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#that's the one jaskier thing Eskel knows of. always has a lute.
aramblingjay · 10 months
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After summers of fasting I feel hunger at last Geraskier, touch-starved, bed sharing (2K)
They meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.
ao3
The first winter he returns to Kaer Morhen, Geralt is asked to describe Jaskier.
“We hear you’ve started traveling with a companion,” Eskel says over dinner. Lambert and Coën go a little too still in the corner to not be listening, and even Vesemir subtly turns his head in their direction—everyone’s been wondering, evidently, and Eskel has been chosen as the best person to pose the question.
“Yes,” he agrees, taking another bite of whatever it is Lambert has decided to pass off as dinner. Some kind of meat, perhaps? It powders in his mouth like chalk.
To his credit, Eskel doesn’t ask who the companion is. “What are they like?” he asks instead, and Geralt doesn’t miss the they. It protects him implicitly the way Eskel always has, assuming nothing, allowing him to reveal exactly as much or as little as he wants, and Geralt is reminded all over again why he’s never been able to deny Eskel anything.
Including this, so he tries to find the right words. It was never his strength, even back when he still had red hair and brown eyes and knew of Witchers only as a fiction told to scare disobedient kids, but it’s even harder now.
“He’s—”
The first description which comes to mind is loud, but that isn’t quite right. Jaskier is loud only in the sense that Geralt is always aware of his presence, a whisper of citrus and jasmine beside him. And he hums incessantly, sometimes accompanied by the twang of his lute, sometimes not—but it isn’t the kind of overbearing, obtrusive singing that loud would suggest. Jaskier’s music is just there, a constant background, as familiar to him now as the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves in the wind.
He’s a bard, Geralt considers saying, but that doesn’t capture the essence of Jaskier, almost suggests he’s nothing without a tune on his lips.
He’s brave. Certainly, he’s the first human Geralt’s met that has never, not once, smelled like fear around him, even when Geralt’s eyes are inky black and he’s more monster than man. But Geralt doesn’t know if that’s bravery or foolhardy, and besides, true bravery is to run toward that which you fear. To not feel the fear at all—that’s something else entirely.
He’s different. True. Not nearly enough to explain.
“He’s kind,” Geralt says finally, and it feels right. There is no kindness to be found here at Kaer Morhen—even Eskel, for all his protectiveness, is not kind. No Witchers are, no Witchers are allowed to be. But Jaskier is the opposite of a Witcher, vivacious like no one Geralt has ever known before, impulsive and free-spirited and wholly kind.
Eskel’s eyes go strangely soft. “Oh, Wolf,” he murmurs, so low only a Witcher could hear.
Geralt looks away. “Anyway, I doubt I will see him again come spring.”
It’s not a lie. Jaskier has undoubtedly moved on to pastures new, wintering in Oxenfurt or Lettenhove or some other place that Witchers wouldn’t set foot, somewhere bright and lively to keep the chill at bay. The chance that their paths will randomly cross again once Geralt comes down the trail in a few months’ time is slim, and he doesn’t expect Jaskier to wait for him either. Jaskier is kind, but not infinitely so, and surely spending another year on the Path beside a Witcher who grunts more than speaks is the last thing he wants.
It’s not a lie, but the words taste bitter on his tongue anyway.
-
They do meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.
Geralt dismounts Roach outside The Wolf’s Snout, a grimy-looking inn with a half-broken fence surrounding it, five days’ trek from the bottom of the trail. It is further than he usually travels before stopping—the Kaedweni innkeepers closer to Kaer Morhen are more used to Witchers popping in than those this far out.
(But Jaskier mentioned this inn to him last year, so. Here he is)
He has yet to meet Jaskier in the same inn twice, but somehow they always find each other in one establishment or another on the outskirts of Kaedwen. Geralt no longer doubts whether their paths will cross, the question is only when.
Though he knows Jaskier tends to winter close to the coast, he does not ask how or why Jaskier ends up in Kaedwen every spring. Such a gift is too precious to jeopardize, either by his clumsy questioning or his even clumsier acknowledgment.
Geralt steps inside the inn to a raucous dining area, every available table surrounded by men with red cheeks and loud voices, clearly well on the ale. A good bard would make a pretty coin or two here, he thinks idly, and wonders if that’s why Jaskier mentioned it.
The innkeeper is a short, wiry woman with sharp eyes that rake him from top to bottom as he approaches her.
“Room for the night?” he asks, careful to speak just loud enough to be heard over the din. The innkeeper will know, of course, but nobody else seems to have clocked that he’s a Witcher, and the longer he keeps it that way the smoother his stay will be.
“I won’t be having any trouble here tonight,” she says, but her voice isn’t hostile.
“I won’t give you any.”
A corner of her mouth lifts. “And payment up front. How many nights you staying?”
Several coppers lighter, Geralt ends up in a rather spacious room at the very end of the hall, complete with a bed large enough for two (or one broad Witcher), a second small bed pushed up against a window, a fireplace, and a round tub. The main bed even comes with a feather-padded blanket for warmth. Compared to his usual accommodations, it’s a veritable palace.
He scowls, and dumps his saddlebags in a corner. All this luxury is largely wasted on him, and does little to fill the hollow in his chest that has only grown with every step away from Kaer Morhen.
There’s not much to do here besides take in the finery and rest, so he casts Igni to light a fire and settles into the bed rather quickly. Some dinner would be nice, perhaps, but everything smelled a little too salted and seasoned downstairs—normally he can stomach just about anything, but several months of pampering over winter have narrowed his palette considerably, and it’ll take at least a few weeks time to remember how not to give a fuck again.
Sleep finds him almost immediately after that. It should be one of the most comfortable nights he’s had outside the keep in recent memory, but the emptiness of the room aches in his chest like a physical, tangible thing.
-
He wakes to citrus and jasmine and a voice he would know anywhere.
“She told me you were in—ah, Geralt. Here you are. Lovely to see you again after a long winter.” Jaskier steps further into the room until he’s fully illuminated by the firelight. He looks good, Geralt surmises, well-fed and looked-after. “Don’t mind me. Coin is short and this room is entirely paid for, so I’ll be here for the night.”
It’s phrased as a statement but intended as a question.
Geralt just grunts his assent and drifts back to sleep smiling.
-
They fall into the familiar routine just as they have every year before. It’s comfortable, safe, easy.
Geralt kills monsters and Jaskier sings about it.
Jaskier sleeps with fine ladies (and more than one fine lord), and Geralt scares away their angry spouses with a well-placed intimidating look.
Geralt keeps them safe, and Jaskier keeps them fed, the coin he earns from one night of performing usually triple what Geralt could even hope to earn from a single contract.
Jaskier smiles at him and worries after him and touches him with a care no one’s taken since he was a boy, and Geralt tries to understand what it all means.
The ache in his chest is an old, forgotten thing.
-
Their seventh spring, he once again stops at The Wolf’s Snout.
(He’s never waited in the same inn twice before, until now, but he refuses to consider what that might mean)
This time, he’s awake. Waiting up, one could call it, though the very idea is preposterous—Witchers don’t have anyone worth waiting up for, and the chance to sleep in a bed is a precious commodity on the Path. No one is coming home to a Witcher.
But then there’s a lyrical knock at the door—two taps, and then a faster three, the beat of a song he doesn’t know—and Jaskier is there. Framed in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in bright blue and green that should irritate his eyes but doesn’t, not in the slightest, only makes something loosen in his chest that’s been taut for too long.
Jaskier is there. Here. With him, again, for the seventh spring in a row, despite it all.
“You’re awake,” Jaskier says, and his voice is missing some of its usual brightness, its usual whimsical nonchalance, but it’s so good to hear all the same.
“Hmm.”
And Jaskier shouldn’t be able to read what that means, just like he shouldn’t be here in a beaten-down inn along the forgotten backwater of Kaedwen about to step into a room already occupied by a Witcher, but Jaskier is brave and different and kind and entirely incapable of ever doing what he should.
So of course, Jaskier only says, “Yeah, me too,” like he hears the words Geralt doesn’t even know how to form in the privacy of his own mind, and steps over the threshold.
It feels significant, somehow. A bigger step than across a single plank of wood.
He stays silent, watching as Jaskier drops his bags in a heap by the door and undresses down to his smalls in the half-darkness.
There’s only one bed in this room. Geralt asked for a room and the innkeeper offered this one and he didn’t spend more than a second thinking about it before accepting. Witchers can’t be picky, and Jaskier has slept on the floor many a time—they both have, on cold and dirty forest floors far more uncomfortable than anything this inn could offer.
But.
“What are we doing here, Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly, hovering by the edge of the bed but making no move to come closer.
Geralt doesn’t have an answer. But he shifts just slightly on the bed, an invitation—and Jaskier lies down in the open space next to him, no trace of fear anywhere in his scent even now—and for the first time since the mutagens burned away every part of the boy he used to be, Geralt wants.
-
The next year, Jaskier doesn’t come.
Geralt waits at The Wolf’s Snout for a fortnight, until he can’t delay going back on the Path any longer, and then another day just to be totally, completely sure.
Jaskier never comes.
He packs up his things, never considers leaving behind the human-safe potions or the lute strings or the too-small doublet even though they add weight to Roach’s pack—just shoves it all into the bottom of his satchel along with his emotions and his hopes and the weird sense of betrayal he has no right to feel, and walks the Path.
Alone, as he was meant to.
The ache is back, a monster under his skin. He feels cold and tired and empty, but a Witcher isn’t made to break, so he puts one foot in front of the other in front of the other until it’s winter again.
He collapses into Eskel’s arms the moment he’s back in the keep, grateful to still have one person who hasn’t left, and his eyes burn.
If he could cry—he can’t, so it doesn’t matter. But if he could, he would probably drown.
-
It’s foolishness, to go back to the same inn. It’s foolishness, and Geralt is not a fool, but he can’t help himself.
Just to be sure. Just to be absolutely certain Jaskier has left this life, left him, and then he’ll walk the Path and never ever return here again.
But he opens the door to his preferred room, an extra three coppers per night now but worth it just for the memory of having slept beside Jaskier in this bed, and it isn’t empty.
Jaskier is there.
His hair is longer. He’s dressed in deep maroon, and there are bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and he smells like he hasn’t showered since he left wherever he’s been for so long—and he’s the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever seen.
“Hi,” Jaskier says, tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’ll be welcome. Like Geralt hasn’t spent the last year withering away at the prospect of never seeing him again.
“Jaskier.” He can’t find any other words. He can’t think of any that matter more than this, saying a name he thought he’d have to bury in the deepest corner of his mind forever, lest the mere memory of it reduce him to dust.
“Sorry I wasn’t here last year. It’s a long story involving—”
“Come here,” Geralt whispers, cutting him off. His voice breaks, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, all that matters is Jaskier standing on the other side of the room. “Please.” Witchers don’t beg but he isn’t a Witcher in this moment, just a man, old and weary and aching. “Please.”
“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier is front of him in a flash. “Darling, I’m right here. I’m right here, I promise.”
That familiar hand reaches out and rests on his chest—he feels it, the slightest pressure when those long fingers brush against his tunic, the searing warmth of Jaskier’s skin on his own even with two layers of cotton in between.
Citrus and jasmine, the jackrabbit beat of Jaskier’s heart, and that soft, gentle warmth—Geralt closes his eyes and comes home.
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fandom-junk-drawer · 1 year
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The Witcher Headcanon (Modern AU) - Game Night
Jaskier loves music. It is his career, and he spends the majority of his days listening to it, creating it, and sharing it. It's an important part of his life that he is very passionate about.
But that doesn't mean he doesn't have other interests or things that he obsesses over. He likes games in particular. He'll sit down with Geralt and the other Witchers and play some video games, a card game, or a few rounds of pool. Sometimes he'll play a board game with Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri.
But there is one game he gets really excited about playing. He is a huge fan of D&D. He has a custom D&D table, and has made a few diroamas. And he is obsessed with collecting dice. He follows several custom dice makers on tiktok, and is constantly showing the ones that catch his eye to Geralt, but he very rarely buys any.
Everytime he goes on a tour with his band, or goes on the Path with Geralt, he always keeps an eye out for places that might sell dice. He almost always comes back empty-handed.
He could easily buy anything he wanted, being a sucessful bard, and a Viscount, but he rarely buys anything for himself. He prefers to use his money for more sensible things, like taking care of his family, and making sure his band has what it needs. And making sure he is more fashionably dressed than Valdo Marx, because f**k him!
Yennefer doesn't understand Jaskeir's obsession with the dice. The closest she can compare it to is a magpie's obsession with shiny things.
He had been so excited when Eskel had brought him a custom made set of dice that looked like they contained small galaxies. He had hugged the Witcher, then run off, doing this weird little excited goblin run. The dice had been placed in a display box, on a special shelf in his room. He would occassionally bring them out to use for special game nights.
And he doesn't just use the dice for his games. He uses them when he and Geralt can't agree on something, or to make a decision.
Yennefer cannot acurately the describe the feeling of utter dread/panic/suspicion, or Impeding Doom that twisted up her stomach every time Jaskier hands her a die and says "Yen, quick! Roll this for me!"
Yennefer: *reluctantly rolls die*
Jaskier: "20!? Thanks, Yen!" *runs to the kitchen excitedly shouting* "Geralt! Geralt, 20!"
Yennefer *sits there internally panicking* 20 what? What was the number for? Was it 20 kittens? Was it number 20 on a list of options for snacks? Was it a destination? Was it the number of grapes Jaskier was going to try to shove up his a**??? She doesn't know. All she knows is that if Geralt starts laughing, it's going to be something cringey, stupid, dangerous, or possibly all three.
She hears them giggling in the bathroom later, and someone whispering "Stop laughing, you're making them fall out!"
Yennefer bangs on the door. "Jaskier! You better not be shoving grapes up your a**!"
"I'm not!"
*muffled giggling*
Yennefer: You better not be shoving grapes up Geralt's a**!
Geralt: *muffled giggling*
Jaskier: *disappointed whine* "Awww-! D*mn it, Geralt! Now we have to start all over!"
Yennefer decides she doesn't want to know.
She doesn't really have a great deal of interest in D&D itself, but she knows just about everything there is to know about it, thanks to the weekly game nights.
She was excited at first, listening to them talk about their campaigns the following day, but when she actually sat in on a game, she found it...tedious. Their characters,on the other hand, were interesting and creative.
For example, Jaskier's character (a Bard, of course) was just a pair of hands that (at first) communicated in a combination of sign language and rude gestures, played the lute, and made sex jokes.
His character later gained the ablity to speak by making a 'talking' motion with the hands. And proceeded to talk and argue with himself, carry on an almost non-stop Statler and Waldorf running commentary, sing, and make rude/inappropriate gestures. And try to randomly poke his companions in the a**.
His favorite spell was 'Mega B*tch Slap', which he'd made up, they'd argued about, but had ended up allowing it because 'why not?'.
The world itself was interesting, but the actual quests/adventures took forever. This was mostly because they spent the majority of their time rolling to end a parade of arguments. Most of the game was spent rolling to see if one of them would be allowed to do something.
They spent an hour at an Inn, rolling to see who the barmaid liked best.
They rolled to see who the horses liked better.
They rolled to see if Lambert could start the campaign completely hammered.
They rolled to see if one of them could fight a battle bucka** nekkid
They rolled for d*ck length.
They rolled to see if Geralt was allowed to turn himself into a horse.
They rolled for Horse Geralt's d*ck length.
Yennefer discovered that there was barely a serious moment in any of their campaigns. All manner of improbable and impractical things happened. Dead Cow Balloons, Dead Elf Boogie Board, Crab Tornado, Exploding Chickens, Bag of Singing D*cks... and the she couldn't forget the most powerful weapon ever forged. The Jabbing Stick of Instant Death. It was literally just a stick with a pointy end, but one jab and it was all over.
Yennefer did find all the absurdity and unpredictability amusing, but she just didn't have the patience for all the rolling.
Which is why she volunteered to be in charge of cooking for game night. That and she was appalled when she found out what they were eating during their gaming sessions.
Yennefer had walked into the game room with some drinks, "What the h*ll are you eating?"
"Grilled Cheese Sandwiches and Tomato Soup?" Jaskier had said, casually stirring his soup.
"That's not-! Those are cheese puffs floating in, in tomato sauce!"
"I put some of that chicken powder stuff in it,"
"That's not tomato soup! Or grilled cheese!"
"But it's like tomato soup and grilled cheese." Jaskier replied.
Yennefer turned at the sound of a plastic water bottle crinkling, and saw Geralt squeeze a mushy white substance into his mouth, then follow it up with a handful of shredded cheese straight from the bag. "Geralt! What the-!"
"Baked potato," Eskel explained, shaking some instant mashed potato flakes into his water bottle, letting Geralt heat the water in it with Igni, then shaking it.
Lambert glared at her, daring her to say anything about the bowl of pizza rolls covered in so much ranch dressing that he was eating them with a spoon.
There was a soft scrape of a plastic spoon against metal. Coen was eating Spaghetii-O's right out of the can.
"You all eat like f***ing stoners!!! I'm going to make you some real food!"
From then on, Yennefer cooked for them on game nights. It was simple fare, mostly things that made her feel like she was feeding a pack of children.
Dinosaur chicken nuggets, macaroni, and cheese, hotdogs, etc. But they never complained about it. In fact, they seemed excited about the food. Especailly one dish that she discovered was their favorite.
Jaskier had walked into the kitchen for some drinks, saw the cans and the hotdogs on the counter, and gone bolting back to the game room, with an excited whoop of, "F**K YEAH, BEANIE WEENIES!!!"
Sometimes, if Jaskier hadn't been too aggravating that week, Yennefer would make tavern food for them, to kind of fit the theme of their game.
Yennefer would leave them to their game and go about her evening, then curl up with her old cat plush, Sammy, and go to sleep. Sometimes she would have to make a trip to the game room to yell at them to be quiet.
And in the morning, she was woken up by The Ritual of The Most Holy Burrito. Every morning following a game night, five grown-a** men would microwave breakfast burritos, hold them over their heads, and dance through the living room while singing every verse of the sacred hymn "Yum Yum Breakfast Burritos".
She started leaving blankets and pillows on the couch after she'd gone in one morning after a game night and found them all sleeping scattered around the room and using various items as blankets.
Lambert was using a week-old pizza box someone had forgot to throw away.
Coen was under the gaming table.
Geralt and Jaskier were using Eskel.
Yennefer had started a collection of Game Night Aftermath photos that she regularly shared with Madeleine when they would go out on their Girls Only Days.
Unless the photo was so extraordinarily humorous or adorable that she would text it to her immediately.
Like the photo of Jaskier using Eskel's a** as a pillow.
Or the picture of Geralt passed out on the game table with his tits out.
And the assorted photos of shirtless Witchers in cuddle piles
Yennefer decides that game nights aren't so bad after all.
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They slip into the hot spring with varying volumes of moans, overworked muscles hitting the hot water and flooding in painful bliss. Geralt hears Jaskier's low hiss as the water stings his hands, grazed from all the scrambling around under tables.
Jaskier's eyes slip closed as soon as he finds a ledge to rest his head against. "I think I live here now."
"Steam'd do no good to your lute."
"Don't have one anymore, anyway."
Geralt winces.
Jaskier opens his eyes as though he heard it somehow. "Oh, don't pull that face. She was a beautiful instrument with great sentimental value, but she served me well through two decades of daily playing. I was lucky to keep her as long as I did. Besides, you hate my playing."
Geralt grumbles but doesn't argue.
"So," Jaskier asks as he reaches for the soap Geralt readied. "Where to now for the white wolf and his lion cub?"
Geralt pulls a face at the names, though it's subtle enough Jaskier probably won't pick up on it.
Jaskier chuckles to himself.
Or perhaps he did pick up on it. Jaskier's always been a lot better at that than he should be considering how much of their interactions are Jaskier himself being loud and self-involved. He shouldn't have time or attention to spare to pick up on the small tells that Geralt lets slip. Geralt shrugs. "Don't know. Haven't decided."
"Mmm," Jaskier hums thoughtfully. "Must be hard to think about leaving after everything."
Geralt doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.
"If Rience hadn't been here once already, then I suppose you'd probably just stay," Jaskier continues, as he often does when Geralt is in no mood for talking. Which is most of the time.
Geralt has no idea who told Jaskier the fire mage had found Kaer Morhen, but it doesn't really matter. Jaskier is the talkative type. He could've got any one of the witchers, Yennefer or Ciri talking. Probably Ciri. She likes to pretend she's as recalcitrant as Geralt -- another one of her childish mimicries of him that Geralt isn't sure what to make of between the burning fondness for her and the paralysing fear that she'll succeed in being like him -- but by nature she's a social little thing. Not as chatty as the bard, perhaps, but she blossoms under attention and interaction, even the gruff, unsuitable kinds she gets from Lambert and Coen, who for all their teasing Geralt about never expecting to be uncles, act for all the world like older brothers. Geralt should know. He is one. Jaskier and Ciri don't seem to have spoken much since the battle, Ciri off with Yennefer mending their budding friendship and trying to get Ciri enough control to feel somewhat safe again, while Jaskier's been helping the witchers with managing the aftermath, but it's not like Geralt keeps tabs on them at all times. Sometimes he has to sleep or relieve himself.
Geralt doesn't think he'll ever forget the warm press of Jaskier's hand squeezing his shoulder as Geralt decended to the caves with yet another of his brothers in his arms. None of the witchers offered each other comfort. They had been raised to know that comfort comes in the killing of monsters. The knowledge that other people's families will be safer as a result. It comes from purpose, from the necessity of the Path and the inevitability of the sacrifices they all make for it sooner or later.
With Ciri, some of that had softened in Geralt, relented until he had found himself offering Vesemir the same comfort he would usually give to her after Eskel's death. But the others, Vesemir included, held firm.
Geralt only realised with Jaskier's touch and his sympathetic gaze that he'd come to expect more than that. Between Ciri and Jaskier, and to some extent Triss and even Yennefer, he'd come to expect empathy and understanding where he should only ever have known purpose and clarity. It was hard to accept. Even harder to watch Ciri and Jaskier's attempts at sympathy be brushed aside by the other witchers. To witness Jaskier's low and earnest 'I grieve with you' receive derisive snorts and glares. Ciri's quiet requests to hear stories about the witchers the demon killed with her hands be met with bitter laughs and dissmissive comments.
He loves his brothers, and he loves Vesemir, but they are products of their training and that isn't always a good thing. It's often the opposite of a good thing.
He doesn't notice how long they've been sat in silence until it's broken by Yennefer's light footsteps and her tired greeting. She doesn't pause or step away for modesty, letting her gown slip from her shoulders with a sigh and wading into the water with them.
"Where's Ciri?" Geralt asks.
"On the training grounds with Coen," Yennefer tells him. "We had a frustrating lesson. I think it helps clear her head to throw herself bodily at dangerous things. Can't think where she could have got that from."
Geralt hums in response, not liking the clipped way the sentences come out and the distance and uncertainty it implies. They've talked things through, and her tone is as teasing as ever, but he knows they're both still having to try harder than feels natural to keep things amicable and away from darker waters. "What happened?"
Another sigh, this one less weary relief, more exhausted frustration. "Her powers are still entirely ruled by her emotions. She's scared, and she's angry. Usually that would fuel her. But she also feels a tremendous amount of guilt, and I think it's blocking her. She doesn't want to use her powers in case she hurts someone, but she knows that if she doesn't practice then she'll lose control again."
"Poor thing," Jaskier murmurs. He's distanced himself from them, seemingly so that he can lean back and dampen his hair, but Yennefer glides towards him and steals the soap from his hands before he can wash his hair. "Hey! I was using that!"
Yennefer smirks at him pulls him around bodily so his back is to her. "Let me. I've used more than enough Chaos on healing over the past couple of days, and I'd rather not add your hands to the list because you start crying about getting soap in your grazes."
Jaskier huffs but allows her to lather the soap in his hair.
It's intimate. Affectionate. It makes something tighten in Geralt's chest and throat, makes his eyes throb in the way they do since the Trials burned away their ability to water properly.
Yennefer has never washed Geralt's hair for him. She's run soap-smooth hands over his body in shared baths that were never as much about ridding him of the stink of horse sweat as she claimed. But she never tried to wash his hair. Geralt supposes that neither of them felt confident enough, or comfortable enough, to move through the murky space between sensual intimacy and the genuine affection and care that it would have implied.
Jaskier used offer to wash his hair sometimes. Geralt had always said no.
"She'll get better," Geralt offers. "Ciri is... she's stubborn. She'll make it work."
Yennefer doesn't pause in her ministrations as she answers. "I don't doubt it. I only wish the whole thing was easier on her."
That I could make it easier on her goes unspoken. Geralt knows from the little he's gleaned from Yen and Triss that their upbringing was only a hair more forgiving of emotion than Geralt's own. Sorceresses and witchers, it seems, both have the empathy and capacity for comfort stomped out of them for the sake of their purpose. Both children taken from their homes and forced into being something they never asked to be, or never would have had they known the cost. Triss seems to have found her way back more than any of them, but even she finds it difficult to give or accept comfort that serves no additional purpose. Geralt saw it in her gentle but shallow interactions with Ciri. In how easily convinced she was to help Vesemir with the mutagens.
"It's easier for her with you here," Geralt offers. It's stunted and awkward, but he knows how much Yennefer craves the reassurance, so he tries. He always tries for Yennefer. If nothing else, that's something their relationship has taught him. That sometimes people need more from you than you know how to give, and that sometimes you need to give it as much as they need to receive it. That sometimes loving someone is hard work.
Yennefer helps Jaskier rinse the soap from his hair and moves away a little to wash her own. "I suppose that's something."
She doesn't linger. Hair washed and body run over with soap as efficiently as she's able, she leaves the hot springs and marches back through the keep, barely pausing to wring out her hair or slip on the long robe she brought with her.
Jaskier watches her go with a tight expression Geralt can't place. "Do you think she's alright?"
Geralt frowns in surprise at the question. None of them are alright, and of all the people who might be concerned about Yennefer, he hadn't expected Jaskier to be among them. He should have, he supposes. For all that he can be careless and unthinking at times, the bard's always shown more care for others than they've earned from him. "She's fine."
Jaskier huffs. "Really? Because last I knew she was so wracked with guilt for putting Ciri in danger that she slashed her wrists in front of us all in an attempt to save her."
"It worked," Geralt points out. He doesn't know how or why it worked, or how Yennefer had known that it would, but he isn't about to question it now. Yen had made a mistake and she'd done what she had to to fix it. Ciri is safe, Yennefer's alive, the demon witch is gone. It all worked out.
"I know you still care about her, Geralt. There's no use in pretending you aren't every bit as worried as I am about her reopening those scars on her wrists," Jaskier says. It sounds annoyed. Geralt isn't sure why.
"Of course I am."
Jaskier raises his hands in a frustrated gesture he often uses when he thinks Geralt's being particularly obtuse. "So why not say that? Why pretend everything's fine?"
"You already know," Geralt says. Why should he have to find words to tell Jaskier things they both know Jaskier already knows?
"Because it's good to talk about it!" Jaskier snaps. "Like you just did with Yennefer about Ciri!"
"Yen needed-"
"And you did! You talked to her about Ciri because you both care about her," Jaskier says. It seems as though there's more he needs to say, but he droops and rubs his hand over his eyes, wincing at the catch of grazed skin. "I just thought... Well, we're friends, aren't we? You can at least admit that after everything?"
Geralt nods.
"Then why don't you talk to me?"
"What do you mean?"
Jaskier swallows and blinks rapidly for a moment, teeth grit as he pulls in slow breaths through his nose. "We've known each other for most of my life. I've seen you in almost every state it's possible to see another person in. I thought- think- that you trust me?"
Geralt nods again, slower this time. He's trying to understand, he really is, but this isn't easy like things usually are with Jaskier.
"But you won't talk to me," Jaskier says. "I tried, you gave monosyllabic answers when you had to, and we sat here in silence until Yen showed up. And then, well, then you become a regular chatty cathy. You talk to her about Ciri even after turning me away when I tried to do the same. And I get that you have this... this stupid bound fate connection with her, and that you're in love with her. But you literally only just stopped fighting after she betrayed you worse than anyone ever has before, and you already feel more comfortable with her than with me! I just don't understand."
It's baffling. Geralt's baffled. More than he ever has been by any of Jaskier's long winded rants.
"Please, Geralt. At least give me the dignity of a response," Jaskier says, not meeting his eyes but not backing down. All squared up like he's expecting Geralt to punch him in the gut or yell at him to leave. It wouldn't be the first time, after all.
"I'm not."
Jaskier's brow pinches. "I'm going to need more than that, Geralt. Not all of us have the ability to go digging through your head."
Geralt opens his mouth to speak, but he isn't sure what to say. Jaskier's always been able to read his face, his body language, his silences. Always made up for his shortfall with words. He's not used to having to explain himself. "With Yen." He starts and stops, fumbling his way through. "She needs me to talk to her. Tell her things. We're... not what we were. Talking... helps."
"Right," Jaskier says bitterly.
"You don't need me to. You already know," Geralt says. Or he thought Jaskier did, at least.
"Know what?"
Geralt frowns. "Everything. As you said, it's been a long time. You've seen everything. I don't need to explain to you."
Jaskier meets his eyes at last, puzzling him out. He'll get there eventually, Geralt knows he will. "You don't talk to me because you think I already know everything you have to say?"
Geralt maintains the eye contact.
"Geralt..."
"I'm not more comfortable with Yen," Geralt tells him, as softly as he's able with his rough voice and clumsy words. He can be eloquent if he tries. But he doesn't need to with Jaskier. He's never needed to. "Yen takes... effort."
Jaskier's lips twitch in humour even as he levels Geralt with a glare. "Are you calling me easy?"
"Yes." He is. He's the easiest person Geralt's ever known. In more ways than one, but mostly in the way that he's just easy to be around.
"Coming from Mr. 'I wish to be soul-married to this terrifying woman I've known for all of five minutes'," Jaskier mutters, but he's relaxing now.
"She saved your life."
"She did, didn't she," Jaskier muses. "I suppose that would endear her to me a little were the situation reversed."
"She understands parts of me that..." Geralt can't find the words. Shakes his head. "We recognised something in each other."
"Something I don't? I, who apparently knows everything?" Jaskier teases. Geralt can't stand the quiet sadness and defeat in his eyes.
"You know, but you don't understand. You can't," Geralt tells him. "I wouldn't want you to."
Jaskier looks at him a moment more, then sighs and moves to leave the hot spring. "Well, I suppose that's more conversation than I've got from you in years. I should probably let you recuperate from the effort." He pauses, a light of realisation in his eyes. "It is effort for you, isn't it? Talking, I mean?"
Geralt doesn't answer. He thought he'd made that pretty clear.
Jaskier sinks back down into the water, gaze turned inwards as he works through the thought. "So when Yen came in and you were talking to her... It wasn't because she put you at ease, it was because she needed you to talk."
Yes, that is exactly what Geralt told him less than two minutes ago. Geralt resists the urge to heave an impatient sigh and leans back against the rocks, waiting for Jaskier to finish whatever it is he's doing by repeating Geralt's own words back to him.
"And when you didn't talk to me and we were just sat here in broody silence..." Jaskier looks at him again. "I'm easy."
"Your words," Geralt smirks.
Jaskier rolls his eyes. "You could've said, you know."
"I did."
"All this time I thought you didn't talk to me because... when really you were..." Jaskier pushes his hair back from his face and holds it there with a hand to his forehead. "You don't talk to me because you don't need to. And that's... easier. More comfortable."
Geralt raises his eyebrows. He might never speak to to the bard again given he doesn't seem to have listened to a single one of Geralt's painstakingly chosen words.
"You're more comfortable with me." He says it like it's a revelation. An epiphany.
"Not right now, I'm not," Geralt quips. "You're being weird."
To Geralt's horror, Jaskier cries.
"Fuck." Geralt doesn't know what to do here. He's never made Jaskier cry before. Not in front of him, at least. He might well have cried on the mountain, but hadn't done it where Geralt could see and Geralt hadn't exactly been thinking clearly enough to consider that he might.
"You're...." Jaskier rubs hs hand across his face and turns away for a moment. "Fuck."
Geralt has another moment to panic before Jaskier turns back around and flings himself at Geralt just like he had in the jail cell, except this time he takes his time before pulling away. When he does, he slaps Geralt sharply on the arm and snaps, "you utter bastard," then goes back to hugging him. It's confusing to say the least. Especially when Geralt stops being able to ignore the fact that they're both stark bollock naked beneath the water. Geralt can't say he's ever had another man's soft cock pressed against his hip before, and it's a strange sensation. Not unpleasant. Just strange. Oddly vulnerable and intimate.
He also hasn't had his own soft cock pressed against another man's body before, and the few times he's had it pressed against a woman's body it's been just before or after activities where his not-so-soft cock was pressed against her. This lends some inapropriate associations to the contact now.
"Jaskier."
"No, fuck you, I've earned this," Jaskier mumbles against his neck, and tightens his arms around Geralt's shoulders. "You can endure some unabashed affection for a little while longer."
Geralt doesn't release his own hold, but he does grow a little tense as he resists the urge to squirm away from the confusing contact.
"Oh, alright," Jaskier sighs, and reluctantly steps back. "I suppose I can't ruin my status as comfortable company by being too clingy. Though I'm sure it wouldn't kill you to let me give you a hug once in while without it being a dramatic scene. Most people like hugging. It's nice."
"I don't mind hugging," Geralt says. Not in general, anyway. Not anymore. Ciri hugs him all the time. He and his brothers hug sometimes. Just not naked. Not that hugging Jaskier naked was entirely unpleasant, or anything.
"Could've fooled me," Jaskier says.
He's still close. Still half-kneeling, half-floating in the water just within Geralt's reach.
Geralt rolls his eyes and pulls him back in.
This time it's Jaskier that stiffens with tension, seeming to finally realise what had made Geralt awkward. He clears his throat and shifts his hips, presumably trying to reposition so that his cock isn't in contact with Gerat's skin. As Geralt had pulled him in by the shoulders, he's a little lower this time, as well as being off balance. Which means that as he tries to get his knees back under himself while also moving his hips away, but not breaking the hug which has his centre of mass pinioned against Geralt's chest, he slips and has to pull himself up by his grip around Geralt's waist. The whole thing takes barely a moment, but results in a slippery wet bard sliding against Geralt's skin until he finally hoists himself back up, bringing himself in closer by the action. And brushing his cock against Geralt's as he straightens up.
Jaskier's hands spasm on Geralt's skin and he holds his breath, heart rate picking up.
Geralt isn't sure how to reassure him that he's alright with the slip -- or, well, not completely, but it was an accident and he isn't upset -- so he hazards squeezing Jaskier's shoulder the same way he remembers Jaskier doing to comfort him. They're both awkward and tense and trying not to move and repeat Jaskier's mistake, but both are too stuborn to back down. Back down from what, Geralt isnt sure, though it feels like some sort of challenge has been issued.
Jaskier exhales at last and relaxes into Geralt's arms in stages, in what must be a conscious effort. His arms drift further around as they lose tension, hands skating across Geralt's back. His chin comes to rest on Geralt's shoulder.
Geralt eases back down onto his haunches without breaking the embrace, resting against the rock behind him, back angled slightly so as not to crush the bard's hands and arms. Their nether regions drift safely out of alignment. There's an unexpected edge of disappointment to his relief that's immediately headed off by the way Jaskier ends up effectively sitting on his thigh in the new position, straddling it as his own leg slides into place between Geralt's.
Jaskier laughs. "I think we've gone past hugging into cuddling. Maybe canoodling." He sounds out of breath the same way he does when he doesn't want to let on that he's winded from keeping up with Geralt. "Not that I'm complaining! This is... nice. Very nice. Not at all, um..."
Geralt twists his neck to raise an eyebrow at Jaskier, and finds Jaskier's face so close Geralt's nose brushes Jaskier's cheek as he turns. Jaskier's pulled his head back a little to meet Geralt's gaze, and now his face hovers so close Geralt could taste his breath even with human senses. He looks up into Jaskier's too-close eyes and lets go of a breath he hadn't realised had caught when he'd turned. Jaskier shivers, goosebumps errupting beneath Geralt's fingers.
He's aware that there's a line they're crossing. One he's avoided in the past for one reason or another. The reasons have changed over the years; from Jaskier's youth, to not wanting to get attached, to not knowing if he could give Jaskier what he needs, to not knowing if Jaskier could give Geralt what he needs, to there his relationship with Yen, to there being Ciri to worry about. Right now, it feels like one wrong move could prove fatal to their still-wounded friendship. But a move away could be that wrong move. He's taken too long to recognise what he was doing, and to pull away now could one rejection too many.
Besides, what reasons are there left to keep refusing what could be something good? Something they both might need?
Jaskier hasn't pulled away. If Geralt's honest, Jaskier's never pulled away. If he wasn't willing to try this, then he'd have made a joke by now, something about not being that kind of easy, and put some distance between them Maybe jostled Geralt's shoulder to keep things friendly and comfortable.
"Geralt," Jaskier says. He swallows heavily, then carries on like he's been thinking the exact same things Geralt has. "This whole...situation" He gestures at their position with his chin, "it's starting to give me certain ideas, and if you keep- keep holding me like this, then..." Another hard swallow. "I guess I'm saying that Geralt, if you don't stop this now... Well. My heart will probably be broken either way, but at least I won't have to contend with the humiliation of having tried to kiss you or-"
Geralt lets go of Jaskier's shoulders and lets his hands drift, one down to the centre of Jaskier's back, the other to his jaw.
Jaskier's breath stutters.
Geralt doesn't say anything, trusting his actions to speak for themselves as they're so seldom allowed to do.
"Right," Jaskier murmurs, mostly to himself. He leans in a little, a jerky, hesitant movement that he retracts halfway before he can reach Geralt's lips. His eyes flicker up to Geralt's again, though he can't possibly be able to make out more than a vague Geralt shaded blur from this close, and he dares himself across the final distance.
Geralt's arms tighten without him meaning for them to, pulling Jaskier deeper into the kiss and more firmly in against his -- still very naked -- body. Jaskier gasps into his mouth and Geralt decides not to loosen his hold again. They've known each other for over two decades, at this point they could get married and adopt a dozen war orphans tomorrow and they'd still have taken it slow.
At least that's how Geralt reasons his way into groping every damp, slippery inch of Jaskier's body over the ensuing three minutes.
"Fuck," Jaskier gasps as one of Geralt's wandering hands finally finds its way to his cock.
"Not in the hotspring," Geralt teases. "You'll get an infection."
"Arsehole," Jaskier mutters, but goes back to pressing kisses and bites into any part of Geralt he can reach without disentangling them, only now he peppers in the occassional disjointed sentence as Geralt works his hand over his cock. "Utter bastard- can't believe you choose now- fuck- to have a sense of humour." He slips his hand down between them to return the favour, and Geralt loses his breath a little. "Should've fallen for Coen. Coen wouldn't take the piss at a time like this."
Geralt hums. Coen would absolutely take the piss, provided he could leave Lambert's side for long enough to get someone into bed with him. Geralt would really prefer not to be thinking about his brothers and their somewhat codependent friendship right now.
"Shut up," Jaskier pants into his face. "You brought it on yourself."
Geralt captures his lips again and the incessant chatter hits a lull while Jaskier proves how skilled his tongue is with things other than words. Then he pulls away again, ignoring Geralt's grunt of displeasure. To be fair, he doesn't mind all that much, he'd just been enjoying said oral skills.
"I know now's probably a little late into the proceedings to bring this up," Jaskier starts ominously. Geralt twists his wrist as he pulls him off, other hand squeezing as his backside, and Jaskier breaks off into unintelligble curses, pressing impossibly closer and burying his face in Geralt's hair. He doesn't move back as he continues, words and breath playing through the white strands and across Geralt's scalp. "But I feel like it's important to- Geralt, fuck- to- to- oh gods..."
"Jaskier?" Geralt rasps, only half listening to the words but enjoying the low, intimate way Jaskier's been murmuring them into his ear.
"I love you," Jaskier gasps out between moans. "I've- I've always- I- Geralt!"
"Jaskier," Geralt says, the word barely more than a rumble in his chest, but Jaskier must hear it, must feel it as closely pressed together as they are.
Jaskier comes, open mouth still pressed right above Geralt's ear, on hand still jerking him off, the other tight around Geralt's back, fingers clenching into his skin, his legs caging Geralt in against the edge of the pool, making him feel penned in but in the best of ways. Jaskier starts up a quiet, mindless chant of 'I love you I love you I love you' in time with the motions of his hand, and when he nuzzles his way back across Geralt's scalp to press a clumsy kiss to his temple, Geralt follows him over the edge.
Between the steam and the endorphins, everything's fuzzy and warm and blissful for an eternity before Jaskier finally rouses himself with hum and a sigh.
Geralt watches him as he comes back to himself and starts a mental countdown to when Jaskier will start talking again.
But he doesn't. He just watches Geralt right back, wonder written over every inch of him.
"Come to bed?" Geralt asks eventually, trusting Jaskier to understand the parts he doesn't say aloud.
Jaskier smiles, wide and lazy and easy.
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WIP Treeskel? 👀
Treeskel is a Jaskel (with background Yenralt) season 2 fix-it fic where Eskel realizes what's happening right before he turns into a leshen and flees into the woods, where he spends the rest of his winter tearing apart all the various beasties that Voleth Meir sends after Ciri and Geralt.
After Yennefer and Jaskier come to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier feels out of place and unmoored without his lute. He tries to sneak away one morning, immediately runs afoul of a wyvern, and gets saved by a leshen. He strikes up a friendship with the leshen, who he quickly realizes is Geralt's presumed-dead brother. Eskel doesn't want the witchers to know he's alive, so Jaskier visits him in secret while striking up a friendship with Yennefer, repairing his friendship with Geralt, and trying to get the two of them to fix things with each other.
Snippet below the cut!
With a sigh, Eskel turns to face the bard and finds a pair of enormous blue eyes peering at him from the shield of roots he threw up around the human to keep him safe during the battle. The bard crouches there, gripping the roots—which is a strange sensation, almost like he’s touching Eskel himself—and watching Eskel’s approach with terror.
“Oh, gods,” the bard says, a waver in his voice. “Oh, fuck.” 
Eskel is used to humans being afraid of him, was long before he was turned into this. He tries to speak, but it’s been months since he said a word and his throat is filled with bark. What comes out is a gravely noise that sounds more like a growl than a greeting. The terror scent in the air sharpens.
“Listen.” The bard’s lips twist into something that’s probably supposed to be a smile, but his mouth is trembling. “If you’re going to kill me, may I ask that you do me the courtesy of just snapping my spine? I would very much prefer not to be alive when the rending of flesh starts, if it’s all the same to you.”
Eskel tries to speak again. The raspy noise he makes at least sounds somewhat human. He lets the roots caging in the bard fall away, expecting that to reassure him that Eskel has no intention of keeping him trapped. Instead, the panic scent only thickens in the air. The bard attempts to scramble to his feet, crying out as soon as he puts pressure on his left foot. He drops back down to the ground, shoulders heaving.
One look at his swollen ankle tells Eskel that it’s broken. Fuck, the bard won’t be getting up or down the mountain without help and they’re too far from Kaer Morhen for someone to hear him shout for help. Eskel won’t be able to leave him here.
Eskel takes a step towards him and the bard’s eyes go even wider, nearly popping out of his head. He tries to stand again, and one of Eskel’s roots shoots out of its own volition, pushing him back to the ground before he can hurt himself. His touch causes the bard to recoil, hands coming up to protect his face.
“Oh, Lebioda’s saintly nipples,” the bard whispers. “Oh, gods, no. Please, no.”
Geralt rarely mentioned his bard by name. He spent years trying to act like he didn’t give a shit about the kid, even after they’d traveled together for years. Either way, he was always “the bard” or when he was occasionally feeling sentimental, “my bard.”
A memory comes to Eskel, sudden and overpowering.
Geralt, turning the worst fucking sword Eskel had ever seen in his life over in his hands, looking sheepish. “My swords got stolen in Kerack. Fucking bard spent every crown he had getting them replaced.”
Eskel shook his head. “This sword couldn’t kill a fucking kitten, Wolf.”
“Well aware, but I couldn’t tell him that. He was so proud of them.”
“So you carried around a useless pair of swords rather than hurt your bard’s feelings?”
Geralt sighed. “He had them inscribed, Esk. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”
Eskel took the sword from Geralt, looking down at the inscription on the silver blade. Outloud, he read, “My dear witcher, now I’ll always be with you in battle, even when you make me stay at the inn. Your very best friend in the whole wide world, Jaskier.”
“Jaskier.” It’s the first word he’s uttered since the night he turned into a leshen. It scrapes out of his throat like a razor blade.
Ask me about my WIPs!
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thearvariblues · 3 years
Text
Sing Me a Song
“You Geralt of Rivia’s bard?”
Jaskier looks up from his notepad and grins at the man who’s just sat at the opposite side of the table.
“Technically, I used to be,” the bard says, taking a sip of his ale. “We had a tiny misunderstanding last year. I’m sure he’s gonna be fine, though, I’m just giving him some time to cool down and wallow in self-pity.”
Jaskier frowns, because his brain has finally caught up with his mouth and informs him that even though the man who asked the question is very pretty (and he is – a bit short, but lean and clearly very agile, brown-skinned, with dark, wavy hair and stunningly unnatural green eyes), he also has got two big, scary swords strapped to his back, way too many scars and has, in fact, only one green eye, the other being covered by an eye patch, presumably missing.
And then there’s the Cat school medallion on his chest.
As Geralt would say… fuck.
“Unless you’re here to kidnap me and torture me to lure him into a trap. If that’s the case, I’ve never met a Geralt of Rivia in my life. Also, if you harm a hair on my head, he will hunt you down and kill you, very slowly and painfully. Just a heads up,” Jaskier smiles, utterly failing to sound at least a little bit threatening.
“Thanks for the warning,” the Witcher laughs. “But I actually need you to write me a song.”
“Sorry, I’m afraid this bard already has a Witcher to praise,” Jaskier protests, shaking his head firmly.
“Ugh. Who says I want praise?” the man says, making a face. “I just can’t seem to find a friend of mine, so I need to make him find me.”
“With a song? Do I look like a fucking pied piper?” Jaskier smirks.
“A little, yeah.”
“Fair enough. What’s in it for me?”
“What do you think is going to happen once Geralt hears that his bard has found himself a new muse?” the Witcher grins.
“Oh,” Jaskier says, chuckling. “Oh, but that’s good.”
“Are you in, then?”
“Absolutely. And, uhm… What did you say your name was?”
“By the gods, where are my manners?” the Witcher laughs. “I’m Aiden.”
*
Geralt places two tankards of ale on the table and sits down with a grunt.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting old, Wolf,” his brother Lambert smirks and promptly pulls one of the tankards closer. “Because that almost sounded like Vesemir when he’s trying to get up from his chair.”
“You’re so fucking funny,” Geralt murmurs.
“I know, right?” Lambert grins, tucking a strand of curly red hair behind his ear. “So, how’s life on the Path without your beloved bard?”
“Not my bard.”
“So pretty fucking terrible, eh?” Lambert chuckles.
“Fuck off, Lambert.”
“You’re being very nice and friendly today, you know?”
“I bought you a drink. So shut up and… drink.”
Lambert shrugs and for once does what he’s told. Within a few seconds, half of the tankard’s content vanishes.
“If it’s any consolation, life without my Cat is also pretty fucking unbearable,” he says then.
“Hm.”
“Oh, really, Geralt? You’re using your famous hm against me? Me, your brother?!”
Geralt groans.
“By the gods… Why can’t I just run into Eskel for once? Why does it always have to be you?”
“You’re just lucky, I guess.”
“Lucky. Yeah.”
Lambert rolls his eyes and focuses on his ale again – until the local bard grabs his lute and starts playing a slow, romantic ballad. Lambert growls.
“Fuck, I hate that song!”
“Why?” Geralt blinks, because he’s never heard the song before, and to be perfectly honest, it doesn’t really sound that bad.
“A brown-skinned woman with dark hair who’s seemingly killed, then comes back to life already plotting her revenge, only to find out that her lover’s already avenged her? Always reminds me of Aiden.”
“Aiden wasn’t exactly… A woman, was he?”
“He also hasn’t come back to life, as far as I know,” Lambert mutters.
“Who wrote it?” Geralt frowns, listening carefully. “It sounds like Jaskier’s work.”
“Some Master Dandelion. Never heard of him, but it seems he’s very popular now.”
“Hmmm…”
“Oh, not again!” Lambert groans.
“It just… It really does sound like Jaskier’s song.”
“You just fucking miss the bard, Geralt, that’s all.”
“No. No, I actually think…”
“That might be exactly the problem,” Lambert says and places his empty tankard back on the table. “The second round’s on me.”
*
“Seems like your plan’s not working as intended,” Jaskier comments. He’s spent weeks traveling with Aiden, and they still haven’t even heard about another Witcher trying to find them.
“I’m aware,” Aiden mutters, chewing his dinner without even noticing its taste – which is, honestly, probably for the best. “Could you be, like… less subtle?”
Jaskier shrugs.
“I suppose.”
“Fine,” Aiden nods. “Do it.”
*
“It’s a man now,” Geralt frowns, listening to the song he’s heard countless times already. “That’s new.”
“Looks like Master Dandelion might like to, uhm, dual wield,” Lambert snorts.
“It still sounds like Jaskier’s work.”
“Does Jaskier like to dual wield?”
“Hmm,” Geralt says dreamily.
“All the more reason to apologize, then, eh?”
“Oh, shut up, Lambert…”
*
“Still not working!” Aiden groans. He’s been waiting for three months for his Wolf to find him, and to no avail.
“I could, you know… Try something more obvious,” Jaskier offers.
“Please.”
*
“It’s a cat now,” Geralt blinks. “Dark-skinned, dark-haired… cat.”
Lambert sighs.
“Yeah, I hate those fucking metaphors.”
*
“I’m starting to think I should have just… kept trying to find him,” Aiden sighs, staring out of the tavern’s window.
Jaskier, cheeks still flushed from his performance, downs his ale and shakes his head.
“Don’t give up hope just yet,” he says. “I’ve already made a few changes to the song.”
“Oh, have you?” Aiden smirks. “Does it now say Lambert, I’m alive you moron, stop hiding and fucking find me?”
“Well, not yet… But almost.”
“Great. I can’t wait to hear it.”
*
Lambert is staring at yet another local bard singing the fucking ballad. He doesn’t even blink. Geralt is getting a little worried that his brother’s brain might have actually exploded.
“It says a Cat Witcher now,” he says, hoping it would get a reaction out of Lambert.
The redhead finally blinks. That’s probably good.
“A Cat Witcher who comes back to life only to find out his Wolf lover has already avenged him,” Geralt adds.
Lambert blinks again.
“And you know, I’m almost sure that this Master Dandelion is just Jaskier’s new alias.”
“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Lambert mutters when the song finally comes to its end.
“Which one of them?” Geralt smirks.
“Both of them!” Lambert growls. “I swear to gods, if I find out your stupid bard stole my Cat…”
“Excuse me, madam,” Geralt says to the innkeeper who’s just brought them their dinner. “Where did your bard learn this song?”
“That sappy ballad?” the innkeeper frowns. “From this Master Dandelion himself. He passed through the town last week with a Witcher.”
“And Master Dandelion…”
“You know the bard that calls himself Jaskier? It’s him with a fancy hat on,” she smirks.
“About this Witcher,” Lambert growls. “Does he look like in the song?”
“Pretty much, yeah. Kind of small for a Witcher, and almost too pretty, you know, but we had a little griffin problem and he slayed that beast like it was nothing, so…”
“I’m so gonna kill them both,” Lambert murmurs while Geralt has to try very hard not to chuckle.
“Would you happen to know where were they heading?” he asks.
“I would,” the woman says and looks at the Witcher expectantly.
“I see,” Geralt sighs. “You have another monster problem, don’t you?”
“Well. It turns out the griffin probably had a mate…”
“Of course it fucking did,” Geralt nods and picks up his fork. He simply refuses to deal with this with an empty stomach…
*
Jaskier critically eyes the clothes he’s picked for tonight’s performance.
“What do you think, Aiden?” he asks his companion. “Isn’t the purple a bit too much? It’s a small town, after all. Wouldn’t the steel blue look better?”
“I don’t know, I like the red one best,” Aiden shrugs from his spot on the bed.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Reminds you of Lambert’s hair,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes. “Melitele’s tits, I wish he’d find us already, because this is getting really–”
As if on cue, the door of the room slams open and a big, red-haired man walks in.
“You fucking bitch!” he yells when he sees Aiden.
The dark-haired Witcher beams and gets to his feet.
“Lambs!”
“Oh. Okay. That was fast,” Jaskier nods.
Lambert growls and grabs Aiden by the collar.
“Asshole!” he hisses. “I fucking mourned you!”
“Oh, honey, that’s so sweet,” Aiden smiles.
Lambert pushes him against the wall, so hard that Aiden grunts.
“I cried for you!”
“In my defense, it wasn’t exactly my fault,” Aiden smiles.
Jaskier inches towards the door.
“I guess I’ll just… leave you two to it.”
Needless to say, Lambert ignores him completely.
“I fucking avenged you!”
“Yes, that was very kind of you,” Aiden grins, utterly unaffected by Lambert’s angry face so close to his own. “You saved me a lot of trouble.”
Lambert groans, buries his face in Aiden’s shoulder and sighs deeply.
“You fucker,” he mutters.
“Yeah, I missed you too, puppy,” Aiden smiles, wrapping his arms around Lambert.
Jaskier, who’s already standing in the doorway, places his hand on his heart and takes a deep breath.
“Oh,” he whispers. “I shall write the most beautiful ballad about this… Ow!”
He’s unceremoniously dragged out of the room and this time it’s his turned to be slammed against the wall by a big, angry Witcher – but this one is white-haired and dressed all in black.
“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaims, his face brightening up.
“You won’t write a fucking thing,” Geralt growls.
“Is that so? May I ask why, dear heart?”
“Because you’re mine. My bard. And if I ever find out you’re writing about another Witcher again–”
“Then what?” Jaskier asks, cocking his head. “But before you answer, I’d like to remind you that I am not yours anymore, as you have made it quite clear on the mountain that you are not interested in having me as a companion–”
Jaskier is effectively shut up by Geralt’s lips pressing against his with determination that makes it absolutely clear that Geralt hasn’t merely lost his balance and happened to be falling in Jaskier’s general direction.
“Mine,” he growls.
“Well,” Jaskier sighs, slipping his fingers into Geralt’s hair. “When you put it like that… Fuck the mountain, I suppose.”
“Fuck the mountain,” Geralt agrees. “But I’m sorry. For what I said.”
“Apology very much accepted,” Jaskier laughs. “I’d ask you to fuck me, but I’m afraid my room is currently… occupied.”
Lambert’s loud moan only confirms Jaskier’s statement.
“Hm,” Geralt hums. “Do you think this tavern has a bath? I think I still have some griffin blood in my hair from last week.”
“Oh,” Jaskier purrs. “Oh, yes. And I’m sure I could get some chamomile oil…”
They hear another moan, this time Aiden’s.
“What are we waiting for, then?” Geralt grins and grabs Jaskier’s hand. “Come on, bard. We have some catching up to do…”
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after more than 22 years on the Path together, Geralt knows Jaskier can Sing. he’s a classically trained bard, with decades of experience spanning the Continent many times over to earn food, money, warm beds, and even medicine. Jaskier’s voice has kept them alive when Geralt has only survived a hunt by the skin of his teeth, has gotten Roach care when farriers would turn Geralt away, has repaired and replaced swords and armor when blacksmiths and clothiers would shun a Witcher client. Jaskier’s voice is worth his weight in gold.
this is important because so many fics have the Wolves of Kaer Mohren howling, and by Melitele’s sweet tits, can Jaskier howl. if given the chance. after Geralt explains about mutagens and Witcher instincts and Wolf Witcher school things specifically and now would you please stopaskingmeaboutembarrassingthings, Jaskier, leavemetheillusionofpride,bard
and im obsessed with the idea that Geralt doesn’t want the others to know  about Jaskier(his barker) joining him in on howls because then they will hear him(Jaskier) and fall in love with his timbre croon(Jaskier’s lovely voice) and want to steal him(Geralt’s bard) for themselves, more than they already do for the songs(sung by Jaskier).
until, one night when the moon is clear and they’re nearing Oxenfurt, and Geralt is starting to feel the beginnings of loneliness without his mate by his side stirring in his heart so he starts a howl. and Jaskier smiles at him with fondness and exasperation because they still have time and they will find each other in the spring always, and sucks in a breath to join him in his song when he’s cut off by distance voices instead. one, and then another, respond to Geralt’s call, and he drops it for a moment because he wasn’t calling for them--yet(we sing in the mountains), here(they’re early).
he tells Jaskier not to howl to his brothers since they don’t know him(if they learn your voice they might find you without me), and he doesn’t, but he will be singing, dear, if they ask. that’s fair, that’s fine, everyone has heard the songs he sings for Witchers(mostly for Geralt). but there are songs he sings Just For Geralt, Just With Geralt, curled up around their fire, buried in blankets at an inn, their voices joining together in the dark and alighting the cruel unforgiving Path with love and devotion, and those are only for him(Jaskier’s Geralt).
Eskel(older but not really) and Lambert(youngest forever) ride into their camp on panting horses and tackle Geralt into a pile of Pack(bonds of circumstance) and brother(bonds of choice). and yip and bark and scent each other until they smell like family(bonds of love) again. and Jaskier(his) greets them while pouring their soup into a larger pot with more venison(Witchers will eat me out of coin and clothes), with plenty of bones(chewing and marrow), and they inevitably ask for songs. the ones that have made them heroes, welcome in little hamlets that used to chase them away, the ones that have lined their purses and eased their time on the Path.
Jaskier sings, and talks, and the brothers howl together before piling atop bedrolls while he strums his lute along, and does not join the howl himself though he is pulled into the pile by many hands. they split in the morning, and Geralt and Jaskier spend their last night of the year together in the fields outside Oxenfurt, howling as one in the morning light, a song of parting and longing and promises. see you in spring, love.
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witcher-trash · 2 years
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Geraskier fic recs
A Few Years Ago In A Galaxy About Three Lightyears Away From The Milky Way (geralt/jaskier, teen, complete, 10k, star wars au) Star Wars AU. Just. I don't know, it's a Star Wars AU.
All I Am Is Open for View (geralt/jaskier, explicit, complete, 2k) There is a game they play every time they reunite. To be granted the privilege and reward of Jaskier’s body, Geralt must impress his bard with five heroic deeds he has done during their time apart.
all i want is you (my sweet honey bee) (geralt/jaskier, mature, complete, 3k) Waking up alone has been hard enough for Geralt, but it’s the lack of music and chatter that’s really taken its toll. The estate is lovely, of course, and it’s easy to find distractions, but Dandelion is what makes Corvo Bianco home.---Geralt reflects on his retirement while preparing for Dandelion's return to Corvo Bianco.
Always Lose-Lose (geralt/jaskier, mature, complete, 125k) For years Geralt and Jaskier travel together. What starts out as Geralt being annoyed by the bard who insists on follwing him turns into something more as the years go by. But in the midst of the war Nilfgaard's wages on the rest of the continent, Jaskier is captured to tell them where Geralt is. It's either betray Geralt or save himself. Will he be able to make the right choice? Or is it already too late for him to choose? And what exactly has lead to Jaskier getting caught in the first place?
appropriate ways to care for your local witcher - series (geralt/jaskier, geralt/eskel/jaskier, explicit, complete. 37k) Geralt makes a joking suggestion about how Jaskier might pay him back. Jaskier only too enthusiastically agrees.
ask me tomorrow (geralt/jaskier, mature, complete, 10k) "Why -" he gestures expansively towards Jaskier, his lute, the forest around them, his swords now strapped to Roach "- are you doing this?" A bard seeking fortune wouldn't watch Geralt across the fire with eyes half-full of tears that he didn't bother to blink away. An artist looking for a muse wouldn't press close, desperately close, against Geralt's side until he finally gave in and turned his head. A young man after a quick fuck wouldn't grip Geralt to him hard enough to bruise even a witcher. The way Jaskier looks at Geralt makes him think he should know the answer already, but he doesn't, he doesn't. "Because I know you," he says at last. "Because I have known you. Because I will know you. Isn't that enough?" (One day, Geralt will understand that it was the closest thing Jaskier will ever have to a goodbye, and it's enough, it's enough.)
a throat full of teeth (geralt/jaskier, jaskier/oc, yennefer/oc, mature, complete, 40k) It occurred to Jaskier, as he forced his own feet to move, one ahead of the other, that Geralt hadn’t once shifted from where he stood on the mountain, arms ridged by his side, staring out into the valley, ass clenched like there was no tomorrow. He really had just let Jaskier leave. Jaskier clenched his jaw. Guess this one is for real then. When he arrived back at camp he gathered his things and gave Roach a gentle pat. He’d told Geralt “see you around,” but he didn’t think it would happen. No, actually, he decided. He was planning on it. jaskier and geralt lose each other. it takes a long time to be found again.
Base Born Bard (geralt/jaskier, teen, complete, 2k) Baseborn. Adjective. Of low birth or origin. Illegitimate or bastard. Some times Dandelion’s heritage causes them trouble, sometimes it doesn't.
No Man Would Dare - series (geralt/jaskier, mature, 40k) Geralt and Dandelion take a contract from a young lord to find his only living relative, his older brother, whose run away following the deaths of the rest of their family. The Witcher and Bard cross the continent on the man's trail and learn there is much more to this man's story than his tragic family. There is a dark secret that is following him--and now it's following them. Or: A Witcher twist on a Familiar Gothic Tale.
not a goodbye, a thank you (geralt/jaskier, complete, mature, 3k) Somewhere further in the courtyard, Lambert yells out a colourful curse while Ciri cackles maniacally. Eskel is taunting the former through his laughter, and Vesemir’s voice joins in with barked commands and corrections once the clang of steel against steel continues. Somewhere above them, on one of the balconies overlooking the yard, Geralt can hear the scratch of quill against parchment as Yennefer works on her correspondence, interrupted every now and again by the tapping of nails against an inkpot. He realises what’s wrong an instant before everyone else grows suddenly, eerily still; Jaskier is quiet.
Own and Make Me Yours (geralt/eskel/jaskier, aiden/lambert, wip, explicit, 50k) Jaskier, a royal pleasure slave, isn't exactly happy with his lot in life—he's having sex with less than desirable nobles at a pace nobody would want—but he's learned to be content with it. Things could be a lot worse. On occasion, Radovid sends him away to bestow his services on nobles who aren't stationed at court. During one such trip Jaskier witnesses the murder of a noble he was supposed to be pleasing, and sees the faces of the assassins; to keep him from identifying them to the authorities, Jaskier is taken with them when they leave, and finds himself held in the royal palace of Rivia. Life in Rivia is anything but what Jaskier would have expected and both the king of Rivia and his right hand are unlike any nobles Jaskier has ever known; the more time he spends with them, the more he realizes that they might just be what they seem to be—good men.
Permeable Barriers (geralt/jaskier, teen, complete, 20k) Geralt and Jaskier are just searching for escape from the oppressive summer heat, when an old acquaintance asks for their help with the current crisis and reveals a past Jaskier had kept hidden. A plague is sweeping the continent, but Geralt would rather not get involved... until a nearby town falls victim to his sort of problem.
Ùine (Time) - series (geralt/jaskier, explicit, complete, 23k) Jaskier's 35th birthday was supposed to be a night full of song and food, a grand banquet to remember. Nothing went as planned. The door creaked, and Geralt roused from a light slumber at the sound. The lingering scent of the snuffed candle by the bed suggested the passage of several hours. Not more than three, which was strange. Jaskier should have been awhile yet, if he was going to return to the tavern at all. And yet… an uneven step, and the door clicked shut. The unfamiliar tread brought Geralt’s drowsy senses to focus, and he picked up more. The copper of blood. Musk of seed. Pallor of salt.
warm you like the sunshine (geralt/jaskier, explicit, complete, 10k) "Why do you go with people who hurt you?" He looked at Jaskier, and kept looking at him after he looked away and the smile dropped off his face. After a long silence, Jaskier said, in a much more tired voice, "I don't exactly have a lot of options, Geralt." On the face of it it wasn't true--Jaskier could find a willing young woman or man in any half-crowded tavern without lifting a finger--but that wasn't what he meant, of course. He meant when he needed...that particular sort of person. That particular experience. Without the slightest forethought or intention, Geralt frowned and said, "You have me."
Witcher (A/B/O) - series (geralt/jaskier, explicit, 100k, abo) The tale of the strange Alpha Witcher and his untraditional Omega Bard.
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Geralt gets cursed to have a mini angel and devil on each of his shoulders that only he can see and one of them tries to convince him to make a move on Jaskier while the other thinks it would ruin things between them
oh now this... this is good shit, anon. yes! yesssss!
tw: Geralt has some anxiety
---
“To guilt and love I give a voice,
Don’t take too long to make your choice!”
And with that, the mage disappears in a cloud of dark, greenish smoke. Jaskier coughs, blinking back tears, his sleeve pulled down to cover his nose and mouth. “What the fuck was that about, do you think?”
Geralt shakes his head to clear it and stumbles back to his feet. “A curse, I think.”
“Well which one of us was it for?”
“Him!” Geralt hears Lambert’s voice from his left shoulder. He turns his head and finds a miniature version of his brother standing on his pauldron, grinning like mad. “Hello, big brother.”
“Hello!” chimes Eskel, who is sitting comfortably on his right shoulder. 
“Me,” Geralt groans. Jaskier raises an eyebrow. 
“I don’t see anything wrong with you. I wonder what she meant by to guilt and love I give a voice; what do you think, Geralt?”
“I have a sneaking suspicion that I won’t be getting much sleep tonight,” the Witcher grimaces. Jaskier shies away, moving toward Roach. 
“I’ll stay out of your way and be quiet, then.”
“Poor thing,” Eskel pipes up. “He cares for you so deeply; must you always snap at him like that?”
“He’s just along for the fame and fortune,” Lambert scoffs. “He’s using you for your reputation and adventures. He just wants to use you to make a name for himself.”
“Why would a Viscount need to make any more of a name for himself?” Eskel fights back, their bickering voices unusually soothing despite the topic of conversation, which is actually making Geralt’s skin crawl. He hates confronting his feelings for Jaskier. They’re annoyingly, overwhelmingly positive. “He could be taking a hot bath every night and sleeping on silk sheets, yet here he stands, silently waiting for our dumbass brother to get a move on.”
Geralt takes the prompt and stalks forward to swing himself up into Roach’s saddle. It hadn’t been a pleasant afternoon and he suspects that things aren’t going to get much better. Jaskier’s shoulders are slumped and his fingers toy nervously with the strap of his lute.
The Witcher mumbles, “You can hum, Jaskier. It’s... fine.”
“Oh,” the bard smiles up at him, blue eyes sparkling in the late afternoon light. “Thank you, Geralt. I’d like to try to work out this rather finicky new melody if you don’t mind.”
“Hmm.”
“You could... praise him?” Eskel offers. “You did so well just now, it was nearly a full compliment.”
“Psh, and reveal the secret he’s been hiding for damn near a decade? The bard would be crushed.”
Geralt bites the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming out loud. He’s frustrated already, and he suspects that until he confesses or swears to keep silent about his feelings forever, these two conjurations won’t be leaving any time soon.
---
“Kiss him,” Eskel urges, tugging a lock of Geralt’s hair. He’s established that Jaskier cannot see the tiny Wolf Witchers; the nature of the curse would be too obvious if he could. “He looks so lovely in the firelight, don’t you think? Actually I do know what you think. You think he looks lovely all the time, you just won’t admit it.”
“Why should he admit it? That would ruin a perfectly good friendship. Like you said, Eskel, Jaskier is a Viscount! He can’t stay on the Path with Geralt forever. Eventually he’ll need to return to Lettenhove to marry and settle down. He’s titled, and we can’t expect him to follow a monster around forever, much less fall in love with one.”
“He has never once thought of Geralt as a monster!”
Geralt wants to cry. He wants to rip out his hair and run, screaming with madness, into the dark embrace of the woods around them. Alas, the bard would be Wyvern-bait without him there for protection. 
And the curse would stay with him no matter how far he ran. 
He closes his eyes and kneels, but the quiet respite of meditation never comes. 
---
Geralt is fucking exhausted. His brothers never stop talking. Arguing. Debating. Pleading. 
He’s gone truly mad. Jaskier stirs in his sleep, four nights after the curse was cast, and Geralt flinches. His scent is otherworldly and the Witcher’s patience is thinner than tissue paper. Eskel has been very convincing as of late.
He smells like the damp earth after a summer rain, sweetened by something unnamable but floral. He smells like springtime. Youth. Beauty. Geralt whines unconsciously, the sound creeping out from somewhere high in his throat. Jaskier stirs again and blinks his sleepy eyes open. His cute pink tongue darts over his bottom lip and Geralt bites off the sound with a sudden gasp. 
“Sorry for waking you.”
“What’s wrong?” the deep concern in Jaskier’s sleep-soft voice stirs the love in Geralt’s heart violently. “You sound wounded. Are you alright?”
“I-” Geralt falters. Falls to his knees in the dirt next to Jaskier’s bedroll. Cups the bard’s face gently with one hand. Lambert begins to swear violently as Eskel cheers him, egging him on. “I love you, Jaskier.”
His brothers disappear. 
His ears ring with the sudden silence, the only ambiance coming from the crackling fire.
Jaskier balks up at him, a look of utter terror written plainly on his face. “Geralt? Is this... the curse? Why would you say that?”
“Do you- Are you angry with me, Jaskier? I understand if-”
“No, you fool,” Jaskier laughs, sitting up and leaning closer. “I- I love you, too. I didn’t think you’d ever- That you could ever- After Yennefer...”
Geralt kisses his bard with such sweetness that Jaskier melts against him, his hands braced against that familiar, broad chest. They kiss until sunrise, and then they kiss some more. There’s a lot of lost time to make up for, a lot of poor decisions to be rectified.
But they manage. They always do.
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king-finnigan · 3 years
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Winters at Kaer Morhen are long and empty
That’s why each of the Kaer Morhen Witchers picks up a hobby the first year on the Path.
Eskel chooses knitting.
He can’t explain why he likes it so much. Maybe it’s because he likes soft things. Maybe it’s because he gets cold easily. Maybe it’s because he likes making things that bring comfort, something he can never do himself, especially since he got his scars. Maybe it’s because he feels a little less like a monster every time his large, calloused hands hold the thin needles and make something soft and delicate.
He eventually starts making stuffed animals, selling them at the nearest market in spring.
Whenever he passes through a town and sees one of the kids with a stuffed animal he recognizes as his, he feels a spark of pride he rarely ever gets to feel.
Lambert likes to whittle wood.
He tells people it’s because he likes to stab things, but really, he just likes the feeling of the wood in his hand, against his fingers, likes focusing for hours on end on one small thing, carving away little pieces of it until it’s perfect. It makes him feel a little less bad about the pieces of him that have been chipped away during the Trials.
He loves every single one of his creations. Deep down, he hopes that it might one day help him love himself - even if it’s just a little bit.
Every spring, a few days after setting out on the Path, his brothers find a little wooden statue in their packs. They keep it with them the entire year. In winter, they put it in their rooms. In spring, they get a new one.
Vesemir has many hobbies, since he spends the entire year at Kaer Morhen. Reading, handlettering, preserving old books, cooking, playing chess and making puzzles are just a few of them.
But the one he picked up while he was still an active Witcher, is gardening. It’s the one he holds closest to his heart, even now.
He says it’s because it’s handy - that way, you always have vegetables and alchemy ingredients at your disposal. No one dares mention the purely decorative flowers he tends to as well.
Maybe he likes it because he rarely ever gets his hands dirty, these days, and he misses the feeling of getting to wash the dirt away and feel clean again. Maybe it’s because he misses his pups and wants to take care of something, wants to be needed, even if it’s just by plants. Maybe it’s because he’s tired of all the death he’s had to see, and wants to spend his last days surrounded by life.
Slowly, the halls of Kaer Morhen fill with green.
Geralt likes to paint.
He doesn’t need a canvas, he’ll just paint on whatever surface is available. Flowers in the corners of the tables, wolves running along the lower edge of the wall, a lakeside view on an early spring morning in one of the halls.
Maybe it’s because he likes the way his mind empties when he paints, his entire world narrowing down to the strokes of his brush. Maybe it’s because he’s not used to focusing on the beauty in this world, and painting helps him see it. Maybe it’s because all of his colours were leeched out of his skin and hair during his Trials, and this way, he can bring some of them back into the world.
When Jaskier asks if he can go to Kaer Morhen with Geralt, he’s immediately told no. He doesn’t understand; he knows Geralt paints. He’s heard it from Eskel, the few times they ran into each other on the Path, and he’s seen Geralt buy paint at the market, a few weeks before winter.
But Jaskier is nothing if not stubborn, and Geralt eventually caves.
And when Jaskier finally makes it to Kaer Morhen, he sees what Geralt was trying to hide.
He sees blue eyes above the hearth in the main hall, a silhouette against a sunset in the kitchen, slender fingers holding the neck of a lute on one of the doors, buttercups on the headboard of Geralt’s bed, the pattern of his favourite doublet on one of the chairs. He sees little bits and pieces of himself everywhere he turns.
And finally, he understands.
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When Buttercups Wither
Also on AO3. Lots more under the cut!
Jaskier dies an old man, and the Witchers are saddened at his leave, but they bury him in Oxenfurt with his lute, and move on with their lives.
Unexpectedly, Jaskier finds himself back in the world of the living, with a burning desire to right the wrongs upon Witchers across the continent. For a while all he can be is aggressive, inconveniencing anyone who he had heard say something bad about the Witchers he devoted his life to. He figured out pretty quickly that he’s a ghost.
What’s strange to him is that he doesn’t seem to be attached to his lute. Realistically that should be it, right? A love of music that’s brought him back to watch how his legacy drags on. But no, he finds himself in shitty taverns and inns mixing lye into horrible people’s ale.
It takes him a while, but he finally gets the pattern: he wakes up in a dark room, usually alone, and finds people in the main room raging about Witchers. When he finally takes a moment to look around instead of immediately going for a target, he recognizes a familiar presence.
There are Witchers wherever he goes.
Jaskier has, somehow, become attached to Witchers. When he realizes this his vengeful spirit begins to settle, and he starts being useful. Whenever he wakes up, he finds the Witcher he’s attached to and helps them. At first it’s with vengeance, then it’s with a tidier room, checking the beds for lice, and if it isn’t safe he breaks the doorknobs. His help goes unrecognized, but at this point, hems used to being ignored.
The first time a Witcher thanks him it’s a man from Griffin school, and he hears the man’s name echo through his shapeless form. Coën. He says it quietly, “someone must be watching out for me,” he chuckled to the air. “Well they have my gratitude.”
Jaskier finds himself on the road next, sitting in a camp beside a Witcher with a very familiar medallion. It’s not Geralt, this one has scars over the side of his face. He looks sad, and Jaskier wants to comfort him. He thinks the Witcher must feel it, when Jaskier wraps his arms around his shoulders, tells him his work is important, that humans may be ungrateful but he knows of his sacrifice, and is so proud he’s alive. The Witcher sighs, tension disappearing. Then he gets his name— Eskel. “Someone has to do the job, eh Scorpion?” The Witcher says, looking at his horse. Much better than Roach, thinks Jaskier. Jaskier stays with Eskel as long as he can, with nowhere else to go, sings to him while he falls asleep. He doesn’t need a thank you, that the Witcher eases is thanks enough.
Jaskier finds himself in similar places for a while, a tavern where Witchers are being cursed, on the road when a Witcher is feeling down. The names start blurring. Aiden, Letho, Ivo. Jaskier helps all of them find a moment of peace.
He runs into another wolf some time later, and he seems to be a little off. Jaskier heard his name, Lambert. Lambert is standing before a cliff, looking down at the ravine, holding a bottle of wine. Jaskier has a terrifying thought that the Witcher wants to die, and jumps in front of him. He shoves uselessly at his chest, runs his hands through his hair and begs “please, stay alive,” and pulls at his armor until Lambert sighs and retreats back to his camp. Jaskier, ghostly tears on his face, follows him, clinging the entire time. Jaskier sits on a log and it clears, just a little, under his weight. Lambert stares at the log and Jaskier sees his pupils narrow into slits.
“What are you, seeing ghosts?” Lambert speaks to himself, and shakes his head. “Could’ve been me. Maybe it was you who got me away from that cliff.” He huffs a breath. “Must not be great for a Witcher in the afterlife.” Jaskier can’t bear the one sided conversation.
“It’s not so bad,” he says. “But the world is better with you here to protect it.” Jaskier kicks a rock, and Lambert watches it scurry away.
“My very own ghost,” Lambert says. “Nah, It’s the wind.” He eyes the bottle in his hand. “Well, Maybe...” Jaskier Can see the indescision. Lambert looks up. “Eskel and Geralt are going to think I’m crazy,” he huffs, and sets the bottle right where the rock had been. “If there is someone there, well...” Lambert sniffs. “Thanks for watching out for me.” Jaskier cries again, and when Lambert goes to bed, is pleased to find he can still drink the wine.
- -
Jaskier doesn’t expect to get to Kaer Morhen, but he finds himself there in the winter, peering over familiar white hair. Geralt. Jaskier hadn’t really gotten to say goodbye, though he knew Geralt had visited his grave. He could sense the sadness in his mind, but then he listened to the conversation. He recognizes Lambert and Eskel. Eskel is listening to Lambert, whose talking about a suspiciously empty wine bottle, and Eskel talks about being sung to sleep. Oh. Geralt must have been thinking about him. Jaskier has gained some strength in the world, likely as the Witchers he assists have acknowledged a presence that helped them. He starts humming Toss a Coin in Geralt’s ear, running his hand through his hair, rubbing his shoulder. “I’m still around,” he says, knowing Geralt still can’t hear him. But the sadness exits his eyes as he sings, and instead he smiles lightly.
“What are you grinning about?” Eskel Asks. Geralt shakes his head.
“Jaskier,” he says. “He would’ve sung for you.” Eskel looks pained.
“I’m sorry, I know you miss him—“ Geralt rises abruptly.
“Bet it was his ghost or something,” he says. “Seems like him, right?” And Geralt sounds so fond. “Reminding Witchers of their worth when they feel like shit.” He looks around and Jaskier finds himself in tears again, clinging to Geralt, saying his name,
“You are worthy, every one of you.”
“It’s like I can almost smell him.” Jaskier kicks him. He May have been stinky in his life, but he is a perfectly clean ghost! Geralt shifts his foot and looks down at it.
“Do you think...” it’s Lambert who speaks. Everyone looks at him, surprised by the meekness in his voice. “Maybe it was him?” Jaskier feels a surge of something in his chest. He hugs Lambert from behind, and his shoulders ease. “Maybe he’s come back as a ghost to help out Witchers. Aiden told me he saw someone who was shouting about mutants pass out at a counter last summer, and Coen said that thing about having a nice room...” Geralt and Eskel both look surprised. “It’s stupid but...” Jaskier remembers the sadness in Lambert’s eyes when he stood on that cliff.
“It could be,” Eskel said. “Some kind of spectre. They exist.” Geralt looks down at the ankle Jaskier had kicked.
“Guess he’s still mad at me then,” he sighs. Eskel puts a hand on his shoulder.
“He’ll come round.”
- -
Jaskier calls out to Geralt as a warning, hoping he can be heard, when he sees a monster leap at him. His senses must have alerted him, as Geralt whips around and slices with his silver sword— Jaskier feels a surge of energy in his body as he watches Geralt heave for air and stumble back, whipping his head around.
“Jaskier?” He calls. Geralt looks down at the sword and pulls it from the monster. “Thank you,” he says. Jaskier smiled, but is tugged away by another Witcher in need.
- -
Jaskier gains more abilities, he discovers. With every encounter he seems capable of doing more to help, finding that he can scream warnings, or move very small things, and make sound when he walks— his feet crunch over gravel sometimes when he’s concentrating on it, and he sees Witchers look down from their horses in shock. He can also sing, though he doesn’t have his lute, and he doesn’t know what he sounds like, but it seems to ease Witchers into sleep. Jaskier also learns—
It’s their swords. Since he watched Geralt sink his sword into a warg he’s paid more attention, always found himself directly behind a walking Witcher, or standing by their gear when they left it in a room in an inn. Jaskier is connected to the silver in a Witcher’s sword. He knows they can’t kill him— has been run through more than once with it, and when they’re used with his added existence he feels the power surge through him. It’s incredible.
Jaskier continues helping, and he finds more Witchers regularly, until he’s met all the ones he think exist, and run back between them a few times. He’s been called names: the wolves call him Jaskier, but he gets “buttercup” a lot, sometimes “friendly ghost,” sometimes “friend,” and it’s always in gratitude. Jaskier also gets gifts sometimes. Lambert always leaves him something, a drink, a coin, a carved instrument. But he gets other gifts, like the buttercups he apparently leaves when he’s lingered. And he hears Witchers talk to each other about him. He catches a conversation between Lambert and Aiden and Aiden learns his name. Letho and Geralt chat and Letho starts calling him Jaskier. Jaskier gains a reputation as a helpful spirit, and sometimes Witchers will cal on him directly, seeking a little emotional support. Jaskier is happy to provide.
Jaskier talks to them a lot, even though they can’t hear him. He finds Geralt walking down a road in Redannia and starts telling him about the Witchers he’s helped that day. He tells him about the gifts he’s been given. The excellent wine that Lambert left him the other day. He rubs Geralt’s back and tells him how much he values him.
Mages can see him now.
Nearly all the Witchers know him by name, and he’s become quite a presence in their stories to each other. They even make some up, and wonder what he gets up to when he’s not helping Witchers. The answer? Well, Jaskier isn’t sure what he does either.
He first encounters his mage issue when he’s with Geralt, appearing where he’s rested his swords by the door of Yennefer’s cottage. They’re talking, and Jaskier strides over.
“Yennefer again, Geralt? I should have known you’d still be in touch. She’s not good for you, you know.” Yennefer looks right at him. Geralt is still looking at her.
“Geralt?” Yennefer asks, turning back to him.
“Hm?”
“How long has Jaskier been a ghost?” Geralt looks around.
“Can you see me?” Jaskier asks, looking at his body. It’s a little more solid now, after years of existing. Yennefer nods a little. Jaskier claps a hand over his mouth.
“Since his death, likely,” Geralt mumbled. He sounds sad again.
“Look at that, you’ve gone and made him sad again.” Yennefer scoffs.
“Not my fault Witchers can’t see spectres.”
“He’s here? It’s him?” Geralt’s questions for ignored, and Jaskier starts bickering with Yennefer.
“You’re looking young, Jaskier... I know. Yes, I’m hilarious aren’t I?” Jaskier tuts at the insensitive joke about his death.
“Well I’m going to go, since you two are clearly occupied. Since you can talk to Geralt, do tell him I miss him, won’t you? And that I don’t hate him?” Yennefer’s eyes soften.
“Alright,” she agrees. Geralt looks confused. “Bye, Jaskier.” Jaskier tilts his head, listening for any summons. None come, so he decides to travel with Eskel so he can rant. Eskel’s always been good at interpreting him.
- -
Jaskier continues to gain power, and manages to figure out his connection to Witchers swords. It’s easy now, to lock onto large bulky silver and manifest. He manages to find their daggers too— viper school is more fond of the smaller ones. Then he can get around by sending their medallions— though it was riskier, as he discovered it made them vibrate when he concentrated on them. Jaskier has been met more than once by a Witcher whirling around for a fight, and had to calm them down by moving dirt and stomping his feet for them to discover it’s just him.
After that he can teleport to anything silver, not just on Witchers. He finds himself freeing an elf prisoner from silver handcuffs. Rescuing a woman wearing a silver necklace from bandits by shouting in their ears. Comforts a recently widowed man wearing a silver ring. He was proud of that one, seeing him cry out his feelings and telling him his wife was in a good place. He had gone to sleep satisfied.
Jaskier was also given more gifts— he liked the wine a lot, but a Kadewen town where he’d helped several people near Kaer Morhen started bringing silver coins and buttercups to a fountain in the square. Jaskier was pleased, liked to sit and sing to passerby. They’d pause sometimes, almost as if they could hear him. And Jaskier gained more power.
- -
The fountain turned from stone to silver where he sat, when the offerings of silver coins grew, and Jaskier seemed to just bring it lut. It was a miracle, people said, but the Witchers who came in for supplies just before winter knew, had figured out where Jaskier came from.
Jaskier starts to turn more things into silver. Plated earrings into solid metal, cheap gifts from husbands turned into expensive indulgences for their wives, and it wasn’t long before that little trick was discovered and people started putting things in the fountain to purify. Jaskier discovered by accident the water had been purified, and upon following the source found a whole stream of pure freshwater. He didn’t know what it was, but Jaskier was happy to be helping. He couldn’t do it on command at first, but his ability grew until he could.
More often than not of course, Jaskier traveled with other Witchers. He only took reprieves to inspect his fountain. (Because undoubtedly it was his fountain. The Witchers called it his, the townsfolk called it an offering to “the silver being” and Yennefer called it a sham.
“You realize,” Yennefer said one day, sitting beside him on the fountain. “You’re a god?” Jaskier’s jaw dropped.
“I’m just a ghost!” He said. “And a lot of people know I exist!”
“Jaskier,” Yennefer shook her head. “You’re sitting on your shrine.” Jaskier blinked and looked at the fountain.
“This is just a fountain,” he said sheepishly. But people put things in it as gifts to him. People called on him for aid. There were stories about him. “Oh,” he said. “I’m a god.”
“Congratulations,” Yennefer said jokingly. “But what are you the god of?”
“Witchers?” He suggested. “Turning things into silver?” No, he had turned water fresh, not into silver.
“Maybe...” Yennefer said softly. “Maybe you’re the god of purity.” Jaskier snorted. “Think about it,” she said again. “You remind Witchers of their worth. You turn stone into silver. You turn a dirty stream into freshwater.”
“I’m no pure god,” Jaskier repeated. “I just see the good in everything. The value. And the water was an accident.” Yennefer smiles brightly.
“That’s it then,” she says.“The god of the pure within the impure.”
That made sense, actually. There was silver in stone. There was humanity in mutants. There was freshness in water.
“Can I also be the god of Witchers?” He asked. Yennefer laughed, but Jaskier was serious.
“Jaskier, you’re a friend to Witchers. You’re the god of their weapons. Just as you’re an enemy of their critics, but a god of their critics’ jewelery.” Jaskier smiled, content with the explanation.
A ghost to a god.
Well, there was some purity in his spirit after all.
Part 2
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Like Sparks Against My Skin
on ao3
When Geralt sets out down the pass, nothing is out of the ordinary. The path is clear enough that he can ride most of the way down and they make good time coming into Kaedwen. He'd written to Jaskier over the winter for the first time this year and he's antsy to make it to their meeting spot along the Pontar. It feels like something has changed over the winter and while it's not a bad thing, Geralt still lays the blame on Jaskier and his soft, longing letters.
Usually, over the winter, Geralt spends most of his nights with Eskel, but it felt wrong to be sleeping with one man during the night and writing to another during the day, so he's spent the entire five months alone. And more than once, the letters he received seemed to have been written when Jaskier was drunk, and the content edged toward something much more suggestive than either of them had ever discussed. Not that anything had been discussed prior to the letters.
And Geralt had started thinking about things he's been burying since he first met Jaskier so many years ago. Like the sound of his voice while he's being railed in the room next door, or the way his trousers fit just right to display a shapely ass and thighs - or that stupid fucking bow that sits right between his hips and haunts him. Surely it's just a frivolity and it's not actually holding Jaskier's trousers up, but Geralt wants to find out, wants to tug at it and see what happens. And maybe, when he meets up with Jaskier, he will be.
He travels harder than he probably needs to, hurrying to get to their meeting spot and see Jaskier and find out where exactly they stand with each other now. It's unnecessary because Jaskier is still travelling on foot and while he has less distance to cross, he's still going to be slower. So when Geralt stops in town to rest for the night, Jaskier is the last person he's expecting to see.
But there he is when he walks into the tavern, lute in hand and singing melodiously and- Geralt's brain stops functioning when he looks at Jaskier's face. Because he's never had a beard before. And something hot and urgent settles low in his gut and Geralt barely holds back a groan. Whatever changed over the winter, he doesn't suspect Jaskier is prepared to be jumped the second they see each other.
But it's a tempting prospect, pulling him into an empty room and kissing the confusion from his lips. He thinks back to the one year Eskel decided to grow a beard, to the scrape of his between his thighs and against his ass. The roughness of it all over his skin and- fuck. He's still in public, he shouldn't be thinking these things.
So he quickly diverts his attention from Jaskier and orders a pair of drinks and supper for the both of them before discussing available rooms. By the time he and the innkeeper have come to an agreement (Jaskier's portion of the room has been paid for already, but Geralt is to pay for his own) Jaskier has finished his set and slipped up silently.
"It's good to see you," he says, "I didn't expect you so soon."
"The path was clear," Geralt explains, "quick riding down. Didn't see any point to delay after that."
"Certainly not, and we are glad to have you. Drinks?”
"Already coming," Geralt smiles and Jaskier beams at him.
The beard, Geralt discovers, is shorter than it appeared, thick stubble more than a full beard, but it doesn't stop the thoughts whirling in his head. If anything, it encourages them. Stubble is rougher than long hair and would be sure to scrape delightfully against his skin. Geralt has to shut his eyes for a moment and compose himself and when he does, Jaskier is looking at him oddly.
They turn in after supper and for the first time since knowing him, Geralt is nervous to share a bed with Jaskier. He's hesitant even about undressing in front of him because he's been half-hard since he walked into the inn earlier that evening. And he's had more to drink than is probably advisable, even if it doesn't affect him that much.
But in the firelight in their room, Jaskier looks unbearably beautiful and Geralt has to hold his tongue to keep from saying something he'll regret. Because Jaskier hinted and nodded at something more, but he hasn't said a word about it now that they're back together. And Geralt would be devastated to lose him over something so trivial as a quick fuck. So he shucks his clothes quickly and lays out his bedroll on the floor. Jaskier gives him an odd look but doesn't question it. It's not the first time one of them has slept on the floor of an inn.
But even when the candle is blown out and Jaskier is snoring softly in bed, Geralt can't sleep. He usually sleeps best the first night they're back together because they're always at an inn and Jaskier's soft breath and snoring lull him, but tonight he's wound too tightly to rest.
He gets up more than once and tries to meditate but being on his knees only brings to mind the image of a cock in his mouth and he's sorely tempted to see if the brothel is still open. He can't keep on like this. Jaskier stretches in his sleep, letting out a soft, happy moan and Geralt's cock twitches against his thigh. He shuts his eyes tightly, focuses back on the sound of Jaskier's breath, but there's nothing for it.
After an hour or more, Geralt shoves a hand down his shorts, taking his cock in hand and jerking himself quick and hard. There's nothing elegant about it, but he thinks of Jaskier, imagines him rubbing his cheeks between his thighs, and he comes hard after only a few strokes.
It's stupid, he thinks, to let himself get worked up over a little hair along Jaskier's jawline, and he resolves to ignore it.
Only the next morning it already seems thicker and darker and, like every other part of Jaskier, it's actually rather a lot of hair. A lot of short, prickly hairs. Geralt's cock stirs as he saddles Roach and he firmly shoves the thought aside. He's spent one too many rides hard and rubbing against the horn of the saddle and he doesn't need to repeat that.
They're not headed anywhere in particular, so he lets Jaskier lead the way, happily strumming and chatting or singing as he goes. They head in a general northwestern direction, toward Vizima and Jaskier seems perfectly unaware of Geralt's new fascination with him. But Geralt can't stop looking, hyper-aware of every little thing Jaskier does from the way he scratches absently at his jaw to the way he stretches it when he's not singing. Geralt doesn't know how he's never noticed all these things before, but they're doing their damndest to drive him out of his mind now.
He spends three days riding uncomfortably because he can't keep his prick under control, but it's better than walking and letting Jaskier see how fucking hard he gets thinking about his stupid scratchy face.
They stop early to make camp just outside of the city and Geralt has barely dismounted - thankfully not currently afflicted - when Jaskier drops his things and sighs.
"What is it?" he asks abruptly and Geralt just looks at him.
"What's what?" A million things run through his mind, but Jaskier looks far too exasperated for this to have anything to do with the recent state of Geralt's dick.
"You keep staring, looking at me funny. Why? Did I grow? Do I have something in my hair?" he reaches up, brushing long fingers through his hair and Geralt swallows hard. "And you're so solemn. What happened to looking forward to meeting me this spring."
Geralt says nothing because he doesn't know what to say. The truth is clearly out of the question, so he's fully out of options, the beard having turned the majority of his brain to soup. Then Jaskier's shoulders slump a little and he gives Geralt the most ridiculous look.
"The beard?" he asks and Geralt's eyes widen without his permission. Jaskier huffs. "I should have fucking known. Okay, get it out, tell me how awful it is."
"It's fine," he mumbles and Jaskier laughs.
"No, no, no, Witcher, you're not getting out of this that easily. Why do you hate it so much, hm? I'll have you know it was quite popular in Oxenfurt." Geralt doesn't need full brainpower to know what that means and a nasty jealous feeling twists in his gut. "So?"
"Told you," Geralt shrugs, "it's fine."
"Fine," Jaskier repeats mockingly, "fine."
He hates to lie to Jaskier, but he doesn't know what else to do and he doesn't want to ruin whatever softness they found over the winter, providing Jaskier is willing to stretch that into the rest of the year.
"It's… good," he says the words so quietly he can barely hear them and Jaskier comes right up to him, getting right up in his face and Geralt can smell him and he shuts his eyes, trying to settle his mind.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"Nothing."
"No, I think you said it was good. Do you- do you like the beard, Geralt?"
He's so close now and Geralt's eyes open when he feels Jaskier's hands on his chest. He's right there and Geralt can't think of anything but biting his jaw, running his tongue along the rough line of it and he nearly groans out loud. He has always, regrettably, found Jaskier attractive but something about the beard is unbearably sexy and Geralt is barely holding it together already when Jaskier grins at him.
"Oh," he breathes, sliding one palm down Geralt's stomach. He leans in so close that his stubble scrapes against Geralt's cheek and Geralt lets out a soft, shaky moan, barely clinging to his self-control. "You do like it, don't you? Is that why you won't sleep with me? Why you can't stop staring at me?"
He leans in again, purposefully this time and Geralt inclines his head so Jaskier's cheek is closer to his neck.
"Shit, Geralt." He nuzzles into his neck, pressing his cheek against Geralt's throat and follows with soft kisses that make Geralt's knees weak. "You like the way it scratches, hm?"
"Yeah," Geralt admits breathily, "Jask-"
"Shh," Jaskier hums, "I know. Fuck, I know." He presses his nose to Geralt's, sighing softly. "I was afraid I overstepped this winter," he whispers, pressing a light kiss to the underside of Geralt's jaw. "Thought you were trying to figure out how to send me away after that first night back."
"Not you," Geralt mumbles, tipping his head back, "didn't want you to know-"
"How much you like the beard?" he nuzzles under Geralt's jaw again and he groans in response. "So you still want-" he doesn't finish his sentence before Geralt slides a hand around the back of his head and holds him there, eyes locked on his own.
"Of course I do," he breathes and then Jaskier's mouth is on his own and he's not sure which one of them moved, but it doesn't matter. Jaskier kisses him like he's been deprived for months and Geralt knows that's not true, but he's happy enough to be the recipient.
Jaskier's lips are soft, but Geralt can already feel the burn of his beard on his upper lip and he moans softly as Jaskier pulls away to nuzzle at his neck again. Geralt shuts his eyes, rolling his head back and biting down on his lip. His cock swells quickly under the touch and then Jaskier's wrapping his arms around his thighs and lifting him off his feet. It catches him off guard, but then they're moving, and Jaskier sets him down on a shelf of rock, smiling slyly up at him.
Geralt's high enough that it takes nothing for Jask to bend and kiss him, fingers reaching in to unbutton his trousers, and Geralt can't keep himself from pushing into the touch, pressing his clothed cock against Jaskier's hands.
Heat rolls through him and he's a little embarrassed to be so hard already, but Jaskier doesn't seem to mind. He wraps his fingers around him and Geralt groans softly as Jaskier plays with him through the fabric of his trousers. He tips his head back as Jaskier gets his trousers undone and then he's shoving them down far enough to get his cock free and Geralt can feel the rush of cool air against him.
"Lift your hips," Jaskier says and Geralt does as he's asked, shifting with him as Jaskier pulls his trousers down to his knees.
He grins at him, then pushes his thighs apart and presses his face between them. Geralt groans immediately despite himself, torn between letting his thighs fall further apart to give Jaskier better access to his cock and just letting him rub his face between his thighs all afternoon.
Because he would. He'd be happy to let Jaskier nuzzle between his thighs for hours without even touching him. He could probably come like that, just with Jaskier's scruff rubbing against his thighs.
"Feels good?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nods. "You like the way it scratches, hm?" He presses closer and Geralt's eyes flutter shut. "Oh, you really like that. Is that what's been bothering you this whole time? And here I thought you hated the beard."
"No," Geralt gasps and Jaskier surges up to kiss him again, groaning against his lips. He fumbles with Geralt's trousers, not pulling away as he pulls them off his legs and throwing them to the ground, then he's hauling him forward so he can fit between his thighs.
"I want you," he breathes, "Geralt, can I fuck you? I'll make it good, love."
"Please," he whispers, "Jaskier, please-"
"Shh," Jaskier hums, running a hand down his chest, "I've got you, darling, I'll take care of you."He presses forward, guiding Geralt onto his back and then he's ducking down to take his cock into his mouth. And the rumours of Jaskier's talents have not been exaggerated.
Geralt has to struggle to keep his hips down as Jaskier draws back and when he sinks back down on him, he makes a point of rubbing his cheek against his hip and the pleasure burns through him. Jaskier's tongue wraps around him and Geralt rocks into the touch, but he just groans when Jaskier holds him down. Then he's pulling off altogether and lifting Geralt's knees over his shoulders.
He keeps his eyes on Geralt's as he pulls him forward and then he's ducking down, pressing his nose behind Geralt's balls. The first flick of his tongue has Geralt groaning and then he's sliding over him, licking over his hole and Geralt shuts his eyes and gropes at the rock for something to hold on to.
Jaskier doesn't waste any time settling him, just gets straight to work, pressing his face in and pressing at his hole with his tongue. The scratch of his stubble drives Geralt insane and if he wasn't already hard, it would take nothing else to get him there. And Jaskier, the fucker, knows this and uses it to his advantage. He alternates actually touching him with the rough scrape of his beard until Geralt needs the touch, until his cock aches for something more, and his cheeks burn with the roughness of it.
It's just this side of painful, but he loves it and when Jaskier finally presses into him, Geralt goes limp, whining as he throws his head back. He gropes blindly at Jaskier, gripping one arm where he braces himself and Jaskier just hums as he pushes his tongue inside him, barely acknowledging Geralt's whimpers.
"Fuck," he groans, "oh, fuck jask- please, yes."
When he pushes further, he adds a finger and it's a little dry, but Geralt has needed this for so fucking long he doesn't even care about the burn. It feels good, even, like a mirror to the stubble burn now marring the insides of his thighs and ass. And Jaskier is gentle despite his own eagerness, only pushing in when he knows Geralt can take it and then starting slow.
But when he knows Geralt is comfortable, he fucks him hard with his tongue and finger, working up to two quickly as Geralt gasps and groans under him.
"Jask," he groans, "needed you- wanted you all winter. I haven't-"
"Haven't what, love?"
"Haven't come since the summer-" he cuts himself off with another groan as Jaskier's fingers nudge against his prostate for the third time in a row. His eyes roll back and he bites his lip. "Not gonna last like this."
"'S okay," Jaskier says, dipping down to kiss his cock, "I wanna make you feel good, I wanna watch you come. Then I'll fuck you and you can come again."
"Melitele," Geralt groans, but Jaskier leans low over him, quieting him with a kiss as he plunges his fingers into him again.
The pressure rises as Jaskier seeks out that spot, aiming for it again and again until Geralt can barely breathe. And he knows he can't hold back anymore, but he tries. He shuts his eyes and focuses and tries not to think about how fucking good it feels to have Jaskier's fingers inside him, but they bump against his prostate again, just as Jaskier mouths at the underside of his cock and he can't.
"Fuck," he cries, "'M gonna come." Jaskier doesn't say anything, but he licks up the length of Geralt's twitching cock, just slipping over the head and sucking it into his mouth before he's coming.
HE clenches one hand at his side, the other flying up to the back of Jaskier's neck as he sinks down on him and he rocks gently into his mouth, pressing the head of his cock against the roof of Jaskier's mouth. It feels like ages that the pleasure washes over him and Jaskier just keeps bobbing on his cock, fingers still working into him.
When he finally comes down again, Geralt sighs and reaches down, tugging Jaskier on top of him to kiss him. He can taste himself on Jaskier's lips and it sends a bolt of possessiveness through him. He's never been one to consider anyone his, but knowing Jaskier tastes like him is incredibly arousing.
Jaskier appeases him for a few minutes before pushing himself up again and fitting himself between Geralt's thighs, running his hands along them.
"Feel better?" he asks and Geralt just hums softly. "Think you could come again for me, darling?"
"Yeah," Geralt rasps, "yeah, for you."
"Oh, Geralt, you're so sweet to me." Jaskier kisses him softly, then straightens up, reaching down to undo his own trousers.
Geralt watches as he shoves them down, then takes himself in hand, stroking absently, as he looks at him. Jaskier's already hard, the knowledge of which only makes Geralt's need stronger. But Jaskier doesn't make him wait long before he's pressing in, teasing his rim with the head of his cock.
He pushes in slowly, giving Geralt the chance to adjust, but he doesn't want it. He wants Jaskier inside him as quickly as possible, wants to feel the stretch of Jaskier's cock and the burn as he fucks him. He rocks his hips encouragingly and Jaskier seems to get the message, thrusting deep into him with a groan.
"Fuck," he mutters, "you feel incredible, Geralt." He rocks his hips, groaning on the forward thrust, and pulls Geralt's hips against him. "Can you come just like this?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nods.
He's already feeling the urge again, even as his cock swells against his hip. He wants to come on Jaskier's cock, wants to kiss him while he fucks him, wants to touch him. And Jaskier does his best to provide that. He leans over, wrapping his hands around Geralt's hips and pulling him down to ease the motion of his thrusts. He gets one hand around him, stroking in time and pressing his thumb against the slit of his cock, rubbing gently as Geralt squirmed under him.
Jaskier is soft where he touches him, but he fucks him hard and Geralt is already slipping before he's even touched himself. Jaskier's hands on him feel too good and he reluctantly pushes him away, slipping his own hand around the base of his cock.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Gonna make me come too quick," Geralt mumbles, "not yet."
"How come?" Jaskier asks, but his voice is rough, shaky as he fucks him. "This doesn't have to be the only time." He leans over him, kissing Geralt sloppily as he jerks forward. "I've wanted you forever, darling, if I knew all it took to get you into bed was growing a beard, I would have done it years ago."
He smiles and winks and Geralt can't help but kiss him again, tangling his fingers in his hair to bring him close. Jaskier's a flirt and a tease, but Geralt wouldn't trade him for anyone.
He kisses him hard, even as Jaskier pulls him down again, so only his back and shoulders rest on the rock. He slams into him again and again, dislodging him as he kisses him, but it doesn't matter because this is Jaskier and this has been a long time coming.
But Geralt's cock throbs against his hip and he's so close he can practically feel it and one well-timed thrust is all it takes to have him spilling all over his stomach and Jaskier follows with a loud moan, pressing his head into Geralt's shoulder.
For some time, neither of them moves, Geralt with his legs wrapped around Jaskier's waist and Jaskier just barely holding him up as the rush of his orgasm passes. Jaskier is the one to move first, pulling Geralt from his spot on the shelf to set him back on shaky feet.
"Gods, Geralt," he breathes, "who knew a little bit of facial hair could get you going like that." He huffs a soft laugh and kisses his chest, but Geralt ignores it. "If I'd known, I would've let it grow out ages ago, I bloody hate shaving and now that I know what that look means," he grins, leaning in close enough that he's breathing against Geralt's lips, "I think I'll wear it long like this all the time, what do you think?"
"I think," Geralt says, choosing his words carefully, "that next year you're coming to Kaer Morhen with me so I can take full advantage of that threat without worrying about having to ride in the morning."
"Fuck," Jaskier breathes, "deal."
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vagrantblvrd · 2 years
Text
The one where Eskel thinks Lil Bleater is a normal goat, right? All tiny and cute and horrible little menace who absolutely owns his heart. Sweetest little face and cheerful little bleat and the most adorable thing anyone’s ever seen.
But in reality she’s an eldritch horror or something immensely powerful and unknowable that somehow ended up in the form of said tiny, adorable menace of a goat?
He’s the only one who doesn’t realize this fact, even when she’s saved his life on hunts in the past.
“...what do you mean he doesn’t know?”
And that’s Jaskier, who just assumed Eskel’s known Lil Bleater is the mortal form of some horror from beyond time and space or whatever that’s become fond of her Witcher friend.
Because he’s heard the stories about Lil Bleater from Geralt and the others okay. Eskel himself told Jaskier about this one hunt where Eskel was knocked unconscious and dragged down into some dark, dank lair of whatever he was hunting and when he woke up Lil Bleater was standing on his chest bleating her little head off.
(Also, the mangled remains of whatever caught Eskel off-guard were stomped into the mud and much, bits of bone and torn flesh glinting in the gloom, and surely it must have been a trick of the mind that Lil Bleater’s eyes seemed to glow red, because head injury you know?)
Geralt and the others give Jaskier this pitying look they’ve tried, okay. So many times in so many ways and Eskel just thinks they’re joking? Like ha-ha, good one, right Eskel? :DDDDDDDDDDD
Eskel’s had Lil Bleater for years by the time Jaskier shows up on the scene, decades even, and hasn’t seemed to notice she looks the way she did when he found her.
And Jaskier, okay.
He’s like oh.
Because, okay, because.
Jaskier’s known Geralt for two decades now and no one’s said anything about him not aging either, so.
(Oh, sure, they have plenty to say about Jaskier pining for Geralt like you wouldn’t believe for the longest time, but the whole not aged a day in over twenty years thing? Nothing.)
Anyway, Jaskier decides this can only mean that he and Lil Bleater should become allies, which they do of course to everyone’s regret forever.
Incidentally, the first major Incident to take place after Jaskier and Lil Bleater join forces is about the time Eskel realizes wait, wait, what do you mean Lil Bleater isn’t a normal goat?
Like.
Jaskier and Lil Bleater are utter menaces on their own, but when the two of them work together it’s something to behold and on at least one (1) occasion was mistaken for the end of the world.
(Geralt and Eskel might have would have been more inclined to clear up that little misunderstanding if it hadn’t been for thing with the kidnapping and torture and other heinous acts, and really, the baddies got what was coming to them, so you know.)
Most of the time when they team up Geralt and Eskel are just off to the side drinking and staring off into nothing as something catches fire/explodes to the sounds aggressive lute playing and bleating/various goat noises.
Vesemir’s in his chair reading because he wants no part of this nonsense and Ciri’s totally not holding Lil Bleater in her lap with Jaskier next to her.
Yennefer is either the one pouring drinks or taking notes/offering advice depending on her mood at the time.
Also, almost always, the dulcet tones of Lambert swearing angrily can also be heard because you know he probably did something to provoke them if he hasn’t teamed up with them and then been caught on fire because he still did something to provoke them into it, so yes.)
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mollymawkwrites · 3 years
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Eskel/Jaskier: AU where Jaskier met Eskel instead of Geralt and wrote Toss a Coin for him instead - scar kissing/appreciation - "guess love is a response/of the body it haunts"
This took me longer to write than I would have wanted, so thank you for waiting! This is... pure fluff. Hope it’s worth the wait, thank you for the lovely prompt!
CW: mildly horny towards the end, but otherwise it’s only fluff!
"I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood."
Eskel raises his head from where he’s been staring at his spit flavoured ale to meet a pair of twinkling blue eyes.
The bardling can't be more than eighteen, fresh-faced and smelling of arousal as he looks at the Witcher appraisingly. Eskel expects him to recoil at the sight of his scars in the low tavern light, but the bard's eyes only widen with interest, and he slides into the opposite empty seat, leaning his lute against the table.
"Oooh, you're a Witcher, aren't you?" He asks with barely restrained excitement. "I could tell from the other side of the room you were filled with stories. How about I buy you an ale, and you tell me some of them?"
Eskel snorts. "And how are you planning to pay for that ale? Stale bread?" He nods towards the bulges where the bard stuffed the food thrown at him after his less than appreciated performance.
"Well, no," the man deflates, but not for long, his carefree smile returning along a flirty wink, "but I'm sure we can find an arrangement."
The Witcher rises from his seat, leaving his untouched ale and a couple of coins on the table. "I do not bed teenagers."
That earns him an offended splutter from the bard, who doesn't take the hint and follows him through the tavern. "I'm not… I can assure you that I am a man. An adult man." His voice breaks a little on the last syllable and Eskel smirks.
"Want to try that again?" He asks, but before the bard has a chance to reply, a man interrupts them. There is fear in his voice when he asks for Eskel's help with a so-called devil haunting his fields, and the way his eyes keep going back to the Witcher's scars shouldn't make Eskel so uncomfortable, but it does. He still accepts the job.
*
After the whole debacle with the elves, Jaskier follows Eskel back to the inn, strumming his lute with a spring in his step despite the bruise on his forehead and the tears in his doublet. Eskel informs the man who hired him of his deal with the elves, collects his meagre pay, and immediately spends half of it for a warm meal. He sits in the same corner as this morning, and forgets all about the whole ordeal for the time it takes to fill his stomach.
His peace is temporary, as Jaskier takes back his place in the middle of the room, undeterred by his earlier flop, and starts strumming the same melody he’s been composing on their way back to Posada. And then he starts singing.
The song is… embarrassing. Jaskier doesn’t pay attention to the first hollers and insults from the patrons who recognize him, his eyes rarely leaving Eskel, who sits still, mortified, as he discovers the lyrics at the same time as everyone else.
By the end, the complaints have turned to cheers and stomping, and Jaskier’s cheeks are ruddy with exertion. He accepts to play the song a second time, then follows with popular jigs and bawdy tales that have the drunks singing and the others getting drunker. His attention strays from Eskel, though he still spares him smiles and winks when he happens to pass by his table.
Eskel should leave, he knows. The sun will go down soon, and he still has to find a place to set up camp. But he’s stuck to the bench, people throwing coins at him, clapping him in the back. The bartender even slides a free ale in front of him, with a grateful though reluctant nod. It doesn’t even smell of spit.
A warmth spreads in his chest that has nothing to do with the alcohol, and it only flares brighter every time Jaskier sends a smile his way. It takes him a while to identify this emotion, practised as he is at ignoring them. It’s gratefulness. Not for the people thanking him for ridding them of the elves, though that is a nice change. No, he is the one being grateful for the bard who met an old, grumpy Witcher and decided to see a hero worthy of ballads instead.
Eskel knows the bard benefits from it too, his pockets clinking with coin, knows the friendliness of the villagers will only last as long as alcohol fogs their stereotypes and superstitions, but he can’t help but revel in it, hoarding warmth and comfort as much as he can before he goes back to the cold loneliness of the Path.
Just after the sun sets, but long before the impromptu party is over, Eskel slinks outside, stomach full, a little tipsy on ale and joy. He doesn’t want to wait until alcohol makes the mean ones meaner and pushes them to try starting a fight with him. The bard has earned his success, Eskel won’t be the one to ruin it. He meets Scorpion on the outskirts of the city, caresses his velvety nose as the horse sniffs at his pockets for some treats.
“That was a good day, boy,” the Witcher tells his horse. “We shouldn’t get used to it, though. That’s how you get disappointed.”
Traveling with a human is a change Eskel struggles to adapt to, though it is admittedly nice. The boy is a smart one, cultured and quick-witted, but he doesn't know anything about life. His noble upbringing quickly becomes obvious to Eskel, the lack of basic knowledge like making a fire or cooking food revealing themselves on the first evening of their acquaintance. Eskel doesn't mind teaching the boy. It seems like the thing to do to thank the bard for the song, and for the company. 
Before he finds himself maudlin longer, Eskel swings a leg over the saddle, and directs Scorpion to the South. Rapid footsteps echo behind him, and he turns to find the bard running in his direction, lute banging on his back and pockets heavy with the night’s earnings. The warmth that had bloomed in Eskel’s chest in the tavern buries itself deeper.
*
He doesn't expect the boy to stay long, maybe a week or two, until he's tired of sore feets and sleeping on hard ground, or he finds another "muse*, like he insists on calling Eskel.
But he stays, following Eskel everywhere, unless the Witcher insists he stays back at camp while he goes on a dangerous hunt, or he finds something of interest in a town they go through and decides to stay a couple more days. He always catches up, though, finding Eskel in whatever clearing he's set up camp and sitting at his side like they've never parted. It's nice, Eskel admits to himself. To have someone to talk to, about everything from music and art to monsters and magic. He finds himself brooding less and less, his mind focused on the colourful bard chatting next to him rather than on his own dark thoughts.
It comes slowly, he thinks, it buries itself under his skin, filling his every crevice without him noticing, but it's like falling from the edge of a cliff when he finally realises: he's happy.
He's been happy for a while. Since the ridiculous, optimistic, flirty bard entered his life.
He thinks about running, leaving Jaskier behind, before the inevitable happens and Eskel is left with a heart emptier than it was before. He could survive the loneliness when he had nothing else to compare it to; he's not sure he can go back to it now.
But he's not like his brothers, running from his feelings or translating all of them into anger. He takes the time to think about it, and decides that he'll take the risk. Jaskier doesn't look or smell like he has any intention of leaving Eskel's side for the moment, and Eskel has no intention of letting anything happen to the bard.
So he stays, and gets used to the company. It's surprisingly easy.
*
Winter is close, and Eskel finds himself feeling maudlin. Soon, Jaskier will head towards Oxenfurt to spend the season in warm lodgings, between some pretty girl's thighs, and wait for the sun to come back. Eskel will depart for Kaer Morhen, if he wants to get to the pass before it gets snowed in.
They've talked about it, and agreed to meet in the spring, but it doesn't keep Eskel from wishing they could stay together. He won't keep Jaskier from his plans, though, the bard sounding happy every time he mentions the friends he has at the Academy and his favourite inns to play at, where everyone, even the lowest drunkard, knows how to appreciate good music and poetry. 
He shouldn't ask for more, he knows. The bard already gives him so much; his friendship and his songs and his smiles.
The day before they part, they pay for a room in an inn close to the crossroad where they’ll have to say goodbye to each other, and Eskel spends the afternoon knees deep in murky water to rid the local pond of a particularly aggressive bloedzuiger. It’s not dangerous, just long and damp, and his already foul mood sours even more. Back at the inn, Eskel leaves muddy puddles on the way to their room.
Jaskier hasn’t moved from the bed, where he is writing down his latest composition in the leather bound notebook that never leaves his side, along with his lute. He raises his eyes as Eskel enters the room, nose scrunching up at the Witcher’s state.
“I asked for a bath,” Eskel grumbles, unbuckling his armour and putting it close to the crackling fireplace to dry.
“Oh, good,” Jaskier chuckles. “Everything suits you, my dear, but I can’t say I like the smell of dead fish on you.”
Eskel snorts, but doesn’t reply, as the innkeeper’s daughter knocks on the door and sets to filling a modest tub with tepid water. He thanks her, and waits for her to close the door behind herself before undressing completely and stepping into the bath. It’s not Kaer Morhen’s hot springs, but it does soothe the ache in his bones that always settles when it gets cold. He sighs, relaxing after the frustrating contract, and doesn’t notice Jaskier has moved until he’s right behind him.
It should unsettle him that the bard can sneak up on his Witcher senses, but it has become a recurring occurrence, and Eskel doesn’t mind it so much. He likes being able to lower his guard with someone who’s not his brothers or Vesemir.
Nimble fingers thread in his hair, and he suppresses a shudder at the pleasant sensation. “What are you doing?” he asks without opening his eyes.
“Helping you clean that mess,” Jaskier replies in a low voice, almost a murmur.
Eskel hums, not seeing a reason to refuse the offer. The bard’s fingers on his scalp feel divine, and a purr builds in his chest as he slowly melts into a puddle. “That feels nice.”
Jaskier doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t stop either, even when he’s done with Eskel’s hair. His hands trail down to the Witcher’s neck and shoulders, digging into the muscles there with both strength and care. Eskel’s hard prick bobs in the water, but he doesn’t do anything about it. He knows the bard would accept enthusiastically if Eskel were to proposition him; he hasn’t stopped smelling of lust and ogling Eskel even after all these months, but that’s not what the Witcher wants at the moment.
The hands on his shoulders have traded their massage for featherlight caresses, trailing down old scar tissue and up again, teasing and tickling the sensitive skin. Touch purely for touch’s sake. Eskel hums again and Jaskier chuckles, a puff of air brushing the damp skin of Eskel’s neck. “What are you thinking about?”
“Come with me to Kaer Morhen,” the Witcher says before he has time to talk himself out of it.
The silence that follows is short but Eskel has the time to regret everything that has led him to that moment, until a pair of soft lips caresses the curve of his shoulder, where a werewolf bit out a chunk of flesh thirty years ago and left only a jagged silver scar. Jaskier follows it from one end of the half-moon to the other, then breathes against Eskel’s skin, “I’d be honoured.”
And the warmth in Eskel’s chest makes itself a home there.
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pillage-and-lute · 3 years
Note
There's plenty of creature!Jaskier works out there. I've always wondered what would happen if it wasn't Geralt that found out about it but someone less accepting of the fact at a bad time.
Hi Anon! Ask and you shall receive (admittedly much much too late)
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It had been harder than Geralt really wanted to admit, leaving Jaskier behind for winter. Their...partnership was an interesting one. Jaskier would often go ahead or stay behind a few days to spread his songs further while Geralt moved at a steady pace, but he always caught up. But still. They’d traveled together the better part of a year, and Jaskier was loud and bright and the keep, when the boys weren’t sparring, was dim and quiet.
The bard had been so excited about Oxenfurt that year, talking about some ‘one time only Yule bardic competition’. Geralt could hardly keep him from such an opportunity to freeze up in the mountains with some miserable bastards, and Eskel. 
A part of Geralt wondered if he’d make an excuse not to ask Jaskier every year.
It didn’t matter now, because the snowmelt was running the rivers high in their banks and here in this little town Geralt had said he’d meet Jaskier again. He was met instead with a mob. They weren’t looking at Geralt but Jaskier, bound and gagged and slumped on a podium as some repulsive man screamed vitriol at the crowd. 
“What do we do with unseelie things such as this?” He cried to the crowd. A smattering of rotten vegetables hit the podium, and Jaskier. The roar came back not as words but as violence personified. Geralt knew better than most the horrible violence of a mob, and this one was ready to taste blood. Jaskier was dragged from the podium, slumped and bloodied between two men, to a stake surrounded by logs. Across the town square he saw a difference. Jaskier’s ears were not the familiar human shape, but pointed. Elven. 
It explained why Filavandrel had let them go. Geralt’s keen eyes scanned the square, and when he saw what he was looking for he mounted Roach. 
Nothing clears a crowd like a battlehorse who has seen the nice boy who gives her treats in danger. Roach’s hooves rang like funeral bells against cobbles and the men tying Jaskier to the stake paused in their task. With Roach clearing the crowd like a streak of lightning, Geralt felt as if he was going in slow motion, but was able to lean in her saddle and scoop the lute from the podium. 
Jaskier, his bonds loosened and his captors distracted, reached out for Geralt. Roach’s body bunched, muscles tightening and Geralt stretched out his arm for Jaskier, catching him up as Roach leap over the pile of logs and clattered to safety on the other side. She didn’t even slow down until they were well out of town. 
Jaskier, still a little tied up in places, looked at Geralt from his place on the witcher’s lap, face flushed with excitement. Geralt flicked a piece of half-rotten lettuce from his hair.
“You didn’t tell me you were an elf,” he grunted, ignoring how nice the bard felt resting in his arms like a damsel. 
“To be fair, I never said I was human either,” Jaskier said. “And I’m only a quarter elf anyway.” It was true, now that he could see more clearly his ears without whatever glamor had been used, they weren’t very pointed, just more than round.
“Do you want me to leave?” Jaskier asked, although his light smirk said he knew the answer.
Geralt brought his other arm up to show Filavandrel’s lute still in his grasp. “Be stupid if you did. Jaskier gasped delightedly and cradled the instrument.
After a moment he said, “You know, that was quite the rescue there.”
“Hmm.”
“No, truly, a real heroic rescue, and what a horse!” he exclaimed, ruffling Roach’s mane affectionately. “I will surely write it into a song. Don’t worry, I’ll emphasize your heroics. Mmh, I think I’ll have to be some maiden instead, wrongfully accused of....”
He trailed off, clearly composing. Geralt felt a little bad for the future audiences, compared to Jaskier, a damsel seemed rather bland. Maybe he was a touch biased, though. 
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clintbartonswife · 2 years
Text
feverish
Pairings: Jaksier x Eskel, past!Geralt x Jaskier Summary: Jaskier tries to help Eskel. @whumptober2021 no.15: feed a cold, starve a fever Notes: fever, delirium. a little bit of geralt bashing masterlist     ||     part one      ||      part three
The next morning Jaskier woke up before Eskel, beginning to pack up the camp, dampening the fire and scattering the rocks so it looked less like someone had been sleeping there. He knew it was an old habit, but part of him always felt better for it.
“Eskel?” Jaskier eventually said, not willing to leave the Witcher asleep and vulnerable, “I think it’d time I head off, will you be ok?”
He received a grunt in response, and immediately he felt his mood dampen - perhaps the kindness he had shown Jaskier yesterday was just a result of his injuries. He had been foolish to believe any different. 
Head hung low, Jaskier went to leave, faltering as another grunt came from the Witcher’s bedroll, the figure inside it hunched inwards so much that he no longer looked like a monster-killer, but a scared child.
Jaskier shared a look with Scorpion, sighing as he set his pack and lute down on the floor, approaching the bedroll slowly.
“Eskel?”
The man rolled over, dazed eyes looking through him, “Vesimir? - hurts.”
In a twisted way, Jaskier was glad to see that he was ill, as it meant that the kindness he was shown was not a fever-induced lie. He knew he was awful to think that way, but as he dropped to his knees beside the Witcher, he knew he meant it.
“Not Vesimir I’m afraid, it’s Jaskier.”
Eskel frowned, before writhing as another wave of pain seemed to crash over him, “You said - it would be over.” A small wounded noise escaped the older man, “I don’t - you said - promised -”
“Oh dearheart,” Jaskier breathed, placing the back of his hand on his forehead, “You’re boiling up.”
“No - they’re gone -”
“I don’t know much about Witcher anatomy, but I’m pretty sure that they’re not supposed to get fevers.” Concerned marred his face as he stood up from his side, looking at Scorpion, “Do you know the way to Kaer Morhen, girl?”
She huffed, as if it was a stupid question, and stomped her hoof. Jaskier took that as an affirmative, and started to pack Eskel’s things back into her saddlebags. 
“I don’t want to take him too far out of his way,” Jaskier explained, frowning as he regarded the Witcher, “So if I can get him on your back, perhaps we’ll bump into a Witcher the closer we get.”
“The field - they’re gone - all - but us.”
The mumbled words passed over Jaskier’s head, as he was far too invested in figuring out a way to get the delirious Witcher up from the floor and on to a horse. 
“I might need your help here, girl” Jaskier sighed, scratching the back of his head, “If you could maybe get lower...?”
He trailed off as Scorpion dipped down gracefully, flicking her ear as if telling him to hurry up. Jaskier just looked at her for a moment, before bending down to help Eskel out of his bedroll.
“You don't - Geralt - all gone.”
Jaskier grimaced as he lifted the Witcher, “Not Geralt I’m afraid - about as far from that as you can get.” 
The fact that he managed to get Eskel draped over Scorpions back was nothing short of a miracle, an even further one being getting him facing the right way.  Once he had properly secured the Witcher, Jaskier leant against the tree with a heaving sigh, sweat dripping uncomfortably down his neck.
Scorpion huffed at him, sassy in a way he had never known a horse other than Roach to be. Jaskier wondered if that’s what happens when Witcher’s own a horse, but the line of thought was quickly forgotten as he picked up his lute and pack.
“Lead the way, Scorpion my darling.”
-
Walking alongside a horse that has a delirious Witcher passed out on its’ back earns you some seriously weird looks. After a man approached him and offered congratulations for ‘slaying the wicked thing’ before offering a hefty sum of coins for the Witcher’s sword, Jaskier had decided to stick to really small lanes or just travelling through the woods. (Not before giving a particularly hard kick to the horrible man’s crotch - he could’ve sworn Scorpion had huffed in pride.)
It was on the third day of travelling, as Jaskier helped Eskel down from the horse once more, that he heard a rustling coming from the bushes.
Pulling his dagger from his boot, Jaskier made sure Eskel was lain down comfortably before approaching the noise, blade raised.
“I suggest you put that down, bardling.” The voice was harsh, anger seeping through every word.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Jaskier replied, trying to keep his tone friendly as he positioned himself between the shrouded figure and the fitfully sleeping Eskel.
A small sharp laugh echoed through the forest clearing, a tall man stepping in to his sight. “You really don’t want to test my temper.”
Jaskier looked the man up and down, eyes lighting up as he registered the two swords on his back, “You’re a Witcher! Oh thank melitele!”
The Witcher’s confused look broke through his anger, and he raised an eyebrow, “Do you have a death wish, bard?”
“Quite the opposite - it’s just my travel companion has developed a fever and I can’t seem to break it - it’s been three days and I was quite anxiously looking for a Witcher to help.”
At these words, the other man seemed to relax, “So you didn’t hurt him.”
“Of course not. Do you think I’m daft?”
The man regarded him for another moment, before stepping further in to the camp and kneeling by Eskel’s side, careful not to fully turn his back to Jaskier, “You said he’s been like this for three days?”
“Technically the fourth, but yes.”
The Witcher whistled once, a horse cantering into the clearing with a whinny. It seemed to know Scorpion, touching muzzles with her briefly. “I need you to get some vials from my pack -.” Before he could even finish his sentence, Jaskier handed him a vial of Swallow and White Honey. “You know our potions... who are you?”
“Like I said, his travelling companion. I was bound to pick some things up along the way.” Jaskier smiled, unsure if he bought his half-lie, “I already gave him some Swallow but it wasn’t enough - and - and he didn’t have any more.”
“You probably saved his life,” the man said, turning back to Eskel and starting to pour potions down his throat, “I guess I should thank you for that.”
“No need - but your name would be nice - you know, so I can stop calling you ‘other Witcher’ in my head.”
He huffed a laugh, “The name’s Lambert.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Lambert. The name’s Jaskier” the bard grinned, bowing elaborately, “and I can truly say that I’m glad I bumped into you.”
“Jaskier... I know that name.”
The bard sat beside Eskel, placing the back of his hand against his forehead and smiling slightly as the temperature was already cooler than it had been that morning, “Perhaps you know of my songs, I’m quite famous throughout the continent.”
Lambert gave him a long look, before conceding and returning to tending to Eskel. A comfortable silence settled over the two, only interrupted by the shuffling of horse’s hooves.
“Vesimir-”
Lambert frowned at Eskel’s choked-off word, and Jaskier frowned at the complicated look that crossed the Witchers’ face, “He’s called out for him before. He’s been talking a lot in his sleep. A lot of stuff about people being gone?”
A shadow seemed to shroud Lambert’s face, and Jaskier was suddenly glad to not understand the ramblings. The uncomfortable silence hang stagnant in the air, only broken when Jaskier cleared his throat.
“Well, I suppose I ought to set up camp for the night.”
His words were met with a harsh nod, the Witcher pointing to the saddlebag that hung on the left side of his horse, “I have rations in there, and a squirrel I caught earlier. It’s not much, but we should try to get Eskel to eat something.”
Jaskier nodded, and set about starting a fire.
The silence that re-emerged was more comfortable this time around, though Jaskier had to physically restrain himself from breaking it with the rambles that so desperately wanted to escape his lips. He instead settled for composing in his head, unknowingly placing down wood to the rhythm as he went.
“Is everything you do so musical, bard?”
Lambert’s question made Jaskier stop short, eyebrows furrowing, “I was sure I was singing in my head, I apologise -”
“You weren’t...” he trailed off, as if annoyed at himself for even speaking, “you were putting the logs down to a beat.”
Jaskier felt a flush rise up the back of his neck, “I wasn’t aware I did that -”
Lambert just huffed, placing his hand in Eskel’s as the Witcher began to writhe once more, “What made him like this?”
“I don’t know,” Jaskier answered honestly, “All I know is it had big claws - had to to have left the marks it has. It was in the woods, and managed to take him down... maybe a leshen?”
“A leshen wouldn’t have left him alive”
“Well what if he managed to kill it before succumbing to his injuries?”
Lambert levelled him with a strange look, “So you know our potions, as well as monsters. How long did you say you’ve been travelling with Eskel?”
“I didn’t.”
This was obviously the wrong answer, as within a split second Jaskier had a knife held to his throat. He swallowed heavily, eyeing the blade before looking up into the Witcher’s face.
“Why did you help him? What’s in it for you?”
A small, hysterical laugh escaped him, “Is it so unbelievable that I didn’t want a dead Witcher on my conscience?” 
“Yes.”
The immediate answer saddened Jaskier, despite his current situation, and he frowned, “Surely you don’t believe that everyone on this godforsaken continent wants your kind dead.”
Lambert scoffed, but avoided his eyes, moving the blade away a few moments later. Without a word, he moved back to Lambert’s side. He sat there for quite a while without saying anything, eventually looking up with a hesitance that Jaskier didn’t expect to see, “You don’t smell like fear.”
It was more of a statement than a question, so Jaskier simply nodded in reply. 
“Why?”
Jaskier’s heart broke for the man, so gave him a soft smile, “People fear what they don’t understand. I never thought Witchers were monsters, and I’ve never been proved differently.”
Lambert seemed to accept this answer with great difficulty, clearing his throat before offering a small smile back. Jaskier took the peace offering for what it was, and returned to setting up camp.
-
“Eskel was always the more sociable of the wolves,” Lambert said, eyebrows furrowing as he attempted to get Eskel to eat despite his hazy state, “I just never thought he would actually get a travel companion. He was always more for fucking any creature he came across.”
Jaskier chuckled, raising his hands in mock-surrender, “I can assure you he never tried with me.”
Lambert shook his head, humour evident in his features, “It was a surprise to all of us when our other brother said he was travelling with someone - he’s a moody git - none of us could understand how that arrangement worked.”
A knot tightened in Jaskier’s stomach as he realised Lambert was talking about Geralt, the food in his mouth suddenly tasting like ash.
“He complained of course, kept saying that he was an annoyance, safety hazard, and all that. Come to mention it, perhaps you know him - annoying bard, quite flamboyant, name began with a G or J... fuck”
Jaskier laughed bitterly at Lambert’s realisation, “Twenty-two years of my life, I spent on that man. I’m glad to know my company was welcome.”
“22 years?”
Rising to his feet, Jaskier dropped into an elaborate bow, a show-smile painted on his lips, “Jaskier, the Witcher’s bard, at your service.”
“You wrote the coin song.”
“Yes, yes I did.”
Lambert took a moment to fully absorb the information, before frowning, “Geralt?”
“Alive, to the best of my knowledge, so don’t worry about that,” Jaskier assured, recognising the tautness of his shoulders as concern, “The reason for our parting was quite simple, he finally told me what he thought of me, and then wished me gone.”
“He’s an ass.”
“I don’t disagree with you on that one.”
As if also agreeing, Eskel let out a small cough, clouded eyes opening and focusing on the crackling fire. 
“Eskel?” 
Jaskier was on his feet and by his side in seconds, searching his face for any recognition. The scarred Witcher let out a small sound of pain, eyes moving to rest on Jaskier.
“I’m still here - your brother is here too, Lambert.”
“Lamb?”
His voice was hoarse, but comprehendible, and Lambert laughed in relief, placing his hand on Eskel’s chest, “I’m here, brother.”
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samstree · 3 years
Text
The One with the Coastal Customs
Geraskier, 1.8k, Fluff, Crack, Secret Relationship, Kaer Morons at their best, humor, Jaskier takes one for the team
Inspired by Friends. Read on AO3
Breakfast at Kaer Morhen is full of chatter as always. With Ciri and Yennefer joining them a few days ago, loud arguing and laughter always fill those once empty halls.
Jaskier picks at the rye bread on his plate, not paying attention to Lambert’s clearly exaggerated monster story, though Ciri seems completely entranced, prompting him to go on with anticipation.
His mind is still full of last night’s visage of Geralt pressing him against the wooden door and kissing him senseless. The witcher had to come to his bedroom after everyone else turned in so no one noticed. After the whole mountain incident last year and Geralt’s following apology, they thought it wise to keep their blooming relationship in secret for a while.
Let’s not tell everyone in a rush. Geralt was the one who proposed the secrecy. Whatever we have here is ours, Jask. I don’t want them to interfere or mess it up. You are too important to me, He said. Besides, what could go wrong?
Jaskier, at the time, agreed to it whole-heartedly. The witcher was so sincere that day, his golden eyes flowing with adoration and vulnerability that Jaskier could not deny him anything.
Despite some inconveniences, Jaskier has to admit it does make things excitingly hot. He almost feels like a naughty student sneaking out of class to make out with a lover again.
Jaskier’s hand comes up to touch the skin on his neck, the same spot where Geralt nibbed and sucked gently last night and left him a sobbing mess. Next to him, Geralt catches his motion with a look before a faint smile quirks up the corner of his mouth.
“Grape juice?” the witcher passes him the pitcher with the most unaffected tone in the world but his other hand travels up Jaskier’s thigh teasingly.
He has to choke in a gasp.
“…and bam! The third wyvern drops dead.” Lambert ends the story proudly, “And that’s why I’m the best witcher at this table. You have a lot to learn from me, princess.”
Ciri giggles as Geralt and Eskel chime in to call out all the lies in that tale. The room erupts in jabs and loud arguments.
Yennefer is the only one who remains silent throughout the whole meal. Her violet gaze only falls on Jaskier once, piercing with intent, before looking away like nothing happened. Even though their exchanges are a lot more amicable these days, the sorceress tends not to acknowledge Jaskier’s existence very often.
From the corner of his eyes, Jaskier sees Vesemir leave for the library. The older witcher still has work for him to finish today.
“Right, duty calls.” With a screech of chair, Jaskier stands so he can leave too. “I’ll see you later.”
He rests his hand on Geralt’s shoulder and leans in for a kiss. Geralt’s lips taste like the sweetness of grape juice and Jaskier revels in it for a moment before pulling away.
Everyone at the table is staring at him.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Jaskier freezes on the spot, a million thoughts going through his mind. Is it time to announce it to the world? They are ready for everyone to know and get involved, aren’t they?
But with one look at Geralt, he abandons the thought. The witcher has gone pale, and stiff as a statue. Panic starts to creep into those beautiful honey eyes, so subtly anyone else would have missed it.
Geralt is not ready.
Jaskier swallows. Well, there’s nothing to it.
He turns to Eskel, who’s holding a spoon mid-air and studying him with confused surprise.
“Eskel. See you later too.” He cups the older witcher’s jaw and presses their lips together. Eskel, the sweet man, even holds on to his wrist by reflex. He ends it with a pop before going around the table, careful not to trip over a chair.
Lambert can only be described as dumbfounded when Jaskier leans in, and incredulous afterwards.
“Have a nice day, Lamb.”
Yennefer looks at him with the same scrutiny. Wait, why is she looking smug? Fuck, the mage is looking scarier than the day they met. This one he might regret the most later.
“My favorite witch. It’s so good to have you here.” Jaskier opens his arms dramatically before going in, the familiar lilac and gooseberries filling his senses. Oh, her lips are so much softer.
When he stands to straighten his doublet, the whole table is still looking at him in silence. Geralt is tense as a statue while Lambert’s mouth hangs slightly open.
“Right.” He pats Ciri on the back and runs away from the scene, keeping his footsteps as steady as possible.
 *
Ciri is the first one to break the silence.
“What the hell just happened?”
“Language.” Yennefer berates her, seemingly unfazed.
Geralt swallows a lump. If Jaskier is willing to go such length to keep the promise, he can try to look inconspicuous for a moment.
A blush is creeping up on Lambert’s face, but he tries to hide it with biting words. “Geralt, what the fuck is wrong with you bard?”
“Watch your language too.” Eskel’s voice is steady with amusement. “Why do you mind it so much anyway? He’s being friendly. It was nice.”
If Eskel wipes his lips casually with a pleased look, nobody mentions it.
“In what world is that friendly?” Lambert scowls.
“It’s –” Geralt clears his throat, “He went to the coast last year. In the south. Must have picked up some local customs. That’s…um…how they greet each other. In the south.”
Lambert stares at him. “Doesn’t feel southern to me.”
Geralt gulps down all the juice in his cup. When he puts it down, Yennefer is studying him like a predator might a prey.
“Interesting custom.” Her violet eyes sparkle with curiosity.
Geralt has never been more grateful for his witcher trials for allowing him to remain calm under extreme pressure. His heart still beats slowly without revealing anything.
They are fine as long as it doesn’t happen again.
 *
It happens again.
Jaskier sucks at Geralt’s lips with heated passion, drawing a soft moan out of the witcher. Neither of them pays any attention to the flurries of snow falling into the empty courtyard around them.
“I’ve missed you today.” He moves down to Geralt’s jawline, and then his neck. “Where’d you go?”
“Had to repair the wall at the back, or the whole keep crumbles.”
“Hmm. Should have let it.”
Jaskier captures those lips again just when he hears people entering the courtyard, and pushes Geralt away with force.
It’s too late.
Eskel and Lambert stare quizzically at Jaskier, their training swords in hand. Behind him, Ciri is also in full gears, ready for lessons. The way she tilts her head in bewilderment is such a spitting image of her dad.
“Well.” Jaskier pats Geralt on the bicep. “Thanks for helping me clean the stable. That’s…nice of you.”
Roach snorts in the stable behind them.
He walks towards Eskel and kisses him again, and then Lambert. Boy he’s just noticing how tall the younger witcher is. Jaskier has to tiptoe a little bit. “I’ll be off then.”
When he passes Ciri, the girl just moves out of the way like he’s the plague. “See you, uncle Jask!”
Jaskier nods at her, carrying himself as naturally as possible, and enters the building.
 *
The gwent is going great. It seems that Geralt is going to win again.
Jaskier yawns. He’ll never see the appeal of the game, so he just reaches over Lambert to grab the lute. Maybe a little practice will be good–
“Okay, bard. You need to cut it off.” Lambert stops Jaskier’s motion with a hand on his chest.
Jaskier blinks.
“I don’t care whatever–” Lambert gestures around Jaskier’s whole being. “– coastal customs you picked up from the south. It’s not…how we do things around here. We are not in the south and it’s fucking weird. So quit it.”
“Okay?” He blinks again.
“I know you like witchers more than the average man out there,” Eskel adds, “and you want to show us. I appreciate it, Jaskier, but it might not make us the most comfortable.”
“What now?” Jaskier looks around the room. Yennefer and Ciri are sitting by the fire with some magic book spread out between their knees, watching the situation unfold.
“Quit the kissing, bard.” Lambert scowls.
Eskel smiles politely. “Yeah, it’s best if you did.”
Oh.
Jaskier can see the two witchers are clearly not at ease. Lambert’s face is a ripe tomato and Eskel is acting way too formal with all the niceties.
“Okay. Of course.” Jaskier raises his hands in defeat. “I will stop assaulting you with the overly familiar foreign customs. Message received.”
“Thank the gods. It was disgusting.” Geralt deadpans.
Jaskier looks into those golden eyes he loves so much and wonders if he can express ‘I’m gonna put a pillow over your face tonight’ with a neural glare. The bastard only raises an eyebrow in challenge.
“If you do need to let it out somehow, Jaskier, maybe your friends at that fancy academy of yours are open to it.” Yennefer says, chill as the winter sky, “Or some of your lovers.”
Maybe Jaskier’s eyes are deceiving him, but he swears the sorceress glanced in Geralt’s direction when she said ‘lovers’.
The ladies resume their discussion about spells and magic, and the gwent game continues. Geralt does end up winning.
Jaskier plucks his lute, imagining a million ways for his witcher to make it up to him later.
Oh the sacrifices he has to make for this ridiculous man.
 *
“The sacrifices I have to make for you, my dear.” Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder, cuddling up to his witcher’s warm body.
“What sacrifice? I thought you were enjoying it.”
“They are quite good kissers though, especially–” He cuts himself off. It’s best not to discuss your lover’s brothers that way, or ex-lover, for that matter.
“Then what are you moaning about?”
“But my reputation!” Jaskier protests, “My name will be tarnished forever. Jaskier – barker and molester of witchers. None of you will ever let me sing your heroism anymore.”
“Hmm. Don’t you forget about Yen.” Geralt’s voice rumbles deep in his chest.
“Oh yeah. I’m surprised she didn’t turn me into a toad on the spot.” He plays with Geralt’s long hair. “By the way – I just have this inking – do you think, perhaps, Yennefer might know? About us?”
“Oh she knows.”
Jaskier bolts upright, looking at Geralt incredulously.
“Since when?”
“The day she arrived?” Geralt guesses, “I’m sure she took one look at us and figured it out. It’s not my fault she’s so smart–”
Jaskier picks up a pillow and throws it at Geralt’s smug face.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
Geralt finally breaks out laughing. He catches the bard’s feral attack and pins him into the mattress. Jaskier’s angry little pout is too adorable Geralt has to kiss it away. Uninterrupted this time.
“Is it worth it though? All the sacrifices?” Geralt's breath ghosts over the skin at Jaskier's throat.
The bard only glares at him for a moment, before letting out a sigh long-sufferingly.
“For you, my dear. Always.” He pecks Geralt’s soft lips one more time. “As long as no one turns me into a toad.”
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