This gif screams a rather nervous and awkward Pippa Fitz Amobi whose just had the most dazzling night out with you on the town and now faces the walk to your doorstep. She doesnât quite know if she should leave you with a proper kiss on the lips or a simple cheek kissâŠso I thought Iâd write a Pippa Fitz Amobi thoughts.
A/n: Awkward Thumb twiddling Adorable Pippa Fitz Amobi, fluff to the max, comforting fic, hope it feels like a warm hug. Lesbian panic, Pip deserves the most toe curling fluff
Pippa fitz Amobi x fem reader
Lovely To Be Rained On With You, Itâs Kind of Cute but itâs so short
Pipâs never quite felt this way before, sure sheâs felt the stomach turning, clenching sweaty palm inducing anxiousness in her lifetime. Felt it many many times whilst investigating. But this doesnât compare to any of those feelings, because as similar as it is, itâs not. This feeling makes her stomach feel twisted and knot like, but is accompanied by a pleasure-able hit of dopamine as Pip watches you in the pelting rain.
The way the raindrops seem to wind down your eyelashes, dripping down onto them before falling of like racetracks. Itâs utterly captivating and deliciously beautiful. Your lips are upturned into a perfect smile as you huddle closer to her, and Pip being the kindhearted raised right gentlewoman moves to open her jean jumper, hanging it over you both as you both strut across the pavement. Your laugh is airy and seems to find its way into her heart. Pip allows herself to listen to them, to soak in the utter delight, itâs been a long while since sheâs felt so carefree. So..normal.
And then youâre talking, a mile a minute, shaking, trembling in the cold English air and Pip finds she canât bear to see you trembling so, so she hastily takes of her jumper and pulls it over you, and in her haste she finds her pale raindusted fingertips have found a place on your cheek. Pipâs first instinct is to pull away, but her eyes trace over yours and she finds no argument. You seem to be leaning into her touch, eyelids fluttering.
The feeling of your skin underneath her fingertips is addicting. The way your breathe hitches when she swiped her fingers over your cheek, the underline of your jaw, the strong cleft of your chin.
Pip wants to say so many things. âYour eyes shine like the Maldive ocean, Youâre the cutest thing under the sun, I fancy you more than physics, Iâd study you over any caseâbut she finds her thoughts interrupted by the torch light that flicks to life over your heads.
âMumâs waiting for meâ you say hastily, fingers edging to take of her jumper, eyes looking adoringly at Pip over your lashes.
And suddenly that stomach twirling, sick inducing feeling is back because Pip doesnât know how to end the evening. Sheâs only ever kissed once. And that experience had been rather unpleasant. Does she kiss you? Is that wise? Do you want her to kiss you?
Sheâs all fluttering blue eyes and you seem to take it in stride, chuckling at her obvious response. Before Pip can respond youâre pulling her in by her shirt, noses brushing and godâŠPip has never felt fireworks quite like this.
The intimate way your lips collide with hers, brushing like waves, natural, instinctual. Pip finds her fingers move to grip your hips, squeezing with a slight pinch.
Your lips are addicting, sinful. She wants more. Craves more. Pip deepens the kiss, feeling the way you make a sound in the back of your throat-and pip thinks sheâs about to die with how hot it sounds. Your mouth is warm and inviting, a contrast to the dreary english weather. The seam of your lips feel hot under her tongue, and pip thinks sheâd gladly explore more if she could
But then youâre pulling away, saying something about giving her a ring later and then youâre opening your front door and gone you are.
Pip stands in front of you front door for an embarrassing amount of time. Lips still stinging and tongue still aching. Her cheeks are the colour of roses in springtime, and she just knows by the way her heart is beating that youâre the one. She can practically hear Cara announcing to the whole year twelves where youâre wedding will be.
But with a ghost of a smile she returns home, a silly lovesick smile on her features and fluttering blue eyes.
She hardly says a word to her parents. Victor just chuckles and with an amusing smile asks how her date with you was, and Pip smiles amd says, âutter perfectionâ.
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The front door crashes open so violently that Mrs. McGillicuddy, with whom Gil had been discussing household provisions in the kitchen, nearly jumps out of her skin.
"Gillian! Maggie! Come quick!" Rowdy calls out.
"Sweet Jesus," Mrs. McGillicuddy cries in her strong brogue, hand flying to her neck. "Is it bandits? Raiders?"
Gil just sighs. "It's all right, Mrs. McGillicuddy. I'll see to it. Why don't you sit down for a minute, get your bearings?"
Shaking his head in exasperation, Gil marches out of the kitchen and to the front of the house. Buttery afternoon sunlight paints the log walls. Rowdy stands there, glowing in all that sunshine, a big grin splitting his face in two.
"Shouldn't you be breaking in that new mustang?" Gil demands. Then he spots it. "What on Earth is that thing?"
There's a noisy clatter on the staircaseâfollowed by Gillian's more staid footfallâand then his girls appear in the doorway, wearing near-identical looks of curiosity and worry.
"What is it, Mister Rowâoh my goodness!"
Gillian gasps, her eyes going round as saucers. Maggie claps her hands together and lets out a breathless squeak.
"Oh, Mister Rowdy, you found a puppy?"
"Sure did!" Rowdy says happily. Clutched in his solid but gentle grasp, an impossibly small brown-and-white dog wriggles and yips plaintively. Its fluffy ears twitch as it blinks at them all with very large, very blue eyes.
Gil huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "And where exactly did you find that puppy?"
"Farmer Ibarra rode over, wanted to trade some supplies. He said his sheepdog had a litter a few days ago. He thought we might be interested. Well, I just knew the girls would love this little fella."
"Oh, we do, Mister Rowdy," says Gillian, softly approaching with almost breathless tentativeness. "Does⊠does he have a name?"
"Oh, can we name him?" begs Maggie. She's following her sister's lead, for once, hovering carefully a safe distance from the puppy. "Please, please, please?"
"Why, sure you can!" Rowdy says. The laugh-lines around his eyes deepen as he looks between the girls and the squirmy pup in his hands.
Gil clears his throat. Four sets of eyes shoot to him, wide and innocent.
"You sure you want to name 'im? You don't want to get too⊠attached," says Gil carefully. "We don't even know if we're going to keep him yet."
Instant, total horror. Maggie's jaw drops and her head swivels from him to Rowdy and back, aghast. Gillian bites her lip and stares at her feet, hands curling in her skirts. She's gone white the way she does when she's struggling not to cry.
Rowdy, meanwhile.
Rowdy looks at Gil as if Gil just declared that he'd like Rowdy to serve the puppy for dinner, with gravy on the side. It's a look that says if Gil wants another peaceful night in his own bed for the foreseeable future, he'd better tread very cautiously right now.
He sighs, backtracks. "We've got men who can raise and train the dog outside of the house, 's all I'm saying. Puppies are a lot of work. Rowdy and I are out most of the day, and Mrs. McGillicuddy is busy with lookin' after you girls and the house."
"Oh, Pa, we can look after him! We'll train him properly, promise!"
"Yes, Pa, we'll do our very best. Can't you give us one chance?"
"Come on, Gil, can't you see how much the girls want him?" Rowdy asks with a distressed scowl. "Besides, how much trouble can something so little be? Look how adorable he is!"
To emphasize his point, Rowdy shoves the pup in Gil's face. Big blue eyes gaze at him with credulous trust. A tiny pink tongue pokes out and the puppy ekes out a high-pitched yelp.
Rowdy widens his own puppy-dog eyes at Gil. A two-pronged attack. Gil sighs and purses his lips.
"Fine," he grunts. "You can keep it."
The sitting-room erupts in jubilant cheer. Ecstatic, Maggie throws her arms around Rowdy and the puppy. Two spots of color appear on Rowdy's cheeks as he clumsily returns her embrace, while valiantly trying not to let the puppy escape over his shoulder.
"Thank you, Pa," says Gillian, going up on tiptoe to peck him on the cheek.
"Mm. You're welcome." Gil hadn't realized until he had all three of them under one roof just how hard it would be to stay strong to their united front. The three people he loves, banding against him. Ain't that just the way.
Rowdy carefully scoops the puppy into Gillian's arms. He leaves the girls to coo and fuss over their fuzzy treasure and makes his way to Gil.
"You know I'll help the girls look after him, Gil," Rowdy says. "Can't be much harder than cattle and drovers."
Gil raises an eyebrow. "Take it from me, Rowdy. Puppies can be a handful." He slides a hand into Rowdy's thick tawny mop and ruffles his hair.
Rowdy grins, sways in to drop a kiss on Gil's mouth. "Thank you," he whispers, eyes going half-lidded as he gazes at Gil. "For lettin' me give them this. I just⊠I really want them to like me, you know? This is all still so new."
Gil darts a glance to where the girls are locked in a gleeful-but-furious debate over dog names. He slips the hand he had in Rowdy's hair to his nape instead. Draws him in for another kiss.
"Rowdy, those girls love you, puppies or no puppies," he says, quiet and firm. He then kisses Rowdy on the cheek because what else can you do, when somebody looks at you like that? Like you've given 'em a gift they were too afraid to hope for?
"Must take after their old man that way," he breathes into Rowdy's ear.
I'm late to the party and just saw the one you know I'm especially đđđ over, but how about 'canât trust anyone chestburster?'
i answered that one â ïžhereâ ïž and donât have more really that i can add to it, but since i DO know which one you are especially đđđ over, iâll give you another snippet of that instead? đđđ
He brings enough food for Jesse and Kix too, in case theyâve finished canoodling, and he was right to do so. Jesse looks a bit dazed, and he has several bite marks, bandaged with seaweed.
âGood honeymoon?â Waxer says, because as a little brother itâs his duty and birthright to give Jesse a hard time.
âGood start,â Kix says, and grins with all his teeth.
âHe breathed for me,â Jesse says to Waxer, sounding a little bewildered but a lot pleased. âDidnât know that was a real thing; did you?â
âBoil told me,â Waxer says, âso I wouldn't worry you drowned or anything.â
Jesse turns to Boil as if just remembering heâs there. With emotion, he says, âThank you.â Heâs not just referring to the reassurance. He means everything.
Boil shrugs it off, quietly pleased, and shoves some food into his mouth so he doesnât have to continue to engage in conversation.
âDonât want to give you the bends,â Kix says to his husband. âIâll come out soon.â
âStretch your tail as much as you need,â Jesse urges.
âIâll be back in no time,â Kix insists. âI want to be with you.â
Waxerâs maybe a sucker for romance. He always hoped heâd find someone who looks at him the way Kix does Jesse, and Jesseâs no better at hiding the love in his expression. Theyâre smiling softly at each other as Kix drops back from the ledge; Waxer had never imagined what sharkishly tender might look like before, and now he doesnât need to imagine it. Adorable.
Waxer jumps a little when Boilâs arm wraps around his waist and Boil buries his face in Waxerâs side, hanging off the ledge.
âWant to be with you,â he mumbles, echoing the other merman.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Thereâs an Elio-shaped lump snoring softly on the tan, leather couch when Oliver slips into his darkened living room. The throw blanket from their bedroom is bunched up to his nose, and the small, ceramic reading lamp in the corner casts a series of shadows upon the sculpted ridge of his cheekbone.Â
Itâs been a long day of Political Theory and paperwork drudgery, but the sight alone is an instant balm to the senses as he toes out of his Birkenstocks, lining them up against the wooden skirting. His satchel, he leaves by the door, and avoiding the creaky floorboard he crosses over to the Hi-Fi on the jam-packed bookcase, running his thumb along the sleeves of their vinyl collection until he finds the one heâs looking for.Â
âThe soul is somewhere full of music in a minor key,â Elio told him once, when describing the Paul Verlaine poem that inspired it, and a heavy weight lifts from Oliverâs shoulders as the atmospheric piano notes of Clair De Lune fill the air. The birds in said poem are encouraged to sing by the sad and beautiful light of the moon, but itâs not quite sunset here on the Lower East Side, so Oliver settles for switching off the lamp and taking a match to the fresh citronella candle on the coffee table instead.
Unsurprisingly, the tortoiseshell from the alley is purring loudly atop his oblivious boyfriendâs legs - the furry menace having realised their fire escape was a sure-fire route to fancy tuna soon after they moved in. Heâs a finicky little thing - not unlike his adoptive owner - but Oliver ignores the judgement within those bright green eyes as he ferries him to the armchair, dropping to his knees beside Elioâs slumbering form.
âRise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,â he whispers, pressing a kiss to his riotous curls. Clearly, the past week of rehearsals has taken its toll on his perfection-driven maestro, and Oliver chuckles when he wipes the thin patch of drool from his stubbly chin. âAnyone would think you cracked open that Limoncello without meâŠâÂ
âDonât think I wasnât tempted,â Elio grumbles, blinking groggily into consciousness. âYouâre late, professore.â
âTell me about it,â Oliver mutters, unravelling the woollen cocoon in search of his boyfriendâs hands. âI wouldâve been even later if Mitchell had his way. Honestly, if Iâd known he was going to drop a department meeting on us, Iâd have made sure to finalise my lesson plans last night.â
Elio scoffs into the cushions. âLiar.â
He is. And a blatant one, at that.Â
Last night saw Elio bound to the headboard with one of his ties.
The same tie Oliver found himself stroking through tiresome talk of deadlines, budgets, and troublesome students.
âGoose,â Oliver snickers, guiding him to his feet.
âYou love it.â
âLove you more,â he murmurs, welcoming Elioâs weight when he nuzzles in. The rich aroma of tomato and basil lingers in the air, and if he closes his eyes he can almost imagine theyâre back in B. Stealing arancini fresh from the fryer as Mafalda bustles around the kitchen. âPlease tell me I havenât missed dinner?â
âAs if Iâd eat without you,â Elio says, straightening his collar. âThe sauce can be reheated while we cook the tortelli.â
âCremaschi?â
âI wish.â Blunt nails linger at the short hairs of his nape. âGarlic and herb,â Elio confirms. âJust donât tell our favourite housekeeper I bought it readymade, yeah?â
Oliver feigns a shudder. âAnd suffer a repeat of the birthday tiramisu incident?â
âExactly.âÂ
Elioâs sigh washes over his neck as Oliver wraps an arm around his waist, the other sliding from elbow to wrist, holding him close. Swaying gently, he laces their fingers together, and with a gossamer brush to each bony knuckle he lays them flat against his too-full heart, guiding his half-awake dance partner into a simple back-and-forth.Â
âHappy anniversary, sweetheart,â Oliver whispers, turning them slightly to avoid a teetering stack of score books.Â
âTwo years today, amore mio.â
And five since they first met.
He can hardly believe it.
Elioâs own converse lie abandoned on the rug, and kicking aside the potential trip-hazards Oliver breathes in deep, savouring the combined scents of Aquafresh toothpaste, Lucky Strike cigarettes, and something else.Â
Something woodsy, with just a hint of lemon.
âI see youâve found your gift."Â
âI did.â Yawning again, Elio rises up on tiptoes for a proper kiss. "Is itâŠâ
âThe same one I wore in Italy?â Oliver closes his eyes against the sting. âGod, I hope so,â he says, having spent the better part of Wednesday afternoon at a variety of department stores, boutiques, and perfume counters.
According to the sales clerk in Macyâs, that particular aftershave had been discontinued in the winter of â88, and what little remained of Oliverâs original bottle had long since been hurled from his Morningside apartment. Overly-dramatic, yes, but too-little sleep and too-much bourbon had led to a heartsick purge of anything that reminded him of the summer that changed his life.Â
Of the boy heâd been unable to keep.Â
Of the man who - for six short weeks - heâd allowed himself to be.
âLast week you mentioned liking how it smelled on you. So.â
Elio laughs. Low and wicked. "I think I mentioned liking how it rubbed off on me."Â
âThat too.â Oliver rocks their foreheads together. Bites his bottom lip. Ignores his rumbling stomach. âDinner will keep, yeah?â
Elio flashes a smirk. âDinner will keep,â he agrees, attention falling to the half-windsor knot at Oliverâs throat. "Shall we see if it works both ways?â
âThe cologne?â
âSĂŹ.â Elio nods. âLa colonia.âÂ
If Oliver didnât know better, heâd look like a picture of innocence, but the fact that he does - know better, that is - has his lips curling upwards in a futile attempt to keep from smiling. The vestigial tension drains from his body - helped in no small part by the answering pressure against his thigh - and Oliver falls further under Elioâs spell as he revels in the bone-deep intimacy that comes from being accepted for who he is. Of laying himself bare. Of trusting. Of belonging. Of celebrating the love theyâve found - the love theyâve reclaimed - despite the obstacles time and duty have heaped upon it.
Geralt and Jaskier have been playing this game for over a year, now: staging a fake proposal to get free stuff. But itâs hard, pretending to be engaged to the person youâre secretly in love with, and it gets even harder when theyâre caught in the act... Thank you @inberâ for brainstorming this insane idea with me, and also being generally wonderful. Happy birthday!Â
Chapter 1 of 3, 5k words, rated T for swears and vague suggestiveness. Fake dating, mutual pining, idiots to lovers, all that good shit.Â
Part one || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Epilogue ||Â AO3
~
The restaurant was loud, packed with chattering people: couples, families, friends. Jaskier peered around. There was a waitress at the table next to theirs, and another a couple of tables over.
The box in the pocket of his jeans felt heavier than it really was, weighing him down, pressing against his leg. It was impossible to ignore - not that he wanted to.
There was a natural lull in the chatter. He glanced across at Geralt, who was refilling his wine glass, his plate empty in front of him. Their eyes met, just for a moment.
He swallowed. Right.
He stood from his chair - or rather, he slid downwards, settling himself down on one knee on the tiled floor beside the table. He reached into his pocket, fingers grasping around the little box. He pulled it out with what he hoped was a romantic flourish, flipping it open to reveal the simple gold band inside.
âGeralt,â he said, confidently, cooly, like this wasnât terrifying, âWill you marry me?â
Geraltâs expression shifted, only a little. Only in a way that Jaskier could really read. He stood, the chair screeching across the floor, and he reached out, tugging Jaskier to his feet, and -
âOf course,â he said, voice quiet. And then, louder: âYes.â
Geralt embraced him, and Jaskier was vaguely aware that a few of the closer tables were clapping. Perfect.
And then he did something absurd. Something that neither of them had planned.
Jaskier kissed him. It was only brief - chaste and tight-lipped - but Geralt didnât pull away. It was short, and sudden, and there was only the smallest twitch to Geraltâs lips that indicated he might be reciprocating before Jaskier was moving back.
Geralt stared at him, wordlessly. Jaskier could feel a flush creeping up his neck.
Oh, bollocks.
~
They walked up the steep hill between the bus stop and their house, both more than a little drunk, a half-empty bottle of champagne gripped in Jaskierâs hand.
âWell,â said Jaskier, grinning. âI think that went quite well, donât you?â
âHmm.â
âOh, come, you got free champagne and that mousse thing. All-round good result, Iâd say.â
âThe champagne was very good. And expensive.â
âAnd free.â Jaskier bit back a laugh. âAnd we got clapped at. Havenât gotten clapped at in ages.â
âYou just like being the centre of attention.â
âAnd I shanât deny it!â
Geralt chuckled, rolling his eyes, and they fell silent as they continued to trudge onwards. Jaskier watched Geralt from the corner of his eye, his face occasionally lit up by yellow streetlights and passing cars. The shadows made his face even more angular, his jaw more prominent. Each flash of passing headlights made his hair flash bright-white, almost like lightning.
Jaskier swallowed. There was a tingling on his lips and a hot, fluttering feeling in his stomach, twisted around an unpleasant, lurching guilt.
âI, ah⊠Sorry about the whole kiss thingâŠâ He twiddled with the loose foil edge of the champagne bottle, looking steadfastly ahead. âJust seemed the thing to do, you know? Really seal the dealâŠâ
Geralt seemed to be thinking. Jaskier waited, impatiently, that sickening guilt feeling growing.
âWell, it worked,â Geralt said finally. âDefinitely⊠made it more real.â
Jaskier felt himself relax a little. âRight, yes. That was⊠certainly what I was aiming for. Realism.â He continued to fiddle with the foil wrapping, resisting the urge to take a swig straight from the bottle. âSo⊠itâs all, you know. Okay?â
Geralt turned to him, his expression obscured by shadow.
âWhy wouldnât it be?â
Fuck. Good question. Jaskier forced a nervous laugh with a shrug. âJust worried Iâd gone too far, I guess.â
âWhen do you ever worry about âgoing too farâ?â
He passed it across, and Geralt drank from it as they walked, the expensive liquid dribbling down his chin. Another car sped past, and the little wet trail was suddenly illuminated, spilling from his jaw down his neck to the collar of his coat.
Geralt passed the bottle back. Jaskier held the thick glass lip to his mouth, his skin tingling, letting it linger there. The champagne fizzed sweetly on his tongue.
The quick walk back to the house hadnât been taxing at all, and the air was cool and crisp - perfect autumn weather. But still Jaskier found himself feeling breathless as he stood back, watching Geralt rummaging in his seemingly bottomless coat pocket as he looked for his house keys. The now-empty bottle swung from Jaskierâs hand. It had been, all in all, a rather successful evening. Apart from the kiss.
The kiss had been an entirely different kind of success - one that he was keeping to himself. Geralt had dismissed his concerns and accepted his apology, and he supposed that was a good thing. Heâd acted like it wasnât a big deal.
Which it wasnât, of course. It was all just part of the act. Seal the deal, sell the performance, convince the crowds. It was fake: just⊠a trick.
But, fuck, it felt real. It felt real enough to hurt.
It had been a foolish, impulsive decision. But he didnât really regret it: not yet, anyway. After another few moments, Geralt found his keys, pushing open the door. Jaskier followed quickly behind, dumping the empty bottle on the sideboard and kicking off his shoes.
He was sure heâd come to regret it, eventually.
Often, after these sorts of exploits, theyâd spend a couple of hours lounging about downstairs, watching crap shows on the TV or finishing off the evening with a glass or two of one of their many and varied spirits - usually some kind of whiskey for Geralt and gin for Jaskier. But tonight, with the kiss clouding Jaskierâs thoughts, all he wanted to do was sleep.
Well. He would sleep. Later. Right now he just wanted to be alone with his unusually turbulent thoughts.
He said a hasty goodnight to a bewildered looking Geralt and hurried upstairs, barely even stopping to sling his coat over the bannister as he went. He ducked into the bathroom, giving his teeth a perfunctory brush and having a hasty piss before flinging himself into his room, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it in the dark, as if barricading it shut.
He stood there for a moment. Geralt, it appeared, was staying downstairs: Jaskier could hear the TV mumbling from beneath the floorboards. Stepping away from the door, he tossed his phone onto the bedside table and began to peel off the dayâs clothes. Forgoing his usual tatty pyjamas and his nightly moisturising routine, he slid under the covers, pulling the duvet up around him and wiggling about on the pillow, forcing it into a more comfortable shape.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep did not come. It was impossible to sleep, even though he was tired. Even though he was desperate to shut himself off from his own broiling thoughts and rest - to turn those thoughts off, for a few peaceful hours.
It was impossible to sleep, because now he knew what Geraltâs lips felt like. A little rough, a little dry, but pliant, too. Wider than his own. He should have lingered on the kiss, he knew now - sod all the guilt and doubt that came afterwards.
He silently chastised himself, rolling over in bed. It hadnât even been a proper kiss, not really. It had only lasted a few seconds, and Geralt hadnât even kissed him back.
But⊠he might have done, had Jaskier not pulled away. His lips had twitched, after all, even if the movement was so slight that Jaskier could have dreamed it. Perhaps if Jaskier hadnât moved he would have done.
Donât think about it. Donât imagine, donât dream, donât guess. It was all a game. It didnât mean anything - not to Geralt, anyway.
The problem, Jaskier thought, as he twisted his legs up and down beneath the duvet, was that knowing - even briefly - what Geraltâs lips felt like was dangerous. Because knowing how his lips felt on Jaskierâs mouth meant that he could imagine what those lips felt like elsewhere: on his lips, on his jaw, on his neck.
The duvet was hot and thick, weighing down on him, making him feel trapped. But Jaskier burrowed beneath deeper. Those lips, he thought - where else would those lips go? What would they feel like across his chest, or skimming lightly over a nipple? What would they feel like - a little rough, a little dry, a little pliant - squeezed around his--
One hand reached down to grab himself, and the other clamped over his mouth, forcing back the name that threatened to spill from his lips.
~
Geralt forced himself to wait an hour before heading to bed. He watched two and a half episodes of some insipid late-night sitcom, then judged it safe to move upstairs.
It was dark on the landing - no light spilled out from beneath Jaskierâs door. He must be asleep. It was unusual for him to retire so early: heâd clearly needed to get away.
Leaning over the sink, Geralt meticulously brushed his teeth and considered Jaskier's sudden and strange disappearance. He was embarrassed, clearly, for the display of passion he'd exhibited during their little stunt in the restaurant. For the kiss.
The water noisily drained away as Geralt rinsed out his mouth. He cleaned his face carefully with the expensive face wash Jaskier had insisted on buying him, splashing water all over the floor in his messy attempts to wash away the suds. He cleaned up the puddle with a hand towel, then threw it into the laundry hamper along with his shirt and headed into his bedroom, clicking on the dim bedside lamp.
His mouth tasted of mint, and Jaskier.
Fuck.
He tugged off his jeans, folding them and returning them to their spot in the wardrobe, then grabbed the old sweat pants from beneath his duvet and pulled them on. He plugged his phone into the charger, placing it carefully next to the lamp. He shook out the duvet, rearranged the pillows and then, finally, got into bed.
He stared at the once-fashionable stippled ceiling.
Jaskier had kissed him. And, like the idiot he was, he hadn't kissed him back.
It was a good thing, he told himself. Kissing him back would have been ruinous - the kiss had been borne of excitement and, as Jaskier had said, the desire to sell their little scam. It had been nothing else. If he'd wrapped his arms around Jaskier right there in the restaurant like he'd wanted to, his long-buried secret would have been unpleasantly and dramatically unearthed.
It was better this way, even if he was an idiot.
He twisted beneath the duvet, turning towards the improperly closed curtains. He winced as light from the streetlamp outside slanted across his face.
Heâd been foolish to even go along with it in the first place. Geralt had known that eventually their little charade would break through his steely reserves and start to prick at real emotions, ones that heâd managed to thus far keep well hidden. It was inevitable, really - but it was becoming harder to ignore.
What if it hadnât been a scam. What if Jaskier had proposed to him this evening, like theyâd been together for all the time theyâd shared a house, all the time theyâd known each other. What if the spectacle over dinner hadnât been the most recent in a series of poorly thought-out hoaxes but actually the culmination of a decade-long relationship?
If it had been real, Jaskier would be here with him now, pressed to him beneath the covers. Heâd be asleep in his arms, or at least, asleep next to him: Jaskier always tossed and turned in his sleep, never keeping still for more than a few minutes. Geraltâs sheets would smell of that expensive cream Jaskier daubed himself with before going to bed - chamomile and lavender.
Although, had it been real, they probably wouldnât be doing much sleeping. A hot, tingling flush built around Geraltâs chest, tickling his collarbone, tightening in his core. The thought thrilled him and shamed him in equal parts. He wanted it, but he wasnât allowed to want it. Jaskier was one of his oldest friends: he shouldnât be thinking about him like that.
Yet somehow, the wish for soft domesticity - for holding hands and sharing a bed and fluttering, casual kisses - felt even worse. It felt like more of a betrayal, if that really was what this feeling was. Everyone wanted to fuck Jaskier: thatâs how it often appeared, anyway. But the desire for more - for something long-lasting and solid - was less freely given.
If they were together, if Jaskier had proposed, if they were now sleeping soundly - or not - together in Geraltâs bed, then that would mean Geralt had tied him down. It would be like clipping a birdâs wings, trapping a butterfly in a jar. It was unthinkable. Jaskier was free and bright and buoyant, carried by his own whims like dandelion seeds on a breeze. Geralt was steadfast, and solid, and - he feared - boring.
Jaskier wouldnât want him in that way, he knew. Sensibly, he understood that it wouldnât do to dwell on dreams - that theyâd only end in further disappointment, be it days or weeks or months from now.
But it was late, and outside the house cars were zooming past, and somewhere far away an owl was hooting. It was late, and he was tired, and more than a little drunk. He could indulge, just this once. No one needed to know he was a romantic - and no one, especially not Jaskier, needed to know the object of his disastrously misplaced affections.
He twisted himself up in the duvet, hugging it close, and dreamed of soft lips against his, and the smell of chamomile.
~
The air was crisp and fresh, and heaps of sodden autumn leaves were strewn across the path, piled in drifts against the high fence that separated the footpath from the park on the other side. Geralt tucked his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat, regretting not wearing gloves, as he watched Jaskier kick through the enormous piles, scattering leaves in his wake.
He huffed a laugh into the collar of his coat as Jaskier turned around, his face pink where it was exposed to the chilly air. He, of course, was wearing the same useless jacket he always wore. Gerat knew heâd be complaining about being cold on the way home.
They were heading a little further afield this evening, and had taken a bus to the other side of town to find a restaurant that one of Jaskierâs friends had visited a few weeks ago. It was horribly expensive, owned by some out-of-towner with a chain of such establishments, and the servers were, Jaskier had been reliably informed, paid minimum wage despite the ridiculous mark-ups on the food and drink. But the food, apparently, was very good.
Briefly, it was perfect, and Geralt had found himself going along with another ridiculous scheme. Although, no: he wasnât just going along with it. When Jaskier had described it to him, all faux-innocence, Geralt had immediately understood what he was suggesting and had egged him into it. This was his idea just as much as it was Jaskierâs, although he had a little more plausible deniability.
Jaskier fell back into step at Geraltâs side, pushing his way through the leaves where Geralt sensibly stepped through them.
âDonât forget,â he reached into his jacket pocket, grabbing the ring box and passing it over. âItâs your turn.â
Geralt groaned. He was much better at being proposed to than doing the proposing.
"Shush your complaining," tutted Jaskier, "acting like it's some grand inconvenience. I did it last time. And in exchange,â he added, like he was bestowing some marvellous gift, âIâll pay for the taxi home.â
âYouâre better at this than me,â said Geralt, looking at the box like it might bite him. âI never know what to say.â
Jaskier shrugged. âYou just have to pretend.â He hummed, thoughtfully. âPretend⊠I donât know, pretend youâre madly in love with me, and desperate for us to spend the rest of our lives together, and possibly you intend for us to have lots of lovely sex when we get home.â He shrugged, pressing his mouth into a tight line. âThat sort of thing.â
Geraltâs fingers closed around the ring box. âRight.â
He reeled it off so casually, so easily. Jaskier was an accomplished actor and, therefore, liar - but even when he wasnât pretending his feelings sprung from him like fireworks, like water from a burst pipe. Geralt, conversely, struggled to even convey his truest emotions.
That was probably why he was struggling so much.
âWait, hold onâŠâ Jaskier spun around, stepping in front of Geralt with his hands raised and stopping him in his tracks. Geralt bumped into him, Jaskierâs hands connecting gently with his chest. âWhat about the kiss? I mean, it worked last time, and--â
âSure.â
â--and they definitely seemed convinced, so-- Oh!â Jaskierâs eyes went wide. âWell, then. Alright! Same as before, then.â
âSame as before.â
Jaskier tilted his head, giving Geralt a curious look that he struggled to read.
âYou know,â he said, âWe donât have to do⊠all this. You donât have to go along with my incorrigible whims. We could actually pay for a meal, like the upstanding citizens I know we are.â He paused. âThe upstanding citizen I know you are, in any case.â
âYou know,â Geralt carried on walking, and Jaskier did a neat little spin as he followed, âI am fully capable of telling you to fuck off.â
âAnd you do! With true feeling and increasing regularity.â Jaskier grinned. âSo youâre on board, then? Even if I am so cruelly forcing you to propose to me?â
Geralt shoved the ring box into his pocket. âEven then.â
~
Jaskierâs friend had been right: the food was very good. Theyâd fallen into a neat little routine, now - never playing their hand too early. A proposal before the main courses arrived was never so well received as one made after theyâd finished eating, and the later into the evening it happened the more likely theyâd be to get some sort of free dessert.
Some restaurants would insist on giving them the full meal for free, some just dessert, some a bottle of something bubbly. A few had given them nothing at all, which was the risk one ran when doing this sort of thing.
Aside from the nerves silently pooling in his stomach all evening, heâd had a good night. Most nights spent out and about with Jaskier were good - he enjoyed his company, even if he complained about him. It helped, of course, that on these occasions they werenât just sharing a meal as friends: they were on a date. A fake date, but a date nonetheless.
Their âdatesâ, Geralt quietly suspected, were very much like their regular nights out - just with more faux-longing gazes and less flirting with bar staff. Heâd often wondered if he should point that out to Jaskier, but had decided it probably wasnât worth it: it would just be uncomfortable for him.
Their main courses finished, Geralt knew what was expected of him. It was absurd, really, having it all planned out like this. He was feeling nervous about the whole charade - as if they hadnât pulled this trick nearly a dozen times before - as if it wasnât even a trick at all.
Like it was real.
Every other time theyâd done this had been fun and foolish and, truthfully, stupid. Heâd missed being reckless, and Jaskierâs little game had given him a chance to claw that back again. Heâd not been stupid since he graduated, for fuckâs sake. Jaskier had an uncanny ability to pull him along into schemes and, for once, he didnât find himself resisting.
But this felt different, in a way that terrified him.
He caught Jaskierâs eye.
Now. Now. Geralt stood from his chair, immediately regretting allowing the server to seat them in the middle of the room, then - somewhat awkwardly - lowered himself down on one knee. Jaskier kept his gaze as he stood, clearly holding back a smile, trying to maintain an expression of confusion.
Shit. Everyone was watching him. Jaskier raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, then played along - putting down his glass, bringing his hands to his face, opening his mouth in a little silent gasp of surprise.
âJaskier,â Geralt said, in a well-practiced voice that was loud enough for both Jaskier to hear and for the rest of the restaurant realise what was happening, âI⊠ahâŠâ
He fumbled before heâd even said anything, and hoped it made the whole facade more believable. What was it he had said before theyâd made their way into the restaurant? That all he had to do was pretend? Maybe it was even easier than thatâŠ
âJaskier,â he said again, finding comfort in repeating his friendâs name, âIâve known you for⊠for longer than I can remember. Youâve changed my life⊠mostly for the better.â Jaskier laughed, biting down on his bottom lip to stop himself so Geralt could talk uninterrupted. âI couldnâtâŠâ Geralt continued, â...I couldnât imagine my life without you in it. I donât want to imagine it. And, IâŠâ He swallowed, the words catching in his throat. âI love you.â
There was something like a shift in the air. The knot in Geraltâs stomach tightened, the breath fled his lungs. Jaskier, whoâs expression till this point had been politely amused, looked suddenly struck, his eyes wide.
âMarry me, Julek.â
The diminutive slipped out, almost of its own accord. Fuck. Heâd only used it a handful of times, if that - one long, drunken night back when they were students together, when Jaskierâs grandmother had died, when Ciri had first entered their lives. And now.
Jaskier stood too quickly, knocking the table, both of them attempting to grab it to stop their drinks spilling. They laughed - at each other, at everything - then Jaskier was pulling Geralt to his feet, wrapping his arms around him. Geralt could smell the sweet shampoo he favoured, feel his breath against his neck.
Finally, he released him, and when he leant back his face was nearly scarlet, his eyes shimmering.
âOf course Iâll marry you,â he said, the words sounding slightly choked. âYes!â
It wasnât until Jaskier was kissing him that Geralt remembered the decision theyâd made as they walked to the restaurant. He was expecting something short and sharp like before - a facade of a kiss, just enough to make it look real - but this was different. Jaskier lingered on his lips, his hands on Geraltâs jaw, their chests pressed together. He went no further than that, but even this soft, subdued thing was making Geraltâs stomach flip, his heart stutter.
Geralt kissed him back.
When Jaskier pulled away, his expression had shifted into something unreadable, something soft. His lips were invitingly pink.
Oh, bollocks.
All of his reason had fled, all his senses shot. He was about to say something - anything - when there was a sudden, heavy hand on his shoulder.
âIt appears that congratulations are in order, my boy.â
Jaskier, who could see over Geraltâs shoulder, suddenly froze like a deer in headlights - or like a rabbit about to be mauled by a fox.
Geralt turned, already knowing who was standing behind him.
âAlthough I think,â Vesemir continued, âyou might also have some explaining to do.â
~
Jaskier virtually fell out of the taxi, the change heâd been given grasped in one sweaty hand. Geralt followed behind him, and they weaved their way up the drive, knocking into each other.
âGeralt,â Jaskier hissed, âWeâre gonna be in so much trouble!â
Geralt was struggling to get the key in the lock. âNah,â he said, âitâs fine.â
The door swung open and they both stumbled inside, dumping coats and shoes in a heap by the door.
âHe thinks weâre getting married, Geralt!â Jaskier giggled, as he made his way into the kitchen. âMarried!â
Geralt groaned to himself as he followed Jaskier into the kitchen, reaching for the cupboard where they kept the spirits. Shit. He had no idea how he was going to fix this. It should be simple, really: just phone Vesemir in the morning and tell himâŠ
This was, he decided, a problem he could deal with in the morning. Any call he made now would only incriminate him further, all shitty excuses and Jaskierâs background giggling, and it was likely that Vesmir himself was busy regardless: the woman who heâd been dining with had seemed impatient for him to return to their table.
He poured himself a whiskey - one of the good ones that Lambert had gotten him for his birthday - as Jaskier put together a gin and tonic using the last of the bright pink gin heâd treated himself to a few weeks ago.
They headed into the living room with their respective drinks, Jaskier chatting as they went.
âGods, Geralt,â he chuckled, slumping down onto the sofa, âCan you imagine?â
Geralt peered at him. âImagine what?â
âUs getting married. What itâd be likeâŠâ Jaskier punctuated the statement with a barking laugh before taking a long swig of his gin.
âWhat would it be like?â Said Geralt, frowning.
âUhhâŠâ Jaskier tucked his legs up, twisting against the arm of the sofa so his toes were pointing towards Geralt. âWell,â he said, gesturing with the glass, âWeâd do⊠weâd do married people things!â
âLike?â
âWeâd spend all our time together!â
âWe already do that.â
âWell⊠weâd go to Tescos together. Weâd, like, shop.â
âWe do that too.â
Jaskierâs unsteady expression slipped. âOh, right,â he said, slowly. âOkay, okay: Iâd meet all your family.â
âYouâve already met my family.â
âAnd Iâd meet them again!â Jaskier gesticulated, nearly spilling the drink.
âHmm.â
âWell, weâdâŠâ Jaskier frowned to himself. âHuh. Itâd be exactly like it is now, wouldnât it?â
Geralt shrugged noncommittally, even though his mind was reeling. Jaskier was correct: despite all his fears that Jaskier wouldnât want to be with him, if they were⊠not much would truly change.
He was more casually comfortable with Jaskier than anyone else, they already spent all their time together, and Jaskier was always only half a pint or any single strong emotion away from forgetting Geraltâs unspoken rule about no touching and throwing his arms around him.
And even that rule - one that Geralt had carefully maintained for several years - was no longer as steadfast as it once was. It no longer felt strange to have Jaskierâs feet across his lap as they watched a movie, or to lean across him in their tiny kitchen, or to wrestle over the remote or the last biscuit.
Theyâd even shared a bed, for fuckâs sake, on dozens of occasions: brought about either by necessity or drunkenness or simple sleepiness making one or the other of them too lazy to retire to their own room.
No, Geralt thought. Not much would change. If they were⊠that. The casual intimacy would be more freely expressed, the touches more easily given, and that would largely be it.
Except⊠Geralt thought back to his musings of several weeks ago, that evening when Jaskier had kissed him.
âNot exactly like it is now,â he said, taking a drink and letting the whiskey sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing it.
âOh?â Jaskier edged forward. âGo on?â
âIf we were marriedâŠâ Geralt spoke slowly, the booze weighing down his lips, âweâd be fucking.â
Jaskier spluttered on his gin. When heâd regained control, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes sparkling and ears pink. He licked his lips.
âI mean,â he said, slumping against the back of the sofa and extending a single, bare foot until his toes were poking at Geraltâs thigh. He was too close, too comfortable, too soft. âIf you--â
Geralt shot up like heâd been burned, stumbling from the sofa, cutting Jaskier off mid-sentence. Whatever Jaskier was about to say, it could wait - it would have to wait.
âI should go to bed,â he said, tersely.
âBut--â
âIâve gotâŠâ Geralt steadied himself, placing the nearly full glass down on the windowsill. âCiriâs coming tomorrow,â he said, âand I need to figure out what Iâm going to tell Vesemir. I⊠I should go to bed.â
He didnât look down at Jaskier, still pressed into the corner of the sofa. He didnât want to see his expression - be it mocking or disappointed.
âRight, then.â Jaskier muttered. âGoodnight.â Geralt had nearly left the room, when he suddenly called after him. âGeralt!â
Geralt paused. âYeah?â
âYou will tell him, yeah? Tell him the truth?â
âI will.â
âPromise?â
âPromise.â
He stomped up the stairs, awaring he was making too much noise, then veered straight into his room, shutting the door behind him like there were beasts on his heels.
He threw himself onto the bed. It wasnât long before he heard Jaskier making his way upstairs too, switching off lights as he went and then, finally, retreating into his room, quietly shutting his door behind him.
Geralt suspected that he was, to put it mildly, completely fucked. Vesemir was going to be furious with him - or disappointed, which was arguably worse - but that wasnât the problem niggling at his mind, twisting his insides with a kind of panic.
All those hot little feelings, the ignored thoughts, the soft, stupid imaginings had exploded back into life. Heâd given himself a single night of indulgence before trying to push them away, and now they were back, wilder and more lurid than ever.
Weeks ago, Jaskier had kissed him, and it had been brief and sudden and over before heâd even really realised what was happening.
This evening, Jaskier had kissed him like he meant it.
And, Gods, Geralt had confessed it all too - a confession wrapped in a lie. A declaration of love packaged in an act, easily brushed away.
As far as Jaskier knew, he was just pretending. But that kiss had felt real, and Jaskierâs shocked, soft expression had seemed real too.
But heâd promised heâd tell the truth. Jaskier had insisted on it. Was it truly so bad if someone close to them thought they were together? Was Jaskier ashamed, or embarrassed?
Geralt lay on his bed fully clothed, above the covers. The room span around him. His eyes slid shut as he drifted closer to sleep - and soon all those fears were melting away and all that was left was the way Jaskier had looked at him, and the pinkness of his lips.
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Rey of the sunshine and Ben of butterflies sounds to YouTube channels
Iâll raise you this:
Rey is a botanist. Ben is a zoologist.
She posts daily vlogs of her work at Chandrila Greenhouseâfun, educational videos about plants of all kinds, their qualities and properties and how to tend to them.
He uploads videos of his work trips to nature reserves and animal sanctuaries all over the world, raising awareness for endangered species and the damage of the human footprint in the animalsâ natural habitat.
One day, Rose sends Rey one of Benâs videosâa particularly charming one of him at a butterfly sanctuary in Australia, and Rey is immediately smitten, giggling at the way this oversized beanpole of a man is covered head to toe in colourful butterflies and smiling about it. She subscribes immediately and becomes a faithful viewer.
A month later, one of Reyâs videos goes viral and itâs Benâs turn to take notice of the energetic brunette who seems more passionate about cacti than most people about anything else. He follows her back.
And then one day, quite serendipitouslyâthey meet.