#geraskier fanfiction
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Y’all ever been reading some fanfiction and you just randomly check back into reality. And realize you’ve been reading 100k words of domestic bliss and fluff about two make believe people. Like no action, no violence, no plot, just two people living their lives and having conversations about home renovations.
Does it make you question yourself…?
…cool me neither
#the witcher#geraskier#stranger things#steddie#harringroveson#bbc merlin#merthur#teenwolf#sterek#fanfiction#steddie fanfic#merthur fanfic#sterek fanfiction#geraskier fanfiction#like it’s not just me right?#y’all dream of domestic bliss too?
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"Where'd you learn to do this?" Ciri asks, and Geralt's hands go still in her ashen hair.
He doesn't answer.
"Mousesack... he used to braid it for me," she goes on, sadness creeping into her voice. "When I asked where he learned, he said he would braid his little sister's hair when he was a boy, because his mum was too busy. Did your mother teach you?"
"No," he says after a while, resuming the task at hand. "Witchers don't have mothers."
"Oh. Do you mean like how I don't have a mum anymore, or--"
"I just don't. All right?"
There must be too much anger or bitterness in his voice; Ciri's response is a subdued, "All right."
She doesn't smell afraid, but he has hurt her all the same. She should feel safe with him. Kid's been through hell, and she's only curious. He distantly recalls being a curious child once, too.
Geralt forces himself to breathe deeply, to relax his tense muscles and carry on braiding her hair. His hands weren't made for gentle things. He has to focus.
"Who taught you then?"
Persistent girl, isn't she.
This strange reaction of his isn't about Ciri. Or even Visenna. It's about--
"A friend." There. Why had it been so hard to say the word? He doesn't know if he still has the right to call Jaskier that, now. "He used to braid mine, sometimes. Showed me how."
He thinks about Jaskier's delicate hands touching his hair as if it were finely-spun silk. The bard's fingers must have ached after playing for the inn's patrons all evening, but still he would wash the blood and grime from Geralt's hair without (much) complaint, combing all the tangles out with some kind of sweet-smelling oil before gently braiding it. Geralt, relaxed in a way he rarely ever got to be, was usually half-asleep by the time Jaskier finished his ministrations and coaxed the witcher to bed.
Had Geralt ever thanked him? Did Jaskier know how much those small gestures of care meant to him? How few people ever dared to touch a witcher with kindness, even fewer without the expectation of coin or something else in return? He doubts it.
"Is he dead?" Ciri asks, breaking his reverie. The bluntness of her question surprises him; it befits someone far older than her years. A child should not have had to witness so much death.
"No. He's... somewhere safe."
Although with the war... He hopes Jaskier truly is safe. Damn bard always has a knack for finding trouble. Geralt offers a silent prayer to all the gods he doesn't believe in. Please let him be safe.
"Must be nice," Ciri says, soft and tired.
Geralt finishes the last braid. He pats her shoulder, an awkward but sincere comfort.
"We should reach Kaer Morhen in a few days if the weather holds," he tells her. "Rest now."
#the witcher#geraskier#geralt of rivia#cirilla fiona elen riannon#witcher fic#jaskier#the witcher netflix#just a little story taking place between season 1 and 2 of the show#inspired by me discovering new hairstyles in witcher 3 and having Thoughts#geraskier fanfiction#geraskier fic
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“That's it, kitten. Just like that,” Geralt muttered softly, a small smile tugging at his lips as his omega adjusted to his length. His large hands gently grazed the creamy thighs straddling him, feeling them quiver as Jaskier fully seated himself on his lap. Leaning against the propped pillows, the alpha couldn´t get enough of the sight before him, deliciously arched back pushing forward a smooth chest, perked nipples just begging to be tasted. They were so close Geralt couldn´t resist bending down his head to nip at them with teeth, stroking them with his tongue in reward. A shuddered breath and Jaskier´s body tightening around him in response left him humming in satisfaction, his omega being so beautifully sensitive, so responsive.
“Sweet thing,” he whispered when Jaskier reached out, bracing himself on Geralt's chest as he slowly started to grind himself, his hips devilishly moving in circles leaving them both moaning from the sensation. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are right now? How breathtaking you look as you take your pleasure from me?”
There was no coherent response to that, just a startled cry as Geralt suddenly thrust into Jaskier´s welcoming heath. Hands finding their way to the almost dainty waist, grasping it tightly when the omega started to bounce on his alpha´s cock, sobbing so prettily as he took all of Geralt's length in him.
It didn't take long for Geralt´s grasp on Jaskier´s waist to become bruising as his knot began to form, catching on the omega´s rim with every push.
With one powerful thrust, Geralt´s knot snuggly locked him in his omega, making him rumble in pleasure. There was no better feeling than the one of completely filling his mate, stroking his prostate with every grind whilst the omega comes undone, crying so beautifully for his alpha.
“My little Lark.”
Fanart included in the link below
https://archiveofourown.org/works/49731946/chapters/135328912
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| messenger of death - banshee!jaskier |
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That’s when he felt it.
That’s when he smelled its stench .
Death and blood .
He stopped briefly, claws digging into a tree’s bark as his lungs and throat squeezed with need.
Finally he did it.
He screamed for the first time in almost three days.
The forest echoed with the terrifying sound, making every living being within it, fall silent in fear.
Julian sighs and moves to wipe the tears that escaped his eyes, when something catches his attention. A distant shout of a panicking man.
“JUST TELL US WHAT IT WAS, YOU MUTANT SCUM!”
He furrows his brows and immediately starts moving towards where the shout came from. He remains in the trees when he sees a small Nilfgaardian camp. There are sixteen of the soldiers dead on the ground. No. Not dead. More like massacred .
There’s seven of them left standing and on guard, while one of them talks to a bound man and girl. Julian’s dead heart stops and he almost falls off the branch.
Geralt and Ciri .
He feels ready to cry in happiness at the knowledge that they’re alive and well. That is until the shithead that’s interrogating, his Witcher hits him. Geralt grunts, clearly hurt but still manages to glare at the soldier.
“Leave him alone ! Please ! He’s hurt !” young Ciri screams, tears in her eyes.
“Shut up! Or you’ll lose your tongue!”
Rage consumes him.
Julian grips his sword that he very rarely uses, as right now he can’t risk screaming with Geralt and Ciri there. Then he drops himself from the branch, landing in the middle of the camp, his hood concealing his features.
“What the fuck—?!” one of the startled soldiers curses, moving to attack Julian.
He raises his hand and grabs the blade of the sword that's aimed to strike him. Julian’s own blood paints the blade but he doesn’t care. Raising his head up, he lets the soldier see his face.
The Nilfgaardian pales and his body shakes as he asks “W-What are you?!”
Grinning madly, as the cornflower irises seem to be glowing in the pools of red that surround them, Julian responds with glee “Your destiny.”
Horror consumes the soldier, but not for long as Julian, let’s go of the sword and draws his own, just to cut off Nilfgaardian’s head with a graceful spin.
All hell breaks loose after that.
Seeing their companion dead, the others snap out of their shocked states and attack. Julian kills in the same way that Jaskier used to perform. It’s beautiful and graceful, he looks like he’s dancing . He looks like he was born to do this.
And Julian certainly was.
Jaskier not so much.
He leaves the interrogator for the grand finale.
“Please! Please, I beg of you!” the soldier beggs, the smell of piss coming off of him, irritating Julian’s nose.
Stalking forward he cuts off the man’s hand first. It was the same hand that he hit Geralt with. Ignoring the tortured screams of the man, he lifts the limb and waves it around hissing.
“Just so you know, if you haven’t hit him. You would die with it attached to your body.” then he nodded towards the tree where the two were still bound “Because you see. They’re mine . And no one will touch what’s mine . Actually. I should take your tongue as well.”
“ Please !” the man whimpered.
Julian’s eyes narrowed as he threw the hand aside, before raising his sword and only responding.
“ She also pleaded with you and I’m going to ignore you like you did her.”
With that, he buried his sword deep within the man’s chest, not looking away from the man’s dying eyes.
Silence.
Everything was silent .
Julian finally raised and fixed his hood, before glancing at Geralt and his child surprise. Only for his heart to break further.
Ciri was shaking, her green eyes wide with fear as she stared at him. The smell of fear was thick around her… and Geralt. The Witcher was glaring daggers at him, doing his best to get out of his bounds to probably do everything he could to protect the girl.
Ah yes.
He was a monster, wasn’t he?
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PART TWO from “The Ghost of You” on ao3 by TypicalNerd98.
hi! so this is my version of banshee jaskier from my geraskier fanfiction. this was so fun to create! i’m working on adding backgrounds to my works and this was a perfect opportunity! anyways, i hope that you like it and that you check out the story, which i am officially getting back to writing <3
#geraskier#banshee!jaskier#creature!jaskier#monster!jaskier#geralt x dandelion#geralt x jaskier#jaskier#dandelion#julian alfred pankratz#netflix witcher#witcher fanfiction#geraskier fanfiction
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Tell It With Your Heart
Pairing: Geraskier
Characters: Jaskier/Dandelion, Geralt of Rivia
Additional tags: fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, acts of kindness, soft Geralt of Rivia, soft Jaskier/Dandelion, getting together, domestic fluff, friends to lovers
Word count: 2,504
Chapters: 1/1
Summary: While Jaskier always says what's on his mind, Geralt works a little differently. That doesn't mean he cannot tell Jaskier how he feels - he just does that without words.
Author's notes: for @wren-of-the-woods!! Wren, dear, we've talked so much about the different love languages the Witcher characters would have, and we both agreed Geralt's would be acts of service, so I had to gift this to you! I hope you'll like it, thank you so much for brainstorming with me ❤️
It's really nice finally being back with some fluff! There's a scene that might be familiar to some as it's directly taken from the Spirit cartoon hehe
Read on Ao3
**
Geralt wasn't a man of many words, Jaskier was well aware of that. For the first few months that they've spent traveling together, Jaskier was mostly met with grunts and an awful lot of "hm"s, and if Geralt has graced him with a sentence consisting of more than three words, Jaskier was practically over the moon.
It wasn't because he was dumb as many people believed witchers to be: Geralt was very intelligent, he was just simply very closed-off. He had many walls pulled up around his heart, protecting him from the harshness of the world. Armor on his body and on his soul, Jaskier mused about it one day.
It took a while for Jaskier to understand Geralt. The bard was very talkative, has been that way all his life: he's talked his way out of the worst situations, has seduced his lovers with his kind words, and has made himself a name with his poetry. For him, it was hard to imagine there were ways to talk without using words, until he met Geralt.
That was why he needed some time to put the pieces together after the first time Geralt has returned with two rabbits dangling over his shoulders one day.
It was a couple of months after Jaskier's joined Geralt on the path. Money was scarce, and so the food was too, and Jaskier may have complained a little about being hungry. Geralt has growled at him that if he wanted to eat, he was more than welcome to go and find food for himself. Jaskier decided it was wiser if he didn't do that on his own.
When Geralt told him to stay in one place while he disappeared into the woods, Jaskier was sure Geralt has left him behind. He cursed himself for being so stupid to whine about being hungry while he knew right well that Geralt was working his ass off trying to gather enough for the both of them. Now he really did it, he annoyed Geralt to the point that he wouldn't come back for him.
But Geralt returned, with one tiny, scrawny rabbit and a large, fat one. He did not say a single word, he just sat down on a tree trunk and started skinning them. Jaskier stood there confused, anxiously rubbing his fingers together while Geralt got to cooking the meat.
Once he was done, he handed Jaskier the much bigger rabbit. It smelled deliciously, and Jaskier noticed that Geralt cooked his rabbit so much better than his own, Jaskier's meat being pink and juicy, while Geralt's looking bony and half raw.
"We can share mine, I won't be able to eat all of this anyway," Jaskier offered. Geralt shook his head, not even looking up as he started tearing at his own food.
"You need it more than me," was all he said. Jaskier tried a couple more times, but Geralt refused his offer.
"Thank you," Jaskier said softly when they were done eating. His stomach was full, and he felt warm and comfortable. Maybe it was the post-lunch daze that made him see things that weren't there, but it seemed like Geralt looked satisfied as he watched Jaskier rest a hand on his full belly.
*
The night was cold, possibly the coldest all winter. They were refused from every single inn. Things seemed more hopeless than ever, and the night was slowly creeping up on them. Jaskier pulled his furs tighter around his body, his teeth chattering loudly as they wandered around, trying to find a place to rest.
They eventually found a tiny stable. It was an old, ragged building, not very warm and the hay was dusty and dry, but it was better than nothing.
Geralt placed both their blankets over the hay, then gestured at Jaskier to lie down on them. Jaskier raised an eyebrow in question.
"What about you?"
"Lie down, Jaskier."
Jaskier did, but his confusion remained as Geralt took his own fur off and laid it over him.
"Geralt, you're going to be cold," Jaskier protested. He tried to hand the fur back, but Geralt threw it back at him.
"Burrow in," Geralt said. He leaned down and wrapped the furs around Jaskier as tight as he could, cocooning him until he was as warm as he could be. "It's only going to get colder. I'll be okay."
"Geralt," Jaskier sighed, "please. I don't want you to freeze to death. At least... come a little closer, then?"
Jaskier could swear he saw a hint of a blush on Geralt's cheeks. The witcher hesitated for a moment before he lay next to Jaskier, shifting close enough that their sides touched.
It was the best sleep Jaskier has gotten in weeks. He felt safe and warm against Geralt's side, who seemed to have shifted even closer to him during the night. Jaskier didn't mind, not even a little bit.
*
"Oh, this is really pretty," Jaskier sighed dreamily, "very lovely."
"It would look marvelous on you," the vendor mused as he held up the necklace for Jaskier. The thin golden chain glimmered in the candlelight. The medallion, forming a tiny bird, dangled off the vendor's hand.
"That's so kind of you to say, but it's a bit expensive," Jaskier sighed. He fell in love with that necklace the second he's laid his eyes on it, but they weren't here to buy jewelry with the small amount of coins they had. Geralt was browsing the shelves for the necessary supplies they needed for the path. He had his back to Jaskier, but Jaskier was sure he was rolling his eyes over Jaskier's ridiculous love for pretty jewelry.
Jaskier tried not to show his disappointment when they left the shop. He stared down at his boots and bit his lip, imagining how that necklace would have looked on him.
They barely even made a few meters when Geralt abruptly turned around.
"I forgot something," he said, all but storming back in the shop.
He was back soon, holding a tiny bag in his hand. Jaskier eyed it curiously.
"What is it? Something for Roach?"
Geralt cleared his throat a little awkwardly before he squeezed out a "no". Then, he gave the bag to Jaskier.
"It's mine?"
"It's yours."
"Well, that should be interesting," Jaskier chuckled softly as he peeled the bag open. He let out a loud gasp when he saw what was inside.
"Geralt..." Jaskier whispered, his throat constricting around the words. "You shouldn't have..."
"I know you liked it," Geralt replied. He didn't look at Jaskier, instead stared at a small rock on the ground. He kicked it, watching it roll away as if it was the most interesting thing he has ever seen. "So, there."
Jaskier suddenly didn't know what to do with himself. He wanted to run back to the shop and give it back, he wanted to berate Geralt for spending so much on something so useless, but he also wanted to sob and throw himself into Geralt's arms.
He did the latter, clutching Geralt so hard that the witcher let out a surprised huff. Jaskier buried his face in Geralt's neck, his eyes welling up with tears.
"I don't know why you're being so kind to me," Jaskier whispered, "you shouldn't have to do all this for me."
"I should," Geralt said. He brought up a hand and placed it onto Jaskier's back, a slightly awkward but very endearing attempt at a hug. "You're welcome."
*
Jaskier sat in the grass, scribbling in his notebook while Geralt sat next to him, working on his bestiary. It was a nice and comfortable way to spend time together: just being close to each other, both working on their own thing while not having to be alone. As years have passed, Jaskier has learned to appreciate these moments. He used to think of them as boring, awkward silence, but now he understood just how precious it was to be together like this.
He glanced over at Geralt. The witcher was deeply lost in his thoughts, a furrow between his brows, his face half-covered by his hair. Jaskier felt his heart flutter just looking at him.
Geralt must have sensed he was staring, because he looked up, shooting Jaskier a questioning look. Jaskier quickly looked away, redirecting his eyes upwards to the tree above them and pretending like he hasn't been staring at Geralt for the past few minutes- and the past decade, really.
He spotted a beautifully ripe apple on one of the branches above him. It was harsh red and perfectly round. Jaskier could imagine the taste of it on his tongue.
"When I was young," he started, speaking more to himself than Geralt, "I would always pick at fruits while I was working on a song. I would lie belly down on the grass, scribbling with one hand and stuffing my face with the other."
"Did it help you create better?"
"I don't know. It was a nice habit. And at least I didn't forget to eat while I was writing. I tend to do that."
"I know," there was an almost soft tone to Geralt's voice. It made Jaskier smile.
Jaskier peered up at the apple again. It sat on a high branch, and there was no way Jaskier would have reached it, even if he jumped for it. He decided he'd rather just wait until a fruit fell on the ground.
He picked up his notebook again. He didn't manage to write the next sentence down, because from the corner of his eye, he saw a quick movement that made him look up.
Jaskier's jaw dropped when he saw Geralt jumping up so high, it looked like he was practically flying. Taking good advantage of his advanced strength and reflexes, Geralt grabbed the apple from the branch before he landed again on the ground with a soft thud.
He opened his palm and showed the apple to Jaskier, making him snort.
"Way to humiliate me, Geralt," Jaskier rolled his eyes, "I'm sorry I can't fly. I didn't even know witchers could do that. Eh. Show-off."
"No," Geralt reached out again. "I got it for you."
"For me?" Jaskier whispered in awe. He stared at the apple in Geralt's hand, then up at Geralt. He blinked at him in surprise. Geralt hummed.
"Do you not want it?"
"I do," Jaskier replied. The muscles in his face ached as his lips curled into a wide smile. His heart swelled so big in his chest, he was worried it would burst. "But only if I can share it with you."
"Alright," Geralt concluded. His own lips twitched into a smile as he reached into his satchel, looking for a dagger.
Their knees touched as they sat, passing apple slices between each other. Once again, Jaskier found it hard to look at anywhere but Geralt's face, that lovely face that looked so content now, Jaskier wished he could kiss it.
*
The years have officially caught up to Jaskier. He wasn't old, not by any means, but he wasn't exactly young either. He started to tire out easier, his legs aching after having to walk so long. His joints often creaked and popped when he stood up, and to his absolute horror, he even noticed a gray hair at his temple.
"I don't mean to complain... well, I kind of do. I know it must be hard being a witcher but at least your lower back doesn't try to kill you if you sit a little weird for a few minutes!"
Jaskier groaned as he sunk into the water. The warmth felt heavenly for his tired bones, his cramping muscles easing up slowly as he leaned back in the tub. He rested his head against the edge, letting out a big sigh.
"And I'm only thirty-five!"
"You're thirty-eight, Jaskier."
"It's awfully rude to bring up a lady's age, Geralt!"
"You brought it up first. And you're not a lady."
"No, I'm an old man," Jaskier whined pathetically, closing his eyes. "I'm withering away."
His eyes snapped open again when he felt a touch against his shoulder. He twisted around to see Geralt standing behind the tub.
"Relax," Geralt told him. Before Jaskier could ask what he meant, Geralt pressed his thumb into a sore spot gently, making Jaskier keen in his throat.
"Heavens," he sighed, "this is incredible."
Geralt hummed, a pleased little sound. He ground the heel of his hand into the knots in the back of Jaskier's neck, drawing content little noises out of him.
Jaskier couldn't help but grin when he smelled the chamomile oil. He wanted to make a joke about the tables turning, but he could only manage a blissful moan when Geralt massaged the oil into his skin.
"You know, you do an awful lot of things for me," Jaskier pointed out. "You take care of me a lot."
"You take care of me as well."
"Yes, but it's different for you, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I've been thinking," Jaskier admitted. He let out another happy sigh as Geralt rubbed over his shoulder. "I had a lot of time to do that in the past fifteen years or so. You're not very talkative. Sometimes, when you're in the right mood, you talk a bit more. But even then, not as much as me."
Jaskier could hear the grin in Geralt's voice when he said "No one can talk as much as you."
Jaskier snorted. "Alright, maybe the comparison is a little unfair. But my point is, I've told you many times that I love you. You just never seemed to hear me. And I was wondering if it was because you didn't want to hear it, or because your way of telling me is much different."
Geralt's hands stilled. Jaskier turned back, glaring up into amber eyes.
"You're doing all of this for me, buying me things, feeding me, spoiling me, because you don't know how else to tell me."
He reached for Geralt's hand. He smiled when Geralt - even though a little tentatively - laced their fingers together.
"I'm sorry it took me so long to understand your language," Jaskier said softly, "but I get it now. I mean... I get it, right? Oh, gods, it would be very awkward if I misinterpreted this and..."
He didn't get to finish his rambling as Geralt pressed their lips together, his hand still holding Jaskier's. Jaskier felt like melting into the warm water as Geralt kissed him, a little too careful for Jaskier's taste, but so perfectly like no one else could.
"Are you happy?" Geralt asked as he pulled back. Jaskier definitely didn't just imagine the flush on his cheeks this time.
"Very," Jaskier grinned. He kissed the back of Geralt's hand, holding it against his cheek for a moment. "I love you."
Geralt leaned down to kiss him again, carding his fingers through Jaskier's damp hair. Very quietly, very gently, he said the same thing against Jaskier's lips.
#geraskier#the witcher fanfiction#the witcher fic#my fic#geraskier fanfiction#geraskier fic#jaskier#geralt of rivia#geralt x jaskier
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For the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt an eternal summer
His summer
Fandom: The Witcher
Ship: Geralt x Jaskier
Rating: Gen
Tags: feelings realisation
He doesn't want this summer to end.
Not that it had been any different from previous summers. It's still the two of them camping under the stars, the same as ever.
But something in Geralt has shifted. Something he can't explain.
He'd stopped grumbling whenever the bard sang, strumming his lute into the late hours of night.
He didn't complain when Jaskier grabbed a comb and teased out the knots in his hair, carefully braiding it down his back.
He even let the troubadour steal his food, wear his clothes and use his bags to bring along whatever unnecessary items he wanted to.
When Geralt glances up from poking the fire to look at Jaskier, he can feel a smile tugging at his lips.
The bard was screwing his face up, hand scratching his head while he pondered the lyrics for his next song.
The years had been kind to the bard. His features are still soft and full of youth despite the wilderness they frequent.
His eyes shine bright, day or night, but Geralt prefers seeing them right now, across a campfire when they flash at him, piercing and demanding.
"What are you thinking, my dear witcher," Jaskier purrs, setting his quill and notebook down on the log.
Geralt's eyes dart down, flickering back to the fire. That smile on his face threatens to spill out across his lips.
He can feel Jaskier walk around, coming up behind him. His knees drop, perching onto the edge of the stone that Geralt is sitting on.
Jaskier's arms wrap around his neck.
"What's on your mind, love?" he whispers in his ear.
"Nothing," Geralt lies, like he always does.
Jaskier hums in a low voice, a mockery of all the times Geralt made that noise, clearly making a point.
In response, Geralt leans his head against Jaskier's. He wants to turn his head, to kiss him, but he doesn't move.
He can't lose this. These moments they have. He wants more, Melitele, how badly he wants more, but he's never had more. He won't push it.
"I was thinking, it's such a nice night, maybe we can put out bedrolls together and watch the stars after dinner."
Geralt nods his head, then feels his breath hitch as Jaskier brings his lips up to his cheek and places the softest peck against him.
Then he's gone, leaving him to go back to compose while Geralt cooks the rabbit.
He never wants this to end, and yet, as the summer leaves start to turn, he knows it will have to.
His heart aches in his chest at the thought of a winter without him, his bard, his companion, his shadow.
His love.
The thought crashes through him. That's the word. That's what Jaskier means to him: love.
He stands up, dropping his stick, and walks over to Jaskier.
The dirt beneath his feet crunches, but he doesn't hear it for the thumping of his blood pumping around his body.
He feels warm in a way he's never experienced, not even in the throes of passion with Yennefer, or at a brothel.
His fingers twitch, his body feeling heavy with each step.
Jaskier isn't even looking at him, furiously writing down words onto a page. Geralt's never looks at what he writes, but he likes the way he sprawls black ink across the pages.
He steps forward, his leg hitting Jaskier's knee.
There's a huff of protest from Jaskier for a second, then he's looking up at him with narrowed eyes.
The argument is over before it begins, because Geralt reaches out with his hands, cupping his face with one and holding onto his bicep with another, and then Jaskier is rising to meet him.
Those blue eyes sparkle in confusion. They dart back and forth, up and down, as if Geralt's expression will reveal the secret.
Geralt feels breathless, like the air is thin. He moves his other hand up Jaskier's arm, sliding up and behind his neck.
The bard's lips are parted, tempting Geralt to taste them. Jaskier peers up at him, blinking.
There's a brief pause, a moment while Geralt tries to commit this to memory.
Then he leans forward, bringing their lips together.
Jaskier whimpers at the touch, barely responding, then suddenly his hands clutch onto Geralt's shirt, pulling hard.
Their lips slide together, soft and tender. The taste of plum wine that Jaskier drank earlier while they were in town fills Geralt's senses.
This is the perfect moment, something that should never end.
Yet Jaskier pulls back, gasping for air for a second.
Those eyes shine, like they always do, and Jaskier bites his lips playfully, leaning his forehead against Geralt's.
"I have to ask something, Geralt, or I'm going to explode. And, please, I need you to answer me. How long have you wanted to do that?"
"Just…a while," he admits, giving a small shrug.
Jaskier splutters, slapping his arm. It doesn't hurt one bit.
"You…okay, fine. Tell me later. I just need you to kiss me again."
Their lips meet again, sending tingles of pleasure through Geralt. He feels himself melt into it, knowing deep in his bones that this is where he wants to be forever.
This right here is all he needs. Jaskier, his bard, his love, is his eternal summer.
#geraskier#the witcher#geralt x jaskier#geralt of rivia#jaskier#dandelion#geraskier fanfiction#the witcher fanfiction#i'm obviously feeling soft today#my fic#flash fanfic#flash fic challenge#flash fic friday
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He feels warm. There is a gentle buzzing behind his eyes and right now, all Geralt can feel is bliss.
“Sometimes,” he begins, “I wish I could stop time.”
“Is that so?” Jaskier answers, taking another swig from the bottle of ale they keep passing between them, a drop running down his chin.
“Hmm,” Geralt says, too tired and tipsy to do much else.
It is one of his best-kept secrets that he can’t hold his liquor at all, but here, on the side of the road with the sun shining high and a gentle breeze on his skin, he doesn’t have to pretend.
“And why is that?”
Geralt steals the bottle back from Jaskier, drinking up the last bit before lazily throwing it to the side, the ale cool on his tongue.
“Because certain moments deserve to be savoured.”
He leans forward, and before he knows it, Jaskier is close. Very close.
And somehow, Geralt doesn’t mind. Hasn’t in a while.
Because the way Jaskier looks at him, that oh so familiar smile on his lips and his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief in them?
It makes Geralt’s body tingle in a way that cannot be blamed on any amount of alcohol, and his stomach flutters as myriads of butterflies take off.
“What kind of moments are we talking about?”
Jaskier knows, and the way he’s leaning in, their hands barely touching and the feeling of his breath on Geralt’s face makes his heart ache.
When it started, he does not remember, but it’s been too long since he has allowed himself to get this close to anyone.
Maybe it is the first time. Maybe it will be the last.
But the one certainty is that it’s Jaskier.
Jaskier, who is just there. Who is warm and kind and who has just inched even closer, and oh my, their noses are definitely touching now.
The alcohol is making Geralt’s tongue heavy, but words aren’t needed when he finally leans in and his heart might just jump out of his chest.
If he was warm before, he is burning up now, and somehow, his hands end up underneath Jaskier’s shirt and they’re both left breathless when he eventually pulls back.
“Something like that,” he says, and if his cheeks are turning red, he doesn’t care.
“Something like that,” Jaskier repeats, and then Geralt has a bard in his lap and his mind goes blank.
#geraskier#jaskier#the witcher#geralt of rivia#geralt x jaskier#geraskier fanfiction#the witcher fanfiction#help i was going through my drafts and found this#i have NO memory of writing this at all#must have been at the end of april????#so#uh#shared it in a server and got told to publish it so here goes nothing#kathi writes
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i wrote this while on vacation then forgot about it for a week anyway
jaskier travels to future modern day where geralt is like 800 years old
after the dragon hunt geralt and jaskier part ways
geralt didn’t mean anything he said ofc, he was just angry and frustrated and he took it out on the one person he could always count on
but his stupid pride won’t let him apologize
even though he feels sorry as soon as the words leave his mouth
he watches jaskier walk away, and knows that he has to give his the bard some time
three years is a lot of time to give but geralt can’t find him
he has literally looked everywhere
oxenfurt, lettenhove, pasoda, hell even cintra (which he vowed to never go back to, but he needs to find jaskier)
the bard is nowhere
five more years pass
geralt still looks for him everywhere
every time there’s a bard with bushy brown hair or blue eyes or a lute with flowers on it, he’s reminded of jaskier and is filled with hope for one quick second
but it’s never jaskier
he hears it in a pub
it’s a no name pub he’s never been to, one he just stopped in after a hunt
and he hears it
the bard in the corner, talking to some patrons, acting as if it’s just casual conversation
“yes, yes, the great bard Jaskier, meletele bless his soul, wrote many ballads in his day, and had he not fallen to horrid fate, we might have more. but alas, we make do.” and he finished with a laugh.
a laugh
geralt storms out of the pub, probably scaring the few townspeople sober enough to notice
he takes on contracts that he knows are too dangerous for him
he goes to kaer morehn every winter and drinks himself near death
the others are worried for him, but bringing it up leads to geralt locking himself in his room for weeks
they don’t talk about it
he isn’t sober for more than a few hours at time for a decade
eventually geralt finds his child surprise
and he knows that he can’t keep this up AND be a decent father figure
he and yennifer sort things out and she helps him sober up
blah blah blah season two happens mainly as it did in netflix cannon except without jaskier
a few hundred years pass
everyone’s alive (all the witchers, yennifer, ciri, magic is the answer to everything)
it feels like forever
geralt never stops thinking about jaskier
everytime music changes or a new instrument is invented, all geralt can think about is how jaskier would respond
he cries the day he found out ab recording
all he can think about is how he would never get to hear jaskier immortalized like this
jaskier would never be remembered
that thought makes him cry harder
it takes yennifer and ciri a week to pull him out of his drunken depressive episode
geralt has settled in pretty well though
he’s generally good at adapting to change (even though the fact that his dog is named roach says otherwise)
he has a job that he mostly enjoys (he’s a park ranger. it’s the most fun he’s ever had and he loves it so much. if anyone ever found out he would kill them and then himself)
he and his family try to get together at least once a month
they got closer after they stopped having to kill to survive
when they finally got to a point where they could just be
they almost always go over to vesemirs (because despite what they say, he’s their dad)
it’s at one of these dinners, as everyone’s saying their goodbyes, a loud crack and swear is heard from the backyard
it’s a swear they haven’t heard in a long time
centuries maybe
then more swearing
geralt pauses and listens to the voice that he knows is dead
this is a nasty trick
the other witcher’s know that something’s wrong as soon as they see geralt’s expression change
they got rid of their swords a long time ago (it was the 70s after someone lambert tried to take them to a festival and almost killed someone. now they stay in the attic)
but they all carry daggers ofc
they grab their weapons and slowly stalk towards the yard
where the voice is still ranting and cursing
still in a language long dead
they open the door
geralt doesn’t belive it
“where the fuck am i, geralt” the bards voice is just like it was that day on the mountain
chapter/story two
none of them move for a beat
they can hear the man’s (jaskiers?) heart beating so fast it could come out of his chest
he doesn’t seem like a fake (dopplers went extinct a few centuries ago anyway)
if this was an imposter, they were too good at it
“jaskier” has the same scent he always has (wild flowers and a field after rain)
jaskier looks at the witchers, all big and scary and totally pointing their daggers at him
he can assume the other men are geralts brothers
though they don’t have a madellian, they each have a large ring with a wolf engraved
don’t ask jaskier how he noticed this
he doesn’t know
geralt stalks closer to the man (the man who was dead for almost 1000 years, the man who shouldn’t be here right now)
he hears a light growl from behind him and eskel lightly gripping his arm
but he has to do this, so he shakes the hand off and continues forward
with each step that geralt takes, jaskier smells… calmer
this confuses geralt, because even though they had been… friends for a long time, they parted ways on awful terms
in a language he hasn’t heard in such a long time, jaskier begins to speak
“geralt…” he repeats, “where the fuck am i?”
it takes a moment for geralt to process, and not just because he barely remembers the language
but the man’s voice sounds so much like jaskiers
and jaskier looks not a hair out of place
he looks. like he was simply plucked out of thin air in 12xx and deposited in 2022
#geraskier#the witcher#the witcher fanfiction#geralt of rivia#jaskier#yennefer of vengerberg#geraskier fanfiction#kaer morons#kaer morhen#i’m gonna write this eventually#maybe#hopefully#also#if u couldn’t tell#idk how to use tumblr#it’s difficult#so the formatting probably isn’t great#or good#but#we’ll survive
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What my heart just yearns to say
Fandom: The Witcher
Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier
Rating: Gen
Tags: first kiss, caretaking, fluff
Summary: Geralt wants to tell Jaskier how he feels, but battles with his inner belief witchers shouldn't want the comfort of another. He cares for his bard the only way he thinks he's allowed until Jaskier forces a conversation between them.
Written for the prompt: kiss as comfort.
Read on Ao3.
#the witcher#geraskier#geralt x jaskier#geralt of rivia#jaskier#jaskier the bard#geraskier fanfiction#the witcher fic#my fic#kiss prompts
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okay so i’ve had this weird Geraskier trucker AU stuck in my head for a while and i just don’t know if i’ll ever get around to writing it properly, so instead i have compiled my headcanons!
(this got super fucking long somehow, so most of it is under the cut)
so Geralt is a long-haul trucker for a small, family owned company called Witchers Express Transportation (WET for short. haha)
of course it’s his family that owns it. Vesemir started it years ago back in their small town of Kaer Moren as something he could pass onto his boys, and to be honest, they all kind of enjoy the travel and a little solitude, although none as much as Geralt
Geralt truck is black with a wolf emblem on the side, because of course it is. Lambert’s is red with flames on it because he loves to fuck around and also i make the rules. Eskel’s truck is forest green because i just think that’s nice. Coën’s is grey (with flames because Lambert insisted he needed to “spice it up.”) Vesemir mostly stays at HQ and handles orders now, but his old truck was also black. none of that matters but it’s important to me that you know this
Geralt also has a black cat that travels with him in the cab of his truck like those adorable dudes on tiktok. i’ll give you one guess at her name ((it’s Roach. duh))
anyway. Geralt is out on some cross-continent haul, and pulls into a truck stop in Posada one evening, cause y’know. a man’s gotta eat. and drink. and sleep (if he’s lucky)
insert bard. i imagine their first meeting is essentially the same as it is in the show, except Jaskier is playing the ukulele instead of the lute because it’s modern times, and a guitar wouldn’t be playable in the truck. i am big brained
eventually Geralt goes to head back on the road once he and Roach are fed and rested, and finds he has a loud, obnoxiously-dressed shadow following him through the parking lot
“hey, so wait. okay wait. what if i, uh, y’know, came with you? like, in your truck?” Jaskier is running away from his stuffy pompous home life, and this big sexy trucker looks like his very climbable ticket
“you don’t even know where i’m going” Geralt is so not having it.
“well, no. i mean. you could tell me? but i don’t really care, as long as it’s not here!”
“i could kill you” Geralt is putting on his scariest face. it is decidedly not working
“nah, don’t buy it. i feel like murderous truckers don’t have kitten companions,” the idiot kid actually winks at him. “so, where are we going?” Jaskier is already climbing into the truck and Geralt, sweet, awkward Geralt, doesn’t want to have to rip him out of it so he just kind of. goes with it, begrudgingly. the kid probably won’t last long cooped up in the tiny cab, anyway
Geralt is very, very wrong.
Jaskier is happy to sit in the truck and look out the windows, commenting on every weird or mildly interesting thing they drive by. he’s also maybe a little too happy to flirt with Geralt at every given opportunity. Geralt definitely, totally, feels no ways about this, why would you even ask that?
Geralt keeps waiting for him to fuck off at one of the truck stops they pull into, but the kid just keeps coming back
if Geralt waits for the bard to finish his set, or his conquests before he drives off, that is definitely not because he likes the company. nope. he just feels bad for the kid, okay? it’s dangerous for a naive little fancy lad out here
oh, also. Geralt’s radio doesn’t work and Jask thinks that’s the most insane thing about this guy. i mean, travelling for weeks on end with nothing but silence and the occasional meow to listen to? absolutely psychopath behaviour. can’t have that.
so Jaskier spends a lot of his time in the passenger seat, composing songs about the various people he’s met on their travels, or about Geralt, and even once about Roach. Geralt pretends to be annoyed when Jaskier plays them in the cab, but secretly he’s realizing maybe he doesn’t miss the silence as much as he thought
Jaskier still gets himself in trouble sleeping with the wrong people at the inns they frequent, and Geralt of course has to be his Big Beefy Backup™️ when the occasional angry husband or wife tries to skin him in the middle of the motel lobby
Geralt is absolutely not jealous of the people Jask sleeps with. he’s not. nope. no, sir. he’s just annoyed at having to rescue him, is all
and if they share a bed half the time, it’s only because motels are expensive and getting two rooms seems like a waste of money. they’re just being smart!
so, they travel together like this for a couple of years; Geralt making deliveries (and excuses for the weird, overly friendly man constantly in his passenger seat) and Jaskier using all this experience to further his meager singer-songwriter career
they do part ways sometimes so Geralt can go back to Kaer Moren, or so Jaskier can try and record one of his now numerous ballads, but they’ve exchanged phone numbers (for safety!) and they somehow always end up coming back together
Jaskier absolutely did not turn on Geralt’s location sharing so he could “happen to turn up” at the same truck stop as his favourite trucker
so, yeah. they do this little dance around each other for almost 10 years before Geralt’s guilt finally gets the better of him on a bad day. he’s kept Jaskier cooped up in his tiny truck for far too long. it’s selfish. Jask deserves to see the world, and not from behind a windshield. he says as much, one day when they’re stopped in some shitty diner parking lot
Jaskier suggests they take some time off the road then, maybe see the coast together?
Geralt insists he can’t just leave his job, and that Jaskier should go on to live his actual life without an old grumpy man weighing him down
Jaskier does not take that well. “i’m the one that asked you if i could travel with you, you big brute! you don’t get to be all self-sacrificing about this!”
Geralt does not take Jaskier not taking it well very well. cue yelling. cue Geralt saying things he doesn’t mean about Jaskier holding up his deliveries with his dilly-dallying at stops. about Jaskier never shutting up and being annoying. about how he wishes he’d never met that stupid kid at the truck stop in Posada.
big “go on! just get outta here you stupid dumb animal!” vibes
cue Mountain Breakup moment. they banter, sure, but Geralt has never actually yelled at him like this. Jask gets out of the truck with a dejected “see you around, Geralt.”
they travel separately for a good few months, almost a year before Geralt starts to think he might go insane in the silence. he even considers fixing his radio, but something about that feels wrong. also he’s a little scared he’ll hear one of Jaskier’s songs play and lose his shit entirely
so eventually Geralt is home at Kaer Moren, moping more than usual, when Eskel somehow notices that Geralt and Jaskier are still sharing locations. Geralt didn’t even know that was a thing you could do??? How long has that been on????
Eskel just gives him this Look and Geralt realizes what he has to do
he sets out to find Jaskier, pinging his phone at some bar just outside Posada
well, thank god he did because he find a tipsy and very scared Jaskier in the back alley, about to get his shit rocked by a group of angry locals whose spouses he probably fucked
Mr. Big Beefy Backup™️ scares the 3 or 4 people off easy enough, but then comes the hard part. time to apologize for being a supreme dickhead, Geralt. go on.
Jaskier is still just standing there in shock because what??? just happened??? why is Geralt here? how is Geralt here? he knows for a fact Geralt would never figure out Jaskier’s location sharing trick on his own; this man can barely figure out how to answer a text.
he’s about to ask when Geralt finally starts speaking
and it’s an apology? from his Geralt?? okay, maybe he’s drunker than he thought
but no, Geralt really is apologizing, and he looks sincere. in fact, he looks downright miserable as he tells Jaskier he never meant any of it, and he’s so sorry he let his guilt get the better of him. says Jaskier didn’t deserve that hurt, and Geralt would never do it again. he’s really trying to be better. he will be better, just please. he just needs his bard back, if he’ll have him
the silence is deafening as Jaskier just stands there, gaping like a fish
he was going to shut Geralt down, at least for a minute. he was. he’s thought about this moment a zillion times, and he really was going to tell Geralt it wasn’t enough, that he’s worth more than that
but Geralt looks genuinely heartbroken and vulnerable in a way Jaskier’s never seen, and he can’t do it. he doesn’t want to.
so Jaskier steels himself and kisses him instead, because for once, he’s at a loss for words. because he’s a little drunk and he’s wanted this for the better part of a decade. because he’s afraid this is the only chance he’ll get
and when Geralt feverishly returns the kiss, Jaskier knows he’ll happily climb right back into that cramped old truck with him. knows there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than with this big, stupid man that he loves. he says as much
and Geralt smiles, actually grins as he says “i love you too, Jaskier”
Jaskier does set some new boundaries and ground rules between them though, because we stan Growth and Knowing Your Worth. luckily, Geralt is more than happy to oblige
and then they drive off into the sunset together to see the coast :)
also, Jaskier has never been more grateful for Geralt’s broken radio. there’s, uhh, no need for Geralt to hear his latest single, Burn Trucker Burn
wow. okay, well at this point i may as well have written the actual fic but Y’KNOW. maybe i will some day. who knows. let me know if uhhh if anyone would want to read it?? validation is my lifeblood and i’m real nervous about posting this for no reason
also, if anyone else for some reason wants to give this stupid AU a go, please for the love of god, tag me! i’d love to read what you come up with :)
#geraskier#geralt of rivia#jaskier#geraskier fanfiction#geralt x jaskier#gerlion#the witcher fanfiction#gracie writes#geraskier headcanon#what else do i tag#i really did not mean to write this much but apprently im passionate about the randomest AU i could think of#it literally came to me while i was laying in bed one night and wouldnt let go#also i forgot to add in ciri but idk how that would work with the whole#‘truck only has two seats and is also a horrible place to raise a child’ thing#sorry ciri... maybe you'll make it into the actual fic someday#anyway i'm obsessed with stupid idiots falling in love in every universe
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might've been a nightmare
“Ugh, you and your contracts,” Jaskier complained. “Surely an hour or two won’t hurt?”
“And when someone dies because of that hour’s delay,” Geralt said placidly, “will you be the one to tell the family? Or shall I?”
Jaskier grimaced. “Yes, alright, I get it. A witcher’s work never rests, et cetera et cetera.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t you ever want it, though?” Jaskier asked, plucking at his sweat-soaked shirt. “You know, a life lived without a little selfishness here and then is hardly a life worth living at all.”
Geralt snorted. “They teach you that at Oxenfurt? Or does it come from being a noble by birth?”
“Neither. It comes from the heart, my dear friend, a heart that has lived a long and experienced life.”
“Jaskier, you’re twenty-three.”
Geralt takes on a contract that will force him to answer one question: will he choose the fate of one, or the fate of many?
Rating: M
Word Count: 9134
Tags: Horror, Suspense, Case Fic, Monster of the Week, Angst, Injury, Developing Relationship, Mystery, set nebulously s1, POV Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Humor, Banter, Soft Geralt of Rivia, (believe it or not despite those first few tags there ARE soft moments in this), Protective Geralt of Rivia, Self-Sacrifice, Jaskier Whump, Hurt Jaskier
read below, or here on ao3!
It was a swelteringly hot day. The height of summer in Velen was rarely pleasant, but a heat wave had been gripping the area for a few days now. Geralt subtly adjusted his armor in an attempt to allow a breeze to cool the sweat collecting on his back, but the air was deader than a necrophage’s dinner.
Any sane person would have long since abandoned their work in favor of taking a dip in a nearby pond, or napping under some shady trees. Geralt could afford no such luxury—there was always work to be done, and quickly in the summer, lest rotting corpses draw even more monsters to fight.
Jaskier, plodding along beside Roach, wiped sweat off his brow with a deep sigh. “Melitele’s heaving bosom, I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” he groused. “What do you say to a break? Let the sun use up the worst of its ire while we regain some energy? Perhaps cool off in a nice stream?” he finished hopefully. His cheeks and tips of his ears were pink with the beginnings of a sunburn.
“There’s a contract waiting in Mulbrydale,” Geralt reminded him. “We can’t delay.”
“Ugh, you and your contracts,” Jaskier complained. “Surely an hour or two won’t hurt?”
“And when someone dies because of that hour’s delay,” Geralt said placidly, “will you be the one to tell the family? Or shall I?”
Jaskier grimaced. “Yes, alright, I get it. A witcher’s work never rests, et cetera et cetera.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t you ever want it, though?” Jaskier asked, plucking at his sweat-soaked shirt. “You know, a life lived without a little selfishness here and then is hardly a life worth living at all.”
Geralt snorted. “They teach you that at Oxenfurt? Or does it come from being a noble by birth?”
“Neither. It comes from the heart, my dear friend, a heart that has lived a long and experienced life.”
“Jaskier, you’re twenty-three.”
“So that’s twenty-three more years of experience enjoying life than you!” Jaskier paused to drain his waterskin, wrinkling his nose at the tepidity. “Blech. Anyway.”
“Anyway.”
“I’ll get you to be more selfish yet.” Jaskier wagged his finger at Geralt threateningly. “We’ll start small, and then before you know it you’ll have dropped the witchers-don’t-deserve-good-things act. Who knows, you might even dare to enjoy yourself now and then!”
Geralt only rewarded this with another hmm and handed Jaskier his own waterskin. Jaskier accepted, drinking deeply and wiping his mouth on his sleeve after.
“It’s a good thing I’m here to take care of you,” he finished, recapping the skin and handing it back to Geralt.
--
By the time they reached Mulbrydale, the sun had finally hidden itself behind the treetops, golden where it filtered through the leaves. Outside the town gates, a man hung lanterns to guide travelers in the coming darkness. “Ho, travelers!” he shouted when he saw them, raising a hand.
“Good evening, my good gentleman!” Jaskier cried back, as easy as breathing. Geralt would never know how he was able to flit among strangers so easily, how he fit in anywhere he went.
“Not as good as that, I’m afraid,” the man replied, drawing the gates open for them. “Best ye get a room at the inn and settle in quick, you hear?”
“What’s wrong?” Geralt rumbled, swinging his leg over Roach’s saddle and dismounting. He was quick to grab his swords as well, his palms itching in anticipation.
The man shook his head. “Couldn’t rightly put a name to it. People’re anxious, on edge. Won’t take too kindly to strangers making waves.”
Jaskier slung his lute case over to the side so the man could see it. “Ah, but do they know that the White Wolf has come to slay their beast? And that his loyal barker will regale them with the tale all night long should they wish? Come now, surely a little entertainment wouldn’t go amiss.”
The man shook his head. “I doubt you’d get more than sour looks out of this crowd, but on your own head be it.” He stepped aside to let them pass into town, and latched the gates closed after them.
Despite the early hour, not many people were out in the streets. There were no shrieks of children’s laughter, no wives gossiping over their washing, no farmers hauling home the day’s harvest.
“Lively place,” Jaskier muttered, kicking at a rock and sending it skidding down the dirt road. “What, did they all die of heatstroke today?”
Geralt didn’t answer. Jaskier was right—a town like this, though small, should have shown some signs of life. Spirits were usually high around midsummer—there ought to be festival preparations, or traders passing through, or even hog-wrestling competitions planned. Anything besides… this.
A dog came sniffing around the corner, nose pressed to the ground, ears back. When it saw them, walking along in its direction, it raised its head and growled, baring its teeth.
“Whoa there,” Jaskier laughed, throwing his hands up palms-forward. ��What a good boy guarding his home,” he cooed. “We’re just passing by, don’t worry.”
The dog didn’t look convinced. It remained tense in its posture, hackles raised as they walked by—giving it a wide berth—and Geralt prepared to cast Axii should it attack.
It made no move towards them, and they were allowed to pass without incident.
“I’m normally good with animals,” Jaskier commented as they continued towards the inn, the Cock and Crow. It was lit brightly from within, the dull roar of overlapping voices drifting over on the wind—finally, a sign of life. “Maybe the poor thing’s been mistreated. That must be it.”
“I’ve seen you nearly get a hand taken off by the Baron of Vergen’s prized poodle,” Geralt remarked dryly. “You don’t remember?”
Jaskier flapped a hand. “Again, an anomaly. That thing was a vicious beast, Geralt, out for blood. Besides, you’re one to talk, Mr. Cats Hate Me.”
“It’s the mutations,” Geralt replied wearily, as he did every time the topic cropped up in conversation. “They can sense it.”
“They can sense you’re a sourpuss, you mean,” Jaskier teased. “You and that big scary face of yours.”
Geralt glowered.
“Ooh, yeah, that one.”
Geralt glowered harder.
Jaskier cackled and ran ahead, bursting into the inn with a flourish. Geralt followed at a more sedate pace, taking Roach to the stables, and arriving just in time to see Jaskier shaking hands with the innkeeper. She tilted her head and Jaskier took the stage, launching into one of his newer songs almost immediately.
A few heads turned to look at the source of noise, but by and large the patrons largely ignored him. Jaskier, never one to let a tough crowd bother him, pressed on.
Geralt turned to the innkeep. “Two rooms, please.” With the pay from the contract coming, they could afford it.
She clicked her tongue. “I’m afraid we only have the one. Two beds, though, if you like.”
“Fine.” He counted out the requisite coin onto the rough wood of the countertop. “And two meals, please, and a pitcher of ale.”
She took the payment, biting on a coin to ensure it was real—which stung a little, as it always did, these reminders of their distrust in him—but accepted it without complaint, handing over a brass key hung on a leather cord.
“First room on the left up the stairs,” she directed him, “and Magda will have your meals in just a tick. Magda!” she shouted, and a young woman poked her head out from the back room. “Two meals, quick as you please.”
“Got it, Sal,” Magda replied, wiping her hands on her apron. Geralt sat at the bar to wait.
Jaskier had since transitioned to some of his older work, likely in hopes of winning the crowd over with tried-and-true hits, but still didn’t seem to be making much progress. His lute case, propped open on the floor in front of him, had naught but a few coppers in it. Geralt would describe the overall mood of the crowd as annoyed at best.
Underneath the din of Jaskier’s playing, Geralt caught a few murmurs with his superior hearing—fucking twit, awful noise, can’t he just fuck off. He frowned. Jaskier hadn’t met with a crowd this bad in years, not since gaining popularity by Geralt’s side.
Sal placed two plates in front of him, interrupting his thoughts. “Here you are,” she said, following it with a large pitcher of ale. “Bring the plates back to the kitchen when you’re done, Magda’s off for the night.”
Geralt nodded his thanks, digging into his food while it was still hot. It was alright—chicken with rosemary and garlic, spices he rarely found while foraging, but overcooked and dry. The potatoes were too salty for his taste, and the carrots not cooked enough.
But any food that he didn’t have to prepare himself was a luxury, so he ate it without complaint and until there was hardly a morsel left on his plate.
He restrained himself from sucking the marrow out of the chicken bones, too, aware that anyone who saw would be rightly disgusted. He was content, anyway, since food hadn’t been too hard to come by lately, not with the land so glutted in summer.
He nursed his ale while Jaskier sang, in a rare good mood for once, contrary to the atmosphere of the other patrons. He wouldn’t say he was disappointed, exactly, when Jaskier packed up early and joined him at the bar, but he supposed he could’ve borne a few more verses without complaint.
“Don’t know what has gotten into everyone,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, sliding onto a stool, just loud enough that only Geralt could hear him. “Is it me? Have I got something on my face?” He looked at Geralt so earnestly, painfully young in that moment.
“Spinach in your teeth,” Geralt said, instead of voicing any of that. Jaskier of course had no such thing—they hadn’t even eaten any spinach in the last few days—but Jaskier still spent an embarrassing amount of time fretting and trying to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the inn’s spoons.
Geralt left him to his meal and went to go brush down Roach. He really ought to have done it earlier, but the extra half hour or so of waiting wouldn’t kill her.
The process was soothing, almost as good as meditation at centering himself and winding down for the day. He left her with plenty of feed and fresh water and went back into the inn.
To his surprise, he was greeted with dark looks from a few of the patrons, though none dared to make a move against him. Unsettled, Geralt retreated quickly to their room, where he found Jaskier already unpacking.
“Geralt, have you seen my quill?” Jaskier asked him, without turning around. “I swear I left it in the same pocket as my notebook, but…” he trailed off, digging around in his pack.
“No. Keep track of your own shit, bard,” Geralt grunted, sitting down on the furthest bed and pulling off his boots. His socks reeked after a day sweating in the sun, so he quickly shoved them in his pack and pulled on a new pair. What he wouldn’t give for a wash, but it was too late for that, probably. He’d have one tomorrow, after completing the promised contract, anyway.
Jaskier puttered about for a good bit more, still looking for his quill, before Geralt sighed and relented to helping him. He wasn’t tired yet, anyway, and didn’t feel like uselessly sharpening his swords or sorting his already-sorted elixirs.
The sneaky quill was hiding exactly where Geralt suspected it would be, in Jaskier’s own pack, though of course he only found it after Geralt had emptied his entire pack too.
Jaskier smiled sheepishly and accepted it, rolling it between his fingers, and set immediately to scribbling in his notebook. He hadn’t even sat down properly, perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed with one leg half underneath him, boots shedding dirt and dust onto the blankets. Geralt sighed.
The scratching of Jaskier’s quill was almost soothing, Geralt long since used to the sound of it in the background. He doused one candle, leaving the other for Jaskier to see by, and undressed and climbed into bed. A full night’s sleep was invaluable when preparing for a hunt, and Geralt was eager to take advantage of it.
With the light of the rising moon filtering in between the shutters, and Jaskier’s breathless humming serenading him, Geralt dropped off to sleep.
--
The call of roosters at dawn roused him, his eyes opening easily and smoothly as if he’d simply been waiting to wake up. Jaskier, of course, slept right through it, as he was able to sleep through most anything, snoring away despite how he insisted I don’t snore, Geralt!
Geralt sighed and dressed, pulling his hair back into a tie to keep it out of his face. He really ought to have brushed it, to get some of the dirt and oils out and lessen the chances of a snarling tangle later, but couldn’t find the effort. Jaskier seemed to have made it his personal mission to take care of Geralt’s hair, anyway, and Geralt expected a thorough washing and maybe even a lecture later, regardless of if he brushed it or not.
He splashed cool water on his face from the basin against the wall, not bothering to pat it dry with a towel. He enjoyed the way it evaporated on his skin in the humid morning air. That done, he wandered downstairs to the kitchens, where Magda was stirring a large pot of oats over the hearth. “Morning, sir witcher,” she greeted him, wiping her brow dry with a cloth. “Breakfast’ll be ready in a few minutes, if you’d like.”
“Thanks,” Geralt said, stopping in the doorway. “Anything I can help with?”
“Mm, I’m almost done, but if you fancy any nuts or berries with it, there’s some in the cellar.” She nodded her head towards a trapdoor set into the floor.
Geralt climbed down into the cellar’s cool dryness, a welcome respite from the heat of the kitchen. The cellar was truly full to bursting, the village apparently having had a prosperous season so far, but it didn’t take too long to locate a jar of preserved peaches, Jaskier’s favorite, and a sack of walnuts. Prizes in hand, he returned to Magda, who was ladling a few spoonfuls of oatmeal each into bowls.
She added the fruit and nuts and handed two bowls to Geralt, who handed over a few coins in return. When Geralt opened the door to their room, Jaskier finally roused, though that was probably more the fault of the oats’ cinnamony aroma than anything else. “Mmph, is that breakfast I smell?” Jaskier mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
Geralt handed him his bowl, sitting down on his own bed to eat. The food was good, and filling. Jaskier yawned his way through his own bowl, still waking up, but by the time Geralt was done, he had revived a little. “What were you doing up so late?” Geralt asked neutrally. It was no business of his when Jaskier went to sleep, but normally the bard was more conscious of the time when he knew he would be coming along on a contract the next day.
“It wasn’t that late,” Jaskier protested. “Just didn’t sleep well, I suppose. We can’t all wake up at the crack of dawn looking fresh as a daisy, Geralt.”
Geralt, who had notably never resembled a daisy in his life, gave Jaskier a flat look. Jaskier grinned.
“Be ready to leave in ten minutes,” Geralt ordered, snatching up Jaskier’s empty bowl. Jaskier got ready for the day—spending twice as much time doing his hair than anything else—while Geralt checked over his swords and elixirs.
When Jaskier finally declared himself fit for company—as if the workers at the quarry would care if his doublet were green or red—they set out on foot, leaving Roach behind for the day. Geralt was loath to work her harder than he had to in the summer heat.
The quarry was only a few miles from Mulbrydale, anyway, and it gave Geralt a chance to stretch his legs and warm up for the fight.
Jaskier walked beside him, composing some silly ode about the day—Geralt didn’t see any mares two abreast in the golden fields or orchards dripping with the ambrosia of summer, but they made it into his song anyway.
“Hoping to impress the miners?” Geralt asked.
Jaskier fiddled with the tuning pegs of his lute. “Maybe. They can’t be a worse crowd than last night,” he scoffed. “Besides, I find that the common folk appreciate songs that reflect the world they live in. It’s about finding beauty in one’s surroundings. I had a professor once who swore…”
Jaskier launched into a story, something about pastorals and creative license and natural rhyme schemes. Geralt let the words wash over him and trekked on.
The sun had fully risen by the time the tall spiked fence surrounding the quarry came into view. “That’s suitably menacing,” Jaskier commented. “Do you think it’s to keep something out, or to keep something in?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Wild dogs roam these parts,” Geralt answered.
Jaskier scowled. “Oh, you’re no fun.”
“It’s not my job to entertain.” Geralt threw a pointed look at Jaskier. “Now come on.” He pushed open the gates, creaking on their hinges.
The quarry was a hive of activity, concentric rings of stone jutting down into the earth at lower and lower heights. Ladders and platforms adorned the quarry at odd intervals, with workers scurrying up and down and to and fro. It was a hive of activity, buoyed by the sounds of picks striking stone and echoing calls shouted among the miners.
Their arrival drew the attention of a grey-haired man stationed in a tall watchtower off of the main path. “Witcher!” he called, descending the ladder. “Thank the gods you’re here. I’m Eryk, the foreman of this quarry, and I’m mighty glad to have ye here.”
“You have a contract for me?” Geralt asked.
“Yessir. Come on, I’ll show ye.” Eryk gestured for them to follow. He led them down the spiraling path, descending deeper and deeper into the quarry, climbing up and down ladders with ease that belied his age.
As they passed, miners would stop their work and openly stare. Geralt, long since used to it, ignored it, though their gazes burned on the back of his neck.
“We’ve been hearin’ noises, you see,” Eryk said, hardly out of breath. “Always at night, after work ends for the day. We think they’re comin’ from the old shaft at the bottom of the pit.”
“Delightful,” Jaskier muttered. Geralt fought a small smile.
“Can you describe them?”
“It’s a howling of sorts, though I’ve lived in this area me whole life, and t’ain’t no dogs nor wolves sound like that.”
“Hmm. Seen any tracks, any evidence of a beast nearby? Maybe fur or droppings?”
Eryk shook his head. “Nothing, though I reckon ye’ve better eyes than us.”
“I’ll take a look,” Geralt promised.
They were almost to the bottom, now, the walls of the quarry towering high above them. Down here, the echoes of pickaxes and shovels were amplified, ringing in Geralt’s ears like an avalanche. Dust covered everything in a thin layer, raining down softly like snow.
“And to think I’d just washed my hair,” Jaskier mourned, ruffling it and undoing all the effort he’d put in that morning styling it. A small cloud of dust rained to the ground. “Just watch, soon I’ll—”
He cut off as a bit of the rock shelf fell away beneath him, sending him scrambling to the side in a bid to escape a nasty fall over the edge. Geralt wasn’t quick enough to catch him before his foot landed wrong, sliding on a piece of shale and wrenching his ankle the wrong direction. “Gah! Fuck!” Jaskier yelled, pinwheeling his arms to stay upright.
Geralt lurched forward, snagging him around the waist and setting him down on more solid ground. “Fuck,” Jaskier cursed again, leaning forward to pull off his boot. “That hurt,” he groused, poking at his ankle, which was already starting to swell up.
Geralt crouched down next to him and grabbed his ankle, pulling off his sock as he did.
“Stop, that hurts,” Jaskier complained, ineffectually batting Geralt’s prodding hands away. Geralt felt no bones out of place, no grinding of cartilage or sharp fragments.
“Just a sprain,” he said, setting Jaskier’s foot back down. “We’ll wrap it, though there’s no snow or ice nearby to slow the swelling.”
“Nonsense, I’m fine,” Jaskier protested, struggling to pull his sock and boot back on. He levered himself up to standing despite Geralt’s attempts to keep him seated, bracing himself on the witcher’s broad shoulder.
“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.
“It’s fine!” Jaskier insisted, waving both him and Eryk off, who had noticed the commotion and doubled back.
“I swear, this place must be cursed,” he said, shaking his head. “First Davy almost took an arm off. Then it was Niklas, with that concussion, and now this.”
Geralt frowned. “Cursed?” Could that explain the strange howls at night? “Have you noticed any magical effects?” His medallion wasn’t humming, but there could be any number of reasons for that…
“Ach, ‘twas only an expression. Truly, I think some beastie must haunt our mine. The rest is just plain bad luck.”
“Lady Luck can be a cruel mistress indeed,” Jaskier chimed in, limping forward. Geralt fought off a headache at the sight. “I’ve always been clumsy, though, my good friend here can attest to that—”
“Will you stop moving?” Geralt growled, catching Jaskier by the shoulder. “You have a sprained ankle. You need to sit or it’ll get worse.”
“And I told you I’m fine,” Jaskier snapped, whirling on Geralt. “Just because I’m human doesn’t mean I’m a fragile doll, Master Witcher.” The vitriol in Jaskier’s words surprised Geralt. He pushed past Eryk and stomped off down the slope.
Geralt followed, and they soon arrived at the bottom of the pit. There was a small camp of sorts, with tents pitched in the middle surrounding a firepit, ringed by barrels and crates of supplies. Geralt counted seven smaller tents, and one bigger, sturdier structure behind the ring, tucked underneath some scaffolding. The ground was cracked and dry, though were it to rain, the dirt would quickly turn to sticky, sucking mud. There were planks of wood laid across the ground to walk on, uneven and rough.
Set against the nearest quarry face was the shaft Eryk had mentioned. It was barred with two doors made of wooden planks nailed sloppily together, which creaked on their hinges as Eryk unlocked and swung them open.
Inside was a typical mineshaft, dark, damp, and smelling slightly of burnt rock dust. But underneath, there was definitely the undercurrent of something rotting. Necrophages, definitely.
“I’m going in. Lock the doors behind me. They’ll be agitated, and you don’t want one getting out,” Geralt instructed, pulling a vial of Cat from his bag. He downed it in one, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline through his veins as his vision sharpened and the shadows brightened. “Stay here.”
“Geralt—” Jaskier began, as if to follow Geralt.
“No,” Geralt growled. “It’ll be too dark to see anything, and you won’t get very far on that ankle. Stay. Here.”
Without waiting for an answer, he strode forth into the mineshaft, drawing his silver sword. The doors creaked shut behind him, plunging the mine into shadow.
Geralt kept his senses primed as he ventured forth, listening for any scrape of claws on stone or any scent of rotten meat. The tunnel split into two paths ahead; following his gut, Geralt took the left, which showed more condensation on the walls and sloped slightly downward.
The ground was worn smooth underneath his boots by years of miners treading over it, but when he concentrated, Geralt could pick out thin notches scored into the stone. Four deep furrows and a fifth shallow one set apart—the typical pattern of an alghoul’s claws.
And caught in patches here and there on the walls, little tufts of fur—dark, fully mature. Fuck. Alghouls were even more dangerous than garden-variety ghouls, their venom more potent and able to pierce a Quen shield easily with the ridge of spines on their backs.
Geralt dug in his pack for another vial, pulling out necrophage oil. He dripped it along his blade, coating the metal to weaken and poison the beasts. As prepared as he could be, Geralt crept forward down the tunnel.
As he rounded a final corner, he heard it: the rumbling growls of a sleeping alghoul. Its nest was up ahead. Geralt didn’t dare hope for an easy fight, but perhaps he could gain the advantage of surprise.
The alghoul didn’t rouse at his cautious approach—a good sign. It had gotten complacent down here, untouched by predators. Geralt raised his sword to strike.
Then—behind him. A slight shuffling, a small scrape of claws on stone was all the warning Geralt got as a second alghoul launched itself at him, a screaming growl tearing its way out of its maw.
Geralt swung his sword up just in time to deflect vicious claws slashing at his throat. He threw out an Aard with his dominant hand, knocking it backwards into the wall, stunning it just long enough for Geralt to whirl around again.
The other alghoul had been woken by the commotion, and attacked him with no less ferocity. One alghoul was difficult enough, but fending off two would be a challenge Geralt hadn’t had in a long while.
The fight was a blur. Geralt fell into rote patterns of slashing, blocking, dodging. What made it more difficult was fighting in such a confined space—there was scarcely ten feet of space between the walls of the tunnel, and the rocky ceiling wasn’t much taller than him. He had to be conscious of every single move, every foot he placed and every attack he made.
One lucky strike caught the female of the pair in the throat. Hot, sticky ichor burst forth from the wound, staining the ground and walls black. It shrieked and gurgled in pain, lashing out with the rage of a wild animal, but its strength rapidly failed.
The second one, enraged by the death of the first, redoubled its attacks. Geralt cast Quen right before its spines caught him in the face. His shield exploded and he got away with only a small nick over his eyebrow, and it gave him the opening to thrust his sword out and up into its soft belly, rending it open from groin to skull.
Its steaming innards billowed out, the stench of death rapidly filling the cavern. Geralt caught his breath, wiping sweat off his brow—the fight had been long, and even deep in here the heat of summer still penetrated.
He cut off the front claws of the two beasts as proof of his kill, then set about destroying their nest. A gruesome sight greeted him: a pile of bones, some animal, some human, most with bits of flesh still hanging off of them. It reeked like all necrophage dens did, and Geralt held his breath as he kicked away bones and set everything aflame with Igni.
His work done, Geralt hiked out of the mineshaft, his eyes slowly adjusting to the searing light of outside. Cat wore off shortly before he exited, a rare blessing not to have to fight off a headache as he talked to the contract giver.
Eryk and Jaskier were still waiting outside when he pushed the doors open, and had been joined by a small group of miners. All were sitting on assorted crates and boxes, dragged over to form a half-circle.
Jaskier, ever the entertainer, was in the middle of a story, complete with wild gestures and probably more than a few tall tales. As soon as Geralt approached, though, he paused, greeting him with a joyous “Geralt!”
“You shouldn’t be standing on that ankle,” Geralt huffed, throwing the alghoul claws at Eryk’s feet. “I killed the beasts. Two alghouls made a nest in the western tunnel. Shouldn’t be a problem anymore.”
“Ye killed ‘em already, Master Witcher? My, ye work fast!” Eryk crowed, picking up the claws with interest and examining them. “Vicious beasties, they had to be, with knives like these!”
Either Eryk was genuinely impressed, which was exceedingly rare, or he was trying to stiff Geralt on payment and hoped that compliments would ease the sting. “We didn’t agree on a price beforehand.”
Eryk dropped the claws. “No. I didn’t think ye’d kill ‘em so fast, to be honest. What’s the going rate?”
Geralt hummed, tilting his head. “Normally I’d charge one-fifty for necrophages.”
“But?” Eryk prompted, savvy to the kind of hard bargain men on the Continent drove.
“But alghouls are much more dangerous, especially in pairs.” Geralt paused. “Three hundred.”
“I don’t have that kind of coin, Master Witcher, not with business so slow. Two hundred.”
“Two fifty,” Geralt acquiesced, which was what he’d been hoping for anyway.
“Deal.” They shook on it, Eryk grimacing slightly as some ichor rubbed off on him. He wiped his hand on his pants. “Thing is, though…”
Geralt sighed. “You don’t have the coin.” Of course.
“But I will!” Eryk promised. “There’s a shipment pickup tomorrow morning, a big order from Novigrad. Come by tomorrow and I’ll have yer coin for ye.”
As if Geralt had any other choice. And he’d so been looking forward to a hot bath paid for with his newfound wealth. “Fine,” he growled. “Tomorrow morning.” He turned to Jaskier. “Come on, bard.”
Jaskier limped his way over to Geralt. There was no way he could walk all the way back to the inn like that, and Geralt had little stamina left to carry him. Not to mention the indignity of it all, which Jaskier would surely protest.
An idea struck Geralt. “May he borrow a horse for the way back? He can’t walk on that.” Plus it would be insurance, an incentive to pay Geralt what he was owed the next day.
“Geralt, I’m fine—” interrupted Jaskier. Geralt ignored him.
Eryk frowned. “I’ve got but an old nag, not fit for much carryin’.”
“It’s not far. A few miles.”
“Fine, fine, but I’m not payin’ for ye to stable her.” He led Geralt and Jaskier to the side of the large cabin, where four horses were stabled. He had her saddled up quickly, and Geralt helped Jaskier into the saddle despite his protests. Once settled, he did look happier to be off his ankle. Geralt resolutely didn’t say I told you so.
Geralt led her up and out of the quarry while Jaskier rode, throwing goodbyes out to the miners. He’d made fast friends, it seemed.
It was late afternoon, nearly evening, by the time they arrived back at the inn, both their stomachs rumbling. In the excitement they’d both forgotten to eat lunch. When they got close to the inn, Jaskier dismounted, despite Geralt’s attempts to keep him on the horse. “I’ll see about a meal,” he said, shooing Geralt off to the stables.
Geralt hurriedly got the old nag settled and followed Jaskier into the Cock and Crow.
And just in time, because Jaskier, always pushing himself too far, reached his limit as he started up the stairs. “Shit,” he cursed as his leg buckled beneath him. Geralt caught him underneath the armpits and swung him up into a carry, ignoring his wriggling. “I can walk,” he said mulishly, just for appearance’s sake, because he very clearly could not.
“You shouldn’t,” Geralt returned bluntly, pushing open the door to their room and setting him on his bed.
He knelt and pulled off Jaskier’s boot, ignoring the way he pouted. It was a good thing Geralt had brought his pack with him; he reached in and pulled out some old but clean bandages.
“Aren’t you always telling me to be more careful with myself?” Geralt lectured as he wrapped Jaskier’s ankle. Jaskier crossed his arms with a huff.
“That’s different. You hunt monsters; I apparently have trouble even walking right.”
“It’s not,” Geralt argued. “A sprained ankle isn’t nothing, especially if you don’t treat it properly.” Surely Jaskier knew the dangers—permanent damage, or worse. And for a bard that made his living by walking around the Continent after Geralt… “What’s this about?”
Jaskier sighed and hung his head, caught out. “I didn’t want to be left behind,” he admitted. “I desperately need new material, especially if I’m to please such a fickle crowd as the one here.”
“Material for your songs? That’s why you’re being so stubborn?” Geralt could hardly believe it. He knew Jaskier went above and beyond for his craft, but this…
The thing was, Geralt was realizing, was that Jaskier wanted. He wanted to the point of idiocy sometimes, beyond all logic. He would injure himself further in a heartbeat, just to follow Geralt into dark places.
Selfish.
Geralt held his tongue and began wrapping Jaskier’s ankle, firm but gentle with his movements, despite how he wanted to shake some sense into the bard. Jaskier, in a rare show of wisdom, kept quiet, even when Geralt accidentally pulled too hard and jarred his ankle. “Sorry,” he murmured.
“’S okay,” Jaskier replied. “Thanks.”
“Keep your weight off it,” Geralt instructed, standing and brushing off his knees. “It’s the wrong season for ice or snow to bring the swelling down, but I may have enough herbs for a salve.”
“You don’t have to do that, it doesn’t hurt,” Jaskier said quickly.
Geralt gave him a flat look.
“Alright, it doesn’t hurt much,” he amended. “Besides, you need those for your potions and whatnot.”
Geralt ignored him—he was doing a lot of that lately, he realized—and rifled through his pack until he found the herbs he needed. Jaskier scribbled in his notebook as Geralt ground them up into a paste, tasting it himself afterwards to be sure he’d gotten the proportions correct. Then he scooped it up into a small tin he’d recently emptied out, screwing the lid on and tossing it into Jaskier’s lap after.
The bard fumbled to catch it, almost upturning his inkpot onto the bedcovers in the process. With a yelp he barely managed to catch both, throwing a look at Geralt that suggested he was unamused. Geralt grinned back.
He left Jaskier to his songwriting while he went downstairs to talk to Sal. She was running plates out to the patrons, looking thoroughly harried in the rush of the dinner hour. Geralt had wanted a bath, but decided to risk her ire by interrupting just then, and instead sat down at the bar to order a flagon of ale.
He let the scents of the kitchen and the noise of the crowd wash over him, sipping calmly at his ale almost as if in meditation. Normally a crowd like this would welcome Jaskier’s playing—Geralt wondered if he would risk facing them again tonight.
Likely not without new material, Geralt concluded, and ordered another ale.
In the corner, two men suddenly leapt to their feet. “You cheatin’ bastard!” yelled one, face red with rage, almost the same shade as his hair. “I want my money back!”
“Cheating? You’re the one that cheated, you lying fuck!” Saying so, he pulled his fist back and slugged the redheaded man in the nose. Geralt grimaced, his advanced hearing picking up the sound of cartilage breaking under the blow. Blood spurted forth.
Geralt made as if to get up, but was beaten by a broad-shouldered farmer intervening in the fight. “Stop it, you two! Brendan!” he hollered, catching another swing that was aimed for the redhead’s face. “What would your da say?”
Brendan shrugged the farmer off. “He wouldn’t say shit, because you”—he pointed an accusing finger at the redhead—“got him killed!” He lunged forward again, was only barely pulled back this time.
“That weren’t me, it were an accident!” the redhead protested, muffled through his hand covering his nose and mouth. “He just fell—”
“He worked at that quarry for fifteen years,” Brendan snarled. “He knew the paths like the back of his hand! He could climb them in his sleep!”
The quarry again. Eryk had mentioned accidents earlier, and Jaskier spraining his ankle… Geralt’s blood ran cold. Was it possible there was something more going on than just the alghoul infestation?
It was too late to return to the quarry, the sun already setting. When he went back tomorrow morning to return the nag and collect his payment, he would inquire further into these accidents, see if there actually was a curse laid on the place.
For now, he went back upstairs to join Jaskier for dinner, turning the day’s events over and over in his mind. Jaskier plucked away at his lute, shaping a new melody, bouncing lyrics off of Geralt, who honestly couldn’t tell the difference between most of the choices Jaskier offered. He lay on his bed and pretended to sleep.
Jaskier shook his head in response to Geralt’s grunts and scribbled notes in his notebook, before finally declaring his masterpiece complete.
“I couldn’t find very good rhymes for alghouls, so I don’t want to hear any criticism about my wordplay,” Jaskier warned, strumming the opening chords on his lute.
The song was catchy, Geralt had to admit. Even though he hadn’t seen the fight in the tunnel, Jaskier painted an exciting picture of Geralt slaying the ‘dual alghouls’, resulting in his glorious victory after only six verses.
“Bit too long,” Geralt offered when Jaskier was done.
“How would you know,” Jaskier grouched, cracking his fingers. “Thought you didn’t like music. Or my music, at least.”
“You said it, not me.”
“Bastard!” Jaskier yelped, throwing a pillow at Geralt’s head. “Take it back.”
“No,” Geralt grinned, easily dodging the pillow and the second one that followed.
“Take it back! Tell me my songs are the loveliest you’ve ever heard!” Jaskier insisted, clambering on top of Geralt and pinning him down by the shoulders.
Geralt deftly rolled them over, switching their positions so that Jaskier was beneath him and he had the advantage. “What are you gonna do now?”
“This,” Jaskier cried, craning his neck to lick Geralt’s hand.
Geralt didn’t react. He’d seen much, much worse. “Oh no,” he replied, deadpan. “Saliva. Disgusting. Whatever will I do.”
Jaskier slumped. “You could at least pretend I have some power over you. I deserve to win sometimes.”
“I’ll let you win when you earn it,” Geralt suggested, letting Jaskier up. “That’s better than a hollow victory.”
Jaskier snatched his pillows up off the ground, dusting them off imperiously. “Just wait, Geralt of Rivia. You won’t even see it coming,” he threatened.
“I live in fear every day of when it will happen.”
“Good,” Jaskier replied, then yawned. “I’m going to bed. Songwriting takes it right out of me.”
Geralt wished him a good night, not quite ready to go to bed himself just yet. He meditated to the sounds of Jaskier changing out of his doublet and trousers into sleep clothes and bedding down for the night, softening into his quiet snores.
Without meaning to, Geralt was soon lulled to sleep himself, still thinking about the quarry and its mishaps.
--
Jaskier claimed to be feeling much better in the morning, especially after applying some of Geralt’s salve and rewrapping his ankle.
Geralt wasn’t able to convince him to stay at the inn, despite his best efforts, and so Jaskier rode Roach back to the quarry while Geralt led the old nag. The heat had broken somewhat, and it was a pleasant morning for a walk.
Before they even reached the quarry, however, they were met with a man coming the opposite direction. When he saw them he stopped and waited for them to catch up. As they drew closer Geralt realized it was one of the men from the mines, a younger one—Tomas, he remembered.
“Good thing you’re here, witcher. I was sent to find you,” Tomas said, motioning for them to continue back to the quarry with him.
Somehow Geralt knew this was about more than simply his pay. “What happened?” he growled, spurring Roach into a faster walk.
“Ronan went missing last night. All his things are still here, but there’s no sign of him.”
“You checked inside the mine?”
The miner shook his head. “Folk’re too scared. There’s talk—accusations that you missed one yesterday.”
“I didn’t,” Geralt said stubbornly. He was sure of it, and even if he had, the nest was still destroyed. “Sure he didn’t just run off?”
“Ronan wouldn’t. He’s kept this job for ten years, almost. Longer ‘n I’ve been around, for sure. I can’t see why he’d give it up, especially without telling anyone.”
Ever eager to save Geralt’s reputation where he could, Jaskier leapt in. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for all of it! And I know Geralt. He won’t stop until he gets to the bottom of it. Like a dog with a bone, that one. Or more of a wolf, really,” he cracked, winking. “In fact, you can tell your foreman that we won’t be accepting any form of payment until this is solved.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt warned, as neutrally as he dared.
“Yes?” Jaskier blinked innocently at him.
Geralt sighed. “Take Roach and go back to the inn.” When Jaskier looked as if he were going to argue, Geralt cut him off. “I don’t want her anywhere near this.” Or you, he didn’t add, because Jaskier would get into a snit about Geralt patronizing him. “You want to help? This will help.”
Jaskier huffed, but dismounted and swapped horses with Geralt. “This won’t work every time, I hope you know,” he warned, slinging his lute onto his back. “I’m only agreeing to this because I’ve already gotten a song out of it.”
“Duly noted.” Geralt slapped Roach’s hind flank, sending her back down the road the way they’d come. He hoped the pit in his stomach that formed at seeing them go meant nothing.
He turned to the miner. “Show me where Ronan was last seen.”
--
Ronan bunked with his mining partner of six years, Marik, underneath a sturdy tarp against the western wall of the quarry. The men’s belongings were scattered in the manner of one without a permanent home but with too many possessions to keep tidy.
Tools in need of repair rested atop a barrel littered with candle stubs that sat between the two paillasses. Marik, it seemed, had a habit of whittling, judging by the small wood shavings that littered the corners and the row of small figurines that were displayed proudly on a small table to the side. Ronan’s side of the tent looked as if he’d just stepped out for a moment—blankets crumpled, a pair of dirty boots slumped beside the entrance.
“Marik would have seen him last,” Tomas volunteered. “I think he’s working on the south wall today—I can get him, if you like.”
“Please,” Geralt requested. There were very few clues here as to where Ronan could have gone. For all intents and purposes, it looked like he’d simply stepped out to piss in the middle of the night and never come back.
Tomas ran off. Geralt examined the dirt in front of the tent, keen witcher eyes searching for tracks that might tell him where the occupants had gone—but the quarry was a well-trafficked area, and the soil was too sandy and fine to hold tracks for long.
Tomas returned shortly with a red-haired man behind him, wiping sweat off his brow as he ducked under the tarp. “Master Witcher,” Marik greeted, dropping his pickaxe with a dull thud. “You can find Ronan, then? Or avenge the beastie what killed him?”
“I’ll try,” Geralt promised. “Tell me what happened last night.”
“Not much other’n usual, honestly. Went to bed ‘round when the moon was high, both of us. I dunno what time it were when I heard him get up, but it were late, I know that. Not a hint of light in the sky. I thought he were takin’ care of business, y’know, and tried to fall back asleep. But then I heard a scream—and it were no fox, no matter what they say. I know foxes, and it were no fox.”
Geralt frowned. Was it foolish to hope that he’d simply been dreaming? Or that Ronan had misstepped in the dark, twisted his ankle, and was waiting to be found somewhere unharmed?
“Did you see anything? Go looking for Ronan?”
Marik hung his head, skin coloring pink. “No,” he admitted, “too scared, I was. Thought it might come and get me if I moved.”
“It’s alright,” Geralt said awkwardly. “Can’t blame you.”
“I should’ve,” Marik moaned, and to Geralt’s horror, started to weep. Tomas pulled him close, guiding his head onto his shoulder. “I should’ve gone after him. He were my partner,” Marik sobbed.
Geralt gave them privacy and exited the tent, heading towards the tunnels. He cursed himself for not preparing more potions—he hadn’t expected another fight so soon, but any witcher worth his medallion should have been more prepared. He would have to make do with his swords.
Inside the mine there was no evidence of recent alghoul activity. No fresh claw marks, no pungent scent of rot, no picked-clean bones. The nest still lay destroyed, nothing more than burnt ashes. He nosed around the site for a few more minutes before giving up. Whatever had taken Ronan wasn’t around right now.
He hiked back out into sunlight, where he found Eryk waiting for him. The foreman wore a grimace and held a pouch in his hands, bulging with coin. Geralt’s eyes narrowed.
“Witcher,” he greeted wearily. “More ghouls, then?” He shifted on his feet, coin purse clinking.
“Don’t see any necrophage activity. Nest’s still destroyed.”
“I can’t rightly pay two hundred and fifty crowns for a job not done.”
“Nor would I ask you to. How about half now—I need to restock on potion ingredients, pay for another night at the inn for me and my companion. I’ll see the job done, find whatever took Ronan, I swear by my guild.”
“You’re an honorable man, witcher. Here.” He measured out half the promised pay for Geralt, pocketing the other half. “Will ye stay tonight? We could use a watchman. And maybe yer eyes would catch things in the dark we can’t see.”
“Let me go back to town and prepare. I’ll be back by sundown,” Geralt agreed. He had already been planning to keep watch overnight, hoping his presence would prevent another man vanishing.
“Aye,” Eryk said, and left. His head was bowed, heavy with the weight of the situation. Geralt wished he could do more.
After leaving the quarry, he headed back to town, to the marketplace. He bought some more common herbs and ingredients there, counting out a good amount of Eryk’s coin. It was enough to make several elixirs, as long as he supplemented it with a few things from his own stores.
As he left the market, a sweet smell caught his nose, and he followed it to a squat building with a sign labeled BERELDA’S BREADS. A bakery.
Geralt hesitated, weighing the coin purse in his hand for a moment. “You know, a life lived without a little selfishness here and then is hardly a life worth living at all.” Jaskier’s words echoed in his head.
He ended up buying two sweet rolls, and a pouch of a half-dozen balls of fried dough when Berelda offered them at a discount, given it was so late in the day. “I’ll only throw them out tomorrow, better you have them,” she reasoned. He popped one in his mouth on his way back to the inn, savoring the way the sugar melted on his tongue and flooded his mouth with sweetness.
He wasn’t sure what had him in such a good mood—perhaps the fine weather, and the promise of a good mystery to mull over? Either way, it was dashed as soon as he got back to their shared room. He’d been—anticipating Jaskier’s reaction, almost eager to face both his endless questions about what he’d missed and his joy at being gifted a treat. And maybe a little bit of vindication, too, see, bard, I do know how to enjoy myself.
But when he pushed open the door and saw only Jaskier’s unmoving form tucked into bed, his stomach sank to the floor. No overexcited reaction to be found here.
Moreover, it was still light out—barely suppertime, by his reckoning. And the bard wasn’t usually one for naps.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said, walking over to the bed and gently shaking his shoulder. His body jostled limply with the movement. Was he—? No, he was still breathing, just deeply asleep. Geralt checked, just to make sure. “Jaskier,” he called again, a little bit louder, and this time Jaskier groaned and buried his head into his pillow.
“What?” he asked, muffled by cloth.
“Are you feeling alright?”
“No,” he answered, and Geralt’s heart skipped a beat. “I was just woken rather rudely. What time ‘s it?” Oh. Just dramatic, as always.
“A couple hours to sundown. Why were you napping?”
“Dunno, I was just tired,” Jaskier answered irritably, finally rolling over and rubbing at his eyes. He looked decidedly rumpled, with sheet prints all up and down his face and neck and his hair rather unflatteringly sticking out on one side. And his eyes had dark circles under them, when Geralt looked. “Will you let me sleep in peace now?”
“Have you eaten?” Geralt persisted. He suddenly felt foolish—he wasn’t some stupid idiot courting a lover, bringing home sweets in hopes of wooing his beloved. Witchers didn’t do things like that. “I bought bread,” he said lamely.
Jaskier didn’t answer, and instead threw an arm over his face. Fine. If he wanted to go without eating, Geralt would let him wake in the middle of the night starving. He was grown and could make his own decisions. Even if those decisions pointed to something more worrying than simply a cranky companion.
“I’m going back to the quarry tonight,” Geralt informed him, sitting down at the table with his potion ingredients. Silence followed. “You shouldn’t come.”
Still no answer. Either he was already asleep again, or he was ignoring Geralt. Whatever. Geralt set to brewing a few doses of Swallow, a healthy amount of Cat, and while those were simmering, he distilled some blade oils.
He fell into a light meditation until sundown, when he would return to the quarry. But when he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of Jaskier, out of bed now, standing in front of the window looking out.
“Stop walking on that ankle,” Geralt growled, fed up with the bard’s behavior.
He expected a reply of but the setting sun is so beautiful, such an alluring sight for a poet such as myself! or something equally inane, but Jaskier didn’t reply.
“The silent treatment? Really?” Geralt asked, standing up with the intent to make Jaskier sit down. But when he got closer, he realized that the bard wasn’t truly awake, his eyes half-lidded and unseeing. He swayed gently where he stood, uncaring of his swollen ankle or the cool breeze that skimmed along his collarbone and ruffled his hair.
Jaskier didn’t nap, nor did he sleepwalk, not in the five years Geralt had traveled with him. Something was very wrong. Geralt seized him by the shoulders. “Jaskier, wake up!” he almost shouted. Urgency curdled deep in his stomach.
Jaskier blinked slowly, once, twice, and then his eyes began to gain a little more life. “Hmm? Geralt?” he asked, coming fully awake. “Oh, fuck,” he cursed, and stumbled into Geralt, his ankle making its displeasure known.
Geralt caught him beneath the elbows, supporting his weight with ease. “Sit down,” he ordered, lowering Jaskier back onto the bed and kneeling in front of him.
“Was I… asleep?” Jaskier asked, having to clear his throat a couple times to get the grogginess out of his voice.
“You tell me,” Geralt replied, lifting Jaskier’s foot to check on his ankle. The bandage was loose, a swollen swath of black and blue peeking up around the edges. “Unless you thought this”—he held up Jaskier’s foot higher so he could see—“was a good idea?”
He winced. “Ow. No, I was dreaming…” he trailed off. His eyes were distant, unseeing. He sucked in a sudden breath as Geralt pressed too hard on a tender spot.
“Have you been applying your salve?”
“This morning, yes. Probably could do with another application.” He reached over to the table by the bedside, grabbing the tin of salve. He held still as Geralt unwound the bandage and spread some of the thick grease over the swollen area, finishing by redoing the bandage tightly. “Thank you. I honestly don’t know what came over me.”
“Dreaming of running from jealous spouses?” Geralt asked.
Jaskier huffed out a small laugh. “No, I don’t remember. It was dark, I think? It’s sort of fuzzy. I don’t really remember.”
Geralt wished he hadn’t promised to spend the night watching over the quarry. Someone should be here at the inn to make sure Jaskier didn’t go diving headfirst through any open windows while asleep.
“You know, I might go play. I’m feeling much better after that nap,” Jaskier proclaimed, as if he could read Geralt’s mind. “Oh, don’t give me that look. No dancing on tabletops for me. I’ll stay put in my seat, don’t worry.”
Geralt still doubted Jaskier’s ability to give a lowkey performance, but it wasn’t as if he could forbid the bard from playing. “Alright. I’m headed back to the quarry to keep watch overnight.”
“I hope that includes a significant increase in pay due to overtime. Oh, who am I kidding, you probably offered to do it for free. I know how you get with contracts like these.”
Geralt sighed. “I’ll be back in the morning. Lock the door and window tonight in case you get up again.”
“Yes, mother,” Jaskier sighed. “Now help me up?”
***
link to chapter 2 will be added here soon!
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RIP to the fact that Geraskier writers are forever more going to have to clarify if they're writing about Geralt or Wishralt.
#the witcher#geraskier#the witcher s3#the witcher fuckery#geraskier fanfiction#henry cavill#the witcher: fandom#the witcher netflix#twn
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hi there! for the song fic thing, if you’re up to it, how about geraskier and stray italian greyhound by vienna teng?
Hi sorry this took a while <3
This song is great, the lyrics are so playful. I went more with the theme of the song for this one.
modern au, no warnings
wc: 1.1k
--------------------------------------------
Jaskier stared down at his coffee cup. He was running late but he couldn't bring himself to move any faster. He wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings as he dragged his feet to work, too pre-occupied with how much he wanted to be going anywhere else. Which was probably why he crashed straight into the hulking mass in front of him. He let out a noise of surprise as he crashed into the man in front of him. When they pulled apart, Jaskier gasped in horror at the coffee drenching the man's shirt.
“Oh fuck. Oh gods. I'm so sorry-”
He looked up from the stain that was continuing to grow and suddenly words stopped. His mind halted in its tracks. Of course he ran straight into the most terrifying and attractive man he had ever seen. White hair pulled back into a bun. Warm, honey eyes that stared back at him in a frown. And Jaskier had gone and spilled coffee all down his shirt. Gods, he was such an idiot. He was either going to die of embarrassment or get a punch to the face and he wasn't sure which option was worse.
“I'll uh- I'll buy you a new shirt? Or something?” He checked the time in a panic. “Oh fuck I am so late. Just- just-”
He had no idea what to do. The man hadn't said a word but he also hadn't received a punch in the gut so that was something.
“Here.”
Jaskier shucked off his jacket and handed it over. With bemusement, the man took it. He looked it over before looking back at him. He huffed what Jaskier assumed to be in amusement and put it on. It was a little tight, and did not match his style at all, but at least it fit. And it hid the enormous stain decorating the front of his shirt.
“Suits you,” he couldn't help but comment. The barest hint of a smile appeared on the man's face and Jaskier wondered what he'd look like when he laughed.
“Give me your number.”
It was the first words he'd spoken and had caught Jaskier completely off-guard.
“What?”
The man sighed.
“Your number,” he repeated, “so I can return this.”
His voice was like gravel. He would be lying if he said it wasn't doing anything for him. It took him a moment to actually process what he had just said.
“Oh. Oh yes, of course.” He fished his phone out from his pocket. “I'm Jaskier, by the way.”
“Geralt.”
They exchanged numbers and then the next second Geralt was gone, off to continue his day while Jaskier stood there wondering what the hell had just happened. And then he remembered that he was exceptionally late.
He spent the rest of the day in a daze. He was sure people had spoken to him and he had responded, but he couldn't recall any of the conversation. His mind was firmly stuck on the events of the morning, cycling through embarrassment, excitement and the inconvenient urge to hit on him. Which was ridiculous, really. Sorry about your shirt, how about we go for a drink? No one in their right mind would go for that. Besides, he'd grown used to being alone.
***
“What are you wearing?”
Ciri spotted him as soon as he walked through the door, eyes raking over him with a confused amusement. With a huff, he unbuttoned the jacket and dropped it onto the sofa. Her amusement only grew when she spotted the sizeable stain he was sporting.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
“Language,” he scolded. “Some idiot ran into me on the way to work this morning.”
“And he gave you his jacket?” She queried, rubbing her thumb across the rainbow pin on the collar. It was the first time he really looked at it. Faded denim and covered in patches and pins that Geralt could only assume were bands that he had never heard of. It was- well, it suited the man he met this morning. It certainly wasn't his style. Too clean for a start.
“So, what did he look like? This idiot?”
Ciri held a smirk that was all too-knowing for a teenager.
“Tall, dark hair,” Geralt shrugged.
“Handsome?”
Handsome? He had only saw him for a few minutes at most. Though he did remember shockingly blue eyes that looked at him. Really looked at him. Most people averted their gaze around him. There was panic in them, but more so at the situation than directed at him. He remembered how his cheeks had flushed when he finally looked up at Geralt.
“He was...fine.”
“A compliment, coming from you,” Ciri replied with an arch of her brow.
“I'm not talking about this with you.” He wagged a finger at her and left the room to change.
***
It's Geralt. Are you free friday to return the jacket?
“Who are you texting?”
Ciri appeared from behind him, trying to peek over his shoulder at his phone. He covered it on instinct.
“Jaskier,” he replied, “about the jacket.”
“Oh, he has a name now, does he?”
Geralt rolled his eyes in response. Ciri didn't know what she was talking about. She'd obviously been reading too much fiction and now her head was filled with romance. And then Jaskier responded.
“I think he's flirting with me.” His voice didn't betray the mild panic that had set in but Ciri picked up on it anyway.
“So flirt back. What's the worst that could happen?” she teased gently.
Geralt stared down at the phone in his hand with a frown.
“You've been alone too long,” Ciri sighed, and left him to it.
Maybe he had. He was used to everything going a certain way. He was used to it just being himself and Ciri. To people judging him harshly by his appearance. And yet, here he was. Being flirted with by a complete fool who had quite literally crashed into his life. Geralt wasn't usually one for spontaneity. But maybe today he was.
***
It's Geralt. Are you free friday to return the jacket?
Jaskier stared at his phone, and then at the half empty wine bottle in front of him. Maybe if was in a clearer frame of mind he would have responded politely and a little more formally. However, he'd had a long day and was finally feeling relaxed, the warmth of the wine settling inside him. So instead, he decided to be bold.
Sure, I'm free. How about we grab some coffee too? I promise I won't spill it on you this time.
As soon as he sent it, he regretted it. Could he even joke about it? He didn't know this man, other than the one very brief and equally disastrous encounter when they met. Geralt might not see the funny side of it. There was no way he would agree.
Sure. I'll pay as long as I don't come home wearing it.
Well, that was something. He filled his glass with a small smile. He sat back in his chair and watched his phone light up with another text from Geralt. He couldn't wait for friday.
#the witcher#the witcher fanfiction#geraskier#geraskier fanfiction#geralt of rivia#jaskier#faye writes
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Taking care of his Witcher
New fic of Jaskier taking care of Geralt, even in the most of unconventional ways
Check it out at link below where is also the complete nsfw version of the fanart
https://archiveofourown.org/works/52265785
https://archiveofourown.org/works/52265785
#geraskier#geralt x jaskier#the witcher fanart#geralt of rivia#jaskier#witcher#geraskier fanart#fanart#geraskier fanfiction#geraskier fic#dandelion#ao3 link#ao3 fanfic#fanfiction
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| banshee jaskier |
so i’m back with this poor little meow meow! i truly love working out how exactly i want him to look and all that, i especially love his shoes?? they look so good on him! also his little pouches with tiny flowers???? loooove them! i hope that you’ll like this as much as i do <3
anyways so, this jaskier is from the fic “The Ghost of You”! check it out if you want, i plan on updating it soon <3
related post
open for a version without the notes:
#jaskier x geralt#geraskier fanfiction#geraskier#jaskier#banshee!jaskier#creature!jaskier#immortal!jaskier#julian alfred pankratz#ao3#geralt x dandelion#dandelion
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geraskier, and the art of repairing cracks with gold?
Warnings: none
**
Jaskier was warm against his side.
It was a feeling that Geralt has known well, yet never experienced in such quantity. During their years of traveling together, they often ended up sharing a bed, and if those beds were a little narrow, they had to sleep close to each other. In those moments, Geralt felt the warmth of Jaskier's body against his.
But not like this, not tucked under his arm like he was now, his cheek resting against Geralt's chest. It was allowed now, to hold Jaskier close, to show him that he cared with his touch.
It was all Jaskier has wanted since decades, and Geralt has never dared giving it to him. Not until he's lost him, not until he's chased Jaskier away with his cruel words. They've parted, and then reunited, but nothing was the same. Something fundamental has broken between them: the trust, the familiarity, the understanding, all gone, all because Geralt couldn't appreciate what he had.
But he was different now; he's learned, he's grown, and he was fully ready to fix what was broken.
"This is nice," Jaskier commented against his chest softly. One hand sneaked around Geralt's waist, a light, familiar touch, giving Geralt hope that he wasn't the only one who believed they could return to how they once were.
"Never would have thought you to be a cuddler."
"I missed you," Geralt said earnestly. Taking care of Ciri has opened him up more and taught him to express his feelings. It was still not easy, and he still wasn't completely ready to say what he really felt, but he was willing to take the first steps. If being kind and honest with Jaskier meant he wouldn't lose him again, Geralt was more than ready to change.
"I'm sorry, Jaskier. I know I've said it before, but I really am. You deserve much better."
He felt Jaskier momentarily tense next to him. Geralt soothed a hand down his back. To calm Jaskier or himself, he wasn't sure.
"Do you think we can be alright again?"
Jaskier didn't reply for a while. He traced a finger over Geralt's chest, drawing a small pattern onto his skin. Geralt closed his eyes, his own hand resting on the small of Jaskier's back.
"I think we need to work on it," Jaskier replied after a while. He peered up at Geralt, his lashes fluttering softly. Geralt swallowed.
"Mostly you, to be honest. I can't be your doormat forever, Geralt. I'm tired. If you don't want me, I won't come crawling back and beg for your affection."
"You don't have to," Geralt promised. He brushed a stray piece of hair out of Jaskier's face, tucking it behind his ear. He felt the tension seep out of his body when Jaskier relaxed into his touch.
"I will do better, I promise."
Jaskier hummed. He hid his face in the crook of Geralt's neck, and Geralt could feel his smile against his skin.
"I think you've already started," Jaskier whispered. Geralt kissed the top of his head in response.
It won't be easy, Geralt knew that. There was a lot to repair, a lot to atone for. But as he felt the warmth and softness of Jaskier's body against his, the way his hair tickled his chin, and most of all how he accepted the new ways of affection that Geralt offered him, Geralt started to believe that maybe things weren't broken, just cracked.
And he was ready to fill in those cracks, at last.
#geraskier#the witcher fanfiction#the witcher fic#geralt of rivia#jaskier#geralt x jaskier#geraskier fanfiction#geraskier fic#my fic#request
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