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welcometocrapvale · 2 years

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@penandinkprincess I wrote this based on the TikTok you shared of the girl painting the guy’s nails ><

Essi had asked Jaskier for help taking care of her cats and plants while she was on holiday. It wasn’t too close to his place, but he could change his daily gym session for a 20-minute bike ride to and from her house every evening and not spend money on gas.

She had moved about a month ago, and he hadn't been there after the housewarming party. When he arrived, he filled the cats’ water bowls, cleaned their litter trays, watered the plants that were kept inside, and headed to the backyard to check on the plants outside.

As soon as he opened the door, a dog started barking.

“Calm down, Roach!” He heard a man yelling and then a little girl giggling as she ran in the neighbor’s yard.

“Shhh, it’s okay Roach,” the girl said. The dog continued to bark but playfully instead of defensively.

Jaskier put himself to work, fetching the hose. Essi had quite the garden. It was divided into sections — one for herbs, one for fruits, and one for vegetables. There were also decorative plants and flowers in pots all over the place.

Without realizing it, he started singing.

“You are not Essi!” The girl next door exclaimed and then called for her dad. Jaskier let out a breathy laugh as his singing was interrupted.

“I’m not! I’m Jaskier, Essi’s friend,” he replied.

“What’s wrong, princess?” Jaskier heard the man from before talk as he approached the tall wall separating the houses.

“There is a stranger in Essi’s house,” he heard the girl’s muffled voice.

“I’m Jaskier! Essi’s friend,” he repeated.

“Nice to meet you, Jaskier. I'm Geralt. Essi told me you would be coming,” Jaskier heard the man lift up his daughter and talk to her. “I told you Essi would be away, and someone else would be here on the afternoons.”

“Sorry for scaring you, little one,” Jaskier said as he watered the plants closer to the wall separating them.

"I'm not little! My name is Ciri, and I'm five," she said, slightly offended.

"I'm very sorry, Ciri, you are all grown up, not little at all," Jaskier said seriously. "Good job calling for your dad when facing a stranger!"

"Thank you," the girl's pride in herself could be heard in her reply.

"We have to head back inside," Geralt said. "Have a good evening, Jaskier; sorry for the trouble."

"No trouble at all. Have a good evening too," Jaskier said and heard the man next door go back into his house.

He finished watering all the plants outside, singing absentmindedly as he did it.

The next day he repeated the routine. First taking care of everything inside the house, and then going to the backyard, where he was once again greeted by barking, but this time it was friendly.

Ciri nor Geralt made an appearance this time, though.

On the third day, Ciri was playing in her backyard when he went out. He heard her singing "Let it go", and he could not stop himself from singing along. The girl heard him and ran to sit closer to the wall dividing the houses to talk to him.

"Do you like Frozen?" She asked him. "What's your favorite character?"

"I do! My favorite character is Kristoff. And yours?"

"Elsa! My hair is like hers, look!"

There was a small opening on the wall separating the houses, as it was a metal wall supported by cement foundation, and Ciri was shoving her almost white, curly hair through it for him to see. Jaskier could not help the chuckle that scaped him.

"Wow, it is very similar indeed!" He said. As the strands of hair disappeared from his sight, he heard someone calling for Ciri.

"Bye Jaskier!" The girl said and ran inside, not giving him time to say goodbye back.

The rest of the days went by similarly, with Ciri talking to him through the wall when he was outside. He really enjoyed their short and sometimes incoherent conversations.

"How was your day?" Jaskier asked her on Saturday when she approached the wall.

"I went to the salon with my mom and got a haircut," the girl said. "She got her nails painted. She said I couldn't get them done there, but she bought me my own nail polish. Do you want me to paint your nails?"

"Alright, yeah."

"I'll get the nail polish!" Ciri said as she ran to the house.

Jaskier went to turn off the water and put the hose away.

"I'm back!" He heard Ciri calling and approached the fence. "Do you like pink nail polish?"

"I've never used pink, so I can't say, but there's a first time for everything, so..." Jaskier was putting his hand through the gap under the fence and saw Ciri running away again.

"I need my dad to untangle this," she said as she went, and was back shortly after. "I know what I'm doing dad!" She added dismissively and heard Geralt chuckling as he left Ciri's side. "Now put your fingers through."

Jaskier did as he was told and felt the cold nail polish being put on his nails and fingers.

He had used nail polish before. Mostly black, during his emo phase in high school, but he had also used some blue, green, and even red. Never pink though. And never kid's nail polish.

Ciri was apparently very focused on her task, so he let her work.

"Three are done," she said after a while, and Jaskier removed his hand from the gap to look at her work. The nail polish was bright pink. There was a lot of it on his fingers, but he could fix it later.

"That's so good, Ciri! Do you want to do the other ones?" Jaskier could hear Geralt laughing on the other side.

"Okay," the girl said and he put his hand through the gap again.

After a few minutes both his hands had bright pink fingernails.

"Oh, this looks amazing Ciri," he said as he looked at his nails. "Did you have fun?"

"Yeah!"

"I'm glad."

"Do you want lipstick too?" the girl asked, and Geralt burst out laughing. Jaskier chuckled too.

"No, I can't do that," he replied, trying to put his laughter under control.

"Do you wanna return the favor?" she asked next.

"Do you want me to paint your nails?"

"Yeap."

"I can if you chuck it over."

"Okaay?" “I don't know how good your aim is, I hope I catch it!" Jaskier said, preparing to catch the bottle.

"Be careful, the bottom's glass!" Ciri said simultaneously and threw the small bottle over the fence.

Jaskier caught it and let Ciri know. Now the girl had one of her hands through the gap and he was carefully painting her nails.

"I love them!" She exclaimed when he was done with the first hand.

"I'm glad you do! Do you want me to do the other hand?"

"Yeah!" Ciri put her other hand through the gap and repeated the action.

"Is your dad there? I don't think it's safe for you to try and catch the bottle as I did."

"Daaad," Ciri called, and Jaskier heard Geralt's step approaching the fence.

"Why don't you come over and hand the bottle? We can also have tea," Geralt said, having heard them.

"Ah, thanks. That's very kind of you. Give me ten to finish here and I will be at your door."

"Okay," Geralt replied, and Ciri squealed with excitement.

Jaskier finished his tasks, made sure the house was properly closed so the cats wouldn't get out and headed to the house next door. He didn't expect to be greeted by a man built like a Greek god, with curly shoulder-length hair and the most impressive amber eyes he had ever seen in his life. He was sure he had forgotten how to breathe for a few seconds there. He was brought back to reality by a husky getting between his legs, and a little girl screaming happily, demanding his attention.

"Ah! Ciri, we finally see each other," he smiled and kneeled so he was at the same level as the girl.

"Jaskier!" she yelled and hugged him.

"Nice to properly meet you, Jaskier," Geralt said as they shook hands. Jaskier smiled and followed his hosts inside the house.

"Here is your nail polish, Ciri. Thank you for sharing it with me," he said as he handed the bottle to the girl.

"Thank you for helping me paint my nails," she said beaming, and ran away, probably to leave the nail polish in her room.

Jaskier stood in the hallway for a few seconds, until Geralt stood in the kitchen doorway and signaled to join him.

"Tea or coffee?"

"Black tea with a splash of milk would be lovely, thanks."

"Thank you for indulging Ciri. There are not many kids her age in the neighborhood, and she gets bored," Geralt said as he prepared their drinks.

"Oh, it's no problem at all. She is a delightful kid."

"Please have a sit!" Geralt told him and Jaskier obliged. At that moment, Ciri entered the kitchen.

"Can we have some cookies?" the girl asked, opening a cabinet door without waiting for an answer. Geralt huffed, smiling.

"Yes, we can have some cookies. Let's put them on a plate, okay?"

Geralt put a plate on the table so Ciri could place the cookies on it. She approached Jaskier, struggling to open the plastic packet, and asked him for help. He struggled with the package too, but after a few tries, he managed to open it and handed the bag back to Ciri. She placed the cookies on the plate one by one, carefully, and then slid the plate so it sat in front of Jaskier, looking at him as if waiting for his approval.

"Very nice job, Ciri," he said, smiling, and the girl smiled satisfied, put the empty package away, and sat next to him.

"What's your work?" Ciri asked as Geralt put Jaskier's drink in front of him.

"Thanks," Jaskier said to the man and then looked at Ciri. "I'm a music teacher and a singer on the side."

"I love to sing!" Ciri said and started singing "Let it go" again. Geralt groaned.

"I take it you are not fond of that song," Jaskier snickered.

"Is not a bad song. It's just so catchy!" Geralt replied in a low voice as both of them pretended to be totally focused on Ciri's performance.

"Yeah, it hasn't left my mind since the other day, now I will be singing this for the next week, at least," Jaskier agreed. Ciri bowed to indicate her performance had finished, and both men clapped enthusiastically.

"That was very good," Jaskier said.

Ciri sat back down and shoved a whole cookie in her mouth.

"Do you have a wife?" Ciri asked. Jaskier laughed, and Geralt looked at him with slight embarrassment at her daughter's invasive questions.

"No, I don't. I'm single right now," he said, looking at Geralt in what he hoped was a reassuring way. He really didn't mind the personal questions.

"Oh, like dad!" Now Geralt looked very mortified. Jaskier did his best not to laugh. He truly loved kids' bluntness.

"Do you like going to school?" Jaskier asked Ciri, changing the topic so Geralt wasn't so uncomfortable.

It turned out that Ciri really liked school, and she spent the next 15 minutes talking about her teacher and her classmates. Jaskier enjoyed the cookies and the tea as he tried to follow Ciri's stories. Somehow, Geralt had managed to make the drink just as he liked it.

When Ciri stopped talking to go to the restroom, Jaskier noticed the sun was going down already, surprised at how he had lost track of time.

"I should get going. I have a 20-minute bike ride home," he said and drank the last of his tea.

"Of course, it's getting late. Sorry for keeping you for so long."

"Oh, don't be! I had a lovely time! Thank you for the tea and cookies."

Ciri came back into the kitchen and pouted when she saw Jaskier standing up.

"Are you leaving already?" she said, with a sad expression on her face.

"Yes, I have to go now."

"Can you come to play tomorrow? Dad, can Jaskier come tomorrow?"

Geralt waited for Jaskier's answer.

"I... If you don't mind, I could," Jaskier replied, looking at Geralt.

"Okay, he can come," the man said as he nodded, and Ciri jumped, hugged Jaskier's legs, and then Geralt's.

Ciri said goodbye to Jaskier and then went to her room. Geralt walked Jaskier to the door.

"Thank you again, for being so patient with Ciri."

"It's really not a problem," Jaskier said, smiling.

"That pink looks good on you," Geralt said teasingly. Jaskier scoffed.

"I'll have you know that all colors look good on me," he replied and both of them laughed.

"See you tomorrow, then."

"See you," Jaskier waved, smiling, and then turned around and left.

As he worked in the backyard the next day, Ciri excitedly talked to him about the muffins she baked for him. Jaskier felt a warmth in his chest, imagining Geralt and Ciri baking together, and smiled at the knowledge that they had done it for him.

When he entered their house, the sweet smell of freshly baked sweets greeted him. Geralt had his hair in a ponytail, and it was causing Jaskier's stomach to flutter.

They had tea and muffins, and Ciri made Jaskier perform a few Disney duets with her. Luckily, he knew the words to most songs, as he used them to teach.

When the time to leave came, Jaskier was overcome with sadness. Essi would be coming back the next day, so it would not be necessary for him to come again.

He didn't know how to tell Ciri this, but it looked like Geralt had talked to her because she didn't invite him to come again when they said goodbye. She looked slightly sad, but she didn't protest when Jaskier informed them it was time for him to leave.

He felt like an asshole, but he would have to leave the explaining to Geralt.

"Essi will be back tomorrow, so I won't be coming here anymore," he told the mand as they stood in the main doorway.

"I talked with Ciri about yesterday. Sorry if you felt like you couldn't refuse her invitation," Geralt said.

"Oh, that's not what I felt at all!" Jaskier said, slightly offended. "I enjoyed spending time with you two yesterday, so the invitation was very welcomed. Thank you for baking muffins for me today. They were delicious."

"I'm glad you liked them, and I'm glad coming to our place again was not a bother." Geralt said smiling, looking more relaxed than before.

"So... um... are you really single?" Jaskier asked, looking at his shoes. Geralt's breath hitched.

"Yes."

"Would you like to exchange phone numbers and maybe go on a date?" Jaskier felt very stupid and very vulnerable, but Geralt was nice and extremely hot, and he would not lose his shot. "I... yes, I would like that," Geralt said, smiling widely. Jaskier let out a shaky breath and took out his phone. They exchanged numbers, and Jaskier left, unable to remove the smile that had appeared on his face.

The next morning he woke up to a text from Essi.

"Thanks for taking care of everything! And you're welcome about Geralt ;)"

How did she know anything had happened with her neighbor? He would have to ask her later. For now, he was truly thankful she had asked him to go to her place.

#the witcher fanfiction #the witcher modern au #geralt #jaskier #ciri

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elythegardeningbard · 1 year

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Modern Pest Control/Monster control Eskel casual cosplay ~ going for a goth/alt style for this one. Putting together chains and belts and bracers now

#witcher eskel #cosplayer #cosplay #cosplay making #the witcher cosplay #the witcher #the witcher modern au #eskel witcher #eskel #netflix eskel #eskel netflix

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afroplatypus · 2 years

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I wanna do the modern AU vamps with their animals, and I've decided that Dettlaff is definitely one of those guys who has a bunch of reptiles, rats and creepy-crawlies and loves them all very much

#He doesn't let you touch them but he would enjoy telling you about their diet and care #dettlaff #the witcher #the witcher modern au #modern au #art #digital art #dettlaff van der eretein #the witcher 3 #vampire

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jane-todd-maximoff · 2 years

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Drinking song for the socially anxious

Part 1 out of 3

READ ON AO3

Summary:I'll see you around Geralt.” Those 5 words might haunt Geralt until the end of his days.

a Geraskier modern Au first meeting fic set to Drinking song for the socially anxious by The Amazing Devil

It wasn’t that Jaskier didn’t like crowds of people, in fact he regularly enjoyed them. But something was different like something was pulling him away from it all. So not even an hour after arriving he was searching for a place to be alone. He just wanted to be alone for 5 minutes so he thinks fast. Every party has a bedroom full of everyone’s coats there he could be alone. Jaskier stepped into the dimly lit room and a rush of autumn air runs up at him. Jaskier walks to the side of the bed and falls backwards onto it and closed his eyes.

Geralt wanted to leave. He doesn't understand why Yen drags him to these things. They were always too bright and loud. And it didn't help that his eyes and hair always brought unwanted attention. He wanted to grab his coat and run. When he finally arrived in the room that held the coat it was quiet and dimly lit. It was perfect. He stood in the doorway and there was a person lying down on the bed. They looked peaceful and in all honesty Geralt thinks he is cute. "You know that your lying on some coats." He informed the person. They looked up at him and frowned.

"You know that your lying on some coats." A deep voice calls Jaskier tilts his back to stare at the man. It was Geralt. Him and Jaskier haven't officially met but Jaskier knows of him due to having mutual friends. He frowns at being called out of his almost sleep-like state "I know, it's just sometimes nice to feel what it's like to be in someone else's coat." He says Geralt walks to the bed and lays next to him and the only response he gets from him is a "Hmm."Geralt gets it he wishes every day that he was a different person. He wishes he was in somebody else's coat. “I’m Jaskier,” “Geralt.” “Hmm, Well it’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” Geralt turned to Jaskier and raised an eyebrow but Jaskier remained silent.

“So what do you do?” Jaskier asks, trying to break the Metaphorical Ice “I work with horses.” "Oh so you're an animal guy, well I hope you know I have a cat!” Jaskier responded sitting up to prop himself up on his elbows. Geralt smirks “What do you do for work?” "I'm a musician.” He sounded happy to talk about his profession.

“Hmm, I would have never thought that.” Geralt tells Jasker with full honesty “why's that?” Geralt sits up to look Jaskier in the eyes. “Well the few musicians I have met love the spotlight but you, on the other hand, hang around in dark rooms.” He explains "Well I do love to be in the spotlight but something felt off. But hey who am I to say, maybe it was destiny.” “Destiny is a load of shit.” Geralt knows things about destiny, it rarely turns out in your favor. Jaskier opened his mouth like he was about to try and change his mind. Before he could get a word in, his phone started beeping. “Oh crap, I have to give my cat her asthma medication.” Jaskier jumps up from the bed and picks up his coat. “Can I get your number?” Jaskier asks, standing in front of Geralt. Surprisingly, Geralt held out his hand asking for the phone. Jaskier opens his contacts app, presses the plus icon and hands Geralt his phone and Geralt hands his own phone to Jaskier. When Geralt and Jaskier receive their rightful device back, he sees Jaskier trying to suppress a smile. “I'll see you around Geralt.” Jaskier informs him before walking out the door.

When Jaskier opened the door to his apartment the last thing he expected was for someone to be in there but he was wrong. “Hi Jaskier.” Priscilla says looking up from her computer “I thought you wouldn’t be back from tour until next week!” he says running up to her throwing his arms around her. Priscilla was his lover but they broke up about a year ago, but they were still best friends. Additionally, when they are both in town, they perform as a duo.

“How was your night?” Priscilla asks from beside him as they were now seated on the couch sharing a bottle of wine. “Priscilla. I think I met the love of my life.” “You say that about everyone you meet.”

It was true. Jaskier had a habit of falling in and out of love. Nothing would work out. Work would get in the way or he would fall for another or well you get it. “I know! But you should have seen him! Okay, he was tall, had a deep Sexy voice, plus he had beautiful white long hair! Okay and we have something in common!” “like what?” “He works with horses, I have a cat!” Jaskier explains. Priscilla takes a sharp breath in and claps her hands together “that's not remotely the same." "They are both animals.” Jaskier shot back.

“True, but-" Priscilla was cut off by Jaskier covering her mouth with his hand. “Can you please just let me tell you about him?" "Mhmhmh" Jaskier could decipher what she was saying so he pulled his hand back. “That's difficult to do when you're comparing a horse and a cat.” “Okay, that's fair.” Jaskier Laughs

“I'll see you around Geralt.” Those 5 words might haunt Geralt until the end of his days. After Jaskier left Geralt laid on the bed until Yennefer came to fetch him. “There you are, I've been looking for you for almost an hour!” Yennefer said in what Geralt deemed her mom voice. But he has ever heard her use it at Ciri only when he and his brothers get in some stupid situation. “Fuck what time is it? I need to put Ciri to bed.” Geralt feels stupid he had to stop staying out for so long. Between working night shifts at his job and being dragged out by Yennefer he hadn't seen his daughter all day.

It was kinda a long story of how he got custody of Ciri. He couldn't even remember going to Pavetta's wedding. However, according to the social worker Pavetta put him down as Ciri's guardian if anything

were to happen to her and Duny or even her parents. But after a fatal car accident Ciri was the last of the Riannons.

Geralt got into the driver's seat and Yennefer slid into the passengers. Once the car started and they began driving it remained silent until that stopped at the first red light. Yennefer turned her head so fast that Geralt was sure she would have got whiplash. “So what kept you in the coat room for over an hour? And don’t say you lost track of time. I know you better than yourself.” It was true Yennefer was just like that. A nurse by day and a witch by night. Geralt paused before talking. He really did like Jaskier. Something awoke in him during their short time together “I met someone.” he mumbled Yennefer gasped dramatically “So you're getting over me finally, What's their name?” “Jaskier” “Jaskier. Oh my god! You two would be so cute and Ciri would absolutely love him,” Yennefer rambled.'' Well it seems you know him well.” Geralt grunted “IS THAT JEALOUSY I SMELL?" she was getting way into this they didn’t even know that well. Geralt let his mind drift back to Jaskier's words. After all, Jaskier did say he was going to see him again. Maybe it was destiny but who was he to say?

Geralt pulled into the parking garage that was below his apartment building. He and Yennefer got out and walked to their apartments that just so happen to be across from each other. “Geralt” He turned away from his door to look at her. “You are going to call Jaskier and plan a day and take him on a date.” and in typical mom Yennefer fashion she put her hand on her hips and glared at him “fine, Goodnight Yen.” he says as he walks into his apartment.

Geralt barely made it into his apartment before a small body crashed into his leg. He wanted to reach for the knife he carried in his belt but he looked down to see that it was just Ciri. “Cirilla, you're supposed to be in bed.” It was almost twelve in the morning. She was only 4 she couldn't have a shitty sleep Schedule like everyone else in the family. “Uncle Lambert said I could stay up.” she informed him. Geralt picked her up. “Well I guess me and him are gonna have to have a chat after I put you to bed.” Geralt shot a glare at Lambert who was lounging on the sofa. “She said you let her stay up!” He attempted to defend himself "Oh did she” Geralt turned his attention back to Ciri who promptly tucked her head into the side of Geralt's neck and let out a yawn.

Ciri's green lights were soft, making it much more bearable to lie with her to make sure she would be okay. However the fact he was laying a small bed that was made for children was not. It was extremely cramped. Carefully he fished his phone out of his pocket, attempting not to wake the child that was resting on his chest.

Geralt opened his contacts and thought long and hard about what to say. But settled on doing the first thing that came to his mind.

GERALT: Hey this might sound weird but, do you wanna see a movie next time you're free?

Geralt pressed send and laid his phone on his chest next to Ciri. Maybe destiny wasn't that bad.

#geraskier #the witcher #lambert the witcher #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #Yennefer of Vengerberg #the witcher fanfiction #cirilla of cintra #ciri of cintra #dad!geralt #the amazing devil #geralt x reader #Priscilla the witcher #dandilion #jane-todd-maximoff #pavetta #baby ciri #the witcher modern au #gonna go take a nap

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humblebardd · 1 year

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Jaskier: hey, do you have a bag I could borrow?

Geralt: the only bags I have are the ones under my eyes, and they’re specifically designed to carry the burden of my existence.

Jaskier: literally all you had to do is say no.

#geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #the witcher #the witcher incorrect quotes #incorrect quotes #the witcher modern au

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fandom-junk-drawer · 6 months

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Geralt and Yennefer dealing with Jaskier and Ciri's nonsense

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solcorvidae · 4 months

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Modern Witcher AU: My Headcanons: (part 3 of ?)

Geralt smells of coffee, caramelized sugar, kerosine, and mineral oil. The sugary scent is from his favourite fragrance (Vanilla Woods—The 7 Virtues) and it mingles well with his natural body chemistry and environmental scents. It’s very subtle but distinct and it works shockingly well for him.

Jaskier is determined to figure out what fragrance Geralt wears but is looking in all the wrong places. He assumes some of the “masculine” notes from the environment that linger on his skin and clothes are a part of the perfume. It takes Geralt explicitly telling Jaskier to look in the feminine and/or the unisex sections (of fragrantica) for him to actually do so and finally get put on the right track.

Jaskier smells of lavender and chamomile. His hair also retains the smell of his shampoo exceedingly well so he always smells clean. He uses solid fragrance that’s reminiscent of “Chamomile and Lavender Milk Tea” by The Dua Brand. It has notes of honey and raw almond milk that gives it a good balancing effect and works well with his body chemistry.

Jaskiers extended family organizes regular family reunions at grossly lavish locations at least once a year. Most of his family besides his parents and a few cousins don’t know about his cross-country road trip… or Geralt. When Jaskier brings Geralt along one year to a reunion at a rented out ski chalet he wants to make sure Geralt makes a good impression. Little did he know, most of his family would adore him and think he is such a doll. Geralt had no less than two people at any given time chatting with him for the vast majority of the weekend. As an introvert, he was exhausted by the end of each day. Jaskier is secretly convinced his family loves Geralt more than him after just a few days; however, Jaskier is more than happy to show him off so it never really bothers him much.

Geralt has a stiff gait. It stems from extremely tense muscles in his hips and lower back as a result of so many hours on the road and not enough proper stretching. Jaskier makes it his personal goal to get Geralt into physiotherapy and at the very least, flexible enough to touch his toes comfortably again.

Geralt’s nausea inducing alcohol of choice is tequila. Eskel’s is flavoured vodka. Lambert loves to get a reaction out of them over it.

Geralt can't have tequila (especially margaritas) anymore because of the near-two day hangover he had after drinking with his brothers on New Years Eve one year. Not even the night he came of age could compare to the sheer amount he knocked back that night.

Eskel's grievance against (lemonade) vodka started after a night out at the bar in his early 20's. He doesn't remember how many times he threw up that night (and he doesn't really want to either).

Lambert can hold his alcohol well but gets hangovers extremely easy, unlike Geralt and Eskel who rarely get more than a headache that's readily manageable with a single ibuprofen capsule. Lambert started keeping a bucket under his bed for this exact reason. He doesn't have a gag-inducing alcohol because if he did, all options would be exhausted with the amount of times he has been ill after a night out.

Geralt’s personal vehicle is a baby blue rust bucket of a pickup truck. It’s a sturdy but rough looking 1990 Ford Ranger.

Eskel drives a grey 2013 VW Jetta that was not taken care of too well by it’s previous owner. It’s a secondhand shitbox but it’s his secondhand shitbox.

Lambert refuses to buy his own car and when he’s not working, he makes Vesemir or his brothers drive him places when he can’t/doesn’t want to catch the bus.

Eskel gets extremely bad caffeine withdrawal symptoms since he has a much lower tolerance and rate of consumption than Geralt, who has a worrying dependency. Geralt says he's fine, but his blood pressure says otherwise.

[Modern AU Headcanon Masterpost]

#hypothermic ao3 #the witcher modern au #the witcher headcanon #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier #eskel #lambert #geralt #eskel witcher #lambert witcher #kaer morons #sol scribbles

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comfyswitcherblanketfort · 2 years

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Jaskier sending Geralt a picture of pretty horses to try and cheer him up/distract him from a bad day and then coming home to a sobbing sputtering mess bc the spiral went from ‘im a disaster’ to ‘i miss my fucking horses’ and all Ciri’s stuffed horses are in a little circle around him where he sits on the floor and Jask cant decide if hes more disturbed by the idea that their 8 y/o daughter put all the toys around him before she went to her mom’s for the weekend or Geralt arranging them like he was trying to summon Roach.

#the witcher headcanon #the witcher shitpost #horse girl geralt #geralt #jaskier #ciri #modern au #the witcher modern au #dont look too closely there

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ahh-fxck · 2 years

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Warrior’s Blues Anniversary Repost Event!

Welcome readers, new and old! Today is the second anniversary of the first fic I ever posted in this fandom, a fic that is still, to my shock, going stronger than ever 2 years later. This story was written in response to Geraskier Pride Week 2020, and over time it has become a love note to all those queers who fought and bled for us to be where we are today. I think, especially in these times, that remembering our history (and writing fiction about it!) is important.

So without further ado... the first chapter of Warrior’s Blues!

Chapter 1: Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

Beta: @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog

Tags/warnings: Internalized homophobia, mild blood, mild Geralt whump, alcohol, PTSD

Ao3 link in reblog!

“Ouuuuwww!” A man howls joyously, and his attention snaps in that direction. In the distance he can see someone leaning against one of the ubiquitous red brick storefronts that line the old city streets. Turning, he heads towards him, the only thing that currently seems real in the blurred landscape around him. As he gets closer, he sees that the tall man is grinning hugely, his eyes hidden behind huge round sunglasses with sequined rims. A fall of artfully cut short brown hair drifts around the frames. He is wearing denim shorts that barely qualify as more than a few ratty pockets and belt loops, the curve of his ass hanging out of them and dragging on the brick wall behind him. On his hairy chest is a cropped white t-shirt, with a huge rainbow heart in the middle of it. Emblazoned in sequins on the chest is the legend ‘COCK.’ Astonished, he pulls up short, his feet rooting to the spot.

The road is shimmering with heat haze. Stretching before him long into the distance, a line of cars clots the highway. Leaving the military base had proved simple, but it was turning out to be the only simple thing about his day. His ancient truck growls and rumbles in the heat, beginning to give off a warning whine as it inches along the blacktop. His fingers alternately clutch and tap at the steering wheel, jaw working as he desperately scans for a way to get off of the highway before the damn thing breaks down altogether.

He hasn’t driven it in years; Hadn’t honestly expected to see it again so soon, much less be forced into the damn thing so quickly. As the truck whines and sputters up the road he cranes his neck, trying to see up ahead. Finally, just as the engine is beginning to well and truly overheat at the near-idle pace he’s been forced to keep it at, he sees an exit up ahead. He hesitates for a moment. After a lifetime of loyal military service, the prospect of breaking traffic laws still gives him pause.

But.

That is no longer a factor. The fat sheaf of papers sits in the cab behind him, rustling in the blasting heat coming out of the blowers he is running in a desperate attempt to keep the damn truck going for just a few more miles. Dishonorable discharge. Might as well be dead, as far as society is concerned.

Fuck it.

A determined expression settles over his face, and he shifts the truck into gear. It coughs, gives a roar, and he pulls haltingly out into the breakdown lane. Sweat drips down his cheeks in the soggy, relentless heat as he cranes his neck again, scanning the road for police officers one last time. Seeing none, he guns the engine, the truck bucking into motion at long last. He bowls his way up the breakdown lane, barrelling towards the exit, pulling onto it with a thump and a screech of tires, horns chorusing around him. Something about that causes his fraying temper to snap, and he sticks his middle finger out the window at the irritated drivers as he barges his way back into traffic.

To be perfectly honest, off the exit is even worse than the highway. The cars are gridlocked as far as he can see. What the fuck could have locked down the city like this? He growls in frustration, pulling back out of traffic and forcing his truck over a curb. It goes over it with a thump, starts rattling, coughs, and then bucks forward through a parking lot onto a side street. All he wants is to get to his damn storage unit, but it is all the way across the city and the main streets are proving to be impassable. The truck blessedly settles into a lower rumble as he drives along the narrow alleys and back streets of the city. It is cooler here, shaded with drooping maple trees that are limp and listless in the heat. Before long, he is hopelessly lost and his temper is spiraling out of control.

When the truck finally dies on a hill not far from the center of the city, his boiling temper overflows. “FUCK!” he shouts, slamming his hand on the dash. Seething, he uses the slope of the hill to inch his truck into a parking space, cranks the emergency brake hard enough to nearly break the shaft, and bursts out of the truck.

He spins and wallops the trunk of a maple tree nearby with a closed fist, splitting the skin on his knuckles instantly. Snarling in pain and rage, he strikes it, again and again, until his hand is raw and bloody and his rage and grief are momentarily spent. Panting, he shakes the sweat from his eyes and wipes his undamaged hand over his face, smearing the sweat droplets up into his short cropped white hair.

What now?

Staggering back from the tree, he turns and leans against his truck, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he tries to gather himself. The stinking heat gnaws at him, impairing his every attempt to form a coherent thought. His cheeks are red and hot, and he knows if he doesn’t find some sort of shelter soon he is going to become ill. Realizing he had better start moving no matter what, he turns to open the truck door. He might not have a plan, but he did know that he wasn’t going to accomplish anything by allowing dehydration or heat stroke to take him down. That meant finding water, a cool place to collect himself, and, with any luck, some kind of a damn map.

Reaching across the back seat, he grabs his camouflage print khaki backpack and pulls out a water bottle. It is mostly empty, but he drinks the last of it as he eyes the discharge papers. He doesn’t want the folder with him… but even worse, he doesn’t want the papers to be towed away if he isn’t able to return to his truck in time. He knew there was at least a chance they would find the truck after discovering he’d been kicked off base. While he can’t bear to face them, not yet, he doesn’t want them worrying that he is dead. His body hums with tension as he looks at the papers, twisting the water bottle back and forth in his hands.

Finally, his shoulders set as he comes to a decision. He grabs them and stuffs them roughly into the bag, zips it, and flings it over his shoulder. Then he pats the truck apologetically, feeling obscurely guilty for losing his temper, turns, and begins to make his way downhill towards the heart of the little port city. He cradles his bloody hand close to his chest, keeping it above his heart, trying to keep the swelling from robbing him of its use altogether. As he walks away from the truck, away from his last clear means of returning to them, his heart sets up a gnawing ache in his chest.

It is some time before he exits the industrial district he has left his truck in, and as he does so, he feels a strange sensation in his stomach, in his bones. As he approaches the main street, the sensation resolves into a pounding bass rhythm that he feels more than hears. That’s fine, he can handle the pain of it, but when he turns the next corner he feels like he has walked into an absolute wall of color and sound. He freezes, eyes wide, as he takes in the sight before him.

Rainbow flags adorn every available surface. Children in nylon faerie wings chase each other screaming around a nearby fountain, and in the distance, a few streets away, a parade is in full swing. People of every possible description are out in the heat, dressed in glitter, dressed in leather, towering drag queens and tiny leather dykes mingling comfortably on the summer streets. His heart plunging, he suddenly feels desperately out of place in his sweaty green t-shirt and camouflage print pants.

He is too hot, too overwhelmed, and too heartsick. His whole body feels raw with grief as he looks upon the scene. Everything he has lost is thrown into a mocking highlight, reminding him that all he has ever loved has been stripped away because of one fucking stupid mistake. The organization he has spent his entire life serving had rejected him for the very thing these people were celebrating, and seeing it is like slamming into a brick wall. The world whirls around him, heart rallying and heading for his throat now as a feeling of overwhelming despair and panic begins to overtake him. His eyes flutter shut and his adam’s apple bobs as he fights for control, fights for breath, the world fading from around him until there is only oppressive heat and the hammering of his heart. He clutches his injured hand against his chest and focuses on the weight of the sack on his back, trying to block out the spinning. It isn’t the first time that he has abandoned himself so shamefully. It likely will not be the last.

Gradually, as time passes, the world begins to trickle back in. Glimmers of noise and color flit across his awareness, beginning to cohere into a solid impression once more. The sound of the nearby children laughing swims to him as if from underwater, followed by an arc of glittering light floating between his partially opened eyelids. As he tips his head forward and opens his eyes, it resolves into a huge pink and silver banner being dragged by laughing men a few streets up, floating in the air like a kite. He feels his chest spasm, and he finds himself stepping back unbidden. Then, blindly, he begins walking up the street that runs parallel to the parade, breath coming in short huffs and gasps.

It would be impossible to tell how many blocks his feet have carried him before his mind starts to come back to him. He could have been miles from his truck, for all he knew. And at this point he couldn’t have said more about the little park than that it had had children in it, little winged fairies dancing in the noise and light. Disoriented, he lifts his head and looks up around him, trying to get his bearings.

He drops his injured hand to his side as he scans the nearly empty street, feeling the heavy backpack shift on his back. His hand gives a slow, distant throb, barely felt in the depths of his daze. The street is scattered with wrappers and glittery garbage, feathers, fluttering bits of paper twisting slowly in the humid breeze. The parade has already passed by here, and the few remaining hangers-on are dispersing as he watches. He licks his dry lips, searching for familiar landmarks as he tries to orient himself. His concentration is broken by a piercing wolf-whistle from about a block and a half up the nearly empty street.

Before him, the man bites his lip and lowers his sunglasses slowly, sweeping his eyes from his head to his feet unhurriedly. The shock as their eyes connect on the way back up runs along his entire spine, leaving his head vaguely tingling.

“ Hello, there,” the man hums merrily, his eyes glittering. It is only then that his eyes focus fully, and he realizes that the man has a long white popsicle in his hand. His other hand rests on a quietly whirring portable freezer, whose power cable snakes back into the dimly lit building door at his elbow.

“Uh?” he says, feeling his already sweaty face turn a deep red.

With a flick of his hand, the man stuffs his sunglasses into a barely adequate pocket, revealing sparkling blue eyes that crinkle in amusement, and then gestures to the freezer. “Would you like one?” he offers. “You look hot.”

Eyes traveling down the length of the other man’s arm, he realizes that the freezer must be full of more popsicles. Dumbly, he nods, not entirely sure he understands what’s happening. With a little flourish the blue eyed man opens the freezer case and steps aside to allow him to look inside. He steps forward, feeling as if his head is wrapped in cotton balls, and peers into the depths of the little case. As he leans, he holds his bag steady so that it doesn’t knock his elbow as it shifts.

At the bottom there are boxes of plain-wrapped popsicles, one indistinguishable from another in their white plastic wrappers. He can feel burning scrutiny along his back as he leans over to swipe one from the freezer, and a low heat pools at the pit of his stomach even as his head swims. As he turns around, he finds the man a respectful distance away, innocently gazing up at the clouds as if assessing the weather and sucking on his white popsicle. Feeling off-balance, he turns and paws the freezer closed before opening the flimsy wrapper on his own cold treat. It turns out to be green, and the frozen sweet tang of lime on his tongue is sharp and grounding. He brings his bloody, mangled hand up to wipe his face, and the other man hisses in sympathy.

“Oh, darling. That looks like it hurts.”

Bewildered, he stops and looks at his hand. The pain swims back, pulsing vaguely in time with his heart, as he stares at the injury like he’s never seen it before.

“Let’s get you inside and take care of that.” Tutting, the man sweeps up behind him and ushers him through the door, into the cool sanctuary within. He’s too out of it to protest. Once inside he stares around the room, eyes wide and bewildered, feeling lost. The high walls are raw wood, scattered everywhere with tiny, colorful pieces of artwork.

He finds himself installed at a bar in the far dark corner of the place before he has time to protest. It is silent and empty at this time of day. Remembering the popsicle in his hand, he tentatively licks at the drip of lime forming on the base of it and waits for his blown-out pupils to adjust to the relative darkness. The straps of his bag are starting to cut into his shoulders, and it is difficult to sit comfortably in the chair, but he can’t rally his faculties enough to take it off.

He can hear bustling noises close by, clinking glasses and running water. It’s too hard to focus yet, so he doesn’t try, closing his eyes and letting the noise and heat of the street finally begin to bleed off of him. He curls his mangled hand back above his heart, trying to ignore the throbbing pain that pulses in time with his heartbeat. His awareness of the popsicle in his other hand fades away, along with everything else, as he sits at the bar and breathes in the quiet. There is a wall at his elbow, and utter silence behind him, the large room all the more reassuring because of the hugeness of its emptiness. No people. No crowds. No sounds.

A damp thunk near his wrist causes him to open his eyes. The dark haired man is right in front of him, his face kind and curious. He stares in confusion as the room filters back into his consciousness. As his gaze comes into focus, he notices exactly how blue the man’s eyes are, a rich cerulean like rippling coastal waters in sunlight. His heart stutters in his chest and he quickly looks down, feeling even the tips of his ears begin to burn. Right near his arm is a tall glass of ice water, droplets already beading on the outside in the mercilessly sticky heat. The popsicle droops in his fingers as he stares at it for a long moment, trying to find his tongue.

Clearing his throat, he eventually manages a hoarse, “Thanks.” He grabs the glass in his injured hand and hisses in pain as the cold touches the sore, swollen underside. Undeterred, he takes a large swallow before raising it to run across his forehead and cheeks, trying desperately to cool himself.

The other man vanishes only to return a moment later. He delicately pries the forgotten popsicle from his hand before placing it in an empty cup on the bartop. Startled by the touch, he looks down at his sticky hand in confusion before glancing back up into those soulful blue eyes again. Something at the bottom of his vision moves and his gaze drops. The brunet extends a towel towards him, a gentle little smile playing about his lips. He puts down his glass and takes it between numb fingers, tentatively beginning to wipe the sticky green syrup off of his hand.

“Wait a moment, I have some hydrogen peroxide around here somewhere…” the man has already bustled out of sight again, leaving him in peace to inspect the damage to his right hand more closely. He probes it tenderly with the wet cloth, and hisses as it comes away red. As he focuses, he realizes that the blood has run between his fingers and snaked up his wrist, clotting on the knuckles and fingertips where it dripped when he had dropped his hand to his side.

In front of him, he hears a gentle tut. Turning, he finds that the man has returned with a bowl of warm water and a surprisingly generous first aid kit, which he lays out on the bar unhurriedly. He opens it, glances across the bar at him, then holds out his hand.

“May I?” he asks.

Dumbfounded, he nods, allowing him to draw his hand across the bar to inspect it more closely. Any other day, any other time, and he would have probably picked up and left. But right now, dazed and heartsick, it is easier to say yes. He is lonely, far from the only people he knows, full of gnawing grief and sadness. The unaccustomed gentle touch as his hand is lifted and cradled leaves him dizzy, feeling guilty for how suddenly and deeply he craves it. The sudden impulse arises a moment later to yank his hand away, but the man glances up at him with deep blue eyes just before he does. His stomach flips hard and he subsides, allowing himself to be tended to.

The man bends over his hand carefully, chestnut brown hair falling over his eyes as he does so. He shakes his head slightly to dislodge a few inconvenient hairs, then begins very gently to clean and dress his wounds. Silence stretches between them, strained and intimate. The man finishes and withdraws to put away his medical supplies before returning to his guest.

As he waits, unsure of what to do next, he empties his tall glass of water and crunches on the ice cubes at the bottom. The jarring cold of them, combined with the relief of having his hand finally wrapped, brings him back to himself fully. He blinks, cautiously withdrawing his bandaged hand, studying the man in front of him with more focus now.

“There you are,” the man says warmly, cocking his head to the side and studying him right back. He has lovely, almost elfin features, high cheekbones, and a delicate nose. He is younger, slightly shorter, broad-shouldered, with a lean and rangy frame that is enhanced by his daring clothing. His lips are expressive, currently pursed as he eyes the older man with unabashed curiosity. “Hello, darling. Now. What’s your name?”

He is pretty sure he has never been called darling this many times in a conversation before… maybe not even in his life. Very few people have called him pet names of any sort. Pulling his glass in front of him awkwardly, he hesitates, then says roughly, “Geralt.”

“Hmmmm. Well, Geralt,” the other man says with a quick grin that sets his pulse racing, “Why don’t you take off that backpack and relax a moment? I’ll make you a quick snack.” Without waiting for a reply, he snatches the cup out of his hand and spins away to refill it with ice and fresh water.

Geralt gulps, startled, and stammers out “I, uh, I can’t-”

“On the house,” he says, turning back and placing the cup in front of him, alongside a tall pitcher with some sliced lemons dropped into it. Shocked back into silence, Geralt nods and carefully pulls the glass back across the bar to hold. His fingers trace droplets up and down the cold glass as he watches the man vanishing into the back of the bar. He notes in surprise that across his broad back, the crop top is decorated with a pair of glittering sequin wings.

As the clatter of kitchen implements begins somewhere out of his line of sight, Geralt slowly relaxes back into his seat. His bag bumps against the back of it and he startles, finally remembering it. Standing, he slings it under the counter at the base of his tall bar stool before resuming his perch. The blessed silence settles down across him, frayed and sizzling nerves finally beginning to quiet. He presses the cold glass to his forehead and closes his eyes once more, falling into a fuzzy exhausted numbness at last.

It is some time later that a plate of food being plunked down in front of him announces the return of his host. It is simple fare but generous; a thickly stuffed roast beef sandwich with some sort of pink dressing, potato chips, and a generous helping of julienned pickled vegetables. He glances over the plate at the handsome man, who fixes him with a sunny smile and leans back against the counter behind him, bringing his foot up to rest on one of the shelves as he relaxes.

“You look like you’re new in town. Reassigned to Fort Morhen?” He inquires, eyes following Geralt’s big, scarred hands as he picks up the sandwich.

Geralt hesitates, thinking, then takes a huge bite. He hums quietly in pleasure. Then he nods, opening his eyes to see his host’s face. To his surprise, those bright eyes are soft, crinkling slightly at the corners.

“On leave?” he inquires, picking up a toothpick and beginning to toy with it. Geralt is beginning to get the impression that the other man is rarely still, watching as the toothpick flickers back and forth between long, capable fingers.

“Ah… no.” Geralt says after he swallows, chasing the mouthful with a generous gulp of water. He grimaces before taking another bite. He takes the time to chew before answering. “Was just discharged.”

The younger man’s face falls, and he drops his foot back to the ground. “Oh, no, I’m sorry.” His eyes flick up and down Geralt’s body again, softly curious. “Medical?”

With a grunt, Geralt jerks his head in a short ‘no.’ He mechanically takes another bite. “Dishonorable,” he says around the sandwich, avoiding eye contact, seeming to collapse in on himself. The younger man falls silent and still, and Geralt feels himself wishing that he could sink away through the floorboards. Bad enough that he betrayed the only people he loves. Now this man can hate him too.

Eventually, the man behind the bar grabs a glass and begins to fill it with beer from one of the taps. “Did someone ask,” he asks, very quietly, “...or did you tell?” He is careful to keep his eyes on the glass in his hands, waiting patiently for Geralt’s reaction.

Geralt’s throat constricts into a stunned knot as he stares at the sequined wings on his back. They glitter softly with every shift of the man’s broad shoulders. “Uh…” he chokes out after a long pause. He had been expecting to be kicked out of the bar, or for the man to scoff... had been expecting literally anything but that question. Caught off balance, he reels.

The other man peeks over his shoulder, a sad smile playing about his lips. “I own the gay bar nearest to the base, darling,” he explains, turning back around and placing a frothing tankard of beer next to Geralt’s plate. Geralt’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to protest again. With a flap of his hands, the man cuts him off. “On the house,” he reminds him with a soft, bittersweet smile. “Everything’s on the house for you tonight. Stay as long as you like.” He turns away again, becoming absorbed in preparing the bar for the rush due in a few hours.

Geralt’s gaze follows the glittering wings back and forth behind the bar as he eats, descending into thoughtful silence. He’s still thrown, but he feels strangely warmed by the man’s quiet acceptance, which gives him a dizzy, fizzing feeling in the pit of his stomach. After a while, surprised to find himself speaking, he volunteers, “Didn’t have to tell. New security camera did the job for me.”

The man pauses, rag in hand, and glances over his shoulder at Geralt. He is grinning, eyes sparkling. “Oh, my ,” he says. “Caught doing the good stuff, hmm?”

Geralt feels like those inquisitive blue eyes are pinning him to the spot as he reddens, then nods shortly.

“Mmm. Well. At least you went out in a blaze of glory,” he hums pleasantly, resuming wiping down the counters behind the bar.

Geralt chokes on his beer, sputters, and puts the glass down on his coaster. The shorter man laughs easily, tossing him a rag to wipe himself with. Geralt paws the rag off of the bar and begins to dab at himself. Something is nagging at him, and as he wipes the beer off of his green shirt, he finally puts his finger on it.

“What’s your name?” he asks, placing the rag back on the bar. The man’s whole face lights up as he turns back towards him, holding a stack of glasses.

“I was wondering when you’d finally ask,” he grins. “My name,” he flourishes a little bow, glasses clinking, “Is Jaskier.”

This is met with silence. So much silence that he straightens from his bow a little hesitantly, giving Geralt a queer look. Geralt gives him one right back, a slow half-grin creeping up his face. “...Jaskier? That cannot possibly be your real name…” he takes a long, slow swig of the beer out of his tankard. “Buttercup.” Amber eyes glitter over the edge of the glass, watching Jaskier light up with laughter.

“Yes, yes! Where are you from, Poland? I thought I detected a little accent…”

“Mm,” Geralt grunts around the edge of his tankard, draining the cold beer. “No, but the colonel always spoke it at home.”

“Ooh,” Jaskier trills. “Army brat?” He continues bustling around, now chopping lemons and limes for drink garnishes.

Geralt nods, putting the empty tankard back on the counter and twirling one of his remaining potato chips between his fingers. “Lifetime on the bases. Yeah.”

“Father an army man?” Jaskier continues, swiping the empty tankard on his way by and refilling it.

“Mm.” Geralt hums an affirmative, taking the tankard from him with a nod of thanks. He half-drains this one, too, grateful as the warm numbness of the alcohol begins to soften all the jagged edges inside of him. “He died when I was a baby. Got adopted by the colonel.” He drains the rest of the beer in one gulp.

“No mother?” Again, the tankard vanishes, and again it appears, refilled. Geralt pulls it close, sipping at it, slower this time. The beer is good, yeasty and bitter and cold. He shakes his head, leaning his elbows on the bar, slowly beginning to relax.

“Nope. AWOL in Korea, never heard from again. Happened a few months after my father died.” He sucks some of the foam off the top of his glass, licking the bitter treat from his lips. “Never lived as a civilian before,” he adds, then pauses. “You still haven’t told me your name,” he reminds Jaskier, who laughs easily, tossing his hair out of his eyes.

“No, darling, I haven’t. I suppose that’s a bit rude of me, but I don’t tell many people. Julian is just so…” he flaps his hands expressively, searching for a word, “boring.”

Geralt laughs, genuinely amused. “So you went with ‘Buttercup?’” he asks dryly, tilting his head to the side, his eyes dropping to follow the swaying of Jaskier’s ass as he moves about behind the bar.

“Not everyone speaks Polish, you know,” Jaskier trills, unphased. “Besides, they’re my favorite flower. Say the name of your true love while a buttercup is under your chin, and it will light your chin up yellow. Hmm. I loved playing that game as a child. So romantic!”

Geralt smiles lopsidedly, charmed in spite of himself. “That’s just a children’s game,” he rumbles. “No truth in it.”

“Ah, who needs truth when you can get kisses?” Jaskier says easily, moving out from behind the bar and heading to the entrance of the club. His shoes, it turns out, are sequined the same color as his sunglasses and wings. With practiced, efficient movements, he hauls the freezer back into the darkness of the building and rolls it across the floor, past Geralt, and into the kitchen beyond.

Mesmerized, Geralt watches him go, picking at the pickled vegetables and following the motion of Jaskier’s muscular legs. He tries to think of a time he’s ever spent around a man this flamboyant and easygoing. Wracking his brains, he draws a blank. Even the few dalliances he had allowed himself were very discreet in the way they presented to the world, never flaunting themselves like this man did so easily. He is dizzy with the newness of it, unable to distinguish the metallic tang of full-body fear from the arousal pooling low and hot at the base of his spine. Jaskier either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, fully absorbed in the task of setting the club up for the night.

It was some time before Geralt found the means to speak again, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “What… ah… what was that event outside earlier?”

“What?” Jaskier says, muffled, from the back room. “Oh! You mean the Pride parade?” He comes out of the back room carrying a load of boxes stacked precariously in his strong arms. Walking over to the seating area out in front of the bar, he delicately negotiates around the tables until he reaches the largest one, directly between Geralt and the empty dance floor. Setting them down, he begins to sort them out and pull decorations out of them, fairy lights and rainbow streamers and more, cascading out until there is a giant pile. To Geralt it looks like chaos, but the man seems unruffled as he goes about beginning to decorate.

“...The what?” he asks, genuinely confused. He swivels his stool around so that he can face Jaskier fully, curiosity bubbling.

Jaskier looks over his shoulder at him, lips parted, eyebrows drawn up quizzically. “Pride…? You know, once a year when all the queers come out and…” he flaps one hand, searching for a descriptor, “riot with giant speakers playing the Village People and glitter bombs?” Seeing Geralt’s obvious confusion, he turns to study him. “Seriously not ringing a bell, darling? How long have you spent overseas?”

Geralt’s face feels numb, his tongue dry, and it takes him a moment to even move to finish his beer. He swallows the last of it awkwardly, rolling it around his mouth and trying to find his words. The man’s piercing gaze is rooting him to the spot, and as he looks at him, beautiful and lanky in the half-light, he thinks that he has never felt more out of his depth than he does right now. “Uh,” he says.

Jaskier shifts, lifting a long hand to brush hair out of his eyes, and Geralt feels a wave of hot prickliness wash over his body. “Uh… Long time. Most of my life.” He gulps, realizing belatedly that he is starting to get hard under the lovely man’s penetrating stare. Leaning forward, he shifts his hips subtly in an attempt to adjust himself without drawing any further attention to his predicament. A small, knowing smile flickers across Jaskier’s face for just a moment, quick enough that Geralt isn’t sure that he actually saw it, and then the other man is turning away again and resuming the task of decorating. As he does so, he speaks.

“Pride started out as a riot, love. We got sick of being beaten by the police, so we started fighting back. It lasted four nights, and… well, it changed the way people talked about us. This was in the 70’s…” he makes a little buzzing, humming noise as he thinks, “Mmm, no, tell a lie, it was 1969. And the next year was the first march.”

Geralt shifts again, taking the opportunity to get more comfortable, turning his stool back so that he is no longer facing the lithe man so directly.

Jaskier begins running the fairy lights along the base of the wall, unspooling and untangling them before hanging them. “And every year since, in June, cities have held marches.” Backing up carefully, he navigates around a corner with the mess of cords, and continues, “Every year, more and more cities have had them. We’ve had ours since 1976, and we have gotten quite good at them.” He smiles, squinting up at the ceiling as he considers a dodgy looking fastener above him. “And tonight, is the busiest damn night of the year for the Pegasus…” His eyes slide sideways to meet Geralt’s again, flashing him a sly smile full of teeth, “Affectionately known as the Peg.”

Geralt doesn’t know what that means, but the look makes his cock twitch uncomfortably in his trousers. Hurriedly, he turns back to his last few pickled vegetables, feigning great interest in them. “Hmm,” he says, around a mouthful of julienned carrot.

Behind him, Jaskier watches him for a moment, eyes considering. Then he withdraws, retreating into the back room once more before emerging with a ladder. He seems content to let Geralt sit in silence at the bar now, letting him finish eating in peace.

Geralt’s head whirls. His whole life has been the military. Early mornings. Strict obedience to the chain of command. Upholding the code of conduct as a professional at all times, even off base. Sodomy was strictly forbidden, as codified in military statutes written well before he was born. The fact that there is not only a whole club, but a whole culture, a whole country full of people who live this way is… unimaginable.

He crunches through a potato chip slowly, dragging the salty pieces across his tongue and focusing on them to keep himself from sinking too deep into numbness. His heart feels ragged and raw as he looks around the walls, focusing on the artwork for the first time. Many of them are little squares of stark black-and-white imagery, queer men and women captured in moments of impeccable geometry. The squares are bordered in frames, obviously handmade, covered in sequins and glitter, feathers, even funny little toys from gumball vending machines. He peers at the one closest to him, and at the bottom there is a legend with the name of the artist and title of the piece.

Robert Mapplethorpe - “Smutty,” 1980 New York, New York.

Geralt gapes at the image, eyes wide and lost. He doesn’t even notice at first when Jaskier slides up in front of him, pushing a shot glass full of clear spirits across the bar towards him. When he clears his throat, Geralt startles out of his reverie, spotting first the shot glass by his elbow and then, eyes traveling upward, finds Jaskier regarding him kindly again. He picks up the shot glass in numb fingers and sips. Vodka. The liquor burns warmly across his palate, making his tongue curl and his cheeks flush. The welcome sear of the alcohol turns into a dull spreading heat inside of him. It blurs the ragged, churning ache he is desperately trying to escape.

“This is all rather a lot for you,” Jaskier observes quietly, eyes flickering over Geralt’s stiff face and hunched, unsure shoulders. Looking into his glass, Geralt nods, then slugs back the rest of the shot with a grimace. The lovely man’s face softens into a look of thoughtful concern, and he drums his fingers on the counter as he ponders something. As he comes to a decision, his fingers make a decisive tap. “Look. Do you have anywhere to be right now?”

A ‘yes’ comes rushing to Geralt’s lips, seeing an opportunity to flee the situation, but then those blue eyes fix him with such a look that he is rooted to the spot. A look like that, Geralt gets the tingling feeling that he’d know the lie the second it got out of his mouth. He swallows it.

“...No,” he admits reluctantly, his voice husky and quiet.

Jaskier nods, taps firmly again on the counter, then straightens up. He emerges out from behind the bar and stands before Geralt, long and tall in the half-light. Geralt’s head tips back, and he eyes him uncertainly. “Come with me,” Jaskier says. “I have to open in about an hour, and it’s going to get very rowdy out here…” A sly smile spreads across his face. “And a beautiful man like you won’t last a minute before some little twinkle-toed little horndog comes sniffing for you, darling.”

Geralt gapes at Jaskier, who reaches out a hand, gently but firmly pulling him out of his chair in a manner that brooks no argument. His whole body lurches at the touch, the feeling somehow nauseating and exquisite all at once.

“I have a bed in the backroom, in my office. I use it sometimes if I stay too late doing the books,” he explains. “You look like you need a rest.” He smiles, tugging Geralt along. Stunned, Geralt stumbles after him, remembering at the last minute to swipe his backpack from under his seat on his way by. A sure, strong hand pulls him across the floor of the club and into the storage room. Too exhausted to resist, it’s all he can do to keep his feet as he’s pulled along. They pass stacked kegs, boxes of paper towels, cleaning supplies, and at the back of that room is a nondescript steel door. Jaskier pulls keys out of his pocket, unlocks the door after only a moment of fumbling in the dim lighting, and slips inside to turn on the light.

As it flickers on, he blinks, looking around. The office is tiny, smelling mostly of stale brick and old wood. There is a tiny wooden desk that looks older than the building crammed right towards the front of the room, stacked high with ledgers and bills. Behind it are two filing cabinets, and at the very back, a rumpled bed with some raggy but comfortable looking blankets crumpled at the end. Jaskier steps forward and flicks on the little lamp on the desk, turning out the overhead and significantly dimming the light in the room. Then he begins jerkily clearing away the ledgers and bills, muttering to himself.

Geralt stands dazed in the doorway, backpack swinging from his fingers as he observes Jaskier’s chaotic movements. Then, his eyes drift to the bed, and upon seeing it his body feels suddenly crushed with exhaustion and sorrow. He can barely stand under the weight of it. His soul aches, and all he wants to do is forget for a few hours.

When Jaskier looks up, he sees the lost and haunted look in his amber eyes. He pauses mid-motion, laying the papers slowly back down on the desk, as if being careful not to rustle them. “The bed’s back here. Sorry, I guess I don’t need to clean up all the way right now…” He grins awkwardly, fluffing the back of his short hair in a nervous motion. “Uh. I’ll be out bouncing at the door if you need me, once things get in full swing. The bartender’s name is Lars. If he tries to charge you anything, come get me and I’ll set him straight.”

Geralt nods to show that he has heard, but finds himself locked in place, struggling to figure out what to do next.

Jaskier looks him over in concern, then purses his lips and hums softly. He advances on Geralt, taking him by the shoulders and gently, ever so gently, guiding him to the back of the cramped little office. He can feel Geralt’s shoulders stiffen under the contact, and with a sad look that Geralt can’t see, carefully withdraws his hands. “Sleep,” he suggests. “I’ll be back to check on you later if I don’t see you.”

Geralt nods again, a moment too late, the door already closing behind him. His body is still snapping and crackling with the unexpected touch, the imprints of Jaskier’s hands burning on his shoulders through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Dropping his backpack, he heaves a heavy sigh before sinking to the bed. The cheap springs of the metal frame shriek under his weight, and he grimaces as the sound rakes across his raw nerves. The drinks have mellowed him, though, and the room is blissfully cool and quiet.

While he feels like he really ought to leave, ought to go anywhere else, it is beginning to sink in that he has nowhere to go. Even if he gets to his storage unit, what is he going to do? Sleep in it? He can’t load anything into his dead truck. There is no place to take his few things to. He has no place to sleep. The money in his bank account won’t last him long. And he’d broken the last safe place that he was supposed to have, long ago. This latest episode of stupidity was only the final nail in the coffin. He can’t even bring himself to call them. Not yet. The future stretches out before Geralt, an unreadable mass of uncertainty that makes his stomach churn. He’d never not had a plan before. The military had provided him a life of strict routine, a clear future, stability. Maybe even a nice little grave with a flag at the end of it all. Now, he didn’t even have that to look forward to.

Finally, heaving a sigh, he awkwardly unlaces his boots and lays down. He pulls the covers over himself and settles onto the battered pillow. The whole world is too much, and he just can’t process it anymore. As he nestles in, he notices that the whole bed has an oaky, musky scent, fresh soap and sweat and Jaskier. His head whirls with it as his body begins to relax, then, abruptly, turns off.

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

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