#squish writes

Yin Yu poked cautiously at the- well actually he wasn't sure what he was about to eat but it was called Summer Stew of Optimism. He only poked a couple times to be sure the masses inside were solid enough to be grabbed with chopsticks.

Someone gagged nearby as he popped a piece into his mouth and hummed in delight.

“You really are married to them if you can eat that stuff, ” Mu Qing said, looking distressed.

9. “You really thought I was dead?” 21. “I…I can’t do this without you.”

Geralt is in Temeria when the news first reaches him: Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount De Lettenhove, has died. 

It happened several months ago - news doesn’t travel south as fast as it used to, now that everyone is fleeing north, away from Nilfgaard. Geralt doesn’t believe it at first, refuses to believe it for even a second, as a matter of fact. After all, Jaskier is young and healthy and perfectly safe in Lettenhove, last Geralt heard, so why would he die so soon, so unexpected?

But, he figures as he travels north, towards Lettenhove, it’s been ages since he’s last seen Jaskier, since they parted ways on the mountain. Maybe he fell ill, maybe he got hurt someway, somehow. Maybe his death wasn’t as unexpected as Geralt would like to think it was. 

The closer he gets to Kerack, the more he learns about Jaskier’s supposed death. And the more he starts to believe it.

Jaskier apparently fell sick several weeks ago - no one’s sure what it was that took him down, even now - and he fought a long and hard battle against his illness, before eventually succumbing to it in the middle of the night. His funeral was held several days later, his body laid on a pyre under a blue and gold shroud, every precaution taken to make sure his illness couldn’t possibly spread to anyone else. His ashes were scattered in the forest behind the Lettenhove estate, a gravestone placed under his favourite tree.

They say that in his final hours, he begged to see an old friend one last time. 

The silence weighs heavy on Geralt, now, as he makes his way to the north, to Kerack. More so than even during the first few weeks after the mountain, he misses Jaskier’s voice, the idle strumming of his lute, the constant chatter and too-fast heartbeat following Geralt wherever he goes. Wherever he used to go.

More than ever, he regrets what he said on the mountain. Wishes he could’ve taken it all back before the end, or could’ve at least told Jaskier how much he regrets his words. 

He wishes he could’ve told Jaskier how much he loves him.

Loved him. 

When he rides into Lettenhove, the town is clad in black, still, even after all these months, and he can tell how much these people loved Jaskier, too. Dozens of eyes follow him as he rides through the strangely quiet streets, towards the estate, whispers rising in the silence, of the Witcher, master Julian’s Witcher is here. 

He pays no mind to them. Instead, he keeps his eyes ahead. He leaves Roach behind at the edge of the forest, setting out on foot to find the tree with Jaskier’s headstone.

He finds it soon enough. It’s under an old willow tree, next to a small stream cutting through the tall grass. It’s truly beautiful here, a final resting place fitting for the the bard.

He falls to his knees in front of the large stone, trails his fingers over the letters carved into it, as tears slowly fill his eyes. He can’t help but curl in on himself, the pain in his chest worse than any wound he’s ever endured, every muscle in his body quivering with the effort not to scream out his agony for the entire world to hear.

“Jaskier, I- I...” He doesn’t know why he’s talking, now. Twenty years Jaskier’s spent by his side, and never once has Geralt been able to truly talk to the man, but now that Jaskier’s gone, Geralt suddenly can find the words? He nearly laughs at the bitter irony of it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice raw, tears unshed at the back of his throat. “I’m sorry for everything. For yelling at you, for abandoning you, for not coming here sooner, for everything I’ve ever done to you. I’m so sorry, Jaskier. I... I can’t do this without you.” His voice breaks on a quiet sob, bitter tears spilling down his face as he clutches his stomach with one hand, the other clenching around the stone.

“Geralt...” 

His eyes fly open, and he turns his head so fast he hears a few neck bones pop. There, behind him, not ten feet away, is Jaskier, alive and well. Geralt nearly slips in the tall grass in his hurry to get up, but in the blink of an eye, he’s holding the bard against his chest, drinking in the familiar scent of lavender and sandalwood like a man dying of thirst. 

Jaskier protests softly, hands coming up to tug at Geralt’s arms around him. “Alright, alright.” His voice is muffled by Geralt’s shirt. “Good to see you too, but can you give me some room to breathe?”

With an effort that leaves Geralt’s head spinning, he slowly loosens his grip on the bard, letting him pull back to look at him. “Jaskier,” he whispers.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, a playful smile dancing across his lips as his arms settle around the Witcher. “Geralt,” he whispers back in the same tone. He grins, and the sight leaves Geralt breathless with relief and joy. “Not that I don’t appreciate your enthusiasm and that little speech you gave just now at...” he frowns “my father’s headstone for some reason. But I have to ask. Why?”

Geralt frowns, turning his head to look at the stone. “Your... your father has the same name as you?”

“Yes, he does. Wait- you thought that was me? You really thought I was dead?”

Geralt doesn’t respond, merely burying his nose into the side of Jaskier’s neck, letting lavender and sandalwood calm him down as the bard quietly laughs.

“Sweet Melitele, Geralt, if I’d known you cared enough to cry over my grave, I would’ve...” He’s suddenly quiet, and Geralt can smell the faint heat of embarrassment mixing in with Jaskier’s familiar scent.

He pulls back, frowning at Jaskier, who’s now blushing a bit. “You would’ve what?”

Jaskier swallows thickly, blue eyes searching Geralt’s face intently, as if he’s looking for something. “I would’ve kissed you sooner.”

Geralt blinks, not sure how to respond. But, he figures, sometimes the best response is no response at all. He pulls Jaskier closer, crashing their lips together unelegantly, and the bard lets out a surprised sound, before melting into the kiss. 

Eventually, Geralt pulls away, gasping in lungfuls of sweet summer air, his head filled with lavender and sandalwood and bright blue eyes. The last golden rays of sunlight illuminate Jaskier, casting a halo around his head, the first chill of autumn creeping into the air.

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me this winter,” he says before he can think twice about it. “Please.”

Jaskier huffs out an incredulous laugh. “Gods, I’d thought you’d never ask, Geralt.”

He frowns. “So... is that a yes?”

this is a new blog so please like this if you post any of the following, are any of the following, or anything similar!

Sigils.

Runes.

Cosmic witch

Moon witch

Spirit worker

Wiccan

Pagan

Original spells

Beginner witch tips

hualian? yes! wulian first love propaganda? yes! banter? yes!

day/ch 3 of my flufftober one-shot collection!

40. “Stop being a fucking dick.”

Someone once asked Jaskier how he could manage to travel with Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, the unfeeling Witcher - since he seems so angry all the damn time.

Jaskier had answered that Geralt wasn’t actually angry most of the time, and that it was easy to spot the difference between an angry Geralt and a happy Geralt - if only you knew where to look. 

He’s starting to think he should’ve just agreed with that person.

Geralt’s been in a pretty foul mood the entire week. It hasn’t stopped raining for days, they’re running low on coin, there are barely any contracts to be found, and to top it all off, Jaskier had accidentally dropped Geralt’s potion bag, a few days ago, and all the vials had shattered, leaking their valuable contents into the dirt.

But hey, at least it has stopped raining, finally. Yet, somehow, Geralt’s still in a bad mood. Unbelievable.

And it’s not as if Jaskier hasn’t tried to cheer the Witcher up. He’s sung his favourite songs, he’s collected ingredients for new potions, he’s even been quiet for nearly an hour. And still- still, Geralt is angry.

Honestly, what the hell else is Jaskier supposed to do?

As he looks at the map in his hands, heart stopping when he realizes he’s holding it upside down, he remembers one last thing he had to do: not get them lost. 

Looks like he fucked that up, too.

“Geralt, don’t be mad,” he says, looking at the Witcher. Geralt’s scoff is the only acknowedgement he gets. “I was holding the map upside down.”

Geralt’s head snaps around, eyes furious, jaw clenched. “You what?” he hisses. He looks away again, hands tightening into fists around Roach’s reigns. “I don’t know why I put up with you,” he mutters to himself. “Can’t fucking do anything right.”

Jaskier, unfortunately, hears that. “You know what? I’m wondering the same thing myself, Geralt. Why do you put up with me? Since I can’t do anything right, why don’t you just tell me to fuck off?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but doesn’t respond.

“Go on, then. Tell me to go away. Tell me to leave so I can finally stop putting up with you and your shit-ass mood! Go on!” Geralt looks away, doesn’t say anything. “So you’re not going to tell me to fuck off? Then stop goddamn complaining about my presence so much, stop being a fucking dick. It’s one or the other, Witcher.”

They don’t speak for the rest of the afternoon, and by the time they start setting up camp in a clearing a little ways off the road, Jaskier feels guilty for yelling at Geralt. But he doesn’t know how to broach the subject without making things awkward, so he settles on his bedroll with his lute in his hands, trying to compose as quietly as possible as Geralt goes to hunt down their dinner.

He startles when he feels a tap on his shoulder, but relaxes again when he sees that it’s just the Witcher. Geralt goes to sit in front of him in the damp grass, something clutched in the palm of his right hand, eyes cast to the ground.

“I... uh- I...” Jaskier waits for Geralt to gather his words. “I’m sorry. You were right, this afternoon. I was being a dick. Mistakes happen and I shouldn’t have been so mean to you. I’m sorry.” He extends his hand, opening his fingers, a pebble falling into Jaskier’s lap.

He frowns, taking it into his hands. It’s a very nice pebble, actually, clearly taken from a riverbed of some sorts. It’s perfectly oval-shaped, every rough edge smoothed down by the water, and it fits into the palm of his hand beautifully. When he turns it, he finds a white vein crossing the grey surface of the pebble.

He frowns, confused for a second, but then he remembers that one time, a few months ago, when he’d been searching along the river bank of the Yaruga for the perfect rock. He still doesn’t know why he wanted it, but the thought of having a very nice pebble just appealed to him - it still does. He remembers describing the exact rock he wanted in great detail to the Witcher. 

And now he’s holding it in his hand. 

He looks up, meets Geralt’s slightly nervous eyes, and smiles. “Thank you. It’s- it’s perfect. Thank you so much. And you’re forgiven, by the way. You had every right to be angry, I am, as they say, a little shit.”

Geralt smiles, but rolls his eyes. “No, you’re not. You’re a little bastard, yes, but you’re not a little shit.”

Jaskier laughs, shoving at Geralt’s shoulder - who doesn’t budge an inch, annoyingly. “Alright, now you’re pushing it. But again, thank you.”

“Hmm.” Geralt stands up and starts gathering wood for the fire pit, his foul mood gone.