Witcher Bingo

“If you ever got the chance to go back and re-do something - anything, at any point in your life, what would it be?”

Ever since you’d walked out of the musky tent belonging to the town oracle, now many hours behind you, that old haggard woman who actually meant no harm to anyone despite what the alderman said, your mind had been turning over all of the possibilities and what-could-have-been had you made a single decision differently at any point in your life.

The silence you left in the wake of your sudden question was thick and murky, your companions hesitantly testing the waters and slowly heading down the same path you had trodden several hours before.

Jaskier, sat by your side against a fallen tree trunk, leaning into you, placing his head on your shoulder. You smiled softly as he took one of your hands and started playing with your fingers. You knew where his path was taking him.

Geralt was a more difficult read, however. You were not entirely sure he had heard you, despite his enhanced witchery hearing as his expression had not changed. He remained as stoic as ever; perhaps he did not like to entertain such possibilities of the unknown having lived for so long already.

“Ciri should be here by now,” is all Geralt says, barely audible, voice practically carried away by the breeze, blanketed by the rustle of leaves.

“Ciri will be fine, she probably had to take a different route across the river,” you offer, knowing where Geralt’s worry stems from. Having a child in your party does weird things to you, like activating this strange need to protect her at all costs. A parental instinct you didn’t know you had in you until now.

You strain your senses for any sign of the girl with the flaxen hair but come up short. Jaskier’s weight against you keeps you from getting up and pacing in circles; he is the anchor to your ship being tossed about on a stormy sea, mooring you in the present, where you should be, without letting you stray too far in any other direction. You sigh and relax into him as you wait.

Jaskier presses a kiss to your shoulder and sits up as you soon hear the beat of hooves through the trees.

All of a sudden, she is with you. Ciri arrives at the camp on her horse, barely able to hold onto the reins. Her horse, you note, won’t stay still, even as its rider tries to dismount.

“Geralt, they’re coming,” she says, a whisper that is loud throughout the clearing, holding such a weight that even the hush-hush of the leaves is silenced.

Geralt does not have time to reply before she falls off her horse, her foot becoming stuck in the stirrup. You rush to help her, Geralt too, abandoning Jaskier at the log. He lifts her body as you free her foot and then sets her down where he had previously been sitting.

Jaskier appears at your side with the bag you keep a stash of bandages in, along with all sorts of herbs and ingredients for healing potions and poultices. You mutter thanks, your mind now on your patient, and dig in for a length of fabric.

Upon closer inspection she has a wound on her side - it looks like she had a narrow escape from an arrow, a crossbow bolt by the width and depth of it, her flesh too clean-cut for a run -of-the-mill military arrow. The cut is superficial but judging the state of her, she has lost a lot of blood. If the stain on her breeches is anything to go by, it’s not that fresh either.

“Ciri,” you call to her as her eyelids flutter, “try to stay awake for me please.”

Ciri groans and you apply more pressure to her wound but she does as you ask.

“What did you mean, ‘they are coming?’ Who is coming?”

You snatch a bottle of alcohol from Jaskier’s hand and pour a good dose of it on her wound. (He goes for an affronted look but the injured girl before him is much more concerning than stolen drink.)

Ciri does not cry out, clenches her jaw. “Nilfgaard.”

It is all she needs to say before Geralt is putting out the fire, collecting bags and belongings and tying them to horses. You hear him mutter something about the whereabouts of the vampire and the archer, but you know the other members of your hansa know what they are doing. It is your group that needs to pick up the pace.

“Geralt, she will have to ride with you. She cannot ride alone, not in this state.” You tie off the fresh bandage you’d wrapped around her. She now had more colour in her cheeks than before and you were confident she would pull through. She just needed some adult supervision for the ride ahead.

“Fine,” Geralt says, already gathering Kelpie’s reins and tying them to Roach’s.

He helps Ciri onto his mare and you go to your own horse, already being led by Jaskier. A quick glance tells you all your bags are secure on the saddle and another feeling is added to this whirlwind of an evening. You cannot immediately identify it.

The sight of him steadies you and soon enough you are following Geralt and Ciri away from what had promised to be a restful night.

The wind is in your hair, whistling in your ears and Jaskier’s arms are secure around your middle. You feel him lean forward slightly, enough to speak into your ear so his words do not get stolen, whisked away and left behind you.

Cash was flowing as bets were being placed; the stakes on this fight were extraordinarily high. No one had seen a witcher fight before, let alone without his fabled sword, and some had not even seen a witcher before. But two witchers? It was unheard of that two witchers would even be in the same town they were so few and far between. Two witchers meant that it would be a good fight.

He had seen the names of the combatants as he had descended the stairs to this fetid hideaway in a basement of a rich lord to whom he had no intention of introducing himself. The White Wolf and Lambchop. He hoped they were indicators of their personality or their physique because he would be sorely disappointed if nothing about those pseudonyms rang true.

The clock strikes midnight, halting his musings. Silence descends. Jaskier imagines he can hear the candles on the walls flickering and whispering to him.

The wooden stairs creak as the witchers trudge downwards, each heavy step holding the crowd rapt. The sea of people part, allowing them into the centre of the room, into the ring where their fates shall be decided and allowing Jaskier a good look at the men before him.

He had seen a witcher before of course, as a child, but these witchers held nothing on that old man.

The owner introduced them to the crowd, but Jaskier was hardly listening. His attention was focused on the white-haired witcher. The way his muscles flexed when he moved with ease, stretching and contracting with each rippling movement. His eyes trailed down the scar-decorated arms of this man to the bandaged hands, fingers wrapped securely against any damage that may occur.

Then, someone shouted ‘Fight,’ the host was out of the ring quicker than a blink of an eye and they were circling each other like animals. Waiting to pounce; waiting and watching for the other to make the first move.

Lambchop makes the first move, testing the waters with a false jab, but it’s The White Wolf who gives the final blow, sending his opponent sprawling on the floor.

The crowd roars when the man on the floor concedes the point. The White Wolf smirks but other than that does not acknowledge the crowd.

They continue like this, taking turns in knocking each other to the floor, finding more creative ways each time. The crowd is going wild enjoying this show they are putting on, enjoying spending their money on the one they think will win, and Jaskier is jostled to and fro whilst he silently roots for the man with the white hair.

Only when the fight is over, the white wolf the champion, hand held high by their host, does Jaskier cheer. He cannot tear his eyes from this man. He feels drawn to him like he is fish caught on a line and is being pulled to the surface and towards his fate.

Like he can feel the weight of it, the witcher meets his gaze. Jaskier can feel the oppressive heat of the room and senses the sudden disappearance of the audience but he cannot look away. Those amber eyes are mesmerising. Jaskier knows then that he won’t be able to sleep easily until he has known the White Wolf; known the shape of his thoughts and the feel of his name on his tongue.

The wolf winks, Jaskier flushes and looks down at his restless fingers, breaking the connection but momentarily. The multitudes of the town are still there, still cheering, collecting their winnings. Upon looking up again, he finds the man in front of him, crowding his personal space. The aroma of his sweat and exertion has Jaskier salivating - his ears burn as he tries to control himself (how mortifying!).

“Come with me,” he says into Jaskier’s ear, wanting to be heard above the crowd. It is husky and entirely how Jaskier imagined his voice would sound. It sends shivers down his spine, an uncontrollable reaction to what the poets would call attraction. This realisation has him grinning in anticipation; this was not entirely how he intended to spend the evening, but is much better than returning to a cold bed.

Geralt’s hand is warm and solid in his as he pulls Jaskier back up the stairs, past Lambert talking to the host. He misses the knowing look Geralt receives from his brother, the grin egging him on to take his prize.

As soon as she found him, his back to the door as he stood at the table, the first words out of her mouth were, “Jaskier, put that down.”

He immediately let something fall to the table: glass, by the tinkling sound of it and turned round with a guilty smile on his face. “Yennefer. How good to see you. Shouldn’t you be elsewhere? Helping those in need?”

Despite her concern Jaskier had consumed something he shouldn’t have from the table, she cannot help but smile softly at his selflessness. Even when he is hurting, even when he is down, he will always put others first. Something she has come to admire over the years she has known him.

Yennefer approaches the table without saying a word, searching for an empty bottle. Hopefully, it was something harmless - not that she would keep anything deadly lying around for sleep-deprived bards to consume on the off-chance it contained decent liquor.

She picks up one lying on its side, a green label decorated with a series of runes. “Was it this one?”

“Maybe,” he squeaks, looking down at his hands with growing horror. Yennefer looks too and sees that they are shrinking. She knows what he has drunk, and a part of her--the older part that still resents him for occupying most of Geralt’s attention with his youthful naïveté--is delighting at what is happening before her very eyes. She is tempted to tell him what he is going to go through - he is not as resilient as he looks but she finds she cannot speak, only watches as his body continues to morph and the clothes he is wearing drape on his frame, now much more petite than he used to be.

“I’m turning into you,” he gasps, gingerly feeling his newly transformed face, as it finally clicks. “It’s like a horrible dream, but I’m not dreaming am I? I’m not drunk enough.”

Yennefer shakes her head, admiring, not so subtly, how she looks dressed in his clothes. Jaskier notices and realises he needs to hitch his trousers up before they fall too low.

“Don’t worry, it’ll wear off by tomorrow,” she says, trying to reassure him even though by the new look of wonder in his eyes, she isn’t sure he is the one that needs reassurance.

Jaskier laughs. It sounds like her, but the mannerisms are all his. “Look at us,” he grins, “we’re Geralt’s wet dream.”

“Jaskier, you wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would,” he smirks now, hands wandering to his chest. “Why can’t we have a little fun and lighten the mood? Besides, Geralt will love it.”

“Geralt has enough to deal with right now; we can’t have him see you like this.” She goes to grab his hand to stop him from leaving but he flinches away. “At least let me heal your burns while you’re here. They’ve waited long enough.”

Jaskier starts to protest but soon relents, letting out a heavy sigh when she gives him a pointed look. He goes to sit on the table, frowning when he finds he cannot do it with ease and has to pull himself up, feet no longer touching the floor.

This time when she takes his hand, he does not flinch. He barely moves a muscle. She turns his - her - hand over gently, not wanting to cause him any more pain; the wounds are starting to blister in places, broken skin an angry weeping red. It doesn’t take much to heal him, the burns are small and not as bad as they could’ve been given his circumstances but she cannot fix the resulting scarring.

His sigh of relief as the pain fades is worth it.

His eyes dart over her face and she lets him sort through his words. “Well, um, thanks- thank you for that. But now back to business!” he claps in excitement and jumps off the table and is out of the door before she has a chance to register what just happened.

Cautiously, reluctantly, she follows. She doesn’t want to alarm any already on-edge witchers.

“Geralt!” she hears herself call from further down the corridor.

“Yen?” Geralt appears from a room in front of her; he looks one way, then the next, trying to wrap his mind around what he is seeing, eyebrows furrowing into a frown. Jaskier stops and turns with the sunniest grin she has seen since he arrived here at Kaer Morhen.

Yennefer rushes to Geralt and in a few short steps she is ready to say whatever it takes to quell the anger he will surely have at the situation.

“Did you do this?” he hisses when she is in front of him.

This stumps her, all answers and placations vanishing in the blink of an eye. Sure, she has made her dislike of the bard known in the past, but the past is the past and she has moved on. “No,” is all she can say, hoping Geralt remembers what Jaskier is like when idle.

Geralt laughs. Jaskier has now retraced his steps, his smile fading slightly, confusion written in his eyes as they dart between Yennefer and Geralt. A laughing Geralt is a rare occurrence.

“I never thought I’d see the day when there would be two Yennefers. This is like a horrible dream.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier practically purrs, his confidence returning, silky smooth voice sending a shiver down Yennefer’s spine. She has to fight against smacking him across the face. “We can make it worthwhile if you let us.”

Geralt snakes his arms around Jaskier’s waist - a familiar motion - and gestures for Yennefer to come closer as well. “If I wanted an easy fuck,” he says softly, “I’d have gone to a whorehouse. But if you’re offering, who am I to refuse?”

Previous events forgotten, he pulls them into the room he emerged from, dragging them with him. He’d found two beds and pushed them together; if Jaskier notices he doesn’t say anything, but Yennefer does and she rolls her eyes fondly--it’s like he knew.

Having known Geralt and his bard for a while now, she still finds them an unlikely duo: Jaskier is the epitome of what it means to lead a mortal life—he is full of energy and bursting with feeling, incredibly expressive in his gestures and behaviours, and holds himself like he owns the world. He might as well, she thinks without malice, humans have that tendency to dominate their environment; they breed like rabbits and have the lifespan of a mayfly and yet you cannot turn a corner without running into one.

Even the clothes he wore on his back speak of his humanity. They are bright, bold, and fashionable. They are well cared for. Yennefer cannot imagine how he manages it without magic whilst being on the road with Geralt of all people, who wouldn't know one end of a needle from the other. If she believed people had auras, Jaskier's would be the warmest mixture of reds and oranges but that could just be the fire he's sitting in front of messing with her.

Geralt, on the other hand, radiates reserved energy. He sits there and listens to his companion's ramblings whilst staring into the fire, expressionless except for an eye roll here or there. All his movements are calculated and alert, constantly wary of the dangers the world has to offer after having lived in it for so long. Longer than her, she thinks ruefully, and there are students at Aretuza that could not fathom the longevity of life such as theirs.

His hair is tied back, out of his way, and his blades are ever-present at his side. The man complains of the aches in his joints yet he refuses to put away the life he leads. He is stuck in his ways and too stubborn to consider change. If he wasn't followed around by a bard, having begrudgingly accepted the company, and later friendship, he'd always have his swords. And Roach.

Roach grazes a short way behind her rider, snorting softly and shaking her head in Yennefer's direction. Geralt doesn't turn around but she faintly hears him hum in agreement. His hand goes to the medallion hanging from his neck. Jaskier pauses his monologue or his artistic endeavours—his lute is set to the side, his notebook is in hand—and tilts his head in query, asking Geralt if danger is near with a single look.

Geralt shakes his head negative. He then calls out, "Yen, stop hiding in the shadows, it is unbecoming."

Jaskier perks up, eager for someone else to talk to, even if most of it would become childish insults bantered back and forth.

"Yennefer is here? That witch. I knew she'd show her face soon, she just can't keep away from my charms."

(Geralt rolls his eyes. When will she learn that her perfume will always give her away?)

Amusement simmers in her heart and she finds she has missed these men, as different as they are, and smiles to herself as she steps into the light, preparing to fire a quip right back at the bard who was glancing around hoping to spot her when Geralt already holds her gaze.

You hugged back just as fervently, not wanting to face what lay ahead of you.

Someone cleared their throat somewhere behind you and Jaskier’s head left yours to see who demanded attention. “We’ll be there in a minute, Geralt,” he said.

His voice vibrated in his chest pleasantly, a small rumble of life that you knew could become thunder when he took to the stage.

Geralt’s footsteps receded and you squeezed your eyes shut hoping to prolong this moment for as long as possible. If you had a way of imprinting his touch onto your skin, you would, for you knew there would come times when it wouldn’t be so easy to ask for his affection. You would enjoy it while it lasted.

He returned his attention to the embrace that had kept you like this for the past couple of minutes. You felt him press a soft, barely there, kiss to your crown and sigh.

“Come on, dear heart, let’s go down and show our faces. Have a good time.”

You pull back slightly, reluctantly, and look up at him with what you hope are your best puppy dog eyes. “Do I have to?”

He chuckles, you can feel it despite the margin between you and his fingers fidget with the ties of your bodice at your back. He is just as nervous as you.

“I promise to save you a dance.”

Now it is your turn to laugh, knowing he’ll be performing for most of the party.

You help up your hand in front of you, little finger extended, “Pinky promise?”

Jaskier grins, letting go of you and you feel the absence of his warmth keenly even as he links his finger around yours and agrees, swearing a pinky promise.

Something flashes across his eyes and he suddenly dips his head and kisses your linked fingers, sealing the deal. You can’t help your grin and the fluttering of your heart cannot be tamed.

“Come, let’s go.” He grabs his lute and then your hand and leads you out the door.

You did not want to go to this party, knowing there be people of much higher standing than you and you weren’t immune to hearing them gossip behind your back, obnoxiously within earshot, but as you walked down the stairs, Jaskier’s hand warm in yours, you figured you could survive it. Geralt would be there too, it would be okay…

He couldn’t sit still. He wanted to scratch his skin off and scrub it all away but there was nothing he could do, not even chase after you. He had tried, but you had your way. You were accustomed to running and hiding and he was not.

He thinks that is why you were so upset in the first place. You were not the first pretty woman he had met on his travels, had taken to bed; had whispered sweet sugary nothings to in the heat of passion. You would not be the last.

But there would be moments when he would find himself thinking of you, of what you were doing at that very second. Not what you were wearing and how your stays would accentuate your enticing bosom, but how your eyebrows would draw together as a frown formed in concentration as your deft fingers slipped the needle and thread through the soft fabric you were working with.

He would find himself thinking of your small rooms on the edge of town, rented by an elderly couple who had lost their children to the war effort.  He could go there and wait until you returned (he doubted you would head there straight away), surprise you and then apologise.

He tapped his manicured nails on the table in thought. It was the only movement he made yet all of his muscles were on fire, begging him to do something, to move. He started to pace. The barkeep gave him a concerned look that went unnoticed.

The issue was this: this town had nothing left for him (except you) and he had to move on, find somewhere fresh and exciting with tales to tell and inspiration and muses aplenty (without you). He would find his fame, earn the recognition he deserves, and return. Then you would fall into his arms and he could take you with him wherever he went because he would have the means to accommodate someone who, in such a short time, had captured a rather large piece of his heart.

Not that he would admit it. He would rather let the angry wasps win out when it came to these feelings, but their buzzing was persistent and he couldn’t ignore them forever.

“Just go after her, son. I can see she means a lot to you. Something like that shouldn’t be lost.”

Barkeeps are full of wisdom when you least expect it, when they would normally roll their eyes and move on to serving the next man; when they should really be preparing for the evening ahead. This one gives Jaskier an encouraging smile and made a shooing motion to the door.

Fine, he thought, I’ll get gone. Doesn’t mean I will take your advice.

He does, in fact, take the old man’s advice.

He heads to your lodgings, hoping against any rational hope that you would be home.

You are not. He tries not to show his disappointment too much and declines when your landlady offers him some tea. She says you left in a hurry not too long ago. She says you packed up all your belongings (not that there were many) and headed out after paying what you owed.

He knew you were on the run from something or someone, or maybe even just destiny itself, but you had never told him anything about it, had never given him any clue as to why. Your background was a mystery and how you were able to blend into the shadows so well bewildered him. He was a man of the spotlight, and anything illuminated by a light had to have a shadow…

Please.

You had been in this town longer than he had, so why had you decided to leave now? Why not earlier? He couldn’t wrap his head around it. Were you a dangerous criminal?

He shoulders his lute and picks up his other belongings, leaving his room at the inn behind and continues on the road to the next village or town. He hopes maybe he will find you there; there is no point in running after you, he will only tire himself out. If Destiny is kind to him then the two of you will cross paths again, no doubt about it, and when it happens he won’t let you go so easily.

Jaskier ends up in Posada where he meets Geralt, the witcher with the white hair, and they travel to the edge of the world to fight the devil. He can’t stop thinking about you when he is tied and bound, back leaning against Geralt’s as an elf with a temper smashes his lute to smithereens. He can’t help but think of you when he walks out of there with only minor injuries and a shiny new lute.

He can’t help but tell Geralt about you on their walk back. Maybe he is high on the thrill of escaping with his life, maybe he just can’t keep quiet any longer.

Geralt surprises him. He says he knows you but refuses to give any details other than if he sees you again he may have to kill you on sight. This information knocks the words from Jaskier’s tongue and he can’t think straight. As he walks next to Geralt’s horse, he feels the bees returning, buzzing and blocking any logical thought.

But to him, you are anything but logical. Logic does not concern feelings and he is certain now that what he feels for you is bordering on ardour. He becomes more sure the longer he travels with Geralt. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say. (That doesn’t mean he abstained from the pleasure of other woman.)

He doesn’t mention you to Geralt again; he doesn’t want to know what went on between you. He continues moving forward, following Destiny, hoping she will lead him to you.

~

He doesn’t know that as he travels, so do his songs. His time with the witcher has listeners transfixed, so eventually, you hear an off-key version of his adventure at the edge of the world. You roll your eyes at the bard’s attempt to keep the bar’s attention and finish your drink.

It sounded like Jaskier had finally found his fame. You hoped he had a pretty body warming his bed when he returned because the dream he proposed to you on that last day had sounded like was asking you to live imprisoned for the rest of your life.

The open road called. Free of obligation and commitment and creed, the trees were more your friend than any human had been. Jaskier had come close, as a lover, and you despised him for it. The way he had weaselled into your thoughts of every waking minute made you want to slap him around his pretty face and then drop-kick him all the way to Nilfgaard. You hoped he had a warm bed and you hoped you never saw him again.

In part, the latter was purely because, from the sound of his song, he now travelled with a witcher.

A brother.

One that would surely not be happy to see you after the stunt you pulled at the keep. A single act of rebellion and you were a wolf no more.

All you could do was thank the stars that you did not have the defining characteristics of a witcher. They all refused to believe it, but female witchers did exist, and have existed for generations--as long as there were orphans to be taken, your kind has existed. (The only difference being you aged as a normal person would, thankfully. Spending more time on this earth than necessary was not on your bucket list.)

You hoped Geralt had told Jaskier all about you and that if your paths ever crossed again, he would look at you with a repulsion you only get from those who once knew you well. You were a betrayer, after all.

You left the tavern and the copycat bard and the town behind you, hoping to leave the past too, and the following day, a new place came into view. Maybe you could stay a while. Find work as a seamstress as you did before. The possibilities were endless.

Please, stay with me.

The possibilities, of course, included recognising a certain chestnut mare in the stables and not being able to get out of there fast enough.

A sword is pressed against your throat and you draw your own, hidden beneath your cloak. Like recognises like and you grin as you take in the smell of horse and leather and something purely mutant.

It is easy to fight a witcher when you know their training, how they wield their sword. The dance that follows the two of you is worthy of being on a stage. Your movements are lightning fast, and to an observer, it would not be clear who had the upper hand. Parry, pirouette; thrust and feint--your muscles remember more than you do.

“Geralt, where have you been, the alderman is asking after you and I can’t keep stalling.”

The familiar voice has you hesitating for less than a second but it is enough for your opponent to bring you to the ground with a blow from the flat of his blade. Your own flies out of your grip as you fall.

Faintly, you hear him tut, “You’re out of practice.”

You land with a grunt but are up again in a flash, not wanting to feel the sharp point pressed into your back. You concede with raised palms, unable to look him in the eyes.

“When I’m done here, we need to talk. So stay. I trust you still have enough honour for a conversation?”

You nod your assent, trying to push away the faint glimmer of hope that this is the start of the path to reconciliation. Geralt walks away to sort out the business he has with the alderman.

You turn to pick up your sword and when you see Jaskier again he looks older and wiser even though it has not been that long. You want to flee and you want to throw yourself into his arms and never let go but it is like an itch you cannot scratch. It crawls over your skin and you stand there, paralyzed, staring at him.

Jaskier is smiling at you though, a smile that could melt the ice off the mountain caps. “I knew I’d see you again.”

Suddenly you are free again, but your mind is lost, gone astray in the confusing maze of feelings that should not exist. “What?”

If he notices your speechlessness, he doesn’t comment because he is happy to clarify, to keep speaking if it is to you. “I knew I’d see you again. When you left I had this feeling in my gut that Destiny would cross out paths again-”

“Fuck Destiny,” you interrupt, already tired of what could possibly be a long ramble about an event you didn’t want to dwell on. “Where’s the wine in this place?”

“Oh, this way,” he says, and leads you to a tavern on the main thoroughfare. It is big and more importantly, mostly empty of patrons. Jaskier is uncharacteristically quiet after your interruption and you have half a mind to apologise, knowing you were rude, but once you catch him staring at you with wide, puppy-dog eyes over the rim of his mug, you decide to save it for later. If there is one.

Your drink is refreshing and you are almost finished as Geralt walks out of a back room followed by a short fat man who is unhappy with how things proceeded. He heads to the bar for a drink while Geralt heads directly to your table.

~

Jaskier watches as Geralt has his promised conversation with you. It is possibly the first time the witcher has said more than one sentence in his presence. He doesn’t have the entire context to understand all that is being said but it does allow him to connect the dots.

He would never have guessed the first time he met you that you were a witcher. The way you moved, your presence and the way you held yourself all pointed towards a normal woman. But back then, he had never met a witcher before and had only heard about them in stories.

He would never have guessed that you had a history with Geralt or vice versa as the temperaments each of you held were considerably different. But perhaps, that is why he would not have figured it out until the answer was placed directly in front of him. Just like a glass of wine, fresh from the bottle, surreptitiously slid across the table.

“This round is on me,” you say, and he smiles, uttering small gratitude. He is still not sure where he stands with you but your shoulders are not as stiff as when he first saw you, so he hopes that is a good sign. He hopes it is not just the wine.

He tunes back into the conversation of his table companions and finds that you have moved on to reminiscing, and catching up. He is, at one point, asked what he got up to and the places he visited after you went your separate ways. It is good to be back in the group instead of side-lined like an unruly child who doesn’t understand what the grown-ups are talking about.

Jaskier talks about his travels before he met Geralt, and enjoys the audience willing to listen to him telling his story. His skin tingles as he twists and turns his narrative, staying true to the path whilst omitting the nasty lows of solitary exploration and embellishing the parts where he found himself putting the past behind him and thrilling in the delight of other people--be it performing for them, sleeping with them, or running away from them, he found he was able to follow his own whims instead of allowing Destiny to dictate his every action. He had found his freedom, and with it, his future.

He listens to the tales of when you and Geralt were younger--Geralt a young man, you a child--with glee, wishing he had his notebook to record all this new information coming to light. Maybe he would write a ballad or several stanzas of poetry to spite Geralt for not sharing them earlier. Oh, the tales he could weave of heroes saving young princesses from monsters, human or animal, it wouldn’t matter! So much creative material was shared at the table that he feels lightheaded and giddy and hasn’t even had that much to drink.

Coming back together again is easy after that. It is easy to invite you to share his room after you confess to not having one for the night. The familiarity of the situation has him falling back into old habits, effortlessly dancing around each other as you both ready for bed.

Surprisingly, for him, he doesn’t make any advances, out of respect and a newfound admiration for someone who had the skillset to quickly kill him in his sleep. He pulls the covers over the both of you, tempted to put an arm around you and pull you close to keep you from disappearing again.

Instead:

“Will you stay?”

(He is almost hesitant to ask but cannot help himself all the same.)

You hum, contemplating the words already on your tongue, “I’ll stay.”

He takes in your features, eyes lingering, and he wishes he could tell you about his day before the new one starts. He doesn’t mind. There will be time; time enough even if he has to make it, and this he doesn’t mind either, not when you look like an angel before him.

His heart aches for the love he has for you. It is an ache that with all his eloquence as a wordsmith he cannot express. He will try; one day he will succeed.

He kisses one eyelid, then the other. If he could kiss every single lash that swept down across your cheekbones, he would. He kisses your cheeks, one after the other, methodically, so unlike a poet. He moves inwards to the centre of your face to your nose, kisses the tip. It can be so expressive, even without you realising it: cherry-red when you walk into the tavern from a cold winter’s day; flattened slightly when your nostrils flare (he doesn’t like to see you angry, will prevent it when he can, but sometimes it is inevitable) at the drunken villager forcing himself upon anyone with breasts. But while you sleep next to him, calm, peaceful, he likes it best of all because it sits beautifully above your lips plush and slightly parted. He goes to kiss them, then rethinks and plants a delicate kiss in the corner.

He will savour the taste of your lips when you wake, when you can smile into the kiss and whisper him a good morning. He will savour it before the weight of the world resettles on your shoulders and you force yourself to start your day. He will savour the feel of them on his forehead when you kiss him before you leave for the day, lingering. He will savour your reluctance to leave him when he too has a day to be getting on with.

He will savour your sweet smile, so tender and only for him, before you return at the end of the day when light is waning, with barely any energy to keep your eyes open let alone engage him in conversation. He will open his arms and gently coax you into letting yourself rest your weight against him (he will be strong when you cannot). He will hum something soft, something he intends to turn into a proper lullaby one day but at this very moment it is only for you.

He will be there when the days become longer and the changing of seasons will hopefully release some of the dark cloud that lingers above you, only felt by yourself, but he knows it is there. He will find that there are days when the cloud is nowhere in sight, the sky is clear and the sun has already risen above the horizon and you are awake before him, peppering kisses to his face. Maybe not to wake him, maybe to just adore him, explore him, like he does now with you. He will hope he can be the recipient of your smile more often in those warmer months (your nose will do this cute little scrunch that he so adores) and he will savour your energy, enthusiasm, your vitality in hopes he can return it all to you, neatly wrapped, when the days darken again.

And he hopes, beyond a doubt, that if Destiny and Fate are in his favour, he hopes he’ll be able to be there to catch you and your smiles and your aches after the long days for many more to come.

Geralt wasn’t actually paying attention to the motorcycles as they parked outside the shopping centre. It wasn’t until Cirilla pulled his arm and pointed to them. He looked on in vague interest, scanning them as they all got off their bikes one at a time. Like dominos.

Until his eyes landed on the last person. There was nothing inherently special about the person, except for how out of place they looked. Everyone else was laughing and hanging off each other but that person – that man, Geralt discovered when he removed his helmet – was quiet and looked detached from the group.

Geralt was actually surprised to find that he was the leader, as all the men and women waited until he had passed before following him into the store. Not to mention, that while everyone else had embellishments and spots of colour on their bikes and clothes, the man’s clothes were a plain maroon leather and an equally plain black bike.

Right as he passed Geralt, their eyes met. It wasn’t anything special, but Geralt still felt a tingle down his spine at being noticed.

They held each other’s gaze until the man was gone into the store.

“Do you think they’re bad news?” Ciri asked, snapping Geralt out of what ever daze he had been in.

“Probably not, just because they look bad doesn’t mean that they are,” Geralt answered, placing the rest of their shopping bags into the car.

“I hope that they are, then something will finally happen in this town,” she muttered stepping away from where she was leaning against the trunk. “Maybe they’ll even let me join them. Do you think I’ll look good in a leather jacket?”

“Over my dead, burnt body, Ciri,” Geralt shut that idea down. He knew that once she got too excited about it, he’ll end up spending half his pay check on leather jackets and the other half on a motorcycle. And he was already busy paying for the fencing lessons she took interest in a few months prior.

“No need to take it that far,” she huffed.

Geralt rolled his eyes, “just get into the car.”

Ciri pouted but did as she was told. Her being gone gave Geralt a few minutes to process what had happened earlier. Geralt never stared, not if he didn’t have to, but there was something about that man.

Mandalorian Bingo

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Filia waved at you, movements exuberant as your own mood gradually deteriorated. Why had she chosen the middle row? You pushed past your peers, a grimace firmly etched onto your face as you murmured Sorry repeatedly. This was mortifying. Dumping your stuff down onto the table, you dropped into your seat. The pile of books in front of you was looking like a great place to bury your head in at this point.

“Isn’t this so exciting!?” She started off whispering, voice too eager to be kept quiet for long.

You frowned. “What is?”

“We’ve got a guest lecturer today.”

You peered over the pile of your stuff at the man, who was wearing a pressed silk doublet and had a very nice lute slung over his shoulder. You wrinkled your nose. “Another man? And looks like he comes from nobility as well.”

“It’s better than Schneider droning on about iambic pentameter and rhyming couplets again.”

You swept off the books into your bag, clearing the desk to leave room for your writing utensils. If the speaker actually made any points of use you wanted to note them down. “Yes, well anything is better than that.”

The lecture was surprisingly good; the man clearly knew his stuff, and had an attitude – you hesitated to call it arrogance but that did seem to fit best – that added an element of humour to the otherwise dry technicalities. And it was nice to have a younger lecturer for once. Schneider must have been reaching seventy or so years at least.

“Oh, wasn’t he dreamy.” Filia mock-swooned, pressing a hand to her forehead. You shook your head, continuing to pack your bag as a small smile played at your lips. His looks had played a small part in your enrapturement, but you preferred to say it was because of the quality of the lecture.

“Mhm,” you slung your bag onto your shoulder, “do you mind holding back for a moment? I have a question I wanted to ask.”

The man looked up as you descended the stairs towards him, boots a little too clunky for the narrow steps so you gripped the hand rail tightly. He broke away from Geert and Schneider, the latter of which continued talking without really noticing his disappearance.

“We really enjoyed the talk,” Filia gushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in that way you knew all too well from drunken nights out where she was soon surrounded by adoring fans.

He raised an eyebrow, gaze drifting over to you in a way that made heat crawl up the back of your neck. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“I… I had a question, sir.” You clutched your bag a little closer to your chest, unnerved by the butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

“Oh, please, not sir, call me Jaskier.” Jaskier. Oh and of course he had to go have a name that you could imagine moaning. No. These were bad thoughts. Heat crept up the back of your neck. “And you are?”

You frowned slightly, mind still very much focused on his name. Oh. Fuck. You blurted out your name, eyes widening at your too loud voice.

Jaskier took a step closer, eyes afire with something you didn’t quite recognise. “Go on then, what’s your question?”

You gulped, mind wiping blank before you steeled yourself against whatever this infatuation was. “You mentioned the importance of sound within poetry, the use of sibilance, plosives, to drive dramatic effect. On the flipside, do you think that these could be used to create almost an irony within the poem?”

He tilted his head. “That’s an interesting question. Is this irony for the purpose of humour? Or more to jar the audience?”

“Oh, um, either I guess.” You scratched the back of your neck, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You hadn’t been expecting to be probed on the exact meaning of your question; wasn’t he meant to be the one answering them?

“Well, I think it would work well for creating tension by unsettling or offsetting the tone – I’m not sure about humour. How about I get back to you on that?”

“Yeah, sure, that sounds good.” You tripped over your words as he maintained that deep eye contact, brain suddenly melting to thick slush. This was embarrassing.

Filia tugged you out of the room, your feet having lost the ability to move of their own volition, and you sighed at the smug grin on her face. She spun on you as soon as the door slammed shut behind you.

“You two seemed very friendly.”

You frowned. “He was just being professional.”

“The look he was giving you was anything butprofessional.”

:.

The pages were smooth under your fingers, a simple pleasure in the torture of writing yet another essay. Sometimes you wondered if you’d ever actually get on to writing poetry, instead of just analysing it. Schneider was very much a by-the-book professor.

You skim read the page, eyes flitting over the words as you sought out anything to do with ‘metre’ or ‘pace’ or ‘rhythm’. But yet again it was useless. More of the same old drivel that really told you nothing. You thumped the book shut, dust particles flying into the air, and you sneezed.

A harsh shh came from the librarian’s desk and you winced.

Grabbing the next heavy tome from your pile, you placed this one down a little more gently. Your finger trailed along the contents page, scanning the chapter headings for something a little more insightful into the “importance of metre”. Anything other than how it characterises a poem’s mood would be helpful really.

Cough. You ignored the gentle noise, huffing frustratedly as this book yielded nothing. By this rate, you were going to have read half of the books in the library and still not finished your essay.

Cough. The cough was louder this time, more insistent and purposeful. You glanced up, perfectly ready to berate whoever had decided to interrupt your studying.

He made eye contact with you, smirking. Oh Melitele, smirking. Your mouth stayed open, words caught in the back of your throat.

“Need any help?” Jaskier slipped into the seat next to you, somehow aware that you weren’t going to be the first one to say something. Well, it wasn’t that surprising; you had just stared at him like a brainless goldfish for about half a minute.

You hesitated, umming and ahhing a little as your gaze flitted between your book pile. You really ought to do this one by yourself, but when he was practically offering you a good grade, it would be self-sabotage not to accept.

Deciding on just redirecting the topic, you settled on an easy question. “What’s a guest professor like you doing in the student library this late?”

He sighed wistfully, gazing out of the large glass windows at the stars shimmering in the night sky.

“Reminiscing about the god-awful hours I spent in here over essays that took far too long.” His gaze sharpened. “Which reminds me, did you want some help?”

You pursed your lips, before groaning in resignation. “Yeah, these books are useless.”

He chuckled, sidling a little closer so your shoulders were brushing. You froze, mentally berating yourself and desperately hoping he hadn’t noticed.

“Mhm, I felt the exact same thing when I was in your place.” He was close enough that you could feel his breath fanning against your cheek and the warmth of a body just a little too far away. “They’re all far too old and stuck in the past. We need to forget tradition. Forget all the rules. Switch it up!”

He had summarised very succinctly what every single one of your frustrations with this essay boiled down to.

You grinned. “I swear some of these were written when you must’ve been a student.”

Jaskier gasped, looking very much like you had just slapped him with a rotten fish. He stuttered, utter horror destroying his ability to speak. “Exactly how old do you think I am?”

“Oh, well, ancient.”

He scoffed, outrage soon dissipating into chuckles as you grinned at him. You really hoped that this sick soppy feeling wasn’t translating onto your features.

“So…” You paused, glancing back down at your unblemished parchment. “What do I do?”

Jaskier’s blue eyes met yours, so unforgettably and unabashedly close. Your breath stuttered in your throat.

“Make your own tradition.”

:.

Pelagius whooped loudly, clanking his tankard against yours and spilling ale everywhere as the rest of the group burst into laughter. You’d all come for your morning pick me up, a half pint of ale (or pint if it was a really tough day) but as a rule you tended to avoid any more just to be able to get through your lectures.

You groaned. “Pel, it’s only the morning, why are you already pissed?”

“Hair of the dog? It is your fault.” He shook his pint at you, more droplets splattering the table, and you winced. Alright, you also had a dire headache and were desperate for a little more sleep, but you weren’t quite at the point of drowning your stress in ale.

Filia cackled at the two of you, smug grin twitching at her lips as you wrinkled your nose. She had been the one egging you on last night, and seemed right as rain. Back to her usual chipper self.

The rest had refused to come out last night, citing Schneider’s second essay of the week as a need to stay in, and therefore were eagerly participating in Filia’s mocking. After the third snide remark about your foul stare and dark under eyes, you pushed out your chair and stood up.

“More drinks?” Suddenly, all teasing was forgotten as you received a chorus of Yeses. You shook your head, smug grin tugging at your lips. “And you say I’m the one with an alcohol problem.”

You slipped into the seat next to some poor patron who was brooding over his beer, no doubt regretting his night just as much as you were. The barkeeper chucked a filthy rag over his shoulder, giving you his most lascivious smile, and you returned one, although rather more politely.

“6 pints please. For that lot over there.” He nodded. He was a silent fellow, much more of a man for grunting, which is why this was your favourite place to chase off a hangover at. “Oh, and make sure the blond drunk one doesn’t get any more.”

At the sound of your voice, the poor bastard to your right’s head shot up. You glanced over, eyes flickering over him before back to the barkeeper as you dropped a handful of coins on the counter. Hang on. You looked at the man again out of the corner of your eye, turning your head over so slowly as your face fell.

“Jaskier…” Your false enthusiasm trailed off as you simply ran out of the energy, eyes wide and mortified.

“Wow, I can tell you’re barely hiding your excitement to see me,” he grouched, taking another large swig of his drink.

“Well, I think we’ve both had an equally awful wake-up, so I’m sure you can understand why.”

“Oh,” he chuckled slightly, “I’m not sure yours was quite as bad as mine. I’ve lost my favourite doublet in Lady Wendelbalda’s chambers as her husband chased me out.”

You grimaced. Yeah. You couldn’t really compare with that. Rubbing the back of your neck, you nodded a thanks to the barkeeper as he delivered the pints to your friends. But all you could think of was Jaskier’s… sexual adventures, and the deep prickle in your heart.

Were you jealous?

“I hope you get it back.”

He harrumphed. “I seriously doubt it. Her husband is a very volatile man, and I’m not risking my balls being cut off.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Oh, yes, well that would be a serious loss to the population of Oxenfurt.”

Jaskier spun on you, raising an eyebrow. He leant forward, breath stinking of stale ale, and you pulled a face. “I’m sure it would be a serious loss to you.”

Your eyes widened. Was he allowed to say things like that to you? He was technically a professor… but it wasn’t as if you hadn’t thought about it. And it made you clench your thighs a little tighter together.

“I…” You stuttered, tongue tripping over itself as you tried to come across as cool and aloof. You failed miserably. “I ought to get back to my friends.”

You escaped to the group, who hadn’t noticed your extended period at the bar, and rejoined the conversation almost seamlessly. When you glanced up again, his blue eyes (Melitele, those eyes) were still firmly fixed on you.

:.

Turning over the apple, you peered at its skin for any marks of insects or damage. It was costly enough without extra bruises and protein. You wrinkled your nose at the concept of eating bugs. All the instability had worn the import and export market down, and the produce at the market was becoming less and less diverse every day.

“I’ll take 5 of these apples and about 2 pounds worth of your leeks.” You paused, scanning the stall. “They’re in season right?”

The shopkeeper perked up at the sound of your order, nodding fervently. “Ay, the leeks are best this time of year. We’ve had a good crop as well, nice and sweet. Anything else?”

You eyed the strawberries, mouth twisting as you quickly rattled through your shopping list in your head. You couldn’t afford them on your measly student budget, but maybe one day. “Uh, no, I don’t-”

A voice cut you off. “And a pound of your juiciest strawberries. I’ll pay for the poor student’s shopping.”

You spun around, protesting as Jaskier brushed you aside, already chucking the shopkeeper a couple of gold coins and grabbing your produce. He ignored your squawking and pushed away your purse as you desperately tried to reimburse him.

“Oh, just let me do something nice, will you?”

Your brow furrowed. Jaskier slung an arm around your shoulders, steering you towards the butcher’s with a smug grin on his face. He clearly thought he had won this argument.

“Jaskier, no!” You pushed him off, finally managing to open your purse without him batting your hands away. “I don’t need your pity money. I appreciate it, I really do. But, um, it’s just not right.”

He refused your coins, tucking them back into your purse and that back into your belt. “When was the last time you had strawberries? I saw you looking at them, it was a nice gesture, okay?”

“You’re still my professor.”

Jaskier pulled a face.

“Not really. It was one guest lecture, so this,” he waved his hands in the air, “is all okay.”

One lecture? Oh. Oh.

“How come you’re still in Oxenfurt then?”

“I promised an old friend that I would perform at his tavern for free in return for never paying back the money I still owe him.” He scratched his neck, suddenly bashful. “It’s tomorrow night, at the Old Bull’s Head Inn. Come along?”

“I… Sure.”

:.

You had told Filia about the performance, trying to remain nonchalant as you floated the possibility of going. Despite a little teasing, she had managed to wrangle a few of you, including Pelagius, to come along, You just hoped that Pelagius wouldn’t get you onto the stronger stuff again. You weren’t made for it.

The tavern was packed; inhabitants and students alike had come from all over Oxenfurt to see the renowned bard. Pelagius had managed to grab you all a table, a mean feat considering the size of the crowd already gathered. But, knowing him, he had been here since noon.

Gentle strumming broke you away from the conversation, hush settling in the room. Even just a few notes was spellbinding, a promise of the music to come.

Jaskier was a master of the crowd, weaving emotion and eliciting cheers with every plucked note and repeated refrain. You watched, jaw clenched, as some of the girls from down at the brothel giggled as he came close. He winked, revelling in their attention, and you returned your gaze back to the bottom of your pint.

It was only your first of the night, but you had promised yourself that there would be no more drunken antics for the rest of the week. And you were determined to stick to it.

As the night drew to its close, the hubbub died down, some already having headed off. The pace of his songs also eased, a softening for the end of a triumphant performance.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid that this will be my last song.” Cries of disappointment and ‘Encore’ echoed throughout the audience, and a smug grin twitched at his lips. “But you have been the most wonderful audience.”

He strummed a slow chord, the melancholic minor key striking you by surprise. Usually bards ending the night with a rousing tune, designed to get the innkeeper more orders for pints, but considering the size of the crowd, you doubted he had struggled much tonight.

O'er glistening roofs you float,

A love ballad. Interesting choice.

Through lily-strewn rivers you dive

Jaskier’s eyes met yours, your lips slowly parting as your mouth dried. Melitele, this wasn’t just an infatuation anymore.

Yet one day I will know your truths

His lips curled into a sincere smile as he leant forward, eyes never leaving yours. Was he singing it to you?

If only I am still alive

The song ended to raucous applause with drunkards attempting to stagger to their feet for a standing ovation.

“Thank you, please remember to toss a coin! If you need anything, I’ll be by the bar.”

Emboldened by your single pint, you headed over, needing little more than Filia’s encouraging glance. His serenade, or at least you hoped he had been serenading you, was enough motivation by itself, really.

“Jaskier.”

He spun around, grin widening at the sight of you. “Well if it isn’t my favourite fan.”

You rolled your eyes, raising an eyebrow as he chuckled at your disapproval. His fingers danced against the side of his tankard, the only giveaway of his restless energy. The noise of the inn was dying down as people felt that their night had drawn to its end, and drunkards started to stumble out the door.

“What did you think of the performance?” His eyes searched your face as you hesitated, reformulating a thousand responses in your head before settling on a simple “It was incredible”.

A slight pout settled onto his lips, your gaze flickering down and back up again, and his eyes lit up in a way that let you know he had caught you.

“Just incredible?”

“Well, you tell me the meaning of your final song, and I’ll give you my full review.”

“It’s a love ballad, as I’m sure you know, dedicated to the most beautiful woman in the room.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Mm, it was my favourite part of the night.”

His eyes took on an impish gleam as he sipped at his pint. You ran your finger along the grooves in the bar as you waited for his response. “I’ve got a suggestion on how we can top it.”

Your head shot up. So much for cool, calm and collected. “We?”

“Come back to my room tonight.”

Pretended to hesitate, you stroked your chin thoughtfully. But any pretence was mitigated by the smile playing at your lips. “How could I ever refuse?”

-