how do you imagine geralt would react if fem!jaskier got preggo with his child (lets say she fucked some god of fertily or something and it granted them ONE blessing)?

I could see that also in a fluffy setting, but I feel like fem!Jaskier would be really, really conflicted and really not excited, so I think it's all not that easy.

The only Jaskier that would be more against kids is probably lettenhove!Jaskier if it was omegaverse. and isn't that A THOUGHT 👀

An Ever Fixed Mark (arranged marriage Au)

Part 1 is here, finally! Title a reference to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116.

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10

Read it on Ao3 HERE

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vesemir’s slap hit Geralt firmly on the back of the head. Two seconds previously Geralt had been complaining about his upcoming, politically motivated marriage to some nobleman’s son. 

“It’s a good thing, lad. Other witcher schools would kill for something like this,” he said. Geralt knew it was right, legal punishment for those who shortchanged or attacked witchers. It set a precedent, and apparently the earl was very influential. It could change things.

“And there isn’t a fidelity clause,” Eskel said. “It doesn’t have to be more than a sort of partnership.”

“No consummation requirement either,” sniggered Lambert from the other side of the campfire. “You don’t even have to fuck the bugger if he’s ugly.” This earned him a sharp elbow from Eskel. 

“What I don’t understand is what they get out of this,” Geralt said. It had been bugging him. 

“Ah,” Vesemir said, looking uneasy. “It seems that the payment is...taking the viscount off of the Earl’s hands, officially. It seems he’s something of an embarrassment.”

The unease in Vesemir’s voice was subtle, but after so many decades with their teacher, the wolves of Kaer Morhen knew the slight variations of tone and expression. His discomfort was twofold, first, the obvious implication that the Earl was sending his son to live a dangerous life alongside a witcher in order to...deal with him. A death sentence, from father to son. The second was that Geralt, already saddled with a political marriage, was also to be saddled with a nuisance of a husband. 

“But why me?” Geralt knew he was whining like a child, but he couldn’t help it. It was three days to Lettenhove, and then they’d be there at least a week for the wedding and he’d have to act courtly. 

He wasn’t good at courtly.

When he thought about it none of them were. 

“It couldn’t have been me,” Eskel said, a little shyly. He was right. Eskel believed his scars were horrible, made him unlovable and undesirable. Geralt didn’t buy it, but nobles could get a bit stroppy about appearances. And if they humiliated Eskel because of his scarring...no, Geralt wouldn’t let that happen.

“Couldn’t have been me,” Lambert said, mouth full and rather cheerfully. No. It couldn’t have been him either, no manners and no filter, they’d be at war with the entirety of Lettenhove within a day.

“And I’m an old man,” Vesemir said. He didn’t actually wink, but he might as well have. Older though he was, he was still three times the warrior of any young human man walking about these days. But from what Geralt had heard, and it hadn’t been much, the Viscount was young, not quite twenty, and it wouldn’t be kind to marry him to someone so much older than himself. Geralt reflected grimly that he was nearly four times the youth’s age.

Three days of riding passed far too quickly for Geralt’s liking.

Chateau de Lettenhove loomed. It was a fairytale castle built by a man expecting a siege. There were high, rising towers with huge windows and artful buttresses, but to the trained eye of the witchers, it was a fortress. The towers had carved, decorative arrow slits, the windows all had iron grates over them, wrought like lace, and the buttresses could be easily used as defensive positions. All in all, it was a castle that growled, albeit genteelly.

They were greeted first by a footman, and then a line of servants increasing in rank, until a very snobby servant, likely the head housekeeper from the way all the maids scuttled away from her, brought them to an anteroom. At this point courtesy dictated that she bade them sit down on one of the lavish sofas. She did not. She chose instead to turn up her nose and sweep away.

The four witchers remained standing, not looking at one another. Geralt could feel Lambert stewing about the obvious slight beside him. He reached out, still staring straight ahead, and tweaked Lambert’s ear. 

This was about to result in much brotherly retribution and probably a brawl when the housekeeper returned, followed by another woman.

“His lordship the Earl of Lettenhove is attending to vital business,” the housekeeper said, tone of voice implying that the arrival of four witchers who were muddying her nice clean floor were certainly not vital. “I present, her ladyship, Countess Amaria Elizaveta de Lettenhove.” 

The countess curtsied, it was a polite little bob, and she smiled a little dazedly as the witchers all gave their best attempt at courtly bows. A small but significant part of Geralt’s brain was panicking, and it dealt with this new form of terror by imagining that the school of the wolf, seen from the outside plying their newly practiced bows, must look like a line of seagulls vying for a dropped crumb.

Vesemir stepped forward and, in a rather more suave gesture than Geralt had been expecting, took the Countess’ hand and bowed over it. Two bows seemed excessive to Geralt, but since it seemed to indicate that Vesemir would be taking over the speaking for now, he certainly wasn’t about to bring it up. 

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady,” Vesemir said, straightening and releasing her hand. “May I introduce the school of the wolf. Eskel is--”

The countess had waved a limp hand. “Plenty of time for that at the feast, deary,” she said, smiling dreamily. There was something in her eyes that was a little absent, possibly more than a little if her calling Vesemir ‘deary’ was anything to go by. Geralt looked the countess over. He had been given to understand through the brief letters from the Lettenhove estate, that this wasn’t the viscount-Julian, the letters said-’s mother, but rather his step mother. She was a petite lady with mousy hair and rather absent blue eyes. Her dress was obviously of very fine material, rose pink and probably silk, although Lambert would know better than him, but a simpler cut than Geralt had expected. 

His examination, done in a split second, decided that she wasn’t an immediate enemy, but probably not a terrible useful ally. 

“I’m to give you this courting gift,” here she proffered a small but beautifully carved wooden box. “And to show you to your quarters.” She smiled again, and it was warm, but still vapid.

“Custom usually dictates that the fiancé give the courting gift,” Vesemir said, cautiously taking the box.”

“My husband wanted someone else to present it,” she said. “But your grandson can give his gift in person when he meets Julian. Now what...” she trailed off, not even noticing Vesemir’s slight sputter at grandson. “Ah yes, your rooms, right this way please.”

She got lost on the way to their rooms and a shaking footman showed them up to a suite, then kindly took her by the hand and led her away.

They sat, silent, in the nice but not lavish quarters. Four beds in curtained alcoves off to the side, and in the middle a room with a table and chairs, and a sofa and more comfortable chairs in front of a fireplace. It was already blazing and the witchers stared into it for a minute.

“That was strange,” Eskel finally said, and the others just nodded.

“Should I have insisted on giving her our courting gift?” Geralt said after another pause. “I thought they were usually given in person.”

“I think you’re fine,” Vesemir said. “If they broke that tradition they can hardly fault you for doing the same.”

Lambert, sprawled across the sofa, said, “When’s dinner?”

“I think I’m supposed to meet Julian first,” Geralt said. “Someone will probably come get us. 

“When we meet Julian you mean,” Lambert said, sitting up. 

“No, I’ve been thinking about that and I want to meet him alone.”

Vesemir nodded, “Sensible, we don’t know how he will react to one witcher, let alone four.” Then he smirked, although not unkindly, at Lambert. “You will be introduced and have a chance to be nosy later. At dinner perhaps.”

They unpacked their belongings, potion bottles and swords looking out of place along the old but nicely carved furniture. After days of tension on the road as Geralt wound himself tighter and tighter with anxiety for his...wedding, yes his wedding, now this pause was jarring. Eskel tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a look.

Geralt turned around to give Eskel room to work.

On the Path, witchers are rarely, if ever touched. Certainly not in a friendly way if the other isn’t being compensated. It wasn’t therefore, unusual for the wolves of Kaer Morhen to be tactile with one another. Not hugging and cuddling sweetly, but rough housing and wrestling ending in exhausted dog piles. But Eskel had a gift, he had magic hands, literally and figuratively, and he carefully oiled his hands while Geralt took off his travel stained shirt. 

Geralt sunk into himself, half meditating as Eskel dragged the tension from his shoulders and beat the knots from his muscles. It wasn’t a relaxing massage, but it always left him feeling like liquid, if slightly bruised. When it was over and the liquid feeling had left him, or at least subsided enough that his knees could hold him, he stood, clapping Eskel on the shoulder in thanks.

Then came the hard bit.

Geralt needed to be courtly. He scrubbed the bits he could with water and a cloth from a little washstand, but he hoped he could have a hot bath later. Afterwards Vesemir advanced on him and battled the dirt from underneath his fingernails with a stiff brush before attacking his hair with a comb. Geralt sat on the ground like a child, his brothers looking on in amusement as Vesemir sat behind him on the couch and teased the tangles from his hair. He was making faces, he knew, but Vesemir wasn’t gentle, and he hadn’t detangled his hair in some time.

Scrubbed raw, with his hair floating around his shoulders like a silver cloud, Lambert presented him with a doublet. 

It was black, which was good.

That was the only good thing about it. It was most likely a very nice, extremely fashionable doublet. Lambert might take delight in embarrassing Geralt, but he didn’t mess about with clothing. The issue was that it was attention grabbing, it was subtle in a way that seemed to play itself down while actually drawing every eye. It was black, in the same way a raven’s wing was black, every shimmering shade shifting as the fabric moved.

And he would be wearing it. 

He did wear it. 

His hands shook as he buttoned it up. 

He was just examining himself in a slightly tarnished hand mirror when there was a sharp knock at the door. The footman let himself in right after and bowed swiftly. 

“I am to escort the witchers of Kaer Morhen to meet Lord Julian.”

“Just the one witcher,” Geralt said. Vesemir pressed his courting gift, and the little carved boxed nestled on top, into his arms.

The footman didn’t seem to care and simply turned away, leading Geralt through hallways that all looked the same and down two very winding staicases, the second of which was so narrow his shoulders actually brushed the walls. They stopped outside a plain wooden door. The footman bowed and smiled. It looked, Geralt couldn’t help but feel, rather cruel. Then he left. Geralt knocked softly on the door, feeling very large in the narrow, low ceilinged hallway.

Eskel had told him once of a myth he had read, about a beast, half man half bull, hidden away in a maze. Geralt felt like such a beast, too large and rough and probably going to barge in and do everything wrong.

“Come in.” 

It was soft, but not nervous, and Geralt pushed open the door. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oooh I’m naughty for leaving it there, but it’s almost 2000 words already. @llamasdumpsterfire here it is at last, I hope it lives up to expectations.

I LOVE JASKIER HAVING A SUPPORTIVE FAMILY AND LETTENHOVE BEING A SANCTUARY TO WITCHERS IM AKSJWQKWNOAKANWKQ

I always adore seeing you crop up in my notes, and your enthusiasm in your asks makes we want to treasure them. But they deserve to be let loose into the wilds of this website and, like always, here’s a little thank you fic with some more Lettenhove being a sanctuary and Jaskier’s family being supportive of Witchers. If you’ve ever heard Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree, you know what’s going to happen.

Yellow Ribbon

Witchers weren't meant to take sides. They were meant to be neutral, without political agenda or loyalties to any other than their life's purpose to rid the Continent of monsters. This particular fact was drilled into Wolf Witchers to the point that even the most rebellious of them evaded human conflicts as much as possible. Aiden knew all that but he wasn't raised a Wolf. Cats knew they shouldn't blatantly take sides but, given their tendency to take on less Witcher-y contracts, they very much blurred the lines. Then came the Nilfgaardian war and Aiden knew he couldn't sit back and watch as the world he knew tore itself apart. But he also knew Lambert wouldn't understand. His Wolf, so loyal, yet so entrenched in the rules he was raised to hate, he would never be able to understand why Aiden left to join. Why he felt the need to fight the humans' battle. Power ebbed and flowed over the course of time, this was just another turn of the tide. Not to Aiden though. He knew he would likely be killed but at least he'd die fighting for what he believed in. Leaving Lambert was nigh on impossible. Aiden spent so long trying to figure out how to tell him he was leaving, likely to never come back. He couldn't do it. If he was going to die anyway, it wouldn't make much of a difference as to when Lambert thought him dead. So Aiden arranged his own assassination, left enough evidence that all would think him dead and he fled to the frontlines, heart heavy but knowing he took the least painful course of action possible.

The war lasted years. Throughout it all, Aiden tried to keep an ear out for new of his Wolf. He heard of the White Wolf's rise, how Kaer Morhen finally fell and the Wolves now called Lettenhove their home. Aiden could only hope that Lambert was happier there, more comfortable. On some nights thoughts of his beloved Wolf, comfortable and happy, were the only thing that kept Aiden sane.

As all things tended to do, even the war came to an end. Aiden had new scars to show for it but he was alive and on the winning side for a change. It was not something he ever anticipated and he had no idea what to do now. In his heart of hearts he knew what he wanted: Lambert. But the chances of him being welcomed back with open arms were slim. Aiden had to try though, had to know whether there was still a sliver of Lambert's heart that maybe missed him. However, Aiden was a coward in the matters of the heart, he didn't think he could survive the rejection, the anger. So he did the next best thing. He wrote a letter.

Lambert,

I don't know if I can call you mine anymore. When I left, I didn't think I'd survive the war I was compelled to join. But, years down the line, I'm still here, the war is won. Despite this, I still feel like I'm in a battle, fighting to know whether your heart still beats for me. I'll understand if you want nothing to do with me, you'll never see me again if you so wish. Yet I hope you can forgive me and set my heart free even though you were never them one to force it into this fight. I'll be joining the home caravan headed North. It will pass through Lettenhove where I believe you now call home. At the edge of the settlement is an old oak tree. If, when the caravan passes through there, it has a yellow ribbon tied around it, I'll know to leave the caravan and search you out. However, if the tree remains bare, I will continue with the caravan and this is the last you'll hear from me.

As little as it may be worth, I send this with all my hopes and heart at your mercy.

Aiden

The letter would reach Lettenhove a good week before the caravan, Aiden was confident. As they travelled, the caravan got smaller, people leaving to head towards their own home. Seeing all the teary, heartfelt reunions hurt in a way. While Aiden was pleased for them, he was also horribly jealous. Wishing he could dream of such a welcome turned and happiness for his fellow veterans into something bitter. Aiden could only hope he was heading home too rather than setting out on a nomadic life that would be filled with regrets.

As they approached Lettenhove, Aiden could barely look. He kept his head down, determined to only give the old oak tree a furtive glance as they passed. To watch the bare tree in the distance, grow closer but be devoid of a yellow ribbon was too much. He didn't expect the caravan to start murmuring, gasps and giggles going up.

"What do you think it all means?" Someone asked ahead of him.

"Maybe some local festival. Or one hell of a welcome home."

Hope drew Aiden's eyes up earlier than he wanted and he let out a choked whimper. There wasn't a single yellow ribbon around the old oak tree. It was absolutely covered. Every branch, twig and bud was wrapped in a myriad of yellow ribbons. Not just that, all the fences, posts, even dog houses were adorned in yellow ribbons, creating a bright path to follow. It took all of Aiden's control not to run, letting the ribbons guide him. Though, on second thought he was right not to run, his sight was too blurry with tears all of a sudden.

As the caravan moved through Lettenhove, people were standing outside their homes cheering and waving anything yellow. It all culminated with a small group of people at the path to the Pankratz mansion. Half of them were familiar, Geralt, Eskel, Vesemir were all there, yellow ribbons woven into their hair or into a buttonhole. Out front though stood Jaskier in a bright yellow doublet, strutting forward like a proud peacock.

"Welcome home, Aiden," he called and the people in the caravan all turned to look at the Witcher in question. To think that a Witcher of all things would have such a welcome was absurd. But there they were, a Witcher being welcomed home like family. "I will make introductions to my family later-" Jaskier was saying, "-they helped source all the ribbons and are putting on a feast. But I believe there's someone you want to see more."

The group parts and there was Lambert, a crown of dandelions perched on top of his head, a yellow ribbon clutched tight in his hand, creasing the material beyond rescue.

"Lamb." Aiden's voice was breathy, hesitant. Despite all the yellow, he still wasn't certain of his welcome. At least not until Lambert closed the distance between them with two long strides and reached up to cup his cheeks in two hands.

"You bastard."

Their foreheads pressed together, Lambert's thumbs stroked over Aiden's cheeks, feeling the ridges of new scars and the ribbon tickled his chin.

"I'm sorry," Aiden croaked. "I had to go."

"I know." Lambert's eyes were brimming with tears. "I mourned you. I missed you. Don't do this to me again."

Promises dripped from Aiden's lips. He hated how Lambert brokenly murmured "if you'd asked, I've have come with you". That had never been an option, Aiden didn't want to drag Lambert into a war he had no interest in. But it was all in the past, they were choices they couldn't make again, no matter how much they wished they could. What they did have though was a new future together. And, if Aiden had heard right, it was going to be starting off with a feast.

Don’t Take the Money

(cross-posted from my AO3 and based on the Bleachers song of the same name; you should give it a listen ‘cause it definitely shaped this story)

-vomit tw, depression tw, lots of angst and emotional whump with a happy ending, of course-

Jaskier had received six urgent messages in three weeks, each delivered by a different exhausted messenger in the same oddly familiar livery. They showed up outside of inns, in the corner of taverns, and one of them even had to trek through the deep woods to find their hidden campsite; Geralt almost felt bad for them. Almost.

After the seventh strange man appeared with a scroll for Jaskier, the bard didn’t even bother reading it. He merely tossed the rolled and sealed piece of parchment into a refuse pile on their way out of town and didn’t look back. Geralt picked it up when the bard wasn’t paying attention, letting his eyes scan the fancy, swirling script of the Viscountess Pankratz.

Julian Alfred Pankratz,

Return home immediately! Your wedding cannot be put off any longer! Lady Ainsley will not wait another month for your foolish adventures with that Witcher to come to an end. If you do not return for your wedding in three weeks time then you shall be officially disowned and your name will be stricken from the family records.

With Urgency,

Lady Pankratz

Geralt swallowed hard. Jaskier was betrothed? He was to be married in three weeks? But they weren’t anywhere near Redania. Or Lettenhove. Jaskier had never mentioned anyone by the name of Lady Ainsley before, or anything about his past if he could avoid it. Did that mean...?

“Why aren’t you going?” the Witcher asked. Jaskier whirled around, his eyebrow already raised in confusion; he went three shades paler than normal when he saw the limp paper hanging from Geralt’s fingers. “We’re not even remotely close to your hometown and we’re traveling in quite the opposite direction.”

Jaskier made a face and waved his hand dismissively.

“I know. I don’t want to marry her.”

“Why don’t you want to marry her? They’re going to disown you, Jaskier. Isn’t this” - he shook the letter for emphasis - “the life you’re used to living, anyway? You should go home and be with...with someone like you .”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Geralt? You think I belong with someone foppish? Loud? Annoying?” The bard was spitting mad already. The Witcher had touched on a sore spot, apparently. “Should I be with someone more breakable and human and petty?”

“Don’t you want- aren’t you-”

“C’mon big boy, use that fantastic Witcher brain of yours. Figure it out.”

Geralt didn’t understand.

“Wouldn’t you be happier with her than on the Path with me?”

Jaskier looked...hurt. His expression changed from indignant to heartbroken in the measure of time that occurred between split seconds. It did something awful in the Witcher’s gut. Something unfamiliar and painful. The bard’s next words were barely above a whisper. Even with his enhanced hearing Geralt had to focus hard: “Would you prefer me to be married off and out of your way?”

“No, that’s not what I-”

“I don’t even know what we’re even getting at here, Geralt. I’m sorry. I can return home if you’d like. If I send a messenger first thing tomorrow then the family’s hired mage can portal me back in time for the wedding.”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher was pleading. He didn’t know why or for what, but the pitch of his voice left room for no other possible interpretation. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“Then don’t ask me to marry her, Geralt.”

The Witcher dropped the letter back onto the refuse pile and shoved it deeper with the tip of his boot. Jaskier’s bright smile returned and the soft notes of his lute filled the air once again. For some inexplicable reason Geralt felt triumphant. As if he’d won a battle he didn’t know he’d been fighting against an enemy he’d never met before.

---

“Are you Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf?” a well-dressed stranger asked, approaching the table where the Witcher was seated. It had been a week since his and Jaskier’s argument over the summons. Neither one had brought it up again and the bard had seemed almost unusually affectionate since. The amount of casual touching they did had significantly increased, even when the sun set and it was growing close to bedtime. Jaskier seemed to be happy touching Geralt and the Witcher had no reason to complain; he liked knowing that his best friend wasn’t scared of him.

He regarded the messenger with a suspicious gaze, “Aye. I am Geralt of Rivia.”

“I have a contract for you.” The man slid a piece of paper across the table and folded himself into the chair across from Geralt’s. The pattern stamped into the red wax seal was familiar but the Witcher couldn’t quite remember where he’d seen it before. His strange visitor smiled benignly, “It doesn’t even involve killing.”

“Then why hire a Witcher? That’s kind of our schtick.”

“This agreement is of a more personal nature,” the man shrugged, leaning back in his chair and waiting for Geralt to read his missive. The Witcher took the delicate stationary in his large hands and unfolded it until he could see the printed words:

To Sir Geralt of Rivia,

Witcher and Friend of Julian Alfred Pankratz

We, the Pankratz Family, come to you and offer this agreement:

Return Julian safely to our ancestral home within two weeks and you shall be paid the sum of 1500 crowns. Consider it a bodyguarding mission, if you so desire.

You are also formally invited to attend the wedding of Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove to the Countess Ainsley DeStael of Rinde, which will occur three days after your mission ends.

In order to complete the job and claim your payment, however, you must leave the wedding party without Julian at your side and return to your Witcher duties alone. He isn’t cut out for such a hard life on the road. He is of noble blood and has responsibilities here at home. Please return him to his kind of people and claim your coin in recompense.

Sincerely,

Francois Reginald Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove

&

Constantina Charlotte Pankratz, Lady de Lettenhove

Geralt glanced up from the contract and out into the main dining room where Jaskier was currently jigging atop one of the surprisingly sturdy tables. The bard’s smile was bright, his voice was strong and clear as he sang of lovers meeting in secret, and his blue eyes twinkled with joy. He loved the attention of performing. How could Geralt take that away from him, even if he would be safer at home? Even if he would be married to another, spending his time with another, caring for another…

But didn’t Geralt care about Jaskier? Isn’t that why he’d risked life and limb over and over to keep the bard safe? Because Geralt loved him? He pushed the thought away with haste and tried to keep his expression neutral. His amber eyes strayed to the upturned hat at Jaskier’s feet. People had been depositing coins there all night and a rather decent pile had sprung up but -

But he could be doing better, Geralt thought. He could be taking a warm bath every night and buying expensive oils from real apothecaries and not sketchy traveling salesmen. He could be dressing in silk every day and never complain about having to wear a woolen doublet for warmth again. He could sleep next to a fire in a real feather-bed. With blankets. He could stay healthy and safe and never go near another angry monster for all his days.

Something in the Witcher’s heart withered and died when he realized just how much he’d been holding Jaskier back; something important. Something the bard had helped him cultivate over six long years of traveling together. In an instant the Witcher had hidden it away in a dark corner to die.

“Alright.”

“Huh,” the messenger smirked. “They thought it would take more bribery to get you to agree, Witcher.”

“It’s not about the crowns,” Geralt shrugged, gaze flitting back up to Jaskier. The bard’s twinkling cornflower-blue eyes met with his and Geralt quickly glanced away, already ridden with guilt and shame over his decision. “It’s about making him happy and keeping him safe.”

“If I didn’t know any better about your kind and their lack of feelings,” the messenger snorted, “I’d say you might even love the Little Lord Pankratz.”

“If I didn’t know any better about myself,” Geralt replied, “I might agree.”

“See you in two weeks, then. Hope you can make it to Redania in time.”

“Why not just portal us there? Jaskier said his family had a hired mage.”

“Busy with wedding preparations,” the man shrugged. “Anyway, I must be going. The Viscount and her Ladyship are eager to hear your reply. See you soon, I’m sure.”

The stranger stood, bowed, and disappeared back to Lettenhove with the signed contract. Geralt swallowed back a mouthful of bile. He hated himself. He really did. But this is what’s best for Jaskier.

---

“Who was that, earlier at the table?” the bard asked. He was lounging on the bed with a tin of lute polish in one hand and a rag in the other. “Did he have a contract?”

“Yes. In Redania, actually.”

“Oh, lovely! It’s almost time for the summer festivals to begin; I can show you the best alehouse in all of Novigrad while we’re there.”

“My job is near Lettenhove. Do you want to go with me?”

“Sure. Might be fun to swing by my old stomping grounds. This doesn’t have anything to do with my canceled wedding, does it?” the bard shot him a pointed look. Geralt schooled his features into some sort of passivity and shook his head.

“Vampires rarely attend the weddings of minor nobility,” the Witcher lied through his teeth.

“Vampires, huh? Nifty. Haven’t had one of those to write about in awhile.”

“Hmm.”

---

“Geralt, help! Geralt, please! GERALT!”

The Witcher tossed and turned, unable to sleep. He kept hearing Jaskier’s raw, heartbroken voice ringing in his ears. He could still smell the desperation and panic that clung to the bard’s soft skin as he struggled to get away from his captors. To get back to where the Witcher stood with Roach and the gatekeeper. Geralt kept imagining those eyes, those fucking beautiful eyes, brimming with tears of betrayal as a liveried servant handed him a velvet pouch stuffed fat with crowns. Oh gods, the way his bard had looked at him…Geralt shoved his head out the window and vomited. There was nothing but the sour sting of bile against his tongue and the back of his throat. He heaved in a breath but choked back the sob threatening to come with it.

“Please don’t leave me here, Geralt! Don’t take the money! I’ll be better, I promise! I won’t talk as much, I won’t touch Roach again, I won’t write any ballads about you, Geralt please, I lo-”

The guards had dragged Jaskier inside and slammed the heavy oak door shut before he could finish his sentence, but the Witcher had gotten the general idea. The bard thought he was doing this out of hatred and not out of the sincerest, purest love Geralt had ever felt. He thought this was a punishment and not a slightly backwards form of rescue. If only the bard could understand.

Jaskier’s love wasn’t unrequited.

The bard stole the very breath from Geralt’s lungs every time their eyes met. Every time Jaskier crowed with pride after finishing a new song about their adventures together the Witcher felt his icy heart melt a little more. Each casual brush of their hands as they walked side-by-side sent his emotions reeling. The way his exuberant bard looked as he strolled beside Roach, the sunshine bringing out streaks of dark red in his chestnut hair and lightening the embroidery on his travel jerkin, it was ethereal. Magical. Overwhelming in all the best ways.

And he’d given it all away for a measly pouch of a coin and a slightly clearer conscious. Or was it?

Geralt retched again as he came to another realization.

He had forced Jaskier into something he didn’t want. Geralt had always given his friend free reign. The younger man came on and off the Path like a bee between flowers, visiting and traveling with the Witcher when he pleased and leaving again for odd jobs or festivals when Geralt wasn’t in the mood for company. But he’d given him no choice about the marriage. No, he’d wrestled Jaskier to the ground and bound his hands. He’d gagged him. He’d flung the bard into Roach’s saddle and tied his crossed wrists to the pommel so he couldn’t pick the knots free and escape. He’d passed Jaskier off to the guards and watched them drag him away as he spit out the gag and started yelling.

As he confessed his love to Geralt after six long years on the Path together.

Fucking hells, what have I done to him?

The suddenly panicked Witcher tumbled from his rented bed and reached for his boots. There was no time to spare. There was no time to waste.

There was only Jaskier.

---

Jaskier couldn’t believe it.

After all this time. After all their adventures. After all the songs he’d written and rooms he’d gotten them at comfortable inns, this is how the Witcher repaid him. Trading him back to his parents for a bag of coin like he was some sort of slave or whore.

He was a bard.

He was Geralt’s bard.

Well, he used to be Geralt’s bard. Now he was going to be Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove and Lord of Rinde by marriage.

He wished he could just stop breathing and disappear. His heart thudded dully in his chest and it felt as if he was floating several feet below the surface of deep water. He was unable or unwilling to surface; maybe both. There was no point anymore, really. Geralt, the only person he’d ever really loved, had trussed him up like a market goose and traded him for silver.

The food his family’s servants brought him laid mostly untouched. He knew how to eat just enough to keep from dying. He’d been in plenty of dungeons and bandit camps before. Jaskier had spent six years following the Witcher’s Path and surviving off of whatever Geralt caught or he traded for. There was no reason to eat any more than what he needed to keep his body alive. There was no reason to get out of bed. Or bathe. Or change clothes. These clothes still smelled like the road. Like lute polish and chamomile oil and Roach and mud and Geralt.

“Please,” his mother begged, clasping his limp hand in both of hers. She’d been sitting at his bedside for maybe an hour, watching him stare listlessly up into the green velvet canopy above him. “Just eat something substantial. Say something. Do something, Julian. We know you aren’t happy with us or our decision but you can’t just lay here all day and wallow in self-pity. You have responsibilities to take care of; Ainsley has grown worried and her father is impatient.”

“The wedding is tomorrow,” he’d replied. There was no emotion in his voice and the monotony was soothing to his own ears. Geralt didn’t like it when he got too excited. Best to be calm and quiet like a good little noble. “I will be presentable. I will be at the altar. I will do my duty for the family.”

“Thank you, Julian.”

“But I will not love her.”

“You never have to love her,” his mother smiled. She gave his hand another small pat before standing and moving towards the door. Her job here was done, after all. “We only need you to marry her.”

---

Geralt pounded up the steps of the keep two-at-a-time. His usually slow heartbeat was now pounding in his ears like a warlord’s drum. He had to save Jaskier, he had to - the door slammed open and something hard went flying into his chest, knocking him back a step. The Witcher reached out a hand to steady the person he’d collided with but his amber eyes were still focused on the castle’s front door. He moved to step around the stranger and into the building when they suddenly spoke. The bard’s voice was pitchy and low from crying all morning: “Geralt?”

“Jaskier?” the Witcher gasped. His grip tightened around the younger man’s upper arm. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Jaskier looked truly flabbergasted. His expression shifted from shock to anger quickly, however, and the hurt in those blue eyes nailed Geralt to the ground where he stood. “Am I OKAY? You absolute fucking moron; of course I’m not okay. The love of my life tied me up, handed me over to my horrible fucking family like a Beltane offering, and disappeared into the night with a fat bag of crowns. The one person I love most in this world, the only person I’d ever trust with my life or my lute, treated me like a transaction of some sort. I am very much not okay, Geralt of Rivia! Now pick me up, take me to Roach, and get me the fuck out Lettenhove before I have to marry that horrible, terrible, hideous woman!”

The Witcher cracked a smile. Jaskier jabbed a finger into his chest and frowned even more deeply. “Why the fuck are you smiling, Witcher?”

“Because I missed the sound of your voice.”

The bard blushed, his righteous anger faltering.

“I love you too,” Geralt added. Jaskier’s eyes somehow grew even rounder and more watery. “I’m so fucking sorry but I didn’t know how else to protect you. I thought that maybe after coming home and seeing how much nicer it was than being on the Path you might want to stay here and be safe. Live your life normally. I thought you’d be happier here than you were with me. You’d certainly wouldn’t be hurt as often.”

“Did you just say that you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear me say that I love you, mere moments ago?”

“Yes.”

“Then why the fuck would you try to get rid of me?” The Witcher tried not to flinch when Jaskier placed a gentle hand against his cheek. He’d expected a slap. A kick to the shin. A knee to the groin. Screaming. He hadn’t expected that look of soft understanding to dawn on Jaskier’s boyish face. Despite the knowing sparkle in his eyes, the bard’s voice was sad. “Caged birds never sing, Geralt. What an awful cage it would have been; I'd never see my handsome Witcher again. I'd never attend another royal wedding as entertainment. I'd never write another line of song, much less be able to sing it. I would have been miserable Geralt. I probably would have died much sooner here than I would on the Path.”

“Can you ever forgive me?”

“As soon as you do as I say and get me the hell out of here, then yes, I’ll consider forgiving you, Witcher.”

“Well I suppose we shouldn’t waste any time.”

Geralt flung the bard up and over his shoulder and took off back down the steps at a sprint. He wasn’t going to let those people have his darling Jaskier back. Not if they tried to cage him and take his voice. He knew better now. He understood. 

They loved each other.

The bard was laughing brightly, bouncing along as Geralt made for the stables. He could see his family exiting the Great Hall and making their way in his direction. It didn’t matter. They’d never catch up with his Witcher. He shot them several naughty hand gestures and grinned widely when Geralt swung them both up into Roach’s saddle. “Sorry girl,” he apologized. “Time for our daring escape into the woods.”

---

"Fifteen hundred crowns, huh?" Jaskier asked, eyeing the hefty purple velvet bag.

"Actually there are only fourteen hundred left," Geralt shrugged. He reached into his saddlebag and brought out a small leather pouch, which he handed to Jaskier. The bard opened it, peered inside, and gasped in very genuine surprise.

"Geralt..."

"Do you like it?" the Witcher was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth in the cutest way. Jaskier wanted to answer but his heart was caught somewhere between his throat and his stomach so he couldn't quite form words. He nodded.

"Can you help me put it on?"

"There's no clasp. They aren't meant to have clasps."

"I know."

Geralt's heart soared as he lifted his gift for Jaskier out of the bag and lowered it over his head. The medallion rested just between his collarbones, framed by a tuft of the bard's chest hair. It was a copy of Geralt's wolf medallion, only this wolf held a flower in its mouth. Gently, as if unwilling to break the stem or let it go.

"It's perfect," the bard beamed. His eyes were watery and he blinked the tears free to keep staring at his new jewelry. "Thank you."

"Hmm."

"What do you want to do with the rest of the money?"

"I don't know," the Witcher shrugged. "Maybe go to the coast?"

"I've always wanted to go there!"

Geralt pressed a tender kiss against Jaskier's lips, reveling in the sensation of his bard melting against his chest. They'd spent the last few nights wrapped around each other, whispering secrets and stories into each others mouths until sleep overtook them. Tonight would be no different, except that now Jaskier felt truly safe. He felt loved. He felt utterly surrounded by the happiness that came with being on the Path next to his Witcher. "What are you thinking about, little lark?"

"I'm glad you came back for me. I'm glad we're together now."

"Hmm. Me too."

Okay so you kinda left off with hades busting so can I get some more demigod/son of hades jaskier pls? Also I love you!

I am so sorry this has been in my inbox for a while, midterms have really been kicking my ass the past two weeks and I haven’t had the chance to work on anything. I can absolutely provide some more demigod jaskier content ft. #1 Dad Hades. Enjoy!

say what you will about godly parents and their lack of care toward their children, but hades is not that kind of dad

he knows what it feels like to be pushed away, abandoned and forgotten, so he has always done everything in his power to help his kids (as few of them as there are)

he makes sure they are safe, and cared for in their homes. he gives them powers to protect themselves and safe travels to camp

hades is a pretty good dad, even if he’s not there all the time. he loves his kids

and then there’s jaskier

jaskier, who was born after a wild fling with a woman hades and persephone met outside of lettenhove

jaskier, who had his mother’s gorgeous blue eyes and sweet smile

who had persephone’s affinity for flowers and pretty things, who had the most talented voice hades had ever heard in his millennium

jaskier, who had hades’ quick temper, his charm, and his glare. who shared his fascination with the unknown, his persistence, his determinedness. he had every inch of hades’ fierceness and his passion for the ones he loved

jaskier, who was dangerously powerful and wielded it with care (except for the necromancy, the amount of skeletons his son had summoned merely on accident was frankly astounding)

who didn’t want to hurt any living thing except when someone hurt something (or more likely, someone) he loved, all bets were off

when it came to jaskier, hades was a Proud Father

jaskier had always been a boy after his own heart, ever since he had begun his visits to the Underworld as a young child and instead of shaking with fear (as many of his children had at first), his eyes widened with fascination 

hades took great joy in showing him the workings of the Underworld and the spirits it held

jaskier was an endless wealth of questions and curiosity, and hades took great care in answering every single one (by the look of shock on the boy’s face hades suspected that the man his mother had ended up married too was much less inclined to entertaining his pursuit of knowledge; hades made a silent promise to himself to never do that)

persephone liked to tease him that jaskier made him soft, but privately the both of them knew that hades would do anything for the people most important in his life (when his wife teased him, hades always took great care to question her on the hours she spent out in the gardens with jaskier, and the tears he had seen in her eyes the first time the boy called her ‘mother’)

 needless to say jaskier had the both of them wrapped around his finger, and for such a clever boy that was a dangerous thing to be

hades thought he was brilliant

as he grew up, jaskier went off to become a traveling bard, but his interest in the Underworld never faded

he often did tasks on the side of his travels on behalf of hades

and every once in a while he liked to pop in on his son when he hadn’t been down to visit

his son wasn’t likely to ever truly be capable of dying, but hades did like to make sure his limbs were all in order, especially when he forgot to write

he had remembered jaskier’s endless rambling about his witcher and so he wasn’t surprised when he tracked him down to the wolf witcher keep

hades was met with silver swords pointed at him from all sides, and he was just a little bit offended that they thought something as simple as a sword would down the god of the underworld

he knew how he looked to the unsuspecting mortal, tall, dark, shadowed. his eyes glowed silver and moonlight and his skin was endlessly pale

they stood there in silent standoff until he felt an approaching presence, familiar and light

hades smiled as his son broke through the line of witchers, and the smile on jaskier’s face for once wasn’t his mothers, but his father’s, overly wide and sharp

“dad!” he called out, and the witchers startled in shock, the sorceress behind them’s brow creasing in confusion

jaskier dashed forward, dressed in blue and silver, and with a well practiced step entered his embrace

their hug was simple but fierce, they held each other for a moment while their powers brushed a familiar greeting

gently but firmly, hades separated himself from his son and held him out by his shoulders

he sighed

“you’ve been overdoing it again haven’t you?”

jaskier wrinkled his nose, “what- how could you tell?!”

“your powers may be back in full, but your internal soul is still exhausted. you should still be resting” hades thought he heard the witch in the back whisper an infuriated, “I KNEW it!” but he paid her no mind

“your mother sends her regards, as well as this” he pulled the pitch black rose from his pocket and held it out to his son, who gasped when he saw the stars that danced and twinkled across the surface of the petals. jaskier took it from his hand and held it reverently, a pleased smile tugging at his lips.

“tell mother it’s beautiful, and she’s going to show me how she made this the next time I’m home” hades smiled fondly,

“she’d like that”

someone behind jaskier cleared their throat, and a quick glance informed them that it was in fact the witch from earlier.

“And who exactly is this Jaskier? Do introduce us.” she glided forward and slid a protective hand on his son’s shoulder, her grin was predatory

hades liked her

jaskier paid the blatant sign of possessiveness to mind, and made no further comment when the witcher, the one jaskier was always going on about, moved to his other side in a similar position

“oh right, where have my manners gone, terribly sorry!” jaskier rambled, hands flying about “may I introduce to you Hades, god of the underworld and some other things i’ve never been much inclined to remember. my father”

both father and son smiled similarly off putting grins and the shadows of the courtyard seemed to stretch a little longer

this would be fun

______

Thoughts?

Squats For Thots - Geralt/Jaskier | PG-13.

This is mostly one long dick joke I wrote as an excuse to use “Squats for Thots” as a title. It’s also mostly foolish men with crushes objectifying each other’s asses. #whoops. 

“The Countess likes her men a little more thicc, you know?” Jaskier said, burning through the starting set Geralt had given him surprisingly well. Well enough that he continued talking, though Geralt wasn’t sure the man ever stopped. “Likes something to hold on to.”

Most of the men Geralt saw at the private club thought targeted exercises were a quick way to improve what they considered to be small problem areas, like there was a cheat sheet to looking like a Hemsworth that wasn’t partially genes. Most of them thought they were a personal trainer away from movie-star abs, and Geralt wasn’t there to disabuse them of the notion.

“I figured,” Jaskier continued, breathing through his final 20, “if I found the trainer with the best ass in the place they’d be the person to show me how to turn this slab into fab.”

“Do you ride?” Geralt asked, making a note to make Thursday’s session more intense.

 “Yeah,” Jaskier said, finally sounding out of breath. He batted his eyelashes and Geralt also made a note to recommend the man invest in a sweatband if it was going to make him blink like that, especially since Jaskier didn’t seem to be perspiring hard yet.

 “How many times a week and for how long?” 

 Jaskier opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked flustered and then flummoxed, though Geralt pretended he didn’t notice since he couldn’t figure out why. Then Jaskier laughed. “Ohh, you mean a horse,” he said. “Not often, not since adolescence, though I can still manage a decent seat when needed. Why? Should it be part of my training? I can’t say I’ve noticed all equestrians have a juicy booty but I don’t know if I’ve been looking for the trend.”

 “Hm,” Geralt answered, aware it wasn’t an answer at all. “My job today is determining your limits.”

 “Yeah,” Jaskier agreed, probably because they’d already been over this before starting. There was also that flirtatious lilt to it that Geralt was realizing he should have been able to identify from the start. 

 Fuck.

 Jaskier was one of those people who stopped by the club a few times a month and spent more time off to the side drinking smoothies and watching the people around him than he did exercising. It was a surprise he was able to keep up with the exercises Geralt had designed to easily break him. “Your lower body is better developed than I assumed.”

 “Thank you for the compliment, even though I think what you really mean is you assumed my fitness level is the same as a 3 year coma patient and tested me accordingly. I don’t think I’m even insulted by that. Though we could have saved some wasted time if you’d ever seen me naked.”

 Geralt leveled him with an unimpressed expression designed to ask ‘why would I want to do that?’

 Jaskier flushed but didn’t look particularly embarrassed or emasculated, which was maybe the first thing he’d done in his favour. “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug, “why does anyone?”

 ****

 “I hear you’ve taken on the Viscount de Lettenhove as a client,” Lambert said, looking far too relaxed against the bar. 

 Geralt shrugged. He had six new clients since the last time he’d spoken with Lambert and the name didn’t sound familiar.

 “Lord Julian?” Lambert continued. “Has a reputation for being very generous in bed, both generally and -“ he made a vague gesture to his dick. “A good third of the people at the club have either already had sex with him, want to have sex with him, or a combination of both. During your session last week, Rodgie said Lettenhove fucked him so well he thought he was gay for another three months, like he’d gone temporarily blind to the charms of women it was so good.”

 Geralt scowled. 

 “I’m just repeating what he said. Don’t pretend you’re beyond gossiping about this.”

 “I can’t place the name,” he admitted instead of answering that. Beyond gossip? Apparently not. Seeking it out? No. Especially about someone referred to as Lord Julian.

 “Really? Tall-ish. Handsome-ish. Good with his hands. Treadmill squad can’t seem to take their eyes off him. Was in on Thursday.”

 New client. Thursday. “Jaskier?”

 “Yes,” Lambert agreed with a snap of his fingers. “That’s the name he uses. Rich people, eh?”

 Jaskier?

 Lambert shook his head. “I can’t tell if you just don’t notice people or if you genuinely aren’t into dick, sometimes.”

 ****

 Geralt was into dick.

 Sometimes.

 ****

 He noticed. 

 Not anything different about Jaskier. The man still talked his way through whatever exercises Geralt threw at him, far too flirtatious for comfort, and never really seemed to notice that he was being openly appraised by almost every single person on exercise machines. 

 But Geralt did. 

 ****

 It wasn’t that Geralt noticed Jaskier, it was just that Jaskier was standing at the smoothie bar on a day they weren’t scheduled to work together and he noticed the incongruity of seeing Jaskier on a Friday morning.

 Wearing shorts.

 It wasn’t really the shorts that kept his attention, it was the same thing about Jaskier that he’d noticed from the first moment they’d started working together - Jaskier’s damn legs and those calves that told of a less sedentary lifestyle than Jaskier pretended.  Geralt didn’t understand why someone would stop by the gym in a health club only to lounge around doing nothing if they obviously spent a lot of time working out their legs (at least).

 It took him a bit longer than it should have to realize he was gawking just as badly as Jaskier’s damn treadmill fanclub. He turned his back and pretended he was very interested in something else. Anything else.

 “Hey,” Jaskier said, handing Geralt the second smoothie in his hands. Geralt was sure the person overdoing it on the rowing machine wilted in jealousy. “Are you in a session?”

 “Technically,” Geralt said and took a sip of the smoothie. It tasted like summer. 

 Jaskier grinned at him. “No show?”

 “Sauna.”

 “That’s an option?” Jaskier asked, but looked more amused than anything. “And here I’ve been exercising like a chump”

 “It’s an option.”

 “Of course, I wouldn’t leave you out here fully clothed. Seems like a waste.” He grinned at Geralt, sly in a way that included Geralt in the joke.  “Maybe you could advise me on the best ways to steam it up.”

 “It’s an option,” Geralt repeated.

 “I…” Jaskier started to say and then closed his mouth.  “Really?”

 “But if you do, you won’t make any progress.”

 “In my butt or with you?” he blurted out.  “And yes, I can hear that sentence is one finished thought away from a dirty joke but I’m going to be the bigger man here.”

 Geralt seriously doubted that.

 “Oh my god. Are you one finished thought from making that into a dick joke?” Jaskier looked delighted.  “Yass, Geralt.”

 The sauna door opened, and Geralt prepared himself to finish the last five minutes of the hour, which consisted of making sure his client was hydrated before sending him on his way, rather than continuing this conversation with Jaskier.  

 “Wait,” Jaskier said, with a hand on Geralt’s arm. “Is there something I can make progress on?”

 Geralt shrugged.  There wasn’t NOT something, which he knew wasn’t an answer either. 

 “Ok, so, that’s not a no. I acknowledge it’s not a yes, but it’s also not a no, and you’re not someone who has trouble with the word no. So.” Jaskier waved his hand, spraying smoothie from the top of his straw.  “That’s cool.”

 That’s cool, Geralt repeated in his head as he walked away. He probably should have said no just to save himself the pain of hearing that’s cool.

 ****

 “There’s a rumour you’re about to get laid,” Lambert said on their bi-weekly meet up for beer. 

 “That’s cool,” Geralt said with a shrug.

 Which, honestly, was worth it just for the look on Lambert’s face.

 ****

 “Ok,” Jaskier said on Monday, which also wasn’t one of their scheduled meetings. He showed up like some kind of annoyance mirage wearing a brightly coloured shirt and shoes meant for lounging. Geralt was in the middle of helping the Earl of Something’s second son work off his weekend bender. The man had run off to puke twice already and Jaskier’s shirt wasn’t helping any. Neither was the way Jaskier snapped his fingers in front of his clammy face. “Off you go, you’re looking a little peaked.”

 “Thank you!”

 Jaskier rolled a yoga ball over with his foot and perched on it, crossing his legs. It occurred to Geralt that Jaskier was like a male peacock posturing, with his vibrant clothes and stupid pose. It also occurred to Geralt that he shouldn’t be into it.  “We should go out for coffee and stuff.”

 “Fine.”

 “What?” Jaskier said, losing his balance and almost falling on the floor.

 “Coffee and stuff. Fine. Let’s go out.”

 “I…” Jaskier opened his mouth. Closed it.  “Expected more of an argument and to maybe leave disappointed.”

 Geralt shrugged.  “Why?”

 “I don’t know!” Jaskier threw up his hands and then stood.  His movements had an ease to them that they wouldn’t if he didn’t fucking exercise somewhere. Geralt was going to figure it out because he was pretty sure if he asked anyone they’d say it was from sex and life didn’t work that way. “Because you asked me if I ride and meant a horse!”

 “You stop by the smoothie bar, grab a lounge chair for a few hours, and take a nap whenever you come in.  Something needed to account for your legs.”

 Jaskier started laughing.

 “Don’t say it,” Geralt told him with annoyance.

 “You noticed,” Jaskier stressed. 

 ****

 “I hate that I know why you look so relaxed,” Lambert grumbled.

A Thirst Like Flames

Part 5/6  (1, 2, 3, 4 - 6)

Ship: Gerlion - Rated: E (for smut) - Also on AO3

Rated E - for smutty reasons.

CW for this chapter: small panic attack that is quickly caught and pulled back under control

Much to Dandelion’s disappointment, Geralt disappeared after their fateful day at the brothel. Their separation had come as a surprise to Dandelion, having chased Geralt into the forest and the death of his most darling instrument. The night had been a soothing balm to his hurt, snuggled close to the witcher, inhaling his musky scent, but by morning Geralt had said it was time to part ways with no warning or explanation, and Dandelion had been too forlorn to argue.

So two weeks later he was stuck in a tavern, with only his voice to earn his way, not having nearly enough money to buy a new lute. He sighed, his fingers trailing over the rim of his wine goblet. It tasted like shit but, then again, everything in the world looked like shit to him, the bright and colourful world he knew had turned to ash. The only lutes he could even dream of affording would be cheap, nothing could replace the beautiful elven lute that he had lost.

He sighed again.

Dandelion hadn’t even been allowed to play, too morose and maudlin to be of any use, especially without an instrument. No lute, no witcher, no coin. Destiny had really decided to fuck him over lately.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Julian, pull yourself together,” he muttered and downed the last of his wine, slamming the goblet down onto the table.

The room went silent and he looked around with a furrowed brow. The goblet hadn’t even shattered and it certainly hadn’t been enough noise to draw the attention of the whole tavern, an unnatural silence that he’d only heard when…

“Geralt?”

His eyes shot to the door and he scrambled to his feet, and there he was… the witcher, cloak wrapped tight around him, the hood covering his snowy white hair. The witcher loomed in the doorway, golden eyes peering around the room with a fierce scowl until they landed on Dandelion. It was like the tension melted away from Geralt’s body, his entire posture shifting as a broad smile spread across his face. Dandelion licked his lips, caught under the intensity of Geralt’s gaze, trapped like a lark in a cage.

“Dandelion, at last,” Geralt greeted warmly as Dandelion met him halfway across the room.

The two men embraced each other, not caring for who else might be watching, and Dandelion buried his face in Geralt’s neck. The familiar scent grounding him, earthy like the forests they travelled through, a smokiness from the fires at night and the unmistakable smell of darling Roach. Geralt hummed and pulled back from the embrace, smiling down at Dandelion before pressing his lips to Dandelion’s forehead.

“Geralt?” Dandelion breathed, his face flushing from the uncharacteristic display of affection from his friend.

“It’s good to see you, can we talk?”

Dandelion nodded and led the witcher to the inn where he was staying. It was a cramped room, the cheapest one they had, and the bed was falling apart, but Dandelion hadn’t been able to afford better. He’d considered going back to his childhood home but even the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. Lettenhove had not been kind to him and he was better in a shitty room than the luxurious icy corridors that were once his home.

He scratched the back of his head, knocking his bonnet askew and his fingers brushed the still ratty feather, and he was once again reminded of how shit his life had been in the two weeks he’d spent alone.

“Ah, umm, well. I’m sorry it’s not much, my dear, without…” he trailed off, the memories of his shattered lute in Geralt’s hands too much to handle.

“I have something for you,” Geralt hummed, not taking his eyes off Dandelion, gaze not so subtly flicking down to Dandelion’s lips.

The flush from earlier deepened and his pulse quickened. The room, which had been almost as frigid as the air outside, suddenly felt too hot, stifling and far too small for the two of them. “Oh?”

“Wait here.”

Dandelion nodded, bouncing from one foot to another, glancing at his satchel where his notebook and ink were stored. His tongue swiped along his bottom lip to stop himself from chewing them to shreds. His mind was racing through all the reasons why Geralt might want to talk to him, were they breaking up? Could you break up with friends? No, that was silly, Geralt wouldn’t have kissed him if they were breaking up…. Oh dearest Melitele, what if he were dying? What if Geralt were dying? Poisoned or cursed… or oh gods!

Dandelion gasped, falling to his knees. His hat fell to the ground and his arms wrapped around his chest, it was too tight and he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Bloody hell,” he choked out, “fuck… Geralt.”

“Dandelion!” a voice yelled, echoing around the room and everything felt like he was underwater, floating through a fog, gravity was meaningless and his head water spinning, spinning.

A hand on his cheek.

Golden eyes.

“Dandelion, I’m here.”

Geralt.

Geralt.

“G’ralt?”

“Yes, it’s me, what the fuck happened, Dandelion?”

Dandelion blinked, his head pounding and his limbs suddenly felt like they weighed like lead. “You’re not dying?”

“What the- no, no I’m not dying, why would you think that?” Geralt asked, seemingly horrified by the question but Dandelion didn’t care, he leaned into Geralt’s touch, fighting his own body so he could press the witcher’s palm firmer against his skin.

Geralt was alive, and not dying.

He wasn’t sure why the thought had gripped him so tightly, an icy hand clawing at his heart, refusing to let go until the witcher was back by his side.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, feeling rather stupid. “I’ve lost so much recently, but I can’t lose you, Geralt. Please don’t leave me.”

Geralt sighed, pulling his hand away from Dandelion’s cheek, but before he could panic again, Geralt had taken Dandelion’s hand in his, bringing it up to his lips in a kiss worthy of a knight. “I could never leave you, Dandelion.”

“But… you left?”

“I had an errand, a witch owed me a favour and it was time to cash it in.”

“I- I don’t understand,” Dandelion’s felt tears prickling in his eyes, and there was a lump stuck in his throat. He was a fucking mess, no wonder Geralt had left him. No, Geralt had come back to him, with promises of never leaving on his lips, but it was hard to believe, not when so much shit had been thrown his way in the last two weeks.

Geralt didn’t reply, he just reached behind him and Dandelion suddenly noticed the new strap around Geralt’s chest, imprinted with buttercups and marigolds.

A strap he knew.

His strap.

His lute strap.

“That’s- Geralt, that’s my lute!” Dandelion cried, his jaw dropping as Geralt pulled the familiar and precious elven lute out from behind his back. “Oh my gods, Geralt!”

Dandelion didn’t think, he just launched himself at the witcher, his arms wrapping around Geralt’s neck as their lips crashed together. Geralt grunted as he was pushed back to the floor, barely able to set aside the lute before Dandelion was kissing him, tearing at his armour. It was a frenzy as they both shed their clothes, Geralt’s buckles were trickier than Dandelion’s lute strings and it didn’t take long until he was huffing, pouting up at the witcher in frustration. Geralt took pity on him, batting his hands aside so that they could remove Geralt’s armour with more efficiency. Dandelion’s heart was racing in his chest, whilst they’d given each other a hand in the dark nights alone in the woods, or in rickety beds at inns, kissing had always been just out of reach. They’d never bothered in removing their clothes, keeping it impersonal, the intimacy never going beyond what was absolutely necessary.

Dandelion felt heat pool in his core as Geralt’s armour was peeled away, until he was left in just his small clothes, the medallion resting  between his toned pecs. They’d seen each other naked before, but never like this and Dandelion had to remind himself that he was allowed to touch. His hand shook as he reached out to trace a scar that ran across Geralt’s chest, just missing his heart. The jagged mark was a stark reminder of the risk that Geralt took a daily basis, for people that never appreciated him.

“Humans are sometimes the worst monsters,” Geralt murmured covering Dandelion’s hand with his, the low rumble startling Dandelion from his thoughts.

He swallowed, gazing into the warm, almost glowing, golden eyes that had, somewhere along the line, become his home. “I’m sorry, darling.”

They pressed their lips together in a tender kiss, losing the mindless heat from before, enjoying the comfort of holding each other close, skin to skin. Dandelion felt like he’d awoken from a nightmare, floating through this newfound dream. A dream where he was allowed to kiss Geralt, allowed to love him.

He hoped.

Gods, he hoped, the warm glow burning in his heart.

Geralt pulled back from the kiss and pressed their foreheads together. Dandelion whined and tried to capture Geralt’s lips once more, hands sliding down to grope at Geralt’s arse but the witcher’s finger pressed against his lips. “Not now, Dandelion, not like this.”

“Don’t you think you’ve made me wait long enough, witcher,” Dandelion huffed, narrowing his eyes.

“You just had a panic attack,” Geralt reminded him gently, his voice soft and like the welcoming heat of a summer’s day.

Dandelion pouted. “You got me out of my clothes for nothing.”

“Not nothing,” Geralt smirked.

The witcher led him to the bed, which would have almost been romantic if it weren’t for the fact that the mattress wasn’t even good enough for the rats that Dandelion was sure lived in the walls. Geralt made no effort to remove any more of their clothes, seeming content to remain in their smallclothes, much to Dandelion’s displeasure. He pulled Dandelion on top of him as he lay back on the bed. Dandelion happily let himself be pulled into a kiss, only pausing to tuck his hair behind his ears as it kept dropping onto Geralt’s face, the witcher grimacing as he found himself with mouthfuls of blond hair.

Dandelion giggled, rocking his hips against Geralt’s. The witcher didn’t want to have sex out of concern for Dandelion’s well-being but that didn’t mean they couldn’t both get off, and Dandelion had two weeks of Geralt fuelled frustration to let out. His arse grounded against Geralt’s cock as he moved, a slow but getting rhythm, teasing the pleasure more than anything but it was still enough to bring a flush to his witcher’s cheeks.

“Is this okay, my darling?” he breathed, barely able to keep a soft moan out of his voice as the heat began to bloom.

Geralt nodded, grunting out a barely audible yes. His cock was hard and pressing into the curve of Dandelion’s arse, even through the layers between them. Dandelion leaned forward to kiss the exposed line of Geralt’s shoulders, his finger’s splaying on the witcher’s chest and hooking under the silver medallion.

“Do you ever take this off?”

“No.”

“Good, it suits you, my brave and fearsome witcher,” Dandelion purred as they moved together, slowly, just feeling the heat of each other.

“Yours?” Geralt growled.

“Mine.”

After that it slowly grew more desperate once more, a tangle of limbs, and messy kisses as they became reacquainted with each other, learning the secrets of their bodies beyond their cocks. Dandelion learned that Geralt’s neck was particularly sensitive just below his ears, and the witcher made the most ethereal noises when Dandelion nipped at the skin there. In turn Geralt swiftly realised that Dandelion was putty in his hands when fingers carded through the thick blond curls. Their kisses slowly grew more practiced as they became more attuned to each other, and soon enough Dandelion was panting against Geralt’s lips as he hung on the edge of his orgasm as they rutted against each other.

“Touch me, please,” he begged, the friction between them not quite enough. Geralt growled as his hand finally reached between them, pushing Dandelion’s small clothes down enough so he could wrap a hand around Dandelion’s cock, and he mirrored the action, huffing when Geralt knocked his hand aside.

The sight of Geralt’s hand around both their cocks was what pushed him over the edge. He whined, biting down into Geralt’s shoulder to muffle his cries as he came, but Geralt didn’t let up, his hand still stroking them both until it was almost painful. Dandelion gasped, writhing helplessly on the bed as the witcher worked him through the orgasm, his own cum now acting as lubrication. He whined, as his pleasure began to slowly build again through the oversensitivity.

“Oh… fuck!” he panted, closing his eyes tightly, his body a burning pyre that he was sure could be seen from the stars themselves.

“I’ve got you,” Geralt’s voice rumbled in his ear and Dandelion felt the wet press of his lips. “I… I can stop…”

“Don’t you fucking dare, witcher, or I’ll have your head! Oh, gods, fuck, Geralt!”

Their movements became more frantic as Geralt started to lose control, and then he was spilling over them both, an almost feral growl bursting from his lips and Dandelion keened as he came for the second time, the energy seeping from him and he collapsed next to Geralt. He barely registered the kiss on his temples and the soft “I’ll get us cleaned up, love” before he was asleep.

Valdo is an Ass and Jaskier Gets Drunk

"Ah Oxenfurt, how I missed you." Geralt grunted at the bard's words. Forced to lean on Jaskier's back as Roach strode through the streets. He'd refused to let Geralt ride the horse with a broken leg annoyed. The white haired man reluctantly agreed but of course eyes stared at the odd duo. The witcher felt ready to crawl into a hole and die about now.

"Please tell me the university is close by."

"What's the rush? Oxenfurt is beautiful this time of year." Jaskier beamed in the sunlight, the breeze on the Pontar River catching his hair as Roach stopped in front of the university. He held a have to help Geralt off but the man didn't take it. Hefting himself of the horse and stumbling into Jaskier's side. The bard opened his mouth but Geralt cut him off.

"Not a word. Healer. Now."

"Fine, fine." Jaskier assured him as they began to walk towards the entrance. Jaskier stopping mid stride when he noticed a man staring at them. He quickly went to turn around, Geralt's leg twisting as he yelped.

"Ow! What the fuck?" Geralt adjusted his weight.

"We can take the other door and-"

"Julian! How good to see you!" The bard hissed through his teeth, the man from earlier who spotted them coming over. He looked about the same age as Jaskier with curly black hair and olive skin. Bright green eyes shining as he smiled at the duo.

"Julian?" Geralt questioned.

"Valdo, so great to see you...bit actually I'm going by Jaskier now."

"Ah, so you decided to keep that silly stage name. I'm impressed it caught on." The backhanded compliment didn't go over Geralt's head. "And who's this large fellow then?"

"Geralt, if you'll excuse us-" Jaskier tried to walk away but the man didn't move. Geralt quirked an eyebrow. This was the man Jaskier wished dead? Seemed kind of annoying but then again, so was Jaskier.

"Geralt? As in The Geralt of Rivia? The white wolf you sing about?" Valdo asked eyeing the man up and down. "My, my, your songs don't do him nearly enough justice. May I ask what happened?" The other bard asked as he noticed Geralt's contorted leg.

"You may not, we're very busy. Bugger off."

"Oh Julian-"

"Jaskier," the bard interrupted, incredibly annoyed.

"You wound me. I thought we were friends." Jaskier ignored the man, leading Geralt around the building. The witcher staring back for a moment.

"Not a fan of him, I take it."

"Not a fan? Geralt that man is the most smug, pompous ass who writes for only the lowest common denominator in order to appeal to the masses. To call him a wastrel would be an insult to wastrels everywhere. And that is putting it lightly."

"Sounds personal."

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"Can we at least talk about the fact your real name is Julian?"

"Julian is my old name, something I also do not wish to talk about." He sped up and Geralt struggled to keep up without agitating the injured leg.

~~

"Your leg is indeed broken."

"Could've told you that." Geralt snarked at the healer. Now sat on a cot with Jaskier off doing Gods knew what.

"Luckily for you it's only a transverse fracture,'' the man grabbed Geralt's leg, wrapping it in a splint. The witcher biting back a snarl. Don't scare the person fixing your leg... "So it should, combined with your potions heal in about a week's time. Provided you stay off your feet."

"I'm a witcher. That's going to be a little hard."

"I know who and what you are, but I don't care. No hunting monsters, no fighting lords. Judging from your other multiple wounds and bruises, I'd say some bed rest is in order."

"Fine." Geralt relented. He'd been doing that a lot lately. "Jaskier mention where he was going?"

"The viscount mentioned something about the university bar."

"Viscount?"

"You didn't know?"

"I literally just found out he was actually named Julian today."

"His family, they're nobels, if I recall his uncle is the Ferrant de Lettenhove." That raised even more questions. Jaskier came from money. A lot of it. Why the hell had he gone on the road to be a bard? With a witcher nonetheless.

~~

"Another!" Jaskier loudly demanded as the bar tender passed him another drink. It was his third...maybe fourth ale? Now that he was thinking about it, it could've been his fifth. He didn't really care. It was only with this much alcohol in his system did it occur to him that maybe taking Geralt to his old university wasn't the greatest idea. Especially when Valdo Marx was around.

"Oh Julian!" Speak of the devil. The bard turned to see the man, permanent shit eating grin still on his face. "I'm not surprised you're here already, old habits die hard after all."

"It's Jaskier you smug....fuck..." Jaskier slurred out as Valdo raised his hand. Signalling for two drinks.

"You're so funny when you're drunk, makes you honest. I'm surprised your witcher doesn't know more all things considered."

"The fack...do you want?" Jaskier asked. Trying not to fall off his chair in the process of moving.

"Geralt."

"Wha...?"

"I've seen the way you look at him. Hell I'm pretty sure everyone who isn't Geralt has seen the way you look at him." Valdo mused as he took a drink. "Like a lovesick puppy. You'd have to be dense not to notice."

"Hey Grrr....Gralt s not dense..."

"No but you sure are." Valdo adjusted his seat to slide a paper over to Jaskier. A flier for his next performance. Well...Jaskier was 86% sure it was. The alcohol didn't help. "If you don't want to say anything, I'll be more than happy to." Jaskier snorted loudly, doubling over.

"Y'er funny, Geralt wouldn't like someone like you..."

"Want to make a bet on that?" Valdo was grinning. "If I can seduce your witcher by the end of the week, you'll never perform again."

"Whas in it fer me?"

"If you manage to get him to reciprocate your feelings, you'll never see hide nor hair of me again in all of Oxenfurt." The drunken Jaskier made a face when Valdo stuck out his hand. Thinking a moment before taking it.

"Deal!"

Chapter 1 - A Broken Witcher

We have now reached the scene that actually inspired me to write this, which is also depicted in @spielzeugkaiser‘s art. Originally, I wanted to stop after this. Now you can expect at least 5 other chapters, it seems. (Btw, if any of you is interested in betaing this, just shoot me a message)

Summary: Geralt and Ciri have been on the run for half a year. Through pure luck their path leads them to Lettenhove. The meeting with the Viscount, however, goes a lot different than they had expected.

part 1 | part 3

Read on AO3

Geralt was more tired than he'd ever been his entire life. They had been on the run for the better part of six months and no matter where they went, someone followed them anyways. It wasn’t necessarily Nilfgaard that was on their heels, he had realised that rather quickly. The problem was that for some reason or another more than half the Continent was looking for the lost princess he had found. In the end, it didn’t matter. She was his and his alone. His to protect, to raise, to care for. He wouldn’t just give her up now.

He wanted nothing but to get home, to get Ciri to Kaer Morhen where she would be safe, where she could grow and learn. He had contacted Yennefer about that, in the hopes that she could just portal them there, but she hadn't even responded the first few times.

Then, she had said that she couldn’t do it. That had been the end of their correspondence, with Yennefer saying she had more important things to focus on.

Then, there had been a fight. Ciri was uninjured, thankfully, but Geralt could still feel the strain days after. He guessed he should have needed stitches. But he couldn’t find it in himself to make Ciri do the gruesome work. His armour was battered and torn in many places and of all things he had lost his silver sword. Well, not lost. But it was in a fucking bad shape with shards and all. He was pretty sure the next time someone breathed too hard in its general direction it would break. Together with the rest of his gear, to be honest.

Then, Roach had died. That was alright, mostly. She had been a good horse and an old one. The end had been coming for quite some time. And she definitely hadn't been well enough to carry two people, even if one of them was a starving child and the other one a starving witcher. Still, she had probably chosen the worst time to die.

Because now they were on foot, hunted by basically everyone without coin for a new horse - or even food for that matter - and without a silver sword to earn new coin. Geralt found himself thinking of Jaskier and suddenly wishing that he knew how to sing. They had rarely gone hungry when they had travelled together. Then again, it probably wasn't the best idea to draw more attention than strictly necessary. On the other hand, he was, quite frankly, running out of options.

And that was exactly when it happened. He didn't know what it was - destiny? luck? Melitele herself come to save them? - and he didn't care: "Geralt!" Ciri exclaimed with big eyes, "there's a signpost! Maybe it can tell us where we should be going!"

He clasped one hand on her too-thin shoulder, guilt coursing through his veins. He hadn't had it in him to tell her that there was nowhere left to go. Instead he had said he had lost his way. He suspected that she knew the truth anyways.

But there it was. A tattered signpost with old letters, yet clear as day. Lettenhove - 4 miles. A tiny sliver of hope appeared before his eyes and he held onto it as best as he could. He knew that place, though he hadn't passed through it himself. Jaskier had mentioned it in one of his endless ramblings. No, not one, many actually. 'It's his home,' he remembered. Which meant that the Viscount of Lettenhove had to be his father. And maybe such a man would be willing to let a witcher and a child surprise stay, for only a week maybe. He could- he could do anything, earn a little coin or food at least and then they would be on their way again-

"Right," he said. "Let's go, it's only four miles left. If we hurry, we will be there before sundown."

He knew that it was just as likely that their various pursuers had found out about Jaskier's origins and that they would be waiting there for them, but he quickly pushed that possibility away. And if that were the case, well, it would only hasten a process that seemed already overdue.

In the end, he had been right. They arrived just before sundown to find a heavily garrisoned estate with the gates barred to them. He sighed and banged on the door.

"Who's there?" a guard called from the parapet and peered down at them. There was no disgust or fear when he took in the two swords and the armour. Geralt took that as a good sign. Still, he answered: "We haven't called for one of your kind."

"I know!" Geralt answered quickly, frantically thinking of words to say. Fuck, Jaskier had always been good at that. Geralt wasn't.

"Then why are you here?"

He felt Ciri's small hand in his and suddenly he felt better. "I am seeking refuge," he answered truthfully. “For my child and I.”

"Then seek it someplace else!" The guard turned to walk away and something inside Geralt broke. He looked at the frightened girl next to him, who looked up at him with wide eyes, as if he were a knight come to save her, as if he were a hero and thought of the fate that awaited her if they were turned away and-

"Please," he heard himself say, "I am a friend of-" He racked his brain, searching for the right title. "I'm a friend of his lordship's son!" he finally gave up.

"Master Julian?" the guard called down. "What do you want of him?"

"He is here?" That was the first good news he’d heard in months. "Please, if he is, relay this message to him: I thank him for the invitation. And I am in desperate need for apple juice." The guard barked a laugh and he ground his teeth. He knew it sounded ridiculous. "Just, please, tell him; I only ask for five minutes of his time."

The guard looked down at him and Geralt thought to see pity in his eyes. He ducked his head and hunched his shoulders as if that could make the two sets of eyes on him go away. He had always thought himself a proud man. They had called him many things in his long life. Monster, Mutant, Butcher. He had never caved. He had never begged. But now? What other option did he have?

"Wait here," the guard said and vanished.

Ciri tugged at his hand and he leaned down. Not that he could hear her better, he could hear her just fine when he was standing. But he had discovered that it made her feel calmer when he did so. ‘It makes her calmer when I act like the humans she knows.’ "Are you sure we will be safe here?" she asked.

He nodded. "More than anywhere else. Remember the stories I told you? About Jaskier?"

She looked at him with wide eyes. "Your friend?"

"I-" There was a lump in his throat that didn't belong there. "Yes, my friend. His father is the lord here." 'Or so I hope,' he didn't say. "And it seems he is here, too."

"So, he will let us stay?"

He clenched his teeth. He shouldn't get her hopes up, he knew. There was still a chance that they wouldn't let them stay after all, there was still a chance that they wouldn't want to take a risk, there still was a chance that Jaskier's sympathies for witchers didn't extend to his family- Melitele's tits, there was a chance Jaskier was mad at him with how he treated him the last time they had seen each other. ‘Fuck.’ A rather big chance, now that he thought of it. Still he said: "I'm sure they will."

They sat outside for nearly an hour. Geralt tried to distract Ciri from the wait and the hunger by pointing out different plants and their uses nearby. Unfortunately, none of them were edible. ‘And even if they were, we couldn’t just take them,’ he thought with a sigh.

The sun drew dangerously close to the horizon and he was just about to give up, when, to his surprise, the gates opened. There was a young woman, dressed in a colourful livery and walked while dragging her feet across the ground, accompanied by two armed guards. "The viscount will receive you now," she said quietly, "if you would follow me."

Geralt stood and put a protective arm around Ciri, gently nudging her forward. The guards fell in step behind them and the gates shut with a loud bang. Overall, it could have gone better, he supposed. Though, it probably also could have gone worse.

They were led through a nice and bright courtyard with roomy stables Roach surely would have liked - the thought hurt, though he would never admit it. There were flowers all over, flowing from pots on the ground and spilling over the railing of the gallery that framed the courtyard from all sides. The timber framing was light brown, nearly no contrast against the white infill and the sepia sandstone and the shingles were crimson red. It was so bright and colourful and peaceful, so very Jaskier and such an antithesis to the grim reality of Geralt's life.

Then, the doors opened and it hurt even more. There in the foyer of the north wing was Jaskier staring at him. Well, not Jaskier. A younger version of him, etched onto the canvas of a large painting. He was surrounded by four sisters and what he supposed had to be his parents, dressed in expensive silks and standing tall, as would be expected of the heir. He couldn't quite tear his eyes from it.

"This way, please, Sir Witcher," the servant said and after a moment he followed. There were another two guards standing in front of a heavy oaken door that opened for them when they approached. The hall that laid behind it was just how he had imagined: bright with a high ceiling, decorated with murals of flowers and fighting knights and he could swear some of them carried two swords. Ciri gasped and wanted to run off to marvel at one of the tapestries, but his grip on her shoulder tightened. Hopefully, there would be time for that later.

They were led to the dais at the narrow side of the hall, where three people sat on wooden thrones framed by twice as many guards. The two women on the left and right he though he recognised from the paining in the entrance hall, though they had grown much since the time it had been drawn. And in the middle of them sat- "Jaskier!" he exclaimed in surprise. Jaskier as he had never seen him before, dressed all in black with a sword at his hip and a stony expression on his face.

"The Right Honourable Viscount Lettenhove," the servant announced - corrected? -, "Julian Alfred Pankratz. And his sisters, the Honourable Janina and Józefa Pankratz."

Geralt blinked in confusion. That was not how he had imagined this reunion to go.

"You may bow, witcher," the older of his two sisters said.

Geralt frowned. "I don't understand," he said and took a step forward. At once he was met with crossed halberds and steely glares. "What is happening, J-"

"You may address me as "my lord", witcher," Jaskier interrupted him with a voice as cold as ice. There was not even a trace of recognition in his face.

The faintest hint of panic crept up his spine as he tried to comprehend what was happening. Did Jaskier not remember? Had he been cursed, maybe? But when he looked into his eyes he understood. "I-" His heart sank. Of course, Jaskier remembered him. And even though his face did not betray a thing, his eyes spoke of unbearable pain. 'Fuck,' he thought. "Of course," he said and bowed reluctantly, "my lord."

If Jaskier noticed the slight change in his voice, he didn't let on about it. "I am told you wanted to speak to me."

"Yes," he gritted out, forcing himself to keep his eyes cast downwards. "My lord, I am asking for refuge. We- we have nowhere to turn. A fortnight, maybe, or a week, if you will. For my daughter and I."

"Is this her?" the viscount stood and walked over to them, measuring Cirilla with his glare. "You're certain?"

"I am." He looked at him pleadingly. "Jaskier, please," he said quietly enough that no one else heard, "a week is all I ask, anything-"

"Józefa," he called to his sister, "take the girl and show her to a room where she can rest. And feed her, for Melitele’s sake. She looks as if she is about to keel over from hunger."

His sister stood and hurried over to them. She even smiled, fuck, and it looked so much like Jaskier. Jaskier had never not smiled when they had seen each other again. ‘Looks like I did a lot more damage than anticipated.’ He only tore his eyes from his apparently-not-friend when Ciri tugged on his hand and looked up at him unsure.

He just nodded. "You can trust her," he told her. 'We have to trust them.'

"The rest of you, leave, too." Jaskier made his way back to his place on the dais. "Not a word about any of this. I will have no rumours. Witcher, stay."

It took a few moments after the doors shut behind the last servant and a couple more of awkward silence before Geralt started speaking: "You're wearing black."

"Your observational skills are as formidable as the tales make them out to be," Jaskier answered, sarcasm dripping like poison.

‘Hm.’ In the past he had counted himself lucky that he had been able to evade Jaskier’s words that cut like swords. ‘Seems like I’m all out of luck.’ "It doesn't suit you."

“I’m in mourning.” He wrinkled his nose. "That's an insensitive thing to say to a man whose father has passed not a month ago."

Ah. ‘Shit.’ That explained a lot. Geralt silenced his tongue. He knew he could never win a verbal duel against Jaskier. The man in question, however, did not seem in any hurry to move the conversation forward. In fact, he looked quite content, glaring and keeping quiet. It made him uneasy. After a while he broke: "So?"

That seemed to amuse Jaskier, but he wasn’t sure. "It seems you are waiting for something, witcher."

Fuck, he had been able to read the man like an open book. Everyone had been able to do so, he had never met anyone nearly as expressive as Jaskier. ‘Where have you learned to hide all of that, you bastard?’ he thought and for once in his life he wished that his opponent could read minds like Yennefer.

His “Hmm” was met with more silence.

He shot him a look. Jaskier didn’t communicate without words anymore but that didn’t mean Geralt couldn’t. ‘Is this the way we’re doing this?’ it asked. ‘Fine.’ Jaskier wanted words? He could have words. "It seems you are stewing, my lord."

There was a crack in the facade, minuscule and nigh unnoticeable but below slumbered a bard lost for words after being told an unsavoury lie about his singing. A smile tugged at the corner of Geralt's mouth and apparently, that was enough to make him break: "You're an idiot, witcher," he hissed, quiet enough that he never would have heard without his enhanced senses. "What were you thinking? Coming here, knocking on my front door in the light of day? Couldn't you have snuck through the kitchens at night like any other person?"

He blinked, taken aback by the onslaught. “I didn’t even know you were here-,“ he tried to defend himself but was quickly cut short: “How dare you? How dare you turn up here of all places? There’s a whole continent for you! Only one Lettenhove for me.”

He measured the man who had been at his side for so long with his eyes. No banter, it seemed. No excuses either. ‘What do you want, Jaskier?’ he tried to ask him with his eyes. ‘Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you for us to stay.’

But he remained silent, neither his mouth nor his face betraying a thing.

Alright. He took a deep breath. He had begged a guard already. He could beg his not-friend, too. "I'm sorry, Jaskier,” he said truthfully, “but I have nowhere left to turn-"

"I know!” He was angry. Very much so. “Which is why I haven't cast you out, yet. You are relatively safe here for a while, what with Nilfgaard’s defeat."

His head jerked around to him. "Nilfgaard has lost?"

“Have you not even wondered why their goons stopped chasing you?”

He shrugged. “Can’t say I noticed. There were enough others to continue where they started.”

No answer.

“What happened?”

"You really don't know," he realised. "There's been a battle at Sodden. A second one. My reports say over thirty thousand dead, among them fourteen mages."

"When was that?" Fear ran down his spine. "Yennefer-"

"She's alive, as far as I know. But she was gravely injured." He leaned back in his seat. "Which is why she can't come and get you. Though I wouldn't advise it anyways. It might be safer for you to continue travelling on foot. How’s Roach?”

“Dead.”

“Pity. How long will you abuse my hospitality?”

He hunched his shoulders. “Until I think of a plan. Or until you throw us out.”

Jaskier frowned. “I will think of something. You’re no good at that.”

He shrugged. Jaskier was probably right about that. "And how do you expect me to repay you for your kindness?"

"Do not call it kindness, witcher, for it is not. Had you arrived without the girl you wouldn't have entered the keep at all." He folded his hands in his lap. "A promise will be enough, for now," he conceded.

He quirked an eyebrow. "A promise?"

"I will not ask for your oath; I know how little you like to get drawn into the affairs of us petty humans. But my shelter comes not without a cost."

"I didn't think it would." He had, actually. At least until he had stepped into the hall.

"You’re a terrible liar. I protect you with my name and walls. I clothe you and I feed you and those who are yours. In return you council me and protect me with your sword and body. At least, that is how it normally goes." He sighed and leaned his chin on his palm. “You see, were the circumstances different, I would not require such a promise at all. Alas, they are not. I am sure that pains you and me alike. You see, my momentary trust in your… loyalty is a bit exiguous at best.”

He ground his teeth and looked at his feet. "Right..." A flattened oath of fealty. ‘Jaskier, you bastard, if I had another choice-‘

"Unless you prefer the road."

"I do not."

"I did not think so." He extended his hand where a heavy signet ring rested.

He shot him another look. ‘Really?’

Jaskier quirked an eyebrow.

Geralt opened his mouth to ask if that was necessary but before he could say anything, Jaskier said: “It is.”

“Fine.” Reluctantly, Geralt drew closer and took the hand delicately between his own. He cast one last look upwards, pleading, almost begging – ‘Don’t make me do this, please.’ – but Jaskier remained stone-faced. Slowly, he bowed and graced the metal with his lips. "I am... at your service," he said warily, "...my liege."

"Good." Jaskier withdrew his hand and Geralt straightened himself. "Go now. I am in no need of you, witcher."

He exhaled forcefully and turned to follow the command grudgingly. When he had come to Lettenhove he hadn’t expected the day to end like this. He didn’t know what he had even expected but not- this.

He had come with the last of his strength, yes, but proud and standing tall. Now he was humiliated, humoured and honour bound by a man he had considered his friend for a long time. ‘And never said it,’ a traitorous voice in the back of his mind hissed.

And for what? For the hope that the man he had sent away would now not sell them out and save their lives. ‘Fuck,’ he thought not for the first time, ‘what have you gotten yourself into?’

Prompt: 17. Don’t do this to yourself & 18. I can’t just sit by and do nothing when you’re suffering so much. 

Words: 4660

Prompt list

Read on Ao3

Ko-fi

Here comes the angst&hurt/comfort! I may have used some of the ideas I will use for the Geraskier week, to see how I handle them. I like the result, so I consider it a success! 

This fic is for @yikesthatsbad​ who wanted two angst prompts at once, I hope you like it ♥️♥️♥️

That night they had gone in a tavern somewhere in Temeria. Jaskier had been singing his best songs and Geralt had been drinking while watching the bard earn enough coins for a room that night. Geralt had thought about sleeping with Roach in the stable, to leave Jaskier with a room just for him. He had thought about that because it was cheaper and because maybe Jaskier would like to be with some woman without witchers in between. Geralt remembered clearly that thought just as he remembered how it had made him feel: Uncomfortable and a little irritated. But that had not been the worst of that night. 

The worst had been the letter.

Geralt was taking the last drink of his pint when a man with the colors and the blazon of the House Lettenhove entered the tavern. The man had gone unnoticed to everyone except Geralt, who saw in slow motion how the man stood still as soon as he crossed the threshold and looked at Jaskier with a solemn and serious expression. No, not with solemnity. With an empty face. As if he tried to suppress his emotions at all costs. Geralt had known he was a messenger instantly, and that it meant bad news. 

Because it always meant bad news.

When the Lettenhove man approached Jaskier and the bard finally noticed the blazon, the music faded. Jaskier had apologized to the villagers and had walked away with the man to a corner of the room. Geralt had watched them from afar, without asking for more drink, waiting, feeling himself on edge. The messenger had reached into his bag and pulled out a piece of parchment neatly folded and closed with the Lettenhove seal. He had given it to Jaskier. Then the man had been gone, leaving the bard with the letter.

The letter.

Geralt had seen Jaskier read it in that corner, alone. He had seen how his confused and still a little cheerful expression was transformed into a serious and also empty face after a frown. He had seen his hands shaking, and had smelled how the buttercups wilted. He had smelled the sadness too. And when Geralt had slowly got up from the table and started approaching Jaskier, the bard had looked up from the letter with wet eyes. 

And Geralt had rushed up to him.

"What happened?" Geralt had asked, worried. 

Palpably worried.

Jaskier had folded the letter right away, put it in his pouch and eluded Geralt's gaze. Trying not to cry. Not in front of Geralt.

"Nothing," Jaskier had replied. “Everything is fine,”

Geralt remembered how he had felt then. Frustrated. Angry. Isolated for no reason when Jaskier was always more than willing to talk about his feelings, to shout them if it was necessary. Jaskier refusing to trust him when something bad was happening hurt him and made him think for the next few weeks.

"Bullshit," he had replied.

Jaskier had ignored him.

That night, the night in Temeria, the night of the letter, Jaskier had gone to a room alone and had locked the door, leaving Geralt on the other side of an impenetrable stone wall. Geralt had slept in the stables with Roach like he had been pretended in the first place, but…

He knew something really, really bad had happened, and Jaskier didn't want to tell him.

That had been two weeks or so ago. And they hadn't talked about it since then.

They were no longer in Temeria, following any rumor of villages in a need of a witcher. In all that time, Jaskier had been silent, answering only direct questions from Geralt with monosyllables or even with grunts very similar to the witcher's. In the taverns which they stopped, Jaskier didn’t sing. He kept his lute hidden and drank and drank until he got so drunk that he couldn't get up from the table. Geralt always had to help him get to the room, take off his shoes and make sure he didn't drown in his own vomit.

Jaskier didn't say a word about anything in all that time, and Geralt didn't ask either. But with each drunkenness, Geralt became increasingly hurt and angry. Not because Jaskier didn't want to tell him what the hell was going on, (because deep down, though that hurt him, Geralt couldn't reproach him that when he didn't preach by example himself), but because he didn't know how to help him. Geralt had even thought about using Axii with him to calm his mind and make him feel better. Fuck, he had even thought about...

He thought the letter had been like receive an arrow in the heart.

At least for Jaskier.

They were in Redania, in a small town close to Novigrad. 

Like he had been doing those last two weeks, Jaskier was drinking one pint after another without stopping or eating anything. He had a blank look on his face, his eyes glassy like the first time he had read the letter. He didn't talk to the locals, nor to Geralt, but he did laugh with all the jokes anyone would be shouting between drink and drink. Geralt was sitting in front of his friend and didn't quite eye off him. Off and on, Jaskier glanced at the witcher over his jug with a funny and sometimes absent look, and toasted with him without words, giggling like an idiot after. 

And Geralt tightened more his teeth every time.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t watch how Jaskier was trying to drown himself in alcohol, suffering in silence for whatever was written in that letter. It wasn’t as if he wanted Jaskier to sing or talk that desperately, because if it wasn’t for the thought Jaskier was repressing his feelings like Geralt had been doing all his life, it would have been great.

But Geralt knew that what was happening was not great. That he had to do something about it if he wanted to fix it. Wich for that he had to do the thing he least liked to do.

Talk.

That night, two weeks after the letter, Geralt looked at a very drunk Jaskier, locked eyes with him and done the sign Axii without anyone noticing it, commanding him to stop drinking and come with him to their room.

It was a small room, with one bed, one window, one chair in a corner. Geralt shut the door as Jaskier had done two weeks ago. Only this time the two of them were on the same side of the stone wall. Jaskier babbled something unintelligible, leaning into Geralt, who was supporting the bard with one arm. Geralt sighed, taking Jaskier to bed. The bard giggled, lying on the mattress with open arms and eyes closed while Geralt lighted the candles they have.

“Sssssso... you finally have the guts to fuck me?”

Geralt sighed again and turned around, looking at him with tiredness. He was not prepared for this. Hunting monsters was easier. Fuck, facing the Trials had been easier. He didn't want to do this. He couldn't.

Geralt ignored the question, ignored the way Jaskier was weakly rolling on the bed, smiling like the barfly little shit he was being right now. He dragged the chair across the room to left it near the bed. Then he sat on it, a few inches from Jaskier, who was staring at him. Geralt crossed his arms, more resigned than angry. 

Jaskier snorted and sat up, wobbling a little.

“OooOooOooh the scary face,” he said, smirking, mocking him. 

Geralt blinked, pressing his lips in a thin line. He didn’t know how to start, he didn’t want to start. It terrified him.

“Jaskier,” he murmured, exhausted. He knew his body posture was tense and nervous but. “You can’t do this every night.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes and frowned. 

“And what I am doing exactly?”

Geralt grunted, looking away for a second. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. He let out a deep breath.

“You are trying to forget, trying to… not to think.” Geralt said. Jaskier huffed and let himself fall on the bed with a loud whined. Geralt felt compassion. He bit his tongue and tapped his arms with his fingertips three times before he uncrossed it and rested it on his knees. Jaskier curled up in a ball. “I know it’s easier that way, I know it better than anyone, Jaskier, I know but…” The misery and helplessness accumulated over two weeks were burning him, burning his heart. He couldn’t do this, but he must. That was Jaskier would do for him if they were the other way around. “Don’t do this to yourself, please,”

Maybe was the despair in that please, maybe not, but Jaskier suddenly lay on his other side, facing Geralt with a bright look. Geralt locked eyes with him again, feeling vulnerable. Jaskier wrinkled his nose. 

“Why do you care, you never care,” he blurted with rancor and… sadness. Geralt arched his eyebrows. 

“Jaskier… “ he mumbled, feeling more tired than before because of course, why would he care, according to Jaskier? 

Geralt never cared about anyone or anything. That had always been his facade: the lonely, distant and irritable witcher who never took sides. But Jaskier was always the first who threw in his face that he cared and involved with everything and everyone. Always. Because deep down that was what Geralt do: care. Jaskier saying he didn’t care about him hurt Geralt more than he would think, but… 

He wanted to think that Jaskier was drunk and that he didn’t mean what he said. 

I should make him sleep, Geralt thought, he's drunk, whatever I say to him now won't help.

Jaskier groaned and turned around, laying on his other side, with his back to Geralt. Geralt looked down, shaking his head a little. Then he got up and took a blanket from his bag left near the bed. It was made of soft, fluffy wool and it would keep Jaskier warm all night long. Geralt let out a deep breath and started to unfold it. He had tried, but he knew the talk was not over. He knew he had to do it in the morning again when the bard was sober. He swallowed, feeling a big lump stuck in his throat.

Then he heard the whimper. 

And turned around.

Jaskier was still curled up, but he was also trembling with broken sobs. Geralt frowned, not angry but worried, and approached the bed, sitting on the edge behind Jaskier's back. He set the blanket aside and put a gentle hand on Jaskier's shoulder. Jaskier flinched but didn’t move away.

“Jaskier–”

“She’s dead,” he whimpered.

Geralt frowned a little more, confused. He dragged his hand along his arm, a soft caress. Jaskier sniffled, sobbing with shaky hiccups. Geralt bit his lips and his tongue, feeling powerless, feeling like he couldn’t do anything to relieve his pain. Because it was no longer just about helping him with the alcohol problem. Now he knew why and what Jaskier was trying to forget. 

He was mourning.

Even with all the years that Geralt had on his back, he had no idea how to calm someone who was grieving. If he didn't build ties with anyone was precisely to avoid having to suffer that type of sorrow. He would live much longer than any human. He would see any human die, by age, by disease, or by the sword. It didn't matter. But they would die before him. Jaskier would die before him and thinking about it caused him enough misery already.

He didn’t want him to die. He didn’t want to think about him dying. He didn't want him to suffer.

Geralt closed his eyes for a second.

He couldn’t do this.

But he loved Jaskier, so he must do it. 

For him.

Geralt squeezed his arm and got up slowly, picking up the blanket and walking towards the other side of the bed. He took off his boots and his belts and tossed them aside, on the floor. Then he climbed to the mattress and tucked Jaskier and himself with the blanket. He didn't blow out the candles, the little flames would help him keep Jaskier calm. 

Jaskier had his eyes red, puffy, his cheeks and nose wet. He was still shaking with his own whines. Geralt hugged and pressed him against his body, gently, humming the few notes he knew of that lullaby Jaskier sang when little girls asked him to sing on demand. The low sound of Geralt’s voice calmed Jaskier a little, who curled up even more against the witcher, grabbing and gripping his black shirt. Geralt felt Jaskier warm breath against his neck, hearing it getting quieter and regular bit by bit. He stroked his silky brown hair, lazily, until the bard relaxed and fell asleep. Geralt looked at him then, in the grim light that the candles were throwing everywhere, and left a faint kiss in his forehead.

Sleep, little bird.

Geralt didn’t take long to fall asleep either, but when he did, he was still worried.

* * *

When Jaskier woke up he was alone. The sunlight was pouring throughout the wide-open window, and it was as if someone would have sunk a million daggers in his head. He let out a weak whine, curling up and covering himself with the wool blanket. The breeze was fresh and nice and carried with it the pretty chirping from the birds. Jaskier felt weak and awful, dizzy, sick. He remembered very little about the night before, but he didn't care. He knew Geralt was the one who had helped him, like the other times. 

Who else would have done it?

He felt remorse for a moment, there, under the blanket Geralt probably had tossed to him before leaving. He knew that Geralt didn't deserve having to take care of him, that he has better things to do. Like his witcher job. Jaskier knew he was being selfish behaving like he had been doing for those two weeks. But he didn't care about that either. He thought he had some right to did it after all. What he didn't understand was why Geralt has not abandoned him in his grief. Because he could see the witcher was irritated and angry every day since the night of the letter.

The letter for which Geralt had not inquired again.

Jaskier knew he was being careless, ungrateful, growling at everything as if he was now the temperamental witcher and Geralt was the resigned, tired of grunts, bard. He wanted to say it was unintentionally but that would be a lie. A half-lie.

He wanted Geralt to leave him alone.

He wanted Geralt to stay with him.

He wanted to cry, again.

Jaskier heard a creak from the door and pretended to be still asleep. He knew it won't work, but with luck maybe…

"I know you are awake,"

Jaskier mumbled between teeth and sat up in the bed slowly, tossing aside the blanket a little. He realized then he was still on his clothes of the night before. He looked up, frowning, feeling a hard beat in his temples. The sunlight was torture, the birds happy chirping was a torment.

"How do you feel?" Geralt asked, sitting on the edge of the bed beside Jaskier.

"As if a kikimore was chewing my head," Jaskier groaned, rubbing his forehead, his eyes and his face in general. "What time is it?"

"Noon, but don't worry about that, I have paid for one day more."

Jaskier uncovered his face and stared at him, doubtful. Right now Geralt looked like he was the calmer and the most patient man on all the Continent. It was quite strange. Jaskier clicked his tongue, whining.

"You didn't have to do that, we agreed to leave at sunrise."

Geralt shook his head.

"Not in your condition," he retorted, and offered Jaskier a slim and tiny bottle filled with a light blue liquid. "Here, drink this. It'll help you with the hangover."

Jaskier frowned, thinking that it was the first time Geralt was doing… was taking that type of care of him. He took the bottle slowly, without looking at Geralt, feeling the witcher amber eyes fixed on him. He popped out the cork and drank the damn thing with a single sip. It tasted like peppermint and rosemary and it left a fresh sense in his throat. The hard pulse in his temples started to fade, bit by bit. Jaskier let out a deep sigh, feeling a little bit better.

"Thanks," he mumbled. "Where did you get it?"

"There's a healer not so far from here, she gave me a bunch of bottles for the next times… If there is a next time."

Jaskier huffed, gripping the bottle in his hand.

"Geralt–" he hesitated. 

Geralt waited for him to keep talking but when Jaskier didn't do it, he spoke in his place. His voice was gentle, secure, soft.

"I'm sorry for not had cared more about what was happening, it's being hard for you. I should have known it or notice it when you started to drink that much."

Jaskier blinked, holding his breath.

"It doesn't matter," he murmured. "Don't worry about it, it's… it's has nothing to do with you." 

He looked up and saw how the calm cracked a little, revealing bitter and anger under it.

"Oh, yes, Jaskier," Geralt said, low, not angry but… hurt. "It has everything to do with me, "

Jaskier grunted, rolling his eyes and tossing the blanket aside completely, with the idea of getting out of bed and leaving the room. But Geralt grabbed him by the arm and kept him in place. Jaskier glared at him and frowned, but the witcher didn't flinch and looked him back with severity, with burning sorrow in his golden eyes. 

Jaskier swallowed hard.

"I know you don't want to have this conversation," Geralt whispered. "But we'll have it, you like it or not."

"You can't force me," Jaskier tightened his teeth.

He was getting angry. Geralt inhaled a deep breath.

"I can do it, you know, I have a few witcher tricks under my sleeve," he said, leaning towards Jaskier a little. Jaskier didn't move away. "But what I want it's you trusting me enough to tell me what can I do to help you." Jaskier felt his hands shaking, so he closed it in fists. Geralt saw that and sighed weakly. "I know that it's easy to ask for trust when I never let you know much about myself or my concerns but I want to try."

There was a heavy silence, with Jaskier watching Geralt with a flat face.

"Why?" he inquired then, cynical.

Geralt frowned, smelling the sarcasm. 

"Why what?"

Jaskier looked away, letting out a loud, tired and extravagant sigh.

"Why do you want to try or… to do anything? We are better than before, right?" Looking at him again, Jaskier made a melancholic grimace. "I'm not bothering you with my stupid chit chat or my music all the time, I thought you would be grateful?"

It was as if Jaskier had punched Geralt in the guts. Because he wasn't drunk anymore and was, certainly, very aware of what he was saying. Geralt loosened his grip on Jaskier's arm without thinking or noticing. He knew what was Jaskier doing. 

It hurt.

"Jaskier… " The whisper was full of exhaustion. Geralt brushed Jaskier's white knuckles. "I can’t just sit by and do nothing when you’re suffering so much."

"Why not? It would be easy for you,"

Then something broke down and Geralt snapped.

"No, it's not!" His eyes blazed with wrath, frustration, annoyance, anxiety and pain. "It's not easy just watch you trying to kill yourself!"

Jaskier replied with identical hostility.

"I'm not trying to kill mysel–"

"Yes, you are! I'm not blind, Jaskier! I know you are mourning! And I understand you don't want to trust me with that because I'm a stupid asshole who doesn't trust you with anything! I understand, really! But I can't do this anymore, I can't sit by and do nothing! I have been doing that for two weeks, waiting for you to feel better, giving you space, and it didn't work, so I thought I have to talk with you about your feelings because that's what you would try to do with me if I would lose someone important!"

Geralt got up and walked around the room, inhaling and exhaling fast. Jaskier watched him doing that, feeling himself strangely calm and… better. Strangely, strangely better, because Geralt cared. He parted lips.

"I know you are trying to push me away," Geralt cut off, still glaring at him with fire in his eyes. "And I know why you are doing it, so cut this bullshit and talk to me. I'm not giving up on you." And Geralt looked at him intensely. "You are my friend."

You are my friend.

Jaskier felt the tears peeking out the corner of his eyes, and tasted bitter in his tongue. Then he got out the bed, stepped towards Geralt and hugged him without words, hiding his face in his chest, puffing out a quiet whine. Geralt hugged him back, also with no words, caressing the bard's hair. Jaskier was trembling.

"No, don't cry, please," Geralt murmured. "I'm sorry I yelled at you… I was frustrated."

"It's okay…" Jaskier mumbled in return. He sounded weak, muffled with his forehead pressed against Geralt. "I hurt you on purpose, so I deserve it."

"No, you are the one who is hurt."

"But that's no excuse, you are indulging me because you feel pity."

Geralt sighed and Jaskier felt warm, touching his back with curious hands, feeling Geralt thick muscles under his fingers, feeling his hard pectoral against his cheek.

Sssssso... you finally have the guts to fuck me?

Jaskier blinked and got away from Geralt as if the witcher was burning him. Geralt arched his eyebrows, worried.

"Jaskier?"

"Uh," the bard stepped back, tilting his head with hesitating. "Tell me I hadn't said something weird to you last night."

"Define 'weird', "

"Oh, Gods," Jaskier rubbed his face, groaning, and gone back to the bed. He wrapped himself with the blanket and curled up in a ball on the center of the mattress. "What I said to you?"

Geralt contemplated him in silence for a moment and walked to the bed too, sitting on the edge again with a deep sigh.

"You asked me why I care, because I never care," he explained, noticing that he was sounding a little sad. "And you told me that someone, a woman, was dead."

"Ugh... " Jaskier replied. Then he sat up, letting the blanket fall around him. "Geralt, I'm sorry…"

"You really think that?"

Jaskier glanced up. Geralt was watching him again patiently. Almost… 

Almost with love.

Jaskier made a sad grimace.

"No, of course not. I know you care, and… that you were worried since the night I got the letter." Geralt nodded. "I think that if you wouldn't care about me you wouldn't try to understand my feelings even when that's difficult for you. You wanted to talk when you haven't to do it, when it's something that you don't normally do. I appreciate it…"

Jaskier sighed still a little sad, and tired. The hangover was long gone but the sensation of being chewed by a terrible beast remained. He sighed again and looked at Geralt, who was silent. Jaskier thought for a second that he didn't deserve his kindness. He slightly licked his lips, hesitating.

"It's my mother," he whispered then. "She died a month ago." Geralt nodded again, weakly. They were, again, too close. "My father sent a dozen men to get me the news but we were always moving, so…"

"They took their time,"

"Yes…"

"You feel guilty,"

Jaskier licked his lips again and looked away. He knew Geralt was comprehending his emotions by the smell. Sometimes he wished the witcher couldn't do that. Jaskier took a deep gulp of air.

"The last time I saw her was a year ago, and we didn't part in good terms exactly," he clarified.

"Why?"

"She…" Jaskier paused, feeling uncomfortable. When he glanced at Geralt again he knew the witcher was about to say that if he didn't want o couldn't tell him it was okay. But Jaskier wanted to compensate him. "She wanted me to stay in Lettenhove, be the noble that deep down I'm not."

"Hm… "

"We had an argument and I ran away from home with her yelling at my back that I'm a disappointment because the only thing I want to do was write songs and stories, and travel with you, a mutant," Jaskier covered his face with his hands and groaned, upset, embarrassed. "She called you that. And I was so furious after heard her saying it that I declared openly that I preferred being friends with a monster before being her son."

Jaskier could hear Geralt moving closer to him. Then he felt a hand, a warm, strong and big hand, on his shoulder.

"Those were big words, Jaskier," His voice was still gentle.

"I know," he mumbled, exposing his face again. He wanted to be under the blanket all-day, he wanted to forget what he said that time. "But that's not the worst."

Geralt squeezed his shoulder.

"The worst is you can't apologize to her," he said. "That was you were trying to forget, not her death."

"Mostly, yes."

There was a short and light silence, with Jaskier ruminating his thoughts, and Geralt watching him and trying to control his own anxiety. Geralt took his hand away from his shoulder.

"Do you feel better?" he asked.

Jaskier smiled at him, still sad but…

"A little, yes. Thank you," he whispered.

"You don't have to thank–"

Geralt held his breath and cut off himself when Jaskier circled his neck with his arms and hugged him tightly. Jaskier giggled and sobbed at the same time.

"Yes, of course I have to thank you, you idiot," he said, resting his chin on Geralt's shoulder. He felt a caress in his hair, and smiled again. "I know this is hard for you t–"

"But this it's not about me, Jaskier," Geralt retorted, protested. "It's about you."

"But–"

"No, listen to me," Geralt broke the hug and looked Jaskier at the eyes. The bard could feel his breath in his lips. That made him feel lightning running down his spine. "It's hard for me to talk about anything, yes, it's true. But I'm not the one grieving, you are. This is about you, your feelings and us trying to ease your pain day by day, because it will not be something that will disappear soon."

Jaskier wanted to kiss him. He should kiss him. But he knew it was not the right time. He frowned, grinning a little.

Us.

Geralt brushed Jaskier's ruffled hair, stroking his forehead with his thumb and got up from the edge of the bed.

"Now, I am getting us something to eat, "

He walked towards the door. Jaskier realized suddenly he was hungry enough to eat a whole horse. His belly groaned.

"Please, thank you," he whined.

Geralt opened the door, but looked back at him.

"Oh, and when you'll be better and not too much vulnerable I would like to talk about the idea of you wanting me to fuck you."

He closed the door before Jaskier could react. The bard blinked and stared at the wall.

Sssssso... you finally have the guts to fuck me?

Jaskier blinked again and covered his mouth with one hand slowly, face blank and plain, hearing a very much high pitched scream in his mind. Then he thought if he could jump through the window without broken his bones or killing himself in the process.

He really said that to Geralt. 

He really said that to Geralt. 

Oh, Gods.

geralt/jaskier whump meme ficlet

sooo @haljathefangirlcat wanted geralt/jaskier + 33. I am supposed to be YOUR bodyguard, stop jumping in front of bullets for me AU, but that ask also had another prompt for another pairing and this came out long so I figured I’d just post it here separately, the other one is coming asap ;) have... some 2k of modern au I guess *drops and runs*

This job is so not what Geralt had assumed it would be when he took it.

Not that he complains, even if right now he kind of is for an obvious reason, but still, it’s only thrown him not for one loop but for a hundred by now, and this one is only the last, and it’s not that they’ve been bad loops, but fucking hell, this time —

“Jaskier,” he says, voice low, slowly stitching the wound on his supposed charge’s shoulder, “I don’t know if you missed the memo or not, but I am supposed to be the damned bodyguard. What is going to take to make you stop thinking that jumping in front of bullets for me is how this is supposed to go?”

He’s not surprised when for once, Jaskier doesn’t have a witty reply but just smiles sheepishly and tries not to shrug, since the bullet had actually grazed his shoulder so he really shouldn’t move right now.

“Eh,” he finally says after Geralt has stitched half of the wound, “I told you on the first day that I really don’t do well with following instructions now, didn’t I?”

He did, Geralt has to concede.

For that matter, his fucking father told Geralt before Jaskier could, and —

Well.

Geralt, having had a really bad dry spell when it came to finding work after that botched job in Blaviken where of course he ended up being framed for having tried to actually not see anyone dead under his watch, was not in the position to refuse a job from Viscount Lettenhove, who had just raised to fame for having made his way to ministry of war after Redania’s last elections… and needed a cheap bodyguard for his son who was apparently not worth a pricey one but still needed one because you couldn’t leave any family member without supervision until he was in office. So he had taken the job, figuring that he couldn’t refuse it when he barely paid the bills these days, and resigned himself to whatever it might bring — after meeting the father, he had figured that the son couldn’t be much worse but had also really, really hoped he wasn’t cut from the same cloth.

Turns out that said son, who’s named Julian but told him please call me Jaskier, only my parents use the real one and at least I picked my own damned stage name was not at all like his father, wasn’t interested in politics and only wanted to become a professional musician after graduating at Oxenfurt and couldn’t give less of a damn about why his father disapproved.

He also hadn’t looked at him wrong for a second, actually convinced him to spill the truth about Blaviken two weeks after they met, swore him that he would write a song about it at some point even if Geralt told him that there was no fucking need for that, proceeded to actually talk to him like they had been lifelong best friends two days after they met and — listen, maybe it was unprofessional and all, but Geralt did like that, not so deep down. After all, when your only two friends are your foster home roommates with whom you run the bodyguard agency (who also are the only reason he could pay his bills after Blaviken) and who are also off on jobs more time than not and your only other more or less steady relationship is your lawyer ex-girlfriend with whom you end up having a thirst once every three months before remembering exactly why you’re better off as friends… it’s nice to run into someone who’ll just talk to you like you’re a human being and not either a piece of meat paid to make sure you don’t die or some kind of barely-escaped-from-jail-almost-murderer just because you got framed by a piece of shit who wanted his own niece dead because she could have ended his political career.

Also, people don’t… usually like him at first glance, or meeting, or whatever, and Geralt knows he’s a hard person to like and that he doesn’t make the job easier, not when he’s shit at talking shop to people or at pretending he’s good at socialization (which his fucking social worker kept on harassing about for years, not that it ever worked), and instead Jaskier patently doesn’t seem to give a damn and talks for two people if he doesn’t, and listen, it’s been nice to spend all his time around someone who actually treats him like a human being. Yennefer would tell him his bar is extremely low, and she’d probably be right.

Anyway, it’s been six months and — it has been a good job. Until now, no one actually seemed to care much for Jaskier either way except a few paparazzi, and Jaskier kept on saying it was because everyone in Lettenhove knew that he and his father were not on good terms, and the most tedious thing he’s had to do has been tuning out Jaskier’s father whenever he asked for reports and kept on blathering about how much his son could spend his time more fruitfully than partaking in silly music contests (every single time Geralt just wants to tell him he’s happier doing music contests than he’d be studying politics, just let him be, but of course he never does). Other than that, he’s learned more about music theory than he ever imagined he would, he has threatened the few paparazzi that were a nuisance, at most he’s kept his eyes more open than usual if Jaskier ended up getting spectacularly drunk once in a while and he doesn’t even bother asking for free days because the commute between Oxenfurt and Kaer Morhen is too long to consider partaking. Of course Jaskier’s father doesn’t pay him for the hours he spends with Jaskier that are technically not in his contract, but — he hasn’t minded that.

And then it happened that someone actually realized that the Viscount has a son that differently from his daughters does not live with his family and is therefore an easy target, and they did manage a rather decent attempt at what Geralt supposes was kidnapping him, but he had that under control and he was handling it —

Until one of the criminals in questions shot him and Jaskier had the genius idea of throwing himself in between him and the damned bullet and thankfully it only was this superficial wound, and fuck but Geralt had almost fucking gotten a heart attack for a moment before getting his shit under control and disarming them and calling the police.

And Geralt is pretty damn sure that his heartbeat still hasn’t gotten under control even if it’s been an hour and Jaskier refused to tell the medics that he was wounded because now that wouldn’t have looked good on Geralt’s CV, and —

Fucking hell.

“You did,” Geralt sighs, “you did, but you do realize that taking bullets for people is my job?”

“Yeah, well,” Jaskier says after he barely manages to not shrug again, “I didn’t really think about it. You looked in danger, I just — I had to, all right?”

Geralt finishes stitching his shoulder and cuts off the thread.

“You also do know that if your father finds out that you got hurt on my watch I’m fired, right?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. Very openly. “You do know that I would tell him that you made sure I wasn’t hurt worse and that my father only hired you to save face and not because he gives a fuck about me? He hasn’t called once since this whole thing went down, and it’s been hours.”

That’s… true, Geralt has to concede.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I — I wish I had advice. For that.” Real smooth, he tells himself, but then again he never met his father and his mother just left one day when he was seven and never came back and he doesn’t even know where she is right now, if she’s still alive, not that he even wants to know, so it’s not as if he’s some kind of authority on this matter. On one side, it would be easy to tell Jaskier that at least he has parents, but on the other… he doesn’t know how much better it is to have family who cares about you so much that when paying for your security they get the cheap option.

“It’s all right,” Jaskier smiles, not much but sincere, “I’ve lived with them all my life. I know how they are. And honestly, I’m quite glad that my father thought he’d get me the cheap personal security.” He winks, and Geralt wishes his chest wasn’t feeling like his heart was about to burst out of it just at the damned sight because there is no way he has feeling for the person he’s supposed to fucking guard and who is jumping in front of bullets for him when it’s really not how things work —

“You — you are?” He says, and fuck he hates how stilted that sounded and he wishes he wasn’t like this for the umpteenth time in his life, but —

“Sure,” Jaskier says, still a bit too pale but otherwise looking fine for someone who just, well, went through a shoot-out, blue eyes staring right up into his own, “as much as I can’t follow instructions, I wouldn’t jump in front of bullets for just anyone.” He winks again, fuck, what — “And I think that maybe I haven’t been as forthcoming as I could have been.”

“You haven’t been what,” Geralt replies, and then one of Jaskier’s hands is on his face and he’s leaned forward and his lips have pressed a lone, soft kiss against Geralt’s and he’s moved back before Geralt can even think about kissing him back, and when he moves back he’s half-smiling and half looking like he’s not so sure he should have done that.

“Forthcoming,” Jaskier replies, “though I thought an entire EP of songs written about you would have been enough, but I suppose they weren’t as obvious as I had figured —”

“Wait, the EP was about me?” He blurts. He had no fucking clue —

“Yeah, I realized that maybe you hadn’t grasped that. Then again I guess you’re not much for subtle hints, are you?”

“… Guess not,” Geralt says, and he knows his damned face is most likely flushing and fuck, he can’t even remember the last time he did that. “You know that if — if I kissed you back, it would be the most unprofessional thing I could do in this situation now, right?”

Jaskier shrugs, still not breaking eye contact. “And you do know that I can’t give a damn for sticking to the rules and that it won’t be me informing my father of this one development?”

… Geralt knows that. It’s obvious, by now. And fuck, he wants to —

He wants to —

“Just don’t take bullets for me anymore, how about it?” He asks, inching closer, his own hand grasping the back of Jaskier’s neck —

“Sorry,” Jaskier smiles back, “can’t guarantee that, but I’ll try just because you asked so nicely.”

So maybe it’s not professional that he leans further down and returns that kiss and moans into Jaskier’s mouth the moment he kisses back, his arms moving around Geralt’s neck at once and dragging him closer.

He thinks that for now he really can’t give a single damn about it.

I already posted this on my AO3 but I thought tumblr might like it! I’m still relatively new to this so feedback is appreciated!

~

✨I Saw You Staring✨

~

CW: description of violence/injury

~

Description: Geralt learns a bit about Jaskier’s past, and realised he may not be the pampered rich kid he thought he was

~

The path doesn’t offer much in the way of privacy. Most of the time you’re sleeping outside after walking all day, so modesty tends to be thrown out the window pretty early on. Jaskier learnt this the hard way. Sure, he wasn’t exactly used to the life of a noble anymore, but at the very least he usually managed to fall into bed with someone who didn’t have to watch him bathe (although sometimes that was fun...).

He’d been travelling with Geralt for just under 2 weeks when his resolve finally broke.

“Geralt!” He shouted at the man riding on top of a chestnut coloured mare. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I need a bath. Is there a river or something near here?”

“Finally realised there’s not many options for cleanliness out here?” Geralt smirked at him. He fucking smirked. As though he’d been waiting for this for days, which he probably had.

“You don’t have to look so smug about it, let’s just find somewhere and get it over with. I fear I’m beginning to smell like one of those monsters you hunt.”

A few minutes later, Geralt walked them over to a small clearing with a stream nearby. He dismounted and began rooting through his bags for an apple for Roach. Meanwhile Jaskier, who cared more about being clean than being stark naked in front of another man, was already beginning to strip off his clothes and fold them on the grass. Geralt began to turn away to offer the bard at least a small amount of privacy, when he saw a messy scar on the left side of the bards chest. It looked as though it was from a knife, or possibly a sword. The bard looked no older than 18, how could someone have tried to kill him already?

He was pulled out of his thoughts by Jaskier rushing into the stream and dunking under the water. He quickly shook his head and carried on feeding Roach, trying to push down the feeling of...sadness? Was that the right word? It wasn’t like he actually liked the bard. Just didn’t particularly want him to die. Or get hurt. Or lose the best years of his life travelling with a Witcher when he could be playing at courts, he was more than talented enough.

Oh fuck, Geralt liked the bard.

“Are you going to ask, then?” Jaskier called from the stream, almost making Geralt flinch.

“Ask about what?”

“My scar. I saw you staring. I’m sure you of all people are used to being asked about things like that.”

Geralt tried not to cringe at that. He was used to it, his body was littered with scars from various monsters and people he’d encountered over the years. It’s not something he’d wish on anybody.

“How did it happen? Get into a fight over a doublet?”

Jaskier huffed a laugh at that. “No, not quite. More of a family dispute, I suppose.”

Geralt watched Jaskier, indicating for him to continue.

The bard sighed, but carried on. “Jaskier isn’t my real name. My birth name is Julian Alfred Pankratz. Quite the mouthful, I know. I was also born with a title, Viscount of Lettenhove. I’m a noble, or was a noble I suppose. My title isn’t exactly mine anymore.”

The Witcher furrowed his eyebrows, wondering how one could just stop being a noble. Before he could ask, Jaskier continued his story.

“My parents were horrid people at the best of times. Filled with resentment towards me and my sisters, always trying to get us to follow in their footsteps and do things their way. I just wanted to play music, I didn’t want that responsibility or pressure.” Jaskier stopped speaking for a moment, his face turned towards the water below him as though he was trying to hide his emotion. Geralt wasn’t sure if he knew that Witcher’s could sense it, and Geralt could feel his deep sadness. He thought it best not to mention it.

“I get my love of people from my mother. She was always incredibly social, both at parties and in her bed, so I didn’t see much of her as a child. Not that I minded. But her habits made my father incredibly angry, as I’m sure you can imagine. He started to question everything she did, mostly while he was drunk, including the legitimacy of his children. I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this.”

“Hm.” Not the most articulate response, but Geralt didn’t want Jaskier to feel as though he had to stop telling his story.

“One night, after a particularly large amount of beer, my father confronted her about it while she was trying to introduce me to some Princess. No doubt trying to arrange a marriage of some sort. She was mortified, and they started screaming at eachother. Eventually she’d had enough and claimed I wasn’t his biological child in front of everyone. Needless to say he was angry and drunk and those things mixed with a knife doesn’t exactly bode well.” He gestured to his chest. “So I ran away, they disowned me, I almost died, and now I’m a bard.”

He said that last sentence in such a blasé way compared to the rest of the story that Geralt couldn’t stop the shocked expression that crept into his face.

“How old were you?” Geralt asked.

“15. So I’ve been on my own for 3 years. Until I met you.” Jaskier smiled at Geralt before ducking his head under the water to rinse his hair. The corner of Geralts mouth turned up a little at that. He felt an overwhelming urge to protect the young troubadour. Something he’d not felt before.

As he watched Jaskier walk out of the stream and begin to dress, he vowed that the man would never be alone again.

And for a long time, he wasn’t.

~

Hope you enjoyed! Have a look at my AO3 if you’re interested!

Another plus size reader x Jaskier request for you, you amazing writer you! What if the reader hates going to balls and dances and fancy soirees because she never really gets asked to dance and just sits there watching everyone else. But she goes to this one on the behest of her friend and Jaskier finishes performing early to ask her to dance and basically actually gives her attention? Hope that's not too wordy!

Fandom: The WitcherPairing: Jaskier x ReaderWord Count: 1,326Rating: GTaglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak @whatevermonkey @mynamesoundslikesherlock @magic-multicolored-miraclea/n: You’re too sweet. Hope you like it!

“Y/N you must come tonight, it will be intolerable without you,” Yennefer insisted. You’d turned down every other invitation to the many soirees you’d been invited to by virtue of your social station but your oft traveling friend’s pleas were compelling.

“Yennefer why are you even going?” you asked.

“Someone will be there and I need to talk with him,” she said simply. You quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Him? Will I finally meet the mysterious witcher?” you teased.

“Not if you’re not there,” Yennefer answered, a smile on her lips as she realized she’d won.

So you stood in the grand hall of Lord So-and-So’s house, drinking an exceptional wine and watching a ludicrously attractive man perform. He worked the crowd with practiced charm and you marveled at the beauty of his voice. The beauty of all of him, really, from the chestnut hair jauntily brushed to the side and the loveliest, bluest eyes you’d ever seen that caught the light and seemed to glow. Down to the mouth that quirked into the loveliest smiles between words. You had also noticed the beauty of his hands as they nimbly worked the lute in his arms. When his eyes caught yours he gave you a wink and though you knew better than to assume it was genuine, you blushed. Yennefer had disappeared, so much for her promise of having you meet the witcher, and when you heard the bard end quickly you sighed into your cup of wine. The one part of the evening that had been somewhat diverting now gone.

“Hello,” a slightly breathless voice said and you turned to find the bard standing before you, breathing a little hard as he had evidently run the whole length of the room to get to you.

“Good gods,” you said, uncertain what to do with yourself. Now that he stood closer you noticed other details like the soft shock of dark hair on his chest, peeking through the undershirt you could see now that he’d loosened his doublet. His eyes were even more beautiful up close, the color of the sea on a sunny day or the sky after a rainy day.

“Jaskier de Lettenhove,” he said by way of introduction, unphased by your outburst and extending a hand in greeting. You placed your hand in his and he raised it to his lips.

“Y/N,” you replied.

“Y/N,” he repeated in a breathless, starstruck sort of way, “Would you do me the great honor of accompanying me in a dance?”

You stared at him for a moment and then your eyes squinted suspiciously. You looked around the room, expecting to see Yennefer standing somewhere close by watching you. She was nowhere to be seen but you were still unconvinced.

“Did Yennefer tell you to do this?” you asked.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg?” Jaskier asked, utterly confused, “Gods no, why? Is she here?”

“Right you just didn’t notice the most beautiful woman at this dance,” you said sarcastically.

“I think I’ve made it clear that I noticed the most beautiful woman at this dance immediately. I would like her to dance with me, if she’d consent to it,” he said insistently. He didn’t look like he was being disingenuous and you agreed to it though you weren’t totally convinced this wasn’t a trick. He spun you around the floor with ease and grace, making you feel weightless as he dipped you low without exhibiting any sign of strain or worry for his back unlike some unfortunate dance partners you’d had before you’d given up social events.

“Tell me about yourself,” he asked.

“Oh not much to tell I suppose. I’m a lord’s daughter though it’s a courtesy title, truly. We have no grand riches or lands,” you said, carefully testing to see if this was what he was after. He nodded, thoroughly unaffected by the announcement and eagerly listening to all you had to say.

“What do you do for fun? What are your primary amusements?” he pressed.

“I… enjoy reading? I’ve been known to draw at times, though very poorly. I am totally unaccomplished,” you said, another test that he sailed past with ease.

“I wouldn’t say that you are unaccomplished,” he argued, “Everyone has a talent.”

“Well yours is very obvious. You are a brilliant musician,” you said. He glowed at your praise and it made you smile to see him so happy. You thought briefly that you could spend the rest of your life making him smile and never tire of it, but you quickly shook the thought from your head. This was a brief, courtly flirtation. Best not to read too much into it. Still he stayed by your side the whole evening, fetching you a drink between dances and making you laugh with anecdotes and laughing at yours in turn. You were surprised when Yennefer found you sometime later to leave.

“Already?” you asked, a little disappointed.

“We’re among the last to leave, Y/N,” she said. “What’s made you so eager to stay?”

At this Jaskier reappeared, a plate of cheese cubes in hand. He paused as he saw Yennefer and you saw a look of recognition pass between the pair.

“Jaskier,” she said flatly.

“Yennefer,” he replied, just as enthusiastically.

“I see you’ve met my friend,” she said, gesturing to you.

“I have had the honor it is true,” he said. She looked back at you and the way you looked at Jaskier.

“Well I have had an offer to stay nearby that I could take up if you are… otherwise engaged,” she said.

“I could see you home!” Jaskier offered immediately.

“Is that what you want, Y/N?” Yennefer asked, not acknowledging Jaskier’s offer.

“It is,” you said, taking only a moment to consider it.

“Very well,” she said and then she turned to Jaskier and leaned in close, whispering something in his ear that made him blanche and rankle all at once.

“I would never!” he argued. She fixed him with a disbelieving look and then gave you a parting smile before she walked off towards a tall man you barely got a glimpse of but felt certain must be the witcher. Ah well, another time. You were much more interested in the bard who offered you an arm. You took it happily and the pair of you walked into the night. He asked more questions the whole walk home, everything from your favorite fairytale as a child and if it was still your favorite to your favorite constellation. He seemed insatiable in his quest to learn more about you. You’d never had anyone exhibit such a sustained level of interest and you saw no sign of it waning. Even as you reached your doorstep he lingered, asking you what your plans were and whether you would be attending the ball the week after which you hadn’t planned to but suddenly found yourself saying you would be there. When your talking faded to quiet, your fingers brushing against each other’s shyly, he took a step closer.

“This may be a bit bold of me to request but I wonder if I may k—”

You pressed your lips against his before he could finish his request and he quickly moved to scoop you into his arms and return the kiss. You sought to deepen it and he responded in kind. After a breathless minute you forced yourself to break apart.

“Thank you for your company this evening, Jaskier de Lettenhove,” you said, smiling the biggest you had in a long time and certainly more than you ever had after a social event.

“The pleasure was all mine,” he insisted fervently, taking up your hand to offer it a parting kiss. He stepped down from the steps and you both lingered a bit longer until you finally shook your head and opened the door.

“Until next time!” he called to you, blowing you a final, parting kiss.

“Until next time,” you promised.   

Oh my god im the anon with the cuckoowitcher ask. I've been running around all day trying to have a few quiet Moments to read! I really loved it thank you so much. I've been reading all your lovely Storys but I have to say I have a Soft Spot for cuckoo Jas. Thank you for responding and writing something so sweet. Still love your writing and it still helps a hell a lot! Lots of love! Hope to see much more

Some people get stuck in my head and you, cuckoo Jaskier Nonnie, are one of those people because you’re always so polite and sweet. So while I may not have more cuckoo Jaskier stories at the moment, I wonder whether you’d like something else. There’s a lot of warlord Geralt going around, with Jaskier offered up as a tribute. But has anybody ever considered warlord Jaskier before?

It had started off as a side gig, Jaskier would always be adamant about that. He had wanted to be a bard. Sing songs, witness adventures and maybe be adored by the masses, that was his grand plan for life. Unfortunately, being a travelling bard didn’t pay well and people weren’t as quick to laud him as Jaskier had hoped. However, according to Redanian Secret Services, he was in the unique position to help them gather intelligence. So, on the side as Jaskier collected materials for his greatest works yet, he also picked up intel on armies, prisoners, relationships between factions, species and kingdoms. It was quite eye opening.

The only problem with it all was that Jaskier wasn’t stupid. He could see where wars were brewing, what allegiances were being forged. And, really, Jaskier thought he could do so much better. The information he was returning back to Redania wasn’t being used in the best way possible. So Jaskier started tailoring the information to ‘help’ them along. He had also managed to make friends with a few of the other intelligence officers, namely Valdo and Priscilla. Between the three of them, they had quite a spread of information and spent many a drunken night gossiping over maps, discussing how they would solve the problems of the continent.

One thing led to another and suddenly Jaskier had more than two fellow spies at his beck and call. Somehow he’d ended up with the loyalty of the dwarves, Zoltan and his crew being quite helpful. Then Filavandrel and his elves entered a truce with Jaskier, followed by Triss Merigold and a handful of sorceresses. It was haphazard at best but word travelled. And suddenly Jaskier was being approached by the Redanian Secret Service not as a spy but as an equal. They wanted to trade information and Jaskier almost laughed. Except, after Redania came Nilfgaard, offering riches in exchange for information and good relations. Not like Jaskier had an army or lands or anything like that. Did he? The dwarves and elves had their own regions, Redania was trying to save face that their own officers had done a better job of keeping the peace. Well, there was no harm in keeping on good terms with Nilfgaard, they had been the thorn in the continent’s side for a while. Maybe by being friendly, Jaskier and co could actually help settle issues.

When Temeria took umbrage at Jaskier’s meddling, it was one hell of an awkward moment because Redania, Nilfgaard, elves, dwarves and even Aedirn joined forces to quiet the unrest. Which was a turning point of sorts. Suddenly, every kingdom great or small came knocking on Jaskier’s door. He’d returned to Lettenhove because home was home. The steady stream of well wishers and ambassadors was, frankly, embarrassing. Jaskier had a hard time keeping up with everything.

Then there was the matter of Kaedwen. They were trying to be fiercely independent and up in arms. It just wasn’t going to do and, for the first time in his life, Jaskier asked his newfound allies if anyone was willing to raise arms against the threat. Unsurprisingly, Nilfgaard was down for a battle or two but they were joined by the elves. Redania offered medical assistance while the dwarves and trolls helped with supplies. It was all rather anticlimactic, an army marching to Kaedwen, only to be greeted by a white flag.

Not all battles were so easy though, sometimes factions arose, Cintra was being a royal twit and the war fought with them and Skellige was brutal. In the end though, they were defeated, Queen Calanthe had to admit defeat. Despite this, they weren’t prepared to roll over and play nice. In an attempt to display might and dignity, they sent the most extravagant offerings to Lettenhove. It wasn’t riches, no silks, no finery or gold. Instead, they had captured the most difficult of offerings. A witcher.

He was trussed up in his own silver chains. Silver for monsters as witchers had been known to say. It was a warning from Cintra, they had caught the most feared of beasts, the monster designed to kill all monsters. They wouldn’t bow down to a warlord, no matter what the kingdoms thought and did. The witcher was tied to a horse and made to walk behind it though a shuffle was a more apt description.

Jaskier stood in the hall of Lettenhove and watched as the half starved wretch was shoved to his knees in front of him. A hungry witcher was a weak one, much easier to subdue and manage.

“A gift, from Cintra,” the messenger had declared and stepped away with a bow.

Approaching the witcher, Jaskier ignored how every eye seemed trained on him, hands on swords and prepared to leap to his protection. Rather than pay them any attention, Jaskier sank to his knees in front of the witcher.

“Hello,” he offered. There was no response, the witcher’s head was bowed, whole body tense, trying to exude disdain and an air of threat. Up close, Jaskier could see the fine tremors through muscles though. He stood up. “Please pass my thanks to Cintra, I accept your fealty and this offering. Though I would request no more live tributes. Or dead ones! Gold, silks, food and shared knowledge is more than enough. Court dismissed.”

Nobody moved for a moment. “Everyone out!”

Jaskier stood next to the witcher who hadn’t moved throughout the exchange. As soon as they were alone, he was crouching down, tugging at the silver chains.

“You poor thing, how could they treat you like that.” Gradually, the witcher was freed from his bonds and as soon as he could, he had Jaskier’s own dagger at Jaskier’s throat. “Harsh,” Jaskier observed, “but fair. Can we save the killing for after dinner though? I have always found having a full stomach helped with most decisions.”

He didn’t expect the witcher to waver, the dagger fall from his hands and for him to collapse on the ground in a dead faint. It seemed that springing on Jaskier had really been the last of his energy. What a waste.

Needless to say, there was no killing after dinner. Jaskier learned that the witcher was called Geralt, he’d been to Cintra to collect his child surprise but Queen Calanthe had different ideas. Trapped, Geralt had been helpless to do anything which was how he’d ended up becoming an offering to a warlord.

That had Jaskier laughing. He wasn’t a warlord. If anything, Jaskier was a failed bard and a very bad intelligence officer because he thought he could do better than those he worked for. It wasn’t his fault people were pledging their allegiances to him or that he had to ask if anyone was willing to help deal with a threat to the peace that he was bringing to the continent. No, Jaskier wasn’t a warlord because he helped bring new rules to kingdoms and enforced them. Oh shit. He was a warlord. His parents were going to be so pissed off when they found out.

“I think they already know,” Geralt had interrupted Jaskier’s internal panic. “You might have been the last person on the continent to find out.”

“But I didn’t mean to become one.”

“I didn’t mean to become a witcher. Destiny is a bitch.” Geralt had shrugged. “At least you get to choose who you will speak to from different kingdoms. Is Emhyr over the fact you won’t talk to him yet? That you picked some general of his army as a representative”

Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck with an awkward grin. “I mean, I just figured the Emperor of Nilfgaard himself wouldn’t want to deal with me. So I picked someone who would and who I liked. Then I heard of what Emhyr’s like and just decided I liked my pick better.”

Over the course of a week, Geralt ate and rested, gaining back his strength and resilience. Jaskier admired from afar, astounded by how quickly his witcher seemed to bounce back. Not his witcher. Geralt didn’t belong to anyone. Even if Jaskier quite fancied the idea.

“You’re free to come and go. I’ve set out a new law that’s making its way round the lands. Witchers are to be lauded and appreciated for their hard work,” Jaskier said as he stood, facing Geralt by the stables. His witcher was ready to head out on the Path again, hopefully it was going to be a little easier for him from now on.

“Thank you.” The thing was, Geralt sounded so earnestly genuine. “I was wondering, could you keep something safe for me until I return?”

An unusual request but Jaskier would help if he could.

“You’ve been a wonderful guest, even if your arrival wasn’t the most wholesome one. I’ll keep anything safe for you.”

He didn’t anticipate Geralt leaning in to kiss him chastely. “Keep my heart safe. I’m leaving it in your good care.”

The bastard then had the gall to hop onto his horse and ride off without a backwards glance. Jaskier was going to tell him exactly what he thought of that tactic when he came back. Until then, he would treasure Geralt’s heart, even if he didn’t have time to officially give his own in return.

Hidden by the Forest

Chapter one, in which Geralt finds out the bard he's been travelling with isn't what he thought   

Read here in Tumblr after the Read More or in AO3

***

“Geralt, please, I... can... let me explain, please...” Jaskier’s voice wavers and he takes another step back. Geralt strengthens his grip on the blood-soaked sword still in his hand and glares at Jaskier. At who he thought was Jaskier but is clearly something else.

“What have you done with Jaskier?” His voice comes out as a savage snarl, his teeth clenched together, every muscle in his body tense like he’s a string pulled tight, ready to snap even at the smallest sign.

“I am Jaskier. Geralt, please, you have to believe me...!” Jaskier’s voice hitches as Geralt takes a step closer stalking towards the bard in slow steady steps careful not to startle the bard before he’s close enough to strike.

“Where’s the real Jaskier?”

***

Jaskier stares at Geralt his eyes shining just a bit brighter, a bit wilder, an unmistakable tinge of chaos radiating from him. “Geralt...” Jaskier starts but is silenced by a feral growl rising from Geralt’s throat. Jaskier puts his hands up in surrender and takes a step back and Geralt can smell the stench of fear radiating from the bard. “Geralt, please, I... can... let me explain, please...” Jaskier’s voice wavers and he takes another step back. Geralt strengthens his grip on the blood-soaked sword still in his hand and glares at Jaskier. At who he thought was Jaskier but is clearly something else. “What have you done with Jaskier?” His voice comes out as a savage snarl, his teeth clenched together, every muscle in his body tense like he’s a string pulled tight, ready to snap even at the smallest sign. “I am Jaskier. Geralt, please, you have to believe me...!” Jaskier’s voice hitches as Geralt takes a step closer stalking towards the bard in slow steady steps careful not to startle the bard before he’s close enough to strike. “Where’s the real Jaskier?” The hurt, the betrayal burns in his veins stronger, brighter than the potion he took, overwhelming his senses, making it impossible to focus on anything but the creature who tricked him, who must have done something to his bard to be able to masquerade as him so easily, without even the slightest vibration from his medallion lying on his chest. “I’m right here, just... just let me explain, please...!” ”Shut up!” Geralt swings his sword. It seems like time slows down. Jaskier’s eyes widen in fear and he jumps back just in the nick of time from the path of the sword. Geralt curses at his impatience, he should have taken a step closer but now he surges at Jaskier. Jaskier — no, the creature stumbles backwards to flee and Geralt feels bad just for the tiniest moment for killing a fleeing man. But before he has the chance, Jaskier turns around and is gone. His sword connects with a tree with a thunk but he yanks it off as he scans the area around him. He senses no one. Like the bard — the creature — disappeared in thin air but he knows that to be impossible. No creature can do that and there was no portal. It feels like his blood is boiling, his heartbeat faster, the potion he took before the fight with the monsters now lying dead around him heightening his senses, making every sound in the forest sharper, louder. But none of the sounds belongs to the... to the creature. No steps in the forest floor, no humming or talking. No heartbeat. Like the bard was never there. ***It takes a few years before he sees the bard... the creature again. He travels far and wide, across the Continent and he tells himself he’s just going from one contract to another. Still, he ends up in Oxenfurt. And in Lettenhove. He learns things about Jaskier he’s never learnt in the years they travelled together. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, a professor in Oxenfurt academy. He also hears some whispers about Redanian Secret Service but never learns the source of those. Considering the frequency they previously ran into each other, now it’s a series of near misses. Geralt reaches a town, a village just hours, days, weeks after the bard. Or later hears the bard came after he was gone. Every time he hears something about the bard the anger he felt the moment he realised the bard had lied to him seems to seep lower, deeper, coiling around his heart. The hurt, the betrayal follows him even into his sleep, into his dreams and he thinks sometimes he can hear the bard sing. First in his dreams. But then he thinks he hears it when he’s awake as well, a quiet tune just out of reach. He should have noticed. ***A group of wraiths, nothing he hasn’t handled before. Only he miscalculated. There are more wraiths than he thought, more wraiths the villagers told him about and they have him pushed back to the edge of the forest. He’s getting tired, slow. Suddenly, he’s being pulled back with a hard yank right into the forest. Without a thought, he slashes at whatever grabbed him before he even looks but the cry he hears stills him, freezes his heart with its familiarity. “Don’t kill me!” Jaskier- no the creature who looks like Jaskier cries holding his free hand up the other clutching his side. “... not yet... you won’t... you won’t find your way out of here if you do...please...”“What the fuck do you want?!” His voice is a low growl, the potion he took making it even lower, wilder. Monstrous. “I... I just wanted you to be safe...” Jaskier... the creature tries to get up. Geralt’s silver sword is on its neck in an instant, pressing down. Something inside him screams so loud he has to force himself not to listen, not to listen to the voice which tells him to rip the impostor apart, take his betrayal and anger on the defenceless creature lying in the ground in front of him. “Okay, yeah... I’ll stay down so... could you please not run me through with the very scary sword, maybe?” Jaskier babbles, his eyes focused on the sword pressing down on his throat. Geralt listens to the forest around him. To the sounds he should hear, the wraiths, the animals, the wind in the trees. But he hears nothing, the eerie quiet surrounds them like a blanket even his sharp senses can’t penetrate. He keeps his sword at the hollow of Jaskier’s throat and scans his surroundings. Everything looks... off. He’s been in plenty of forests but never in any that looks and sounds like... this. Muted, filled with ancient magic, impenetrable, not even a small path in sight. “Where’s this?”“We’re still in the same place,” Jaskier starts but yelps as Geralt presses his sword harder on his skin, “Ah! I mean technically speaking, of course, we haven’t travelled anywhere, we’re just... hidden by the forest... so to speak...” Jaskier falls quiet and looks behind Geralt his lips pursed. Geralt doesn’t hear anything, but he can’t help but look behind himself, at what looks like an impenetrable forest. “Take me back.” He orders the bard, pressing his sword down hard enough to draw blood. “No.” The bard shakes his head, a stubborn glint in his eyes, “I’m not letting you out there to get killed. We just have to wait until the sun rises.” “I could just kill you now and be done with it,” Geralt growls his anger flaring up again. “No!” For the first time Jaskier... the creature looks actually scared. But instead of looking like he’s scared for himself, he looks like he’s scared for him. It doesn’t make any sense and it makes even less sense when the creature continues, “no, you won’t find your way out of here without me. And I’m not saying this do diss your witcher senses or anything. You don’t know what this place is, what will happen if you’re left on your own in here. It might be days, weeks before you find your way out. If you do. Please, Geralt. I just want you to be safe.” “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”“I’m...” Jaskier makes a face like he’s trying to figure out what to say to get out of being killed by an angry husband before he completely relaxes and closes his eyes, “Just... just let me show you, okay? I promise I’ll let you out in the morning and after that, you’ll never have to see me again.” “Hmm.” Geralt watches the creature in front of him, how it looks like Jaskier, up to the mannerisms and tone of voice. If he didn’t see the unmistakable wildness radiating from the creature he would have thought it was his friend in front of him. When he removes his sword from the hollow of the throat of the creature he can see the unmistakable burn of silver on its skin, driving away any last thoughts it might have been his friend in front of him despite everything. Jaskier’s shining blue eyes open and stare at him in wonder before he gets up slowly. Geralt doesn’t let go of his sword, ready to strike in a moments notice if the creature decides to do anything. But all the creature does is to lift its hands making a triangle out of them. The movement sends a coppery scent in the air alerting Geralt to the fact it’s injured. The hand Jaskier used to clutch at his side is dyed red with blood. Panic surges through Geralt, drowning the anger underneath it and he realised with a painful clarity he can’t bear to watch the bard die even if it’s not really him, even if the creature is just using the bards face to throw him off he can’t kill it. Not while it wears that face. “Look through my hands, you should be able to see to the real world.” Geralt peers through Jaskier’s fingers at the wraiths still swarming the edge of the forest. “See?” Jaskier asks. Geralt hums as an answer and Jaskier drops his hands to his side and leans against a tree his eyes falling closed. ”You're injured, ” Geralt says startling Jaskier to open his eyes. He looks at his hand, covered in blood and laughs in what sounds like self-mockery. ”Yeah... Yeah, I suppose I am. I just need a bit of rest. Sunrise should be in a couple of hours or so, I'll just close my eyes until then... You can do whatever, just... don't stray too far...” Jaskier closes his eyes and slides to sit on the ground pressing at his side with his hand. Geralt looks at him in wonder, at how relaxed and unguarded he is in the presence of a monster who was ready to slay him just a moment before. He looks at how his lips start to turn pale and then a tinge of blue. “It’s almost dawn.” Jaskier opens his eyes and looks up at him a tremble in his voice, “do you just plan to stand there and stare at me for the rest of the time? You’ve been up to it for quite a time by now you know? I’m not going to run away if that’s what you’re worried about. Couldn’t even if I wanted to to be honest. Have to collect my strength a bit more for that and by then you’ll be far gone I would assume. Or is it my good looks you want to rest your eyes upon? If it’s that then, by all means, go ahead...”“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt grunts and kneels by the bard. By the creature. “You’re injured, let me see.” Jaskier lifts his doublet and chemise with trembling hands. The wound on his side is deep and angry looking, veins turned black with poison on the edges. And against all the odds the bleeding has significantly slowed down, the wound starting to close. ”It’s starting to heal but we still need to bandage it.” ”Don't worry about it. I won't die before sunrise...” Jaskier falls quiet closing his eyes again. ”Probably... I hope...” Without a word, Geralt takes off his armour and shirt. He crouches next to the bard and rips up his shirt folding up the cleanest part against the wound and binds the rest around the bard in careful practised movements. Despite his anger, despite feeling betrayed and wound, he still can't let the creature carrying his friends face die. ”Thank you, Geralt. Truly.” Jaskier’s eyes close and it doesn't take long for him to fall asleep. Geralt sits down next to the creature. If he has to be stuck here for a couple more hours he might as well get some rest. But rest is the last thing he gets as the creature moans in its sleep, clearly in pain. He keeps a close eye on the symptoms of poison clearly plaguing the bard, ready to wake him up if it starts to look like he will not survive without further treatment. He doesn't want to look too deeply into the anxiety he feels. Into the desperate need to reach for the bard every time he makes a pained noise, into the need to do anything in his power to make his pain to stop. So instead he stays still and silent, watching. ”Oh, Geralt? Is it morning?” Jaskier stirs as the sun has already risen high in the sky. His eyes are still glassy with fever but the worst seems to be over. Geralt doesn't want to think why he didn't wake the creature up at the first rays of sunlight. It didn't matter. The creature was awake now. ”Here, I'll... I'll let you out and you'll never have to see me again...” Jaskier climbs to stand on shaky feet, taking support from the tree behind him. He moves a branch to form an archway and gestures towards it. ”You can look before you go to make sure it's the right place. Just... walk through and you'll never see me again.”Geralt sheaths his sword and takes a step closer to the bard. He only intends to look through the archway but the bard... the creature seems to take it wrong and reaches to give him a hug. Jaskier feels still a bit hot to touch as Geralt wraps his arms clumsily around the bard as if his hands don't know any other action they could make. ”Thank you. For being my friend. For everything. Try not to die, okay?” Jaskier leans heavily against him, his face pressed against the hollow of his throat, every word tickling his skin. ”Hmm...” Geralt doesn't know what to say so he says nothing. It doesn't stop Jaskier from babbling on as the real Jaskier would.”You really were a great friend. Always looking after me. Deep down you do care even if you won't admit it and that's what's great about you. The caring I mean. You always get paid too little because you don't want to burden the people too much and you always did the silly things I asked of you. And I'll write more great ballads about you even if I'm not there to see them, I'm sure someone will tell me about your heroics...”Jaskier rambles on and Geralt’s sure the bard- the creature doesn't even think about half of its words. ”What happened to the real Julian Pankratz?” Geralt tries his luck as the creature seems to be halfway back to sleep. He needs to know where to find him. To be united with his friend again (which is a thought he will look further into another day). He tightens his hold on the creature just the smallest of amount, just to make sure it doesn't run away. ”He's dead, ” the bard mumbles into the crook of his neck.

The Witcher’s Companion pt. 6/6

Main Summary: Geralt is summoned to Lettenhove to deal with a fiend when Jaskier is eight. Young Julian promptly decides he will do anything for the chance to travel with Geralt and have adventures outside of his stuffy castle life. (Also on AO3/my pinned masterlist)

Jaskier lunged at Ciri with his sword. The girl laughed and spun away in a pirouette before counter attacking. He parried her attack and flicked her sword from her hand. She yelled in frustration and stamped her foot.

“Ahh. Stop doing that!” She growled.

Jaskier let his sword dance in the air as he picked her sword up. “Well, hold your sword properly and you wouldn’t drop it so often.” He teased.

Geralt chuckled as he came up behind them. Jaskier sheathed his sword and flung his arms around his witcher’s neck. “Geralt! You’ve come to join us at last, Vesemir finally let you down from the roof.”

“Hmm.” Geralt buried his nose in Jaskier’s neck, a habit he’d picked up after the incident with the djinn that Jaskier had never built up the confidence to ask him about. “You used to hold your sword wrong too.”

“Ha!” Ciri pointed her sword and the pair of them but Geralt used Quen to shield them from her attack.

Jaskier stuck his tongue out from behind the glowing bubble. Ciri smirked and threw her hands forward. They were knocked over like dolls.

“Aunt Yennefer says your witcher signs are child’s play!” She giggled. “And I am a sorceress!”

Jaskier groaned as he pulled himself up off the floor. “Why did we let Yennefer near Ciri again?” He asked weakly.

“Because she needed a magic teacher and Yennefer is the best.” Geralt hummed.

Ciri smirked and threw herself at Jaskier with her sword. He swore and rolled out the way. He just managed to draw his blade to block her next attack. “Monsters don’t wait for you to be ready!” Ciri shouted.

Geralt laughed as Jaskier defended the onslaught of her attacks. “Princesses do!” He argued.

“I’m not a princess!” She ducked under his sword and swiped her blade at his feet.

He jumped over the attack and spun round, pulling his dagger from his boots. Over the years he’d decided he enjoyed the dance of having weapons in both hands. Geralt had bought him a shorter and lighter main sword to allow for the development in his style, and he often fought with a dagger in his second hand.

He swiped at Ciri’s side with the dagger and her armour tore open, a red ribbon fell from the gap. It had been Yennefer’s idea. She’d been concerned about their training and general lack of concern for personal safety so she’d enchanted their training armour to mimic injuries whilst not allowing any harm to come to them, as long as their weapons were similarly enchanted at the time.

“Haha!” He grinned.

“Fuck!” She leapt back.

“Ciri!” Geralt warned. “Don’t swear.”

Ciri growled and spun round to attack Geralt instead. Jaskier rolled his eyes but allowed the young witcher girl to swap sparring partners. Yennefer had almost bitten their heads off when she’d seen them ganging up on the girl last week, even though she’d insisted. He sheathed his weapons and pulled himself up to sit on the wall.

Geralt used a combinations of signs and melee attacks. It was Ciri’s second winter with the witchers and she was lethal on the training ground now. There was no holding back anymore.

Jaskier watched the pair of them spar. He couldn’t take his eyes off Geralt. He never could, not when Geralt didn’t know he was watching him. They’d been travelling together now for twenty-two years. He’d known the witcher for thirty-four years and yet Geralt never ceased to enchant him. Sure he’d had his own adventures without Geralt, particularly in his twenties but none of them held a candle to the ones where Geralt had been by his side.

Geralt was quite simply the most interesting man that he’d ever known. He was Jaskier’s best friend and their companionship was something no one else ever seemed to understand. Of course, to other people Jaskier played the foolish bard. It was easier to be underestimated and it had gotten them both out of trouble plenty of times when their enemies had focussed on Geralt entirely, not realising until their throats had been slit, that Jaskier was also armed and highly dangerous in his own right. Of course Jaskier’s indignant nature meant that he often got them into just as much trouble. He’d lost track of how many times Geralt had pulled him from a tavern or manor after he’d tried to start a fight when someone had insulted Geralt or witchers in general.

Jaskier liked that he was useful to Geralt. It was one of the things he prided himself on. He’d done what he’d set out to do. He’d become a perfect travel companion to a witcher, and now he had a family in the witchers, in Ciri, even in Yennefer.

She was sort of that sister that you really hated but would kill anyone else who tried to hurt her, and he was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.  

Ciri screamed and Geralt fell backwards across the courtyard.

“Oh shit!” He hopped off the wall and ran to the witcher. “Geralt!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Ciri cried.

Jaskier cupped Geralt’s face in his hands. There was blood staining his silver hair and running from him nose. “Come on, dear heart. Wakey wakey!” He cooed.

Geralt groaned. “Fuck.”

“Ah there we go. See, princess, no harm done.” Jaskier winked at the young girl. “It takes a lot more than that to take down the White Wolf.”

“Jask?” Geralt slurred.

“Yes darling?” He touched the cut on Geralt’s head lightly, pulling the hair apart. It wasn’t deep and wouldn’t need stitches. Geralt’s witcher healing would be enough.

“Your turn.” He mumbled and passed out.

__________________________

Geralt woke up with a splitting headache and a dry throat.

He grunted and tried to sit up but Jaskier pushed him back down.

“Oh no. Stay down, my dear.” The bard sang. “You just got blasted by a fourteen year old girl.”

“I am so sorry!” Ciri cried. “I just panicked!”

“I told her you’ll be fine.” Jaskier smiled brightly with a tilt of his head. “But I must say I am glad to see those beautiful eyes again, dear heart.”

Geralt grunted and sat up, pushing the bard away from him. “I’m fine, Jaskier.”

Ciri was staring at him with wide green eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Just a headache.” He pulled the young girl into a hug. “I’m sure Yen and the others will delight in this.”

Jaskier laughed melodically and lured Geralt into smiling back at him. “Oh yes, and naturally I already have two verses of a new song written.”

Geralt growled and knocked his friend off the bed.

“Oi! Hey that’s not fair!” Jaskier pouted.

Ciri was laughing now too, all fears forgotten.

He hummed and smiled at the pair of them, his family.

“Oh, Yennefer’s calling me.” Ciri said with a tilt of her head. “I’ll you at dinner, Geralt.”

Geralt nodded. Once she was gone he helped Jaskier up off the floor. The bard fell onto the bed and against Geralt’s chest. “Two verses?” He asked with a low chuckle. “You’re getting slow in your old age, Jask. I would have expected three by now.”

“Old age?!” Jaskier cried and scowled up at Geralt. “I am forty-two! That’s hardly old, witcher.”

Geralt scoffed. “Forty-two and still trailing round the continent after a witcher. Not bored yet?”

Jaskier pouted. “Of you? Geralt, never.”

The bard hummed under his breath as he curled up against Geralt’s chest. It wasn’t unusual. After so many years of travelling together, sharing beds when money was low or when it got cold at night, they’d become used to a lack of personal boundaries.

Forty-two.

Fuck.

How many years did humans live for anyway?

“Jask?” Geralt hummed as he threaded his fingers through the soft chestnut hair.

“Hmm?”

“What will you do when you get too old to travel?” He asked.

Jaskier snorted. “I will get a cane, the type with a sword in, and you’ll have to carry me when I get tired.”

Geralt frowned. “I’m serious.”

“So am I!” Jaskier sniffed and raised his head to look up at Geralt.

“Don’t you want to retire?” He asked, remembering what Jaskier had asked him all those years ago before the fated banquet.

“Witchers don’t retire so neither will I.” Jaskier insisted with a smirk. “What’s gotten into you?”

Geralt hummed. “I hadn’t realised you were so old.”

Jaskier laughed. “Ah yes, well. I do look pretty good for my age.”

“You have me to thank for that.” Yennefer said from the doorway. She was smirking at them. “Took you long enough to notice.”

“Yen? What?” Geralt growled.

“Oh no. What did you do to me, witch?” Jaskier snapped, sitting up and peering at the sorceress suspiciously.

“I did what I was asked to do. I saved your life.” She raised an eyebrow. “Permanently.”

“The fuck?” Geralt asked.

Yennefer shrugged. “Your witcher seemed desperate, bard. I was feeling generous. I was wondering how long it would take you to realise though. Honestly, I thought you’d worked it out years ago. Unfortunately that does mean Geralt won’t be carrying you anywhere any time soon.”

Geralt stared between the sorceress and the bard in shock. “Hmm.”

Jaskier seemed equally flummoxed for once in his life. “I’m… immortal?”

“Of sorts.” Yennefer smirked. “As long as you don’t get killed. It’s an old spell, found in an old witchers’ keep. Witchers used to have companions, back before humans turned on them. The companions were meant to make the witchers seem more… approachable, less like the monsters people think they are. A witcher and their companion were linked by magic, prolonging the companion’s life to match their witcher.”

“So what, you just… linked me and Geralt?” Jaskier gaped.

Yennefer nodded. “I didn’t think it would work. The spell was only supposed to work if the pair already had a deep emotional connection, which as I am sure you both know, is supposedly not easy for witchers due to the mutations. It’s why the companions ceased to exist and the spell was lost. An old friend of mine found it in the ruin years ago. I never thought I would have the chance to use it, and then you walked in dragging a bloody bard behind you.”

“Hang on!” Jaskier waved his hands. “A deep emotional connection?”

“That’s what the book said.” Yennefer nodded.

“But Geralt barely acknowledges that we’re friends!” Jaskier pouted.

Geralt groaned and pulled his pillow over his face.

“Oh, Jaskier.” Yennefer sighed. “I can read minds. You have no idea!”

“Get out!” Geralt threw the pillow at Yennefer. She waved her hands and the pillow turned to dust.

“Fine!” She grinned. “I was leaving anyway. Ciri is waiting for me.” She strode from the room, leaving Geralt to deal with the mess she’d created.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked quietly. “Umm… is this alright? I know you didn’t ask for this. You probably thought you’d be shot of me in a few years.”

Geralt nodded and tilted his head. “It’s fine. Are you ok?”

Jaskier hummed. “Yes. Sort of. It’s a lot to take in, the whole immortality thing.” He said with a wave of his hands. “But with you? I suppose it could be alright. Just another adventure really, isn’t it?” Jaskier’s smile shone brighter than the sun, lighting up the entire room and warming Geralt’s heart.

Geralt nodded and Jaskier fell back against his chest with a contented sigh. Geralt felt himself smile.

Jaskier, the witcher’s companion.

Taglist: @alwenarin @slythnerd @davidtennan-t @flippinfricks @awitchersbard @genkitaco @innocentcinnamonpun @marvagon @elliestormfound @geraskier-trashh @panerato