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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 1 year

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How about 6 and Yennskier for the fake dating prompts? 💚

6. On Valentine’s Day everything seems to have a discount for couples, so why not pretend to be one to save some money and have fun?

Here's a Yennskier modern AU with mentions of background Geraskier and Yenralt. Can be read as pre-OT3.

When Yennefer’s phone rings and she sees Jaskier’s photo—the most unflattering picture of him she could find, mid-blink with his nose scrunched up like he’s about so sneeze—on her screen, she wishes she could just send it to voicemail. But the last time he called her, it was because Geralt had gotten his insides ripped out by a grave hag and needed immediate healing. With a groan, she answers. And today was going so well; she’s made two lobbyist assholes cry and it’s not even lunchtime.

“What?” she asks by way of greeting.

“Yennefer!” Jaskier sounds cheerful, so Geralt must not be bleeding out in a swamp somewhere. “How are you?”

“Besides my sudden headache, fine. What do you want?”

“What makes you think I want something? Perhaps I just want a chat.”

Yennefer doesn’t answer, just sips her coffee and waits for him to get tired of silence.

“Geralt has been in the mountains on a contract for a basilisk,” Jaskier says.

“I'm aware.”

“Well, they got hit with nearly two feet of snow up that way and so he’s stranded. He won’t be back in time for Valentine’s Day tomorrow.”

“How fortunate for Geralt.”

“No, it’s really not, because we were supposed to go to dinner at The Alchemist. They have a special five-course meal for Valentine’s Day.”

“It’s fortunate there was a snow storm, or Geralt probably would have let the basilisk gnaw off his leg to get out of that.”

Jaskier ignores her. “But he’s stuck on the other side of Redania and I need a date.”

“Well, you can always go with your favorite person. Yourself.”

“I can’t go alone, Yennefer. It’s a couple’s event.”

“I’m still not sure how this is my problem. I would never bespell someone to endure your company for an entire dinner. I’m not a monster.”

“Since when?”

“Goodbye, Jaskier.”

“Wait!” he says quickly. “You could come with me. And don’t tell me you have plans. You’re like Geralt. You wouldn’t willingly go out on Valentine’s Day unless you were bribed.”

She can’t argue there. “So what makes you think I’d celebrate it with you of all people?”

“Besides a free meal at the finest restaurant in Oxenfurt?”

“I work in politics. I eat at far finer places than The Alchemist every week.”

“There’s endless refills of Toussainti sparkling wine included.”

Now, that is tempting. “Don’t you have other people you can invite? You have plenty of paramours.”

“And they all already have plans.” Jaskier’s voice takes on a wheedling tone. “Did I mention I’m paying? You could get the most expensive thing on the menu.”

Yennefer has been to The Alchemist. Some of their dinners cost as much as a week’s worth of groceries.

“Also, I think it will make Geralt happy if he thinks the two of us are getting along,” Jaskier adds.

Their mutual lover, Geralt, is the only thing that Yennefer and Jaskier have in common and the only reason Yennefer didn’t curse Jaskier into something slimy years ago. She doesn’t know what Geralt, who she considers a man of reasonably good taste, sees in his idiot of a musician, but he adores Jaskier. And Jaskier is right; it would make Geralt happy if she and Jaskier made an effort to tolerate each other’s company. She blows out a breath. “What time should I meet you there?”

“Don’t be silly,” he says and she immediately regrets everything. “It’s Valentine’s Day. I’ll pick you up at six.”

***

Yennefer thinks about backing out of their arrangement as soon as Jaskier shows up at her door, wearing a peacock feather-patterned suit over a bright pink button-up with the top three buttons undone to show off a generous amount of chest hair, because Jaskier seems to not know how to button up his shirts properly. But closing the door in his face just feels like an admission of defeat at this point, so she squares her shoulders and follows him to his car. She doesn’t even insult his outfit, because it’s such low-hanging fruit that it seems beneath her to even bring it up.

She thinks about backing out again and they arrive at the restaurant to find it lit by soft candlelight, a pianist playing in the corner, and rose petals scattered across the table. She expected a Valentine’s Day dinner to be filled with the trappings of romance, but this is excessive.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” she grumbles as she takes her seat across from Jaskier.

He grins at her unrepentantly. “I’m so sorry to drag you to dinner at one of Redania’s finest restaurants. You look lovely, by the way.”

Yennefer arches an eyebrow at him. “You look like a peacock exploded on you.” Alright, it might be low-hanging fruit, but she can't not comment on it.

“Happy Valentine’s Day to you too, darling.” He bats his eyelashes at her as the server comes to fill two flutes with sparkling wine.

They sit in silence for a while, nursing their flutes of wine. When the server comes to take their order, Yennefer orders the most expensive of the three entree options, because she likes the way it makes Jaskier’s eye twitch. Around them, the dining room is filled with couples. She and Jaskier may be the only ones not making eyes at each other across the table.

As if he knows what she’s thinking, Jaskier reaches for her hand.

Yennefer snatches it away. “What are you doing?”

“Playing the part,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s Valentine’s Day. This is a dinner for couples.”

“What, do you think we’ll be kicked out if the servers don’t see us playing footsie under the table?”

“There’s an idea.” Something brushes her ankle.

“No,” she says flatly and Jaskier’s foot quickly retreats.

The server brings the first course, a charcuterie board that’s barely more than a few slivers of meat, a hunk of cheese, a handful of olives, and a dollop of apricot jam. Places like this always skimp on the food, Yennefer thinks as she picks at the cheese.

“What do you normally do on Valentine’s Day?” Jaskier asks.

“You know what I normally do on Valentine’s Day. I sit at home with a glass of wine like someone who doesn’t want to get overcharged for a couple of slices of ham and some old cheese.”

Jaskier snorts, but tries to cover it up with a cough. “Oh come on, I know you have a romantic side.”

“Do you, now?”

“Geralt talks.”

“Since when?”

His lips twitch. “What is it with you and unicorns? I’ve been dying to know ever since he told me about it.”

Yennefer puts down her glass of wine hard. “He told you about that?”

“In his defense, he’d taken way too many potions and he was out of his mind. I’m pretty sure he thought I was you.”

“Well, that’s not flattering,” Yennefer says.

“You’re right, it’s not. I had to start getting facials after that. Can’t go around being mistaken for a withered crone.”

She kicks him under the table.

“And here I thought you didn’t want to play footsie.” He waggles his eyebrows at her. “Do you really have unicorn underwear?”

“I don’t know. Do you really have a tramp stamp?”

His mouth drops open in offense. “Geralt told you about that?”

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Geralt talks.”

“It’s not a tramp stamp. It’s a very tasteful lower back tattoo.”

“Lose a bet?”

“No, a game of cards. Never play Gwent against Valdo Marx. The man is a shark.”

The server brings the second course, which is apparently a deconstructed salad. Yennefer realizes that she barely tasted the charcuterie board; she was too busy talking to Jaskier. She also realizes that she’s leaning close to Jaskier; they probably look like one of those dewy-eyed couples at the other tables. Quickly, she straightens her back and focuses on her salad.

“This is a piece of lettuce,” she says. “What’s deconstructed about it?”

“It’s quite a large piece of lettuce.”

“It’s lettuce. It could be the size of the table, but it still is what it is. How much did you pay for this?”

“Let’s not talk about it.” Jaskier nibbles at the edge of his lettuce.

“What about you?” Yennefer asks. “What do you and Geralt usually do on Valentine’s Day?”

“Sit at home with a movie and some takeout.” Jaskier shrugs. “I thought it might be nice to try something different this year.”

“This is different.” Yennefer pokes at the lettuce.

Not long after, the server brings their soup, seafood bisque. Yennefer is taking her first bite when there’s a squeal from across the room. She looks around to see a young man down on one knee on the other side of the room, ring box in hand while his date has her hand clapped over her mouth in delight.

“Aww.” Jaskier smiles at the sight. “You think they’ll get free dessert for that?”

At the glint in his eye, Yennefer says, “No.”

“Come on.” Jaskier fiddles with one of his many rings. “I hear the tiramisu here is to die for.”

“And you may die if you get down on one knee right now.”

“You wouldn’t. Geralt would never forgive you.”

“I think he’d learn to live with the peace and quiet.”

Jaskier sighs. “You’re right. I can’t propose without a proper engagement ring. How tacky. When I fake propose to you, Yennefer, I promise I’ll do it with the finest ring I can find for under fifty crowns.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yes, but I’m your idiot for another hour or so.” He winks.

“I’d rather chew on this wine glass. Which I may need to do anyway if these portions continue to be tiny.”

“They really are, aren’t they?” Mournfully, Jaskier looks down at his soup. “I suppose that’s why this dinner was almost affordable. There’s no food.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, darling.” Yennefer bats her eyelashes in an imitation of Jaskier and is gratified when he snorts bisque up his nose.

When their entrees come out, she’s not surprised when her meal is the tiniest filet she’s ever seen, while Jaskier’s shrimp risotto is three pieces of shrimp on top of a tiny pile of rice.

Jaskier looks up at her, lips quirking into a smirk. “Can you imagine Geralt right now?”

Yennefer snorts, lowering her voice into a rasp. “What am I supposed to do with this, Jaskier? I’ve seen pixies bigger than this steak.”

“That sounded just like him.”

Yennefer is pleased, despite herself. “He wouldn’t have lasted past the piece of lettuce.”

“No, probably not.”

“I’m sorry he’s not here,” Yennefer says.

“I’m not. I would never hear the end of this. Besides, if he were here, you wouldn’t be.”

“I’m glad I’m an adequate consolation prize.”

“I’m actually having a lovely time.” Jaskier’s eyes twinkle in the candlelight. “Despite the lettuce.”

Perhaps Yennefer has had too much of the sparkling wine, because she feels a surge of something that might be fondness. She’s never quite gotten what Geralt saw in this flighty, ridiculous creature—despite the cute little ass, which even she can admit is quite nice—but now, she can almost see it. When he’s not peacocking about, he’s not terrible.

“There’s a good burger place around the corner,” she says without thinking. “If you want to go get a proper dinner after this.”

“I’ve been there.” Jaskier looks surprised. “I wouldn’t think a burger joint would be up to Yennefer of Vengerberg’s high standards.”

“Sorceresses need to eat just like anyone else.”

“Well, then.” He grins. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Hardly. But Geralt says you get whiny when you’re hungry and given how irritating you are when you’re not hungry, I’d hate to see that.”

“Fair point.” Jaskier makes a show of considering it. “Fine, let’s go get burgers after this. Anything for my beautiful Valentine.”

She kicks him under the table again.

His grin takes on a wicked edge. “You know, they have great milkshakes there. We could get one with two straws and gaze soulfully into each other’s eyes.”

“No.”

“But it’s Valentine’s Day!”

“I’m not sharing spit with you.”

He gasps. “Yennefer, there are plenty of people who would be honored to share spit with me.”

“That’s what I’m worrying about. Splitting a milkshake with you is like splitting a milkshake with half the Continent.”

“And here I was starting to enjoy your company.” He looks at her with narrowed eyes, but he’s grinning and Yennefer is surprised by another surge of that almost-fondness.

She pushes her glass of wine away. Yes, she’s definitely had a little too much.

***

Fake dating prompts

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

#the witcher #yennskier #jaskier x yennefer #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #ghost's writing #prompt fills

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jaskiersboobs · 9 months

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Episode 8 was so good. We got:

great geraskier yenralt and tissaia/yen scenes

renfri mentions

the aretuza mages working together

radovid willing to risk it all

milva?!?! (love her)

geralt’s training montages

DARA!!!

the fight scene in the tavern

even the francesca and fringilla scene (though it hurt) was so good

#honestly enjoyed it so so much #the witcher #geraskier #yenralt #yennefer x tissaia #Fringilla x Francesca #the witcher spoilers #the witcher netflix #the witcher netflix season 3 #twn #twn spoilers #jaskier #geralt #yennefer of vengerberg #tissaia de vries #fringilla vigo #Francesca #dara #witcher blogging

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dadralt · 9 months

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full quotes under the cut!

#the witcher #books #geralt x yennefer #yenralt #poll #really curious about this one tbh #so many good quotes #thank you mr sapko you're a real one #feeling a bit evil for this tho 😂😈

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lambden · 1 year

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for the spotify wrapped meme: no 69 for Geraskier or any ship of your choice? listen i just had to go there

unfortunately (luckily??) for you, darling anon, my sixty-ninth song of the year is an anthem for returning to a relationship that has hurt you and falling back in love with them >:3

M, 2.6K words, infidelity (yenralt lol) and some mentions of alcoholism (jaskier lol)

Jaskier, despite his best efforts, is only human. The chattering of his teeth is not something easy to hide, especially not when his travelling companion and only company for months is laying only a few feet away. Jaskier could perhaps mistake his repose for sleep if not for the nearly constant hitching of his breath. The witcher inhales, long and deep, into lungs magically crafted to breathe better and slower than humans. Jaskier shivers, curling and uncurling his toes and rubbing his bony calves together for warmth. The witcher’s breath catches in his system, throat and lungs and chest and body still. Jaskier exhales, a small puff of white air against the clear, dark night. The witcher exhales, two seconds too late— deep, and false, and unless Jaskier is reading the signs wrong, definitely annoyed.

The cold would be easier to stand if he could just fall asleep; surely in the night his unconscious body would find some miraculous and impossible way to retain heat that his conscious self lacks the muscle memory for.

If he falls asleep, the witcher that he met will leave him. Jaskier grinds his chattering teeth together, and closes his eyes tightly, and buckles himself in for a long night of shivering.

Across the campsite, the witcher inhales. Before Jaskier catches his exhale, the edge of his thin blanket behind him rises up into the air, cruelly exposing his already cold back to the night air. Jaskier gasps, then gasps louder as a furnace presses against him. The witcher had moved towards him in stony silence, and he does not speak now either. His legs press into the back of Jaskier’s, thick knees finding the hollows and thick, warm thighs offering support for his frozen ones. His arm wraps around Jaskier’s chest, finding purchase on the breast pocket of his thin jacket and holding on as if he’s likely to blow away. His other arm winds under Jaskier’s neck like a heated pillow for him to rest his head on, and the blanket falls over them both.

“Thank you,” Jaskier shudders, the two syllables disintegrating into many in his cold mouth. He continues anyway. “Thank you, Geralt.”

The witcher makes a grunt like an animal. An animal would not have thought to share its warmth. Jaskier snuggles back into the witcher, and Geralt’s grip around him only tightens. He begins to thaw.

“We would save coin if we shared a bed,” says the witcher. His hair is dishevelled from the hunt, hanging loose and dirty around his pale face. He’ll need to bathe for at least half an hour to scrub off all the guts that thankfully only belong to monsters, and then he’ll probably dawdle for another hour in the bath because he enjoys it more than most things.

Jaskier has a twinge in his back that threatens to cause serious damage if not dealt with in the next day, and the last thing he wants is to spend the night bathing and then fucking his witcher. He never enjoys the baths afterwards as much as the ones before, even if it is nice when Geralt waves his fingers below the surface of the gauzy, soapy water to cast his magic fire spell. He just needs a good seven hours of uninterrupted rest.

Those eager, golden eyes fall on him. Jaskier inhales, and Geralt’s nostrils flutter too as if he’s breathing in deep to catch the scent of his bard. Which, really, he is. Jaskier gives in— he is, after all, only human. “You’re taking the bottom bunk, then.”

The witcher laughs, loud and unencumbered. He would never have laughed like that when they first met. Jaskier takes this kernel of information and shoves it deep, deep down inside his heart, like a dragon hoarding something very special to admire later. Then the witcher reaches down to fumble for his coinpurse, and in the process accidentally-except-actually-very-on-purpose fumbles around Jaskier’s trousers.

They never even make it to the inn. Jaskier, despite how his body aches the next day, swears it’s one of the best nights of his life.

The flaps on his tent flutter— not in the evening breeze rolling down from the peaks of Caingorn, but from someone trying to drunkenly find the ties holding them together. Jaskier stares across the tent, letting whoever it is struggle. He’s already halfway through a bottle of vintage Toussaint white, and the sourness is beginning to give way to sweetness with each new sip. He can’t even remember why he was angry enough to drink himself into a stupor.

With a triumphant exhale, the witcher unties the opening to Jaskier’s tent, and slides inside without asking. Oh, right. There’s his anger.

Jaskier doesn’t shy away from Geralt’s questing gaze— he’s drunk too, although he’s had a considerably less enjoyable night. He doesn’t try to summon any composure or lessen his glare, not even as the witcher ties the tent closed again without asking. Not even as the witcher comes to kneel at the end of his bedroll, his hands splayed comfortably out on his thick thighs and his shoulders sitting low and relaxed. Not even as the scent of lilac and gooseberries hits his system— a scent more sour than the dry wine.

Neither of them speak. Barbs rise unbidden to Jaskier’s tongue, but he swallows each and every one of them. Should you be doing this drunk— hypocritical. I thought the dragon hunt was important to you— stupid. Astonishing that an infertile mutant still has enough stamina to fuck two of his lovers in one night— cruel, and bigoted. The dwarves will hear us, you know— as if either of them give a shit.

Geralt’s mouth is warm as ever, leaving a trail of wet marks along the side of his throat. If Jaskier closes his eyes, he can visualize them— like angry, beautiful bruises. Except Geralt doesn’t nip hard enough to bruise, even as Jaskier wishes he would. If Jaskier had everything he wished for, they wouldn’t have chased an insane sorceress up the side of a mountain. They’d be somewhere else. Somewhere coastal, maybe. Somewhere he and his witcher could stand in the surf together, and bruise each other so intimately that the marks never faded.

The witcher reaches between his legs, his aim true as ever. As Jaskier’s head lolls to the side to make more room for the man kissing his neck, he is surprised to find himself blinking back tears. Of course, nothing gets past his witcher; the kisses move up his chin, past his jaw, and onto his cheek. Jaskier laughs, somewhat hysterically. Geralt doesn’t stop kissing him until his lips are pressed right against his wet eyelid. There, he mutters into the salty skin, “Okay?”

“Of course,” Jaskier’s breath hitches. Then Geralt does that thing he really likes with his hand, and his breath leaves him entirely. “Oh— yes, of course, yes! I’m alright.”

“Alright,” echoes the witcher quietly. He kisses Jaskier’s forehead. It feels more intimate than anything else they’ve done. Jaskier steels himself not to hate the man he’s fallen in love with, and not to fuck up a good thing just because his heart sings for a better one.

In Geralt’s arms, Jaskier glows brighter than a candle in the dark summer night. In his lover’s hands he is made immortal.

At Bleobheris, Jaskier heals in a way he thought impossible. Old wounds close up; blisters on his heel from walking behind a horse for more than twenty years, and soft spots on his heart from walking behind the horse’s rider for the same amount of time.

New wounds open, ones that hurt much more. He learns of the oppression that he took part in by travelling the Continent and singing anti-Elven slander to anyone who would listen. He learns of more oppression than he could possibly imagine, and he stops thinking of his own life so seriously. He does not choose a higher calling; during the raid, it chooses him. The alias claims him. This new group of wandering souls— the oldest wandering souls— need him, in a way he has never been needed his whole life. When the great oak is raided and his friends and lovers and family are massacred, Jaskier resolves himself not to give in to survivor’s guilt. He knows he was left alive for a matter of utmost importance.

He forms new connections, a new underground community, and in doing so connects with countless others who need him. It is exhausting to have found his purpose. The exhaustion fuels his art; he doesn’t sing Toss A Coin no matter how many coins people offer to toss. His new songs are thinly disguised fuck-yous to monarchs, rallying the Continent against those who would tear it apart from the inside, and hope for a better future. People hate it. People love it. He’s never made any music like this before, and he’s never spent less time selfishly waffling over his own music, either— his nights are spent sleeplessly ferrying refugees to secret meet-up points, and learning new codes and languages spoken only by those in the know. He doesn’t have time to feel sorry for himself.

He celebrates each victory with a bottle, and then one triumphant bottle becomes a bottle and a shot, and soon he’s racked up a tab at most taverns that will still let him play. No matter how far he distances himself from his old life, the last sip around the ring at the bottom of every bottle tastes like death, destiny, and heroics. And, of course, heartbreak, heartbreak, heartbreak.

The song comes to him after one especially lonely night. Jaskier would love to say he had been planning this song full of empty threats and hollow lies for years, spitefully scrawling lines into his journals between other fantastic romantic affairs. But the affairs would be as false as the rest of the story. He doesn’t write the song, it arrives written; he merely pours it onto the page. What for do you yearn? Good, poetic rhymes. Or at least they would be if he could sing them without his voice cracking.

He knows the song will hurt the witcher, should it ever travel far enough to reach his ears. He knows, too, although it turns his stomach once he’s sober, that songs hold enough power to do serious damage. But even though he convinces himself he’s forgotten the specifics of his decades-long infatuation with the witcher, he cannot, and will never, forget how the witcher made him feel.

Despite knowing it’s wrong, Jaskier plays the song for an eager and wide-eyed audience. Heartbreak, heartbreak, heartbreak. They lap it up. He burns. His voice cracks— he’s only human.

Threadbare both at the seams of his sleeves and the cavities of his heart, Jaskier wonders when he stopped feeling the cold.

He should feel it here more than ever. None of the witchers have put any work into maintaining their drafty fucking fortress atop their frigid fucking mountain. That’s still a word that it’s hard to wrap his head around— not fortress, which he’d always known about, nor mountain, which he has more than enough experience with. Witchers. In the plural. A whole family of them, thicker than any family united by blood and hard-pressed to accept visitors.

Except they had accepted him, for some fucking reason. Bewilderingly, it was likely Yennefer’s doing. And also, he can hardly call them a ‘whole family’ after their school lost more than half its ranks to an insane power-hungry demon who possessed a little girl who looks just like a princess that Jaskier once played at court for.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t feel the cold; maybe his head is still spinning from the last few days. He had never expected to run into half these people again, and in fact has complicated relationships with more than a few of them, and those relationships have only grown more complicated since his arrival here. He supposes things will get easier soon as he descends the frigid fucking mountain and leaves the drafty fucking fortress far behind him. Maybe once he’s on proper flat ground he’ll be able to clear his head. He’ll have a drink without being worried a demon will kill everyone if he sleeps off a hangover, and he’ll light a fire without his burnt fingers shaking too badly to strike the match.

The real reason he has to leave is more selfish than any he could admit aloud. Even in this place he’s never been, there are too many memories— ones he swore to leave behind when he left his old life. He doesn’t want to see the spitting image of Pavetta bundled up in a wolf pelt, somehow also resembling her adoptive father. He has no desire to remember exactly how mad he used to get at Yennefer, and even less desire to rekindle their strange new friendship. He feels too raw and exposed and sober and vulnerable up here, as the memories dance on the edge of his consciousness.

No. Holes in his jacket or not, he’d better get going.

Hands actually on the lever to push open the courtyard gate, he moves to do so— and is blanketed from behind by a furnace. It takes Jaskier a moment to identify the witcher, and then another moment to identify the embrace as not exactly Geralt shoving him up against the gate, but. A hug. He’s… this is a hug. He’s being hugged, by Geralt.

“I need to go,” Jaskier mumbles, muffled, into the witcher’s broad shoulder. They’ve always been of a similar height; he isn’t sure why he remembered Geralt so much taller. He turns his head to speak more clearly, and he catches golden eyes already watching him intently. “Don’t,” warns Jaskier, even though the witcher hasn’t said a word.

“I need you to stay,” Geralt tells him, firmly but quietly. His tone leaves no room for an argument. Jaskier still reaches for that old familiar urge, for all the anger that brought him to write of burning his witcher. His witcher. He finds his pockets empty, and with no barbs to throw, he’s left speechless. A rare thing, for a bard. Rarer still, Geralt breaks the silence to speak again: “If you go, I’ll follow.”

“You’ll— well— you— you won’t just follow—”

“Yes. I will.”

“You have a child—”

“She can come.”

“I don’t— I mean, shouldn’t she stay? She just went through some severe trauma, and she’s supposed to be safe here—”

“She’s safe with me.”

“Right,” Jaskier huffs. Apparently he does have one barb left in him— he regrets it immediately. What happened to Ciri hadn’t been Geralt’s fault, much as what happened to the Wolves hadn’t really been Ciri’s. But he searches the witcher’s gaze for offence, and finds none. “Why would you need me to stay? Party’s over, isn’t it? Not that I was an integral part of the operation—”

As he’s done a hundred times before, Geralt kisses Jaskier quiet. It should, by rights, annoy him. But just like the previous hundred times, it delights him too much to play on his nerves. How could he be irritated as his heart sings?

Then Geralt breathes him in, deepening the kiss, and Jaskier realizes, oh. The witcher is kissing him, all these years later— after so much hurt between them both, and so many changes that neither one of them could call himself the same man, the witcher— his witcher is kissing him.

Jaskier kisses back. He’s only human.

#geraskier fic #geraskier #my writing #song meme #drabble meme #anonymous #asks #this was so much fun to write!! i love that song so much man

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arse-blathanna · 1 year

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what kind of relationship do you think roche has with non-humans in general? do you think he despise them, hates them or doesn't consider them admirable beings? or none of those things? from what we have in game he seems to be pretty chill with them and his hatred is only targeted towards scoia'tael (which is still bad) but i don't know...(also out of topic love your yenralt fics <3)

(before I go on a massive tangent or twenty, I'm happy to hear that you like my yenralt fics <3)

First off I have to apologize for making you wait, anon. I wanted to give this answer a proper rundown but I didn't have the Spoons to do it earlier. Not to mention writing long replies on mobile sucks and I hate doing them that way. So sorry for the wait, hope this answer will satisfy you. Also buckle in, this ended up significantly longer than it needed to be so I'm putting most of the answer under a cut. Hope that's alright, anon.

TLDR: Roche is not particularly concerned with the rights of non-humans either way, his problem is with scoia’tael methodology more than anything else. However despite not having any particular interest either way he’s also surrounded by racism as background noise and doesn’t show any particular problem with it. It’s just not what he’s interested in. In Roche’s own words, Temeria, that’s what matters.

Content warning for sexual assault later down in the post.

My point of view on Roche's relationship to nonhumans is that it’s well, complicated. Mostly because the only times we see him really dealing with them is in the context of fighting Iorveth and his men. Outside of that context (and the driving force there is always much more heavily focused on Scoia'tael Bad than anything else) it isn't a topic that actually comes up that much.

His core character trait, above all else, is his patriotism, whether that comes in the form of intense loyalty to Foltest, going on a warpath to save Anais, or doing anything and everything that it takes to see Temeria survive another day. Fighting the Scoia’tael is just a part of fulfilling that goal, not really the whole of his interests or motivations. That's not to say that Roche is making good choices, or right choices, or just choices.

He's very much a character who can lean back on the line of "I was just following orders" with regards to fighting the scoia'tael and pacifying Mahakam, whatever that might have looked like. Could he defy those orders? Maybe, possibly. Probably not since we're shown pretty consistently that the punishment for desertion is death and that's all over the games and the books. Not that Roche exists in those books, but it's a line of consistency across the books-games canon we can refer to.

If you're familiar with the concept of the banality of evil as proposed by Hannah Arendt, I think it's a good angle to examine Roche from but I'm also not at all qualified to have that discussion. At all. Still worth considering, if you're willing to do some extracurricular reading for your fandom horseshit. Worth reading regardless, actually.

Anyways, back to our man with the stupid hat. His core goal is Temeria's stability, and that's shown to us consistently throughout Witcher 2 and 3 (though because we know that Iorveth was demoted to Cut Content in Witcher 3 it's likely that there was quite a bit for Roche regarding the Scoia'tael and evolving motivations that we just never got to see, just to address that particular elephant in the room.)

We're told that the Blue Stripes are meant to be the human equivalent of the Scoia'tael. Misguided, needlessly brutal, extremists who have a habit of leaving a bloody smear wherever they go. The Scoia'tael are considered in-universe to be a terrorist organization. I think it's this, above all else, that Roche is opposed to because if his core goal is Temeria's stability, a terrorist organization is a pretty big threat to that.

Yes, their cause is good, but their methods are poor and routinely lead to non-humans who aren't part of their cause being punished disproportionately because of assumed connections. We see this in Witcher 2 with the gallows scene. Of the four people on the gallows, only 1 isn't assumed to be scoia'tael and that's Dandelion. Zoltan and the two others? All assumed to be members of this group. Zoltan has in fact been contacted by Iorveth's commando, but also specifically turned down the offer of a command. Still treated as a member regardless by Loredo's men.

If you take Roche's path in Witcher 2, Zoltan doesn't end up loving the experience, but he does end up hanging around the Blue Stripe's camp until there's the chance to cross the fog with Geralt. So at the very least Roche is willing to offer accommodations to a non-human, and when it comes to Geralt he's pretty genuine (if wary) and even friendly.

Since it’s the one time where we see Roche really involved with fighting Scoia’tael, let’s talk about Flotsam actually. There’s clearly history where he’s been there before, but we aren’t told much about it other than that Roche is harsh with the Scoia’tael, he and Iorveth have been going at it for at least four years, and both have some massive hate-ons for each other. The plight of non-humans in Flotsam is poor, Loredo’s men police them heavily, and most live outside the city walls. The non-humans in Lobinden and Flotsam also consider Iorveth and his men to be extremists, with Cedric in particular having left that life. To say that they’re saviors to the people they claim they’re protecting in the eyes of those people is a bit of a stretch.

Roche and his men show back in Flotsam on the only lead they have in Foltest’s murder. Roche is in work-mode, his main interest in the Scoia’tael being that Iorveth is involved in assassinating Foltest (that Iorveth and the scoia’tael are being used isn’t on anyone’s radar quite yet.) He’s not particularly interested in getting Iorveth and lets his men harass the locals, destroying shrines and whatnot. He doesn’t take issue with Loredo for his treatment of the non-humans, but he does take issue with the man’s willingness to sell Flotsam to Kaedwen, thus compromising an important port along Temeria’s border. It’s that which makes him act to take action against Loredo, nothing else.

Even with the issue of Moril, the elf woman who Loredo kidnapped (and if I remember correctly is implied to not be a unique case) and her baby, Roche is more or less indifferent. With Moril dead, the baby is left behind. Roche doesn’t particularly care what happens to the baby, referring to it as a half-breed and only wondering who might take it in. Geralt’s the one who makes sure that the baby ends up somewhere safe. Roche has gotten what he wants, Loredo is dead and Temeria is safe from him and the Kaedweni spy he was consorting with.

In chapter two if the player chose Iorveth, Roche’s anger isn’t directed towards Geralt hanging around elves, it’s that he’s chosen “a group of thieves and bandits.” That’s what he thinks of the scoia’tael. If you take Roche’s path instead, he goes to Vergen to fight, but he’s not looking to fight the non-humans in Vergen so much as he is with Geralt trying to figure out what’s going on with the sorceresses and Henselt. Where he has the chance to gut Henselt as an act of revenge, if Geralt chooses to let him.

Speaking of that act of revenge, we should probably talk about Ves and what his most trusted person in the universe being Ves has to say about both of their characters. Because we know that Ves would follow Roche anywhere, and we know that Roche will fight tooth and nail to make sure she survives.

If anyone has good reason to hate the scoia’tael and elves, it’s Ves. She’s been through absolute hell, with her backstory implying that after her entire family and village was slaughtered by a scoia’tael commando, she was taken and kept as a sex slave as a teenager and only escaped because Roche and the Blue Stripes found her. He took her under his protection which is enough to earn a great deal of loyalty, but it’s not as though there aren’t shared values. Here’s what she says on this topic:

GERALT: Is your hatred towards the Scoia'tael some sort of revenge?

VES: You don't know me, Geralt. Human or nonhuman - it makes no difference to me. We were chosen to fight the Scoia'tael, and that's the mission we pursue. To me, the Scoia'tael are but bandits hiding out in the woods. If there were humans among them, I'd kill them in a flash just the same.

Not exactly the words of someone who categorically hates elves.

That’s not to say that Roche isn’t surrounded by people who dislike elves, because he definitely is. It’s the background noise of the Blue Stripes, it’s one of his men spitting at the sight of a half-elf baby. He gives his men free reign to terrorize Flotsam and only seems to tighten the leash when they’re camped directly alongside a Kaedweni camp. Whatever his feelings on the topic are, he’s not compelled enough to stop this behavior. Common folk hate the Blue Stripes, and that’s because of how they behave, and that behavior is allowed under Roche’s command.

Compared to the characters that we know do actually hate non-humans Roche is pretty pale by comparison. When it comes to Radovid and the Witch Hunters, he’s directly opposed to them (though again, his interest isn’t necessarily non-human rights as much as it is Temeria.) He’s not as bad as Loredo is, we don’t actually see him ever going out of his way to punish elves or dwarves. He’s against the Scoia’tael, but otherwise... just indifferent.

The best point of comparison to Roche’s character is probably Black Rayla in Thronebreaker and Witcher 1, and even compared to her (who is, at least according to CDPR’s canon a half-elf) Roche comes off as significantly more lax where non-humans are concerned. And even Rayla claims to be opposed to scoia’tael as opposed to non-humans.

Indifference in situations like this gives power to the oppressor rather than the oppressed, but that’s where he is. Is it right? No. But it’s where he is.

Lastly I just want to talk about the function of writing Roche in this way from a more Doylist perspective which is: if you make a character that Geralt (i.e. the player) is meant to possibly side and sympathize with, you can’t make them too much of a bastard. It’s a pattern that we see in the two witcher games where Geralt is asked to pick a side between Scoia’tael and Temeria/Order of the Flaming Rose. The elf commanders are usually assholes, but their position is that they’re trying to save their race from extinction.Despite Iorveth and Yaevinn being mean, they’re automatically sympathetic due to their cause.

On the other hand we have Roche and Siegfried of Denesle, who are on the wrong side. To make the player sympathize with them, it’s a matter of sympathizing with their characters as opposed to their cause. For instance, if you want players to sympathize with the Order, you’re asking the player (and by extension, Geralt) to be on board with a guy who time traveled and decided that the best way to stop the White Frost was to do some genocide. If Siegfried himself, your main point of contact is sympathetic, it’s not as hard of a pill to swallow (and even at the end of Witcher 1, Siegfried himself is directly opposed to the Order’s apparent endgoal.)

Roche’s cause isn’t as bad as the Order’s, to be clear. But he’s still in the wrong where the rights of non-humans are concerned. His focus is on maintaining a certain status quo, at least until he goes off the deep end and gets driven by a little revenge. The scoia’tael and his conflict with Iorveth are set dressing, it’s just not what he’s about. He wants to protect his kingdom and his people. He wants to serve Foltest and his crown, and protect what’s left of his line. Nothing else.

Because as Vernon says in Witcher 3: Who cares about the Scoia’tael anymore? Temeria- that’s what matters.

#ask #anonymous #vernon roche #the witcher games #the witcher

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dreamofbecoming · 2 years

Text

this isn't a breakup, dearheart, it's a season finale

guess who wrote yet another thing that isn't the next chapter of sleep now she pleads? what up demons it's me ya boi

anyway i saw this reddit post and immediately started foaming at the mouth so this happened

enjoy!

geraskier/yentriss (yenralt but not really)

rating: t

wc: 6.3k

ao3

“How dare you ask me that? How can you accuse me of something so low! I have never been unfaithful to Triss, and I never will!”

The world tilted alarmingly. Metaphorically, of course, but Geralt had never understood quite how apt a metaphor it was until just this moment.

“Triss? But you—we—what about us?”

The look of bewilderment that melted the incandescent rage off of Yen’s lovely face might have been gratifying in a less fraught circumstance.

“Wh—us? What do you mean us? We’re fine, aren’t we? I thought you liked Triss!”

“I—but—I thought—” Flustered, and correspondingly out of words, Geralt gave up and fumbled through his pockets, pulling out the little velvet box he’d been carting around all week and thrusting it out in front him, imploring Yen to put the pieces together for herself.

Yennefer, for her part, had gone very still, violet eyes wide and fixed on the ring box in Geralt’s hand. She stared for a long moment, then abruptly nodded her head once and turned on her heel towards the kitchen.

“Right. Wine. I don’t know exactly what’s happening right now, but whatever it is, we need wine. A lot of wine. Maybe all the wine you have.”

That might be excessive, given that they were having this discussion in Geralt’s living room at Corvo Bianco, but under the circumstances, he was inclined to agree with her.

This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. This wasn’t how this whole week was supposed to go, frankly.

Things had started to deteriorate not long after he finally caved and bought the ring Yen had been hinting at for months. He hadn’t yet worked out the right time to ask, so he had taken to carrying it around in case of spontaneous inspiration, until The Party.

The Party hadn’t been something he expected to earn Capital Letter Incident status when his girlfriend of six years first mentioned that her new boss was having a cookout for her team and she had been given a plus one. It had hardly registered as meaningful at all, beyond the stress of having to drag himself out of his quarterly reports to—horror of horrors—socialize. With strangers, no less.

(Perhaps Geralt should have considered it a red flag that he had never met most of Yennefer’s coworkers, but the truth was that despite their longterm and—Geralt would have insisted until about five minutes ago—very amicable relationship, they led separate lives in many ways. That was just how they both liked it. They were both dedicated to their careers, and they had very different ideas on things like home décor and family planning and how close to the nearest 24-hour grocery store a house should be and...alright maybe he could see how they weren’t quite as compatible as he had been telling himself they were for the last six years, but he did love her, alright? She was his best friend, and it wasn’t like he was ever going to find anything better than what they had, was it? He wasn’t settling, he was just being...realistic.)

The first issue arose when, upon arriving to Yen’s boss’s home, he was introduced to their hostess as “my cousin, Geralt Rivia.” He had been too startled to correct her; verbal confrontation had never been Geralt’s strong suit, and he was so taken aback that his voice nearly fled him entirely, so he let it go and resolved to ask her as soon as they were alone.

Maybe she wanted Tissaia to think she was single? Lawyers were a notoriously cutthroat bunch, maybe the implication of having someone to come home to might call Yennefer’s dedication to the firm into question. Geralt though that was ridiculous, but he didn’t pretend to understand the ins and outs of office politics. There’s a reason he owned his own business, so he never had to answer to anyone, and if any of his workers or vendors started causing problems he could just stop working with them.

Then again, maybe it was just a joke. Geralt didn’t always understand jokes on the first pass, although Yen had known him long enough to know when to explain something to him ahead of time, usually. Still, when she had continued to introduce him as her cousin to all the lawyers and legal aides scattered around Tissaia’s back garden, he had decided it must be a joke, because what else could it be? He would just have to mention to her once they left that it wasn’t something he understood or was comfortable with, and ask her to please correct the record on Monday. It wouldn’t be the first time they had had a similar chat, having known each other since their university days, and Yen was always gracious and accommodating about Geralt’s social limitations, in her own blunt, sarcastic way. In fact, she was usually the one encouraging him to set boundaries with people, and she was always pleased and proud when he put her lessons into practice, even with her. It was part of what made him love her so much.

So he had bitten his tongue (not difficult, when that was his default state anyway) and suffered through excruciating small talk with most of Yen’s coworkers. (Admittedly he did have a very pleasant conversation with Renfri Creyden from Acquisitions, who, as it turns out, was more than happy to spend a half hour trading insults about Irion Stregobor. The board chair was one of the only people from Yen’s work who Geralt knew personally, having taken his class junior year and nearly been expelled on trumped up charges after calling him out in public for sexually harassing the female students. Apparently he was as universally hated among the staff at the firm as he had been as a professor, which was gratifying.)

In the car on the way back to Geralt’s place, he had tentatively brought up his discomfort, looking for an explanation, and was surprised and concerned to be met with a terse “I didn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea,” and a refusal to discuss it further. Her mood had seemed to sour the more he had pushed for a clarification about what exactly “the wrong idea” would have been, and eventually he had given up, troubled and anxious.

He hadn’t seriously considered the possibility of an affair until Eskel brought it up. He had called his brother that same night, unable to sleep out of fear that he had somehow fucked up his relationship without realizing it and needing Eskel’s outside perspective and steady reassurance. Instead, he had been met with reluctant pity, Eskel asking him if he was absolutely sure she wasn’t cheating? Maybe with a colleague, since that would explain her insistence that no one at work be aware of their relationship?

The possibility had occurred to Geralt only very briefly, and since he had called his big brother in the hopes of being told that he was being crazy and he had nothing to worry about, the resignation in Eskel’s voice was a gut punch. He had been cheated on before—part of him wondered sometimes if it was inevitable, being an asexual person in a relationship with someone allosexual. Unfortunately, Yen was usually the one insisting he put those thoughts out of his head, that he deserved to be loved for who he was, by someone who wouldn’t need him to change to be ��enough.” The thought that she might not have meant any of those things was shockingly painful.

He knew his family weren’t huge fans of Yen, but then, they’d only met her a handful of times, and never since they’d been dating. Yen’s past made her closed-off and suspicious of strangers, especially family, since her own had been the source of so much pain and betrayal. She often came off aloof and selfish, but Geralt was one of the few allowed beneath the chitinous armor she wore in the face of the outside world, and he knew that she was one of the fiercest, kindest people alive. He would take a bullet for her, and she for him, he was sure. He wished his father and his brothers could see her for who he knew her to be, but he didn’t begrudge them their caution. They lived so far away that they were rarely able to come visit. Geralt usually went home to Kaedwen a few times a year to see them, though Yen had never made the trip with him, despite multiple invitations. They had only met her twice, once at graduation, and again when the whole family—Vesemir and Guxart, Eskel, Lambert, and Aiden—, had all driven down to help Geralt pack up his Novigrad apartment and get everything shipped to the vineyard he’d just purchased in Toussaint. She had been fairly standoffish to them both times—not impolite, just distant, but the impression had been made regardless.

He wished things were different, and admittedly he had hoped maybe a wedding could be another chance to bring them together, but for now he accepted the slightly frosty status quo. If he had the words to communicate his understanding of either party to the other, he might be able to fix it, but as it was, the nuances of their dynamic eluded him. He knew the animosity on both sides was a result of their love for him, which is why he believed the whole thing was more than a bit silly, but since all involved were willing to hold the tentative peace, he decided it was more trouble to wade into the quagmire than it was to just ignore the tension.

This did mean, however, that Eskel was immediately suspicious of Yen’s behavior, and at his urging, Geralt had called his girlfriend over to ask her directly about her fidelity before he popped the question.

Which brought them to now, both of them well past tipsy, sprawled on the couch as they each tried to reconcile reality with the lives they believed they had been leading until today.

“I jus’—the thing is, Geralt, the thing I don’t get is, the thing is this. Ooh, gimme that,” Yen slurred, making grabby hands at the tub of mocha chip he had fished from the freezer a few minutes ago. Geralt handed it over obligingly, nudging her with his socked foot when she didn’t continue immediately.

“The thing is?”

“Right!” She gestured wildly with her heaping spoonful, barely noticing when Geralt lunged forward to hold a napkin underneath with a wobbly hand in an attempt to protect her expensive satin trousers. “The thing! The thing is, I don’ get it! We never even, Geralt, we never even kissed! How’d you think we were dating when we never kissed even once? You love kissing!”

“I mean, we did kiss, t’be fair. ‘M not a total idiot.”

“We kissed in college, sure, but we gave up on that after, like, a week! That was years ago! And I know you’re not an idiot, don’t talk about my best friend like that, shithead.” This last was punctuated with a jab to his kidney from a remarkably sharp knee.

Geralt took another swig of his wine. He was thankfully past the worst of the embarrassment of this evening, but there was still no easy way to be told that the woman you were supposed to have been seriously dating for the better part of a decade had apparently never noticed you were together, or thought of you as more than a friend. Still, he didn’t think all of the responsibility for this colossal miscommunication could be laid at his feet. That hardly seemed fair, considering.

“No, I mean we kissed again. Six years ago, when we were still in Novigrad. ‘S when we—ugh. When I thought we got together.”

Yen tilted her head quizzically, an impressive feat given that she was also attempting to simultaneously fit her ice cream spoon and her wine glass in her mouth. Despite the revelations of today, Geralt was grateful he was still allowed to have this, to be the person trusted to see Yennefer Vengerberg, terror of the Continent, at her least dignified.

“You had that. You know, the thing. That dinner thing. For your job. And Istredd was supposed to take you, but—”

“Oh shit! I forgot about that!”

“Blocked it out, more like. Still think you should have let me hit him.”

“He had moved out of the country, Geralt, I wasn’t gonna let you fly to Nilfgaard just to punch my ex-boyfriend who ghosted me for a job and stood me up for my celebratory promotion dinner.” The well-worn tracks of the familiar argument soothed Geralt’s lingering anxiety, and he rolled his eyes fondly.

“Spoilsport. Anyway, don’t you remember? We went out after? We were at Zoltan’s til last call, you got so fuckin’ pissed that night. You didn’t want to go home with all of Istredd’s stuff gone, so I brought you back to mine, and you. Uh. You kissed me. Nothin’ else happened, obviously, and I guess...now that I think about it, we didn’t talk about it in the morning, but you kissed my cheek again when I dropped you off home, and after that, I thought...you really didn’t notice? I kept taking you out to dinner and things? We had that picnic by the beach, and I asked you to come home to Kaedwen with me for the holidays? I was bummed when you said no, but I jus’ figured you were busy with the promotion. And I didn’t blame you after that year because I could never convince Vesemir you didn’t mean anything by it, I didn’t want you to have to deal with him bein’ a dick. Ah, fuck, everything makes so much more sense now. I’m so stupid!”

Geralt groaned, burying his face in his hands, the embarrassment returning full force. This was the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to him. Maybe to anyone. Fuck, he was going to have to tell his family about this. Lambert was never going to let it go, ever. Maybe he should just leave. Fake his death, move somewhere remote. Poviss, maybe? Nobody would look for him in Poviss.

“Oy! You’re thinking bad thoughts in there, I can tell! Stop it!”

“Augh!” Geralt flailed right off the couch when something cold and wet jabbed him in the ear.

Yen was staring wide-eyed from the couch when he managed to get his bearings, holding the offending ice cream spoon in one manicured hand.

Geralt blinked owlishly at her from the floor. She snorted inelegantly, just once, clearly holding back a giggle. The silence stretched a moment longer.

They burst into hysterical laughter at the same time, leaning forward as they howled until they smacked their foreheads together, which only made them laugh harder. Every time they started to come down, they would catch each other’s eye again and the whole thing would start again from the beginning.

When they could finally breathe again, they were both on their backs on the carpet, heads beside each other and feet pointed at opposite walls, panting as they caught their breaths.

“I meant it about the kissing, though, Geralt. I know you, remember? I know you still want that kind of closeness with your partner. You’re the cuddliest bastard I know, you dick. How could you think I would let you dangle for six years in a relationship where you weren’t fulfilled? That I would do that to you?”

For the first time in this whole convoluted mess, Geralt felt shame. Not embarrassment for having made a fool of himself, but shame for having doubted the ferocity of Yen’s love for him. After fifteen years, he should know better. He turned his head to face the coffee table so he wouldn’t have to look her in the eye.

“I just...I figured it was like before. With the others. That kissing if it wasn’t going to lead to sex wasn’t...fair to you. So you didn’t want to. And I figured, if you don’t want to, no one will. And you’re my best friend anyway, so if no one is ever going to be better, being with you is the best thing I could hope for.” Yen made an affronted noise behind him, and he turned back to her, hurrying to correct himself. “I don’t mean—it wasn’t like I wanted to be with you because I didn’t think I could do better! No one could do better than you, Yen. You’re my favorite person. I just meant, a life without kisses or cuddling would be ok, if it was with you.”

The righteous anger hadn’t left her expression despite the tears glistening in her eyes, but Geralt had known her long enough to recognize her “Geralt is being belittled by someone (including, but not limited to, himself) and I’m going to do some violence about it” face.

“Listen, fuckface, you’re my favorite person too, and that’s why you should shut the fuck up,” Yen snarled, propping herself up on one elbow and punctuating each word with a jab of her finger to Geralt’s sternum. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, you’re worth more than that. Those bitches at school were wrong, plain and simple. They shouldn’t have treated you that way, and one of the greatest regrets of my life is that all I did was put Nair in Sabrina’s conditioner after you broke up, and I didn’t make them all regret ever being born to cross my path.” She glowered at the memory, before her expression changed abruptly, cycling rapidly through concern into alarm.

“Oh, Geralt, shit. I’m so sorry. This is—this is a breakup for you, isn’t it? You’re going through a breakup and I’m being an asshole. Fuck. What—uh. Shit. What can I do? What do you need?”

Despite himself, Geralt laughed. “Sorry, sorry, I’m not laughing at you. Ok, I’m laughing at you a little. But only because, weirdly, I think I’m sort of...relieved?” He paused, trying to sort through his feelings and match them to the right words. The process was easier with Yen, and easier still with alcohol in his system, but it was still painstaking and slow. Yen waited patiently, more than used to Geralt’s need for time and stillness to come up with his words by now. “You know I love you, more than anybody, but now that I’m looking back over the whole thing, I think it felt sort of...forced? Like I wanted so badly to be in love with you that I thought if I just believed it hard enough, it would be true? I think...I think I tried to convince myself that this is what romantic love is supposed to feel like, and even though I knew deep down it isn’t, I told myself it didn’t matter because it was still better than anything else I would ever get, so I should just make the best of it. That’s why—” He waved vaguely in the direction of the ring box, abandoned on one of the end tables somewhere around bottle number three.

“Yeah, why did you get a ring? I mean, why now?”

“You kept talking about marriage and weddings and proposing, and I saw you looking at that one when you came with me to get that watch for Guxart’s Midwinter gift. I thought you were dropping hints.”

One flawless eyebrow arches, her face incredulous. “You thought I was asking you for something by dropping subtle, indirect hints? And it worked? I don’t know if I’m offended or proud, honestly.” Geralt laughed again, because alright, that was fair. She was right, asking indirectly was a terrible way to get Geralt’s attention about anything, and apparently the only reason it worked this time was because she hadn’t actually been dropping anything at all, he was just scavenging for discarded social cues on the side of the road like a raccoon. He tried, and mostly failed, to hold back a giggle at the image.

“Wait! You got the ring I was looking at?”

“...Yes?”

“Shit, I was planning to buy that for Triss!” Well, that certainly explained all the wedding talk. “Fuck, do you think they’ll have another one at the store?”

Now it was Geralt’s turn to lift a brow. “Why would you need another one?”

“For Triss, Geralt, keep up!” She was getting more and more frantic, hands digging into her hair in distress.

“Yen. Look at me.” Panicked eyes met his. “You don’t need another ring. The one you wanted is right there.” He pointed at the box.

Yen’s gaze followed his fingers, and after a moment she seemed to deflate. She looked back at him, somewhat sheepish. “’M drunker’n I thought, I think.” Geralt snorted another laugh.

“You think? Dork.” She whacked him in the chest indignantly, making him chuckle. “Mean it, though. ‘S yours. Bought it for you, after all. Ah fuck, I’m gonna have to apologize to Triss, aren’t I? I bet I’ve been an asshole without noticing, somehow.”

He cringed at the prospect. Maybe he would wait until after Yen proposed. She’d be in a good mood, that way, and would definitely feel secure in the relationship, so that would be better, right? When was the best time to apologize to your best friend’s fiancée for mistakenly believing you were the one dating their partner for the entire time you’ve known each other?

In fairness, Geralt wasn’t sure he could blame the autism for this one; this didn’t seem like the kind of situation a neurotypical person would know how to navigate either.

There was another undignified snort from Yen’s direction. “Maybe not to Triss, but definitely to Jaskier.”

“Who?”

She raised an eyebrow at him from where she’d shifted to prop her back against the leg of the sofa. “Jaskier? The guy Triss and I tried to set you up with, who was devastated when you blew him off completely and never called? Although—oh, shit, that makes sense now! I was so sure you’d like him, I couldn’t figure out what the problem was!”

Geralt had to struggle a little through the wine-haze to figure out what she was talking about. Eventually a foggy memory surfaced of a dinner he and Yen had gone to several months previous. A double-date, she’d called it. Which—oh. Ah. He had assumed that he and Yen were on a date with another couple, but now...well, fuck. That explained why “Triss’s boyfriend” had been so flirty and handsy with him all night, and why he had seemed so disappointed when Geralt insisted on bidding him a firm goodnight outside the restaurant and going home alone. Yen had gone home with Triss, which made a lot of sense in hindsight, but at the time he had written off as women best friends doing women best friends things.

Being flirted with overtly enough for him to notice had made Geralt tremendously uncomfortable, especially from someone who was supposed to be on a date with someone else, right in front of both of their partners. He remembered thinking the man was very attractive, but must be a special kind of sleezy to behave so shamelessly in full view of both of their dates, and wondering why a sweetheart like Triss was with someone like that in the first place.

With the fresh eyes of new information, that night took on a whole new sheen. Jaskier had, evidently, not been sleezy in the slightest, but instead very gratifyingly interested in his date, who spent all night brushing him off and paying attention to another woman, in front of her rightful partner. Fuck, Geralt was the sleeze, wasn’t he?

“Oh, gods, why did you let me act like such a prick? He probably thinks terribly of me now,” Geralt groaned, flopping backwards and focusing intently on the underside of the coffee table. The far corner could use another pass with the sander, probably. He should take it into the workshop soon. Not tomorrow, though. Tomorrow was for lying in the bathtub cursing his decision-making.

Yen let out a thoughtful hum. “I wouldn’t be so sure, actually. Triss said he really liked you, and was disappointed he never heard from you. I don’t know him that well, but I bet if you called him and explained the misunderstanding, he’d probably think it was funny. If you’re interested, that is…?”

He glared at her from his place under the table. She knew damn well what kind of person he was attracted to.

She rolled her eyes in response, their ability to have silent conversations apparently not affected by the radical rearranging of their relationship over the last few hours. “Don’t give me that look, I know he’s your type, that’s why I set you up in the first place. I’m never wrong. I only meant that, for you, you’re getting out of a serious, long-term relationship. Are you sure you want to jump right back in? I might not know him very well, but Triss does, and she adores him—he doesn’t deserve to just be a rebound for you, you know.”

Chagrined, he hauled himself up to sit beside her. He snagged the discarded wine bottle and poured them both another glass.

“I don’t—Hm. I don’t know how to explain it without sounding rude.”

“Like that ever stopped you before, you brute. Out with it.”

“I feel...I feel like this is the biggest, most significant breakup of my life, and also like it isn’t that at all.”

A pause. “You’re right, that’s not a very good explanation.”

He flicked her in the ear, and dodged her retaliating pinching fingernails.

“Shut up, you know I’m bad at this. I just mean—I’m not sure what I mean. But it feels ok. It’s weird that I’ve apparently been single for...Melitele, eight years, but I feel like I want to try something real again, not mourn what I never had.”

“That was damn near poetic, that was.”

“Shut up, Yen.”

“Yes, dear.”

-----

Jaskier, uncharacteristically, was silent for a long moment. He sipped from the glass of (admittedly delicious) rosé Geralt had thrust into his hand practically the moment he walked through the door, apparently a personal favorite of his host.

Jaskier had not expected to ever hear from Geralt Rivia again after the most disappointingly mediocre date of his life. (He wouldn’t dare call it the worst date, not after the time Valdo set his favorite jacket on fire “by accident” after Jaskier won the composition scholarship they had both been gunning for, on their first last date (of, regrettably, several last dates, every time Jaskier got bored enough or lonely enough to give him another shot).)

Despite being incredibly charming in an obviously unintentional way, the absolutely stunning vintner (Vintner! That was his actual job! Owning and operating a vineyard!) had all but ignored him all night, despite Jaskier’s very best attempts at flirting (which he knew from experience were at least 95% effective), and had, instead, been oddly invested in Triss’s girlfriend Yennefer all night. Not in a creepy way, really, but just in a way that felt very much like he didn’t have strong opinions one way or the other about anyone else at the table, and wasn’t interested in forming them. Triss had mentioned that Geralt and Yen had been best friends since college, so he hadn’t thought it was that weird that they were obviously close, necessarily, except that it felt like Yennefer was actually on a date with both of them and no one had bothered to tell poor Jaskier.

Which, given the stumbling but genuinely contrite apology and explanation he had been treated to over the last half hour or so, made a lot of sense, given that apparently Geralt and Triss were both on a date with Yennefer, but apparently only Geralt knew that.

Truth be told, if he had heard this story from any other date, he would have called bullshit immediately and left without looking back. But not only had he really, really wanted to go out with Geralt again (it wasn’t just that he was stupid gorgeous, although Triss had showed him Geralt’s Facebook before the date and Melitele be good no one should look that sexy in overalls, but he also had a sneaky, dry humor that contrasted with Jaskier’s perfectly, and his eyes lit up beautifully when he talked about his brothers or his grapes or his horse (who apparently lives in the?! Stables?!? Behind the farmhouse????) and basically everything about him was perfectly tailored to suit Jaskier’s fantasy of the perfect man), Triss had also promised that while the story wasn’t hers to tell, she swore on the one working printer in the office that it had been a misunderstanding and he should, at the very least, listen to Geralt’s explanation.

Whatever he had expected when he texted Geralt back, agreeing to hear him out, it hadn’t been this.

“So, just so I’m totally clear on the details, you thought you were in a relationship with Yennefer this whole time?”

“Yeah. Since before we moved here from Novigrad.”

“And...forgive me if this is a rude question, but—”

“How did I believe that for so long when it wasn’t true?”

“Yes. That.”

Geralt sighed, looking more sheepish than offended, thankfully. He swirled his own wine glass thoughtfully. “I don’t know if Yen mentioned when she set us up, but I’m asexual. So a lot of the time, a romantic relationship doesn’t look that much different from a strong friendship for me, and when Yen broke up with her ex and kissed me while she was drunk, I guess I just...got my wires crossed. And even though she’s my best friend, our circles don’t really cross that much, so no one realized until now.”

That raised several questions for Jaskier, and he wasn’t sure which one to ask first. He decided to cross his T’s as Triss’s best friend, to get it out of the way. “Do you kiss Yennefer a lot, still? In the last couple years, I mean?”

The wry smile on Geralt’s face told him he hadn’t succeeded at all in being subtle, but that was fine. “You mean since Yen started seeing Triss? Don’t worry, I’m glad she has a friend like you looking out for her. And no, we haven’t kissed again since that first drunken night six years ago, actually. It’s...it’s one of the reasons she was mad at me, to start with.”

“Why on earth would she be mad at you for not kissing her if you weren’t together?”

“She was more upset that I was willing to settle for a relationship without it, and that I never brought it up with her. I guess that would have solved the problem a lot sooner, probably, but I didn’t want to rock the boat. She hates when I don’t stand up for myself.”

Mollified somewhat, Jaskier hummed into his drink. “So you do prefer some level of physical intimacy in a relationship, then?”

To Jaskier’s unmitigated delight, Geralt blushed at this. He mumbled something unintelligible into his wine.

Utterly charmed, Jaskier grinned at him across the coffee table. “Sorry, what was that, darling?”

If anything, Geralt blushed even deeper before replying in a flat voice, “I like cuddling, and pretty much anything that ends with everyone’s pants still on. But mostly kissing.”

Jaskier’s grin grew, and he leaned forward on the couch with his flirtiest expression. “Well, I can work with that, darling, that’s no problem at all.”

Surprisingly, Geralt’s expression became pensive. “Are you sure?”

Taken aback, Jaskier sat back up. “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

Geralt’s fingers worked anxiously at the stem of his wine glass. “It has been before, is all. A problem, I mean.”

“How could it possibly be a problem to be allowed to hold and kiss someone as lovely as you?”

“It wouldn’t be...unfair to you? To spend time making out and get you worked up, and make you stop every time?”

“Geralt, can you look at me?” Jaskier’s heart broke as Geralt shook his head, staring intently at his wine where it rested on his knee. “Alright, that’s ok. But listen to me, alright? You don’t owe me sex. You don’t owe anyone sex. You don’t owe anyone an orgasm just because you kissed them and they got turned on. That’s a them problem. If anyone has ever told you that them being turned on by you means you owe them something, they’re a prick and I hope they get hit by a truck.”

This, at least, got a startled snort out of Geralt, who looked up tentatively. Jaskier fought the urge to reach for him, so beautiful and so vulnerable, and hold him close. “I guess it’s one of those things that’s easier to know than it is to believe. There are...a number of women I dated in college that Yen still thinks about tracking down and maiming every now and then. It’s still hard to believe her sometimes.”

“Well, if she needs a getaway driver, tell her to call me,” he exclaimed cheerfully, grateful for the opportunity to dispel the somber mood that had descended. “You know, this is not the conversation I thought I’d be having when I promised Triss I’d hear you out.”

Geralt barked a laugh, and smiled a little shyly. It should be illegal for him to make expressions like that, honestly. “You’re easy to talk to. It’s hard, with most people. Can talk with Yen, and my family, but that’s usually it. ‘s nice.”

Jaskier reined in the impulse to squeal into one of the throw pillows on the couch. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me, dearheart. Even if this is certainly not my usual fare for a second date!”

Geralt lifted one lovely silver eyebrow. “This is our second date?”

“Well, just because you didn’t know we were on the first one, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t get to count it, don’t you think? That’s hardly fair,” Jaskier joked back, before a thought occurred to him and he sobered again. “Geralt, are you—is this what you want? I mean, you just ended what was, for all intents and purposes, a relationship that lasted the better part of a decade, and nearly became an engagement—what exactly are you looking for? Because I should warn you, I’ve done the casual thing, and I’m interested in something more serious, but the last thing I want is to take advantage of you.”

There was that wry little smile again. Jaskier wanted to kiss it off his face so much.

“Yen said the same. She threatened me if I used you as a rebound, which is pretty much as good as a declaration of everlasting friendship from her. I promise, this isn’t that. I talked to my therapist and everything before I texted you. I’m still not sure why you would want to date someone like me, but Yen and Triss were very insistent that I apologize and ask for another chance if I wanted one, and I do, so…”

Goodness, there was a lot to unpack in there. Jaskier had no idea he’d made such a favorable impression on Triss’s terrifying fiancée, but that was nice to know, at least. And he was glad Geralt had a therapist already, or he would have asked Borch for a recommendation at his appointment next week to pass along. But the rest...well, that just wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.

“Someone like you? You mean gorgeous and funny and interesting and successful? Someone like that? Because I can’t think of anyone I’d like to date more, to be honest with you.” Oh, there was that lovely blush again. Excellent.

“I meant more autistic, asexual, and enough of an idiot not to notice I was single for six years, actually.”

“Other than the part where you called yourself an idiot, which is obviously a lie, I don’t see a single red flag in that sentence. What about me? I’m a washed-up musician with ADHD who talks too much and has fucked too many people, getting paid barely minimum wage, living in a shitty flat in a city I moved to to escape my toxic ex. Am I not worth dating?”

The look of horrified outrage on Geralt’s face was flattering, at least. “No! Of course not! You’re beautiful, and funny, and kind, and you do amazing work helping refugee families, and your music is incredible! Anyone would be lucky to have you!”

Well, fuck, now it was Jaskier’s turn to blush. “You’ve heard my music?”

The obvious embarrassment on Geralt’s face was, frankly, unfairly endearing. “Yen showed me your Youtube before the double date. It’s. Nice,” he mumbled into his wine glass. Jaskier was absolutely sure he had cartoon hearts floating around his head by now.

“Alright, up.”

“What?”

“Up! Come on! Take my hands, darling.” Jaskier rose from the couch and bounced over to Geralt’s seat in the armchair, holding out his hands and making grabbing motions. Geralt stood more slowly, looking bemused, but grasped Jaskier’s hands gently in his own larger ones without complaint.

“Geralt Bartholomew Rivia, will you go on a romantic date, which will hopefully lead to a romantic relationship, with me, Julian Alfred Pankratz, called Jaskier?”

Geralt laughed, despite his obvious confusion. “My middle name isn’t Bartholomew.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Immaterial. Answer the question, Geralt. I want to make sure there is absolutely no confusion, and we are both on the same page.”

Geralt’s lovely eyes twinkled like firelight and he smiled, small and genuine and gorgeous. “Yes, Jaskier, I will go on a romantic date with you.”

Jaskier grinned back, rocking forward to plant a kiss on the lovely blush still staining Geralt’s cheeks. “I’m thrilled to hear it, dearheart.”

#the witcher #twn #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #yenralt #yentriss #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #modern au #my writing #yall chapter 2 (jaskier pov) hasn't been edited at all #i didn't even do a readthrough for parts of it #sorry if it doesn't make sense lmao i'm sleeby

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