Chapter 3/5 - A Song so Beautiful/ It Brings the World Back into Tune/ Back into Time
“And I am Time itself, I slow to let you play/I steal the hours and turn the night into day” - Farewell Wanderlust (The Amazing Devil)
With cheers and dance, the hunt turned into a parade. After sealing the deal, the Queen had turned on her heels and walked off without another word, the other fae following her. Some caught fireflies or fished the reflection of the sun out of a pond they passed, fasting the light onto their spears and turning them into dancing lanterns. The lights bobbed in time with their skipping steps, as if they were jesters juggling balls for their sovereign’s amusement.
With just enough distance that the fae wouldn’t be able to listen in on them, Geralt and Jaskier followed the fool’s lanterns. Not that there was anything for the fae to listen in on. Jaskier had tried asking Geralt if he was alright, but Geralt had done nothing but fix him with a cold look, before averting his eyes.
No one saw the way Jaskier’s face fell at the rejection. The fae certainly seemed to pay them no mind. What use would there have been for a guard anyway? Geralt was too exhausted from the hunt to run away and Jaskier would be damned if he left his witcher’s side. Despite Geralt stiffening at the touch, Jaskier had slung one arm around Geralt’s waist, steadying him. The lack of protest coming from the witcher spoke louder than words. He truly was holding himself upright with the last resorts of his strength. If Jaskier wanted to see him safe and sound, they had no choice but to follow the procession. Jaskier gained a little satisfaction from walking freely instead of being dragged along by the fae, but he couldn’t help but wonder, if the Queen delighted in this too. It must make her feel so powerful to have them follow her like hounds.
A queasy feeling rose in Jaskier like bile. Hound. The same word the Queen had used to describe Geralt. As if he was a thing to be claimed. And what had Jaskier done? He had called him my witcher, mine. He wasn’t better than her. No wonder Geralt refused to look at him or speak.
“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said quietly, staring ahead at the dancing lights. They lacked the warmth that sometimes lit up Geralt’s golden gaze.
In his periphery, Jaskier could see Geralt’s eyes flicker to him, but he remained stoically silent.
“About what I said earlier, I mean.” Jaskier’s fingers twitched on Geralt’s waist. He wished he could hold him more tenderly and not just because of this necessity. “I didn’t mean anything by it. You know that, right?”
This time, Geralt turned his entire head to him, scrutinising him with an unreadable expression. His jaw was tight and his eyes searching.
“I just called you mine because I thought it could get us out of here. I would never lay claim on you.” Jaskier let out a tight laugh that he knew didn’t reach his eyes. “You know how bards are. We like to twist the truth a little sometimes. I don’t really think you belong to me.”
“I know,” Geralt said quickly, roughly. For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say something else, but then he sighed and pressed his lips together.
“So…we are good? You’re not angry?”
Geralt tensed and his brows drew together, creating a harsh line on his forehead. “I am fucking furious,” Geralt spat, but somehow it seemed more defeated than venomous. “You shouldn’t have come. I told you to never get close to the fae and you practically threw yourself at them. Do you want to die? Why do you keep following danger?”
“That’s not what I’m following,” Jaskier said quietly.
“Could have fooled me.” Geralt huffed out a bitter laugh. “You never stop following me.”
“I know. But you’re not dangerous. You’re…” Jaskier trailed off, unsure of how to put into words what he didn’t dare say out loud, “important. I’m your friend and you’re damn right, I’ll always follow you.”
Even if Geralt didn’t want him to. Even if Geralt left again and again and again. Off on a hunt, off to spend winter with his brothers, off to cross into the Otherworld. Always leaving Jaskier behind, while the bard wished he would turn around and change his mind, asking him to come with him for once.
“It’s not worth risking your life for,” Geralt said. Beneath Jaskier’s hands, he trembled. Quickly, Jaskier shifted to use more of what little strength he possessed to hold Geralt upright.
“It is,” he replied simply, rubbing the fingers of his marked hand together, tracing the white line binding him to his word. “Because it’s you. You’d do the same for me.”
Would he though? Wouldn’t he just be relieved that the annoying bard was finally gone? Would he even turn back and notice he was gone?
“It’s not the same.” Geralt said. “You’re…you’re you. I’m a witcher.”
“Exactly. You help people.” Jaskier ignored Geralt’s snort. “Let someone do the same for you.”
Geralt didn’t reply, looking back at the procession in front of them.
“Just because people don’t always know it, doesn’t mean you’re not saving them,” Jaskier continued. He slowed down their steps, mindful to not let either of their feet get caught on a protruding root. “You helped that town. You should have seen them when they realised they were no longer forced to dance.”
Something small and blue caught his attention. The little bird he had followed before landed on his shoulder, looking up at him with curious black eyes. Jaskier lifted his free hand to pet its little head.
“They were so tired, but they still celebrated. There were children clapping and lovers embracing and - “ he broke off, a lump forming in his throat, “-and there was me, waiting. For you. You’re a good person, Geralt. They might not show it to you, but you make people happy. When we go back, I will tell them. They’ll see that they’re free because of you and they will thank you.”
Geralt sighed, lowering his head, so that the loose strands of hair shielded his face like a curtain.
“What are you doing, bard?” He asked quietly.
“The same thing I always do.” Jaskier gave him a crooked smile, before looking at the lights. They were beautiful in a way. Though not quite as comforting as warm gold. “The same thing any bard tries to do, I assume.”
“Hm?”
“I imagine what the world could be like. And then I try to change it with my words.”
For you. So that people won’t shun you. So that you can be sheltered and won’t go hungry. So that maybe one day, you’ll stay and follow me as well.
“You can’t,” Geralt said. “Words can’t change what I am.”
“See, that’s the most wonderful thing about it,” Jaskier said, pressing his body closer against Geralt’s side under the guise of steadying him. “That’s the one thing I don’t want to change.”
Slowly, Geralt lifted his head. With one hand, Jaskier brushed his hair that had fallen into Geralt’s eyes behind his ears. “There,” he said quietly, “now you can see.”
Something softened in Geralt’s expression and it looked like he was about to say something, but they both got distracted, when the bird fluttered its wings and left Jaskier’s shoulder, disappearing between the trees again.
Following its flight with his eyes, Jaskier noticed that the fae had come to a halt. They were standing in a glade. The lights of the lanterns were brighter than before, or maybe the world had darkened around them, making the trees look like pillars of shadow. Some of the fireflies got released, finding their place on those trees in eerily regular rows. Geralt’s arm around Jaskier’s shoulders was a comforting weight. A reminder of why he was here. A warm contrast to the cold that blanketed the glade. In its middle was a pond, with water that was nearly black, with strange wafts of green and purple drifting through it. Jaskier watched in fascination as the fae still carrying their lanterns stepped closer to the water, releasing the balls of light into it. The lights danced on the water’s surface in a hundred tiny dots.
Next to him, Geralt gasped. Jaskier followed his gaze upwards and his breath stopped. Above them, the canopy of leaves was broken, leaving a window to look up into the sky. A sky, on which the same colours could be seen. Purple, green and blue nebulous shapes painting the black sky as if an artist had run their brush over it in bold strokes. And between the colours, there were countless stars, creating unfamiliar shapes.
“I can’t read them,” Geralt muttered, perhaps more to himself than to Jaskier. His eyes went from one strange constellation to the other, like they had years ago, when he had explained to Jaskier how to navigate using the sky. ‘I don’t need to follow stars,’ Jaskier had said back then. ‘I have you.’ Geralt had remained quiet, but Jaskier had seen on his face that there was a reply burning on his tongue. He wished Geralt had told him back then what he had wanted to say. “I don’t know where we are.”
“It’s alright,” Jaskier said, giving Geralt’s waist a little squeeze. “I will bring us home.”
As if she had waited for him to speak, the Queen spread her arms, commanding every being in this glade to fall silent.
“The hunt is over. So I say,” she began, “as entertainment, our game will begin with the bard’s task of the first day, the witcher’s freedom for to win.”
With the strange cadence of her voice and the unusual way of speaking, it took Jaskier a while to unfurl the meaning of her words.
“Wait.” He couldn’t stop himself from calling out. “First task? You said this task would take time, but it’s already night -”
“Better be quick then, to save your knight,” the Queen said, her lips curling into a cat-like smile.
“What I mean,” Jaskier said, grasping for straws, “is that you said it’s the task of the first day and technically it’s not day anymore.”
The Queen’s smile dropped.
“Don’t try my patience, little flower. I grant you a chance, but nothing more.” With one finger, she traced the new tattoo on her arm - an unmistakable threat. “Do not test me, or I’ll make you cower like a weed does on the floor.”
Geralt’s arm around his shoulder became heavier, pulling him closer as he glared at the queen. His other hand was reaching over Jaskier’s chest, holding him protectively.
The proximity made Jaskier’s heart skip a beat.
The Queen tilted her head at the display. “The more you argue, the more you wait, the less time you’ll have to fight for the witcher’s fate.”
A part of Jaskier wanted to insist that this wasn’t fair, that if the Queen’s words were to be taken at face value, he wouldn’t have to start the task right this instance. But the Queen was right. It was unlikely that she would change her mind and Jaskier didn’t have any time to waste.
He lowered his head, partly so that she couldn’t see the spite in his eyes. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Your Highness, I meant no offence.”
“On then. Let the game commence.” She lifted her hands higher, not unlike a bard demanding attention. “Since stealing the witcher is your desire, here’s the task that I require:” She let her gaze wander over the glade, until it settled on Jaskier again, burning into him. “Time is what you need to steal. Do this ere dawn to honour our deal.”
Time. Jaskier turned to Geralt helplessly. How on earth was he supposed to steal time? It wasn’t as if he could put the sun in his pocket or steal the moon out of the sky. Geralt’s expression was pinched and his breathing ragged.
“Think,” he hissed at Jaskier. It was a plea, a prayer.
Jaskier nodded automatically, but his thoughts refused to get in line. There were a hundred useless things going through his mind, a hundred solutions that were just as impossible as the task itself.
“I thought you’d hurry,” the Queen said, bemused. “Should I start to worry?”
“No,” Jaskier rushed to say. “I can do it. I’m just… I need to think.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking off this distracting foreign world. Without realising what he was doing, Jaskier let go of Geralt to press his fists against his forehead, as if that could get him any closer to the solution.
A weight stumbled against him unexpectedly, nearly knocking him to the ground. His eyes flew open.
Geralt grimaced and tried to pull himself upright on his own, but his knees buckled. Jaskier’s breath hitched. How long had Geralt been on his feet? How many nights had he spent dancing and being hunted?
Jaskier’s hands were back on Geralt in a flash, guiding him carefully to one of the shadow-cloaked trees. He was sure Geralt would have complained, had he had any breath left to speak. Gently, Jaskier lowered Geralt into a sitting position. With one hand, he brushed the sweat-soaked hair out of his forehead, feeling how hot his skin was.
“Rest,” he commanded. “Are you alright?”
“Don’t worry about me, bard.” Geralt bared his teeth. “You’re wasting your time.”
Jaskier opened his mouth to protest, but then he faltered.
Quick as a whirlwind, he leaped to his feet and turned towards the Queen.
“I have done as you have asked,” he proclaimed loudly, his heart hammering with nerves. “I have stolen my witcher’s time, over and over again.”
The Queen raised her brows, motioning for him to continue.
Jaskier glanced uncertainty at Geralt, who was staring at him with a stony expression.
“I have been holding him up on the road because I cannot walk as fast as him. I have been wasting his time when I insist on staying in town longer than he wanted to. I have taken his time, when he didn’t want to give it to me.” He spread his arms, as he did at the end of a performance. “So you see, I have stolen his time.”
“How curious you are, dear bard,” the Queen said, rounding the pond to walk towards Jaskier. “You truly think you speak the truth. How easily does the heart trust falcities while you’re in youth.”
Jaskier frowned. “What do you mean? It’s true, he doesn’t like spending time with me.” He started picking at his hands, twisting them and growing more agitated with every word he spoke. He rushed out the words. They hurt too much to take his time with them. “I’m taking his time without him wanting me to. I won this challenge!”
The Queen didn’t reply, only hummed in a mocking imitation of Geralt’s speech.
“And what do you think about this claim?” She asked, crouching down before Geralt. “Does he speak true? Do you think the same? Or did he not steal any time from you?”
She reached out, caressing one long finger up Geralt’s throat and coming to rest at his lips.
Geralt’s hands flexed, like he wished he had his swords with him. He turned his head away harshly, breaking the contact to the Queen.
An unpleasant tightness pulled at the Queen’s lips. “You’re stubborn, but you’re also weak. You won’t say it freely? I command you: Speak!”
Geralt’s eyes widened in shock and his entire body tensed, as his lips parted, seemingly without his consent.
Jaskier rushed to his side. He fell to his knees beside him, reaching for his hand.
“What’s going on?” He asked, clutching Geralt.
Geralt faced him, but he didn’t give a reply to Jaskier’s question. Instead, he did what the Queen had demanded of him and told her his truth.
“It’s not true,” he said, his voice sounding strained. His wooden way of speaking was similar to how he had danced under the fae’s control before. “He has not wasted a minute of my time.” Something strange happened to Geralt’s expression. Jaskier couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a mixture of guilt and shame. Geralt averted his gaze sharply, hiding away from Jaskier. “The time we spend together is time I give to him freely.”
Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t heard correctly. It was impossible. Geralt - Geralt didn’t like spending time with him. He had barely tolerated his presence for years. There was not a world in which he actually wanted to watch Jaskier stop their travels, just to look at flowers or take forever trying on different outfits and asking for Geralt’s opinion. Geralt didn’t like being stuck at a tavern, because Jaskier had decided to play an encore. He didn’t.
Yet here he was, forced to speak true.
Jaskier’s heart made a foolish, hopeful jump. But Geralt wasn’t looking at him and the Queen was laughing in mockery.
Jaskier was a fool. A fool for thinking he could talk his way out of this challenge. A fool to think Geralt liked spending time with him. That wasn’t what he had said, after all. He had merely said that he didn’t hate spending time with him. And what a great difference there was between not minding and liking.
Jaskier clenched his jaw and extracted his hand from Geralt’s. Geralt let him go without even trying to hold him back. He didn’t know what to do. He had thought himself oh so clever, but it was all for naught now. He couldn’t even begin to figure out how to solve this. He wasn’t even sure if it was a riddle to be solved or if there was a solution reliant on the unknown rules of this world.
He moved around the pond, looking down into the nebulous shapes and colours, praying to find an answer there. If there were any gods, they hadn’t dared to follow him into this realm.
He was pacing, heart racing. Fingers drumming on his thighs. There were eyes on him. Everyone was watching. Judging.
He shook his head, shut his eyes tightly. He could feel this place getting to him, like a fog creeping up unnoticed, until suddenly you realised you couldn’t see anymore. He couldn’t think clearly. Everything here was so alive, breathing and humming to a tune he didn’t understand.
And every leaf on every tree, every pair of eyes, every star in the sky was watching him, waiting for him to misstep. Normally, he loved attention, thrived in it. But this was making him feel so small. Powerless. Alone.
It was like being on stage, needing to perform a song he had never heard, while being judged on whether he hit his notes, knew his lines, was able to keep time…
His head snapped up. Abruptly, the drumming of his fingers stopped. On instinct, one of his hands reached for his back, to where his lute rested safe and secure, just waiting to be played again. He swung the instrument to his front. Immediately, his hands found their places on the strings. They danced over them nimbly, just a silly little run, yet with each note Jaskier plucked, he could feel some of his confidence return.
This was a world of magic, of pure chaos. When Jaskier had learned how to play, the notes hadn’t made sense. His fingers hadn’t understood how to move. The melodies had been all jumbled up. In short, his playing had been chaotic. And he had taken this chaos and turned it into something beautiful, something he could understand and create.
The white string around his wrist shone bright in the light of the nebulae above him, but it was nothing compared to the brightness of the notes he elicited from the strings on his lute.
He found himself standing taller, prouder. His fingers didn’t falter as he played in piano, so that his voice could be heard throughout the glade.
“The Queen demands entertainment,” he announced, throwing his voice, “What is more entertaining than two musicians showing their craft. I challenge you, if there be one among you who thinks they can match my skill, to play with me.”
A hush fell over the clearing, all eyes turning to the Queen. She regarded Jaskier like a hunter trying to figure out its prey’s next move. Then, she waved at one of her fae.
“My Songbird, come, what do you say?” At her call, the fae with the blue feathered cloak looked up. He ran a hand over his cloak, smoothing the feathers and bowing in acknowledgement. The Queen continued, “I heard that you have longed to play with common, mortal folk. On then, take out your lyre, shed your cloak and show us how well you can sing.” Her lips tilted up into an unpleasant smile. “For you, it must be no hard thing to win against a human bardling.”
Wren pressed his lips together in a tight smile, his bow deepening. In one motion, he straightened his spine again and opened the clasp of the cloak. It fluttered to the ground like a bird’s wings. When Jaskier looked from the cloak back to the fae, he was holding an instrument in his hand. A beautiful golden lyre, strung with silver strings.
“I thank you, Highness, for your trust,” Wren said. With his free hand, he smoothed out the chemise he was wearing. It was a lighter shade of blue than his cloak had been, but looked just as much like the soft downs of a bird. “I have no doubt about whose glitter will rust in the end.” He turned to Jaskier in a renewed bow. “Will you begin then, little friend?”
Jaskier bristled at the moniker. A sharp reply about them not being friends was already at the tip of his tongue, but he faltered. It was too close to what Geralt so liked to say to him and he didn’t want to think of that now. He had to believe that he could do this, that he could earn Geralt’s trust, if not his affection.
So instead, Jaskier nodded at Wren’s instrument. “I thought you fae despised liars.”
Wren’s eyes lit up. “Ah, but there is fire in your heart and that is something we admire.” His fingers ran up and down his lyre. The notes falling from the strings were like liquid gold. “I ask again, do you want to start?”
Jaskier forced his fingers not to tighten around the fretboard, giving himself an air of confidence. “I thought we could play a duet. I begin and you join in.” His tongue darted out, wetting his lips nervously. “Surely keeping up won’t be hard for a Songbird like you?” He prayed echoing the Queen’s earlier words would be enough to goad the fae into compliance. From the tales he had been told about the fair folk, their arrogance could be their downfall. But their wrath would be everyone else’s doom.
Wren’s brows rose up, but he nodded slowly, intrigued. He motioned for Jaskier to begin.
Jaskier took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and plucked the first note. He didn’t know what his fingers were doing, had never played this song before or heard it performed at any court. Yet his fingers found their places sure and steady as if he had played this melody a hundred times before. The song rose and fell like Geralt’s chest in hi sleep, the first time he had felt comfortable and safe enough to close his eyes with Jaskier there. It danced merrily like the flames of a campfire Geralt had lit because Jaskier was cold. It - it ached.
He played it as if he had known this song all along, and in a way, he had.
A new melody joined in with his and his eyes shot open. The fae was plucking at his lyre, weaving a harmony into his song. Something shifted inside Jaskier. There was no way to explain, but it felt like Wren’s playing fit perfectly with his, not only in regards to time and tune. No word was spoken, yet in his heart, Jaskier knew that they were telling the same story with their instruments.
He had heard tales before, about mortals beating fae by playing songs coming from the heart.
"I've played for many centuries, yet, by the stars above,
You've taught me skill is not enough. It can't compare to love."
Wasn’t that what the hero in one of those old songs got told? That no fae’s skill could compare to his love? And yet, no matter how much Jaskier thought about nights spent sitting around a fire, about Geralt telling him of his family in a low voice, about leaning his head against his shoulder, there was no sign of Jaskier’s playing being superior.
He thought of Roach’s hooves thundering on the ground, as Geralt spurned her on to get Jaskier to a healer in time. Jaskier’s fingers on the lute sped up, but Wren matched his pace, note for note.
Jaskier let his mind stray to the day when Geralt had taken him to a farm, and asked for his help finding a new suitable Roach. The notes swelled, as the melody slowed. Wren didn’t falter.
Jaskier gritted his teeth. His fingers were burning with the friction created by the strings. He had no idea how long they had already played. It could have been mere minutes, or it could have been most of the night. He couldn’t tell. In his mind, he was walking through years upon years of love, of Geralt making him want to sing.
Geralt.
Jaskier’s eyes darted to the witcher. He half-expected Geralt to be asleep or meditating. Anything to regain his energy, while not having to endure listening to Jaskier play. Yet, he found Geralt looking straight at him, tension in his shoulders, but something soft in his eyes.
Jaskier’s heart jumped and for just a second, his fingers fumbled. He caught himself, before he lost the rhythm of the song.
He couldn’t look away. Geralt was right there. The sight of him so near made Jaskier’s heart swell. It made him hope. It made him want to sing.
And so he did. He took this wordless song, that had been both his and Wren’s and made it his and Geralt’s. Only theirs.
“Time.
They say, it will take time.
They say that if I wait
I will realise that I should go
And not look back or lose my way.
But I say
No.
It’s already to late
For me, because time
Is the one thing I don’t have
The one thing that I gave
To the one I wish was mine.”
His voice broke, when Geralt’s brows drew together. He didn’t understand, Jaskier told himself. Geralt never understood this songs. Why would this be any different?
He had to believe this. Had to trust that Geralt didn’t know that this song was about him, or Jaskier wouldn’t be able to continue. Jaskier forced himself to look away. Still, he felt Geralt’s eyes burning into the back of his head.
“What a useless gift to give
To someone who sure will live
Longer than i know I will
Yet I give it to him still.
My best years I would give away
If only I knew it would make him stay.
But he shuns my years, my time.
In winter, I am left behind.
Half a year - no more, I know -
Can I give to him, before he will go
And leave me standing in the snow.
I give my winters to him still
By waiting, hoping, feeling ill
With missing him.
And yet come spring,
I know that I’ll be his again.
Even if he won’t be mine
I still can give him this: My time.”
He didn’t notice the tears in his eyes, until the first one dropped and landed on his lute with a quiet splash. His voice became thinner than before, raw with emotion. He couldn’t tell what other words tumbled from his lips. Perhaps he sang more of the pain of only being allowed to see his love for half a year, before he left to be with his family again. Perhaps he sang of the warmth that would make the world bloom around him, when he saw his love return - though his love wasn’t returned - in spring. Or perhaps he sang of the injustice of giving his time, his life to one who people thought did nothing but take lives. Geralt wasn’t taking his life - Jaskier was freely giving it to him and he felt more alive for it.
Maybe he sang of a million other things. In the end, it didn’t matter. Whatever words were falling from his lips, he was singing about Geralt. About loving him.
And no matter what this fae understood about longing and love, he could never understand what it was like to be mortal, to only have a handful of years and to willingly give them to someone else.
With every word he sang, Jaskier’s voice got more hoarse, but his fingers became steadier.
A dissonant twang cut through the song and for one terrifying moment, Jaskier thought his hands had failed him. But no, his fingers were still plucking the tune, his strained voice still singing the song of his heart.
It was Wren, who had stopped playing. Whose hands were trembling, unable to keep time with a song that wasn’t his anymore. His dark eyes were shining and when he squeezed them shut, a single tear rolled down his cheek and he averted his eyes. He did not attempt to pick up the song again. He only listened, as Jaskier sang, until finally, he let the melody fade out. The last note hung in the air like the stars hung in the sky. There was utter silence, except for Jaskier’s and Wren’s choked sobs.
A hand touched Jaskier’s and he flinched. With wide eyes, he stared at Geralt, who had pulled himself to his feet despite his pain and exhaustion, just to stay by his side. His hand was warm and steady against his. Immediately, Jaskier let go of the lute and clung to Geralt’s hand instead, like a lifeline. Geralt didn’t say a word, only gave his hand a light squeeze. A silent reassurance that he was there with Jaskier, that even when Jaskier looked away, ashamed and lost, Geralt still wouldn’t leave him.
Jaskier took a couple of deep breaths. He couldn’t hope to soothe the ache in his heart, but he could steady his voice enough to speak with dignity.
“Your Majesty,” he said loudly, searching the Queen’s gaze. She wasn’t crying, but there was unmistakable longing in her eyes. “Your champion agreed to play a duet with me, yet he could not keep time.” Jaskier lifted his head higher. “Therefore, I have stolen his time and declare myself the winner of this first challenge.”
The Queen regarded him for a long moment, then she inclined her head.
“A victory well earned,” she finally said, her voice less steady than it had been before. “Though a winner you are not, with a love so spurned.”
Jaskier flinched. Beside him, Geralt stepped closer, until their shoulders touched. He pulled Jaskier into his side, steadying him.
“Let him rest,” Geralt demanded. “He did what you asked of him, he doesn’t deserve any more of your mind games.”
The Queen’s lips twitched in amusement. She said something else, gave tasks to her fae, but Jaskier was too distracted by the feeling of Geralt next to him. By the familiar heat of his body. By the way he had come to his aid without hesitation.
“Come on,” Geralt muttered, lips close to Jaskier’s ear. A shiver went down Jaskier’s spine and he let himself be guided away by Geralt. A part of him was sure, he should pay attention to where he was going. But the bigger part knew he could trust Geralt not to lead him astray. He closed his eyes and leaning against Geralt, he followed where he led. He would always follow. Until the end of the Continent. Until the end of Time.
Even if, eventually, Geralt would leave him again, as he was always wont to do, without looking back.
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tag list (please tell me if you want me to add or remove your from the list):
Warnings: drunk reader, awkward people, idk really, feeling like you’re being creeped on?
Summary: “we make contact before trying to steal the last seat on the subway/bus/train and I end up in your lap and fuck you, I’m going to stay here because I’ve had a really long day and this seat was mine” - prompt source
A/N: so, this is finally here, the end to stangers on a train. Hope you all enjoy this, and yes, this is instead of a new part of Shut Up And Kiss Me, sorry. I didn’t have the time to write another part, and since this was already written, here you go.
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It takes so many rings before he answers that you almost believe it will go to the answerphone. But then you hear his soothing, deep voice tiredly say, “Tom Hiddleston, who am I talking to?”
You snort at that, which elcitics a laugh from him.
“Y/N,” he says, voice fond even though the sleepiness still clings to it. “It’s two am, why are you calling?”
“Uhh, I have a slight problem.” You press your lips together, forming a thin, nervous smile as you await his response.
“Problem?”
You nod. “Uhh, yeah. I’ve been out with friends and had a few drinks,” a little chuckle follows the ‘a few’ because it was probably one too many, “and I have to walk because I missed the last tube and it’s so long and my feet hurt and I’ve walked a little in only socks but it hurts so much and I don’t have much power left on my phone and also I’m a little afraid and like it’s dark and the middle of the night―”
His laugh interrupts your rambling. “Give me ten minutes, I’ll pick you up. Where are you?” he asks.
You look around. “I don’t know.” Even if he can’t see it, you shake your head as you say so, as if acknowledging your own stupidity. “Some buildings are here, and a… I don’t know.”
Tom sighs. “Anyway you could find out?”
“Maybe,” you reply and take your phone away from your ear. You press the speaker button, and move into google maps. By choosing somewhere to go, you get your own position and press it. The ‘share your location’ button is pretty handy right now, and you have only done this once before. You find Tom in your contacts and send it to him. “Done.”
“Got it. I’ll be right there.”
“Don’t use long. I want to see youuu,” you say, drawing out the ‘you’ in a singsong-y voice.
He laughs. “Don’t worry.”
You stick your tongue out and roll your eyes. “I don’t worry. I overthink. There’s a difference.”
“If you say―”
He cuts off. You look at your phone and notice it’s shutting down. Great, just great. That means you have to wait without talking to him. You let out a huff and sit down on the curb, which gives your feet some rest. It feels great actually, to just sit down.
It does not feel so great when a man walks past, and though he doesn’t really look threatening, there’s something about the look he sends you that has chills creep up your spine. During the next minutes it takes for Tom to arrive, your heart pounds in your chest. The slight tipsiness you’d felt before vanishes, replaced with an anxious feeling of dread.
Tom will be here in a second. Tom will be here in a second. Tom will be here in a second. You repeat it like a mantra in your head, but it doesn’t calm your nerves nearly as much as you would like.
The car that pulls up to a stop on the other side of the street doesn’t sit well in your gut either. But when Tom gets out of it and his tall frame makes its way across the street and to you, relief floods your system. You stand up, shoes in one hand and smile at him.
“You got cut off,” he says as he pulls you in for a small hug. You wrap your arms around him, breathing in the fresh scent he brings.
“My phone shut off.” You linger in the hug a few seconds longer than you should, but since he doesn’t pull away you don’t think too hard on it. Though your heart does flip a thousand times, which feels good but also breaks it all at once.
Tom pulls away eventually, and takes your free hand in his as you walk back to his car. “Why would you believe it a good idea to take off your shoes?” he asks.
“You really think these are good for walking?” You shove the pair of high heels in his face―though not too in his face. It’s a black pair with a thick heel and straps that snakes their way up your legs. It’s not necessarily that they’re uncomfortable, but rather the fact that high heels in general gives for tired feet after awhile.
“No, I don’t think they are.” He opens the car door for you, letting go of your hand as you sit down. The absence leaves a cold sensation in your fingers―had his touch really been that hot?
You do your best to fasten your seatbelt, but the end won’t connect with the thing it’s supposed to fasten in. Your focus is on that as you hear the car door close as Tom gets in. His laugh rings in your ear as you sigh and give up on the belt.
“I’ll help,” he says, leaning over and dragging the belt with him. Your breath catches at his closeness. His breathing mixes with yours, the nearness of him having your gut churn and your heart twist in agony because god he is so close why not just lean over and press your lips to his and―
Click.
The belt clicks into place and the smell of Tom’s cologne falls away from your nose as he pulls back into his own seat, pulling on his own seatbelt. He starts the car, and you do your best to regain your breathing because he was so close.
It’s a silent ride back to your apartment. All you can think about is how close he was. How dry your throat is. How much your gut hurts as it churns and churns and churns. How you feel cold as his touch isn’t on you. How you wish to press your lips to his. How you wish to press your lips to his neck, his chest, other places. How you wish to touch him, let your hands explore his body.
And all of it has your body heat up, sweat just a little because god it’s hot confined to this space.
Finally, Tom pulls to a stop in the guest parking outside your apartment. You manage to take off your seatbelt, but you don’t get to open the door as Tom is already on the other side. He smiles as he lends you a hand, which you happily take. The touch burns you, but it’s better than the cold you had before, better than not touching him.
He helps you all the way up to your apartment, letting you lean most of your weight on him as you walk. Though the few stairs you have to walk up aren’t that promising as you don’t want to put your shoes on at all.
“I’ll carry you,” offers Tom.
You shake your head. “No, I can’t… You can’t―”
But Tom doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and crouches for you to hop onto his back. You do. His arms feel secure under your thighs, the touch creating a tickling feeling where it happens―which you try to ignore but it’s a good feeling.
Your arms wrap around his neck, though you make sure not to choke him. Seeing as he feels so secure, you lay your head down on his back. The little rumble of a laugh it elicits has you smile.
It’s over too fast. Tom puts you down as he stops by your door. You fiddle with the keys, and hope he doesn’t decide to leave as he’s helped you. After all, he doesn’t have to stay. But everything within you wants him to. The alcohol in your blood might make you a tad bolder than you usually are, and that might just have things go the direction you want it to.
You open the door and walk in, putting your shoes down with your other shoes. Thankfully, Tom follows you inside, closes the door and takes off his shoes. You try to suppress a smile, but it makes its way across your face despite it.
“You want something to drink?” you ask, glancing his way.
“That depends,” he says and leans against the doorway to the kitchen.
“You can choose wine or water.”
Tom chuckles. “I’ll take a glass of water, thank you.”
You pull out two glasses, find a bottle you have in the fridge and fill both glasses with water. You hand one of them to Tom and take the other one yourself, taking a sip. Even being cold from standing in the fridge, it isn’t as cold as the absence of Tom’s touch.
Only moments ago and you already miss it. Maybe there’s something in it when you’re in love; you miss those small things because you only get them during certain moments. And now that that moment is over, you don’t know what to do.
“How much did you really drink?” asks Tom and sets down his glass on the counter as he leans against it.
You press your lips together. “Just a few… too many.”
He gives you an amused smile, though he doesn’t comment. Instead, he quietly leans against the counter, ocean eyes smiling as he looks at you. The way they seem to study your face has heat crawl into your cheeks and you press your lips even tighter together.
“You wanna watch a movie?” you ask.
“It’s still the middle of the night,” he replies, though amusement colors his voice. “I better get home.”
You put down your glass on the counter and walk the few steps over to him. “Please stay,” you say and make the best puppy dog eyes you can.
Tom shakes his head. “I can’t. I might have a day off tomorrow, but I can’t stay here the whole night.”
Everything in your stomach tells you to tiptoe, tilt your head a tiny bit and press your lips to his. A quick peck, just something to let the hunger, the need to do so, at bay. But you don’t. You look up at him, try to look as innocent as possible.
“Okay,” he says, “I’ll stay.” He picks up the glass off water, downing it all in one big sip. Your throat goes dry seeing his long neck stretched, seeing his adam’s apple move as he swallows and noting the way his lips fold around the rim of the glass.
God, you have to get yourself checked, Y/N, this is way out of line.
But then again, hadn’t you been on a date? Not today, but before. And he was so nice, but you can’t believe anyone who’s nice likes you that way.
“What movie are we watching?”
You blink up at Tom, who smiles warmly. You swallow, throat and mouth dry. “What would you like to watch?”
“You asked for a movie, you pick,” he says and you roll your eyes.
Nevertheless, you pick the movie. You find a romantic one on Netflix, and, both out of boldness from the alcohol and the fact that you are pretty close, you snuggle close to him as the movie plays.
He drapes his arm around you, letting you rest your head on his chest. His heart beats loudly in your ear, faster than you would expect. Maybe he likes the movie, he probably likes the movie.
Close to the end, the couple gets back together. The final ‘real’ kiss plays on the screen and you sigh at the sight. Louder than you thought, because Tom stirs, sits up a little and lets you fall down with your head in his lap. His fingers start to play with your hair, and a smile creeps on your lips he gently combs through.
When the credits start rolling, you turn in his lap so that you face him. His gaze is on you, looking down with a fondness you haven’t seen before. A fondness that has your gut churn.
All you have to do is lean up and―
You don’t react before he pulls away with a red face. He presses his lips together and his eyes go a little sad by the fact that you had no reaction. His eyes meet yours and even though you can’t see your own face, you know it’s colored in shock.
He kissed you. His lips were on your lips. He made the move.
And you didn’t kiss back. Nor are you telling him you want to. You just lie there, staring up at him with wide eyes as his face contorts more and more into someone that wants to flee the situation.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I just… I thought perhaps…”
You shake your head. “Don’t be.” Your voice sounds small in your head, barely there. “Do it again,” you say breathlessly, throat too dry to function.
He does. This time you notice, and you kiss back. Your arm snake to the back of his head, steadying him as you press your lips against his. It’s not much, it feels a little awkward, and you would want the situation to be a little different. Yet it’s better than anything you could have imagined. Fireworks spark in your gut, heat burns your palm where your hand is in his hair and his hand is on your cheek, and the tingling feeling you have felt many times around him comes back, adding to the pleasure of the kiss.
A message we received over Instagram! We hope you enjoy the fics lists below!
the stray by elliewritesthings
(Rating M, words 15491, mulitchapter, complete)
“It’ll be good for you, too. The presence of animals can be very therapeutic.”
Levi narrows his eyes at them. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Crossing their arms over their chest, Hanji gives him a knowing look. “Oh, nothing. Just that maybe it’ll get your mind off of pining.” For Eren. Though they don’t say it out loud, the implication is clear.
“I’m not pining,” he insists. He is. Has been from the very morning that Eren’s squad set off towards uncharted lands.
“Of course,” Hanji agrees, probably just to please him. “But they’ll be back in, what, a month from now?”
“Thirty four days,” Levi states. Thirty four days until he sees Eren again, which is practically an eternity.
(Or: Eren is gone, Levi is lonely, acquires a cat)
Care For by MeIcecat45
(Rating M, words 890, oneshot)
They have many ways to say "I love you". And just as many ways to find comfort in each other.
Dark Waters by Corporal_Levi_cleans_my_house
(Rating M, words 169 735, multichapter, complete)
I swear this fic can fall under every recommendation
Eren, a young mermaid, meets his dark and intriguing mate, Levi, for the first time by the edge of a large lake in the middle of the wetland forests. Hanji and her team of biologists hide nearby to document the elusive merfolk and their interactions.
Or that one merfolk au where Levi (merman/male/dominant) and Eren (mermaid/arguably still male but in the submissive role here) are a pair of mates living in the wild, meeting for the first time by the lake that Levi inhabits.
canto ostinato by elliewritesthings
(Rating Teen, words 21 509, multichapter, ongoing)
"We might need to fix it up a little," he admits, suddenly glad he'd brought along the mostly unused toolbox that had laid in storage ever since he'd received it from his dad on his 20th birthday. "And to mow the lawn, too.""Let's not do that last thing," Levi interjects. His tail is leisurely swishing from side to side as he glances along the dirt path that circles around the large raspberry bushes and leads to the front steps. "I like this yard, it's much better than that measly balcony garden of yours."
Crossed Lines by Take_Me_To_My_Fragile_Dreams
(Rating E, words 26 934, mulichapter, ongoing)
A sound of amusement left Kuchel’s mouth as Levi turned to look at him. Eren was startled to see that his eyes were a deep crimson, pupils broken into tiny slits. His arms were an array of black and red feathers, something Eren noticed when they were crossed stubbornly. “You’re bigger than me.”
He gaped at him. “So?”
“So you could step on me,” Levi said with a huff. “or worse.”
Ruffled Feathers by CocoaChoux
(Rated T, 4 567 words, complete)
A certain birdie caught a demon’s attention.
Wayward Wings by artenon
(Rated T, 2 963 words, complete)
As he straightened up, his wing jerked, and Eren stiffened as he felt it smack into something—or rather, someone.
“I’m so sorry!” he burst out, but as he whirled around, his wings gave another spasm and hit Corporal Levi in the face. Again. “Sorry!”
He held his wings stiff against his back, though he could feel them straining to move, as he stared at Corporal Levi.
Corporal Levi, whose face and hair were now half-covered in mud. Corporal Levi, whose expression hadn’t changed but who was more likely than not livid. Oh, crap.
Shut Up And Kiss Me [Prologue] | Tom Hiddleston x reader
Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x reader
Style: Multichap (honestly no idea how many chaps)
WC: 1273
Warnings: idk, not much happens here, its a prologue for a reason
Summary: You and Professor Hiddleston have been colleagues for many years now, and through those years the hatred for each other has only grown. Now, as a new school year starts, you’re being told that you have to share a classroom or a class. Neither are happy about the outcome, but knowing you’ll never come to an agreement, you let the class choose for you. Team-teaching is rare in 2019, but it is a lot harder to do when you can’t stand the person you’re doing it with.
A/N: So, I’ve been working on this for like a week now, or more. I have almost four chaps done (not including this) and I can’t wait for you all to join me in my slowburn misery because this will be long and it will be cruel.
If you want to be added/removed from the taglist, please let me know ^_^
Series Masterlist | Part One
Red chairs make up the rows, each row a little higher than the one before. A set of stairs divide it into two parts, with a door at the top. The rows are lined in an oval, every chair turned to the front to see a teacher’s desk, a blackboard and a projector screen.
In one room, the teacher leans against his desk, smiling at the fresh students coming into the room. He lets the chatter last. Lets the students feel comfortable. Lets the few who whisper, giggle and watch his way continue for yet another while.
On the blackboard at the front it says PROFESSOR Y/L/N in big block letters. The professor the name belongs to is nowhere to be seen, but the desk is scattered with books, along with two stacks of notebooks. A laptop rests among the mess. In this room, the chatter grows at the sight of mess and no teacher.
The professor claps his hands together. He clears his throat and smile at the new faces. “I’m professor Hiddleston,” he says. “Welcome to English literature.”
“Please sit on chairs.” The voice comes from the back as a young woman enters. The students cease their talk and scramble to chairs. “That’s the number one rule.” She leans against the teacher’s desk and gazes up at the students. “Welcome to history. As you probably already figured, I’m professor Y/L/N.” The professor gestures to the blackboard behind her.
Professor Hiddleston scans the room. “Anyone who knows they are in the wrong room, please don’t be shy, and leave now. This is a normal thing.” The room stays quiet until a pair of steps can be heard from the back. The male is out of the room before anyone can register who it is.
As the room quiets down, Professor Y/L/N sighs. She erases her name from the board and writes a one. “You already know this rule. Sit on chairs.” The woman writes a number two and turns back to the students. “Number two,” she says, “is simple. No one talks while I talk. You only talk when I give you permission. You can interrupt by raising a hand, but don’t speak before I’ve called upon you.”
“That sorted out, let’s start, shall we?” He smiles. “First, some practical information. I will hand you a list of books you can choose from, please choose one you want to read throughout the semester. You will need to borrow this and Hamlet at the university library before the next class.”
“Number three.” Professor Y/L/N writes a three on the blackboard. “Ask questions. Anything you don’t understand or anywhere you believe I’m wrong, please raise your hand. And in any discourse, you are welcomed to disagree with me.”
The professor hands a paper to the male closest to him on the first row. It contains a list of books and how to choose. “There will be assignments to what you choose. These are mandatory and will help improve your grade. Though, remember that this is supposed to be both fun and learning.”
She writes a four and strike a line through it. “There is no fourth rule, simply a suggestion.” The woman walks to the front of the desk. “I hand out assignments. I expect them to be done within a certain time period. In that period, I don’t expect you to hand them in before they are due,” she pauses, “but I do suggest it. I want to help to the best of my abilities and I believe this is how. By handing them in before they are due, I will go over them and return them before the deadline so that you can learn and correct mistakes. It might very well improve your grade.”
He writes fundamental on the blackboard. His handwriting has the students guessing, but as he says the word it comes clear. “Fundamental. It is fundamental that you know two things. One, that there will be no eating in class. Two, that I like talking and you will hear my voice a lot. That does not mean there isn't room for yours.”
“On another topic, I also expect you to ask how to use history in assignments for other classes. Some double major, some have more to do. Use more than one class during more assignments and ask me if you need any help. I have a PhD in History, yes, but also in philosophy, in addition a masters in English.”
Professor Hiddleston nods at the girl who raises her hand in the air. “Are you going to teach the creative writing course, too?”
As the professor turns on her laptop and connects it to the projector, she looks up at the students. “Anyone who has, by now, realised they are in the wrong room can leave. Please do so now and not later.” No one stands up. “In that case, let’s begin.”
He purses his lips. “There is a slightly different note to the course this year. Due to many applicants there are two classes. I will have one of them, and a professor Y/L/N will have the other.”
--
“You can’t be serious.” Professor Y/L/N throws her hands up. She gives the Dean of English a gaze of annoyance and disbelief.
Richie McHallan only smiles apologetically. “I am,” he says. “There might be two courses, but we don’t have the room for it. You will have to divide the room or share the course.”
Y/L/N leans back in her chair with a sigh. She gazes over at her coworker. “We don’t get along, Richie, how do you expect it to work?”
“For once, I agree with her.” Professor Hiddleston looks at McHallan. “Plus, the classes are full, how are we supposed to fit all those students into one classroom?”
The dean sighs. “You will. You’ll show professionalism, and you’ll make agreements with each other, understood?”
The two professors nod, though neither look happy with the decision.
“Here’s a list of scheduling. The room you’ll have will be there. And here's a list over the students.” McHallan slides two pieces of paper to each of the professors. Both lists contain a room number, dates and time, and a list of fifteen students each.
Professor Y/L/N takes the list. “Why can’t I just move the class to the evening? There will be free classrooms.”
The dean shakes his head. “Not possible. There are night time courses here and even then there are few rooms available. Do this or lose the class.”
The woman mutters something under her breath. “Okay, I give up.” She grabs the list and walks out of the room, each step make a sound. So does the door as she rips it open and lets it slam shut.
Hiddleston chuckles. “I really don’t see the point in this,” he says.
“Really? You don’t?” The dean scoffs. “You two have never seen eye to eye, but you enjoy it when she’s mad. I need you two to be able to work together. Dr. Grant suggested this actually.”
“Ah, of course.” He nods, a smile caressing his lips. “I’ll be nice, you know I will.”
“Ever the gentleman.” The dean shakes his head. “You’re much too cocky for your own good.”
“Oh, but you do enjoy it.”
McHallan sighs. “Unfortunately.” He waves a gesture to make the professor leave. “But I enjoy her more than you, so don’t do anything stupid, understood?”
The man only chuckles as he walks out, more than intent on making the most of an otherwise unwanted situation.
Rating: Gen
Fandom: Pokemon
Paring: Originshipping
Characters: Wallace, Juan
Word Count: 857
Summary: Wallace is a first year student at Hoenn U, Hoenn’s very own university. During his studies he makes new friends and even begins to fall for one of the top students at the university. However, not everything is smooth sailing, as he has yet to find out.
Comment: Wallace is nervous about going to university. Juan is there to help.
Rating: Gen
Fandom: Pokemon
Paring: Originshipping
Characters: Wallace, Juan
Word Count: 1682
Summary: Wallace is a first year student at Hoenn U, Hoenn's very own university. During his studies he makes new friends and even begins to fall for one of the top students at the university. However, not everything is smooth sailing, as he has yet to find out.
Comment: The first chapter of an on going fic. Steven and the rest of the gang will be added in later chapters.
The Plan | palmtreedreamer | Drama/Romance | Rated M
A story about Jane and Maura in their 20's. They meet and change each other's lives forever. Maura chooses Jane to give her what she's always dreamed of. This is a slow burn. AU on how they met. Please give it a shot , I'm all about Rizzles. Stick past the first few chapters I promise you wont be disappointed.
