undone again
Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Also on AO3 10059 words.
Mature / Graphic Depictions Of Violence Chapter 4/4 (2406 words)
chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four
carry you home
Geralt paced through the Keep. The Path pulled him, called to him, strongly, loudly, but he knew he could not obey it, not this year. This year, and for Melitele-knew-how-many-years after, there were more important things to be done. Or, at least, so he told himself. Repeatedly. His hand twitched as he turned away from the Keep’s exit, back into the hallway he had just come from. Back and forth, back and forth. It had been a strange winter, a long winter, a cold winter. And, although he had been surrounded by everyone he loved (or, the ones that lived, anyway), it had been a lonely winter.
It was strange, how quickly one forgot the hurt of loneliness. He had known loneliness for most of his life, until Jaskier waltzed his way into it and made himself comfortable. And Geralt’s annoyance had turned into begrudging companionship, and from there a fondness, and from there – he had never allowed himself to call it love. Witchers did not love, nor did anyone love witchers. And he knew, or, he had thought he had known, full well that Jaskier travelled with him not for his character, but for the stories Geralt’s existence brought with him. It had not been until after the mountain that he, in the endless silence that now suffocated him wherever he went, that Geralt had reflected that there had been a friendship there. And maybe, on foolish days when he allowed himself to dream and hope, he could imagine there had been something more, too. But by then it had been too late, and the loneliness that had once been so familiar had returned, and returned with a vengeance.
The loneliness had always hurt, of course it had. Even as a Witcher he still remembered being a little boy filled with hopes and dreams and the illusions of family. But now, now that he knew his days could have been filled with colour and song and talk and joy, but now that he knew he had ruined it all, the loneliness felt less like a cold, dark cave and more like an icy stake, driving into his heart and digging itself ever so much deeper with every step he took. It reminded him of the old fairy tale of the fisherman and his wife. Geralt had always wondered how much worse the couple must have felt living in their old shoe again after having lived in a castle. Their house must have been uncomfortable before, but having experienced luxury, how much of a torture must the return to poverty have been?
Finding Jaskier in that godsforsaken town with its Niflgaardian soldiers had seemed to be the answer to everything. Yet Jaskier had been different. Distant. Never really truly there, always one step away from leaving again. If not for Ciri — Geralt, for all his futile daydreams, had once again been reminded of the truth: nobody truly liked a Witcher. Jaskier did not want to travel with him for him, and, no matter his foolish illusions of friendship (or more), he had realistically never travelled with Geralt solely for Geralt’s companionship. Even if there had been potential for any connection beyond convenience, Geralt knew he had well and truly fucked that up, on the mountain. He had had a faint hope that, once in Kaer Morhen, Jaskier would relax, turn back into his exuberant self again. But even there, the bard had avoided him, avoided all of them. So Geralt had stayed quiet, had echoed Jaskier’s distance. He had already fucked up enough, no need to make it worse. And so the loneliness had turned from an icy stake to a sharp knife, cutting away at whatever counted as a Witcher’s soul with every step he took.
“Where’s Jaskier?” Ciri’s voice cut through the thoughts spiralling in his head. “Have you seen him? I can’t find him anywhere.”
Geralt blinked. “Library?” That was usually where Jaskier holed himself up this time of day. “No, he’s not in there, I looked. He’s not in the kitchen or his room either.”
Every bone, every muscle, every nerve in his body went stiff. Jaskier, for all his extravagance, was a man of routine. Every day was structured, even if no one else could see the logic in it. “Where else have you looked.” It was a statement more than a question, but Ciri answered anyway.
“I’ve been to the balustrades, and the Hall, and the stables. I was on my way to check the library again when I saw you.”
Geralt nodded, grabbed Ciri’s arm, ran. Library. Surrounding rooms. Upstairs. They divided the spaces between them, opening door after door to reveal silence, empty, no one. Hall. Bedroom. Courtyard. By the time they searched the dungeons, Eskel and Lambert had ceased their packing, joined the search. In a Keep full of Witchers, how long could a single bard hide?
“He’s not here,” Lambert’s voice sounded like a sudden realisation, deeper than the announcement that the room he had just opened the door to was empty.
“What?” Geralt bit back
“He’s not here. The- The Pass. It’s clear. He must have-”
“Fuck.”
* * *
How long had he been gone? When had he managed to leave without any of them noticing? The mountains surrounding Kaer Morhen saw little monsters, but there were plenty of bears, wolves, snakes. Especially now, when the weak sun would wake the creatures from their hibernation, causing them to drag their starving bodies out of the caves, crooks, and crannies they had hidden in, ready to jump on the first prey that wandered in front of their paws – and that was not even considering the dangers of the Pass itself. Yes, the Pass was clear now, the snow had melted, but the ground remained unstable, the stones slippery, and the wind could appear suddenly and with a vengeance. They had lost enough time searching the Keep, Jaskier could be— Geralt shook his head, attempting to force away the bloody scenes his mind readily provided.
"Ciri, watch the Keep. Wake Vesimir. If Jaskier returns, whistle on your fingers like I taught you."
With those words, the three Witchers were off. Their once so playful running through the hallways was of days long past. It was all brutal efficiency now, long strides, quick grabs of swords, potions, cloaks.
Upon their leaving, the Keep stood empty, abandoned but for a single fair-haired girl, stood in the courtyard, a look of determination on her face, a look of desperation in her eyes.
The footsteps in the mud were easy to follow. Maybe less so for a human, but to a Witcher? Geralt breathed a sigh of relief when the prints crossing the Pass were solid, sturdy, walking in a straight line as if the bard hadn't had a care in the world. Just one step after another after another after another, away from the sheltered safety of the Keep he had apparently so desperately wanted to escape that he had not even wanted to wait for a single day to travel down with either of the others. After the Pass, however, the rocky ground was less willing to share its secrets. And once they arrived at the split in the road, not a single footstep, broken branch, or leaf out of place could serve as a hint as to the direction which Jaskier could have chosen.
Lambert went left. Geralt went right. And, in unspoken agreement, Eskel stayed behind, ready to respond to the call of either of them, if necessary.
The woods surrounding him were filled with sound. Birds waking up, marking their territory. Squirrels running up and down to fetch more food. A woodpecker, happily drilling their way into a tree. Dripping snow melting off of the branches. Every noise surrounded him, penetrated him, overwhelmed him in a manner that they usually would not. But anything preventing him from hearing the reliable, familiar footsteps of his bard (his bard? Never his, he could not allow himself to think so) was too much, too loud, too— the woodpecker stopped, a bird fell silent. In the distance, a quiet hum. Geralt ran.
Jaskier was safe. He was fine, he was ok, he was—
"You left."
The bard didn't startle, didn't turn around, didn't show any sign of surprise at the sudden voice behind him.
"Yes," he simply said, and kept walking.
"Why—" Geralt could curse himself. 'You left. Why.'? That was the only thing he could come up with? That was all he could say?
Jaskier halted, but still did not turn. "I— have been a burden enough on you and your companions. I don't want to—" a breath, a sigh, "I don't want to overstay my welcome any more than I already have. I apologise for not being able to leave earlier, I apologise for even coming with you to Kaer Morgen. It was beautiful seeing your home, but I shouldn't," Jaskier swallowed, even from behind Geralt could see the bard squeeze his eyes shut. "I shouldn't have infiltrated. I'm sorry. I will pay back the costs of my stay. Thank the others for their hospitality."
Geralt stood, frozen, as the man in front of him started walking again, walking away from him, from home, from—
"You're no burden." Now, the bard's turn to freeze. "You haven't overstayed your welcome. You did not infiltrate. You are not—" why did the words he so desperately wanted to say feel like thorny bramble bushes, ripping open everything in their path, refusing to be unearthed from his throat where they stayed, unsounding, unyielding, unheard. Geralt stepped forward, took Jaskier's hand, spun him around to face him, gathered the courage to grab the thorny words tightly and pull them out. "I— I am sorry. I'm sorry for yelling at you after the dragon hunt and I'm sorry for making you feel unwanted and I'm sorry for ignoring you and betraying you and— And I'm not good at saying how I feel or what I want but I love you, I love you. Stay. Please."
Jaskier's eyes widened, narrowed, and Geralt, throat bleeding, prepared for the hurt. Who, after all, could ever love a monster?
"You— love me?"
Geralt hummed in affirmation, still holding Jaskier's hand, but looking down rather than into those piercing blue eyes.
A fist hit his face with surprising strength. A hand followed, grabbing his chin, dragging him forward and—
Jaskier's lips were touching his. Jaskier's lips were touching his, continuing to touch his, staying on his and they were soft, and smooth, and oh so Jaskier. It seemed both seconds and centuries before Jaskier moved back, reopening the distance he had closed. Geralt, however, chased back, captured Jaskier as Jaskier had captured him. Yet rather than gentle softness, Geralt pursued passionately, desperately, pushing both of their bodies off of the path, against a nearby tree, into each other and on each other and never, never close enough. Grabbing hands, cradling heads, pulling hair and breathing, breathing in Jaskier’s smell, touch, taste, feel. Could a monster be loved after all?
They went home, from there. Back up the mountain towards a joyful reunion with his brothers. Back across the Pass towards an anxious Ciri and worried Vesimir clutching Jaskier’s left-behind note. Back into the Keep for a large feast, a tearful goodbye to the two who did rejoin the Path. Back to his bedroom to talk, talk, and with each conversation the words started to feel less like bramble bushes and more like blackberries. They weeded out the years of thorns and splinters, scratched open the scabs and scars, drained the wounds to allow recovery. They were both broken, and bruised, and their hearts guarded by years and years of harm. They took things slow. Throughout the years they fought, made up, hurt the other and themselves and healed the pain with sincere apologies and careful conversations. Grew apart and closer together as they discovered how their differences fit into the other’s similarities. But during it all, during the difficulties and work and the days where they had to choose to love the other, rather than it coming naturally, Geralt found that his bedroom had become their bedroom, his possessions their possessions, his home their home.
* * *
Jaskier often thought back to his encounter with Fate. Not that he now thought her to be any less of a bastard – or whichever insult was appropriate, no amount of decent blowjobs, and he had had many, had provided him with an answer. Yet at some moments, he could almost, almost, be grateful to her. She had, after all, given him the daggers that had brought him and Geralt together, the yarrow that had kept him alive, and the ribbon that had made Ciri part of his family. And, he supposed, the mountainside confession – the second one, not the first – had indeed led to the mutual desire she had prophesied. Which is how he was now grasping at the hair of the white-haired Witcher on his knees in front of him, the delightful warmth of Geralt’s mouth around Jaskier’s cock a great contrast to the cold stone of one of the ruins near the Keep pressing against his naked back. So far out in the forest, Jaskier could moan as loudly as he wanted to when Geralt licked a particularly sensitive spot, stroked his thighs, cupped his balls and slowly rolled the skin with his thumbs. He was utterly powerless, given over to the hands and mouth of the man he loved, the man who loved him, who stayed, through it all, faithful and resilient and stubborn and endlessly, endlessly his. How had he ever been satisfied with ungratifying blowjobs in an alley near a pub? Jaskier’s whole body shook as he came, steadied by a pair of strong hands grasping his hips, caressing his skin, worshipping his body. In the vague back of his mind, the sole part still working through the delight, he knew that soon it would be his turn to grasp, to caress, to worship – not his own body, but that of the one in front of him, strong, strange, beautiful. He would grab Geralt’s hand, arm, shoulder. Move the man against the lower wall in front of them, bend him over, take his time. He would enter, inch by inch, move slowly, rapidly, frantically, fulfil Fate’s damned mutual desire over and over and over, until they both would be undone again.
