#|| at last / i can clearly see the path : geralt | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dapandapod · 9 months

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Bruises

I realized I forgot to post this on Tumbl! It's about 8,5k and written in one day in a fit of inspiration (helppppp) because I needed that sweet sweet Jaskier whump. Please enjoy this emotional hurt/comfort ish-fix-it of season 2. On Ao3 here

Jaskier never expected to see Kaer Morhen, especially not in the way he ended up seeing it.

The dwarves lead him and Ciri as far as they can, banter and cutting remarks following Jaskier at every step.

Sure, he gives as good as he gets; whatever he is dealt he makes sure to give back, if he can get away with it.

But you can only be hit so many times before it becomes a bruise, no matter how lightly.

And Jaskier is already sore, from years of barbs, from years of being told to “fuck off, bard” or “shut up, bard” or “you are so fucking loud,” and well. It hits harder when it is someone you consider a friend.

Especially when it turns out that friendship was one sided.

The little princess is full of resentment and anger, but trading banter puts a small smile on her face, so he lets her.

If the way to get friendly is to let her tease him, so be it. He knows she needs an outlet for her inner turmoil so it doesn’t fester, so he turns up the dramatics and plays along.

The second to last eve they spend with the dwarves, it suddenly becomes too much. He knows Yarpen isn’t a fan, he knows there is some truth behind his name calling and swearing.

Ciri is sitting across the fire, sharpening a stick with the knife from her boot, looking for all the world like she isn’t paying attention to the conversation around her.

But then one of the dwarves calls Jaskier an ignorant, lazy, useless human, wondering what the fuck he is doing here anyway.

Maybe it is the ale, maybe it is the smoke stinging his eyes, or the years of putting up with it.

Jaskier doesn’t remember which one of them it was afterwards, and it doesn’t matter. His anger flares. He stands up, and the group goes very quiet.

“Have any of you asked me anything of my life? Have any of you bothered to ask what I was doing in a fucking prison cell, why I don’t have a lute, or where I went after you left that fucking dragon hunt with Geralt?”

There is complete silence, only the crackling of the fire and the night sounds of the forest.

“You might think I’m useless, and that I am lazy, and that I’m ignorant. But I don’t have to be here. I have people depending on me, yet here I am. Giving up responsibilities and comforts alike, all for someone who can’t even call me a friend, surrounded by people who clearly don’t want me here.”

He flexes his hands, feeling the blistered and burned skin strain, the pain clearing his head some.

“I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.” He finishes, picks up his bedroll and his pack, and settles on the outskirts of the camp, by the wagon.

Close enough to be safe, far away enough to get some peace.

It takes a few minutes for the muttering to begin, a few more until Ciri stands up too, and gathers her bedroll.

Until now, she has been distant, and he can’t blame her in the least. Now she settles down just a few feet from him, alongside the carriage.

It is colder here in the north, and neither of them had any kind of proper gear packed for their journey, unplanned as it was. He still drapes his leather jacket over her when he hears her chattering teeth, and settles on his bedroll with just a thin blanket.

Kaer Morhen is all big halls, high ceilings and hairy men. Hairy witchers. Lots of them too, and Ciri runs to greet them with a big smile.

They had found Eskel along the path, guiding them the rest of the way up. Ciri knew some of the way already, but only the paths closest to the keep, so it was a great relief having someone who knew what to avoid and what trails led them past ancient traps and monster dens.

The road was long, and Jaskier can’t believe Geralt thought he would make it here unscathed. Eskel seemed a little concerned as well when Jaskier explained his task, but said nothing.

Still says nothing, now that Ciri is surrounded by witchers, and Jaskier is left just standing there at the edge of the room. He is usually not one to hesitate to introduce himself, but he is tired, hungry, and frankly feeling rather neglected.

Eventually Ciri introduces him to the group, and it takes about three seconds after that to figure out who Lambert is.

Ah, ‘Lambert, Lambert, what a prick,’ indeed.

He is given dinner, a place to sleep, and is shown to the room where they keep a myriad of bathtubs. Lucky for him, there is already a fire going, making the room warm and toasty, and making it considerably easier to warm the water without any signs.

Jaskier can’t lie, he had been picturing hot springs, or anything pre-heated really, especially the shallow pool that had been built in the floor.

A quick toe dip later, and he is never stepping foot in that pool, ever.

His fingers ache when they come in contact with the heat of the fireplace, and he flexes them in an attempt to dispel the discomfort.

Sinking down into a tub at long last is heaven.

Dirt from far more than the road to the keep has had his skin itching, his hair stuck in a permanent curl around his ears, and he longs for his artistic dishevelment once more.

Sharing breakfast with the witchers of Kaer Morhen enlightens him about the many odd manners of Geralt of Rivia.

Watching the other witchers mess with each other explains so much. Unguarded food is immediately stolen, and if given the chance, someone will increase the temperature of their tea all the way to boiling, and then challenge each other to drink it, and so on, and so forth. Brotherly pranks, clearly, but the kind you need a certain set of mutations to deal with.

Jaskier only has his mixed heritage to keep him out of the worst of troubles that technically would be bad news for full humans, but nothing to keep him safe from this, so he steers clear.

Yennefer and Geralt join them that same afternoon.

Ciri runs into Geralt’s arms, and Jaskier remains at the table where he is challenging Coën with loaded dice.

Not until most of the others have gone to bed does Geralt finally approach him.

“Thank you for bringing her safely here.”

Jaskier looks at him for a long while, before replying.

“You’re welcome.” He says finally, and Geralt pats his shoulder. Weird.

After that first day, Jaskier approaches Vesemir while the others are busy.

The way he left things in Oxenfurt doesn’t sit right with him, and he is pretty sure Pricilla is going to assume he is dead if he doesn’t get a message to her soon.

He still has no idea how long he is supposed to stay in the keep, but he writes a carefully worded letter, assuring his safety and asking her to keep singing the Song of the Shore.

She will know what the coded song title means, and he has enough funds squirreled away to keep the entire Sandpiper operation going for a while longer, before he needs to find a way to beg his benefactor for assistance.

Vesemir gives him a long look, and Jaskier offers the letter he is holding, stifling a frustrated sigh.

“You are free to read it. I’m not trying to give away your location, just assure my safety of me and those I left behind.” He says, because he knows.

He spent years in the library of Oxenfurt, and he has read the old tomes that contain what little witcher history there is to find, as poorly depicted as it is. He knows about the sacking of the keep, understands the fear of it happening again.

It still stings.

Vesemir accepts his offer, and opens the letter, reading it over. His eyebrow climbs up his forehead, and he looks at Jaskier before putting it back into its envelope.

“I’ll have it sent.” He says, his mustache twitching when he makes a considering face. “Do any of the others know?”

“About the Sandpiper?” Jaskier asks, and Vesemir nods. “Yennefer knows. She was a part of the last group I sent off, before…” Jaskier stops and takes a breath. “Before. I know how and when to keep things to myself.”

Vesemir nods again approvingly, and takes the letter with him.

No one seems to have noticed the exchange, and Jaskier is left wondering if that is a good or a bad thing.

Things are a bit tense in the keep. Geralt still hasn’t seemed to forgive Yennefer for her betrayal, and Ciri seems to be more withdrawn lately.

Between witcher practice and chores, Jaskier tries to make himself as useful as he can be.

Which is not very, as it turns out, since he is not trusted to be in the lab anymore because of a tiny little tasting incident. Nor is he allowed to help with the patching up the keep. The library is Vesemir’s baby, and Jaskier is sure he is safeguarding secrets of the past there.

So Jaskier just… hangs around. Without a lute, he can’t play, and he probably wouldn’t be able to just yet anyway with his fingers still in their sorry state. The blistered skin has started peeling now, and new soft pink skin has started to show underneath.

He and Yennefer are getting closer, both of them evidently outcasts of a sort.

Especially since none of the other witchers make an effort to get to know them, nor is Geralt paying any kind of attention to either of them. She is the only one who really knows about the firefucker, and nobody has bothered to ask about the bandages.

If she had her chaos, she could have healed him, but she doesn’t, so instead she makes what ointments she can and watches him like a hawk to make sure he doesn’t eat it instead of applying it.

Late summer is slowly becoming early fall, and Jaskier realizes that his window for leaving is ever shrinking.

He doesn’t want to leave, not really, but he has no idea what he's doing here. Geralt hasn't asked him to leave, but neither has he asked him to stay.

Their interactions are short and rarely between them alone.

A lot of it consists of Geralt being nearby when Jaskier is retelling funny stories of their travels, making Ciri smile and the other witchers roar with laughter and the corner of Geralt’s mouth twitch in an aborted smile.

They don’t treat him like the dwarves did, but they clearly don't know why Jaskier is here either, and it is frustrating to say the least.

They seem to appreciate his singing more than Geralt ever did, sure, but sometimes it feels like they use him to annoy Geralt, and sometimes Jaskier thinks it’s working…

Lambert is probably the worst. He is an asshole and excuses it by calling it honesty.

He picks up where Geralt left off after the mountain, poking at every visible sore spot until Jaskier is stinging. Jabs and jibes, poking fun at Jaskier to make the others laugh. Nothing he isn’t used to, but something that makes Jaskier feel uncomfortable when nobody steps in to stop him.

Ciri sticks close to his side after those nights.

She doesn’t say much, doesn’t try to defend him, and he would never ask her to, but she glares at Lambert and asks Jaskier to tell her another story, which he gladly does.

It’s been two weeks since their arrival, and he, Lambert, Coën and Geralt are gathered around the dining table. Most of the others have filtered out to their own tasks or downtime activities, but they linger, chatting and playing dice. Coën stays out of it, still not trusting Jaskier since the loaded dice incident, which Jaskier is immensely proud of.

For the first time in a long time, Jaskier is actually enjoying himself, and enjoying being next to his friend. Maybe, after all this time, Geralt has started to think of him as a friend too.

Until Lambert opens his mouth and ruins it all.

“You are not half as bad as Geralt made you out to be. Or maybe it’s because he made you leave your lute behind at the bottom of the mountain?”

Next to him Geralt stiffens, and Jaskier feels his jaw working.

“Thanks,” is all he says, shaking the dice in the cup one more time before slamming it down on the table a little harder than strictly necessary. Then he stands up and climbs over the bench, very fucking done with the entire conversation.

Behind him he can hear Coën berating Lambert, who pretends he has no idea what he said wrong.

Fucking asshole.

He doesn’t hear Geralt say anything, nor ask about the missing lute.

It’s not that cold out yet, but the air is fresh and crisp on his face when he steps out through one of the side entrances to the courtyard. Here and there witchers are milling about, but Jaskier wants to be alone.

He hurries to the main gate and across the bridge, seeking his solitude amongst the trees on the other side. Technically, it is a bit dangerous to go out alone, but Jaskier is pretty sure no little beasties would dare come close to a monster hunter’s keep in broad daylight.

“Jaskier.” Geralt calls after him, and Jaskier stifles a long line of swears. Still he lets Geralt catch up to him, even if he is decidedly not looking at the witcher.

“Lambert can be such a prick.” Geralt says when he has caught up. “He only wants to rile you up.”

Jaskier notices the clear lack of an apology in there.

“So I’ve noticed. And he succeeded,” Jaskier says shortly, flexing his fingers again.

A bad habit now, but it is better than picking at the sharp, hardened edges of skin that still cling to his fingertips as they heal.

Clearly, Geralt hadn’t thought through what he wanted to say, or he had expected this to be enough. It isn’t. He lingers, still standing there, waiting for… something.

“What do you want from me, Geralt?” He asks when Geralt isn’t saying anything, and turns to look at him. His… friend. The man he has spent far too many years believing he meant something to.

“... I wanted to see if you are alright.” Geralt says haltingly, and Jaskier finally snaps.

“Oh yes, I am clearly alright after being told time and time again that I am annoying, unwanted, useless, loud, and being told by your family that you had made me out to be all those things too, before they even met me.”

Geralt looks taken aback, but Jaskier is not done.

“I’m tired of this, Geralt. I am so fucking tired of this. Not once have you come to my defence, not once have you told them to fuck off.”

“You can hold your own.” Geralt says, frowning, and Jaskier spreads his arm in frustration.

“I can, of course I fucking can! I have to, since not even the man I thought of as my best friend considers me a friend enough to have my back!”

Again, the witcher doesn’t have a reply to that. Fucking figures.

“Leave me alone, Geralt. Before I say something I’ll regret.”

“...Don’t wander.” The witcher cautions him hesitantly, and thankfully returns towards the bridge.

Jaskier stays longer than what is probably advisable. He is just fuming, and he kicks a young tree, making yellow leaves fall down around him.

He could technically blow off steam by sitting down to write, but there would be an audience no matter where he goes in the keep, and he is also not very much in the mood for another Burn Butcher Burn.

That one has done enough damage already.

In the end, it is Ciri who ends up fetching him. She doesn’t say anything about his red eyes and tousled hair, nor the bruises on his knuckles.

“Dinner is ready,” is all she says, and waits for him to join her back across the bridge with the others.

Jaskier takes his dinner and chooses another table far from the big group. Predictably, Ciri joins him, but he didn’t expect Eskel to sit down with them, too. Nor Yennefer. Nor Geralt.

They talk amongst themselves, even if Ciri and Jaskier are the only one replying to Yennefer when she says something.

It makes him feel weird, considering their rivalry all these years.

He knocks their shoulders together and teases her, calls her the worst wife ever. It is worth it for the smile he teases out of her, but he notices Geralt pull in a sharp breath of air.

“What?” he asks, but Geralt says nothing, just stares down at his food.

That evening, Geralt walks Jaskier back to his room.

“I’m sorry,” the witcher finally says after a long stretch of silence that Jaskier refuses to fill. “For what Lambert said. And for what I made Lambert believe.”

Jaskier blinks in surprise. When there is nothing else, he turns towards his door.

“Sure. See you around, Geralt.”

But Geralt stops him with a hand around his wrist.

“Are you and Yennefer… really married?”

Of course. Of course that is what would be on Geralt’s mind. Another sore spot amongst the others on his bruised heart.

“Fret not, witcher, the sorceress is still unwed and free for the taking. She did get me out of a rather sticky situation, though, so if it’s all the same to you, I do consider her my friend and platonic wife.”

With that, Jaskier turns and closes the door behind him.

Fuck, that was not how he wanted this day to go. His eyes sting and he swallows many times and he clenches his fists to keep his emotions in line.

Maybe it is time to leave.

Maybe it is time to go back to where people need and want him. Where he can make a difference. Where he can matter. Where he is enough.

His eyes sting once more, and with a great sigh he heaves himself from where he was leaning against the door and pours himself a cup of water.

He’ll talk with Eskel in the morning. Or Vesemir. Find a way to leave that won’t inconvenience anyone any further.

Leaving is harder than he thought, mainly because now, all of a sudden, people seem to seek his company.

Yennefer keeps appearing, asking him for help with stupid things. Some of them, he realizes, might be a way to regain the trust she broke between her and Geralt, but he appreciates her company it all the same.

Especially since most of it includes making Ciri smile, some other parts of it to make Lambert’s life a little more shitty. Something he is all for, to be honest.

Jaskier is petty when he wants to be, and right now he is the Prince of Petty.

Geralt too, seems to have come to some conclusion. He bites back faster when Lambert becomes too much, or Eskel, or Coën for that matter. In Jaskier’s defence, even.

It’s… weird. Nice, but weird.

And it is tearing at the walls that he spent all summer building.

Jaskier writes another letter to Pricilla.

Vesemir had told him that he will accept no return letter, but there are some strings he could pull if it were really necessary. Since they are hiding from Nilfgaard in a keep deeply hidden away by time and nature, Jaskier respects the need for it, and continues writing his one sided letters.

He is rather used to one sided communication, after all.

When he finally thinks he is about to get Eskel alone, it is not by his own doing.

“I’m sorry, I found a journal without a name, and I looked through it to see who it belonged to.”

Well, fuck.

“Jaskier. You are putting yourself at great risk.”

“And others even more so, if I don’t.” Jaskier replies, knowing exactly what he is referring to. Eskel blinks, then nods.

“I need to go back, Eskel. Before winter comes.”

“It’s too dangerous. The pass will be open for a few weeks more, but you are a wanted man.”

This is news.

“What do you know?” He asks quietly, accepting his journal back.

“I have no idea how you got into the prison cell, but word’s spread that the White Wolf busted you out.”

Fuck.

“That’s not good.”

“I’m sorry.” Eskel says, and Jaskier pats his shoulder, but he immediately pulls his hand back with a grimace. How can one see the spikes on his shoulders, and forget that they are, indeed, spikey?

“Shouldn’t have done that. Why do you keep wearing spikes?” Jaskier says. “ Also, no fault but my own, I suppose, with the jailbreaking and all that. Actually, scratch that, are all witchers allergic to just bailing someone out? Or is it just a Geralt thing?”

Jaskier tries to lighten the mood, but his stomach is sinking and his hands feel clammy. Time to write another letter or three.

“Witcher’s are all cheapskates, I’m afraid,” Eskel grins, but then sobers. “Do the others know?”

Jaskier shrugs.

“They didn’t ask. Nobody asked.”

At the same time, Geralt comes around the corner and spots them, a frown forming on his forehead. Of course.

“Right. Well, if you would keep this to yourself, I’d be immensely grateful.” Jaskier says quietly, and this time Eskel pats Jaskier’s shoulder.

“I got your back, bard,” the scarred witcher says, ironically, and now there is a lump forming in Jaskier’s throat.

Great. Fantastic. Splendid. Amazing.

Without waiting, Jaskier takes off towards his room to hide his journal again. Not to avoid Geralt. Not at all.

The letters he puts together are swiftly given to Vesemir. His eyebrows shoot up again when he spots one of the names addressed.

“Not a friend I would have expected of you, Pankratz.” Vesemir says quietly. “I hope you know what you are doing.”

Jaskier knows. It is a high risk game for everybody involved, with him in the direct line of fire.

“They will have to make do without me for a while.” Jaskier says quietly. “Or so Eskel tells me.”

“Ah, yes. Might be good to lay low for a while. You are welcome to stay the season with us, if you don’t have anywhere else to go, but we expect you to pull your weight.”

Does he have anywhere? Is he really welcome here?

The way Geralt looks at him sometimes, he is not so sure.

“Thank you. Though I might need to make a trip down to civilization soon. Some more clothes, paper and a lute. What kind of bard am I without a lute?” He asks, half joking.

“It’d be better if we sent down one of our usuals.” Vesemir says, scratching at his beard. “A man like yourself is sure to stand out anywhere in these small settlements.”

Was that a complement?

“Was that a complement?” Jaskier says, smirking, and Vesemir huffs goodnaturedly.

“I can see them looking, bard. I have eyes. And ears.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jaskier asks, frowning, but Vesemir turns to go.

“Write me a list of what you need, and I’ll see what we can do.”

Aubry and Coën leave only a few days after Jaskier had written his list. He doesn’t really expect them to find him a lute, but something stringed to play would be nice. It’s rather likely they would find a 4 stringed lute at most, nothing like the one he smashed over that guard’s head, nor like the one he got from the Elven kind that he keeps safely in Oxenfurt.

Frankly, he’s glad that he couldn’t bring one of his nicer instruments.

The temperature changes could crack the wood, if not treated carefully, and it would be hell to keep that many strings tuned. He is pleasantly surprised when there is a knock on his door, and Geralt steps in with a leather case.

“The boys found you something,” he says by way of greeting, and Jaskier stands from his desk to accept the offered case.

He can feel the corner of his mouth tick up, and he wipes his hands on his trousers first to rid himself of stray ink before he dares touch it.

He grips it by the neck, feeling the smooth wood even through the leather of the case, and the gentle sounds of the strings as they are pinched in his grip.

“Oh, hello there,” he whispers to it, and opens it reverently.

She has six strings and a little care package, and she is terribly out of tune. The wood is old, loved, worn out, and he can see clearly where her previous player liked to put their fingers, the lacquer worn or marked to help the unpracticed one.

“What a beauty you are,” he tells her, and from the corner of his eyes, he sees Geralt leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. It almost looks like he is smiling, but Jaskier won’t turn his head to look.

There is a nervousness in him, like when you get to know a new lover. Excitement, fondness, curiosity.

He sits down on the bed, lute perched in his lap, and attempts to tune it. He fishes out the little tuning fork around his neck, raps it on his knuckles, plucks the matching string, and starts adjusting it.

Geralt makes a face; it’s probably not a nice sound to sensitive ears, but he remains.

“Did you know, it's common lutes have as many as 12 courses?” Jaskier says, turning the peg until it feels right.

“Courses?” Geralt asks.

“Strings. Oh, I might need to get this little darling some new pegs eventually, and that string looks a little worn out. We will fix you up, love.” He coos at the lute, and he hears Geralt huff.

“Doesn’t yours have 13?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier looks up, surprised.

“They do, yes.” Jaskier looks down, and his hands suddenly feel a little clammy, his cheeks warm. “The most I have ever heard of is 35, which is ridiculous. One of my old masters in Oxenfurt has one with 19, but I find those are best suited for academic music, rather than music for the masses.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything else, and when Jaskier looks up, Geralt is smiling.

“What?” He asks, but Geralt just shakes his head.

“Just haven’t talked like this in a while. It’s nice.”

That… is not what he expected him to say. Truth be told, he is still a little hurt. He still hasn't received a proper apology from that outburst from Geralt on the dragon hunt, nor any kind of thanks for just dropping everything to come with him again.

“This is going to take a while,” Jaskier says hesitantly, when Geralt doesn’t say anything else, nor move. “Technically, I should look her over first, then tune, but ah, can’t blame a man for being excited, can you?”

Jaskier looks down, puts his tuning fork back inside his shirt, where it clinks against the ring, and puts both hands on his lute.

“I don’t mind. If you don’t mind me staying.”

This is so weird.

Geralt stays, and listens to Jaskier tuning his new treasure. It takes him almost twenty minutes to see that Geralt is holding another bag, most likely one with the requested clothing.

They will have to wait a little more, as Jaskier is getting into position and putting the lute strap over his shoulder.

His right hand already stings a little, the new skin not used to the sharpness of the strings. Jaskier plays a few scales to get to know her, and to get back into it. He plays a little ditty from his past, humming the familiar nonsense words of the warm up song of his early days in the academy.

They don’t know each other yet, but it feels good to play again.

Just because he can, and because he wants to show off a little, Jaskier decides to test her limits. An old lullaby, embellished by the academics and time, harmonies and contrast ringing out in the room.

He smiles, until his index finger stings, and he hisses and puts it in his mouth.

“You alright?” Geralt asks, sitting up straighter from where he finally was sitting on the chair by Jaskier’s desk.

“‘m good,” Jaskier says around the finger in his mouth. “Just a cut. New skin’s not tough yet.”

He takes the finger out, and inspects it. His fingers are red, and the small cut is bleeding a little more than it should. Even his cuts are dramatic, he hears his teacher say, an echo from a distant past in the back of his mind.

“...New skin?” Geralt asks, face blank, and Jaskier looks up at him. The good atmosphere in the room is changing, and for some reason Jaskier feels like it is his fault. It makes him feel a bit defensive.

“Yes, you know, after the old skin blisters after a bad burn? Haven’t played in some time either, so that probably makes it worse, I suppose.” Jaskier can’t help but prod, to see if Geralt will take notice.

“You didn’t tell me about the burn,” Geralt says, his mouth a thin line.

“You didn’t ask.” Jaskier says, laying both hands flat over the strings, looking at Geralt challengingly. Good mood is all but gone now, and he feels that old bruise makes itself known again. This time he is the one poking it.

“Usually don’t have to.”

“Maybe I got tired of our one sided friendship,” Jaskier says before he can stop himself. Fuck, that is not how he meant to say that.

By the looks of it, Geralt doesn’t take it too well either.

He stands up, staring at Jaskier as if he grew a second head.

“Tired?” He says, hands clenching and unclenching against his sides.

“When was the last time you called me your friend, Geralt?” Jaskier says, starting to get agitated. “When was the last time you asked me something, anything that didn’t directly relate to Yennefer, Ciri, or you needing me to do something? When was the last time you apologized, for anything you have said to me?”

Jaskier stands up and puts the lute down on the bed, lest he does something he regrets too. All the words are pouring out of him now, why risk breaking anything but his own heart?

“Maybe I grew tired of being the only one trying.” He grabs his handkerchief to stop the blood from his finger, clenching his hand hard around it.

“Why are you here then?” Geralt spits, and it’s like a slap.

“I ask myself the same thing every day,” Jaskier shoots back, finding himself taking a step forward. “Why am I here, when clearly nobody wants me to be?”

Geralt stares at him, and Jaskier can’t really tell what that expression is.

“Are you leaving?” Geralt asks through clenched jaws.

“Can’t. Apparently there are consequences for being broken out of jail. Especially when it happens to have been by someone like the White Wolf.”

This time, Geralt visibly flinches.

“Didn’t think about that, did you?” Jaskier says. “I was so glad you found me again, I didn’t give a damn about the consequences. I pretended we could start again, maybe you would want me by your side, walking next to you for once, not just trailing behind like some forlorn fucking puppy.”

Jaskier looks at his bed, looks at the oh so loved lute, that had seen so many sets of hands, every scratch and tear a part of a journey.

“Vesemir has allowed me to stay through the winter. Unless you’ve all got something against that. Let me know, and I’ll be on my way.”

Jaskier wishes he wasn’t in his room. Wishes he could just leave. Instead, he has to stand there like an idiot and wait until either Geralt does, or opens his mouth, for once.

“I didn’t realize…” Geralt begins but trails off.

“That actions have consequences, Geralt? That words do damage too? Did you learn nothing from your entire Butcher experience?”

That is a low blow, and he knows it, but he doesn’t feel like being nice right now.

It’s remarkable that Geralt hasn’t blown up at him yet, which in itself is probably not a very high standard to hold anyone against.

“You are still bleeding,” Geralt says eventually, and Jaskier looks down to see that he’s dropped his handkerchief. The witcher bends down and picks it up, grabbing Jaskier’s hand along the way.

Jaskier is too stunned to protest, and Geralt lifts his hand enough to inspect the cut. It’s not bleeding much anymore, but from where it’s placed, it is likely open easily.

Geralt pinches the tip of Jaskier’s finger with the handkerchief, and Jaskier suddenly flashes back to another room, another time when someone held his hand.

It takes effort not to just yank his hand back, his pulse rising and his palms getting clammy again. Geralt looks at him from under his brow, concerned, but Jaskier pinches his lips shut.

“Will you tell me about it?”

“About what?” Jaskier manages when Geralt breaks the stare to reach for some linen Jaskier has been using as bandages every now and then.

“What I missed this past year. How to be your friend. Where we go from here.”

Geralt makes a tight wrap around his finger, to the best of his ability. Not the best place for a bandage, but at least Geralt has experience.

“I can’t tell you where we go from here, Geralt. If you ask, I can tell you about the months since the dragon hunt, but the rest, you will have to figure out along with me.”

Geralt holds Jaskier’s hand in his for a moment longer, neither of them looking at the other. The witcher’s hand is not much larger than his. With a gentle thumb, Geralt moves Jaskier’s fingers, allowing him to see what the firefucker did to him.

“You and Eskel seem to get along,” Geralt says carefully. “Does he know?”

The corner of Jaskier’s mouth tugs upwards in half a smile. Geralt is fishing, but Jaskier won’t say unless there is an actual question.

“Some. He found a journal of mine that I thought I had hidden.”

Geralt frowns and releases Jaskier’s hand. It drops to his side, and they both just stand there in the middle of the room, looking anywhere but at each other.

“You don’t usually hide your songs.”

“It wasn’t a song book.”

“... Can I see?”

Fuck it, why not. Whatever is happening in this room tonight will change things either way.

The new hiding place isn’t really a hiding place, just the drawer in his desk. He hands Geralt the leather bound pages, and Geralt opens and looks through it.

At first glance, it looks like his economic books. Taking stock of things bought and sold, to who and where.

Geralt glances up at Jaskier, who just nods at the book again.

Flipping a few pages, Geralt starts to make connections. When he looks up at Jaskier again, his face is carefully blank.

“You are the Sandpiper.”

“I am.” Jaskier agrees.

“You smuggled elves out of the big cities.”

“Indeed. Don’t worry, I have taken precautions for if I’m not around.”

If he should be discovered. If he were not to come back.

“Jaskier, you are putting yourself at risk.”

“And so are you, every time you take a contract. Don’t you dare tell me it’s not the same.”

“So it’s for the money?”

Jaskier sniffs, glaring at the witcher.

“No. It’s for the people who don't have anyone else to turn to. Because when they run out of elves, they will find new targets. You can’t tell me you took every contract for the coin, I have seen you accept contracts for half of your rate if they can’t afford it.”

“Is that why your fingers were blistered?” Geralt asks.

“No. That’s… something else. Something I’d rather not talk about tonight, if you don’t mind.”

Jaskier knows that if he does, he will spend the rest of the evening wondering if he gave anything away, wondering where Rience is, who else he is burning because Jaskier got away.

Geralt gives the book back, and Jaskier places it back in the drawer.

“Rest your hand, Jaskier. Heal before you play again.”

The room is strangely empty when Geralt has left.

Jaskier sits on the bed, staring at his hands for a long while, until he finally decides to look at what was in the bag of clothes that Geralt brought, and Jaskier promptly forgot about in favor of the lute.

Looking through it,it seems like Geralt might have added a shirt of his own to Jaskier’s new wardrobe.

He shoves it to the bottom of the pile.

Jaskier doesn’t make it down to dinner that night.

After that day, things slowly progress in small steps.

Everything goes to shit, however, when Voleth Meir makes herself known.

Ciri’s body moves at the possessing demon’s will, and she manages to stab three witchers badly before the alarm is raised.

Yennefer wakes him up, pulling him from a dream into a nightmare. She needs him.

Somehow they always need him.

The powers channeled through Ciri’s small body are strong, destructive.

Jaskier is hiding under a table when a large creature steps through a portal, a creature he has never seen before. It sweeps at the witchers, and Voleth Meir laughs with Ciri’s mouth.

It takes Yennefer tearing open her veins for Voleth Meir to finally let go, for Ciri to free herself from the snares her mind had been tangled in.

With a scream, Ciri, Yennefer and Geralt disappear from view through a portal.

Jaskier sees Lambert land on his back, leg bleeding badly after a swipe from one of the creatures still roaming. He pulls him to the relative safety of his table, and tears his tunic enough to wrap Lambert’s leg.

“Thank you,” Lambert grumbles as he gets his bearings, the commotion in the room making it hard to hear. Jaskier just nods, tying the makeshift bandage off.

Finally, it’s over.

And somehow, Yennefer got her powers back.

The days after are a mess. One of the stabbed witchers doesn’t make it, and Ciri has been hiding in her room, guilt ridden, making herself as small as physically possible.

Geralt tries to coax her out, but he still has too little time, too many things to sort out. With her newly regained magic, Yennefer heals who she can, focusing on major injuries until she almost exhausts herself completely.

All the while, Jaskier is left to his own devices. Again.

Not that there is anything he can actually do for them. He isn’t medically trained, nor does have magical abilities.

It leaves him wondering how he survived the whole ordeal at all, and while he feels lucky about it, there is also a morsel of guilt.

So Jaskier finds himself knocking on Ciri’s door. She is reluctant to let him in, but with some honey cake bribes, she finally relents.

This, he knows. This, he can help with.

A young girl, plagued with guilt and fear, struggling to get a hold of herself and what she did, he knows how to help her.

“Not what you did. What your body did, under someone else's control.” Jaskier reminds her between bites. “I might not have gone through what you have, but I know what it is like to feel helpless. Fear and expectations don’t mix well, especially not when a murderous witch is involved.”

They talk a lot, mostly Ciri actually, and maybe they cry a little. After they finish their stolen cakes, and Jaskier has sworn not to tell Lambert, Jaskier brings out his lute to let Ciri play.

It seems she has a basic knowledge, plucking out the chords of a famous love song.

Sadly, not one that Jaskier had written, but at least it wasn’t one of Valdo Marx’s. Which he tells her.

And then she proceeds to play one of Marx’s love songs.

When Geralt finally joins them, Jaskier is chasing a giggling Ciri, who is hugging the lute close, calling her a traitor and a terrible little child, cursing Valdo for tainting her poor, innocent ears.

The first day Ciri dares to join them for breakfast, she hides behind Geralt. Both Yennefer and Jaskier hover, ready to step in between if anyone has anything to say.

They don’t.

Lambert is the first one to approach, bandage and limp both gone, Jaskier notes. He sits opposite of Geralt and Ciri, slamming his plate down, his fork rattling down across the table.

“Hey, it happens. What is a little mind control between friends?” is all he says, then digs into his food with the worst table manners Jaskier has seen in a while.

The tension breaks when Jaskier starts berating him for it, and is met with a mouthful of food telling him exactly where he can stuff his manners.

Ciri smiles when Eskel settles next to her, bumping their arms together.

The others make a toast to the lion cub among the wolves, the one who finally found a way to shut Lambert up. Even if it was by challenging him to stuff his mouth full enough to almost choke.

The first snow falls not long after.

The last letter has been sent, the last visit to the village by the foot of the mountains has been made, and those witchers unwilling to be stuck for the season have left.

It is colder than a grave hag’s asshole, as Eskel declares one day, with Coën immediately wanting to know why he knows that piece of information.

“I am a man of science,” Eskel grins and winks, and Lambert almost spits out his mead.

Ciri and Yennefer are slowly bonding, their first lessons taking place by the giant lake below the keep.

Jaskier takes care of his lute, works on new material, and with Vesemir and Eskel’s help, looks for new routes for the Sandpiper to take.

Geralt finds him more often now, seeking out his company rather than just tolerating it.

For a moment, Jaskier had expected him and Yennefer to fall back into bed as soon as the air was cleared, but if they have, they never said.

Instead, Yennefer spends more and more time with Ciri, trying to work out ways to control her power when they realize just how strong the young girl already is.

Sometimes they all do things all together.

They go ice skating.

They lose a snowball fight, pelted until they yell for mercy.

Jaskier finally learns of the hot springs, much to his outrage.

“You mean I could have dipped into preheated water all along?!” he yells, waving his arms around dramatically, and is rewarded when Ciri snickers, and Geralt bites down a smile.

It makes something in his chest soar.

The walls from the past year are slowly being torn down.

Deliberately so, in fact.

Piece by piece, Jaskier decides to let Geralt in.

It’s not perfect. It’s painful and it’s terrifying to let himself be open to hope again, to trust that there is friendship this time.

When Geralt learns about the firefucker, he is gone for an entire day.

Jaskier has no idea where he went, and he is feeling terribly vulnerable after talking about it, hands shaking and heart racing. Yennefer finds him outside her workroom, and she pulls him inside, cursing Geralt all the way.

“Let him sulk,” she says. “If he can make a hardship his fault, he will. When he gets his head out of his ass, he’ll come back.”

Later that night, Jaskier hears Yennefer rip Geralt a new one for leaving like that, when Jaskier clearly was shaken up and shouldn’t have been left alone.

Ciri learns about the firefucker days after, and angry tears roll down her cheeks when she realizes what Jaskier went through for her, even before they met.

They sit on the bridge outside the gates, feet dangling over the edge. The air is cold enough for their breath to fog, and Ciri’s slightly damp hair to freeze.

Jaskier thumbs her tears away and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“The whole world could be at my heels, and I would do it all again to keep you safe.”

“Sometimes, I just want the world to burn.” Ciri whispers, and Jaskier tucks her into his side.

Geralt calls him his friend now.

It’s good.

Jaskier gets to borrow a horse, and they go out riding in the snow around the keep. They argue about whose turn it is to do the laundry, and who is the worse cook.

When the window to Jaskier’s room breaks for reasons Lambert and Ciri swear up and down they know nothing about, Geralt simply moves him into his own.

The bed is wide enough for the both of them, which makes Jaskier think of who else might have shared it before him, but he pushes that thought down.

It has no place here, nothing to stand on.

They actually interact less after sharing a room, both of them needing their own space during the day.

They learned that after a vicious fight, where Geralt found all Jaskier’s sore spots once again and pounced.

“Do you ever tire of your own voice?!” he asked nastily, and that shut Jaskier right up.

He slept in the main hall for three days, until Geralt actually apologized.

After that first apology, the rest came a little easier.

They talked about what happened on the mountain. They talked about Jaskier’s past, and Geralt confessed that sometimes, since way before the dragon hunt, he thought Jaskier was only following him for the stories, for the fame it brought him.

It was Jaskier’s turn to apologize, for not seeing that, for not respecting privacy and boundaries set. He realizes he might have been blind to Geralt’s reactions to his songs, distracted with the fame their association granted them.

“But,” Jaskier says,”Not once would I have left you, even if you never lifted your sword ever again.”

To this, Geralt admits to how he always expects to be abandoned, or to be left behind.

“The thought of you leaving, or dying, it’s terrifying. I don’t think I could piece myself together again. So I left first.”

It’s like a kick in the chest, when Jaskier realizes.

That is the first night they actually sleep close on purpose. Geralt is a nasty little blanket thief, but Jaskier makes due by simply curling in close.

Midwinter comes, and a new year grows on the horizon. Darkness grants them a perfect view of the stars above, and the snow a blanket to let the world sleep.

Jaskier still is not allowed to join them on hunting trips, but he is getting good with a bow, under Vesemir’s sharp eyes.

Another sleepless night, another early morning, at the first light of dawn, when the first rays find their way through the dirty windows of Geralt’s room, that is when Jaskier dares to press a kiss to Geralt’s forehead.

Convinced that the witcher is asleep, he leans on his elbow, tracing a wild strand of hair behind his ear. It’s a quick kiss, dry lips against warm skin, making Jaskier’s entire body ache.

This is why he feared bringing down those walls. This is why he withstood the bruises, an armor to keep his heart at bay.

He doesn’t expect Geralt to open his eyes and gaze up at him. Doesn’t expect Geralt to wrap a hand around his neck and pull him down, pressing a kiss of his own to Jaskier’s forehead.

Resting against Geralt’s chest, Jaskier draws in a shaking breath.

“Ask me, Geralt.” He whispers into the dawning day.

“Do you love me?” Geralt whispers back, arms tightening around Jaskier’s back, pulling him closer.

“I do.” His voice wavers, eyes stinging. “Where do we go from here?”

“Wherever we want to. We’ll figure it out.”

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Do you…?”

Jaskier doesn’t dare ask. Too scared of the question, even more scared of the answer.

Instead of replying, Geralt rolls them over.

Now he is the one leaning on his elbows, hovering inches from Jaskier. They are so close, he can feel every breath Geralt takes, see the pulse jump in his throat.

Instead of replying, Geralt kisses him.

A surprisingly chaste kiss, lingering and soothing and earth shattering and heart wrenching.

“I do.” Geralt whispers finally, lips brushing together. “Whatever that will do to us, I do.”

Come spring and the first visit to the village below the mountain, Vesemir finds him with ten envelopes and a small box.

The box is a set of strings and pegs and lute varnish they couldn’t get before the pass closed this winter. Most of the letters are from Pricilla, updating him on what is going on in Oxenfurt and the Sandpiper network, all well coded.

Jaskier realizes he can’t stay anymore.

The world around them is growing ever more restless and chaotic, and the only way to be prepared is to be out there.

Parting with Geralt is harder than it ever was before.

Being alone is dangerous, but being with them is even more so.

He has an organization to run. Stories to tell. Lies to spread.

During the winter, Jaskier came to realize how he can make a difference. On the road, with a lute on his back, in inns and taverns, the way he always did.

As they part, on a crossroad that finally will lead them to part, they stand next to new Roach and Pegasus, arms wrapped around each other and foreheads pressed together.

“Ask me,” Jaskier whispers.

“Won’t you tell me?” Geralt whispers back, making Jaskier huff and smile.

“I won’t make it that easy for you, witcher.” He teases, and Geralt steals a kiss, humming softly into it.

“So I’ll have to come find you then, and ask you to tell me again.” Geralt mumbles against his lips.

Jaskier will hold him to that.

Words held back until they meet again.

The road is long, and full of dangers.

Jaskier hopes it will lead him to Kaer Morhen once more.

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artistsfuneral · 11 months

Text

The Road to Kaer Morhen - p.2 (there's an ao3 link now!)

Ultimately Jaskier decided on buying a long coil of rope and use the leftover coin to invest in a little Good Luck charm – not that he necessarily believed in the gods, but he liked the tradition. Given the fact that he had no idea what would await him on the path it really seemed like the best choice, but in the end only time could tell how much that was the case. Purchasing the rope went without any complications. The vendor clearly eyed the puffy sleeves of his favorite red and teal doublet, but decided not to comment on it further than a raised eyebrow.

The second stall though was tended to by a young woman, who had been staring at Jaskier for quite some time now. Like most sisters of the temple of Melitele, she wore a carmine dress and white shawl to resemble the goddess. Their eyes met and the bard immediately broke into the wide smile of a professional charmer. “A wonderful morning, isn't it, sweet lass?” She giggled, holding up her hand to hide how her cheeks reddened from Jaskier's gaze. “You're not from around here, are you?” she asked, busying her brown eyes by looking anywhere but Jaskier's face, who had yet to figure out if she was indeed as shy as she acted or simply a performer like himself. “Oh you are correct indeed, I am a humble traveler on my way south,” Jaskier lied with a flourish bow. “I certainly would have remembered the name of such a bewitching young lady as yourself, had we met before.” A delighted little sound escaped her mouth and she smiled down at her fidgeting hands. “My name is Josi. I was named after a cat.”

Each and every day Jaskier was reminded why he chose a life traveling the country over sitting in an estate all day and ruling over one. While he could very vividly picture Geralt's confused face in his mind, unexpected conversations like this brought him nothing but pure joy. Meeting new people, getting to know the most random facts through a conversation and being able to connect with them one way or another made the bard happy. “That is a wonderful name, Josi. I am Dandelion the Poet, I was named after a flower.” She giggled once more, “I like dandelions. They're yellow and puffy.”

“I like them too,” he agreed, imagining for a moment how he might look in a yellow doublet with puffed shoulders and a matching hat. It had been a while since he last tailored his own stage clothing but if he was spending an unforeseeable time in a fortress in the mountains it'd indubitably give him something to do during the awfully long summer days.

“Would you like to buy something?” Josi asked sweetly, pulling him away from his thoughts and back into the town, where he was standing at a market stall. “I'd love that,” Jaskier said, smiling when the young woman nodded her head in excitement. “Say, I've been eying that blue charm ever since I saw it, would you sell it to me?” Mimicking his smile she carefully held up a beautifully crafted sachet for the bard to inspect closer. Jaskier, who was drawn in by everything bright and colorful, gently took hold of the bag and openly marveled at it. It was a saturated, bright blue and had little golden flowers and a green vine stitched into it. The embroidery was of excellent quality and the little bag carried the soft smell of lavender and lemon grass. “You can pay less for it,” Josi offered, meeting Jaskier's eyes for a short moment as if to make sure he knew that she was being honest with him. Normally he'd accepted her goodwill in a heartbeat but Jaskier would have no use for coins if he was hiding away in the wilderness. “It is quite alright, dear, I can see that this was put together with a lot of care. It's only fair I pay you the full price.”

“You're very kind, Dandelion,” Josi spoke quietly, making Jaskier's stomach swoop.

“I try to be.”

After paying with the last of his coin, Jaskier bade Josi farewell with a gentle wave of his hand and the promise to think of her the next time he saw a colorful cat.

The way back to the inn wasn't extraordinarily long, but the streets had filled with the town's people and Jaskier had to carefully navigate his way through the crowd without bumping into anyone more than necessary. Meeting the eyes of the baker he winked at the man through his shop window, before opening the wide door to the inn and slipping inside. The air in the entrance was already warm and stuffy, promising an even warmer afternoon. Much like he did with everyone else, Jaskier greeted the innkeeper with a warm smile and a wave of his hand, before making his way up the stairs and to his room.

Upon entering the bard was met with a loud yawn and the view of his companion, sitting up in bed and arms stretched towards the ceiling. He chuckled, “Finally awake, sleepy head?”

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on-a-lucky-tide · 2 years

Note

For the writer’s ask game: 🧐 and 🧠 (Guxart, because he’s underwritten and I love the old tomcat)

Do you spend much time researching your stories?

Yes. Both for things to include, but also things to leave out, which is sometimes the most important thing (because an absence from a story can damage it more than an inclusion). In Dear Heart, I researched medieval libraries and archiving (medieval period is not my expertise) before I wrote Jaskier tidying up as a way to keep him occupied, but I decided not to include it any real detail. Why? Because it didn’t add anything to the emotional arc of the story, which was Jaskier finding his feet at Kaer Morhen and Eskel finding his feet around Geralt. There was the question over whether Vesemir would allow Jaskier, a kid he’s just met (yes, even at 40), anywhere near the last shreds he had left of his school.

I reasoned that the library would have been burnt to ash during the sacking. Any books or manuscripts in that room would have been recollected and brought back by Eskel, Geralt, Lambert and Vesemir (and maybe any visitors they had). Those books belong to Eskel and Geralt as much as Vesemir and Lambert, so I think that was a way for Vesemir to welcome Jaskier in without actually saying the words. Also, a cheeky nod to the way I play Skyrim and TW3, which is the collect all the books I can get my grubby player hands on. Do we really need three copies of this specific fairytale? Yes, Geralt, now eat that raw onion and be a good lad.

Headcanon: Guxart!

Oh-ho-ho, my beloved Tom Cat. Berry, inside me there are two wolves cats.

The first is a charming, suave Guxart who charmed Vesemir’s pants right off and out the window the second time they met (the first time, they were in a jail cell and it wasn’t really the right vibe for Guxart to get his Smooth on). He’s a bit sleezy, hasn’t met a person he doesn’t want to fuck, a bit cheeky, a bit all over the place in terms of his emotions. However, he is also faultlessly hardworking beneath the surface—he managed to keep the frickin’ Dyn Marw caravan together after the tournament, so he’s clearly organised, and he cares. It would have been much easier for him to run off into the wilderness and let the school fall like Kaer Seren, etc. But he didn’t. He has this… Fagan-esque approach to training. “Got to pick a pocket or two, lads”—he teaches the boys how to steal and cheat and survive first, and be a witcher second.

The second cat—it could even be the same guy after enough time, although sometimes I want to toy with Guxart as a member of the Stygga contingent—is broken and slow. His body has been shattered by the Path and fighting too many battles for too long. He’s a functional alcoholic and has very little survival instinct. He worked himself to ruin keeping the caravan going, protecting the vulnerable and broken witchers that it picked up along the way, but enduring that much hardship would take its toll. Without the kinship and camaraderie—every cat for himself, survival at all costs—Guxart would lose his way. He wouldn’t see purpose in the endless, pointless suffering of his brothers-in-arms.

After the soldiers take down the caravan, killing Axel and Cedric (see the letter from Gaetan’s stash in TW3), Guxart would try to disappear into the wilderness. The only reason he doesn’t get torn through by the first beast he finds is because he gets arrested for brawling instead, and ends up in a jail cell, which happens to also contain a grizzled, grumpy old wolf who is taking precisely none of his crap. And there begins my next Old Witchers in Love entry.

#asks #writing game

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cas-kingdom · 3 years

Text

The Pup and the Cub

A/N: The make-up (or is it?) we’ve been waiting for! And the debut of one of Jaskier’s famed songs about the White Wolf and his Pup. Set a little after the last episode, so reader is about 18. Enjoy.

Find the OC version of this fic here.

Title: The Pup and the Cub

Summary: Geralt leaves you and Ciri to finally sort out your differences.

Words: 4104

Two weeks is a painfully long time to be in the company of two girls who will not look at each other. Granted, the majority of it was your fault—Ciri hadn’t started anything—but though the princess had done well at ignoring any snide looks or remarks from you for the first two weeks, she seemed to have found her roar in the third.

He’d had to warn you innumerable times, threatening to leave you on the side of the road if you continued to be a bitch, but the moment Ciri had first clapped back, he’d well and truly given up. He could parent you, he was experienced in that, but telling Ciri what to do and what not to do, after everything she’d been through, didn’t seem right. He wasn’t her father.

So, he let you be. And it was agonising.

You’d remained at the farmhouse for some time with the elderly couple, letting his leg heal and allowing the princess to recuperate before you left, and you’d been on the road since. He was eager to make it to Kaer Morhen in the hopes that Eskel could provide a punching bag for you and use his power of words to help you find the right path again.

It had been snowing for the past two days. An incessant, harsh snowfall that’d soured everyone’s moods even further. Ciri had fallen in a snowdrift twice, you were getting a cold, and he was tired, both mentally and physically. And so, when you reached the next village, he rented a room at an inn, one with two beds and an extra blanket so he could sleep on the floor.

As if that would help.

Sometimes, he missed the feeling of travelling alone. Alone being without either Ciri and you, back when he hadn’t yet come across the basket, and his heart was still encased in ice.

“Please stop moving, Ciri. I’m trying to sleep.”

“I’m not moving.”

“You are. I can hear the covers rustling.”

“Oh, gods.”

“My name’s actually Y/N, but that was a nice compliment.”

Geralt closed his eyes from his place on the floor and dragged both hands down his face. A moment of silence was all he needed. He would give anything for it. He would sell his soul for it. The sporadic words you had been tossing at each other from your separate beds were hammering into his brain, causing a throb he knew wouldn’t subside unless you fell silent. He’d thought the comfort of the beds would help you fall into deep sleeps and catch up on what you’d missed while on the road, but apparently even the soft mattresses were no match for the unexplainable aversion you stupidly felt for each other—one more than the other.

“I wish I were somewhere else,” Ciri said, that characteristic gentleness still in her tone. She may have found her roar, but she was still no more than a cub. And you, his infuriating Y/N, were no more than an upset pup.

“I wish you were somewhere else, too.”

“Perhaps I’ll leave, then.”

“Do you need any help?”

“None from you.”

“Fuck! Enough! Both of you!” A low growl came from Geralt’s throat as he shot up, turning towards the beds. The room was shrouded in darkness, but he could see you both clearly, two heads facing him, mouths shut tight against anything you might have wanted to say. “I have had it with your fucking arguing. I get that you don’t like each other, I don’t give a shit whether you do or not, but all I’m asking is for you to ignore each other, pretend the other doesn’t exist, for all I care. Just shut. The fuck. Up!”

Anger built up over two weeks coursed through his veins like blood, and his fists clenched by his side. Both you and Ciri were quiet, but he did not currently have enough trust in you to believe you’d continue in your silence the moment he lay back down again. So, with a defining nod to himself, he stood to his feet and grabbed his cloak.

You sat up. “Where’re you going?”

“Out.”

“You’re leaving us here?”

“To sort out your shit, yes.” He tugged his boots on and stepped over the makeshift bed. “When I get back, I want you to be at peace with each other. Do you understand, Y/N?”

“It’s not just me!”

He walked to the door and pulled up his hood to cover his hair. Ciri’s eyes were peeking at him from under her covers, you were still staring in disbelief, and he was more than ready to drink himself into a solitude that reality wasn’t equipped to give him. “You started it,” he bit out, pointing at you. “And if you don’t finish it, I’ll pass you onto Lambert for training once we reach the Keep, I can promise you that.” You grimaced. “Do we understand each other?”

Before he could witness your meek nod, he spun around and strode through the door, shutting it behind him with a click.

The silence was deafening.

“Did he just... lock it?” Ciri asked quietly.

You visibly deflated, your jaw tense. “Probably.” Your tone was monotonous. You flopped back down on your back and stared up at the ceiling while Ciri bit at her bottom lip.

Since Geralt had found her, she’d never been left alone with you. Not once. She’d figured Geralt was too scared to; perhaps he thought he’d return to a puddle of blood and a satisfied grin on your face. Ciri wondered briefly what the witcher’s response to that would be. Would he gasp and reprimand and wonder what on the Continent had turned his child into the devil, or would he thank you for getting rid of a mistake he’d made once upon a time?

She blinked. No. You may not have wanted her around, but she was sure Geralt was more inclined to let her live. He’d protect her.

For a month that had been majorly defined by a snowstorm, tonight was disturbingly lacking in it. It felt as though the world was teetering on the edge, biting its tongue as it looked on with bated breath and keen eyes, waiting for one of you to say something.

Ciri curled her hands around the blanket before asking softly, “Who is Lambert?”

You thought about ignoring her but realised with a stab in your heart that considering Geralt’s words, ignorance would get you nowhere. Besides, it was a tiring thing, hating someone and not knowing why, though those feelings were still currently present.

“A witcher,” you responded dully.

“Is he nice?”

You snorted. “Not really.” There was the silence again, and the discomfort of the situation sparked through you. You ran your tongue over your lips. “Eskel is, though. And Coen. They’re witchers, too. And Vesemir takes some time to get used to, but he’s kind underneath it all.”

“You know a lot of witchers.”

You shrugged lightly. “I know of a lot of witchers, I suppose. There aren’t many left, but Geralt tells me about the ones they’ve lost. Eskel, Coen, and Lambert are… they can be difficult, but they helped raise me. And Vesemir… don’t ever call him Grandfather, but that’s what he is, you know?”

You realised you weren’t sure if Ciri knew. You didn’t know much about the princess at all, other than the fact she’d fled Cintra and had been hunted since. It was a petty couple facts to base an entire opinion off, you knew that, though they hadn’t exactly been the cause of… whatever you were feeling.

“I won’t call him that, then.”

“If you want to live.”

“Would he really kill me?”

“Maybe.” You flicked your eyes over and noticed the slightly horrified glint in Ciri’s eye. Five minutes ago, you might have revelled in that. “No,” you corrected yourself. “Vesemir’s not like that. None of them are. They won’t kill you.”

“Oh.” Silence again. Funny thing, silence. You either love it or you hate it. “I know you hate me, Y/N—” You shut your eyes. Not this. Please, not this— “but I’d really like it if we could just… I don’t know… do what Geralt suggested and ignore each other? Arguing is pointless.” She sighed, and you knew that despite her words, ignoring each other was the last thing you wanted. For some foolishly contradictory reason.

You clenched your jaw and drew in a sharp breath. You sat up and turned in your bed, the light of the withering candle on the wooden table between you highlighting your face as you looked across at Ciri. Ciri waited patiently, blinking in the illumination of the dancing flame.

“Do you know how Geralt and I came to be? Have you… heard any songs?” Your words were slow and pronounced.

Ciri shook her head. “No.”

You took a second to marvel at that; it was rare you and Geralt came across someone who hadn’t heard the songs and stories. For as much as you loved Jaskier, you sometimes missed the times before his songs became fable, when nobody knew the extent of the relationship between the infamous witcher and the girl that shadowed him, and nobody knew that Geralt of Rivia was capable of a beating heart. It’d been better, quieter, when you were the only person in each other’s world, strangers travelling the Continent, masked from the outsiders.

Though you couldn’t have expected less from the bard, to be perfectly honest.

Eyes dropping to your hands, you heaved a sigh and began to relay the story you’d never once had to say out loud.

“He found me in the woods when I was a few days old. No blankets, no clothes… just at the bottom of a basket.” Ciri sat up, turning to face you. She crossed her legs in front of her and listened with an obviously keen interest. “I was crying,” you continued, “and he heard me, and he found me. He saved my life that day. My parents—birth parents—had left me to die, to be eaten, and he saved my life.” You swallowed an uncommon lump in your throat and frowned at the dark wall ahead, missing Ciri entirely. “He told me once he’d never intended to keep me, but something changed, and he did.”

Ciri was clearly processing it. What she’d said had been true; she’d heard whispers of songs, snippets of verses containing a white wolf and a pup, but her grandmother had always steered her away from the bards and their instruments and troublesome tongues, instead pushing her in the direction of ballads and stories of famed warriors. It was only after she’d discovered her destiny that the reasonings for those steers and pushes became clear. Calanthe had kept Geralt a secret from her for so long, and though fate had been drawing Ciri in with those songs, the queen had been well-equipped in ensuring the names Geralt and Y/N were not heard of until they had to be.

That had worked out splendidly.

She worried at her bottom lip and stared at you. You looked deep in thought, fingers clasped and still in your lap, but you seemed to shake yourself from your reverie a few seconds later. Your blue eyes glanced up and locked onto Ciri’s.

“I love other people,” you stated, a firmness to your voice that hadn’t been there before. “I love Eskel, and I love Lambert, and Coen, and Vesemir, don’t get me wrong.” The firmness grew tenfold, and your eyes seemed to bore into Ciri’s. “But Geralt means more to me than all the worlds and all the universes combined. He saved my life, and then he became my life. Do you understand? I can’t lose him. I can’t have him taken from me. It’s always been just us and Roach. And then he ended up asking for a child of surprise. You. And it wasn’t just us anymore. Even in the years before now, the months before you were even born… I was young, but not young enough to not notice a change. It wasn’t just us. And it isn’t just us anymore. That’s…” You swallowed again, but the lump didn’t move. “Hard. A hard thing to… get used to.”

Somehow, a flicker of something different appeared in your eyes, and the desperation Ciri had noticed earlier died down. You opened your mouth to speak but found that the right words wouldn’t leave your tongue. You shut your eyes and released the tension in your shoulders. “I know you lost everyone,” you said, quieter than Ciri had ever heard you, “I’m sorry for that. I know what it feels like. I know he’s really all you have too. But please…” You opened your eyes and glanced up. “Don’t take my life away from me, Ciri.”

Ciri wasn’t too sure what to say in response to the revelation she’d been searching for. It really hadn’t been what she’d expected. Yes, she’d noticed your glare darken whenever Geralt had paid her more attention, and she’d seen the way you seemed to cling onto the witcher more than you probably needed to. But she’d never labelled that as… what even was it? She couldn’t call it jealousy because it seemed unfair.

By all rights, Geralt was yours. Ciri wouldn’t say she’d had the most social upbringing, but she’d had more than one constant in her life. When her grandmother was out fighting, she had Eist at home, and Mousesack and her friends from the village. You, though it seemed you’d had in-and-out visitations from a few people, and the occasional presence of other witchers, had never had anyone more than Geralt. At least when it mattered most. When you needed it most.

When Geralt was away fighting, you couldn’t have been anything but alone, waiting in trepidation for your guardian to return. Even accompanied by other people, Ciri knew enough to know that you still would have felt deserted until you saw him again.

So, she could understand better now, why you had reacted so harshly to her from the moment you’d met. It wasn’t because she was a princess, or because she came from a different lifestyle to yours… it was simple fear, ruling as it always did. Fear that Ciri, now alone herself, would take Geralt away from you and leave you with nothing.

She shook her head. “That… that was never my intention, Y/N,” she promised, sincerity clear in her voice. “You believe I would take him from you?”

You put your head in your hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know you. I was…” You groaned, searching for the words. “I don’t hate you, Ciri, I never have. I was just…”

“Afraid?”

You laughed under your breath at Ciri’s cautious suggestion. You shrugged and pushed your hair away from your face. “You could say so,” you agreed. “I’m not… good at making friends. I don’t have any my age. Everyone I know is either a mutant, magic, or an idiotic bard.”

Ciri laughed. “I don’t have many friends either. My grandmother kept me very sheltered.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“Sometimes. But I snuck out a lot… dressed as a boy.”

You looked impressed. “Really? The Princess of Cintra disguised herself as a commoner? And a boy, no less?” You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the bed. “Did you ever get caught?”

Ciri twisted her face in contemplation. “A couple times. Once by Mousesack, but he let me stay and didn’t tell my grandmother.”

“It’s a weird name, don’t you think?”

“Mousesack?” She tucked some hair behind her ear and smiled at the memory of her old friend. “I’m not sure it’s his real name. Whatever it is, he never told me. It doesn’t really matter anymore.”

“My friend, the bard, his name is Jaskier,” you started in an attempt to steer clear of the morbid subject, “but I found out some time ago that his name is actually Julian.”

Ciri snorted, hand flying up to cover her mouth. “Julian?”

“It gets worse. His middle name is Alfred.”

You stared at each other for a moment. Ciri broke first, laughter bursting from her throat, and you followed not long after. You moved to lie back down on your bed, smiling giddily up at the ceiling. “I suppose you’ll meet him one day,” you said. “You’ll like him. He’ll probably write a song about you.” Then, a moment later, “But he’s mine, too, just so we’re clear.”

Despite the teasing inclination of your voice, you were both were clear. Ciri lay down and sighed, blinking against the darkness in the dwindling candlelight. “I won’t take your family from you. All I want is safety, and… and people. So that I’m not alone. That’s all. The last thing I want is to take Geralt from you. I didn’t—I didn’t…” She took a deep breath. “I didn’t ask for this either. I want everything to go back to how it was, too.”

“You miss your grandmother.”

“Unlike anyone I’ve missed before.”

You chewed at the inside of your cheek. “Geralt used to sing to me when I was younger,” you said quietly. “I can sing for you, if you like.”

Ciri’s mother had sung to her. Her voice was one of the only things she remembered. Calanthe had never picked up the night-time ritual of lullabies before bed after Pavetta had died, so yes, Ciri decided, it would be nice to hear the lilt of a song again.

“That would be nice. Thank you.”

You shut your eyes, the words of Jaskier’s song swirling around your head. He’d told you once it’d been his favourite song he’d written, slaving over his lute for nights, and you found yourself humming it sometimes to put you to sleep, the words a constant comfort.

“Starless sky, he walks beneath, the lone wolf stalking the night.

Accompanied by solitude, he hears a cry, and he grasps it tight.

A shadow in his shape, armed with his heart, he’s bonded his life with her own.

Daughter of the wolf, child of the witcher, both no longer alone…”

You opened your eyes. “For the heart of the wolf is the pup, and the heart of the pup is the wolf.”

Ciri was asleep before the final word of the song left your lips. You squinted in the darkness and leaned over to blow out the remainders of the candle.

You were still for a while—how long, you weren’t sure—simply thinking to yourself as you stared aimlessly upwards. There was a newfound ease encircling you now, a relief you hadn’t known you’d needed. No longer was the princess a threat; well, not as much as before. She was something else now, something you couldn’t quite wrap your head around yet, and though your concerns were very much still alive, you wouldn’t pin them on Ciri. Geralt was still your guardian, still your best friend, and you were his. Ciri was a tag-along, for now at least.

You were blinking to stay awake by the time you heard the lock turn and the door creak open. Muted light flooded the room and then disappeared as the door was shut. You half-expected Geralt to return to his makeshift bed on the ground, but you were pleased when you felt the bed dip slightly as he sat on the edge. You listened to the thump of his boots as he shoved them to the floor and the slight whoosh of air as he took his cloak from around his shoulders. He stretched his legs out across the bed and lay down beside you, clasping his hands together on his lap.

“Is she asleep or dead?”

You rolled your eyes and turned on your side away from him. He smelled like ale and woodsmoke, with the tinge of familiar forestry. It was a comforting scent, always had been.

“Dead,” you mumbled, just to spite him, then you relaxed. “We talked.”

“About good things?”

“Mostly. I don’t hate her so much anymore.”

Geralt felt a wave of the reprieve he’d been searching for wash over him. Perhaps he’d enjoy the ride to Kaer Morhen from now on, though that would be asking for a lot more patience than he was currently capable of, even with the apparent final truce between you and Ciri. The drinks he’d indulged himself in down at the tavern had just about eased the headache, but there weren’t many hours left until dawn, and he was sure the pounding would return.

“I’m glad you think so.”

“It doesn’t mean we’re best friends.”

“Hmm.”

“But she doesn’t want to take you away from me.”

“Surprise, surprise. The traumatised princess’s master plan to kidnap me and leave you alone is no more.”

You breathed a laugh before you rolled back to face him, and he cracked an eye open to glance down at you. “What is it?” he asked.

You reached for the medallion around his neck. “Nothing.”

Geralt watched you a moment longer. He doubted it was nothing, but he wouldn’t question you on it. Instead, he shut his eyes, feeling you move closer to him. “I told you you’d see things differently if you gave her the chance.”

“You didn’t give her a chance before deciding she was good.”

“She’s little more than a child, Y/N. Of course I decided that. Assuming someone’s good before you’ve met them is better than assuming they’re not. You taught me that.” He felt the warmth of your sigh against his neck. “I thought you didn’t hate her so much anymore.”

“I don’t. But I wish it was still just us. Like before. I liked it better before.”

He opened his eyes again as you settled beside him, your hand on his chest, clasped over his medallion, moving with the rise and fall of his breaths. Your own breaths evened out eventually, free hand somehow wrapped around his own, like you were holding tightly onto him for fear of losing him. Like he was your possession, your lifeline, something you simply couldn’t afford to have taken from you.

One thing was for certain, he thought to himself as he felt the tension of the past weeks finally dissipate into the silence of the room, he doubted it would last long. You were a firecracker, but you were his firecracker, and though he hadn’t said it, he was proud of you for supposedly sorting things out with the princess. Of course, you could have been telling the truth, and Ciri really could be dead in the bed beside you…

His eyes cracked open at that thought, his face instantly melding into a frown. He peered down at you, sleeping innocently against him, and wrapped one arm around you, dispelling those thoughts from his mind. You weren’t that much of a firecracker.

Still, he wouldn’t bet on the fact that you’d leave Ciri alone for good now, and vice versa. There’d undoubtedly be spurts of newfound irritation shot at each other in the form of words and moody glares, but he was ninety-percent sure that for now, everything was okay. You didn��t totally hate Ciri, and you hopefully held no residual feelings of abhorrence for him either, if your grip on his arm had anything to say for it.

He hummed as he settled again. The moment you got to Kaer Morhen, you would hopefully settle more. He hated seeing you so out-of-sorts, but he was optimistic Vesemir would be able to help him on that account. He usually could. Or Eskel. Or anyone, really; it seemed as though he wasn’t working as well as he was sure he once had.

He wondered how Ciri would get on with his brothers and old mentor. As long as she didn’t call him Grandfather, she’d be fine with Vesemir. And Eskel and Lambert… he sighed drearily to himself, moments away from sleep. Those two could be difficult, but with your—perhaps, or perhaps not, reluctant help—hopefully she wouldn’t find it too overwhelming.

Sleep took over his body quickly, and he eventually drifted off in the hazy safety of knowledge that though his and your ‘normal’ would not be returning, this, the girl in the other bed, had the possibility of becoming a new normal that he could be able to live with.

He only hoped you could learn to do the same.

For the heart of the wolf is the pup, after all, and the heart of the pup is the wolf.

Witcher Masterpost

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samstree · 3 years

Text

(a happy one. only softness)

“I dreamed of home.”

Jaskier says before yawning, stretching his limbs like an overgrown cat in a sunbeam. With his legs still on Geralt’s lap, he almost dislodges himself from the fainting couch, so Geralt loops an arm around his waist. With how long they’ve been dozing together in Yen’s garden, daylight is already fading.

“What’s it like?” Geralt tucks away a strand of his hair, blinking to see Jaskier’s equally bleary eyes.

“Organized, for once. So Ciri must be visiting.”

Geralt snorts, offended. “I clean when she doesn’t visit too.”

“Sure you do.”

“As if you get to judge.”

Jaskier’s eyes crinkle, and he lets out a happy sigh before nuzzling his forehead against Geralt’s chin. “You’re right. I shouldn’t. You have been the most wonderful husband. Not many would let me sleep on their shoulder, my dear.”

That one is not a hardship though. Geralt is feeling the most rested since they set out to visit Yen in her mansion, and he can only attribute it to having Jaskier’s pleasant weight on him, knowing his bard is sleeping peacefully too.

Geralt tries not to worry about Jaskier’s loss of sleep too much, but they both know he’s failing.

“Do you miss it?” Geralt decides to distract himself. “Home?”

The crow’s feet deepen, and Jaskier doesn’t even bother to hide the longing in his eyes. “When do I not? I miss the chaos that is our little house. I miss the coast. I miss Toby.”

Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand and squeezes. “We can always leave early.”

Shaking his head, Jaskier press a kiss at Geralt’s temple. “I miss it, but I want you to be happy more, darling. When was the last time you saw Yen and Ciri at the same time? Spend more days with your family, Geralt, in such a beautiful place, no less.”

“You are their family too.” Geralt frowns.

“Yes,” Jaskier agrees, “Family comes in odd shapes and forms. Even a humble bard has a place in it. Of course, I love them both with all my heart, but don’t say it to Yennefer’s face. She’d pretend to be mad.”

“Wouldn’t dare.”

Jaskier stays silent in the orange light of the setting sun for a moment before starting again.

“I do dream of it too often when I’m away. It’s like, somehow, I can keep it with me for a while longer this way. Because…what if we can’t go back? What if we get lost and never find our way home? What if Toby forgets about us?”

“He’s a cat, Jask. You have fish. He can’t forget.”

Geralt gets a smack on his shoulder for that remark.

“I’m serious.”

Dusk reflects from Jaskier’s blue eyes, warm and gentle. The soft wind ruffles the hair at his forehead, revealing the white streaks that are taking over.

“I’m serious too. Toby will still be there when we go back.” Geralt holds Jaskier’s gaze with all the softness he can muster. “I love you, so you’ll never lose your home.”

“You love me,” Jaskier muses as if to himself, like he’s still amazed at the fact. “Even with my white hair and aching joints and terrible sleep pattern.”

Geralt sets Jaskier’s legs down to properly look at him, seeing right through the insecurities that his husband harbors at times. Clearly, it’s one of those days.

“Your white hair,” Geralt says gently, “shows how long we’ve walked the path together. I can only be proud. Your aching joints? I’ll be careful with them when it rains. As for your insomnia.” His lips quirk up. “I think I’ll be just fine. You tolerated mine for decades—despite letting me know every time.”

After all, Jaskier was the cure for it.

“I did complain quite a lot when you made me get up before dawn.”

“Hmm. How about I complain about it too, so you’ll feel better.” Geralt presses a chaste kiss at the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, before catching his lips. He keeps it sweet and lazy, letting Jaskier melt against the back of the couch and ending up in his arms again.

Jaskier chuckles wetly when he pulls away, looking away to hide the tears. Geralt tilts Jaskier’s jaw so he can kiss them away, right under the lines around the clearest blue eyes.

He wouldn’t trade those lines for the world.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #fluff #old jaskier #established relationship #insecure jaskier #napping #a soft one #i dreamed of home prompt

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asweetprologue · 3 years

Text

Nili’s Benchmark Geraskier Fic Rec List

hey yall! I officially hit 750 followers (a few days ago, I blew past the benchmark without even realizing!), which is... insane. I truly can’t believe that so many people over the last year have enjoyed my presence in this fandom enough to continue to follow my work. you guys are so great and I love you all so much, so I decided to put together a gift for you!

this is a list of my favorite geraskier fics from the fandom, which I have been putting together over the last year or so. a few of these are big in the fandom, but a lot of them are smaller pieces that I feel deserve more attention! I have provided ao3 and tumblr links where I could find them, as well as ratings and summaries. Most of these are canon!verse because I’m not personally a big fan of modern au’s, but there will be a few of those scattered throughout as well. I’ve divided the fics into two sections: oneshots and multichapter. See the list below the cut!

Being in this fandom truly has gotten me through the pandemic in a big way and I have made so many good friends while here. thank you all for validating my weird obsession with these characters and enabling me in these trying times <3

Oneshots

all that was good, all that was fair (all that was me is gone) | M | 7517 | WARNING: Graphic Depictions Of Violence | @xdandelionxbloomx

Somewhere, deep in a forest, a man drags himself from his grave by sheer power of will. He lies gasping on the forest floor and does not know who or what he is. The world is wide and wonderful, though, and there is so much to see.

Or, Jaskier is so stubborn that he literally comes back from the dead.

Another fascinating addition to the mythology of the Witcher. Jaskier’s slow rediscovery of himself is so well done here. One I’ve come back to again and again.

As Fast As Love Can Go | T | 9628 | @bygodstillam

There are Faeries in the Wood.

That's what everyone said, at least, not that there was any solid proof. Jaskier had tried, more than once, to find some. Just a hint somewhere, of a real story, of real magic. But all anyone seemed to have was stories.

Jaskier was determined to find proof. He wasn't expecting to find a witcher in the process.

Fascinating fic with some really interesting worldbuilding, and a fresh new take on True Love’s Kiss. Also with some great art by @hehearse!

beautiful, he stirs up still things | T | 2575 | @alittlebitmaybe

“You’re not asking me to dance,” says Geralt.

Jaskier turns his palm up on his knee, offering it. “I think you’ll find I am.”

Just them dancing. This is a lovely sort of pre-relationship dynamic. So soft.

Dialogue Prompt | NR | 2932 | @reinvent-and-believe

Dialogue Prompt 48: “You make me want things I can’t have.” Wordless I-love-you 50: buying them a special treat when you go out shopping

Geralt gets Jaskier a gift, which prompts some confessions.

Even a small love | E | 22,272 | WARNING: Rape/Non-Con

“Well,” Jaskier replies distractedly. “Lots of things want to strangle you.”

“You don’t.”

It isn’t a particularly troublesome accusation, or even necessarily an accusation at all.

This is one I read early on in the fandom, and it really stuck with me. The dynamic between Jaskier and Geralt is perfect, and the misunderstandings between them feel so realistic. The non-con is not extreme, but do mind the warnings.

For the Space of a Heartbeat | T | 2021 | @drowningbydegrees

As it turns out, falling into bed with your very best friend who you are privately very much in love with isn't nearly so nerve wracking as waking up with them the morning after.

Just sweet, morning after discussions. I love to see them talking for once.

Greensleeves | T | 10,414 | @rebrandedbard

When Geralt crosses paths with Jaskier in the spring, the world is dressed in green. Quite literally. Everyone everywhere is wearing green, and it all comes down to a song Jaskier has written that, to his mortification, has become popular throughout the Continent. It's torment, being forced to preform the song over and over again and have his heart broken anew. But who is this Lady Greensleeves the people say Jaskier is so maddeningly, heartbrokenly in love with? At the baron's wedding party, Geralt is determined to find out.

This is one of my personal faves - there’s just something about Jaskier’s feelings being put on blast while Geralt remains totally oblivious that I think is so very them. And the resolution at the end is delightful.

I Don’t Wanna Fall (If It’s Not In Love) | E | 13,902 | @writinglizards

The first time it's out of desperation. Things get rapidly out of hand from there.

OR the building of a relationship through mutual wank sessions.

I love everything Ashley writes, but this one was the first fic I read by her and it still has a warm place in my heart. I also highly recommend It’s Been A While (makes me cry every time) and Tell Me Honestly

Like a Storm, Like a Flood | T | 1065 | @valdomarx

Jaskier is leaving for the winter, and Geralt can't bear the thought of not seeing him for months.

It was soooo hard to pick only one fic by George, but this one is so soft and sweet and yearning I just had to go with it. This is really just about Geralt finally hitting a breaking point and saying enough is enough.

one flesh | E | 10,763 | WARNING: MCD

“Well, then. I’m a ghost.” Jaskier spread his arms grandly. Geralt held his gaze for a moment, then dropped his head and laughed. Jaskier put his hands on his hips. “Do fill me in on what’s so funny.” It wasn’t funny. It was just so - ridiculous, the things Geralt’s fucked up brain would invent. This had to be the last nail in the sanity coffin, it just had to be.

Or: Jaskier is a ghost, and Geralt is a mess.

Jaskier dies and comes back as a ghost to haunt Geralt into taking care of himself. Geralt does not handle this gracefully. This fic is so sad and heartbreaking, but the ending is so sweet.

to render it transparent | E | 23,901

Geralt wakes up warm, peaceful, and utterly content, which is how he knows that something is severely wrong.

Sigh. This fic. This is a time travel fic - Geralt ends up in the future living with Jaskier on the coast, just after the mountain. It’s slow and beautiful and extremely bittersweet, all about how we choose to love people despite how much it can hurt us.

With All the Continent A Stage | M | 4745 | @greyduckgreygoose

Later, Geralt learned that the play was four hours long. Four hours long. It didn’t feel like it. Most of it passed by in a fever dream of ominous music, dance-fighting and dryads in gossamer leaves, swinging from hoops attached to the ceiling. Yennefer made an appearance, played by Priscilla in a glittering negligee. She sang a song to Geralt about putting him “Under Her Spell”, and they had a sensual dance number which was made a little strange by a sickened Jaskier (played by Jaskier) coughing loudly in the background.

(Jaskier invites Geralt to a musical production inspired by his own life.)

Jaskier basically writes Geralt a love letter in the form of a four hour long play. Geralt is an idiot about it.

Multi-Chapter Fics

A Lover’s Lament | M | 25,364 | @somedrunkpirate

So,” Jaskier begins, as casually as he can, “you are telling me, that in theory, if I were to be in love with someone — anyone — that person could well be in terrible danger?”

Of all terrible and ridiculous things that have threatened Geralt’s safety, Jaskier’d never thought that loving him might be what will get him killed.

I honestly can’t count the number of times I’ve read this fic. The monster is so interesting, and the mythos of it fits seamlessly into the world of the Witcher in my mind. Jaskier being so afraid that his feelings are going to put Geralt at risk, clearly unable to see that Geralt is going through the exact same thing. I think about the scene with them looking at each other almost daily.

A Pair of Gloves, the Scent of Roses | M | 24,134 | WARNING: Graphic Depictions of Violence

In the bustling days before the Midsummer festival, Geralt is sent into the countryside to deal with a monster - with Jaskier once again by his side. But the bard has not forgiven him, and while he's not hiding his contempt for the Witcher, he is recalcitrant about revealing his true motives for joining him. As the hunt turns into a desperate mission to save an innocent man and the monster is not what is seems to be, Geralt learns a few new things about his old friend and decides to finally attempt to mend the rift between them...

This is one of my favorite’s in the fandom - it feels so believable, the world is so rich and the oc’s are convincing and charming. Geralt and Jaskier feel so honest here, stumbling around each other but still drawn together. Beautiful beautiful beautiful

Bearing the will of the flower | NR | 11,449

The way Jaskier sees it, his hobby of following a witcher around was always pretty likely to get him killed.

The fact that it's happening now because the witcher in question doesn't love him, he thinks as he coughs up crumpled flowers, hardly makes a difference.

My favorite hanahaki fic in the fandom. I’m such a sucker for these, and these two idiots being so incapable of talking about their feelings really makes them prime candidates.

Food of Love | T | 22,488 | @wallatile-qvibbler

I brought a dead princess back to life through the power of song is the kind of thing that would have got an eyebrow raise even from the stone-faced Geralt of Rivia, so it's a good thing he and Geralt will probably never see each other again.

(or: the one where Jaskier channels magic through his songs, and it almost never goes as expected.)

This is a Jaskier and Renfri centric fic, which wasn’t something I knew I wanted until I read this. Jaskier is a bard which in this AU comes with magical powers, but it feels so well integrated into the universe that I wish it was just... how the Witcher is. Renfri is so good here, and even though Jaskier and Geralt barely even interact you can feel the tension and love between them. Cannot recommend highly enough.

friends and allies of the witcher | T | 10,312 | @theamazingbard

Yennefer crawls over to her newest cellmate. They’re curled up on their side. Breathing, but only just. She’s not sure what she’s hoping for when she turns them over. Still isn’t when she sees that it is indeed Jaskier.

“Shit."

Yennefer and Jaskier each suffer in more ways than one at the hands of Nilfgaard.

Yennefer and Jaskier get capture by Nilfgaard and tossed into a cell together. Exactly what I want out of season 2 honestly. Their interactions are gold.

I’d Be the Choiceless Hope | E | 45,188 | WARNING: Rape/Non-Con | @lesdemonium

As a baby, Jaskier was visited by a fae, who gifted Jaskier's mother with Jaskier's obedience. As Jaskier grew older, the "gift" became more of a curse.

You know I’m not gonna make a rec list without listing Zoe’s Ella Enchanted au. Need I say more?

Silver and Copper | M | 56,139 | WARNING: Graphic Depictions of Violence | @kaer-cuan

Geralt is just supposed to pass through the quiet Lettenhove area. He's not anticipating being begged by its people to help save their viscount from a curse that keeps him from daylight. Lord Jaskier, they call him, and he's likely dying.

As Geralt struggles to untangle the ugly web of history that has lead to the increasingly complicated curse, he finds himself spending more and more time with the strange young viscount and wondering just what he might have been before the curse, and who he might be after. But things are not always as they seem, and as the curse tightens its grip on Jaskier, Geralt is forced to face the fear of failing yet another person whose choices were stolen from them.

Or-

Jaskier is kept from becoming a bard. Geralt finds him anyway.

This is a fic that haunts me. It’s very scary in parts, and mind the tags - there are some very heavy themes here. But it’s beautiful and touching, and Jaskier feels very true to himself even though his origin is so different.

we could be married (and then we'd be happy) | E | 50,222 | @a-kind-of-merry-war

Jaskier reached into his pocket, fingers grasping around the little box. He pulled it out with what he hoped was a romantic flourish, flipping it open to reveal the simple gold band inside. “Geralt,” he said, confidently, cooly, like this wasn’t terrifying, “Will you marry me?”

Geralt and Jaskier fake marriage proposals to get free deserts and shit but it goes tits up when Vesemir catches them in the act. Not knowing how to fess up, they go along with it for a while, which is hell because they’re both pining like mad. As I said, I don’t love modern au’s, but it’s merry so of course this one had to end up on my list.

And that’s it! 20 fics for you, and hopefully you can all find one or two you haven’t read before. There are a lot of people and fics that I didn’t include in this list only because I was trying to not put a million down (which I could). I highly recommend anything by @wherethewordsare, @julek, @contemplativepancakes, @witcher-and-his-bard, and @inber, as well as those linked to fics above, and I’m sure there are others I forgot to mention. Yall have truly made being in this fandom worthwhile <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic recs #geralt of rivia #geralt #jaskier #witcher #fic recs #fic rec #I'm certain i missed a lot of good ones I've read over the years but I didn't want to risk making this super fucking long anyways #if you didn't see your name listed it isn't bc I don't adore you and your fics it's because i'm stupid <333

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 3 years

Text

Like Sparks Against My Skin

on ao3

When Geralt sets out down the pass, nothing is out of the ordinary. The path is clear enough that he can ride most of the way down and they make good time coming into Kaedwen. He'd written to Jaskier over the winter for the first time this year and he's antsy to make it to their meeting spot along the Pontar. It feels like something has changed over the winter and while it's not a bad thing, Geralt still lays the blame on Jaskier and his soft, longing letters.

Usually, over the winter, Geralt spends most of his nights with Eskel, but it felt wrong to be sleeping with one man during the night and writing to another during the day, so he's spent the entire five months alone. And more than once, the letters he received seemed to have been written when Jaskier was drunk, and the content edged toward something much more suggestive than either of them had ever discussed. Not that anything had been discussed prior to the letters.

And Geralt had started thinking about things he's been burying since he first met Jaskier so many years ago. Like the sound of his voice while he's being railed in the room next door, or the way his trousers fit just right to display a shapely ass and thighs - or that stupid fucking bow that sits right between his hips and haunts him. Surely it's just a frivolity and it's not actually holding Jaskier's trousers up, but Geralt wants to find out, wants to tug at it and see what happens. And maybe, when he meets up with Jaskier, he will be.

He travels harder than he probably needs to, hurrying to get to their meeting spot and see Jaskier and find out where exactly they stand with each other now. It's unnecessary because Jaskier is still travelling on foot and while he has less distance to cross, he's still going to be slower. So when Geralt stops in town to rest for the night, Jaskier is the last person he's expecting to see.

But there he is when he walks into the tavern, lute in hand and singing melodiously and- Geralt's brain stops functioning when he looks at Jaskier's face. Because he's never had a beard before. And something hot and urgent settles low in his gut and Geralt barely holds back a groan. Whatever changed over the winter, he doesn't suspect Jaskier is prepared to be jumped the second they see each other.

But it's a tempting prospect, pulling him into an empty room and kissing the confusion from his lips. He thinks back to the one year Eskel decided to grow a beard, to the scrape of his between his thighs and against his ass. The roughness of it all over his skin and- fuck. He's still in public, he shouldn't be thinking these things.

So he quickly diverts his attention from Jaskier and orders a pair of drinks and supper for the both of them before discussing available rooms. By the time he and the innkeeper have come to an agreement (Jaskier's portion of the room has been paid for already, but Geralt is to pay for his own) Jaskier has finished his set and slipped up silently.

"It's good to see you," he says, "I didn't expect you so soon."

"The path was clear," Geralt explains, "quick riding down. Didn't see any point to delay after that."

"Certainly not, and we are glad to have you. Drinks?”

"Already coming," Geralt smiles and Jaskier beams at him.

The beard, Geralt discovers, is shorter than it appeared, thick stubble more than a full beard, but it doesn't stop the thoughts whirling in his head. If anything, it encourages them. Stubble is rougher than long hair and would be sure to scrape delightfully against his skin. Geralt has to shut his eyes for a moment and compose himself and when he does, Jaskier is looking at him oddly.

They turn in after supper and for the first time since knowing him, Geralt is nervous to share a bed with Jaskier. He's hesitant even about undressing in front of him because he's been half-hard since he walked into the inn earlier that evening. And he's had more to drink than is probably advisable, even if it doesn't affect him that much.

But in the firelight in their room, Jaskier looks unbearably beautiful and Geralt has to hold his tongue to keep from saying something he'll regret. Because Jaskier hinted and nodded at something more, but he hasn't said a word about it now that they're back together. And Geralt would be devastated to lose him over something so trivial as a quick fuck. So he shucks his clothes quickly and lays out his bedroll on the floor. Jaskier gives him an odd look but doesn't question it. It's not the first time one of them has slept on the floor of an inn.

But even when the candle is blown out and Jaskier is snoring softly in bed, Geralt can't sleep. He usually sleeps best the first night they're back together because they're always at an inn and Jaskier's soft breath and snoring lull him, but tonight he's wound too tightly to rest.

He gets up more than once and tries to meditate but being on his knees only brings to mind the image of a cock in his mouth and he's sorely tempted to see if the brothel is still open. He can't keep on like this. Jaskier stretches in his sleep, letting out a soft, happy moan and Geralt's cock twitches against his thigh. He shuts his eyes tightly, focuses back on the sound of Jaskier's breath, but there's nothing for it.

After an hour or more, Geralt shoves a hand down his shorts, taking his cock in hand and jerking himself quick and hard. There's nothing elegant about it, but he thinks of Jaskier, imagines him rubbing his cheeks between his thighs, and he comes hard after only a few strokes.

It's stupid, he thinks, to let himself get worked up over a little hair along Jaskier's jawline, and he resolves to ignore it.

Only the next morning it already seems thicker and darker and, like every other part of Jaskier, it's actually rather a lot of hair. A lot of short, prickly hairs. Geralt's cock stirs as he saddles Roach and he firmly shoves the thought aside. He's spent one too many rides hard and rubbing against the horn of the saddle and he doesn't need to repeat that.

They're not headed anywhere in particular, so he lets Jaskier lead the way, happily strumming and chatting or singing as he goes. They head in a general northwestern direction, toward Vizima and Jaskier seems perfectly unaware of Geralt's new fascination with him. But Geralt can't stop looking, hyper-aware of every little thing Jaskier does from the way he scratches absently at his jaw to the way he stretches it when he's not singing. Geralt doesn't know how he's never noticed all these things before, but they're doing their damndest to drive him out of his mind now.

He spends three days riding uncomfortably because he can't keep his prick under control, but it's better than walking and letting Jaskier see how fucking hard he gets thinking about his stupid scratchy face.

They stop early to make camp just outside of the city and Geralt has barely dismounted - thankfully not currently afflicted - when Jaskier drops his things and sighs.

"What is it?" he asks abruptly and Geralt just looks at him.

"What's what?" A million things run through his mind, but Jaskier looks far too exasperated for this to have anything to do with the recent state of Geralt's dick.

"You keep staring, looking at me funny. Why? Did I grow? Do I have something in my hair?" he reaches up, brushing long fingers through his hair and Geralt swallows hard. "And you're so solemn. What happened to looking forward to meeting me this spring."

Geralt says nothing because he doesn't know what to say. The truth is clearly out of the question, so he's fully out of options, the beard having turned the majority of his brain to soup. Then Jaskier's shoulders slump a little and he gives Geralt the most ridiculous look.

"The beard?" he asks and Geralt's eyes widen without his permission. Jaskier huffs. "I should have fucking known. Okay, get it out, tell me how awful it is."

"It's fine," he mumbles and Jaskier laughs.

"No, no, no, Witcher, you're not getting out of this that easily. Why do you hate it so much, hm? I'll have you know it was quite popular in Oxenfurt." Geralt doesn't need full brainpower to know what that means and a nasty jealous feeling twists in his gut. "So?"

"Told you," Geralt shrugs, "it's fine."

"Fine," Jaskier repeats mockingly, "fine."

He hates to lie to Jaskier, but he doesn't know what else to do and he doesn't want to ruin whatever softness they found over the winter, providing Jaskier is willing to stretch that into the rest of the year.

"It's… good," he says the words so quietly he can barely hear them and Jaskier comes right up to him, getting right up in his face and Geralt can smell him and he shuts his eyes, trying to settle his mind.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Nothing."

"No, I think you said it was good. Do you- do you like the beard, Geralt?"

He's so close now and Geralt's eyes open when he feels Jaskier's hands on his chest. He's right there and Geralt can't think of anything but biting his jaw, running his tongue along the rough line of it and he nearly groans out loud. He has always, regrettably, found Jaskier attractive but something about the beard is unbearably sexy and Geralt is barely holding it together already when Jaskier grins at him.

"Oh," he breathes, sliding one palm down Geralt's stomach. He leans in so close that his stubble scrapes against Geralt's cheek and Geralt lets out a soft, shaky moan, barely clinging to his self-control. "You do like it, don't you? Is that why you won't sleep with me? Why you can't stop staring at me?"

He leans in again, purposefully this time and Geralt inclines his head so Jaskier's cheek is closer to his neck.

"Shit, Geralt." He nuzzles into his neck, pressing his cheek against Geralt's throat and follows with soft kisses that make Geralt's knees weak. "You like the way it scratches, hm?"

"Yeah," Geralt admits breathily, "Jask-"

"Shh," Jaskier hums, "I know. Fuck, I know." He presses his nose to Geralt's, sighing softly. "I was afraid I overstepped this winter," he whispers, pressing a light kiss to the underside of Geralt's jaw. "Thought you were trying to figure out how to send me away after that first night back."

"Not you," Geralt mumbles, tipping his head back, "didn't want you to know-"

"How much you like the beard?" he nuzzles under Geralt's jaw again and he groans in response. "So you still want-" he doesn't finish his sentence before Geralt slides a hand around the back of his head and holds him there, eyes locked on his own.

"Of course I do," he breathes and then Jaskier's mouth is on his own and he's not sure which one of them moved, but it doesn't matter. Jaskier kisses him like he's been deprived for months and Geralt knows that's not true, but he's happy enough to be the recipient.

Jaskier's lips are soft, but Geralt can already feel the burn of his beard on his upper lip and he moans softly as Jaskier pulls away to nuzzle at his neck again. Geralt shuts his eyes, rolling his head back and biting down on his lip. His cock swells quickly under the touch and then Jaskier's wrapping his arms around his thighs and lifting him off his feet. It catches him off guard, but then they're moving, and Jaskier sets him down on a shelf of rock, smiling slyly up at him.

Geralt's high enough that it takes nothing for Jask to bend and kiss him, fingers reaching in to unbutton his trousers, and Geralt can't keep himself from pushing into the touch, pressing his clothed cock against Jaskier's hands.

Heat rolls through him and he's a little embarrassed to be so hard already, but Jaskier doesn't seem to mind. He wraps his fingers around him and Geralt groans softly as Jaskier plays with him through the fabric of his trousers. He tips his head back as Jaskier gets his trousers undone and then he's shoving them down far enough to get his cock free and Geralt can feel the rush of cool air against him.

"Lift your hips," Jaskier says and Geralt does as he's asked, shifting with him as Jaskier pulls his trousers down to his knees.

He grins at him, then pushes his thighs apart and presses his face between them. Geralt groans immediately despite himself, torn between letting his thighs fall further apart to give Jaskier better access to his cock and just letting him rub his face between his thighs all afternoon.

Because he would. He'd be happy to let Jaskier nuzzle between his thighs for hours without even touching him. He could probably come like that, just with Jaskier's scruff rubbing against his thighs.

"Feels good?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nods. "You like the way it scratches, hm?" He presses closer and Geralt's eyes flutter shut. "Oh, you really like that. Is that what's been bothering you this whole time? And here I thought you hated the beard."

"No," Geralt gasps and Jaskier surges up to kiss him again, groaning against his lips. He fumbles with Geralt's trousers, not pulling away as he pulls them off his legs and throwing them to the ground, then he's hauling him forward so he can fit between his thighs.

"I want you," he breathes, "Geralt, can I fuck you? I'll make it good, love."

"Please," he whispers, "Jaskier, please-"

"Shh," Jaskier hums, running a hand down his chest, "I've got you, darling, I'll take care of you."He presses forward, guiding Geralt onto his back and then he's ducking down to take his cock into his mouth. And the rumours of Jaskier's talents have not been exaggerated.

Geralt has to struggle to keep his hips down as Jaskier draws back and when he sinks back down on him, he makes a point of rubbing his cheek against his hip and the pleasure burns through him. Jaskier's tongue wraps around him and Geralt rocks into the touch, but he just groans when Jaskier holds him down. Then he's pulling off altogether and lifting Geralt's knees over his shoulders.

He keeps his eyes on Geralt's as he pulls him forward and then he's ducking down, pressing his nose behind Geralt's balls. The first flick of his tongue has Geralt groaning and then he's sliding over him, licking over his hole and Geralt shuts his eyes and gropes at the rock for something to hold on to.

Jaskier doesn't waste any time settling him, just gets straight to work, pressing his face in and pressing at his hole with his tongue. The scratch of his stubble drives Geralt insane and if he wasn't already hard, it would take nothing else to get him there. And Jaskier, the fucker, knows this and uses it to his advantage. He alternates actually touching him with the rough scrape of his beard until Geralt needs the touch, until his cock aches for something more, and his cheeks burn with the roughness of it.

It's just this side of painful, but he loves it and when Jaskier finally presses into him, Geralt goes limp, whining as he throws his head back. He gropes blindly at Jaskier, gripping one arm where he braces himself and Jaskier just hums as he pushes his tongue inside him, barely acknowledging Geralt's whimpers.

"Fuck," he groans, "oh, fuck jask- please, yes."

When he pushes further, he adds a finger and it's a little dry, but Geralt has needed this for so fucking long he doesn't even care about the burn. It feels good, even, like a mirror to the stubble burn now marring the insides of his thighs and ass. And Jaskier is gentle despite his own eagerness, only pushing in when he knows Geralt can take it and then starting slow.

But when he knows Geralt is comfortable, he fucks him hard with his tongue and finger, working up to two quickly as Geralt gasps and groans under him.

"Jask," he groans, "needed you- wanted you all winter. I haven't-"

"Haven't what, love?"

"Haven't come since the summer-" he cuts himself off with another groan as Jaskier's fingers nudge against his prostate for the third time in a row. His eyes roll back and he bites his lip. "Not gonna last like this."

"'S okay," Jaskier says, dipping down to kiss his cock, "I wanna make you feel good, I wanna watch you come. Then I'll fuck you and you can come again."

"Melitele," Geralt groans, but Jaskier leans low over him, quieting him with a kiss as he plunges his fingers into him again.

The pressure rises as Jaskier seeks out that spot, aiming for it again and again until Geralt can barely breathe. And he knows he can't hold back anymore, but he tries. He shuts his eyes and focuses and tries not to think about how fucking good it feels to have Jaskier's fingers inside him, but they bump against his prostate again, just as Jaskier mouths at the underside of his cock and he can't.

"Fuck," he cries, "'M gonna come." Jaskier doesn't say anything, but he licks up the length of Geralt's twitching cock, just slipping over the head and sucking it into his mouth before he's coming.

HE clenches one hand at his side, the other flying up to the back of Jaskier's neck as he sinks down on him and he rocks gently into his mouth, pressing the head of his cock against the roof of Jaskier's mouth. It feels like ages that the pleasure washes over him and Jaskier just keeps bobbing on his cock, fingers still working into him.

When he finally comes down again, Geralt sighs and reaches down, tugging Jaskier on top of him to kiss him. He can taste himself on Jaskier's lips and it sends a bolt of possessiveness through him. He's never been one to consider anyone his, but knowing Jaskier tastes like him is incredibly arousing.

Jaskier appeases him for a few minutes before pushing himself up again and fitting himself between Geralt's thighs, running his hands along them.

"Feel better?" he asks and Geralt just hums softly. "Think you could come again for me, darling?"

"Yeah," Geralt rasps, "yeah, for you."

"Oh, Geralt, you're so sweet to me." Jaskier kisses him softly, then straightens up, reaching down to undo his own trousers.

Geralt watches as he shoves them down, then takes himself in hand, stroking absently, as he looks at him. Jaskier's already hard, the knowledge of which only makes Geralt's need stronger. But Jaskier doesn't make him wait long before he's pressing in, teasing his rim with the head of his cock.

He pushes in slowly, giving Geralt the chance to adjust, but he doesn't want it. He wants Jaskier inside him as quickly as possible, wants to feel the stretch of Jaskier's cock and the burn as he fucks him. He rocks his hips encouragingly and Jaskier seems to get the message, thrusting deep into him with a groan.

"Fuck," he mutters, "you feel incredible, Geralt." He rocks his hips, groaning on the forward thrust, and pulls Geralt's hips against him. "Can you come just like this?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nods.

He's already feeling the urge again, even as his cock swells against his hip. He wants to come on Jaskier's cock, wants to kiss him while he fucks him, wants to touch him. And Jaskier does his best to provide that. He leans over, wrapping his hands around Geralt's hips and pulling him down to ease the motion of his thrusts. He gets one hand around him, stroking in time and pressing his thumb against the slit of his cock, rubbing gently as Geralt squirmed under him.

Jaskier is soft where he touches him, but he fucks him hard and Geralt is already slipping before he's even touched himself. Jaskier's hands on him feel too good and he reluctantly pushes him away, slipping his own hand around the base of his cock.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Gonna make me come too quick," Geralt mumbles, "not yet."

"How come?" Jaskier asks, but his voice is rough, shaky as he fucks him. "This doesn't have to be the only time." He leans over him, kissing Geralt sloppily as he jerks forward. "I've wanted you forever, darling, if I knew all it took to get you into bed was growing a beard, I would have done it years ago."

He smiles and winks and Geralt can't help but kiss him again, tangling his fingers in his hair to bring him close. Jaskier's a flirt and a tease, but Geralt wouldn't trade him for anyone.

He kisses him hard, even as Jaskier pulls him down again, so only his back and shoulders rest on the rock. He slams into him again and again, dislodging him as he kisses him, but it doesn't matter because this is Jaskier and this has been a long time coming.

But Geralt's cock throbs against his hip and he's so close he can practically feel it and one well-timed thrust is all it takes to have him spilling all over his stomach and Jaskier follows with a loud moan, pressing his head into Geralt's shoulder.

For some time, neither of them moves, Geralt with his legs wrapped around Jaskier's waist and Jaskier just barely holding him up as the rush of his orgasm passes. Jaskier is the one to move first, pulling Geralt from his spot on the shelf to set him back on shaky feet.

"Gods, Geralt," he breathes, "who knew a little bit of facial hair could get you going like that." He huffs a soft laugh and kisses his chest, but Geralt ignores it. "If I'd known, I would've let it grow out ages ago, I bloody hate shaving and now that I know what that look means," he grins, leaning in close enough that he's breathing against Geralt's lips, "I think I'll wear it long like this all the time, what do you think?"

"I think," Geralt says, choosing his words carefully, "that next year you're coming to Kaer Morhen with me so I can take full advantage of that threat without worrying about having to ride in the morning."

"Fuck," Jaskier breathes, "deal."

#the promised beard fic!!#geraskier #spicy #rex writes #the witcher

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pillage-and-lute · 3 years

Text

Eskel is a Fanboy (Part 2, Electric Boogaloo)

This is a second part of this. Which in turn was inspired by this.

Please note, this is less funny and a little deeper than the first part, despite the title. Discussions of FEELINGS, hardcore, but also the trials. Brief mention of hypothermia.

Read it here on Ao3

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Geralt arrived late that year. Vesemir had been pacing the corridors, a worry line between his brows, for the last week. The snows were getting worse and worse and innocent snowflakes joined other completely harmless snowflakes until a very un-harmless amount of snow had piled on the track and the passes.

Lambert, alongside Aiden (another reason for the creases on Vesemir’s brow) lounged in the great hall, completely unconcerned.

“He’s stayed later and later every year,” Lambert said, lazily. “He keeps lingering with that bard of his. Why should this year be any different?” His eyes were half closed as Aiden played idly with his hair.

“If he doesn’t get here in the next two days he’ll be too late,” Vesemir snapped.

“I recognize I’m the outsider, here,” Aiden said. “But I don’t always winter with my troupe, and Lambert occasionally spends winters away...”

Eskel shook his head. The constant bickering was impacting his reading and he’d long ago marked his place in his book and set it aside. “Not Geralt,” he said with certainty. “He always winters at home.”

Aiden levelled a chilly, yellow gaze. “You love him.”

“He’s my brother in arms.”

“He’s special to you.”

Eskel wanted to growl and snap, but Aiden wasn’t saying it in a malicious way. There was no threat or accusation in his words. If there had been it would have been pure hypocrisy, what with the way Lambert currently lay in his lap. Eskel had spent a week pretending not to see the pairs’ furtive kisses.

“He is special to me,” Eskel said at last. “I found him, after his second trial, was given special allowance to be away from training to help him. Whatever happened, with the mutagens, he was deaf and blind for nearly two weeks. And had as much strength as a kitten.”

Vesemir’s pacing gained a sharper edge. “I wish I’d killed the mage that called for that second trial.” He said. Lambert and Eskel made eye contact, they were familiar with the self loathing in Vesemir’s voice. Lambert was angry at the world and his whole situation, but they had all forgiven Vesemir years ago. There was no choice but to mend bridges with a pack so small. Still, they rarely talked about it.

“You killed the mage that called for his third,” Eskel said, quietly.

Aiden’s head jerked up. He’d been a witcher, albeit a different school. He knew the trials, he knew the pain, but three trials... “They tried...?”

Eskel nodded his confirmation. “Geralt survived, and the mages who ran the trials wanted to see how many he could take.”

“So I split his throat on my knife,” Vesemir said. There was no satisfaction in his tone, but just an empty statement of action.

“I didn’t know it was you that killed the mage,” Lambert said. “I just knew one had been killed for the suggestion. I heard they made the witcher drink hemlock as punishment.” There was a warmer light of respect in Lambert’s eyes than usually shone there.

“They did,” Vesemir said. “It didn’t kill me.”

That was it for conversation that night, but Eskel went to bed thinking about Aiden’s words.

He’s special to you.

Geralt was special to him. There was an understanding, something gentle and kind between them. Geralt and Eskel lived their separate lives and had lovers and adventures. But for three months of the year they had each other.

Eskel had sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with him. He never gave his heart to anyone. Sex meant nothing and love didn’t happen, and he could only love Geralt for three months at a time.

Except that wasn’t true at all, because of course Eskel loved Geralt all the time. It was only a softer kind of love than he read about in poetry. He didn’t need fiery passion and desperate declarations of love. He had a steady love for Geralt, as sure as the beating of his heart. It was as good a love story as any, but now Geralt had his bard and a tiny, hidden part of Eskel whispered “If Only.”

If only he and Geralt could lounge like Aiden and Lambert, to pet each others’ hair and share small kisses in the corners. If only Eskel really had Geralt for those three months. He had no doubt that the feelings were mutual, but something in their lives had been built apart, and it would take something powerful to shape them anew.

The next evening brought a blizzard. And Geralt.

It took both Aiden and Lambert to shut the door behind Geralt with the way the wind blew in around him. It curled and flickered shards of ice through the air that melted in the heat of the hall, dampening Geralt’s old, black cloak. Which he was holding around himself like a cocoon. Vesemir took Geralts cloak for him, which revealed what he’d been holding.

Huddled against Geralt, nose red and face pale, was a young man in a blue cloak.

Geralt bundled him in front of the fire without a word, pulling away the damp cloak and hanging it to dry. Vesemir brought blankets as Geralt pried the instrument case from the man’s hands.

A lute case.

Eskel’s pulse picked up. This was obviously the bard. This was Jaskier, Oxenfurt’s most prodigious poet. He’d studied with Rumi and Alighieri and Li Bai. In just a few years he’d reformed witchers’ reputations. They’d all been treated better these past few years. More money, less tar and feathers. Eskel went to sit beside Jaskier to beg him for stories but Geralt met his gaze, smiled softly, and shook his head.

Eskel restrained himself. Jaskier was clearly staving off shock from the cold, as well as hypothermia. Instead of doing what he really wanted to do (lay himself prone at Jaskier’s feet and worship his skill with words) he put on a kettle for tea.

Aiden and Lambert make eye contact with each other, nod to Geralt, and leave. Vesemir also makes a tactful retreat. This time was just for Eskel and Geralt. And the bard shivering on a pile of cushions next to the fire.

“He had a hard time on the Killer,” Geralt said, quietly.

“It’s called the Killer for a reason.”

“He begged me to come, I told him it would be too dangerous,” Geralt whispered. “He followed me and I couldn’t make him leave, that’s why I was late.”

“Vesemir’s been worried,” Eskel said, staring at the fire. He sat on the cushions, beside the bard, without taking his eyes from the coals. Geralt sat on the other side of Jaskier, rubbing carefully over the bard’s chilly hands, pulling off the woolen mittens and gently warming each knuckle.

“I had to go slower for him,” Geralt said. Between the two of them, the bard seemed mostly asleep. His eyelashes flickered on his cheeks, struggling to stay open.

“You can sleep,” Eskel whispered. “You’ll wake up, you’re cold but not in danger.” He took the other chilly hand. “Just sleep.”

Blue eyes slipped closed and Eskel took the kettle off the fire so it didn’t whistle.

“He was so desperate to be here, he wanted to see the Keep,” Geralt said. “And I wanted him to come. To meet you.”

“I did make you promise I’d get to meet him,” Eskel said, sitting back down and resting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “I think I’ve read everything he’s ever written.”

“That’s not why I wanted him to meet you,” Geralt said.

Eskel’s breath caught. They were talking about it, sort of. “I know,” he said.

The bard curled up a little, like a nautilus shell. Geralt lay down on the cushions behind him and Eskel made himself comfortable. Sleep and warmth and the smell of the pine fire lulled him slowly to sleep. Just as he was drifting off, Jaskier reached out in his sleep and placed one hand, less chilly than it was, on Eskel’s arm. It stayed there until the morning.

“So True Love’s Waste wasn’t inspired by a person?” Eskel asked over breakfast, mouth full of porridge.

Jaskier shook his head, gulping down hot tea. “No, I was out on a bender with some friends and we saw this washerwoman’s cat trying to catch a soap bubble, right?”

Eskel nodded, entranced.

“It was so totally focused on catching this soap bubble, it’s eyes were all wide and determined, like all it wanted was the bubble, but when it caught the bubble...”

“It popped,” Eskel laughed. “And you wrote a poem that has been deemed the best love poem of the last hundred years about it.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Art is more trite and derivative than people think.”

Eskel reached out and touched Jaskier’s wrist, looking into those heavily-lashed eyes. “Your work could never be called trite, or derivative.”

Behind Jaskier, Eskel saw something flash in Geralt’s eyes, and he stood from the table, clearing his plate, but then Jaskier was telling a story about Rumi, his former professor, and Eskel’s attention was diverted.

The next week passed in peace, for the most part. Repairs to the keep were ongoing, but halted when the snow was heavy. Vesemir kept them training and the library, neglected by all but Eskel, kept Jaskier busy. At mealtimes and in the evenings Eskel and Jaskier chatted about art and music and life on the Path. But Geralt was subdued, something tired and sad gleaming in his golden eyes. He wouldn’t talk about it, and he fled when Eskel tried.

It hurt, that Geralt suddenly wouldn’t talk to him, but Eskel knew the white wolf better than anyone, so he cornered him in the training yard one afternoon and pinned him down.

“Talk. To. Me,” he panted, grinding Geralt’s shoulders into the flagstones.

“Nothing to say,” Geralt grunted.

“Bullshit.”

“Nothing!”

“You keep hiding! It’s not nothing!”

Geralt kicked his feet up, flipping them both over and freeing himself. He stood over Eskel who was still laying on the ground. “You can have him,” he said, beginning to walk away.

Eskel snagged his ankle, bringing his idiot wolf down to the ground without remorse. “You’re stupid.”

“I’m not, he adores you. You have so much in common, it makes sense.”

Eskel remembered the conversation of the year before. Please don’t take my bard.

“I’m not taking your lover boy from you,” he snapped.

“He’s not my lover boy.”

“He would be if you would only ask him.”

“He deserves better.”

“He wants you.”

“He wants you,” Geralt howled. “He looks at you like you got out a ladder and personally nailed the moon to the sky. Every time you talk he hangs on your words.”

“He looks at you the same way,” Eskel said, quietly. “And I...” He paused. This was so close to the thing they never talked about.

“You don’t look at me that way,” Geralt whispered.

“But I feel it all the same.”

The admission rang in the empty training yard, despite it being barely a whisper.

“I want you to have him, to be with him, because the two of you are made for eachother. It was obvious to me before you’d even met. I just wish,” Geralt stopped, his voice growing tight.

“What do you wish?”

“I just hate that it hurts so much. I love you both, I do, so so much, and all I want is you two happy, and you’ll be happy together, but I just wish it didn’t cut me out.”

Eskel rolled over and bumped his forehead to Geralt’s. There were tear tracks in the dirt there. “It doesn’t have to. That’s a silly rule and you made it up for yourself. I love you both and he loves us both, so you can have us both.”

Geralt sat up, bringing Eskel with him, then pulled him into a kiss that burned. It was a simple press of their lips together but Eskel felt like he’d been struck by lightning.

“Oh,” came a quiet voice from the nearby doorway. Jaskier was standing there, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. “I’ll just--”

“Stay,” Eskel said, chuckling. He pulled Jaskier down to sit on the flagstones with them. “I think Geralt has something he wants to tell you.”

Geralt looked nervous. He swallowed a couple times, eyes darting over Jaskier’s face. “I...” He said. “Um, what Eskel means is that... um, I”

“Oh you great big oaf,” Eskel said. “Jaskier, he loves you, he’s absolutely mad about you. He just can’t say it because he loves me too and it’s taken him the better part of a century to tell me.”

Jaskier beamed, his blush growing. “And you?” he said.

“I’m not sure I love you yet,” Eskel said. “But I think I will.”

“I think I will too,” Jaskier said, then he leaned in and brushed a soft kiss to Eskel’s lips, off center, so it brushed his scar and part of his cheek too. Then he kissed Geralt the same way.

“Aiden’s going to be so pissed that he lost the bet,” Jaskier said, as if he hadn’t just rocked both witchers’ worlds with a mere kiss. “He bet Lambert you wouldn’t figure it out until next week.”

“You knew,” Eskel said, touching the tips of his fingers to where his face was still tingling from the kiss.

“They way Geralt talks about you, well...” Jaskier said, smiling at Geralt. “And then the way you talk about him,” he smiled at Eskel. “And the way you both look at me, I knew. I just wasn’t sure you knew.” His smile shifted into something bashful and a little insecure. It was an odd look on his normally confident face. “And it seemed too much to assume you both would really want me, I’m not all,” he gestured at his shoulders and arms, obviously comparing their builds.

Eskel couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle. “We don’t care about that,” he said, carding his hand through Jaskier’s hair and revelling in the way the bard leaned into his touch. “I’ve seen Geralt with a face full of pimples, and I mean full, and that was back when he was calling himself Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. It isn’t about looks.” He trailed his eyes across Jaskier. “And even if it was we wouldn’t find you wanting.”

“He’s right,” Geralt said, pressing a little kiss right behind Jaskier’s ear. “We find nothing about you wanting.”

“You both are going to leave me wanting if you’re not careful,” Jaskier whined, borderline laciviously. He leaned back against Geralt and pulled Eskel closer, kissing Eskel’s cheek chastely in spite of his words. When he turned to kiss Geralt’s cheek too Eskel nuzzled closer, feeling Geralt’s arms pull him into the pair of them.

“You have to promise to write me into your poetry, after all this,” he said.

Jaskier laughed, head tilting back and eyes crinkling at the corners. “As if I haven’t already,” he whispered.

Three months later the great bard Jaskier debuted his latest poetry anthology. Silver and Steel was praised by academics across the continent, although the line about being eaten alive was highly debated. Jaskier’s sudden penchant for high collars might have answered the questions, but he wasn’t about to give away the secret.

#jaskel #geralt x jaskier x eskel #this is stupid but happy #less funny than the first bit #but more cute #the witcher #jaskier is a famous bard #eskel is his fanboy #geralt loves them both very much

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babylooneytoonz · 3 years

Text

The Vessel [Pt. 3]

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem! Reader

Summary: While you are trying to figure out why the Witcher is so abhorrent towards you, he finally gives you a hint as to why he doesn't like you. Also, you realize something— Yennefer and her spells can never go wrong.

Warnings: Geralt being a dick is what.

[My Masterlist] [My Witcher Masterlist - Read the other parts here!]

It had been weeks since you slept with Geralt of Rivia, but you hadn't been feeling any different. If it were up to you to say, you would say that Yennefer's plan didn't work— although you couldn't muster the courage to ask her directly if it did.

What made you so sure that the plan hadn't worked was the fact that Geralt and Yennefer had been fighting about something since a few nights and you could feel the strain in their relationship starting to show up. This hunch that you had only strengthened when one day, you unknowingly stumbled upon an argument between the Witcher and the Mage.

It was almost a week after that night on the Great Mount. Geralt had been indifferent towards you since then— not even bothering to spare a glance in your direction when the four of you were in the same proximity.

You were now back at Redania— your home, but so were Yennefer , Geralt and Jaskier— staying at your place like unwanted guests who were exceeding their stay.

Jaskier held two heavy logs in either of his arms, while your own hands were stuffed with the eggs from your coop, that you were intending to cook up for dinner tonight, when you heard shouting from one of the rooms upstairs.

"It was you that said that the plan would work. It didn't work, clearly."

You could recognize Geralt's voice from afar; broody, low and devoid of any emotion.

"Aren't you going to go check in on them?" You turned towards Jaskier and frowned, your eyes shooting upwards, fixing on the topmost stair before you withdrew it and fixed it on him again.

"Me? Stuck between a broody Witcher and a scary Witch? God save my poor soul then." Jaskier commented back as he placed the logs by the fireplace and began to light it.

"Jaskier—" You couldn't help but smile at him, as you placed the eggs on the table and blinked, turning towards him, "Yennefer isn't a witch, she is a mage. Besides—"

Before you could complete your sentence, Yennefer's shaky voice reached the both of you, and you couldn't help but wonder what was actually going on between the two of them.

"I don't understand what's gotten into you, Geralt. These things take time. Why won't you let the spell take it's due course?"

"Yen, your spell failed. It's high time you realize that."

You shook your head to yourself as you busied yourself with trying to prepare the stew for dinner, but your ears were fixed on them.

"You don't question my spells, Witcher. I know what I'm doing. Besides— now to come to think of it, did you even fuck her right?"

Jaskier couldn't help but snort, but when he looked at how red you suddenly were, he immediately masked his expressions as he propped himself next to you.

"Did he, [Y/N]?"

"Jaskier, I'm not having this conversation with you," You shook your head at him, exasperated that he was still bugging you with this question, "Now can you please help me out? I need help with the stew, Jas'." Jaskier stood up, whistling to himself as he fixed himself next to the pot, stirring it while you began working on getting the bread ready when the door above slammed shut and heavy footsteps began descending down the stairs. Both you and Jaskier turned to see a very annoyed Yennefer walk towards the front door, without her Witcher in tow, just like he already was.

"I've got some business to attend to in Novigrad, Jaskier." She pointedly ignored you, and you couldn't help but bite back the words threatening to spill out of your mouth. Living under your roof, she was behaving like you were an outsider. Secretly, you were thrilled that she was leaving , even though it was for a short while.

You watched, through the window as a portal suddenly emerged just outside of your barn, and she disappeared through it, leaving you and Jaskier gawking at each other, Jaskier finally speaking, "I say, trouble in paradise?"

"It's none of your concern, Jaskier. You really need to stop meddling with other people's businesses. Now would you be kind enough and go ask your friend to come down? Dinner's almost read—"

"Jaskier, come on now. We're leaving." Geralt cut you off as he finally appeared, all dressed in his tunic and breeches, his sword peeking out from behind him. You parted your lips, ready to ask him where he was off to but it was like he had already anticipated that this was going to come, so finally he looked at you, but with the same indifference with which he had treated you so far.

"It's time we move on. Keep the coin. Seems like Yennefer's plan failed after all—"

The sheer coldness in his voice stung you like a thorn but you didn't let him realize that. Slowly, you lifted the cloth, wiping your hands with it, trying to act just as indifferent towards him— even though you felt like you had been betrayed, which you mentally cursed yourself for.

This was going to happen one day or the other— and wasn't it better that they were finally going to be out of your life now? And not later when they would mercilessly pull your babe away from a mother's breast and call it their own?

"Where are we going, Geralt? We can atleast stay for dinner, a man needs to eat—"

"We will roast a deer on our way, Jaskier." Geralt's irritation was evident from his tone, so the bard turned towards you, choosing now to ignore the Witcher with a sulk on his face.

"Oh Jaskier," you whispered, softly, "Don't you worry. I'll quickly pack some food for you, for the way."

"Oh hush, woman, don't go so soft on me, I would want to switch the roles with that broody gentleman over there."

Your cheeks suddenly felt like they were on fire; and you were sure you had turned a tomato red. You instinctively looked away, quickly finding yourself a distraction at the table as you began packing some bread and ham in a cloth satchel for him to take along with him— fighting back the smile that craved to break out.

"Jaskier, you are free to stay here for as long as you want, the minute I get on Roach, I leave," grumbling, the White Wolf slammed the front door shut as he walked off, your eyes suddenly widening, as the smile was quickly replaced by a lingering hurt upon listening to his words. Why did he hate you so much? Was it because you couldn't give him— them— the child they so desperately wanted?

"Okay thank you for the dinner, and don't, like DO NOT mind him, he has always been a grumpy ham."

Jaskier took the satchel, flinging it over his shoulder, whilst at the same time grabbed his lute and immediately darted out, and by that time, the Witcher was already trotting towards the main path. You fixed yourself by the front door, watching the poor bard struggle to catch up with him and once the two of them were out of sight, you went back inside.

If there was anything that turned a bright way for you after the three of them stepped out of your life for good was the fact that you had enough coin on you now to last for atleast a year. You bought three new goats so you could milk them and sell the milk in the village, along with the eggs.

But the void remained—

The night's were the most difficult, because there were nights when you woke up to a dream where a certain white haired, amber eyed man was laying in bed with you, his thick palm resting on your waist, your back pressed against him as he spooned you.

Maybe it was because you couldn't sleep that night too, that you did not miss the strangled groan that you heard from outside your window. You forced yourself to sit up, rubbing your eyes as you leaned over the window to look out but you couldn't see anything. Just then, someone began pounding on your front door, startling you.

It didn't take you long to run down the stairs, still dressed in your chemise, your arms wrapped around your arms as the knocking became frantic and urgent. When you opened the door, you felt like someone had kneed you in the gut—

"Jaskier?" The bard looked a mess, his clothes were bloody and dirty, his hair slick and sticking to his face.

"I didn't know who else to go to nearby. Geralt needs—" Jaskier began, and the two of you turned towards Roach. Geralt was although perched atop, he was now arching forward, his body almost limp, his head resting against the saddle.

"What happened, Jaskier?" You ran out towards Roach, who whinnied at you, perhaps having sensed that something was wrong with her owner. You placed your palm on Geralt's shoulder, but the minute your palm came in contact with him, he grunted and looked up, and you saw how weak and pale he looked, "I told J-Jaskier — I'm f-fine.. Jaskier.. Jaskier..fuck.. Novigrad.. I asked you to take us to ... Novigrad."

Geralt of Rivia was injured, the flesh on his side had almost been ripped apart by what looked like claws, and yet he was being a stubborn pig. You grabbed him by the fabric of his tunic, balling the fabric as you began literally dragging him off the horse, paying no heed to his annoying murmurs.

"Jaskier, can you help? I alone cannot get him off, you know?"

Helping Geralt walk into your home was a difficult task but somehow, you and Jaskier convinced Geralt to do it. You sat the very injured Geralt by the fire and knelt down in between the space of his legs, using gentle fingers as you rolled up the torn fabric of the tunic. He hissed when your fingers came in contact with his clawed flesh and that's when you saw how massive the claw marks were.

"Who did that to him, Jaskier?" You let go off the big man as you stood up, your hands now caked in Geralt's blood. You ran up to one of the wooden racks that stood by the fireplace with a dozen glass bottles on it. You grabbed the mortar and pestle, placing it on the table in front of you, as Jaskier lowered himself on a chair, now wiping the blood off his face with a washcloth.

"I swear you should have seen it, it was the tallest harpy I have ever seen— well technically, it's the first harpy I've ever seen," he mumbled, and you couldn't help but give him a weak smile as you began to look for the ingredients to make a paste for Geralt's wounds.

"What are you looking for?" Jaskier asked, intrigued, as he watched you fiddle with the glass containers.

"Turmeric, Jaskier. It will stop his bleeding, although had he been human, that injury would have killed him— instantly," you pointedly stared at Jaskier, and he gulped nervously when your words finally registered into the back of his mind. You quickly turned away, resuming your search for the other ingredients. You pulled out two containers; one with lotus petals and the other one containing chamomile, placing it on the table, next to the mortar and pestle.

"Jaskier, while I prepare the paste, can you get Geralt to lie down by the fire? And take off his—" You pointed towards his tunic that was already ripped apart, hanging loosely by his side. Jaskier immediately nodded, getting to work.

You knelt down next to Geralt. His eyes were open, but his face was sweaty and his breathing was uneven; his lips tightly pressed together as he stared at the fire. Your fingers delicately moved over the gashes on his side, and he didn't flinch as much now.

"Can you sit up, Geralt? I need to bandage your waist."

That's when he turned towards you, regarding you briefly as he grunted, pushing himself up slightly and you quickly bandaged his wound with a cloth, securely tying it around his waist before he fell back against the makeshift bedding you had created for him by the fireplace.

You were finally done tending to the man's wounds so you stood up, moving to wash your hands by the sink, when Geralt's voice reached you, startling you.

"I told Jaskier not to bother you. Yennefer could have fixed this."

Your head sharply turned towards him, and you parted your lips, but it was as if your words were lodged to your throat, refusing to come out.

"You can't put all the blame on Jaskier. He could have left you to rot, stolen your mare and left, but he stuck around to ensure you were brought back to safety. You need to learn to swallow that thick ego of yours and give the bard some credit," you intentionally chose not to talk of Yennefer.

He grunted in response, shifting slightly so he could get comfortable, his body tilted at an angle towards the fire that you could see more of his back— full of old scars— this one will be adding to it soon.

"Are you a healer?"

His question pulled you off track.

You shook your head, wiping your hands with a clean cloth, reaching out for one of the blankets that you had stored for yourself as a winter supply, placing it over Geralt's legs— with half a mind that you will have to fight him for this act too— but much to your surprise, Geralt of Rivia accepted the blanket, pulling it over his chest.

"No, not a healer, just a woman with a passion to know things. You see, living alone you need to know certain things as you never know what life is going to throw your way."

"Hm," he fell quiet, and all the two of you could now listen to were the embers erupting from the fire.

The next few minutes, Geralt was quiet, so assuming that he had fallen asleep, just like the bard had; already snoring away to glory, you pulled your chair closer to the fireplace, lowering yourself against it as you began working on another blanket for Jaskier.

"You should have said no."

Startled to hear the low broody voice again, you looked up but this time found Geralt sitting on the makeshift bedding, the pads of his feet resting against the floor, his back turned towards the fire but his face turned towards you.

"Geralt, you should lie down—"

"You should have said no to Yennefer, but you agreed although you knew what she wanted to make you do."

"Says the man who makes a living slaying monsters. Would you say no to a good bounty if that meant being paid enough to last you a year?" You snapped at him, not meeting his gaze.

"You needed coin, there were thousand other ways to do it."

"Like what, Geralt? Don't you think I tried all these ways you are talking about?" The half done blanket now lay forgotten at your feet, and you were standing, towering over Geralt, your lips trembling with rage. How dare he?

"There are many brothels in Redania that I know of that would have gladly taken you in."

"You know what, Witcher?" You spat, "I'm NOT having this conversation with you. I don't like you anymore than you like me, so there's no point in even speaking. Once you are well enough, I would gladly have you out of my home."

You turned away from him, and then blinked, for you couldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry, as a thick chunk of a tear rolled down your cheek. Swallowing bitterly, you began climbing up the stairs, rather loudly, when Geralt mumbled, "You won't see us when you wake up tomorrow, don't worry."

Ignoring him, you reached the topmost stair, but when Jaskier began speaking to Geralt in a low voice, you couldn't help but pause, inching your ear towards them so you could listen to what they were saying.

"Why do you insist on being like that with her, Geralt?"

Jaskier's words were followed by what sounded like a bitter laugh, and a cough.

"I knew you were awake. I wondered why you didn't jump in to defend her like you always do, Jaskier."

"That is not the point, Ger—"

"If you must know why I can't stop being the way I am around her is because every single time I see her, I'm reminded of the false hope that Yennefer gave me, Witchers are sterile, and that's how it is, I should have known than to fall into Yennefer's words."

He was hating for you something you hadn't even done. You gave him hope, or Yennefer did?

You would have stood there and continued listening to what more he had to say, but you couldn't help it— your face turning sour, when sudden nausea hit you. Your palm instinctively flew up to your lip; making you almost double over and your eyes lifted up, scanning the area for anything you could use to relieve yourself. Grabbing an empty basket that lay close by, you fell down on your knees, your knees scraping against the wood of your flooring and you began wretching out the contents of your stomach, sweat trickling down your forehead as dread filled you up. You were scared that Yennefer's spell had worked. Your palm flew to your flat belly and you pursed your lips together, blinking away the tears and wiping the corner of your lips.

Now that you had wished for the spell to fail, it had perhaps, worked. Maybe things weren't destined to go about the way you wanted them to— all you wanted was to watch Geralt of Rivia leave you alone for good and never come back [Wishful thinking]. But if, the spell had worked, it meant that you were probably carrying his Witcher baby, and that meant, you will have to see more of the white haired man with amber eyes, whether you liked it, or not.

The Vessel Taglist:

@kawennote09 @viking-raider @raspberrydreamclouds @pterodactylterrace @singeramg @historianwithaheart @ayamenimthiriel @crazynocturnalkiki @xxxkatxo @coffeebreathy @miss-emilia-cavill @little-jana @auds24 [I don't know why Tumblr won't let me tag you! 🙄]

Want to be tagged to my list? Please do let me know via Ask, Message box or via a comment. Thanks! 💗

#geralt of rivia works #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia #the witcher x y/n #the witcher x reader #the witcher #henry cavill #henry cavill x y/n

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artistsfuneral · 1 year

Note

I see angst prompts and I am lured in 👀 But maybe with a little twist? I would love 5+13/15 (softe 🥺) or maybe 5+25? 👀🙊

Notes: this is (12/13y.o) kid!Jaskier and – still bad at parenting – Dad!Geralt, Jaskier was about to get kidnapped because no one taught him stranger danger and now he's hurt, Geralt is mad 'cause he's scared [ao3]

---

“What on earth were you thinking?” Geralt yells, almost screams in anger, as he drags the boy away from the tipped over merchant's cart by his arm. The witcher's grip is strong around his small wrist, strong enough to hurt, but Julian is crying uncontrollably and barely able to suck in enough air to breathe – he wouldn't be able to say something even if he wanted to. He can hear his father's voice in his head (his father who used him to pay Geralt without a second thought), yelling at him that boys don't cry, and the shame and hurt mix into a burning ball of fire inside his chest. He tries to, he really does, but Julian can't stop the tears from running down his cheeks, salty on his lips and hot on his quickly reddening skin. It stings where they meet the scratches on his face. He is gasping for air with every breath, sobbing helplessly as he stumbles after Geralt.

“I just can't believe you!” The witcher continues his yelling. He's not even looking at Julian as he leads them to where Roach is standing a bit further away. “That must've been the stupidest thing you've done so far! I leave you alone for one hour – one hour – and not only do you manage to disobey the simplest of orders and walk away from the fountain where I left you, no you somehow think it's an excellent idea to just go with the first person that crosses your path!”

They've almost reached Roach and Julian is desperately trying to wipe away the treacherous tear stains with his free arm but all he manages is to smear streaks of blood across his face. It only makes him want to cry harder. Geralt has never been this angry with him before. He has snapped at Julian many times before, but never really yelled like this. Like his father used to do so often.

Abruptly Geralt lets go of his wrist and Julian almost stumbles against him as the witcher spins around to meet the boy's eyes. “What on earth were you thinking?” He asks again, his voice still angry, horribly bitter and twisted. Julian uses both hands to wipe at his face now in vain, but this way he can hide behind his hands.

“I don't-,” he hiccups, “I don't know.”

“Oh but clearly you were thinking something.”

“I don't- I didn't- He told me he was supposed to bring me to you,” the boy wept.

“Fuck, Julian, every damn child knows not to go with strangers, no matter what lies they tell you! Did your parents fucking teach you nothing?”

“No!” Julian yells back, voice cracking in desperation. “You know they didn't! Geralt, you know they wouldn't let me outside! You know!” He doesn't know why, maybe it's the way Geralt said it, maybe it's the fear that clings to his bones, the horror of what just happened to him because he didn't know better, but he's ashamed when he admits it.

Across from him Geralt suddenly grows very quiet and still. Julian lets out one last sob before he falls to the forest floor like a puppet who's strings got cut. His little outburst has taken the last of his energy. He may not have been stuck in that cart for long, but as soon as he was trapped the merchant had shown his true face. It was an ugly one.

He is tired, bruised black and blue all over, with small cuts across his face and hands where the merchant's rings had come in contact with his skin. It hurt a whole lot, but Geralt yelling at him somehow hurt more. Said one silently kneels down in front of Julian and lets out a tired sounding sigh. Julian doesn't meet his eyes, doesn't want to be yelled at again, but the witcher keeps silent as he carefully takes Julian's small hands in his way bigger ones to stop the boy from rubbing at his face and making it worse. He unclips the waterskin from his belt and carefully pours some over Julian's shaking hands and then drenches the cuff of his shirt to clean the drying blood from the boy's face. Confused about the change in tune, Julian is frozen in place and lets Geralt take care of him without protesting. It takes the witcher an awfully long moment to be able to voice his apology, but when he does it's spoken with so much raw honesty that it makes the boy shudder. “I'm sorry, Julian. Seeing you hurt scared me, which made me angry.”

Julian sniffs and looks up at Geralt with his big blue eyes. “Why?”

The witcher sighs again. He sounds as tired as Julian feels. “I don't like being scared.”

“I don't like being scared, either,” Julian admits quietly and is rewarded with a comforting hand in his hair. “Let's get away from this place,” Geralt says, too aware of how close they're to the vacated cart Julian has been trapped in. He stands up and holds out a hand for the boy to take, which he accepts after hesitating for a short second that makes Geralt all too aware that he's been too rough with the child. Even though he helps him up slowly, Julian hisses in pain from the movement and Geralt grinds down his teeth guilt ridden.

“I can't do much about the bruises with what I have at hand, but can make some tea once we've set up camp,” he tries to sound comforting, but Julian's scrunched up face lets him know that the boy has hoped for something more. What said thing is, he can't tell. Geralt is hardly accustomed to any human company, learning what a child needs from him has been even more difficult to get used to. So he jumps over his own shadow and asks, “Is there something I can do to help with the pain?” and Julian looks at him with his huge blue eyes, puffy and red from crying his heart out, and asks the witcher to carry him.

He's probably too old to be carried around, Geralt thinks to himself as he takes off his swords and kneels down to give Julian the chance to cling to his back. Thin arms wrap around his shoulders and Geralt is quick to hoist the boy up and secure his legs with his arms. He doesn't complain when a cold nose presses against his neck as Julian hides his face from the world and tightens his grip around the witcher.

A few meters away from the two Roach lets out a snort and Geralt squints at her for commenting. He already knows that one piggy back ride won't fix everything and that there's probably a lot he'll have to talk to Julian about, but now is not the time. Not when the boy's tight grip slowly softens as he grows more and more tired, not when Geralt still feels the fear of possibly losing his kid cling to him. “You can sleep now, Julian,” he says instead and carries him through the forest. “Sleep, I'm here.”

🐎. . . 🍃

#the witcher #artistsfuneral about the witcher #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #witcher #the witcher fanfiction #prompted #also i have no idea what cars look like #but my brain told me this would be funny so i had to doodle it

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julek · 4 years

Text

jaskier had been working on his newest song for months, as geralt had reluctantly been a witness to his creative process. and what a process it had been: humming for hours on end walking next to roach as they approached their next town; repeating the same line over and over, trying to think of the next rhyme; getting up in the middle of the night, scrambling for his quill and notebook because that’s the word i was looking for, geralt!

so when jaskier triumphantly announces that his ballad is done, and just needs to be written down, geralt feels some tension leave his shoulders. it’s funny, really; as much as he loves to deny even listening to the bard’s musings and constant chattering, he’d been subconsciously rooting for him. geralt’s come to understand how important jaskier’s singing is to him, how his lute is basically an extension of himself and his embellished speech is not hyperbolic, it’s natural. the bard’s good at what he does, too; he’s seen it firsthand. the way he can have a tavern full of people dancing around with just a flick of his wrist one moment, and have them quietly shed tears as he sings of longing, and heartache, and lust the next.

they get to a clearing in the woods, and geralt starts setting up camp. jaskier gets his notebook and quill from roach’s saddlebags, sitting on the ground next to the pile of firewood. he was eager to finally give his ballad the finishing touches, and get it on the very expensive and scarce pieces of paper he’d managed to acquire while geralt had been hunting the bruxa that’d been terrorizing the town they were passing through. the townsfolk were poor and there was no inn for them to sleep in, so they had to settle for another night of sleeping under the stars.

“i can’t believe my masterpiece is complete! they’ll be singing my praises everywhere across the continent, you’ll see”, jaskier says, as he sticks his quill in the small bottle of ink he’s precariously balancing on his thigh. “of course, jaskier, they’ll adore you and queen calanthe of cintra herself will request your presence at every banquet. why, thank you geralt, for your precious and incredibly accurate comm—”

jaskier gasps and geralt turns around to face him and see what could have possibly diverted the bard’s attention from— well, himself; only to find him gaping and staring at his lap, where he’d spilled his ink. his doublet sports a big, black stain on the side, but jaskier is more preoccupied with the ink that’s covering the majority of his fine paper.

fuck, geralt’s never gonna hear the end of this.

he braces himself for an unending stream of cursing and fussing, but instead, he is met with silence. jaskier looks at the ruined paper for a moment, his expression blank, and tosses it into the fire. geralt breathes in the sour scent of disappointment, but there’s no anger attached to it.

they eat in silence, and jaskier lies on his back on his bedroll, but geralt knows he isn’t asleep. he can easily imagine why the bard is upset; he’d heard all about the man that had tried to charge him way more than the paper was actually worth, i may like the finer things in life, but do i look like a fool to you? wait— don’t answer that. he also knows how eager jaskier’d been to immortalize his song in paper, not only for aesthetic purposes, but also because this particular ballad was worthy, in jaskier’s opinion, of being sent to oxenfurt, for his professors to critique.

suddenly, the peace and quiet geralt had been praying for since he met the bard falls flat. he’ll feel better in the morning, geralt thinks, this isn’t such a big deal. he’ll live.

and yet.

geralt knows what a life devoid of comfort is like. for a long time, it’d been the only life he knew. walking the path, getting a contract, collecting his coin, and moving on; that had been his daily routine for a long time. if he had nothing to look forward to, little could disappoint him. the less people he let in his life, the better.

and then jaskier came along.

jaskier, who’d sing every night, even for uninterested crowds who would only heckle at him, just to secure a bed for geralt. jaskier, who’d spend a ridiculous amount of coin on chamomile oil, because he knows it’s the only one geralt’s sensitive nose can tolerate. jaskier, who’d go out of his way to get a new brush for roach, who’d lash out at people for talking shit about witchers, and detangle geralt’s hair after a contract gone sideways. jaskier, who gives, and gives, and gives, and never asks for anything in return.

and the truth is, he deserves more. so much more than geralt could ever give him. and even if he could never afford to give jaskier the highest luxuries in life, he has to try.

geralt keeps some pieces of parchment in his pack, for the rare occasions he has to write to vesemir. they’re rolled up and tied with a small leather band, but geralt figures it’ll do. he grabs jaskier’s notebook from where he left it, abandoned, next to their fire. geralt knows jaskier keeps early drafts of his songs in it, but never the full piece — what if someone steals it, geralt? what if some half-assed, poor excuse of a bard comes across my precious lyrics, and steals my songs? so he tries to remember the little details jaskier had left out, while attempting to decipher jaskier’s calligraphy. in the end, he gets the entire song out on the parchment, and he feels it’s decent enough.

at last, he falls asleep.

geralt wakes up to the sound of anxious pacing. he rubs a hand over his tired eyes, and opens them to see a very flustered bard at his side.

“you— last night— you did this for me!”. jaskier gestures to the parchment splayed out on his bedroll, his expression unreadable. geralt can’t tell if he’s pleased or not, but at least he doesn’t smell upset anymore.

“i know it doesn’t look very good, and it’s not real paper”, geralt says, looking away. “i guess… i— you were upset.”

“i was”, jaskier says, and his is voice soft. geralt feels a hand cup his chin, and he looks up at jaskier. his blue eyes are as clear as the morning sky, and geralt finds himself staring a little too hard. “thank you, geralt. it means a lot to me. really. and i mean, your handwriting is far more legible than mine, they’ll love this at oxenfurt!”

at that, geralt smiles, and receives a goofy grin in turn.

“well, i’m famished. breakfast?”. jaskier holds his hand out for geralt, and he’s about to turn him down, about to grunt something about how he’s a witcher, strong enough to get up on his own, thank you very much, but he takes it, instead.

he feels jaskier squeeze his ink-stained hand as he stands up, and he should let go. he should let jaskier enjoy the life that’s so clearly laid out for him; the finest of wines and the fairest of ladies, the softest of silks and the most adoring of crowds. but jaskier looks at him, and he smells like honey and something else he can’t quite place. home, geralt decides, and nods.

“breakfast.”

#this started out as a small headcanon inspired by my pen exploding on my notebook #i hope you like it! :)#i'll probably post it on ao3 tomorrow #witcher stuff #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fanfic #geraskier fluff #mine #mywriting

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abluescarfonwaston · 4 years

Text

I’d know him blind

It didn’t come all at once. He’d really thought they’d made it out unscathed. That the box he’d opened in that mage’s abandoned laboratory hadn’t worked.

As they walked back thick fog rolled in. Obscuring the sky. The path ahead. The trees aside them. Even dimming Geralt and Roach a few paces ahead into off grey.

He jogged closer to them. Geralt gave him a look.

“What? Sorry I don’t want to get lost.”

“Why would you get lost?”

“Because?” He waved at the thick grey mist around them. “The fog Geralt? Not all of us can follow a scent trail. Even if it’s yours.” He fanned the thick smell of Geralt’s sweat away.

He stopped. Turned to him.

“Theirs’s no fog Jaskier.” Grabbed his face. Studying his eyes as the fog rolled in thicker. Obscuring even Roach right behind him. “It’s clear out.”

“Oh.” His hands started shaking and his eyes grew hot. “Then I suppose we have a problem.”

And Geralt’s face; hard and angry and concerned disappeared into the grey.

“Ah Master Witcher! Master Bard! Haven’t touched your room!” Something wooshed past his ear. Jangled at his side as Geralt moved oddly next to him.

“Thanks.” Geralt grunted moving him through the bar.

“Ah! Master bard!” Footsteps. Creaking wood. People talking. It was. It was a lot and nothing at all because he had no idea where or what or who it was. “You’ll be playing for us tonight yes? Dinner and a bath as agreed?”

“No.” Geralt growled. “He won’t.”

“Of course!” He agreed over top him. “I will however need a stage,” He didn’t remember if the bar had one. He preferred not to use them anyway. Moving through the crowds instead. But he doubted it did. “Or a chair at least. Our little adventure has left me a bit short sighted.” He grinned at where he hoped the man was.

There was a lull. Where the only noise was the bar. He shifted his feet.

“He’s blind.” Geralt said finally. He leaned a little harder into his solid mass. Steady and warm and there.

“Temporarily!” He quickly assured. The arm not wrapped around Geralt’s flapped. Smacking sharply into something. “Ow.”

“Oh!” The barkeep Seemed startled. He was further to the left than he’d thought. “We’ll set something up then! I hope you make a hasty recovery Master bard!”

“Jaskier is fine.” He assured. “Now if you’ll excuse us.” Geralt pulled him from the bar.

“Why’d you agree to play!” Geralt snapped at him after he’d been deposited on the bed.

“I don’t need eyes to play and sing Geralt. What? Am I supposed to just sit in this tiny room and twiddle my thumbs all week?” He yelled into the darkness.

Geralt exhaled with a forced slowness. “I need to go return this.” Metal sliding on metal. The chain of the necklace they’d been sent to retrieve. That had been locked in the box he’d opened. Very cleverly he had thought. “Stay.”

“Stay!” He barked. “I’m not a fucking dog!” He yelled at after him as the door closed and his footsteps faded away.

Something creaked. He flinched away from it.

The bed was firm under him. The blanket decent but not soft.

He drummed his fingers on his leg.

Someone walked passed the room.

He grabbed the blanket and found the wall. Carefully followed it into the corner. Curled up there with the blanket around him.

He couldn’t read. Write. There was no one to talk to anymore. Just him and the grey darkness.

He hoped if someone came into their room they wouldn’t spot him. Because he couldn’t run. Couldn’t fight. Not that he was particularly good at that normally. But he couldn’t tell if he was hidden. Because he couldn’t see.

He couldn’t see.

Geralt was gone and he couldn’t see and every time something made a sound he couldn’t identify he flinched.

Temporary. Should only last a week. Geralt assured.

But Geralt didn’t know that much about magic. Or he might have been lying. To keep him from panicking.

He was panicking now. But there was no one there to see. So he let himself.

And when he was too exhausted to panic more he fell asleep and he hardly noticed the difference because everything was dark anyway.

Someone was moving in the room.

He shoved himself into the corner tighter as the footsteps creaked the floorboards and he breathed in to scream-

His nose filled with the musk of onion and sweat.

He relaxed in a boneless heap. “You scared me Geralt. I thought you were a thief or something.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Unidentifiable ruffling joined his voice. “If you’re going to play you should go down soon.”

“Right.” He stood. Throwing the blanket in the direction of the bed. “Where’s my lute?”

There was the familiar sound of Geralt’s feet softly hitting the wood even in his boots. Far too delicate steps for a man of his size. He exhaled, the terror receding with the recognition of each step. It was gently placed in his outstretched hands.

He traced the wood. Her finish. Ran his fingers down her strings.

She was familiar. Safe. He didn’t need to see to know her.

“Alright. Help your best friend down the stairs will you?”

“We’re not friends.” He grumbled as he did exactly that.

Playing was wonderful. Even if he couldn’t dance with the songs. Move with them. Smile and wink effectively to charm the audience of their earnings.

The after was less fun.

People approaching. There was too much random noise to figure out who they were or where exactly they were. Talking to him. He chatted back. He always loved a conversation.

It was harder when he couldn’t see them. Judge how he was coming off aside from their tone of voice and words.

Something touched his knee.

He leaped back. Knocking the chair out from under him. Tripping on it as he backed away.

There were people asking him all kinds of questions at once and reaching out to touch him and-

Geralt’s hand wrapped around his bicep. The exact shape and warmth and way he always did. Hauling him up and away from the crowded room.

“Show’s over.” He growled.

He clung to Geralt as he was hauled from the room. Thrown over his shoulder.

He couldn’t keep track of the room or the people in it or where they were going. His eyes searched the darkness uselessly.

But the leather was familiar under his fingers.

The movement of it steadying.

Something creaked.

“Stop grabbing my ass Jaskier.”

“Wha- is that what this is?” He moved his hands slightly to better feel the muscle moving under the leather. “It’s very lovely. A lovely bottom.”

The world spun and the bed creaked under him as he was roughly dropped into it.

There were several moments of silence. He wondered if Geralt was glaring at him since he clearly wasn’t putting his Lute away for him.

“I know this might come as a shock to you but I can’t actually see you right now so whatever lecture you’re trying to impart with a stern face,” He demonstrated the expected face, “and disappointed eyes I can’t actually see. So they’re actually even less effective than normal. So there.”

“I.” A pause. “You panicked. Why?”

He grimaced into the pillow. Schooled his face and rolled onto his side. Propped his face on his palm facing Geralt’s general direction.

“I didn’t panic.” He scoffed and shook his head. “You kidnapped me from my adoring fans! Very rude Geralt.”

“You fell out of your chair.”

“Sabotage!” He said too quickly. “I was knocked out of my chair!”

“No you weren’t.”

“Are you telling the story or am I?”

“Tell it right then.” He growled.

His smile partially collapsed. It was a silly thing to have panicked over. He knew that. People touched him all the time.

He raised and lowered a shoulder casually rebuilding the easy smile. “Someone touched me and I over reacted. What a shame too. I’ve heard having sex blindfolded really ups the thrill of it and-“

“Stop.” Geralt groaned.

He barreled on anyway. “If anything doing it blind has to be its own experience. Really maximizing the sensory deprivation.” He rolled onto his back. “Put my lute away and come to bed. What are you doing? Standing there like a statue all night? Is that the plan? You are no longer allowed to make plans if that’s the case.”

He heard the quiet thump of her being hung up by the doorway. The soft padding of Geralt’s feet on the wood. He scooched over on the bed for him.

Geralt didn’t get in.

He frowned and pat the mattress obligingly.

“I touched you without asking too.”

He turned to him. The grey was almost black. So it was likely dark out. “So?”

Unhelpful silence.

He patted the bed again. “Either talk or lie down you broody old man.”

The bed creaked slightly. “I’m getting in.”

He snorted. “Gathered that thank you.”

A short huff of frustration. “Don’t want you to panic again.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well excuse me for wanting to know who’s touching me before they do.”

“I wasn’t-“ The bed creaked forebodingly. Hopefully it would stay in one piece. That had been an issue at some of the cheaper inns they’d stayed at.

He popped off his doublet and loosened the drawstring of his pants. He waited to hear the familiar sound of Geralt shuffling out of his leathers.

His side remained eerily silent.

“What are you doing- Sleeping in your clothing tonight? We don’t do laundry enough as it is. Don’t make it worse.”

“I didn’t.” An irritated sigh. He stared judgingly in his direction. “Fine.”

The familiar sound of Geralt struggling out of his deliciously form fitting pants.

He wrangled the blankets over him as he tossed his trousers aside.

“Geralt?”

“What?” Came the grit out reply.

“Stop being weird. I’m blind not glass.”

“I don’t need you screaming bloody murder into my ear if I roll over.”

He reached out into the darkness and grabbed for the irritating bastard.

“That’s my pec Jaskier.”

“You certain?” He fondled it a bit more. “Damn I forget how muscular you are sometimes.”

His hand was knocked away as he laughed. Quickly grabbed the offending arm in his before it could escape.

“It’s fine Geralt. I know you in the dark just fine. It’s not like I can normally see you once the lights go out anyway.”

A quite inhale and exhale.

Geralt shuffled closer. He curled into Geralt’s chest.

“Besides.” He yawned and draped an arm over him. “I don’t need to see you to know it’s you.”

I knew you by the way your feet hit the ground and your hand felt around my arm. He didn’t say. I know you by the way the leather moves over your muscles and you exhale.

Geralt snorted disbelievingly.

“It’s true.” He tucked a leg between Geralt’s and nuzzled himself to a comfortable position. “You’ve got a pretty strong smell.”

#whumptober2020 #no.26 #blindness #fic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt #jaskier #writing #is this a companion piece to the white wolves?#Why yes it is #damn i need to work on that fic #also i wrote this on October 1st and SAT on it for a MONTH #so that takes discipline at least

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jaskierswolf · 4 years

Note

Hi! I have a prompt, if you like: I would like to read how you imagine book Geralt and Dandelion becoming a couple, the first kiss, the moment that makes it clear they are not just travelling companions or 'just' friends but something more :)

@elliestormfound I imagine this many ways!! But here’s a slightly sillier take on it. 💖 _________

Winter was drawing in fast. Both Geralt and Dandelion were making preparations to go their separate ways. Dandelion was heading to Kerack on some family business that he was oddly secretive about. Seeing his cousin Ferrant earlier in the year had clearly been playing on the poet’s mind. Geralt couldn’t remember any other time in their long friendship that Dandelion had willingly admitted to going home. Geralt had always assumed that Oxenfurt was Dandelion’s home. He’d been surprised to learn otherwise. Geralt was, more predictably, headed north towards the Blue Mountains and his own home at Kaer Morhen.

Dandelion was busy sifting through Roach’s saddle bags. He pulled out a once white shirt and sniffed it suspiciously. He wrinkled he nose and held the grubby yellow fabric out to Geralt. “Is this mine or yours?”

Geralt snatched the shirt and sniffed it. It had obviously been tucked away at the bottom of the bags for months, at least. It stank more of Roach than anything else. There were potion stains covering in and flecks of dried blood just under the collar. He sniffed again.

The blood was his, but there was definitely a trace of lavender; Dandelion’s perfume. He frowned. “There’s no frills?” He muttered. “Would you buy this?”

Dandelion snorted. “It’s hard to tell with all the muck covering it. It’s probably yours, it looks too big to be mine.”

“You’ve worn it.” Geralt hummed. “It could be yours.”

“Your shirts are more comfortable to sleep in. You know this.” Dandelion ran a hand through his long blond hair. “You can have it. I don’t want it.”

Geralt peered at the tattered fabric. “I wouldn’t even make bandages from this.”

“Throw it away then!” Dandelion said haughtily and carried on digging through the bags.

By this point in the year, when they were travelling together, their belongings were completely mixed together. It was now a familiar routine near the end of autumn to sort through it all, and yet Geralt never failed to bring something of the poet’s back with him to the keep. Something that Lambert always teased him for. Last year he’d accidentally taken Dandelion’s curling tongs back. He had no idea how Dandelion hadn’t noticed them but he’d been delighted to be reunited in the spring.

Geralt hadn’t mentioned the weeks he’d spent looking utterly ridiculous with curls in his hair after he’d lost a bet to Eskel.

“These are mine.” Dandelion announced, holding up Geralt’s fur-lined winter gloves. The smirk on the poet’s face told Geralt he knew exactly who they belonged to.

He sighed and nodded. “If you insist, Dandelion, but may I remind you which one of us is going north.”

Dandelion pouted. “But Geralt, I need my fingers to play!”

“I need them to hold my sword.” Geralt countered.

Dandelion huffed but tossed the gloves to Geralt who caught them in one hand mid-air. “A gift for my dear witcher.” The poet winked at him and Geralt rolled his eyes.

Once they were finished they packed up camp and made their way along the path. It wasn’t long before they reached the crossroads where they would part ways for winter. There was a heavy feeling in Geralt’s heart. He was always sad to see the poet walk away and this year was no different.

Dandelion put his hands on his hips as he turned to face Geralt with wide blue eyes, a faint pink blush dusting his cheeks. “Well then, my dear, here we are again.”

Geralt nodded. “Here we are.”

“Until spring.” Dandelion sighed and Geralt pulled the poet into hug.

“I’ll come to Kerack when the snow melts.”

“Goodbye, Geralt.” Dandelion pulled back from the hug just enough so he could press their lips together in a chaste kiss.

“Goodbye, Dandelion.” Geralt replied with a sad smile as Dandelion walked away.

_______

Dandelion was sipping on red wine in his room, lazily flipping the pages of his book, when he suddenly realised what he’d done. Wine sprayed from his lips and he choked.

“Oh fuck!” He groaned.

_________

Geralt was playing gwent with Lambert when his eyes suddenly glazed over and his cards fell from his hands. Lambert scowled and whacked Geralt’s arm.

“Oi. Are we playing or what?” He snapped.

Geralt’s face went deathly pale and his pupils were wide and black. “He fucking kissed me.”

Lambert burst into fits of laughter, the kind that had him hugging his own stomach. The game of gwent was forgotten. “Fucking finally!”

#the witcher #the witcher books #gerlion #geraskier #julian alfred pankratz #dandelion #geralt of rivia #wolfie's witcher writing #elliestormfound

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asweetprologue · 3 years

Text

me lámh le do lámh - Part IV

First | Previous | Next | Masterpost

They spent a few days in Oxenfurt, mostly for Jaskier’s benefit. The bard hadn’t been lying when he’d said he wasn’t prepared to head out. There was packing to be done, his rooms to see to, appointments to cancel with the university. Geralt was happy enough to wait. It wasn’t strictly a hardship to spend some time lounging in Jaskier’s rooms and wandering the university gardens during the day before following Jaskier to whatever tavern or hall he was to play at for the evening. Jaskier was away for the better part of most days, but Geralt moved his things to Jaskier’s rooms after the first night at the inn. Waking well before Jaskier in the same bed, he was greeted each morning to Jaskier’s arm slung across his chest, warm and comfortable in the predawn silence. His cheeks would be ruddy with sleep and their shared heat under the blankets, his hair flattened awkwardly to his skull where it had been pressed to the pillow.

He’d missed this. After months without Jaskier’s presence, it felt like he was drowning in it, shocked by the strength of his own reaction. With the golden light of the morning sun shining through Jaskier’s one window to fall softly across his brow and pick out the silver strands in his hair, Geralt wondered at how he could have ever misplaced this feeling in his chest. He loved him. He wanted to preserve each moment in fine amber, never to fade.

But finally Jaskier was finished making his arrangements, and they were able to set out from Oxenfurt towards their first destination. It would take them several weeks to collect the components that Ida had mentioned—weeks that Geralt would have to spend dancing around the subject of the ritual and its origins, as well as his traitorous heart. As he caught Jaskier’s bright smile from up ahead as they crossed the Oxenfurt bridge, he hoped that he wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

“So where, exactly, are these mysterious elven ruins?”

Geralt grunted, both in answer and in exertion as he swung his sword through another clump of heavy brush, clearing the path. Roach waited patiently behind him, and Jaskier less so. He turned to look back at them both, finding Jaskier giving him an unimpressed look. Geralt forced down the urge to grumble again. “They’re close,” he said, taking Roach’s reins to lead her through the cleared bushes. The path that they were following was barely a deer trail in places, clearly unused for decades. There had been no sign thus far that the area had once been populated aside from the occasional flash of white brickwork that told Geralt they were on the right track.

“Oh, really,” said Jaskier, who had likely not noticed the brickwork, based on Geralt’s past experience with his observation skills. “You know what I think, Geralt? I think we’re lost in the woods in the middle of nowhere, a day away from the nearest hamlet, and we’re just as likely to find a wyvern den as an elven temple out here.”

“Wyverns don’t populate the lowlands,” Geralt said automatically, kicking a large branch out of Roach’s path.

Jaskier made a strangled sound behind him that Geralt might call a growl if it had come from anyone else. “I know that, I was being hyperbolic, you ass. You’re avoiding the issue.”

“We’re on the right path.” Another glint of white stone caught his eye, this time the edge of an arch wrapped nearly over in vines and moss. Only fragments remained, large chunks blending in with the forest floor.

“As if you would admit it if you were lost,” Jaskier griped, shoving a branch out of his own way. “Remember that time near Spikeroog? We were lost in a boat for three days because you wouldn’t just admit that we went west for six hours—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, and pushed aside the last of the foliage.

Jaskier fell silent, and they both looked beyond the treeline into the clearing Geralt had revealed. Before them rose a silent, crumbling stone structure, pale as a ghost against the dark lines of the trees in the afternoon light. Much of its surface had been reclaimed already by the forest, but enough of it poked through to give a general sense of scale. It towered at least two stories above them, though the edges were uneven in a way that suggested it once may have been higher. The front facade rose in a flat wall before them, pierced by a line of arches, their edges decorated in fading but intricate reliefs. Here and there along the line of what had once been the path leading to the central arch, the occasional protrusion of a column could be seen. The path beyond the central arch was shadowed, too dark for even Geralt to see past after so long in the daylight.

Jaskier stepped forward into the narrow clearing, and Geralt followed. Wordlessly, Jaskier raised a hand to trail along the remnants of a low, circular stone wall, perhaps the remnants of an ancient well. When he looked up at Geralt, his eyes shone, two pieces of midday sky in the murky shade of the forest. “I stand corrected,” he said, offering Geralt a giddy grin.

Geralt shook his head with a small smile, drawing Roach further into the clearing. “Let’s set up camp here. You can explore when we have someplace to sleep.”

Jaskier agreed eagerly and they both launched into the process of setting up camp. They fell easily back into old patterns, Jaskier slotting seamlessly into Geralt’s routine. It was always easier to set up and break down camp when the bard was around, though Geralt thought it had very little to do with splitting the work halfway.

Within half an hour they had created a comfortable camp in the clearing and Geralt had Roach tended to, and they both stood before the dark archway into the ruins.

Jaskier hesitated over the threshold, his excitement over the history of the place apparently conceding to nerves. “Well, ah. After you, witcher,” he said, holding out an arm as if holding an imaginary door for Geralt to walk through.

Geralt rolled his eyes and stepped into the small hall beyond the archway, blinking a few times to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. “Come on, bard,” he called over his shoulder, amusement and affection swelling in his chest as he heard Jaskier mutter and quick footsteps follow after him.

The hall ended in a flight of stairs leading down, and they had to pause to light a torch when Jaskier ran directly into Geralt’s back and nearly knocked them both down it. A quick burst of igni had firelight dancing across the smooth white stones as they descended into the ruins.

Elves, Geralt had found, rarely built up. Though their cities had towered in ages past, their true magnificence had always lain below ground. The complex that they made their way down into was labyrinthian, huge open hallways with dozens of rooms and offshoots, archways that looked in on underground courtyards with pierced ceilings that let in the daylight, huge caverns expertly carved into cathedrals. Jaskier quickly brought out a bit of charcoal he often used for taking notes or sketching and began to mark their way with arrows pointing back the way they’d come, so they might not be hopelessly lost in the ruins. Geralt led them mostly by smell, at first; Triss had mentioned that any ritual chambers would likely be on the lower levels, as they were considered private and upper floors were generally public. He followed the cool, chalky scent of wet stone deeper into the ruins, down ramps and stairways until they were all but buried in the earth.

“I never knew the true breadth of them,” Jaskier breathed at one point, as they made their way down a winding spiral staircase that curved along what seemed like a natural cave shaft. “I’ve read, of course, about the scale of the old elven kingdoms, but it’s different to see it all. We’ve been walking for hours already and I feel as if there’s still miles to be seen.”

“Maybe not miles,” Geralt said, keeping one ear out for potential movement and one on Jaskier’s footsteps on the slick stone steps. “One’s I’ve been to before are usually somewhere around five and fifteen levels. We’re getting close to the bottom.”

Jaskier hummed in acknowledgment. “You could take an entire lifetime to study this place. Why hasn’t anyone surveyed it? How do you know the thing you're after for this ritual hasn’t already been taken?”

At that moment Geralt heard a gentle click, and he reached up just in time to pluck the arrow from the air as it hissed past his ear and towards Jaskier’s head. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder, finding Jaskier wide eyed behind him. Looking meaningfully down at Jaskier’s foot, he jerked his chin up.

Jaskier lifted up his foot, and the click of a pressure plate resetting filled the narrow space.

“That’s how,” Geralt said, tossing the arrow to the side.

“Of course,” Jaskier said weakly. “Of course the place is booby trapped.”

“And haunted probably,” Geralt agreed, continuing down the stairs. “Stay close. Wouldn’t want you to die before I can make you immortal.” The words were said as much in jest as he could make them, but he felt a brief strum of anxiety all the same.

Jaskier huffed in annoyance, but Geralt could feel him press even closer. He ignored the way that the air between them seemed to heat, the soothing warmth of Jaskier’s presence pressing back the dark more efficiently than any torch.

“Look,” Jaskier’s voice came from behind him. Geralt turned around to see Jaskier rubbing at a patch of the wall in the hall they were currently trekking through, the ancient slabs of stone crumbling a bit at his touch. “There’s writing here.”

Geralt stepped up next to him, feeling Jaskier’s warmth radiating along his side. Forcing himself to ignore the proximity, he leaned in to peer at the wall. “Elder, looks like. Can’t make it out.”

“It looks like one of the early northern dialects, closer to Laith aen Undod.” Jaskier scrambled in his small pack and pulled out his bit of charcoal and his notebook, handing the torch off to Geralt. Accepting the light, Geralt frowned at Jaskier as he made a few quick lines on the paper, referring back to the wall a few times. His tongue poked just barely out between his lips, as it always did when he was concentrating. After a moment he stood up straight, leaning towards the light to examine his own markings.

“Can you read that?” Geralt asked, genuinely surprised. He was fairly well versed in Elder, but his knowledge was more practical, learned from his interactions with the Scoia’tael and learning the Signs. The One Speech was well beyond his understanding, not to mention the various ancient dialects of Elder.

“Mm, I’m better at reading Elder than I am at speaking it, I’m afraid. Academic knowledge. Have to be able to translate the old poems and stories, after all.” He flashed Geralt a grin, the laugh lines deepening around his eyes. They sparkled in the light of the torch, turning the blue silver-gold. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat.

When Geralt didn’t respond quickly enough, Jaskier turned back to the notes he’d made on the paper. He muttered a few things to himself in Elder, the words sounding oddly musical—as if he’d learned to pronounce the language through song, which he probably had. Finally he scribbled a few notes in Common. “I think it’s a road sign, of sorts,” Jaskier said slowly. His tone took on the particular quality that Geralt had come to recognize as his “professor voice” over the years. He’d always found it rather amusing. “This complex must have been big enough to necessitate passage markers. See the sideways arrowhead under the top line? It says—well, I’m not sure, but I know the root has to do with the evening meal, so I’d guess it’s pointing to some kind of tavern or dining hall. And this one just says ‘sanctuary,’ I think. That’s a weird one, that symbol in more modern Elder just means ‘place’ but there’s a prefix here that adds a sort of defensive quality to it. Maybe ‘protected place’?” Jaskier frowned down at his own work. Already he had somehow managed to smudge charcoal across his cheek.

“Might be right,” Geralt grunted, impressed. “Triss said it would be in a safe place. ‘Ionad chosanta.’”

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. “Could be as good a translation as any.”

“Better than wandering around,” Geralt shrugged, and turned towards the hall the arrow pointed towards. Before stepping into the darkness, he paused, looking back at Jaskier. Without letting himself think too hard about it, he reached up and rubbed away the charcoal on Jaskier’s cheekbone. The sweep of his thumb pushed back the soot and revealed the pale skin underneath, still so soft even after so many years spent traveling out in the elements. That skin care regiment Jaskier was always going on about must be worth something, he thought faintly.

Jaskier was silent, staring at him with an expression that reminded Geralt of a hare staring down the point of an arrow. Clearing his throat briefly, Geralt let his hand fall and said, “Thanks. For the… You did good.”

Even in the dim light, Geralt could see the flush that lit up Jaskier’s face at that, spilling prettily over his cheekbones. He gaped at Geralt for a moment before his mouth snapped closed with a near audible clack. Geralt expected a witty rejoinder of some kind, perhaps a jab at his historical inability to offer praise. He knew he deserved it, even if Jaskier meant it in anger rather than jest. Raising Ciri had taught him the value of voicing his appreciation and affection for others, even if he still struggled for the right words to do so. Yennefer had painstakingly beat it into his head. Ciri hadn’t known that he cared unless he said so, and so he had no other alternatives. Looking at Jaskier gaping at him, he wondered how many times Jaskier had assumed that Geralt cared little for him for lack of a kind word. His chest hurt at the thought.

After long enough that the silence had grown heavy and awkward, Jaskier coughed lightly, ducking to hide his expression. The ribbing Geralt had prepared himself for did not come. “Not a problem,” was all Jaskier said, brushing past him. “Let’s get a move on, yes? Don’t want the torch to run low.”

Geralt stared after him for a moment before shaking his head and following.

The shrine, when they found it, was hidden behind a thick patch of rubble that Geralt had to blast out of the way with a few precise applications of aard. He slipped inside first, sliding through the small opening in the stone and landing lightly on the other side. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom, to his surprise, and he realized that there were several glowing crystals embedded in the walls around him at even intervals. There came the sound of cascading stones and a low curse from behind him, and he turned in time to catch Jaskier’s elbow before the bard fell flat on his face.

“Ah, thank you, dear witcher,” Jaskier huffed, reaching up to fruitlessly brush the dust from his jacket. Looking up, he halted in his motions, taking in the room around them in its soft, ethereal light. “Oh,” he breathed.

It was indeed beautiful, even in its decaying state. Like everything in the tunnels, the structures were unmistakably elven, but even so they appeared alien to Geralt’s eyes. The walls were covered in delicate mosaic work, in patterns that danced in the flickering light of their torch and that of the crystals. The center of the room was dominated by a blank circle of unmarked stone, with Elder runes engraved along the edge that Geralt could not even begin to decipher. The circle was framed by a delicate canopy of carved white stone, supported on four pillars of the same material. The carvings were so minute that for a moment Geralt thought the entire structure might be built not of stone, but of some sort of webbing or silk. It was delicate enough to be blown glass, but when he set his hand against one of the pillars it was as unforgiving as a mountainside.

Jaskier ran his fingers along one of the walls, tracing a twist in the tiny shards of colored glass. “It’s beautiful,” he said, voice pitched low.

“Triss said these places were sacred to the Aes Sidhe. They mark where the elves first arrived,” Geralt said. He found his own gaze drawn back to the center of the unmarked circle beneath the canopy. “Here.”

Set into the very center of the stone circle was a small depression, no larger than Geralt’s palm. He stepped into the circle and knelt down, peering at it. Within the shallow bowl formed by the carved out floor sat an oval stone, maybe three inches long at its widest point. Drawing out his trophy knife, Geralt set the edge of it against the lip of the facet and twisted it. It popped out surprisingly easily, as if it was meant to be removed by design.

Jaskier hovered behind him as Geralt picked up the gaes carraigh. It was cool against his fingers, made of a translucent white stone that became more opaque at the edges. The center was nearly see-through, and when Geralt held it up the light played oddly in its depths. His medallion hummed faintly against his chest, warning him of the presence of magic. “Is that it?” Jaskier asked, resting one of his hands on Geralt’s shoulder to lean in closer.

“Think so,” Geralt replied, trying to ignore the weight of Jaskier pressed against him.

“What exactly does it do?” Jaskier reached out his free hand to press a finger against the center of the stone, curious as always. Geralt allowed it, and forced himself not to flinch when their fingers brushed incidentally. He could feel his ears warm regardless.

“It… binds the words of the ritual, or something. I didn’t ask.”

“Gaes carraigh… promise rock?” Jaskier tried, dropping to lean his full elbow on Geralt’s shoulder, casually slotting their forms together. His fingers barely brushed against Geralt’s collarbone, and he took a slow breath to maintain control over his heartbeat. Suddenly the proximity was overwhelming. Here they were, in a sacred space where possibly dozens of couples had made their vows to each other, fingers both lingering over the stone that would bind their oaths. In another life, perhaps they could have had something like this—Jaskier resplendent in the light of the blue crystals, eyes shining, looking at Geralt with adoration as they made their promises to each other. He would want to dress up, like he always did for a big event, but this time it would be only for himself and Geralt. Would he dress in blue? Or perhaps black, a witcher’s color, his pale skin like moonlight against the night sky. Would he wear a crown of periwinkle and sage, as was the northern custom? He would lean in close, like he was now, and murmur his vows to Geralt in words that flowed as smooth as a song.

He hadn’t known it was possible to want something so badly it was like a physical ache. Geralt was a witcher; he did not allow himself to think on things he couldn’t have. But here in this place, with Jaskier so close and yet so far away, the force of his desire felt oppressive. Jaskier didn’t know what any of this meant, and Geralt had no right to it, no right to want it. It was just a ritual. The context didn’t mean anything, because Jaskier would never feel that way about him.

After all, Geralt thought, looking down at the oathstone in his palm, who would want to marry a witcher?

Jaskier was still talking, and Geralt wrenched himself out of his thoughts when the arm on his shoulder pulled back and Jaskier patted the empty space once, as if in parting. “—probably get going, don’t you think? I do not relish the idea of being stuck here overnight. Not that I am not entirely confident in your abilities, darling, but I feel it’s best not to tempt fate when it comes to ghosts of ancient elven sages. Do you think they would count this as stealing? Probably. Anyways, I don’t want to find out what angry centuries old spirits do to trespassers.”

Geralt grunted, still gathering himself. He felt sluggish under the weight of his own emotions, pushing himself to his feet laboriously. The oathstone was heavy in his hand, and he slipped it into his potions pouch in the hope that it would feel less burdensome there. Without a word, he stood and exited the chamber the way they’d come, Jaskier fumbling after him.

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