#geraskier fanfic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

icarustica · 1 year

Note

u said u could make the last prompt angstier. do it i dare u

77 - "you were my best friend" round 2 electric boogaloo

(this one is actually on my archive page i'm very proud of it thank u anon for pushing me to finish it)

tw - implied major character death (none actually occur)

♥♥♥ sorrow ♥♥♥

“Listen, we’re out of wine, alright? The–the fucking besotted ladies who were all swooning over that fuckin’ bard bought us out, alright? The last I’ve got is this cheap Redania and that won’t… okay. Sure, I got it!” yelled the cook from across the bar.

Geralt, midway through drinking himself into oblivion, blinked owlishly, looking up.

Bard.

He’d found himself in Lettenhove, chasing after a lone drowner traveling up the Sinet river. It ravaged every fishing operation it came across, and Geralt figured once the bastard was dead he’d have fishermen practically throwing coin his way.

“Uh-huh. And of course the flashy boy’s got a whole procession and everything,” scoffed the cook, once he’d snatched the last bottle of cheap wine from underneath the counter. “Everyone all dressed up. Throwin’ flowers. Singin’ that song about that witcher.”

Geralt rose.

The cook looked, and his ruddy face paled. His tirade stumbled to a stop.

“The bard,” Geralt said gruffly. “Jaskier?”

The cook nodded, suddenly solemn. “Y-Yes,” he said. To his credit, he wasn’t afraid. Just… nervous, for some reason. “That’s the one. Our own hometown hero.”

Geralt’s mildly tipsy mind raced.

Why would Jaskier be back in Lettenhove?

Why would there be a celebration in his honor?

His mind landed on the only possible answer.

Marriage. The damn bastard had gone and got married.

The wine - ladies who’d desired Jaskier throwing themselves into alcohol. The procession, the flowers - a celebration fit for a lord.

“Of course,” Geralt grumbled, taking the last swig of his tankard. Misery clawed at his gut - all the unsaid words. All the said ones, the terrible ones spoken in biting mountain air. The one I’d been lucky enough to care for… gave up on me.

Geralt swallowed, lashes fluttering as he turned. He gave up on me.

“Witcher,” called the cook as Geralt walked to the door.

He paused, turned back, and met the cook’s suddenly soulful brown eyes. The cook shifted, still clutching the wine. “If you want to find him… Appleshon hill.”

“When?”

The cook’s brows furrowed. He shrugged. “Any time you like.”

Geralt walked up the hill - steep, with just a sparse cobblestone path to guide him. On the way, he was stopped by an old woman with a cane. One of her eyes was milky blue. “Witcher,” she said.

Geralt bowed his head a little.

“Where are you going?”

“To see Jaskier,” he replied. “The bard. I suspect there was some big fuss about him around here recently.”

She looked at him kindly, then toddled forward, reaching far upward to card her hand through his hair. She inspected it with the eye that worked, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You are his witcher, then.”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

He felt that sinking in his chest again, the unpleasant ache. “I don’t think he’s calling me his anything nowadays.”

“Hm.” Her gaze turned sad. “I suppose.”

And, without another word, she pressed a bouquet of scraggly wildflowers into his hands. Dandelions. Daisies. Little purple things Geralt didn’t know the name of. He swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes firmly trained on their scattered leaves as the old woman turned away.

What a lovely gift, for a lover.

What a dismal apology.

He continued on his way.

Again, he was stopped, this time by a tall man dressed in black, with a large leather satchel. His face was drawn, gaunt. “Ho there,” he called. “Witcher.”

Geralt nodded, slid his eyes away, fully intending to keep going up the hill - he could see the crest now, the shambling stone wall dotted with ivy. Ten minutes, maybe five, and he would be there, closer to Jaskier than he had been in years.

He ran over his speech in his head - all the small things to say, all the large ones to hint at.

“Witcher,” called the man again, voice rough and broken. One dark eyebrow cocked. “What business do you have here?”

“Visiting a friend,” Geralt replied with a sigh, turning to face the other man on the path.

“No monster-slaying?”

“No.”

“Ah.” The man cocked his head. “Say, if you were ever in the mood to kill a monster, and wanted it remembered… well, I noticed your bard has gone rather into retirement.”

Geralt winced.

“Too soon? Sorry,” the man chuckled, in his gentle timbre. “Well. I’m a writer, not a bard. My name’s Hoid - in case you’ve heard of my work. Perhaps the witcher would like to try stories instead of songs?”

For some reason, anger welled up in his belly. Geralt quieted it with a long breath, in and out. He assessed the man again, from the silver on his shoes to the black stubble on his chin. By all rights, he should have liked this man more than Jaskier - the easy way he talked, the simplicity of his clothing, the wickedness of the knife at his hip…

But it wasn’t Jaskier. It wasn’t his fucking bard.

“No,” Geralt growled. “Never.”

The writer tilted his head forward in a single nod of acknowledgement. “I understand. Goodnight, witcher, and good luck.”

Geralt watched the man’s back for a long time as he made his way back down the cobblestone hill.

The door was made of wood. And even Geralt, at his considerable height, could not see over the stone wall. He swallowed the lump in his throat, preparing himself for whatever may lay beyond it –

Jaskier, incensed. Yelling. Screaming at Geralt, ripping his paltry flowers to shreds.

Jaskier, happy. Having forgotten Geralt and his dirt and monsters years ago.

Jaskier…

Geralt swallowed, hand clenched around the wildflowers. He ran through his speech again, through the careful words that had given him the strength to climb those last few steps. Summoning courage, he pushed open the thick wooden gate.

Headstones.

Geralt blinked, and suddenly things seemed to move in slow motion - the crashing of an ocean miles away. The birds circling one bare tree. The headstones all dotted in a row, a tomb or two along the side of the gray wall.

He swallowed, feeling like the continent’s worst fool.

Time moved like a dream. He walked along the headstones, every running word in his mind frozen. He let the heads of the wildflowers scrape the top of the stones, reading name after name, hoping, praying, for something he was too terrified to name.

Nordand Allsor - A Loving Father

Ophela Dart - When The Wind Moves The Tree, Think Thee of Me

Stormund Brekker - Lover, Took Too Soon

Jaskier

Geralt’s mind almost didn’t register it. The last in the row, nestled beneath a tree. He stood there for a long moment, expression blank as he read it, over and over again.

JASKIER.

Bold letters.

Geralt knelt, knees thudding in the dirt. How could he have thought it was a wedding? The flowers, the sad looks, the sudden kindness to a witcher - it couldn’t have been anything else. Jaskier would not be in Lettenhove otherwise. Except to be buried.

Geralt shoved his hand in the dirt, some animal part of him wanting to dig up the fresh earth, needing to touch him, to hold him, to cradle him in his arms and–

He let out a shaky breath, feeling the cool earth in his fingers. Most of him couldn’t believe it, that his bard had gone and died without him.

Geralt slammed the flowers right below the headstone.

His chest shook.

It felt like–

It felt like Jaskier himself was trying to climb his way out of Geralt’s stomach and into his throat.

The thought of it almost made him laugh, the memory of Jaskier’s voice when it became panicked. How ridiculous the man was. The next time Geralt saw him, he’d tell him–

It thudded into him again. A relentless realization, a chain reaction of simple things, the simple fact that he was now a memory, just some man. Geralt imagined fifty years down the road, when he was old and slow and he would have to tell his brothers about the time he had a friend. The time when someone loved him.

“Fuck,” he said, and it shocked the silence away. Now he could hear his own shallow breathing, hear himself tremble, his heart thudding away in his ears. “Fuck.”

His speech.

He’d had a speech.

“I’m sorry,” he started, because that was the beginning, wasn’t it? That had always been the beginning, when he’d imagined this, Jaskier in front of him, gold and alive and sweet and gentle and tough and angry–

“Fucking hell,” he spat at himself. He rubbed his eyes with the hand not grasping at the dirt. He sat up, shakily breathing, trying to find some semblance of composure. He held onto his meditation with a white-knuckled grip, feeling his own spine shake like a tiny dog. He trembled, but he did not break.

He owed him that.

He owed Jaskier dignity.

“I owe you a lot,” he said. “I owe you my life, certainly.” He swallowed. “Friendship. Coin, probably. I think when you… when you left, off that mountain, I took some of your coin with me.” He grabbed his coin purse, and with shaking hands pressed all the gold coins he had into the dirt. “There,” he said. “I…”

He had to pause. To allow his racing heart to return to his body, to let his clouded mind settle on the dirt and the stone in front of him. The sky rumbled, unhappy with his meager apologies.

“I think, though, we both know our friendship is a lot more than an exchange at this point,” he continued, and the words cut up his throat. “I’m truly sorry, Jaskier, for everything I…” he trailed off as he stared at the headstone.

JASKIER.

He reached forward to press his thumb into the indents. “You were my best friend,” he confessed, and the wind howled and tears pricked at his face. “In the whole world. The whole damn world. And I know it’s too late,” he added, hoarse. “Far too late. I should have been there to protect you, but I was a fool, Jask, I was a fucking bastard to you and I…”

He hung his head. “I wish I could be better to you,” he said, raw. “Give you things you deserve.”

Geralt swallowed.

“You deserve… me. If you want me.”

“Geralt?”

His eyes flew open, staring at the dirt.

Not a good time to start imagining things, Geralt.

“Melitele, I–”

Geralt turned his head, eyes widening, and–

There he was. Dressed in simple, plain clothes, a string of red around his neck, scruffy and long-haired but smelling of wildflowers and chamomile and apples–

Jaskier put a hand over his mouth.

There was a moment of silence, as Geralt, on his knees, felt his heart slow, then quicken, as shock thudded through him again.

“I can explain,” said Jaskier quickly, holding up a hand. “Those were very nice words, okay, I just–I didn’t want to interrupt, it looked like you were having a moment–”

Geralt stood on admittedly shaky legs, looking at him, just…

He was alive.

The embarrassment of the moment was overshadowed by the beating heart he could hear over the wind.

One moment he had stood, the next he’d wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s very warm, very alive body, pressing his face into the space between Jaskier’s shoulder and his neck. He breathed him in, only briefly wondering if he was allowed this, allowed this contact, before Jaskier’s hands gripped him back.

“Now, listen,” said Jaskier carefully after a moment. “There was a very nasty escapade involving my mother wanting me back to rule over Lettenhove. I had to fake my death. It was really quite an adventure but I can see how you sobbing over my grave–”

Geralt grumbled, deep in his chest. “Not sobbing.”

“Practically sobbing. Really close, in fact.”

Geralt leaned back, and held Jaskier’s chin in his hand, feeling that pulse again. Alive, alive, alive. “Weeping,” he said very seriously.

Jaskier laughed, blue eyes twinkling. Then they faded. “Wait. You’re serious. Geralt, I’m fully prepared to forget what I just saw if you want me to. I swear, even the part about you owing me your life–”

Geralt brushed his hair out of his face. “Don’t joke. I was mourning,” he said, and his voice was still rough. “I never want to mourn you again.”

“Oh,” breathed Jaskier, soft as a whisper. “Well, that’s very–”

Geralt kissed him, soft as anything.

-♥icarusty

131 notes · View notes

julek · 2 years

Note

can we have 100 please 💖💖

#100. "it's always been you" kisses

The hall is empty when Geralt gets there.

The tables are deserted, the chairs vacant; errant goblets staining the hardwood with spilled wine, candles flickering silently, following the rhythm of the rain pouring down outside.

His cloak is soaked through: he hadn’t had the chance to outrun the downpour once the sky broke open, instead pressing Roach to get to the University as quickly as her legs could carry them. He couldn’t look back.

Maybe I’ll see you in the spring, Jaskier’s voice echoes in his head as his hand leaves the door handle and he wanders inside. Or maybe not— you could be busy, you know, what with the Witcher-princess training you lot must have going on. Not the time for old acquaintances to tag along.

Oh, but how wrong Geralt had been.

The tapestries on the wall seem to know, too, old faces looking down on him with disdain. They must have seen him, frozen in place as Jaskier had shaken his hand — shaken his hand, as if they were nothing but strangers — and bid him and Roach farewell. They must have seen the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers clenched together as Jaskier’s retreating figure grew tinier and tinier on the horizon. They must have heard all the words Geralt couldn’t say, the confession that threatened to escape from under his sleeve.

He’d made it halfway up the mountain when Roach turned around for him. He didn’t even question her judgment — he knew it too, deep down.

But it seems Oxenfurt has canceled the term — seems like the early winter was harsh enough to make them take cover in their well-furnished apartments with those vivacious fireplaces Jaskier thinks so fondly of when they’re in the thick in the winter, lying on the forest floor, side by side.

Seems like he’s, once again, late.

He closes the door behind him when he leaves, pulling his hood up if only to cover his face, to hide the disappointment blooming in his chest as he walks down the cobblestone corridors to the stables.

“No luck, girl,” he tells Roach when he gets there, his hand patting her neck affectionately. She nickers — sympathetically, he’d like to think — in reply.

His foot is on the stirrup when a hollow sound gives him pause.

“Geralt!”

Roach snorts at the sight of a pale, drenched-rat-looking Jaskier, ruining his precious boots as he runs across the mud in the pouring rain, his robes flying behind him.

“Geralt!” He calls again, finally reaching the shelter of the stables and catching his breath by a pillar. “I thought I’d be too late.”

That’s me, Geralt thinks. I’m always too late.

But he says, “Jaskier,” in a soft whisper, and walks closer, because he can’t help himself.

The bard is a sight: his hair is somehow both up in the air and sticking down to his forehead, cheeks flushed red and blue eyes so, so blue. He’s wearing green robes and he looks so beautiful, so ridiculous with his lecturing clothes clinging to his skin, Geralt wants to take him in his arms and carry him inside, get him close to a fire.

He does no such thing, of course.

But he does wait.

“I thought I’d seen you,” Jaskier says once he’s regained his breath. “Through my bedroom window. I said to myself it couldn’t be you— why would you even be here is beyond me— but here you are. In the flesh.”

“In the flesh,” Geralt echoes, and, suddenly, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He fists them around Roach’s reins. “You are… well.”

“I am freezing, is what I am,” Jaskier replies with a dashing grin, wringing water from his fringe, even though there’s still a cloud of confusion over his eyes. “Why are you here, Geralt? I don’t mind the surprise visit, of course I don’t, but I…”

He pauses, expectant.

Right. Words.

Geralt knows those.

“Roach,” he starts, and that’s not what he was meant to say, but he’s said it, so he has to go along with it— “she missed you.”

Jaskier’s eyes are blue. Blue and wide. “...Oh.” He seems to regain his composure. “Oh, well, of course I’ve missed her as well. Terribly.”

Geralt pats her on the neck. “Of course.”

Jaskier looks like he wants to say something, and his mouth is a small circle before he seems to change his mind, and he looks at Geralt’s clothes. “You’re soaked,” he says, reaching for him and taking his hand back at the last minute, hesitant. “Come inside, I’ll get you some clean clothes for the journey.”

He turns around, sure that Geralt will follow him, but Geralt can’t take it— can’t see the hurt lingering in Jaskier’s eyes and not do something, can’t keep throwing salt in the wound and expecting it to not sting.

“Jaskier,” he breathes, and the bard turns around, and it’s too much. “It’s… I’m…”

If he reached out his hand, he could find out if Jaskier’s cheeks are as soft as they look.

He does.

“Geralt…”

Geralt closes his eyes, drawing him closer, and Jaskier goes — of course he does — and his cheek is soft and warm under his touch, and he needs him to be near, needs him to want to be near.

“You’re not an old acquaintance,” Geralt murmurs in the space between them, tipping his forehead to rest against Jaskier’s. “You couldn’t be.”

“Geralt.”

“You’re…” he breathes in. Breathes Jaskier in. “I’ve been a liar. All this time.”

He pulls back, opens his eyes. He circles Jaskier’s waist in his hands, and the bard looks small, vulnerable. Breakable.

He won’t break him anymore.

“There have been important people in my life,” he continues, under Jaskier’s careful gaze. “I’ve made you think you weren’t one of them. Jask, I— I pushed you away.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers. “I’m—”

“I’ve made you believe you weren’t one of the most important people in my life,” he repeats, “when all this time… Jaskier…”

He can hear Jaskier’s heart beating close to his.

“It’s always been you.”

Geralt kisses the grin off Jaskier’s face — or tries to, but they’re both smiling and their teeth clack together and they have to start all over again, and it’s messy and far from perfect, but they have time to make mistakes.

They have time to make it right.

#thank you my love <3 i hope you like it!#answered #samstree #geraskier ficlet #geralt x jaskier #mywriting #geraskier fanfic

263 notes · View notes

freetheworms · 2 years

Note

Perhaps "I love you" as a promise for the prompts? 💚

hiiiii wren <3

a million thank yous for sending this and also your patience because it took me soooo long to write this lmao (life is insane, what else is new!!!) but finally it's done! idk what it is exactly but here! for you!!

(Geraskier, 1.2k words, warning for MCD i guess? reincarnation tho don’t worry)

**********

Geralt names all his horses Roach.

It is strange, he knows. He’s been told, even, that it’s too boring, too impersonal, too cold, and yet still he does not change.

“Don’t you think it’s a disservice to the love of the last Roach? To name them all the same?” Jaskier had said after that third winter; the first time Geralt had spotted the bard from the back of a new young mare with the same old name.

(Well. Truthfully, the first thing Jaskier had said upon introduction to the new steed was, “Geralt, not to alarm you, but you do know this is an entirely different horse, right?” but Geralt doesn’t feel much like laughing just now.)

Geralt had merely grunted in lieu of an answer, and blessedly, Jaskier had shrugged and prattled on about some colleague or other that had wronged him over his winter at Oxenfurt. He hadn’t yet learned to push his fingers into the cracks of Geralt’s armour.

Good. Better Jaskier not ask about the why.

Because the why is something even Geralt himself doesn’t quite know how to name.

The why is the way his mother left him all those years ago; doomed him to a life of loneliness and loss that doesn’t follow him, but begs him to ride along the soft curve of it’s back. The way he accepts time and time again because at least it’s something to hold onto.

The why is his brothers lost. The family he was never meant to have, but now mourns in the dark of the night when no one can see him. The men that did not return to the keep one winter or another, no word, no warning, no goodbye. The children they were, are, could never be, will never stop being.

The why is Geralt, just a few years on the path, holding axii to that first mare’s coat, gritting his teeth against the flood of emotions he’s been told he no longer has. It’s the way his shoulders shake as her heavy head lolls in his lap, no pain left in her, but neither any life. The way that suddenly, he’s never felt more alone.

The why is the way Renfri had looked at him, all dark eyes, pleading for something Geralt couldn’t give her, let alone himself. The way he’d watched that look bleed out across his trousers, the cobblestone, sink into his skin. The way he’d refused to play the game and yet somehow lost anyway.

The why is Jaskier.

The why is having known, the moment he’d met him, that this would be a pain to end all pain. That this was going to crush him beyond all recognition, and worse still, leave him standing. Whole and wholly emptier than ever before.

The why is something about pain and loss and having no control over either. Something about a life so long you’re afraid to live it, for fear of the holes it tears in your soul to leave love behind. Something about the lies we allow ourselves in order to keep living.

***

“Geralt, darling?” Jaskier asks now, so many years later, “Why do you name all your horses Roach?” His eyes are just as blue as ever, though his lashes now are silver as they catch the midmorning light.

Geralt’s grip on his bard’s frail hand tightens almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Not now. He wants to run. He wants to hold tighter. He wants to fall apart right here in this chair and let his love put him back together again. He wants to lie.

But he owes Jaskier this.

And so he takes a deep breath, and he says, “I have spent my whole life losing. I couldn’t bear to lose her too.”

(“I can’t lose you,” he doesn’t say. He thinks maybe Jaskier hears it anyway.)

“Oh, my dearest,” Jaskier sighs, a small smile on his lips. His voice is like rain after a long drought. “You have spent your whole life loving.”

Geralt thinks about that for a long moment. “I suppose you could say I have,” he says at last. “Love, and loss. One and the same when you live a life like mine.”

“Ours,” Jaskier corrects.

“A life like ours,” Geralt concedes, strokes a thumb across the back of Jaskier’s weathered hand.

Ours.

“And what a life it has been,” Jaskier breathes. He sounds tired, nostalgic, alive. “A life by your side. I wouldn’t change it for the world, my love. Would you?”

He’s thought about it. Really, he has. He’s spent countless nights by the light of the fire, watching Jaskier breathe, pondering this inevitable loss; wondering whether he’d be better off having never loved at all.

(There’s a poem in there somewhere, he thinks, but poetry has always belonged to his bard, and so he leaves that thread alone.)

“I wouldn’t,” he says finally, and he’s almost surprised to find that he means it, even after all of this pain. “Of course I wouldn’t.”

Jaskier beams at him then, like Geralt himself has hung the moon. “See, I always knew you loved me under all those—” he gestures with the fingers of the hand Geralt isn’t holding like a lifeline. The movement is slow and stilted. “—lovely muscles,” he finishes with an exaggerated wink that deepens the crows feet around his eyes.

It’s a joke, Geralt knows, but he has to be sure. “You do know though, don’t you? That I—“

“I do,” Jaskier interrupts. “Oh Geralt, my love, of course I do. My only regret is that I’ll hate to leave you.”

Gently, Geralt raises Jaskier’s hand to his lips and kisses it softly, willing it to convey all the things he could never say out loud.

(I hate it too. Please don’t go. Take me with you.)

The silence stretches out between them, and Jaskier’s eyes slip closed. His heartbeat is faint now, even to witcher’s ears, and Geralt steadfastly does not go to pieces. He holds Jaskier’s hand a little tighter.

Not yet, not yet, not yet, he silently pleads. He is still pleading when Jaskier cracks his eyes open and says, so quietly that were he human, Geralt isn’t sure he’d have heard it, “Before I go, will you promise me one thing, my love?”

“Anything.”

Jaskier grips Geralt’s hand as tight as he dares and looks, for all the world, as if, of every word he’s ever written or uttered, this may well be the most important. “Will you promise to find me? In my next life.”

“That, and every life after,” Geralt says, because he knows this is his last chance to say it. “High and low, my lark, I will search for you. I will love you, always and forever.”

The rapture that washes over Jaskier then is so palpable that Geralt himself feels awash with it, despite everything. “I love you,” Jaskier says, and it’s almost an echo. “In this life, and the next.”

And then, with a sigh of relief, and Geralt’s hand firm in his, Jaskier is still.

***

Geralt names all his horses Roach.

It is strange, he knows. But when he once again meets a travelling bard with bright blue eyes and a flower for a name, all those years after he made a quiet promise, he finally knows how to answer his question.

The why is knowing that goodbye is not always the end. That no matter how many times they say it, the love is never lost. That the love of the last does not cheapen the love of the extant, no matter the name.

The why is Jaskier. Always and forever. In this life, and the next.

#geraskier #gracie writes #geraskier fanfiction #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfic #witcher fanfic #twn #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #ive been meaning to write a fic about geralt naming all his horses roach for MONTHS now #and ive also been thinking in circles about this prompt so. i figured why not combine!

198 notes · View notes

professorjaskier · 1 year

Text

Wuv the Bard Prompt: Kidfic

Hello everyone! Thanks to @whataboutthebard for hosting such an awesome event with great prompts. Thanks to @sulkyskywalker for beta reading! Read on A03 here

Title: Goodnight my Angel

Prompt: KidFic

Pairing: Jaskier/Geralt and Jaskier & Ciri

Rating: General

Warnings: brief mentions of a house fire and a car crash and mentions of canonical deaths (i.e. Calanthe and Eist)

Jaskier woke with a start at the sound of screaming.

His muddled mind took a moment to take stock of his surroundings. He was at home, in his bed…alone? Ah, right, Geralt was working the night shift again, but the screaming—

Ciri.

Without another thought, Jaskier scrambled to find his glasses on the bedside table and rushed out into the hallway towards Ciri’s room.

Although he had known Ciri since she was a small child, she hadn’t been a permanent fixture in Geralt’s and his lives until recently. Geralt had volunteered to care for the infant nearly a decade earlier upon Pavetta and Duny’s untimely passing, but the courts decided that Ciri’s guardianship would go to her grandparents. Begrudgingly, Calanthe had allowed Geralt and Jaskier to visit Ciri on occasion, but Calanthe had loved jealously and feared that they would take Ciri from her.

Jaskier wished that her fears hadn’t come to pass.

It had only been three months since they had gotten the call in the middle of the night. A house fire, consuming everything in its path and sparing none but Ciri. She’d been theirs ever since, along with the sleepless nights that accompanied her.

Jaskier was no stranger to childhood trauma. As a middle school music teacher he often dealt with children that had seen far too much in their short time on Earth. Even so, -, he had no clue where to start.

Ciri had always been a sweet, energetic child, taking joy from the smallest things around her, but ever since the accident she’d withdrawn into herself. Jaskier and Geralt had tried everything to help; they had gotten her a therapist, tried to make her surroundings to her liking, hell, he had even learned how to bake her favorite treats. Each day the Ciri he knew and loved would peek out from behind the mask, like the sun on a cloudy day, but every night the nightmares returned with a vengeance.

Jaskier skidded around the last corner—grasping the wall as he tripped over the hallway runner—and burst into her room. With a quickness only brought by muscle memory, he flicked the switch, momentarily wincing at the sudden brightness of the room until his eyes adjusted.

The sight that greeted him broke his heart.

As per usual, Ciri was still asleep. In the three months she had been with them, Ciri never woke up from her nightmares naturally. It wasn’t until either Geralt or Jaskier woke her that she was freed from the horrors of her mind.

Jolted into action by another piercing scream, Jaskier leapt across the room and began to softly call her name. “Ciri. Cirilla, darling, open your eyes.”

Jaskier watched as she tossed around on her bed, her youthful face screwed up in terror. He wished to wake her more quickly by placing a hand on her arm, but he had learned his lesson after such an action had sent her straight into a panic attack. Instead, he continued to call out.

“Ciri. Cirilla, you’re safe. You’re in Geralt’s house with me. No one can hurt you here.”

With those words, Ciri shot straight up with a scream, pushing herself into the corner of her bed as her eyes darted frantically about until she caught sight of him. At that moment she launched herself across the bed and into his arms.

“Oh dearheart, you’re okay, I promise. You’re safe, you’re not there anymore.”

The only response he received were keening cries into the crook of his neck as she continued to sob. Helpless, Jaskier continued to murmur reassurances until she finally pulled away and wiped away her tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a sniffle, “I keep on waking you up with my stupid nightmares—”

Jaskier shook his head and opened his arms, a silent invitation that Ciri took as she curled up next to him. “Don’t apologize, Love. Your nightmares aren’t stupid. Besides, when you’re as fabulous as me, you don’t need beauty sleep darling.”

Ciri snorted out a laugh and pulled away once more to wipe away some stray tears. “I just want them to stop.”

“Of course, and someday they will.” Jaskier paused, deep in thought before he turned to her. “You know, I used to have nightmares too.”

Ciri’s eyes widened to show her interest even as her silence stretched on. Taking her nod as a signal to continue, Jaskier said, “When I was 10, I was in a bad car crash. I was stuck in the car for nearly an hour before emergency personnel could get to us. I dreamt of being trapped for a long time after and I would wake up my parents screaming for months.”

Ciri sniffled and bit her lip as she processed the words. At least, Jaskier hoped that was what she was doing. The machinations behind an 11-year old girl’s mind were unknown to him.

“But it stopped?”

“Eventually,” he replied, rubbing a soothing pattern along her back, “but it took time.”

Ciri nodded, picking at her cuticles as he waited for her reply. After a few moments, she muttered, “But if the nightmares stop…does that mean I’m forgetting them?”

Jaskier’s heart broke as he looked into his goddaughter’s pale face and he fought back tears of his own. “No, darling. You aren’t forgetting them because you’ll still remember the good things everyday. You’ll remember your grandmother’s ferocity and Eist’s kindness. You’ll remember the shopping trips and horrible omelets—” He paused as Ciri let out a wet laugh and he placed a kiss at the crown of her head. “You’ll remember. You’ll just heal from the bad, and trust me when I say that’s what they would want for you, princess.”

Ciri nodded as tears streamed down her face. “Thank you, Jask.”

Jaskier shoved his own tears into a box for later and pasted on a smile. “Of course, darling. Now—” he punctuated the word by slapping both hands on his thighs and moving them both into a more comfortable position, “would you prefer a story or a song?”

“A song, please. Could you—I mean can I make a request?”

“Anything, Ciri, as long as I know it,” he replied, stroking his fingers through her long hair.

Ciri took in a shaky breath and moved so Jaskier could see her face. “My grandma used to sing me a song when I was a child when I had trouble sleeping. It goes something like this.”

Jaskier listened as she sang part of a chorus that he knew very well and smiled. “Yes, darling, I know that one quite well. I’ll sing it until you go to sleep.”

Ciri sniffled and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thanks, Jask.”

“Anything, princess.”

With that Jaskier began to softly sing a tune that he knew very well. A song that Pavetta had loved when she’d been alive.

Someday we’ll all be gone,

But lullabies go on and on

They never die

That’s how you and I will be

Jaskier shuddered as he sang those last words, and let the deep even breathing of Ciri bring him peace. With a smile, he lowered her down onto the bed and pressed a parting kiss to her brow.

Before he could leave, he felt a small hand grasp at his wrist. Turning back he saw Ciri frowning with her eyes still closed.

“Don’t go.”

“Okay.”

Without another word, Jaskier shut off the light and climbed into the bed, letting Ciri curl up close.

Geralt would find the two of them curled up together the next morning, finally home from his shift. He’d smile, knowing that they would be alright.

Everything would be alright.

Let me know if you want to be added or taken off of my tag list!

@meebles, @sulkyskywalker, @herostagsart, @comfyswitcherblanketfort, @kuripon, @dapandapod, @officerjennie, @jaskierswolf, @fontegagrilledcheese, @alllthequeenshorses, @stonedstargazer666, @tears-of-a-fool, @natileal, @horsedadgeralt, @wherethewordsare

#wuv the bard #jaskier x geralt #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fanfic #Jaskier is a good dad #the witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #CW house fire #cw car accident #cw car crash #lindawrites #nightmare #lullaby

72 notes · View notes

echo-bleu · 2 years

Text

a flower by any other name

A little fic I wrote for @jaskierswolf as a live-write piece in the Passiflora Discord. Geraskier, about 1.1K, modern AU, fluff, nonbinary Jaskier using they/them (and accidentally, both Jaskier and Geralt ended up autistic). On AO3.

"Geralt Geralt Geralt!"

“Hm?" Geralt rolls around, blinking awake from his nap, only to be assaulted by flailing arms and nearly mauled by a flying laptop. He sets the laptop aside and gently catches his partner's wrists with his other hand, pressing them against his chest until they settle down. "What's going on?"

"I think I found my name!"

Geralt blinks. They've been on a name hunt for what feels like an eternity now. The last pick was Dandelion, which stuck for long enough that Geralt had started to think that it would be definitive, but his partner has been oddly resistant to sharing it with anyone but Geralt. "Hm?"

"Jaskier!"

"Like the flower?"

"Yes! I was looking in the wrong language, but I know it's right, now. It's perfect. Exactly the name that fits me, can you see it?"

Geralt grunts pensively. Jaskier beams at him and claps their hands, freeing them from Geralt's grasp. They grab the laptop again and turn the screen toward Geralt, showing an overblown photograph of a buttercup.

"I like it," Geralt decides, repeating the sounds in his head. "It does fit you."

"Thank you!" Jaskier squeals. They launch themself at Geralt and the laptop almost flies across the room again. "Jaskier," they murmur in Geralt's neck.

"Jaskier," Geralt repeats. "Jaskier. It's a beautiful name."

"Do you want to tell everyone?" Geralt asks later, when he's standing in front of the stove watching over their dinner.

"Hm."

It's such an uncharacteristic reaction for Jaskier that Geralt whirls around to face them. They're staring at their unlit phone, deep in thought, absently playing with a fidget cube.

"Hm?" Geralt tries. Grunts are his way of communicating, not Jaskier's.

“I don't know," Jaskier mutters.

Geralt thinks it over, flipping the omelette and catching a mushroom before it falls off the pan. "Do you want them to call you Jaskier?"

"Yes," Jaskier responds immediately. But they don't add anything more, and they still look disheartened for some reason.

"Are you scared of how they'll react?"

"No! Yes. No. I don't know. I know they're fine with... me," they make a vague gesture toward their body, "and they gender me right and everything but..."

"But what?" Geralt prompts when Jaskier trails off.

"What if they don't like it?"

Geralt stays stumped for a moment, realizing that Jaskier had no such fear with him. As far as he can tell, they told him straight away. His chest aches with love.

He pulls the pan off the fire, transferring the omelette onto a plate, and he moves over to wrap his arms around Jaskier from behind.

"Do you want me to tell them?" he asks.

Jaskier breathes out slowly, releasing their pent-up energy into the hug. They bring an arm up to squeeze Geralt's hand just the way he likes it. "Would you?"

"For you? I'd do anything."

It takes Geralt about an hour to figure out how he wants to do it, which is far too long when he knows that Jaskier is anxiously waiting and trying to keep it all in. Finally, with a muttered "fuck it", he does something that he would never normally do: he lifts his phone and takes a selfie of both of them, hugging in front of his sloppy omelette.

Bon appétit from Jaskier and me, he captions the photo, adding the only buttercup sticker he can find in the app, and he sends it to the group chat.

Jaskier is the one who normally sends everyone random pictures through the day -- in fact, they created the group chat. It's made up of mostly Geralt's family (Ciri, of course, Ciri's mother Yennefer, Geralt's brothers and Vesemir) plus Jaskier's best friend Essi, since they don't talk to their own family. It's full of banter and encouragements, bits of recorded songs from Jaskier and Essi's band, regular kitty photo battles between Ciri and Lambert, with the occasional baby goat interruption thanks to Eskel, Vesemir's homecooking and Yen's fancy restaurant dishes. Geralt rarely participates properly, uncomfortable with the group setting. He knows Jaskier mainly created it for him, during the worst of his struggles with depression and PTSD, but he's content with opening the app a few times a day and reading through the messages, feeling the love.

OMFG IT'S SUCH A PRETTY NAME 🥺 is Ciri's immediate response. Then, I'm jealous now. Of course she'd be the one to get it first.

Congratulations Jaskier!! comes Yennefer's reaction. Jaskier and her have had a tumultous relationship, mostly owing to Geralt's own issues with her between their divorce and the moment he started dating Jaskier, but the hardships of the last couple years have brought them together in ways Geralt couldn't have imagined.

JASKIER!! so lovely 😭 comes from Essi. Geralt hears Jaskier's phone buzz one more time, and he knows she wrote them privately as well.

"She's asking if I'm only trying it out or if it's time to throw me a name reveal party," Jaskier laughs tearily.

"What do you think?" Geralt asks, finally digging into the omelette, one arm still around Jaskier's shoulders. It's almost cold, but he doesn't mind.

"I know it's the right one. I'm not sure about a party."

"You love parties."

More congratulations are coming from Eskel and Lambert, both enthusiastic and friendly but devoid of the usual level of banter -- they're both unsure how much joking is okay on the subject of Jaskier's gender, Geralt knows. Lambert has put his foot in his mouth more than once before he learned to navigate some of the finer points.

Jaskier stays silent for a beat more. "I don't know," they murmur.

Geralt's phone beeps again. Vesemir. Jakie piękne imię. Geralt squints at it, needing a second to understand, and he feels Jaskier melt against him. They let out a small sob and turn to bury their face in Geralt's neck.

Of course. Of course Jaskier was waiting for Vesemir's approval. Vesemir has been nothing but welcoming to them, if a little awkward and confused with pronouns on occasions, but Jaskier's overall experience with parental figure is less than stellar. Choosing a name in Vesemir's own mother tongue, announcing it, must have been nerve-wracking for them.

Geralt hugs them tightly, giving up on his omelette, and lets them sob into his shoulder. It's good crying. “I'll take the party," they laugh through their tears, sending dziękuję bardzo 💙 in response to Vesemir's message and an assortment of emojis to the others -- which goes to show how emotional they are, as they normally never shut up even in texts.

"I love you," Geralt whispers, already wondering where he can find bouquets of buttercup in the middle of the winter.

The Polish phrases translate to "what a beautiful name" and "thank you so much", huge thanks to Niko for helping me with that.

#the witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #geraskier fanfic #nonbinary jaskier #echo's fanfiction

105 notes · View notes

ahh-fxck · 7 months

Text

Warrior's Blues Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Think of Something!

Tags/warnings: Geralt is Not Ok, PTSD, flashbacks, disassociation

Beta: @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog the fabulous, the wonderful, who makes sure I make sense when I write. Always grateful for you, friend.

Branches pluck at her curly mane as she crashes through the undergrowth. They snarl her curls in the haste of her passage, scattering droplets across her face. All she has eyes for are the tracks in front of her, hungrily searching for each new detail in the muddy earth. Julian’s tracks are deep, even, obvious, meandering back and forth across Geralt’s as if they'd been hard to see. To her, Geralt's prints are as clear as day- Uncomfortably so. She knew there was something wrong when Jaskier was able to follow them at all, but now that she's seeing it herself she can't help but run. Geralt has to be in serious trouble to be this obvious.

She pans her flashlight further in front of her. There are the drag marks where Geralt began to limp, and further up she can see how the distance between his footprints changed, showing his gait slowing. Further along she can see the way he began to stagger as his adrenaline finally gave over to pain. With every footprint she finds herself going a little faster, as if she can outpace the sick feeling in her stomach, as if she can outrun the accident itself and get there before Geralt got hurt.

She breaks from the tree cover in the gully going a little too fast and pulls herself up short, panting for breath as she looks around. The place to climb out can't be far but she's too disoriented to spot it yet, and that's the moment she realizes that she needs to take a pause. She turns off the flashlight and sticks it in her bag to free her hands. Then she rakes her hair out of her face and picks out the twigs, flicking them aside with deliberate movements. Once her breath has slowed and she can think clearly again, she turns her light back on.

She stalks up the gully, looking for the scuffled, torn bank where Geralt and later Julian had pulled themselves out. Instead, a familiar shape winks in the dark, half-hidden in a tangle of roots. As she approaches the reflective decal of Geralt's new running shoe becomes clear, partially obscured beneath a slick coating of mud and slime. Something stiff and fragile in her crumbles as she stares at it, giving way to a hot sensation that builds until it sears her breath away. In the airless silence that follows a razor-sharp loneliness flays her to the bone. She curls around herself, one hand coming up to squeeze her opposite arm. It's the kind of loneliness that only an ugly, useless little girl with no power would ever feel. She hates it, and she hates Geralt a little for making her feel it.

She stands there for fuck knows how long, so tense that her joints ache in protest. The heat inside her continues to build, scorching her tears away and leaving nothing but unbearable pressure. Her thoughts race, oscillating between cursing Geralt for being such an unremitting fool and cursing herself, for being the idiot that let him get close enough to bother her.

In her periphery she hears the crunch of brush under someone's feet, startling her back to the present. The sound quickly resolves into human movement. It's familiar- at least, familiar enough, after hours of hearing the idiot crashing through the undergrowth and panting in her ear. The idea of Julian seeing her jars her, forcing her to pull herself back together. She brushes her hair out of her face again and swipes her fingers under her eyes to neaten her makeup, her jaw stiffening and her back becoming ramrod-straight as she does so. By the time she is done her face is a hard, unreadable mask.

No longer the ugly little girl, she once again has the regal poise of the most powerful woman in the world. She waits, alert, listening as the sounds come nearer. Julian pauses when he reaches the upper bank, shifting awkwardly. She lets him wait, taking the time to finish composing herself. By the time she turns to him, her eyes are as hard and dry as chips of amethyst. She picks up the filthy shoe and turns to him.

"Well?" she snaps, holding out her other hand. "Pull me up. What are you waiting for?" He grimaces as he assists her out of the gully, the expression becoming almost comical when she slaps the wet shoe into his hand. Still, he bites back the ill-tempered comment right at the tip of his tongue. And when she's up he steps back out of her bubble without a word. Maybe a little too quickly, granted, but she's grateful for the space and the quiet. She's not sure she could stand hearing anyone speak right now.

She turns on her flashlight. "Let's go. Show me where he is."

Julian nods, uncharacteristically quiet, turning back the way he came. Yennefer follows him, her dark eyebrows furrowed. The forest is sparse here, full of hillocks and hollows eroded from the sandy soil. Not far from the gully an oak tree sits in one of them, larger and more gnarled than all the others. Its base is consumed in shadow, swallowing the remains of Geralt's tracks in darkness.

She turns to Julian. "Has he moved since you found him? Have you touched him?" A note of threat enters her voice.

His lip ticks down in another little grimace but he lets this go, too. He shakes his head. "No and no. He's breathing though." He glances at the pool of shadow and she can hear the slight shake in his breath as he inhales, the corners of his eyes tightening. It tells her volumes about the stress he's hiding, despite how calm he outwardly appears.

"Good." Her jaw works for a moment. She's never had to pick Geralt up out of the mud before, not even on the battlefield- he's always been so reassuringly, even stubbornly full of life. Even when they were up to their neck in the shit, he'd always been there for her to lean on, to rage on, to hold. A dark, ugly part of her wants to run, wants to head for the hills and never be seen again. Ciri would never forgive her, though.

"Hey," Julian interrupts her ruminations, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Let me know how I can help."

Yennefer snorts. She's half-furious that her train of thought's been interrupted, and help is the last thing she wants, especially from this twit... but help is also precisely what she needs if she's going to get Geralt safely to the car from here. She may be strong, hell, she might even have a great grasp of leverage, but he's too damn big for her to carry more than a few feet.

She sighs. "Fine. Be quiet, do exactly as you're told, and no kvetching. Got it?" He nods, and she continues, "He's likely to be disoriented, so stay back. Don't startle him. Once he's up I might need help getting him to my car. Can you hold him up?" He nods again. "Good. Then let's get to work." Her voice is harsh, and she turns her back on him like a door slamming shut.

She advances cautiously towards the tree even though her legs burn to run. The sodden ground beneath her boots squashes, the muffled crack of wet twigs hardly audible above the whisper of the trees overhead. The first sight she catches of Geralt is his pale leg and torn, bloody sock. Rounding the tree, she can see that he's damp and filthy, lax as a corpse save for the breath that causes his shoulders to rise and fall, helpless in a way she's never seen him before. Despite how she'd braced herself the sight hits her like a hammer to the stomach.

The searing sensation returns, lodged up under her ribs like a molten splinter. Her eyes grow hot, jaw working as she tries to maintain her composure. The heat is just a sensation, she reminds herself. She keeps her breath steady, using it to bank the fire in her chest into something cold and razor-sharp, something powerful she can wield to get her through this moment.

When she feels steady again she opens her eyes, taking a last appraisal of Geralt. His head and neck seem to be intact, no major cuts or bruises at least. His limbs are dirty and scratched, but there's no mangling, no open fractures. Satisfied, she kneels down, mind whirring along on chill rails now. She beckons Julian closer. "Stand there, I need the light," she orders. "Point the flashlight away from his eyes, and keep your trap shut. I'm going to try and wake him now."

His throat bobs and he nods, coming around the side of the oak tree to stand where she'd indicated. He points the flashlight off to the side, giving her enough light to see by as she tucks her own light back into her bag. Feeling self-conscious, Yennefer turns back to Geralt. She brushes her soft, cool fingers over his cheek, giving time for the sensation to register. He startles to wakefulness like he's been hit with a cattle prod, stuttering for air.

"Kochany," she says, nearly as startled as he is at the explosion of movement but still staying with him, trying to get his attention. She can't catch his roving eyes. His shoulders heave in an effort to get himself upright, but he can't seem to get purchase, as if something heavy is weighing him down. In a blind panic, he scrabbles at the earth as if he can get ahold of it and haul himself free. On sheer instinct Yennefer grabs his hands, unable to stand the sound of his nails in the mud. <<Hey, hey Geralt, stop! I'm right here. You're safe, I've got you, I've got you!>>

He flinches hard, pulling back, but just as quickly he's reaching out again, fumbling to catch her hands as if he's afraid they'll vanish. She waits, her face a mask. He squeezes her, feeling each finger as if he's trying to be sure the hands he's touching are really hers. She frowns, trying to catch his gaze, trying to get that spark of recognition, but it's like he can't find his way out of himself to see her. His eyes are always shifting, never present, and they can't seem to focus on anything for more than a brief moment. A slick feeling of unease goes down her spine as she realizes that wherever Geralt is, it's far away from here.

She looks up at Julian, who is watching with his lips pressed in a thin line, then back at Geralt. Present or not, she still has to get him someplace safe. She racks her brains as she squeezes his hands, leaning in and placing her lips close to his ear. This close she can hear the harshness of his breath and smell the acrid stink of smoke on his skin, mingling with his fear-soured sweat. Nothing she can think of feels right to say, but she has to try. <<Sweetheart, we have to go now,>> she hazards, feeling stupid and hollow. <<You have to follow me, and I need you to stay with me no matter what happens. Can you hear me? Do you understand what I'm saying? You need to follow me. Get up. I'll help you get up, just follow me.>>

It's like throwing words down a well. The only answer she gets is the squeak of Geralt's teeth grinding. Insecurity swirls inside of her, picking and plucking at her resolve. She scowls, then abruptly pulls her hands away and stands, unable to be ignored down there in the cold dirt for another moment. To her surprise he follows, rising painfully on to his hands and knees at last. The flash of relief she feels is small but potent. It's enough to help her rally, keeping her feet rooted where they ought to be, helping her find her tongue again.

<<That's right, sweetheart, up you go,>> she murmurs, noticing distantly how cold and numb her lips feel, like they aren't quite hers as she talks. He flinches as he tries to rise, curling around his injured hip with a growl of pain. She tries to set her feet to improve her leverage, but she can't get good purchase with the knurled and slippery roots of the oak tree poking through the shifting soil. Grimacing, she realizes she can't lift him safely on her own. She looks over his shoulder at Julian, calculating the chance of Geralt lashing out at him, and decides that Julian looks sturdy enough to risk it.

"Come here now. Give me the shoe."

He hands it to her, a look of distaste on his face which she echoes as she takes the blasted soggy thing. Then she turns back to Geralt, slipping it onto his foot. He grunts, reflexively pulling his foot away, but she doggedly follows him with all the practice of a mother who's wrangled an angry child one too many times. It doesn't take long to get it on his foot, and in the end, he relaxes, seemingly relieved. And no wonder. His foot looked like hell, and even a soggy shoe would feel better than resting on the muddy, prickly forest floor.

Yennefer places her hands on her thighs and levers herself up. She turns to Julian, wiping her hands regretfully on her pants. They were ruined already, but still. "I need you to help me get him up," she commands, her quiet voice carrying in the damp night air. "Go slow. Don't startle him."

There's a clipped tone that Julian seems to pick up on. He studies her face, meeting her hard violet gaze with a thoughtful look. Then he nods and begins to slowly approach, keeping his body small and his hands out where Geralt can see them.

Yennefer gives him another critical glance, then turns back to Geralt, talking him through what's happening. "Ok, I'm going to get you up, we're going back to the car. Your friend is going to help us, here he comes..." Geralt sucks in a startled breath when Julian's hand first touches him, shying away.

"Hey, now, Geralt... it's just me. Come on, big guy, let's get you up," Julian soothes under Yennefer's watchful eye, tilting his head to catch Geralt's gaze and offer him a charming smile. He has no more success than Yennefer did at catching Geralt's gaze but that doesn't stop Julian from talking. It's like he's been uncorked, and he continues talking with a faint air of relief as he cajoles cooperation from Geralt. It takes some doing, but between the two of them Geralt eventually allows Julian to coax his arm to rest across Julian's shoulders.

From there they coax him upright. Julian wheezes and does his best not to stagger as Geralt droops against him, holding him with an iron grip to keep him from falling back to the ground. Then Julian shifts his grip until he's taking the worst of the weight off of Geralt's injured leg, a determined furrow in his brow.

Yennefer ducks under Geralt's arm on the other side and leans in hard, grabbing the back of Geralt's shorts in her fist to stabilize him. Geralt groans, struggling to get and keep his feet under him, slowly dragging them forward because he is too damn heavy to hold without staggering.

Jutting her jaw determinedly, she flicks her flashlight on with her other hand and leans into his motion, thighs straining as she nudges him until he is going the right way. They shamble forward in a disjointed fashion, inching back the way that they came. Geralt moves like a dreamer, heavy-limbed and adrift from the world around them. She listens to the harsh sound of his breath in the darkness, fist aching as she holds the back of his shorts. He is heavy, and wet, and he stinks. Clammy dampness seeps off of him, soaking into her own shirt and making her skin crawl. Swallowing back a shudder, she forces herself to focus on the faint tracks that are her lifeline, leading them all back towards the vehicles.

Everything after that is a soul-draining slog through the dark undergrowth. By the time they near the final scrubby slope, Yennefer's legs have been abraded by the low-lying prickers and her muscles are screaming. All she wants is to be in the car, driving towards tea and dry clothing. Julian doesn't seem to be faring much better, his face pale and set as he steadies Geralt down towards the vehicles.

A burned stink lingers in the air as they get lower down the slope, reeking of charred plastic, oil, and meat. Yennefer notices Geralt's breathing catch and speed up and she bites back a curse. She tightens her grip on him as his muscles tense. He makes an aborted attempt to run and groans when the pain of his injury pulls him up short. The weight of him sends them all lurching sideways, causing Yennefer to curse the air blue. Julian grits his teeth and sets his legs, determinedly but gently pushing him the other way with all the skill of someone who's juggled drunks for a living. Yennefer gets her feet back under herself and sets her back into the effort as well, and together through sheer dint of will they begin moving in the right direction again.

<<Keep going, you fucking bastard, just a few more feet, then you and I can have a rest>> she pants, as much for her own benefit as Geralt's. <<Fuck, you can do this, you can do this, it's just some fucking smoke, come on->> She hauls him towards the rental with a single-minded focus, impatience mounting with every balk until they're finally at the rental car. She can't care what he's feeling or thinking about anymore, she just has to get him in the fucking backseat before she drops him.

When they finally get there she breathes a sigh of relief, putting her hand on the silver hood of the car. Julian sags too, arm still wrapped firmly around Geralt to keep him steady. The prospect of getting to sit and be out of the damp makes her hasty. She opens the rear door without a thought, eager to get Geralt settled so that she can finally relax. A gust of stale, chemical air rolls out of the rental car. She barely notices it.

That's when all hell breaks loose.

Geralt tenses and she realizes her mistake a moment too late. In his panicked inhale she can hear the nightmare moment he'd shoved her behind a concrete column, the roar of gunfire, the reek of gasoline- Cursing, she grabs for him in the instant before he rears back, flailing his arms like a sleeper in a nightmare. In the ensuing scuffle he pushes her with enough force to send her flying into the muddy gravel. Julian catches one of his elbows in the stomach for his efforts, staggering back and grabbing at the car to steady himself. He doubles over wheezing, winded but unhurt, as Geralt pivots toward the safety of the forest. A slick stone loosened by the rain turns under his foot, he steps with his lamed leg to keep his balance, and then with a flinch that makes her own leg hurt in sympathy he's down in the mud right next to her. He lands with a sharp groan, curling around his injury again.

Yennefer bites back the urge to scream, her fingers digging into the ground. One fist balls around a smooth, round rock, and she finds herself squeezing it with all of her might. Then in a viper-fast motion she slings it into the bushes where it gives a satisfying 'crash.' Geralt and Julian both startle, but she's past giving a fuck.

She scrambles to her feet panting, muddy, itchy, and ready to break something. Instead, she makes a sharp gesture to Julian to close the rental's door. He does so, and her lip curves down in a one-sided grimace.

"Dare I ask?" he wheezes, still half out of breath. He does his best to shake it off, leaning down with her to gently gather Geralt back up. He gets his strong legs into the lift, again making sure that Geralt is off of his bad leg as he sways to his feet.

"He hates rental cars. Long story," she replies between gritted teeth. The muscles along her spine twinge and quiver, protesting to the prolonged awkwardness of her position. She'll be fine for a little longer, but tomorrow's going to hurt.

"You don't say," he drawls, as they stagger away from the rental. "Well then... ah... fuck. What do you want to do?"

Yennefer furrows her brow, looking at the little silver car, her own body ringing from the jarring memory Geralt's reaction had brought out. It makes the reek from the wreck across the way so much worse, her skin crawling. "I won't be able to get him in there tonight," she says. I won't be able to get myself in there tonight, the unwelcome thought follows. "What about a cab?" she half-jokes, looking longingly back in the direction of the city. Inside, she is carefully rolling up the memory, sliding it into a metal canister, and locking it. By the time she looks back at him it is stowed out of sight, unable to distract or torture her any longer.

"Ha!" Julian wheezes out a shallow, painful chuckle. "I dare say a cab might take some time to arrive at this hour." He pauses, darting his tongue across his lips. When Yennefer's lip quirks up the faintest bit, he continues. "I can drive you back if you want. I can't guarantee my car smells of roses but it's right there and-"

She rolls her eyes skyward. "Just- Yes. Just shut up and move," she says, already heading in the direction of Julian's tacky little sedan.

Julian's car, when they open the door, wafts the faint odor of cigarettes and the strong smell of artificial strawberry. Yennefer backs into the car, noting out of the corner of her eye that there is a heart-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. To her disgust, it is absolutely covered in pink glitter. She grimaces as she crawls in, turning awkwardly so that she can take Geralt's dirty, cold hands in her own. She talks to him softly, getting whatever shreds of his attention she can gather, and then she begins to tow him into the car. He allows her to do so, settling painfully into the small backseat. Julian passes her the belt, and she buckles him in, the hairs on her neck settling in the wake of the seat belt's click. Then he passes her a dry towel and a bottle of water. While she begins the process of getting Geralt and herself dry and perhaps slightly cleaner, Julian gets back in the front seat and starts the car.

"Where to?" he asks.

"Hotel."

"You've got it."

The light of the moon flickers in between the clouds, shining through the windows of the vehicle. Yennefer offers him the bottle of water, trying to grab his attention long enough to get him to drink. She finally resorts to pressing it to his lips. He just bats it away, and she's too frustrated and burnt out to argue with him about it. Giving up for now, she tucks the water bottle aside. She watches him from the corner of her eye, waiting for further outbursts, but no.

The gentle motion of the car seems to pacify Geralt. He puts his hands over his face and goes still, his harsh breath quieting. Yennefer continues to keep a weather eye as she finishes wiping the worst of the mud off of herself. Her suit's ruined, but at least she's on her way back to safety. She tucks the towel around her shoulders when she's done with it, putting the towel between the seat and her muddy blazer. Then she settles back. The sound of the engine drowns the noise of Geralt's soft, grating breaths of pain, and Julian for once in his life has the sense to leave the dial of the radio alone. She sinks into a torpor of her own, watching the silver-dipped leaves twist overhead in the wind.

The forested roads give way to suburbs, and then the city rises around them. Bridge lights, bright yellow, glare into their car at intervals as they enter the city proper. Yennefer straightens, glancing at Geralt, beginning to think through the process of getting him into the hotel. As much as she'd like to stick him on a bellhop's cart at the entrance and save herself the trouble of schlepping him into the elevator, there's no way she's putting them all at risk. That means the parking garage, and the elevator. Luckily, their suite isn't far from there. Then it's good night Julian and on to their own little private hell. If she's lucky, Coen will pick up the phone and she'll be able to get some real support out of someone.

Driven by that thought, she leans forward, eager as they turn onto the back street that leads to the parking garage. In her mind she is walking through the steps of getting settled in the hotel room, of getting clean, of figuring out what the hell to do with Geralt. That's why she doesn't think to look at Geralt as they're heading down the slope into the garage. The orange sodium light of the concrete structure floods the car, and there is a distinctive, echoing squeak as the vehicle makes a turn down a row of cars.

Geralt's head rears back and he lets out a terrified snarl, arching against his seatbelt like he's a netted fish. He claws at it, as if he's shocked to find himself constrained. Julian lets out a startled shout, the car swerving slightly and then righting itself. Before Yennefer can properly react Geralt's turned his attention to the door, wrenching at the handle, only to find it locked. Instead of trying to find the release mechanism he slams himself against the the window, rebounding painfully before gathering himself to try again.

"FUCK!" Yennefer shouts, diving across the car in the blink of an eye, "Son of a fucking whore! Fuck, fuck!" Awash in fresh adrenaline, she wrestles with Geralt, trying to properly restrain him before he can rip the handle off or worse, do himself some real damage as he batters himself against the window like a trapped bird. In the front seat Julian is swearing too, pulling the car out of another startled swerve as he fights his instinct to look over his shoulder at the chaos in the backseat. Yennefer tangles herself in Geralt's limbs with all the ferocity of an angry snake, grappling to get a grip.

"Fucking hell!" Julian cries, pulling a screeching corner at the end of the row of parked vehicles and heading back towards the entrance. "What the fucking- What do I do?!"

"I don't know! Think of something!" she yells back, straining to keep Geralt contained. She's got him now but her grip is awkward, fingers starting to slip as he struggles against her. She might know how to use leverage well, but in a contest of sheer strength she can't win.

"Right, sure, I'll just do that! Bloody brilliant!" Julian pulls the car around towards the entrance and looks twice, making sure his way is clear, then guns the engine. The car goes screeching out of the garage and up, around the corner and off into the night. He heads for the only place he knows, the only place he feels he can go- home.

By that time Yennefer has gotten in a position to properly thwart Geralt. She holds onto him, sweat and filth and all, as he bucks and wrangles beneath her like an eel. And she spits and yells like an angry fishwife, all composure momentarily lost. Her hair comes unbound in the struggle and spills out of her braid, surrounding her face in a halo of scented curls.

They surround Geralt, too, filling his world with the sudden piercing sweetness of lilac and gooseberry. In his face the scent is overwhelming, smelling undeniably of home. He sucks in a startled breath, and then another, stunned to realize that he's not- wherever he was- A smear of light through a muddy window, he is bound with his back against- He shakes his head to clear it. He can't make sense of the world around him, can't even make sense of the world inside him, but this he knows. He gives a shuddering breath, turning towards her.

Yennefer half can't believe it when Geralt goes limp, but her aching muscles are beyond grateful for the relief. Shoving aside the brewing storm of anger, terror, and loneliness inside of herself, she gathers him against herself. She murmurs softly like she would to their child, trying to soothe him, trying to reassure herself.

He turns his face into her cheek and breathes her in, burying his face in her hair. The swaying of the car makes him dizzy, his head hurts, his head hurts... The medical transport sways, finally on a smooth road at last after hours of bumping over what felt like fucking boulders. His head screamed and throbbed, and the IV felt like an ice pick hanging out of his arm...

She holds him, pressing his head against her shoulder and shielding him. It’s the first time he’s truly turned to her for comfort all night, and she’d brave all the filthy, clammy shirts in the world to hold him just a little tighter. They sway together in the gentle motion of the vehicle as it navigates out of the city, back into the suburbs.

It’s no surprise when Julian pulls up in the driveway of his home. Where else would they go at this time of night? It is, she thinks as she looks out the window, possibly one of the last places she wants to be right now. But it’s better than- well, there’s a great number of things it’s better than, many of which didn’t bear thinking about. So when he carefully opens the car door for her, she gives him a tight smile. She delicately disentangles herself from Geralt, who has sunk back into the dream-like state in which they found him, and allows Julian to help her out of the car.

Geralt doesn’t move an inch.

That’s probably for the best at the moment, all things considered. She closes the door quietly behind her. Then she turns to Julian, raising her eyebrow as they assess each other in the streetlight. Both of them are pale and dirty now, worn ragged by the long search and sorely frightened by the outburst they’d just weathered.

“You look like shit,” she points out, tucking her hair behind her ears.

Julian gives her a weary smirk, taking in Yennefer’s stained white shirt and bedraggled, dirty suit. “Speak for yourself.” He glances down at the keys in his hand to find the housekey. Then his eyes lift silently to the car, looking through the backseat window before returning to hers.

She nods, understanding the silent question. “I don’t know if he’ll be ok. We have to get him inside first, get him clean… Then we can worry about everything else.”

Julian nods, then hesitates. “Do- ah, do you mind if I ask what that was all about? With the garage?”

Yennefer’s lip pulls down at the corner. “Same reason he doesn't like rental cars,” she answers simply. And with that, she turns away and walks to the other side of the car before he can ask any more.

Her mind races as she approaches Geralt’s side of the car, her attention shifting to him now. He stares fixedly at the back of the seat. She cautiously opens the door, bracing for another fight. Instead he barely stirs, even when the balmy night air hits him. He is still uncomfortably clammy to the touch as she gives him a hand out of the car and Julian slides his arm around him again, nudging Geralt's arm up around his shoulders. Together, they gently impel him towards the house.

Julian ushers them up the wheelchair ramp and into the house, closing the door behind them. “Bring him back here,” he says, gesturing to an open bedroom door immediately across from the entryway.

Unlike the rest of the house, it’s well-lit and welcoming, and another light spilling from the bathroom is probably the finest thing Yennefer has seen all night. Julian helps her coax Geralt into the bathroom, setting him down on the lid of the toilet where his injured leg can finally rest. Geralt lets out a relieved hiss, sagging with an air of defeated exhaustion. She and Julian share a private look of concern over his dirty shoulders, then he shows her where the towel cabinet is. Then, he points to the first aid kit tucked into that same cabinet. The whole bathroom is tiled and open, with a removable shower head coiled and hung on the wall and a drain on the floor. There is a shower bench tucked in the corner, and textured strips on the floor to prevent slipping. The whole setup makes the daunting prospect of getting Geralt clean seem a little easier.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Jaskier asks, hanging back from the doorway a little bit.

“Clean clothes for both of us,” Yennefer says. “Nothing gaudy.” She gives him a sharp look of warning.

“You’ve got it,” Jaskier replies without complaint or argument, as if he senses this is not the time to play. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. Feel free to use the bed if either of you need rest.” Turning, he indicates a queen sized bed with a plush comforter. There is a white crocheted cotton blanket on top, picked with a delicate pattern of flowers.

“Thank you,” Yennefer says curtly, then closes the bathroom door.

She turns to Geralt on the closed toilet and cups his chin in her hand, pursing her lips. <<What are we going to do with you?>> she sighs, switching back to Polish. She doesn’t expect an answer and doesn’t get one. He drops his eyes to the corner of the room and grimaces. Her lips quirk and she runs her hand across his head, dislodging bits of forest onto the clean bathroom floor. <<Ok, then. Shoes off,>> she signs as she speaks, hoping that this, at least, will be easier for Geralt to track. Geralt lifts his gaze after a moment and follows the movements of her hands. She repeats the phrase and he blinks. Then, slow as a glacier, he bends down and fumbles them off of his feet.

Grimacing, she picks them up and carries them briskly out of the bathroom. They're too filthy to ever wear again, and she can't stand the sight of them for another moment. The shoes even feel wrong in her hands, filling her with a surge of revulsion and anger. They are still stiff and new beneath the grime despite how battered they look, and they reek of ditch water and skunk cabbage. She stalks out of the house with them, shaking slightly. The shaking doesn’t stop until she’s tossed them them into the bin at the side of the house. She slams the lid with a CLAP! loud enough to start a neighbor's dog barking, then walks stiff-legged back to the front porch.

It’s only then that she feels some measure of relief. She takes a moment to pause and breathe the fresh night air, her skin still crawling as she feels the filth clinging to her hands. The sweet humidity after the storm smells good, cut through with fresh zephyrs carrying the green smell of thirsty trees who've had a drink at last. It grounds her, bringing her back to herself bit by bit.

When she feels more herself, she walks back inside. The house is lit now, and Julian is in the kitchen hovering over a kettle. He's still in his dirty shirt and shorts, bedraggled and tired. Somehow, without all the glamor he usually projects, he feels more like a person now to her. Less like a performance. He raises his hand to greet her, then beckons her. She gives him a short nod, pausing to remove her boots before crossing to the kitchen. She makes a beeline for the sink, scrubbing the filth and stink off of her hands at last. He pulls down an extra cup and opens his tea cupboard.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks quietly. There are shadows under his eyes, but his gaze is frank and gentle.

Her eyes dart to the guest room door, ears straining for sound. "I don't-"

Julian glances over his shoulder as well, then meets her gaze again. “He seems fine. I’ve been keeping an ear on him while the kettle heats up.” He purses his lips, looking her from head to foot, noticing the tension in her posture. “Why don’t I bring you a cup in there?”

Yennefer pauses, giving him a long, calculating look. He looks back awkwardly. He seems exhausted, but not hostile. She relents, grabbing the towel to dry off her hands. “Do you have spearmint?”

“I do! Cream and sugar?” Julian sounds relieved, turning back to his cabinet.

“Yes,” Yennefer says, looking towards the back of the house again. “I like it sweet. I’ll be in the back, just leave it on the nightstand.” She tucks the towel back into place and walks away, hearing the creak and hiss of the kettle behind her as she goes. It looks like it is going to be a long night, but to her bemusement, at least she can actually have some fucking tea.

Tag list:

@astouract, @smolpoe, @yes-im-the-violin-girl, @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @ladyknight-keladry, @your-lordsherlockholmes-posts, @thepassifloradiscord

Let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the tag list!

#geraskier #witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfic #witcher modern au #yennefer #geralt #jaskier #yenralt #warriors blues

9 notes · View notes

himbo-half-orc · 2 years

Text

Jaskier was assigned to be Princess Cirilla's Fairy Godfather. He was good at his job and enjoyed her company. She'd had such sorrow in her early life, he hoped for her sake that her next guardian would be kind to her. He was not prepared however for the gorgeous hunk of a man who was to take care of her. He made Jaskier's wings flutter! The fairy had a job to do, and that was to stay on task and not fall in love with the Witcher thank you very much. That was easier said than done.

#Himbo writes #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fanfic #jaskier #geralt #ciri #fairy godfather #fairy jaskier #please use this prompt if you want to #just make sure to tell me so i can read more #witcher fanfic #fanfic prompt

160 notes · View notes

gods-no-longer-tread-here · 8 months

Link

Chapters: 7/? Fandom: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher), Vesemir (The Witcher), Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Original Characters, Nenneke (The Witcher) Additional Tags: Part-Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, or is he???, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sex Worker Jaskier, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, buffskier rights, Mutual Pining, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Smut, So much smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sexual Harassment, Age Difference, conflicting worldviews, Sexual Abuse, Trauma, Friendship, men in dresses because it's cute, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Jaskier is seventeen years old, since this fic spans several years he does age normally, Panic Attacks, Curses, Curse Breaking, First Love Summary:

The boy stank of fear.

Geralt’s eyebrows twitched together further, as the boy tried a pickup line that was obviously rote, with a smile so false it looked genuine. He was attractive, but Geralt didn’t want to bed him.

“Not interested,” Geralt grunted.

“Please,” the boy hissed, and the fear increased, somehow. “If it’s not you it’s Skrim and he never pays enough.”

That wasn’t the reason the boy was terrified of this Skrim fellow. Geralt looked at him, really looked at him. His charming mask was somehow still effortless, but there was a wildness in his eyes, terror and desperation. He’d rather come to a Witcher than a human.

Interesting. ~ In which Geralt acts nobly, but not sensibly, Jaskier comes into his own, and the Fae are angry.

FINALLY updated after almost a year. Sorry I made people dislike Mother Nenneke :( all is explained in chp 7.

#Geraskier #The Witcher #Geraskier fanfic

15 notes · View notes

lankygeralt · 2 years

Text

Geraskier headcanon (that turned out longer than anticipated) because it's pride month (modern au):

Geralt has always seen himself as someone very comfortable in his sexuality. He never saw any reason to label himself as anything and therefore also doesn't see himself as part of the lgbtq+ community. Not that he would be against it. He has just never really met anyone who is queer (that he knows of) so he doesn't really think about these things.

He doesn't think about it until he's in his early twenties and gets hired as a private bodyguard by a wealthy family. He's supposed to accompany their only son when he goes out with his friends or on last-minute travels. Much to his surprise, Jaskier is actually down to earth. A whole 180 compared to the last family he worked for (their kid was a spoiled brat who treated Geralt like his personal butler).

He soon learns that Jaskier is going into politics and is busy getting his degree in social and political sciences, and he's quite passionate about it. Jaskier explains to him that he wants the world to know how fucked up some of their laws are and gives Geralt the example that gay men are not allowed to donate blood.

Geralt raises a brow at that. He doesn't know anything about these things and decides to listen to what Jaskier has to say. He feels anger bubbling up in his throat when Jaskier explains some of the laws. Why is that getting to him?

It's only when he's accompanying Jaskier on a night out with his friends that Geralt realizes Jaskier looks beautiful when he's passionately speaking about activism. It's also then that Geralt has to swoop in for the first time and protect Jaskier from someone who doesn't agree with Jaskier's point of view.

The video of Jaskier yelling in the homophobe's face while Geralt stands in between them goes viral. While Geralt feels bad about the situation, Jaskier sees it as the perfect opportunity to organize a protest in regards to some of these outrageous laws and practices in their country.

Geralt thinks it is a bad idea, from a professional standpoint, but he knows that he cannot talk Jaskier out of it. He's too stubborn.

He still thinks it is a bad idea when Jaskier is leading hundreds of people through the streets with signs and flags in their hands. But Jaskier would be safer with him by his side, right? So he stays. He stays when it's dark outside and he's technically not on the clock anymore. He stays when Jaskier asks him to wait outside when the protest is over and Jaskier goes inside his parents' house. He stays when Jaskier comes back and puts a pride sticker on his cheek. He stays when Jaskier takes his hand when they walk to the after-party. He stays even though his heart beats in his throat when Jaskier wraps his arm around his shoulder while singing to his heart's content. He stays when it's almost early morning and it's just the two of them walking back home.

It's then, when they are walking alongside the river, that Jaskier retakes his hand and asks him why he's not pulling away. Geralt cannot give him an answer. Realizing how unprofessional he was being, he pulls away and clears his throat before apologizing. He blames the alcohol. Jaskier says that he will give him time to figure it out with a soft smile. Geralt isn't sure what he is talking about but simply nods, ears tinting pink when Jaskier kisses his cheek before heading inside.

He still isn't sure what Jaskier meant when he accompanies him to a press meeting. He still doesn't know what he was talking about when Jaskier calls out different politicians and corporations and all he can do is stare in awe from the sidelines.

It's only when Jaskier locks eyes with him during the interview, that Geralt realizes. His stomach turns, tying itself into a painful knot. He cannot look Jaskier in the eye, not even when he tells him that he can no longer be his bodyguard. Jaskier splutters out excuses, trying desperately to get Geralt to stay. He doesn't.

It isn't until a couple months later that Geralt bumps into Jaskier at another protest. This time, it was Jaskier's friend who organized it but Geralt would be lying if he said he hadn't hoped Jaskier would be there. He admits that to Jaskier, who throws daggers at him until Geralt apologizes.

Jaskier shakes his head and without a word takes Geralt's hand and leads him through the crowd until they're alongside the river again. Geralt can still hear the faint noise of the protest a couple blocks from where they are standing, but his focus is only on Jaskier. He tries his hardest to listen to what Jaskier is telling him. He seems angry, upset. Even though he wants to listen, he realizes he will not get another chance like this. If he doesn't take it, Jaskier won't stay. And so, without a word and his heart thrumming in his ears, Geralt closes the distance between them and hastily pecks Jaskier on the lips. Jaskier looks at him bewildered, eyes wide and mouth agape. Geralt isn't sure what he is thinking, wondering if he made the wrong move, but lets out a sigh of relief when Jaskier wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him.

Jaskier curses him while they kiss, calls him an asshole, and slaps him on his chest. Geralt doesn't care, pulling Jaskier closer until they almost tumble over. He doesn't care when Jaskier paints a rainbow flag on his cheek before they return to the march. He doesn't care when a handful of bystanders boo Jaskier when he gives his speech at the end of the march.

He only focuses on Jaskier's passionate voice when he speaks, the glint in his eyes as he makes a point, and the way the edges of his mouth twitch upwards as he walks off the stage.

"How did I do?" Jaskier asks, awkwardly standing next to Geralt as the next speaker walks up the platform.

All Geralt can do is smile softly as he takes Jaskier's hand. "You did great."

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier fanfic #fic #mywriting #modern au #(reblogs are really appreciated <3)

364 notes · View notes

eggcompany · 2 months

Text

A Tight feeling in the chest

Geralt lactates because of a potion he took. Jaskier helps.

“Geralt dear you look a bit red, well as red as you can get my Snow White dove, are you feeling well?”

They were settling into camp after a long day of traveling. Geralt did look a bit off. He hadn’t felt very well after his kikimora hunt a few days ago but he had taken something that Jaskier couldn’t even pronounce but it made him feel better.

“Are you sick still from your potions from earlier this week?” Jaskier said and placed his hand on the Witcher’s shoulder. Geralt grumbled.

“Chest hurts.” Geralt didn’t care to talk at the moment. His skin felt far too tight and he could feel his chest being so... full.

It always happened when he took a certain decoction. Lactation was rare in men but more common in Witchers.

“Do you have a wound or muscle aches... Geralt, do you have an infection? You look swelled?” Jaskier looked at his Witcher’s chest as it was pushed out.

“Decoction makes me lactate. Hurts until it goes away or um gets out. It takes three days for it to go down. My chest will just be tender and sore. Don’t worry it always happens.” Geralt said but didn’t pull away. No he didn’t expect Jaskier to wanna... get the milk out. But he definitely didn’t wanna have to wait three days. He always tried to milk himself but it never did anything.

“Oh poor thing! Let me help! I'd love to help you but only if you’d like me too. Do you want me to help you?” Jaskier said and placed one hand of Geralt’s jaw and the other in the center of the older man's chest, away from his nipples.

“Yes please, thank you.” Geralt said with a sigh of relief.

Jaskier led them to his bedroll because it was much softer.

“How about we scoot this and stack up my pillows so you can just. Recline yes. And I can just be beside you. How’s that sound?” Jaskier had talked his way through him pulling his bedroll in front of a tree. Geralt soon laid with his back against the tree and Jaskier sat on his left.

“Can I feel for a moment? I’ll be gentle, I’m sure you're sensitive my dear.” Jaskier placed his hands on Geralt’s scarred forearms and waited for the Witcher to answer. “That’s, that’s fine. Just be careful they really hurt...” Geralt looked almost nervous.

Jaskier slowly and lightly placed his right hand on the very top of the other man's pec. He gently brought his hand down and around the bottom and up to almost his nipple.

Geralt let out a shaky breath.

“Okay? Tell me if you need anything at all. Understand? I’ll be down right angry with you if you don’t!” Jaskier said firmly.

“Oh-okay.” Geralt said and Jaskier nodded.

The bard circled his finger around the swollen and puffy nipple in front of him. He instantly felt the tension under his hand. It probably hurt so bad...

“Poor baby, don’t worry I’ll get all the annoying milk right out.” Before Geralt could answer or say anything at all he was letting out an absolute whimper. Jaskier had gently brought his lips around Geralt’s nipple and gave a soft suck. The bard’s mouth filled with warm milk, it was almost sweet. The taste wasn’t great but it wasn’t off putting.

As Jaskier lost himself in sucking the milk out of his- oh gods he was sucking The White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher’s tits. And he was loving it. He calmed and it was almost therapeutic or like meditation.

Geralt was relaxing and letting out low moans.

“Do the other one. Please Jaskier please suck the other one. Gods it feels good. Thank you.” Geralt sounded wrecked. Jaskier always being one to please switched sides.

But he had to reach over Geralt’s chest with his entire body so he swung his leg over to straddle the Witcher.

Geralt placed his hand on Jaskier’s head. Not pushing or anything just holding.

Soon enough Geralt was nodding off. Jaskier continued his work until there was no more milk in either of Geralt’s breasts.

Jaskier pulled Geralt until he was laying flat on the bedroll and cuddled up behind him. Stomach full of warm milk Jaskier almost automatically fell asleep.

“Thank you Jask.”

#fanfic #egg_company #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #jaskier #smut tag #geraskier smut #geraskier fanfic #geralt of rvia

9 notes · View notes

onwardorange · 1 year

Text

repeat after me

All it takes is (nearly) three years, two meddlesome brothers, and one exasperated sorceress to get Geralt to admit his feelings for Jaskier.

read on ao3!

excerpt:

“I was just . . . uh . . .” Lambert trails off. Whatever half-assed attempt Lambert had been about to make to ask Geralt how he is doing, or whatever, dies on his tongue.

The garment Geralt is currently folding is a bright periwinkle blue, a stark contrast from the entirely black clothing lying next to Geralt. Lambert doesn’t even think he’s ever seen Geralt wear a dark navy.

“Um—” Lambert clears his throat. “I see bright purple as more of your color myself, but you know. Hey, if it makes you happy, right?”

Geralt doesn’t dignify that with a response, which. Fair enough.

Lambert rocks back on his heels and clicks his tongue. “Anyways . . . What’cha got there, Geralt?”

At this, Geralt turns around and scowls down at the blue doublet, still in his hands, as if the garment has personally offended him.

“That idiot of a bard left it behind in my pack.”

Lambert blinks. “How did he manage to do that?”

Geralt shrugs. “Because he’s forgetful.”

Lambert blinks at Geralt again.

“You should just throw it out then,” says Lambert, not intending it to sound like a question but it does anyway, because Geralt is looking quite like he’s not planning on throwing it out, which doesn’t make any sense. “Not like you’re going to see him again.”

Geralt snorts. “Bastard thinks I’m going to meet him in Oxenfurt come spring,” says Geralt, scoffing. “As if.”

And then Geralt proceeds to fold the doublet as neatly and carefully as Lambert has ever seen before setting it down to his right, right on top of his own freshly washed traveling cloak.

The cogs in Lambert’s brain turn rapidly, before landing on a rather terrifying conclusion.

Oh shit, Lambert thinks. Geralt totally has a crush on this guy.

Lambert opens his mouth but then almost immediately closes it. If anyone is going to be the one to make Geralt realize he has a crush on this bard character, it isn’t Lambert. The feelings talks are more in Eskel’s department.

“Right-o,” says Lambert with a mock salute at Geralt’s back and turns to take his leave, but not before he sees Geralt pull another doublet—bright red, this time—out of the pile and fold it just as tenderly as he had the other one.

Gods have mercy, Lambert thinks to himself as he walks down the hallway, maybe it’s more than a crush.

continue reading on ao3

#geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #geraskier fanfic #the witcher #kaer morons (pt. 2!)#and this time ft. yennefer!

24 notes · View notes

beneficialfondue · 2 years

Text

Geraskier FanFic Recommendations

Within the Storm (G) by Hum My Name - A Continent trapped in an eternal winter, cursed by the sudden disappearance of the Summer God years ago. A disowned noble trying to brave the storm, stumbling upon a strange cabin in the worst of the blizzard. Jaskier's only ever known the cold-- but, Geralt, somehow, seems so warm...

jump care (T) by @penandinkprincess - In Jaskier’s defense, he would argue that he had very good reasons for not realizing he was haunted. Between gigs and side jobs, his days are far from standard working hours, the house is old so who would be alarmed by a few odd noises now and then, and after a lifetime of ADHD, who is he to say that he didn’t leave every single cabinet door open and rearrange his mugs in the cupboard without realizing it? “The fucking writing in the mirror wasn’t a clue?” Priscilla asks with a dubious eyebrow raised. (Jaskier has a poltergeist) (This is a problem until it gets his rent reduced) (Then the only problem is stopping the witcher his landlord hired from wrecking the good thing he's got going on)

Morning After (T) by @whispered-story - This isn't how Geralt thought he would do this. But seeing Jaskier with his hair still wet from swimming, bundled up on one of Geralt's hoodies, he can't help himself.

We'll Build a Den Out of Pillows (And Get Drunk Again) (G) by @wren-of-the-woods - Jaskier gets sick. When Geralt asks how to help, Jaskier jokingly suggests that he build a pillow fort. He does not expect Geralt to take it seriously. Geralt takes it seriously.

What Can Go Wrong? (G) by Doing_a_heckin_science - Jaskier offers to take care of an errand for an exhausted Geralt. It spirals into a life-or-death situation that the witcher may be too late to stop. Modern AU. Bank Heist featuring hostage!Jaskier.

Very Late At Night When Cities Turn Into Forests Again (E) by AguScribbles - A modern-day witcher in a world where people stopped believing in magic and monsters is trying to do his laundry in peace. He won't have that wish granted, though. It seems, unfortunately, that an annoying laundry companion will be the least of Geralt's problems. (Jaskier and Geralt meet at a laundromat at 2am and then proceed to fall in love while a blast from Geralt's Witchery past threatens to ruin everything)

you are in the earth of me (T) by empressoftheclouds - Geralt is captured and given to Prince Julian Pankratz of Lettenhove to serve as his guardian, but the last thing he expects is to fall in love with him. Prince!Jaskier and Bodyguard/Knight!Geralt AU.

Don't Tell Me, Dear, How Much You Care (T) - by @whispered-story - It's the middle of the night and Jaskier just wants to grab himself some water. He's nowhere near ready to face a bunch of inebriated witchers and Geralt's drunk affection.

You Don't Have to Sing it Nice (But Honey Sing it Strong) (G) - by kell_be_belle - Jaskier didn't know why he was here. His manager could have sent him to a tropical island with white sand beaches or a mountain chalet overlooking a quaint vineyard and yet he had been sent to the middle of nowhere. After a recently developed panic disorder has left him unable to perform, famed music sensation Jaskier is sent to the therapeutic farmstead of Kaer Morhen where their animal therapy program has become nationally renowned for its success. Jaskier doesn't care much for the dirt or the smell or the animals, but the soft yet disgruntled program manager, Geralt, might just make the damage to his wardrobe worth it. A fic in which Geralt is, for once, the emotionally competent one and Jaskier is in desperate need of some self-love.

TW: Panic Attacks

Don't Go Stealing My Heart (T) - by @thesilverqueenlady - When Jaskier is stiffed by a lord on payment, he decides to help himself to proper compensation. Alongside the correct amount of gold and silver, he also steals a beautiful silver wolf's head medallion. It's safe to say that he is not expecting the medallion to be haunted by the spirit of a very grumpy, very handsome, very cursed Witcher.

The Minute I Met You, the Colors of My Life Began to Pour (E) - by @whispered-story - Geralt had taken one look at Jaskier in that dingy tavern in Posada almost a year ago and he'd known—Jaskier was his. His to protect and take care of and cherish. His mate.

Or: The story of Geralt and Jaskier's mating. (A/B/O)

Spectre's Soul (T) - by @wren-of-the-woods - When Jaskier tried to go on a date with a man named Rience, he did not expect to nearly be killed. He certainly did not expect to discover a beautiful valley while running away from him. He very definitely did not expect to find out that the valley was haunted — by an absurdly beautiful man.

Or: In which Geralt is cursed to be a ghost and Jaskier is the first person in decades to talk to him.

I'm Lost, I'm Found in You (E) - by @whispered-story - After Geralt gets injured on a hunt, he's nursed back to health by another witcher. Over the next few years, Geralt keeps crossing paths with the Cat—first by accident, then on purpose.

(Cat Witcher!Jaskier)

animal instincts (M) - by leodesic - Despite Jaskier's hard work, there are still plenty of people who hate witchers. They think they're monstrous, inhuman, only held back from violence by a thin veneer of control. One mage has a plan to spread his views by capturing a witcher and bewitching them to remove their control. When the Butcher of Blaviken walks into his hideout, he's convinced he's found the perfect candidate - and a convenient way to get rid of the pesky bard that's been singing his praises.

Jaskier is forced to agree witchers are not human, but that doesn't mean they're dangerous. In fact, he's astounded by how many of Geralt's uncontrolled impulses involve touching.

All the Better (E) - by @ambutwrites - When a young bard takes the forest path the locals steer clear of, he soon discovers what lurks in the woods.

(Werewolf!Geralt)

if somebody loved you, they'd tell you by now (M) - by Tallfroggie20 - Geralt had never called Jaskier a friend, not once in their twenty years traveling together. Now he returns to uproot Jaskier's life, Child Surprise in tow and mentions of an 'old friend' on his lips. It makes Jaskier want to scream.

Deepest Desires (E) - by MilanScolding - So no, Jaskier would remain an amicable if noisy companion, and Geralt would do damn near anything to not ruin the one nice friendship he’s had in life, including stuffing his feelings down to the deepest darkest corners of his mind. But the syrupy flutter of Jaskier’s lashes as he opens his eyes, looking up through them at Geralt, impossibly blue and even more impossibly filled with that elusive expression, filled with such open want, that is enough to give Geralt the bravery to say, “Your deepest desire is… me?” Jaskier’s eyebrows crinkle together, suddenly cross again. “Geralt, if you make me say it, I will combust on the spot.” And Geralt half-believes him, what with the flagrant blush creeping up his neck.

AKA Jaskier accidentally bought a spell and before you know it he's getting boned by Geralt

When Gods of Old Come Knocking (M) - by MilanScolding - “Sing.” The god commanded. And Jaskier obliged. The words tasted of spring, of the lambs he would lead up the hillside at the turn of the seasons, singing sweetly to them in the watery sunlight. They tasted of the harvest, when autumn sank in rich hues across the valley and bellies were full for the first time all year. They tasted out of place, being sung to a god cold and cruel as winter, in a land of mist and darkness. In the silence that followed, Jaskier strained to hear the god’s movements. But the White Wolf had disappeared from view, and his weak mortal ears heard not a trace, until the god’s voice thundered through the forest. “Your tribute is worthy, mortals. I will claim him as mine.” Without warning, the god appeared before him. He seized Jaskier in a tight embrace, pressing their lips together.

AKA Peasant!Jaskier is sacrificed to God!Geralt! and a boatload of kissing and (sad but fluffy but good ending!)shenanigans ensues

bitten hand guides best (E) - by frankoceansmoonriver - “Are you alright?” Geralt asks. “I am now, thanks to you!” “It’s my fault your hand is fucked up.” “It’s actually those other bastards fault, for chasing me into the trap but I see your point.” The man lifts his left hand, inspecting. “It hurts like fuck but it’ll heal soon, probably won’t be able to play for a few days but I’ve had worse.” The man looks and sounds so gentle, Geralt really can’t imagine he’s had worse. “Play?” “Yes, the lute.” “A werewolf that plays the lute,” Geralt says. This day is very bizarre and it’s only just started.

You Can't Always Get What You Want (E) - by @brighteyedjill - Whenever Geralt visits the bathhouse, everyone makes assumptions about what he wants, and he ends up disappointed. But tonight, a stranger makes some perceptive guesses, and Geralt just might end up getting what he needs

The Things You Have Caused Me Most to Want (are those that furthest elude me) (E) - by @brighteyedjill - Jaskier is not what anyone would call a traditional alpha, and certainly not the kind of alpha anyone would want for a mate. And he is quite surprised to unceremoniously discover that Geralt, his companion of many years, is in fact an omega. Geralt and his fellow witchers repress their heats until they arrive at Kaer Morhen for the winter. This year, since Jaskier’s rut is starting at just the right time, Geralt invites Jaskier to come along. Jaskier thinks he knows what to expect when partnering an omega in heat, but the situation at Kaer Morhen thoroughly wrecks his expectations.

A/B/O dynamics Alpha!Jaskier, Omega!Geralt, Omega!Lambert, Omega!Eskel, Beta!Coen

fit to house a love (T) - by deadpooled - “I am so bringing this up next time you make fun of me for coming down to breakfast in a cloak and gloves.” Which is mostly accounted to Lambert and Yennefer, but Geralt will never pass up an opportunity to make Jaskier get pissy enough to start throwing bacon. Geralt grunts and gets a better hold on Jaskier’s waist, tugging at him. “Come here.” Jaskier laughs, a quick, bright sound that startles out of him in a way that warms Geralt completely. He puts up some resistance, regardless. “No, no no no, I’m not done yet.” “I can tell you what happens,” Geralt says as he manages to get him down to where he can hook his chin on his shoulder.

Domestic fluff, marriage proposal, established relationship

the song of the ocean (E) - by Officer_Jennie - Geralt hears of a creature singing out at sea, whose songs are driving a village mad with lust every night, and he sets out to find the beast and make it stop. But when he learns the creature might be sentient, he leans towards a less violent approach in convincing it to stop bespelling the poor village folk.

Or-

Geralt is a witcher. Jaskier is a siren. They fuck.

In Want of A Wife (T) - by Swankyo0 - “It’s what you haven’t done, son,” Alfred’s voice was brusque and short, but not unkind. Jaskier braced himself. “It’s time you settled down and found a wife.” The room went silent. Every eye in the room bounced between the two men, no one daring to speak. Every eye except one- Geralt, who sedately finished chewing his breakfast, seeming to completely ignore the pleading glances Jaskier was shooting him. After a long pause, the witcher looked up and glanced around the table, meeting Jaskier’s eye briefly, before stating, calmly, “Can’t. He’s already married.” “Right, yes, of course,” Jaskier nodded his agreement before actually hearing Geralt’s words. “I’m- wait, uh-"

A Sort of Courting (T) - by thinksleep - Jaskier finds himself in the halls of Kaer Morhen, home to the Warlord of the North. He didn’t expect to find the Warlord so attractive though. Jaskier figures his normal gambit of flowers and poetry won’t go down well with a witcher, which leads to the immortal question of how to court one. Geralt figures if he wants to catch Jaskier’s eye he needs to compete with the techniques of the fancy courts Jaskier is used to. Both end in much confusion and little success.

Eskel, Lambert, Yennefer, and Ciri have a betting pool, and watch on in amusement.

#The Witcher #geraskier #geraskier fanfic #fanfic recommendation

88 notes · View notes