there are currently two wolves inside me, one that wants geralt to meet omega!jaskier's and his child while the kid is still young so they'll have both their parents (plus 1 mom if yennefer doesn't resent jaskier) as they grow and another who wants to stick to the show's canon of geralt and jaskier not seeing eachother for 22 years and then one day geralt finds this person with a scary ressemblance to him who says they need help rescuing their dad, a bard who doesn't know when to shut up (besides would be kinda funny to see geralt's reaction to jaskier being basically a dilf lol)

[First Part]

Oh my God in my mind it was the baby version but this also has me at the throat.

There would be a few things at play here like

1. I imagined the baby did not inherit mutant traits (besides some gold specs in his eyes, like, Jaskier had confirmation and once you know it's obvious) and you could hold Geralt at gunpoint he does NOT know how he looked as child anymore. It's absolutely not obvious to him, especially since it's impossible in his head. Only Vesemir would probably go 'oh' at the resemblance because the kid looks exactly like the little one he picked up on the side of a road, over a century ago.

2. Jaskier didn't say something for the last 13/14/15 years of his life, the kid will not go and tell Geralt when his Papa went out of his way to keep this knowledge secret.

In my mind this has the perfect road trip vibes. And timelines are messy - like Jaskier went down the mountain pregnant it's not 22 years later but who knows what happened inbetween - but Geralt definitely already had all the teenage angst experience with Ciri. He's already a dad!

Thicker Than Water (Part 2)

Part 1, (Here) Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Ao3 link HERE

Here we are y’all, it only gets sadder before we heal the hurt.

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

Of all the eyes he could have met, purely by chance, in a forest while running from people who wanted to kill him, Yennefer’s were not the one’s he would have chosen. He wasn’t sure who he’d like to see right now. Geralt definitely, but also not. It was only a small mercy Geralt wasn’t with his witchy lady love right now.

She met his eyes, intense and unexpected, like heat lightning. She looked him up and down, lip curling, disgusted and pitying, but somehow not as unkindly as he’d expected. She turned.

“Geralt,” she yelled. “I found your pet.”

Shit. Shit shit shit. 

He was about to turn and...run? Hide? What could he do? But then a pale face peeked around a tree. White blonde hair, bright, cautious eyes. 

Then the girl gasped and ran forward.

“Dandelion!” The rising cry of delight frightened birds from the trees and a blue blur rushed at him. He was slammed to the ground by a rather bedraggled princess and he had never been so glad. 

Of all the people he had burdened, he’d never felt like one around Ciri. Her arms were a vice around his neck. He hadn’t been hugged like that since his sister had passed away and he sat up in the cold, damp leaves, clutching her to him. She looked up at him with a face like a moonbeam.

“I found the white wolf, from your stories,” she said. Her eyes were big and trusting and she seemed to expect Jaskier to be pleased and proud. And he was. He had no doubt that Geralt and Ciri would be good for one another. The issue was that now he had to deal with--

“Jaskier.”

Shit. Geralt. 

He stood, setting Ciri gently down and brushing himself off. He turned.

“Hello Geralt,” he said evenly. He hoped it was evenly. Don’t yell at me, he thought. Don’t tell me I’m a burden again, as he stared into impassive golden eyes. I know I’m a burden but just let me leave, I won’t bother you again but I can’t bear it.

“Dandelion can come with us, right Geralt?” Ciri said. The White Wolf raised one eyebrow.

“Dandelion?”

Ciri clutched Jaskier’s hand in one of her mittens. “He played at my name day banquets, all of them, but Jaskier’s hard to say when you’re a baby.”

Geralt met Jaskier’s eyes and it felt like a physical blow.

“Hmmm,” he said.

“Little highness,” Jaskier said sweeping his most over the top bow. “I am afraid I cannot stay, and shall have to part from your delightful company.”

“Is Nilfguaard not looking for you,” Yennefer said cooly. 

“They’ve yet to find me.”

“Yet,” Yennefer said. “Isn’t good enough.” 

“If they find you they’ll know our secrets,” Geralt said. That hurt. Jaskier would rather die. That Geralt thought Jaskier would give him up, even if they hadn’t parted as friends, stung like salt in an already gaping wound.

“Jaskier you have to come with us,” Ciri said, dragging on his hand. “Please I’ve seen so few people I know come with us.” He couldn’t resist that. He was strong but not that strong. He looked to Geralt hesitantly.

Geralt wouldn’t want him along. He was a shit shoveler and a burden who would only eat their food and make them move slower. But as Geralt had pointed out, Nilfguaard wanted him dead too. They could just kill him here and now. Geralt could have his life’s blessing, but he wouldn’t because he was a good man.

Geralt nodded. “Come,” he said in that rough rumble that Jaskier had missed. 

He was coming along. But this time was going to be different. Jaskier wouldn’t be a nuisance or a burden. He wouldn’t talk too much, or get into trouble. He wouldn’t use up rations. He wouldn’t complain. Jaskier set his teeth like steel agains words falling out and nodded. 

They slept that night in the forest. It was cold and winter was reaching icy tendrils towards them. Yennefer had a magical tent, but it could only sleep two. She and Ciri claimed it and Jaskier could see why. Yennefer was strong as always but her posture drooped sometimes. She was exhausted. Jaskier had heard of the battle at Sodden, and could only image. Ciri of course needed somewhere warm to sleep. Geralt and Jaskier just pitched tents on either side of the fire. 

Jaskier hadn’t eaten with them that night, telling them instead that he’d eaten earlier. 

He hadn’t, and his stomach burbled unhappily as he set his tent, but he hummed low so that Geralt wouldn’t hear it. Between risking annoying Geralt and using rations that the others needed, Jaskier would be annoying. It hurt to think of though.

His one man tent was little more than cloth draped between some sticks, but it could be folded up and it was light. He’d patched it so much that it looked like a quilt, but it would keep some of the rain off. He glanced at the moon, almost totally obscurred by clouds. It looked like rain. 

Ciri begged for a song and a story but he told her he was too tired.

It was partially true. He hadn’t been eating well lately, preferring to drink his meals, and he’d been walking for days, but he was never too tired to perform, simply too wary of fraying Geralt’s nerves.

It did rain that night, and the pitiful tent dripped freezing water onto him, and the ground was cold and damp and he woke up soaked and shivering before dawn.

No one was up. That was rare, Geralt slept like a tree. As in, he didn’t. Half winks and meditation were most of his sleep schedule, the occasional deep sleep left him snoring and out for at least nine hours, but Jaskier had seen that perhaps a dozen times in twenty years. 

Now, though, the mosring was still and the light was dim, causing grey shadows to lurk on the edge of vision, and yet somehow it wasn’t ominous. His body ached and he was cold. Not a patch on him wasn’t damp and clammy, and an acorn or a rock had dug into his back all night. 

Regardless, he packed up his tent and gear, changing into some, only mildly dryer, clothes, and then he went in search of firewood. 

Jaskier had to stray much farther from the camp than he would have liked to find dry wood, but he found enough to soon have a small fire crackling merrily. He’d even found some berries he recognized for breakfast. If he foraged now, he wouldn’t eat the much needed rations.

Geralt crawled out of his tent and hummed appreciatively at the fire. That felt good. Jaskier had done something right. Not a burden.

“Look at all this fog, Geralt. Like a blanket don’t you think?” Jaskier said, poking the fire into a better arrangement. “Reminds me of that time we...” He trailed off. Geralt was scowling, face like a thundercloud and eyes like lightening. Jaskier hadn’t seen that much anger on a face since...

The mountain. 

Right.

And here he was prattling on right after he told himself he wouldn’t be a burden.

“Well, you remember,” he finished lamely. Did Geralt remember? The fog in the glen, when they’d crawled from their bedrolls into a morning made of clouds? If he did remember, did he remember it fondly? Jaskier had spent most of the day coming up with rhymes for fog and bugging Geralt for his opinions.

Another time he was a nuisance, probably. 

Jaskier huddled in on himself, wrapping his worn traveling cloak tighter around his shoulders. The berries really hadn’t been enough, and he wondered if he should have some of the horrible traveler’s loaf from his pack. He decided to save it. If he could wait until lunch, or better yet dinner, the food would last longer. Less of a burden.

He wanted to play his lute, the sexy girl had been languishing for days now, but his fingers were too cold and stiff to play. And he’d annoy Geralt. Even worse, he might wake Ciri from her much-needed sleep. 

He pulled his girl out anyway, not to play, but he carefully tended to the strings, plucking each quietly once or twice to check the tension, then he brought out his cloth and carefully waxed and polished the wood.

It wasn’t unusual for a good lute to last twenty years. But twenty years on the road through dust and mud and rain was different. Constant care and an oilskin cover were his saviors. It might not have been worth it for any other instrument, but this was Filavandrel’s lute. Somehow it seemed like the only instrument worthy of singing about the White Wolf. 

He put it away.

He didn’t sing about the White Wolf much, since the mountain. He didn’t want to break his own heart again every night, and a low profile had been to his advantage. 

Somehow though, it made him sad, and he thought of Professor Fredegar, the master of poetry at Oxenfurt, or he had been.

Fredegar had been an old man. He looked like he’d been made out of parchment and had somehow ingrown his clothes, like a turtle in a shell of thick woolen sweaters. He had been quiet and his hands shook, and Jaskier had liked him. He’d been kind and had wonderful stories to tell if a student came to his dusty office and sat with him a while.

There had always been something sad in the back of those pale eyes, though.

He’d been a great poet, still was, but in his prime he’d written the Saga of the Flame, a trilogy of epic poetry. The stories individually in the saga were well known about the Continent, but the whole tale... 

The first part told of a young man, engaged to his blind ady love, but without money for marriage so he traveled to foreign places. Many smaller adventures were had and the first book was pretty jolly. 

The second book was him seeking fame along with fortune, and forgetting his lady love for the sake of his pride, wanting someone grander than a blind village girl. Then he lost a battle of wits and was greatly humbled. 

The third book found the man stumbling home, getting lost along the way. He returned to his village almost twenty years after he’d left, and his love had died, succumbing alone and uncared for to a return of the illness that had cost her her sight in her youth.

It was a true tragedy, and one that didn’t advertise itself as such until the last moment. It hooked a reader into emotions so deep they could drown. And there was a quality, something heavy in the story, that told Jaskier that at least some of it was real. He would look at Fredagar, sometimes, the way his eyes were so sad and faraway, and think about how the man had written a masterpiece and retired in barely middle age, rarely writing more than a sonnet here and there. There was a harp hung on the wall of pale wood, like that of the man in the saga, but Fredagar never touched it.

And then the man had died. He’d been one hundred and two, according to the chancellor of the university. He was buried by maybe a dozen faculty members and half as many students. And Jaskier had stood there, on that bright summer day at the graveside, and sworn that he wouldn’t live his life inside a university, to be buried and mourned by no family or friends besides some half-grateful students.

Yet, lately, it didn’t seem so bad. 

He’d finished Her Sweet Kiss, and it was a true hit. He’d raised the reputation of Geralt, and witcher’s as a whole. Whatever happened, Jaskier’s name would be remembered forever. He could retire. Put Filavandrel’s lute in a glass case in a tiny office and teach ungrateful, hungover brats about meter for the rest of his life. It sounded nice, in a way. To settle down, and leave all thoughts of witchers and monsters and magic and wars behind him.

He couldn’t though. He’d been dragged into this and he’d have to see it through.

His stomach burbled unhappily and he glanced over at Geralt to see if he’d caught it. The witcher was staring at the ground, glowering like he would turn it into ash if he could. 

Then he looked up and caught Jaskier’s gaze.

Jaskier was too slow to avoid pale gold irises, but looked away anyway. Geralt crossed to him from around the fire, boots crunching on leaves and frost.

Don’t break my heart again. Jaskier thought. I’m trying.

Geralt placed a hand like an anvil on Jaskier’s shoulder and he looked up.

“Ciri is glad you are here,” Geralt said. Then he continued to Yennefer’s tent to wake them up.

Ciri is glad, Jaskier could read between the lines. I will tolerate you for her sake. She is glad you are here. I am not.

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

No! You dumb boy! Geralt means ‘I am very glad you are here but so is Ciri and I’m a grumpy fuck with the emotional intelligence of a mollusk!’ 

Anyway, here it is at last. Still gets more whumpy before it gets better.

5 times Jaskier didn’t realize Geralt was giving him a gift for his birthday and 1 time he did

As part of my 500 followers celebration! Masterlist

***

I.

Jaskier practically falls down on the chair opposite Geralt, giving his cheering audience one final wave, before he turns his back to them, dumping the coins he earned on the table, setting his lute down next to him gently.

“Well, that went swimmingly,” Jaskier says, and Geralt rolls his eyes at his wide grin, but can’t stop a small smile from appearing on his own face, as well.

“Hmm.”

“Oh, please, Witcher, even you can appreciate a good performance when you see one, no need to be so dismissive of my charms and talent.”

Geralt rolls his eyes again. Usually, he would’ve simply hummed noncommittally, and dropped the subject for the evening, but today’s Jaskier’s birthday. It’s been nagging at him all day, especially because Jaskier hasn’t even said anything about it. He knows humans like their birthdays, like to celebrate another year lived in this damned world – and he would’ve expected Jaskier to be prancing around all day, demanding special treatment and gifts and attention.

But he hasn’t. And that confuses Geralt. It’s not like Jaskier’s forgotten when his own birthday is – hell, he let the date slip a few months ago, so he certainly remembers, but he simply hasn’t mentioned anything about it, today. He doesn’t even seem particularly happy about it.

If anything, he seems almost sad. Which makes matters worse, because what kind of human is sad on their own birthday? Certainly not the kind he expected Jaskier to be, of all people.

So he’s conflicted. On one hand he wants to say something, but on the other hand, Jaskier doesn’t seem to be in the mood for it.

Also, he doesn’t really have a gift he can give. Hell, he doesn’t even know what kind of gift someone expects for their birthday, it’s been so long since he’s celebrated one.

He does get an idea all of a sudden, and clears his throat. Jaskier, already distracted by a fair maiden on the other side of the room, turns back to the Witcher, eyebrows raised. “Something the matter, Geralt?”

The Witcher purses his lips, shakes his head, decidedly staring at his own ale, instead of meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “Uh… You’re right. Good performance.”

He looks up right in time to see Jaskier’s face light up like the morning sun, and the bard reaches across the table, softly pushing at Geralt’s shoulder, leaving a trail of fire in his wake when he pulls back again. “Why thank you, Witcher! I knew even you could see that.” He throws Geralt a wink, before he downs his ale, standing up and sauntering over to the lady on the other side of the room, who welcomes him with open arms. He doesn’t have the strength to watch them leave, so he retreats to his own room, and hopes the compliment he gave is enough of a gift for Jaskier. At least this year.

 II.

It’s Jaskier’s birthday. Geralt only remembers because the bard seems sad again, which means that, unfortunately, this time he’s as unprepared as he was last time.

So he spends the entire morning desperately looking around, searching for ideas for a gift – though, he comes up basically empty-handed. What he does notice, though, is that Jaskier seems to be limping slightly.

He frowns down at the bard from where he’s sitting on Roach, before he pulls her to a halt. Jaskier walks a couple of steps more, seemingly lost in thought, until he realizes he’s walking alone, and turns around, looking confused. “Why have we stopped?”

“What’s wrong with you?” He closes his eyes, mentally cursing himself when Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, face indignant.

“Ex- excuse me, Witcher, but-“

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he interrupts Jaskier before the bard can go on a long, offended tangent about how absolutely rude and uncaring of his feelings Geralt is, or something similar. “You’re limping.”

Jaskier shrugs, the slight hurt disappearing from his face again. “Ah, well, yeah, I sort of sprained my ankle this morning when I went to the river to wash off. It’s nothing really, but- Geralt, what are you doing?”

Geralt’s feet hit the dusty path, and he steps to the side. “Get on Roach.”

“I- what?”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Get. On. Roach.”

Though still clearly very confused, Jaskier obliges, and gets on the mare. “Not that I don’t appreciate this, but- why? You never let me ride Roach.”

If Geralt could’ve blushed, he would’ve right now, as he takes Roach’s reigns and starts walking again, pointedly looking at anything but Jaskier. “You’ll just slow us down.” A blatant lie, but he hopes Jaskier won’t be able to tell. At least the bard seems a little less sad now, and he hopes that it’s enough of a gift for Jaskier. At least this year.

 III.

The next time, he’s still very unprepared, and he starts to doubt that he ever will be. He’s also run out of ideas for gifts for Jaskier, and frantically tries to figure something out before the day is over. But it’s well past dinner time, and he still has no idea what to do.

Worse than that, he has no clue where the hell Jaskier even is.

Well, until he walks out of the inn, and hears a raised voice coming from the alley.

Well enough, there Jaskier is, against the wall, three men surrounding him, shouting something about how the bard slept with their sister or something like that – because of course he did. Honestly, it’d be a miracle if Jaskier could stop sleeping around in every town they come across for a week.

He rolls his eyes, the little tendril of fear that had been awakened in him at the sight of Jaskier getting threatened by three men slowly dying down when he sees that none of them have weapons. Really, the only thing they can do is beat the bard up a bit. Though, unfortunately, that doesn’t mean Geralt won’t step in – he always fucking does, for some reason.

He walks forwards. “Gentlemen, what seems to be the problem?”

One of them turns towards him, fear creeping into his slightly rancid smell. “He slept with our sister, Witcher.”

He looks at Jaskier, eyebrows raised, and the slight guilt and exhilaration in the bard’s eyes tells him the men are right.

He sighs. “Not possible, he’s been by my side the entire night.”

“But Witcher-“

“Are you saying that I’m lying?”

The three men look away. “No, sir. We’ll… we’ll go.”

“Hmm.” He watches as the brothers hurry past him, before turning towards Jaskier, who’s smoothing down his clothes.

The bard looks at him with a shit-eating grin, and Geralt rolls his eyes again. “Thanks, Geralt! Knew you’d come save me. There does seem to be a slight problem, though…” He looks down at his bare feet. “I forgot my shoes in her room. Maybe I should go back and-“

Geralt shakes his head, then turns around, motioning for Jaskier to follow him. Any other day, he would’ve let the bard fetch his own shoes back, but today is not just any day, he knows. “I’ll buy you a new pair,” he grumbles. He hopes that it’s enough of a gift for Jaskier. At least this year.

 IV.

The next time it’s Jaskier’s birthday, he’s a little bit more prepared – but only barely, still. He’d realized that it was coming up soon a week before the actual day, and had gone to the market in a dingy nowhere town shortly after that, while Jaskier was busy at the inn, cleaning his lute. (Geralt hadn’t been sure in which way Jaskier was cleaning his lute, but he’d decided that it didn’t matter.)

An old woman at a jewellery stall had told him humans liked objects for their birthdays – preferably expensive. Unfortunately, they were short on coin, so Geralt had asked the lady what kind of non-expensive gift he could give his long-time travelling companion and friend.

She had pointed to a ring, silver and engraved with waves. It had cost him a fair deal of coin, still, but he’d taken it – after all, silver protects against monsters, and he figures it’s both practical and, as Jaskier prefers things, nice-looking.

However, that did leave him with one question: when and how is he going to give it to the bard?

It’s been plaguing him all day, that simple matter. At first, he thought it best to give it at breakfast, but they had been attacked by a small pack of Drowners, so that hadn’t been an option. After that, he decided it would be best to give it at lunch, after they had arrived at the next small town. Except, Jaskier was nowhere to be found – at least, until Geralt walked past the blacksmith, and heard soft gasps in a familiar voice coming from behind the building. He’d walked away as quickly as possible, ignoring the small jab in his chest.

And now it’s already dinner time, and Jaskier’s performing and showing absolutely no signs of stopping, even though it’s well past midnight. So should Geralt give it to him afterwards? Or should he wait until tomorrow? Or should he toss the ring away, dig a hole in the wet dirt outside, bury himself in it, never to be found again? He decides the last option is the best one, but unfortunately, he doesn’t have a shovel and there’d be no one to take care of Roach.

Eventually, he decides to just head to bed. All this worrying and the heat of the tavern has got his head pounding, and frankly, he can’t wait for all this gift-giving bullshit to be over. He’s a Witcher, for crying out loud. Witchers don’t give gifts. Except he still bought a silver ring for Jaskier, last week.

He sighs, downing his ale, heading up the stairs. He pauses for a second in their shared room, when his eye falls on Jaskier’s bag, sitting in the corner. He strains his ears, hears that Jaskier is singing ‘Toss a Coin’ – which is always the last song for the evening – and decides he has to hurry up. He quickly opens the bag, burying the ring at the bottom of it, before he closes it again.

He’s barely stood up again, when the door to the room opens, and Jaskier walks in, lute in hand, grin on his face. “Ah, Geralt! Was wondering where you went…” he muses, setting his lute down in the corner, pulling his slightly sweaty doublet over his head. “So, what’d you think? Another stellar performance, I presume.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, and quickly takes off his clothes, laying down in the bed. After a short while, Jaskier joins him, laying down on the other side. He doesn’t say anything except a “goodnight, Geralt”, and his mood seems unchanged – still slightly sad – so Geralt assumes he hasn’t found the ring yet.

A few days later, his eye is caught by something glistening in the afternoon sun. It’s a silver ring, engraved with waves, on Jaskier’s right hand, and Geralt barely suppresses a small smile at the sight. The bard seems in a particularly good mood as well, and Geralt hopes that it’s enough of a gift for Jaskier. At least this year.

 V.

The next year, he’s prepared. A month beforehand, when they stop in Oxenfurt for a few days, he goes to a little shop, tucked between two tall buildings while Jaskier catches up with some old friends in a tavern nearby.

He buys some bath salts that smell of roses, some soap that smells like red berries, some lavender oil against irritated skin, and, for good measurement, a lemon candle. It’s a pretty hefty sum, but he buys it all anyways – he tells himself it’s because they’ve been doing well monetary-wise lately, not because Jaskier’s smile is worth all the money in his purse and more.

Once again, he still doesn’t know how he should give it, though, and he simply hides it in Jaskier’s bag on his birthday again. He keeps a close eye on the bard, that evening, as he rummages through his bag for soap and bath salt, after Geralt suggested they could afford the luxury of a bath tonight, and offered Jaskier to go first. The bard had looked at him weirdly, but Geralt had pretended he didn’t notice.

“Oh!” Jaskier exclaims, as he fishes rose bath salts and berry soap out of his bag. “Huh. Must’ve forgotten about these.” He shrugs and stands up, closing the door to the adjacent bathroom behind him. Geralt smiles softly as he hears Jaskier getting into the bath, hears him humming softly. He seems in a good mood – more so than he did this morning. Geralt hopes that it’s enough of a gift for Jaskier. At least this year.

 + I

This time, he’s prepared months in advance, when they visit Novigrad. He finally has an idea of what Jaskier might want for his birthday, and as soon as the bard is gone to find a tavern to perform in, Geralt hurries to the nearest instrument builder.

There, he buys an expensive set of lute strings – once again, because they’re doing well monetary-wise, not because he wants Jaskier to be happy and is willing to pay any price for that. As soon as he gets back to the inn, he hides them at the bottom of his bag, smiling slightly when he imagines Jaskier’s face when he gets them. Though, he’ll need to find a way to actually give Jaskier his gift this time. Or maybe not. Maybe he’ll chicken out again and hide it in Jaskier’s bag, waiting for the bard to find it. He’ll see.

It isn’t until a few months later, on Jaskier’s birthday, that he knows for sure he’s going to chicken out again.

At least, that is, until Jaskier starts rummaging through the Witcher’s bag. Geralt pales, his heart sinking to his feet, and he’s ready to tell the bard to get his fucking hands out of that bag, for the love of the gods.

But it’s too late.

“Geralt, have you seen my chemise somewhere? The white, frilly one, with the metal buttons and-“ He stills, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape as he looks down into Geralt’s bag.

Geralt can only stare in horror as Jaskier pulls the lute strings from the bottom of his bag. “Geralt, why do you have these in your bag?” He doesn’t give him time to answer. “And they’re expensive as w- Geralt why do you have expensive lute strings in your bag?”

If Geralt could’ve blushed, he would’ve, and he looks away. “Uh… They’re uh… For your birthday, today.”

Jaskier simply stares at him, eyes wide. “How do you know it’s my birthday?”

Geralt shrugs, rubs at the back of his neck, trying to get rid of that uncomfortable feeling in his spine. “You told me, a few years ago.”

“And you remembered.” He says it flatly. “Even though I don’t celebrate it, you remembered that one time I mentioned my birthday years ago.”

He shrugs again, looks away.

“Wait, then why would you give me something this year, but not all the other years?”

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek, still looking at anything but Jaskier. “I did, but-“

“You did? I don’t remember…” This time Geralt does look at Jaskier, and sees the bard staring at him, so wide-eyed it’s almost comical. “The soap,” he whispers. “I didn’t buy that myself, you did”

Geralt nods, then shrugs.

“And the ring? That was you, too?”

Geralt nods again, and Jaskier shakes his head.

“Why the hell didn’t you just give it to me, instead of sneaking it into my bag like… like some- some reverse thief?”

“Because I thought you didn’t want any gifts. You always seemed so sad on your birthday, and you didn’t mention it, so I figured you don’t want to celebrate it.”

Jaskier suddenly laughs, and stands up, lute strings clutched to his chest as he walks towards Geralt. “I’m always sad because I don’t get any gifts. I never did. My parents were horribly against it, saying I would get spoiled or something, and I never mentioned it because I didn’t think you’d give a shit.”

Geralt feels a sharp pang in his chest, as the realization kicks in. “But I do give a shit.”

Jaskier laughs again, looks at the lute strings, still in his hand. “Clearly. I just wished you would’ve said so sooner.”

“I thought you knew.”

Jaskier scoffs, looks at him with eyes the colour of the sky and a smile that would make the sun hide away in shame. “Well, I didn’t. If I did, I would’ve kissed you sooner.”

Geralt furrows his brow. “Wh-“ His breath hitches in his throat when Jaskier lays a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him closer, their lips separated less than half an inch – so, so painfully close, but not yet touching.

“May I?” Jaskier whispers.

Geralt doesn’t respond, but merely closes the gap between them, kissing his bard softly. Jaskier smiles into the kiss, and the witcher can’t help but smile as well, as he pulls his bard closer. Too soon, it’s over, and they’re leaning their foreheads against each other, breaths intertwining.

“So,” Jaskier whispers to him. “When’s your birthday?”

Geralt grins. “Don’t even think about it.”

geraskier childhood friends au

mashing my fave tropes of childhood friend au and fae jaskier au bc im self indulgent (also it was written in 24 hours for flashfic and it was 9k lol)

summary:

“I’ll miss you so much,” Julian murmurs, choked up. “I’d ask you to stay longer, but...”

“I wish I could,” Geralt replies, earnest. Gods, a year on the Path, a year without Julian. What is Geralt going to do without his best friend?

“I know you do, pup.” And then Julian reaches up, grasping the back of Geralt’s neck gently, and leans in, his lips brushing softly against Geralt’s for a second before he pulls away. There’s a tender smile on his face as he takes in Geralt, frozen in shock, and he laughs softly.

“Go, Geralt. Travel the Path. I’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

*

When they’re six, Geralt and Jaskier meet in a forest near Kaer Morhen. They grow up together as best friends, then as lovers, but when Geralt leaves for the Path, it tears them apart.

Decades later, in a tavern in Posada, they find each other again.

---

“Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shovelling it?” Geralt spits, teeth bared as he rounds on Jaskier, eyes flashing with anger.

It’s too familiar. The hateful tone, the furious eyes, the harsh words, and Jaskier wills himself not to burst into tears at the still-painful memory from decades ago, a memory that is almost an exact mirror of what’s happening now.

“The child surprise, the djinn, all of it! If life could give me one blessing,” Geralt’s face, a face that Jaskier had always found beautiful, even when they’d been no more than children, twists into a cruel sneer, “it would be to take you off my hands.”

It all hits too close to heart, and Jaskier is thrown back to a moment in a clearing, decades ago, both of them young and naive. Geralt had sneered at him, spat harsh, biting words at him, taking Jaskier’s heart out and crushing it underneath his boot, and Geralt’s face, contorted with anger and hatred, is too close, too close to the painful memory, and Julian - Jaskier reels back, hand reaching up instinctively to clutch at the key that rests against his heart.

Something to remember me by.

Jaskier stutters something, his brain not comprehending the words that come out of his mouth, as fractured as the pieces of his heart that now lies, crushed, on the top of a mountain. He stumbles along the road, into the forest, not quite sure where he’s going, only knowing that he needs to get away, away. He lets the forest guide him, lets the branches caress him in comfort as the leaves whisper directions to him, lets a small fox brush up against his legs and a small robin to chirp sweetly in his ear.

Finally, the forest guides him to a clearing, deep in the forest where no one will be able to find him, a clearing that brings back so many memories, a clearing that isn’t his clearing, but is achingly familiar all the same, and Jaskier sits down heavily on a fallen log, dropping his head into his hands.

He tastes something bitter in his mouth as he lets the tears fall freely, the trees bending to his will and muffling his sobs.

Perhaps he wouldn’t have been so hurt if this had been the only time Geralt had ever yelled at him like that, with such utter vitriol in his eyes and with such searing fury in his voice. Perhaps, if Jaskier hadn’t experienced such heartbreak before, he would’ve reacted better, understanding that Geralt had been angry and lashing out, and he would’ve waited until Geralt calmed down so that they could travel again.

But Jaskier has experienced it once before, a long time ago.

Being broken at the hands of Geralt of Rivia. Twice.

Jaskier loves Geralt. He’d loved Geralt since they were no more than children, meeting in the forest at six years of age. He’d loved Geralt since the soft, chaste kiss they’d shared at sixteen. He’d loved Geralt when Geralt had pushed him away at nineteen, the blow of the words ringing in his ears. He’d loved Geralt since he found Geralt in Posada again, dark and silent in the corner of a tavern.

He loves Geralt. He truly does. 

But as Jaskier nurses his heart, broken twice over by the same man, he wonders bitterly if it was ever worth it.

***

Geralt meets the boy in the woods when he is six. 

He had snuck out of Kaer Morhen, and is now wandering the nearby forest. It’s against Vesemir’s rules, but Geralt had been so bored. He wants to start properly training, like the older witchers do, with their big swords and their cool magic, but no, Vesemir keeps making him sit at the library and learn, and books are boring!

So he’d decided to sneak out, using all his stealth skills, and now he has successfully escaped, and he really enjoys wandering through the trees. Everything looks the same, and everywhere he looks, all he sees are trees, it’s great!

… Maybe he’s lost. But he can find his way back! He can track his footsteps through the snow.

Geralt turns around, and realises that his footsteps have been covered by a fresh blanket of snow, and he almost cries, but he doesn’t, because he’s a big boy, so his eyes do not get wet.

He can still get back. The trees might all look the same, but Geralt can remember which path he’d taken. He tries to retrace his steps, and he’s rather proud of himself since it feels like he’s probably going in the right direction - oh. It’s the third time he’s passed this clearing, with the tall tree that has branches bent weirdly.

Geralt scrubs at his eyes, sniffing. No - he can’t be lost! He has to get back to Kaer Morhen, or Vesemir is going to be so mad.

“Are you lost?” A young voice pipes up from behind him, and Geralt jumps, yelping. “Whoa, don’t be surprised, it’s alright!”

Turning around, Geralt meets a pair of wide silver eyes, set in a face that looks to be about Geralt’s own age. Geralt studies the boy in front of him. He’s a bit taller than Geralt, with messy brown hair that’s sprinkled with snowflakes. Geralt’s gaze lingers on the pointed ears for a moment, before he looks the other boy straight in the eyes.

“Hey!” The other boy beams, revealing sharp teeth, and sticks out a hand. “I’m Julian. What’s your name?”

His mother had told him not to trust strangers. But his mother had abandoned him, and Geralt decides that she’s wrong.

“I’m Geralt,” he mumbles. Julian keeps his hand out, looking at Geralt expectantly, and Geralt slowly raises a hand to clasp Julian’s.

“Nice to meet you, Geralt!” Julian exclaims. His eyes are bright as he tugs at Geralt’s hand, and Geralt doesn’t feel the cold anymore. “I have a feeling that we’ll be great friends!”

link in reblog!

I Swear

He grunted quietly as he hopped off Roach, holding back his wince at the small but sharp pain that shot up his leg. The stupid contract had specified only one harpy, easy enough. He quickly found however that it wasn't alone, and the one he'd been hired to kill was just a baby. The fight with the mother had turned out harder than he was willing to admit. He’d done it, but it had nearly cost him an arm; and his sword. Upon returning to the village he had gotten his payment for the creatures and an offer from the woman who hired him; she would put him up for free in her husband's inn as long as he needed. He'd tried to refuse but the motherly woman had tut-tutted at him and stubbornly refused to listen to him. He'd finally given up and accepted the offer when she'd crossed her arms and eyed him like a disobedient child. 

He walked slowly towards the stable, handing Roach off to a young stablehand who promised to take care of her, before scrambling off. Geralt made his way inside, the pain in his leg already easing. He ordered an ale and a meal, only slightly surprised when the young man behind the bar denied his payment. 

"Ma told me you were coming.Told me to let you eat'n drink free." He said. Geralt huffed before retreating to the furthest corner he could, ignoring the glances sent his way. He tried to get as close to a window as he could, overwhelmed as the  place smelled of ale, sick, roast meat and… Geralt looked up with a start. Blueberries, summer flowers and cinnamon.

Jaskier. That was the only person he knew who smelled of summer even in the coldest of months. It had been so long since he'd seen or heard of the bard, not that he'd admit he asked in every town he'd passed through for 8 months after the dragon hunt only stopping when the weight of not knowing if he was even still anywhere to be found grew too heavy. He grew convinced Jaskier had headed towards the growing war.

 He glanced towards the crowded area by the hearth and there he was. Jaskier stood proudly before the fire, skin awash with reds and oranges, lending him an ethereal glow. His hands were skillfully playing an all too familiar tune and Geralt had to fight the urge to stand and approach him. The witcher vaguely noticed a quick movement as the young man from the bar set down his meal and ale.

Jaskier didn't seem to see him, the bard too enthralled by his audience. His song finished, he took a deep bow, smiling brightly, and the clink of coins falling into his lute case drowned out his words. 

A few moments later, when the fuss had eased and no one was paying him any mind, he knelt behind his case and gingerly set the lute within. He sighed deeply and the smile on his lips faded, the shadows that contorted his features made him seem far too melancholy. Geralt hated to see his…. No. Not his. The bard, so unlike himself; unlike who Geralt had come to know. 

Geralt stood, his meal sitting forgotten on the table, untouched. 

"Jaskier?" He said when he got close enough. He expected anything, the bard to startle, to jump, even to snap at him to leave. He didn't expect the bard to show no reaction; not even a flick of his gaze. 

"Jaskier?" He said again, had the bard gone deaf in the few moments it took to cross the room? 

"I heard you, Witcher." Jaskier said in a voice that sounded far too even and stoic for the animated man. He raised his eyes for just a second, just enough to fix Geralt with a gaze that, had he been human, would have sent him staggering. 

The bard said nothing else, tearing his gaze away as he stood with his lute case in hand. 

When he started to walk towards the stairs Geralt couldn't help but reach out and take a hold of his wrist. 

"Jaskier…"

"Don't touch me." Jaskier ground out between his teeth, shoulders tensed and hackles raised. The overwhelming stench of anger radiated from the bard and Geralt was taken aback. The anger soon mixed with the sour stench of fear and the sickly sweet smell of something else Geralt couldn't actually place 

Geralt released his wrist, an unfamiliar tightness blooming in his chest. Jaskier had never smelled of fear around him before, not even during his hunts. He watched as, even though he had released the other, Jaskier didn't move; didn't continue up the stairs. 

"If you want to talk for, whatever it's worth I guess. Room four." Jaskier said blankly over his shoulder before he finally, finally moved.

Geralt was left standing at a loss as he watched his… no, the bard, vanish up the stairs. He knew, somehow, that he wasn't actually supposed to take Jaskier up on his offer; or Jaskier didn't expect him to. But Geralt would, he had to.

The Witcher glanced back at his meal and took note of the still warm sweet bread tucked to the side of the plate. Jaskier always had a sweet tooth and took every chance he had to savor a sugary treat, he also noted that he hadn't seen Jaskier eat anything before he'd fled up the stairs. Maybe the bard had eaten before he performed but Geralt found he doubted that and so he doubled back, scooped up the sweet bread and started up the stairs himself. 

Room four was of course the only one with the door closed and the glow of candlelight flickering from beneath it. It was far too early for anyone to be going to bed… Too early for Jaskier to stop playing. Geralt could have heard, sensed that the bard was pacing, even if his staggering shadow hadn't been easily spied under the door. 

Geralt didn't even have to get closer than the hall to smell the still lingering scent of anger and fear. That was still so wrong, so unlike Jaskier. He knocked slowly, gentler than he thought he was capable of.

"Jaskier?"

The door opened and Jaskier stood there, once again bathed in orange flame and once again looking strangely ethereal.

"So you actually came, huh." He said. It wasn't a question. 

Geralt held out his hand, presenting Jaskier with the sweet bread, eyes averted. 

"You expect me to talk to the sweet roll?" There, there was a tiny spark of sarcasm, a tiny spark of Jaskier! 

"You didn't eat." Geralt muttered, keeping the bread held out in offering. "They gave me a sweet roll and… you like them."

"Since when has that mattered to you?" And there it went, back to the quiet and angry Jaskier. 

"Don't like sweets."

"Don't give me that. You'd have fought tooth and nail to get that and horde it for yourself." Jaskier muttered before he let out a deep sigh. He stepped away, still not taking the offered food, though he didn't slam the door in Geralt's face like he half expected. 

Geralt followed him as Jaskier retreated to the bed, though the witcher took a moment to close the door behind him. He set the roll down on the table beside the door and turned to look at Jaskier. The bard sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands.

"You took me up on an offer I didn't mean to extend. But it means you want to talk. So talk." Jaskier muttered, not moving from his position on the bed. 

Geralt frowned, eyebrows pulled taught in an unusual show of nerves. 

"I'm sorry." He finally said after a beat. He looked to Jaskier, who had at his words shifted just enough to glance at him. 

"What are you doing Geralt?"

Geralt huffed. "I'm apologizing." He said, physically stepping back when that pulled a sharp, wry laugh from the bard that ended abruptly.

"Yea. I guess you are. But why? Why are you apologizing?" Jaskier asked, his tone quiet. 

"Because-" Jaskier cut the Witcher off.

"How about I guess? You found Yennefer again and she wanted nothing to do with you, right? Or did you go to her and fuck to your hearts content, only to realize your punching bag had left you and that of course simply wouldn't do! Geralt of Rivia without his punching bag?" He snarled, having stood from the bed during his rant. 

"Jaskier…" 

"Don't Jaskier me! You left me Geralt! Made sure I knew just how little I meant to you! All I was good for was shoveling shit, remember? You made that crystal clear two years ago!" He advanced on Geralt, finger jabbing into his chest and the witcher didn't stop him, too stunned by the wetness of unshed tears collecting in Jaskier's eyes to even try.

"You plainly picked Yennefer and sent me away, and I would have been fine with that! I would have been fine with you being in love with Yennefer or whatever, as long as you were still my friend! But that's not what happened! You sent Yennefer away and then regretted it. So, being the dumbass I was, I let you yell and take whatever it was out on me because I thought you'd just yell a little, and we'd be done. But you sent me away too, Geralt! And so I did what you asked! I left! I went the exact opposite way from you! I left every single village I heard you were possibly heading towards!" The tears began to fall and the overwhelming stench of anger was back. So was the sickly sweet scent that Geralt was belatedly sure was betrayal or maybe even despair.

"I didn't...Yennefer left on her own."  Geralt said when Jaskier paused for breath. He clenched his fists and started to speak again but Jaskier didn't let him.

"Smart woman." Jaskier snarled. "Smarter than me anyway. Geralt I waited for you to turn around and stop me from leaving, stop me at all. But you didn't! You decided being alone was better than being with me! Just like you decided Yennefer was better company than me! You didn't even try to find me, but I bet you found Yennefer within a fortnight!" He wiped at his wet cheeks, and when he found he couldn't stop the tears from falling, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

"I looked for you!" Geralt snapped back. "I looked for months! No one had seen you!"

That seemed to startled Jaskier from his anger and he looked up, hands lowering, though new tears still rolled down his reddened cheeks.

"You looked for me?" He breathed. 

"I looked for months. Everyone said they hadn't seen anyone like you in town. I had moved away from the fighting and so, if you hadn't gone that way… I was certain you'd gone towards it. I never imagined you'd have just sidestepped me." His voice cracked ever so slightly at the end, minor enough that not many would have been able to pick up on it. 

"You thought I'd been killed." Jaskier said slowly, much quieter than he had been since Geralt entered.

"I wondered. You hadn't written anything new… not that I heard other people singing. No one had seen you in any town safe from the fighting."

Jaskier took a step back, suddenly too aware of how close he stood to Geralt. "You still left me. You pushed me away on that damn mountain and didn't seem to care about me even when I would have followed you to the ends of the planet." He said, though his anger had seemingly given way to a melancholic sadness. "What changed? Why did you start looking for me?"

How did he explain it? How did he explain he had wanted to take it all back, everything he'd said. That he'd turned and rushed towards camp, only to find it empty and his heart had dropped into his stomach. How did he explain the manic way he had searched the towns after that? How did he explain that when he was sure that conversation was the last he'd ever have with Jaskier, he'd been nearly torn apart, his heart shredded? How did he tell the bard that he was going mad from the silence his departure had caused? Could he even explain it to himself? 

"I missed you." He finally settled on. "I made a mistake on the mountain and I lost…" his fists clenched again. "I lost the only friend I had. It was so quiet without you…" he wanted to say more but Jaskier approached once again and laid a gentle hand on his chest. 

"Geralt…"

"No, listen…" Geralt gently, as gently as he could, took a hold of Jaskier's wrist and removed it from his chest, instead sliding his hand to intertwine their fingers. "I can't lie… it took me a good few hours after I yelled at you before I realized I wanted to stop you and even longer before I realized what I'd actually said, but you were already gone. I looked for you for eight months before I finally concluded you were probably dead. When I decided that, I stopped looking… Stopped anything really. Took Lambert knocking some sense into me to get me to even take a contract." 

The bard looked from Geralt's face, to their still entwined fingers and back again but he didn't speak.

"All this time on the road, alone…It's gotten to me. Made me think." His free hand reached up and cupped Jaskier's cheek, thumbing away the tears. "I got so used to you being there and it was so jarring with you gone that I realized something. Finalized the thought when I was sure you'd been killed and I'd never see you again."

"What?" Jaskier breathed.

"I love you." 

"But… I'm not Yennefer." Jaskier said slowly. "You love her…"

"No. I mean yes, I do, but not the same as you. It took me being convinced I'd lost you to make me see that…"

"That you love me?" Jaskier watched him with a million emotions in those beautiful cornflower eyes and Geralt could have wept himself, had he still held the ability to.

"Let me try again… Please, Jaski… Please, Julian. Let me try again." 

A sharp, went laugh was pulled from Jaskier's throat. "You said please. I've never heard you say please before." He murmured. 

Geralt felt his chest tighten. Jaskier was going to push him away, and though he couldn't blame him, he didn't know if he'd pull through that.

"You…I don't forgive you Geralt. Not yet." The witcher nearly cringed. "I can't… you hurt me so badly Geralt. I loved you then you know…"

"Loved?" Geralt croaked. "You...Loved me then.. But not now?"

"It… It doesn't vanish that easily Geralt. I think I still do… but-"

Geralt cut him off. "I won't hurt you again Jaskier… i won't! Just let me try again."  

Jaskier lowered his eyes, stepping away and causing Geralt's hands to fall and hang likely at his sides. 

"Geralt I…I…"

Geralt was prepared for Jaksier to act and send him away for good, say he was unforgivable and slam the door in his face. He was not prepared to catch an arm-full of sobbing bard as said bard brought their lips together in a desperate kiss. 

"One more try." Jaskier said, breathless as he leaned back just a little. "One more time like that mountain and I'm leaving for good." 

"I'll do better this time." Geralt did, leaning his forehead against the Bard's.

"Promise?" 

"I swear." Geralt whispered, before being the one to kiss Jaskier this time. 

Stay or Sail Away (3/6)

Part 1 Part 2  (@geraskier-trashh  @negativenuggetz) 

*** 

“How is it?” Jaskier asks, “at sea?”

Geralt looks at him thoughtfully for a long moment. The silence is broken only by Ciri’s chattering on the phone with Yennefer outside the door.

“Empty,” Geralt answers finally, “Sometimes there’re some moments when life erupts at the surface.“ The tiniest of smiles lights up Geralt’s face. “Like when a group of whales shows up. Or something else is happening, like storms. Those can be fucking terrifying. Other than that it’s... nothing. A vast blue desert. It scares the shit out of you at the beginning but you get used to it. Over time land can become too much. You miss the calm.”

“You love it,” Jaskier remarks, entranced by Geralt’s quiet passion. It’s fascinating how a man as taciturn as Geralt can reveal the depth of his feeling through the minute shifts in his expression – the slightest upturn of his lips, the barely-there crinkling at the corners of his eyes. Jaskier wants to study all the little changes in Geralt’s face, decipher what they mean. He hasn’t been this intrigued in a long time.

“Hmm,” Geralt replies in assent and smiles a touch wider than before, “I once saw... a single bolt of lightning hit the water in the distance.”

Jaskier gasps as the image of it appears in his mind: both the sky and the water illuminated by the sudden flash. A violent shiver runs down his spine and the hum of inspiration starts coursing through him. Words pop up in his head that describe the scene and the emotional impact of it. Jaskier instinctively reaches for his phone to write it down but then firmly files the words away for later. He has guests he should focus on now.

Geralt and Ciri arrived two hours ago. The absolute shock Jaskier experienced when he saw Geralt – how muscular he is and how bloody well he looks in a black leather jacket (and black everything) – should qualify for therapy. Jaskier almost fucking choked on his tongue. Thank goodness that Ciri was there, so he focused his attention on her. The girl looks a lot like her father but carries herself with confidence which Jaskier assumes she got from her mother. She’s perceptive, asks questions and talks back. Jaskier adores her at once.

So far, Jaskier ordered everyone their favourite food and they ate it. Ciri bombarded him with questions about his music, the two of them also discussed their favourite music bands and singers. Geralt spoke little, only threw in some dry comments here and there, which always made Ciri laugh, and didn’t seem to mind when his daughter talked about him too.

Turns out Geralt is a commander. As Ciri recited, he can command a frigate, destroyer, submarine, mine countermeasures squadron, fishery protection squadron, patrol boat squadron, aviation squadron or shore installation, or may serve on a staff. It’s so hot. (Even if Jaskier has no idea what half of those words mean. Still. A fucking submarine? Jaskier’s a goner).

He promised Ciri that he would sing for her after they finished the meal but Yennefer called before he could fetch his guitar. The girl rushed out of the living room to talk to her mum, leaving Jaskier alone to fall prey to Geralt’s enthrallingly calm and restrained presence.

Now as he looks at Geralt, he can’t help but wonder what hides beneath the facade of his collected demeanour. Geralt must have numerous stories to tell. Jaskier wants to know them all.

“So, when are you sailing off again?” he asks.

“I’m... retiring soon.”

“Why?” Jaskier blinks, baffled.

Geralt swallows hard. “I’ve served for the Navy for seventeen years. Ten in total at sea.” The corners of his lips turn downward, a pained frown on his face. “I... haven’t been present enough for Ciri. Not nearly enough.”

For a fraction of a moment, Jaskier can see it all in Geralt’s expression: the pain of losing so much precious time with his daughter and missing out on so many crucial moments of her life, the sheer guilt of not being there, the torment of still choosing to do what you love even though it hurts the ones you love, the self-hatred of such selfishness.

Then, Geralt’s face becomes a blank mask. He reaches for a glass of water on the coffee table silently and doesn’t spare Jaskier a glance.

“I’m sure she understands,” Jaskier tries to reassure but immediately realises it was a wrong thing to say. Geralt fixes him with a gaze so burning and deadly that it reminds him of the surface of the sun that he’s seen in photos and videos.

It’s clear now that Geralt doesn’t have to do much to keep his authority as a commander – a look like that is enough to cower anyone. Anyone but Jaskier, perhaps. The thing with Jaskier is that fear... doesn’t come to him sometimes. He knows it should be there but it isn’t. Must be the reason why he’s been described as “feral” by many.

“You don’t –” Geralt begins.

“Okay, all done!” Ciri announces cheerfully as she enters the room and sits next to her father, breaking the tension in the room. “Mum wanted to speak with you,” she tells Jaskier, “She wanted to give you a shovel talk but I convinced her not to.”

“She would... do that?” Jaskier asks, not believing his ears, “but Geralt and I aren’t even together!”

Ciri only giggles.

“That’s why I’m single,” Geralt grumbles.

Ciri giggles harder. “Mum just likes being scary,” she says, “but she’s actually very soft.”

Jaskier frowns at her in disbelief. Intimidating the guy your ex-husband agreed to fake-date yesterday and soft don’t go together.

“Don’t ever tell her you know that, though,” Geralt advises almost playfully, “she’d make you forget.”

“I... I’ll go get my guitar,” Jaskier answers.  

After that, Jaskier is in his element. He plays and sings a few of his songs and some classics. Ciri joins him with her sweet voice, making everything even more joyful. All the while, Geralt’s sun-like eyes are on Jaskier, watching, assessing. Daring him to be just a little bit less subtle when he throws quick winks and wide smiles Geralt’s way so that it’d be blatant how Jaskier is actually flirting with him through singing. The almost-glowing gaze should be unnerving perhaps, but it only feels strangely familiar. Jaskier’s idiotic brain sees the opportunity to make it romantic and naturally seizes the chance, supplying the thoughts of how they could know each other from their past lives, or how their atoms could be birthed from the death of the same star, and other such poetic heart-ruining bullshit. Jaskier shoves them away eventually. He just wants the moment to last.

It doesn’t last, of course. Geralt and Ciri soon have to go.

Ciri leaves with the happiest grin, Jaskier’s autograph and a selfie with him, for which Geralt thanks him very nicely. Jaskier gets overtaken by the urge to have him stay and, when Geralt is walking out of the door after Ciri, he blurts out anything to stop him.

“Oh, Geralt!” he says, making Geralt turn back around and look at him expectantly. “Uh... Please don’t wear all black to the party. It’s not my father’s funeral.”

“Hmm.”

It’s a playful hmm and Jaskier later has to send a text that strictly forbids Geralt from wearing his suit. Jaskier has looked at the picture of him in the suit an embarrassing number of times in the past two days. He wouldn’t survive seeing that live.

TBC

Part 4

***

A/N: the Internet says the earliest you can retire form the RN is at the age of 55 but well, Geralt deserves a break. 

It is not that I love you less / Than when before your feet I lay (But to prevent the sad increase / Of hopeless love, I keep away)

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Also on AO3 2154 words.

General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply Complete

Part 2 of Half a Century of Poetry

Jaskier, back in Lettenhove for the winter, considers how Geralt's words on the Mountain were unfair, but that nothing on this world can stop him from loving the Witcher anyways.

They had talked, after the Mountain. Or, well, Jaskier had talked. Geralt had been about to leave when Jaskier finally made his way down, exhausted and devastated and wounded from the lonely, perilous journey downhill. It was clear that Geralt had wanted to avoid him, but Roach, always a sucker for the sweet sugar cubes and shining apples the bard usually carried with him, had approached Jaskier on her own free will. And he had to say something, he couldn’t just stay silent. So he had given a promise. I will not come to you, but if you ever change your mind I should not be hard to find. 

And so he had. There was much that could be said about the bard, about his extravagance and tendency to ignore the rules. But if Jaskier made a promise, he made sure to keep it. Which is why he almost never made promises, regardless of what other people might think he did. Answering ‘sure’ to ‘will you promise to stay behind whilst I fulfil this contract’ meant that he is open to making that promise, but not that he is actually making it. Being part-Fae, fully noble and just generally a little shit made Jaskier proficient in finding loopholes in his so-called promises. But this? This was a real promise. And he had kept to it.

It was winter, and Jaskier had returned to Lettenhove to reunite with his sister and his nieces and nephews. The little kids were elated to see their favourite (and only) uncle, and although his brother-in-law - who had married quite above his station and continually feared Jaskier would reclaim his rightful place as heir - was less happy to see him return, his sister had welcomed him with open arms. The lands of Lettenhove looked gorgeous in the shimmering snow, white like- Jaskier bit his lip, an awful habit he had picked up since-

 Avoiding the thought was hopeless. He had tried everything to distract himself, but nothing could take away his endless, hopeless, futile lover for Geralt of Rivia, friend of humanity. His sister had noticed, of course. Damn observant, that woman. She had always been, but Jaskier was sure it had gotten even worse now that she was a mother. The Fae blood probably didn’t help either. 

‘Why don’t you write it out? That always helped you when you were younger,’ she had said one day, breaking through Jaskier’s musings of how the colour of her dress reminded him of Geralt’s eyes.

‘You don’t have to share it with me, or anyone, if you don’t want to. But it might help.’ 

So here he was, sitting in the manor’s humble library overseeing the snow-covered vineyard, with a quill in hand and paper in front of him like he was twelve, whilst longingly staring at his baby brother, who now lied next to his parents in graves covered in snow,  and younger sister, who were allowed to play outside whilst he was forced to make his homework. Now he looked down at a new generation of children. One day he had wished he could have some of his own, and he could not deny that, after Geralt had accidentally ended up with a child surprise, he had dreamed of the three of them forming a family. Nothing now could be further from the truth. Instead of living in a cottage near the sea, Geralt retiring from his Witcher business to open a smithy, Jaskier opening a school and them raising the adorable Ciri together, Geralt had refused to claim his promised child, shunned Jaskier from his life and gone off to who-knew-where to, as far as Jaskier knew, continue killing monsters for little pay. He had not come to apologise, not come to ask Jaskier to rejoin him, not come to find him at all. And so, Jaskier had kept his promise. And Jaskier had kept away. If only his heart would get the message, too. 

It is not that I love you less

Than when before your feet I lay,

But to prevent the sad increase

Of hopeless love, I keep away.

Carefully placing his quill back in the inkpot, Jaskier resumed his watch over the playful children in the snow. They had found some sticks now, and were playfighting. From his third-floor window he could hear fragments of their conversation.

‘You -- monster!’

‘I wanna be the Witch--’

‘--ys get to be the Witcher!’

‘Because the Witchers are -- cle Jaskier says so!’

‘I don’t want to be a kimimomo! I don’t want to be the bad --’

Jaskier smiled at little John’s mispronunciation of the monster’s name. The kids, inspired by Jaskier’s songs, had taken to playing ‘Wicher and Monster’, with dramatic fake-out deaths and some accidental real injuries. It seemed that, even in the quiet, boring lands of Lettenhove, Jaskier could not avoid being reminded of the man he loved so dearly. The snow as white as his hair, his sister’s yellow dresses, the wolf statues at the entrance of the property, the children’s play, the notes with unfinished lyrics describing Geralt’s heroic actions Jaskier had left behind during previous stays… Every day there was something, no matter how small, that reminded him of the man he had lost. The soup that tasted exactly like that served in the inn where he had first been allowed to wash the Witcher’s hair. The snide remarks from his brother-in-law that seemed to come straight from Geralt’s vocabulary.  Filavandrel’s lute, greeting him whenever he entered his room. Everything around him was another tiny dagger piercing through his skin, making its way to his heart and cutting yet another piece of it in half. 

In vain (alas!) for everything

Which I have known belong to you,

Your form does to my fancy bring,

And makes my old wounds bleed anew.

It had been late spring when they had parted. It felt like they had barely reunited after winter, during which Geralt had visited his strange Witcher castle Jaskier was never invited to and Jaskier had spent his days teaching Ciri and nights playing his music at the Cintran court. And although he loved the court, Calanthe’s murderous glares when he accidentally mentioned Geralt had made him nervous enough to be happy when spring arrived and he could leave again, back on the road, following the person holding his rapidly-beating heart without even being aware of it. The dragon hunt had only been their fourth contract of the year, and after- After, when summer still stretched in front of him for another six long months, everything had felt off. 

Sure, he had travelled, sang his songs at inns and bars and the occasional manor. Sure, he had met up with other bards, competed in a couple of sing-offs, written a handful of new songs which gained instant popularity. Sure, he had lived the life any normal, travelling bard did. But he wasn’t normal now, was he. He was Jaskier, Bard Extraordinaire, the best songwriter and lute-player on the Continent. His audience’s words, not his. He knew there was always something to be improved upon: a lyric that could be better, a beat he missed, a chord he botched. His audience might not notice, but he most certainly did. He would make quite an awful bard if he didn’t, after all. So, even though he did everything any other travelling bard would do, those six months had been strange. He had automatically found himself drawn to notice boards, turning around to inform Geralt of a contract only to be, once again, reminded the man was not there. No rhythmic sound of hooves touching the dirt during the day, no scraping noise of someone sharpening their sword near the campfire during the evening, and just his own breath breaking the silence of the night. It had been as if the world was ill, asleep in bed trying to fend off a fever that caused strange, surreal visions that gave everything normal a slightly sickly hue. Maybe his sister was right, maybe writing would help heal his broken heart.

Who in the spring from the new sun

Already has a fever got,

Too late begins those shafts to shun,

Which Phœbus through his veins has shot.

The playful screams of the children in the snow briefly silenced as the cheery voice of Molly the Cook called out that dinner was almost done. Jaskier knew that one of the kids would knock on his door soon, giving Uncle Jaskier the same message. Three stanzas in just as many hours, a poor yield for a poet of his stature. A sudden rage overtook him as he looked down at the half-empty paper. The words Geralt had thrown at him on the Mountain had felt fair at first, but after moping about them for while, Jaskier had realised that Geralt had been incredibly unfair. Him, shovelling Geralt’s shit? Yes, shovelling it out of his stable and onto the compost pile where it belonged. It was Geralt who created the shit around him, making stupid wishes that endangered the people around him, invoking the law of surprise less than fifteen minutes after learning Parvetta was a child surprise herself. Surely the Witcher knew that child surprises tended to give birth to child surprises, surely he smelled that Parvetta was pregnant to begin with. Even Jaskier had noticed that Parvetta had worn an unusual, slightly-out-of-style dress clearly intended to hide her abdomen. If Geralt had not been so incredibly self-centred, so incredibly self-absorbed and emotionally stunted he would have realised that his words were absolute bullshit. It had been Jaskier who had calmed Calanthe enough to not send hundreds of assassins after Geralt. It had been Jaskier who had tried to take the djinn away so the clearly exhausted Witcher would not do anything stupid. His wishes might have sounded idiotic, but they were clearly and precisely phrased, his mother had taught him enough about Fae magic for him to know djinns were just as tricky, if not worse, to deal with. Yes, Jaskier had shovelled the shit, but it was not his fault Geralt liked to dive into every single heap of manure he met. So no, what Geralt had said had not been fair. But by the time Jaskier had gathered enough of his wits to realise that, the Witcher had long been gone, and Jaskier’s promise had already been made. 

Too late he would the pain assuage,

And to thick shadows does retire;

About with him he bears the rage,

And in his tainted blood the fire.

The sound of a wildly thrown-open door and a young boy’s voice shouting his name calmed the bard’s sudden anger. 

‘UNCLE JASKIER DINNER’S READY MOLLY SAYS YOU NEED TO WASH YOUR HANDS!’ Little John, still carrying his stick, now ran into view. 

‘Did Molly also say you were allowed to take your sword inside?’

‘A Witcher always carries his swords with him, you told me so! And I am a Witcher, not a stupid kimino- kimomo-’

‘Kikimore,’ Jaskier helpfully supplied.

‘Yes that. Will you tell Eddy? Will you tell him I’m a Witcher? I don’t want to be a monster, the snow is cold and wet when I fall down to die.’ 

Jaskier smiled at his youngest nephew’s petulant face. ‘Only if you put your sword back outside. True gentlemen don’t carry their swords to the dinner table, not even Witchers. Come, we’ll place it in the stables to keep it safe, and then we go wash our hands together, okay?’

‘Okay, uncle Jaskier. Can I sit next to you during dinner?’

‘Of course you can.’

Jaskier smiled at the young boy stretching out his arms to be picked up. If only life could stay that easy, with simple concerns like cold snow and fake swords. Jaskier knew, after all,  it was impossible for him to stay angry. How could he hate the one he loved? The one who had, unknowingly, carried his heart for the past two decades, and would carry it for eternity and beyond? He would keep his promise to the Witcher, he would stay in his self-imposed exile, no matter the cost. A promise is a promise, after all. And just as he would keep the promise he had made to Geralt whilst feeding Roach that final, slightly crushed sugar cube, he would keep the promise he had made to himself whilst walking down the first mountain he and the Witcher had climbed to fight a supposed devil. I will love you till my dying days. 

And, as he placed his nephew on his back, joking that ‘this horse will lead the noble Witcher to the stables,’ Jaskier mentally composed the final stanza he had struggled with for so many hours. 

But vow’d I have, and never must

Your banish’d servant trouble you;

For if I break, you may distrust

The vow I made to love you, too.

So, it`s chapter 3

Here`s chapter two, here`s chapter one 

It's not like he can fly away too far, what with the sun setting down and the air growing colder with each passing minute. Jaskier feels exhaustion deep in his bones, 'It's because I haven't been in this form for ages and just need to get used to it again,' he thought to himself. The fae lands not far away from the clearing, approximately ten minutes’ flight. It's quite hard to land properly with all those trees around him, but he manages.

Jaskier thinks about whether to make a fire or not and decides on the former. His skin is still covered with goosebumps from the cold and he chooses to deal with this problem first, but none of his doublets or chemises would fit him now with his wings and all. Then, he remembers that he has a quite warm winter quilt in one of his bags and begins to rummage through the bigger one. Jaskier pulls the blanket out, wraps it around himself, and ties a knot on the two upper ends so it won`t slip off of him. It`s a good thing he hadn`t gone a cheapskate on himself and bought a quite large and warm quilt at the last second. After a minute standing like that he can feel goosebumps fade away and warmth starts to build up in his chest. He stands like that some more and decides it's time to gather some kindling.

The bard starts with sticks that are lying around this little glade and moves closer to the trees. When he finds that the number of sticks and twigs he's holding on his left forearm are quite enough, he straightens his back.

"Fuck!" he yelps in sudden pain, not understanding yet what happened. The bard bows his head and extends his arm to touch the hurting body part. When he reaches his left horn Jaskier realises what exactly happened. "Fucking seriously?!" he exclaimed into the forest. Although his horns are very sturdy, they are quite sensitive too. They also are rather long and, once again, he forgot to move around just so they won't catch on everything on their way. Jaskier raises his head and sees the sulcus on the trunk of the tree, where his horn rubbed against it. Cicada's chirping sounds like they аre laughing at him.

"Ha-ha, very funny, you little fuckers."

So it seems like he hasn`t gained all his fae powers yet because he is not able to sense the damn tree on his way. ‘ So much for a creature of nature, Jask.’ He just sighs and sits straight on the forest floor to arrange kindling and puts some dried grass so everything could catch on fire. The fae lits up a little unstable fireball in his right palm and then brings it to the wood, watches it lighting up, and blows on it for the flames to spread.

Jaskier pulls jerky, a piece of bread and cheese out of his pack in order to give himself some nutrition even though he doesn`t feel like eating. The food tastes like ash and stops in his throat in a form of a ball that he can not swallow while trying to wish away the tears from his swelling eyes.

It`s quite poetic, isn`t it? A true bard thrives on the feeling of heartbreak. It`s an important part of human life and so songs based on this particular spectrum of emotions are very popular among old, young, poor, and rich and all the other layers of society. So singing them brings a hefty sum into bards` pockets if they are skilled enough to compose a heart-wrenching song that would bring the most heartless men to tears.

He`d felt as if he was struck by a lightning bolt when he realised that he`s in love with Geralt. Those feelings he considered friendship appeared to be a lot more deep and complicated. Jaskier felt as if someone poured a gallon of dwarven spirit on him and lit him up to be burned alive by the strength of his own emotions. And from that moment all he could think of were strong hands, white hair, broad shoulders, and piercing gold eyes the bard couldn’t live without. Geralt did steal all his reason, after all, melting it down not only with his looks but also kind and brave heart.

He knew from the start that his rather passionate feelings for the certain white-headed Witcher won`t do any good for them. The man in question flinched at the mere word friend and the bard even after twenty years of following the Witcher can`t predict what he`d do if Jaskier told him he loves him. So he decided to remain silent and love Geralt from afar, help him in his time of need and just be there for him, like everyone in this damned world needs.

It wasn`t hard to hide his feelings from Geralt and it`s not because witchers can`t feel, no. That`s just foul lies people make up to have one more reason to hate witchers, to spit at their feet, to lie about contracts, and refuse to pay men who protect them from the beasts they are too scared and not strong enough to defend themselves from.

The point is Geralt doesn`t want to deal with his or anyone else`s emotions so Jaskier masked all his feelings as friendship and was happy with that because then he can be by his witcher`s side and that`s all that matters.

Or, perhaps, Geralt knew. He`s a witcher, after all, he has enhanced senses and he could`ve heard every time Jaskier`s heartbeat became more rapid at their close proximity or Geralt`s rare flattering words. Once Geralt implied he could smell emotions and, well, Jaskier is pretty sure he smelt like arousal every time the Witcher got naked. Hell, for all Jaskier knew, Geralt might also smell love.

Jaskier was content being just a friend and the slight possibility of his witcher knowing his true feelings didn`t bother him much, but it hurt a bit. And then, Yennefer came.

And it all became so much worse.

The fae wished he had never yelled at Geralt by that lake, hadn`t acted like, well, himself, hadn`t annoyed sleep-deprived witcher to the point where said witcher wished for silence forever. Jaskier berated himself for not reacting fast enough to absorb djin`s magic and prevent the subsequent damage to his throat, to never meet Yennefer.

And if only Jaskier hadn`t dragged unwilling witcher to that betrothal, Geralt wouldn`t have acquired himself a child.

The Child Surprise. The djin.

“ I truly am a shit-shoveller,” silent sobs escaped bard`s trembling lips as his vision blurred by tears.

“It`s all my fault”

keep me close, love me most

“... and yet, here we are.”

“Hmm.”

It was the beginning of what Jaskier hoped would be a wonderful friendship.

§

Jaskier lies immobile on the four-poster bed, dried blood on his shirt and neck making the sight a bit macabre. He’s alive and healing, and it’s all that matters.

“A friend?” Yennefer asks, voice lilting in curiosity.

Geralt opens and closes his mouth, unable to give voice to an innocent question.

§

The tavern at the small town they’ve stopped in for the night could use a bit of cleaning, but despite the slightly dreary atmosphere makes up for the lively and, surprisingly, friendly crowd.

Jaskier’s been playing for hours, and regardless of the slight cramping of his fingers, he gives into his audience’s pleas and sings ‘Toss A Coin’ for the second time that night. Afterwards, when he’s finished collecting the coin he’s earned that night, he purchases two tankards of ale and brings it to the secluded corner where Geralt has been seated the entire time.

“Such a lovely crowd for a small town!” Jaskier states jovially as he sets down the tankard in front of the Witcher. He takes a long drink of the warm ale.

“Hmm.”

“Come now, Geralt. Even you have to admit that this town’s people are the friendliest we’ve encountered in... well, ever, frankly speaking.”

“Don’t you ever shut up, bard?” Geralt grumbles, even as he lifts the tankard to his lips and takes a long sip.

You’re welcome, Jaskier thinks with an inward eye roll.

Out loud, the bard replies, “As if I have a choice, my dear friend. I speak enough for the both of us. You’re not exactly the chatty type, eh?”

Geralt rolls his eyes and huffs in annoyance, golden eyes focused somewhere over Jaskier’s left shoulder.

“Fuck off.”

§

“Stay here with Roach. I’ll be right back.”

“What? Like hell I am! I’m coming with you.”

Geralt growls. Jaskier scowls.

“No, you’re not. Stay the fuck here, Jaskier.”

“No,” Jaskier draws out the syllable as if he’s talking to a child. “I’m coming with you, damn it. I have that dagger you gave me and I know a bit of self-defense... ish. And I promise to stay far away from the action.”

“What good is a dagger and weak punch against a kikimore?” Geralt snarls. “You’d be dead before you can lift a finger.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Where in ‘I promise to stay far away’ did you not get, you grumpy wolf? What if something happens to you? You’re my friend. You need me to be there to help-”

“For fuck’s sake, Jaskier, I don’t need you!”

Stunned at the outburst, Jaskier gapes openly at Geralt with a hurt expression while Geralt pulls out the Cat potion. He drinks it in one go and then tosses the empty bottle back in the saddle bag.

Before Geralt disappears into the woods, he turns his head over his shoulder and regards Jaskier with a hard look. The bard snaps his mouth shut, a mixture of arousal and hurt and worry and fascination when he meets the Witcher’s black eyes.

“I’ll be back. Stay the fuck here and look after Roach.”

When enough time has passed and he’s certain that Geralt won’t hear him, Jaskier mutters under his breath, “Probably needs a good fucking, that one.”

Roach snorts.

§

“Calm down.”

“I’m sorry but who, of the two of us, got stabbed with a rusty knife? That’s right, me! I get to decide if I want to calm down or not!”

“If you had listened to me the first time and shut your mouth, you wouldn’t have been stabbed in the first place.”

“It wasn’t my fault that man was being incredibly rude! Damn whoreson deserved a beating.”

“You sure did.”

“Excuse me?! I was defending your honour, Mr. Geralt of fucking Rivia! Because you’re my friend! And this all the thanks I get? Sarcastic remarks as I bleed to death?”

“Don’t be dramatic. It hit your thigh, and it looks like it didn’t nick an artery. You’ll live.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring! Just, you know, one tiny thing - how the fuck am I supposed to walk now? You have that contract, after all. Unless you’re willing to let me ride on Roach.”

Geralt glares at the hopeful expression on Jaskier’s face.

“No.”

“But I can’t go with you in this state!”

“I know. You’re staying here.”

Jaskier splutters. “S-stay? Here?”

Geralt nods, looking a tad uncomfortable. “I can’t delay the job by staying here and babysitting you.”

Jaskier’s face turns red in anger and... something he doesn’t want to name right now because -

“Babysit?! I don’t need you to babysit me, Geralt! I’m a grown man.”

Something like relief passes over Geralt’s face before his expression becomes blank once again, much to Jaskier’s disappointment.

“Good. This room has been paid for the next few nights. You can meet me at the next town when you’re healed enough.”

Jaskier’s heart twinges as he stares unhappily at his friend. “You’re really going to leave me behind? Your very best friend in the whole world?”

Geralt exhales loudly as he turns to leave the room.

“Rest. I’ll see you at the next town.”

Jaskier doesn’t see him until a month later.

§

“Are you here alone?”

Jaskier’s in the middle of performing one of his greatest hits at a royal’s betrothal when he hears the simpering voice of one of the noblewomen present. One quick glance to the side confirms Jaskier’s suspicions that, yes, Priscilla is currently flirting (rather poorly, in his opinion) with Geralt, who’s dressed in finer robes compared to the last outfit Jaskier had dressed him in. And to say that his Witcher looks bored would be an understatement.

Jaskier continues to perform, but keeps one ear on the conversation happening. Not his fault it’s within hearing distance.

He hears Geralt hum disinterestedly.

Priscilla asks coyly, “Or are you here with someone else?”

Geralt grunts. “The bard.”

“Oh. You’re with Jaskier?” Yep, that sure sounds like disappointment.

Hah! Take that, you wench. You weren’t even good in the-

“Yes.”

Priscilla’s voice drips with fake sincerity when she simpers, “You’re quite the supportive friend.”

At this, Geralt snorts in amusement. “Not really.”

Jaskier almost missed a chord, but thankfully he was able to salvage it by improvising at the last second. His chest is heavy and constricts painfully after that, and Jaskier could only taste bile at the back of his throat for the rest of the night.

§

“Why is it when I’m in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it?!”

“That’s not fair...”

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

“See you around, Geralt.”

It was the beginning of the end of what existed between them.

Twenty-two years later, and Jaskier thinks there’s nothing left in his heart to give. Not that he’s not willing. He’s more than happy to give and give and keep on fucking giving. But he’s... he’s exhausted. He no longer knows why he’s held on this long.

That’s a fucking lie. He knows why.

Love is an addictive pill, they say. But when it’s unrequited (or unwanted, unneeded) it can be labeled as unhealthy. Lethal. Destructive.

His garroter, jury, and judge.

In all aspects, Jaskier lets Geralt go. But some twisted part of him, in his heart, he holds on.

§

Ciri eyes the bard singing his last tune for the night with curious eyes. Beside her, Geralt quietly sips his drink. When she glances up at the Witcher, Ciri nearly rolls her eyes at the intense, longing expression in Geralt’s golden eyes.

She hears the applause of the crowd at the tavern, and for a split second Ciri thinks she saw Jaskier look their way. Jaskier, who’s dressed in clothes that has seen better days. Jaskier, whose hair reaches above his shoulders, wavy and perhaps a little greasy.

Jaskier, the bard who left Geralt at the mountain top two years ago; the bard whom Geralt can’t stop talking about and pining over in the past year and a half she’s been traveling with him; the bard who wrote Ciri a ballad when she was a child (she’s still a child, but what innocence she may have possessed then is all but gone in the face of trauma she’s lived through), and one she’s dearly missed hearing.

Ciri’s eating the lukewarm stew when she hears more than sees Jaskier stop in front of their table. Carefully, slowly, she lifts her head up and meets dull blue eyes staring at them. There’s a pang in Ciri’s heart when she notes the lack of spark in the bard’s eyes.

Before Jaskier can open his mouth to speak, Ciri beats him to it.

“Fiona,” she introduces primly with a small upwards twitch of her lips.

Jaskier blinks down at her before he nods and bestows her a wink. “Lovely to meet your acquaintance, Fiona. I’m-”

“Jaskier, I know,” Ciri interrupts him with a grin, dinner forgotten for the moment. “I also know you went as Dandelion when I was still in... well.”

The bard blinks at her again, this time in surprise, before his eyes quickly swivel to Geralt’s. Geralt, who, upon a quick glance, is still staring intensely at Jaskier, jaw clenched and clutching the handle of the tankard with a tight grip.

Ciri observes, fascinated and curious, as Jaskier clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath as if to centre himself before meeting Geralt’s stare with a raised eyebrow.

“Geralt,” he greets stiffly.

To Ciri’s astonishment, Geralt flinches. But it’s such a subtle thing, nobody would’ve seen it unless you know the Witcher as well as she and Jaskier and Yennefer.

Geralt’s response is low, stilted, but laden with guilt. “Jaskier.”

This is the most entertaining thing Ciri’s witnessed, and she holds her breath as she waits for Jaskier to answer. Slowly, she spoons a few vegetables into her mouth as her eyes pass between the two.

Ugh, are men always this obtuse? Auntie Yennefer was right.

When neither speak after seconds pass, Ciri lets out an exasperated sigh and addresses the struggling bard.

“You’re all he could talk about in the past year and a half I’ve been with him,” Ciri starts. She ignores Geralt, whose head swivels to her like whiplash, his eyes wide.

“Ciri-”

She continues to address Jaskier who’s now gaping open-mouthed at her. “Geralt regrets what he said to you at the mountain. He also regrets not telling you that he does consider you a friend. He was just scared because he thought that once he acknowledges the vital role you play in his life, then you’ll decide to leave. I told him it was stupid of him to think that, and Auntie Yennefer agreed with me. Told him that breaking the djinn’s curse would be all for nought if he doesn’t seek you and apologise.”

“Ciri.”

“What?” Ciri almost snaps at Geralt, who looks a mixture of mortified and annoyed and fond. “You’ve had your eyes on Jaskier the moment we entered this place. Plus, you’ve been looking longingly at him the whole time, Geralt. It was either wait for another year for you to make a move, or I help you along.”

Geralt closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose. “Ciri.”

Ciri bites her lower lip, unsure now if she’s done the right thing. She casts a look at Jaskier, and she’s mildly surprised to see the bard fighting a grin, eyes bright with emotion and... tears?

“Sorry,” Ciri mumbles under her breath. Then she speaks at a normal level. “The staring was getting quite pathetic, though. And I felt sorry for you.”

“As do I,” Jaskier interjects gently.

Geralt whips his head to look up at the bard, and Ciri’s heart grows when she sees the sweet, exasperated look in Jaskier’s eyes.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again, hope in his voice. At this point, Ciri is inclined to bang her head against the dirty table top. Men.

“This doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.”

“I know.”

“I’m still pissed at you. Still very, very pissed.”

“I know, Jaskier.”

Despite the the stern tone, Jaskier’s still looking at Geralt with that same soft expression.

“You have a lot of groveling to do, Witcher.”

“I know, little lark,” Geralt says with a small smile.

Jaskier looks like he’s about to melt at the equally soft expression on Geralt’s face.

“You’re an idiot,” Jaskier mumbles.

Geralt’s smile widens. “And you’re my best friend.”

When Jaskier grins, even Ciri can tell it’s the brightest and happiest she’s ever seen the bard.

On another note, Ciri almost whoops in celebration because yes, Yennefer owes her a hundred coins now.

(Read on AO3)

Scars Chapter 2: One Night

Summary: Seeing Geralt after 10 years brings up pain and questions.

Words: 2122

Warnings: Is angst a warning?

A/N: Ok so I have to start out by apologizing. I planned to have this up like a week ago but me, being the clumsy thing I am, spilled water on my laptop and fried the motherboard. So I had to send it off to see if anything could be done to save it and, surprise surprise, there wasn’t. They were able to save some of my data but no everything. I then had to buy a new laptop and see what they were able to recover. Of coarse this chapter wasn’t one of the things saved. So, I had to type this up, from memory, partially on my phone because I, as a nurse am still working. Therefore this has not been beta’ed but I wanted to get it out as soon as possible so please forgive any mistakes. If you notice any errors, let me know so that I can fix them. Also, if anyone thinks of a better title, let me know cause I’m not sure about “Scars” anymore.

Tag list: @skylarmorgan1899​, @ayamenimthiriel​, @nadia-rosea​

Your first instinct upon seeing Geralt of Rivia after so many years was to slam the door in his face.

So that’s what you did.

After shutting the door, you quickly locked it before turning and pressing your back against the cool wood. You had never been one to really believe in fate or destiny, but this turn of events could make you reconsider. It would make sense that someone, somewhere was laughing at you and the twisted path they had planned for you to take in life.

Taking some deep breaths, you attempted to slow your heart rate. You slid your dagger into the holder on your belt as you began to listen to what was being said on the other side of your front door.

“Geralt,” the young girl, Ciri apparently, called to the Witcher, “what’s wrong?”

You heard Geralt‘s footsteps approach the cabin and stop short of the steps. “Come along Ciri, we need to keep moving,” came his gruff reply.

“But Geralt,” Ciri protested, “what’s going on?” Ciri’s voice was still close indicating she hadn’t moved from her spot on your steps. “Do you know her?”

You held your breath as you waited to hear his answer.

Geralt paused for a moment before responding with a sigh, “she’s no one Ciri. Now, let’s move along. We still have a long journey ahead of us.”

You know you should have just let them go. It would have been easy, to stay where you were, to let them continue on, into the night, never to be seen by you again. But for some reason, hearing Geralt say that you were no one, to completely deny the four years you spent traveling with him, hurt. It felt like he had reached into your chest and squeezed your heart.  You felt tears start to sting your eyes before your anguish turned into anger

Spinning around and unlocking the door, you threw it open with a BANG and flew down the steps until you were face to face with the stunned Witcher in your yard.

“No one!” You exclaimed, pushing the startled man in the chest, knowing full well that you wouldn’t be able to make him move an inch. “‘No one’ he says! As if all the time I spent by your side meant nothing!” With every word that passed your lips, your fury increased and your voice grew louder. “As if the journeys we took was merely a-a-a passing fancy to you! Something to simply pass the time!” You continued to push against him periodically as you yelled.

You could feel your face heat up as the feelings you had kept bottled up for years finally came pouring out of you in the form of rage.

“I knew you were a cold bastard, but this is low, even for you! Maybe everyone is right when they say ‘Witcher’s don’t feel’!”

You stood in front of Geralt, breathless after your tirade. As you panted and waited for his response, you looked into his eyes, searching for any type of reaction, any spark of emotion in the pools of amber.

After he remained silent for a few moments, you grew impatient. “Well?” You asked, pushing against his chest once more, hoping to prompt a reply from the stoic man.

“You were the one who left,” were the words that finally left his mouth.

If his goal had been to increase your anger, he knew exactly what to say to do it.

“You could have come after me!” You threw up your arms, “or are you going to say that one girl was able to outsmart The White Wolf?!”

His reply was much quicker this time. “Usually when someone leaves, it’s because they’re unhappy. So why would I go after someone who clearly didn’t want to be in my presence any longer?”

Your shoulders drooped as you let out an exasperated breath, “you know, for having been around as long as you have, you really know nothing about women.”

“She’s right Geralt,” Ciri said, reminding the two of you that she was still there. ”You do seem rather dense sometimes.”

“Thank you!” You said, turning back to look at Geralt.

“Hmm,” was his only response, clearly not happy that Ciri had agreed with you.

“So, you used to travel with Geralt too?” Ciri asked, approaching you. The girl seemed unfazed by the tension that lingered between you and the Witcher.

“Yes,” you sighed, facing Ciri, “a long time ago.” With your attention taken briefly from the man in front of you, you could feel how emotionally exhausted your outburst had made you. Focusing on your breathing again, you turned the subject away from yourself.

“Speaking of which,” you head turned back to Geralt, “what are you doing with a child?” You asked, confused and curious as to how the unlikely pair had come to be.

“Hey!” Ciri exclaimed, clearly offended by the term, “I’m not a child!”

“Oh, my apologies,” came your sarcastic reply. “Just how old are you?” You asked, one eyebrow arched.

“I’ll have you know that I will be thirteen soon,” Ciri said with a clear sense of pride in her voice.

You rolled your eyes at her tone, “Oh gods, your even younger than I thought.” Shaking your head, you said “that still doesn’t answer my question as to how you two,” you motioned between them “ended up together.”

Geralt answered you this time, “Child Surprise.”

Your eyebrows shot up. You had been with Geralt and Jaskier on that fateful night when he had foolishly claimed the Law of Surprise. “Child Surprise,” you repeated in disbelief. You looked back at the filthy girl, reassessing her. “You mean to tell me,” you started, “that this scrawny little thing” you pointed to her, “in desperate need of a bath, is Princess Cirilla, Lion Cub of Cintra, granddaughter of Queen Calanthe?”

Geralt nodded, confirming what you already knew.

“Well fuck me,” you breathed.

After a moment of silence between the three of you, Ciri piped up “So… does that mean we can stay?”

The girl’s inability to read the situation astounded you. That, or she just ignored it. Possibly a side effect of being alone with Geralt for too long.

Letting out a defeated sigh, your head fell back and your shoulders dropped. You were too tired for this shit. “Fine,” you groan out before rubbing a hand over your face as you tried to compose yourself, “You can stay. But just for the night,” you clarified.

Ciri cheered, no doubt excited at the prospect of sleeping inside for the night and possibly even having a bath. You moved back toward your home, not bothering to look behind and see if they were following. Ciri began talking animatedly about where she and Geralt were headed and just how long they had been traveling. You were only half paying attention to her as you went up the steps and through the front door, Ciri close behind.

‘Stupid, stupid, stupid’ you repeated in your head, berating yourself for giving into the girl. You supposed a part of you felt bad for her. She almost reminded you of yourself when you first started traveling with Geralt. You recalled trying to sleep on the cold ground, unable to find a comfortable position. You remembered walking for days, sometimes with no plan, just hoping to find work.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when you noticed Ciri had gone quiet, having discovered the pot of stew you had made.

“Are you hungry?” You asked her, already moving to grab a clean bowl and spoon. Ciri looked at you, her eyes wide, and nodded. You ladled up a generous serving of the warm food and grabbed some bread before placing them on the small table you had by the kitchen. Ciri eagerly sat down and began shoveling the food into her mouth. Shaking your head with a small smile, you moved to fill a cup with water before setting it in front of her. “Slow down or you’ll choke,” you joked.

Looking up, you expected to find Geralt taking up the majority of you small living room. However, he was nowhere to be seen. With your brow furrowed, you moved back to the front door and peaked outside to see if he was still standing in your yard. It wouldn’t have been too surprising, given the man’s stubborn nature.

As you were looking around for the white-haired man, you heard a horse neigh and watched as Geralt walked through the trees, leading a beautiful chestnut horse with white going from their forehead to their nose. The horse was saddled and had what appeared to be most of Geralt’s equipment loaded on their back.

When Geralt was closer, you called out, “this the newest ‘Roach’ then?” You had never understood why he insisted on naming each new horse Roach. As expected, you only received a grunt in response.

Rolling your eyes at him, you turned back into you house before calling over your shoulder “there’s a small stable out back. You can settle her in there.” You assumed the horse to be a mare as Geralt tended to favor them over stallions.

Heading back into your house, you looked at Ciri in surprise when you saw that she was already almost finished with her food. Arching a brow, you asked with a small laugh “would you like some more? There should be enough left for a couple more serves.” She eagerly nodded her head, her mouth so full her cheeks bulged out.

As you ladled up more stew, you asked, “has Geralt not been feeding you? You act like you haven’t eaten in days.”

“I feed her just fine” came Geralt’s rough voice from the doorway. “She just always complains about the taste.”

With out looking up, you replied “well, assuming your cooking, like your people skills, hasn’t improved over the years, I don’t blame her.” Setting the refilled bowl in front of Ciri, you finally turned your attention to Geralt.

As you had assumed, Geralt seemed out of place in your home. He made it seem tiny as opposed to just small. He looked around, assessing his surroundings as always. His eyes stopped on the one bed across from the fireplace.

“The bed is big enough for two,” you teased, answering his unasked question. He quirked an eyebrow before you continued, “and I’m sure Ciri will enjoy getting to sleep in a bed for the first time in who knows how long.”

Geralt opened his mouth to speak but you cut him off before he could get a word out. “I have some extra blankets. I’m sure you’ll be able to make yourself comfortable by the fire,” you motioned to the rug in front of the fire with your head. Geralt knew better than to argue with you, so he simply grunted and set his and Ciri’s things down by the door.

Sighing, you stretched your arms above your head before letting them fall back down to your sides. You reached up to your hair and pulled out the band keeping it in a bun at the base of your head. As you ran your fingers through your hair to try and work out the tangles, you heard Geralt say in a quiet voice “you cut your hair.”

Your hand stilled. You had always loved your hair. It had always been kept long, as was expected to allow for more intricate styles. Though, whenever you could, you would let it run loose and wild, flowing in the breeze. Your mother would always scold you afterwards, saying it was unbecoming of a girl of your station to look like a peasant with tangled hair. After you had joined Geralt, there was rarely a day that went by when your hair wasn’t a tangled mess and you loved every moment of it. Even when you would moan and groan when night came and you would have to try and brush out the tangles, Jaskier teasing you that if you pulled any harder, you would go bald. You would swear that you would never let it loose again, pulling it into a simple braid for a day or two at most, before you gave in and left it free once more.

You had cut it short not long after you and Geralt had parted ways. Now it fell just past your shoulders, the longest it had been in years.

Dropping your hand from your hair, you replied “it’s been ten years Geralt, people change.”

The silence that filled the room after you spoke was deafening. And once again, it was broken by Ciri.

“What happened between you two?”

~~~~

There we go! Chapter two! Hopefully it won’t take me nearly as long to get the next chapter out, but we shall see. Thank you guys so much for reading!

-Two

The Greater Good | Ch. 8

Just the Three of Us

CW: negative self-talk, self-hatred, self-esteem issues, using sex to numb, using alcohol to numb

Previous chapter: x

Ao3

Just as they had years ago, Juniper and Geralt talked until the sun rose. They held each other and talked of what happened in the four years they were apart, about what happened after Geralt and Jaskier left, the things that Juniper left out when catching up with Jaskier.

Juniper hadn’t spoken as much as she did that night than she had in the last four years.

Though it was difficult to say goodbye again given that the time since the last one was so unexpectedly long, Juniper and Geralt knew that they couldn’t spend the whole day in bed. Not that day anyway. Juniper watched Geralt walk down the corridor, looking back at her with a sweet smile, love drunk. When she turned to go back into her room, she was met by Triss.

“Triss,” she said quietly, instinctively reaching out. Juniper was always the rescuer. Triss pulled away from her and walked past into Juniper’s room, their bodies breezing past one another like two strangers passing on the street. Juniper breathed in the scent of her—clementines and mint—a scent so familiar to Juniper that she felt her gut twist with guilt.

A scent that reminded her of sun-soaked sheets latent with the smell of sleep and late night kisses, mornings in the garden, holding hands under the table, best friends, lovers.

Juniper shut the door as she went back into her room, knowing and dreading the conversation ahead.

The sun leaked in through her bedroom windows that overlooked her garden. It was a beautiful, golden day and as she stepped into the light that cascaded over her bed, she felt an instant warmth. But that didn’t prevent the chills she got from Triss’s cold glare, but Triss was not the bad guy. She sat next to Triss at the edge of her bed where she was fiddling with her shirtsleeve, a habit that she picked up from Juniper.

“Triss—”

“Juniper,” she interrupted. “I know. I knew this was going to happen, though I hoped that it wouldn’t.” She looked away from Juniper, out past the dust motes dancing in the sunlight in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Why didn’t you talk to me first before spending the night with him?” Her voice lost strength, her shoulders falling with her confidence.

“I don’t know—I don’t know why…” She was telling the truth. Juniper had no idea why she and Geralt couldn’t stay away from each other, why they couldn’t bear to be away for more than a few minutes.

“You know why June!” She raised her voice, standing as she did. But Juniper didn’t know, she looked up at her once partner, her best friend. Tears threatened to spill down Triss’s beautifully round and freckled cheeks. Juniper looked at her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“Triss, what are you talking about?”

She looked defeated as she scoffed. “Now you’re just making me look stupid. I mean, were you just using me until he found you? Was I just a body to fill the empty space in your bed? Because you could have done that with anybody—you have.”

Juniper tried to reach out to Triss, but she pulled away. “I wasn’t using you, Triss. I have a lot of feelings for you,” But she could never tell Triss that she loved her, because deep down she knew that what she felt wasn’t love. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I honestly don’t. I didn’t expect to ever see him again. I spent years looking for him, but never found him. Day after day. But then I met you…” She fell off quietly. “I didn’t expect things to change so quickly. I know we’ve talked about the possibility, but I didn’t think it would happen.”

“I didn’t think it would hurt this much, but don’t you understand, June? When you healed him, took his pain, you bonded yourself to him forever. You took on pieces of him that would never keep you apart. Parts of him are you.” She said, pointing to her.

Juniper froze. She felt as if the floor had dropped beneath her. Did Geralt know this? Was this some kind of love curse? Were her feelings even real? Were his?

Triss rolled her eyes. “You had to have known,” she paused, seeing Juniper’s reaction which was pure confusion. “Right?” Her fists fell softly open at her sides.

Heat creeped up Juniper’s neck and she chewed at the inside of her cheek. “No,” she sighed through gritted teeth. “I didn’t.”

“Sorry, June. Regardless, we can’t be together. We shouldn’t have in the first place. I should have known this would happen.” She shook her head as she walked towards the door, beating herself up for letting herself be used, for letting herself fall in love.

“Stop catastrophizing." Juniper spat. "As if you knew this would happen, because that’s definitely not true.” Even as Juniper spit out those words and knew that she couldn’t take them back, she knew it would push Triss away. “I guess what we had wasn’t real anyway, so don’t feel so bad.” Juniper looked away from Triss as she said the words that would make things easier, she couldn't bring herself to see how much the words hurt. 

“What we had,” Triss breathed, shaking her head. “I should go, June.” Before leaving, she turned back. “I’m sorry it had to be this way. Good luck with your destiny.”

Juniper didn’t look, but after a moment she heard the door shut softly. She paced with her hands on her hips, chewing at her lip. She was furious, heart-achingly so. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let her in; why I shouldn’t have gotten close. She thought, as she found herself in front of her bathroom sink, a basin of emerald and gold. She looked at herself in the mirror, the corner of her lip rising in disgust for herself. She looked at her shit-brown eyes, her stupid pout, her pointed chin, her brows furrowed forming a permanent wrinkle between her eyes. She clenched her teeth together, her jaw tightening. She was stupidly beautiful, but if you looked close or long enough, there was something wrong, something missing. There was no soul behind her picturesque features.

Juniper hated herself. 

“How could I be so stupid?” She said, placing both of her hands on the edges of the vanity. Standing up straight, she turned the faucet, letting the water run ice cold over her fingertips. She cupped the water in her palms and splashed her face.

Numb—it was time to numb the feelings. Juniper tied her hair low at her slender neck, then tossed back several swallows of the strongest spirit on her bar cart, leaving her stomach burning. She blinked a few times to focus and dropped her robe, remembering how frail she had been when Triss found her as she felt the silk fall against her skin. Now, she had filled back out to her regular proportions, if not more muscular this time, as she had spent too many hours to count, sweating under the sun in her garden or training for battle. Her strength felt more powerful to her than her magic did.

Once again, she looked at herself in the mirror. In her greatest moments, in moments of pure happiness or ecstasy, the tattoos on her arms and her thigh would come to life, but in her darkest times, they looked as if they were sleeping. The siren on her shoulder hid behind the massive ship, afraid to come out and face whatever darkness Juniper was witnessing. She had made herself into a work of art, something she could be proud of. She touched her fingers to the poppies on her forearm, they were folded in on themselves. She looked at her reflection; her breasts were not quite symmetrical she thought to herself, but beautiful nonetheless as they pointed slightly upward. She touched the moles near her belly button, the pink scars on her sides. They looked pearly in the reflection of the sun. She smiled, thinking about the times that Geralt had touched her. The smile quickly faded as she remembered all of her questions with no answers. She clenched her fists as she became angry once more.

She marched into her closet and pulled a black shirt over her shoulders, her slightly drunken fingers fumbling at the buttons. She left enough buttons on the shirt undone so that if you were lucky, you could catch a glimpse of her bare breasts underneath. Juniper enjoyed the tease. Forcefully, she rolled up her sleeves, revealing her tanned forearms, and tucked her shirt into her black pants. Lastly, she laced up her boots before bounding down the stairs and out towards the garden shed where she grabbed her tools and got to work underneath the sun. The work was gratifying, as she knew her garden fed Myanmag’s small population and they also crafted the potions that she had been stockpiling.

As she dug into the earth with her shovel, she buried her feelings.

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

It was long past noon when she came upon a surprise in her garden.

“Hmmm. I don’t remember planting any bards next to my carrots,” she said, wiping the sweat from her forehead, her hair sticking to her skin where it had fallen out of her hair tie. She could feel her shirt clinging to her back.

“Oh,” Jaskier said in the surprise of being found. “I uh—well, I thought I fit in well amongst the carrots actually.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” he said, standing up, dusting the dirt off his trousers. “Tall, lanky, good head of hair. Quite delicious if you take a bite. Or so I’ve heard.” He said with a smirk. Juniper chuckled.

“I’m sure,” she retorted, rolling her eyes.

“Wouldn’t you like to find out. Or it seems you’re interested in…other fruits these days.”

“I like all fruits, Jaskier.” She responded, quickly picking up his metaphor. “Vegetables too. I like to mix in some herbs from time to time as well.”

He put his hands up. “A woman with many good tastes is what I’m hearing.” They laughed together. “Anyway, I’ll get out of your way.”

“I don’t mind the company," She started, welcoming any distraction. "But are you going to tell me why were you really here in the first place?”

He fiddled with the tomato vines but stopped when Juniper shot him a look that told him to back off from her precious tomatoes. “Well, I—how should I put this,” He looked up to the clear sky, eyes squinting in thought. “I was feeling kind of sad actually.” Juniper didn’t say anything, she waited for him to continue. “I was thinking about how much I’ve missed my best friend, Ciri and then I started thinking about how much I want to help but then I realized,” his voice got quiet as he spoke. “I don’t have any gifts to offer.” He shrugged. “All I’ve got is my lute.”

“You can’t forget about your good looks.” Juniper said light-heartedly.

Jaskier smiled softly. “But that’s not going to help take down Nilfgaard.”

Juniper thought for a moment when an idea came to her. “Have you ever used a sword before?”

Jaskier returned an intrigued look. “A few times, but why?”

“I can train you to fight, Jaskier.”

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

“Always keep your eyes on the opponent, but we aware of your environment. Never stand still,” Juniper coached from under the willow tree as she watched Jaskier fumble with the sword in his hands as he stood in front of the dummy that Juniper had crafted to practice. She needed her skills to remain sharp, she would always be one step ahead; never caught off guard.

Jaskier dropped his arm to his side and brought the other one up to shield his eyes against the waning afternoon sun and looked to Juniper in the shade as she lounged. “Can I take a break?’

“Will you take a break when Nilfgaard has a dagger at your throat?”

“C’mon Junie. This isn’t for real this time.”

“Why don’t you take a break and watch how it’s done, Jaskier.” Both Juniper and Jaskier turned to the deep voice that had come from the side of the hill—Geralt. Juniper and Geralt hadn’t seen each other since the night before and anger boiled inside of her as she stood. Geralt nodded towards her, waving her to the battleground, challenging her.

She took her sword from Jaskier and curtsied acrimoniously. “It would be a great honor to kick your ass, Sir Geralt.” Jaskier chuckled as he fell to the ground underneath the tree, tossing his head back in laughter. Geralt glared at him out of the corner of his eye.

“How do you know you’ll win?” He grumbled.

“I always win.”

the way down the mountain

part of the Ladyhawke!Geraskier AU, being a work set before the main story the day the falcon dies.

words: 1884

it’s on the way down that it strikes for the first time. and, Melitele, of course that had to be day when the curse was set. of course he has to break his bones while nursing a broken heart.

( or the first time Jaskier turns into a falcon also happens to be the same afternoon his world fell apart around him; part of Geraskier! Ladyhawke AU )

Of all the people to fall in the arms of, it’s Yennefer that catches him when he falls to the ground, screaming in pain.

Geralt had made his feelings known, made his thoughts known, made his wish plenty well known and so Jaskier had given him the one thing he could: he had granted his wish and took himself away from his hands.

Of course, it was not a matter that had been gone over without tears, those bastard children of the ocean that every human had packed inside them to shed their sorrows with. The ocean. He should head to the coast, he should sing his songs, he should live a life worth of tales Geralt would dream to tell him.

He should have said ‘you are what pleases me ’.

He didn’t do it, though, because no part of it was what Geralt had asked for and, therefore, it wasn’t something he would give him.

It was only one wish.

Let him be in peace now Jaskier has taken the mess he is out of his life.

“Well, fuck.“ A familiar voice says ahead of him. “What did he do to you?”

And of course that he turns to find the sorceress to blame for this whole mess herself, leaning miserably against a tree: Yennefer of bloody Vengerberg,  glorious even in the what should be the scrambles of her presumptious, reckless, greedy, nonsensical aftermath with the Djinn. He scoffs at his luck, looking around as if he could mock destiny as it mocks him, before he looks back at the violet eyes still inspecting him, a perfect brow arched at his direction. He merely laughs again before he raises his arm, every inch of him made of drama and theatrics.

“Easier to ask what didn’t he do. In fact, I’m just on my way to make do with his one wish.”

“Oh, my…” Her eyes steel themselves and her expression turns impossibly sour at that, standing a little bit straighter as if a change of posture could hide the effects of Geralt’s intervention in her matters. “We all know how good he is with those. What did he ask for this time?”

“Blessed silence.” Jaskier announces in a thunderous voice, shaking his hands on the air for added affect, and ignoring how his arms’ bones have started to ache, pulling them closer to cradle against his chest as he spits out the next words. “For me to be taken off his hand. I have decided to comply, I have put down my shovel, so my deepest congratulations, he’s all yours.”

He bows at his last words, exaggeratedly so, and stands ready to walk past her, saltwater in his eyes, but he rises to see she is now in the middle of his path, blocking it, brows furrowed in disbelief.

“Whatever would I want to have him for?” She asks, her nose twitching away in disgust, like he had just said a pile of rotting meat or a dying stallion or a state that’s crumbling is hers to have and to be glad for it.

His skin is suddenly on fire from the inside out, and he can’t help but scratch his palms, the back of his hands. He mus have brushed some plant he shouldn’t have touched if the itching  is as hellish and sudden as it is.

“I’m sure you don’t need me to sing the wonders of carnal pleasure, you’ve enjoyed it plenty of times with him.” He hisses, and iif he coul dpour venom, that’d be the time. yet the buring itch has travelled up his wrists, under his sleeves, and he can’t helpp but to try to scratch it awar, forcing his hands up his doublet’s sleeve and dragging his nails so furiously over the reachable patch of arm that his nails have skin he’s peeling from himself under them and it keeps burning and his back, his neck, his legs, everything itches and burns. “Or does the mighty sorceress need me to drop the ‘L’ word that regards feelings?” He’s no longer even bothering to look at her, instead reaching under his jacket to scratch at his nape and his neck and his shoulders until he can see spots of blood against the calloused pads of his fingers and be has to keep his hands balled at his sides and even that does not help, because he’s carving his nails on his pants in hopes he can claw at the skin underneath instead. Melitele, did he poison himself? Is he going to die? “You don’t have the Witcher excuse going for you, I’m afraid, Madam Witch, so don’t expect me to take you to be as emotionally constipatedd as him, even if you can be as much of a life wrecker!”

“Love him? I didn’t love him.” She scoffs and he can only muse bitterly at the comedic tragedy he’s part of; loving a man that doesn’t love him but is instead in love with a woman that does not love him. It’s almost enough to distract him from the burning, but not quite. His hands are on his knees now, and he looks up at her if only to take in the whole mockery of a love triangle they form in it’s fullness. “A bit of Djinn magic, that was all there was to it. I hardly wanted to keep him before, much less now. Speaking of which…” She approaches him, brows furrowed, taking in intently the rabid-dog like scratching and the way he draws in his breath with more difficulty by the minute until she’s standing barely a hair away from him, and holds his face to better inspect it right when he was about to double over in pain. “Geralt’s incredibly clever wish explains the Djinn magic surrounding you, but what else has he done? Or what have you done?”

Jaskier opens his mouth to protest something laong the lines of hi not taking kindly to that acusing tone she has to her words, bit all that comes from him is a raspy breathless voice he just can’t stand to pronounce more than a word with, so he shuts his mouth in shock. He blinks; once, twice, thrice. There are black spots to his vision and it doesn’t make sense. Why is Yennefer getting blurry? Oh, he feels lightheaded. There are stabs of sharp pain all over his body but nothing makes sense. He hitches a breath when he feels such a pain to his lungs.

“What?” He slurs slightly, and his voice is slightly better if not a little hitchy. He feels more and more disconnected to his body as a burning sensation starts to creep up his spine. “Why?”

His skin is on fire. He can barely keep himself from scratching his whole body but he’s barely holding himself as it is, and it’s mostly due to her hand on his chin than anything else.

“I feel on you a curse of Aretuza.” She says, mysterious and full of finality to her words as if she’s telling him he’s been sentenced to death.

His lute falls from his grip and he cannot apologize mentally enough for that as he doubles over himself in pain and agony that comes from inside him. Now, he’s known for being dramatic and he knows he can feels intensely, with all his heart and probably still some more from all the other organs. He tries to hold it back as it comes from the depths of his being, but it’s no help: he screams.

Yennefer’s eyes shine with realization and recognition. He doesn’t need words to understand what she has figured out: he has been cursed. She had said he had reeked of magic, and given the growing distress to her features and her body language, she is not unfamiliar to this particular stench. Probably knows the mage. Probably knows whatever Jaskier is about to go though. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

��What’s wrong with me?’ Four words. That’s all he means to ask her. ‘What’s wrong with me?’, simple, easy to do.

Yet he can’t.

Because the pain is no longer dull or the occasional pointed sharp stab, it’s expanding and taking over his throat and lungs and stomachs and he fights all of himself to keep standing, to keep looking at her.

This feels worse than the djinn and that cannot be a good sign. He clings to Yennefer’s arms and throws back his head in a scream as his legs break and he can no longer support his own weight. Still, the pain has not stopped. It feels like someone is pulling the bones of his his toes to stretch impossibly long and thin while shoving his other toes back into his legs.

He looks up to the witch’s face — and, Melitele, could it be possible that in the heights of his misery she could not look just a little bit disheveled in her horrified concern?! At least she looks tired, at the very least that. — as she holds him, cradling him on her lap, glancing over him in a panic and laying her hands over his legs as she whispers words in the acient tongue and seeps violet magic onto him to no avail. She’s weak from the mountain, and even though he knows shit all about magic outside his songs and what Geralt has grunted his way, but this one here is strong. Too strong for a weakened Yennefer. Too strong for—

— Geralt.

His arms breaks next and he sobs out screams of pain as his shoulder shift painfully backwards until his arm start where his backblades used to be, and his fingers stretch as his arms are pulled into his body. His skin itches all over, there’s something being pushed out of it, thousands of somethings. He wants to roll through the ground, scratch himself to the bone, jump in a bath of boiling water, but all he does is scream as his ribcage expands and expands and his broken legs are pulled into him and his jaw pushes up while his nose sinks into his face, teeth merging together and eyes growing and this is worse this is worse than the djinn it’s worse than anything and Yennefer holds his hand and she looks exhausted, the mountain wasn’t kind to her yet she holds him and tries to sooth him.

He should have told Geralt. He should have told him that he loved him. He should have thought to stay.

But the pain doesn’t fade. Nothing fades.

But then it would be Geralt, and not his lover (ex-lover? witch fling? lady love? does he really have it in him to care right now?) holding him through this last torture to an early grave.

Is he dying?

The pain doesn’t fade.

Oh, he hopes he’s far enough that his Witcher can’t hear his wailing.

He keeps thinking about Geralt and his heart breaks and there are feathers growing from under his skin, his bones are broken and his body is rearranging itself in the most painful of manners and the pain doesn’t fade.

So Jaskier just keeps screaming and screaming and screaming, until a falcon’s call cuts the air where his voice had been.

He screams every sunrise and sunset that follows.

—

understand the AU / check out the series on ao3 / buy me a coffe?

I Found Something In The Woods Somewhere - Chapter 1

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Genre/Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, tw: suicide mention in chapter 3 (minor character, not graphic), Cursed Jaskier

Words: 3,000 per chapter, 3 chapters

Summary: After getting wounded by a particularly nasty Kikimora, Geralt spends a week in the woods, fighting an infection and ailing. When he finally wakes up, a scream rings through the forest. He finds the source: a wounded fox. But as he approaches the creature, he can't help but notice the bright blue eyes, and how familiar they seem.

A/n: Special thanks to @panlesters for being my beta! This fic, and especially the first chapter, is heavily inspired by In The Woods Somewhere by Hozier. This is chapter 1 of 3, and I will post the next 2 chapters sometime this week as well. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don’t hesitate to leave a like and a comment if you feel like it!

You can also read this on AO3! Masterlist here.

Faces floated in front of his eyes as he tried to keep them open, his vision fading out and reappearing every few seconds. The world swayed around him, sweat dripping from his brow. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to fight the dizziness washing over him. Behind closed eyelids, he saw the face of his mother, her red hair and kind eyes treacherous. Yennefer appeared next to her, all raven curls and snarky expressions.

He groaned and lifted a heavy hand to swat the visions away, and they disappeared like smoke, the colours blending into each other to form one last face. Brown hair framing blue eyes, the lips forming words he couldn’t hear, the hurt in his features apparent and painful.

Geralt’s voice was hoarse, and his throat parched, the words barely able to leave his mouth. “I’m sorry, Jaskier.” He opened his eyes again, the world around him different shades of grey and brown, the shapes blurred. Somewhere, in the outskirts of his mind, he could feel the cool night air on his warm skin, sweat dripping from his forehead. The dirt underneath him fell away, and he was falling, falling, into the abyss. I’m sorry - his last thought before he went unconscious once again.

҉   ҉   ҉

He awoke with a start, blinking furiously to clear the haze in front of his eyes. Dirt was digging in his cheek, and he could smell the iron of blood, both old and fresh. He tried to push himself up with his left arm from his foetal position on the forest floor, but his shoulder screamed in agony, and he dropped back into the mud with a groan.

Instead, he waited until the pain subsided, then used his right arm to lift himself up, slowly but surely, until he was sat upright, his back against an old oak tree. His lungs were heaving, and he had to fight the dark spots that were swimming across his vision, determined to stay awake this time.

He was in the woods, large canopies above his head filtering the light, making everything beneath the orange leaves dim and grey. About twenty yards to his right, he saw a large, dark shape on the ground. He frowned, struggling to regain his memory.

His mind offered no clues as to why he was here, so instead, he focused on the most pressing matter at hand: the wound on his shoulder. He lifted his hand up with great effort, shifting the armour and shirt away from his left arm. A large gash adorned his shoulder, barely healed, the edges coated in dried blood. The skin around it was a violent red. An infection.

He dropped the clothes back, wincing as pain flared up again, and he let his head fall back against the bark of the oak tree. Possibilities of what could have happened crossed his mind, eventually jogging his memory.

He lolled his head to the right, regarding the dark shape, inhaling the sharp scent that the thing emanated. A kikimora, dead for about a week. His mind flashed back.

҉   ҉   ҉

The water of the small, murky pond sloshed at his ankles as the Kikimora fell down in front of him, the water around it turning dark with blood. He pushed the thing with his foot, turning the large body to its side. He lowered himself on his knees and pushed a hand into the wound in the monster’s neck, cringing slightly at the wet sound it made, and the feeling of warm blood running over his lower arm as he pressed deeper.

His fingers eventually closed around the hilt of his dagger, and he grasped it tightly, gathering all his strength to pull it out, a fresh wave of blood leaving the Kikimora’s neck after his hand.

He shook out his arm, droplets of blood falling off his clothes and the dagger, onto the ground below. He stretched his back out, and rolled his head from side to side, to fight the familiar soreness emerging in his muscles. This Kikimora had been a particularly nasty one, and had managed to disarm the Witcher, which had forced him to resort to driving a dagger deep into the monster’s throat.

He groaned, and rolled his shoulders as he walked over to his sword, where it was sticking from the ground, hilt up, a dozen or so feet away. He stopped dead in his tracks, as he felt pain flare up in his left shoulder, and he groaned again, this time in annoyance.

He pushed away the fabric and armour above the wound, and found a large gash underneath. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it needed care anyways, as the monster blood and murky water he was covered in might cause the wound to infect.

He sighed, and continued walking to his sword, pulling it from the mud and sheathing it. He would have to clean his weapons later, but for now, he had to tend to his shoulder. He looked around, trying to find his bag, frowning when he couldn’t locate it. It must have been flung away during the struggle. For the tenth time that day, he wished Roach was there with him. He’d had to leave her behind in the town at the foot of the hill, as the path up was too treacherous for her.

He turned round and round, eyes scanning the area for his pack, eventually finding it next to an old oak tree. He walked over to it, and lowered himself on the ground, rummaging through his things for a healing potion, uncorking it with his teeth and downing it. He sat back against the bark, and closed his eyes for a second, as he waited for the magic to start working.

Tiredness weighed his limbs down, and he found himself drifting into sleep. He usually didn’t sleep right after a fight, and he still had to clean his wound, but the Kikimora had caught him by surprise. The townspeople had miscalculate its location, and the monster itself had been smarter than average, so it had managed to sneak up on him.

He tried to get up, but sleep overtook him easily, and he sagged down on the ground, laying on his right side in the fallen leaves.

The next time he woke up, he was ailing. He would be for the next seven days, until his fever finally broke.

҉   ҉   ҉

He blinked slowly, once, twice, as the memories flooded through him. He frowned, realizing he had been lying on the forest floor for a week, waiting for his body to beat the infection. Surely, the townspeople must think him dead after all this time, and he clenched his fists as he thought of what they might have done with Roach in his absence.

He groaned as he pushed himself upwards, holding on to low-hanging branches of the oak tree for support. The mud made a wet sound beneath his feet, the dirt having been wetted by his blood while he was lying there, unconscious. Slinging his bag over his non-wounded shoulder was hard, walking was harder, and he staggered from tree to tree.

Looking up, he only saw leaves and branches, grey spots of sky in between. He had no idea what time it was, with the absence of the sun, but he knew which way to go, as the village lay at the bottom of the hill. He started down the slope, feet slipping away a few times over the fallen leaves.  It was at least a day’s walk to the town, even if he was in any good shape. It would probably take longer now, as his legs were unsteady and his mind barely clear of fog.

He looked down at the forest floor, deciding to focus on his feet, and putting one in front of the other, over and over, slipping, regaining balance, walking on.

Slowly the darkness grew around him, and his limbs were tired and heavy. He found an old willow tree, and laid his bedroll underneath it, shielded from hostile eyes by the many branches. He laid down on his back, staring at the few leaves still on the tree, seeing bits of night sky between them. His eyelids drooped down, and he fell into a deep sleep.

҉   ҉   ҉

“Dammit, Jaskier, why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shovelling it?” Rage coursed through his veins like fire. He could not keep the words from rising out of his chest, into the Bard’s stunned face. Geralt’d had enough. He’d just lost Yennefer due to some stupid decision he had made years ago, and the hurt was too new, too fresh, sharp edges cutting away at the inside of his chest.

Jaskier had been right there, ready to cheer him up – except Geralt didn’t want that right now. What he wanted was some peace and quiet, and a chance to hurt in solitude.

He tried to ignore the way the Bard seemed to hesitate for what could possibly be the first time in his life and could not stop another outburst of the anger raging in his blood. “The Child Surprise, the djinn- all of it!” Truly, the only constant throughout all of his misery, all of his problems, had been Jaskier. He had been there to drag Geralt to the betrothal feast. He had been there to ruin his wishes for the djinn. He was there at the moment to act like nothing happened, even though Yennefer had just left.

A small voice in the back of his head told him that Jaskier had also been there to clean up his reputation, to hold him company, to help and cheer him up when Geralt needed it the most. Yet, that tiny part of him was soon buried under a new wave of rage as purple eyes danced across his vision.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” Some sick, twisted part in him was overjoyed at the expression of pure hurt on the Bard’s face, was glad to see that Geralt wasn’t the only one suffering. Yet, again, a small voice in the back of his head warned him he would come to regret his words.

He ignored it, and turned around, walking to the cliff’s edge. He stood there, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, eyes staring unseeing over the landscape in front of him. He heard Jaskier mumble something behind him, but the pained voice was lost in the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, his own slow heartbeat deafening him.

The part of him that regretted his words grew as he slowly, but surely, came to his senses, and realized the full weight of what he had said. Eventually, he couldn’t take the guilt growing in his stomach anymore, and he turned around, only finding air where Jaskier had been standing, his familiar scent long faded.

He was gone.

҉   ҉   ҉

He awoke with a start as a scream ripped through the forest, a few birds taking flight from the branches of the willow tree Geralt was lying under, startled by the noise. He pushed himself up with a quiet groan, hand on the hilt of his sword, dried flakes of blood falling off the metal as he touched it.

He stood up quickly, head moving from side to side as he inspected the surrounding woods intently, yellow eyes focused. He listened, and startled a bit when another cry rang between the trees. It sounded as though a woman was being murdered, and without hesitation, he flung his bag over his shoulder, taking his sword in his hand.

He started in the direction of the sound. The canopy and many trees had bounced the scream around, which would’ve made it hard to pinpoint the source, if he didn’t have a supernatural sense of hearing. He moved quietly, swiftly, through the forest, footsteps light but determined over the fallen leaves.

It wasn’t long until he got to a small clearing in the trees, a rare view of the grey sky above him, as the branches gave way. He stayed at the edge, knowing he would make himself a target as soon as he stepped in the middle. The light, however dim, was still brighter than the forest around him, and he would not be able to see any potential enemies lurking behind the trees.

A small, pained sound drew his attention, and his eyes caught a glimpse of red. In the clearing, a little off-centre, lay a fox. Geralt regarded the edges of the forest one last time, before relaxing and walking over to the animal, lowering his sword as he did so.

The fox’s head lay on the fallen leaves, and it breathed quickly, shallowly. It didn’t look up as the Witcher approached, and Geralt couldn’t help but feel pity at the animal’s dejectedness. He kneeled next to it, eyes falling on a long gash in the fox’s hind leg. The stark white of bone shone through the darkness of the blood, dripping from the wound.

He sighed, as he realized he had rushed into action too quickly. An old lesson from Kaer Morhen resurfaced in the back of his mind: “A fox’s scream sounds like that of a woman, keep that in mind, Geralt. Do not judge a situation too quickly. Observe, listen, wait.” He shook his head to clear it from unwanted memories, as he laid a hand softly against the heaving side of the wounded animal. He observed the wound, deep and long, and wondered what could have caused it.

He cursed as the hairs at the back of his neck stood up. “Do not neglect your rationality in favour of your heart, Geralt.” Vesemir’s voice rang through his head, before he tightened the fingers of both hands around the hilt of his sword, swivelling around, moving the blade up.

A Hydra head clamped it’s teeth over his sword, and pulled. Geralt managed to hold on to it, but his shoulder groaned in protest, barely healed tissue threatening to tear at the force. He moved down to evade another one of the beast’s heads, dragging his sword with him, cutting the lower jaw off of the first head.

The monster screamed in pain, staggering back, which gave the Witcher an opportunity to cut off its third head, swiftly casting Igni to cauterize the wound, preventing two more heads from growing in its place.

A claw swiped down, burying itself into the dirt as he rolled to his right, the monster screaming in agony and rage. An Aard sign pushed the second head back, its teeth only mere inches away from his face. Another roll, this time to the left, gave him the perfect angle to cut the first, jawless head off, once again cauterizing the wound.

He stood up, swaying on his feet, sword in both hands. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs, but he refused to give in. It was just him against the middle head. A small voice in the back of his mind notified him that he had gotten lucky, as this was a young Hydra, the presence of only three heads indicating it had not seen serious battle yet.

The teeth lunged at him, and he moved to the side, cutting through the neck with ease, burning it shut. The ground under his feet shook a bit as the body fell down, and Geralt felt himself relax a bit.

He closed his eyes, tiredness weighing him down, and he considered climbing a tree and sleeping in it, when he heard a small, pained noise behind him. He had forgotten about the fox.

He turned around, sheathing his bloodied sword, and walked over to where the creature was still laying on the fallen leaves. He kneeled down next to it, hand resting against the side, right above its quick heartbeat, fingers threading through the soft fur. He regarded the wound in its hind leg, still seeping blood, bone exposed. He could only imagine the pain it was in.

Slowly, quietly, he unsheathed his dagger. It was still dirty, dried flakes of week-old Kikimora blood clinging to the blade, but it would do the job of releasing the animal from its suffering well enough. He sighed. “I’m sorry it had to go like this, you deserved better.”

He raised the knife, pressing the sharp tip against the pelt poking out beneath his fingers, still curled in the soft fur. The heaving ribcage threatened to impale itself, and the fox made a pained sound. Geralt looked to its head, his yellow eyes meeting those of a striking colour, like the sky on a clear summer’s day, like the ocean in the south, like cornflowers in a spring field. It was a blue he had only ever seen once before.

His grip on the blade faltered, and it fell on the ground with a soft thud. He bent down, moving closer to the fox, staring into its eyes as he narrowed his. The creature lifted its head, wet, black nose nearly touching the Witcher, before the fox grew tired again, laying back on the fallen leaves.

Geralt was frozen in place, his heart thrumming in his chest wildly. It couldn’t be. Yet, he couldn’t deny the familiar scent in the fox’s fur, half-buried beneath the iron smell of blood and the earthiness of the forest. He noticed the hand that was still laying on the fox’s side was shaking, and he looked down to where the blade had been pressed between the small ribs just seconds before.

The fox moved its head up again, yellow eyes meeting cornflower ones, the familiar scent tingling in Geralt’s nose again. Cinnamon and blueberries…

His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “Jaskier?”

Part 3

@mystic-majestic @youcanteverknowenough @vanillamaa @randomwriter90 @freezing-blue @liawinchester67 @randomwriter90 @bevaause @occulta-lacrimarum13 @capsicle-the-fabulous @juhavs @idk-but-i-exist

They’d been traveling for days now, stopping each night to make camp. They would have been there by now, had Geralt not been such a damned worrywart. And frankly, it was driving Jaskier mad. He could appreciate being helped with a thing or two, but the hovering had to stop. “Geralt. I’m not made of glass.” He’d tell him, and he’d let up. Just a bit. For a little while. But the Witcher was always so cautious. Especially with someone who was just bound to get into trouble. At least they’d both be getting some rest tonight at this inn. Jaskier would love to be able to actually bathe for once. As much as he loved smelling like horse and Geralt…

Speaking of horses…. The first few days of riding Roach-because Geralt refused to let Jaskier walk-were hell for his nausea. Oh but it was all so worth having the Witcher’s strong arms wrapped around him. Now that they were off the road he began to miss them. Jaskier tossed off his boots, sinking down onto the bed with a heavy groan. The last few days had not been kind to him. His body ached. His feet were sore. His hunger raged. Ah yes. His appetite. Jaskier had been craving nothing but meat for the whole trip. Jerky could only satisfy him for so long. But good, fresh, blood still running warm meat-the fresher, the better. They, or rather Geralt, had found this out in a rather gruesome way. After just felling a deer he had instructed Jaskier to return to camp while he cleaned it up. His reasoning was so as not to upset his stomach. But the bard remained. And at first he thought it was solely out of pure stubbornness. Until he saw his face. His blown pupils. Eyes that were transfixed on the animal. On the meat he was carving. That could have been excused as hunger. Sure. But then came nightfall. Geralt was a light sleeper. Even the slightest shift could rouse him. So when Jaskier got up in the middle of the night it woke him. Though he remained silent, he listened for the bard’s return. It must have been a bathroom trip. Geralt had been forcing the bard to drink more water lately, so it wasn’t too worrying that Jaskier would get up in the middle of the night for that. What was worrying, however, was the crunching. Geralt found a half awake Jaskier just a few feet away from their tent. Crouching besides the smoldering remains of their campfire. He could excuse late night snacking. He needed the energy for the life growing inside him. It wasn’t until he saw just what he was snacking on that Geralt’s stomach actually turned. Now, he’s seen some Shit over the years. But a sleepwalking man making himself a gruesome snack? That was up there. He could only assume the fuzzy tail sticking out of Jaskier’s blood covered mouth belonged to a squirrel. Perhaps the same squirrel Jaskier had complained about earlier that day. Because it had been “a right pest” and kept chucking things at them. Geralt had to help soothe Jaskier once a particularly loud crunch woke him up from his hunger fueled trance fully. And he hurled the poor squirrel’s remains right back up. What worried Jaskier most was how… good it tasted. If he ignored the fur and the bones, that is. Both of which he spent hours trying to pick out of his teeth amidst his gross sobbing. Geralt took to making sure Jaskier didn’t go to bed hungry after that. Why Jaskier had such… bloody midnight cravings, Geralt didn’t know. He could only hazard a guess it was his doing. After all, Geralt wasn’t human. So naturally whatever Jaskier was carrying wouldn’t be either. “Oh no you don’t.” Jaskier pat the bed beside him, glaring at the bedroll Geralt was rolling out over the floor. “Get in this bed, Witcher.” “Don’t think there’s any room up there for me.” He chuckled. And that was true, the bed was quite small. It was the only one the inn had available. And Geralt was fine with Jaskier having it. “We’ll just have to squeeze together then. Come now, we’ve been closer.” He felt those yellow eyes move down to his stomach, before flicking back up to meet his blue. “Much closer.” It was quiet between them, he could tell Geralt was considering it. He just needed a nudge. “Well,” Jaskier rose up, loosening the buttons on his tunic. “Anyways, I believe our bath is ready.” “Our-” “Yes our, we both reek and you know it.” Jaskier could hardly wait to step into the bath. There was just one thing. He didn’t quite want Geralt to see him so… nude. Which he knew was ridiculous. Geralt literally knew him inside and out. He already had his doublet discarded, folded on the dresser. He hesitated with his trousers, which were beginning to grow a little tight on him. He’d have to let them out some other time, perhaps after the bath. Geralt, already in the bath, threw the bard a curious glance. “Taking your time?” he mused, noticing the look Jaskier was giving the mirror. He also noticed the two faint scars that crossed the bard’s back. Geralt had noticed them before, but he never brought them up. It wasn’t his place. And Jaskier hadn’t asked him about his own, so it was only fair. But he wasn’t a stranger to lashing. He’s witnessed his fair share of “punishments”, the idea that someone thought they could do the same to Jaskier made his blood boil. He watched Jaskier turn, pushing his pants down, but only to his hips. Just enough to expose his stomach. “Can you tell a difference?” he asked Geralt, “I know it’s early, but with the way I’ve been shoveling food in my mouth lately it’s a wonder I haven’t split the seams.” Geralt leans over the side of the tub, laying his eyes on Jaskier’s belly. Something swelled inside him. Something warm. “I’d give it another month.” his eyes lingered still. What was Geralt going to do? Leave Jaskier on his Nana’s farm? Keep visiting him? It wasn’t as though the bard could join him on any future jobs. Geralt wouldn’t let him. Absolutely not. That would be far too dangerous. Besides, the life of a Witcher was no life for a child. Jaskier flicked his wrist, “Turn around.” he ordered, cheeks flushing red. This made the witcher chuckle, and yet he obliged. He only took a glance over his shoulder once he felt the bard’s back against his own. “…. you know I’ve already seen-” “Be quiet.” The bed was indeed a snug fit for the two of them, but they made it work. Jaskier wouldn’t admit it, but he loved being able to rest his head on the Witcher’s chest. Listening to his heart beat. Put him right to sleep. And it gave Geralt the perfect opportunity to think about, well, everything practically. He’s had a lot on his mind lately, and rightfully so. He was going to be a father, and he didn’t know if he was quite ready for that. But he was not going to abandon this child, nor his friend. Not now, when he could smell the fear and worry on him. And if things went well, hopefully not ever. How hard could it be anyhow? He’s juggled worse. Jaskier’s arm draped across Geralt’s chest, the bard resting his cheek against him as he slept more soundly than he had in weeks. Maybe even months. Geralt found himself staring down at him. There it was again. That feeling in his chest. Warm and growing day by day. He hummed, brushing Jaskier’s hair out of his face. He didn’t know when he started to fall for the bard, but it was well before the dragon quest. That much he knew for sure. He just didn’t know if he should be falling for him in the first place. – Back on the road again. This time, on a job. See, while the duo had been staying the night at the inn, word got around that a witcher was in town. And with that came opportunity. And Jaskier being as stubborn as ever. “You’re not coming.” Geralt had told him, not once, not even three times. But six. And Jaskier had ignored him each time. “Oh come on, I have to get my adventures in now while I still can. Preferably before there are any diapers to be changed.” And suffice to say trying to lock Jaskier in the room didn’t work. That’s how Geralt discovered the bard knew how to pick locks. “You said so yourself, it’s probably nothing to worry about-” “I only said that to comfort the man. Don’t you know anything about griffins, Jaskier?” He scoffed, “I know they live in the mountains and there shouldn’t be any reason for one to be hanging around some abandoned fort.” “Jaskier.” “…. Fine, I’ll stay by Roach. Bloody horse is better company anyways.” Jaskier ended up not staying by the trusty steed, despite his words. He grew too curious for his own good. And, well, worried for his witcher. He told himself he’d only take a few peeks here and there, see if he could catch a glimpse of the creature before Geralt had to slay it. If there even was a creature. He knew the witcher was on the far side of the fort, faaaar from where he was snooping. No chance of him getting scolded. So far. And then he heard the oddest noise. He saw claw marks on the stone walls. Chipped stonework. Obviously something had tried to make its way inside the inner workings of the fort, but must have been far too large to do so. Jaskier saw feathers. Large ones. The sound he heard was faint, and reminded him of something vaguely familiar. And before he could stop himself he was following it. He followed it all the way to a row of cells. Barely able to see in the dim light. The cries, he soon realized, grew louder the closer he grew near. He didn’t know what to expect once he neared that cell, but it wasn’t this. The small creature, weak from hunger, was curled up under a cot when Jaskier found it. “Oh look at you…” his heart swelled. Must he have such a weakness for cute things? “Who locked you in here?” he tsked, fetching his tools from his pocket. He had that cell open in seconds. He wasn’t worried, poor thing was too weak to even stand. Must have been in there for days. Which went along with that man’s story. The sounds and sightings had only started up some days ago, if he recalled correctly. So the griffin did have a reason to be down here then. He removed his coat, frowning. Little thing didn’t even put up a fight when Jaskier wrapped it up so he could carry it. “I think someone’s looking for you-” A deafening roar shook the entire fort, making Jaskier’s blood run cold. “And I think they just found Geralt.” When Geralt saw Jaskier tumble out of the fort into the courtyard he wanted to shout. Wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. And he’d do that, later. When he wasn’t busy with the damn griffin. The griffin that, just moments ago, had been deadset on skewering Geralt on its talons, with the way it had him pinned. Had been. Now it seemed much more interested in the bard. Geralt’s sword was just out of his reach, god damn it. “Jaskier, get back in the damn fort.” He watched the griffin tense, and he did as well, once he heard a cry. Saw the bundle in Jaskier’s arms move. “Jaskier-” The griffin started towards him, and Jaskier let the coat fall. The beast rumbled, tail flicking. And the griffin cub rose its head up with a chirp, to which its mother responded in kind. Much different than the roar it had just let loose just moments ago. It wasn’t until Jaskier set the cub down and took a few-very large-steps back that it came near enough to check on it. Geralt had gone so pale during the exchange, now sitting up and staring in disbelief. It made sense now. When Geralt was searching the fort he kept coming across the remains of beasts. Big and small. Preserved, displayed. Like trophies. This old fort had been a base for poachers, they likely planned on killing the cub as well. But its mother tracked them down and ran them off. He still watched on with bated breath as the griffin groomed its cub as they were reunited. He was still wary, moving slow as he rose up. The griffin heard him, of course. He could tell by the way the fur on its back rose, and its ears swiveled back to listen to him. Jaskier watched in awe, a warm smile on his lips. Which soon fell when the griffin locked eyes on him. “Oh-” this beast was massive, magnificent. And it could tear through him if it wanted. But it didn’t. In fact, it did the opposite. It leaned its head towards him, giving the air about Jaskier a sniff. Then it took a look back towards Geralt, who now had his sword. Which he immediately sheathed. It connected the two. The griffin looked back to Jaskier, then down. And Jaskier didn’t know what it was looking at until the creature moved forward and brushed its cheek against his stomach. Jaskier felt something. He didn’t know quite what. But he suddenly felt warm and light. And gratitude. He felt gratitude. And thankful. And these were not his feelings, he soon realized. Geralt didn’t apprach until the griffin had begun to walk off with its cub cradled in its maw. “What the fuck.” “Don’t look at me, I’m pretty sure I just hallucinated that.” Geralt didn’t even know if he should chew Jaskier out for not listening to him. All he knew was that he was relieved. And shocked. In complete awe. And wondering how Jaskier was still standing when his legs were shaking so horribly. “Geralt did you see the size of that thing-Geralt her talons were bigger than my forearm. Geralt-Geralt I think I need to lie down.” There he was. “I take it you’re all adventured out then?” Jaskier smacked his arm, “Oh fuck you.”

Why?

Pairings: GeraltXJaskier (kind of)

rating: M

Warnings: Death, angst, drowning, betrayal, hallucinations.

preview:  After the mountain Jaskier travels alone and stumbles into danger rather quickly. Geralt isn't there to save him this time.

Chapter: 1/2

If Jaskier tried hard enough, he could pinpoint the exact second Geralt tore the beating heart right from his chest and let it fall carelessly over the cliff edge. He could also tell you the exact second his brain and body fell out of sync. 

He'd tried to speak again, tried to step closer but his body wouldn't listen to him and he found himself quietly bidding his friend goodbye. He'd turned, waiting for a second but when Geralt didn't try to stop him, Jaskier left. 

Getting down the mountain wasn't all that hard really, not when any urge to sing or strum had been taken from him, rendering him surprisingly silent in his descent. He followed the path listlessly, expression somewhere between despair and vaguely empty. A small, hopeful part of him kept listening for Geralt, for the stubborn witcher to catch up and, not apologize but at least give Jaskier a goodbye himself. He didn't even catch a glimpse white hair and that small stupid piece of his heart crumbled away. He camped the first night by himself, with no tent or protection to speak of and found himself doing the same the second night as well.

He made it to Roach on his third day of travel, sometime in the early afternoon and managed a small smile. The mare huffed at him when he approached and nibbled at his hair and doublet, content with his return. 

"Hey girl." He cooed quietly, stroking at her nose when she bent her head to huff at his chest, or, more likely, nose at his pockets for sugar cubes. When she found no such treats she huffed and shook her head. Jaskier gave a small chuckle as he backed away.

"Sorry. Sorry. Nothing today." He said apologetically. Nor ever again his brain scathingly provided for him a moment later. You won't see Roach again because Geralt doesn't want to see you again. He sighed and lowered his eyes. His and Geralt's bags sat not far away and Jaskier approached them slowly, hesitantly, as he knew taking his things would finally, finally cement the fact that he was to be alone again. 

Picking up his things wasn't hard, not that he had much anyway. He debated taking his bed roll, knowing Geralt didn't need two but, seeing as Geralt had purchased the second not long after Jaskier had started traveling with him, he felt it wasn't his to take. He left it lying gently with Geralt's things. 

His bags and lute strapped to his back he shuffled his feet anxiously, and soon he found himself back at Roach's side.

"So, guess I should say goodbye to you girl. It's the least I can do." He said as he stroked her side. As if she understood him, she stomped her hoof and flipped her head. "I'll miss you… Keep him from doing anything too stupid, yeah?" He said gently before turning away. He couldn't help the small whimper he let out when Roach let out a quiet whinny and nipped his doublet as if to hold him with her. At least she wants me to stay. His mind unhelpfully provided for him as he gently got her to release her hold before he made his way back towards town.  

Without Geralt he found no reason to linger and, after a stop at a local shop to gather a new bedroll, he was already heading out again. It was mid afternoon now and the bard couldn't bring himself to really think about where he was headed. Geralt had led when in unfamiliar territory and they had always split for the winter near the same place, where Jaskier could easily make it back to Oxenfurt in about a fortnight.. Now though, he had no idea where he was or where he even could go. He'd asked the shopkeep in passing as he purchased his bedroll and she had pointed him west for the nearest town. 

With little else to do and no one to stay for, he headed west like he had been advised, only just able to ignore the piece of him that had somehow glued itself back together to listen for the Witcher.  He knew that if Geralt caught up with him then he would immediately fall back into step with said Witcher. Sure, he'd let him have a piece of his mind, but he'd still follow him to the ends of the planet.

It took until the sun was low over the horizon and the sky was painting itself pink for the bard to finally stop. He didn't dare go any further with the trail becoming muddy and slick as he approached what he could only assume was a bog, and the light dimming enough to render any further trek dangerous. 

He turned back and walked just far enough that the ground began to dry before he truly tried to make camp. He set down his things and laid out his bedroll before venturing around his campsite for suitable wood to burn. Within an hour he had a small fire going and was nibbling on what little rations he had stashed in his bag; nearly stale bread and an embarrassingly smashed apple. The meager dinner lowered his spirits, which had managed to slightly rise on his trek and he found himself deflating sadly 

He eyed his lute with a kind of detached sadness as the feeling of loneliness began to really set in. Having been able to hold it at bay as he walked, it now had full reign over him. He wanted to play, he always wanted to play but what was the point? There was no one to hear him and no one to sing of either. The song he had attempted to write on the mountain sat heavy in the back of his mind and the words lingered in his throat but he didn't have the energy to release them. 

He did reach out and pull the lute case over, opening it and running his fingers gently over the carved wood, but didn't play a single note. He leaned back on his hands and let his gaze wander to the sky where the first few stars were starting to shine. Maybe he would write the rest of the lyrics down, then when he had the energy he could debut his new song for the crowds. 

Deciding that was a better use of his time than emulating Geralt by sulking and brooding all night, the bard dug out his songbook and by the light of his meager fire, wrote, changed and rewrote the lyrics to his new song. It was only when the pages began to blur and his words became nothing but smudges, did Jaskier finally set his things aside. Hours had passed and the sky was alight with twinkling stars and the full moon cast a faint glow on everything around him. 

He put out his fire, for safety' he reminded himself, and packed away his songbook once more. He didn't bother to change, too tired to worry about his clothes, and instead curled fully dressed, into his bedroll. He closed his eyes and drifted to sleep, his back turned the way he had come. 

"Jaskier!?" 

He awoke with a start, sitting up and looking around with bleary eyes.

"Geralt, is that you?"

"Jaskier!"

There it was again, that oh so familiar voice calling out to him; for him. A thick fog must have rolled in as he slept because as his sight came back to him, he saw the area lay covered in a blanket of mist. In the distance, in the direction he was heading, he saw a faint light and distant shape moving away from him.

"Jaskier? Where the hell did you go? You'll get yourself killed out here alone!"

Jaskier watched as what he had to assume was Geralt, lighting his way with a torch,moved further into the fog and the trees before he scrambled to his feet. 

"Geralt!" He started rushing for the Witcher but found Geralt to be moving quickly away from him, still calling for him. "Geralt!" He dimly wondered why Geralt was using a torch when he could see decently in the dark but his other thoughts were loud enough to silence the question. He came looking for you! He wants you to travel again! You can tell him off like he deserves!" 

The bard stumbled and nearly fell, letting out a pained yelp that pulled the Witcher's gaze to him in the dark. He couldn't help the smile that bloomed across his face. 

"Geralt! We meet again." He said as he started towards the other, who made no move towards him. "I'll have you know I managed to set up camp all for myself! I'm not exactly unused to camping alone, Witcher. You should be proud of me! Especially after you so heatlessly sent me away."

Geralt didn't say anything back, just stood unmoving and waiting for Jaskier to reach his side. Just a few feet away Jaskier hesitated as he finally noticed that Geralt wasn't holding a torch in his hand, in fact Jaskier didn't see anything that could or should be casting the light that illuminated Geralt's form. He took a slow step forward and his smile faded. 

"Geralt? Did you take a potion I don't know abo-" he found himself cut off as his foot suddenly met no resistance and he plunged into icy water.

He surfaced and gasped as he looked around. Geralt was where he had just seen him, watching, silent. He looked off though, hazy and wrong. 

The bard had no time to dwell on what was going on with Geralt as his fall had stirred up the muddy swamp bed and the water was becoming thick with the sticky substance. It stuck to the bard's clothes and shoes and began to weigh him down. Topped with how exhausted he still was he found himself slipping under again quickly. 

He struggled and his head breached the water just long enough to get a lung full of air before he was weighed down again. His feet were quickly stuck in the muddy bed and he thrashed wildly, hoping to break free again but quickly found himself unable to, only managing to sink further and his struggle weakened. What was Geralt doing and why wasn't he helping him? He had just been looking for him right? That had to mean he wouldn't sit back and watch the bard die. He was just right there! Just above him!

Of course he would. You're only good for shoveling shit, remember? 

Jaskier's lungs strained for air and forced his body to attempt a breath. He let out a muffled sound as water flooded his mouth; his empty lungs. His body forcibly tried yet again to breathe, resulting only in more water filling his lungs. Black spots danced in his vision and he could just barely make out the sky from beneath the surface of the water. He reached up, desperate and searching for Geralt, for his help. None came, the last thing he saw was the moon as blackness swallowed him completely. His last thought was a single word.

Why?

Brittle

TITLE: Brittle  AUTHOR/ARTIST: @breyito (read also on AO3) PROMPT DAY : Day 4: Hurt/Comfort for @geraskierweek SUMMARY: Post- Ep. 6Jaskier is on his way to being mostly allright, when an unexpected meeting with Geralt tears all his efforts apart. WORD COUNT: 2.1 k BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/VIDEO GAME: Netflix show TRIGGERS/WARNINGS: Angst. Hurt no Comfort. Emotional pain.   RATING: Teen and up ADDITIONAL NOTES: Yeah...I chose hurt. Ooops? ñ.ñ  I couldn't help it!!! I just love Jaskier and his angsty-potential!!! Tbh, I've read some amazing post-ep.6 fix-it fics, but I'm of the opinion that some things you just don't forgive; at least not without effort from the other part. Hence, this was born. I knoooow that Geraskier Week is ending, but RL is a bitch and writing (even if I've written more this week than the past semester, jeez) is hard. I plan to finish all the prompts, even if it takes me another week lol. Tho I'm having a hard time to come up with ideas for the last two days, so...help?? Enjoy the pain!!

When they find the bard, he is singing in a small tavern. This far North the Nilfgaard army has not being able to reach, yet; but refugees have been traveling and passing through, and it is noticeable. The place is fairly full, the ambient warm from the fire on the hearth and the ammount of bodies. The mood of the people, though, is solemn and gloom. The usual joyful tunes and bawdy lyrics that make most of Jaskier's songs would not be welcome; but his most recent works, full of longing and despair are listened to with the aumost attention; people eager to feel conected in their grief.

~I need time to replace, what I gave away~

He is singing with his eyes closed, the melody pouring out of him without effort; and he does not see them enter: the sorceress, the princess and the two Witchers.

~Though I try to resist I still want it all ~

The four of them sit in a corner, willing to wait until the performance is over; but the white haired witcher does not take his eyes away from the bard for a second.

~I see a little house on the beach and children's names I see quiet nights poured over ice and the sweetest ale~

Geralt tries really hard not to think that the song is about him, because surely it can't be. Neither of them are built for a quiet life and a settled home; and yet he can't stop hearing the hopeful proposal of 'lets go to the coast for a while' that he never responded to, which was on itself an answer of its own.

~But everything is shattering and it's my mistake~

Vesemir notices the moment the lark sees Geralt, because his body fills with tension, his shoulders go back and his eyes fill with something else: anger, pain, hurt. He feels the sharp inhale Geralt takes of the man’s souring scent, and hears the aborted whine that climbs up his troath.

~Only fools fall for you, only fools Only fools do what I do, only fools fall~

The sorceress thinks to herself that there is no way the dumb Witcher can miss the song being about him. The bard is practically singing it to him, not looking away once. The rest of the place might not notice, but the four of them on the table know. Even without the enhanced senses she thinks she can smell the betrayal and the hurt the bard pours out in every exhale. She did not know things were so dire between the two men, or she would have insisted on Geralt aproaching first, with an apology at the ready; instead of ambushing him to ask such a big favour.

~Only fools fall…~

As soon as the song finishes the bard jumps into action; throwing the few coins in the floor into his lute case and sprinting for the back door. Obviously, they follow. Or, Yennefer and Geralt do, leaving Ciri with Vesimir inside, to protect her.

~*~

Jaskier has never believed the saying that Witchers have no emotions; that they can't feel and only care for killing and coin. Because if that were true, then why would they help?why would they risk their own lives for the ungrateful little beings that humans are? They are hated, spat on, cursed, stoned...and yet they continue to travel seeking for monsters to kill and people to save. Surely it would be easier to just take whatever they want, instead of getting barely what they need? They could stop traveling, live in the woods or the mountains, hunt and plant and live quietly; until people grew desperate enough to seek them out and pay whatever amount they demand for killing whatever creature is tormenting the pesky little humans. Or become bandits, roaming the roads and stealing and killing as much as they want. It's not a big secret (just something people like to forget) that they can control the minds of people with their magic (similar to the way mages can, but they don't, not usually). They could take over a city, a kindom. They could do so many things; things that would turn them into the monsters people already treat them as. But they don't. They just keep picking themselves up after a badly payed hunt, a stoning, a beating for just exhisting; and they go back to the Path. So no, Jaskier has never believed the rumours about Witchers not having feelings. Traveling with Geralt only proved him right.

But right now he wishes it were true.

Because if the lack of emotional conexions was something biological, something they did to Witchers on those cursed Trials; if love and care and affection was something they forced them to erase, this would be easier. It would mean Geralt doesnt care for him because he literally can't. But knowing he has such a bottomless heart; that he cares, so deeply; having seen first hand how far his affection goes...and yet know none of it is directed to him? Know that he's just an annoyance, a passing amusement, some silly human the man took pity in? That's torture. Jaskier doesnt know what to do now. What do you do when you realize (when someone literally has to spit it to your face because you just won't get it) that the person you built your life around despises you? How do you keep moving on, when you have linked yourself (your sense of being, your sense of worth) so fully to another being and that other is no longer there? When you have spent more of your life by their side than alone? How do you manage without them?

Somehow, he endures.

It takes time, and acting skills, and ale and some new-found interest in weapons and fighting to release all that anger coursing through him; but he copes. He stills feels brittle, like all his pieces were put in the right order but not glued back together, and a minimal shift can break him apart again. There’s nothing to do about the pain, not really; just wait for it to dull until it’s an ache and not searing pain (like the throb you feel in a broken ankle when it’s going to rain years after it happened; not the excruciating pain of the exposed bone through ruptured flesh). He’s not there yet; but he feels like he could be, in a few more months (or years, being realistic, but realism has never been his strong suit, has it?).

There’s a war going on, after all, and he can’t give himself the luxury of pining when people are being killied left and right. He stops singing about White Wolves and monsters; because Princess Cirilla is still unacounted for, and people are starting to remember (after years of a heavy silence imposed by Calanthe) that Geralt of Rivia was to claim her by the Law of Surprise. He has made a name for himself and the last thing he wants it’s to be taken hostage on the missguided notion that Geralt would give a rat’s ass about him and come to his rescue. He is not that stupid. 

So he crafts another identity, another name and life and repertoire (he’s lucky that enough songs from Jaskier are being sung by other minstrels, so he doesn’t runs out of ballads and dittys while he composes new material), changes his image to fit in rather than stand out (more earthy colors with minimal embellishments, embroidered by his own hand), grows a beard (still carefully maintained) and lets his hair reach his shoulders. He sings more about longing and loses, homesickness and heartbreak; but still tries to end the performances on a high note, a cheerful tune (people respond better, when they can sing their woes but still feel hope at the end of another dark day).  

Or at least that is what he usually does. It only takes Geralt to show up once for all his careful work to come tumbling down. He can feel his grief start to choke him and barely manages to finish the song (and of course it’s about Geralt, because all his songs about heartbreak are about him) before he’s gathering his things in a hurry and running for the door. He just wants to get to his room at the inn before he starts to unravell. Of course he doesn’t get to, because the damn Witcher and the fucking witch follow him and cut him off.

“Jaskier.”

“That’s not my name.” he answers in a lower registry. It’s useless, he knows, but he still tries to side step and continue on his way. A hand grabs his forearm and the strenght behind it stops him short. He can feel the heat of his palm scorching his flesh even under all those layers and he starts to shake.

“Jaskier.”

“What? I’m on my way to the inn, I’ll be gone by morning. You-”

“Jaskier”

“-don’t have to see me or talk to me-”

“Jaskie-”

“-or even acknowledge me so-”

“Jaskier!”

“-what do you want!?” he screams, and his voice carries into the darkness around them. “What could you possibly want from a shit-shoveling useless minstrel, uh!?” 

He can tell that both the Witcher and the sorceress are shocked by his outburst; and he takes advantage of this by shaking the hand off and walking a few more feet away from them.

“Jaskier. We need you.” Is what he hears next, and the words make him stop. He lets loose a bitter short laugh.

“Oh, haven’t you heard, woman, that he doesn’t need anyone?” he hears steps behind him and continues walking, “And I wouldn’t go depending on him very much either. He tends to bite and run the other way when that happens, you know?” The Witcher gets ahead of him and grabs his shoulders, thightly and pushes him against a wall.

“Don’t do that.” he growls, shaking him, impatient. “She’s done nothing to-”

"How is it, Geralt” Jaskier interrumpts, finally looking into Geralt’s eyes “that you go out of your way to respect, protect, love” he spats the word out “people that  curse your name, spit on you, wish you dead and use you so badly that you have nothing left when they are done with you;” he doesn’t even try to pretend the words aren’t about certain witch that has apparently deemed the Witcher’s company good enough again, he sees her flinch at the quick look he shots her but pays it no mind “but show nothing but disgust towards the one person who has always stood by you?" he sees the way Geralt recoils at that, but honestly, if he can lash out when he feels hurt then he deserves to hear the pain he caused others.

"Jas-"

"What did I had to do; what did I had to change; what else did I had to sacrifice for you to give me a sliver of your affection?” He can’t hold his gaze anymore and just looks over his shoulder, tears escaping uninvited. “Just a morsel, a fucking crumb of yourself?" His voice breaks and fuck, he wanted to finish this conversation with the last dregs of his dignity intact, but he doesn’t even get that, does he?

"Jaskier, I'm so-" despite the fact that Jaskier has spent the last fucking year wanting to hear an apology from the man that destroyed his heart; right now he can’t. He suddenly feels so tired. Brittle, like that single word could make him crumble and disperse his very core to the winds. He swallows a moan and starts begging.

"Please, leave." he pauses, to see if the other man will, for once, heed his request. He doesn’t, of course. " Geralt, please, leave." he pleads. The Witcher lets go of his shoulders, but opens his mouth. But Jaskier won’t let him speak, not if he doesn’t want to end the night reduced to more pieces. "You are no good to me witcher. You wound me; it hurts. Everytime I think of you a fucking hole opens in my chest and threatens to consume whole.” he starts wheezing, but keeps talking, trying to explain his pain, to make him understand how badly those scarred hands have wounded him. “Seeing you here... Listening to your voice? It’s ripping me to pieces."

"Ja-" the bard feels like puppet whose string was cut. He falls to the floor in a crouch, hugging himself, trying to contain the void growing in his chest.

"Geralt, have mercy." he sobs, desperate. He hides his face between his knees, tears and snot being absorved by the dark fabric.

Finally, Geralt leaves. The keens and sobs of pain follow him all the way back to the tavern.

"Good gods, what have you done to him, Witcher?" Vesemir asks when they return to the table. The piercing cries continue on in the night.

~*~

Mmm, are those reworked lyrics from Troye Sivan?? Yes, yes they are. I just love this song and I had to tweak the lyrics a bit so they fit better, but I love the result, tbh. Thanks for reading!!! Ideas for day 6 (destiny) and day 7 (free day) are accepted ;P

Kisses