Jaskier: Why would anyone even begin to think of going big?

Geralt: What?! Listen-

Jaskier: Especially when the alternative is getting to go home?

Yennefer: He’s got a point, you know.

Oh Geralt, you poor thing!

*At the supermarket*

Geralt: What should we get for dessert?

Yennefer, : We have dessert at home.

Geralt: What type of dessert?

Yennefer:Jaskier.

Jaskier, shopping for a pretty outfit: This is outrageous. The ones I like don’t have pockets.

Jaskier: Is there anything worse than having no pockets in your fancy outfit?

Yennefer: Yeah, having fake pockets.

Geralt: Yen! What the hell do you think you’re doing?

Yennefer: Trying to kiss Jaskier?

Geralt:Youcannot kiss him. He’s-He’s off limits…

Jaskier, a needy whining mess: But why? We’re both vaccinated!

Have you ever had the problem of your work not showing up in tags so no one can find your work :(

If so please help me understand why this happens because it’s so demoralising and makes me not want to post anymore

Witcher Bingo 2022

Age Gap:Guest Professor (Jaskier x reader)21-01-2022

“Please don’t leave me”:Green with Envy (Jaskier x reader)04-02-2022

Guest Professor (Jaskier x reader)

Summary: You keep bumping into the guest professor, and you’re not sure it’s just a coincedence anymore.

Warnings: alcohol

Pairings: Jaskier x reader

Square Filled: Age Gap

A/N:@thewitcherbingo

THE WITCHER BINGO MASTERLIST|THE WITCHER MASTERLIST|GENERAL MASTERLIST

You clutched your books to your chest, half-empty bag slung over your shoulder as you hauled your stuff to class. The clock chimed and you swore loudly, drawing scandalous looks from some old birds having a brisk morning walk before knitting or whatever else old people did in Oxenfurt. The looming university building seemed ever further away as the chiming bells reminded you just how late you would be.

You gulped down your panting as you tried to compose yourself before entering the lecture hall, forehead beaded with sweat. The door creaked open, warning of your presence, and you winced. It was already packed full of students in there, eyes watching your every move as you tried to slip in silently.

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 Sorryrepeatedly. 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 verynice 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 youmust’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 veryvolatile man, and I’m not risking my balls being cut off.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Oh, yes, well that would be a seriousloss 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.

“Justincredible?”

“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?”

-

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Artistic Reimagining - Geralt of Rivia

You and Jaskier have been traveling about the Continent together for…well, forever it feels like. Just when it seems you’ve written a song about everything, you make the acquaintance of a Witcher and inspiration strikes! Though, Geralt seems to regard your artistic voice with indifference, borderline disdain. You’re starting to take his comments personally.

“I like that, it’s just jaunty enough, I think.”

“That’s not how it happened.”

You glanced up at Geralt who, perched on Roach’s back, seemed as tall as the cliff faces around you. His amber eyes were squinted in your and Jaskier’s direction, watching as he often did. Always so alert. Though you surmised it was a habit that came with the Witcher title. But the aversion in his furrowed brow and frown? That was all Geralt.

“Where’s your newfound respect?” He asked, forcing your focus back to his words.

“Respect doesn’t make history,” Jaskier countered before he began to sing again. Geralt stayed still, fists tightening around Roach’s reins as your fellow bard sang away.

“It’s poetic,” you added when you saw the Witcher’s jaw clench. “An artistic reimagining.”

“It’s a lie,” he huffed, “life isn’t poetic.”

“That’s why we make music. We make things…more palatable. Your life of violence isn’t suited for everyone.” You pointed to your cut lip and added, “I know people that would run for the hills with a wound like this. But our songs will mark you in history for your chivalry…”

Geralt grunted, clearly unmoved by your speech. Despite all you and Jaskier tried to do for the Witcher, he was determined to discourage your efforts. You had long since grown tired of his unamused ‘hmming’ and blank, quiet watching. Through gritted teeth you spat out a stinging end to your miniature diatribe.

“…your chivalry, which is yet another artistic reimagining.”

Before he could make another hum of displeasure, you left Geralt in the sandy dust and followed after Jaskier. He reached the chorus in your new ballad as you neared him and, as you fell into step beside him, you glanced over your shoulder. Geralt was still….still, his head moving to take in the sight of the canyon you were walking through. For a moment, you felt that maybe your speech had reached through the iced-over love in his heart.

Then you saw his shoulders sink with a sigh and the deep line of a frown on his lips form as he pressed on Roach’s flanks to push the horse forwards. You wore your own frown as you pulled your eyes to the path ahead. As you walked, you listened to Jaskier as he sang about a more poetic Geralt that slew Elves and caught coins. Never would you admit it, but it was that fictionalized Witcher in the ballad that you found yourself dreaming of in the dark of night.

What made those wonderings all the worse was the fact that the true Witcher, Geralt, your inspiration, was always a mere few paces away. Whether you were staying the night in a grimey inn or were laid across from him with a campfire between you, as you were later that night, Geralt was always nearby. Always a reminder of what, of who, you couldn’t have. Being held hostage by the steep rock faces of the canyon did not help to ease that turmoil. Even over the crackling embers, you could hear Geralt shift in his sleep.

The sound echoed too much of reality and made falling to the fantasy of your dreamy Witcher far too difficult. From where you laid, you glanced to your right, away from the dwindling campfire, over to Jaskier. His lips were parted and soft snores filed out of his mouth only forcing rest farther from you. With a sigh, you looked up to the starry sky.

In it, you found the same quiet, and seemingly indifferent, company Geralt provided. You longed for more warmth; though you would never admit that out loud. The songs you wrote were devoid of romance for that purpose. You did not dare give away any hint of your feelings. Doing so would feel worse than death, you imagined.

And imagine you did. Your mind wandered and you stayed, terribly awake, staring up at the sky for a few minutes more before you got up. With your companions asleep, you were careful with your steps as you made off towards a nearby strip of woods. You hoped that a midnight stroll along the treeline would tire you out or, at least, dull the whirlwind whistling of your thoughts as they raced by.

Yet, you found yourself venturing further into the bush to better escape them. Ferns of all sorts nipped at your legs while a small symphony of nocturnal birds led you deeper. Their singing distracted you enough, but not quite enough to dull your every thought of Geralt, as he consumed so many.

And definitely not enough to ignore how a sudden mass of fog seemed to surround you. Hazy and light, the low clouds sent a shiver down your spine. How eery, you thought before you asked yourself: how could this be worked into a ballad? Perhaps there was a poor fair maiden, lost and alone, who wandered the woods in search of home.

But you were no fair maiden, and that would be considered dishonest if Geralt had any say. You scoffed at the thought. How you hated his influence over you. Every comment he made, every disapproving stare, Gods! However, it wasn’t anger for the Witcher himself that swelled in your chest. No, it was anger for yourself, for falling for a man so, seemingly, cold.

Your body, unable to hold all that disdain within itself, made your foot stomp against the obscured earth as you trekked through the fog. Heaviness nestled in your heart like a root of some toxic plant and you forced yourself to stop, take a breath. The walk through the woods wasn’t helping to clear your head, not anymore. You needed to lay down, push the thoughts aside with the promise of sleep.

Though, when you took the next few seconds to glance around, you saw only fog. “But I am lost,” you murmured bitterly, “and I am alone.”

It was then you heard the crackling of twigs. A white-hot flash of panic flooded your entire being. Where had it come from? Somewhere in the fog! Above? To the side?

Fear sent you into a frenzy of wide-eyed glances between trees and through the mist. You saw nothing but heard something. Something large, you imagined, something viler than the elves of the morning. Something with sharper teeth and a thirst for blood.

Just as you felt the darkness of doom creep over your shoulders, a glimmer in the fog caught your eyes. Almost as if a firefly found itself lost in the haze, a dull flicker of light spread through the mass of mist. The romantic in you hoped that it was a mystical muse lighting your way back to camp. A more primal part of you begged you to step towards your only possible source of illumination.

The Geralt in you, his voice nearly ever-present, scolded you. Turn around and run, that’s what it told you. For the first time, you were compelled to listen.

Quickly, you spun around on your heel and tried to ignore the continuous rustling of fauna behind you. You started forwards, back the way you came, just as the sounds of whatever hidden something grew louder. With each step you took, your apprehension grew, as did the volume of the growling, glowing creature that stalked after you. Your gut twisted with wild nerves, stirring you into the closest thing to a sprint as you could muster.

Lungs heaving, you darted through the trees in a desperate attempt to escape. Astray in the searing panic that was running for your life, you sent frantic, wild-eyed glances over your shoulder. What chased after you was a spindly figure that almost seemed to glow from its chest, shedding a dim light on the forest floor before it. Soulless eyes were sunken in a wrinkled face that was framed by a pair of pointed ears.

You didn’t have a clue what it was, only that its grimace made it less friend and more a dangerous foe.

You didn’t have a clue what it was, until a gruff voice shouted out, “Fogler!”

The yell made you jump, set your footfalls off-center, and primed you to fall flat on your face. Roots entangled your foot, anchoring you firmly and suddenly to the dirt. Stones and sharper twigs bit at every inch of skin you had exposed. You winced at the pain until the scurrying and nasty gurgling of the creature, the Fogler, pulled you back to the threat of death. Then numbed by fear, you turned and saw it.

Claws, long and dark, reached for you. In a feeble attempt of defense, you raised your hands and cried out.

Rather than a strike, thick wetness hit your open palms. Slowly, you lowered your arms and looked at where the Fogler had been moments before. The creature was still there, though it was laid back and a dagger was buried in its chest.

“Are you alright?” Asked the same gravelly, and terribly familiar, voice from before. With wide eyes, you glanced up and were met with Geralt’s amber eyes. He looked down at you, as he always did, with his hand extended towards you, fingers waiting for your own.

“You…You?”

“Were you expecting a valiant knight?” He asked, gently shaking his hand for you to take it. “C’mon.”

You shook your head and stood on your own, despite the aching in your legs. Geralt’s sudden appearance shook you from the panic that claimed you a mere moment ago. “Did you follow me? Were you following me?!”

“You went for a walk in the woods, in the dark, like an idiot. So, yes, I followed you.” Geralt replied, his hand falling to his side and gesturing towards the slain creature behind you. “It’s a good thing I did.”

“A good thing?!”

“Yes,” Geralt replied coolly. Even in the limited light, you could make out his stone-cold features. There was no give in him. No deeper twinge that whispered of concern he held for you. But the way his eyes were fixed on you made you feel so watched, so wonderfully, frighteningly seen. How infuriating he was!

"Gods! All you ever do is watch and grumble and groan! You’re,” you threw your hands up in the air and looked up as if the right words hung there. You found nothing. “You’re-”

“What? What am I, Y/N?”

At the softer tone of his question, you felt compelled to meet Geralt’s gaze. His expression was still blank, waiting, and his posture was, as always, heavy. Shoulders were drawn back slightly, as if ready to hurl another dagger into the heart of a new threat. The way he carried himself made the quiet, honest curiosity in his voice all the more strained.

“Immovable,” you admitted in a breath, “a tower whose shadow I can’t escape.”

Geralt’s lips quirked upwards then, one of those fleeting smiles that you saw him wear all too rarely. Despite his expression, there was a sadness in his voice as he said, “sounds poetic.“

It was then, caught in a ray of moonlight, that you saw a Witcher more akin to the one that had your heart. Geralt’s gentle side shone through in the darkest hour. What sweet torture it was to see him at last, to have him so close, but unable to touch.

As if he read that thought, Geralt’s gaze dropped from yours and you felt a chill run down your spine. He was always out of reach. You had Folger blood on your hands anyway.

"We should get back to the camp,” you mumbled bitterly.

Geralt hummed in response, a sound you assumed was an agreement. Yet, as you began to walk past him, a hand shot out and gripped your arm. You stopped dead in your tracks and found Geralt’s eyes once more. Something shifted, something gave way.

Wordlessly, Geralt’s hand brushed down your arm until his fingers found your wrist. He pulled one of your ichor-covered hands close to his chest. You wanted to ask what he was doing, what he was planning, but you didn’t dare ruin the moment or interrupt the sensation of his skin against your own. When he pulled out an already grimey handkerchief from a pocket on his dark trousers, any question you held died on your tongue.

“Thank you,” you murmured as Geralt wiped the blood off your hands. His movements slowed as crimson soaked in the fabric, but he did not loosen his grip. You saw the amber of his eyes flick down to your lips before he looked into your eyes again.

"Poetic enough for you?”

There was an edge to his question. Not quite like the refined, cutting edge of Geralt’s favorite sword or the usual harsh honesty his words were laced with. No, it was teasing. It was an edge of humor that you had barely seen Geralt express since you met him.

“So much so that I must be imagining it,” you replied, playing into his tone.

Geralt’s eyes wandered back down to your lips at your response. When he met your gaze again, there was a question heavy in his features, his furrowed brow, and parted mouth. You leaned in closer, hoping he would take the hint, take your silent answer to his silent question. When his grip on your wrist tightened and he pulled you to his chest, you became grateful for the Witcher’s watchfulness, his intuitiveness.

Through you were far more grateful for the surprising softness of his lips, how easily they melded against your own. How you fit together like a dream, like two lines of poetry that flowed lyrically into each other. Your next song felt like that midnight kiss.