#jaskier is endearing as fuck
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Having a crisis because i am usually extremely picky with my media and constantly think like a newspaper critic while consuming it, yet here I am, 3 episodes into the Witcher, thoroughly enjoying it despite EVERYTHING
#mom tells me the writing gets better tho#still. this shit is just straight up entertaining#Geralt parts are the weakest writing-wise but he's just so fucking endearing that i dont even care#HE TALKS TO HIS HORSE#I LOVE HIM#also jaskier is incredibly entertaining i dont care how bad the plot is ill watch it just for him
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For "Give me a twirl, honey." please 😌
Thank you very much for the prompt!! This was a delight to write. Many thanks to @wians for beta-ing! <3
Geraskier fluff, 2k. Also on AO3!
~
It all started at that damned ball.
Jaskier’s set was over. The other musicians were playing a slow, romantic song, as was appropriate for a duke and duchess’ anniversary. All the guests were finding their partners of choice and asking them to dance. Words like “darling,” “sweetheart,” “lovely,” and “sugarplum” floated around Jaskier as he slowly made his way through the crowd to Geralt.
A few weeks ago, he and Geralt finally confessed their feelings to each other. They had been trying to work out how to navigate this new phase of their relationship ever since. The evening was romantic. Suddenly, Jaskier wanted nothing more than to share as sappy a moment with Geralt as everyone else seemed to be having with their partners.
He found Geralt in the crowd and smiled brightly to mask his slight nerves. Geralt gave him a tiny, fond smile in return and handed him a glass of wine which Jaskier took with delight. After downing the glass, he gave Geralt a winning smile and gestured to the dance floor.
“Give me a twirl, honey?”
Geralt raised an eyebrow at him, frowning a little. “Honey?”
Jaskier shrugged, a little self-conscious. “I thought it sounded sweet. Your eyes look like honey sometimes.”
“No, they don’t.”
“How would you know that?”
“Honey is brown. My eyes are yellow.”
Jaskier gasped in mock outrage. “Honey isn’t brown!”
Geralt shrugged. “The name feels overused, anyway.”
“Fine.”
Geralt had been called far too many ugly names over the years. He deserved to be called sweet things by his lover. All Jaskier had to do was figure out the perfect endearment.
In other words: Project Pet Names was go.
~~~
“Hello, sweetling,” Jaskier said as he slid onto a log next to Geralt at their camp.
Geralt raised an eyebrow. Jaskier blushed a little. They fell into awkward silence.
~~~
“Pass me my notebook, darling,” Jaskier said in their shared room at the inn.
Geralt passed the notebook. He did not react to the name.
~~~
“There you are, my lovely!” Jaskier shouted from across a marketplace.
Geralt didn’t even notice he was being addressed.
“How on earth did you not realize I was talking to you?” Jaskier groused later.
“You call everyone things like that. It could have been a barmaid you had just met, for all I knew. Of course I didn’t know you were talking to me.”
Jaskier sighed, but he saw Geralt’s point.
This was going nowhere. His attempts so far were an obvious failure. He was starting to feel rather desperate.
He would just have to be more creative.
~~~
"Hey, Ger-bear!"
Geralt stared at him, unimpressed.
~~~
“How are you, sweet cheeks?”
Geralt’s stare was more bewildered this time. Jaskier wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
~~~
"What do you think, honey bunny?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
~~~
“Hello, my sweet witcher-muffin!”
“This is getting ridiculous.”
“I take it I shouldn’t try ‘my little cabbage,’ then?”
“Absolutely not.”
“How about snooky ookums?”
“I will leave you on this roadside and never return.”
“Yeah, yeah. I love you too.”
Geralt flicked his nose hard, and Jaskier lost the train of their conversation while sputtering loudly and subsequently having to catch up to Roach.
~~~
"I've been trying to think of things he likes," Jaskier explained miserably to the vaguely sympathetic barmaid while Geralt was off on a hunt. "Unfortunately, half of it has to do with monster hunting or other useless things and the other half I've already tried."
"What's his favorite monster?" asked the barmaid absently. "You could use that."
"I might try."
~~~
"Well, if it isn't my very favorite-easily lopped head of a drowner for which the alderman is paying extra!"
Geralt stared at him. "What?"
"Um. Never mind."
~~~
Things shifted when they visited Kaer Morhen. Jaskier, obviously, was not as comfortable experimenting in front of Geralt’s family (especially Lambert) as he was in towns they were passing through. Despite the difficulties, though, he refused to pause his project. He listened intently to how Geralt’s family referred to him, just in case it revealed anything useful. For the most part, it was only his name, “Wolf,” and the occasional affectionate insult. Then, one evening, something extremely interesting occurred.
Geralt had been complaining about a noble and his knights that he had encountered that year. Lambert got that mischievous glint in his eyes that almost always meant trouble.
“That’s rich coming from you, Geralt Roger Eric—”
Geralt turned on Lambert with a deadly glare. The dinner knife in his hand suddenly seemed much more threatening. “If you finish that sentence, you will regret it.”
Lambert raised his hands in mock surrender, though he did not look at all repentant. The conversation moved on. Jaskier did not forget.
That night, after he and Geralt had returned to their shared room, he finally had the chance to corner Geralt and ask.
“What was that about?”
Geralt winced, looking rather trapped. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Geralt Roger Eric?”
Geralt grimaced. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”
“I should hope you know me well enough to realize that I am not going to let this go until you tell me.”
Geralt was silent for a long moment, then sighed, defeated. “It was the name I first wanted to use on the Path.”
Jaskier’s eyes widened. “Geralt Roger Eric?”
Geralt closed his eyes. His next words were strained. “It was Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde.”
Jaskier stared at him for a long moment in silence. Geralt refused to meet his eyes.
“What?” Jaskier managed.
“I thought it sounded knightly,” mumbled Geralt.
“Oh! Well, I suppose it does. Why didn’t you use it?”
“Vesemir told me it was too ridiculous.”
“Oh,” Jaskier said again, thoughtful. “Did you agree?”
“I didn’t see it at the time, but I agree now.”
Jaskier frowned. “So at the time, you still wanted to use the name.”
“I was young. I didn’t know better.”
“That’s not the point! The point is that they didn’t let you!”
Geralt frowned at him. “Why are you upset about this?”
“You chose a name and were refused. They took that from you. You deserve the chance to choose something so important as a name, after all the choices you didn’t get to make.”
“It was a stupid name, Jaskier.”
“Maybe, but you deserved to be stupid.”
“Stupidity gets witchers killed.”
Jaskier threw his hands up in the air. “I changed my name to fucking ‘Buttercup’ of all things and I’ve never regretted it. I like it. Why can’t you change your name to sound more knightly? You certainly act knightly enough to merit it!”
“So? Are you going to start calling me by a ridiculous name now to make up for what happened sixty years ago?”
“I very well might!”
~~~
Jaskier stuck to his resolution. He never used the name in public, because he had a feeling Geralt might combust and because he didn’t want to give Lambert more ammunition than he already had, but he took to calling Geralt by some part or variant of Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde on a fairly regular basis. Geralt tended to look flustered when he did so. Jaskier had yet to determine if this was because he liked it or because he was horribly embarrassed.
He stuck to it for three weeks before Geralt finally asked him to stop.
"Why, dear heart?"
“I’m not that person anymore.”
“You deserved the chance to be that person.”
“I don’t need to be him anymore.”
“Do you want to be him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Oh.” Jaskier could understand that, however reluctantly. “That’s fine. I’ll stop.”
“You don’t have to stop entirely. Just… not all the time.”
“All right.”
Jaskier would respect Geralt’s wishes. The point of a special pet name would be to make him happy, after all. Unfortunately, Geralt’s chosen name had been Jaskier’s last idea. He’d already tried every nickname, endearment, or interesting epithet that he could think of.
“What should I call you, then?” asked Jaskier. His voice sounded significantly more vulnerable than he would have liked.
“What?”
“I’ve been trying to think of good things to call you for the last month and I haven’t found anything. I’m a bard. I love you with everything I am. I should be able to do better.”
Geralt deserved good things. Jaskier’s project was failing. He should be able to do better for Geralt.
Some of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Geralt softened immediately. He did not speak, but Jaskier could tell it was the kind of silence that meant he was gathering his thoughts.
“I used to hate my name,” Geralt said eventually. “It didn’t feel like it was really mine for a very long time. Most don’t use it anyway. I have many epithets. Wolf, Butcher, Witcher… none of them are really a name. I was almost glad not to be called ‘Geralt,’ for a while, but then you came along.” He looked Jaskier in the eye, expression startlingly vulnerable. “I like how you say my name. You say it musically, like it’s something important. Significant. Worth remembering. I… like that.” Gently, tenderly, he took Jaskier’s hand. “I’ll always love anything you call me, but my name is enough to make me happy.”
Jaskier’s eyes felt rather wet. He blinked to clear them. Geralt’s expression was startlingly earnest. His hand was very warm where it still held Jaskier’s.
“Oh,” Jaskier managed.
Geralt’s brows furrowed a little. “Is that all right?”
Jaskier blinked. Geralt looked at him attentively, awaiting his judgment. Jaskier used Geralt’s hand to pull him closer and into a tight hug.
“Of course it’s all right, you ridiculous man.”
Geralt barely hesitated before hugging Jaskier back, and Jaskier spared a moment to feel proud of his witcher for how much he’d grown.
“Are you sure?” said Geralt. “I don’t want to spoil your notions of romance.”
“All I want is for you to be happy,” said Jaskier. “If nicknames aren’t the way to do that, I can live with it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to do whatever makes you feel good.” Jaskier pulled back a little to look Geralt in the eyes. He smiled a little. “Though I can’t promise I won’t use silly endearments occasionally.”
Geralt chuckled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
~~~
For the most part, Jaskier let Project Pet Names lie. It had served its purpose. Every now and then, of course, he couldn’t help but use one of the various ridiculous endearments he came up with. Most of the time, though, the way Geralt smiled when Jaskier said his name with all the love he could muster was more than enough for both of them. Geralt knew he was loved. Jaskier was happy.
Still, when Jaskier first sang his song about a brave knight named Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde (it was a nightmare to fit into any sort of meter, but great things were possible in the name of true love), he could have sworn he saw Geralt blush.
They both spent the evening smiling.
~~~
Seven months later, Geralt and Jaskier attended another ball. The patrons were slightly less rich and so the event was rather less fancy, which suited both of them perfectly. Just like the previous time, the couple who owned the mansion were celebrating an anniversary, and nearly the same romantic songs were being played.
This time, though, Jaskier approached Geralt with no trace of nervousness or uncertainty. Jaskier simply gave Geralt a grin and took his hand, smiling impossibly brighter as Geralt pressed a kiss to his forehead.
Though the couples around them were exchanging romantic words of their own, Jaskier paid them no mind. His own romance was more than enough to keep him occupied.
He looked up at his witcher with a soft smile.
“C’mon, Geralt.” He holds out a hand. “Give me a twirl.”
Geralt took his hand easily. “Of course.”
It was the best dance Jaskier could remember.
~~~
(“I do think your knightly name could come in handy sometime, Geralt.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, Geralt Roger Eric Pankratz has a certain ring to it.”
“Oh.”
They kissed for a very, very long time.)
#geraskier#geralt#jaskier#the witcher#geralt x jaskier#the witcher fanfiction#wren writes#samstree#thank you again for the prompt! it was very fun to think about while i was gone#<3#when does this take place? what is its relationship to canon? *shrug*#it's fluffy and that's all that matters
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Jaskier isn’t actually good at flirting he’s just such a mess that people find him endearing enough to fuck
#jaskier#the witcher#geralt of rivia#yennifer of vengerberg#no way pickup lines like you have a sexy neck actually work#geraskier
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Geralt x Jaskier CW: EXPLICIT. Top Geralt. Whore as term of endearment.
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Fuck.
Geralt tensed and flexed. He slid. Soft and slick.
Jaskier's body welcomed him, enveloped him, pulled him in.
"Fuck, I missed you," Geralt murmured as warmth and pressure and love flooded him. He allowed his head to fall. His forehead pressed against Jaskier. Their sweat mingled. "I fucking missed you."
He hadn't meant to say that.
He expected a stream of words in return. A litany of syllables. Poetry. A fucking speech. Jaskier liked to give speeches. Words tumbled from his soft lips like a spell.
But Jaskier didn't speak. He wasn't smug. Hell. He wasn't even sensible. He stuttered. Whined. Whimpered. Clenched. He was a godsdamn mess. He drooled. He wriggled.
His bard was powerless, wasn't he? For a fucking mutant.
For him.
Julian Alfred Pankratz was putty in Geralt's hands. Geralt gripped his ass, squeezed, pulled him apart. Opened. Gaped. He glistened. Pulsed.
Geralt had never known. Had never believed Jaskier was capable of this. That someone so beautiful, so admired, so....so...fucking pliant. So soft. Would be his pet. So desperate. For him.
Him.
He shoved in again. Hard. Harder than he should have. Hand clamped down on a milky musical throat.
But he needed to.
He needed it hard. To fucking feel it. To know it was real.
Jaskier howled. His eyes rolled back.
Fucking hell.
Maybe Geralt was a beast. But he was a beast that didn't frighten. He was one that devoured. That demolished.
Jaskier raised his chin. His neck tensed like cords. His eyes pleaded. Begged. Supplicated. They were watery. Unfocused.
Geralt. Oh Geralt.
I need you.
Dear heart.
I need you.
Geralt.
Tears streamed down his face. Ankles gripped his back. Pecs tensed. Jaskier was prey. That is what he was. This proud, whorish bard. The one who refused to compromise. To commit. Was his.
"Jaskier."
"More, Geralt. Please."
Geralt could do that. He could do more
He gathered his bard's elegant wrists. Two to one hand. Pressed to the mattress like a vise.
Jaskier couldn't move like this. Not if he tried. He was pinned. Weak. His muscles were feathers. Light.
But he didn't try.
That was the thing. He wanted to be here. He wanted to be.
Geralt shoved again.
Mine.
Shoved. Harder.
Tight.
Fuck.
MINE.
Fucking mine.
How did Jaskier go so deep. How did he squeeze so tight? Like diamonds. Back arching, pressing down.
Geralt though he was the one in control.
Then he wheezed. He grew weak. Like jelly.
Jaskier slapped. He dropped. He rode him. But slow.
Slower than he wanted. Slower than he could deal with.
Geralt gripped him.
Fucked up.
Punished.
Yet his head fell back. Thrilled. Glad.
I love you Geralt.
I love you Jaskier.
That was it.
Shit.
It was true.
Love.
How had this happened.
It didn't matter.
The now was now.
And they were them.
He released. Stars. Black on the border. His body rigid. Tears leaking down his face.
He was powerless.
Or powerful.
Jaskier. Jaskier released. It was warm and hot on his belly.
Yes.
I love you. You know that.
I love you too.
For always.
Forever.
This was what it was. What it always would be. Now. It was all that mattered.
#the witcher#geraskier#jaskier#geralt of rivia#geralt x jaskier#descarada writes#descarada writes geraskier#tumblr oneshots for the witcher fandom
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The Viper: Rewritten
Chapter Four
Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7
Jaskier x gn!Witcher!reader
AO3 - I recommend reading it there
Warnings: swearing, grief, crying
Word Count: 5331
Masterlist
Tag List Form
“The hunt begins at sunrise.”
“Wait, wait, wait, wait.” Jaskier gestured anxiously as he spoke, eyes flicking back to Yennefer nervously. He could still remember precisely how his last encounter with the sorceress had gone. “That’s only four teams. You said there’d be five.” The bard looked to Geralt for confirmation, or even just someone to back him up at all, but the Witcher’s golden eyes were stuck on the witch.
“Ah.” Borch Three Jackdaws sat back on his bench. His hands were intertwined and resting on the table, fingers fiddling with the handle of his ale.”They won’t be arriving until tomorrow. So I’ve heard, it’s a knight from Temeria.” His wise gaze turned to the distracted man before him. “They say he has a Witcher with him, too.”
Geralt was brought back to attention instantly.
“Another Witcher?”
Borch nodded, humming.
Jaskier perked up as well, leaning closer as if a secret was being shared. “Do you know what they look like? Or where they’re from, maybe?”
The man shook his head. “No.”
Jaskier turned to Geralt, hand on his shoulder and eyes wide. “Do you think it could be Viper?”
Geralt hm’d noncommittally, but didn’t answer.
-
“What’s got your goat?”
“Someone’s stolen my pack.” The Dwarf glared past Jaskier at another team, who was already glaring right back. “Probably those FUCKIN’ REAVERS!”
Jaskier jumped at the shouting and decided it may be within his best interests not to be in between the two teams. The Dwarf, Yarpen, walked beside him, his team of Dwarves following him with their bags and packs in tow. “Aye, well… three days’ journey and only one route to the top. Leaves plenty of time for me to PISS IN HIS GRUEL!” Yarpen cackled coarsely back at the Reavers.
“You needn’t shout so much.”
Jaskier nearly pissed himself as he whirled around toward the voice, only to come face to face with a hooded figure. Their focus was not on him, however, but on Yarpen, who frowned in a way only a belligerent drunk with years of practice could.
“An’ who the fuck do ya think you are?”
You removed your hood. Jaskier’s eyes grew wide with recognition. Yarpen stepped back a little once he saw your face, and the piercing yellow eyes that stared back at him.
“I’m the Viper of Nilfgaard,” you replied calmly, “and your yelling is hurting my ears. My advice? Keep your mouth shut. Making enemies on a lone pass with a reward this grand only paints a target on your back.”
Yarpen grit his teeth, lips curling in a snarl, as though he wished to unleash a barrage of curses in all the languages of the Continent. Instead, he cursed under his breath (though still quite loudly) and continued down the trail with his men.
“Wow. Well, you showed him.” You and Jaskier stopped on the path, watching as the Dwarf introduced himself to Geralt. Blinking himself back to reality, he turned to you. “Gods! It’s been months! How’ve you been? Did you catch those deserters?” He looked you up and down. You appeared almost exactly as you had the last time he saw you, albeit now with a small scar along your cheek. He cut you off before you could reply. “Wait, nevermind. Who’re you here with?”
A soft, almost endearing grin played on your lips at Jaskier’s familiar charms. His mind always seemed to be running a mile a minute. “I’ve been hired to guide Hendrick of Temeria through the mountains,” you informed him. You glanced up the hill to your employer, who struggled to gather his bags and swords from his horse. The equipment in his arms clattered to the ground. He tried to play it off by waving at the Reavers. “He has no experience hunting monsters - or of the world, for that matter. It is his belief that with a Witcher at his side, he will be able to pull through by sheer luck.”
The bard snorted. “I don’t think he knows what luck is.”
As if he could feel two pairs of eyes on him, Hendrick waved you over with one hand and cupped the other around his mouth to call, “Viper! I need your assistance!”
You sighed through your nose, but smiled at Jaskier anyway. “I’ll catch up with you later.” You began your way back up the hill, but turned and walked backward to speak to him once more. “And I will answer all of your questions, I promise.”
Excitement coursed through his veins. The promise of a new story to tell thrilled him to no end, especially with a subject actually willing to give him details. He watched as you began donning Hendrick with bags and equipment, and as you took a moment to press your forehead against the nose of your own horse.
The gruff, aggravated voice of his own Witcher calling him fell on deaf ears.
-
Hendrick made it quite clear when hiring you of how unused to the Wild he was. He grew up well-off, he never worked a farm, never even went fishing with his father (he mentioned this several times). Unfortunately, that left you to take the brunt of his complaining. Less than an hour in, he was complaining of his feet hurting. (“Is there anything you can do to ease the pain? Perhaps there is an herb I might take?”) Thirty minutes later, he complained of his back aching from the weight of the bags. (“Would you be able to carry one more? I’ve heard tell of a Witcher’s enhanced strength; surely one more bag would not weaken you any.”)
You would have gladly welcomed the pain in your feet or the ache in your back, should it provide a distraction. As it was, you were stuck trying to focus on the birds and flora of the mountain.
“Mighty fine lord you’ll be,” came a sarcastic jibe from in front of you. It was one of the Reavers. He looked like someone you would hunt for a small sum; crooked teeth in an equally crooked smirk, and skin yellowed from months of unwashed grime. His dark eyes, filled with emotions you wished not to know, turned to you. “And you, freak? What’ll you do if this prick slays the dragon?” He cackled as he offered up his own suggestion. “Become his little monster-hunting consort?”
“Why do you wish to know?” you bit back. Your face remained neutral and wholly unfazed. “Looking to fill in an application?”
His grin became a grimace as he spat at your boots. You were grateful he missed - his saliva was probably as acidic as a Basilisk’s poison, and you quite liked these boots. “Fucking mutant.”
As he stomped ahead like a toddler that lost an argument, you distracted yourself once again with a chickadee gathering twigs for its nest.
-
You couldn’t tear your eyes from the fire. Even as the world quietened and the sky grew dark, the dance of flames held you entranced. The tendrils reached into the air, reaching for the stars gleaming overhead in the thinning mountain air. For a brief moment, you could let yourself imagine a burning hand cupping the sky, gathering all of the stars within its palm, and swirling them around. Constellations churning and sifting, until they all stilled; new and beautiful.
But your mind always wandered. The hand crushed the stars. The sky became completely dark, lit only by a lonely moon. The hand morphed and changed until it caressed stone, tore down archways, consumed flesh. You could not look away. Faces in the fire became the screaming faces of your brothers. Of Ivar Evil-Eye clutching priceless scrolls to his chest as he clawed toward an exit, uncaring of the death of your siblings. Of Oalvir running from the burning grand doors, only to meet his doom at the hands of Nilfgaardian soldiers. Of Stul…
All your childhood, you looked up to him, even more than the mentors. He would sneak you scraps of bread when you were locked away for misbehaving. He’d cradle you to his chest and whisper soothing words into your hair as terror gripped you, body and soul. He was always there for you. And the moment he needed you most, you were prancing around the Cintran palace, acting as a hero.
“You should rest.”
The grumbling voice brought you back to the present. You blinked away the memories, and were met with the dying ashes of the campfire. It went out long ago, it seemed.
You looked up into the eyes of Geralt, sat across from you, yellow a warmed amber in the dim light of nighttime. You cast a glance around - everyone was gone, asleep in their tents - and to the sky. The stars were still there, in the same constellations they always had been.
“I’ll keep watch,” he added.
You shook your head. It took more effort than you would have liked to avoid looking at the embers again. “I’ll be fine. I can’t sleep anyway.”
His gaze burned through you, studying your movements. Foolishly determined to prove you could handle yourself, you grabbed a few sticks and tossed them onto the pile. They would not light on their own. Yet, when you tried lifting your hand to cast Igni, it remained like a solid brick of lead in your lap.
Without saying a word, Geralt raised a hand. A burst of fire erupted from his palm and claimed the sticks like a starved beast. You flinched at its warmth.
“What happened?”
You bit the inside of your cheek and stared into the flames once more. You were not lost in their flickering, but you could not bear to look at the Wolf. He sighed.
“Last we met, you told me to be careful.” He tilted his head, searching for answers. “You seemed lost in another world when you spoke of your brother.”
You visibly swallowed. His question lingered in the air, alongside the distant cries of owls and bats, and the droning melodies of crickets. With a deep breath, you finally met his eyes. Your own burned with unshed tears.
“Gorthur Gvaed… The Viper Keep… It- It was burned down,” you whispered. Your voice would not go any louder. Geralt sat up straighter. “The Usurper commanded it. My brothers-” A trembling gasp broke loose from your lungs, silencing you.
He watched helplessly as you wiped at your eyes, determined not to cry. He remembered the attack on Kaer Morhen. Hiding in the cellar, waiting for the humans to find him and kill him like all the others. The screams, the fire, the blood. He knew too well what it was like to sit by and watch everything dear be ripped from you.
“Stul-” You cursed, frustrated with your emotions. “Stuldweck, my brother, he- he hunted that djinn with me. He gave me Bayard. He helped me, comforted me.” A strained sob forced its way through grit teeth. Your shoulders hunched with grief; you contained so much agony it radiated from you. “He’s gone and I- I couldn’t even do anything to stop it.”
The world fell still as you cried. Fat, ugly tears that clench your chest, prevent you from breathing. Your hands tightened, holding onto the figment of Oalvir’s body. The last time you cried was over his corpse. Too long ago. Months and months of build up, ripping through you like a tsunami. An earthquake. Any number of natural disasters - none were as powerful as your grief.
Geralt could do nothing but sit and watch. There was nothing for it; no remedies, no cures. The only balm for loss, sorrow, despair, was to let it out, lest it consume you forever.
It may have been minutes, or hours - days could have passed and you would be none the wiser - before your cries lessened to hiccuping gasps. The stars watched coldly as you wiped away snot and tears, making room on your cheeks for more.
As your tears ran out and dried on your face, you had nothing left but whimpers. Mere ghosts of the wails that came before. Geralt formed his hand into another sign, casting Aard on the flames to put them out. Even in the dark, he could see the sorrow across your face.
“Get some rest,” he insisted as your body stopped shaking. His usually grumbly voice was now as soft and soothing as he could manage. Despite everything, you were still just a child. “We’ll still be here come morning.”
You sniffled, whimpering at the dry pain at the back of your throat. You would think it a mercy no one awoke, but you knew if they had, they stayed hidden inside their tents, powerless to do anything but listen to your cries.
You took in a trembling breath and stood. You stayed there a moment, before reaching out a hand to Geralt. He grabbed it. His hand held more calluses than yours. It was cold, as were yours - a side effect of the mutations and the slow heart rate that came with it. But it grounded you there, beside the dead campfire, up on the mountain, beneath the stars.
He squeezed your hand with tempered strength, and slipped from between your fingers. You did not have to speak your thanks. With a quiet sigh, drenched in relief, your exhaustion took place where your emotions had been. He listened through the darkness as usually inaudible footsteps scraped and slid across loose dirt, all the way to your own lone tent. His ears did not leave you until soft, even breaths were all he heard.
-
“Are you alright?” Jaskier was breathless from jogging to catch up to your brutal pace. You were just doing your best to stay ahead of Hendrick so you could avoid his ceaseless complaining. You slowed down to fall into step beside him. “I heard what that Reaver said to you yesterday. Just wanted to, you know, be sure.”
“I’m fine,” you assured. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever been called.”
He glanced over his shoulder. Geralt was far in the back, walking alongside Borch. The Witcher’s eyes kept drifting to Yennefer, walking alongside her escort, though she seemed to pay Geralt no attention.
“Like ‘The Butcher of Blaviken’?” he asked tentatively.
You nodded. “No matter how hard we try to help, humans will always be against us. To them we’re just mutants, freaks, bloodthirsty killers that snatch children in the night.” He frowned, a deep crease formed between his brows. “It’s just how it is.”
“It shouldn’t have to be.” His voice was determined, disgusted with the treatment you and his adventuring partner faced every day. “I’ll write a thousand ballard if that’s what it takes to-”
“No number of fancy words will change their minds, Jaskier,” you interjected sternly. “At the end of the day, he will still be the Butcher and I will still be the Viper - there is nothing you can do to change that.” His throat dried up, closing at the futility of it all. “We’ve made our peace with it. You should, too.”
You pulled yourself over a large boulder that blocked the path and helped Jaskier up after you. You held a hand down for Yoran who followed close behind, but he just knocked it away, claiming that he and his men could get up by themselves. Jaskier and you stopped a short ways ahead, watching with little interest as the Dwarves and Reavers raced to get up before each other, all the while spitting insults back and forth.
Jaskier cleared his throat. “You, uhm, said you’d answer my questions,” he reminded you. “About the deserters?”
You hummed and turned all your attention to him; he was far more interesting than any Reaver or Dwarf. “I caught them in Novigrad, working together to sneak onto a ship transporting cargo to Kovir. They offered me money to let them go. Naturally, I refused - all they could offer me was 10 crowns and a pamphlet to a brothel in Oxenfurt.”
He chuckled at the thought. He knew better than anyone how the city favored poets, craftsmen, and prostitutes. The bordellos in Oxenfurt were nearly as infamous as the school was famous. “I’m guessing they didn’t come quietly.”
You huffed, remembering the trouble they gave you. “I wish they had,” you said. “They each bolted off in different directions. Pain in the ass to catch them both again.” You stopped yourself short of the gorey details, watching as Geralt helped your useless employer over the rock.
“What then?”
You turned to him with a tight, concerned smile. “Are you sure you wish to know? I am not Geralt - I do not spare lives for the sake of sparing them.”
He opened his mouth to say Yes, of course! but the look in your eye made him think twice.
It was easy to follow Geralt and his heroics when all he tried to do was slay monsters and save towns. Unless it was absolutely necessary, Geralt refused to kill people, and only when they attacked first. The Wolf told him about Vipers when he did not stop prying. He told him about the contracts they take, how they were more assassins-for-hire than beast-killers. Perhaps he didn’t want to know the end of your tale. Perhaps he only wanted to imagine a scenario for himself, where you went through the effort of bringing the deserters back alive, or even let them go free for a mere 10 crowns.
As his silence persisted, you watched the groups pass you both by. The Reavers went first, determined to get to the next campsite and steal all the good spots for themselves. The Dwarves were close behind. Hendrick gave you a carefree grin and an assuring, “Don’t worry - I’ll meet you at the camp!” Yennefer and Sir Eyck came next. Then Borch and his Zerrikanian warriors, with Geralt firmly in last place. When he passed, you nudged Jaskier by the shoulder and fell in step behind the Wolf.
“What about you and Geralt?” you changed the subject. The Witcher in question turned to look at you over his shoulder. Your lips quirked into a soft yet mischievous grin. “Asked me about a djinn last we met, but you never explained why.”
Geralt grunted and walked faster. Jaskier’s eyes seemed to glow with the change in topic, as he launched into the tale of the djinn, their encounter with Yennefer, and a blooming romance between the Witcher and the Witch.
-
“You should eat something.”
You glared at the carcass roasting over the fire, lips curling in a disgusted scowl. Your cat-like eyes remained set as you watched Eyck cook and eat the innards of the Hirikka, so proud of himself and his proclamation of Knights never waste a kill. It turned your stomach to see the desecration of an innocent creature. The head, resting on a pike behind the great knight, stared into you.
“I’d rather starve.”
Borch, Geralt and Jaskier all looked at you with concern and understanding. Or maybe it was just pity. Your words of rage still echoed at the forefront of their minds, even Yennefer’s, who tried to appear supportive and adoring of Sir Eyck.
“Oh, yes, how brave of the knight to murder a defenseless, starving, endangered Hirikka. You stupid bastard. You’ve worn the moniker of Sir too long - you are nothing more than a coward masquerading behind a sword.”
Despite the fear Jaskier felt when the creature stood to its full height, he knew that Geralt’s call for everyone to sheath their weapons had been the better option. If they had handed over the berries he picked, perhaps even a scrap of bread, it would have left them in peace, unharmed.
Soft hands, calloused at the fingertips, lifted your hand from its place on the log. They peeled your fist apart with little effort, and placed something within. “Please,” Jaskier pleaded in a whisper. You did not need to look to know they were the berries he picked earlier.
Jaskier watched, helpless, as you pressed the berries back into his palm and rushed from the campfire. All eyes seemed to follow you as you jerked your tent open and disappeared inside. He wished to run after you; toss the berries into the fire and comfort you as best he knew how, with ballads and poems and tales. But he caught Borch’s gaze, and, at least for now, the thought died.
By the time he was brought back to the conversation, it had shifted to be of politics. At least Sir Eyck had left, hunched over and clutching his stomach.
“The rightful son of Nilfgaard has returned, burning through the south!” cried Yarpen.
Yennefer scoffed. “With Fringilla as his mage.” She laughed. “Nilfgaard’s a joke.”
Yarpen shook his head, voice tense. “I saw it with my own eyes down in Ebbing. Those zealot freaks are inching closer by the day. Won’t be long till they try and take Sodden.” His eyes shifted to Hendricks. “Next it’ll be Temeria. Redania.” Your employer sunk under his gaze, staring forlorn to the ground. “Cintra.”
“No.” Jaskier swallowed. He surprised himself with his sudden outburst. Maybe it was the threat of Nilfgaard, or knowing you hailed from it, but something stirred inside him uncomfortably. “Queen Calanthe would die before letting them take what’s hers.”
Geralt tried meeting his eye, but the bard’s gaze was set to the ground and unfocused.
“Perhaps if Nilfgaard’s religious zeal had been tempered earlier by a stronger hand…”
Jaskier abruptly stood. He floundered out some excuse about needing to polish his lute, yet in his daze, he had to turn back to grab it. The berries fell uselessly to the ground. Nobody pointed out how he stumbled over to your tent; he tried to make it seem casual - looking down to his boots and the ground as though they were more interesting than anything else, kicking pinecones and meandering around. But everyone knew he set up on the opposite side of camp.
Now that he was in front of your door - er, tent flap - he didn’t know what to do. After a moment’s hesitation, he awkwardly knocked on (slapped the back of his hand against) the fabric. “Knock knock?”
It was quiet. Inside, he could hear bottles clinking together. He glanced over his shoulder toward the fire, making sure no one was watching him.
“Who’s there?” called your tentative voice. He found his worries eased by the mere sound of it. He knew, beyond any doubt, that you couldn’t possibly be as ruthless as the Nilfgaardians were.
“It’s Jaskier.” Quiet again. Perhaps he didn’t think this through enough. Should he have just gone to bed and left the issue alone? Maybe you wanted to be left alone for the rest of the night, and he could ask tomorrow. Maybe you didn’t want to see him.
Before he could stumble out an apology or excuse, the flap was pulled aside. You stood at the entrance, sans your usual cloak and weapons, and gestured for him to come in. He nodded his thanks as he slipped by.
Just before you closed the tent again, you caught Borch’s eye. He had a knowing grin on his face, as though he carried more secrets than you could wish to know, and the only ones he shared them with were Téa and Véa, who giggled softly at the cryptic knowledge. You shut the door before you could decipher his wisdom.
“Erm, thought you’d like to know that the Hirikka made Eyck sick.”
“Good,” you hissed. “Bastard deserves it.” You started for your cot, but stopped when you realized Jaskier was stood searching in the dark. With the embarrassing realization that he could not see as well as you in the dim light, you lit a hanging lantern. You tried not to flinch when the small, controlled burst of flame left your palm and caught on the wick.
You went back to your cot, where laid out over ratty sheets were dozens of vials and your twin daggers. Jaskier sat on the corner of your bed, careful not to disturb anything, as he looked around the small tent. It was much like his own - just large enough for one person to stay comfortably, with a single cot and a folding stool. In the corner were your bags, undoubtedly filled with strange herbs and monster bits.
He turned to look at the vials. Some were filled with odd liquids, some were filled with substances just a bit too thick to be called liquids, but not yet thick enough to be deemed solid. He reached out and carefully picked up one of the bottles, turning it over and over to watch the red liquid slosh around. “What’s this do?”
You frowned at the question, looking at the potion in his hands. “Geralt doesn’t tell you about them?” You picked up one of your daggers and a whetstone. The scraping sound of metal against the whetstone filled the tent as you sharpened your weapon.
“No,” he scoffed. “He won’t even tell me what he had for breakfast, let alone about a monster he just slayed or what any of this,” he gestured to the other bottles with the one he already held, “does.”
“Okay, well, the one in your hand is called Swallow.” Jaskier, eager to learn, held the bottle close so he could peer into the container better. None of the ingredients that went into making a concoction like this were decipherable anymore. “It’s named after the bird and the coming of spring. It helps us heal faster for a time, and can even stop bleeding. It’s a Witcher’s best friend.”
He set the bottle back down in its place and picked up one that contained a whitish-yellow almost-liquid. It clung to the glass walls as he turned the container over. His nose scrunched up in disgust. “What about this one?”
You set the silver dagger back on your bed and picked up the steel one. You didn’t expect to need it on a contract like this, when you were only hired to kill monsters, but one could never be too careful with characters like the Reavers around.
“White Honey,” you answered with hardly a glance. “Witcher potions are toxic; they poison our blood. Deadly for humans, but we’re able to withstand the toxicity for longer. If we take too many potions, however, it begins to take a toll on our bodies.
“This,” you gestured to the bottle with the whetstone, “detoxifies our blood.”
Jaskier was utterly fascinated, in awe even, at the info you so easily gave him. Aside from traveling with Geralt and spreading his heroic deeds, all Jaskier ever heard of Witchers was how ruthless, bloodthirsty and savage they were. Nobody ever mentioned anything about their knowledge of alchemy, their wits, or their courage.
Another question slipped into his mind. He never asked before, nor did he really ever think about it, yet it came unbidden, as easy as a farmer slipping inside at nightfall after a hard day’s work. Something about it (all of it, in fact) felt wrong to question, but you had been so generous with your life and knowledge so far…
He set the bottle back down just as you finished sharpening your weapons. He watched, mulling over whether to ask the question, as you sheathed them in their leather casings and slipped one under your pillow. The other was placed lovingly back in your pack.
Before he could stop himself, he asked.
“What’s it like… becoming a Witcher?”
You visibly tensed up. Back becoming rigid and hand tightening where it still held onto your dagger. You would not turn back to face him.
Realizing he fucked up and overstepped probably a hundred boundaries, he dismissed it. “Nevermind. I don’t need to know. Forget it.”
You relaxed slightly into a huff of laughter at how quickly he backpedaled. Jaskier was always curious; he fed on new information like a starved man ate stew. To see him take back a question for your own comfort, rather than press forward as he probably would have with Geralt, was… nice. You couldn’t figure out any other word to call it. Any other person, anyone curious enough to question a Witcher, didn’t let up until they were sure Witchers were the mutated freaks the stories said they were.
You stood and went back to the bed, sorting out potions to figure out what you needed more of. “It’s alright, Jaskier,” you assured him with a quiet voice. He relaxed, knowing he didn’t fuck everything up. “I… I don’t think I can go back to that place just yet.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Viper.”
“One day, I promise, I’ll tell you.” You were determined to tell him. Your eyes gleamed in the firelight, absolutely certain. You did not want to carry this knowledge with you any longer than you already had. But it felt too soon to discuss the Trials, knowing you would never again see the mentors that guided you through them.
Voice as soft as a butterfly’s wingbeat, he said, “Take as long as you need.”
It was silent for a moment. Not a thick, awkward silence, but a warm, easy one. Outside, he could still hear distant conversation from around the fire, mixed with the scattered calls of crickets. A distant wolf howl mixed with the clinking of bottles.
But Jaskier was awful at leaving silences alone. “So, a dragon,” he began. His fingers fiddled with each other, desperate to have something to do with them. “Why did so many people sign up for a quest for something that’s not, you know, real?”
“Dragons are real.”
He gave you an incredulous look. You shot one right back, lining a belt with your current potions. (Two Swallow in the front, a gold one he didn’t know the name of, a greenish one he also didn’t know the name of, and one White Honey.) You didn’t even have to look as you did it; it was purely muscle memory.
“Dragons are real, Jaskier. Treasure hunters and poachers have hunted them to near extinction, but I’m sure many still exist, hiding away until their numbers recover.
“The one we’re after is a green dragon,” you continued, “they’re the most common. Red dragons are rarer; black ones even rarer still. And, finally, gold dragons are the rarest of them all. No one even knows if they’re real. Nobody’s seen one in ages.”
Slack-jawed and starry-eyed with wonder, Jaskier fumbled around the inner pocket of his jacket until he pulled out a love-worn journal. He flipped to a fresh page and hurriedly wrote down what you told him. He would ask about the rest of your potions - their uses, ingredients (you withheld the specifics; it was forbidden for Witchers to divulge how they’re made), discovery. When the topic came up, you told him (and even demonstrated a few) of the spells Witchers could cast. Axii fascinated him the most.
As you busied yourself with grinding herbs, mixing potions, and preparing for tomorrow, the questions trailed off. When the silence returned, it was intermixed with snores. Still sitting upright, pencil in one hand, and journal in the other, Jaskier was fast asleep.
You saved the journal from falling to the floor and tucked the pencil inside. After a moment of consideration, you worked to carefully remove his jacket, laying it with the journal on the stool. All it took was a little shove to get him to lay down. He curled into the flat pillow instantly, cradling it longways under his head and to his chest. You covered him with the thin sheets, blew out the lantern, and sat on the floor beside the bed. Your cloak acted as a blanket, and the dagger from your bag became your new defensive weapon.
You fell asleep to the distant sound of crickets and the bard’s heavy breathing.
---
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#fanfic#fanfiction#the witcher#the witcher fanfic#the witcher fanfiction#the witcher fic#jaskier x reader#jaskier#jaskier the bard#witcher jaskier#the witcher jaskier#geralt of rivia#geralt & reader#x reader#gender neutral reader#x gender neutral reader#gn reader#x gn reader#cross posted on ao3
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Well onto part 4 of my still nameless fic. Right now I’m just kinda posting to tumblr as I write.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
They made it into the mountains following hoof prints when they got jumped by a sylvan and a couple of elves. They came too tied up together in a cave.
“This is the part where we escape?” Jaskier asked as he worked on getting his hands free.
“This is the part where we die,” Geralt replied sardonically.
“Filthy humans,” one of the elves said and hit Jaskier.
“Leave him alone! He’s just a bard!” Geralt exclaimed and managed to head but the elf.
“No not the lute!” Jaskier yelled too late as the other elf smashed it. Jaskier was about to yell at them in elder when a familiar elf joined them in the cave and Jaskier groaned.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” He asked lips turned upwards.
“Just a couple humans. We should kill them before they bring others,” the female elf who had hit Jaskier proclaimed.
“They’re not human. Not entirely anyway. Are you blind as well as sick? He’s not only half fae, he’s also a prince. That’s Prince Julek of the Springtime Seelie Court. Considering they just agreed to take us in I don’t think killing one of the Queen’s children will endear us to my aunt any,” the new elf replied, “Hello cousin. You seem to get yourself in some of the most interesting situations.”
“Filavandrel. Well met. I’d give a proper bow but I’m a little tied up at the moment,” Jaskier replied amiably.
“So I see,” Filavandrel said trying not to laugh at the situation. He knew his cousin could get out of that if he really wanted to. “So who’s your friend?”
“Filavandrel, this is Geralt of Rivia, Witcher of the wolf school and childhood friend of mine. Geralt this is Filavandrel the last High King of the Elves. Also my first cousin. He’s he’s fae on his mother’s side which is actually rather common in Elvish royalty. His mother and my mother were sisters.”
“A pleasure to meet you your majesty. I’d also bow but am also a little tied up right now,” Geralt greeted.
Filavandrel let out a snort of laughter. “No you wouldn’t. You’re a Witcher. You’re also one of Vesemir’s pups. I have no doubt he’s taught you that Witchers are neutral and bow to no kings.”
“Yes well, Vesemir no doubt also tried his best to teach the pup manners and he’s trying to be polite,” A new voice spoke up followed by another man who looked a lot more like Filavandrel, only he had eyes that glowed more unnaturally blue and his ears wasn’t quite as pointed.
“Fuck,” Jaskier swore when he saw the second man, “I’m not going back Blaze!”
“Well I guess this answers the question of where you ran off to Jules. Is that Eric you got with you?”
Geralt grumbled a bit before speaking up, “It’s Geralt not Eric. Hasn’t been for a long time.”
“Oh yes, that’s right. Vesemir made you change your name before you could leave the keep. I don’t know why Witcher’s insist on changing their names before going off on the path the first time. While yes it is true that names have power, knowing one’s true name isn’t some sort of spell to compel people into doing things. I swear humans come up with some of the strangest rumours about my species.”
“They don’t all change their names. Although I suspect that old wives tale has a lot to do with why. I personally prefer to think of it like the old Shobogan tradition dating back to before they where fae, you change your name as a promise to who you are and/or want to be now because you have outgrown your old name,” Jaskier explained.
“Is that why you’ve been insisting on going by Jaskier?” Geralt asked, genuinely curious. “Who are the Shobogan anyway?”
“Yes, the other reason doesn’t matter since my cover has been blown. Shobogan is the name of our subspecies within the fae… lot of people just refer to us as royal fae but once the fae was a huge federation spanning many spheres with lots of different races. It’s why I’m considered fae even though I’m technically only half, it’s because I’m a citizen in the ruminants of that federation. Or species like that sylvan we tracked up here, or dryads for example are also considered fae. The elves first thought the humans where a subspecies of fae because they look a lot like the shobogan. Main difference between the two being our second heart and eyes.”
“You’re telling this Witcher our secrets!” The sylvan shouted, incensed.
“I didn’t go through the trail of the grasses, nor the tail of dreams. Never needed to. I did go through the rest. I’m technically also a Witcher,”Jaskier said as he broke out of the ropes binding them.
“Yes, very dramatic brother. We all know you worked your hands free ages ago and could break free at any time,” Blaze stated, rolling his eyes.
“Yes well. Had to find the best time for melodrama. I wouldn’t be me otherwise.”
“Yes well now I’ve found you that saves me a trip to Kaer Morhen to look for you,” Blaze stated.
“I’ve not had the courage to go there yet,” Jaskier confessed.
Blaze continued as if he said nothing, “Now the question is where is Valdo? He’s obviously not with you.”
“Who?” Geralt asked.
“Valdo Marx. My nephew. Sister’s youngest, the same age as me,” Jaskier clarified.
“And those two have been practically inseparable since he arrived back in our realm after the sacking. Have you seen him? He’s about this high.” Blaze held his hand up to indicate how high. “doesn’t actually look like he’s related because he’s got his father’s dark complexion and thick curly black hair which he wore short last I saw him, and has a thing on his face he thinks is a beard and moustache but really can’t grow one properly yet.”
“No, not seen anyone like that,” Geralt answered.
“I got no idea where Valdo ran off to. I didn’t even know he was missing, besides even if I did know I’m not going to tell you,” Jaskier added, “one of us needs to get out of court at least.”
“I’m not dragging you back to mother. I’m way too busy. Finally talked Filavandrel into bringing his people to our lands. Better to loose pride than be dead.”
“We’re resorting to stealing grain laced with iron from the humans. It seems we really need to move sooner rather than later if they’ve resorted to sending a Witcher up here. It won’t be long before they come looking themselves and probably in large numbers. We’re starving and sick. That’s not a fight we can win. The question is if we can get everyone out by then,” Filavandrel speculated.
“It will take a while to move so many,” Jaskier acknowledged, “Geralt… yes I have heard about the whole Blaviken incident. No I don’t believe you wholesale slaughtered anyone without reason. I know you. That’s not who you are. You don’t have to talk about it. I only bring it up because I have an idea but it does lean into that reputation a bit.”
“What?” Geralt asked, just knowing he was probably going to regret asking.
“Well you know how I can convince people of just about anything if I sing about it?”
“The frost trolls still ask if you are ever going to come back and preform for them after you got us all up the mountain that way,” Geralt replied ruefully.
“What if I make a song that makes people think you got rid of all the elves around here. By the time anyone thinks to look they’ll be long gone.”
“Sure, if you get people to start paying what they owe me while your at it,” Geralt agrees with obvious sarcasm.
“You know you just guaranteed it will make it across the continent and be sung in taverns for the next hundred years, right? You don’t tempt fate like that. She loves irony,” Blaze stated more than asked.
“You’ll need a new lute. I have one laying around doing nothing that belonged to my mother. Got to add to that irony after all,” Filavandrel added.
@xxx|}::::::::::::::::::::> <::::::::::::::::::::{|xxx@
#the witcher#geraskier#jaskier#geralt x jaskier#geralt of rivia#fae!jaskier#wip#fanfiction#still need to name this
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Maybe Loving Is Sharing: Chapter 7
Pairings: Geraskefer, Geraskier, Yenralt, Yennskier
Characters: Jaskier, Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer of Vengerberg
Additional tags: genderbending, alternate universe- modern setting, polyamory, matchmaking, pining, mutual pining, unrequited love, or is it?, friends to lovers, awkwardness, fem!geralt, fem!jaskier, bunch of helpless sapphics, everyone is confused, crushes, disability, emotionally constipated yennefer of vengerberg, oblivious geralt, oblivious yennefer, oblivious jaskier, everyone is fucking oblivious
Full word count: 11,408 words
Chapter word count: 1,718 words
Chapters: 7/?
Summary: The plan is simple: help your best friend get together with the girl of her dreams. What could go wrong?
Well, when everyone is confused and pining but also very oblivious, pretty much everything.
Chapter summary: Yennefer agrees to spend some more quality time with Geraldine and Jaskier. It goes really well, which is exactly why it's bad.
Author's notes: I know it's been literal months, and I am really sorry, I swear! Life has been insane lately (it still is, but hopefully now it's the good kind), and I also felt somewhat blocked with this story. But here I am, bringing my idiot sapphics back!! Feedback, as always, is very appreciated!!!
Read on Ao3
*
It took about three hours of straight pleading on Jaskier's side for Yennefer to eventually give in.
Why she did, she wasn't completely sure. It was obvious that Geraldine wasn't all that into her, considering how quickly she fled the scene after their date, and for some reason, Jaskier seemed to be absolutely terrified of her. She certainly wasn't gonna get anywhere with either of them.
But for some reason, she still felt drawn to this strange duo. The endearing awkwardness of Geraldine, combined with an insanely sexy, muscular masc exterior and a gentle heart, the talkative, sunny optimism of Jaskier, combined with a strange, cynical sense of humor and adorable looks caught her in a cobweb of very confusing feelings.
The original plan was very simple: she laid her eyes on the sexy vet and immediately decided she would bed her. Which seemed to be going well, she even got a little help from said sexy vet's best friend, who also caught her attention. Actually, Yennefer was sort of hoping their little date would turn into a threesome - to her biggest disappointment, she didn't get to fuck either of them.
And now they were dragging her along to a ranch to try horseback riding, on a "definitely-not-date". Yennefer, despite promising herself she wouldn't try more quality time unless it ended up in sex, went along with it, and somehow, she even felt excited.
She cursed her heart for fluttering inside her chest the way it did when Geraldine walked out of the stable, leading a black stallion. She was simply a vision in her grey tank top that put her thick arms on display and those sinfully tight black jeans that gave Yennefer a perfect view of her round butt. For someone so buff, Geraldine looked adorably shy as she waved at Yennefer with her free hand. Yennefer tried to resist smiling at her, she really did- but she failed.
"Yen," Geraldine's voice wavered slightly. Yennefer swallowed at the nickname, her cheeks warming up. "It's good to see you again..."
"You're not gonna run away this time, are you?" Yennefer asked, with a little bit more venom than intended. Geraldine shook her head, her eyes full of guilt.
"I'm sorry, I know it was rude. It's just..."
"Hi, sorry I'm late!"
Yennefer turned around to see Jaskier strolling in. Her cheeks were slightly flushed from being in a hurry, and a few locks of her hair escaped her loose bun. The sight made Yennefer smile.
It was actually her condition to make Jaskier join them. She actually took a great liking to the sweet brunette, and when she imagined this day, she could only see the three of them together. Whenever it was just her and one of the duo, things weren't going well.
She watched as Jaskier and Geraldine greeted each other with a hug. It lasted a little too long for it to be friendly, Yennefer mused. Jaskier claimed there wasn't anything between them, but Yennefer wasn't completely sure of it. There was an exciting chemistry there, something that intrigued her deeply.
"So, uh," Geraldine said to Yennefer eloquently as they parted with Jaskier, "this is Roach."
Yennefer snorted. "Are you seriously telling me that you named both your cat and your horse Roach?"
"That's the only name she knows," Jaskier chuckled, gently elbowing Geraldine in the side. She gave her that look again, that one full of love. Yennefer has noticed it before. It made something weird tingle inside her chest.
"It's a good name," Geraldine murmured. She smiled at Jaskier so gently, that strange sensation inside Yennefer flared up again.
"The one I ride is called Gordon," Jaskier explained, pulling Yennefer out of her thoughts. "He's a lovely old fellow. Perfect for amateur horseriders like myself."
"How are you feeling today?" Geraldine asked softly. Yennefer found it harder and harder to be mad at her when she was being so kind. "Your legs?"
"They'll handle it," Yennefer replied, "for a couple of hours, definitely."
"Then I'll get you Samantha. She's super calm."
Geraldine handed Yennefer her own horse's reins while she walked back inside to get Yennefer's mare. Yennefer turned to Jaskier with a questioning look.
"Do you guys do this often?"
"Geraldine is a real horse girl," Jaskier laughed softly. "She dragged me here a couple of times, but then I actually fell in love."
"With whom?" Yennefer asked. She was surprised to find her voice missed its usual teasing edge: it was a genuine question.
Jaskier didn’t reply, but the flush on her cheeks spoke volumes. For about the thousandth time that day, Yennefer's chest felt warm with an indescribable emotion.
--
Yennefer never would have thought she would ever enjoy something like this, and yet, here she was, grinning from ear to ear like a fool as she patted Samantha's neck. The horse was the sweetest thing, so patient and gentle. Yennefer hadn't ridden a horse before, but she felt safe.
Maybe that was not only because of the mare, but because of the people she was with. The awkwardness that always lingered around them was nowhere to be seen: being with Jaskier and Geraldine felt natural.
She watched their banter, their easy, familiar dynamic: the way they knew each other so well, understanding each other without words. How different they were, and how well they still worked. Yennefer wondered why there was nothing more than friendship between them, allegedly: they would have made a perfect couple.
She found herself falling into a similarly easy rhythm with them: it was a lot of fun to tease, and be teased by Jaskier. They bantered as if they had known each other for ages, with a gentle playfulness that made Yennefer feel like it was the most normal, most simple thing in the whole world. Geraldine was more talkative than last time; she even cracked a couple of jokes that weren’t exactly the best, but they were still endearing. Yennefer felt herself growing more and more intrigued with the both of them.
It was strange, because the chemistry was right there from the start, with both Geraldine and Jaskier. But something seemed to be missing all along, something that made it impossible for Yennefer to truly click with either of them. Now, it seemed like that missing puzzle piece was slotting into its place: it only truly worked if the three of them were together.
Now, that was lovely, except for one thing, and that realization nearly knocked Yennefer out of the saddle.
Because as she listened to Jaskier’s giggling, as she watched Geraldine murmur gentle endearments into her horse’s ear, she started to understand what that weird feeling inside her chest meant. It was a feeling that Yennefer desperately tried to avoid, and she managed to so far, or so she thought. It has been there all along, lingering beneath the surface, but now it was obvious. Spending time with the both of them in a way that wasn’t as staged as last time, Yennefer realized that she’s started falling for them. And that was dangerous, because that was not how Yennefer planned it. She wanted this to be casual, a fun little game with two insanely hot women who clearly wanted to jump each other’s bones, and Yennefer hoped they would want to jump hers, too. She just wanted passion, searing, burning hot passion that fizzled out a couple days later and then they would all go on their merry ways. That was the safe option- not developing feelings for not just one, but two people at the same time.
“You okay?” Jaskier asked gently, slowing Gordon down next to her. Yennefer forced a smile onto her face.
“Yeah. I guess my legs are just getting tired.”
“We can go back to the stables,” Geraldine offered. “There’s a little café…”
“Yeah, I think that would be the best,” Yennefer said quickly. Her previous good mood turned sour quickly. Suddenly, all she wanted was to go home. It made no sense, because the reason she wanted to disappear was that exact happiness she felt next to her companions.
She saw Geraldine and Jaskier sharing a look from the corner of her eyes, but they didn’t press it further, thank God. Yennefer wasn’t even sure what she could offer as an explanation. Sorry, guys, I only wanted a threesome, but it seems like I caught feelings for both of you?
How would that even work, Yennefer mused bitterly as they rode back to the stables in utter silence. She didn’t fit into this picture anyway. Jaskier and Geraldine were made to be, they were just too blind to see it. Who was she, to come and interfere with their perfect dynamic, to smear filth all over their sweet relationship?
Yennefer never thought herself to be a very kind person, but she wasn’t that cruel. This thing that started out as just fun, was quickly turning serious on all parts – she saw it today, in the way Geraldine gently reached over to fix the way she was holding the reins, in the way Jaskier’s cheeks pinkened when she smiled at her. Geraldine ran away last time because she fell for Yennefer, and couldn’t handle it. Jaskier acted all weird when they were cat-sitting together, maybe she has started looking at Yennefer differently, too.
Fuck it all, this wasn’t a game anymore. There were hearts on the line. And maybe with someone else, Yennefer wouldn’t even care about that. But not with these two.
She closed her eyes, trying to will her heart to stay still when Geraldine helped her off her horse. Her big, warm hands lingered a beat longer on Yennefer’s waist, and she looked at her like she wanted to say something, just didn’t know how. Behind her, Jaskier was uncharacteristically silent, chewing on her bottom lip. Her big blue eyes searched Yennefer’s face, almost pleading. Yennefer couldn’t take it anymore.
“I… I had a lot of fun,” she squeezed out between gritted teeth, already backing away. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
“Drive safe,” Jaskier called after her softly. Yennefer could feel their eyes on her back as she walked away. She cursed beneath her breath when she felt tears stinging her eyes.
God, what was she supposed to do now?
#the witcher#the witcher fanfiction#the witcher fic#my fic#geraskefer#geraskier#yenralt#yennskier#fem!geraskefer#fem!geralt#fem!jaskier#jaskier#geralt of rivia#yennefer of vengerberg#genderbending#maybe loving is sharing#three to tango
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Days are Gone, Part 27
***
Jaskier chuckled into his neck. “I promise to hold you tight, so you won’t fall to the floor.”
Geralt smiled, his hand momentarily stilling in Jaskier’s hair. “Actually... It’s you I’m afraid of.”
Jaskier propped himself up on one elbow, giving Geralt a confused look. “I beg your pardon?"
Geralt shrugged. “You kick in your sleep. And you also slapped my face at least twice since we started sleeping together.” He grinned at the incredulous look on Jaskier’s face. “It’s pretty endearing, actually. You usually settle down after I lay half on top of you.”
Jaskier blinked at him. “Usually?”
Geralt’s grin turned into a smirk. “Well, there was this one time when you woke me up in the middle of the night by stealing the blanket. I wrapped my arms around you and tried to go back to sleep. And then you started whimpering.”
Jaskier’s eyes widened. “Whimpering?”
Geralt was still smirking. “Yeah. At first, I thought you were having a nightmare, I even tried to wake you. But then you started moaning.”
Jaskier covered his face with his hands with a groan, clearly embarrassed, and Geralt couldn’t help but to laugh.
“Wait! That’s not the end of the story!” Geralt chuckled, moving Jaskier’s hands away from his face.
Jaskier gave him a half-hearted glare. “You just enjoy torturing me, don’t you? Evil man.”
“Anyway, I realized you were having a wet dream.” Geralt continued, ignoring Jaskier’s comment. “Nothing much to do about that, so I just kept trying to fall asleep. But then you started moaning my name.” Jaskier gaped and Geralt nodded.
“Yeah. And I was just lying there behind you, listening to you- Fuck. You were having a wet dream. About me. While I was right there with you in bed.”
***
Continue reading:
#the witcher#jaskier#geraskier#geralt of rivia#witcher#geralt x jaskier#geralt/jaskier#witcher netflix#geralt the witcher#julian alfred pankratz#geralt
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💞💌✨
💞what's the most important part of a story for you? the plot, the characters, the worldbuilding, the technical stuff (grammar etc), the figurative language
Ohhh I got this ask several times, so I can answer it in multiple parts! Err, I might ramble a little...
As a writer I come at everything from character. Plot stems from the character, and the world building also (mostly) spins out from the character.
This is why I can write 15k or 25k and not actually have a beginning, middle, or end. I get so caught up in the process of understanding how the character is inhabiting the world and figuring out what they want. What they need. It takes me so long to narrow things down and cut things out because I’m so far inside a character’s head.
Sometimes approach a story from a “what if x happens to Character A?” (I have a like two trope-y yennskier things I want to tackle this year that start with this question). But 7 or 8 times out of 10 I’m starting with what a character is feeling and doing and rolling around in the why. All my feelings start and end there. ❤️
✨What's a fic you've posted you wish you could breathe life into again and have people talking about it? (or simply a fic you wish got more credit)
Oh, I could probably just randomly pick any of my witcher stories at this point but maybe I’ll single out Learning Curve which on the surface is just porny cuddles and softness, but I spent a lot of time working through some TWN Yen thoughts about how she is coping from season 1 and 2 events. Her upbringing and relationship with Aretuza and Tissaia and how that impacts the way she fucks up with Ciri and what she wants to try to do and be better.
This Yen also has a magical disability which throws an emotional/psychological/logistical wrench into her plans about how to teach Ciri, too. Sure, Yen got her powers back from Voleth Meir, but what if there was still a physical/magical consequence for using up so much of her chaos in the first place? The wear and tear on her body can’t just go away, even if she can get her magic back.
I want to write more about Yen and magical disability and explore teacher/student dynamic with Ciri and when/if it can cross into a mother/daughter dynamic that I felt more acutely in the books and games.
💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!
Ah!! Yes, okay. My puppetskier story Coin Operated Boy will feature Shani for a few scenes. It’s going to be sweet and endearing and funny. But!! Let me share with you the first meeting between Shani and Jaskier. This is not in the puppetskier story because I’m writing and publishing this in a very non-linear order but I want to share anyway cause I am EXCITED.
Some context: I’m casting a young Jessica Sula as Shani, and this Shani is going to be maybe a little genderqueer. And when Jaskier first meets Shani, he’s a little hungover and has been going through some things so he’s not at his best.
I’m enjoying writing Shani and Jaskier’s dynamic, mostly from a point of view where Shani actually doesn’t know who Jaskier is as a performer or professor because she’s been too busy doing her own thing. Jaskier hasn’t always been around for her to meet first or second-hand. The intergenerational friendship is a big deal to me to explore and tease, which is largely a contrast and parallel for when Jaskier was first setting out on his adventures with a monster slayer.
Bedside Manner
Shani & Jaskier
warning for implied alcohol abuse
~1800w
A gentle boot kicked Jaskier awake. Gulls. Clop of hooves. Distant yelling and chatter. He didn’t remember falling asleep down near the harbor.
Stabbing pain gouged Jaskier behind his eyes. He refused to open them to see what kicked him. He tried rolling over, his chin knocking into the corner of something, and instead he folded his arm and turned the other way. Horseshit wafted in the air, mingling with the scents of fish and piss. Maybe he should get up after all.
The boot kicked him again, but not with the heavy intent of harm.
“Hey.”
Jaskier was cold and stiff and he pulled his sleeves down. Pulled himself away from the repeated kick. Gentle, but still annoying.
“What,” he muttered.
“Wake up.”
The voice was bossy, but warm. Jaskier’s stomach clenched in pain and he scrunched his face. Last night hadn’t gone as planned, judging from the aches in his body. He remembered making it to a cot at some point to sleep off the drinking game, but he was outside now. His mouth was sandpaper dry. Coppery-taste on the inside of his lip and cheek and the faint taste of semen in his mouth.
Why did morning exist and why was someone bothering him?
“No,” Jaskier said and pulled the collar of his coat up to protect him from the sea breeze. He kept his eyes shut and feet shuffled beside him. The creak of wood beside his ear was like an anvil being dropped on his head. “Fuck.”
Jaskier rubbed his face which did little good to improve his situation. He opened his eyes, had a fuck-all time clearing the gunk from his vision, and regretted the daylight immediately. He blocked out the sun with his hand and hazarded a glance upwards.
A child peered at him from the cart that Jaskier was leaning against. He squinted at the street urchin, bronze skin with large brown eyes and curly, cropped hair that seemed to be an unnatural shade of red. Cherubic. Precocious. Someone looking for opportunity.
“I don’t have anything worth stealing,” Jaskier said and thought about getting up and decided against it when the needles inside his head told him not to move.
“Got that right. Saw three fellas feeling you up before I came over. Lucky you still have your boots,” the boy said.
“My boots are shit,” Jaskier said.
“Which is why you still have ‘em, I guess,” the boy agreed.
Jaskier sighed and his head lolled back, closing his eyes, and trying to find the will get to his feet.
He felt an odd pressure on the top of his head and tried to look up but something rolled down the side of his face and into his lap. It was a piece of fruit.
“Bwuh?”
“Hungry?” the boy asked.
“Eh,” Jaskier said and wiped off the fruit with his sleeve. He looked up at the child. “Not so keen on taking a…pear? from a strange child on the street first thing in the morning.”
“It’s afternoon,” the boy said.
Jaskier looked around again and supposed that was true enough.
“You pass out here often?” the boy asked and Jaskier picked at the stem of the pear and shrugged.
“Here, there. I am a man of the city,” he said and turned the bruised pear around in his hand.
“Did you vomit before or after you passed out? Think that’s your piss or someone else’s?” the boy asked and looked over his shoulder at the cobblestones Jaskier had slept upon.
“What?” Jaskier asked and frowned, looking down at his trousers and the ground and his head jerked back up. He hadn’t been sick—or remembered being sick, but that was beside the point. The scratch of a pencil was loud in his ears, inciting a new round of pain. He knew the tell-tale scribbling when he heard it.
Jaskier kneaded his eye and leaned forward, bracing a hand on the wheel of the cart and dragged himself to his feet. He got himself a proper look at the boy who was less of a boy and more of a gangly adolescent wearing a well-fitted green tunic. Clean, well-fed. Maybe not a street urchin, but still looked like a child.
A wave of vertigo passed over Jaskier and he braced himself against the cart, watching the boy write something in his notebook. “What’re you writing?”
“Patient notes,” the boy said.
“What? Huh,” Jaskier said, his hands moving before his brain caught up, and he swiped the notebook from the kid’s lap. Name, age, weight, symptoms were left blank but the child had written down a brief physical description along with a few notes under medical history. He read: Patient has a likely history of alcohol abuse. Damage to his liver suspected. Inquire about family history??? The words swam in Jaskier’s vision. He really should go lie down after drinking some water.
“I’m a medical student,” the boy said. Jaskier squinted at him. He looked too young to be at the university.
“You look too young to be at the university,” he said.
The boy grabbed the notebook back and twirled the pencil around in his hand. “I’m almost fifteen. What are you, 10 stone?” he asked, looking Jaskier up and down.
“Right,” Jaskier said. “Good luck with that,” and turned around and began making his way back to the town. The more he moved, the more wafting smell of fried fish was going to make Jaskier hurl.
“I’m not done yet, hold on,” the boy said and Jaskier gave the urchin a sidelong glance and he held out his notebook again. “Do you have a headache?”
“Splitting,” Jaskier said.
“Nausea?” the boy asked.
“Sloshy,” Jaskier said.
“Sensitivity to light?”
“I am quite hungover, thank you so much for your concern,” Jaskier said and turned a corner and slipped the pear into the palm of a old woman sitting on a stoop.
“Ohhh, I do have something for that,” the boy said. Jaskier almost didn’t bother stopping but the hopeful note in the boy’s voice seeped through the nausea. The promise of relief was too much to ignore. He turned around and the boy had leaned against the side of the building and was digging through his shoulder bag. “9? 10 stone? 9 stone just to be safe,” the boy said.
Jaskier wandered back. “I don’t have any coin for any tinctures you have there.”
“I don’t need coin. I only need to finish my report after you take this,” the boy said. He muttered something to himself and held out a large glass bottle at Jaskier. “Drink that water first. All of it.”
“You’re kind of bossy for a kid,” Jaskier said and uncapped the bottle, giving it a wary sniff.
The boy shrugged and uncapped a light green vial and poured a little on his finger and gave it a lick, nodding at himself and then handed Jaskier the vial. “It’s mostly ginger,” the boy said.
“So why should I trust you? Especially if I’m not paying you for this little remedy here.”
“I get extra credit for helping the stupid and poor,” the boy said. Jaskier frowned. The fucking nerve of the kid. Jaskier has now upgraded him from child to nuisance kid.
“Some bedside manners you have there,” Jaskier said.
“We haven’t covered that unit yet,” the nuisance kid said.
“Ah, well then,” Jaskier said. “To your education,” he said and raised the vial in a toast and tipped it back. It tasted…green.
He frowned and dropped the vial in the boy’s open shoulder bag. He tongued the roof of his mouth. “You make this yourself?” he asked. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Shani, and yes I made it. What good would it be if I had someone else do my homework for me? That’s how you’re supposed to learn, by doing it,” Shani said.
“If only all students were as sensible as you. Good job,” Jaskier said, and plucked the notebook from the bag and went flipped through the pages. Patients A through D were people Shani must be picking up from the streets, judging from the notes.
Jaskier helped himself to the pencil but Shani grabbed it and the notebook.“It’s not very nice to dig through somebody’s stuff.”
“Fair enough. What else do you need from me?” Jaskier said. His stomach rumbled loud enough that Shani’s eyes widened slightly. “Let’s keep moving away from the fried smells, eh?” he suggested and began walking, motion Shani to come along.
“Alright. What’s your name?” Shani said, flipping to a page in his notebook and following after Jaskier.
“Julian Alfred Panktraz,” he said. “P-A-N-K-R-A-T-Z,” he added helpfully.
“Age?”
“Timeless.”
Shani made a noise and Jaskier glanced over, watching him write down refuses to disclose age.
“Any other symptoms I should know about pertaining to your current health?” the nuisance kid asked.
“I’ve got an itch on my left toe that won’t go away—probably because of my boots. I seem to have lost most of my coin in a drinking game and I’m not quite sure whose company I enjoyed last night, but the memory problems are probably because of the drinking. I have trouble sleeping because I can’t seem to work out the third verse of my current ballad, but that’s more symptomatic of inherit heartbreak and loss of a decades-long friendship. Or maybe the heartache is from the terror seeping into Oxenfurt because of the war that’s happened—or the war that’s likely to come. No one seems to care how Oxenfurt has changed. The people aren’t like they were before. I don’t know why everybody else can’t see it. I mean, I know why…pretending something isn’t happening is easier than acknowledging the truth. I don’t know how to tell the story of what’s happening because… Fear isn’t easy to… to deal with when you’re alone,” he said, stymied by the next wave of nausea.
Shani paused his scribbling, clearly not knowing what to make of that.
Jaskier rubbed his face—his lips felt funny—and and shrugged. “You asked.”
“Oookay,” he said.
Shani closed his notebook and nodded at Jaskier. “I think I have everything I need. How do you feel?”
Jaskier patted himself down. Still nauseous, but not actively feeling like he was going to vomit. “Better. Top marks for you,” he said and Shani grinned.
Let's Get Real Fic Writer Asks
#answerdora#meme#writing meme#my fic#my witcher fic#a bard's hiatus in oxenfurt#let's get real fic writer asks#handwrittenhello
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varieties of exile - geraskier in drabbles - pt 6
Witcher 3 + Netflix / This part is rated M for non-explicit sex* and references to childhood abuse/trauma/scarring / Geralt & Jaskier, Lambert/Jaskier, Eskel/Jaskier
*as in, they’re 100% about to have sex.... but it’s not smutty, they’re talking
sort of a... three times witchers asked Jaskier about his scars
They all ask about the scars- most anyone who saw them did. There's a reason Jaskier likes to be on top, likes to have lovers crawl up between his legs, isn't caught unaware on his back. The Witchers ask with a bit more tact than most curious lovers, in a way.
Geralt saw them when they were washing "all our fucking clothes" in the Solveiga. It was their last chance for plentiful and clean water before they scaled one of the Fiery Mountains (the first time both had been so far from home, neither could name the peaks they scaled) in search of a stranded desperate basilisk. Jaskier weighed the consequences of insisting on wearing his small clothes versus Geralt's exasperation and having to possibly wear crunchy linen a week from then when he was also miserable from the hot and the dry-
well.
After all their clothes have been scrubbed and scoured and hung over branches and Jaskier is primly nestled on Roach's saddle blanket and asking about the properties of blowball as a reagent and stretching to see if he can still press his palms flat on his toes, and it only took those two seconds for Jaskier to feel the weight of Geralt's gaze slide over the zig-zagging red knotty flesh across his thighs that was looking so much better after years of salves and oils.
He couldn't even be that mad at Geralt: spotting flashes of color and movement constantly saved his life.
It was hours later, fully clothed again and unstringing his lute, that Geralt poked at the fire and asked how long Jaskier had been following him.
Jaskier hid his smile into her luscious pegbox, "Our fourth anniversary is in twelve days," he teasingly arched out a leg and unhooked a string from a peg, "a full fortnight into Blathe. I couldn't have guessed you'd come from my jumping-wish."
Geralt was silent and Jaskier coiled the string into a bag; he looked across the fire and saw Geralt's narrowed eyes, his grip on the stick white knuckled and Jaskier wondered if a lesser man would shake, "They would've been fresh when you followed me."
Jaskier pressed his lips together, searching Geralt's eyes which are mysteriously full of a strange untapped old rage that Jaskier cannot yet name. "Not so fresh," he said cautiously, picking his words carefully, "I was young and jumping over fires- I think that's well enough to follow a witcher."
Geralt's brow eased, softening with something Jaskier thinks is affection, "It's not. But you were."
.
Lambert is as Lambert does. He pounced between Jaskier's legs and was nosing behind his knees, eyes closed and moaning into the soft flesh. And his fingers really started digging into his thighs and when he looked down, saw the soft messy cords, there's no hesitation before he locked their fingers together (Jaskier's knees still on his shoulders) and asked, "who did this to you?"
Which is so utterly endearing and so Lambert that that almost makes Jaskier cry which only tightens Lambert's grip and the witcher is reassuringly nosing at the soft parts of his belly which is so stupid sweet-
Jaskier supposed there was a reason they were called the wolves of Kaer Morhen.
Jaskier rubbed their knuckles into Lambert's scalp, "does it make it better if I tell you they're dead?" he mused.
It must, for Lambert gave him a feral grin and rumbled into his thighs.
.
Eskel didn't ask.
Not with words.
He didn't even blink when he saw them the first time, merely kept mouthing his way up Jaskier's calves.
He doesn't pay them any special attention until Eskel was passing through Skellige and Jaskier was trying to charm his way into a Jarl's library and the witcher's approval was enough for Jaskier to scour the library with Eskel's chaperonage. Jaskier would have felt awful holding Eskel back, but the thunderous storm outside promised days of rain and lightning that he'd rather not subject Scorpion to (never mind that Eskel was the one who told him of the obscure tome).
It should have been a wonderful night to sleep: the stone walls of the castle keeping out the rain and letting the deep drumming sound lull the keep into rest.
But the swells of a true Skelligan squall are still enough to cause the scars to swell and burn after all these years, even as they've mostly faded to glossy pale stripes. The ache was bearable, but made him restless. Made him want to scrub at them until the sharp pain glossed over the deep ache or he tore the flesh away entirely.
Pressed up behind him, tip to toe, Eskel's lips brushed his hair, "I can feel them, like fire," he gently kissed Jaskier's ear, "it's a nice change for you to be the warm one, but if they're causing you pain- I could help."
In the darkness, it was easy for Jaskier to nod and Eskel gently guided his limbs until Jaskier was curved away from him and he carefully traced his fingers up and down Jaskier's flanks. After a minute, when the rhythmic touch melted Jaskier, he felt Eskel's hands change-
well, change wasn't the right word.
Eskel's hands felt the same as always- smoothly calloused and firm and gentle and familiar- but Jaskier felt something immaterial begin to hum along his hands. Dimly, Jaskier recalled Geralt having a weird rant about Eskel's strength with signs and his "literally magic hands" (well, if the shoe fits); all thoughts left his head entirely when Eskel's fingers started to knead into the scars, dissipating anything in the world besides the absolute relief he feels when the feverish skin starts to drain and mellow and calm and Gods he couldn't love Eskel anymore than this.
The tears came quietly, soft little shuddering breaths, and felt good and he shook his head when Eskel asked, "too much?"
The words drained out too- unbidden and raw, they dripped from Jaskier's lips.
"My family sent me away," Eskel's hand didn't slip, but soothing curls started to pepper the rhythmic pressing, "you've seen my ring, well-" Jaskier let the thick sob out with his breath, "Redanians don't kill bad heirs. They train them for battle."
Eskel pressed soft open mouthed kisses down his spine; in the darkness it's easier to tell Eskel about the temple school and the garrison, about other weak and disfigured and soft heirs sent to die from exhaustion or wanting, about those who made it through their military career unable to rule or sire an heir of their own. The magic eases from Eskel's hands when they're tightly coiled together and Jaskier learns of Deidre.
After the shuddering calms, they slept through the night and into the morning. The storm still raged and the castle was quiet and slumbering. Eskel brought warm chicory to bed and told Jaskier of the Trials.
Gods he couldn't love Eskel anymore than this.
.
A/N- Encouragement and kind words will always make me more excited to write stuff <3 and feel free to dash off a message to me! I haven’t really made any friends in the fandom yet :3c
Thanks for reading, friends!
Rough and tumble ragged drafts on tumblr here: actual fic varieties of exile
Polished chapters on ao3 here: Varieties of Exile
#actual fic varieties of exile#jaskel#lamskier#geraskier#eskel/jaskier#eskel x jaskier#lambert x jaskier#lambert/jaskier#geralt x jaskier#geralt/jaskier#eskel#geralt#lambert#jaskier whump#i think#kind of it's slow to put those parts together#jaskier#varieties of exile#the witcher#fanfic#fan fic#witcher whump#the witch writes
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The Witcher S3 EP 2: Unbound AKA Roll Call, Everyone's Here
I'll be honest, a good percentage of this just Bard Lust. And getting excited and/or concerned when characters first appear
Little do you know, she is trying to keep the royal peace...
But you and I agree on one thing, Madam Barkeep 👀
Hm. Ciri, has that been happening a lot?
"My Ugly One?" Is that...a term of endearment because I have Thoughts, Concerns, and Emotions if it is...
Shopping for what, Yen?
He's not wrong about the monsters
Is that...? It is! I now have a canonical crossover point! Codringher = Edwin the Magnificant. And they're both even a mysterious stranger type that our Adventuring Hero and his bestie go to for advice/assistance/information/etc.
Hello, who are you? Oh. Nevermind. It's Emperor CreepyDad
Damn Fringilla...you're in a sorry state
Oh wait, we've met them before. They were helping...someone last season. Why didn't I recognize him?
Aww, look at Jaskier looking so smug and proud. Not unlike a cat himself
I don't trust those noises outside...
Geralt "Oh I've got plenty of contempt, old man"
Aww look, they're growing. And sharing their feelings. But also, Jask, baby...💔
Ragamuffin gets used for a lot of magic-y things (ok, it was 2, but that's still a lot when there's So Many Words out there, even if we stick to English)
Ooh, I don't know who this woman is but I like her
I respect it Ciri but your impulses are going to get people killed. Rein it in girl
Triss? Teaching at Aretuza? Why does that feel...wrong?
Stregobitch. Glad you went off the rails there at the last minute because I was almost starting to think you were being sensible and it made me itchy.
Go Tissaia, putting Bitch in his place!
Blood on a wall is never good...
What...is happening and why do I feel like it might be a sex thing?
Ok so it's not a sex thing? Spies are weird
Sure Dijkstra, to "Redania." We can pretend this is a for king and country thing if it helps you sleep at night, but there are definitely personal ambitions at hand
This. Is. A. Look. and a Power. Stance. God I'm in love with him (also I'm really here for the varied florals. And the shapes that the fit creates. The costumer in me is thrilled)
"I don't do pretty." What a lie. An absolute lie. I have never heard a bigger lie
My guy, Princeling, whatever. Can we focus? I mean I too love when the bard is bard-ing, but this is important
Ooh, nice castle. Definitely a trap
Where's your other sword Geralt? Don't tell me you expected a trap and still left it on the horse...
Ouch. What a Mom answer, straight to the gut
Oh honey. Yennefer knows that fight better than most
Oh hey Cahir! It's been a while. What's up? Hallucinating Ciri? Neat
Ooh. Fringilla has an Idea (I bet I know what it is)
I already adore this song immediately (and the extended version on spotify is *chefs kiss*). Also 🥺
God, Jaskier proving he can play The Game is so sexy. Send help
If you break my Jaskier's heart, I will end you Princeling.
Oh good, you do have the other sword. I feel better now
Gross. What the fuck.
Oh, he's just kidnapping every girl that looks vaguely Ciri-esque. And apparently making them into nightmare fuel when they're not her
Elven? Who...?
Oh look live action Orsino-Harvester! Not something I wanted, but cool
Oh Jesus. They're still connected. This just keeps getting worse
That looked like it hurt, but it's a small price to pay for freedom probably. Now what Frin?
God Vizimir is obnoxious. And that was an...interesting look from his lady wife. The true power behind the throne perhaps? Or plotting a coup?
Well shit. Firefucker's going to kill these two, isn't he? Don't you dare hurt the kitty!! (I guess at least he listened to that...)
I don't trust you or your gift Vilgefortz. But at the same time, goddamn I like you, you smooth, pretty motherfucker
It's Yennefer. Of course she's bringing trouble. And, as noted, she is trouble
That's a lot to blame yourself for, Yen...
So you abandoned the search to save the girl? And she's...crazy? manipulated? the trap? I'm confused
#Shye watches The Witcher#semi-liveblogging#The Witcher season 3#The Witcher season 3 spoilers#Netflix The Witcher#I am struggling between 'I want to watch this all at once and burn it into my brain' and 'make it last'#so I waited a while on this episode
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I posted 4,845 times in 2022
That's 2,553 more posts than 2021!
8 posts created (0%)
4,837 posts reblogged (100%)
Blogs I reblogged the most:
@0dde11eth
@thesaltofcarthage
@vaspider
@help-help-i-need-an-adult
@ruffboijuliaburnsides
I tagged 345 of my posts in 2022
#geraskier - 14 posts
#awww - 14 posts
#fic rec - 11 posts
#yep - 9 posts
#aww - 8 posts
#aw - 6 posts
#abortion - 6 posts
#so cute! - 6 posts
#happy pride 🌈 - 5 posts
#the witcher - 5 posts
Longest Tag: 135 characters
#this is even funnier for me because i have a fedex package and it updated from one state far away from me to my state with no inbetween
My Top Posts in 2022:
#5
Image description: Bugs Bunny in a black suit, a white shirt, black bowtie, with a flower pinned to his jacket. The text to the left of him reads, "I wish all my internet friends a very thank you for making my 2021 better & happy new year <3".
0 notes - Posted January 1, 2022
#4
HEY YOU'RE GREAT
Aw! Thank you Anon.
1 note - Posted December 17, 2022
#3
My ankles are very angry tonight. Fucking chronic pain. Looking forward to getting at least one of them taken care of on February 22nd. Also looking forward to having the slight increase in one of my meds that help with sleep and chronic pain. The additional dose of medication won't arrive until this Tuesday. So now I'm awake and in pain. Boo.
1 note - Posted January 14, 2022
#2
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Mating, so much banter and flirting, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sassy Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Happy Ending, Kaer Morhen (The Witcher), Endearments, Knotting, Don't copy to another site
Summary:
Geralt had taken one look at Jaskier in that dingy tavern in Posada almost a year ago and he'd known—Jaskier was his. His to protect and take care of and cherish. His mate.
*
Or: The story of Geralt and Jaskier's mating.
4 notes - Posted October 28, 2022
My #1 post of 2022
🎶✨when u get this u have to put 5 songs u actually listen to, publish. then, send this ask to 10 of your followers (non-negotiable, positivity is cool) 🎶✨
Thanks @0dde11eth for the tag:
1) The Old Witch Sleep and the Good Man Grace - The Amazing Devil
2) That Unwanted Animal - The Amazing Devil
3) The Horror and the Wild - The Amazing Devil
4) Utakata - Kagrra,
5) Ginger - Exist Trace
I’m going to tag (but no pressure to those tagged!): @penandinkprincess, @fangirleaconmigo, @jetpuffedmarsh, @whispered-story, @wannastayugly, @miscreantmermaid, @flordefandom, @all-things-fandomstuck, @ohmygodtonystark, @kueble
4 notes - Posted November 14, 2022
Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →
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Imagine a modern geraskier au where Jaskier and Geralt own a nice little house and a lawn and all that jazz and Jaskier is overly picky about his flowers and his garden and whatnot, so he makes Geralt help him with the yard work instead of hiring someone to do it like "normal celebrities do" (as Yen said with an eye roll) which results in many paparazzi photos of the two of them just. Mowing the fucking lawn. Cutting back the shrubs. Trimming the rose bushes and fertilizing the pumpkins. It's the most bizarre thing to happen to Hollywood since Jake Gyllenhaal said he doesn't shower. One day Jaskier is sick and they have Ciri for the week and he needs to do yard work, it hasn't been done since last week god forbid, and Ciri steps up and is like "Don't worry father dear. I will help with the yard work." which then results in Jaskier posting the most vile, suburban mom photos to all of his socials of Geralt and Ciri doing yard work. Just the most sickening, yet endearing grandma behavior that is possible in a thirty year old man. He's so proud of his darling little girl and his amazing husband, he really is. He starts a livestream and he's just sobbing while watching Horrible Histories and gushing about Geralt and Ciri. Everyone is Fed Up With Him.
#i came up with this while doing yard work#i HATE yard work#despise it#i live in a climate that is similar to hell i think#so that makes it even fucking worse#but anyways#have this#the witcher#geraskier#modern au
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Shocking
Jaskier is a man of many skills and qualities. Most of them just aren't that obvious at first glance.
Six times Geralt was shocked by something about Jaskier + One time Jaskier was shocked by Geralt
Also available on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40910667
1. Charisma - Oddly endearing idiot
The bard has been nothing but a nuisance since before he even approached Geralt in that gods forsaken tavern. From the irritatingly innacurate and flippant songs about monsters, to the interrupting and refusing to take no for an answer, to the trailing him and distracting him in the middle of a contract, Jaskier has proven himself an ignorant, inconsiderate fool. Geralt wouldn't be at all surprised if he left Oxenfurt (which he's bragged about attending no less than six times in the short time Geralt's known him) because he was expelled for being a senseless idiot.
That he feels it prudent to yell insults at their captors is no great shock to Geralt.
That he does so in Elder once he runs out of things to say in Common does shock Geralt. Just a little. Jaskier doesn't strike him as the kind of student eager to learn a dying language scorned by humans, let alone the kind who's capable of it.
When Filavandrel decides to let them go, the idiot complains about his lute instead of being grateful that he's kept his life. Again, not surprising on its own, really.
Except that he then gives Filavandrel an impassioned plea involving not one but two ancient elvish poems in beautifully fluent Elder concerning the cruelty of robbing a man of his livelihood and the importance of song. And Filavandrel gives him a possibly priceless elven lute originally belonging to the elf who'd destroyed Jaskier's.
While Jaskier is occupied playing with his new toy, Geralt approaches Filavandrel. He glances Jaskier's way, brows furrowed in a confused frown. "Why?"
Filavandrel laughs, and it sounds only a little bitter. "I am keeping as many of my people alive and free as I can, but our numbers continue to dwindle, and those half-elves that grow up in the world as it is now know nothing of their heritage, know none of our songs or stories. He, and others like him, safekeep our history and our culture in some way, even if that isn't their intention. As long as there is someone still singing our songs, we still have hope of recovering some of what we have lost."
Geralt isn't convinced.
Filavandrel's lips quirk. "That, and there's something oddly endearing about the idiot, isn't there?"
Geralt grunts.
They walk away from the last of the free elves without looking back. Geralt has seen more than enough pain not to want to take in a last glimpse of theirs, and Jaskier is far more concerned about composing his first song on his new instrument.
"Now there's a man who knows the true value of art," Jaskier says as they walk.
A little later, Geralt wonders if Filavandrel would value the first song he has enabled Jaskier to write. It seems less than honourable or respectful to use the gift to further slander the gift giver, but what does Geralt know? Witchers don't have honour. No matter what Jaskier's deluded song might claim.
Jaskier seems less concerned about it, but he does play one or two songs Geralt thinks may be elvish as he adjusts the tuning that evening, humming them under his breath as he strums the chords.
Geralt has no idea how he ended up with the bard camping next to him. He'd forgone staying in Posada after turning in the contract specifically to avoid the company, but somehow the bard had just kept talking and walking beside him and the next he knew, they were sitting together by a campfire and Geralt had yet to find a space in the babbling to tell him to fuck off. Why he didn't interrupt the bard or shout over him is another mystery.
"How did you come to learn Elder?"
Jaskier doesn't break his fingerwork, but he does look up in vague surprise and delight at Geralt's seeming interest. "Many of the epic poems are in Elder. I'd hardly be able to call myself a master of the seven liberal arts if I couldn't read them, now could I?"
"I didn't think humans..." Liked elven art, cared to know elven poetry, would admit any of the poems they valued were not of human origin... There are many possible conclusions to the statement.
"Humans might not, in general. Artists, though, have always been a contrary breed," Jaskier says. "You might be shocked to learn how many students at Oxenfurt are half-elves. Indeed, the greatest gatherings of artists on the Continent include people of many backgrounds and species. When I left, the faculty was still abuzz over a Dwarven choir that performed at the latest of these fetes."
"Right," Geralt says. Somehow he doubts that being an 'artist' makes humans exempt from the bigotry and hatred that seems to come naturally to them. Jaskier himself had believed that nonsense about the elves giving away their lands willingly, and while not the most malicious of the many lies he's heard on that subject, it's not a story told by those with a real appreciation for the people whose lives were destroyed in the true history of events.
Whether Jaskier picks up on his skepticism or whether he feels some of it himself and sees fit to further qualify his argument unprompted, he answers Geralt's doubts without pause. "That's not to say the admiration and respect goes beyond the arts, unfortunately. We had more than one terrible fellow in my class who disdained modern non-human species' as barbarians while seeming to hold ancient elven scholars to be the origin of civilisation. It's really pretty baffling considering how many of the few remaining full-blooded elves might actually be ancient elven scholars, but there's no accounting for logic when it comes to that sort of thing, I suppose."
All the while, he hasn't stopped his gentle strumming. Geralt isn't even sure he's aware of his own playing anymore, just mindlessly repeating chord progressions to accompany his words as if he naturally comes with his own background music.
Jaskier sighs abruptly. "I wonder how many lost poems I could have learned from Filavandrel and his bunch, eh? Shame we had to leave so soon."
Geralt raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "You begged them to let you go from the moment you woke up."
"Well, I mean after the abduction mix up, obviously," Jaskier huffs. "Just think about the collective knowledge they must have of poetry and music and history. Seems such a shame to leave it all unrecorded. Perhaps lost forever."
"They're hardly lost if the elves know them," Geralt points out.
Jaskier hums in begrudging agreement. "You can hardly tell me they still sing them all though. Still speak all the stories aloud, or dance all the dances only they still know. Art is dead as soon as the last person shares it for the last time."
"Maybe they'll win," Geralt says for the sake of argument. "Might not be the last time. Might be dancing those dances on human graves."
Strangely, Jaskier laughs at that. Not with derision or anything one might expect in response to the suggestion. "In which case I only hope someone dedicates some effort to preserving my own works. It'd be a shame to finally find a worthy muse only for all my compositions to be lost to time before they've even had a chance to catch on."
2. Intellegence - Not completely useless
Geralt learns, over a period of years, that Jaskier knows several languages. Enough to get by in any of the Northen Kingdoms, conversational Nilfgaardian, some basic amounts of a few long dead human and dwarven dialects, and two branches of Elder speech that in modern times have more or less merged into one. Most of them he didn't study, but immersed himself in during the breaks between terms at Oxenfurt.
He also learns that the seven liberal arts include not just subjects pertinent to music and poetry as he'd assumed, in fact music was only one of the arts, and grammar another. Among the other areas in which Jaskier is considered a master through his education are arithmetic, astronomy and geometry, which, while less gifted and even less enthused with, Jaskier does seem to have a solid handle on. Somewhere between the sciences and the arts lie dialectic and rhetoric, which seems to mean Jaskier is highly qualified in the art of arguing.
There is, however, a difference between taught education, and learning gained through experience and wisdom.
Jaskier may be a master of all the core subjects deemed valuable by scholarly circles, but he's a damned fool when it comes to common sense or worldly knowedge. It's a wonder he survives the short intervals between travelling with Geralt and being safely ensconced in Oxenfurt or the home of some patron or another. He's also terrible at gambling, having been introduced to it as a friendly pastime with low stakes, and he either entirely without romantic morals or too wrapped up in his own feelings of romance to notice when he's transgressing them.
Geralt has had to pull him away from one too many losing streak turned ugly and from countless scorned lovers, either Jaskier's own or those stung by infidelity when Jaskier seduced theirs. It makes it very hard to feel any degree of sympathy for him when Jaskier's own heart is broken.
"Get up," Geralt snaps at Jaskier's slumped form.
Jaskier doesn't raise his head from the table. "Why should I? What purpose would it serve? No, I'll stay right here until I wither away and she has to hear all about how I died of a broken heart. Perhaps then she'll feel some measure of my pain."
Geralt sighs and lifts Jaskier by the scruff of his collar. "You can pine to death somewhere else. I'm not paying for another night here so you can wallow."
"You're so cold hearted, Geralt. Do you feel no pity? No regard for the heartbreak of your dearest friend?" Jaskier cries, though not quite heartbroken enough to forget to pick up his lute as Geralt ushers him out of the room.
He's also not quite heartbroken enough to follow through on his threat of withering away to teach the countess a lesson. Not when the alternative is pestering Geralt as he investigates the contract a glaring townsperson presses on him just as they're about to leave town.
"What do you think it is?" Jaskier asks.
Geralt shrugs. The man didn't give him a lot to go on. That's the whole point of investigating.
"One has to wonder why he didn't come find you before," Jaskier says. "Given how urgent he seems to think it is now, you would think he'd have leapt at the chance to employ a witcher, not waited until you'd all but left town before even approaching you."
Geralt grunts. Witchers are a last resort, even Jaskier should realise that by now.
But Jaskier doesn't let it drop. He trails Geralt around the area the man had pointed him towards, peering over his shoulder and making skeptical noises and generally making a nuisance of himself.
Geralt growls in frustration and stalks further away, again, to get some space from Jaskier's incessant pestering. It doesn't matter if the man had seemed like the dishonest kind to Jaskier's fine bardic sensibilites, or if Jaskier -- correctly, frustratingly enough -- surmised that the dusty field he'd pointed them towards wasn't the right kind of habitat for the kind of creature the man had described.
"I'm just saying, Geralt, this can't be the first time some scoundrel's pulled your leg," Jaskier yells at his retreating back. "Right. Well I'm going to go and investigate properly. I'll come find you when I've got to the bottom of it, presuming you're still alive and not in the belly of some creature you weren't prepared for, or in a pile of ashes at the bottom of a stake some mob has tied you to."
Geralt ignores him.
Two hours later, as they stumble down the darkened road, Roach trailing trailing them as Jaskier says 'I told you so' in as many ways as his poetic brain can conjure (which is a lot of ways), Geralt admits that perhaps Jaskier isn't completely lacking in common sense. If he'd shut up for more than one breath at a time, Geralt might even thank him for his investigation and quick thinking, given it meant Geralt escaped with little more than some bruises and a killer headache from whatever non-lethal poison he's affected with. Given that the bard shows no signs of relenting in his babble any time soon, Geralt's more than safe from that eventuality, though.
3. Dexterity - Roach's brother in arms (or hooves)
Jaskier's handwriting is atrocious. He claims that he had caligraphy lessons both growing up and at Oxenfurt. He's either lying or it was the one class he failed at completely.
Geralt squints at the list again. "This definitely says 'toadskin oil'."
"Why on Melitele's green continent would I want toadskin oil?!"
Geralt shrugs. He'd thought it was odd, but then so's Jaskier. "I thought maybe it was for your lute or something."
"Yes, the linseed oil was indeed for my lute!" Jaskier says. "Funnily enough, I don't rub bits of amphibian on my instrument, though!"
They both eye the dubious bottle the very confused apothecary had given him when he'd listed off some of the items Jaskier had requested.
"What even is that?" Jaskier asks.
"I'm not sure." They didn't have any toadskin oil, which makes sense given that Geralt's never even heard of such a thing outside of Jaskier's poorly scribed shopping list. The apothecary had given him this instead with the assurance that it was multi-purpose and skin-safe. Geralt isn't sure what any of those purposes are, but skin-safe had sounded reassuring at least.
Jaskier sighs. "You got everything else though? Your apparent illiteracy has only impacted my poor lute, right?"
Geralt nods only a little uncertainly. The other items had seemed straightforward enough.
"Wonderful," Jaskier mutters to himself as he parses through the items Geralt bought to be sure.
After that, it's somewhat cemented in Geralt's mind that Jaskier is in some way clumsy, despite how easily he glides between patrons in crowded taverns, how nimbly his fingers pluck at his lute strings and how deftly he stiches Geralt's wounds. His handwriting and his general overdramatic nature, how he sometimes misses his own mouth while eating because he's trying to simultaneously write or play cards, his distracted stumbling and walking into trees when trying to walk and compose, or escape pursuers with his trousers around his ankles; it all creates the image of a bumbling fool. A comedic ass like those in the plays Geralt's sometimes obvserved in town squares.
He's forced to reevaluate this when they stumble into the middle of a nest of nekkers.
Geralt should have noticed the signs before they got that far, but burrowers are always harder to spot unless you're looking out for them, and they weren't particularly looking out for anything. Just on their way between one contract and the next. Not a whisper had reached them about nekker activity in the area and Geralt had been distracted laughing at Jaskier for tripping over what he now knows was the collapsed entrance to a nekker tunnel. Jaskier properly tripping happens rarely enough for saying the man insists on playing his lute and talking to Geralt while he walks, and he's never the most aware of his surroundings. He stumbles a lot, but Geralt can count on one hand how many times he's actually fallen, and it's a hilarious spectacle when he does, all bright flailing limbs and woebegone screeching about his muddied clothes.
So they'd wandered straight on into an ambush. More nekkers than Geralt's possibly ever seen in one nest. Over a dozen -- possibly as many as fifteen -- sharp clawed creatures erupting from the soil around them. If he hadn't had all panic reactions beaten out of him during his training, he'd have likely done something useless and stupid like yelling at Jaskier to run while he holds them off. As it is, he knows running won't help. All he can do is strike down as many as he can, as fast as he can, and hope that it's enough.
He gets cut off from Jaskier and Roach pretty quickly, doing his best to keep the little bastards' focus on him and getting more than a few scrapes for his trouble. He doesn't dare look over to them until he hears Jaskier cry out.
Jaskier's using the songbook he'd been holding to deflect the nekkers' claws, darting surprisingly quickly back and forth to keep them off Roach as much as he can. Roach is holding up her end, trampling and kicking at any that come within range of her hooves, though she herself has a couple of deep scratches on her withers. Two small bodies lie at her feet, and Geralt himself has taken down three, but they're fast and they're everywhere and there's only so much time you can spend attacking when you're dodging dozens of swipes every moment.
Geralt earns himself another wound when he double takes. Jaskier's not just deflecting, and deflecting pretty well for an unarmed bard, but dodging with enviable agility. Were he armed, they might actually have a chance here.
Jaskier kicks a nekker hard enough that it stumbles back into the group surrounding Geralt, giving him a split second of breathing space to swing his sword. Somehow taking this in while still fending off the two nekkers attacking him and Roach, Jaskier cheers and a look of determined focus steals over his pink and sweaty face. When Geralt is able to look again, Jaskier's alternating swiping with his songbook and kicking out at the nekkers, clearly on the offensive now as the cowardly little fuckers scramble to avoid him.
Geralt mows down the last of the ones that had surrounded him, and hops over the corpses to finish off the two Jaskier's keeping at bay.
Afterwards, looking around at the tiny massacre, Jaskier seems to lose whatever it was that fuelled him through the fight. "Fuck."
Geralt hums in agreement.
"Fuck," Jaskier repeats and darts off to the side to vomit into the shrubbery.
While Jaskier's making the area even more disgusting, Geralt goes to check on Roach. She's still a little skittish, and one of her scratches may need stitches, but she's a good horse. Experienced. She calms quickly under Geralt's hand, and he's able to wash off the worst of the blood and dirt from her wounds with his water skin.
Eventually, the sound of dry heaving slows and stops, and Jaskier reappears and claims the small remainder of Geralt's water to swill out his mouth. "Next time I might just let them kill me," he moans.
Geralt huffs.
"You have to admit though, we made a pretty good team!" Jaskier beams at him.
"We aren't a team."
"I wasn't talking about you, I was talking about me and Roach," Jaskier says snidely.
"Hmm."
Jaskier knows better by now than to approach Roach so soon after a fight, but he does turn so that all of his subsequent remarks are directed at her. "We're practically brothers in arms now, Roach. Or brother and sister in arms, or arms and hooves." He waves a hand dismissively at his own nonsense. "Regardless, if you ever want to strike out on your own and leave this grump behind, I'll happily join you and sing of your horsely heroics."
Roach nickers in response.
4. Wisdom - Master Dandelion
It's rare that Geralt finds reason to be in Oxenfurt. It's an industrious city close by to other industrious cities and towns, and as such rarely has a monster problem the city guard can't deal with or call in reinforcements for. Jaskier's there almost every winter, but they usually part ways long before either of them reaches their destination for the season, and reunite somewhere in the middle.
Geralt's seen Jaskier teach once, and only once. And Jaskier was extremely hungover at the time, filling in unexpectedly for another lecturer who'd come down with flu. The lesson had been poorly planned over the course of half an hour that morning, and the students were a mix of rowdy and equally hungover having attended the same start of term party that Jaskier had the night before. Geralt hadn't managed to last five minutes with all the noise and the stale stench of alcohol and last night's sweat and perfume, and had escaped to the relative fresh air before Jaskier had finished introducing himself.
He's never met any of Jaskier's students before.
"Master Dandelion!"
Jaskier turns automatically at the title.
Geralt had asked about that before, after the disastrous lesson he'd almost attended. Jaskier had given some long and rambling story that seemed to revolve around Redanian snobbery and buttercups not being masculine enough for a Master of the Arts. Which Jaskier had apparently found just as ridiculous as Geralt, but hadn't cared enough about to devote his energy to challenging when he could just pick a slightly less 'feminine' flower name to go by.
A small cluster of bardlings hover around the entrance to the tavern, looking just about as lost as any privileged youths out on their own in the world for the first time can look.
"My goodness!" Jaskier effuses, arms sweeping out to the sides as he takes them in. "Just look at you all! I wasn't expecting to see any of you on the circuit just yet. I assume you're on your way up to the solstice festival?"
Jaskier's on his way to a solstice festival, as Geralt has heard about far too much over the past few weeks. It's apparently an up and coming festival that hasn't quite reached the mainstream bardic circuit yet, but that Jaskier feels is far more worthwhile and far less 'commercial' (read: less likely to have Valdo Marx in attendance) than the ones he usually attends.
Geralt intends on splitting off from him at the river to find a fishing town or two that might have drowner problems. They may or may not meet up afterwards near Tridam. Geralt still holds that it isn't a plan and that he might not show up.
Jaskier leads his group of bardlings over to the table he and Geralt had scoped out before they'd gone to order drinks at the bar, snagging Geralt on the way back to ensure he didn't run off, as though he might be scared away by a small group of terrified baby minstrels.
...He might be a little scared of a small group of terrified baby minstrels. They're all looking at him, even the two that are pretending not to be, and he has no idea what to say to them.
Ever the bastard, Jaskier leaves them to 'get acquainted' while he places the newcomers' orders.
A particulary brave one clears his throat and attempts to meet Geralt's eye. He ends up settling for what must be somewhere around Geralt's nose, by the cross eyed expression on his face. "You must be the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia."
Geralt grunts in acknowledgement.
The kid rallies and tries again. "Are you coming to the festival?"
"No."
Out of courage, the kid nods and turns his attention to picking at the table.
It seems an eternity of awkward silence before Jaskier returns, but once he does it's like whatever nerves and anxiety the group was feeling evaporate. He barely speaks two sentences before the kids are excitedly opening up about their year so far, about their plans to travel together over the summer and gain experience performing 'just like you said, Master Dandelion', and the pieces they plan to perform at the festival.
Somehow, Geralt was trapped in the corner when seating arrangements were decided, far too thrown by the ambush to fight back against Jaskier's guiding hands, so he's trapped for hours as they discuss lyrics, metres and chord progression, and breath control and vocal exercises and a long list of things apparently fundemental to the performing arts that make the whole thing sound far more complicated than Geralt ever thought it could be.
Jaskier is a surprisingly level presence, guiding and praising and calming them by turns. His students clearly trust him, and that trust is clearly earned. Jaskier imparts wisdom and compassion that finally seem equal to his years, seemingly knowing exactly how to answer their every question, including those few topics he admits ignorance on. By the end of the evening, the group parts ways with them cheerfully and with far more confidence than they'd had when Geralt first saw them by the door.
"You're good at that," Geralt says.
Jaskier snorts. "You needn't sound so very shocked. I am a sought after professor of the arts, you know."
Geralt wisely decides not to explain that he'd always assumed Jaskier just stood at the front of a lecture hall a few times a year and rambled on about his songs the way he does to anyone he can pretend is listening. The way he'd interacted with his students just now, though. That was a side of Jaskier he's never seen before. A side a bewildered Geralt can picture having long winded academic discussions with the best of Geralt's teachers growing up.
A mental image of Jaskier and Vesemir in solemn discussion about monster lore pops into his head and Geralt takes a long chug of his ale.
"They're rather sheltered to be out here on their own," Jaskier's saying when Geralt tunes back in. "I'm honestly surprised they've made it here without incident. But I suppose one has to find one's own feet sooner or later."
"You want to travel with them," Geralt surmises.
"Just to the festival. We are going the same way," Jaskier confirms.
"Hmm." It doesn't matter. Geralt will leave them at the river. He'll only have to put up with them for maybe a day.
Geralt ends up attending the festival.
Jaskier's students are a mess, but they pull themselves together enough to make a half-way decent performance and Jaskier beams at them all as though they outperformed everyone else there. Which they decidedly did not.
"It was too soon," Jaskier confides later. "First public performances rarely go well, much less in completely unfamiliar territory on a festival stage after several weeks of sleep deprivation. I don't think the poor things caught a solid night's rest since they set out from home. Oh well. They did very well considering, don't you think?"
Geralt grunts neutrally. The kids are lucky, he thinks, to have Jaskier there with them. Having heard a few earlier drafts of their songs, they were definitely lucky to have his input before the big day.
"Do you think they'll be alright?" Jaskier frets.
Geralt thinks of his first hunt, near to home and with his brothers, but utterly nerve wracking all the same. The injuries they'd got. The lack of comfort or reassurance from any of their teachers, even Vesemir, as the laundry list of their mistakes was rattled off to them. The feeling of bone deep terror the first time he set out on the Path, with no one by his side. How much he'd longed for Vesemir at his elbow, reminding him to keep his breathing even and keep his arms up to defend himself during a fight, to go over what they'd taught him about the first monster he was to face alone before he had to rely on his own fear-jumbled recollection.
He thinks of Jaskier when they first met, clearly having been out on his own for at least a little while, but so naive and eager to please, desperate for validation and for the security and company of a travelling companion, even though Geralt was a rude, angry witcher with no patience for him.
He thinks of the stench of nerves and anxiety that followed Jaskier's students around like a noxious cloud until Jaskier spoke with each one of them, reminding them to keep their breathing even and their shoulders relaxed when performing, going over everything they'd learned about road safety and unfamiliar venues, and smiling at them reassuringly from the audience when they fumbled.
Geralt pats him on the shoulder hard enough to jar him. "They'll be fine."
Except maybe the one who kept puking, but Geralt kept that thought to himself.
5. Constitution - A squishy, tender bag of rocks
When first he finds him, Geralt doesn't notice notice the bruises, the cuts, or the red inflammation of burned skin. He's too wrapped up in Ciri and Yen, and it isn't like the of smells of pain and injury are out of place in a jail cell.
And Jaskier is wounded, yes, but he acts as though his body is sound. No sharp inhalations or winces, or flinching away. Geralt's known him to complain about a tiny splinter for hours, so how was he to know Jaskier could act so well?
He starts to suspect something when Jaskier opts to sit in the cart rather than pestering to ride with someone or simply walking. Jaskier would never opt to sit alone in a cart where his conversational options are so limited, unless he's exhausted or ill. Having seen the jail cell, Geralt assumes the first, but he keeps a closer eye on Jaskier after that.
It's Yarpen that notices.
Jaskier's bent over to fill his water skin, still not a wince of discomfort in sight, and the breeze picks up the untucked edge of his chemise.
"Fucken' 'ell, man. What the fuck 'appened to ye?" Yarpen says with his usual tact. "Ye look like ye've fought a bag o' rocks."
Jaskier's face does something odd before settling back into a lighthearted grin. "Didn't do much fighting, I'm afraid. Was more like I was the bag of rocks being fought. A very squishy, tender bag of rocks."
"Someone did a number on ye?"
A laugh from Jaskier. "I'd say a very high number, yeah. I'll recover, though, despite the bastard's best intentions. If Geralt's post-hunt stench can't take me out, then one pissed off mage with a fire fetish certainly can't."
Geralt gives up all pretence of not listening in. "Mage?"
"Don't worry, I couldn't have told him anything if I'd wanted to. And Yen turned up before it got too nasty," Jaskier says offhandedly.
Geralt grabs the bard's shirt and pulls it up to reveal a mottled collection of bruises along Jaskier's side, mostly in greens and yellows now, but there's no doubt of how dark and severe they must have been when fresh. How Jaskier escaped that kind of beating without any broken ribs is a mystery to Geralt. And he's sure there are no broken ribs. Even a witcher wouldn't volunteer to bend almost in double to collect water around broken ribs.
"Oi, stop it! You haven't been nearly charming enough to be allowed to take my clothes off," Jaskier says, pulling his shirt back down and tucking it in firmly. "It isn't as bad as it looks. I've had worse from Roach."
He has. The idiot made the mistake of darting around behind her in the middle of a ghoul attack once and was lucky enough to avoid taking her kick full in the chest or head. The comparison isn't reassuring.
"I do miss the old girl," Jaskier says wistfully. "I'm sure New Roach is just lovely, but he has big hooves to fill."
"That makes no sense," Geralt retorts, annoyed with himself for not checking Jaskier over properly when he took his impromptu waterfall bath. He'd been too impatient to get back on the road, too surprised by the hardened muscle across Jaskier's arms, shoulders, chest and stomach, a little too well defined after his time in jail, but shockingly robust even against his memories of the bard's lean physique when he last saw it a little over a year or so ago.
Jaskier ignores him and turns back to Yarpen, who's already grown bored and wandered away. "I think he likes me, really."
Geralt doesn't dignify that with a response.
Later, when they're back on the road and Jaskier's back to walking beside him as he rides, he asks. "Why didn't you say anything?"
Jaskier shrugs, catching the direction of Geralt's thoughts as easily as ever. Geralt supposes that's what comes from over two decades of close companionship. "I didn't think it'd make much of a difference. It's not like there's anything to be done about it now."
Geralt tries and fails to think of an argument against that and spends the next hour frustrated by it. "You still should have told me," he says in the end, pulling Jaskier from his uncharacteristically quiet musings.
"Why?"
Geralt grunts in frustration.
"I'm not trying to be difficult, Geralt, but it isn't like you came to find me for my own good. You have other things on your mind, and I'd rather not talk about being tortured by a magical pyromaniac if I can help it," Jaskier says. "Besides, I'm fine. A few more psychological scars, perhaps, but no more than the next person in this godsforsaken war, and I'm sure I'll work through all of that in my own good time once I get a new lute."
It's disquietening to hear Jaskier speak so dismissively of his own pain, but Geralt doesn't have the first idea of how humans are supposed to process that kind of thing. If he did, he might be a much less useless guardian to Ciri. At least Jaskier seems more or less intact. Miraculously still whole and himself after everything, and healing well for a man whose spent most of his convalescence in a dirty jail cell. Hopefully he'll stay that way.
6. Strength - Holy shit
Geralt should have known in retrospect, especially after Jaskier's impromptu bath revealed the additional muscle he's put on since the last time Geralt saw him shirtless - and he wasn't exactly scrawny before - but somehow with all his bumbling and frippery and complaining, Jaskier's always come off as a little... fragile. Easily broken, even if he does seem to bounce back faster than seems reasonable, and less durable, less capable than Geralt has always known him to be. His muscle and sturdy figure has always seemed more ornamental than practical. An aesthetic Jaskier's created for lovers to discover when they peel him free from the slimming lines of his flamboyant clothes.
Next to Geralt and his brothers, next to Yennefer and her blazing power, next to Ciri and her unrelenting determination and new skills with both sword and sorcery, Jaskier is so ordinary. So soft and unthreatening.
Hell, next to the sturdy gait and rough hands of every working man they meet on the Path, Jaskier is soft.
Or so he's always appeared.
Geralt has reason to reevaluate his stance on that more than once since their reconcilliation.
He discovers that Jaskier's expressive face and overly emotional manner can be used to cut Lambert down with a dismissive gesture and a lightly spoken word when the witcher turns his not-entirely-friendly ribbing the bard's way. He discovers that Jaskier's resilience and lack of regard for social boundaries can make him quite as at home living with brash and wounded witchers in a half-derelict keep as he is surrounded by fawning nobles in a lavish banquet hall. He learns that Jaskier's all-too-easily given and almost as easily broken heart is capable of enough loyalty to confound a skilled torturer, even when he's feeling angry and hurt by the object of that loyalty. That his romantic sensibilities and impractical ideals are so deeply held that the realities and horrors of war can only root them deeper, will only make him that much more determined to uphold them, risking life, limb and freedom to help anyone who asks it of him and many who don't. He finds that though Jaskier's ability to bounce back is less impressive than it once was, he doesn't shatter under any amount of pressure, his frippery and dramatics more durable than any armour as he continues to be no less than himself in the face of any amount of insult, derision or malice.
And, perhaps most surprisingly of all, Geralt discovers that Jaskier is physically fucking strong for a human.
"Where do you want it?" Jaskier asks Vesemir, his stupid billowy chemise clinging and transparent with sweat around the bulging muscles of his arms and shoulders.
Vesemir glances at the large piece of broken masonry in Jaskier's arms and tilts his head in the direction of one of his organised piles.
For a good while, Geralt completely forgets to continue his own work in clearing the rubble in favour of watching Jaskier flex and lift and carry blocks of stone and hardwood that likely weigh more than Geralt.
He takes more breaks than the witchers, needs more water and takes a moment to groan and stretch between each bout of labour, but Jaskier doesn't visibly tire until after all the rubble has been sorted into piles for rebuilding and all the intact furniture moved into a less ruined room. Even then he tries to continue, wincing with every movement but still tossing the occassional jibe back towards Lambert and Coen when they tease him about his human weaknesses.
"Enough," Geralt rasps at last. "You'll be no use to us tomorrow if you're barely able to move."
Just because Jaskier can push past his discomfort, doesn't mean he should. Geralt remembers all too well what those first few weeks of companionship were like, with Geralt pushing Jaskier to walk longer and faster than he was used to for days at a time, Jaskier getting slower and stiffer with each sunrise until Geralt was finally forced to acknowledge the truth in Jaskier's whinging about how pacing oneself is ultimately more productive than ignoring one's limits.
Jaskier barely glances at him but he does stop working, as though he'd been waiting for permission. He doesn't leave the hall, though, slumping down against a mostly intact wall and tilting his head back until it rests on the stone. His hands are red and raw from the rough work.
Geralt frowns. "You should clean those."
Jaskier blinks down at his hands, then shoots Geralt an exhausted smile. "Never fear, my callouses are intact as ever. If the firefucker couldn't burn them off, a little manual labour certainly shan't."
The reminder of what Jaskier endured for him is as unwelcome as ever. He's eternally grateful for Yennefer's intervening before any permanent damage could be done, even through the bitter, lingering betrayal he feels over what she tried to do to Ciri. If that bastard had killed Jaskier, or maimed him, scarred him, then Geralt isn't sure he would have ever recovered from the guilt and fury. He isn't sure he could have survived seeing Jaskier broken because of his loyalty to Geralt. As it is, he and Yennefer are still watching carefully for any mental scars Rience might have left, though they might take days or even decades to become apparent.
"And here I thought I was the one who needed to improve his bathing habits," Geralt teases. Jaskier won't thank him for weighing down his recovery with Geralt's own guilt.
Jaskier snorts. "Believe me, if I thought myself capable of lugging buckets of water through the keep right now, you'd find me three days hence, a swollen, partially-boiled corpse through refusal to leave the bath."
Geralt can't tell if Jaskier's being more morbid than usual, or if he himself is just feeling more sensitive to it after all the recent deaths and attacks. Either way, he doesn't like it. "There's a hot spring."
There's a moment of stillness, and then Geralt is levelled with a glare that could break a lesser man. "There's a hot spring?!"
"...Yes."
"And no one thought to tell me before now?"
"We were busy?" Geralt says. It isn't supposed to come out as a question.
"I arrived here frozen half to death and stinking like... like you after you've escaped one too many bath days in a row and no one tells me there is a hot spring. I survive a- a demonic invasion and spend a day drifting around aimlessly covered in debris while you all get patched up, and no one tells me there is a hot spring," Jaskier says, only seeming to ramp up with every word.
"I'm telling you now."
Jaskier holds his breath for a moment, then slumps as he releases it. "Alright. Fine. I suppose you are. Where is it?"
Geralt holds out his hand to help Jaskier up. "I'll show you.
+1.
Jaskier collapses back onto Geralt's bed with a drawn out sigh. "I will never forgive you for neglecting to bring me here before."
Geralt watches on indulgently as Jaskier wraps himself up in one of Geralt's warm, woollen shirts, only a little too big around the shoulders but appearing looser than it is as Jaskier neglects to do up the neck ties.
"Remember that year I had sciatica?"
"It wasn't a whole year."
"Those hot springs would have cured me immediately, I'm sure of it," Jaskier continues. "But no, you just had to keep your little witcher fort to yourself, even when your very best friend was in maddening pain."
"You aren't supposed to use them when you have a back injury," Geralt says mildly. Truth be told, Jaskier had been so utterly pathetic that winter that Geralt had been tempted to bring him, but he hadn't because there was no way Jaskier would have made the hike up the mountain.
Jaskier pulls a face while he wriggles his way into a pair of Geralt's warmest winter trousers without standing up. "Stop making excuses. I refuse to listen to them."
Geralt banks the fire and pours out the mulled wine he'd left simmering over it.
Jaskier takes his flagon with a vague air of suspicion. "You're being very friendly this evening."
"You are my very best friend," Geralt repeats, just a little mockingly. He is. He really is. There's no use in denying it now.
That earns him a soft, pleased chuckle.
They shift around on the bed until they're both propped up against the headboard, warm drinks in hand, skin still flushed and hair still damp from the hot springs. It's peaceful. Comfortable. Geralt's missed this.
"I've missed this," Jaskier says softly.
"Mmm," Geralt agrees. He could go to sleep like this. He doesn't want the evening to be over yet, though. He's spent so long missing Jaskier without even allowing himself to acknowledge it. He forces his eyes to remain open, staring at nothing as he enjoys the warmth, comfort and companionship. "I was going to come back."
Jaskier inhales drowsily and blinks his eyes open. "Hmm?"
"If Nilfgaard hadn't attacked Cintra..." Geralt trails off.
Beside him, Jaskier tenses. "Oh." He drags himself up from where he's been steadily slumping down the bed and against Geralt's shoulder. He's quiet for a moment before answering properly. "You left a good few weeks before that, though."
"I was going to come back," Geralt repeats. He needs Jaskier to believe him.
"But you didn't."
"No."
Jaskier sighs. "I want to say 'I understand' and 'all's forgiven' and just go back to how we were. But I don't think I can."
It hurts, even though it's more than he deserves, really. He always took Jaskier for granted. "I should have been a better friend."
He's not expecting a sharp slap to the arm or Jaskier's glare. "Stop that. It isn't about that. I accepted your apology, and it's not as though I didn't take you for granted just as much as you did me. You know I never take your horrible rants to heart, and I do understand why you didn't come back. Ciri needed you. Took you long enough, but I can't be angry with you for finally stepping up for her."
Geralt looks at him askance.
"I'm still hurt, Geralt. I can't help it," Jaskier admits. "It's perfectly right that I'm not the most important person in your life, but you've always been the most important person in mine, and I don't think I can go back to trailing after you and taking whatever kindness you have left over. It turns out I have too much self respect for that." He laughs self deprecatingly. "Shocking, I know."
The thing is, for a very long time, Jaskier was the most important person in his life. He just never told him. It seems so stupid now. "Ciri will always be my priority," he begins, determined to navigate his way through this.
"I know," Jaskier says with a smile. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm not asking you to stop caring about her, or Yennefer or the other witchers or the seemingly endless roster of close friends you never bother to tell me about until we're face to face with them. I'm not asking you for anything. I just can't be so far down your list when you're so high up on mine. It's my problem completely, but I can't fix it by going back to what we were."
"You're not," Geralt says urgently. He knew Jaskier didn't know how important he is to Geralt, but he'd always seemed to know that he is important. All that 'very best friend in the whole world' stuff, all the times he's known exactly how much he can get away with, exactly the lengths Geralt would go to at his insistence.
Jaskier grins at him. "Don't hurt yourself, I know you care about me, Geralt. You care about a lot of people. It's one of the things I love best about you."
"I love you more than them," Geralt blurts, frustrated and tired and wishing he could go back a few minutes to when Jaskier was dozing off against his arm instead of frozen with tension just a few inches of impassible space away. "More than almost anyone I've ever known. You should know that!"
"How?" Jaskier screeches hysterically. "How should I know that? Geralt, you've only recently admitted that we're even friends!"
"Because until I found Ciri..." Geralt trails off and growls, impatient with himself and his stupid inability to articulate how he feels. "You were top of my list," he settles on, eyes fixed on Jaskier beseechingly.
Jaskier looks as though someone's hit him around the head.
"You're my best friend," Geralt says, not a trace of mocking in it this time. "You always were."
Jaskier swallows and wets his lips. "You really were going to come back."
Geralt nods, shoulders dropping with relief. "There was only ever one thing that could have stopped me."
"I should probably apologise for some less than flattering songs I-"
"Jaskier. It's fine."
Jaskier scoffs. "You haven't heard them. Believe me, you're going to be so cross with me." He turns an accusing gaze on Geralt, though it doesn't hold nearly as much hurt as it did earlier. "You still yelled at me and ditched me on a bloody mountain."
"I know. I'm sorry," Geralt says.
Jaskier looks down at his drink, then blinks at the room around them. He narrows his eyes. "Did you plan this?"
Geralt says nothing.
"The hot springs and the clothes and the wine. It was all a ploy to lure me away and get me to talk to you."
"So you were avoiding me."
"Only a little!" Jaskier shifts around so he's facing Geralt. "I was just... protecting myself."
"From me?"
"From a broken heart." He runs his fingers around the lip of his flagon. "You broke it once already, you brute. I wasn't about to let you have another go at it when you've got so much shit to deal with. You have to admit, I have a horrible habit of incidentally volunteering as a target for you to take it all out on."
"I'm sorry."
Jaskier rolls his eyes. "Can't get you to apologise for a single thing for two decades and all of a sudden I can't make you stop."
Geralt decides to ignore this tangent and go back a few steps. "I just wanted you to talk to me again."
"Now there's a phrase I could never have imagined you'd say."
"Shut up."
"You're being very contradictory."
Geralt resists the urge to snap at him. An urge that completely goes away when he notices the teasing affection openly displayed on Jaskier's face. It's been a long time since he's seen the man so open. He thought maybe he'd lost that forever, even if he'd won back his friendship. He reaches out to lay a hand over where he knows Jaskier's still covered in fading bruises. "I want you to tell me when you're hurt, not hide it from me. I want-"
Jaskier's breathing quickens under Geralt's hand and for once Geralt can't write it off as anything other than what it is. Jaskier licks his lips, fingers tapping nervously against his flagon of wine. "What do you want?"
"Your wine," Geralt releases Jaskier's waist and holds out an expectant hand.
Jaskier laughs. "Not quite where I thought you were going with that."
Geralt places both cups on the floor and turns back to his friend. Reaches out again and wills Jaskier to meet him halfway.
He does.
As Jaskier achieves the impressive feat of leaving a witcher breathless, Geralt finds he isn't shocked in the slightest by how fantastically skilled Jaskier is in this arena.
Later, Geralt trails his too-rough fingertips over the sensitive skin of Jaskier's healing injuries, over his throat where Geralt's carelessness had once caused a tumour to grow, over his bare chest, still heaving for breath after a rigorous bout of exercise.
"Twenty odd years and you still find ways to surprise me," Jaskier mutters as Geralt's hand trails around to pet over Jaskier's aesthetically pleasing but also shockingly functional abs.
Geralt takes a brief moment to look over the man he's spent all these years thinking he knew, only to discover a new facet or layer just often enough to keep him on his toes. He grins a little, sharp and challenging. "Likewise."
Then he sets about finding as many ways to pleasantly surprise Jaskier as he can.
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Fic: All Your Tattered Pieces, Geralt/Jaskier, NC-17
Title: All Your Tattered Pieces (14/14)
Fandom: The Witcher
Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 88k
Tags: Angst with a happy ending, intimacy, mental health issues, PTSD, anxiety, depression, friends to lovers, affection, endearments, cuddling, developing relationship, miscommunication, learning to communicate better (with each other, but also just in general in Geralt’s case), fighting/arguments (that get resolved), Jaskier!POV, tears, aftercare, emotional hurt/comfort, Geralt’s unresolved trauma, kink negotiation, kink exploration, protective!Geralt, protective!Jaskier, top!Jaskier, bottom!Jaskier, top!Geralt, bottom!Geralt, first time bottoming, oral sex, anal sex, anal fingering, marking, light dom/sub, dom!Jaskier, sub!Jaskier, dom!Geralt, sub!Geralt, service-top!Geralt, biting, scratching, bruises, praise kink, rimming, making out, Geralt has a big dick, Jaskier has a pain kink, kissing, Geralt has issues with intimacy (during sex but also just in general), self-esteem issues (on both their parts), cock worship, body worship, touch-starved Geralt, not actually unrequited love
Summary: ’I let you hurt me every day,’ Jaskier thinks, but doesn’t say. That’s his fault, not Geralt’s. A wiser man would run away from this kind of heartache, but Jaskier’s never exactly had great self-preservation instincts. Besides, if Jaskier gets to have this – sitting naked in a forest with his fingers in Geralt’s hair – then wisdom can absolutely and categorically just fuck off.
Or, Geralt and Jaskier try to fuck their way through Geralt’s intimacy issues. It doesn’t exactly go as planned.
All Your Tattered Pieces (14/14)
#i can't believe this is finally done#Geraskier#Gerskier#Geralt/Jaskier#Jaskier/Geralt#my fic#All Your Tattered Pieces
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Jaskier in 1st season was like new freshman and now hes like 3rd year senior bitch in charge
I don't know when you sent this in but hrhdhehhehs that's just so frigging accurate.
1st season Jaskier had freshman in college fest organizing committee vibes, yk. Far too ready to do any work assigned to him, considers himself far too important, but also knows that he is a very small part of the bigger picture. Always pesters the seniors and tries to accompany them on errands on the barest chance that they might need help but ends up increasing everyone's workload. And he is annoying at times, yes, but he also is fucking excited to be a part of it so it is very endearing.
Season 2 Jaskier on the other hand is the president of the college fest organizing committee. Everyone knows he is in charge. He recruits juniors he knows are passionate about this. He'll vouch to professors to give those students extra credits for the work and even put in their attendance. He delegates everyone their work. He doesn't take shit from anyone anymore. He knows that maybe he isn't a part of the big show but dammit, everything will fall apart the day he decides he doesn't want to do this anymore. And the work is incredibly taxing and all but he finally feels like a part of something grand and that is exactly what he wanted back in freshman year. To be a part of something.
#jaskier#he did become hbic in season 2 and we are all here for this#aadi replies#jaskier the bard#the witcher
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