stay open.

His peaceful sleep doesn’t last long however, as Cöen starts to nudge his shoulder, “Geralt. Wake up.”

Geralt groans and glances down to check that Ciri’s still sleeping before turning up towards Cöen, “What is it?” He whispers as he carefully sits up.

“It’s Eskel,” Cöen sighs causing Geralt’s stomach to drop and turn away, “I-is he?”

“No, not yet…he has a fever. A bad one. I’m pretty sure he has an infection. Vesemir is out trying to look for some herbs to help but…he needs medicine.” Cöen explains glancing over at Eskel in his bedroll.

Geralt sighs and runs his hand down his face, “Alright, I’ll go get some. I’m pretty sure I saw a town nearby.”

Cöen nods before glancing down at sleeping Ciri, “How is she taking it?”

“As well as anyone can…I guess…” Geralt mutters carefully getting up to not wake her.

“You guess?” Cöen questions.

“I…I don’t know…she thinks it’s her fault. She’s scared and…and I don’t know what to do…”

Cöen smiles sympathetically as he pats Geralt’s shoulder, “You’re doing your best. That’s the best you can do. I’m sure no matter what she’ll understand. Besides, you aren’t alone. Remember that alright?”

Geralt smiles softly and nods, “Keep an eye on her? I’ll be back soon enough.”

Cöen nods and sits on the ground next to Ciri, “She’ll be fine.”

Geralt let’s out another sigh as he puts on his hat and boots, “Make sure she eats all of her breakfast. Even the mushrooms.” He says sternly.

Cöen chuckles, “I’ll make sure she eats every one.”

Reassured, Geralt relaxes and heads over to Roach.

“Surprise to see you up so early.” A voice asks from behind causing Geralt to tense up and turn only to be faced with no other than Aiden.

“Aiden. How’s Lambert?”

Aiden lets out a worried sigh, “Freaked out to say the least. He’s worried for Eskel. For Ciri. They almost got her back there.”

“I know but we’ll work on it. I’m gonna get some medicine for Eskel and once healthy enough to move we’ll leave to someplace safe.”

“Safe? This isn’t some gang we are talking about, Geralt. This is the Pinkertons. The government who swarms all over the place. The real question is how long until they kill us all.” Aiden argues.

Geralt turns away as he puts his saddle on Roach’s back, “We’ll figure something out…” is all he manages to say before riding off.

The sun was only beginning to raise in the distance and yet only the crows seem to be singing their song.

Geralt is finally alone and for a moment he can let his emotions roam free, “Fuck! What am I doing!? Aiden is right! Last night they almost got us! They almost got Ciri! What do they even want with her!? She’s just a kid! A terrified lost kid! How am I supposed to…how am I supposed to protect her?”

Roach neighs in response causing Geralt to continue, “Yeah, I know, I know but I wasn’t made for this. How am I supposed to raise her? All my life all I learned to do is shoot, steal, and scam. It’s no way to raise a Ciri. She deserves…deserves more! To live in high society like her mother and grandmother! Worrying about dresses and shoes instead of catching a bullet through the skull. Why did her grandmother entrust her to me?”

Roach neighs and nudges her head back towards her master making Geralt relax as pat her mane, “I don’t regret taking her in. It’s not that. I just want her safe…” He sighs and looks up at the gloomy sky, “Maybe Yennefer was right that’s all. Maybe Ciri should’ve stayed with her…” he mutters only for his ears to pick up a scream near by.

“Help! Help me! Someone please help me!”

Perhaps it was instinct, maybe it was destiny, either way, Geralt immediately turns Roach around and rushes towards the cry for help.

As he got closer, growls, barks, and howls can be heard as a man clings onto a tree branch. He was younger than Geralt, with soft dirty brown hair, filthy and yet expensive looking clothes, and a fancy looking guitar slung over his back. Must’ve been gotten lost.

Geralt glances up at the sobbing man before glancing back down at the pack of wolves clawing at the tree trunk trying to take a bit out of the terrified man who’s starting to lose his grip.

Geralt takes out his revolver and shoots a few rounds at the sky causing the pack to scatter about and for the man to finally fall against the grass.

“You alright there?” Geralt asks walking over only for the man to pounce him into a tight hug.

“You saved me! I t-thought it was all over! But you saved me! My hero!” The man sobs looking up at Geralt with his big watery blue eyes and his snot, tear covered face.

Geralt couldn’t help but tense up. The only person who hugs him is Ciri and last time he checked, this man was not Ciri. Without hesitation, he pulls away and clears his throat, “Glad you’re alright then…see you around then.” He says walking back to Roach.

“What!? You can’t leave me here!” The man cries out rushing behind him.

“And why is that?” Geralt questions looking back at him with an amused look.

“Because what if the wolves come back! I’ll die out here!” The man cries.

Geralt shrugs and saddles up, “Better get out of forest as fast as you can then, city boy.”

The man runs in front of Roach and looks up at Geralt with his big blue eyes, “Don’t leave me here to die…please?”

Geralt has seen those eyes before. Ciri always uses them to get what she wants and just like when she does it, he couldn’t say no. He sighs and grumbles, “Fine.”

The man’s eyes light up, “So you’ll give me a ride to Toussaint?”

“What!? No!”

“Why not!?”

“I don’t even know you!”

“Me? Oh, Umm I’m…Jaskier!”

Geralt looks down at the younger man with a glare. He wasn’t sure either to laugh or punch him, “Like hell you are! You made that damn name up!”

Jaskier let’s out a fake gasp, “Me!? Lie!? I would never!”

Geralt sighs and runs his hand down his face, “Just get on the damn horse before I leave you here.”

Jaskier just smiles and hops on behind him.

Geralt was starting to regret this.

#witcher #the witcher fandom #the witcher fanfiction #witcher fanfiction #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #witcher eskel #witcher Cöen #witcher lambert #witcher vesemir #aiden witcher #witcher ciri #ciri #witcher yennefer #western au

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lledron · 9 months

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Thoughts on season 3 (some of them)

Thoughts on season 3 (some of them) Stregobor lived as he died, being a racist. He at least bought the girls some time. Stregobor, Falka is waiting for you too. Call me sentimental, but I love that Fringilla will kill her uncle, you know, the one who left her to rot in Nilfgaard to be beaten and raped. This series is full of family members hurting their family, starting in season 1 with Yennefer. And Ciri has it worse with her sperm donor.

Dijkstra & Philippa: It's like Jesse and James from Pokemon are real and have ambitions beyond just earning their boss's salary. It's a good friendship and if it's not, it's a symbiotic relationship between wizards and whatever Dijkstra is.

Tissaia had a breaking moment, but she rose to fight. Don't worry Tissaia, compared to Tolkien's Celebrimbor your Dark Lord at least didn't keep you for questioning. Vilgefortz being the bad guy. It's great, because he asked me why Tissaia didn't shoot him from behind or something.

I'm worried about Istredd.

Franchesca showed great power in the fight and even had the pep talk with Fringilla. Filavandrel protected Franchesca, very well, but I feel bad that she died.

Where are the novices during the attack? Vil took them for further experiments?

Jaskier and Radovid go too fast in their relationship. I mean, Rad, you've known Dandelion for, like, six months and he still hasn't introduced you to his family. I know that they are cute together, I know that they are in love. The saddest thing is that Radovid wants to go with Jaskier because he doesn't feel safe in his own house. He is right in wanting to leave, in wanting to form his path. He makes me sad because he says that he "was never good at anything".

Which brings us to Vizimir's death. Despite all his hunting for Ciri, despite being a fucking racist to the elves, he loved his brother and his wife. The servants cried when he died, I don't know if it's because they took care of him when he was little or something.

The death of the novices. It's not Triss's fault, she screamed for help and Tissaia dismissed her concerns. Because Arethusa was supposed to be safe and no teacher would attack her students. But no, this happens in real life, the teachers are bullies or abusers, like Stregobor and Vilgefortz. Triss literally can't have happy moments. I hope she has them in the future with Sabrina and Istredd.

Most people complain that Henry isn't coming back, but I didn't come to the show for him. If the protagonists die, the series continues. I hope the change of actor doesn't bring problems, because he's already bringing them. I came for the found family, the sexy wizards and witches.

Tissaia's suicide is so real. Suicides do that, they tell people, friends or family that they are okay and then they kill themselves. At least a part of them. Vincent van Gogh before trying to commit suicide had made plans with his brother to visit him and his family in weeks.

#the witcher

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rebouks · 14 days

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Previous // Next

[waves lapping] Mia: What’re you so obsessed with? Matilda: Nothing. Mia: [sighs] Are you seriously gonna waste your time staring at lifeguards when you-… Ivan: Triss is the lifeguard. Mia: WHA-… Matilda: Do not. Mia: Whyyy-.. oh my god you’re so annoying, what’s your problem? Matilda: He’s working. Mia: So?! Just go n’ say hi-.. wait, pretend to drown! Matilda: Seriously? Mia: Seriously! He can come n’ save you n’ you can be like.. SURPRISE! It’d be funny. Matilda: I’m not doing that. Mia: I’ll do it then! [Mia shoved Matilda out of the way before she could protest, sprinting toward the ocean with glee] Matilda: I hope she actually drowns. Ivan: You should’a done somethin’ before she had chance t’embarrass ya. Matilda: Yeah, well.. you could’ve kept your big mouth shut too, but here we are. … [super legitimate drowning] [extremely convincing spluttering] Tristen: You good? It’s uh-.. it’s pretty shallow here, y’know? Mia: Ohh sometimes I forget my legs work; you know how it is-.. awh but look how worried my amazing friend is! [Mia stuck a toe in Matilda’s direction, practically vibrating with giddiness-..] [Until Tristen dropped her, anyway] Tristen: Shit-.. are you okay?! [Mia ignored Tristen’s fussing, thoroughly amused by the scene she’d caused] Tristen: I’m so sorry, I-… Matilda: She definitely deserved it, don’t apologise. Mia: [chuckles] Ahh, that really was funny-.. okay, bye. [Tristen stared after Mia for a solid minute, enveloped by an awkward silence that made him want to bury himself into the sand like a frightened crab being hunted by a rabid seagull]

#ts4 #sims 4 #simblr #ts4 story #sims story #forever in between #fib #matilda douglas #mia clement #ivan harper #pixie harper #tristen burks #miaaaaaaaaaaaaa #skdjskjd #love her #like talk or else #🤺

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bard-llama · 7 months

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WiP Monday: Iorveth and Zoltan's History

Okay, I'm impatient and not waiting until Wednesday. This whole fic started because in the games, Iorveth and Zoltan very emphatically hate each other. That kind of animosity comes from familiarity, you know? So... enjoy.

(under a cut because tumblr fucked the formatting options)

“Has anyone ever noticed,” Dandelion slurred. He, like the rest of them, was on his third bottle of wine and most definitely not sober. “How Zoltan is so adamant that Iorveth hates him? Like, I don't think I've ever actually seen them interact, but Zoltan is very insistent that Iorveth does not like him.”

“So?” Geralt asked, raising his eyebrow and covering a burp.

“Soooooo,” Dandelion waved his hand around, nearly overbalancing himself, “me thinks he doth protest too much!”

Roche blinked. “Wait… are you saying Zoltan secretly likes Iorveth?”

“No, no, no,” Dandelion’s hair fluttered around his head as he shook it. “No, I’m saying there’s history between them. Something that makes them despise each other.”

“Do they, though?” Triss asked. “I mean, they’ve kind of mutually avoided each other, now that I think about it, but it’s not like they’ve gotten into huge fights or anything.”

“I dunno,” Geralt mused, “I mean, Zoltan was pretty insistent that Iorveth hates him. Though… he never actually said what he thinks of Iorveth beyond general insults towards the Scoia’tael.”

“Exactly!” Dandelion snapped his fingers. “I tell ya, they’ve got history. Significant history. The question is… what is it?” He waggled his eyebrows expressively in a way that made him look rather barmy, but then, he kind of was.

Roche took another sip of wine. “I mean, Zoltan was – is? – fairly anti-Scoia’tael. And if my intel is right, the Scoia’tael asked him to lead a squad. Maybe there’s just mutual irritation that he turned them down and doesn’t like them?”

Geralt hummed consideringly, but Dandelion shook his head, “nah. That kinda hatred isn’t business-related. It’s definitely personal.”

“Maybe they’re exes,” Triss chuckled, refilling her wine glass. “Can you imagine? What an odd couple they’d be.”

Triss’ giggles made Roche tilt his head to picture it. Iorveth, who was already annoyingly tall, with Zoltan, who came up to Geralt’s stomach (and around Roche’s chest, but he was not short, so he wasn’t thinking about it) – the two of them together? How would they even do anything?

Actually… “Is that common? Elves and dwarves? I kinda thought they broadly hated each other?”

“They do,” Geralt grunted. “Before humanity, elves were the conquerors of the continent. Dwarves, on the other hand, have never had a problem getting along and living harmoniously with other species.”

Dandelion nodded in agreement. “Have you ever been to Mahakam? It’s really quite incredible! I mean, awfully stuffy and there’s a reason many dwarves live amongst human settlements, but gnomes and dwarves live perfectly peacefully together. And the craftsmanship! Oh, you wouldn’t believe some of the things I saw! There was this one sculpture of a dryad and she had the biggest–”

Geralt cut him off, knocking their shoulders together. “The point is, dwarves typically find a way to coexist. Even with elves, who tried to conquer them before humans had the chance.”

“That’s interesting and all,” Triss swirled her wine in the glass, letting it breathe, “but what does that have to do with Zoltan and Iorveth? Neither of them are that old… are they?”

There were frowns around the table as the four of them considered that.

“I don’t… think so?” Dandelion shrugged. “I mean, Zoltan’s old to me, but I think to an elf, nah. I mean, dwarves don’t live quite as long as elves, right?”

“Yeah,” Geralt tapped his fingers against his chin. “Iorveth was pre-humanity, though, wasn’t he? Isn’t that what the Scoia’tael were always saying, about him being one of the last true Aen Seidhe? That means born pre-humanity, right?”

Roche pursed his lips, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe?”

“The point is,” Triss refocused them, slurring slightly, “it would be a little strange, but it’s possible. And elves and dwarves have grown a lot closer in the last millenia or so, because of humanity’s oppression. So like… they could be exes.”

“We could ask them?” Geralt suggested hesitantly.

“Oh, that’ll go well,” Roche snorted.

“No, no, that’s a great idea!” Dandelion fluttered his hands excitedly. “We can put them on the spot, make them tell us!”

“Neither of them are exactly communicative about shit they don’t wanna talk about,” Roche pointed out, but Dandelion ignored him.

“Who knows where they are?”

“Probably not together,” Triss said, shaping each word very intentionally. They’d all had more than a little to drink – which was what made the idea of interrogating Iorveth and Zoltan about their history actually kind of appealing, to be honest.

“Oh, oh! We can split into groups and ask them and then see if their stories match!” Dandelion bounced in place as he spoke. Given he’d consumed a significant portion of the wine they were drinking, Roche was mildly impressed that he didn’t lose his balance.

Geralt just looked amused. “All right,” he agreed. “I definitely want to see Iorveth’s face when he’s asked if Zoltan used to be his ex.”

“Good! Then you and Roche can go ask Iorveth and Triss and I will ask Zoltan!”

“Okay, but you get to do the actual asking,” Triss said, crossing her arms.

Roche opened his mouth to ask why it was automatically assumed he’d go see Iorveth – but in truth, he was kind of curious about what Iorveth would say. At any rate, he was more curious about Iorveth’s reaction than Zoltan’s.

“Fucking okay, guess we’re doing this,” he snorted to himself, slinging back the last of his wine and stumbling to his feet.

Geralt chuckled, stretching and joining Roche. “Iorveth likes playing out in the gardens,” Geralt said.

“May as well start there, then,” Roche shrugged, waving for Geralt to precede him.

Iorveth was indeed in the gardens, as the light musical notes they could hear as soon as they left the main house of Corvo Bianco attested to.

When they approached, Iorveth glanced over them, lowering his flute. “Gwynbleidd,” he greeted, voice pleasant. He did not acknowledge Roche.

Roche frowned. “We had a question,” he managed to get out, only slurring his words slightly.

He could tell Iorveth was curious by the way his eyebrow twitched, but Iorveth still did not acknowledge him. He scowled at the elf.

“We were wondering,” Geralt said loudly, “what was up between you and Zoltan.”

Iorveth snorted roughly. “Decidedly nothing.”

“Yeah, see, it’s that ‘decidedly’ that makes us curious,” Roche responded, swaying slightly in place.

“Zoltan insists you detest him,” Geralt said slowly, “and it kinda seems like more than just a disagreement over the Scoia’tael’s methods.”

“Detest?” Iorveth repeated. “I suppose that’s one word for it.”

“And another would be?” Roche asked.

Iorveth glared at him.

“How do you two know each other?” Geralt asked curiously.

Iorveth snorted. “You are old for a dh’oine, Geralt. But even so, can you comprehend what it is to live for century upon century? For millennia?” He shook his head, “I have seen elven society rise and fall, driven near to extinction. I have met many, many people during that time. That you should know some of them is statistically expected.”

“That was a helluva non-answer,” Roche pointed out.

With a heavy sigh, Iorveth shook his head again. “Zoltan Chivay is a human sympathizer, willing to stand at their sides even after all they’ve done. That is your answer.”

“Aren’t you technically standing at our sides?” Roche asked before he could think better of it. Beside him, Geralt groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Iorveth’s glare was impressive, but it probably would’ve been more intimidating if Roche wasn’t seeing three of him.

“Dandelion,” Geralt began, and Roche’s lips twitched at the way he was shifting the blame for their curiosity onto the bard, “thinks that you used to be involved.”

Iorveth’s face darkened significantly in what had to be an answer, right? But the elf didn’t say anything.

“So?�� Roche prodded. “Are you exes?”

Iorveth didn’t answer, instead saying, “the bard is entitled to believe what he will. And I owe you nothing.”

“That kinda sounds like a yes,” Geralt said, genuine surprise on his face. “How, though? I mean, you’ve been fighting humanity for ages and he’s – I mean, you just called him a human sympathizer. How did you two even know each other?”

Appearing irritated that they weren’t taking the hint and leaving him alone, Iorveth scowled at them.

“C’mon,” Roche goaded, “you know we’re gonna keep asking. Isn’t it easier to just answer instead of being all mysterious and broody?”

Iorveth’s glare sharpened, but he did lower his flute, pursing his lips in thought. “I’ve been fighting humanity for ages,” he repeated Geralt’s words. “Yes. Do you know why?”

“What?” Both Geralt and Roche blinked, taken aback.

“I have lived for over a millennia,” Iorveth said, “since before humanity tainted this continent with their filth. But I did not begin fighting humans until Aelirenn’s Uprising. Do you know why?”

“Uh…” Roche frowned, thinking back on his history. He’d heard of Aelirenn, of course – an elven commander who had rallied elves to fight back against humanity in the 1060s, 200 years ago. She’d lost horribly and most of her troops had died. But he wasn’t sure he knew of anything else that had happened around that time.

Still, Iorveth revealing this much was eye-opening. Iorveth had only been fighting humans for 200 years? What had he done the rest of that millennia of life?

“I was a musician,” Iorveth said simply. “For 1100 years, I played music for human and elven and dwarven audiences. I wasn’t delighted to live alongside humans, but I did, because what other choice was there?” He turned away from them, looking out over the gardens. “There were too many humans to avoid, but I believed we could live in peace, despite the growing evidence to the contrary around me. Despite the way elven schools and museums and concert halls and places of worship had all been destroyed. I thought it didn’t concern me – that as long as I focused on my music and didn’t cause a problem, the violence would spare me.”

Roche swallowed, an unreasonable amount of guilt crawling up his spine.

“Then humans proved that they would slaughter us all, whether we wanted to live in peace or not,” Iorveth said, voice dark, but gaze still fixed on the poppies Geralt grew. “I was lucky,” he snarled, mouth twisted with scorn. “When Marshal Raupenneck slaughtered the inhabitants of Loc Muinne, I wasn’t there. When men and women and children were murdered in their sleep for the crime of being elves, I wasn’t there.”

“Iorveth,” Geralt began softly.

“I lived in Loc Muinne for decades,” Iorveth forced out. “All of those elves were people I knew, people I’d lived beside for years. And then they were dead, not because they’d done anything to provoke humans, but because they were elves, and humanity couldn’t abide by that. And then,” Iorveth’s knuckles were white around his flute, “then that – that dh’oinefucker Chivay had the fucking audacity to argue against fighting humans.”

Iorveth took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

“So yes,” he concluded, “I detest Chivay. I detest any who could look at that slaughter and decide that humans could still be reasoned with.”

Roche and Geralt shared a concerned look, but Roche was certain that if he spoke right now, Iorveth would decide to repay him for the harms suffered at humanity’s hands. And he wouldn’t really be wrong, would he? Roche had done a lot of awful things and true, he hadn’t slaughtered the inhabitants of Loc Muinne… but he had pacified the Mahakaman Foothills. The elves and dwarves he’d eliminated had been fewer in number than Raupenneck’s victims, and they’d been rabble rousers and criminals to boot – but somehow he doubted Iorveth saw it that way.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmured quietly.

Iorveth barked a harsh laugh, a sound devoid of mirth. “Your pity is useless,” Iorveth snapped, but his next words just sounded tired. “Go away, dh’oine.”

Roche swallowed hard, feeling absurdly concerned over his once-enemy. But if Iorveth didn’t want Geralt’s sympathy, then he certainly wouldn’t want Roche’s, so Roche curled his fingers into tight fists and turned to leave, Geralt following him hesitantly.

The earlier haze of intoxication had faded almost completely and Roche felt far too sober as he murmured to Geralt once they were back inside the main house, “we never should’ve asked.”

Geralt nodded solemnly. “I wonder how Dandelion and Triss’ conversation with Zoltan went.”

“Guess we should probably find them. Warn them not to ask Iorveth.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed, tilting his head to listen intently for a few moments, then guiding them towards the training grounds.

As soon as they exited the house, Roche could see Zoltan spinning his war axe around, going through drills. Dandelion and Triss stood a respectful distance away, but Dandelion didn’t know the meaning of silence, so he was chattering away incessantly.

“Geralt! Roche!” Triss waved at them once she spotted them and Dandelion and Zoltan both looked up to see them.

“You look like your dog just died,” Zoltan commented tactlessly.

Roche winced. He wasn’t wrong, but it was hard to muster a smile when he could still hear Iorveth’s bitter laugh echoing in his ears.

“We asked Iorveth about you,” Geralt grunted.

Zoltan blinked. “Oh. Is that what you’ve been trying to ask?” he turned to Dandelion with an arched eyebrow.

“Obviously!” Dandelion put his hands on his hips.

Triss just groaned, rubbing her face. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “What did Iorveth say?”

Zoltan snorted roughly, “I can guess. Never met anyone who could hold a grudge as dedicatedly as Iorveth.”

“Yeah,” Roche grimaced. He’d always begrudged Iorveth that, always been irritated that Iorveth would hold his past against him forever while acting like the elf was in the right.

But after Iorveth’s story, he could kind of understand why Iorveth was so adamant in his hatred of humanity.

“He didn’t really say how you knew each other,” Geralt murmured. “But he, uh. He shared why he began to fight humanity. And–”

“And I’m right in the middle of that,” Zoltan nodded. “Doubt he’ll ever forgive me that. Not that it matters, the depths he’s sunk to.” Zoltan’s face twisted judgingly.

“He was different when you knew him?” Dandelion asked softly.

Zoltan’s quick ‘ha’ of laughter sounded almost painful. “Different. Yeah, you could say that. At the time, he was – well. He was a lot more like you than like the elf he is now.”

Roche blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“What do you mean, ‘like Dandelion’?” Triss asked.

“I mean what I said,” Zoltan shrugged. “He was an artist and a diva. Positively lived for scandal.”

“Iorveth did?” Geralt’s face was disbelieving.

“Yeah, he’s changed quite a lot, hasn’t he?” And not for the better, Zoltan’s face implied.

“He, uh. He told us why he changed. Sort of.” Roche dug his fingernails into his palm, trying not to feel guilty for events he’d had no hand in.

“Yeah,” Zoltan sighed, grief overtaking his expression. “It was…” he shook his head, “it was a horror. There’s no other word for it.”

“What was?” Dandelion asked.

“Loc Muinne,” Zoltan said. “Iorveth lived in Loc Muinne when Marshal Raupenneck massacred the city. It’s what radicalized him.”

“Oh,” Triss and Dandelion both looked as taken aback as Geralt and Roche had been.

“But,” Triss started slowly, “how does that connect to you?”

“‘Cause I was the one advising him not to fight,” Zoltan shrugged. “You can imagine how he took that.”

“Why though?” Roche asked. “I mean… you’re a warrior, right?”

“Always have been, aside from a few forays into mining,” Zoltan nodded.

“So… why advise him not to fight?”

With a deep sigh, Zoltan set his axe aside and met their gazes squarely. “What you have to understand is that when I say Iorveth was like Dandelion – I mean he was. He’d never held a blade in his life, had no earthly idea of how to fight. I was certain he was going to get himself killed. And he almost did. Hell, I thought he had for a long time. Wasn’t until Eirien received a letter from him that I discovered that he’d managed to survive the slaughter that was Aelirenn’s Uprising. One of the only elves his age left, you know? The rest of them…” he pressed his lips together, shaking his head.

“Who’s Eirien?”

“Oh. Uh…” now Zoltan just looked awkward and it made all of them suspicious.

“What, was she his ex or something?”

“Ha. No. Uh…” Zoltan gulped. “She’s his daughter.”

Roche stared, stunned. “She – what!?”

“With who!?”

Zoltan just looked at them.

“Oh my gods, you have a daughter!?” Dandelion shrieked.

“I’ve lived a long time,” Zoltan shrugged. “And we were together for a while.”

“Long enough to have a kid,” Roche said blankly. “You – seriously? I didn’t even know dwarves and elves could reproduce!”

“‘Course we can,” Zoltan shrugged. “Biologically, we’re more alike than humans and elves, you know. We both originated on the continent.”

“Yeah, but–”

“Granted,” Zoltan tilted his head, “it doesn’t happen that often. Most dwarves, even those who don’t resent elves for our history, have little interest in living alongside them. Though you do get those Scoia’tael dwarves,” he shook his head, judging expression back. He really did not have a high opinion of the Scoia’tael.

“So… you had a kid with Iorveth!?” Triss clarified. “When!?”

“Centuries ago,” Zoltan said simply. “She was about three hundred when Iorveth made his suicidal last stand with Aelirenn.”

“What happened to her?” Geralt asked.

“She lives in Mahakam,” Zoltan smiled slightly. “Makes beautiful bronze sculptures and has no real interest in ever leaving the mountain.”

“How come I’ve never met her!?” Dandelion demanded. “I’ve been to Mahakam with you!”

“She’s shy,” Zoltan shrugged. “And we were busy with other things.”

“Yeah, but–”

“Hold on, hold on,” Roche interrupted. “You’re telling me that not only did you and Iorveth have a kid together, but that she’s alive and well and you both keep in touch with her!?”

“Yeah? You gotta understand, Eirien came of age around 150. So we were pretty involved in her life until then, but you know how kids are. They want to spread their wings and explore on their own. So we keep in touch, but she’s got her own life and she doesn’t want us hanging around watching over her.”

“150,” Geralt repeated. “Does that mean you and Iorveth were together for a hundred and fifty years!?”

“Sure,” Zoltan said casually. “Maybe closer to two fifty.”

“That’s so long,” Roche boggled.

“Only to a human. And it’s not like our lives were completely entwined for that whole time. We each had our own things going on and we both traveled a lot.”

“Still,” Geralt frowned. “That’s a long time to end on a bad note.”

Zoltan hummed, “‘s the way life goes, is it not? Sometimes you have a falling out with people you’re close to and sometimes you never quite recover from that. And then sometimes,” his voice took on a scathing tone, “you go on and become a terrorist and mass murderer.”

Roche winced. “So… no interest in reconciling?”

Zoltan snorted, giving him a side-eyed look. “What is there to reconcile? We knew each other when the world was wholly different and we were different people. The people we are now… why bother? He thinks he’s some kind of hero, fighting for elven freedom. I think he’s nothing but a bandit, notorious for killing innocent men. It is what it is.”

Triss frowned. “Do you miss him? The Iorveth you once knew?”

Tilting his head, Zoltan shrugged. “I miss a lot of people I once knew. I’m just glad Eirien has no interest in his fight.”

Roche nodded slowly. Both his lover and his daughter disavowed his fight. That had to suck for Iorveth, even if they weren’t wrong to do so.

“So that’s it? You and Iorveth just hate each other now?”

“Pretty much,” Zoltan’s expression was neutral. “Why?”

“Seems a shame,” Dandelion said softly. “So much history, curdled into hatred.”

“Most things about Iorveth curdled into hatred,” Zoltan said easily. “Frankly, I’m surprised he’s even willing to be here amongst the very humans he hates so much. Though… I suppose he’s not really got anywhere else to go. Not these days.” He shook his head, “at any rate… things have changed. Whether we like it or not, humans rule this continent. What point is there in fighting against the inevitable? And humans aren’t all bad.” He grinned, nudging Dandelion, who beamed at him, breaking the tension that had settled over him.

“So,” Geralt asked, changing the subject, “any other kids hiding in that past of yours?”

Zoltan just laughed, not answering. Instead, he hefted his war hammer up. “Say… anyone want to spar?”

As much as Roche really did kind of want to test his merit against the dwarven warrior who apparently had centuries of experience, he didn’t feel ready to set all of this aside yet. But he wasn’t sure what more could be said, so he excused himself and wandered back into the main house, frowning deeply with his brow furrowed in thought.

He almost bodily ran into Iorveth in the foyer and when he stumbled back, stuttering out an apology, he figured that was a bit of a sign. So even though Iorveth ignored his apology and turned away, Roche felt compelled to say it again.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry humans did that.”

Iorveth froze, not looking at him.

He swallowed and forced himself to say, “I’m sorry for the role I’ve played in humans oppressing elves.”

Scoffing, Iorveth whirled around to scowl at him. “You’re sorry!?”

Roche clenched his muscles, willing himself not to falter before Iorveth’s anger. “Yes,” he said simply. “I did what I did for Temeria. But that,” it was hard to admit, but… “that doesn’t make it right.”

He really, really wanted to add something about the Scoia’tael not being in the right either – they did kill innocents – but he bit it back, aware that Iorveth wouldn’t take it kindly. And he wasn’t trying to piss Iorveth off, he really wasn’t. He just… what? What was he trying to accomplish here?

“No, it doesn’t,” Iorveth bit out, not giving an inch.

Roche gripped his temper between thumb and forefinger and willed himself not to rise to the bait. He didn’t want to get into a screaming match with Iorveth. He wanted–

“I can understand,” he said slowly, “why you started fighting humans. I – I may not approve of your methods, but my opinion doesn’t really matter.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Iorveth repeated.

Biting back an annoyed groan, Roche continued, “so why are you here now? You hate humanity. So why are you living alongside a ton of us in a land where there aren’t really any other elves?”

“There aren’t any others because humans murdered them all,” Iorveth said stiffly.

“Okay, but all the more reason to be anywhere else, right? So…”

Iorveth dragged a hand down his face and it looked like it physically pained him to admit, “where else could I go? I’m still wanted in the North, what little of it isn’t Nilfgaard. All the homes I once had are gone. So where should I be?”

Roche wasn’t sure he had an answer. “Mahakam, maybe? If your daughter lives there?”

Startling lightly, Iorveth’s eye narrowed suspiciously as he scoffed. “Fucking of course Chivay told you. What other parts of my life did he decide needed public scrutiny?” There was old anger behind his words and Roche bit his lip.

“Not much,” Roche said. “He did say you used to be a diva. And big into scandals?”

Iorveth snorted. It was not a happy sound. “Scandals sell tickets.”

Roche couldn’t resist asking, “was being with a dwarf terribly scandalous then?”

Even though Iorveth frowned, he still answered. “At the beginning, sure. Definitely sent some of our elders into a tizzy.”

“Right,” Roche nodded, unsure of what else to say. “Uh… want some wine?” he offered.

Iorveth’s face was definitely judging. “Haven’t you had enough?”

“Ha. Decidedly not,” Roche chuckled. He wasn’t even feeling it anymore, which clearly meant that he needed more.

#the witcher #wip wednesday

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on-a-lucky-tide · 2 years

Text

(Eskel/Lambert, Triss Merigold & Lambert, Berengar; Modern AU - No Powers; Lambert and Merigold are thirsty and Eskel is hot; mentions of arousal; game and book canon)

Lambert sighed into his knuckles. He was debating whether or not to cuss out the fourteen year old who had just taken a running jump to bomb into the swimmer's lane. Again. It would be his third warning and would therefore mean banishment, followed by a screeching hissy fit from some council estate mother with too-big hoop earrings and talons that could rake the flesh from his face.

Luckily for Lambert, he wasn't the only lifeguard on duty that late summer afternoon. His gaze lifted hopefully to his curly-haired counterpart on the chair opposite. Customers tended to react better to Merigold. She had the face, you know. All cherub-like, innocent and butter-wouldn't-melt. Lambert knew there was a feral cat beneath the sweet facade that took no prisoners, and left claw marks of her own. She could deal with the kid and his mother, and come out with flesh intact. He raised an eyebrow at her.

She shook her head once.

He blew his eyes as wide as he could.

She squinted.

He jutted his lower lip.

She mouthed 'I hate you' as she climbed down from her chair and bellowed at the young swimmer, who stopped splashing before the echo of her voice had even faded and began to wade meekly to the edge of the pool.

She was gone for about ten minutes. Long enough to make sure the kid has gone into the changing rooms, and to inform reception she was happy to speak to any screeching parents that might appear to protest. Her pool, her rules.

Lambert settled back into his chair and resumed staring into space. It wasn't that he was negligent, it was just that nothing ever happened in a midtown leisure centre full of old dears and toddlers on foam floats. It was money, but fuck was it boring. The only excitement was the rotation every thirty minutes to a different chair, when he got to stare at a fresh patch of water or kick people down the waterslide.

It was just as he was slumping down into another post that he clocked Merigold watching something like a hawk. There was no noise, no splashing, so it wasn't a drowner or another nuisance brat. The only other thing that could catch her attention like that was–

Oh. Oh, okay.

Lambert followed her gaze to a new arrival folding his towel on one of the old plastic chairs. Apparently, a statue from a long-dead ancient warrior civilisation had decided to come alive and visit a shitty Kaedweni community pool for a swim. His back muscles alone made Lambert want to sink to his knees and beg; they shifted fluidly beneath tawny copper skin as the guy bent down to tuck his sandals into his gym bag, thick backside pushing out against the thin material of his shorts. When he turned to face the pool, he revealed a muscular, thickly furred chest, and Lambert had to slap a hand to his mouth as it began to water.

Merigold's voice crackled softly through the walkie talkie. "Oh my fucking gods. He's wearing shorts and I can still see–"

Lambert glared over the expanse of the pool and turned the walkie talkie off with a defiant click. She wasn't looking at him. The swimmer had waded into the shallows, rolling his shoulders as he prepared to do his lengths.

It wasn't generally professional to oggle a customer as they went about their business. A body was a body and they all worked the same way, and they were all deserving of the right to exist without fucking judgement. From the old girl with her wrinkly smile as Lambert helped her into the shallow end of the pool to the naked toddler fleeing from a parent desperately trying to put a nappy back on. Lambert saw it all, day in, day out.

But he had a type, alright? Said type didn't use the pool usually. They stayed in the weight room on the floor above, flexing in the mirror and saying the most homoerotic shit to their gymbros while swearing up and down they were straight. They were pretty to look at but the moment they opened their mouths Lambert wanted to knock them out with a dumbbell. Not Lambert's scene. Was a man with the mind of Professor Dorregray and the body of Kreve too much to ask? Apparently fucking so, if Lambert's dating record was anything to go by.

Lambert tried to occupy his caveman brain by checking the clipboard attached to the side of his chair, but it was no use. His eyes drifted back to the chiseled body wading deeper into the pool. The guy did what everyone did; hissed as the cold lapped up his core, took a deep breath and then dunked himself under. Watching the water sluice down from his hair when he stood again, following each curve and contour, made Lambert's stomach clench.

This would all be over as soon as the bloke started swimming. He'd flounder around like a St Bernard in a lake and the spell would be broken. There was nothing sexy about a big man doggy paddling. Cute, maybe, in an 'aww how sweet' condescending TikTok video way. But his dick would be entirely uninterested.

Unfortunately for Lambert, Mr Tall, Dark and Too Fucking Hot For His Own Good was apparently born to be in the water. Despite his bulk, the guy cut down the lanes like a precision torpedo, back taut, limbs efficient and smooth. The water poured over his shoulders, flowed over the crest of his arse. Lambert couldn't tear his eyes away. When the guy flipped over for backstroke, his chest flexing and every other asset barely concealed by cloth and water, Lambert had to lift his thighs and adjust in his seat.

Merigold, who had been laid at some point in the last hundred years, was a lot more composed. She smirked at him when the swimmer started doing backstroke, and then again when he hauled himself out to stretch his calf muscles. They looked tight. Could probably do with a massag–ahh, Lambert needed a bucket of ice water.

Berengar came to relieve him on the rotation and Lambert very gingerly climbed down from the chair. If Berengar saw Lambert's raging and entirely inappropriate boner, then he was polite enough to keep it to himself. Lambert scuttled off to the breakroom and inhaled a cup of searing hot coffee, trying to think of wrinkly grannies and the changing rooms at clearing out time to calm his libido.

When Lambert re-emerged, the walking wet dream had clearly finished his lengths because he was heading into the changing room. Lambert glanced around for Merigold, but couldn't spot her, and then looked at the plastic where the swimmer had dumped his stuff. He'd left his goggles behind.

Shit. Lambert walked over and picked them up. They weren't the cheap kind from the leisure centre shop either. Prescription lenses; fucking expensive. With an irritable growl, Lambert went trundling into the changing rooms. It was getting late which meant they were pretty empty, but for a few late arrivals looking to unwind on the jacuzzi. He found the guy standing by the lockers, water droplets running down his back from his mop of black hair, and cleared his throat. "Hey, you, uh, you left these."

The guy looked round, and a pair of the most stunning hazel eyes Lambert had ever seen settled first on Lambert's face and then the goggles thrust towards them. "Ah, crap, thanks," the guy said, and his voice sounded like it had been ripped straight from an old country music album; the kind only played on vinyl while you drank expensive whisky and smoked a cigar. Lambert's knees gave a dangerous judder. The guy wrapped his goggles up. "Always lose my head a bit in new places."

"Yeah, I uh… haven't seen you about before. New to the area?"

"Moved into a new flat by the cricket grounds last weekend. I've just about unboxed the houseplants."

Lambert swallowed. He was a lot smoother than this usually, he'd swear it. But there was something about the weight of those eyes and the lopsided little grin, and that voice. "There's a uh, a good pub near there. Golden Sturgeon. Craft beer and stuff, if you're into that. Not the kinda place where it's all 'the greater gooood' or anything." Lambert put on the hick country voice and then immediately flushed red.

The guy considered him closely, tilting his head like a gods-damned big puppy, and then he smiled again. "Sounds good," he thrust his free hand forward, "'m Eskel."

"Lambert." The handshake was firm and warm. Lambert had to resist running his thumb over those strong fingers for a little too long, and tucked both of his palms into the small of his back as soon as Eskel released him. "I'll, uh, see you around then."

"Absolutely."

Lambert high-tailed it out of the changing room like someone had set his fucking arse on fire.

***

Lambert groaned into his forearms as Merigold mocked him. They had ended up in the cocktail bar as they did most Saturday nights, and she wasn't impressed with his lack of outcome. "You didn't even get his number. Pathetic."

"I'd like to see you string a coherent thought together with that rack in your face, fuck me."

"Eww, gross," she said, swirling the umbrella around her gin glass. "Not him, you. But, the good news is, I tried my play and he's definitely not into women."

"Or your game's not as good as you thought," said Berengar dryly as he sat down between them.

"Please," Merigold rolled her eyes, "don't kid yourself. Anyway, he did ask whether you were on shift at the weekend, and I said yes, so I swapped us around. I'll work Monday and Tuesday, you're welcome."

Lambert choked on his beer. When his throat was clear, he squinted at her. "I coulda had plans."

"You? Plans? Chance would be a fine thing." She sipped the rest of her drink, leaving Lambert to fester in his irritation, and then hopped up from her chair.

Lambert followed her gaze across to the room to an unfortunate bloke in chinos with a fuck-awful haircut. Everything about him screamed Daddy's Hedge fund, and he could practically see the dollar signs pop up in Merigold's eyes. "Beep-boop, new target acquired."

"Fuck off, Lambert," she said airily through her most dazzling smile. She'd already made eye contact, and was preparing to move in for the kill. Berengar sidled off to the games machines as she left, and Lambert pulled out his phone to doom scroll. Anything to stop thinking about glistening tits and hazel eyes.

#witcher lambert #witcher eskel #lambskel #eskel/lambert #modern au #lifeguard au #eskel is a bear #lambert is an otter #them's the rules #part 1/?

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echo-bleu · 1 year

Text

If I see one more Valentine’s ad, I’m going to scream. Why does a job posting board need a Valentine’s sale?

Anyway, I wrote a very aro fic for the last flash fic round (aroace Geralt, alloaro Jaskier, modern AU, friendship). So if anyone else feels bombarded by the amatonormativity right now, this is for you.

Read here on AO3. Title from The Amazing Devil’s Secret Worlds.

Do I have to be who I am?

Geralt leans against the steering wheel and glances at the clock. 3:52, the display glares back at him, momentarily too bright for his eyes. He unlocks his phone and checks the calendar again. Group therapy. Friday 4pm.

He needs to go in. He still has to find the room it’s held in, probably fill in more forms – he’s never filled as many forms in his life as he has since he’s come back from Sodden.

He doesn’t want to move.

Come on, you can’t just stay in the car all afternoon. If nothing else, your leg won’t thank you.

Geralt sighs and extirpates himself from the driver seat of his truck, careful to straighten his leg and watch where his foot lands. He grits his teeth through the first few steps – those are always the worst – and it gives him an excuse not to think as he builds up momentum.

The building is nondescript, four-story, walls washed with an off-white colour turning yellow with time. The front door is automatic, and it opens before him with a swoosh . Geralt looks around, but the lobby is narrow and entirely empty. It’s a residential area, and the letter boxes affixed to the back wall mostly carry people names, not businesses. He squints at it until he finds the name he’s looking for, but the sign doesn’t give a flat number, much less a floor.

Well, there should be people around he can ask. He heads to the elevator and pushes the first floor button.

The first floor corridor is just as nondescript, the walls a dull grey, but there’s an open door. Inside, rather than a flat, Geralt sees a large room with a few tables in the middle and a row of computers at the back. A young man, his back to Geralt, is pinning a rainbow flag to a giant cork board on the wall. He’s humming to himself, his dark brown hair bobbing in rhythm.

Geralt stands in the door frame for a few seconds, trying to gather the courage to speak up. Before he can, though, the other man whirls around.

“Where’s the— oh, hi there! Come on in!”

“Is this the… group therapy?” Geralt tries, his voice coming out as more of a croak.

The man’s face falls. “Ah, no, I’m sorry. You want to go upstairs for that. But Shani’s ill today, so I’m pretty sure it’s been cancelled.”

“Oh.”

They both stand there awkwardly for a moment. Geralt isn’t sure what to do. He came all the way here – it took him the whole day to psych himself up to it, if he’s honest with himself – and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to try again next week. Maybe he’ll write it off as a failure and give up.

He needs it, though. For Ciri. For Vesemir and Eskel and – for himself. Fuck. Triss abandoning him like that, even though he understands her reasons, really put him at a loss.

“You can stay, if you want,” the man says suddenly. “I don’t really think anyone’s coming, anyway.”

It’s a bit blindsiding, and Geralt stumbles over his words. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, uh, LGBT+ group. I’m trying to set something up for the students, but the Academy wouldn’t let me put up posters or announcements on their socials, and all I could get was this place, Shani’s art therapy room. It’s way too far from campus. I did my best to advertise, but fucking Marx keeps getting in my way. So I don’t think anyone’s coming.”

“Hm. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I didn’t even introduce myself before dumping that on you. I’m Jaskier.”

Geralt steps into the room to shake the offered hand, getting a better look at this Jaskier. He’s wearing a bright blue bomber jacket over a yellow band t-shirt, and a pair of dark jeans so skinny that they’re barely there at all. On his jacket are a solid dozen pins and badges, all brightly coloured. Geralt notices the one that says he/him and what he thinks is a bisexual flag.

It’s not until he feels the weight of Jaskier’s curious gaze on him that he realizes he never answered.

“Geralt. I should probably go. If the session is cancelled.”

“I don’t want to pry, especially not with Shani’s clients, but was that your first time?”

Geralt sighs. “Yeah.”

“Well, I can’t offer therapy, but I know very well how nerve-wracking it is to come to a first appointment, and having to go home empty-handed like this has gotta be tough. Can I offer you a glass of water, at least? Orange juice? That’s all I have.” He waves toward a grocery bag on one of the table.

Geralt hesitates. His leg aches fiercely, and the drive back will be hell if he doesn’t give it a break. Jaskier looks at him with puppy eyes, and Geralt realizes that he’s almost as lost, left alone with his flags and his orange juice.

“Alright.”

Jaskier flashes a bright smile. “Come sit down, then.”

He serves them both orange juice in paper cups while Geralt lowers himself onto a seat. The plastic chair is uncomfortable as hell, but at least he can stretch his leg under the table and put the pressure off of it.

“Doesn’t the Academy have an LGBT society or something?” he asks, racking his brain on a way to make conversation.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jaskier sighs, sitting down across from him. “But it’s lead by fucking Valdo Marx. He’s an asshole.”

“Oh.”

“I was the president last year, but I had to step down to focus on my dissertation, and he’s… he’s the kind of gay guy who thinks the society should be for the gays and maybe the lesbians, and everything else is just splitting hair.”

Geralt eyes the badges haphazardly pinned on Jaskier’s lapel. He doesn’t know what the other flags mean, but he can recognize them as flags. “And you disagree.”

“Of course I disagree!” Jaskier lets out, indignant. “What, you’re one of those too?”

“No, I’m… straight. As far as I know.”

“Oh. Well, every group needs a token allocishet, even if you’re apparently also the only member beside me.”

Geralt blinks. “...Okay. What’s allo… what?”

“Allocishet. Straight, cisgender and alloromantic and allosexual.”

“I know straight and I’m pretty sure I understand cisgender, but what’s the rest?”

Jaskier smiles and points at a flag pin on his jacket, in shades of green, grey and black. “That’s the aromantic flag. It means I don’t feel attracted to people romantically. Alloromantic is the opposite, everyone who isn’t on the aromantic spectrum.”

“You don’t… fall in love with people?” Geralt asks, trying to wrap his head around that.

“No. It doesn’t mean I don’t love them, but just not romantically. Asexual and allosexual are the same for sexual attraction.”

“But you’re not that?”

“I’m alloaro. Allosexual, aromantic. Bisexual, to be precise. I feel sexual attraction for all genders.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, because it’s the only thing he can think to say. “Didn’t know that was a thing.”

Jaskier grins. “That’s okay. I’m always happy to teach these things! Maybe today won’t be a waste of time after all, if you go home knowing something new. Let me show you.” He takes out his phone, whose case is decorated with glitter and a unicorn playing guitar. He types something and holds it out for Geralt to see the screen. “That’s the ace flag.”

“Ace for… asexual?” Geralt asks, sounding the word out.

“Yep! There’s also a lot of variation inside the aro and ace spectrums, and people who don’t differentiate, but that’s maybe a bit much for today.”

“Hm.”

Geralt turns this over in his head. There are people who don’t feel any sort of attraction? It must be rare, if he’s only finding this out at thirty-five. Right? He doesn’t exactly spend his time talking about relationships with the people in his life, but it seems to him that none of them ever expressed something like that. Lambert came out as pansexual at fourteen, very sure of himself. Eskel has had relationships over the years, however short-lived. Even Vesemir talks about the men of his youth.

Yen… Well. Fourteen years of marriage has got to be proof of concept, right, even if it ended? Yen was certainly physically attracted to Geralt, once upon a time. Romance… Their relationship wasn’t particularly romantic, but what’s romantic attraction anyway?

“What’s the difference between romantic and sexual attraction?” Geralt asks abruptly, realizing too late that he interrupted Jaskier mid-sentence. A sentence he was very much not listening to. “Sorry, I—”

Jaskier waves dismissively. “It’s fine. I don’t know if I’m the best person to explain, since I’ve never felt one of those, but it’s like… When you look at someone you’re attracted to, do you want to kiss them? Cuddle them? Or have sex?”

“Uh… I don’t know?” Geralt scrambles to think of someone. With Yen, only the memories come to mind, sleeping side by side, the vanilla sex they quickly got bored of and the kinkier side she showed. And, overwhelming everything, the spectacular arguments that ended in their divorce. What attracted him to her? She’s beautiful, sure, but it was never about that. She was there. She didn’t take any of his shit. He was on leave and she wanted sex.

The men of his unit had magazines full of scantily naked women, but Geralt never looked at them. He had Yen – surely that was enough? And since the divorce… Well, it’s not like he’s hanging around in bars. Or cafés. Or anywhere he might meet someone new.

“Nothing? When you see a good-looking woman in the street or on an ad or something?”

“Er…”

“It’s alright, Geralt, it’s totally fine. But… you might want to look into this further. Just saying. Most people can answer that pretty readily. Or at least they’ll start blushing.”

That’s what makes Geralt’s face heat. “I’m not… I’m normal,” he says. But he knows as soon as the words come out of his lips that they’re the wrong ones.

Jaskier’s face falls. “Right.”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” Geralt internally winces at the thought of telling Lambert or Vesemir that they aren’t ‘normal’. “I just, um. I don’t know about this. I was married for fourteen years. I can’t be… whatever.”

“I don’t think it’s mutually exclusive,” Jaskier says softly, more kindly than Geralt deserves. “Especially if you didn’t have the words for it. Society expects us to be one way, and we often conform whether we mean to or not.”

“You don’t.”

“I did, for a long time. I tried to do what my parents wanted, study law and settle with a nice girl. I lasted all of one semester. But it wasn’t until I met others like me that I started letting go of those expectations.”

“So what did you do?” Geralt asks, genuinely curious.

“I stopped pretending. Got an ADHD diagnosis, picked up my guitar and toured the Continent for a few years. I had sex with a lot of random people who didn’t care about sticking to the norm. Then I came back and started studying music. Now I’m a grad student.”

“Wait, how old are you?” When he said he was part of the Academy, Geralt assumed he was faculty, not a student. Not that he looks old, but there’s a set to his shoulder, a way of carrying himself, that makes him seem like he’s seen more than his share of life.

“I’m twenty-nine,” Jaskier says. “I started late. It just means I have fewer fucks to give, especially to shitheads like Marx.”

Geralt nods. “Are there a lot of older students?”

“A few in each class. Especially in grad school, but even as an undergrad I was rarely the oldest. Why, you’re thinking about studying here?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” Geralt shrugs. “I got discharged from the army a while ago. I can’t live on my pension forever and I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“You have a major in mind?”

“Not really. I never went to college the first time around, I enlisted right out of high school.”

“Well, if you’re into Music, or Literature, or History, or pretty much any of the humanities, I know everyone, I could show you around at least.”

Geralt smiles vaguely and nods, fairly sure that it’s one of those times people offer something without any intention of following through. They only met half an hour ago, by mistake. Jaskier hardly wants a disabled vet following him around.

But instead of moving on, or showing any signs of wanting to Geralt to leave, Jaskier insists on exchanging phone numbers. “If you have any questions about the Academy, or about sexual orientations,” he says with a wink.

And he fills both of their cups again.

Geralt leans back on his uncomfortable seat and finds out that he hasn’t thought about therapy, or really about any of the myriad of things that have been troubling him, since he sat down. Jaskier chats about everything and nothing, about his friend Essi who is talking about starting a band with him, about his dissertation on medieval troubadours, about his volunteer hours at the refugee centre. Geralt tells him, just a little, about his tours, about his brothers and his father, about Yennefer and Ciri.

“You have a daughter? Oh, that’s wonderful! How old is she?”

There is nothing feigned in Jaskier’s enthusiasm, nothing but real warmth and interest.

“She’s six,” Geralt answers, swiping through his phone for a recent photo. On it, Ciri is riding on Eskel’s shoulders, giggling, with her horse plushie in her hand. “I only have her every other weekend since the divorce.”

He misses her, but he was gone for even longer swatches of time when he was deployed. It’s better this way. He doesn’t think he’d be capable of raising her fully right now, and that was the one thing he and Yennefer didn’t argue on.

The divorce, when it came, was both inevitable and overdue. Yennefer stayed through his rehab – and Geralt is infinitely thankful for that, but eventually, their hours-long, violent arguments started taking their toll on Ciri. And Ciri takes priority over anything else, for both of them.

“Wow, she’s adorable!” Jaskier exclaims. “She looks so much like you!”

“She’s adopted,” Geralt deadpans, because he never fails to find it funny to see people’s face fall at that.

Jaskier barely falters. “Oh. Well, I guess you get that a lot.”

“We do. But it’s all just a coincidence.” One that amuses but also annoys Yennefer to no end, especially when people assume that she can’t be Ciri’s mother. “Yen and I couldn’t have children of our own. We’re both infertile.”

“So you decided to adopt?”

Geralt shrugs. “Sort of. We tried for a long time, and then a friend of ours named me godfather of her baby. That was Ciri. She and her husband died in a car accident not long after she was born.”

“Oh. Wow. I’m sorry.”

“It was a while ago. But that’s how we got her. If we hadn’t, I think we’d have divorced a lot sooner. Yen really wanted a child. I never really did, but… I thought it would make her happy. I was away so much, but I thought, at least Ciri would always have her. She’s a good mother.”

Something sad passes through Jaskier’s face, but he shakes it off. “I was an unwanted child,” he says casually. “Runt of the litter, too, until I had my last growth spurt. My parents are… Well, I haven’t seen them in ten years. But I can see that you love Ciri very much.”

Geralt isn’t sure what to do with that – is it just an attempt at sharing? A warning? A criticism? In the end, he does nothing. Jaskier moves on to a random story about an older woman who tried to sponsor his music in exchange for sexual favours.

“I wasn’t even against it until she tried to make me move in with her and do all the romantic shit,” he says. “But the second I started pulling away, she cut me off.”

“Maybe for the better,” Geralt says dryly.

“But can you imagine? I could have become famous! All the great artists of the past had rich sponsors!”

“Did they all have sex with them, too?”

Jaskier snorts. “I mean, it probably happened a lot. What about you? Any other adventures than with your ex-wife?”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts. “No.”

“None?”

Geralt blushes. It was a contention point with Yennefer, once upon a time. She was his first, and he definitely wasn’t hers, even though she’s a couple of years younger. And now she’s dating again – which is why Triss gently ended their session, she couldn’t very well continue to be the therapist of her new girlfriend’s ex-husband – and Geralt isn’t. Isn’t even considering it.

“No.”

Jaskier hesitates for a beat. “Okay. That’s totally okay, you know that, right?”

“Hm.”

“You met after high school?”

“You’re still thinking that I’m a-whatever,” Geralt growls.

“Well, yeah. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

Geralt stays silent. It wouldn’t be so bad, he supposes. Except that something in him tells him that if he starts considering it, he’ll take a step into a bottomless precipice. That he’s at the edge, he’s been hanging onto that edge for months, and if he lets go, if he lets himself explore this… Or any of the other things that Triss brought up…

He might never reach the bottom.

“Alright,” Jaskier relents.

Geralt wonders how they got there. Why is he opening up so much to this man that he just met? They haven’t dug particularly deep into anything, but it’s the first time Geralt has talked this much to anyone since…

Since. Since the divorce, since his injury, maybe. Before that, even – when was the last time Geralt made a friend that wasn’t in his unit, under his command?

A friend. It feels like a novel thought.

“You know, all the good songs and books are about these grand love stories,” Jaskier says, following his own track. “I love them, but I’ve never been able to have that, myself. It’s a process, accepting that you’re not going to get those things. It’s a kind of grief.”

“Love stories suck,” Geralt says, because no one could accuse him of being eloquent, and now Yennefer is on his mind.

“You suck,” Jaskier shoots back childishly.

Geralt snorts. “Well, yeah.”

“Geralt, is that a particularly poor attempt at not-straight innuendo or is it self-hatred?”

“Hm.”

“You’re really not much of a talker, are you?”

Geralt shrugs. “Probably talked more today than in the last three months combined.”

Jaskier beams at him. “Does that mean you like me?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Jaskier averts his eyes briefly, and Geralt can see him compose himself and look back like nothing happened.

“Talking doesn’t mean I like you,” he corrects, beating himself, “but I didn’t say that I didn’t.”

Jaskier gives a little laugh. “Alright. You should study rhetoric, or something.”

“Maybe.”

“Could suit you. Or logic? Are you good at maths?”

Geralt shifts in his chair, flexing his aching leg. He’s been sitting down for too long. “I should go,” he says without answering.

“Oh.” Jaskier looks at his phone. “Gods, were did the time go?”

“Where it usually goes, I would wager,” Geralt answers, letting the corner of his mouth rise.

Jaskier’s muffled laughter is rather adorable.

“What would you say to grabbing dinner?” he asks.

Geralt hesitates.

“Not like, as a date or anything. It’s just that it’s almost 8 and I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“Do you even date?” Geralt asks, stalling as he tries to figure out how to answer.

“Kinda? Some people don’t feel comfortable having sex repeatedly without dating, and I’m not, like, romance-repulsed or anything. I just don’t feel attracted that way. I love romantic books and love songs as much as anyone.”

“Hm.”

“So, dinner? If you’re totally sick of me after three hours and just want to go home, that’s totally fine. But if you’re afraid that I’m just offering to be polite, I’m really not. I like you and I have no other plans.”

He says all of that without stopping for breath, too fast and too rambly, but it hits Geralt in the stomach nonetheless.

When was the last time someone wanted to spend time with him because they liked him? And he likes Jaskier back, there is no denying it. Not in any sexual or romantic way – though, would he even know? – but he likes Jaskier’s unashamed attitude, his enthusiasm and his awkwardness, his empathy. It’s been three hours and it already feels like they’ve known each other forever.

“Alright. I can do dinner.”

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #echo's fanfiction

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