Stay, Geralt whisper hisses over his shoulder, handing him Roach’s reins before sneaking ahead into an abandoned cave or shack or fog shrouded thicket or other such likely place, securing the area like some sort of overgrown, witchery body-guard. And while Geralt playing the big, bad protector did indeed have a rather charming ‘knight-in-shining-armor’ ring to it, Jaskier wasn’t completely useless.

Stay, he growls as he bandages Jaskier’s wounds, obtained more oft than not by merely tripping over his own feet, but that was hardly the point.

Stay, he says through gritted teeth, grabbing a fistful of Jaskier’s doublet and hauling him quickly behind the edge of a building before stepping out to put himself between Jaskier and this week’s angry lord, which sends a blush blooming in his cheeks for entirely different reasons. But, he had succeeded in out-foxing many a past dalliance long before Geralt came along and was well practiced at looking out for himself, thankyouverymuch.

Stay, Geralt orders before he takes off on a hunt, leaving Jaskier behind in camp or at an Inn, and no matter how he huffs and puffs and complains that if Geralt describes one more monster as ‘He was one-hundred feet tall with rolling orange eyes and rows and rows of bard-crushing teeth’, the witcher merely quirks a smile at him, golden eyes effectively rooting him to the spot once more as he swings up into the saddle and takes off into the growing twilight…and Jaskier absolutely does not swoon at that.

“Stay.” Geralt repeats even now, like a bloody mantra, and Jaskier barely looks up from where he’s scratching various rhymes and lyrics into his notebook with his tongue caught between his teeth.

*

Jaskier knows Geralt’s been gone too long as he strides up to the front of the tavern he’s playing in for his second set of the evening and the dim, corner table near the back remains steadfastly empty.

He knows Geralt’s been gone far too long as he gathers his coin and tucks away his lute, turning toward the stair leading up to their room with a worrying twist in his gut.

He knows something must be absolutely wrong as the hour turns later and later, pushing well into the realm of the wee morning with still no Geralt. So, he makes like any good friend, and builds himself up with reassurances that Geralt’s condition that he ‘stay’ surely came with provisos like ‘In the event of a Griffin evisceration, send help…particularly a devastatingly handsome bard with eyes the color of the bluest sky, and lips as sweet as cherry pie…strong enough to bench an ox and hands I wish would wrap my c—’ Okay, okay perhaps the last part was a bit wishful, but a bard could dream. More importantly, Geralt could be in trouble, and that certainly wouldn’t do…for a variety of reasons.

With one dagger tucked safely in his boot and another hidden away inside his doublet, he grabs his cloak and sets off into the night. The mayor who had contracted Geralt in the first place was understandably disgruntled, brushing his valet aside as Jaskier’s incessant hammering of the door, practically fit to break it in, finally yields results. Jaskier draws himself up importantly, waving aside the poor man’s outrage at the late night interrruption and proceeds to interrogate him about the location of the latest big bad Wyvern Geralt has been commissioned to dispatch. After talking the poor mayor hoarse, and apologizing again for the late hour, he bows his way off the front stoop and heads off in the direction of the mayor’s half-lucid gesturing, hoping against hope that he’s made the right choice.

There’s surely no better recipe for worry than walking alone down a dark forest path in the middle of the night by one’s self, fretting in equal measure about A. whether he’s made the right decision about venturing out in the first place; he had seen Geralt in action before, and knew the witcher was more than capable of taking care of himself. He flushed richly just thinking about how Geralt’s muscles rippled and flexed in the midst of a battle, effectively obliterating any wonder of why there was even a fight in the first place upon more than one occasion, and B. Hoping against hope that Geralt wasn’t actually seriously hurt, and that the hunt was just taking longer than normal because Wyverns were, by all accounts, very flighty and unpredictable beasts…with rolling orange eyes and rows and rows of bard-crushing teeth…bloody hell.

It takes Jaskier a surprisingly shorter amount of time to find Geralt than he thought it would, which was both a blessing and a curse as the witcher lay propped against a boulder breathing raggedly with a hand pressed over what appeared, even at a distance, to be a rather sizeable gash across his lower abdomen.

“Geralt!” Jaskier gasps aloud, closing the remaining distance between them at a desperate stumble.

“Jaskier…” Geralt breathes, drawing a slow, pained breath, “I told you to…”

“…I know, I know…stay” Jaskier shoots back, skidding onto his knees at Geralt’s side and examining the wound. It’s deep, judging by the blood that’s seeping slowly over Geralt’s fingers, and Jaskier swallows thickly, forcing himself to keep a cool head as he turns instead to rummage in his pack. He withdraws a bottle of alcohol (definitely not the drinking kind) and yanks the cork out with his teeth.

“Right now, I need you to stay…stay still unless you want me to suture your elbow to your crotch.” He manages to muster a small, encouraging smile as Geralt’s eyes flicker to his, before emptying the bottle over the wound, eliciting a sharp hiss from the witcher that makes Jaskier’s chest clench. He squeezes his eyes shut in a tight grimace as Geralt swears aloud, but he pushes it desperately aside, holding a small needle and thread up to his eyes. Jasier can see Geralt’s jaw clench and unclench in his periphery as he sets the point of the needle to the witkcher’s flesh. He can feel that piercing golden gaze on his face as he closes the wound, nimble fingers making quick work of the suturing and trying not concentrate on the way Geralt’s chest shudders with each stitch.

*

Stay, Jaskier whispers, helping him up on to Roach before climbing up in front and clicking the mare to a brisk walk so as not to disturb Geralt’s wounds.

Stay, Jaskier says reassuringly, lowering Geralt onto the bed and squeezing his hand just briefly before crossing the room to retrieve bandages.

Stay, he says, trying on his best imitation of Geralt’s glare before disappearing downstairs to retrieve food and Geralt’s favorite drink just so he can see the rare but nonetheless genuine smile Geralt reserved for the things he holds dearest in life (Ale, Roach and…well perhaps Jaskier ranked in there somewhere even if Geralt wasn’t exactly forthcoming…)

“…and now you’re going to stay here and rest…and let me take care of you…” He croons reassuringly, sitting upon the edge of the bed and reaching up hesitantly to brush a stray strand of silver off of Geralt’s face as the witcher levels him an un-readable look.

No sooner were the words out of his mouth, than Jaskier’s suddenly leaping from the bed as though burned, a wide-eyed look of comprehension dawning on his face as he darts across the room to his bag, wherein he knew resided an old dictionary. Ignoring Geralt’s grunts of surprise that chase over his retreating shoulder, his fingers flip madly through the pages until he finds the one he’s looking for:

Stay; /sta/ To remain in a specified state or position. To delay harm or risk or hurt. To prevent the threat of danger, harm, or loss. Often to impose the protection or safe-guarding of something valuable.

With an effort, Jaskier un-sticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and swallows the lump in his throat, a somewhat guilty sensation writhing in his chest….

…Geralt had been taking care of him all this time.

‘Safe-guarding something valuable’ loops on repeat in his head as he closes the old book and slides it back into his bag before rising slowly and turning back toward the bed. He finds Geralt’s inquisitive golden gaze, the hard lines of his brow drawn in a question, and Jaskier finds himself fumbling for the right words.

“Y’know, just…thought of a word for a song..” He murmurs, waving a hand dismissively when Geralt simply continues to stare at him with a look that is equal parts concern as though he had suddenly taken ill and something else that he could only describe as indifference…which Geralt could hardly be condemned for, as impulsively diving for his notebook was something Jaskier was indeed prone to doing, and often.

“You can uh…you should take the bed and I’ll kip on the floor here….” He produces awkwardly but Geralt’s penetrating gaze doesn’t falter.

Suddenly there’s a hand on his forearm as Geralt’s fingers close tentatively around it;

Boba Fett Episode 6 Dinluke Space Fam Oneshot

Mitrin/Bray (belongs to @gildedskeleton) 831 words. Fluff.

It is his dearest sister who introduces them. 

Mitrin doesn’t know what to say when he first lays eyes on the Iron Lords; He’s heard much of Lord Corentin from Sloane, how his tutelage was helping her attain control over the nanites that ravaged her veins. He is not much taller, not much more broad than Mitrin himself is, with a face that is more gentle slopes than sharp angles and a mouth that seems built for a near-constant pout. But his eyes are kind, weary from years suffering in silence against the despair of losing those he loves. Sloane told him once, on a night when neither of them could sleep and they were tangled together under the branches of a plaza tree, that Lord Corentin had been bound to another set of Iron Lords. He’d marveled at the idea, but knowing what he knows now, Mitrin cannot imagine the ache that permeates his chest.

There is another man there. Mitrin doesn’t notice him until Lord Corentin beckons him to their small circle, and something in Mitrin almost wishes he hadn’t for the way it seizes his heart in his chest.

He says his name is Lord Bray, and Mitrin cannot breathe when he smiles. 

His skin is starlight blue, glowing iridescence that might come from the heart of an ancient star and it pulls from Mitrin all coherent thought. His eyes are like gemstones, his smile a warm embrace and the waves of wheat-gold hair that twist into the braid over his shoulder remind Mitrin of the paintings he’d seen in the digital Vanguard archives. 

Bray is a broad man, all shoulders and limbs and Mitrin has to tilt his head back to look him fully in the eyes. His greeting is shaky, nervous, and Sloane chuckles behind her hand in that way she does when she knows something she shouldn’t. 

Later, when they’re walking to the market she elbows him in the ribs and he glowers. “You like him.” 

“I do not.” 

“You can’t lie to me.” So smug, with a smirk on her lips and her arms crossed over her chest. “I’ll put in a good word for you with Corentin. He says Bray’s lonely. Besides, what kind of sister would I be if I didn’t help with your first crush?” 

The thought makes him choke on his own breath and she laughs again, a windchime melody against the bustle of the stalls around them. 

-------- Sloane keeps her word. She always does. 

He is fifteen minutes early to the arboretum and he can’t stop the shaking in his hands. Sloane had told him to dress casually and so he’s left his weapons and his cloak at home. Instead of armor he’s donned a light jacket, and in lieu of his helmet he wears a loop scarf as a hood. 

He itches his septum ring, anxiety riddling his bones, but Lord Bray waves at him from the rotating glass doors and he feels his heart leap into his throat. 

He is still just as exquisite even without his regalia and Mitrin swallows hard against his nerves. He doesn’t talk much, not until Lord Bray asks if something is wrong, and it all comes tumbling out before he can stop it. 

“You’re very handsome. I haven’t been on a date since Monri raised me-- Not that this is a date!! Sloane said it was a date but she picks on me sometimes. Unless you want it to be a date because I wouldn’t mind that and I very much want to get to know you. That’s strange, isn’t it? I’ve only seen you once before and I didn’t even have it in me to talk. I’m sorry about that, the other day. I was so awestruck. You’re so beautiful and I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing you the whole time you were talking and I--” 

He freezes, feels the heat of his own embarrassment color his face and holds his hands up as if to hide behind them. “No no, I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry. Light above, I’m terrible at this.” 

Lord Bray stares at him, mouth parted in quiet surprise and Mitrin wishes he could melt into the floor. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have--” 

His hand is warm against Mitrin’s cheek and the way he smiles before he kisses him makes the Hunter almost dissolve. His mouth tastes like mint and juniper, and Mitrin wants to drown in it but it is over before he can and he’s left panting, staring up at the Iron Lord with a mix of shock, awe, and confusion. It is his first kiss, and it leaves him wanting.