#I think she does needle Geralt to see Jaskier
Note
#20 Saving their life for Yennskier or Geraskefer, please! Have fun on your trip!
Thank you so much for the prompt! This turned out about twice as long as I meant it to, but it's finally done and now I have 4k of Yennskier-centric Geraskefer, featuring cuddling for warmth!
Also on AO3!
~~~
Yennefer is wandering the Blue Mountains and, quite frankly, having a wonderful day.
She, Geralt, and Jaskier are enjoying the chance to leave Kaer Morhen, taking advantage of a rare sunny day to search for good places where Ciri can practice the more explosive varieties of magic. They left the keep that morning, and now the afternoon is drawing to a close.They have found several promising-looking locations so far, but, more importantly, Yennefer has enjoyed herself immensely.
Jaskier is almost back to his usual cheer, talking and laughing incessantly, and Geralt smiles when Jaskier makes a joke or does something stupid. The sky is blue. The snow glitters beautifully in the afternoon sun. The breeze, which has been picking up slowly all day, is pleasant. Even the stones seem more interesting than usual. It is a break that all three of them very much needed.
They come to a fork in the small trail they’ve been following. One path curves around the edge of a bit of mountain that’s steeper than the rest, and the other winds its way up said mountain beside a small but loud creek.
“I’ll see if there’s anything interesting up there,” says Geralt. “You two keep going. I’ll catch up.”
“If you wanted some peace and quiet, you could have said so,” says Jaskier with a laugh.
“Would you have listened, though?” Yennefer asks, smirking.
“Good point. Probably not.”
Yennefer and Geralt share a laugh, and they go their separate ways.
The view along this path is beautiful; the jagged peaks of the other mountains around them are cast in dramatic light and shadow as the afternoon goes on, making the snow gleam like a jewel. She can’t help but notice the way Jaskier’s hair catches the light, seeming almost gold where it shines. She smiles to herself. Geralt is missing out.
This, of course, is when the mountain collapses.
The only warning they have is a cracking sound and some deep, ominous rumbling before a thundering torrent of snow envelops them and sends them tumbling off their feet. Yennefer finds herself on her back, her vision alternating between being filled by the blue sky and completely obscured by snow. She hears Jaskier cry out somewhere nearby and tries to grab hold of him, but she can’t find him. Soon, all her attention is taken up by trying to use her chaos to avoid being drowned in the fucking avalanche that Destiny has seen fit to throw her into.
Eventually, after what could have been hours or minutes, the snow finally comes to a stop. Yennefer digs herself out of the snow with surprisingly little difficulty and gets to her feet. She looks around. She is far enough down the mountain that she no longer knows where the path is, surrounded by a mess of snow that obscures any landmarks that might have been there. There is no sign of the bard.
“Jaskier!” she shouts. Her voice seems to disappear into the expanse of wilderness, fading far too quickly for her liking. “Jaskier!”
She holds still and listens. There is no sound but the faint hissing of the wind, whipping her dress around her legs. Her heartbeat is loud in her ears. She tries very hard not to panic.
“Yennefer!” called a faint, blessedly familiar voice.
“Jaskier!” She doesn’t bother to hide the relief in her voice. “Where are you?”
“I— I think I’m under a tree!”
Yennefer squints in the direction of Jaskier’s voice. There are several fallen trees strewn across the mountainside.
“Which one?” she shouts.
“How the fuck should I know? I’m underneath it!”
“What kind of tree?”
“I don’t know! It has needles!”
“All the trees have needles!”
“I know!”
“Nevermind. Just keep talking!” Yennefer starts to wade through the snow towards the first of the many trees in the direction of Jaskier’s voice.
“As delighted as I am to be asked to do that,” Jaskier shouts back, “I’m not sure I can sustain this amount of yelling. I’m rather squished!”
“Well, shout when I tell you to!”
“Got it!”
Jaskier falls silent. Yennefer tries to ignore the way the absence of his voice makes her nervous. Jaskier is fine.
She reaches the fallen tree closest to her. Jaskier is not there. It takes four more trees and a few more shouts from Jaskier before, to her great relief, she finally finds him.
He is, indeed, under a tree. It is laying mostly across his legs, but its broken and snowy branches cover much of the left half of his torso and his left hand seems to be pinned somewhere beneath it. His face is scratched and a little dirty and his hair is rather wet. Now that Yennefer can see him, she sees the pain on his face that he kept hidden when speaking. He obviously did not make it through the avalanche as unscathed as Yennefer.
“So,” says Jaskier, managing a smile, “I’m guessing this is not the place for Ciri to practice exploding things.”
That startles a laugh out of Yennefer. “No, probably not.” She sees Jaskier shift a little and grimace in pain, and the humor leaves her as quickly as it came. “How badly are you injured?”
“Well, the tree is mostly on the snow, not me. And I’m not bleeding. But something definitely hurts down there” — Jaskier uses his free hand to gesture at the half of him that is covered by the tree — “And I’m not sure how bad it is.”
He’s shivering, Yennefer notices with no small amount of alarm. It’s a wonder his teeth aren’t chattering.
“How much does it hurt?”
“It’s not aftermath-of-torture bad, but it is not pleasant. I would very much like to get out from under this tree, please.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Yennefer’s magic has returned, but she’s still adjusting to it, settling back into it like a dress she hasn’t worn in years. Most of the time it works normally, more or less, but every now and then it’ll catch or snap in odd ways and not do what she told it to. She’ll have to be careful — she can’t risk hurting Jaskier now.
She closes her eyes and focuses. She feels around the edges of her chaos. She takes a deep breath, gathers herself, and mutters a spell to move the tree.
Jaskier cries out in pain.
Yennefer stops immediately. Jaskier groans.
“What happened?” Yennefer asks, opening her eyes.
“It moved sideways,” Jaskier pants. The tree has shifted somewhat, and Jaskier’s clothes are noticeably more torn than they were a moment ago. His eyes are squeezed shut and his face is pale.
“Shit. Sorry.”
“Thank you. Don’t do it again.”
“I don’t know if I can move it without doing that again.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Can you portal us out of here?”
“Not if you can’t walk through the portal.”
“Fuck.”
Yennefer falls silent. After a moment, Jaskier opens his eyes to glare at her.
“What now? Are you just going to stand there while I freeze?”
“I’m trying to think of a way out of this!”
“Can’t you vanish the tree or something?”
Yennefer raises an eyebrow at him. “And what if I miss and injure you?”
“Can you melt the snow?”
“Same problem. I might burn you. Or drown you in melted snow.”
“I will admit that sounds unpleasant.”
There’s another moment of silence.
“So, do I just have to stay here until the tree magically decides to go away?”
“Geralt is… somewhere around here. I don’t think he would have been caught in the avalanche. If we can’t think of anything, he’ll find us eventually.”
"Right. So we’re waiting here to be rescued?"
“Unless you have a better idea?”
“You’re the magic expert. I don’t know how this works.”
“Well then, we wait until we can think of something.”
“Great. No worries. I’m having so much fun here, stuck under a fucking tree in the snow.”
Yennefer kicks him (very, very gently) in the shoulder. Jaskier hisses at her like an irritated kitten.
“Look on the bright side. At least you aren’t alone.”
“Yes, your presence is such a comfort right now.”
Yennefer ignores his sarcasm. “I’m glad to be of help.”
She blithely ignores his glare, sits down beside him, and settles down to wait.
They talk to pass the time. At first, Jaskier rambles while Yennefer listens and occasionally chimes in. Then, later, as Jaskier grows more tired and cold and generally unhappy, Yennefer begins to say more.
She tells him whatever comes to mind, everything from innocuous stories about her Aretuza days to tales she heard at court. Jaskier listens, obviously fascinated. He asks questions and makes comments. It’s more pleasant than she expected, telling stories like this to a willing audience and helping distract Jaskier from his pain. She wonders if this is what Jaskier sees in being a bard.
They sit there for a long while. Yennefer tries not to note the passage of time, but she finds herself keeping an eye on the sun’s movement despite herself. Geralt has not come yet, but he will. She has to believe that.
After a time, the wind picks up. Clouds come with it, and the sky begins to turn gray. Snow starts to fall, gentle and unhurried. It would be beautiful under any other circumstances. Now, all Yennefer feels is dread.
She carefully casts a shield to keep the snow from falling on them and block out the worst of the wind. She keeps talking to Jaskier. They will be fine. She will have enough energy to maintain the spell, the snow will not keep Geralt from finding them, and everything will be all right.
The snow keeps falling.
“I could try to move the tree again,” says Yennefer.
“Please don’t,” says Jaskier. The way his voice shakes a little at the thought is more than enough to dissuade Yennefer from the idea.
Although, if Geralt can’t find them in the snow, she may not have another choice.
“I might have to try it if things don’t get better soon.”
Jaskier grimaces. “Maybe knock me out or something first, then.”
Yennefer does not like that idea. If she knocks Jaskier out, there’s a faint possibility he might not wake up again.
“All right,” she finds herself saying anyway. The bard��s sad face should not have such an effect on her. It must be the fatigue.
The snow keeps falling.
Holding a spell for so long, especially so soon after getting her chaos back, is draining. Even a relatively uncomplicated piece of magic like this one becomes tiring after a while. She can feel her exhaustion slowly growing.
Time and fatigue begin to take their toll on Jaskier, as well. His speech becomes increasingly rambling and a little slurred, as though he’d been woken up in the middle of the night. Yennefer tries not to be too worried. There's nothing she can do right now, and she needs to hold herself together for both their sakes.
She tries not to look too closely at his face. If she does, she'll see all the pain and exhaustion Jaskier must be feeling, and she might do something she’ll regret.
It’s not often that Yennefer dislikes her small stature. She knows she’s far more powerful than any broad or brawny man could be, and the brief moment in which her enemies underestimate her because of her size almost always works in her favor. She doesn’t mind being short, and she hasn’t for many decades.
But now, as she sits beside Jaskier in the snow, she desperately wishes she was large enough to envelop him in her arms and surround him in the warmth he needs so much. She wants to hold him safe and secure and banish that horrifying expression of weary pain on his face forever. She could usually do so with magic, but now there’s little she can do. She's not used to feeling helpless. She finds that she doesn't like it very much.
Jaskier shifts his head to look at her and frowns in faint surprise.
“You’re upset.”
Yennefer barks a laugh. “Yeah.”
Jaskier’s frown deepens. “What’s wrong?” He sounds concerned, and the emotion is so heartwarmingly and heartbreakingly absurd that Yennefer doesn’t know what to say.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” she manages eventually.
Jaskier does not seem convinced.
“I don’t like it,” he says decidedly.
“What don’t you like?” asks Yennefer. It’s a good sign that he’s talking. She can keep him talking until help arrives. It’s going to be fine.
“That you’re upset. I used to like it, but now I don’t. It makes me feel all funny. In a bad way, not a good way. When it’s for real.”
Yennefer swallows. “When what’s for real?”
“The upset. Sometimes it’s a joke, but sometimes it’s not. I don’t like when it’s not.”
“Oh.” Once again, Yennefer finds herself with no idea what to say. Perhaps she should have more sympathy for Geralt, he had been dealing with sort of emotional whiplash for all those years.
Jaskier’s frown is considering now. He stares up at her like she is a puzzle that he’s trying to solve. After a few moments, seeming to have come to a conclusion, he flops his free arm out away from his side.
“C’mere,” he says. Yennefer, in her exhaustion, can’t work out what he means.
“Is your arm hurt?” she asks.
Jaskier glares at her. “No. You’re hurt. C’mere.”
“Why?”
“Hug.”
“Oh.”
Well, it isn’t like Yennefer has anything better to do. She knows she can’t keep Jaskier as warm as he deserves, but that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t try.
“All right,” she says. She gently nudges his arm back onto his torso, then lays down beside him in the snow and wraps her arms around him. She pulls his hand up against her chest to warm it and snuggles close. He really is cold — his hand is icy against her collarbone. She hopes Geralt gets here soon.
Jaskier nuzzles closer, burying his nose in her hair. He’s making some sort of sound, but it’s muffled against her head. It takes Yennefer a moment to realize that he’s humming a lullaby.
“‘S gonna be okay,” he mumbles. “Don’t worry.” His humming grows louder and he presses closer against her.
“Of course it is,” Yennefer manages. Jaskier hums in agreement.
She pulls him closer, closes her eyes, and focuses on keeping her shielding spell up. If his humming helps ground her and his warmth helps encourage her, no one needs to know.
And if her eyes are a little wet, it’s only because the cold is a little too stinging and Jaskier’s hair is tickling her face.
It seems like hours that they lie there. Jaskier goes quiet eventually, and every second of silence feels like an eternity. Yennefer holds Jaskier's free wrist in her hand so she can feel his pulse and reassure herself that he is alive. Once upon a time, she hated his incessant chattering. Now she would give anything to hear him sing again.
She considers attempting to move the tree again, now that Jaskier is more or less unaware of his surroundings, but she is so exhausted now that she doesn't trust herself not to drop it again and crush him. She casts a careful warming spell instead — not enough to melt the snow, but enough to keep them from freezing — and tries not to let the feeling of helplessness crush her. She curls up closer around Jaskier, rubs one of his cold hands between her own, and waits.
The snow keeps falling.
Out of the snow emerges a figure.
"Geralt?" Yennefer calls.
"Yen! Jaskier!"
"Over here!"
Geralt crouches down at her side, brows furrowed in concern. "What's wrong, Yen?"
"I'm fine,” she says, forcing herself to unwrap herself from where she’s curled around the bard. “It’s Jaskier.”
Geralt hisses a little when he sees Jaskier. Yennefer winces. She looks up at Geralt.
“I can’t lose him,” she whispers. It’s entirely possible that her fear is unfounded, but right now, she can’t bring herself to care.
“Neither can I,” says Geralt. Yennefer can hear the promise in his words.
Together, they pull Jaskier free and lift him out of the snow.
~~~
When Jaskier wakes, he is very, very warm. This strikes him as odd, since the last thing he remembers is being very, very cold. He also feels somewhat floaty, as though his mind is full of clouds and not on particularly friendly terms with his body. He hears a small, confused noise, then realizes that this noise came from him.
He does not know what is going on. This mystery might be more easily solved if he could figure out how to open his eyes, but that thought doesn’t sound particularly appealing at the moment.
“Jaskier?” someone says, voice echoing from the foggy space beyond his brain. He makes another noise of undetermined meaning. Something touches his arm.
“Jaskier?” the voice says again. It sounds familiar. Jaskier thinks that perhaps he should listen. “Wake up, Jaskier.”
“You’re safe,” says someone else. Oh, a second familiar voice! That’s nice.
Jaskier shifts a little. He feels sort of heavy, as though something is on top of him. He remembers something being on top of him before. He was not happy about being under something then, but he doesn’t mind so much now. He wonders what the thing is. Driven by this curiosity as much as by the voices, Jaskier gathers his strength and opens his eyes.
The first thing he sees is two other pairs of eyes looking back at him. One is golden and one is violet. They are both beautiful.
“Hello,” he croaks.
“Jaskier,” says Yennefer, relief plain in her voice. The thing touching his arm — her hand, he realizes — moves to cup his cheek. Geralt says nothing, but he takes Jaskier’s hand and squeezes it.
Jaskier blinks. He looks around at the familiar walls of Geralt’s room in Kaer Morhen, at the two beautiful people pressed close to him, and at the many, many blankets under which he is buried. He looks at Geralt and Yennefer, who seem both relieved and exhausted.
“Do I want to know what happened?” he asks.
“You nearly got yourself killed in a fucking avalanche is what happened!” Yennefer shouts, making Jaskier jump at her sudden shift in mood.
“Right. Yeah. Okay. I remember that bit.”
“You fucking should.”
“Well, I do.”
“Good.”
“I found the two of you eventually,” interrupts Geralt before they can spiral into a round of bickering. “Once I got you out from under the tree, Yennefer portaled us back to the keep.”
“Oh. Good. Thank you. When was this?”
“A few hours ago. It’s the middle of the night now.”
“Oh,” says Jaskier again. He knows his usual eloquence is suffering right now, but he figures that since he was only recently rescued from an avalanche, he can be excused.
He shifts a little, trying to see if movement still causes pain, and feels unfamiliar fabric rub against his skin. He looks down at the small part of himself that is not covered in blankets. His eyes widen.
“Why the fuck am I wearing Geralt’s clothes?”
“Mine wouldn’t have fit you,” says Yennefer, as though it’s obvious.
Jaskier tries to sit up. “Is my coat all right?”
He liked that coat — it’s one of the few things of his own he still has. If it was ruined by a fucking avalanche, Jaskier will have some choice words for Destiny.
Geralt gently but firmly pushes Jaskier back to the bed. “Stay.”
“It’s fine, you peacock,” says Yennefer. “It’s drying in the great hall. Coën mended it.”
“Oh,” says Jaskier. “That’s… unexpectedly kind of him. I’ll have to thank him soon.”
Geralt hums. “He’ll probably come up here at some point.”
Jaskier frowns at Geralt. “What, am I not allowed to get up?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Healers’ orders,” says Yennefer.
“You’re not healers.”
“We healed you, didn’t we?”
“I suppose.”
Geralt nods in agreement. “So no getting out of bed.”
“Not at all?”
“Nope.”
“Not even to use the privy?”
Yennefer huffs. “We’ll think of something.”
“Why not?”
Geralt glares down at him. “I left you alone after the dragon hunt. You got tortured. I left you alone yesterday. You got trapped in an avalanche. I’m not taking that risk again.”
“I got hurt when I was with you, too!”
“But not when you were with me and Yen.”
“That’s because I’m barely ever with you and Yen!”
“Hmm. We can fix that.”
“I don’t have a say in this, do I?”
“Nope.”
“Fine.”
It shouldn’t be possible to snuggle into blankets angrily, but Jaskier thinks he manages it. Geralt is unperturbed. He curls up behind Jaskier and puts an arm around his waist. Jaskier, feeling slightly squished, tries to shift to a more comfortable position. Geralt holds him tighter.
“Help,” says Jaskier, giving Yennefer his most pathetically pleading look. “I’m being imprisoned.”
“Serves you right for scaring us like that,” says Yennefer.
Her tone is flippant, but Jaskier can hear the vulnerability hidden behind her walls. She really had been scared. He suddenly found his imprisonment to be less irritating.
“Well,” he says, “If I must suffer the cruel fate of cuddle prison, I would appreciate some company.”
Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t I be another jailor instead of a cellmate?”
“Also acceptable.”
“As your jailer, I shouldn’t care about whether or not you find things acceptable.”
“Yen,” grumbles Geralt, voice slightly muffled by Jaskier’s hair, “Stop bantering and cuddle our bard.”
Our bard. Jaskier suddenly thinks he might cry.
“Fine,” says Yennefer.
She lays down against Jaskier’s front, throws an arm across him to rest on Geralt’s shoulder, and pulls one of Jaskier’s hands under her head so she can tangle their fingers together. Geralt rumbles happily and presses closer, resting a hand on Yennefer’s waist. He squishes Jaskier a little more in the process, but Jaskier finds that he no longer minds. Either someone gave him a painkiller at some point, or Yennefer did some excellent magical healing, because he feels warm and safe and sleepy and nothing hurts at all. Geralt’s warm weight is as comforting as Yennefer’s embrace.
He hums happily and closes his eyes. Perhaps staying in bed for an undetermined length of time is a better idea than he’d thought.
“This is nice,” he says sleepily. Yennefer gently bats him on the arm.
“It’s more than you deserve after the stunt you pulled today.”
Jaskier huffs a laugh, not bothering to open his eyes. “It’s hardly my fault that the mountain collapsed.”
“I’m sure you were involved somehow.”
“Probably,” Geralt agrees.
Jaskier opens his eyes. He tries to twist around so Geralt can see the full effect of Jaskier’s best horrified expression, but is stopped by the fact that he is still half-underneath him.
“Geralt! Don’t turn against me like this!”
“Hmm. You scared me too.”
“Traitor,” Jaskier mutters, but the admission has softened him. He stops trying to squirm out of Geralt’s grasp and settles back into his comfortable position, accepting his enforced coziness as inescapable.
“Thank you for saving me,” he says quietly. “You do that a lot. I hope you aren’t getting tired of it.”
“You’d better be grateful that we happen to like you,” says Yennefer. “We can’t let anything to our damsel in distress.”
Geralt hums in agreement. “Don’t do it again, though.”
Jaskier laughs a little. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good,” says Geralt.
“Yes,” says Yennefer. “Now shut up so I can sleep. I’m exhausted.”
“Anything for my darling wife,” says Jaskier, grinning.
Yennefer kicks him. It doesn’t do much, since she is gentle and Jaskier is half-buried beneath Geralt, but he gets the idea.
“All right, fine, I’ll be quiet now.”
“Thank you.”
“Sleep well.”
“Jaskier.”
“Sorry, sorry!”
Geralt rumbles what might have been a growl if he didn’t sound so sleepy. “Stop it. You can bicker tomorrow.”
Jaskier opens his mouth to respond, and Geralt shifts to put nearly all of his weight on Jaskier. Jaskier lets out a strangled-sounding squawk that bears an unfortunate resemblance to a sick rooster. He can feel Yennefer shaking with laughter against him.
“I surrender!” he squeaks. Geralt moves back to his previous position so Jaskier can breathe.
“I didn’t know cuddle prison had such strict laws,” he says. “I’ll have to watch my tongue.”
“I’m not sure if you can manage that, but you’ll have to do your best,” says Yennefer.
“Sleep,” says Geralt, tucking his face against the back of Jaskier’s neck.
“Goodnight,” Jaskier whispers with a smile. He rests his free hand on Yennefer’s waist, and Geralt covers it with his own. Jaskier closes his eyes.
He is just about to drift off to sleep when, so softly he almost misses it, Yennefer speaks.
“I’m glad you’re safe, Jaskier.”
Jaskier holds her a little tighter. “So am I.”
Yennefer hums and tucks her head under Jaskier’s chin, resting her ear against his pulse point. Soon, her breathing slows into the steady rhythm of sleep. Jaskier can’t help but smile. He can’t quite bring himself to mind the near-death experience if he gets to experience this as a result.
There, sandwiched between two of the most beautiful and powerful people on the continent, Jaskier sleeps better than he has in years.
#geraskefer#the witcher#yennskier#jaskier#yennefer#geralt#twn#yennefer x jaskier#geralt x jaskier x yennefer#ghostinthelibrary#asks#part of the reason this took so long is that the prompt also inspired another fic which may or may not be much longer than this one#so there may be more life-saving coming at some point! :D
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Witcher Prompt - Jaskier looks out for Ciri and more
Jaskier was friends with Pavetta as children, being a viscount and all that. So he made a point to be there whenever she called, mostly for important celebrations, and then after the child surprise incident he was there for Ciri’s name days and often would stay a month or two in the winter to tutor her. This continued after pavetta’s death, Calanthe may not love the bard as dearly as her daughter did, but when he gets the little lion cub to laugh for the first time since her parents passing she decides, the danger of his ties to the white wolf were worth the risk to see her granddaughter smile again.
So when rumours of war coming to Cintra begin, Jaskier does his best to get to Ciri quickly, he get there two late. So now he is doggedly following whispers of a little girl with silver hair, and hoping against hope that Geralt is doing the same thing and at least one of them will find her before the enemy does.
Geralt finds Ciri during Sodden and Jaskier following their trail ends up finding a passed out purple eyed witch.
Somehow they all find each other and make their way to Kaer morhen
Discussions will be had, apologies and truces made, everyone wants what’s best for Ciri.
When they make the new Witcher potion with Ciri’s blood Jaskier knows her too well to know she won’t leave it alone. So when a feeling of dread in his stomach leads him to find Cirilla about to inject herself in the middle of the night, they struggle and Jaskier knows Cirilla will beat him in a fight, he is almost 40 now. So when he gets his hands on the needle he takes away the option and injects himself…..
Basically I would love for Jaskier to be non human enough to stick around for a long time at Geralt and Cirilla’s sides. I’m thinking that since he is older, and didn’t go through the years of prep and training for this it will almost kill him, and while it doesn’t make him a Witcher, he has a longer life, looks ten years younger, maybe heals somewhat faster, and his the poor bard has new senses he is not prepared for. Not as strong as the others but he is still overwhelmed by sounds, smells, and light.
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Pins and Needles: Part 2
Part 1, (here)
———- 🌷 🐺 🌷———-
“Oh my gods,” came a voice from over the counter that Geralt was currently under, sweeping up leaves.
“Uncle Lambert was right!” Ciri said, draping herself over the top of the counter so she could smirk at her dad. “You’re totally hiding from the twink tattoo artist.”
“He’s not a twink,” Geralt said, straightening up, dustpan in hand.
“Not what Uncle Lambert said.”
“Bertie hasn’t even seen him,” Geralt said, scowling.
Unbidden, the memory of just how solid Jaskier had felt in his arms. How low his shirt was unbuttoned and how delightfully hairy his chest was. Not a twink.
“I should be concerned about how invested you are in my dating life,” he told Ciri. She was sitting on the counter now, battered combat boots thumping against the side.
Geralt didn’t exactly have a conventional relationship with his daughter. He’d been friends, although not terribly close, with her parents, and when they died and there was no one to take Ciri, he had. Lambert joked that it had been temporary insanity. Eskel said that Geralt had just experienced a bout of baby fever. Vesemir just smiled knowingly.
They all knew the real answer. It was orphan syndrome. A nasty mix of abandonment issues, trust issues, and the inability to leave other orphans to social services. All three of Vesemir’s boys had it, because he’d become their dad only after they’d each individually been kicked from every home the state could place them in.
So Geralt had taken one look at the squalling, tiny baby, with hair so blonde it almost looked like his own. Geralt had gotten stiffed on the genetic spectrum, and through no fault or deficiency his doctor could find, had entirely white hair by 23.
Now, Ciri was sixteen, captain of her hockey team, and raking in the medals for Judo. Geralt took great pleasure in bragging about her at every PTA meeting, especially since it meant rubbing it in Suzanne ‘My daughter’s a piano prodigy’ Delmore’s face.
“If you’d been on a date since Aunt Yen then maybe I wouldn’t be so concerned,” Ciri said, popping her gum.
Geralt winced. His relationship with the used bookseller down the street had been disasterous and short, but in the end, Ciri had been able to tack yet another name to her list of non-blood-relative aunts and uncles.
“We’re better as friends,” he said. “Move your foot, I need to get into that cabinet.”
Ciri obediently swung her foot aside so he could grab the florist’s foam. “That’s why you should go ask out someone else...like the cute tattoo artist.” Her eyes went wide. “Oh, can I get a tattoo.”
“Absolutely not. Wait until you’re nineteen.”
“But I can get one at sixteen with parent’s permission,” she made puppy eyes. “Dad, it’d be so cool.”
“Nope.”
“C’mon, why not? And why nineteen, why not eighteen?”
Geralt smirked. “Did you know that your Uncle Eskel has a tattoo?”
“No,” Ciri said, leaning forward.
“Mmhm,” Geralt said. He began selecting flowers from buckets for his next arrangement. Something nice, maybe with some tea roses.”
“Oh, c’mon Dad, you have to tell me now!” Ciri hopped off the counter and got her apron off the peg. It had been a gift from Lambert. Geralt’s own was a simple denim apron, and her’s was the same, except it had “Don’t flirt, I’m a minor” embroidered on the chest.
“Well,” Geralt said, handing her her own block of florist’s foam. “He was eighteen, and he was really into Gwent.”
“That card game? The one that used to have that super weird animated tv show?”
“Oh yeah, we all were huge fans, but Eskel was the biggest. Which was funny, because Bertie and I beat him every time.”
“Oh my gods,” Ciri said. “Does Uncle Eskel have a Gwent tattoo?”
“Yep,” Geralt said, snipping off a too-long stem. “On his thigh. It’s pretty big, too, that’s why he only ever wears those ugly cargo shorts or long pants.”
“That’s hilarious!” Ciri said. “But what does it have to do with me?”
“There’s a lot of personal growth done between eighteen and nineteen,” Geralt said, trimming a leaf. “And I don’t want you to get something you regret. But when you are nineteen, I will happily pay for your first tattoo.”
“Really?”
“Mmhm. I don’t want you going to a cheap placing and getting some horrible blood disease.”
Ciri beamed at him and Geralt smiled to himself. He was a very cool dad.
“Why don’t you get a tattoo?” Ciri asked.
“Why would I?”
“It would look totally cool.”
“I don’t even know what I’d get,” Geralt said. He examined the flower placement. It was even, but maybe too even, he swapped a couple of the taller flowers around.
“You’d get to talk to the cute tattoo artist, I bet he’d have some suggestions.”
“I like wolves,” Geralt said.
Ciri rolled her eyes. “Dad, like every guy with a tattoo get’s a wolf. Be original.”
“Trees are nice,” Geralt said.
Ciri groaned. “Even worse than the wolf. Maybe you should go over to the shop, see what sort of art he does. Can I get a piercing?”
“What? Oh, yeah, if you want. What sort?” Geralt was a little taken aback by the quick switch, but Ciri was sixteen and had ADHD, so he was pretty used to it.
“I want an industrial.”
“Which one’s that?”
“The bar, through the top,” Ciri gestured.
Geralt fluffed out some petals. “Yeah, definitely. I’d much rather you get any cartiledge piercings done by a professional.”
Geralt, in his moody teenager phase, had gotten plenty of piercings, several on his right ear and all the way up his left. Most of which he’d done himself with a needle he’d boiled to sterilize it. He shuddered to think of Ciri trying it. Geralt had lucked out and not shattered his cartiledge, but there would be no risks taken with Ciri’s perfect ears.
“Cool,” she said. “Can we go right now? We usually close for lunch about now anyway.”
“I’m not sure they take walk ins,” Geralt said. He did not look cute enough to go see Jaskier right now.
“We can ask,” Ciri said. Taking his hand and tugging him across the street.
———- 🌷 🐺 🌷———-
I imagine that in this world Gwent is like a mix of Yugioh and Magic The Gathering.
Tag List!
@jaybeefoxy @sweetiepieplum
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Hug a Witcher Day (1/3)
Jaskier writes a new song ‘Hug a Witcher Day.’ It gains insane popularity and Geralt finds himself hugged by random strangers on one day every year. He just wishes a particular bard would hug him too.
By one person’s popular demand, I present to you a touch-starved Geralt, a cheeky Jaskier and a lot of pining.
fluff, hand holding, sharing clothes, yearning, 3k, rated G
read on AO3
It is the most ordinary morning.
The wind is picking up after last night’s rain, a common occurrence in the fall, bringing nice moisture in the air all the way from the sea. The last of the heat washed away to reveal crisp blue sky, stretching all the way to meet the mountain range.
It’s an ordinary morning, except everyone is staring at Geralt.
The inn is not busy this early in the morning, but a few patrons have risen for the first meal of the day. As the witcher sits down at a table, the atmosphere changes instantly. The conversation hushes and eyes start turning in his direction. Some are even giggling with their friends upon seeing him.
Although, there’s no malice, no fear, or disdain.
Only amusement.
It won’t be the first time that a crowd finds a witcher to be a curious sight. Although it is unusual for a town of this scale to have never seen one of them before.
So Geralt pays no mind. He only wants to finish his porridge in peace. His stomach has been rumbling since he missed dinner last night. The hunt took way longer than he anticipated, and by the time he returned, the inn had long since stopped serving. Although the maid—a young girl no more than sixteen—promised to give him an extra portion at breakfast.
Even she’s staring too.
The girl takes a look at Geralt’s finished bowl and hurries to fetch another from the kitchen. She carries the porridge and an extra loaf of rye bread to his table with a smile that gradually lights up her whole face.
Geralt nods as she puts them down, confused at the good mood of this whole establishment.
His confusion grows when she doesn’t leave. Instead, the girl lingers a moment, as if working up her courage, before bending down to circle her arms around Geralt.
He has to fight every instinct in his body to stay still and let her hug him. Her arms are squeezing gently, not the too-tight kink. Her curled locks are all over his face. When she pulls back, her round cheeks are flushed like a beet, the grin now carrying a hint of embarrassment.
“Why—”
“Thank you, master witcher!” she exclaims chirpily.
“What for?” he frowns.
“For getting rid of the fiend, of course!” She’s almost taking offense at the question. “Right before today, no less.”
“What’s so special about today?”
“It’s the day before Saovine, sir. Do you not know?”
Well…no. The passage of time registers too vaguely when he’s traveling alone from one town to another. The contract last night was no different from the last five.
Geralt doesn’t want to think about how monotonous the path is without a companion, or he’ll have to admit to himself that he’s missing the bard and his ridiculous songs and too-loud playing. He won’t do it, even in the safety of his own mind.
Still, her answer doesn’t explain anything.
“The day before Saovine!” she must be seeing his silence as an encouragement to continue. “It’s Hug a Witcher Day!”
Geralt drops the spoon into the porridge. Biting back a curse in a child’s company, he fumbles to fish it out.
“Hug a—what?”
“It’s how the song goes! Hug a witcher and thank him for the work he’s done. All the monster-killing in the past year!” Her smile turns to a tiny frown. “And you, sir, just killed that fiend for us last night. As the lyrics say, it’s only right that I hug you!”
“It was…my job. And why does it have to be Saovine?”
“It’s the day before Saovine, sir. It’s the last holiday before witchers rest for the winter. It’s only right to thank them now.” she proclaims proudly. “Have you really not heard ‘Hug a Witcher’?”
Should he have? Before asking the next question, Geralt has an inkling that he already knows the answer.
“Whose song is it?”
“Who else? Your bard of course. Master Jaskier the bard!”
The words your bard somehow lands on a soft spot in Geralt’s chest.
Although Jaskier hasn’t traveled with him for months. Geralt doesn’t pay attention to the bard’s new hits because they will eventually reach his ears anyway. Jaskier can never pass an opportunity to serenade him with every new composition when they are alone by a campfire, looking for the witcher’s personal reviews no matter how well-received by the public they appear to be.
“Hmm.” Geralt calculates the distance between where he is and Oxenfurt. This ‘Hug a Witcher’ song, in fact, is spreading faster than any of Jaskier’s famous ballads.
A hug can’t be worse than being tossed coins, right?
*
It keeps happening for the rest of the day.
First, it’s the stable hand. Geralt is just trying to load his pack onto Roach when the young lad comes in. He doesn’t try to hug Geralt, only giving him a polite nod.
“Thank you. For your work, sir,” the lad says, before helping Geralt saddle the mare. “Like the song says, eh? Thank a witcher so no monster will plague you in the coming year.”
And then, it’s a few small children. A flock of them suddenly come out of nowhere and just… cling to his legs.
“Thank you master wiiiiitcheeeeer!” They shout in unison and drag the last few syllables longer and longer. And then the group disperses just as quickly as they gathered, giggling and running off to an alley.
All except one.
The smallest one stays at his feet, looking up and staring at him.
“Hug!” the boy stretches out his short arms.
Geralt blinks.
The boy stares, eyes wide and expectant.
So Geralt has no choice but to bend down and let the boy wrap those short arms around his neck.
“You’re welc—"
It’s over in a second and the child is rejoining his friends, who are now peaking their heads out of the corner of the alley. Excited squeals erupt among them.
Geralt feels the corners of his lips tugging upwards.
When he gets to the market, a few shop owners are smiling so brightly and offering discounts. Roach gets a horseshoe and an apple for free within the first hour. The silversmith shouts out thanks before jogging up to him and pulls him in for a bear hug.
“Hug a witcher for luck,” she says.
“No, it’s for good harvests!” an old man corrects her.
They keep coming.
But everyone has a different reason and it makes Geralt wonder how many versions Jaskier has for this one song. Or, he dreads to think, how long it is.
“Hug a witcher and death will avoid your door.”
“Hug a witcher for a merciful winter.”
“Hug a witcher for good rain!”
“Thank you, master witcher.”
“Thanks, sir, for your service!”
*
“Geralt! You need to control your bard!”
Lambert growls as he slams into the heavy wooden door of Kaer Morhen keep, stamping his foot to shake off the snow.
Turning another page of the book, Geralt refuses to look at his younger brother when he’s in a grouchy mood.
“What did he do?” he asks nonchalantly.
“You know—" Lambert grits his teeth. “—what he did.”
The youngest wolf sits down, crowding Geralt’s space, his cloak still wet from the storm outside. Geralt raises an eyebrow but stays on the book. He is not going to make it easier for his brother.
After seconds of silence, Lambert finally gives in. “His song!”
“You can’t possibly be mad about Hug a Witcher.” Eskel walks in and also sits at the table, the sewing kit and a ripped shirt in hand. “It’s a good one.”
“I’m a witcher! They saw me and tried to hug me!”
“So?”
Like Geralt, Eskel only fuels the youngest wolf’s exasperation. He even starts to thread the needle, completely unfazed.
“So?” Lambert pulls off his cloak and the water splashes all over Geralt’s book. “For a whole day, people tried to touch me. A whole day, Geralt! All thanks to your bard and his blasted song! I couldn’t even get out of town without those folks jumping on me.”
“And? I don’t know about you, but I appreciate some showing of gratitude. Thank your bard for me, will you?” Eskel nudges at Geralt.
“Hmm.”
“I don’t care,” Lambert continues, pointing a finger at Geralt. “Tell the bard to stop this nonsense, or I will stop him myself and he won’t be as pretty afterwards.”
Geralt finally dogears the page and faces his brother’s tantrum. He wonders if the crease between his eyebrows is tight enough to crack a walnut—it might be fun to try one day. “Or you can just not let them,” he deadpans.
“What?”
“You are a witcher, the best one among us—according to yourself.” Geralt tilts his head, squinting. “Are you telling me you couldn’t fend off some villagers who were only trying to give you a squeeze?”
Lambert’s face stills, his index finger hanging in the air. In front of Geralt’s unblinking eyes, his face turns redder and redder.
“Urgh,” with an annoyed wave, Lambert storms off the same way he stormed in, all the while muttering all kinds of colorful curses.
Geralt purses his lips as to not let out a too-obviously laugh, but at the corner of his eyes, he notices Eskel shaking his head in amusement.
“All jokes aside, I liked the song.”
Geralt shrugs.
“Jaskier knows how to make them go around.”
“No, I like the day that came with the song. Just about a decade ago, people barely thanked us for a job well done, but now? Lambert is a prick, but I don’t mind having a pat on the back after spending a whole year on the path. Don’t you think?”
“Hmm.” He shrugs again.
Eskel has put down his needlework and is observing him intently. Both of his brothers are so weird about this, Geralt reckons, but on opposite sides of weird. Maybe that’ll be the bard’s review when they meet in the spring.
“Maybe you are indifferent because your bard already knows to appreciate you, wolf. Being your barker and all. Was he thrilled to see the rest of the world catch on?”
Geralt frowns while opening the book again, not sure where this is going.
“Jaskier wasn’t with me during Saovine.”
“No?” Eskel is moving into his space too. Urgh, the two of them. “You bard got the whole continent to hug you, but he wasn’t there to give you one himself?”
“No.”
A sudden surge of irritation rises, but Geralt isn’t sure why. All he wants to do is read the damn book without his brothers nagging him about how terrible or how amazing this ridiculous day is.
“Hmm.” Eskel mirrors his hum. Every time the older witcher does this is because he’s trying to figure out something, and Geralt has no intention of finding out.
“I’ll read elsewhere.” With a loud snap of the book, Geralt leaves the room in a few quick strides.
He has a feeling that this lousy mood might stick with him for a while yet. At least until he can leave Eskel’s inexplicable prodding and Lambert’s grumpy ass behind.
*
“I know you don’t like the touchy mushy stuff, Geralt. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know they would actually hug you all day long!”
Jaskier looks so contrite that his hands are reined in from his full-body gestures, and that’s how Geralt knows the guilt is genuine. His fingers are fidgeting with the hemline of his winter doublet and his hands, exposed in the chill, are turning red.
It’s still quite early in the spring, since Geralt has come to find the bard in Oxenfurt as soon as the ground thawed. A cold spell is hitting the town pretty hard, although Jaskier is sure that it’ll be the last one before green returns to this town.
It doesn’t help that snow has been steadily falling and melting at the same time during their stroll around campus. The bard shivers a little.
“It’s fine,” Geralt says, taking off his own scarf and wrapping it around Jaskier’s neck.
“It is not! Once again, I have been so focused on my professional achievements and forgotten about the impact those songs have on you. All of you.”
Jaskier helps Geralt adjust the scarf so it covers all of his neck and the lower half of his face. It’s made of the warmest yarn Vesemir keeps at Kaer Morhen, but the plain color is a stark contrast against the delicate design of the bard’s fur-lined doublet. In comparison, Geralt’s scarf looks too coarse to be there, but Jaskier seems content enough to bury his face into the material, letting out a soft sigh.
His hands still look cold, so Geralt removes his gloves as well.
“Eskel likes it. The song and the day.”
Those words seem to lighten Jaskier’s mood. His eyebrows raise ever so slightly.
“Really? He likes Hug a Witcher day?”
“Mm-hmm.”
The bard flexes his stiff hands before sliding into the leather gloves. They fit surprisingly well with Jaskier’s long fingers, only a bit loose on the wrists, so Geralt makes sure to fasten the cords. He then holds both Jaskier’s hands between his palms, just to warm them up a little.
Can’t let a lutenist complain about frostbite on his fingers.
“Says it’s nice to be appreciated for all the hard work he’s done. The hugs aren’t bad either,” Geralt explains. “Eskel never minded them anyway.”
“And you?” Despite his slight apprehension, Jaskier’s eyes are filled with careful hope. “Do you mind them?”
With a final squeeze, Geralt lets go.
“I told you it’s fine.”
“You don’t have to say it to make me feel better, my dear. I know how you don’t like people touching you,” the bard says, reaching out to brush off some snowflakes on Geralt’s shoulder with a gloved hand.
Geralt frowns, looks down to Jaskier’s casual touch on his shoulder, and then back to his concerned blue eyes.
Why on earth does Jaskier think he hates touches? The bard himself touches him all the time, at least in the past couple of years. Not at the beginning though, when they were barely friends and Geralt told him to fuck off all the time and not to feed Roach treats and—
And when Geralt punched him in the gut just to drive him away.
He’s seen Jaskier hug so many people, countless flings, long-term lovers, his parents, cousins, even other bards. He’s seen Jaskier hug Essi just this morning while being teased by her relentlessly about something Geralt didn’t understand. Must have been an inside joke.
But never him.
Jaskier never hugs him.
The realization sinks Geralt’s heart somehow. The cold wind suddenly cuts a lot more brutally on his bare neck and hands.
He doesn’t mind a little nip when Jaskier is the more sensitive one, being human and all. But at this moment, with the bard all bundled up in a soft doublet with those feathery puffs on his shoulders, he looks like he can give great hugs.
Jaskier looks so…huggable.
Geralt wonders what it would be like to take Jaskier in his arms and squish him over those thick, airy clothes. He wonders if he can bury his nose into his scarf—now it would smell like a mixture of Jaskier’s floral scent and the wood ash that always lingers around Geralt’s person. He would pull away to see Jaskier’s cheeks painted pink in the cold air and snow melting on his long lashes—
“You are just saying it, aren’t you? I have deeply offended you.” Jaskier interrupts those wandering thoughts because he has taken the silence as anger. His expression can only be described as crestfallen. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be too mad. I cannot lose my best friend. I simply cannot take it, Geralt! I will die of a broken heart!”
The plea is so dramatic that Geralt lets out a chuckle.
“Will you relax?” he pats Jaskier on his puffy sleeve. “I’m not mad, little poet. It truly is fine. Some children hugging me on the leg is not the end of the world.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Somehow, Geralt knows that if Jaskier decides to also give him a hug that day, it won’t be the worst thing either. Hug a witcher to thank him, it’s the bard’s own words. He’s protected Jaskier from angry spouses so many times it will definitely warrant a hug, right?
“Good, then.” Jaskier lowers his face into the scarf again, pretending to hide from a draft, but Geralt can see the faint smile around the corners of his eyes. “I’m glad your brothers also enjoyed my contribution to what will become the next official holiday.”
“Oh no, that’s just Eskel. You should avoid Lambert this year.” Geralt grimaces. “Maybe the next few years too.”
Jaskier is taken aback but recovers quickly.
“Well, I’ve got you to protect me from his wrath, my friend who’s not angry with me.” The smile, this time, is genuine and brightens up Jaskier’s whole being. His arms stretch out in a pose once more. “Where shall we go when spring comes? You know, when it really comes.”
Jaskier grimaces at the sky as if judging it for the untimely harsh weather blocking their way.
“Hmm.”
Geralt is in no hurry to determine the where of their journey this year, but the when of it…
A sudden ache in his chest tells him that maybe he should stick with Jaskier until Saovine.
Or at least the day before.
---
Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging
Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3
#geraskier fic#geraskier#my writing#touch-starved geralt#soft jaskier#soft geralt#mutual pining#emotional hurt/comfort#but in later chapters#geralt x jaskier
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Prompt Fill: “Cold”
I’m what they like to call not a clown but the entire circus. I’ve managed to delete one of the asks by accident, but rest assured I did see an anonymous prompter wish for “cold” or something to that effect...
Dear reader, it’s 3,3K words, so here we fucking go, lads.
Islanders
Cleaned up and now also on Ao3
“A room and a bath,” Geralt says without even glancing at the barman, attention fully on the precious cargo in his arms.
“Hang on, Witcher, you can’t just–”
“You’ll get your coin,” he grits through his teeth, “but whether your head is still attached to your neck when you do is for you to decide. Room and a bath. Now.”
A key lands on the countertop.
“Upstairs and second door on the right.”
The man shouts to someone behind himself. “Ilde! Hot water for the Witcher, sharpish!”
“Geralt?”
His senses turn from the foul stench of old ale and unwashed bodies and funnel inwards towards the shape of Jaskier. His bard moans softly and leans an icy forehead against Geralt’s neck.
“Hmm?” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s hair.
“C-cold.”
He reeks of misery, sharp and undeserved. A great shiver runs through Jaskier, and Geralt tightens his hold around him.
“Cold water will do,” he grunts at the barman.
“But–”
“As fast as you can,” Geralt says, grabbing the key and making for the stairwell.
***
Casting igni in the direction of the hearth, Geralt lays Jaskier out on top of a humble straw mattress and begins to undress him. There’s no cloak, and the fool’s doublet is wet through. It refuses to budge, but Geralt has one ear turned towards Jaskier’s heartbeat and doesn’t hesitate to rip apart the fabric to get to skin. It’s paler than it should be and cold to the touch – cold where on any other day it is warmth itself. His bard gravitates towards sources of heat like a stable cat to an opportune sunbeam, and to exist in his orbit is a blessing greater than any coin Geralt has ever earned.
The ruined doublet hits the floor with a squelch. Geralt moves to grab Jaskier’s breeches, but a shaking hand stops him.
“I-I r-rather lik-ked that ‘n,” Jaskier says, looking if anything even more unhappy than before.
His pulse spikes, and worry roils in Geralt’s gut.
“Doublets are replaceable,” he says. He spares a quick squeeze to Jaskier’s fingers before pulling the breeches and boots off in one desperate, inelegant action.
Jaskier is not a small man, but now, sad and shivering on the cusp of blue-tinged infirmity, he hunches and curls, reducing himself. Geralt misses his all-encompassing business.
“In here,” comes a voice from the hallway, followed by what looks like the barman and his entire family. Two boys roll a tub in and settle it in front of the fireplace, and the others empty several buckets worth of water into it.
“More, go on,” Ilde says, and the troop leaves as quick as they come, casting wary glances at Geralt’s swords as they go.
“W-we’ll h’ve t-to p-pay more,” Jaskier says.
Geralt frowns and throws a threadbare blanket on top of him, inadequate and dusty though it is.
“If they get the rest of the water within the minute, they can have double.”
“Not double. They’ll ch-cheat you. Always d-do.” Jaskier clasps at the blanket. His hands, normally so clever and expressive, jerk with exhaustion and looming danger. “Not-t worth it.”
“Let me account for what value I keep,” Geralt says. “Not hush. You have to conserve energy.”
Geralt sits down and takes a hold of Jaskier’s hands.
“W-what?”
“Shh.”
He wraps his giant paws around Jaskier’s hands, feeling wiry strength and a lifeline beneath the cold. Pressing his lips to the gap between his own thumbs, he blows warm air into the space between them. When he looks up after the third blow, he finds Jaskier looking at him. He smells less scared now. There’s a thought dancing on the tip of the bard’s tongue, but Geralt gives him a quelling look.
“Right,” Ilde says from the doorway, and buckets follow with the kind of efficiency born of a strong desire to done and elsewhere. In less than a minute they are alone once more, door closing with a firm press.
A steady stream of controlled fire erupts from Geralt’s hand, and he guides it across the surface of the tub until steam rises like from Roach’s back when she’s been safely put to bed in a warm stall after a day of cold and damp. The water ripples as he tests the temperature.
“G-Geralt?” Jaskier is sitting up, blanket having dropped to the ground. “C-can I?”
“Hmm,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s heartbeat has yet to settle, but his lips have lost their frosty stiffness. Though dry and cracked, they look pinker and plumper than before. “It’s all for you.”
Gathering Jaskier in his arms once more, he hurries to the tub. He lowers Jaskier as well he can, but when they break the water’s surface–
“Ow,” Jaskier hisses. “Ow, G-Geralt.”
“I’m sorry, but you have to–”
“Hurts,” Jaskier presses, turning his face into Geralt’s neck with the same blind faith as he had when Geralt had come across him only an hour earlier, sodden and lost on the mucky road to the northern realms. His face, however, is not defiant or proud. This is a quiet pain, and Geralt aches in a place he had long thought broken beyond the repair of all charity.
“I know. Shhh. Hold on to me,” he says. “All in one go.”
Hands tighten weakly around his arm, and then he sinks Jaskier into the tub.
He doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t yell, but he does whimper – small and vulnerable and a thousand leagues beneath the surface of what he is entitled.
Geralt pulls his arms away.
“D-don’t g–”
“I’m not.”
Stripping down with stern efficiency, Geralt gets in the tub himself, taking care to not jostle Jaskier. Water spills over the side as he guides Jaskier against his chest, making sure to move his medallion so the sharp angles of the wolf’s head don’t do him harm. It is cramped, and he settles in to cover as much of Jaskier’s surface area with his own body. They sit with their knees bent and peaking out of the water like make-believe islands – an archipelago of muscle and bone.
“How are you feeling?”
Jaskier breaths deeply and leans his face against Geralt’s shoulder.
“Like I’m b-being poked by a h-hundred n-needles.”
Geralt draws an arm around Jaskier’s chest, using his other hand to cover one of Jaskier’s knees.
“Rest.”
“I-I’m so...I shouldn’t h-hav–”
He shakes his head. Jaskier must feel it for he falls silent again.
“Rest.”
***
Jaskier falls asleep in the tub with Geralt wrapped around him like a giant octopus from out of a Skelligan skald. The rhythm of his heart gradually calms to his regular song – almost bird-like by Geralt’s reckoning. Twice he warms the bathwater, content to let his meditation be guided by the measure of Jaskier’s recovery. He wills his own warmth to seep from his skin and through Jaskier’s, and if something else should flow with it, then he reckons he is far too old to be duplicitous now.
“You needn’t stay on my account.”
Geralt looks down into the wild blue yonder.
“Do you want me to go?” he asks.
The thought sits awkwardly in him, pinching with the discomfort of new shoes.
“I want you to do what you want to do.”
“Jaskier–”
“Stay,” Jaskier says on the wave of a quiet exhale. Geralt watches the word’s traces whisk across the water and sends a small flicker of flame after it. Steam rises once more, and Jaskier sighs, and it sounds acceptably content.
“How are you feeling?”
“Much better. On the whole, practically divine.”
There’s a snobbish artfulness to Jaskier’s tone now, and Geralt allows himself the press of a smile against Jaskier’s hairline.
“Better or worse than a weekend with the Countess de Stael?”
“Darling, must you? I’ve quite reached my limit with humiliation for today.” There’s a tightness to his lips as Jaskier speaks, and Geralt frowns.
“Will you tell me why you were on the road, no cloak or lute to be seen?”
Jaskier looks down, and his scent turns abruptly with embarrassment, smelling faintly like something is burning.
“I suppose I’ll have to tell you.” He looks up with a tinge of defiance in his eyes, but it’s no hardship for Geralt to keep looking at him. “But you’ll have to earn it first.”
“Oh?”
“Wash my hair?”
There is life in his cornflower blues again, and that is reward enough for any challenge. Without a word, Geralt gets up and out of the tub. Water drips all over the creaky floorboards as he makes for the saddlebags brought up by one of the boys. His nose guides him to a bottle of oil scented with mild lavender, and he picks up a cup on his way back to Jaskier.
With pink-tinged cheeks, Jaskier watches him climb back in behind him.
“I didn’t mean–”
Geralt huffs.
“Yes you did. Hush.”
Cup in hand, Geralt guides Jaskier’s head into a tilt and scoops water over his hair, using his other hand to block the water from running into the bard’s eyes.
“You know, telling me to hush really isn’t as charming as your dour self might imagine.”
“Try sitting quietly in the knowledge of being,” Geralt says, feeling his lip twitch with the sort of maddening lack of control that eases into existence whenever Jaskier is around.
“Unbearable. Take that back.”
“Close your eyes.”
Jaskier closes his eyes immediately, and Geralt finds he has to swallow past all his want at the blatant display of trust. He spills some oil into his palms and wonders if Jaskier would let him do this if he knew the true shape of Geralt’s heart. Whole kingdoms believe it to be nonexistent or at the very least shrivelled and decaying. Jaskier thinks different. If he is to be believed, Geralt’s heart is like a honeyed bun – warm and dripping with a sweetness that Geralt knows was exterminated the second he saw Kaer Morhen rise in front of his too-young eyes. Little does Jaskier know that if you were to open Geralt’s chest and break it open past ribs and sinew and hold his heart, you would find it alternatingly smooth like silk chemises and rough with fingertip callouses, beating a rhythm to whatever tune it pleases.
“Are you alright, darling?”
Jaskier has tilted his head back even further to look at him nearly upside down.
“Sorry,” Geralt mutters, hurrying to start to run his hands through Jaskier’s hair. It is brown and short and soft to the touch. With every turn of his hands, he washes away the smell of Jaskier’s hurt and replaces it with lavender and his own touch.
“Did I say divine before? I must have lost my wits. This is my religion.”
Geralt feels a chuckle rumble up his throat and into the still bedroom air. Eyes closed again, Jaskier seems to settle in on his own terms, and Geralt is more than happy to let him.
“Did you know there was an inventor from the southern continent – further south even than Nilfgaard – who discovered the measurement for density by sitting in a bathtub?”
Jaskier prattles on about mathematics and science and a man running naked down cobbled streets, and Geralt lets the sound of his voice cleanse him of all worries. He finishes washing Jaskier’s hair, and rinses it with the cup. Afterwards, he gathers more oil and settles his hands across Jaskier’s shoulders. There’s a hitch in Jaskier’s throat as Geralt begins to gentle the oil into soft, pale skin.
“G-Geralt?”
Geralt frowns.
“Are you cold again?”
“No.” Jaskier’s voice sounds small.
“May I continue?”
Jaskier’s chest expands with a visible breath.
“Please,” he says, shoulders gaining a healthy dusting of pinkish glow. He starts talking again when Geralt continues to oil his skin, Jaskier moving on to a fevered and slightly panic-tinged monologue about the Cintran sonnet form.
Jaskier’s body is strong beneath him. His skin bears only a few scars from youthful mishaps and a characteristic refusal to be left behind. There is one running length of his back that he earned as a boy slipping down a rocky hill. Another – much smaller – has nicked his ear from when he did not move fast enough away from a drowner’s grasp. Geralt remembers tending to the wound in a furious silence, and he also remembers the apologetic look of abject misery that trailed him for a full week thereafter. It is the longest he has ever heard Jaskier be quiet, and he is grateful the bard has never again felt cause to curb his words in his presence.
I love him, Geralt thinks.
It’s not the first time he’s thought it, and he knows it will not be the last. He will carry the knowledge with him for however many centuries he may have left, and he will die with its truth glowing in every part of his body – an idea so well lived and nurtured that when his rotting corpse becomes earth once more around him will grow a ring made of dandelions and buttercups.
They have bathed together many times, but though Jaskier washes him after practically every monster fight, Geralt has until now not had the opportunity to return the favour. In the beginning he had no desire to. After that he had no cause to. Now, as he watches Jaskier’s nervous energy dispel at every gentle touch of Geralt’s hand, he thinks that perhaps he’s never needed more cause than that he wishes to.
Geralt may not have as much experience as Jaskier when it comes to bathing another person, but he finds it comes easy when he thinks of how Jaskier bathes him. He thinks of Jaskier’s hands on him, soothing touches on bruised skin – careful even when minor wounds have long healed. He thinks of clever fingers massaging his neck and back. He thinks of timid motions turning methodical with confidence for every evening spent plucking endrega entrails out of white hair. At Jaskier’s waist, Geralt’s hands still. He thinks of – he thinks of how he himself has only ever given impersonal washes to his brothers, cleaning the necessary wounds and skirting quickly past the groin to everyone’s better happiness. He thinks of two nights ago – on the cusp of their yearly parting – how Jaskier had cleaned his thighs, his hips, the vee of his abdomen…
He thinks of Jaskier with a washcloth, strong with tender caress between Geralt’s fingers – between Geralt’s toes.
He thinks of the care and acceptance that saturates every action.
He thinks Jaskier certainly deserves it. He deserves to have the same love – for love he now realises it is – reflected back at himself with as much willingness and devotion. And for that reason alone he shall have it.
Jaskier’s left knee has a thick scar on it from when he tried to ride Roach without permission and she dumped him in a field.
“Darling? Your face looks very Geralt-y.”
He looks to see Jaskier’s face inches from his own.
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“Brooding? Plotting? Dreaming? I haven’t the foggiest. What are you thinking about?”
“I think our knees look like islands.”
Silence falls save for the occasional sound of a drop of water hitting the now tepid bath and the comforting crackle of the fireplace. Geralt feels Jaskier’s toe twitch next to his own before he shifts, leaning back against Geralt’s chest, and raises his leg straight up into the air.
“I suppose that makes our leg hairs the islanders,” Jaskier says in such perfect sincerity.
Geralt swallows.
“Where is your lute?”
He feels rather than hears Jaskier’s sigh as he puts his leg back into the water.
“Hopefully still back at the Squealing Pig.”
For a second, Geralt is stunned.
“Wh–”
“I left it–”
“On purpose?”
Geralt doesn’t think his eyebrows could rise any higher if he willed them to.
“Of course not! Well, perhaps. Not really, though. It’s hard to explain.”
“Explain.”
“You left.”
As if in agreement, they both pause to let that short truth hang in the air like a brightly coloured flag.
“I left because it’s winter. We always part for winter.”
“I know.”
“You even hugged me goodbye and waved me off.”
“I know.”
“You–”
“I know.” Jaskier digs his forehead into Geralt’s clavicle so hard it hurts, but Geralt finds he has no intention to ever ask him to move. “I know I did, and then I woke the next day, and you were gone, and I felt like something was missing, and then I forgot my lute and my bag and my cloak, and I set off after you.”
There’s a warmth brewing beneath Geralt’s skin, and it ignites at every touchpoint shared between them.
“And then it snowed,” he says.
“And then it snowed,” Jaskier says, “and it was too late to go back, but I didn’t have my cloak, and I didn’t have my lute so I could play my way to a room. So I kept walking, but it was so cold, and I got lost, and then…”
I love him, Geralt thinks.
“And then you fell asleep in the woods,” Geralt says.
Jaskier rests his hand over Geralt’s heart.
“And then you found me,” he says.
“And you scared me half to death,” Geralt says.
“And here we are.”
“Hmmm,” Geralt sounds and does not know what to say. Words leap out of Jaskier like pufflballs in a summer breeze, scattering dandelion seeded meaningfulness all across the northern continent. He doesn’t know what to say, and so he gentles his hand down Jaskier’s side, curls his legs up more, and brings Jaskier even closer to him. Jaskier gasps into his neck as Geralt settles him in his lap, and then – slowly, tentatively, achingly – arms come around Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt turns his head and nudges Jaskier’s nose with his own, their foreheads resting together in a pleasure so perfect that where he to die in the morning he would do so with the knoweldge that he knew the touch of happiness.
Hands caress through his hair and cup the side of his face, a thumb stroking back and forth over his cheek, and he can feel it’s well pruned from the water. Jaskier gasps again, almost as if on a sob, but no tears come.
“Geralt, I–” he croaks, faltering as he draws the knuckles of his right hand up and down Geralt’s neck. “Geralt, I think you’re the most magnificent…”
He tightens his arms around Jaskier and feels his every breath dance across his lips.
“I think you’re the most magnificent person I’ve ever met. You’re–” Jaskier laughs and shakes his head so their foreheads rub together. “Geralt, I don’t even have the words, I–”
“I do,” Geralt says.
Jaskier blinks.
“Y–you do?”
I love him, Geralt thinks.
“I love you,” Geralt says, not for a second looking away from Jaskier’s face so that he may see the hope, the surprise, and the happiness write themselves across him like an open book. And here they come, and there they go, and here love is to stay.
Jaskier makes a noise – relief and desperation all in one – and then cracked lips are on his own, and Geralt kisses back. He kisses soft, he kisses gentle, and he kisses joy.
“You really did know what to say,” Jaskier laughs.
“Mmm,” Geralt says, kissing him again.
Jaskier cups his face between both hands.
“Dear heart, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you,” he says and draws breath as if to continue on forever and ever.
Geralt kisses him one more time, feeling Jaskier’s lips curve up into a helpless smile.
“Not the most complicated rhyme scheme you’ve ever come up with, my lark,” he murmurs.
“Darling,” Jaskier laughs, “I’ll write you so many songs.”
Liked it? Prompt me!
#bunnywrites#bunnyhaswritten#bunnywrote#bunnyask#bunnyfic#geraskier#the tub#the witcher#prompt fill#Geralt#jaskier#no roach#but you know she carried these losers on her back on the way to the village#and after this they go back for jaskier's lute#and then they go to kaer morhen or oxenfurt for the season#you know how it is#sorry if there are spelling mistakes#it's 4am and i'm tired
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tying you to me
For @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo
Prompt: crafting
Pairing: Geraskier, implied Geralt/Yen in one line
Rating: T for language
Warnings: None
Summary:
As they lay in bed, Jaskier snuggled and breathing humid against his chest hair, Geralt remembers the pattern from Novigrad. A sweater with stretchy ribbing around the wrists and bottom hemline, a high collar. Intricate cabling criss-crossing up the front, making the fabric thick and sturdy. The scroll is stuffed into one of his saddlebags where he’d put it after purchase when he’d cursed himself for wasting the coin.
Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.
Or: Geralt doesn't know about the boyfriend sweater curse.
Read more on AO3 or below the cut!
Geralt learned to knit out of necessity. Winters in Kaedwen, especially up in the mountains, are bitter cold, and require not only animal skins but woolen socks, hats, scarves, blankets. They keep a flock of sheep for the very purpose. And before—when there were others, even occasionally a proper staff—it would be part of the normal workings of the castle to have several sets of hands dedicated to knitting up useful garments to keep them from freezing their balls off when the frost came.
There are fewer hands now, but also fewer balls in danger of freezing. Geralt and Vesemir handle the bulk of it, these days—Eskel with fingers too big and clumsy to be much help, Lambert too fidgety and quick to rip out all his progress into a tangled mess of wool in a fit of frustration. In the evenings they sit by the great hall fire in mostly silence and take turns spinning the roving into yarn, winding skeins, chipping away at the endless miles of plain stocking stitch, and seaming panels together. (Sometimes Geralt will embellish the design with cables, or a moss stitch—unconventional patterns he’s started to see in the larger cities, sold by the fancier merchants. He may have paid a few crowns for the scroll describing the pattern for one particular sweater he saw in a shop in Novigrad. He has not mentioned this to Vesemir.)
It may be necessity, but Geralt would choose it even if it wasn’t. These are the things his hands are good for: wielding a sword; harvesting various glands and organs; curling into fists; crushing windpipes; skinning rabbits. Bandaging Ciri’s scrapes. Bringing Yen’s pleasure. Curling around the back of Jaskier’s neck, drawing their lips together. And, when it’s over, when there’s nothing to kill and no one to care for, he can create. He can put it all to the side and count off to himself, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit, knit, knit, around and around, back and forth, and this thing will grow from the rhythm of his fingers, from the steady loop and pull that he’s done thousands of times, taught by some witcher instructor decades ago whose name he no longer recalls. He had bushy eyebrows that waggled as he worked. That’s all the memory that’s left of him.
Anyway, it’s easy to allow the hours to pass until Vesemir excuses himself to bed and the fire burns down and takes the light with it. One such night, just as Geralt is squinting at his work to finish this one last row, the hall door creaks open.
“Geralt,” Jaskier says sleepily, “are you still in here? ‘S late, love.”
Knit, knit, knit. “Mm,” says Geralt. “I’m here. Just finishing up.”
“I’ll wait for you, then.” Jaskier pads in his sockfeet across the stone to the armchair Geralt occupies. He sits himself on the rug with his back against Geralt’s legs, knees pulled up to his chest. “Brr. ‘S chilly, too.”
Geralt drops the needle in his right hand, maintaining tension on the working yarn with his left. He runs his free hand through Jaskier’s bed-mussed hair, brushes against his cold ear, down to the soft skin behind it. “Not wearing a coat.”
“Well I wasn’t heading outside, seemed like a—” He yawns, jaw cracking. “—a lot of trouble just to come downstairs. But I now see my mistake.”
“Always have to wear a coat at night,” Geralt says. “Or be under blankets. Or both.”
“Or acquire a personal witcher furnace, unless he’s down here ‘til gods know what hour making yet more mittens for the princess.”
Geralt looks down at the large rectangle he’s been working on. “Lap blanket,” he says. For Ciri, when she’s studying in the library. It gets drafty in there even with the fire blazing.
“For the library?” says Jaskier, tipping his head back to see Geralt. “Good thinking. She’ll love it.”
Geralt releases him and goes back to his work, but knits at most ten stitches before Jaskier shivers again, his teeth chattering before he gets himself under control. Setting the blanket aside, middle of the row be damned, he concedes, “Let’s go back to bed.”
“No, you’re—you’re not done with—” Jaskier cannot finish his sentence for the yawn that overtakes him. “M’kay. Let’s go.”
As they lay in bed, Jaskier snuggled and breathing humid against his chest hair, Geralt remembers the pattern from Novigrad. A sweater with stretchy ribbing around the wrists and bottom hemline, a high collar. Intricate cabling criss-crossing up the front, making the fabric thick and sturdy. The scroll is stuffed into one of his saddlebags where he’d put it after purchase when he’d cursed himself for wasting the coin.
Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.
*
The next evening, after dinner has been consumed and cleaned up, Vesemir and Geralt move to the fire as usual. Vesemir is working up a new hat for Lambert, who has the shortest hair among them and has one practically pasted to his head all winter long.
Geralt spares a glance to his blanket-in-progress, and then veers toward the wooden chest that stores their yarn stash. He puts aside plain ball after plain ball, until finally he admits defeat and turns to Vesemir and asks, “Do we have any dye?”
“No,” says Vesemir, not looking up. He knits with the yarn looped around the back of his neck to keep the tension, instead of around his fingers. He says it’s easier on his old joints. Geralt thinks it looks preposterous, but it gets the job done. “Not a drop. And that’s never bothered you before.”
“I’m thinking of making a gift,” says Geralt. “I think they’d prefer it to be dyed.”
“Ah, the bard. Yes. I suppose he would.”
“I want him to actually wear it.”
“Indeed.”
“He says coats are too bulky and ponderous, and they dampen his spirits.”
“Foolish boy. He’ll learn.”
“So we have no dye? Of any color?”
“None,” says Vesemir. “Though it may be that there are some old skeins in the back of the cupboard by the linens. I recall that some of our forebears had rather expensive taste, for witchers. Quite wasteful of them. If you ask me.”
Geralt murmurs his thanks, pulls on a cloak, and makes his way through the frozen corridors to the cabinet in the laundry. Along the way he passes the study, and overhears Eskel dominating Jaskier in another round of Gwent.
“Eskel, you dirty cheating bastard, there is no way you just had that card.”
“Where d’you think I kept it, bard?”
“Up your sleeve, behind your ear, under the table, I dunno—”
“Down your pants,” Lambert chimes in, and Geralt hears Ciri giggle. She’s been spending too much time with the witchers now that Yen has departed for the season. Geralt should probably intervene more often.
“—maybe you magicked me with a sign thingy so I wouldn’t notice, but I’m sure you didn’t have it in hand a turn ago, I’ll swear that on—”
“Yes, Lambert, I’ve got Gwent cards lining my codpiece, naturally, even a few stuffed between my—”
Geralt rounds the corner and their voices fade away.
As Vesemir said, there is a small box pushed all the way to the back of the cupboard in amongst the linens. He opens it without much hope, but is surprised to find it full to the brim with yarn of deep reds and blues, all of some soft texture very unlike the itchy wool they’re accustomed to. Sniffing it, he decides it is from some type of goat. He also decides, based on its lack of musty odor, that it is not nearly old enough to have belonged to one of their forebears.
Well, in exchange for the use of the yarn, he’ll allow Vesemir his secret.
He carries the whole lot back to the great hall.
“You found it,” Vesemir remarks, now nearly done with the hat.
“Right where you said,” says Geralt. “You don’t mind if I use it?”
“As much as you like,” he replies disinterestedly, “if you’ll leave me the fuck alone while you do.”
Fair enough.
Geralt selects the red—a deep burgundy that will pair with the blush on Jaskier’s cheeks after a few glasses of wine. He pulls the scroll from his trouser pocket, and begins casting on as the pattern instructs.
*
When he hears Jaskier’s tread in the hall, he hastily pulls the half-finished lap blanket over his new project.
“Bedtime, Witcher,” says Jaskier, peering over his shoulder. “Didn’t make much progress on that tonight, did you?”
“It’s a big blanket,” Geralt grunts. “Eskel’s been practicing sleight of hand since we were boys. Don’t play him for money.”
“I bloody knew it,” Jaskier exclaims. He wheels around and stomps back out of the hall, suitably distracted. “Eskel! You’ll never believe what Geralt’s just told me!”
*
The sweater is slow going, since he does have to put real work into the blanket every once in a while to keep Jaskier’s suspicions to heel.
Over the next few weeks, it becomes near an open secret in the keep what Geralt is up to. Lambert catches him cursing late one evening as he is ripping back several rows to fix a cable he’d mistakenly crossed the wrong way.
“Whazzat,” Lambert says, crunching on a mouthful of tree nuts.
“Fuck off,” Geralt says. He squints and carefully tries to secure a dropped loop back on the needle. If it ladders down, he’s done for—there’ll be no fixing it while maintaining the pattern. He’s not nearly good enough for that.
“Looks like you’re fucking it up,” Lambert chews.
“I am. That’s why I told you to fuck off.”
“Thought that’s just how you decided to greet me now. That’s what Vesemir does.” He shoves another fistful of nuts into his mouth, though Geralt isn’t sure he’s swallowed the first.
“It’s not a bad idea.”
He manages to pick up that last loop before disaster strikes, and moves the stitches around on the needles to make sure they all look right. Then he shoves the left-hand stitches all the way up to the tip so he can continue.
Lambert leans down to examine the fabric, then runs his finger down the pattern with his eyebrow raised. “This is some fancy shit, Geralt, you giant poof.”
“It’s not for me,” he says.
Lambert swallows, belches, and says, “My point exactly. ‘S for Jaskier, innit.”
Geralt doesn’t bother answering as he approaches the cable he’d made a mess of the first time around. Lambert claps him on the shoulder with the hand he’s been using as a nut-to-mouth delivery tool, which leaves salt behind on his tunic.
“That’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thanks,” says Geralt wryly.
“Anyway, I’m outta here. This boring bullshit still gives me hives.”
He exits the hall and the door shuts heavily behind him. Geralt finishes recrossing the cable and, turning to check his pattern, finds it covered in greasy fingerprints.
Eskel, on the other hand, sits himself in Vesemir’s usual seat one night and sets to quietly whittling a whistle. After several hours, Geralt holds up the near completed front panel of his sweater and says, “Do you think Jaskier will like this?”
Eskel doesn’t even look at it. “Geralt, you could spit on a log and hand it to him and Jaskier would love it.” His knife stills. “Maybe don’t do that, though.”
To their credit, none of the other witchers say a word—possibly for lack of caring—and Geralt is able to rely on them to keep Jaskier occupied most nights while he finishes the front and back panels and seams them up.
Before he begins work on the sleeves, the pattern warns, the wearer should try on the body to ensure proper fit.
“Well, shit,” he says aloud. He can’t ask Jaskier to try it on and ruin the surprise. He holds it up against himself, trying to judge if they are similar enough size to judge whether it will fit Jaskier. Geralt, certainly, is wider in the chest and shoulders, but as long as he can get it on without stretching it too much he should be able to check the length. And, if it fits Geralt or is loose, it will certainly be too large on Jaskier.
It will have to do.
The next morning he rises early and takes the sack in which he’s been storing his project to Ciri’s bedroom. He knocks softly.
“Ciri?” he calls, mouth close to the door. “Can I use your mirror for a moment?”
“Mnnngh,” he hears. He takes this as an invitation.
The only visible part of her, when he lets himself in, is a tangle of hair escaping from under the pile of furs on the bed. He sets his sack delicately in front of the only full-length mirror in the keep and says, “Morning, Princess.”
“F’ off,” the fur pile groans. “No it’s not.”
“You really have been spending too much time with Lambert,” Geralt comments mildly as he pulls the unfinished sweater out and checks it for damage in transport, though he knows it was safe in the bag and only traveled up some stairs. “He’s a bad influence.”
“I’ve always been like this when rudely awakened at the crack of dawn,” Ciri says, muffled. “Don’t think any of you are special.”
“You cursed at the royal servants?”
“Quite regularly.”
Geralt shrugs the layers off his top half down to his undershirt while she continues to stretch and grumble wordlessly in the warmth of her bed. He pulls the sweater over his head; the neckline snags on his ears but otherwise he should be okay to try to get his arms in. He squeezes his right arm in and up, aiming for the proper hole—
“Geralt,” Ciri says icily, “what, by the gods, is that?”
He turns around, contorted in the confines of the too-tight sweater. She’s sitting up with her hair a wild tangle and her eyes wide in horror. “What’s what?”
“That garment!”
“It’s…a sweater? I’m making it.”
Geralt thinks he may be missing something very important.
“For yourself?”
“…No, for Jaskier. He needs another—”
“Don’t you care about the curse?”
Geralt finishes fitting himself into the sweater and tugs it down over his stomach while Ciri continues to stare at him in expectant horror. Thus no longer trapped, he decides to engage. “The what?”
Ciri slumps forward, briefly puts her face in her hands. “Good gods, Geralt, you really can’t be helped. But I also cannot allow you to give Jaskier a handmade sweater. Despite your…personal challenges”—at this, Geralt tilts his head and opens his mouth to ask exactly what the hell that means, but she barrels on—“I really have become fond of the two of you, so I cannot let you carry on with this foolish nonsense.”
Her voice goes more posh the longer speaks. Geralt thinks she will make a fine queen someday. “Ciri, I—”
“And really,” she continues, “it’s like you’re trying to sabotage a good thing. He does nothing but care for you, and this is how you repay him? Honestly. Melitele’s tits!”
“Melitele’s—? Where did you learn that one?”
“I’m hardly sheltered. And you’re one to talk, caring about my language when you’re about to lose Jaskier for good!”
“For good? Lose Jask—okay, Ciri.” He sits down at the foot of her bed, probably looking downright silly confined to a sleeveless sweater that is at least one size too small for him. He can feel it constricting the rise and fall of his chest and stretching tight in his armpits. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. What curse?”
The expression she aims at him is sharper than at least four of the blades in the armory. “The sweater curse, Geralt. If one makes a sweater for a person one is interested in romantically, that person leaves within a fortnight. Everyone knows this.”
“Oh, of course. How stupid of me,” Geralt says.
Ciri raises an eyebrow that says Yes, obviously.
“So you’re telling me that if I finish this sweater and give it to Jaskier, he will suddenly no longer be able to stand the sight of me and will stomp off on down the mountain, even with the good foot of snow and ice blocking the path.”
She sniffs. “Indubitably.”
“Hmm,” says Geralt. “I think I’ll take my chances.” He claps his hands on his knees as he stands and moves back to the mirror to inspect the sizing more closely. The armholes are definitely a bit small—he’ll have to let out the seam to increase the circumference—but the rest, if he tries to overlay Jaskier’s body onto his own, seems like it should be about right.
Ciri leaves the bed with a fur wrapped around her as a cape and comes to his side. “You’re impossible,” she declares, though the royal snootiness is diminished somewhat by her morning breath and tangled hair. Then she reaches out and touches the textured pattern between the cable running up the front. “Though, you know, it is quite beautiful, if horribly misguided.”
He grins indulgently at her. “Thank you, Princess.”
*
“Have you heard of the sweater curse?”
Vesemir snorts. “Poppycock. Who told you about that old superstition?”
“Just came across it.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Vesemir looks at Geralt over his spectacles. “I hope that it’s not bothering you.”
“No,” says Geralt. “Of course not.”
*
He has fuck-all in his hand of cards, but he stares down at them like they might contain the secrets of the Continent.
“It’s your turn, Geralt,” Eskel says.
“I know,” he replies, absently rearranging the cards.
“So…you gonna play or pass?” Lambert asks. He digs his hand into the bowl of nuts at his elbow.
“Not sure.”
“Is something on your mind?” Eskel, again.
“No. Well…do either of you believe in the sweater curse?”
They both look at him blankly.
“Nuh uh,” says Lambert with his mouth full.
Geralt says, “Pass.”
*
He speaks clearly into the xenovox. “Yen? Are you there?”
“Geralt?” comes the reply, as if she were beside him in the room. “Is Ciri all right?”
“We’re all fine. It’s good to hear from you, too.”
“If there’s no trouble, then make it quick.”
Now he hesitates, but he chokes the question out anyway. “Do you know about the sweater curse?”
There is silence.
“Yen?”
“For the love of the gods, Geralt, please don’t bother me with frivolous garbage. I’m much too busy. Is that all?”
“Yes, that’s all,” Geralt says, suitably shamed.
*
The finished, washed, and blocked sweater rests folded at the bottom of his wardrobe for more than a week before he works up the nerve to bring it down to dinner with him in his knitting sack.
Even with the flaws that Geralt, as the creator, inevitably notices—a few loose stitches three quarters down the back panel, the right sleeve is slightly longer than the left—he has to admit that it turned out well. He could fetch a pretty penny for it in a large city. Silky soft, thick, and vivid burgundy, it would be a stand-out piece among any merchant’s wares even without the detailing that stretches collar to hem and even down the outside of the arms.
Knitting it was a nightmare. He will never do anything like it ever again, so Jaskier had better appreciate this one.
Still, every time he resolves to finally gift it, Ciri’s words echo in the back of his mind. You’re about to lose Jaskier for good.
On the ninth day, he shushes that voice, takes the sack, and marches straight into the hall for dinner. After all, if Yen and Vesemir aren’t worried, then he shouldn’t be either.
Everyone but Jaskier is there already. Eskel looks up from pouring ale into each mug and says, “Hullo, Geralt. What do you have there?” and Lambert says, “Ooh, didja finish it?” and Vesemir digs wordlessly into his mutton.
Ciri’s eyes zero in on the sack.
“Hello,” says Geralt. “Is Jaskier still washing up?”
“Yeah,” says Lambert. “He fell in a pile of snow.”
“Lambert pushed him into a pile of snow,” Eskel amends.
Geralt glares at the accused, setting the sack on the bench at his usual spot.
“He asked for it. Bloody said ‘Lambert, throw me into that snow over there!’ didn’t he?”
“Since you were alone with him at the time, I don’t think I can confirm or deny—”
“Geralt,” Ciri interrupts, “tell me you’re not still planning what you said.”
“I am,” he tells her.
“You were standing not ten feet away.”
“My back was turned—”
“You’re a godsdamned witcher! Or have you gone deaf?”
“Even after what I told you! I thought you were going to think about it!” Ciri pushes back from the table. “I forbid you from giving that to him.”
Geralt snorts. “Or what, Princess? Look, I don’t think Jaskier is planning to leave—”
“Of course he’s not planning to, the curse will make him! Why are you tempting destiny this way?”
“I’m just saying, Lambert, that it wouldn’t be out of your character to shove an unsuspecting bard into a snowbank.”
“Oh, and hustling him at Gwent wasn’t out of your character, so maybe you’re actually the one who shoved him. Thought about that one, Eskel?”
Geralt says, “If he tries to leave, I’ll tie him to the bed until the urge passes.”
She wrinkles her nose in disgust, but then moves past that comment. “At least let me give it to him. I’ll say I brought it from Cintra, or bought it on the way here.”
“And let my hard work go unacknowledged? I don’t think so. And why would you have bought a man’s sweater?”
Among the arguments, no one notices Jaskier enter the hall and come up behind Vesemir, wide eyed. “What did I miss?” he stage whispers.
“Just open your present, bard,” Vesemir mutters, gesturing to the sack at Geralt’s knee.
“Ooh, a present? For little old me?”
He picks up the sack and tests the weight curiously, before opening it and drawing out the most marvelous sweater he has ever seen.
“Jaskier, no!” Ciri cries, and everyone else falls quiet.
“What, why?” he says, looking between Ciri’s stricken face and the furrow between Geralt’s brows. “What is this?”
“It’s for you,” Geralt murmurs. “I made it.”
“You made it?” he repeats dumbly.
“Yes. For you. Because you were…cold.”
“Because I was cold?”
Geralt gently takes it from him and holds it up so he can see the full design. “That night, you came in when I was knitting, and you were cold. I wanted to make you something warm to wear that you would like.”
Jaskier squishes the soft fabric between his thumb and forefinger.
“Do you,” says Geralt, “like it?”
“It’s stunning,” Jaskier breathes. Geralt may as well have hit him over the head with a hammer.
“I cannot believe you, Geralt of Rivia,” Ciri cuts in. “You never listen to anyone. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” With that, she turns on her heel and leaves the hall.
Geralt grimaces. “Do you, er, have any particular desire to leave me?”
“Leave you? Why would I—Geralt, is this a breakup gift? Is it pity?” He panics, pushing the sweater back into Geralt’s hands. “I don’t want your gorgeous pity breakup sweater, Geralt. I’ve played that game before.”
Geralt steadies him, as ever. “No, it’s—Ciri thinks there’s a curse, or something. And that if I made you a sweater, you would leave.”
“Oh,” says Jaskier. “Well, I assure you I will not. And in that case I do want the sweater.” He shucks off his coat right there at the table and pulls the sweater on over his tunic. “There!” He spreads his hands wide. “How does it look?”
The smile Geralt gives him is answer enough. “Perfect,” he says. “You look perfect.”
“Not bad, bard,” Eskel says.
Lambert shoots him a thumbs up. Vesemir does not appear to be paying attention.
Jaskier leans in and kisses Geralt on the lips. “Thank you very much,” he whispers. “I adore it and promise to thank you more appropriately later tonight. For now, shall I go after Ciri?”
“That may be best,” Geralt says. “I don’t think she likes me much right now.”
“My pleasure. Say,” he says louder, “while I’m gone, don’t let my food get cold.” He opens the door and barely feels the usual chill of the drafty hallways at all. Over his shoulder, he adds, “You can get Lambert to tell you all how he threw me in a snow pile today! It was great fun!”
“I told you—” he hears, but then the door closes behind him.
#my fic#geraskier#the witcher#geralt x jaskier#geraskier fic#someone pls teach me to write drabbles i'm dying
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31. The cold sharp smell of snow, dealers choice for characters?
Ahaha, ahaha sorry, I meant for this to be short! 1343 words later ahaha. I also meant for it to be either fluffy and angsty, but look, we got some of both!
Thank you so very much for this prompt, it absolutely made my day so much brighter, hope you enjoy!
Send me a prompt?
On Ao3 here <3
Things are coming to an end. Again.
Geralt hates hates hates it, the way that the leaves turn rust and gold and the wind start to show its fangs.
Not because they are heading towards darker times. Not because it is getting colder, not even because how his elbow aches from that one time it broke badly.
He hates it because he knows what he must leave.
During the summer his path often crosses with his friends. He meets Triss as he takes a break at whatever court she is at at the time. He meets his brothers sometimes, coming together to fight a royal griffin or just make a local tavern a great deal richer. He meets Yennefer all the times, their paths entwined that is both pain and pleasure.
But the one he looks forward to the most, is the one accompanied with a lute.
Jaskier spends a few weeks at the time with Geralt every year. Most of the year actually, if circumstance allows it. And as soon as the leaves fall, so does Jaskiers smiles.
They both know it is time to part.
Geralt has spent many a winter adrift, but never together with his friend. Probably more than a friend, if he is honest, and Geralt prides himself with lying to no one but himself.
This year is particularly hard. Because Geralt is finally realizing that he actually is lying to himself about how he feels for the bard.
Lying to yourself is one thing, but lying to your friend is completely another.
But Jaskier never asks, because there is nothing to ask about is there? But he wants him to ask, oh how he wants him to. It drives Geralt up the wall, to see their parting coming but doing nothing about it.
So he watches Jaskiers smiles falter, and dreams about making it stay.
He feels the ache right into his core, even before they part.
The emptiness that comes when he leaves the bard behind.
~
Jaskier watches his witcher.
There is something about the fall that makes Geralt sad, and Jaskier is not sure how to help. His brow furrows, his sighs are deeper, drawing further and further away.
Something small, dark and terrible in the back of Jaskiers head tells him Geralt is tiring of him. That he is too much, that he is driving the witcher away. Because away the witcher goes, every year without a fail. After the leaves fall, before the snow comes, Geralt leaves him behind.
It is that time of the year again, and Jaskier makes a decision. Rip off the band aid, let it bleed for a while.
“I'm leaving tomorrow.” He tells Geralt. The witcher looks stunned, opening and closing his mouth before choosing his words.
“Fine.” is all he gets, then Geralt walks out into the woods.
He is gone for hours, and it hurts. But it is better this way. Better to not wear out his welcome.
Because something is different this year. Geralt looks at him for long moments at the time when he thinks Jaskier isn’t paying attention.
Jaskier always pays attention.
Geralt has started touching him more. Not anything big, but a hand on the shoulder here, a pat on the back there. It sends him into flutters every time, it’s hard not to fall straight into that sweet trap his mind is snaring him into. That maybe Geralt cares. Maybe Geralt wants him around.
But fall comes, like it does every year, and Geralt prepares to leave. Draws back.
So it is time to protect himself.
The next morning he sets out, leaving Geralt back at the camp, Pegasus reluctantly taking him towards the nearest inn.
~
Geralt is half a day away when it happens.
He breaks. His heart beats violently, his hands start to shake and his breaths is coming fast.
Jaskier left him.
No.
He can’t take it.
Not this time. Not ever again, if he can help it.
When he turns Roach around she is eagerly taking them back from where they came. Geralt's elbow aches, his heart aches, he feels so lonely it hurts.
He hates hates hates this.
~
Jaskier rents a room above the tavern. He will stay for a week and preform, earning some coin for the road.
He unpacks some of his doublets, going through them to see what needs mending.
Just one, he notices.
The others have Geralt's precise stitches on them, and fuck, what is he doing?
Why? Why did he leave?
What if Geralt never comes back for him?
He takes the stitched up doublet and presses it against his chest, as if he could bring Geralt closer. Bring him back.
There is a commotion downstairs, but there always is in places like this, so he pays it no mind. He focus on the sharp sting in his eyes, the tightness in his throat.
Then someone is at his door, pounding hard.
Through the wood he can hear protests, the barkeep very much disliking whoever it is.
“Master witcher, this is most irregular!” He shouts and oh.
Jaskeir throws the door open, doublet still clutched to his chest, and there is Geralt.
They stare at each other, both breathing hard.
There are red blotches on Geralt's cheeks, his fists clenched at his sides. He seems unharmed, but his eyes looks like someone tore out his heart.
“Geralt.” Jaskier breathes, and the spell is broken.
Geralt lunges forward, hugging Jaskier close, kicking the door in the barkeeps face. He is stil complaining but Jaskier can’t care about it for a moment, because his heart is doing kickflips in his chest, his throat so tight it hurts.
His arms are stuck between them, Geralt pressing him close with an arm around his back and one hand on the back of his head.
His nose is cold when he burrows it into the side of Jaskiers neck, and Jaskier draws a jagged breath.
Wriggles to free his arms and the doublet fall at their feet when they come free and he hugs him right back.
“Come with me.” Geralt says to his neck. “Come home with me.”
Jaskier breaks.
His heart beats violently, his hands start to shake and his breaths are coming fast.
“I’ll go anywhere if it’s with you.” He sobs, he feels his chin wrinkle and his can’t see through the tears, but Geralt makes a sobbing sound too, a wet chuckle, and oh.
They stay the night at the tavern.
Geralt only leaves to make sure Roach is stabled next to Pegasus. And in the morning, they leave together.
Towards the mountains.
~
The air is crisp up here. The sky clear, the sun bright.
They arrive early at the keep, it’s looming walls promising a safe haven of the darkness that is to come.
Jaskier can’t stop smiling, and it is the best decision Geralt ever made. Grabbing his hand, taking a jump.
He shows Jaskier around, all the dizzying paths and empty halls.
They stop on top of a tower, looking down at the land below. There are no leaves up here, only pine needles. Rolling green hills up and down the mountainside. Jaskiers teeth are clattering, the wind running straight through his clothes despite the cloak Geralt draped over him.
So Geralt stands behind him and hugs him close.
With Jaskier leaning against his chest, far above the world, the cold, sharp smell of snow reaches him. The clouds are forming up in the distance, dark and angry. The cold pinches his cheeks, his breath fog.
He kisses the back of Jaskiers head, the bard humming in response and gripping his hands.
“I always hated fall.” Geralt confesses. “I hated having to leave.”
“I always hated watching you go.” Jaskier replies, snuggling closer into the embrace. It is very cold up here, and it is only going to get worse.
“Next time, I’ll follow you. Wherever it might be.”
Jaskier presses Geralt's gloved hand to his lips, and despite the cold, Geralt is burning like a thousand suns.
#the witcher#sensory prompts#tho i strayed a little#as per usual#geraskier#geralt x jaskier#pining!geralt#pining#angst and comfort#fluffy things ahead dont you worry#i love my boys#just gotta torture them some first#geralt of rivia#kaer morhen#julian alfred pankratz#jaskier the bard
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It Just Slipped Out
Commission for the fantastic @turtletotem !!! A ‘The Witcher’ fic because I’ve opened topics to a few of my fandoms. I hope you like it, Aunt Turtle! I’ll link the commission info post when I have it finished! Update: Commission info here!
CW: canon typical depictions of injury and death
~
Jaskier is still in shock.
It’s a good thing he is, though. If he weren’t, his hands would be shaking too much to hold a needle and thread, and he wouldn’t be able to look at those horrendous gashes on Geralt’s stomach. There’s so much blood. No organs poking out, but the blood is still flowing, matting down the material of his shirt, soaking into the earth as it trickles down his side. He’s breathing, barely, and Jaskier is too, breaths shallow through the panic squeezing his chest and throat, but he’s going to crack any minute now.
The last stitch is done. Jask rinses the area, pats it dry, and applies the wool pads wrapped in linen that Geralt carries for big wounds.
Geralt’s fingers twitch. “Jaskier,” he gasps.
Jaskier almost breaks. Instead he uses that sticky stuff the last healer gave them to glue down the edges of pad and grabs the bandages—there’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
Jaskier chokes on a whimper, tears filling his eyes and rolling down his cheeks.
“Jaskier.”
“Stop talking,” he snaps, his voice unsteady and almost lost in a sob. “Just… lay still and don’t talk. It’ll be okay. I’ll… I’ll see if there’s any potions left.”
Geralt’s fingertips finally touch Jaskier’s leg. He automatically reaches down and grabs Geralt’s hand. It’s so cold. No, don’t think about it.
“Left saddlebag,” Geralt mutters, and it sounds like it’s getting harder for him to breathe.
Jaskier lifts Geralt’s hand and kisses it, then puts it down and staggers upright to lurch to the indicated saddlebag. There—there, that potion Geralt drinks after a particularly draining fight. Or was it this other one? They’re both red, but he can’t remember the different shades—
A weak cough behind him. He puts the second bottle back and hurries back, falling to his knees and gently lifting Geralt’s head to help him drink the potion. The effects are immediate but weak; his eyes barely change, and the veins barely pulse dark. Jaskier chokes again—he has to be strong. He has to keep Geralt alive. The healer still isn’t here—not surprising. But he has to hope.
Geralt’s breathing falters.
“No,” Jaskier chokes out, grabbing his hand again, “No, Geralt, don’t, don’t die, you can’t die, I won’t let you, I, I order you to stay alive, alright, don’t die, I love you so much, I need you to stay alive, alright?” He’s babbling at this point, but he’s scared and angry and there’s so much guilt in him he’s going to break apart. “Please, please, I’ll fucking guilt you into staying awake, alright, don’t, don’t die, I need you, I need you so much, I love you—”
Geralt’s eyes close.
“NO!” Jaskier yells, and he can’t even recognize his own voice, cracked and terrified. “Geralt, please!”
“Move it, boy,” someone snaps, and pushes him sideways, making him fall. He doesn’t let go, curling up tight with Geralt’s limp hand still in his, face pressed into his shoulder, finally breaking and crying as his heart crumbles. No… no…
Geralt’s breathing stops. Then suddenly he inhales sharply, a big breath, and Jaskier’s head pops up, watching in stunned awe as he coughs and starts gulping air. Someone is muttering to the side, and there’s a green glow, and someone on Geralt’s other side is holding him down as he twitches and jerks. His hand is warming. His face isn’t so gaunt and translucent. And his eyes are open.
Jaskier cries harder, in relief, and clings tightly. Even when the healer finishes, Jaskier stays curled on the ground, Geralt’s hand in his, laughing hysterically as he cries.
Alive. Alive. For just a little bit longer, Geralt is alive.
~
Jaskier does everything he can to make sure Geralt has the care he needs. Paying the healer more than usual is just par for the course; she brought him back from death, after all. Geralt protests that he doesn’t need to be coddled but Jaskier shushes him sharply and holds his hand tightly as the healer changes his bandages. The site needs to be kept clean; Jaskier helps, and in fact, once Geralt is no longer hazy and slightly delirious, Jaskier is the one who sponge-bathes him, because the healer’s apprentice is only so comfortable with a Witcher. Geralt hates being at anyone’s mercy, but he does what Jaskier tells him to with minimal grumbling.
When Jaskier isn’t “coddling” and hovering at the edges while the healer and her apprentice work, he’s doing odd-jobs around the village. He borrowed one of Geralt’s shirts to save his own clothes, and it apparently attracts more people to see him in a plain shirt with his sleeves rolled up, covered in mud or worse, exhausted but doing anything asked of him as long as he’s paid in some way and can take the payment back to the healer. There’s no inn, tavern, or court here; the festival season is long over. His music has no home.
So he chops wood, and clears fields, and forks hay out of lofts down to the stables, and helps in gardens. And every evening he’s back at the healers, helping with Geralt.
“Too stubborn to die,” Jaskier whispers, fairly often, usually accompanied by a quick squeeze of Geralt’s hand.
Geralt never replies to that. Nor does he say anything about Jaskier wearing his clothes.
It takes two weeks for the healer to proclaim Geralt healed enough to walk. But he must not over-exert himself, and he must not walk too long without rest, and he must not do any strenuous activities—like fighting monsters.
“How the fuck am I supposed to do that?!” Geralt snaps, scowling. “I have to hunt!”
“Fine, just don’t cry when you tear your stitches and break open the wounds and end up dying again,” Jaskier sneers. “I can earn food and shelter, for both of us. You can’t hunt if you don’t heal and that is a fact.”
Geralt glares at him, but finally mutters an acceptance of those terms.
They leave with a little money, and most payment for killing the monster in the form of food or herbs Geralt uses in potions. There’s even a jar of pickled eggs and a little bag of sunflower seeds. Sunflower seeds are Geralt’s favorite snack, and Jaskier is quite proud that he managed to get a farmwife to part with them after clearing her garden of gnomes.
He sees Geralt’s hand dipping into the seeds often that first day out, and has to turn his head to hide his smile.
They rest often. Jaskier knows Geralt by now; when he starts to be in further pain, Jaskier announces that his feet hurt abominably and he shall perish if they take one step further. This gives Geralt an excuse to grumble about delicate bards as well as sit.
They’re three days out, and Jaskier is checking Geralt’s bandages (not yet time to change them) when Geralt asks quietly, “Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?” Jaskier asks as he lets Geralt’s shirt drop and smooths it down automatically.
“When you said… while you were telling me not to die. You said...” Geralt is looking at him with the strangest expression. Anxious, almost.
Jaskier stares at him blankly. He barely remembers what he said. Don’t die… I need you… I love—
Oh.
Jaskier’s face turns beet-red and he looks down at his hands in his lap. “Well, I,” he says, and his voice is weak. “I did. But I understand if you don’t… reciprocate, or are uncomfortable, I know you don’t like it when people get attached, if you’d like me to leave at the next town I will, but—I would like to stay with you.” That last part is quiet and scared, and he doesn’t dare look up.
“I don’t want you to leave,” Geralt replies softly.
Jaskier head snaps up. Geralt looks uncomfortable, but also there’s an honesty, an embarrassment, clear on his face. His eyes are so beautiful in the dark. “I want you to stay,” Geralt says.
And honestly that’s the most loving thing Geralt has ever said to Jaskier, and it makes him breathless.
He scoots closer on his knees and hugs Geralt, burying his face in Geralt’s shoulder. “Then I will stay,” he whispers.
Geralt hugs back, and it feels like everything is going to be alright, as long as they have each other.
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Marked with first words spoken type of Soulmate AU
mwahahah yes good This is. More than five points. I got a little carried away. (added a readmore bc.. yeah)
1) Geralt has two sentences on him, and neither of them are useful. On the inside of his wrist is a single, small, cramped word: “Sorry.” Over his heart is, larger and loopier: “Did you kill that?” Neither of them are particularly helpful, as he hears them over and over again.
By the time he’s been on the Path for a decade or so, tipping into his 30s, he stops thinking about it, stops hoping, because there’s no way to know, especially when everyone who says them is scared of him and he wouldn’t want to inflict himself on anyone. He’s a witcher. He’s a monster. No one wants to be a witcher’s soulmate.
Anyway, it’s likely they’ll both live and die before he does. one might fully live and die before the other is even born. Neither of them deserve to deal with the horror of being a witcher’s soulmate. He just has to bury that part of himself that hopes hopes hopes that maybe he can be worth loving.
2) When he’s 42, he’s passing through Vengerberg and a little girl with a twisted spine crashes into him as he leads Roach through the streets.�� He catches her shoulders instinctively to keep her from falling.
“Watch yourself,” he rumbles.
“Sorry,” she whispers, and she won’t look up at him, she’s scared of him - large and strange and menacing - but she looks over her shoulder at the slightly older children clustered a few yards away who’d clearly been bullying her, and she seems to be equally scared of them.
Geralt hums, then says, “I’ll walk you home.” It’s not far, and it may not help, but at least she got a reprieve. He’s forgotten the incident entirely by the time he finishes his next contract.
3) When he’s 67, he’s somewhere in Kerack, waiting for the Earl of wherever he is to come and verify the sack of vodyanoi heads Geralt had, from the creatures that had been raiding the coastal area near the Earl’s keep. He’s not quite surprised by the approach of the little boy, but he’s surprised by his lack of fear. He couldn’t be more than five or six, probably, dressed in simple but well-made clothes, and before Geralt can really process what’s happening, he’s opening the sack and looking down at the decapitated heads of terrifying fish creatures that had been attacking and raiding the docks.
“Wow,” he whispers, appearing to be both fascinated and grossed out. He turns wide blue eyes up at Geralt and asks, “Did you kill that?”
“I did,” Geralt answers, awkward and uncomfortable and a little confused that this child is so close to both him and dead monster heads and doesn’t smell even a little bit of fear.
“Wow!” the boy repeats, a grin spreading on his face, and then a woman comes in and makes a strangled, panicked noise and races forward to grab the boy and pull him back from Geralt (naturally, of course, rightly so).
“Lord Julian, you can’t run off like that!” she hisses, dragging him off and scolding him, and Geralt is struck by the fact that the little boy looks back at him and his sack of heads longingly until he’s out of sight. He’s forgotten the incident by the time he crosses the border out of Kerack.
4) His wish to the djinn doesn’t really do much of anything. He makes it but he didn’t think it through. All that happens after he makes it is that he and Yen are drawn to each other in a way that even soulmates couldn’t do. Only physically. It changes nothing about their emotions or how attracted they are to each other.
Geralt doesn’t know this. Geralt feels guilty. He feels guilty that both Yen and Jaskier have soulmates that he almost hopes they don’t find. He feels guilty for loving them both instead of just one of them. He feels guilty for loving them at all. He knows the words below Jaskier’s collarbone that say simply “I did.”, the sharp lines of “Watch yourself.” that curl along Yennefer’s ribs like a challenge.
He doesn’t know about the tiny script on the nape of Jaskier’s neck, just along his hairline, hidden by his hair, that says “Be still, bard.” or the curling words cut by scars and glamoured away on Yen’s wrist that say “Please, please.” Perhaps it would make sense if he did. Perhaps it would make sense if they all did.
5) After the dragon hunt, everyone is taut and tense and Borch Three Jackdaws tells Yennefer she’ll never regain her womb, but that she’s seeking something else entirely. They all are. And if they share their words, perhaps they’ll all find what they’re looking for. Geralt grimaces. Yennefer rolls her eyes. Jaskier sits frowning thoughtfully as Borch and Tea and Vea walk away, because his trade is in words, how could he not already share them?
Except he’s smart. You share your thoughts. You share your feelings. You don’t share your words, unless... “I have two marks,” he says after a few minutes, causing Geralt and Yen to stop needling each other to near anger again and look at him in tandem, baffled. “Borch said share your words. Not use your words or share your thoughts. There’s only one time words are talked about like that. I have two marks.”
And Geralt says “No you don’t” and Yen’s like “Oh, you’ve seen that much of him, then?” and Jaskier just firmly plows forward and holds his hair up and turns his back to these terrifying people on the top of a mountain and there it is.
6) And Geralt’s like “well that seems a common thing to say” but it’s only been six years, and the entirety of that first night is burned into Yennefer’s memory for a number of reasons, but she remembers sending Geralt out of the room so she could heal Jaskier, and he was thrashing, in pain, and she’d told him sharply “Be still, bard!” and Jaskier had just been pleading, wheezing and barely able to speak but he was pleading, “Please, please,” and she curses softly and she’s not so stupid as to think they are soulmates unless some other things are true, so she whirls Jaskier around.
“Had you ever met a witcher before you and Geralt met and you wrote that ridiculous song?” and he’s confused, but manages to stammer out that he thinks maybe once? When he was really little? He knows an old man came and killed some giant fish and brought the bits in a bag but his nanny wouldn’t let him talk to him even though he really really wanted to.
She knows who Julian Alfred Pankratz is, of course she does, she made a point to know once she found out that was his full name, and she turns on Geralt and asks if he’d ever done a job for the Earl of Lettenhove and Geralt’s like “..maybe, I don’t know where that is?” and she snaps “Kerack” and he frowns and he remembers the vodyanoi and the little boy with wide blue eyes and not a hint of fear, and Yen’s seen both of their marks, now, saw Geralt’s so many times and saw Jaskier’s second one once.
“’Did you kill that?’ ‘I did.’” she recites. “The sort of thing a curious little boy named Julian might ask a white-haired adult who looked like an old man to him.”
And she remembers being young, and she never properly looked at the kind man with the rough voice who’d walked her home, but he’d had a chestnut horse and white hair and dark leather armor, and she presses a hand to her ribs because she hadn’t thought of it in so long and she grabs Geralt’s wrist even though it can’t be seen. “’Watch yourself.’ ‘Sorry.’ And then you walked me home.”
Then she removes the glamour from her own wrist and shows Jaskier. “’Be still, bard.’ ‘Please, please’ and then I had to make you sleep, because you were in too much pain and I couldn’t heal you if you weren’t still.”
7) And part of her hates it, and she leaves them staring in shock at her and stalks down the hill and portals away and doesn’t see either of them for three weeks, but she knows now. She knows. And they’re left standing there in shocked silence and finally Jaskier lets out a long breath and says, “Well, I guess it makes sense why I love you so much.” and Geralt just stares at him now, because Jaskier believes this? And loves him?
And Geralt takes a while to convince, but eventually Yen comes back and declares they’re going to take a trip to the coast and figure themselves out, she has just the place, and they spend three months living in a large coastal manor that neither man asks where she got it, and they have their own rooms, but within a few weeks, there were more and more nights when one or the other of them would sleep in Geralt’s room.
And finally two months in Geralt wakes up alone for the first time, and he worries, and their rooms are both cold and empty, but he gets downstairs and there they still are on the far-too-comfortable sofa by the dying fire, Jaskier sprawled on his back and Yen curled on his chest, and Geralt feels like his heart might burst, and thinks maybe they’re right, and they really are soulmates after all.
8) And then they go to Cintra and rescue Ciri and live happily ever fucking after.
#the witcher#geralt#yennefer#jaskier#geraskefer#ot3#askbox meme#soulmates au#Anonymous#audience with the gods
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Preferences are a Privilege that Geralt Doesn't Get to Have - Part 2: Dog Meat Boogaloo
TWs: graphic violence, blood, food horror, mentions of self harm
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The wraith contract hadn’t been that difficult to fulfil; he’d had time to prepare his blade with oil and then had been able to summon, trap and dispatch her with minimal injury. Standing by Roach in the moonlight, a safe distance from the cemetery, he had gulped down a dose of white honey to clear the toxins from his system. He is about halfway back to the village when he hears baying and snarling from the dark trees. He urges Roach into a gallop but the pack of wild dogs are already upon them, leaping at him, jaws snapping. Geralt draws his sword and swings, cleaving a dog clear in half as Roach runs. The forest is dense and she dodges to the right of a tree, then wheels around, panicked, as a warg appears in front of her out of the dark. Geralt hangs on, gathering the reins in short as he tries to turn her so that he can swing at the warg with his sword hand, but a dog leaps up behind her, its claws raking down her flank. She screams and bucks, sending the dog flying. The rest of the pack are closing in and she rears, throwing Geralt to the ground. Then she backs up and he yells in pain as she crushes his shin with her hind hoof, rearing again. The dogs are circling around her, the braver ones darting in to snap at Geralt where he lies trapped. Roach moves her hind hoof and he swears, rolling and reaching for his silver sword. The dogs are already tearing at him now that Roach has moved and he’s easy prey. He brings the pommel of the sword down and feels the crack of a skull at the same time as jaws close on his thigh and drag him sideways. He thrashes, swinging at the warg that has its teeth clamped deep into his leg, and warm blood - some his, some the warg’s - sprays over him. Claws rake at his back, a dog snarls and takes a chunk out of his shoulder. More teeth close into the side of his abdomen and he pulls the sword up, slitting the dog’s throat. He elbows another and it circles around and then sinks its teeth into his thigh, shaking its head to tear a chunk of meat free. He screams, manages to get a hand around its skinny neck and twists, snapping it and dropping the limp body to the side. There are few enough of them now that he has time to form a sign. He uses Aard to blast the remaining dogs back, and hears one of them slam into a tree, dead weight falling to the ground. He casts Quen but he can already hear the baying disappearing into the trees; the pack must have found easier prey to hunt.
He lies there, panting, and blinks up at the moon as he tries to gather the strength to move. He can feel the blood running down his sides and soaking the ground, and he’s already feeling dizzy and tired; he doesn’t have very long. He won’t make it back to the village without passing out, and Roach has bolted with his Swallow in her saddle bags. ‘Fuck.’ He growls, then heaves himself to sitting. His head pounds and the nausea is already rising but there’s only one thing he can do. He’s always hated this bit, he thinks, as he reaches for his knife. He slits one of the less mangy looking dogs down the stomach, organs spilling out onto the blood-soaked ground in a steaming pile. He reaches into the slippery mass and messily frees the liver. His shaking hands mean he nicks the colon and the foul stench of shit rolls over him, but he brings the liver up to his mouth and takes a bite, his mouth filling with the sour, powdery meat. He swallows it down, barely chewing, trying to focus on the feeling of the blood loss subsiding rather than the sickly warmth of the meat in his mouth. When the liver is gone, he pulls back the skin and hacks a chunk of meat from the dog’s skinny haunch. It’s stringy and the tendons are hard to chew, making him gag when he swallows part of the meat and the rest of it almost chokes him, attached by a string of sinew. He swallows back bile and takes another bite, the blood running down his chin.
‘Sweet Melitele’s sagging tits, Geralt. What are you doing?’ Fuck. He startles, whirling around to face Jaskier, whose mouth is open, looking between him and the meat in his hand, his face wearing an expression of utter horror. For a moment it’s quiet and Geralt can see that Jaskier is trying to school his features into something gentler. Then rage overtakes him. Jaskier should know by now that Geralt is a mutant - a monster. He doesn’t need the bard’s pity. He stumbles to his feet and lurches towards Jaskier, who instinctively takes a step back, eyes widening in fear. Good. Geralt knows how he must look, so he takes full advantage of it.
‘Fuck off.’ He snarls, but the idiot bard doesn’t move. ‘Jaskier.’ Geralt bears his teeth, blood coating his lips. ‘Fuck. Off.’ Jaskier shakes his head minutely as if to clear it, stumbling backwards. ‘Right, yes. I’ll just be -’ He indicates vaguely over his shoulder, eyes never leaving Geralt. ‘I’ll just be back at the inn.’ He starts to turn away, then looks back. ‘Geralt, it’s -’ he starts. But he sees Geralt’s expression and his mouth clicks shut. ‘Right.’
The sun is starting to rise by the time Geralt has healed so that he can walk, rounded up roach and made it back to the village. He unlocks the door of the inn room they’re sharing. A small, vicious part of him wants the bard to be gone, but when he opens the door he sees Jaskier sitting on the bed, lute in his lap, utterly asleep. The candle by the bed has burned out but Geralt can see Jaskier’s face by the grey dawn light, features slack and mouth hanging open, utterly vulnerable. Maybe he actually is an idiot, Geralt thinks. He clearly has no self preservation. He stands there for a moment, listening to the bard’s peaceful breathing, then frees his swords from his back and drops them noisily to the floor, startling Jaskier awake.
‘Geralt!’ He squeaks, disorientated and blinking in the dawn light. Geralt continues to remove his armour, not looking in Jaskier’s direction. ‘What time is it? Is it late? Or - sort of-’ He squints out of the window ‘early? I was just - uh - resting my eyes, waiting for inspiration to strike - the perfect simile, the perfect rhyme - you know how it can be.’ Geralt doesn’t. ‘Anyway, how was the contract?’ His tone is forcedly bright. ‘I thought you were taking your time last night so I would come and lend a hand! And then -ah, well- we all know what happened then, and - well I thought you might never come back, so there’s that.’ Jaskier suddenly loses momentum and pauses nervously. Then he remembers - ‘Bath! There’s a bath! It’s probably cold by now but I’m sure you can-’ he flicks his hand in an imitation of a witcher sign, moving away towards the bath ‘-witcher it hot again.’ Geralt feels something warm in his chest. Probably heartburn, he thinks.
Jaskier chatters relentlessly as Geralt bathes, but once Geralt is dressed again in fresh clothes, patching what he can of his tattered armour, the bard grows quiet and thoughtful.
‘Geralt?’ he asks, and Geralt knows that tone - knows that it precedes a question about witchers. He knows what Jaskier wants to ask, but he’s not going to make it any easier for him by anticipating his question. 'The - uh - you know - the dogs? The dog… meat…' He frowns, and Geralt feels his frustration rising again. How is this so hard for Jaskier to understand? If Jaskier can't accept Geralt as the mutated freak he is, that's not Geralt's problem.
'What about it?' he growls, not looking up. He hears Jaskier shift his weight.
'I don't mind. Not that you care what I think, I know.' Geralt hums. 'Rude. But I was just wondering.' A breath. 'Do you like it?' Geralt looks up; that wasn't the question he was expecting. Jaskier's expression is painfully open, and Geralt looks straight back down at his work, suddenly feeling trapped. Why does it matter whether he likes it? It's what his body needs; he doesn't have to like it. That's a stupid question, he thinks, angrily.
'Why does that matter?' It comes out rougher than he means, and jaskier flinches minutely, then stands up and crosses the room to pick up his lute, the picture of nonchalance except for the slightly raised heart rate that's now all Geralt can hear. He grits his teeth.
'Well, I was just wondering. Didn't want you to go without on my account. My delicate sensibilities won't be offended. If that's-' he pauses to gesture at Geralt '-what you like.'
'I mean,' grits out Geralt, 'why would it matter what I like?' He hasn't looked up, but he can feel that Jaskier is looking at him. He pushes the needle through the leather with more force than necessary and it plunges into his thumb. That vicious part of him wants to push it deeper, but an infection in his sword hand is the last thing he needs. He pulls it back out and wipes the bead of blood off on his shirt, anger boiling over.
'It doesn't fucking matter, Jaskier. Stop asking stupid questions.' He snarls. Jaskier stops tuning his lute, and for a moment Geralt thinks he's going to say something. But he obviously thinks better of it, and goes back to his tuning. Good, thinks Geralt, standing and slamming his half-mended armour onto the chest he'd been sitting on with a thud. He kneels, trying to clear his mind of irritation so he can meditate. He closes his eyes. Maybe he's finally succeeded in pushing the bard away. Maybe Geralt will come to and find himself alone, Jaskier's clothes and toiletries and lute gone from the room. Maybe he'll finally be able to make his way on the path without a constant stream of chatter and music alerting every man and monster on the continent to his presence. He hopes Jaskier will be gone, he thinks coldly. A familiar ache settles in his throat and he swallows it down, focusing on his meditation.
When Geralt does resurface, the first thing he hears is Jaskier humming under his breath as he works on a melody. He keeps his eyes closed; the bard doesn't know he's awake yet. For the second time in as many hours, Geralt feels that peculiar warmth in his chest. Heartburn, he thinks, and opens his eyes.
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There we go two drabbles in one night !! I had the day off work today so it's a special bumper edition of fic.
This is heavily based off the game!lore, as in you can eat disgusting shit and Geralt will regenerate health. Except then I peppered in a bit of Netflix!Geralt's Turn-Every-Emotion-Into-Anger and added some General Suffering, as a treat.
This is part of a freeform series of short and unconnected drabbles based around Geralt denying that he has preferences, and Jaskier's reactions. Part 1 is here.
Enjoy!
#geralt#geralt of rivia#more like geralt of idiot#heartburn my ass#jaskier#the witcher#geraskier#again sort of#geralt whump#hurt geralt#tw: blood and gore#tw: graphic depictions of violence#tw: self harm#tw: food horror#my fic#drabble#twn#hurt jaskier#a little bit#but he copes
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10/13 - matching tattoos
A Dozen Denials
Soulmate-identifiers exist to make things easier unless you’re Jaskier, who’s equally as deep in love as he is in denial. But there’s only so many excuses you can make to avoid the truth… (aka jaskier’s soulmate is definitely a witcher, just not the one he first assumes)
A/N: guess who’s back to make yet another mess of yet another trope ?? @alllthequeenshorses :)
previous chapter
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It takes Jaskier an absurdly long time to notice the little red flames on his foot.
He was an infant and he was playing in the gardens and because he sought adventure, he lost his shoes. And yet, the woman who was assigned to clean him up only dumped buckets of water on his head and scrubbed his skin until his ticklish laughter turned into remorseful sniffles, and he was too busy being upset to even think about looking closely at his feet.
He was a child and he was running from his siblings and because he thought he was clever, he threw his shoes down one corridor and ran down the opposite one. And yet, when he reluctantly reunited with the others for dinner only to be sent back to his room because he looked improper, he climbed into his sheets and sulked and didn’t care to look closely at his feet.
He was a student and he was being chased by an angry classmate who thought he’d been cheating and because he was in a rush, he didn’t bother to pick up his boots when he tripped over something and they fell off. And yet, all he could think about was composing something out of spite rather than taking care of his injuries, so he gave himself no time to look closely at his feet.
But then he was almost entirely grown and he was jumping out of windows because otherwise he’d be caught in the wrong bed and he was landing awkwardly, twisting his ankle as he attempted to leave unnoticed.
“What did you do this time?” Shani asks, helping him to a seat as soon as she opens the door and sees his sheepish grin.
“You mean who did he do this time,” Priscilla snorts, but she too takes a moment to look him over and assess how bad things are.
Jaskier laughs brightly. “The woman I overheard Valdo gushing about. Entirely willing as well as worth it, I assure you... she was divine!”
“More importantly,” Shani interrupts, glaring at the two of them, “your ankle isn’t broken. What’s this tattoo, though? You never told us you had one.”
Jaskier frowns. “I don’t have a tattoo. Why would I do such a thing to my lovely skin?”
Shani lightly punches his leg as if to remind him not to sound so arrogant before lifting his foot to inspect it. “This looks like flames,” she says eventually.
Priscilla frowns, shooting Jaskier a confused look before also investigating his alleged tattoo. “Well, she’s not wrong. Are you saying you’ve never tattooed fire on yourself? Because it sure looks like you’ve tattooed fire on yourself.”
Frustrated, Jaskier gently pushes both of them back and squints at the sole of his foot. “What in the hells? Why is it so... alarmingly red? Oh gods, what if she was so divine that she was married to a mage and now they’ve cursed me?”
“To do what, die by the hands of- uh, by the flames of a pyre? No, don’t be daft,” Priscilla scoffs, then frowns thoughtfully. “What if it’s one of those soulmate markers?”
Jaskier shakes his head, holding out his wrist, the one with the ouroborus. “I already have one of those, see?”
“The needle on my shoulder is impossibly blue,” Shani says before biting her lip, knowing that Jaskier has a rather complicated love-hate relationship with the cryptic signs of his supposed soulmate.
Jaskier groans.
“We can just forget about this and get drunk instead?” Priscilla offers, all three of them proceeding to do exactly that.
It’s only years later that Jaskier considers the tattoo again, after twisting his ankle in the exact same way. This time, though, he makes his way back to Geralt, who rolls his eyes but applies a salve anyway.
“Who was it this time?” he asks.
Jaskier, having immediately been thrown back into the past, smirks. “The innkeeper’s son. Worth it, I assure you, he was utterly divine.”
Geralt hums disapprovingly but there’s a hint of a smile pulling at his lips so Jaskier just laughs and kisses that hint until it turns into a proper smile.
“Hey, Geralt? Do you have any red tattoos?” Jaskier asks as the two of them settle for the night.
Geralt snorts behind him. “Is that your most subtle way of asking about my latest scars?”
Jaskier elbows him. “No! I can be far more subtle when I need to be, I was merely asking whether you’d ever gotten any tattoos and if perchance, they happen to be red. Honestly…”
There’s a brief pause, after which Geralt shakes his head, which Jaskier only knows through the way Geralt’s hair brushes against the nape of his neck. “No. I might have had one before… before, but the only thing that sticks on a witcher’s skin is a wound.”
“Oh,” Jaskier breathes.
Then he scowls and spins so he’s facing Geralt, leaning forward and gently kissing his nose. And his cheek. And his forehead. And his chin. And his other cheek. When he goes to kiss his nose again, Geralt shuffles back a little and frowns, raising a questioning eyebrow.
“Love sticks too,” he whispers.
“Not the same way a scar does,” Geralt argues.
Jaskier shakes his head stubbornly. “Scars can fade. It’s only love that stays in the end.”
Geralt sighs. “I don’t know why I bother arguing with poets.”
“Poets? Multiple poets? Oh, my dear witcher, you are going to have to elaborate on all of these poets.” Jaskier smirks, propping himself up on one elbow and resting his chin on his hand.
“No,” Geralt replies, looking a little horrified at the suggestion, “one poet is enough to argue with for me.”
“So you are arguing then?” Jaskier asks, just to be annoying really.
He’s rewarded by Geralt laughing a little before nudging his hand away from his face, which causes him to yelp. Surprisingly though, his head doesn’t hit the ground but rather, falls into Geralt’s hand.
Jaskier exhales audibly. “You are a menace.”
“No more than you,” Geralt says, pulling him close.
“You would get so awfully bored if I wasn’t,” Jaskier mumbles even as he yawns, the day finally catching up to him.
It’s worth it, of course. He would stumble through a thousand - well, he’d prefer if it were only a hundred, really - more twisted ankles if it meant being gifted moments like these and he would remain forever confused about scars and tattoos if it meant proving his point about the right kind of love.
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i am once again imploring you to overlook the handwave-y lore logic and forgive me for making what could have been a cute geraskier scene angsty ^-^
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thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher blog: @itsjaskier | next chapter
#jaskel#jaskier#eskel#geralt of rivia#geraskier#it's complicated i'm sorry#endgame jaskel#but a whole load of geraskier until then#hurt jaskier#oblivious jaskier#soulmate au#soulmates gone wrong#somewhere across the continent eskel is sad and he doesn't know why#he'll be fine...eventually#fanfiction#the witcher#my writing#add#also @alllthequeenshorses sorry if you didn't want to be tagged but you seemed interested in an update on the previous chapter#feel free to ignore this if it's no longer your vibe that's totally fine xox
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Pins and Needles: Part 3
Part 1, Part 2
———- 🌷 🐺 🌷———-
The butter yellow of the awning of the new tattoo shop carried on inside. The color scheme was classy, though.
During Geralt’s mostly misspent youth, he’d been inside his fare share of tattoo and piercing parlors. He’d never gotten a tattoo, and his piercings had mostly been his own work, but still, the culture seeped in. He had learned to expect a lot of red and black and exposed brickwork. There was nothing wrong with that look, but he considered the interior of Pins and Needles to be much more friendly.
The walls were a deep blue, denim, if he had to name it, or perhaps Prussian Blue. It was on all the walls, and the ceiling, with the floor in a dark, smooth wood. He wasn’t sure if that was kept from the last shop or was newly installed. The counter was in the same polished, dark wood, so he supposed it was new. All the accents were dandelion yellow, or yellow brass if they were metal. His leg brushed up against a velveteen chair, something of a vintage style, and of course, in that same buttery yellow.
The waiting area had the chair, a matching loveseat, and a high-backed chaise lounge in a teal color. It had more green to it’s color than the walls, and was in a lighter shade, but it was adjacent to the color of the walls, and a pleasing focal point. Overall, Geralt was impressed. The blue and yellow color scheme could have easily been overdone, but it was masterful, and clearly completed by someone with an eye for color.
Ciri was delightedly pouring over a piercing display. Geralt was startled to realize he owned the exact display box. It was, in fact, a large glass terrarium, the metal that same shiny brass. The shelves of piercing were cleverly angled and set within the case so that they were all visible.
“Nice display case, isn’t it?”
Geralt turned, and there was Jaskier. He had a BB8 coffee mug in his hand, and a shimmery teal shirt unbuttoned low. It framed his sternum and the peaks of color visible through his chest hair and pointing down in a tempting arrow to--
“urk,” Geralt said, choking on his own tongue.
“Priscilla found it on the side of the road one day, the legs were scuffed to hell and one was missing, but the glass was intact, so she took it back to her house and fixed it up.”
“I have the same one,” Geralt managed, the tips of his ears reddening.
“Oh, as a display case?”
“Um, it’s a terrarium.”
“Is it really?” Jaskier beamed and Geralt felt like he was dying. “I always thought it was a funny shape. It makes such a lovely focal point along that wall though.”
Ciri was beaming as well. “Dad keeps succulents in his. Is Priscilla the lady that does piercings?”
“She is,” Jaskier said, tilting his head so that his hair flopped and Gerald got a better view of his undercut and dangling chain of a cuff piercing on his ear. “Are you in the market for a piercing, miss...”
“Ciri,” she said, sticking her hand out to shake. “And my dad might get a tattoo sometime, but he’s being a baby about it and doesn’t know what he wants.”
Jaskier shook her hand and levelled a devastating grin at Geralt. “Well, some things aren’t to be rushed, but if your dad ever want’s a tattoo, I’ll give him anything he wants.”
Geralt desperately tried to reel his thoughts in from the absolute trainwreck that that statement illicited. Obviously Jaskier was just trying to sell his craft not offer...anything else.
“Are you taking walk-ins for piercings?” Ciri asked.
“Absolutely,” Jaskier said, turning and shouting. “Priscilla?” Down the hall of the shop where, presumably, the actuall tattooing and piercing rooms were.
“YEah?” came the response.
“Got a consult for you!”
She poked her head out of a room, smiled quickly, popped back in for a second, then emerged. “Hiya, sorry, I was just doing a little sketching, how can I help?”
“I’d like an industrial piercing please,” Ciri said.
Priscilla tilted her head, eyes squinting slightly as she, apparently, assesed Ciri’s ears. “That’ll suit you well, left or right side?”
“Left.”
“Cool,” she looked to Geralt. “I’m assuming you’re the dad?”
“Uh, yes,” Geralt said, feeling wildly out of his depth.
“Great, and does she have your permission for the piercing?”
“Oh, uh, yeah, absolutely.”
“Cool,” Priscilla said, digging behind the counter. “I’ve got paper work for both of you, and then we can get this lovely lady poked full of holes.”
Geralt’s stomach flipped over. Despite how many times he had actually stuck a fucking sewing needle through his own ear as a teenager, he couldn’t stand the thought of normal piercing needles.
“It’s okay, Dad,” Ciri said as they were handed paperwork and pens. “You don’t have to hold my hand or anything, you can wait out here.”
“Great,” Geralt said, looking at the paperwork. Pretty standard stuff, parental release, aftercare papers, all that. He signed quickly and returned the relevant documents, keeping the aftercare instructions.
“Thanks very much,” Priscilla said, checking for signatures before smiling at Ciri again. “Got any jewelry picked out?” They walked over to the case as Ciri gestured to some.
Jaskier was looking at Geralt assessingly over the top of his coffee mug. “You know,” he said. “Most dads aren’t this cool about piercings.” He licked a bit of foam off of his lip and Geralt tried very hard to pretend that he hadn’t seen the flash of a tongue piercing.
“I, uh, I’ve got plenty of bad ones, I’d rather she got her’s done professionally.”
“Bad ones?” Priscilla’s head jerked up. “Can I see?”
Geralt nodded as she was already bustleing over. He brushed the strands of hair that escaped his ponytail back so she could see his ears.
“Amatur work for sure, although no lasting damage, where’d you get these done?”
Geralt flushed. “I did them, uhm, way back.”
“Oh god, you didn’t buy one of those cheep piercing guns, did you?” Priscilla asked, poking gently at Geralt’s ear so she could look at the back of the piercings. Jaskier smiled at Geralt’s probably confused expression.
“No, I used a needle.”
Priscilla pulled back, eyes wide. “A sewing needle?”
Geralt shrugged guiltily.
“Yeah, okay,” she said quickly, turning to Ciri. “Hold out your pinky, you have to make me a promise.”
Ciri’s brow furrowed, but she linked pinky fingers with the excitable piercer.
“I promise,” Priscilla said, gesturing with her other hand for Ciri to repeat after her.
“I promise,” Ciri said.
“Not to pierce myself.”
“Not to pierce myself,” Ciri said, smiling.
“No matter what my dad did.”
“No matter what my dad did,” Ciri finished. “I won’t, don’t worry.”
“Good,” Priscilla said, releasing Ciri’s pinky from it’s hold and sending a theatrical shiver of disgust toward Geralt. “A sewing needle, yikes. C’mon kiddo, we’re gonna stick a needle through your ear, and I’ll show you how a real piercer does it.”
She hurried Ciri into the back room, grabbing a couple sealed packages on the way, needle and jewelry, Geralt presumed.
“Don’t mind Prissy,” Jaskier said. “She’s just very big on piercing safety.”
“No, I agree,” Geralt said. “I was a really stupid kid back then.”
Jaskier smiled and came out from around the counter a bit, leaning against the side, hip jutting in those ungodly tight leather pants. “Ciri seems pretty smart though, does she get it from her mother?”
“Um,” Geralt said, the sight of those long, leather-wrapped legs making his mouth weirdly dry. “I suppose? Her dad was pretty smart, too.”
“Ah, so you’re not her biological dad?” Jaskier said, leaning forward. Geralt wondered for a second if he was fishing, but surely not, pretty tattoo artists didn’t flirt with frumpy guys like him.
“No, uh, but I’ve been her guardian since she was just a baby so...”Geralt trailed off, unsure how to finish.
“That’s very cute.” Jaskier’s eyes trailed down Geralt, then back up. To his shame, Geralt realized he hadn’t even removed his apron.
“You know,” Jaskier said, conversationally. “My dad would have never even thought about letting me get a piercing.”
Geralt looked over the form in front of him, piercings in each ear, more than one, even, a nose ring, and that ellusive tongue ring, as well as the colorful tattoos that swarmed over his skin. “That worked out well for him,” he said without thinking, then blushed.
Jaskier, though, laughed, head back, shoulders shaking. “Indeed,” he said at last. “I shrugged off my father’s wishes rather fully, I think.”
The bell rang as another person entered the shop and Geralt stepped aside as Jaskier went back behind the counter. He sat on the yellow chair and watched Jaskier’s lips--and that hint of silver on his tongue-- as he made the young woman a tattoo appointment.
Jaskier’s hands, full of rings and swirling ink, were so quick on the computer keys, and when he talked with them, they were so expressive.
Geralt wanted to hold one.
Unfortunately, by the time the young woman was gone and Geralt could have possibly had Jaskier’s full attention again, Ciri was all done. Geralt paid, thanked both Jaskier and Priscilla, and went over the care instructions, before he and Ciri crossed the road.
It felt very much like a retreat.
———- 🌷 🐺 🌷———-
Tag List!
@jaybeefoxy @sweetiepieplum @holymotherwolf
#geraskier#tattoo au#flower shop au#the witcher#geralt x jaskier#geralt is a good dad#but a dating disaster#DO NOT do your own piercings kids
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febuwhump day 17 - field surgery
a bit of hurt jaskier and family worrying (also i will stop making nilfgaard the baddies soon they’re just really convienient)
geraskefer | 1035 words | cw: injury, blood, referenced violence, surgery without painkillers (just a bad time all round for the bard)
_________________________
He curses the gods again as he pushes down, wishing there was something, anything he could do to make this better, to take away his pain but he just has to wait until it’s over.
Jaskier arches from the ground again with a muffled scream as he tries to shout around the leather in his mouth. Yennefer winces in sympathy as her hands still over the wound, and Ciri leans down to murmur more soothing words into the bards ear. Once Jaskier has settled again, Yennefer gets back to work. They weren’t sure how many fragments there were still in the wound, Geral prays that they are almost finished. He isn’t sure how much longer his heart will last, breaking more and more with every scream that rips from Jaskier’s throat. He presses his weight down again, one of his hands braced on the bards shoulder the other on his hip, until he stills and shifts his gaze up towards the other mans face.
Jaskier’s head is resting in Ciri’s lap, his face is pale from blood-loss and there are tears plastering his cheeks. His blue eyes are bright with pain, tears clinging to his long lashes as he looks up but Geralt knows that he is seeing straight through them. The pain has taken over him, his mind has drifted away he is muttering nonsense, calling out for people Geralt has never heard him mention before. There is one particularly desperate plea that sounds an awful lot like mother as his head thrashes from side to side, and Geralt feels his heart drop. He wishes that Jaskier would pass out, so that at least he would not suffer any more. Geralt could use Axii, but he does not know the state of Jaskiers mind right now, to send him under could mean losing him forever, and Geralt isn’t ready to take that risk. He keeps praying that the blue eyes will slip close, and Jaskier can have some peace, but the bard has always been a stubborn bastard.
He looks up and tries to give Ciri what he hopes is a reassuring smile, but it does nothing to remove the scared look from her face or to stop the tears from flowing. Geralt guesses that she has probably not seen anything this bad, not since she fled Cintra. She is running her fingers through Jaskiers hair somewhat frantically, trying to give him whatever comfort she can. Geralt wishes he could do something to comfort her, but as Jaskier writhes beneath him again his attention is pulled back towards trying to stop him moving and undoing Yennefers work.
Once Jaskier is settled again, he glances towards Yennefer. Her arms are covered in blood, as her hands dig around in the wound. She had set her jaw and her gaze was determined. She hadn’t said a word since she had begun, but Geralt can see the slight tremor in her hands as she works. The fight took what little strength she had gained, and the exhaustion was beginning to set in. They would all need a rest after this, but he wasn’t sure how or when they would get one.
He is not sure how much more time passes, Jaskier slowly growing weaker beneath him but he continues to struggle and fight. It has been a while since Yennefer had pulled out a shard and after further probing she sits back on her heels.
“I think that’s all of it. I can’t find any more,”
Geralt moves around and rests his hand on her shoulder. “Well done,” he murmurs and then takes her position so that he can begin stitching the wound. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her shuffle round and take a seat up by Jaskiers head. She reaches out one arm to pull Ciri into a half hug, letting the girl bury her head into her shoulder and cry, whilst the other reaches down so that she can run her fingers through Jaskiers hair.
Jaskier seems to have finally succumb to sleep, the pain and blood-loss finally becoming too much for him. They descend into silence, the only noise is the movement of the needle and the shallow breaths dragging themselves from Jaskiers throat. Soon Geralt is finished, and with Yennefer and Ciri’s help, he gets Jaskier upright so that they can wrap a bandage around his torso. As soon as they have lain him back down, Ciri is cuddling into him, resting her head on his shoulder and placing her arm across him so that she is avoiding his injury. Jaskier must sense this, even in his unconscious state, as his head turns so that his chin is resting on her head, his nose brushing her hair. Geralt smiles down at them as Yen comes round and sits next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. He presses a kiss into her hair as she lets out a long exhale.
“Idiot,” she sighs. “Going and getting himself stabbed.”
“In his defence, I don’t think he wanted it to happen either.”
“Wouldn’t put it past him. The bastard probably just wanted an excuse to sleep in a real bed.”
“There are less dramatic ways to do that.”
“Have you met him?”
“True,” he snorts and they settle back into silence. They should probably think about moving on, findsomewhere safe, somewhere where Nilfgaard won’t be able to find them, so they can set up and Jaskier can recover easily. But looking at the bards pale face and Ciri’s tearstained cheeks, he cannot bear to move them just yet.
He can feel the tension running through her body and he pulls away slightly to look into her eyes, which are glistening with unshed tears.
“He’ll be alright,” he reassures.
“I know,” she says, blinking hurriedly and turning away from him.
He just hums and pulls her back into him, kissing her temple then reaching out to take Jaskiers hand in his. It is cold and Geralt can feel the tremble that is now running through the other man. Soon, they will move on soon, he tells himself.
But right now, he is going to sit and keep watch over his family.
#febuwhump#febuwhumpday17#my writing#my fic#geraskefer#geraskefer fic#geralt x yennefer x jaskier#geralt x jaskier#geralt x yennefer#yennefer x jaskier#geralt#yennefer#jaskier#ciri
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Ciri finds a baby bunny in the snow.
previous part is here. read it all on ao3!
It’s not hurt, not from what she can see, at least. Just dazed, sitting off on the side of the road as the snow piles around it. It’s not afraid of her when she approaches it, nor when she gently runs her index finger over it’s soft ears and back.
“What’s it doing out here?” She asks, looking back at Geralt, who’s watching her from where he’s stood on the main road, Roach standing patiently at his side.
“Probably got picked up by something that forgot to eat it,” he answers, peering down at where Ciri is crouched by the snowy gutter.
“It doesn’t look hurt,” she says.
It’s incredibly tiny-- she realizes, it’s eyes are barely even open. Ciri’s heart melts a little when the poor, shivering thing shuffles after her hands when she pulls away, seeking her warmth.
With gentle fingers, she scoops it up into her hands, carefully cradling it to her chest to shield it from the cold. It squirms a bit in her hands before it settles against her chest, it’s little heartbeat calming some pressed against her own.
“Abandoned by the mother, then.” The witcher grunts, and Ciri frowns at him.
“You don’t know that,” she says, a little petulant. “It could just be lost.”
Geralt doesn’t answer, simply raises a brow.
“Well, I don’t think it’s been abandoned,” she says, ignoring his pessimistic attitude. Gently cradling the small bunny to her chest, she smiles down softly at it, “Just needs some help getting home, is all.”
“Ciri,” Geralt starts with a sigh.
“We have to help him,” she pleads, holding the bunny close. “Geralt, he’s just a baby.”
Geralt’s other brow joins the first. “He?”
“Yes, he.” Ciri says resolutely, lifting her chin up in defiance, “I’ve decided he’s a he. And his name is Jan, so you can address him accordingly.”
“We have to keep moving,” Geralt says, “We can’t help it.”
“Him.” She corrects, a tad bit rueful, “Don’t be rude, Geralt. He can hear you, y’know.”
Geralt rolls his eyes, but relents, “It’s best to just leave him be.”
“Leave him be?” Ciri repeats, appalled, “You mean just let him die?”
Geralt shrugs, and Ciri gasps at him in shock, pointedly covering Jan’s ears so he doesn’t hear such blatantly terrible comments.
“Fine, then,” Ciri says, and lifts herself to her feet, careful not to jostle Jan. She promptly marches off into the snowy forest. “If you won’t help, then I’ll do it myself.”
“Ciri, we don’t have time for this,” Geralt huffs, and Ciri looks at him over her shoulder as she continues to walk into the trees.
“You don’t even know where you’re going.” The witcher calls after her. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say his tone is a bit petulant. Ciri grins at him.
“I think I can figure it out,” she says, before turning on her heel and focusing on the path ahead of her.
From behind her, she hears Geralt grumble something about her being “as stubborn as the damn bard,” while he makes his way after her, and she bites her lip to keep from smiling too much.
And so, Ciri makes her way through the winter woods, Jan cradled protectively to her chest with Geralt trailing behind. She takes a breath, and tries her best to put her newfound survival skills to use.
They’ve been on the road for weeks now. Inns and towns were no longer safe, not with the steadily growing Nilfgaardian bounty on Ciri’s head. Making camp off side roads in the freezing woods was their only option.
She’s still not as used to sleeping on the hard, frigid ground as she’d like to be. But with the heavy blankets piled atop her and a witcher enacting as a shield from the harsh winter winds at night, she finds she’s getting used to it, despite the cold ache in her joints in the mornings.
Those weeks, much to Ciri’s excitement, were also filled with survival lessons.
Geralt had been firm in the belief that Ciri needed to know how to take care of herself if they were ever separated. He began to show her the basics-- how to find shelter, clean water, and how to track and hunt.
So now, she’s looking for rabbit prints in the snow. Geralt is trailing behind, but is letting her do this on her own. She is also resolutely ignoring him and his grumbling.
It takes some time, and a few wrong turns, but eventually, Ciri finds a path of prints that’s clear enough for her to make out in the powdery snow and pine needles.
She follows it carefully to a little burrow, nestled deep between the twisted roots of an uprooted, dead pine. She stoops down to peer into the burrow, squinting into the little hole for any sign of life. Their fur is barely visible in the dark warmth of the earth, but Ciri can see the glint of small round eyes peeking back at her, and knows she’s done it.
“Here we are, Jan,” she whispers to the tiny bunny in her hands. “Let’s get you back home where you belong.”
Crouching down beside the roots, she carefully places Jan back into the burrow. The mother looks weary at first, but after a bit of sniffing Jan rejoins the warmth and cuddle pile of his family.
Ciri sits back, grinning ear to ear at the sight. She’s quite proud, if she does say so herself.
“I told you I could do it.” She says, grinning brightly back at Geralt from where she’s crouched beside the small bunch of floppy ears and twitching noses hidden safely between the roots.
“You did,” Geralt hums with a nod, and if the slight turn of his lips is anything to go by when she looks back at him, Ciri would say the witcher is proud of her too.
“You have to start believing me when I say that I’m a good hunter now.” She insists, and Geralt snorts.
“I’ll believe it when you bring them back for dinner.” He answers. Ciri gasps at him, and Geralt looks back at her with an amused glint in his yellow eyes.
“How can you even say that?” She huffs at him, before looking down adoringly at the little huddle of rabbits in their home, “They’re so tiny and sweet.”
“Taste good, too.”
“Geralt!” Ciri squawks, and the witcher chuckles as she scowls at him.
“No one is allowed to eat them,” she declares firmly as she rises to her feet, sweeping some of the snow covered pine needles off her clothes. She looks pointedly at him. “And that includes mean old hungry witchers.”
“Stubborn,” Geralt says, without any heat, and Ciri smiles back warmly.
“Like your bard?” She asks, teasing, as they begin the walk back towards Roach and the main road. Geralt takes the lead this time, which Ciri is grateful for. She’s a good tracker, but she’s still learning.
“Mm. Not quite,” he hums. “Jaskier would’ve begged me to keep it.”
Geralt’s smile is warm when Ciri’s light laughter drifts through the winter air.
“Do you think we would have got along?” She asks, glancing up at him with a bright curiosity that the world has yet to snuff out, and hopefully, never will.
“Yes,” the witcher answers after a beat, and Ciri feels warmed through at his words. “He would have loved you.”
They fall into a comfortable silence, and Ciri is content to listen to the creaking of branches and the sounds of animals beginning to prepare for the long, sleepy winter ahead.
A sharp wind blows through the trees. Despite her own cloak, Ciri still shivers, wrapping her arms tightly around herself against the chill. She feels a warm hand on her shoulder. When she looks, Geralt has pulled back his own cloak, a silent invitation to shield her from the harsh winter winds.
Ciri takes him up on it gladly.
#the witcher#the witcher fic#geralt of rivia#cirilla of cintra#jaskier#geraskier#it's about the found family#my fic
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the witcher: of banquets, bastards and burials
Ciri entering Brokilon forest is pretty unsettling. Also, that’s the previous episode, but why do they shoot Dara if they don’t intend to hurt him in the long run? The sudden change in climate is a really nice touch--it feels so otherworldly and magical. Ciri’s really concerned about Dara once she snaps out of the weird trance, it’s cute. I like them.
“It swallowed that witcher whole”
“Oooooh, this is brilliant. Oh, sorry. It’s just Geralt is usually so stingy with the details. Uh, and then what happened?”
“He died!”
“Eh, he’s fine.”
This is so at odds with fanon!Jaskier. It amuses me a great deal. Jaskier does seem to think Geralt is kind of invincible, and not completely without cause.
“And now, witcher, it’s time to repay your debt.” --I think this says a lot about Jaskier, that he doesn’t feel totally comfortable asking Geralt to do something for him. It also comes off as sort of a game. I like the complexity and contradiction in their level of intimacy; it gets overlooked a bit. Jaskier also has a comfortably large ego in most situations, but I think he also is genuinely worried that he’s useless compared to Geralt (see episode 6).
I think this one is my favorite of Jaskier’s costumes. It’s a good color. The cut of the trousers with the trying to thread a needle between matching the outfit and looking “normal” to a modern audience works better here than it does in some of the other ones. Joey Batey as Jaskier seems to like leaning on things, especially posts, he’s very slouchy. (Mental note of physicality to use in fic.)
“I’m not your friend.”
“Oh, you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom? Oh yeah, exactly, that’s what I thought.”
Everything about this conversation has the feeling of well tread territory. Even the deeper stuff, like they talk about these sorts of things often, in little pockets of intimacy.
(That limp wristed bath salt flick is my favorite gif of all time--it’s one of only two or three I have saved on my phone.)
I think Jaskier is genuinely nervous here--and not just about being killed by someone’s partner. Geralt is actually the one who suggests that as the cause of his bodyguarding. I think he’s quite nervous about performing under these specific circumstances. It’s probably a big deal to have gotten this gig.
The way Jaskier puts his hand on Geralt’s arm! It’s both so forceful and casual.
“Yes, yes, yes, you never get involved, except you actually do--all of the time.” Jaskier knows Geralt. That is basically the core of Geralt’s character. He says things and he means them, but he’s uncertain, flexible in the face of reality, and/or self-delusional enough that he often does the opposite.
“Do witcher’s ever retire?”
“Yeah, when they slow and get killed”
“Come on you must want something for yourself once all this... monster hunting nonsense is over with.”
That’s not a denial of the reality of Geralt’s profession, it’s a denial of the validity of Geralt’s coping mechanisms. That’s Geralt responding to something in a way Jaskier thinks is inappropriate. Jaskier is Leslie Knope to a not insignificant extent.
“I want nothing.”
“Well, who knows? maybe someone out there will want you.” *floppy gesture* *pouty face*
“I need no one and the last thing I want is someone needing me.”
“And yet, here we are.”
“Hmm.”
That conversation gets very serious for a second. I really wonder how that line was intended to be read by the author. But the stillness of how it’s shot and the intimacy that’s emphasized in the way it’s framed really supports how seriously it’s performed. The words themselves seem like they very easily could be meant to be something of a joke, but it’s not played like that at all.
Both throughout the show and in the books, it’s pretty clear that the average person is not going to immediately ping that Geralt is a witcher. His eyes are really not that unnatural to be clocked at a distance, and the white hair is both within the realm of human hair color (just incongruous with the rest his apparent age) and also not typical of Witchers. But is there a particular reason Jaskier is trying to hide Geralt’s identity? Surely he is more of a threat as a Witcher than as a “Sad Silk Merchant”.
Mousesack calls Geralt the White Wolf--that has really caught on. They are clearly friends from before the song. Team Give-Geralt-more-weird-friends!
JASKIER LETTING A MAN A WHOLE FOOT SHORTER THAN HIM BACK HIM INTO A CORNER.
“Forgive me my lord, this happens all the time. It’s true that he has the face of a cad and a coward, but truth be known, he was kicked in the balls by an ox as a child.”
“That’s... true.”
And he gives Jaskier a coin!! How humiliating!
“You’re on your own from here on” but you will note that Geralt very much doesn’t leave and is still keeping an eye on him. Geralt also is repeatedly shown to be quite good at verbally diffusing conflict. I think this gets left out of fic a lot.
Calanthe! Delightfully dirty. I am into it.
“It will be done soon. You think I wanted to marry your father? I’ll have none of your water works here, you’re the daughter of the Lioness, behave like it.”
“Perhaps I should have some starving serfs brought in to slaughter then?”
Pavetta does not approve of the way Calanthe is running this country at all. I think this is an underlying source of conflict in their relationship in general. Calanthe thinks Pavetta is too soft and naive to take care of herself.
Aww, Ciri holds Dara’s hand when the dryad pulls the arrow out. I don’t actually have much to say about the Brokilon stuff without getting into my thoughts about adaptation, which would really take too much space. One day, maybe, I’ll get back to that.
Male posturing. Witchers are a threat to toxic masculinity. You have the dudes in Blaviken who are pissed off by Geralt’s existence and Renfri is just like chill, you have the bit in Nightmare of the Wolf where the dudes in the tavern are pissed at Vesimir’s existence but a whole little gaggle of women are totally chill. They exist outside social structure and the patriarchy.
“Are you calling me a liar? The Butcher of Blaviken bleats utter nonsense.”
*Jaskier makes a please don’t face*
“Perhaps the lord’s encountered rare subspecies of manticore.”
*Jaskier sighs, Calanthe laughs*
Geralt is perfectly capable of interacting with “polite society” and coming out ahead (for a given value of ahead). I think he chooses not to sometimes though.
“Any man willing to paint himself in the shadow of his failures will make for far more interesting conversation this night.” Yeah... women like Geralt (and Witchers in general cause they are outside the patriarchy)
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing, they’re gone now.”
Dara has not processed any of his trauma. I always liked him, but watching more closely, he’s actually quite an interesting character.
“As Queen I could demand it.”
“If I were one of your subjects.”
“I could torture you so very slowly into compliance.”
*Geralt is smiling, fucking kinky lunatic!*
“Her Majesty will do as she wishes. I’m not for turning.”
Yeah, they are flirting. Their powerplay dynamic is really interesting and fun. I like it.
Yennefer is so awkward and caught up in her own pain, and makes negative effort to comfort that baby. I love her.
That spidery thing is delightfully creepy. Poor Kalis, being fucking assasinated by a weird spider monster just for having the wrong gender babies. And Yennefer just abandons her. Shouldn’t she be better trained in defence? Like would that not be a reasonable thing to teach a court mage? Protecting people does seem to be part of her function. I have a theory that Aretuza does not prepare Mages very well for Court in actual practice. But we do see later that Yennefer can kill things fairly easily with magic. I guess she’s just not been in a combat situation before and kind of freaked out? That adds up.
Yeah, Calenthe is flirting. But also, woah abrupt change in topic. And Geralt actually answers her question. He does, in fact, talk about things.
“Tell me witcher, why are there so few of you left?”
“Hm. It is no longer possible to make more of us since the sacking of Kaer Morhen. Tell me your majesty, why do you risk your life on the battlefield when you can rest on your throne?”
“Because there is a simplicity in killing monsters, is there not? Seems we are quite the pair, Geralt of Rivia.”
“Hmm.” Sometimes a hmm is worth a thousand words. He is not impressed by this. But not unimpressed by this enough to take affront, which he is totally capable of despite Calanthe being a Queen.
And, of course, Geralt does get involved in the messy, violent affairs of men pretty quickly. Geralt fights to protect Duny, which is well... ironic. Considering. And so does Eist, which is... even more ironic. (It’s weird writing this stuff up now that I’ve read most of the books.)
I love the soundtracking so much! Especially Geralt’s theme, makes me very happy!
Calanthe really is quite blood thirsty, kicking her poor knight in the face before getting around to ordering everyone to stop. Goodness.
I really like how the baby has gone all white and frozen dead after the portal travel. It illustrates how unnatural tearing a hole in reality is even though Yennefer does it so seemingly effortlessly.
“Whatever windfall he came home to find would be mine.” That’s the law of surprise wording used by Duny. I wonder how many common phrasings there are.
“I bow to no law made by men who have never born a child.” Motherhood is such a thing. This deserves more thorough analysis than I am going to give it.
“Destiny helps people believe there’s order to this horse shit. There isn’t, but a promise made must be honored, as true for a commoner as it is for a queen.” Such a Geralt thing to say. And also something he is able to say because of his relationship with established authority.
Does Geralt Axii Pavetta? It’s not really clear what Geralt does to stop the tornado magic.
Ciri’s having nightmares :( About Cahir. I really wonder what they are going to do with that character. It’s one of the things I am most interested in.
“I drank the waters, it’s going to be ok.” That is really messed up. The waters of Brokilon are really messed up. Just like... cool, everything’s fine now!
“I’m sorry you didn’t have a life, but if truth be told you’re not missing much. I know it’s easy for me to say with warm breath in my lungs, and you with nothing. Still... what would you have had? Parents? Well, they’re the ones who wrote your last act, so not much loss there. Friends? Most likely fair weather. Lovers? Fun for a bit, I’ll admit but all eventually disappoint. And let's face it, you’re a girl. Your mother was right about one thing, we’re just vessels. And even when we’re told we’re special, as I was, as you would have been, we’re still just vessels for them to take and take until we’re empty and alone. So count yourself lucky, you’ve cheated the game, won without even knowing it.”
Fucking fuck. I can’t believe that people don’t feel for Yennefer. She is so disillusioned and in so much pain and she has every right to be. That is some extremely ineffective grave digging there though.
I like the hand binding marriage ceremony. Jaskier and lady-friend smiling in the background :)
“I think this has the makings of my greatest ballad yet.” already distracted from lady-friend who is trying to hand him a handkerchief for some reason.
“If you’re alive in the morning. Don’t grope for trout in any peculiar rivers until dawn.”
Why until dawn Geralt? Infidelity is not less of a problem once the sun is risen. And why that phrasing? How did you come up with that?
And Geralt is so close to escaping. But Duny has to insist on clearing the debt on his life.
“I want nothing.” Lol. You keep saying that.
“I claim the tradition as you have, the law of surprise, give me that which you already have but do not know.” (Second known wording for the law of surprise, which has nothing to do with returning home.)
Jaskier and lady friend are still holding hands, I guess the ballad writing *can* wait.
Aww, manly shoulder grab. “Be careful, old friend.” Yeah, Geralt needs more weird friends that just pop up sometimes.
And flash forward. Destiny has fucked up Cintra, if you want to read it that way. Necromantic and gut based divination. Gross. Fringilla is so poised, doing something so gross. So gross. Cannot say that enough times.
Special magic tree sap? It’s a pretty sort of opalescent color. Why is she in the desert for this vision thingy? And the tree, interesting.
“What are you child?” That’s a delightfully unsettling way to end the episode.
#the witcher#mayo blogs the witcher#i started doing episode notes back in february 2020 and am somehow only on episode 4 despite having rewatched the show however many times#i can totally finish before season 2 airs#this is really just a running list of crap for me to optimistically expand on some day#but writing good meta is so much work
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A lil (behind schedule) somethin’ somethin’ for the winter prompt challenge from @witcher-and-his-bard. It’s finally cold here and it’s almost time to go pick up our Christmas tree and this is, I’m realizing, more Christmas-y than the challenge was supposed to be, but in the words of our favorite bard: here we are.
---
mistletoe
jaskier/geralt
rating: G
“This is it. This is the one, Geralt.”
Jaskier flings his arms wide and does a quick little spin, the pom pom on his hat bouncing furiously. Geralt feels his lips quirk in a smile, then quickly schools his features into pleasant neutrality as Jaskier stops spinning and turns to face him, expectant.
“You said the same thing about the last four trees we looked at.”
“I did,” Jaskier concedes, “but the last four trees weren’t perfect.”
Jaskier circles the tree, gesturing and muttering under his breath.
“A perfect cone, a triangle for the ages. No bad angles, good bough coverage from all sides… Look at the branches—they fill her out perfectly, and—”
“The tree’s a she now?”
Jaskier’s head pops out from behind the tree in questions. There are pine needles stuck to his hat, and Geralt’s arm aches with the effort of holding himself back from reaching out and brushing them away.
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “She is and she’s perfect.”
His head disappears and Jaskier reemerges from the row of trees he’d been examining. There’s sap on his jacket, somehow, and one soft knitted glove is in danger of falling from his pocket and landing on the dirty, hard-packed snow covering the lot. He notices the sap and wrinkles his nose, rubbing at the fabric. Geralt huffs fondly and Jaskier looks up.
“Don’t move!” he says, and bounds off to find an employee to wrangle their tree. Geralt stuffs his hands into his coat pockets, watching as his breath condenses in the cold air. Slowly, he spins on the spot, catching sight of two other couples debating the merits of various tree options. Couples, he corrects, not other couples. Not yet at least, his traitorous mind adds. His lips quirk upwards again as a family catches his attention, the father lifting his young daughter onto his shoulders, who reaches out to grab a tree branch as his husband snaps a photo. Geralt’s smile slowly disappears and he lets out another puff of air, digging the heel of his boot into the ground and enjoying the crunch of the crusted snow.
“Would you look at that!” Geralt jumps slightly and he whirls to face Jaskier. Jaskier’s cheeks are red with the cold and his eyes are soft. Geralt follows his gaze as Jaskier sees the same couple, laughing brightly as their daughter bounces up and down on the balls of her feet, pointing enthusiastically at a tree. Jaskier scrunches his nose as he smiles, and Geralt ignores the ache spreading slowly from his chest into his arms.
“Looks just like you,” Geralt scoffs. “Well?”
“There’s a twenty minute wait for them to come get the tree for wrapping,” says Jaskier. “I told them that a Christmas tree was no match for my—you,” he coughs, “So anyway, if you can carry it to the front we can get home and decorate it before we watch Die Hard, which, for the record? Not a Christmas movie.”
The blush on Jaskier’s cheeks deepens and Geralt hums softly. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and steps towards the tree. He squats low and with a soft grunt lifts the tree from its stand and hoists the tree over his shoulder. Jaskier licks his lips and catches Geralt’s eye, gaze crackling with electricity. Geralt opens his mouth to speak, then snaps it shut again and the moment is gone. Geralt clears his throat.
“Lead the way.”
Jaskier claps his hands twice and spins on his heel, laughing with delight.
The line to have the tree wrapped is long, and Geralt is distracted by the ache in his chest as Jaskier details the methodology behind his perfect holiday playlist. Jaskier gesticulates wildly to illustrate his points, hands occasionally grazing Geralt’s shoulder and once—maddeningly and, Geralt assumes, unconsciously—pushing a lock of Geralt’s hair behind his ear from from where it had fallen from its messy bun. Geralt shifts to adjust the tree in front of him and Jaskier grabs the trunk to help steady it, brushing his hand against Geralt’s. The touch is sticky with sap, and Geralt swears his heart is beating loud enough to hear over the carols pumping through the tinny speakers. They steady the tree and Jaskier pulls his hand back, thumb trailing across Geralt’s wrist as he does. Geralt inhales sharply and Jaskier looks up. The silence stretches on and Geralt wishes profoundly that he could be a Christmas tree, rather than a human man with emotions.
“You uh. You’ve got—“ Geralt pulls his free hand from his pocket and reaches out to brush Jaskier’s cheek. “Sap,” Geralt says, nodding. “Yeah.”
Jaskier breathes out, long and slow, his breath clouding in front of him. He fixes Geralt with a hard stare and Geralt shrinks into himself under the scrutiny of those clear blue eyes. Whatever Jaskier sees though, he blinks and launches back into his monologue.
“So you see, Geralt, that’s why no playlist is complete without at least three versions of All I Want For Christmas Is You, covering at least two different musical styles—”
The bored teenager wrapping the trees gestures for them to step forward and Geralt walks the tree toward the netting. He shifts his weight to lift it and looks up, allowing a small smile to cross his lips. The checkout stand is decorated with garland and white lights, and a small tree covered in baubles. And above them—
Bunches of mistletoe, cheerfully wrapped with a red plaid ribbon, hang from the awning. He frowns, eyes darting between the mistletoe and Jaskier, who remains blissfully unaware. The ache in Geralt’s chest breaks and his heart starts pounding. It’s mistletoe, he thinks, it’s tradition, it’s just a plant, it’s, it’s, it’s…
Jaskier’s laugh, high and clear, breaks through the fog of his racing thoughts. Jaskier’s nose is scrunched and red and his soft knit hat is covered in pine needles and his face still has a spot of sap and oh, Geralt thinks, is this what love feels like? And before Geralt realizes what he’s doing, the tree leaves his hands, just barely landing in the outstretched arms of the teenage employee and Geralt pulls Jaskier into his arms, closes his eyes, and softly presses their lips together.
Jaskier squeaks and Geralt’s eyes fly open. Their lips stay pressed together as Jaskier looks at Geralt, eyes wide. Geralt pulls back slightly, adrenaline flooding his chest as he opens his mouth. Jaskier puts a gloved finger to Geralt’s lips and leans back in for another soft kiss.
They break apart after a moment and Geralt feels his cheeks heating red as he comes back to his senses, suddenly aware of what feels like every human on earth standing in their vicinity. He glances around furtively and the employee watching them snorts and rolls his eyes. Geralt pushes his lips together in a thin line as the kid starts to feed their tree through the netting and pointedly turns his back. He turns back to Jaskier, who has a finger resting lightly on his own lips, and gestures to the checkout stand.
“Mistletoe,” he says, voice gravelly. “It’s— You have to—”
“Do you—” he tries again. “Are you—”
Geralt cuts him off. “Yes,” he says. “Definitely.”
Jaskier grins, sidles towards Geralt, and slips his hand into Geralt’s big palm. Geralt squeezes once, and a burst of laughter bubbles from Jaskier’s chest.
“I can’t believe—”
“Stop it.”
“No, you—”
“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, but he’s smiling and Jaskier is—besotted. Geralt is too, he realizes. “We don’t have to—”
“Oho, we are so talking about this later,” says Jaskier, pulling Geralt towards the cashier. He pays for their tree one-handed, loathe to let Geralt go, as the wrapped tree is leaned against the counter. “Mistletoe, he says! If I knew mistletoe was all it was going to take, I would have invested years ago! Mistletoe, Geralt, I—”
Geralt rolls his eyes and stoops slightly, hefting the tree with his left arm and balancing it on his shoulder. Jaskier squeezes his hand this time and pulls Geralt towards the exit. He follows, humming happily under his breath, and smiles.
#geraskier#geraskier fanfiction#winter prompt challenge#the witcher#whoops this was way more christmasy than the challenge was supposed to be#val writes
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