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witchersgoldenbard · 2 years

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“ i don't mean to bother you. “ “ you're not. “ for geraskier? because I am sneakily reminding you that you are not a bother but are in fact greatly loved 😌

i love you so much 🥺💛 thank you for the prompt

wc: 1.9k | tags: yearning, post-s2. love confessions, stars as narrative device, hurt/comfort

as the stars above them hum and hear them

Jaskier feels nothing but hollow looking up at the stars. Essi had always loved them, had spent hours waxing poetic about the comfort she could draw from the stars. Wherever we go, whenever we look, they will always be there as steady companions. Maybe we can be close to them one of these days. It seems like a lifetime ago that Jaskier had met Essi‘s beautiful eyes and drawn her into a hug while she went on and on about constellations, making up stories about them as she went. They were warm and happy on that summer’s night out on the fields close to Oxenfurt.

The stars that are shining down on Jaskier right now are different, though familiar. Every winter they are the same wherever Jaskier goes, and it should bring him comfort. One constant, one anchor, one thing in his life he can depend on. But it doesn’t.

The air around him is freezing and he’s not sure he can feel his cheeks anymore, yet he cannot move from where he sat down on the nearly destroyed stone bridge, Kaer Morhen‘s courtyard spread out several feet beneath him in the moonless dark. And Jaskier is looking up at the stars because if he dared to look anywhere else, he’s not sure he would manage to breathe right.

A noise startles him and he blinks away frozen tears, turning his head to find someone standing beside him. Geralt. Jaskier would recognise him anywhere, even on a moonless night, cast only in the light of stars that might as well exist in another world entirely for how far away they are.

“I don’t mean to bother you,” Geralt says, his voice so unfairly gentle that Jaskier barely has time to consider his words before he speaks.

“You’re not.”

Geralt doesn’t move, doesn’t even hum, but Jaskier imagines there to be the tiniest of smiles on the witcher’s lips. It makes his heart race and he has to tear his eyes away from his figure to look back up at the night sky. The stars are well-versed in Jaskier’s feelings for the witcher already, they can bear witness to his yearning expression and the little sigh he releases.

“It’s nice out here, isn’t it?”

Jaskier swallows, suppresses the urge to look at Geralt again and instead keeps his eyes where they are. “Yeah.” It comes out as barely more than a whisper.

Another beat of silence passes, then Geralt takes a step closer to him. “Can I sit with you?”

Maybe it’s the sudden breeze that whips through his hair and brings with it freezing gust of air that smells like freshly fallen snow, but Jaskier feels his eyes beginning to prick.

“Of course,” he croaks, wincing at the quality of his voice. He holds his breath, prays that his heart won’t beat out of his chest and find its place again inside Geralt’s hands for the witcher to crush at will. It’s futile, because even crushed, his heart never left the witcher’s hold.

They sit together for a while, but Jaskier has long since stopped trying to find solace, company or comfort in the night sky. He’s trying not to breathe too loudly, trying not to move, trying not to overwhelm Geralt again with his mere existence, but it doesn’t stop his eyes from welling up again.

“Did you ever manage to find it?” Geralt breakes the silence then, his voice nothing more than a whisper, and still Jaskier jumps ever so slightly, only held in place by the weight of golden eyes he can feel resting upon him. He doesn’t meet them. Doesn’t dare to.

“Find what?“

“The thing that pleases you.”

If it were at all possible, Jaskier would think that the light of the stars above them has dimmed ever so slightly. The words tear into him with how gently they’ve been said, and it does nothing to calm his stinging eyes or racing heart.

“Don’t do this, Geralt,” Jaskier begs.

“Do what?” He sounds genuinely confused, subdued like every time he feels that something should be obvious but he cannot figure it out. It breaks Jaskier’s heart even more, because everything would just be so much easier if Geralt wanted to hurt him on purpose instead of these accidental stabs right into his soul.

“Don’t— I can’t do this again, Geralt.”

It’s not lost on him. Sitting together, only one of them looking at the other... The parallels of it, the same conversation, and everything has changed but his feelings for Geralt. The one constant in his life.

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

And it’s not necessarily an empty apology, but Jaskier knows that Geralt doesn’t know what he’s apologising for. With a broken little sigh, Jaskier decides that he has already lost everything, his once burning fingers now lying frozen in his lap as a reminder of it, and he has nothing left to give but this. He can give Geralt the truth, give away the last piece of his soul before he can truly be nothing but a hollowed out shell of himself.

“It’s you, Geralt,” he whispers then, and that’s when the tears begin to fall from his eyes, the cold air freezing their tracks on his cheeks, but the sting of it is no greater than the pain inside his chest.

“Me?”

“Yes. It’s always been you.” And I’m sorry, he doesn’t add, but it’s a close thing. Loving Geralt is really nothing he wants to apologise for. Loving Geralt feels like the one thing in life that is good, even if he did it so horribly wrong that he lost his witcher in the process.

A beat of silence passes between them and he can still fee Geralt’s eyes on him, but Jaskier only closes his own, hides them even from the stars that know his feelings so well.

“I… I didn’t think you—“ A sigh, then Geralt tries again. “Still? After everything?”

Jaskier huffs out a humourless laugh and sniffles. “Still. Always. I tried to stop, but I’m not as strong as you, Geralt. I’m not strong enough to stop, I—“

“I’m not strong either. I tried to be, Jaskier, I tried too hard. I was weak and only made myself weaker by trying not to be. I lost you and… and then I realised what I think I’ve known all along, but I didn’t want to know it because I didn't want to be weak. But I found out that when it comes to you, I always am. One way or another.” Geralt breathes and Jaskier almost misses his next word for how loudly his heart is beating out of his chest. “You make me weak, Jask.”

He shakes his head, tries not to shiver from the cold and the tears and the waves of emotions coursing through him. This isn’t real. It cannot possibly be.

But when he opens his eyes again, he finds Geralt still looking at him, his hands twitching in his lap like they never did before. Jaskier wants to reach out and hold them. He can’t move, though, can only stare and let the tears roll down his cheeks as he tries to make sense of it all.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Geralt whispers then, swaying where he is. Swaying towards Jaskier, as though his body is yearning to touch. “I’m sorry I lost you. I’m sorry you thought you’d lost me. I’m— I just... I need you to know.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what to say, what to think, what to feel. But he knows what he wants to do, and it’s the one thing he has always wanted to do, the constant ache in his chest, the tingling in his arms to lean into Geralt and share his warmth surrounded by the comforting scent of leather and wood. And so, in the cover of darkness with only the stars as his witness, that’s what he does. He leans into Geralt slowly, ready to retreat at any moment and brush it off like he always has. The witcher doesn’t tense, though, doesn’t push him off or grunt in displeasure.

No. What he does is wrap his arm around Jaskier’s shoulder and hold him there like he only ever did in Jaskier’s dreams.

“You didn’t lose me,” Jaskier speaks then, barely audible because he doesn’t dare to interrupt the cover of silence that has settled over them. “I promise you didn’t. You can even ask the stars,” he adds with a little smile.

“The stars?”

“Hmm. They know. They’ve always known.”

Geralt swallows, and Jaskier can hear how his heart is beating a little faster in his chest. “Known what?”

Heart hammering, Jaskier takes a deep breath and lets it out on a wavering exhale. “That I love you, Geralt of Rivia. And that I always have and always will.”

There. There it is. The last shard of who he used to be, who he is and who he could be. The last piece of his heart that he had a strong hold on, now given away and given freely, resting inside the cradle of Geralt’s hands. It should hurt. Jaskier had always imagined it would hurt when he’d finally tell Geralt, had imagined it would be yelled instead of whispered. Had imagined the air would shift and he would suffocate, a stone-faced Geralt the last thing he’d see before he died a broken-hearted man.

Instead, he feels the careful press of lips to the crown of his head before Geralt tentatively takes a hold of his hand, cradling it as gently as his heart.

“If the stars already bore witness to your story, let them hear a part of mine, hm? The part where I tell you that…” he swallows, and Jaskier holds his breath. “That I think I love you, too. That I miss you. And that I need you.”

And then, miraculously, it is Jaskier who pulls back first. He doesn’t leave the embrace, only sits back and stares at Geralt for the first time tonight. For the first time in what feels like years. He’s still crying, but a hand comes up to his face and wipes away the tears before resting there in a gentle hold. It’s warm and Jaskier can’t help the way he leans into the touch, earning another smile from Geralt.

Time is suspended in the way they look at each other, and Jaskier’s breath hitches when Geralt’s thumb gently strokes his cheek. Breathing becomes difficult in the most wonderful way.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs, swaying closer again. “Can I—“

“Yes,” Jaskier breathes, leaning into Geralt and letting the man claim his lips in a gentle kiss. Hands find their way into his hair as though Geralt means to hold him in place, afraid that Jaskier would leave him.

Neither of them have any more words to share with the stars, but Geralt trails kisses over Jaskier’s face, kissing away the frozen tracks of tears on his cheeks until Jaskier’s own hands find their way into Geralt’s hair, stilling him so he can press a kiss to his forehead. One to his nose. One to the dimple in his chin, and finally one to his smiling lips.

The next time he looks up at the twinkling lights above them, he could swear they’re brighter than they ever were before. And maybe they are, because it’s the first time they can see Geralt holding him like that. Jaskier doesn’t care to examine that, though, because now he can just close his eyes and breathe in the familiar scent of the man he loves so much. And that’s exactly what he does.

Neither of them bears witness to the shooting star that illuminates the night sky above.

tagging: @wherethewordsare @natilieal @meebles @luteandsword @horsedadgeralt @herostag @professorjaskier @toboldlynerd

#geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geraskiersource #the witcher netflix #the witcher season 2 #nat writes #look another thing i live wrote in the discord :D

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dykejaskier · 2 years

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And you'll strew some sage and lilies and roses where I rot Of all the flowers you picked, I knew you would forget Forget-me-nots

The Amazing Devil – Elsa’s Song

#the witcher #witcheredit #geraskier #geraskiersource #geralt x jaskier #userwild #userbaz #useravia #mine*#mine: gifs #tv: the witcher #s: and yet here we are #category: television #me? sad? yeah #also has this been done before yea probably but

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samstree · 2 years

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Keeper of Hearts

Destiny has one more surprise for Geralt after all these years, involving Jaskier of all people. It comes in the form of a soulbond and well-hidden heartache from the past.

Written for Geraskier Secret Santa 2021. A gift for @demisexualgeralt. 🎄

(5.3k, rated t, prompts: soulmates, cozying up by the fire)

Beta'd by @curls-cat. Also on AO3.

It starts as a throbbing pain in Geralt’s ankle.

He frowns, looking down to see his feet planted to the solid ground of Oxenfurt’s street, the cobblestone covered in snow. There’s nothing wrong with his foot, no injury flaring up, no spraining on the slippery stairs. There shouldn’t be pain. At least, not on him.

It explodes all of a sudden.

“F—” the curse is cut off by what feels like fire licking up every inch of his skin—no, not fire. It burns, but it’s different.

It feels like…ice.

It washes over him from head to toe before gathering in his lungs. A thousand needles prickle his skin, sending him to his knees. Air is trapped in his chest, his vision darkening from the lack of oxygen. It’s almost like—

Like he’s drowning in freezing water.

Geralt clutches at his throat with fingers that he can no longer feel, his face somehow landing in the snow. He can’t breathe. All his limbs grow numb. Everything is what he’s supposed to feel if he’s actually drowning in some wild lake in the middle of winter.

But it leaves just as quickly.

Within one heartbeat and the next, the pressure eases, and Geralt lets out a choked breath and coughs into his fist. The numbness remains all over his body, sending another shiver down his spine, but he’s not drowning anymore. He stays on the ground for another moment.

“Are you okay, Sir Witcher?” a sweet voice asks from above, and Geralt looks up to see one of Jaskier’s students—Dalia, the girl whose hair cannot be tamed. She’s the one always smiling and calling Geralt ‘sir,’ a diligent pupil and Jaskier’s favorite, not that he should ever admit having those.

“Dalia, ah, yes. I’m fine,” Geralt lies, still huffing and puffing. To be fair, he doesn’t understand what happened yet. He’s never had phantom pain like—

“It’s soul pain, isn’t it?” she asks, before the concern in her eyes turns into horror. “Oh! Professor Pankratz! He must be hurt! But where is he? We must find him now!”

Geralt stares at her round eyes for a second before his brain catches up. “What are you—” he scrambles up from the ground despite his feet still feeling like someone else’s. “It’s not soul pain. I don’t have—Jaskier is not my soulmate.”

Her frown doesn’t ease. “Okay, sorry. I thought…”

Geralt knows what she thought, what most people they meet in Oxenfurt think these days. It’s already unusual for a bard to travel with a witcher for nearly three decades, let alone inviting him to winter together in the faculty quarters for so many years. This time, Jaskier didn’t even bother booking him another room because they always end up in the same place after a week or two. Save me the money, dear witcher, he said at the end of the fall. Wasting a bed in this economy should be a crime.

But no, despite what Dalia assumed, they are not together. He and Jaskier are most definitely not soulmates.

Witchers don’t get them. The trials have made sure they are not among those lucky ones—or, as Vesemir once put it, unfortunate sods—who have to burden an innocent person with all the shared pains and hurts and sorrows. It’s just the way it is, they simply don’t get soulmates.

They don’t.

…Right?

Geralt looks down at his hands, where the tingling remains deep in his bones. Soul pain? Could it be?

Just like too many of Geralt’s problems, the answer comes when Jaskier rounds the corner, letting out every curse under the sky. He is half-carried by Essi and Valdo on each side. Their little group is loud, as one that is purely made of bards is expected to be, with indistinguishable yells and orders exploding among the three of them. Dalia turns to the noise at the same time as Geralt, but there’s no way a human’s eyes can catch the state Jaskier is in as quickly as a witcher.

Jaskier is dripping wet.

Two large overcoats are wrapped around his shoulders, and the curls on his forehead are stuck to his skin. There’s snow in his hair—no, ice. The water is crystallizing in the wind. He’s also limping, one of his feet hovering awkwardly off the ground.

They are coming towards Geralt, or rather, the faculty building behind him. The three bards are still arguing. Even Jaskier’s chattering teeth can’t stop him.

“No, Essi, it w—wasn’t your fault! I will not accept your apology anymore! It was Valdo’s—don’t you hey me! You shoved me into the lake!”

“The ice should have settled!”

“You conspired to kill me! First, you tripped me and broke my ankle. My livelihood! And then you tried to drown me! In this horrid weather, no less—” Jaskier breaks into a coughing fit, trapping a gurgling noise in his lungs, the fit making him tip forward, just in time to land on his injured foot. “Shit,” he heaves out a labored breath, his voice now hoarser and deeper, “that hurt.”

Pain shoots up Geralt’s leg, exactly where Jaskier jostled it.

“Our livelihood is the voice, Julian. If your feet are somehow included, you are singing the wrong way.”

“How dare you! You know you’ll never beat me on the dance floor—oh.” Jaskier’s shouting cuts off when he notices Geralt standing right in front of him, his eyes widening like a cat seeing his favorite person, the steaming rage in his voice immediately gone, leaving only softness. “Geralt, hey.”

Jaskier drags Essi and Valdo to a halt, his foot setting down gently. For a moment, surprise knits his brows together. His hands drop to the sides of the other two bards, his fingers red in the cold air. It looks like it hurts. Geralt knows it hurts. The wind shifts, ruffling the wet hair at Jaskier’s eyes, cutting into his still-damp skin like a sharp blade. Geralt feels every bit of the tingling.

He doesn’t know what face he’s making, only that whatever Jaskier is seeing can’t be good, because that familiar worried look is creeping up on the bard’s frown. He stares at Jaskier still, his Jaskier for the past thirty years, and tries to find the answer in those beautiful blue eyes.

Instead, Jaskier finds it first. Like a lightning strike, splitting open the cloudless sky.

Despite the paleness already overtaking his features, Jaskier blanches.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, Geralt, no. I—I can explain…”

Jaskier shudders, losing his balance, almost taking Essi down with him. Geralt snaps out of a trance and suddenly he’s seeing signs of shock all over Jaskier. He’s shivering under those thick cloaks, his lips turning blue and his heart fluttering dangerously. The babbling is the worst; Geralt should have realized. The bard has a habit of distracting himself from all sorts of hurt by rambling on and on, until he stops.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks but there’s no answer. Jaskier is shaking all over, looking like he’s only seconds away from passing out. “Shit.” With two long strides, Geralt is at Jaskier’s side and taking all his weight from Essi. “Here. Let me.”

“Geralt, I—it’s not like that…” Jaskier struggles.

“Later.” He lifts Jaskier off the ground in one swift motion, and the ache in Geralt’s ankle eases immediately. “Get you warmed up first.”

Jaskier trembles again, clinging to Geralt’s neck. Gods, his hands are like ice blocks. He nods to Dalia, who is looking even more confused, but Geralt doesn’t have the time for it. He sets out for the well-lit building where their bedroom is. Essi keeps a hand on Jaskier’s arm the entire way and squeezes from time to time, only breaking contact when they reach the stairs. Valdo and Jaskier have also ceased their jabs, a rare bliss.

“Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier sighs with relief when Geralt nudges open the door. The fire is still burning, so Geralt prioritizes setting Jaskier down on a chair and stripping him of those wet clothes. His ankle has only swelled a little, not broken. It can wait a bit.

“Could you get us a bath? Cold water is fine,” Geralt acknowledges the other bards. Valdo is already on his way out, but Essi looks like she’s on the verge of tears.

“Hey, poppet. Come here.” Jaskier stills Geralt’s fingers on the ties of his doublet and reaches out for Essi, and she takes his hand. “It wasn’t your fault. We were all just fooling around.”

“I shouldn’t have started it.”

“Nonsense. You can always start snowball fights with me.” Jaskier winks, but his eyes are drooping with exhaustion. “It was all Valdo.” He lowers his voice. “And, perhaps, a little bit of me.”

“I heard that,” Valdo says off-handedly, bringing in the second bucket of water.

Geralt would shake his head in bemusement if worry wasn’t still a bitter lump in his throat. Jaskier loves his two friends too differently. He’ll never understand the three of them.

Essi kisses Jaskier on the forehead and leaves him be. The bath is filled fairly quickly as Geralt continues to remove Jaskier’s clothes down to his undershirt. The bard almost dozes off at one point, but Geralt nudges him with a gentle hand.

“Jask? Stay awake for me?” he asks softly, before turning to heat the bath with Igni. Steam fills the room, and Jaskier smiles at his friends tiredly. At least his heart is slowing to normal.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, voice small. “Yes, even you, Marx.”

“I’d be more worried about myself, Pankratz.” Valdo throws Geralt a meaningful look. “Quite the mess you’ve made.”

Jaskier doesn’t reply. His eyes stare distantly as the door shuts, and Geralt gets to work. With how much Jaskier is flagging, it takes more time to get him out of the last shirt and his small things.

“This might sting,” Geralt warns as he carefully helps Jaskier into the tub, the bard holding onto his forearms with a death grip. It does sting, Geralt notices, resisting to soothe the discomfort on his own skin while Jaskier flexes his fingers in the hot water.

Steam fills the room, and Jaskier melts into the warmth. Geralt has to rouse him again and then settle himself decidedly on the stool next to the tub, just in case.

“But I want to sleep,” Jaskier croaks, a few coughs bubbling up in his throat.

“Not yet. It’s dangerous,” Geralt says, a pang of fear rising at the memory of his chest burning. “There was water in your lungs. It could still get worse. We need to keep an eye on that.”

Jaskier’s eyes flicker to Geralt’s for a split second at the mention of his almost drowning. He doesn’t ask how Geralt knows.

“Alright,” Jaskier says softly, putting an arm on the edge of the bathtub and resting his cheek on it. “Keep an eye it is.”

They fall into a companionable silence. The water sloshes as Jaskier moves around, loosening his tense muscles and painting his skin pink. By the time he relaxes and has regained some energy, Geralt is leaning on the tub as well, observing Jaskier intently.

Soulmate.

Geralt turns the word over in his mind a few times, and yet he stays silent.

“Really?” Jaskier finally says. “You’re not going to ask?”

Geralt sighs. Anyone who’s spent a day with Jaskier will see how the bard wears his heart on his sleeves and simply assume he can never keep a secret. Geralt isn’t anyone. The bard has mastered the art of talking non-stop about everything while not revealing a grain of truth once he’s determined to hide it. Patience works on him though, just a bit of patience. “Do you want me to?” Geralt asks instead.

“No? I don’t know? Wait, yes.” Jaskier worries his lips. “I owe it to you, at least.”

“Okay.” Geralt nods. “Are we?”

Jaskier pauses. The ripples on the surface of the bathwater are suddenly the most interesting things in the world. He chases them with his fingers.

“We are.”

The admission seems to lift a weight off of Jaskier’s chest. He sags, the flush deepening on his face and chest.

“How?”

“How are we soulmates?” Jaskier blinks quizzically.

“No.” Geralt shakes his head gently. “How did I not know?”

“Oh. I—” Jaskier chuckles without humor. “Funny story. Okay, maybe not funny. In my defense, I sort of didn’t know…either? For a few years, at least. You see, this soulbond thing, it starts manifesting when you’re what, five? Six? My sister scraped her knee and our butler’s boy cried out on the other side of the estate. Mother and father were not pleased. A noble lady and a servant’s boy bonded together? How improper. So imagine when I started having soul pains almost every other day.”

Geralt’s blood runs cold. His stomach turns with nausea. “You were only five?”

“Five and a half, mind you,” Jaskier corrects him, as if that makes it any better. “The symptoms varied, nonsensical at first. There were signs of poisoning, blood loss, sometimes burns. No child can be injured this often. It was my mother who pieced it together. A witcher, of course.”

Geralt rests his hand on the edge of the tub, hoping Jaskier might close the scant inches between them and take it. He doesn’t.

“They had to fix it. She did some digging and found a mage in Oxenfurt. He brewed a potion, one that was rumored to block one’s soulbond. It worked, temporarily, at least. For a day or two, I wouldn’t feel it.”

A potion to fix one’s soulbond. It sounds like something out of a storybook, a perfect setup for a tragedy. But again, a soulbond itself has never seemed less of a fairytale to Geralt.

“I thought it was a myth.”

“Not a myth if you know the right people.” Jaskier winces. “Or are a noble. Or have enough money.”

Geralt frowns. “And you’ve been taking it ever since?”

“I had to, so they could pretend my bond never appeared. Also, I need it just to…um, to…”

Jaskier trails off, but Geralt finishes it for him.

“To grow up.” The idea doesn’t become less horrible, Jaskier as a child and writhing with pain that is near unbearable even for a witcher. “To live. You couldn’t have otherwise.”

Geralt tries to do the math, find out what year it was, which contracts he took when Jaskier was five. It all blurs together, all the blood and sweat and scars that fade into one another. He cannot identify when he hurt Jaskier inadvertently just by existing, or by how long and how deeply, only that he did.

“And you don’t feel anything with the potion, right?” Geralt asks tentatively. “It helps?”

“More or less. It reduces all the pains to a dull ache, so I won’t notice most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

Jaskier smiles sadly. “That’s how I learned. For so long I took the potion religiously to the point of forgetting about the matter altogether. It wasn’t until the striga. It was just an ordinary morning, and I’d taken the potion the night before. But…when dawn broke that day, I woke up with the worst pain I’d ever felt in my neck. I could sense it, deep in my bones, that my soulmate was close to dying. The potion failed, all the other painkillers too. The fever burned for days and I was past delirious when Valdo and Essi found me.”

“They know,” Geralt muses, “of course.”

“They guessed. Especially after news arrived about the protests in Vizima, the witcher who died and the other gravely injured—the White Wolf. Who else, Valdo said, trouble with you is always trouble with that witcher. I think he hated you for a while after. I…I denied it still, until I couldn’t”

“You came to Ellander.” Geralt thinks back on that day, the joy between the two of them upon their reunion. “You were so happy to see me.”

“My dear, you were okay. Of course I was happy to see you.” Jaskier smiles, moving towards Geralt and reaching for the bite mark above his collarbone. The warmth seeps into the faint scar at Geralt’s neck, and drops of water run down his chest. “There you were, hurting right where I was hurting.”

Their gazes meet through the steam. Geralt touches the scar too, catching Jaskier’s hand and feeling how soft and warm the bard is. The old fear is a familiar thing, hiding in the lines around Jaskier’s eyes. He’s endured more fearful nights than one should in a lifetime.

Geralt, more than anything, wishes to erase those fears.

He opens Jaskier’s palm and places a tiny kiss in it, taking the bard by surprise, and then gently puts both of their hands down. “I’m right here, Jask.”

“You are,” Jaskier repeats like he can’t quite believe it. Like a prayer. “You are still here.”

The surprise in Jaskier’s tone is a confusing thing, but Geralt lets it slide.

He clears his throat and breaks the moment, getting up to retrieve a bar of soap. Washing Jaskier’s hair is easy when Geralt already knows the motion by heart. He even scratches behind Jaskier’s ears the way he likes and gets a contented sigh in return. The bard dunks his head underwater and emerges to shake off the droplets like a wet dog.

“Come on,” Geralt says, splashing at Jaskier’s face. “Get yourself dry so we can rest a bit.”

“Together?”

“How else would you stay down?”

Jaskier beams, ready to stand up but forgetting about the sprained foot. The careless motion makes them both wince, but at least Jaskier looks contrite. “Sorry about that.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt takes Jaskier’s damp hands and guides him out of the tub before fishing out fresh tunics and a large towel from the closet. Jaskier takes them and begins drying himself, his ankle no longer hurting as much, thankfully.

“Bed?” Geralt asks.

“By the fire?” Jaskier gestures to the thick fur rug and the crackling fire. “It’s warmer.”

Geralt just shrugs and retrieves the blankets and bandages and the one hundred pillows the bard has collected over the years. Jaskier soon puts on his clean clothes, before limping to the spot in front of the fire and plopping down amongst the pillows, his hair a damp mess.

Kneeling in the sea of pillows, Geralt places Jaskier’s injured foot on his lap and starts wrapping it. They only need the bandage for a bit of support in the next few days as it heals.

“Any pain?” The process is careful, but Geralt still soothes the delicate skin at Jaskier’s ankle a little, making sure he’s relaxed.

“You know there isn’t.”

Jaskier arranges the pillows for them to lie down side to side, patting the one next to him. Geralt joins gladly. He’s had Jaskier close every day for the whole season, and the past few winters, but somehow, there’s a newness in the way their bodies press against each other. With a pensive hum, he turns and props himself up on an elbow.

“Ellander was twenty-seven years ago,” Geralt states and watches as Jaskier’s eyes become round like bells.

“Holy—has it really been that long?” Jaskier stares up at Geralt, huffing unbelievingly. “It feels like yesterday that I met you in that horrible, horrible tavern.”

“That was exactly thirty years ago. That’s how time works, Jask.” A strand of hair is getting close to the bard’s eyes, so Geralt brushes it away, revealing silver streaks that are growing more obvious each day. “So you’ve known for a while.”

“I guess you can say that.”

“You see what my next question is?”

Jaskier shifts, pulling more pillows under him and propping himself up as well, his posture mirroring Geralt so they’re face to face. There’s a weariness in the way he looks at Geralt. He’s been shouldering this weight for too long.

“I never told you because.” He shrugs. “You’d leave.”

It comes out like Jaskier is simply stating the weather, like he believes it just as the sun rising in the morning. It makes Geralt’s blood boil, a wave of nameless anger gathering in the pit of his stomach. Not at Jaskier, never at Jaskier. He’s angry with himself for putting that kind of doubt there.

As if he’d abandon their friendship for something that already hurts Jaskier.

Geralt is ready to argue, to defend his heart. “I wouldn’t—"

“It’s not that I never tried,” but Jaskier cuts him off, heedless of the silent battle between Geralt and his past self. “I wanted to bring it up a few times, but it just seemed the longer we knew each other, the more awkward it’d be. Next thing I knew, Cintra happened, and then the djinn. You—” Jaskier lowers his gaze to the laces at Geralt’s shirt. “You don’t have a good track record when it comes to destiny or fate or having people shoved into your life. You’d have reacted poorly, darling.”

“I don’t… react poorly.” Geralt protests, but one word catches his attention. “Wait, no. You’re not shoved into my life, Jaskier. It’s not because of what I said?”

“What, no—of course not!” Jaskier frowns, swatting at Geralt’s chest. “It wasn’t. I realized you didn’t mean any of it on the very same mountain. Stop brooding over this again or I will be cross with you!”

Geralt’s shoulders sag a little. His lips purse into a line, and then, a slight upturn. “Wouldn’t dare.”

“Good.” Jaskier continues. “And there’s the other lie. Don’t react poorly, he said. Geralt, you are the bravest man I know, but we both know you’d have run screaming.”

“I don’t scream, either.” He sends the bard a look.

“Okay, not that part, perhaps. But admit you’d have every urge to bolt, and maybe I’d be the one screaming your name around the continent, looking hopelessly for my soulmate who abandoned me with the coldest heart.”

Despite everything, the image makes Geralt rumble a laugh, and Jaskier giggles to himself too.

“So you just kept it to yourself, all this time.” Geralt huffs, bopping Jaskier on the forehead. “Can’t decide if I should be impressed.”

“I can keep a secret,” Jaskier feigns offense, and then more quietly, “you’d be surprised.”

Silence hangs in the air, broken only by the crackling of the dying embers. The temperature is dropping already, so Geralt pulls up one of the blankets to cover Jaskier’s legs and midriff, tucking it in absently.

“Tell me one?”

Blue eyes light up. “If you promise to tell me one in return.”

“Deal.”

The gentle upturn of Geralt’s lips is encouragement enough, and Jaskier shifts down to rest his head on the pillow, his hair mussed against the velveteen surface. He looks as if he’s going to melt under Geralt’s gaze, the way he keeps nuzzling closer. Geralt can’t help leaning in as well until the curtain of his silver hair touches Jaskier’s chin.

He watches Jaskier from above, waiting.

“I sometimes went off the potion,” Jaskier admits, “when we were apart.”

Geralt stills, his smile frozen.

“What? That is so stupi—”

“Don’t, Geralt. I know you want to get all grumpy on me. Just…don’t. It hurt, yes, but you were okay in the end. Always.” Jaskier’s soft look remains, his hand now resting on Geralt’s hip, keeping him in place. “And I could know, when a wound stopped hurting, when the pain eased. No—don’t argue with me. I don’t regret it, if it meant I was allowed to know. I have not regretted a single moment by your side, least of all this.”

Jaskier’s chest heaves, his eyes gleaming in the gentle firelight. In return, Geralt’s chest constricts with a million things he doesn’t dare to voice. He settles on the touch of Jaskier’s hand against his waist, a grounding point, an anchor.

“And you give me all those lectures about unnecessary suffering,” Geralt finally says, shaking his head, not knowing what to do with Jaskier. He’s never known anyway.

“It wasn’t suffering if it meant you had a choice.” Jaskier is ready to sit up, but his body is kept in place with how close they are. He sighs, resigned to his cocoon of blankets and pillows. “Geralt, you already get too few of them. I wouldn’t know how to stay if I was just another person destiny forced on you—yes, the other two worked out okay in the end and Ciri and Yennefer are the best things to ever happen to you—but I want to be a choice you make. I need to be, because you deserve to choose for yourself. Gods, it should be easy. Everyone has it easy, and yet…”

Jaskier closes his eyes and lets out an exhale, disquiet clear in the way his breath shudders. He’s angry too, the same way Geralt has been for almost his entire life.

Almost.

He hasn’t been angry with destiny for years.

Everyone has it easy, the choice of who to love, who to keep, who to become.

And yet, here they are.

“Hey.” Geralt tilts Jaskier’s chin up so blue eyes meet him, a human’s pulse thrumming under his fingertips. He deserves to choose, yes, and he has. Jaskier shouldn’t doubt it. “My turn.”

“Hmm?”

“A secret,” he reminds Jaskier.

“Oh.”

Geralt runs his palm down Jaskier’s bicep, reaching his elbow. He never gave much thought as to how Jaskier knows when his injuries flare up when the seasons change. He just accepted that Jaskier would be there to press a hot towel to his aching joints and murmur soft words in the quiet darkness until it passed. How has he been so blind?

There’s always been more, soulbond or not.

He’s chosen to love Jaskier so many times.

And loving Jaskier makes him brave.

“I love you,” Geralt says, and the words barely carry any weight. Strange. They’re such big words, after all. “That’s my secret.”

Something inexplicable flashes across Jaskier’s eyes, something akin to hope, equally fragile and powerful.

“If you’re saying this because I’m your soulmate—”

“Soulmate or not,” Geralt interrupts. “You. It’s just you. It has nothing to do with a soulbond, or destiny, or whatever magic has made my life into. I choose you, Jaskier, and I love you.”

The fire dies with a whimper, and they are left with nothing but the plain truth. Geralt has never expected to trust a person with his heart like this, but he’s proved wrong again. Here Jaskier is, hurting quietly for three decades just so destiny has one less tie on him.

His trust must shine through, because Jaskier seems lighter now, and the hope in his eyes grows and grows. “Not because of today? Not destiny?”

“I chose long ago. Jaskier, don’t you see?”

The life they’ve made, the quiet companionship by the fire, the silly conversations at night, it’s all a choice.

“And you love me.”

“I do.”

Geralt would say it as many times as Jaskier needs, but three seems enough for the moment. He rests his head on another pillow so their foreheads nearly touch. Jaskier closes the distance, his soft hair brushing Geralt’s brows.

“And you are staying,” Jaskier whispers. “You found out and you’re staying. Forgive me for not quite believing this day actually happened.”

“Hmm. Blame yourself for falling into a lake.”

“It was Valdo—you know what, it doesn’t matter. You are here. That’s more important than a hundred Valdo Marx combined.”

Jaskier’s voice turns drowsy, and he presses into Geralt’s warmth like a cat subtly scooching towards a sunbeam in the afternoon.

“Jask?” Geralt pulls away a little so their gazes meet. With Jaskier soft and affectionate and falling asleep beside him, it’s hard to be serious. He tries anyway. “Jask, I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything.” Jaskier answers, bleary-eyed and sincere. Love swells in Geralt’s chest anew.

“Promise me that you’ll keep taking that potion. No skipping it from now on.”

“Oh.” Blue eyes flutter open, more alert now. “Of course. As long as I take it, it’s like the bond doesn’t even exist. You don’t need to worry about it. There’s no magic to keep you. I won’t try to keep you.”

Geralt huffs a breath. It still amazes me how someone as smart as Jaskier can be so daft.

“That’s nice to hear, but I couldn’t care less about the soulbond. I’m right where I belong.” With Jaskier, their limbs tangling under the covers. “I need you to take the potion so I won’t hurt you again.”

“You don’t hurt me.” Jaskier pouts, offended somehow.

Geralt winces. “I’ve done it enough, being a witcher, being me. I can’t change the path or the monsters, and if our soulbond causes you more harm, I don’t know how I’ll—Just promise me. Just this one thing, please.”

Jaskier stares at him for a moment, probably surprised at the rarity that is Geralt begging, and he relents. “Fine, I promise. But I don’t appreciate the self-blaming party going on in your head. You should have learned better, darling. Or do I need to repeat the lesson for you?”

Geralt chuckles, not wanting to be on the receiving end of that disappointed look Jaskier has mastered with his students. Professor Pankratz is known to be firm but fair, but a dressing-down from him is no joke. “Yes, sir,” Geralt answers seriously, “and thank you.”

“It’s not a hardship. It smells nice too. Like celandine.”

Oh. Like Jaskier.

Like herbs and spring and everything good in life.

“Okay,” Geralt says. “There could be monsters in Oxenfurt for all we know.”

“No, there isn’t. You are safe here.” Jaskier hums an amused sound before yawning. “This is where you rest, you know? Nothing hurts in the winter.”

“Well, you made sure of it.”

Geralt thinks back on the many winters they spent together. Whether it’s Kaer Morhen or here, Jaskier has always insisted on getting Geralt rested and well-fed. There’s a small patch of burnt wall in Vesemir’s kitchen as proof. The academy is no different—the smiling faces that greet Geralt everywhere, the nosy students who call him “Professor Pankratz’s witcher husband” behind their backs. That’s all Jaskier.

He’s safe here, and Jaskier trusts him to be safe. There’s no soul pain to be shared if it wasn’t for an untimely snowball fight.

Geralt huffs a snort and arranges his arm so Jaskier can rest his head more comfortably on his shoulder. The bard’s breathing is evening out, slowed down by the weight of tiredness.

“Sleep.” Geralt murmurs, his nose buried in Jaskier’s damp curls, the clean scent of his bard a soothing balm for his nerves.

“Am I allowed now?”

“Mm-hmm.”

It’s not like Geralt is going anywhere.

“One more secret for you,” Jaskier whispers, the words almost lost in the quietness of the room. “Just for you.”

“Tell me?”

Even though he’s already heard.

“I love you too.” Soft lips press against the corner of Geralt’s mouth. A smile dances between them. “And I choose you too.”

With that, Jaskier drifts off to peaceful sleep, his chest rising and falling steadily. Geralt stays there, arms wrapped around him, not quite wanting to move. He probably never wants to move anywhere again when Jaskier is right here.

So Geralt dreams in broad daylight. He dreams of what they will become, what Jaskier can still become. The idea keeps him awake, giddy even.

Because Jaskier is already so many things to him: bard, poet, friend, travel companion, defender of his name, and, more often than not, source of his headache.

Also, the reason for his laughter.

The light in his sorrows.

The keeper of his heart.

And now—his soulmate, linked by destiny.

Although, of all the roles Jaskier has taken up, Geralt decides, the last one is the least important of them all.

~~~

In my head, they are both ace/demisexual in this story ;)

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod @kuripon @holymotherwolf @theamazingdevilgivesmehope

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #geraskierss #geraskiersource #soulmate #shared pain #fluff and angst #hurt/comfort #jaskier whump #hurt jaskier #hypothermia #softness #cuddling #love confession #the most time is spent on picking the header #and now i feel fancy ✨

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dont-touch-the-phlebotinum · 3 years

Text

wēijī / 危機 (chinese, n.) - crisis or critical moment; the idea that there can be a positive result in a wisely handled risk

geralt/jaskier, rated M for smut. prompt from this post

Geraskier alphabet masterpost | Ao3

Half-asleep and still in that in-between stage where dreams linger and reality hasn't yet fully solidified, Geralt rolls onto his side. He's not sure why he reaches out, but when his hand meets nothing he opens his eyes, looking around the camp with a frown. It's just him and Roach; no sign of Jaskier.

Geralt sits up.

As he listens he can hear the faint sounds of lute strings drifting on the breeze and he follows it, climbing the solitary hill that disrupts the vast, flat landscape. There's an old ruin crumbling atop it, so timeworn it's impossible to tell what it had once been, and Jaskier sits against the weathered remains of its walls, gazing up at the sky as he plucks a mournful tune. He doesn't react when Geralt comes to sit beside him.

"The stars are never this bright in Lettenhove," he says after a quiet moment has stretched between them.

Geralt doesn't know what to say to that, so he sits, waiting for Jaskier to fill the silence again.

Finally Jaskier sets his lute down and turns his attention to the ruins behind them, the moonlight deepening every crag and shadow. His fingers trail over the ancient patterns carved into the stone. "What do you think happened here?" he says.

"Doesn't matter now."

"You aren't even a little curious?"

Geralt shrugs. "Villages die out. Buildings crumble." He thinks back to the words Vesemir had said to him once, when Geralt was young. Everything returns to the earth.

Jaskier looks back at him strangely. "That's really how it all is to you, isn't it?" he says. He presses a hand to the old stone again. "Humans come and go all around you, yet you remain unchanged. The things we care about, the things we strive for; you must wonder what the point is of any of it."

There's something in his tone, an undercurrent of sadness that brings a frown to Geralt's face. He watches as Jaskier drops his hand and turns his gaze back up to the stars. The maudlin air that has been clinging to him for much of the evening is strong enough now that Geralt can practically smell it.

But, Geralt realises as he thinks back, perhaps this storm has been brewing for longer than a few hours. Jaskier has been uncharacteristically quiet since they left Ghelibol days ago. Geralt was too busy enjoying his newfound peace to question if something was wrong.

"What is it?" Geralt says now.

Jaskier sighs and pulls out a letter from within his doublet, the pages worn at the creases as if it has been opened and refolded a dozen times. "My father has found me a wife," he says. "Since I have proven so incapable of sourcing my own. I'm to return to Lettenhove at my earliest convenience so the wedding arrangements can proceed."

"This isn't the first time your father has tried to call you back to Lettenhove."

"No," says Jaskier. He turns the folded letter over and over between his delicate fingers. "But it's one thing to abandon my duties to go gallivanting across the Continent at eighteen, and quite another to do so well into my thirties."

They're the words of Jaskier's father, but still Geralt feels the cold prickle of dread at the nape of his neck, the sinking sensation in his stomach. Jaskier's usual response to word from Lettenhove is to simply toss the letter onto the nearest fire with a laugh or a curse. He doesn't keep it tucked against his breast for days afterwards.

"Are you going to go?" says Geralt, but he doesn't think he wants to hear the answer.

"Is there really anything to keep me here?"

"Isn't there?"

Jaskier looks back at Geralt again then, the fond smile on his face unable to hide the sadness in his eyes. "I know how it is between us, Geralt," he says. "I've spent almost half my life traipsing after you on the Path. My world is indelibly changed for knowing you. Yet for you…" He swallows something back and sighs again. "How could I ever be anything but a fleeting distraction? You probably won't even remember my name once I'm gone."

He doesn't sound accusatory, or angry. There's just an awful kind of acceptance in his voice that hurts as if he's plunged a hand into Geralt's chest and squeezed. It couldn't be further from the truth, the idea that Geralt could just forget him, just go on with his long life as if Jaskier had never made an impact on it. But Geralt doesn't have the words to convince Jaskier of everything he is to him.

Something aches deep inside him at the thought of Jaskier walking away and Geralt being powerless to stop him.

Jaskier is still clutching the letter in his hands. Yet if he was sure leaving was the right thing to do he'd be gone already. Which means Geralt still has a chance.

"I don't want you to be," says Geralt.

"A distraction?"

"Fleeting."

Ignoring the familiar, cowardly voice screaming at him not to, Geralt leans forward to close the distance between them, and presses his mouth to Jaskier's. Jaskier stills against him – out of surprise or revulsion, Geralt doesn't know, but what does he have to lose? Jaskier choosing to leave is already the worst thing that could happen tonight.

And if this is their last night together, at least Geralt will have the taste of Jaskier's lips to remember him by.

"You, ah–" Jaskier stammers once Geralt pulls away again. His cheeks are flushed pink. He licks his darkened lips. "Huh."

"Stay," says Geralt. His hand is still cupping Jaskier's cheek, the warmth of Jaskier's skin lighting a fire within Geralt's veins. "Stay with me."

Jaskier meets his eyes, and slowly a grin stretches across his face. "Kiss me again," he says.

Gladly. Geralt pulls Jaskier towards him and this time Jaskier is ready, responding eagerly to each press of Geralt's tongue, each teasing graze of his teeth against Jaskier's lower lip, his hands working their way into Geralt's hair and holding him close until they've both had their fill of one another.

"I've wanted to do that for a while," admits Geralt as he and Jaskier take a moment to catch their breaths, and Jaskier smiles up at him again. It's some effort not to lean in and steal another kiss.

"How long?"

"I'm not sure when it started," he says. Jaskier's fingertips trail over his skin and Geralt presses into the touch. "But do you remember the alp contract on the outskirts of Beauclair? We were there during Belleteyn. As I came back to town you were joining in with the celebrations, dancing with some of the local girls. You had flowers tucked into your hair and looked like you'd never had so much fun in your life. I wanted to kiss the stupid grin right off your face. That was the first time I realised."

There's a strange look on Jaskier's face when Geralt finishes. "Geralt," he says, "that was four years ago."

"So?"

"So you've made me wait, you bastard." He's laughing as he says it, though, and Geralt grins when Jaskier pulls him in for another hungry kiss.

They sink down onto the grass together. It's clumsy and frantic, hands slipping under each other's clothes to brush against whatever skin they can reach, their bodies rocking together with years of pent up need. Geralt's lips leave Jaskier's only to trail across his cheek; down his neck; over his chest. They don't even bother to properly undress.

When Geralt comes beneath Jaskier's talented hand, he gasps his pleasure into the warmth of Jaskier's skin.

Afterwards, they lie beside one another gazing up at the stars, the only sound now the insects and the gradually slowing beating of Jaskier's heart. He shifts onto his elbow to gaze down at Geralt through dark, lidded eyes. His hair is still delightfully mussed from Geralt's fingers and his unlaced shirt has slipped off his shoulder. Geralt traces his fingers along the pale skin, following the neckline of Jaskier's shirt and teasing it lower until he can brush his lips over Jaskier's exposed nipple.

Jaskier lets out a soft moan above him. "We have got so much time to make up for," he says.

Geralt hums against Jaskier's skin. He'll happily start right now. He rolls Jaskier back onto the ground and their bodies slot together once again.

The letter from Jaskier's father lies forgotten in the grass.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #the witcher fic #geraskiersource #geraskier alphabet #the witcher #my writing #otp: fuck off bard #ficlet

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horsedadgeralt · 2 years

Text

For @toss-a-coin-to-your-bard who sent me the video that inspired this 💕

Geralt leans back, the gentle breeze just the right kind of cool on his skin. The split bottle of wine, of which Jaskier has definitely had more than half, is making his head buzz in just the right way, and he feels content.

“You know what else isn’t illegal?”

There is a slight slur to Jaskier’s words that reveals that the wine is affecting him more than he’d like to admit, but Geralt can’t help but smile at the way his boyfriend’s cheek have gotten slightly redder with each sip.

“What?” Geralt answers, curious to find out where Jaskier is going with this.

“Bike locks.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bike locks!” Jaskier turns to him, eyes wide and holding onto his glass for dear life before continuing.

“There is no law that says you can’t put another bike lock on a bike,” Jaskier explains, getting more and more erratic with word to the point that Geralt scooches away just a bit in case his boyfriend spills his glass all over himself.

“Wait, seriously?” he asks, raising a curious eyebrow.

“And the fact that you can just buy them in the store,” Jaskier rambles on, ignoring Geralt’s question, “the havoc you could wreak with a dozen bike locks! Imagine the chaos!”

Geralt can’t supress a giggle and for a moment, the two of them are just looking at each other, laughing until one of them stops and then laughing some more, the wine clearly taking its toll.

“Julek,” Geralt begins, reaching for Jaskier’s hand, “promise you won’t buy a dozen bikelocks just to test your theory. I don’t want you going to jail for this.”

“They’d have to catch me first!” Jaskier retorts back, sticking out his tongue at Geralt’s raised eyebrow.

“Fine,” he eventually agrees, “but you’re no fun!”

“How about,” Geralt says as he leans over and takes Jaskier’s glass out of his hand, “I keep you occupied some other way?” He doesn’t kiss Jaskier, letting his lips just barely ghost over instead, and already Geralt can feel him lean toward him.

For a moment, Jaskier contemplates his options. Then, he moves so quickly that it’s Geralt who nearly spills wine , because suddenly Jaskier is in his lap, legs splayed on either side of his hips and kissing his way down the Witcher’s neck.

“I’ve got several other theories I have yet to test...” Jaskier whispers, and Geralt groans in response.

“I know quite a few uses for a bike lock myself...”

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #the witcher fic #geraskiersource #kathi writes #tags pls work this tome #time #sbsjdj i am TIPSY pls let me havw this

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aramblingjay · 1 year

Text

And when it's hard (I'll place your head into my hands) Established Geraskier, hurt/comfort, modern AU (1K)

Geralt has a bad night. Jaskier helps.

ao3

Geralt calls him at three in the morning, and Jaskier picks up before he’s even fully awake, heart hammering in his chest.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, dread crawling up his spine.

“Need you here,” rasps the voice on the other side. It’s Geralt but also not Geralt, small and shaky and hollowed-out.

Jaskier gives himself fifteen seconds to throw on clothes, and then he runs.

Geralt opens the door looking like a shell of himself.

A thousand questions clamor in Jaskier’s throat, but he swallows them all away at the watery shine in Geralt’s eyes—he hasn’t seen him cry in years, and this is the closest he’s looked in about that long. What Geralt needs right now isn’t to be bombarded.

“Can I come in?” he asks instead, even though they haven’t needed that kind of formality in forever. He hopes it’ll help, in some way, letting Geralt have control over what’s happening.

Geralt nods. He doesn’t like to speak too much on a good day, and today is not a good day. If Geralt makes a single sound tonight that isn’t a grunt, it’ll be a surprise.

Jaskier doesn’t mind. They have many ways of understanding each other.

“Ciri?” he asks, half expecting to see the little rugrat emerge from behind one of Geralt’s legs at the mere mention of her name, even though it’s hours past her bedtime. She’s Geralt’s shadow in every way, and Geralt indulges her like he would no one else.

But Geralt shakes his head and points upward with his index finger, indicating she’s already in bed.

Oh, thank god. Geralt wouldn’t want her to see him like this, but she won’t fall asleep unless he reads her a bedtime story—it’s a catch-22 that Jaskier is more than happy they get to avoid.

Satisfied there’s no imminent work required of him, Jaskier makes a beeline for the living room couch, sensing without having to be told that this isn’t a bedroom kind of conversation. He nearly smiles when he sees Roach already curled up on an armrest, her eyes tracking his every step. She has a sixth sense when it comes to Geralt, and he doubts she’s slept at all tonight.

The sounds of Geralt making tea filter in from the kitchen, and he settles into his usual spot. This is a familiar routine, Geralt disappearing into the kitchen when he needs a moment to calm himself. Jaskier just strokes a hand down Roach’s back, taking the fact that she’s in here with him instead of sitting right at Geralt’s feet as a good sign, and waits.

It doesn’t take long. Geralt comes in with two mugs of tea a few minutes later, one still steaming and the other clearly having cooled. Jaskier takes the latter from him with a nod of thanks, noticing the way Geralt sits on the opposite couch instead of beside him, the way Roach immediately perches herself on top of Geralt’s toes, the way Geralt’s eyes are no less glassy than they were when he opened the door.

Geralt takes a sip of tea. He’s using the mug Eskel bought him last year, Jaskier notes absently, a gleaming black emblazoned with the silhouette of a wolf. It’s easier to look at the mug than to look at Geralt’s face, at the pain so clearly written into every line.

“Darling,” he starts quietly, having learned from experience it’s better not to use Geralt’s name when he’s untethered like this, “how can I help?”

What’s wrong will come later. That involves words and emotions and complicated thoughts, giving a voice and a shape to the pain. Comfort is simpler.

Geralt shakes his head minutely in a way that Jaskier takes to mean I don’t know I just needed you here, which would elate him if he wasn’t too busy worrying Geralt might crumble into tiny pieces right before his eyes.

“Okay. That’s okay. Can I come over there?”

A nod, and Jaskier moves slowly, cautiously, to sit beside Geralt. It’s not that he’s worried Geralt would hurt him—never, he would never—and more that startling Geralt now might be what tips him over the edge, and Jaskier needs to be sure he’s ready to catch him before letting that happen.

“Will you lay down with me, darling?” he asks after several minutes. They’re close enough that he can feel Geralt’s warmth all over his right side, but no part of them is touching, and he wants to remedy that immediately.

Only if Geralt wants.

Geralt takes in a deep breath and lets it out. The shaky tremor on his exhale rattles in Jaskier’s chest like a bullet.

Then Geralt brings his hands up from his lap and signs, no bed.

“No bed, just here on the couch,” Jaskier agrees immediately.

Several seconds pass. Geralt nods again.

“Should I sign?” Jaskier asks, carefully forming the words with his hands as he says them. Sometimes sound is overwhelming too.

But Geralt is shaking his head even before he’s done, signing something back faster than Jaskier can interpret. He’s much more adept at signing since meeting Geralt, and getting better every day, but there’s still a difference to the speed Geralt normally uses with him versus with his family, and moments like this remind him why.

Want to hear your voice, Geralt signs again, slower this time, each word enunciated in a separate motion.

“Can I sing you something?”

Geralt shrugs, but his eyebrows furrow in a way that Jaskier understands.

“Alright. C’mere, darling.”

He pulls Geralt’s head into his lap, grateful as ever for their extra-long couch, and runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair. When Geralt lets out a low, quiet rumble, the one that means pleasure, Jaskier smiles and does it again.

“There you go. Thank you for letting me be here,” he murmurs, knowing Geralt will be able to hear him. “I’m glad you called me.”

Jaskier fully expects the grumble that follows, a disquieted protest that means everything from I’m sorry I bothered you to I don’t deserve this to all the other terrible things Geralt thinks about himself when there’s no one around to remind him otherwise. He fully expects it, but it breaks his heart anyway.

“Shh, none of that. It’s not a hardship to hold you, darling. You know I hate when you suffer alone.”

Geralt stays quiet, but one of his hands reaches out to grab Jaskier’s in a vice grip, and it’s more than answer enough.

“Not going anywhere,” Jaskier whispers, and begins to sing.

He cycles through the softest, gentlest melodies he can think of—lullabies his mother would hum after he had a bad nightmare, love songs so sappy he wrote them for an audience of one, snippets of poems whose only tune is the lilt of his voice—and cards his hand through Geralt’s hair in time to the rhythm. The minutes blur into hours, and eventually he looks down to see Geralt’s chest rising and falling in a slow, steady beat, his face soft and slack with sleep.

Tomorrow, when morning dawns, he will ask Geralt what happened, and Geralt will find the words, either with his voice or his hands. But in this moment, he closes his eyes, Geralt a comforting weight in his lap, and they sleep.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskiersource #geraskier fic #geralt of rivia #jaskier #*fic #*writing

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