hello! can we have 42 or 59 for sambucky please? you asked for bonkers so magic it is!
42. true love's kiss
The rumble of the quinjet is never more soothing than it is at the end of a mission, low chatter and mechanical hums filling the spaces that are usually left empty on the way to a fight. Bucky isn't the type to doze off surrounded by so many people, but it lulls him into a sense of calm at least, especially if Sam is there by his side.
They haven't talked about it much, this thing that's been brewing between them, but a few nights ago and a few nips of Asgardian mead deep, Bucky had worked up enough courage to ask Sam if he ever thought about them being more than just partners in the field. The answer had been a quiet yes, Sam looking more shy than Bucky had ever seen him before, and he'd gone to bed that night feeling like he could've run a hundred marathons without breaking a sweat.
Neither one of them has made a move in the days since, too busy with superheroing (minimal) and paperwork (neverending), but now Bucky feels Sam's gaze settle on him in otherwise quiet moments at the compound, and he's found himself more readily reaching out to clap Sam on the back or put a hand at his elbow when they walk into a room together. For all the parts of their lives that happen in the public eye, it's nice to have something slow and theirs, something precious that they can quietly tend to while talking through movie nights and napping against each other on jet rides home.
Admittedly, today's flight back to the compound is a little less relaxing than usual: what had started out as a minor recon mission this afternoon had run long, turning into a protracted battle against some creepy sorceress who'd been releasing fairytale horrors from deep within an underground lair in Central Park. Though things had ended pretty cartoonishly, with a giant pumpkin carriage exploding and covering them all in a sparkly pink goo, they'd spent the majority of the fight trying to keep the magic contained and keep the civilians out of danger.
👀 oh gosh, I feel unqualified to answer this. tentatively yes? it's mainly comedic in tone for the first third, then gets the Angst Jackscrew™ treatment.
(Though comedic undertones never fully go away just because the MC is just So Done with everyone being ridiculous. As someone brilliantly put it—he lived a hater, died a hater, came back, is still a hater. 10/10 dedication.)
do you recommend tgcf? 👀 I’ve heard about it a lot but never tried
I would! It's really fun and earnest and seems to be settling into the story and worldbuilding (the tone, texture and pacing of the first volume made my brain itch before it calmed down and I got used to it). I would probably not recommend the path I took in experiencing it though, which was:
manhwa (so incredibly gorgeous to look at, no clue what the fuck is happening or who anyone is) -> anime (sort of understand what's happening but still have so many questions about the world and who the fuck people are) -> novel (actually understanding the world, the story, and who everyone is and how they relate to each other)
I'm only on volume 3/8 so I don't know what my future thoughts will be but for right now, I'm having a blast. If you pick it up, it would be a pleasure to have someone to talk about it with!!
a book i recommend: honestly the brothers karamazov but for something smaller i rec literally anything by james baldwin
a book that i couldn't put down: the left hand of darkness MY BELOVED
a book i've read twice (or more): frankenstein because i wrote a paper on it but also because it fucks
a book on my tbr: generally house of leaves is on my tbr for eons but most immediate are letters to milena and το τριτο στεφανι (the third wedding)
a book i've put down: europe after the rain by alan burns, it was not a good pick for my mood at the time but i'll give it one more try some day
a book on my wish list: too many brother. Too many
a favorite book from childhood: gonna be a massive nerd and say secrets of the swamp by penelope delta i LOVED that book. but also the youngest templar series by michael spradlin my teacher lended me i ate it up it unlocked something in my brain for sure
a book you would give to a friend: the heart is a lonely hunter by carson mccullers. it's. A Book
a book of poetry or lyrics that you own: unfortunately i only have a book of greek love poetry by various poets they need to lower the price of poetry books fr
a non-fiction book you own: the colour of water by james mcbride i studied it in uni this book made me cry so much
what are you currently reading: crime and punishment. hot dostoyevsky summer baby!!
what are you planning on reading next: if it's not something from my tbr then sth from the new wordsworth editions that are ridiculously cheap and pretty or perhaps i'll try to continue moby dick because it's ruining my reputation
tagging @thalassiokhtos @darkside-cookies @somerubberband @staliaofatreides @theklaapologist also everyone actually show me those books boy
The tables are deserted, the chairs vacant; errant goblets staining the hardwood with spilled wine, candles flickering silently, following the rhythm of the rain pouring down outside.
His cloak is soaked through: he hadn’t had the chance to outrun the downpour once the sky broke open, instead pressing Roach to get to the University as quickly as her legs could carry them. He couldn’t look back.
Maybe I’ll see you in the spring, Jaskier’s voice echoes in his head as his hand leaves the door handle and he wanders inside. Or maybe not— you could be busy, you know, what with the Witcher-princess training you lot must have going on. Not the time for old acquaintances to tag along.
Oh, but how wrong Geralt had been.
The tapestries on the wall seem to know, too, old faces looking down on him with disdain. They must have seen him, frozen in place as Jaskier had shaken his hand — shaken his hand, as if they were nothing but strangers — and bid him and Roach farewell. They must have seen the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers clenched together as Jaskier’s retreating figure grew tinier and tinier on the horizon. They must have heard all the words Geralt couldn’t say, the confession that threatened to escape from under his sleeve.
He’d made it halfway up the mountain when Roach turned around for him. He didn’t even question her judgment — he knew it too, deep down.
But it seems Oxenfurt has canceled the term — seems like the early winter was harsh enough to make them take cover in their well-furnished apartments with those vivacious fireplaces Jaskier thinks so fondly of when they’re in the thick in the winter, lying on the forest floor, side by side.
Seems like he’s, once again, late.
He closes the door behind him when he leaves, pulling his hood up if only to cover his face, to hide the disappointment blooming in his chest as he walks down the cobblestone corridors to the stables.
“No luck, girl,” he tells Roach when he gets there, his hand patting her neck affectionately. She nickers — sympathetically, he’d like to think — in reply.
His foot is on the stirrup when a hollow sound gives him pause.
“Geralt!”
Roach snorts at the sight of a pale, drenched-rat-looking Jaskier, ruining his precious boots as he runs across the mud in the pouring rain, his robes flying behind him.
“Geralt!” He calls again, finally reaching the shelter of the stables and catching his breath by a pillar. “I thought I’d be too late.”
That’s me, Geralt thinks. I’m always too late.
But he says, “Jaskier,” in a soft whisper, and walks closer, because he can’t help himself.
The bard is a sight: his hair is somehow both up in the air and sticking down to his forehead, cheeks flushed red and blue eyes so, so blue. He’s wearing green robes and he looks so beautiful, so ridiculous with his lecturing clothes clinging to his skin, Geralt wants to take him in his arms and carry him inside, get him close to a fire.
He does no such thing, of course.
But he does wait.
“I thought I’d seen you,” Jaskier says once he’s regained his breath. “Through my bedroom window. I said to myself it couldn’t be you— why would you even be here is beyond me— but here you are. In the flesh.”
“In the flesh,” Geralt echoes, and, suddenly, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He fists them around Roach’s reins. “You are… well.”
“I am freezing, is what I am,” Jaskier replies with a dashing grin, wringing water from his fringe, even though there’s still a cloud of confusion over his eyes. “Why are you here, Geralt? I don’t mind the surprise visit, of course I don’t, but I…”
He pauses, expectant.
Right. Words.
Geralt knows those.
“Roach,” he starts, and that’s not what he was meant to say, but he’s said it, so he has to go along with it— “she missed you.”
Jaskier’s eyes are blue. Blue and wide. “...Oh.” He seems to regain his composure. “Oh, well, of course I’ve missed her as well. Terribly.”
Geralt pats her on the neck. “Of course.”
Jaskier looks like he wants to say something, and his mouth is a small circle before he seems to change his mind, and he looks at Geralt’s clothes. “You’re soaked,” he says, reaching for him and taking his hand back at the last minute, hesitant. “Come inside, I’ll get you some clean clothes for the journey.”
He turns around, sure that Geralt will follow him, but Geralt can’t take it— can’t see the hurt lingering in Jaskier’s eyes and not do something, can’t keep throwing salt in the wound and expecting it to not sting.
“Jaskier,” he breathes, and the bard turns around, and it’s too much. “It’s… I’m…”
If he reached out his hand, he could find out if Jaskier’s cheeks are as soft as they look.
He does.
“Geralt…”
Geralt closes his eyes, drawing him closer, and Jaskier goes — of course he does — and his cheek is soft and warm under his touch, and he needs him to be near, needs him to want to be near.
“You’re not an old acquaintance,” Geralt murmurs in the space between them, tipping his forehead to rest against Jaskier’s. “You couldn’t be.”
“Geralt.”
“You’re…” he breathes in. Breathes Jaskier in. “I’ve been a liar. All this time.”
He pulls back, opens his eyes. He circles Jaskier’s waist in his hands, and the bard looks small, vulnerable. Breakable.
He won’t break him anymore.
“There have been important people in my life,” he continues, under Jaskier’s careful gaze. “I’ve made you think you weren’t one of them. Jask, I— I pushed you away.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers. “I’m—”
“I’ve made you believe you weren’t one of the most important people in my life,” he repeats, “when all this time… Jaskier…”
He can hear Jaskier’s heart beating close to his.
“It’s always been you.”
Geralt kisses the grin off Jaskier’s face — or tries to, but they’re both smiling and their teeth clack together and they have to start all over again, and it’s messy and far from perfect, but they have time to make mistakes.
Thank you very much for the prompt!! This was a delight to write. Many thanks to @wians for beta-ing! <3
Geraskier fluff, 2k. Also on AO3!
~
It all started at that damned ball.
Jaskier’s set was over. The other musicians were playing a slow, romantic song, as was appropriate for a duke and duchess’ anniversary. All the guests were finding their partners of choice and asking them to dance. Words like “darling,” “sweetheart,” “lovely,” and “sugarplum” floated around Jaskier as he slowly made his way through the crowd to Geralt.
A few weeks ago, he and Geralt finally confessed their feelings to each other. They had been trying to work out how to navigate this new phase of their relationship ever since. The evening was romantic. Suddenly, Jaskier wanted nothing more than to share as sappy a moment with Geralt as everyone else seemed to be having with their partners.
He found Geralt in the crowd and smiled brightly to mask his slight nerves. Geralt gave him a tiny, fond smile in return and handed him a glass of wine which Jaskier took with delight. After downing the glass, he gave Geralt a winning smile and gestured to the dance floor.
“Give me a twirl, honey?”
Geralt raised an eyebrow at him, frowning a little. “Honey?”
Jaskier shrugged, a little self-conscious. “I thought it sounded sweet. Your eyes look like honey sometimes.”
“No, they don’t.”
“How would you know that?”
“Honey is brown. My eyes are yellow.”
Jaskier gasped in mock outrage. “Honey isn’t brown!”
Geralt shrugged. “The name feels overused, anyway.”
“Fine.”
Geralt had been called far too many ugly names over the years. He deserved to be called sweet things by his lover. All Jaskier had to do was figure out the perfect endearment.
In other words: Project Pet Names was go.
~~~
“Hello, sweetling,” Jaskier said as he slid onto a log next to Geralt at their camp.
Geralt raised an eyebrow. Jaskier blushed a little. They fell into awkward silence.
~~~
“Pass me my notebook, darling,” Jaskier said in their shared room at the inn.
Geralt passed the notebook. He did not react to the name.
~~~
“There you are, my lovely!” Jaskier shouted from across a marketplace.
Geralt didn’t even notice he was being addressed.
“How on earth did you not realize I was talking to you?” Jaskier groused later.
“You call everyone things like that. It could have been a barmaid you had just met, for all I knew. Of course I didn’t know you were talking to me.”
Jaskier sighed, but he saw Geralt’s point.
This was going nowhere. His attempts so far were an obvious failure. He was starting to feel rather desperate.
He would just have to be more creative.
~~~
"Hey, Ger-bear!"
Geralt stared at him, unimpressed.
~~~
“How are you, sweet cheeks?”
Geralt’s stare was more bewildered this time. Jaskier wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
~~~
"What do you think, honey bunny?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
~~~
“Hello, my sweet witcher-muffin!”
“This is getting ridiculous.”
“I take it I shouldn’t try ‘my little cabbage,’ then?”
“Absolutely not.”
“How about snooky ookums?”
“I will leave you on this roadside and never return.”
“Yeah, yeah. I love you too.”
Geralt flicked his nose hard, and Jaskier lost the train of their conversation while sputtering loudly and subsequently having to catch up to Roach.
~~~
"I've been trying to think of things he likes," Jaskier explained miserably to the vaguely sympathetic barmaid while Geralt was off on a hunt. "Unfortunately, half of it has to do with monster hunting or other useless things and the other half I've already tried."
"What's his favorite monster?" asked the barmaid absently. "You could use that."
"I might try."
~~~
"Well, if it isn't my very favorite-easily lopped head of a drowner for which the alderman is paying extra!"
Geralt stared at him. "What?"
"Um. Never mind."
~~~
Things shifted when they visited Kaer Morhen. Jaskier, obviously, was not as comfortable experimenting in front of Geralt’s family (especially Lambert) as he was in towns they were passing through. Despite the difficulties, though, he refused to pause his project. He listened intently to how Geralt’s family referred to him, just in case it revealed anything useful. For the most part, it was only his name, “Wolf,” and the occasional affectionate insult. Then, one evening, something extremely interesting occurred.
Geralt had been complaining about a noble and his knights that he had encountered that year. Lambert got that mischievous glint in his eyes that almost always meant trouble.
“That’s rich coming from you, Geralt Roger Eric—”
Geralt turned on Lambert with a deadly glare. The dinner knife in his hand suddenly seemed much more threatening. “If you finish that sentence, you will regret it.”
Lambert raised his hands in mock surrender, though he did not look at all repentant. The conversation moved on. Jaskier did not forget.
That night, after he and Geralt had returned to their shared room, he finally had the chance to corner Geralt and ask.
“What was that about?”
Geralt winced, looking rather trapped. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Geralt Roger Eric?”
Geralt grimaced. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”
“I should hope you know me well enough to realize that I am not going to let this go until you tell me.”
Geralt was silent for a long moment, then sighed, defeated. “It was the name I first wanted to use on the Path.”
Jaskier’s eyes widened. “Geralt Roger Eric?”
Geralt closed his eyes. His next words were strained. “It was Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde.”
Jaskier stared at him for a long moment in silence. Geralt refused to meet his eyes.
“What?” Jaskier managed.
“I thought it sounded knightly,” mumbled Geralt.
“Oh! Well, I suppose it does. Why didn’t you use it?”
“Vesemir told me it was too ridiculous.”
“Oh,” Jaskier said again, thoughtful. “Did you agree?”
“I didn’t see it at the time, but I agree now.”
Jaskier frowned. “So at the time, you still wanted to use the name.”
“I was young. I didn’t know better.”
“That’s not the point! The point is that they didn’t let you!”
Geralt frowned at him. “Why are you upset about this?”
“You chose a name and were refused. They took that from you. You deserve the chance to choose something so important as a name, after all the choices you didn’t get to make.”
“It was a stupid name, Jaskier.”
“Maybe, but you deserved to be stupid.”
“Stupidity gets witchers killed.”
Jaskier threw his hands up in the air. “I changed my name to fucking ‘Buttercup’ of all things and I’ve never regretted it. I like it. Why can’t you change your name to sound more knightly? You certainly act knightly enough to merit it!”
“So? Are you going to start calling me by a ridiculous name now to make up for what happened sixty years ago?”
“I very well might!”
~~~
Jaskier stuck to his resolution. He never used the name in public, because he had a feeling Geralt might combust and because he didn’t want to give Lambert more ammunition than he already had, but he took to calling Geralt by some part or variant of Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde on a fairly regular basis. Geralt tended to look flustered when he did so. Jaskier had yet to determine if this was because he liked it or because he was horribly embarrassed.
He stuck to it for three weeks before Geralt finally asked him to stop.
“You don’t have to stop entirely. Just… not all the time.”
“All right.”
Jaskier would respect Geralt’s wishes. The point of a special pet name would be to make him happy, after all. Unfortunately, Geralt’s chosen name had been Jaskier’s last idea. He’d already tried every nickname, endearment, or interesting epithet that he could think of.
“What should I call you, then?” asked Jaskier. His voice sounded significantly more vulnerable than he would have liked.
“What?”
“I’ve been trying to think of good things to call you for the last month and I haven’t found anything. I’m a bard. I love you with everything I am. I should be able to do better.”
Geralt deserved good things. Jaskier’s project was failing. He should be able to do better for Geralt.
Some of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Geralt softened immediately. He did not speak, but Jaskier could tell it was the kind of silence that meant he was gathering his thoughts.
“I used to hate my name,” Geralt said eventually. “It didn’t feel like it was really mine for a very long time. Most don’t use it anyway. I have many epithets. Wolf, Butcher, Witcher… none of them are really a name. I was almost glad not to be called ‘Geralt,’ for a while, but then you came along.” He looked Jaskier in the eye, expression startlingly vulnerable. “I like how you say my name. You say it musically, like it’s something important. Significant. Worth remembering. I… like that.” Gently, tenderly, he took Jaskier’s hand. “I’ll always love anything you call me, but my name is enough to make me happy.”
Jaskier’s eyes felt rather wet. He blinked to clear them. Geralt’s expression was startlingly earnest. His hand was very warm where it still held Jaskier’s.
“Oh,” Jaskier managed.
Geralt’s brows furrowed a little. “Is that all right?”
Jaskier blinked. Geralt looked at him attentively, awaiting his judgment. Jaskier used Geralt’s hand to pull him closer and into a tight hug.
“Of course it’s all right, you ridiculous man.”
Geralt barely hesitated before hugging Jaskier back, and Jaskier spared a moment to feel proud of his witcher for how much he’d grown.
“Are you sure?” said Geralt. “I don’t want to spoil your notions of romance.”
“All I want is for you to be happy,” said Jaskier. “If nicknames aren’t the way to do that, I can live with it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to do whatever makes you feel good.” Jaskier pulled back a little to look Geralt in the eyes. He smiled a little. “Though I can’t promise I won’t use silly endearments occasionally.”
Geralt chuckled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
~~~
For the most part, Jaskier let Project Pet Names lie. It had served its purpose. Every now and then, of course, he couldn’t help but use one of the various ridiculous endearments he came up with. Most of the time, though, the way Geralt smiled when Jaskier said his name with all the love he could muster was more than enough for both of them. Geralt knew he was loved. Jaskier was happy.
Still, when Jaskier first sang his song about a brave knight named Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde (it was a nightmare to fit into any sort of meter, but great things were possible in the name of true love), he could have sworn he saw Geralt blush.
They both spent the evening smiling.
~~~
Seven months later, Geralt and Jaskier attended another ball. The patrons were slightly less rich and so the event was rather less fancy, which suited both of them perfectly. Just like the previous time, the couple who owned the mansion were celebrating an anniversary, and nearly the same romantic songs were being played.
This time, though, Jaskier approached Geralt with no trace of nervousness or uncertainty. Jaskier simply gave Geralt a grin and took his hand, smiling impossibly brighter as Geralt pressed a kiss to his forehead.
Though the couples around them were exchanging romantic words of their own, Jaskier paid them no mind. His own romance was more than enough to keep him occupied.
He looked up at his witcher with a soft smile.
“C’mon, Geralt.” He holds out a hand. “Give me a twirl.”
Geralt took his hand easily. “Of course.”
It was the best dance Jaskier could remember.
~~~
(“I do think your knightly name could come in handy sometime, Geralt.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, Geralt Roger Eric Pankratz has a certain ring to it.”
