What if Jaskier got magicked into the center of a maze and Geralt had to solve the maze to rescue him?
(okay so I’m indulging some of my middle school tastes in whump with this and that’s FINE)
tw: perilous situations, life or death situations (obviously he lives I write fluff), the mage made them do it (smooch), whumpy moments, panic attack/shock
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“There he is,” the mage gestures. Geralt can see the bard, wrapped in -is that ribbon?- something and dangling helplessly in mid-air. He’s wriggling and crying out; words the Witcher can’t quite understand due to the distance. “If you can reach him in time then he’s yours. If not then...well, I guess he dies.”
Geralt doesn’t wait to hear any more. He takes of at a sprint into the maze, dodging between the hedgerows and flying back from dead-ends in a whirl of movement.
There are no monsters to fight, here. There is no game of wits to win. There is only Jaskier, slowly sinking downward through empty air towards...Geralt doesn’t even know what fate awaits the bard once he’s lowered close enough to reach it.
He only knows that his true love is hanging in the balance, literally, and he isn’t getting any closer to saving him. He releases an angry snarl and pushes his body harder. Runs faster. Jumps higher. Avoids obstacles more quickly and more decisively. He has no weapons, no armor, no potions to help him now.
“He’s getting closer,” the mage sing-songs from her comfortable dais. “I wonder what will happen when he gets close enough.”
“Geralt!” the Witcher is close enough to hear his darling bard’s anxious screams. His shrieks of fear. His grunts of protest as he writhes and twists in his bindings. They’re made of thick blue ribbon, the kind one might use to wrap an enormous wedding gift, and Geralt grimaces at the implications.
He hasn’t really had the chance to tell Jaskier about his feelings. He never will, if this mage has her way. The Witcher is growing exhausted, now, but he pushes himself just a little harder. A little further. A little more.
And there’s Jaskier being lowered towards a large metal spike. It’s not very practical, nor will it guarantee his death, but Geralt suspects that the mage was going more for drama than practicality in this instance.
He uses the last of his strength to leap up, wrapping his arms around the bard and getting them both safely out of harm’s way. The Witcher collapses, fingers scrabbling to free Jaskier from the twisting, intertwined lengths of velvet cloth. Jaskier is sobbing, trying to get as close to the Witcher as possible in his current predicament.
“Oh my love,” the bard gasps between hiccups, “I thought-I thought I was-”
“Love?”
The bard blushes even darker red beneath the tears and Geralt’s heart aches for him. His voice goes quiet and raspy as he cries through his next words, “I’m s-so sorry, G-Geralt. I cou-couldn’t help i-it.”
“Help what, my little bird?”
“F-falling in l-l-love with you.”
“I love you, too, Jaskier.”
A slow, bored clap interrupts their hushed confessions and Geralt sits up, ready to defend Jaskier again if necessary. The mage holds her hand up and shakes her head. “No worries, Witcher. You did as I asked. You won him back fair and square. I’ve never seen anyone quite as determined. I was temped to give him back even if you’d lost.”
“I’d never lose,” Geralt snarls.
“I knew you wouldn’t,” she says. “Anyway, I’m bored now. Enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen.”
Then they’re back at the campsite. It’s pitch dark except for the fire, which is blazing merrily away between their bedrolls. Geralt collapses to his knees and whines, low and long. The shock of everything that’s just happened is setting in. His body is beyond exhausted and his mind is foggy.
Jaskier takes a seat on his bedroll and pulls the Witcher’s head into his lap. He cards his fingers through the silky strands of moon-white hair and begins to massage the Witcher’s scalp.
He sings one of Geralt’s favorite songs very quietly, so softly that it won’t irritate his delicate senses, and continues to move his hand through the Witcher’s hair.
Eventually the Witcher’s breathing returns to normal and he looks up at Jaskier with damp, frightened eyes. The eyes of a man who has faced rejection a thousand times and isn’t sure he can do it again. Luckily for him, the bard holding him steady is just as lost in love. “Don’t panic, my darling. I will love you as constantly as the moon pulls at the waves.”
“You will?”
“I will be at your side for as long as you’ll have me.”
“Forever, if I asked?” Geralt’s low, rumbling voice is so unsure. So terrified. Jaskier smooths his hand down the back of his Witcher’s head to cup the soft skin at the base of his neck. He leans down and presses a firm, slow kiss against his darling’s pink lips.
