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longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 3 years

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the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.XI

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Allow me to present to you one of the longest chapters of my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with my favourite @gen-syz-art as my artist 💕

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The journey takes him a little over three weeks.

He moves slower this time, despite the worry and anticipation mixed into one somewhere deep in his chest urging him forward. He needs time to think.

To really think about everything.

He needs to reflect on the time they’ve spent together because that way - and only that way - will he know what to say when he comes back. He knows he needs to apologise for leaving like that, for making them both so confused with his words and actions, but he also needs to know what he’s going to say after that.

Is he going to ask if they can start over? Pick up from where they’ve stopped the last time? Take a few steps back?

It’s hard to tell what he wants, let alone how it’s going to be.

If Jaskier doesn’t accept his apologies and tells him to go away, will he do as he’s told or will he stay, unwilling to give up that easily? If he cannot fix what he’d broken, if he’d hurt Jaskier too much, what will he do?

Eskel sounded very convincing, telling him that Jaskier won’t turn him away at the gates, but now that Eskel wasn’t here, it was harder to believe. And though he’d promised to keep Geralt company if Jaskier does tell him to go away, Geralt doesn’t know what he’ll do if that really happens. It hurts so much as it is, he can barely imagine what he’s going to do if he doesn’t get the chance to fix it.

Eskel was right, Geralt had never been in love before.

He never even thought that that’s what that feeling in his chest is, but after Eskel said that it’s love and he thought about it, he realised soon enough that he was right.

As terrifying as it was to admit, but he was hopelessly in love.

What other explanation was there to the fire burning in his chest? To just how much it made him feel when Jaskier was close, when Geralt held him in his arms and pressed those soft, half-hearted kisses into his hair?

He’d thought it was just lust, at first.

Jaskier was driving him insane with all his little games, always close enough to kiss but never closing in that distance; always teasing and provoking only to break away just before Geralt could snap, laughing with the power he’s got over the witcher.

Geralt wanted to pin him to the nearest wall, kiss that grin off his lips, strip his bard - his prince - of all that silk and see just what kind of sweet little sound he could get him to make. Learn what his body feels like against Geralt’s own, the taste of his flawless skin.

But almost from the start, he knew he wanted more than just that. And in that last week they’ve spent together, he realised just how much more.

He wanted to have Jaskier in his arms as he fell asleep every night and then woke up in the morning. He wanted to steal kisses from him during the day for no real reason other than to feel his lips on his own, and stay in bed until night falls again, having postponed all responsibilities in favour of simply being together.

He wanted to see that bright smile on Jaskier’s lips and know that he’s the reason for it, and be his comfort if something upsets him.

It was unlike him at all, Geralt knew that, but there was little he could do about his heart. He used to think that he had control over it, just like over every other part of his body, but forcing his heart to stay calm on a hunt turned out to be very different to trying to force it to do the same thing when it came to Jaskier.

It was a lost cause.

He fell hard and fast, without even realising, and now he had to fix what he’d done while trying to run from it.

It was overwhelming at first, but slowly, as he sorted through all his feelings and emotions, it became easier to put into words. The pain was still there, and he doubted it would go away unless Jaskier forgives him for leaving the way he did, but now there was also hope.

Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could get both their hearts to heal.

***

When there are only a few more days left between him and the mansion, Geralt gets nervous again.

Falling asleep at night gets harder than it should be, and he stays up for hours, playing out dialogues in his head, trying to find the right words to say when he sees Jaskier again.

His scent still bears a hint of his scent from those nights that they’ve spent looking at the stars, both covered with it, and Geralt keeps it close to him at night, so that when he does finally fall asleep, he has the scent of dried herbs and vanilla somewhere deep in his lungs.

When he reaches the now-familiar little town, he decides to stay for the night even though the sun had just started to set. He needs some proper rest before closing in that remaining distance.

Geralt leaves Roach in the stables, making sure that she will receive the best possible care after a long journey, and makes his way to the same inn that he’d stayed at both previous times. The innkeeper recognises him instantly, but Geralt is not really in the mood to talk. It’s been a long couple of months.

He rents a room on the upper floor, where it’s quiet, though he’s not entirely ready to meet that silence.

Dinner doesn’t seem appealing, the nerves almost making Geralt feel nauseous, so he chooses to just order himself a bath, instead. With any luck, it will relax him enough for him to fall asleep before dawn.

***

The last two hours between the town and the mansion feel like an eternity.

A couple of times Geralt has to stop Roach to breathe through the waves of cold fear, but he knows that there is little he can do to really keep it at bay. It’s strange, because he can barely even remember what it's like, being this nervous, but then again, hunting werewolves and wraiths is not the same as trying to piece a broken heart back together.

When they do finally reach the mansion, Geralt stops a quarter-mile away from the gates to give himself just a little more time.

“It’s going to be alright,” he reassures Roach, patting her neck, but really, he’s telling that to himself. “You’ll see.”

The mare flicks an ear at him, unimpressed, but once he bribes her with a sugar cube, she bumps her head into his shoulder affectionately. It does make him feel a little better.

Geralt lets go of the reins, knowing that Roach will follow him regardless, and takes in a deep breath, walking up to the gates.

It’s unusually quiet, the gardens seemingly completely empty, and for a second, Geralt feels like his heart stops beating completely, that familiar cold fear washing over him. Is it too late? Has he really hurt Jaskier so much that he’d left the mansion?

Forcing his breathing to stay even, he brings his hand up to push on one of the arches of the gates. They open without resistance, letting him through. Before taking another step, Geralt stops and listens, all his senses heightened, and, after a few endless seconds, sighs in relief, picking up the faint sounds of voices and movement from somewhere deeper in the garden.

At first, he wants to go to the front door, assuming that Jaskier would be in the library, but something deep inside him says that that’s not the right place, that he should look in the gardens.

“You found my hiding place.”

“Searched the entire garden.”

“This is one of my favourite places of the entire estate. If I’m not in the mansion, I’m here.”

The willow tree, Geralt thinks, His hiding place.

Walking through the gardens on his own feels wrong, almost like he’s no more than an intruder, but he just cannot wait for someone to come up to him and offer company. He needs to find Jaskier before that feeling of uncertainty seeps deep enough into his bones for him not to go through with it.

The willow is hidden deep in the gardens, and it takes Geralt some time to find the right path but eventually, he hears Asra and Lucio somewhere ahead, and that is all the conduit he needs to find his way. The dogs are always somewhere close to their owner.

Geralt knows that they can smell him long before they see him, and still, both dogs perk up when he gets into their field of vision. On some level, he expects them to run up to him and sniff at his armour, like they did all the times before, as if reassuring him that he’s still welcome here, but both Asra and Lucio stay put, only their nostrils flaring. They step from one leg to the other, like they want to come closer, but their ears stay pressed to their heads in hesitation.

They can’t trust him anymore, because he’d hurt Jaskier.

It feels like another stab into his chest, but Geralt knows that it’s fair, that it’s what he deserves after leaving like that.

“I need to see him,” he says softly as he comes closer and the dogs block his way.

They don’t growl or act aggressive in any other way, but Geralt knows that they’re going to protect Jaskier no matter what.

“I want to talk,” he says, raising his hands as if to indicate that he’s unarmed, that he’s not going to hurt the bard again. “I cannot leave this as it is.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the tone of his voice or the words themselves but whatever it is, both Asra and Lucio stay in their place as he brushes past them and moves the long vines of the willow to the side, stepping inside with no breath in his lungs.

His heart feels like it rips apart when he sees Jaskier.

He’s in the same spot as he’d been in the last time, an open book in his lap, heavily annotated in his delicate handwriting. Instead of the forest-green silk, though, he’s wearing a chemise of dark silver, the sleeves a waterfall of silk down his arms. It’s almost a steel shade, same as the autumn sky above, and for some reason, it resonates through Geralt in another wave of pain.

Jaskier notices him out of the corner of his eye but doesn’t raise his head.

“Whatever it is, Arthur, I’ll deal with it later,” he says, and Geralt could swear that his voice sounds so tired that it’s like even talking in itself is hard for him. “If there’s someone at the gates, tell them I’m not accepting visitors.”

Geralt stays in place, his heart beating hard and fast, and a few moments later, Jaskier finally raises his head. His eyes widen, shoulders going tense.

“Geralt?”

There’s an edge of a tremble to his voice, and Geralt wants to throw himself onto the grass next to him, pull Jaskier into his arms and hold him until he’s safe and warm again. But he stays where he is, unsure if he’s allowed as much as a touch.

Jaskier’s breathing gets heavier, and he snaps his fingers once- twice- three times, never taking his eyes off Geralt, before looking down and his trembling hands, something like disbelief slithering through the blue of his eyes.

“Is it really you?” he asks, getting up to his feet, holding onto the tree trunk with one hand.

Finally, Geralt takes a step closer, barely even realising.

“It’s me.”

And then, before he knows it, Jaskier closes in the distance between them in four fast steps, and throws his arms around the witcher’s neck, pulling him into a desperate, painfully-hard embrace, clinging onto his shoulders with shaking fingers.

Geralt doesn’t care if he’s breathing anymore.

He pulls Jaskier closer, wrapping his arms around his back, and holds him so tight that he’s scared there are going to be bruises. He buries his nose into the bard’s soft hair, breathing him in, and presses a long, desperate kiss to his temple, hot tears stinging his eyes.

“I’m so sorry--” he whispers, never letting go. “I’m so sorry, Jask.”

Jaskier shakes his head, tightening his grip even more, and Geralt can feel the salty scent of his tears. He doesn’t let go, just slips one of his hands into Jaskier’s hair, running his fingers through the strands in soft, comforting caresses.

“All that I’ve said about Toussaint and not coming back to Redania was a lie,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to see Jaskier’s face.

He tries to hide, eyes wet and reddened with tears, but Geralt tips his chin up, gently wiping the wet lines from his cheeks. He desperately wants to kiss him, cover Jaskier’s parted lips with his own, but he knows that he cannot. Now is not the time.

“I never wanted to leave,” he says, brushing Jaskier’s chestnut hair out of his face. “But I was getting so confused, so overwhelmed by what I wanted and what I thought was right, that I felt like I’d make too many mistakes if I stayed.”

Jaskier sniffles, but his eyes remain crystal-clear, filled with that very same hurt, never letting Geralt forget about that knife in his chest.

“And what mistakes would those have been?” Jaskier asks, taking a step away from the witcher.

Geralt doesn’t let him go.

“I always hurt everyone that gets too close,” he says after a moment, avoiding Jaskier’s eyes. “I never mean to do it, and yet it keeps happening, no matter how hard I try to avoid it. It’s like Destiny itself takes people away from me. So eventually, I just learned to push everyone away before I hurt them. But with you… I thought I was choosing the lesser evil, Jask. Thought I was protecting you.”

Jaskier lets himself be guided back into Geralt’s arms and rests his head on the witcher’s shoulder, closing his eyes with a sigh.

“We both know that’s not the only reason,” he says quietly.

Somehow, he sees right through Geralt, and had it been anyone else, Geralt would’ve hated it, but it’s Jaskier. He’s already got his heart, what could Geralt possibly hide from him now?

“It scared me,” he admits, crumbling into pieces when Jaskier slowly brings both his arms up to wrap them around his shoulders again. “Everything that was happening between us, I didn’t know what to do with myself. No one has ever looked at me the way you do.”

Jaskier pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, and this time Geralt holds himself back from looking away. Something in his face changes, softens.

“No one?” he echoes.

Geralt shakes his head and leans into the touch when Jaskier cups the sharp of his jaw with his hand, gently brushing his thumb over Geralt’s cheek.

“There aren’t many people that see witcher for something more than what the mutations make us.”

“Oh, darling--” Jaskier breathes, brushing a stray strand of hair away from Geralt’s face and letting his fingers linger on his skin.

Geralt covers his hand with his own and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the bard’s palm.

“That doesn’t justify me,” he says, and his heart is beating so fast that it almost hurts. “I should never have left like that, should never have lied to you just because I thought we’d both be better off that way.”

Jaskier parts his lips to say something, but Geralt doesn’t let him. If he’d already started, he needs to say everything before he runs out of courage to do it.

“I didn’t think I’d be able to come back, both because I thought that I’d never be able to make all of this work, and because I was sure that you won’t want me anymore after I hurt you the way I did,” he says. “I wanted to, I desperately fucking wanted to, but I was sure that you’d turn me away right at the gates. It was my brother that had convinced me to give it one more try. To at least apologise.”

All the remaining ice in Jaskier’s eyes cracks and melts away, bringing back the cornflower-blue that Geralt had grown to love so much.

“You hurt me,” Jaskier nods, never taking his hand away from Geralt’s. “But I still want you here. It’s been more than two months, and every day I was hoping that you’ll come back. I always knew that those words about Toussaint were a lie.”

Without looking, he finds Geralt’s other hand and brings it up to his chest, pressing his palm to it. His heart is beating hard and fast, like a bird trapped in a cage.

“You broke my heart, Geralt,” he says, and the knife in the witcher’s chest twists. “And it’s going to take time for it to heal. But I want you here with me.”

That is everything Geralt could ever ask for. A chance to fix what he’d broken, to find a way to make this all work. It’s going to take time, he knows, but that is something that he can give them both. Winters in this part of Redania are long and cold, and it’s not long now until the first snow starts falling. And if Jaskier allows him, he will stay with him through all those months.

“Let’s go inside,” Jaskier says after a few moments. “It’s getting cold.”

Geralt nods and hums something affirmative, but doesn’t let go, still holding Jaskier in his arms. He’s not sure when he’ll be able to let go, either, because after all those weeks spent apart, he feels like he needs Jaskier’s warmth more than anything else.

Jaskier sighs, but Geralt can hear his smile behind it.

They stay like that for a long while more after that, and none of them care to count how long exactly.

***

Despite the lingering thrum of guilt in his veins, it feels nice to be back in the mansion.

After Geralt settles back into his room - it’s strange just how familiar it feels now - and gets out of his armour, he finds Jaskier in the library, warming up by the fireplace. Asra and Lucio are sleeping next to him, pressed to his sides like two blankets of white fur.

There’s nothing that Geralt wants more than to wrap his arms around Jaskier again, hold him like that until he falls asleep, and then through the entire night, but he can feel the distance between them. It’s not just time that Jaskier needs to heal. It’s also space.

So Geralt chooses one of the chairs, instead, unable to take his eyes off the bard while he’s not looking.

It’s not uncomfortable, this silence between them, but it will take time for things to go back to the way they were. And for now, Geralt is just happy that he’s here, that the knife he’d carried around in his chest for the last ten weeks had finally been pulled out, and the wound can start to close.

When Jaskier turns to him, his eyes are tired but bright.

“It was lonely without you,” he smiles, and Geralt realises with a new intensity just how far gone he is for him. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Geralt wants to say that he’d missed him, too, but he’s so not used to expressing his feelings like that, that he can’t bring himself to. The words are right there, on the tip of his tongue, but it’s just too hard to actually say them.

There is, however, something that he needs to ask.

“If you knew that I was lying, why haven't you stopped me?”

Jaskier looks at him for one endlessly long moment, like he’s searching for something in his eyes, and then sighs, casting his gaze downwards. He plucks at the edge of the blanket thrown over his knees in hesitation before finally meeting Geralt’s eyes again.

“Because that would’ve been the single most selfish thing I’ve ever done in my life,” he says, and the pain in his eyes knocks all air out of Geralt’s lungs.

“What are you--”

“I’m cursed, Geralt.”

The words hang in the air heavily as Geralt’s mind goes into overdrive.

It can’t be true. He would’ve felt magic, his medallion would’ve reacted to it. Unless it’s a complicated, masterful curse that doesn’t depend on something fueling it. But those are so hard to come by that Geralt usually doesn’t even consider them a possibility.

He doesn’t know how long the silence lasts before he finally echoes:

“Cursed?”

Jaskier still avoids looking him in the eye, his fingers running through the soft fur on Lucio’s neck absentmindedly. Geralt doesn’t press it, just holds out his hand for Jaskier to take it if he wants. The bard gives him a little smile that doesn’t reach his eyes but doesn’t move. Geralt tries not to think about the stab of pain he feels in his chest at that.

“I suppose I knew that I’d have to tell you someday,” Jaskier sighs, brushing his hair out of his face and turning to look into the fire. “Just not this soon.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready.”

“No, Geralt,” Jaskier says, cutting him off with powerless frustration in his voice. “No, if you’re going to stay, if we’re going to do this, you need to know. You deserve to know.”

Geralt wants to say that Jaskier shouldn’t upset himself further, that it’s been an emotional day as it is, but then he recalls Eskel’s words about letting him decide for himself and stays quiet.

After a little while, Jaskier takes in a deep breath and turns to face him again.

“I graduated from the Oxenfurt Academy when I was eighteen. And I had all these plans for my future, all these great visions of elegance and sophistication, of being surrounded by art and riches,” he makes a wide gesture with his arm, indicating to the room around them. “Of all of this. This is what I've been promised and it was what I did all of that for, really. I’ve always loved the idea of living like this.”

Geralt bites his tongue and doesn’t ask him about his family. He’s not ready to learn if he’s actually a prince. Though even if he’s not, Geralt feels like in his mind, he’ll always be one.

“And so when I finally graduated - with honours, may I add - that was all that I really wanted. I couldn’t wait to get a proper taste of all that,” Jaskier goes on, chuckling humorlessly. “But there was this one girl in the Academy that fell in love with me during the last year - Estie. We weren’t even on the same course but twice a week, we had history and geography classes together. I’ve always been kind to her, I suppose, but I wasn’t interested in romance. Had my fun here and there, tried new things, but all of that was mostly limited to a night or two.”

He’s still not really looking at Geralt but the witcher never takes his eyes off him.

“I tried my best not to hurt her when saying that I’m not interested in a relationship, and explained that for a couple of years I wanted to taste the court life, and she seemed to take it pretty well until a few days later someone caught in an alleyway by the docks in Oxenfurt and pushed me through a portal.”

“Nothing I hate more than fucking portals,” Geralt murmurs, hoping to make the bard smile just a little, and thankfully, he does.

“Absolutely horrible, yes,” Jaskier laughs, and Geralt feels like that sound alone could heal all his wounds. “Luckily, I’ve only had to experience it once. But that was what led me here, to this mansion. Estie was nowhere to be seen but there was a mage that had opened the portal and was waiting for me. I had more questions than I could even put into words but I wasn’t really the one doing the talking back then.”

Geralt can feel the change in his scent, a sharp edge of heartache to it, and he has to grip the armrests of the chair tighter not to reach out for him.

Asra and Lucio seem to feel it, too, waking up from their sleep and raising their heads to poke their wet noses at Jaskier’s cheeks and lick him, making the bard laugh over the lump in his throat and bat them away.

“She told me that if I wanted art and riches, I could have them,” he says, shrugging sharply with one shoulder. “All I needed was to snap my fingers, move my wrist, really. I didn’t believe her, of course, but I still tried, just to prove her wrong.”

Jaskier darts a quick glance at Geralt and moves his wrist with effortless grace. Geralt’s medallion hums against his chest, and a second later, there is an open book in Jaskier’s hand, magic still coming off it in waves.

Geralt blinks at him, parting his lips to say something - anything - but failing to form his thoughts into words. How could he have missed it?

“As you can guess, it was me that had been proven wrong then. And my fingers were still numb with magic when the mage told me that now that I can create all the art and riches that I want by just thinking about them, I have time to think about “what truly matters”. She said that I can change this mansion in any way I can think of, making it bigger or smaller, changing the walls, the rooms, the gardens, and I can fill it with all the wealth of Redania but until I have something that will truly make me happy, I will step outside the gates.”

Jaskier flips through the book in his hand, and though he keeps his eyes on the pages, Geralt can still see the way they glisten with tears.

“I didn’t believe that, either, of course,” Jaskier laughs nervously. “As soon as she disappeared in a portal, I was out the door. But once I pushed open the gates and took one step beyond them, I couldn’t move. It’s like there is a wall that no one can see but that’s impossible to get through.”

Geralt doesn’t need to be a witcher to feel his distress. It’s not just in his scent, it’s in his shoulders, in his uneven breathing, in the wet lines on his cheeks. The air itself seems to hum with tension, and as Jaskier sniffles, wiping at his cheek stubbornly, Geralt can hear something glass shatter in the hallway.

If he controls the entire estate with his magic, it’s going to be sensitive to his emotions.

But magic that strong… Geralt had only seen it a few times in his life.

“Jask--” he calls softly, getting up from his armchair because he cannot bear the distance between them.

He doesn’t know what he can say. There are so many thoughts racing through his mind that it feels impossible to stop on any single one. He comes closer, getting down onto the floor beside Jaskier and, to his surprise and immeasurable relief, the bard presses himself to his chest in search of comfort.

Geralt wraps his arms around him, pulls him closer, slowly rocking from side to side, and presses a kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head, closing his eyes.

“It took me quite some time to figure out that it was Estie that paid the mage to do all this,” Jaskier says after a while spent in silence. “No one else had much reason to go this far and pay such money, because I doubt that getting a mage to cast such an elaborate curse is cheap. And she was the only one that knew those exact words - art and riches. It couldn’t have been anyone but her.”

Geralt can feel his hands tighten into fists where they’re wrapped around Jaskier. He’d always fucking hated people that can’t get over being rejected and turn to someone more powerful for revenge, be it simple street thugs or mages.

“How long has it been?” he asks carefully.

Jaskier chuckles nervously, and Geralt holds him even closer, like he’s trying to protect him.

“Seven years.”

Seven years. The words feel like a slap to the face, and their echo rings in Geralt’s ears.

Seven years. That’s more than a quarter of Jaskier’s life.

“I’ve tried everything you can think of,” Jaskier says before Geralt has the chance to respond. “Created and then destroyed just about every single thing that my imagination could come up with. And nothing has ever worked. You saw the mark on my back. That’s the seal of the curse.”

The mark on his back.

Geralt thought about it a few times after he saw it but he never thought of as much as a possibility of it being what Jaskier says it is. He’d seen curses marked with seals before but they mostly looked like scars, burned deep into the skin, and not delicate designs that look more like an adornment than anything else.

Without thinking, Geralt runs his hand over Jaskier’s back, and his fingers tingle with magic when he passes over the mark between Jaskier’s shoulder blades.

The bard shivers in his arms.

“Don’t do that,” he breathes, but presses himself closer to the witcher. “It’s sensitive.”

Oh, Geralt could do a lot of things with that information. But not now.

He obediently takes his hand away, resting in on the small of Jaskier’s back, instead, and just holds him, waiting patiently until the bard finally gives in and lets his stubborn resistance down, hiding his face in the curve of Geralt’s shoulder and letting his tears flow down his cheeks. They smell of salt and heartache, and Geralt’s heart rips apart in his chest, but he doesn’t make any move to let go, giving Jaskier the time and the safety he needs.

“The mark will disappear when the curse is broken,” he says, sniffling and clinging onto Geralt’s shoulders, his entire body leaning into the touch. “Only then will I be able to step outside the gates. But as long as I have it on me, I’m trapped here. And that is why asking you to stay would’ve been the most selfish thing I’ve ever done in my life. I don’t want to tie you to this place, as well.”

Geralt's chest gets painfully tight, and his heart is beating so hard that he feels like it’s going to break through his ribs.

He was so fucking wrong about everything.

“I’m sorry I left you here alone,” he whispers, turning his head to press a kiss to Jaskier’s temple and fighting back tears of his own. “I should’ve been more thoughtful.”

Jaskier shakes his head, slowly calming down.

“You didn’t know.”

There isn’t much more than Geralt could say. His mind is still racing, same as his heart, and where Jaskier’s chest is pressed to his own, he can feel the bard’s heartbeat, too - hard and fast.

Geralt holds him, giving them both time that they need to think it all over, and murmurs comforting little things into Jaskier’s ear every time that he sniffles or sobs, soaking the fabric of Geralt’s worn black shirt with his tears.

He lets him cry, wishing only that he could take all that pain from him, and he doesn’t know if it’s minutes or hours that pass before Jaskier’s tears finally start to dry, and his breathing evens out, safe for quiet little sniffles.

He doesn’t care how long it’s been.

His body goes numb from being in one position for too long, but none of that matters.

Slowly, he pulls back just enough to get a look at Jaskier. Even with his eyes red and swollen with tears, he’s the most beautiful man Geralt’s even seen.

“We will find a way to break it,” Geralt says, voice barely above a whisper. “I promise.”

He cups Jaskier’s face with both hands, gently wiping away the tears, and leans in to touch his lips to his forehead in a soft, chaste kiss.

“Do you believe me?”

He breaks away to look at Jaskier again, and this time, the bard holds his gaze. His impossibly-blue eyes search for something in Geralt’s for a long, silent moment, until finally, he sighs without his breath hitching and nods.

“Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Geralt’s. “I do.”

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier big bang #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivial #jaskier #the drug the dark the light the flame #my writing #calton writes

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