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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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sherylholmes · 4 years

Text

Until the Seas Run Dry

TITLE: Until the Seas Run Dry

AUTHOR: Sheryl_Holmes on AO3

PROMPT DAY #: 1: Soulmates

SUMMARY: Geralt’s soulmark disappears after fighting a creature, and, despite having never WANTED a soulmate, he is inexplicably enraged. Geralt is hellbent on finding whoever or whatever has taken his soulmark from him, and somehow acquires an aggravating bard along the way. Together, they embark on an ironic quest.

WORD COUNT: 4830

BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/VIDEO GAME: Netflix (because I haven’t finished the books or the 2002 show yet, and I don’t a game console.)

TRIGGERS/WARNINGS: Language Advisory.

RATING: Teen.

ADDITIONAL NOTES: written for @geraskierweek

Excerpt:

Slinking down from a tree over the marshy water nearby, it dropped to the ground. Geralt waited, his hand ready to reach for his sword. In the darkness, Jaskier couldn’t possibly know what was coming nearer, crawling low in the stagnant water. Ripples lazily uncoiled from the figure’s movements. The moonlight barely broke through the willows, casting strange and frightening shapes onto the waterscape, onto bones half-hidden in the mud. Mist rose to their ankles. Jaskier’s eyes were wide yet unafraid, still unaware of what drew closer behind him. He simply stared at this stranger he had blindly followed into the woods toward a swamp creature for no reason other than for the promise of excitement. Geralt’s last thought before his instincts took over was that Jaskier’s inherent trust was strangely pure.

Read the rest HERE.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #jaskier #geralt #geralt of rivia #geraskier #geraskierweek #geraskier week #geraskier week 2020 #soulmates #soulmate trope #soulmate identifying marks #sheryl holmes ao3 #day 1 soulmates #2020 geraskier week

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splendidlyimperfect · 4 years

Link

written for @geraskierweek

chapter one - don’t stop me now

The last place Geralt expects to come across an incubus is at Pride.

title: if the apocalypse comes, beep me author: splendidlyimperfect prompt day #: 2 (monster hunt) summary: Geralt's a Witcher - one of few monster hunters that are trained to fight the nightmares that the modern world doesn't know exists. The only people who know are his Watcher Vesemir, and Yennefer, his ex-girlfriend who happens to be a witch. Geralt's doing just fine balancing hunting and college courses, but when he runs into an unusual man with a (literally) magical voice, his world gets a bit more complicated. word count: 2333 books/netflix/show/video game: netflix triggers/warnings: none rating: M (eventually) additional notes: buffy inspired, modern au with magic/monsters, monster hunting, siren!jaskier, trans!jaskier, yenn and jaskier get to be catty friends

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The last place Geralt expects to come across an incubus is at Pride.

In retrospect, he should have seen it coming. A crowded, dark bar full of horny college students grinding against each other is the perfect environment for a demon of lust. It’s also the last place Geralt wants to be.

“Can we leave now?” he grumbles, elbowing Yennefer and tipping his head toward the door. She rolls her eyes at him, then tosses back a shot of something bright blue and smacks his shoulder.

“Oh, come on,” she shouts over the din of the music. “You promised you wouldn’t be a grumpy asshole tonight.”

Geralt grunts, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down at the crowd. They’re on the second floor of the club, sitting at a tiny table with a plate of chicken wings and several beers between them. Geralt’s had four now, and he’s still not buzzed enough to deal with this shit.

Continue reading on AO3

“At least I’m not making you dance,” Yenn says as she kicks his shin under the table. Geralt rolls his eyes. He’s already put up with a parade today, and if Yenn thinks there’s any way in hell she could convince him to dance, she’s got another thing coming.

The music from the band on stage fades out and Geralt winces at the squeal of feedback as someone steps up to the microphone. “Give it up for The Witching Hour!”

Yennefer cheers, uncharacteristically excited as she stares down at the stage. Geralt rolls his eyes – he knows she’s checking out the lead singer, some redhead whose name he should probably know, but doesn’t. Yenn talks about her constantly, and Geralt tends to tune her out.

“Now, please welcome our Queen tribute band – It’s A Kind of Magic!”

A new group takes the stage – some other band dressed in bright colors that Geralt doesn’t pay attention to. He turns back to his beer, sipping it and wishing he could close his ears as well as his eyes.

Then the music starts, and Geralt’s medallion starts to thrum.

His eyes fly open and he leans forward on the table, immediately on edge. His gaze jumps between the members of the band, dismissing them all until he gets to the lead singer. He’s dressed ridiculously – bright red pants that look like they’re nearly painted on and a black leather jacket with nothing underneath – and he looks vaguely familiar.

“Isn’t that the guy from your Latin class that you have a crush on?” Yennefer asks.

Geralt glares at her, then taps at his medallion and nods back at the stage. Yenn’s eyes widen and she’s immediately vigilant as well, eyes scanning the crowd.

“It’s him,” Geralt says, gesturing to the singer. Yenn’s right, the man – Jaskier – is in his Latin class, but Geralt absolutely does not have a crush on him. He’s got ridiculous, floppy hair and baby blue eyes, and talks so much that his voice grates on Geralt’s nerves. His singing, however… well, it’s magical. Literally.

I’m a shooting star leaping through the sky like a tiger defying the laws of gravity…

Jaskier’s voice is clear and flawless – and, Geralt has to admit, he does sound quite a bit like Freddie Mercury. He’s grinning at the crowd, gyrating his hips ridiculously and winking at everyone in the front of the crowd. And everyone is staring at him, still dancing in a frantic revel, but seemingly unable to look away, as if enchanted by him.

Geralt’s pretty sure they are. Jaskier’s voice is hypnotic, jumping octaves as he tugs the microphone towards him and belts out the lyrics.

“Are you sure?” Yenn asks, nudging Geralt’s elbow. “He doesn’t look very dangerous.”

“Monsters aren’t always sharp teeth and claws,” Geralt mutters. “Stay here.”

Yenn starts to argue but he ignores her, standing and moving toward the spiral staircase that will take him down to the main floor. Even he can feel the pull of whatever magic Jaskier is radiating, which is both unusual and worrying.

Don’t stop me now I’m having such a good time I’m having a ball Don’t stop me now if you wanna have a good time just gimme a call

Geralt’s made it halfway to the stage when the song ends. The entire room seems to exhale, and it takes a minute for everyone to come back to themselves and start to applaud. Jaskier grins at them, waving and taking a small bow before grabbing a bottle of water and taking a swig.

He’s not singing anymore, but Geralt’s medallion doesn’t stop humming.

Jaskier waves to the crowd one last time before disappearing backstage with the rest of the band. His sweaty hair clings to the back of his neck and he’s breathing heavily, still high on the excitement of the performance.

“They loved you!” Jenna, the guitarist, claps Jaskier’s shoulder and grins at him.

“They always do, darling,” Jaskier says with a wink. He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking out the sweat, then steps toward the fan at the back of the room, exhaling in relief as the cool air touches his face.

“Hey, gorgeous.” Jaskier raises an eyebrow, turning to see a young man leaning against the door to the back room. He’s the one that Jaskier should be calling gorgeous – tight shirt dipping down to show off a collarbone dusted with glitter, dark eyes, dark hair tied back in a ponytail with a few strands escaping to frame his face.

“Hey, yourself,” Jaskier says, moving toward the man and making it very obvious that he’s eyeing him up. “Enjoy the show?”

“Absolutely,” he murmurs, reaching out and touching Jaskier’s cheek. “Couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

The press of fingertips on his cheek sends something pulsing through Jaskier, but it’s not the arousal he was hoping for. Instead, it thrums through him, dark red and dangerous.

Of course, he thinks. Can’t ever just be a pretty boy, can it?

“You’re not too bad looking yourself,” he says out loud, stepping into the man’s space and sliding a hand into his hair. The man bites lip, looking up at Jaskier as his hand drifts down to his hip. “Wanna go somewhere a little more… private?”

The man doesn’t answer, just pulls away and grabs Jaskier’s hand, tugging him out into the dark hallway that leads to the club’s washrooms. Half the lights are burnt out back here, and Jaskier catches glimpses of the man in the sharp pulses of neon light from the front of the club. He really does have a nice ass, and Jaskier sighs mournfully.

At least the rest of the club is filled with other attractive men – and women – that he can fool around with once he’s taken care of this.

“Come here,” the man purrs, turning and grabbing the lapel of Jaskier’s leather coat and pulling him close. He stumbles forward, letting the man tug him into a kiss that’s hot and messy and not at all unpleasant. Jaskier kisses back, sliding one hand down to the man’s hip until he’s pressed up against Jaskier’s bare chest.

A slight pull of magic appears wherever the man touches him, and Jaskier pushes back against it, shoving him against the wall. He gasps, and Jaskier feels a smile against his lips – and then there are sharp teeth behind the kiss, and the magic pulls harder.

“I really wish you wouldn’t,” he sighs, before dropping the dagger from the sleeve of his coat and thrusting it into the man’s chest.

Geralt growls, pushing people out of his way as he stalks through the crowd, trying to find the source of the magic that’s affecting his medallion. He’s still suspicious of Jaskier and his enthralling voice, but the band is gone now and he’s still sensing danger. It tugs at him like a thread, pulling him away from the stage and toward the washrooms.

He sighs, pulling out his phone and sending a quick text to Yenn.

It’s near the washrooms, might need a memory spell or two if it gets messy.

All he gets back is an eyeroll emoji.

The lights start to flash around him as a new band starts up, bass pounding in his chest and making it hard to focus on the magic. Geralt growls, shoving another group of people with their hands all over each other to the side. Eventually he makes it to the hallway with the bathroom, and the thrumming of the medallion gets stronger. He’s about to open the washroom door when he looks down the hallway.

Fuck.

It’s Jaskier, making out with some guy against the wall, and if seeing that does funny things to Geralt’s stomach he ignores it. What’s important right now is that the guy that Jaskier is kissing is not, in fact, a man – he’s an incubus. Geralt can see through the ponytail and the tight pants to the demon underneath, and the incubus is getting ready to suck out Jaskier’s soul through the kiss.

“For fuck’s sake.”

Geralt takes a step forward, hand going to summon his sword, when suddenly Jaskier drops a dagger from his sleeve and stabs the man in the chest.

Geralt freezes, watching as Jaskier gives the incubus an apologetic look and twists the blade. The demon shudders, eyes wide as he stares down at the handle of the dagger, then curses as his body starts to dissolve into thin threads of black smoke. It only takes a second for him to disappear completely, sucked into the blade and banished back to the netherworld.

“What,” Geralt says, staring at Jaskier, “the fuck.”

Jaskier jumps, quickly sliding the dagger back up his sleeve and turning to Geralt with an uncertain smile on his face. Up close, Geralt can see that he’s wearing makeup, glitter smudged down across his chest, and a trans pride button is pinned to the lapel of his jacket.

“Look,” Jaskier says, “that definitely wasn’t what it looked like.” Geralt doesn’t answer, just stares at him. He’s certainly not a Witcher – Geralt would recognize him if he was – and Yenn would have told him if Jaskier was a sorcerer.

“What are you?” Geralt growls.

“Nobody,” Jaskier says quickly, giving Geralt a wan smile. “I mean, not nobody, obviously, but it’s a very long story that you probably aren’t going to believe. And I don’t think we have time for it, because that demon probably came with a partner and I need to find them before some poor idiot gets their soul sucked out through their mouth. Or cock. Neither would surprise me at this point.”

Geralt frowns, tilting his head to the side in puzzlement. His medallion is still thrumming faintly and Jaskier is right – incubi and succubi usually travel in pairs. But Geralt’s supposed to be the only one who knows about this kind of stuff.

Jaskier sighs. “I hate doing this,” he mutters, taking a step toward Geralt and murmuring under his breath. “Heed my voice and listen well, on this memory you’ll not dwell, take the vision fraught with fear, forget the things that you’ve seen here.” His voice is low and quiet, and the hypnotic melody is back. A heady magic mixes with the words, tugging at Geralt’s mind and making the medallion thrum harder.

“What the hell,” he growls, taking a step toward Jaskier, “do you think you’re doing?”

Jaskier frowns, gaze skipping from Geralt’s eyes to his hand that’s hovering over his hip, waiting for the incantation to summon his sword. Then Jaskier sees the outline of the medallion under Geralt’s shirt and his eyes widen.

“You’re a Witcher,” he says, the magic in his voice replaced by excitement. “My Gran told me about you. That’s why the magic doesn’t work.”

Geralt hesitates, bewildered by the fact that Jaskier knows what he is, and that he isn’t frightened by it. “How do you—”

“I’ll explain as soon as we find the other one,” Jaskier says quickly, looking over Geralt’s shoulder and back into the crowd. “Do you know where it is? That’s what the necklace is for, right? You can use your… Witcher senses or whatever you call them to find monsters.”

“I found you,” Geralt growls.

“Well, yes,” Jaskier admits, putting his hands on his hips. “But I’m not a monster. Well, I guess if we’re being technical, I am, but it’s more complicated than that, and we don’t really have time for my whole tragic backstory right now.”

“I can’t trust you.”

“I just killed a demon for you,” Jaskier argues. “Clearly I’m on your side. And if I was planning on committing some monstrous atrocity, do you really think I’d be wearing this—” he gestures at his leather pants “—while singing about fat bottomed girls?”

“The only monstrous atrocity here is that outfit.” A voice comes from behind Geralt and he turns, relieved to see Yenn standing behind him. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest and her expression is more amused than concerned.

“You take that back,” Jaskier says indignantly. “I’ll have you know this is a replica of the exact outfit Freddie wore on—”

“Enough.” Geralt grinds his teeth. “We’ll deal with the demon first. Yenn, bind him.”

“Hmm, try again?”

Geralt sighs. “Yenn, can you please bind the unidentified monster so he can’t run away?”

“Better,” Yennefer says. She holds out one hand, palm towards Jaskier, and quickly murmurs, “By air and earth, by water and fire, so be you bound as I desire.”

Jaskier laughs. “That’s cute, darling,” he says, then shakes his head. “It won’t work on me, but I promise I won’t run.”

Yenn doesn’t react, but Geralt’s known her long enough to catch the twitch of annoyance and surprise in her jaw.

“You’re sticking with me,” Geralt says, stepping forward and grabbing Jaskier’s arm. “Once this is over, you and I are having a talk.”

“Looking forward to it,” Jaskier says lightly. “Now, are we going to kill a demon or not?”

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier week #2020 geraskier week #geralt/jaskier #geralt #jaskier #fanfic #my fic

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ajfanfic · 4 years

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TITLE: Be Careful

AUTHOR: AJfanfic

PROMPT DAY #1: Soulmates

SUMMARY: Soulmates share each other's pain, they share each other's wounds. Jaskier isn't entirely sure what his soulmate gets up to, but he knows he'd tear the world apart to protect his idiot who keeps getting mauled. Then Geralt returns from a fight with a cut that matches his and it all suddenly makes sense.

WORD COUNT: 1,268

BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/VIDEO GAME: Netflix Show

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Canon typical violence is referenced.

RATING: General

Read it below the cut, or on my AO3

Jaskier’s soulmate hadn’t gotten hurt in quite a while. Most people would be pleased by that. Jaskier knew better. His soulmate seemed to get antsy when his life wasn’t endangered frequently enough. After a dry spell, the injuries tended to be either much worse or much more plentiful. He was standing at the edge of a cave idly strumming his lute and wondering what the foolish man would get himself into this time. Maybe he’d go run into a haunted cave, like the other fool Jaskier had attached himself to had just done. To be fair, Geralt was more prepared than most to handle the wraith lurking there.

Maybe his soulmate was a witcher or something like it. It would make sense, with the amount of trouble he got into and his remarkable durability. Jaskier’s head snapped up from the chord progression he’d been toying with as a sharp flash of pain flared across his face. He whipped around, searching for some threat. The only sound was the muted clash of silver from inside the cave.

Think of the devil. Jaskier brushed his fingers across his cheek. They came back wet with blood. Not the worst he’d had by far, might even add to his dashing looks if it scarred. He wondered whether someone had thrown something at his soulmate, or if he’d been hit. Maybe he’d just tripped and had run into the corner of a table or something. Jaskier’s mind tended to go to violence first, and he felt he had enough evidence at this point to feel justified. One doesn’t exactly get bitten with the frequency his soulmate does without leading some sort of risk-prone life. Jaskier himself was quite risk-prone, and he’d been bitten no more than twice. Maybe three times, but he didn’t think jealous soon-to-be-exes counted.

His mystery man was often on his mind, but since he began traveling with Geralt, Jaskier had found his mind on him more and more often. The more he wandered, the more likely he was to run into him, but how would he know? It wasn’t like he was able to feel a bump or bruise, he’d have to get hurt enough to break skin in every village they stopped in and then compare wounds with every man around him. What if next time something took a bite of him, it was the last and they missed their chance? Both of them could end up bleeding out without ever meeting. Then Jaskier would be dead, likely by the side of the road, and he’d never know who he was. He hoped Geralt would at least bury him somewhere nice. And if he did find him, would he be able to settle down? Jaskier found the thought twisted his stomach. Him, keeping a little farm somewhere, singing locally. It just didn’t sit right. The thought of how Geralt would fare without him occurred and was quickly dismissed. He’d do just fine.

Geralt came out of the cave just then, as grumpy and dirty as usual, but not otherwise worse for wear. He pushed his hair back from his face. Fuck. A long, deep cut across his cheekbone. Unremarkable, except for its perfect mirror on Jaskier’s face. They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Fuck.” Jaskier pulled his dagger from his boot and dragged his sharply against his palm.

“Fuck.” Geralt held up his hand, bloody palm out like an offering, or as if warning off a wild animal.

“It’s you. We’re soulmates.”

Geralt dropped to his knees, and the poet would have laughed had his friend not looked so devastated.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” The words sounded like they’d been dragged over broken glass, and Jaskier was shocked his own throat didn’t hurt. “I thought...I assumed I’d killed you long ago.”

Jaskier sighed, “No luck there, I’m afraid. I live. Badly, I know, but I live.” Geralt’s stricken face was becoming entirely too much to bear. He reached down and hauled him up. “It’s not your fault, Geralt. None of it was your fault.”

“How are you so forgiving?”

Jaskier shrugged. “I’m not. Not at all. Actually, I’m quite vicious and vindictive.”

“Vindictive I’ll believe.”

The poet pressed the flat of his palm to Geralt’s lower back. He felt it like a brand through his thin shirt. His strong, delicate fingers unerringly traced the line running straight across his spine, then the one crossing it, and another and another, until he’s traced each of the fifteen lash marks that left scars across Geralt’s back like he had done it a thousand times before. He takes his time, but Geralt couldn’t have moved even if he’d wanted to, frozen as surely as if by magic.

“I would wake up in the middle of the night, after it happened, shaking from dreams where I’d tear the whip from the hands of whoever hurt you and turn it on them until their spine showed through. And I never felt in the least sorry for it.”

Geralt couldn’t help but shiver and lean into his touch, even as he ground out, “You didn’t know me, then. You didn’t know what I am.”

“That’s true. I didn’t know who you were, beyond someone who spent a lot of time hurting.” Jaskier’s hands mapped out Geralt’s life in wounds across his skin: claw marks along the outside of his thigh, the matching lines a little further up he’d put there himself, a bite to his shoulder just shy of his throat, the line Renfri had left across his forearm. “Now I know you.” His hands came up to hold his face between them so that he wouldn’t look away. Geralt wouldn’t. He hadn’t been able to for a long time. “Even if you weren’t my soulmate, I’d dream about revenge on your behalf, because you are a good man. Because I love you, which has nothing to do with the fact that we share our pain.”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“Can I kiss you now?”

“Yes, please.”

Geralt was so painfully gentle. Jaskier bit his lip sharply, drawing blood from both of them. He pulled away, pressing their foreheads together.

“I haven’t broken yet. You don’t have to be careful with me.”

“Maybe I want to be careful.”

Jaskier stepped back and Geralt let him go. “Why?” He looked at him, standing there with his swords and his armor, their blood smeared across his face, and he was suddenly angry. “I’m not weak. I can keep up with you, I’ve managed so far.”

“When have I ever said you’re weak?” Geralt tilted his head at him, like Roach did sometimes, like Jaskier had seen children do when they’re scolded but don’t understand why. “Frustrating, certainly. You’re frustrating right now. But you’re as brave as you are foolish and I’m just glad that you are alive.”

His anger left him as quickly as it had come, leaving guilt to rush into its place. “You know, before you came out here, I was trying to not think about how meeting my soulmate would mean giving up traveling with you.”

Geralt closed the space between them and kissed him like he was trying to make up for years of pain, reassurance and a promise all wrapped up in one. Jaskier kissed him back, soothing his tongue against the drop of blood welling on his lower lip. His fingers grazed against Geralt’s stubble-rough cheek and he flinched as they brushed the edge of the gash.

“Can I clean that up?” Jaskier twined their fingers together, pulling him towards Roach. “You don’t need another scar.”

#2020 geraskier week #geraskier #jaskier #Geralt #The Witcher #witcher #fanfic #mine #soulmate au

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breyito · 4 years

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the sharp edges of a flower

TITLE: the sharp edges of a flower

AUTHOR/ARTIST: @breyito (read also on AO3)

PROMPT DAY : Day 3- Protection for @geraskierweek

SUMMARY: Three times Jaskier protected Geralt without him knowing it.

WORD COUNT: ~1.8 k

BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/VIDEO GAME: Netflix show

TRIGGERS/WARNINGS: Angst, but mostly not. Hurt/Comfort. Violence, a bit.

RATING: Teen and up

ADDITIONAL NOTES: I wanted to do a 5+1, but it would never be finished, so I cut it here. I *might* write the rest, but I don’t make any promeses. Some fluff to balance the angst of yesterday lol. Tho the last one went away from me a bit and ended sad again. Sorry ñ.ñ Btw, I do like Yennefer, I just think the relationship between her and Geralt makes no sense. I think she knows what she wants and she can be very selfish (no hate there, so can I) but she's not good for Geralt, so... Oh! The two firsts are in the early stages of their relationship, the third in between those last years. I intended to do a couple more in the middle (and might, maybe, perhaps) so that it would flow better but...

Enjoy!

Jaskier is at the bar, flirting with a lovely lady in a break in his set, when something catches his attention. He overhears a drunkard happily proclaiming that one of the patrons of the tavern is going to poison the Witcher's drink; to see if they really are inmune to such things, as myth and rumours go.

Geralt is upstairs, still cleaning his armor (the bard had stayed until the man was clean, but the menial tasks of leather and sword mantainance were not something he cared for much); so he can't know what will happen when he comes down to have his earned supper.

Jaskier has learned by now that, unless this is a specialized poison Made by a mage, it won't kill the Witcher. It doesnt mean it won't hurt him, though. Humilliate him in front of the townspeople if he gets sick; which is no doubt one of the reasons why every one of the men in the table of this drunkard is laughing; and why the older barmaid is going along with it.

So, instead of causing a scene, he launches into another song; pulling all the barmaids to dance, spinning them around as he marches them to their tables.

He makes sure to spill a little bit of the poison he stashes in one of his rings in all the tankards going to that table (one of the cheapest ones, and a small enough dose that it shouldn't kill, just make them spend their coin in a healer instead of more beer) and distracts the old and bitter barmaid so that the poisoned drink ends in his hand.

If he gets pushed and ends up spilling the liquid over the man eagerly watching the Witcher drink his ale...

Well, he makes sure to act surprised and scared when the man's skin starts to sizzle and burn.

(The Witcher from then on insists on sniffing all the drinks he orders, in case somebody tries to poison the bard again; which causes Jaskier to melt a little, as well as laugh a bit on the inside).

He can see the way people are looking at the Witcher.

And it's allright, perhaps his song about the noble White Wolf has not gotten to this nowhere-town in the middle of this nowhere-kindom yet. But they needed the coin and the people here need a monster slain; so they keep their hate quiet and throw their glares just at their backs, instead of at their faces.

But Jaskier knows how to read a crowd; and he knows that if Geralt stops at the inn they are staying at before he goes to collect his payment they will be run out of town with hateful words and the promise of violence (that happened once, just once; because Jaskier promised himself that as long as he was by the Witcher's side it wouldn't happen again) and no payment. He knows that the people of this town believe themselves to be as important as the capital of their kingdom; despite the fact that Ard Carraigh was a few towns and villages away yet. And they had no problem following their King’s policies against non-humans; which was bad but not much different than in other places, like Cintra and the like. Usually though, those policies didn’ extend towards Witchers; but in this particular town they did. So Jaskier, while Geralt left on his own on a week long and dangerous hunt (not even taking Roach!), separated himself as much as possible from the Witcher, charming people left and right.

He plays people's favorites and requests: ballads about romance and heroic deeds, plays the joyful tunes that make patrons drink more and be more giving; and only mixes in a song about his muse per performance, when he has enough coin at his feet to at least pay for supper and a few other things.

He buys cured meats and dried fruits and stores up on flat bread and hard cheeses, vegetables and fats; flirts on with the market people (pretty lads and shy girls; amused mature women and harsh old ladies) and gets wine, soaps and candies for a lower price, and not double or triple like they would have demanded of the Witcher. It makes him a little sick; to flirt and smile at people that would spit on his friend's face; but he thinks that while this time he won't be able to provide Geralt with a soft bed he will at least be able to give him these little luxuries, and that is worth it; so he keeps at it.

When he hears the firsts whispers of the Witcher on his way back; he packs all of their stuff and saddles Roach after bribing her with some stolen apples (the vendor had tried to get him into his bed while insulting Geralt, so he had apologized profusely, citing a previous appointmet, while he snuck the best fruits for the mare, a big fake smile plastered on his face) and marches her down to the Alderman's house. Geralt sees him there and stops, and before the Witcher can get mad at him for touching his horse he starts to babble about sleeping with the butcher's daughter and the butcher's wife and the need to flee the town before he is found and butchered in a goresome fashion.

Geralt grumbles and curses him for the lack of a proper bath to get the filth of the hunt off him; but goes into the Aldermans house to get his coin anyways. He comes out, pouch in hand and mounts Roach and they leave.

He helps the witcher wash off in a stream later, under the warm sun; and it's paceful. He's gentle as he uses the sage soap he bought for the delicate nose of the man, and as he cleans then combs the silver hair with the same care he shows his previous lute. He insists the Witcher rests the rest of the day; to sleep. Then, when Geralt wakes up, Jaskier insists he uses the free time to clean his armor and blades, instead of packing up and setting camp again in a few hours. He uses the vegetables and some meat to make a sturdy stew as a treat; and snares and roasts two rabbits for dinner. If he lets Geralt believe he does all of this as a way to pay him back, well...that is his bussines and his bussines alone.

(The butcher had no daughter and had no wife. Because there was no butcher in this town.)

He protects Geralt from Yennefer once, incredibly. The Witcher is on a hunt (a nest of kikimoras and a new queen, so the bard stayed behind but the horse went along) when the witch shows up at the one tavern the bard happens to be performing at, of all the taverns in the whole city. It has been only three months since the last time they encountered her (and Gerlat has barely started to let him touch him with gentleness when he’s not injured, has just begun relaxing his shoulders and giving that barely-there smile of his that is so endearing Jaskier could die of tenderness) so Jaskier ends his set, finishes his drink like a shot and sits in front of her, and bluntly asks her what does she want to leave before the Witcher comes back.

The mage is amused and surprised; so she plays his game. She tells him she wants the silver dagger that the Witcher gave him a few years ago, for protection. She knows the emotional value that it has, she has seen how the bard sharpens it and always has it on him. She also knows its one of the only gifts the Witcher ever gave the bard, and how the bard cherises it.

He swallows but doesn’t hesitate to reach for the sheat and put the dagger on the table between them. Yennefer is surprised but smiles anyways, and starts to gently caress the blade; and mockingly asks how he will explain the loss of something so precious. Jaskier tells her that that’s not her problem, but if she wants to know; he will say he got attacked and defended himself, and the attacker left with the dagger still inside them. She laughs at his story, asks if he thinks the Witcher will buy it. Jaskier answers yes.

The mage then asks why he would part with this gift, when he surely knows they will just meet in another few weeks or moths; because at this point they all agree that whatever the Witcher and the Witch have between them is inescapable. He says that Geralt is not healed yet, that he needs a little more time before he’s ready for her to empty and crash his heart again. She flinches at this assesment; and when she tries to say that she loves him; Jaskier responds that she loves him because she knows she can use him and discard him and he will still be there the next time.

She waits a moment then asks, sickly sweet, that it’s the same way Geralt treats him, is it not? The bard laughs bitterly, but explains the difference: Yennefer knows Geralt will be there and does the things she does because of this; Geralt does it because he’s still testing him, because he doesn’t think Jaskier will still be there, believes he doesn’t deserve it. So how can the bard hold it against him; when it’s people like her that made him believe he’s unworthy of love and devotion?

The war of looks makes the place spark with tension, and even the most drunk of patrons is mostly quiet. Yennefer knows her eyes are swirling with chaos, yet the poet doesn’t back down, keeps looking and looking and looking at her. His eyes are determined, even as tears escape and his lashes shiver. He doesn’t look away. Eventually, she does. She grabs the dagger and stands up, leaving.

Jaskier is lucky Geralt is dizzy with blood loss and too many potions when he comes back; because even though he washed and changed clothes the man can still smell the fucking lilac; and it’s easier to spin a lie about the gorgeous perfume seller and the dagger that is still in the side of her brother when the Witcher’s senses are not at their best. It’s also easier to deal with the dissapoinment in the men’s eyes when the other is delirious and won’t smell his tears.

(The next time they meet the mage in a town she gives him a barely-there nod before she focuses all her attention on the Witcher. Jaskier still turns around and rents a room in the rundown inn at the other side of the town. He never sees his dagger again.)

#netflix witcher #2020 geraskier week #fanfiction #day 3 protection #the witcher #feral jaskier

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thatnerd-ontheinternet · 4 years

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Oh god they were soulmates

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #2020 geraskier week #day 1 soulmates #netflix witcher

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inkyspp · 4 years

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Sword & Song

TITLE: Sword & Song

AUTHOR/ARTIST: witchernbard || noxis (ao3)

PROMPT DAY #: #1 - soulmates

SUMMARY: In honor of Jaskier's name day, Empress Calanthe surprises the Nightingale Prince with a new villa and the title of lanista for he is to own and run the new Royal Gladiatorial Ludus with Mousesack's help. While at the arena, Jaskier meets a silent gladiator with the most emotive eyes and he soon discovers that this man could possibly be linked to him via the strange wolven soul mark on his chest. Geralt, a captured runaway who is said to be gifted by the gods, is now a gladiator for sale and will be sold off to the highest bidder whom he hopes its the kind brunet. Can Geralt win the crowd of Cintra over to his side and give them a show that they will never forget, or will he die trying?

WORD COUNT (if applicable): 4850

BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/VIDEO GAME: Netflix + Game

TRIGGERS/WARNINGS: Language

RATING: Teen & Up

ADDITIONAL NOTES: written for @geraskierweek

Jaskier looked from the barber to the man with the moon-silver hair and amber eyes. He studied him in his loincloth. He bears no soulmark. 'Already claimed...' The man is broad-shouldered, his body bearing slivers of scars, an experienced warrior. The man is also well-muscled with a tapering waist, thick, strong-looking legs and calves meaning he could definitely run some distance. His hands were veined and rough looking…

'Pretty much the perfect gladiator…' came the thought in his head. “I think you should keep his hair long,” Jaskier says taking in the unkempt mess.

“But the game master—”

“Is not a paying client,” Jaskier cuts him off as he easily shoos the barber off, “I rather like him with his hair worn long. Hand me a tie.”

“Of course sir,” the barber hastily replies as he scurries to grab a leather tie and give it to Jaskier.

“Don’t mind me,” Jaskier says as he cautiously approaches the warrior.

Silent amber eyes follow him.

Read the rest HERE!

#geraskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #2020 geraskier week #noxiswrites

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claracivry · 4 years

Link

Title: Bait

Author: ClaraCivry

Prompt # 2 Monster hunt

word count: 1709

books/netflix/show/video game: Netflix

triggers/warnings: none

Summary: They are using Jaskier as bait for a monster.

Geralt is worried.

Then afraid.

He really should have said all of those important things to Jaskier before his life was in immediate danger.

Additional notes: Written for @geraskierweek hope you enjoy!!

#geraskier #2020 geraskier week #my fics #geralt of rivia #jaskier #monster hunt #concern #cuteness #also dangerrrr #pls do comment if you read and likee

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thepetulantpen · 4 years

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TITLE: A Call To Motion

AUTHOR: thepetulantpen

PROMPT DAY: 8- Free Day

SUMMARY: A witch demands that Geralt attend a court dance in exchange for a rare ingredient. Geralt does not know how to dance. There is only one person who can help with this problem.

WORD COUNT: 3164

MEDIA: Netflix

WARNINGS: none!

RATING: G

NOTES: I’ve been having a chaotic week but I wanted to get in at least one submission for @geraskierweek ! This was a fun one!

“You’re kidding.”

“Jaskier—“

“No, no wait. Don’t answer that, let me pretend for a few more minutes.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and puts his hands over them, as if doing so will trap whatever image he’s picturing. With a soft growl of warning, Geralt grabs his wrist, trying to pull it away, but Jaskier twists out of his grip. Geralt lets him, allowing a short tug of war, and smiles, broader while Jaskier can’t see him and tease him.

When he thinks he’s given Jaskier ample opportunity to put up a fight, he puts a fraction of his strength into pulling, easily removing Jaskier’s hands. Jaskier pouts dramatically, but the effect is ruined when he doesn’t quite manage to stifle a laugh at Geralt’s face.

“Oh ho, no. That’s one of your serious faces.”

“I don’t kid, Jaskier. You know that.”

“Mm,” Jaskier brings his hands up to frame Geralt’s face- his grimace, rather- and grins, “Is that why you look like you’re about to fight a den full of wyverns?”

“I’d prefer that, actually.”

“Of course you would.” Jaskier shakes his head and his eyes go skyward, praying for strength in the impossible task he’s about to undertake. “And they say I’m the dramatic one of our little duo.”

Geralt frowns- the sort of frown Jaskier identifies as just between annoyed and angry, undecided on whether it’s genuine or not. “I’m starting to regret coming to you for this.”

“Nonsense! For one, I don’t believe you know a single other person who can dance.”

“Yen—“

“The sort of dance appropriate for court, mind you.” Jaskier shudders, like the mere thought of the sorceress is too terrible to bear, though the gesture has lost much of its bite since he and Yennefer have become… used to each other. “Besides, I’m not just your only option, I’m your best.”

“Is that right? Did I miss your classical dancing certification in your list of achievements?”

“Probably. It’s such a long list, you can’t really be blamed for getting a little lost.” Jaskier throws an arm around Geralt’s shoulders and is delighted to find not only that the contact is allowed, but that the witcher follows him as he guides them out of the room. “Now, enough procrastinating. We have a lot of work to do before you’re ready to impress a mage with your footwork.”

Geralt groans, managing to sound more miserable than he had in his near death throes after a battle with an especially stubborn kikimora.

“Oh, hush. I’m an excellent teacher, you’ll be just fine in my capable hands.”

Somehow, Geralt doesn’t seem particularly reassured.

…

“Geralt, if you step on my foot there’s a high probability you’ll break my toes and then neither of us will be dancing.”

Geralt only growls in response, though he does pay more attention to his feet, concentrating completely on copying Jaskier’s movement without overstepping. These steps are unnatural and stilted, nothing like the fluidity of a fight. He has to think about every step, constantly detangling his jumbled memories of the footwork required for rigid royal dances.

“I don’t understand why there has to be so many damn steps- fuck!”

Geralt steps forward at the same Jaskier is meant to and he sees disaster as his boot hovers- either he’ll lose his balance, or Jaskier will get stepped on- but the bard, graceful as always, steps neatly out of the way. Dodging Geralt’s step necessitates a jump backwards, and Jaskier makes it look natural, like it was part of the dance all along. It’s hard to even look past Jaskier’s confidence long enough to scrutinize the steps.

Jaskier’s face doesn’t change from the calm focus he’s maintained throughout all the stumbling up to this point and he doesn’t pause in his dancing as he gently corrects Geralt’s stance, setting him back on course.

“You were supposed to move back, there. Remember? Forward, back—“

“I can’t do this.”

Geralt stops abruptly and Jaskier’s momentum carries him forward, bringing him crashing into Geralt’s chest. The witcher doesn’t move, solid as a stone wall, and Jaskier scowls up at him. It’s an uncharacteristic expression, surprisingly annoyed, with only bare traces of joking.

“You can. You’re just so concerned with being right that you don’t want to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t want to be proven wrong and admit that you really are capable of dancing. Because if you are-“

Jaskier pushes forward, sending Geralt backward a step, then uses his hands on Geralt’s waist and shoulder to guide him into a sidestep. There’s not enough strength in it to truly force the movement, but the pressure triggers Geralt’s instincts and leaves him following the suggestions of Jaskier’s hands without knowing what he’s doing. Quickly, before Geralt’s stubborn muscles recover their senses, Jaskier does something complicated with his footing, stepping into Geralt’s space in a way that gives him no choice but to pivot.

Geralt blinks when they stop moving, surmising, from hindsight and Jaskier’s smug smirk, that they’ve managed the turn he’s been missing. Pulled it off quite nicely, actually.

“-then that means the bard was right.”

Jaskier eases his grip on Geralt’s shoulder and relaxes again, getting back into form as comfortably as he slips on his doublet in the morning. He speaks again, softer, “Let’s just try again, ok?”

Geralt frowns down at their feet but obediently shuffles back into place, lining up with Jaskier. He tries, best as he can, to relax his hands as well, releasing some of the tension that’s found a home there.

“We’ve already tried ten times. I’m not getting any better.”

It’s odd to hear Geralt almost…insecure. Sure, he’s masked it with a healthy amount of frustration, but Jaskier knows a vulnerability when he sees it. Geralt must too- with how accustomed he is to finding gaps in armor and old scars hiding weak spots- but he’s not accustomed to someone being there to help him with his vulnerabilities, to guard where his armor cannot reach.

“Think of it as a new monster to learn. Did you fell your first selkiemore in one slash?”

Geralt scoffs, too loud to overcompensate for the smile creeping onto his face. “I haven’t felled any selkiemores in one slash, it takes a few hacks at least—“

“Exactly. We just have to keep hacking at this until you get it down.” Point proven, Jaskier starts the dance up again, slow on the opening steps. “Would it be easier to remember the steps if I put them to song?”

At the lack of immediate response, Jaskier looks up to find Geralt’s standard frown, but no open refusal. In fact, there’s a sort of grudging acceptance written across the concentration in his furrowed brow. Jaskier takes that as explicit permission and starts composing.

…

“This one is worse.”

Geralt picks at the front of the jacket Jaskier has given him, working the embroidered silk between his fingers. It matches the pants, creating a sophisticated but modest silver-grey color palette.

It’s not worse in quality, not like the ill-fitting sad silk trader of Cintra, but it’s worse to look in a mirror and see something nice. Too nice, not like anything Geralt should be allowed to wear, a lie to cover the scars and distract from the fangs.

“You don’t mean that!” Jaskier looks hurt, genuine as if Geralt had insulted his singing. “Do you know how much extra the tailor charged for the ‘challenging proportions’? You’re a very difficult man to fit, and I had to find fabric that wasn’t too gaudy—“

“I was kidding. It’s nice, Jaskier.”

“Kidding,” Jaskier scoffs and lowers his voice into an imitation of Geralt’s, “I don’t kid, Jaskier.”

Jaskier looks sideways at him, presumably to voice more complaints, but his face breaks into a grin at the sight of Geralt’s smirk.

“There. That’s the face you’ll need; just keep that up for the rest of the night.”

Reflexively, Geralt frowns at the prospect, but Jaskier catches his face before he can and uses his fingers to push it back into a smile. Jaskier is lucky is Geralt so focused on remaining calm tonight; any other day such antics would be too much.

As it is now, Geralt limits himself to batting away Jaskier’s hands, and the smile returns, without force.

Jaskier takes his hand and squeezes once, the gesture small but meaningful. It says I’ve got you and you’ve got this in no words at all, a different medium than Jaskier usually prefers to communicate with, though he’s just as skilled in silence.

Then, he lets go and tilts his head in the direction of the entrance, where others in formal dress are lining up. He’d never admit it, but Geralt’s stomach sinks in anticipation; he hasn’t felt so much dread since the striga.

“Let’s get this over with, yes? When we get back, I’ll pay for ale- the good stuff, I hear they serve Temarian in one of the local taverns.”

Jaskier and his layers of mindless conversation (the words form around them almost like an armor of normalcy that keeps Geralt from direction contact with the unknown) lead the way, as he marches confidently into the castle. It’s akin to having a guide in an unfamiliar town- though, Geralt has never had any sort of guide that could be called kind, like Jaskier.

With Jaskier as his buffer, Geralt is almost comfortable diving into the crowd of noisy, smelly strangers.

Strangers who quiet as they enter the room, all eyes suddenly on them.

Geralt is no stranger to stares, but he’s rarely had to face them like this: unarmed and unarmored, with no allies but a bard. Some animal- or witcher- instinct is insisting on flight, and a voice in his mind is telling him that a few stones to the back would hurt without any leather to deflect them.

Jaskier is, unsurprisingly, completely unphased. He even waves, cheerfully, to a few people he recognizes- likely from their bedrooms.

“Smile, Geralt,” Jaskier elbows him lightly, “You’re about to show these people something they have never and will never see again in their lives.”

“Terrible dancing?”

“No, they’ve probably seen themselves in a mirror,” Jaskier laughs at his own joke, the sort of laugh he reserves for parties like this where he needs to be heard and perform, in every sound he makes, “I meant a dancing witcher. That’s a first, and honestly I’m thrilled that I’ll be here to see history in the making.”

Geralt glances around at the clusters of fine silks and too many sparkles. There are, indeed, quite a few staring with open curiosity. They almost outnumber the disgusted sneers.

“This I have to see.”

“Who even let it in?”

“Haven’t you heard? The mage has some sort of business.”

Whispering around a witcher is never wise, but Geralt supposes not even monsters are exempt from the gossip of the courts. Really, it’s less nasty than he expected, though it makes sense that not many are willing to openly question the mage, one of the only things scarier than a witcher to any man with sense.

His attention flickers between conversations and jumps over various uninteresting characters. A few stand out with their glares directed at Jaskier, rather than Geralt, but no one more interesting than the woman that the crowds part for.

She’s dressed far more elaborately than everyone else, wearing a red dress that betrays sentimentality for a long lost time and hints at her true age hidden by the unchanging beauty of a mage. Nobody dares approach her with pleasantries or question her choice of starting spot on the dance floor. The man she’s hooked arms with, chosen as her first dancing partner, looks beyond dazed, almost too out of it to walk, let alone dance.

“That’s her, right?” Jaskier huffs something between a laugh and a sigh, “You’ll be here all night if she’s planning on starting over there.”

Geralt must look horrified at the idea because Jaskier is quick to placate, waving his hands. “But you’ll be fine, of course. Just like we practiced.”

“Only now I’ll have to do it with dozens of strangers.”

“Dozens of strangers who are too terrified of you to critique your dancing. Come on, let’s find partners before we wind up getting pushed off the floor.”

Jaskier must have some supernatural sense of these things because as soon as they approach the forming lines, the music takes a turn toward serious and people gravitate toward their first dancing partners. He pulls them in the direction of two unpartnered ladies, pushing Geralt into the more disoriented of the two. It takes her much longer than appreciated to take his offered hand.

With their position, Geralt can tell he’ll be dancing beside Jaskier for a while and that he’ll switch with him first. After that, he’ll be on his own in a spinning mass of dancers. The thought makes him dizzy before they even start moving.

The mage is starting in the opposite corner, purposefully far away from the witcher. It’ll take quite a few switches before he dances with her and can claim his reward.

“Sick sense of humor, that one. Though, that’s not particularly uncommon in sorceresses,” Jaskier snorts, “At least she’s not asking for your liver, or something.”

“That’s be easier. Less painful.”

“And it’d make it pretty hard to have an ale, I imagine.” Jaskier’s lady nudges him, unhappy with the amount of attention she’s getting. He turns, an apology on his lips, but stops halfway through, looking back once more at Geralt, “Relax, witcher. You’ll do great.”

Jaskier’s gaze leaving him feels like armor falling away, a blanket being ripped off, a safety net snipped. He’s alone, with no one to check his footwork and tell him he’s doing it right.

The music starts and he doesn’t have any more time to lament the traditions of court that keep him a few steps away from Jaskier, or his own poor decisions that landed them here in the first place.

It does turn out to be pretty similar to a den of monsters- if a den of monsters had more variety than the deadliest menagerie. Every partner seems to have a different rhythm and just as soon as he’s used to it, he’s moving onto the next. There’s spinning and switching and footwork that nearly gets away from him more than once.

Soon, he falls into a dead focus he usually reserves for life and death struggles, mind running too fast for him to think. He lets the muscle memory Jaskier helped him build- and, yes, the song he composed to help him remember the pattern of steps- to guide him almost mindlessly across the floor and into the waiting arms of the sorceress.

She smiles against him chest, closer than she’s supposed to be for a polite, formal dance. They rock back and forth, steps unfaltering.

“Very good show, witcher.” A hand leaves his waist and returns with a small, glittering vial produced from gods only know where. “It’s a shame it was over so soon, but here are the ingredients, as promised. Perhaps I’ll be seeing you at the next dance?”

At the look on Geralt’s face, she laughs and leans in, too close again. “Next time you run out, then?”

“Hm.”

Another thin laugh and she’s releasing him for the final bow. He hadn’t realized before, with the blood roaring in his ears, but the orchestra has been winding down and plays its final flourish now, welcomed by thunderous applause.

Geralt removes himself from the floor quicker than humanly possible, pausing only once to make sure his bard is following.

…

“It wasn’t all bad,” at Geralt’s expression, Jaskier amends, “It could’ve been worse.”

“Sure,” Geralt sits down on the bed next to Jaskier, silently distributing the food he’d brought up, ”We could’ve been swarmed by vampires.”

“That would’ve been an interesting story.”

“Thought you’d be satisfied with the once in a lifetime opportunity of seeing a witcher dance?”

Jaskier hums, a sound he’s subconsciously adopted from Geralt. His is less a grunt and more a soft note, nearly musical, but it serves the same loosely affirmative purpose.

“Lucky for you, I can spin anything into an epic ballad.”

Geralt knows. He’s heard seven drafts of a song that seems to be entirely about his eyes.

“Lucky me.”

Jaskier ignores his comment, keeping his eyes on his notebook. There’re lyrics scribbled there, crossed out and written over in fresh ink, though Geralt has no idea when he’d found the time to start a song.

Lute in hand, Jaskier starts a… familiar tune. It’s a new song, definitely, and yet—

It reminds him of the steps of the dance. Back and forth, then switch, turn- the same tune Jaskier put the steps to, except the lyrics have been transformed from directions to the story of a dancing witcher.

The words themselves aren’t especially important, too filled with metaphor and embellishment to bother with, so Geralt’s attention sticks more closely to Jaskier’s face as he composes, nose scrunching slightly when he has to revise the lyrics while he sings. It’s a similar expression to his concentration as he worked with Geralt’s clumsy dancing.

“Did you know it’s incredibly hard to rhyme your name? For someone so favored by Destiny, she sure made you difficult to sing about.”

“Maybe she’s not a fan of music.”

“That would definitely explain a few things.”

Jaskier stands, crossing the room to the window, and looks back at Geralt, who follows before he can think of a reason why. Standing next to each other in dim moonlight, Jaskier studies Geralt’s face, searching for something Geralt couldn’t guess at.

“Nonetheless, I’m not as easily satisfied as the general masses.” Jaskier takes a step forward into Geralt’s space, testing the waters, and Geralt doesn’t move, watching curiously. “I won’t settle for just the song. I’ll be wanting another dance- for research purposes, of course. Can’t quite capture the imagery with just one showing.”

“Are you going to give me some wyvern heartstrings in exchange?”

“No, but if you don’t dance with me, then I’ll be demanding other forms of payment for the lessons.”

Geralt rolls his eyes but shifts a half step forward, moving from his usual stiff stance into something looser for dancing. “Dare I ask?”

“Best not to, honestly.” Jaskier lifts a hand, presenting it as he would at a dance. At court, it would be a formality, not really a question, but here it is an invitation with weight. “The longer you leave me hanging, the longer I have to think of a nastier favor to ask.”

Geralt hums, takes offered Jaskier’s offered hand, and puts a hand on his waist. Jaskier smiles up at him and takes the lead, as he did in their practice.

“Not a hard choice, then.”

“Not a hard choice at all, witcher.”

#2020 geraskier week #netflix witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #if i have time i might double back and write some late submissions #but ive been struggling to write anything this week #oh well

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three-words-or-less · 4 years

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A late entry for Geraskier Week!

Title: The Meaning of Farewells

Author: Shagouti

Prompt day #: 5, Realisation

Summary:

"We part ways, bard. For good." "I saved your life, Jaskier. You're on your own now." "Fuck off, bard."

It hurts to hear these words. Until it stops hurting.

Word count: 2206

Books/Netflix/2002 show/Video game: Netflix

Triggers/warnings: None

Rating: G

Additional notes: Better late than never! English is not my first language and I'll be grateful to hear about any grammar mistakes etc.

#2020 geraskier week #geraskier week #geraskier #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #the witcher #the witcher netflix #geralt x jaskier #day 5 realisation

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scented-books · 4 years

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Geraskier Week! 2020

Each day will be linked on this post and directed to AO3 :)

Day 1 : Soulmates :Mirrored (My name is Written in Bold) WC: 1044

Netflix Show, Rating: Mature – specifically for Geralt's thoughts lmao

Day 2: Monster Hunt: Would you rather be the Hunter? (Or the Prey?) WC: 1037

Netflix Show, Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Day 3: Protection: I Can’t Escape This now(Unless you show me how)

WC: 1472 Netflix Show, Rating: Mature

Day 4: Hurt/Comfort: Heights Unseen WC: 1137

Netflix Show, Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Day 5: Realization: I Didn’t Mean to do it (To Love You) WC: 2625

Netflix Show, Rating: Explicit: Warnings apply

Day 6:

Day 7:

Day 8

Additional Notes: Written for @geraskierweek

#geralt z rivii #geraskier #gerlion #Jaskier #geraskier week #2020 geraskier week

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ahh-fxck · 2 years

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Warrior’s Blues Masterpost

Warrior’s Blues is a modern AU set in 1995. Geralt is an ex soldier who was cast out of the Army under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Jaskier is the owner of a gay bar. When Geralt’s car breaks down and he wanders into Jaskier’s bar, neither of them have any idea how much their lives are about to change...

First of all, a thank you to the co-creator and beta of this fic, @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog. They’ve helped turn this into a really fun story to read, and I rely on them to keep me on track! This fic wouldn’t be here without you friend, thanks a million.

Warning: This fic is explicit. PTSD, Alcohol, Whump, Suicidal thoughts/tendencies, and other triggering topics can be found within. Specific tags on Ao3

There is also lots of found family, smut, and love.

Pairings: Geralt x Jaskier, Geralt x Yennefer, Geralt + Yennefer (You’ll see what I mean)

Rating: E

Status: In Progress

Ao3 link: Warrior’s Blues

CHAPTER LIST AND IMAGES BELOW

Some brief notes before we begin:

Warrior’s Blues started as a response to Geraskier Pride Week 2020. I thought it was going to be a short, relatively easy fic to write when I first cracked open that fresh, shiny new word document. AS IT TURNS OUT I WAS WRONG. This story has evolved into a meditation on Pride, on otherness, healing, love, and found family. I’ve done my best to feature gay and queer artists of yore in the story, so you’ll find the occasional vintage photo tucked amongst the pages. In fact, all of the research I’ve done has split the seams of this story at this point so I’ve decided to include some of it in the #warriors blues tag. If you search it, you will come across hidden gems of queer tumblr in amongst the story chapters. I will also occasionally post about pieces of media that I discover as I research. Those can be found in my #warriors blues media stream tag.

I am a giant nerd and I am hoping someone else enjoys all the shinies I’m racking up as much as I do. In that light, I sincerely hope you enjoy the extras.

Now. That being said... onward!

Chapter 1: Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 2: Do I Look Like I Have A Permit? Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 3: Private Entry Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 4: I Need a Hospital Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 5: Fire Island Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 6: I Wanted to Get Lost, So I Got Lost In You Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 7: Fire and Ice Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 8: I’ve Met Your Idiot Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 9: Mockingbird Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 10: Glass Windows Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 11: What Would I Do Without You? Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 12: A Chance Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 13: A Choice Tumblr - Ao3

Chapter 14: Yes is Just The Beginning Tumblr - Ao3

To Be Continued...

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #witcher fic #witcher fanfiction #geraskier modern au #geralt #jaskier #yennefer #modern au #witcher modern gay bar au #warriors blues #warrior's blues masterpost

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sherylholmes · 4 years

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Title: Siren at Sunset

Artist: @sherylholmes

Prompt Day: Day 8 (Free Day)

Summary: Siren Jaskier basks in the setting sun when he is happened upon by Geralt. (Geralt off-screen)

Books/Netflix/Show/Video Game: Netflix more than anything. I tried to fashion his facial features after Joey Batey.

Triggers/Warning: Shirtlessness???

Rating: Everyone

Additional Notes:

So, I drew a thing for @geraskierweek.

Geralt isn't in the pic, technically, but I wanted a Creature!Jaskier image where Geralt happened upon Jaskier as a siren, chillin' on a beach with his lute at sunset. And Geralt being confused af.

I wish it looked more like Joey Batey, but I did my best, ya'll.

#jaskier #the witcher #the witcher netflix #geraskier #geraskier week 2020 #not actually sure if this counts for geraskier week because geralt is off-screen #jaskier is lookin up at him tho #geraskier art #creature!jaskier #siren jaskier #joey batey is hard to draw #fandom art #merman!jaskier #2020 geraskier week #original art #sheryl holmes fanart

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splendidlyimperfect · 4 years

Link

title: i’ll let you in (but i’m so scared of what you’ll see) author: splendidlyimperfect prompt #: day 3 (protection) summary: Geralt is weird about touch, and Jaskier is determined to find out why. word count: 2804 books/netflix/show/video game: netflix triggers/warnings: geralt has some issues with consent but it’s a theme not an event rating: teen and up additional notes: touching, consent issues, explicit consent, hair washing/brushing, minor injuries, hand holding, emotional hurt/comfort

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Geralt is weird about touch.

Jaskier expects him to hate it. He’s been around plenty of people in his travels, and Geralt seems like the kind of person who would break someone’s wrist before letting them hold his hand. Not that Jaskier’s tried to hold his hand – he’s brash, not stupid. But he’s an affectionate person, and that extends to Geralt, even by accident.

The thing is, Geralt doesn’t seem to mind. At first, it’s little things – a hand on the small of Geralt’s back when he passes by, a light touch on his forearm when Jaskier’s telling a story, bumping shoulders or knocking feet under a table. Jaskier is allowed to grab Geralt’s arm for balance or sit next to him at the campfire with their thighs pressed together.

What’s even stranger is that Geralt seems to like it. He’ll tip his head into Jaskier’s hand while Jaskier is washing his hair or lean in when Jaskier sits next to him and puts a hand on his knee. He never says anything and neither does Jaskier, but it becomes a sort of routine for them.

Continue reading on AO3

And that would be the end of the story, except for two strange things that leave Jaskier feeling unsettled. One, Geralt is never the one to initiate the touch. Ever. It’s not that Geralt won’t touch Jaskier, it’s just that whenever he does, it’s only for long enough to get him out of harm’s way. Geralt will grab Jaskier’s shoulder and drag him away from monsters or lift Jaskier onto Roach when he’s cold and sick. He’ll push Jaskier out of the way of danger, help him up a difficult climb with a hand on his elbow, or pull him away from the edge of something dangerous by the back of his doublet.

But when Jaskier is not in immediate danger, Geralt won’t touch him. In fact, sometimes it’s the exact opposite, and he’ll go out of his way to not touch Jaskier which ends up with them doing some sort of ridiculous dance around the campfire or the room at the inn to give each other space.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier tries to say one time when Geralt holds onto his arm for a few seconds too long after catching him tripping over a rock, then pulls back like he’s been burned. “What’s wrong?”

Geralt grunts and shakes his head, then stalks off to collect more firewood.

Jaskier sighs and continues to set up camp.

The second thing that Jaskier notices is that even when Geralt is uncomfortable with being touched, he never says ‘no.’ The first time it happens, they’re in an inn in some town with a name that Jaskier can’t remember. Jaskier’s off playing for the crowd when he sees a young woman leaning against Geralt’s table, her hand resting on his shoulder as she talks to him. Jaskier can’t see Geralt’s face from where he’s standing, but he knows, somehow, that Geralt is not happy about this.

When he tries to bring it up later that night, Geralt stares at him blankly, then shrugs before rolling over and going to sleep.

After that, Jaskier sees it more often. A lord will leave his hand on Geralt’s arm for too long and Geralt’s jaw will tighten, but he won’t push the man away. Some drunkard in the tavern will slap Geralt’s shoulder and while his expression will shift to something unpleasant, he won’t remove the offending hand (with his sword or otherwise).

So Jaskier waits and watches. He’s more careful with his touches – he would absolutely never touch Geralt if he said ‘no,’ Jaskier is not that kind of man and it makes him sick to think about it. But while Geralt never says ‘no,’ he also never touches Jaskier, and the whole thing is a confusing clusterfuck that Jaskier is determined to figure out.

“You,” Jaskier says one evening after Geralt returns to their room at the inn, drenched in something reddish-brown that Jaskier doesn’t want to think about, “need a bath.”

“Hm.”

Eloquent as ever. Jaskier rolls his eyes, gesturing to the hot water he’s already had prepared. Geralt has been tense and grouchy all day, and Jaskier’s hoping that, in addition to washing off the monster guts, a bath will help him relax.

Geralt sighs when he sinks into the warm water, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. His hair is tangled and full of things Jaskier would rather not think about, and it desperately needs to be washed. Normally, Jaskier would sit down and start scrubbing without a second thought, but now he pauses.

“Can I help you?” he asks, sitting down on the stool next to the tub. Geralt opens an eye and frowns at him. “With your hair,” Jaskier clarifies, gesturing to the tangled mess.

“You always help me,” Geralt says, which isn’t exactly the response Jaskier’s looking for.

“Well, yes,” Jaskier says, leaning onto the edge of the tub but not touching Geralt. “But you’ve been a bit… touchy today.” He flicks water at Geralt’s chest. “You scowled so hard at the innkeeper that I was certain he was going to faint.”

Geralt’s brow furrows further. “How is that related to bathing?” he asks.

“No, not…” Jaskier sighs. “I thought perhaps you’d appreciate some space.”

“Space?”

“Yes, Geralt. If you’d prefer to be alone, I can leave for a bit. Not all night, mind you – it’s been a week since I’ve slept in a bed and I’ll be damned if I spend another—”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with my hair.”

Jaskier sighs. “Look, when I’m in a mood – and you are in a mood, don’t try to deny it – I don’t always want people touching me. It’s suffocating, sometimes. Which is why I’m asking if you want my help or would prefer to be left alone.”

Geralt doesn’t answer right away. The perplexed expression stays on his face and he looks down at the surface of the water, then back up at Jaskier. “I… like it when you help me.”

Jaskier tries to keep a smile from stealing across his face. “I like helping you,” he says, dipping his fingers in the water and splashing some at Geralt.

“So…”

“Do you want me to help you?”

“I just said I did.”

“You didn’t, though,” Jaskier says, shaking his head. “You said you liked it. Just because you like something doesn’t mean you want it all the time.” He can feel the confused frustration radiating from Geralt, so he tries different tactic. “Like wine, for example. I love wine, it’s delicious and makes me feel good, but some days I just don’t want it, or perhaps I’ve had too much, or maybe I’ve eaten something that doesn’t agree with me and—”

“Jaskier.”

“Right, yes, sorry. My point is that sometimes I don’t want wine, even though I like it, so when someone asks me if I want some, I say ‘no.’ Even if last time I said ‘yes.’”

Geralt is quiet for a long time, eventually letting out a sigh and nudging Jaskier’s hands in the water. “Yes,” he says roughly. “I want your help.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says, giving Geralt a bright smile. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

After that, Geralt is slightly more vocal about what he wants. If he notices that Jaskier asks him for permission nearly every time they touch, he doesn’t mention it. He rarely says ‘no,’ which Jaskier takes as a good sign, but Geralt still won’t initiate touch. Jaskier gives him plenty of opportunities – leaving his hand settled between them while sitting by the campfire, sitting close but not quite touching at a table – but Geralt never makes a move.

Two weeks later, Jaskier finally gets an answer. They’re fighting an ankheg, which is basically a cross between an enormous praying mantis and the things from Jaskier’s worst nightmares – and Jaskier nearly loses his right ear. Geralt makes short work of the creature, then slings Jaskier’s arm over his shoulder and helps him back to camp, cursing under his breath the whole time.

“’s not so bad,” Jaskier says weakly, wincing as he leans back against a stone. Geralt grunts, taking Jaskier’s hand and pressing it against the torn shirt over the wound.

“Stay here.”

“Ah, yes,” Jaskier says, using his other hand to wipe away the blood dripping over his eye. “I was planning on going… to… a place…”

“Jaskier.” Geralt reappears, crouching down in front of Jaskier. “Be quiet.”

“Look,” Jaskier says, but he can feel the words softening and slurring as they slip from his lips. “I…”

Geralt shushes him again. “Hold still,” he says. “This will hurt.” Then gently removes the shirt from the wound and, before Jaskier can protest, tips the wineskin over it to rinse it.

“Son of a—” Jaskier grits his teeth, grabbing Geralt’s forearm and breathing heavily through his nose.

“It’s not too deep,” Geralt says roughly. “Only a few sutures.”

“Lovely,” Jaskier mumbles, then falls forward against Geralt and faints.

When he comes to, Jaskier is warm and comfortable. He’s covered with a blanket and laying against something soft, and he can feel gentle fingers combing through his hair. When he cracks one eye open, it takes him a second to orient himself and realize that he’s lying near the fire with his head in Geralt’s lap.

As soon as Geralt realizes Jaskier’s awake, he tenses.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, pulling his hand away from Jaskier’s hair. He starts to shuffle away and Jaskier reaches up, grabbing his wrist and stopping him.

“Geralt,” he says slowly, staring up into dark, uncertain eyes. “It’s okay.”

Geralt doesn’t look convinced. “You kept moving,” he says roughly, tugging at Jaskier’s grasp on his wrist. “In your sleep. I didn’t want you to tear the sutures.”

Jaskier winces at the mention of the wound behind his ear, but he pushes away the dull pain to focus on the incredibly uncomfortable expression on Geralt’s face.

“What’s wrong?” he asks gently. Geralt opens his mouth, then closes it again, then turns away and glares at the fire as if it’s somehow at fault for this predicament. “Geralt.” He grunts and refuses to look back at Jaskier. “Why do you hate touching me?”

That drags Geralt’s gaze back, but now the uncertainty in his expression is muddied with confusion. “What?”

“You hate touching me,” Jaskier says again. It’s strange, looking at Geralt upside down, but Jaskier’s sure that if he moves, Geralt will run away and they’ll never talk about this again. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” The answer is quick and decisive.

“Then why are you pulling away?”

“I’m—”

“I like it,” Jaskier says, hoping the hot flush in his cheeks is obscured by the dim light of the fire. “I like you touching my hair. It’s nice.” He makes sure Geralt is looking at him before adding, “I want you to.”

Geralt huffs. “I’m not…” He growls, rubbing his face. “I’m not like you.”

Jaskier frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not…” He sighs, staring down at Jaskier’s hand on his wrist. “Gentle.”

“You’re not gentle?”

“Mm.”

Jaskier is quiet for a moment, studying Geralt’s face. “Why would you say that?”

Geralt mumbles something that Jaskier doesn’t quiet catch.

“Geralt, you have to—”

“I’m not human,” Geralt growls, pulling his hand away. “My hands are for killing and hunting and breaking things. They hold swords and break bones and choke the life from monsters. They—”

“Save lives,” Jaskier interrupts, slowly pushing himself up until he’s kneeling in front of Geralt. He reaches out and takes Geralt’s hand in both of his, holding it between them and running his thumbs across Geralt’s palm. “Geralt, you’re not a monster.”

“Tell that to everyone else.”

“I do!” Jaskier insists. “All the time! Do you even listen to the songs I write?”

“They’re just stories,” Geralt grumbles, shaking his head. “None of it—that’s not how it happens.”

“Not always,” Jaskier concedes. “That’s because the truth isn’t always ballad-worthy. But you are.”

Geralt makes a frustrated sound but doesn’t pull away from Jaskier’s gentle touch.

“The fact that you’re worried about hurting me proves that you’re not a monster,” Jaskier says, curling Geralt’s fingers over his. “Your hands do wonderful things. They build fires to keep us warm, they feed Roach, they carry me out of danger, they sew up wounds. They save people.” He carefully brings Geralt’s hand up to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the knuckles. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be,” Geralt insists, but he doesn’t pull away. “Everyone else is.”

“Everyone else is an idiot,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes. “And you are too, if you think you’re some broken monster who only hurts things. I trust you with my life. You’ve never given me any reason not to. In fact, I feel safer with you than without you.”

Geralt is quiet for a long time. The only indication that he’s been listening is the way he tips his hand and begins to slowly run his thumb across Jaskier’s knuckles, but it’s enough.

“You feel safe with me,” he says eventually, gaze still focused on the fire. It’s not really a question, but Jaskier nods anyway, just in case. “You enjoy me touching you.” Another nod. “And you like… touching me, as well?”

“Yes, but only if you want me to.”

“Like the wine,” Geralt replies, nodding thoughtfully.

“Yes.” Jaskier chews on his bottom lip, hoping that the look on Geralt’s face means he understands. “Yes, like the wine. And if you never wanted… wine again, that would be fine. Wine isn’t necessary, it’s just nice, but I also like water. So if I was thirsty, I wouldn’t necessarily need…” He trails off, frowning.

“Your metaphor is confusing,” Geralt says helpfully.

“Yes, I’m starting to realize that,” Jaskier says. “What I mean is that you don’t owe me – or anyone – anything.”

Geralt contemplates the statement. “You’re kind to me,” he says, voice low as he keeps his eyes on the fire, just past Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier’s heart crumples a little. “I’m kind to you because it’s the right thing to do and you deserve it,” he says gently. “Not because I’m trying to… get in your pants, or anything like that.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Pants?”

Jaskier huffs. “Honestly, if you don’t know how I feel about you by this point, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.” He frowns at Geralt. “You do know, don’t you?”

“I might,” Geralt says uncertainly. His thumb is still rubbing absently across Jaskier’s knuckles.

“Well, just so that we’re crystal clear,” Jaskier says, “I care for you. I’m very fond of you, in fact, and I enjoy touching you – if you want me to – and I enjoy it when you touch me.” Geralt doesn’t say anything, but Jaskier’s fairly certain he can see a hint of a smile at the corner of Geralt’s lips. “And,” Jaskier adds, sitting back on his heels, “even if you never wanted me to touch you, I would still care for you. My feelings aren’t dependent on… this.” He gestures at their joined hands.

Geralt is silent for a while, then exhales in a quiet hum. Jaskier sees right through it to the question underneath – you trust me?

“I do,” he says, laughing at the look of surprise on Geralt’s face.

“Hm.”

“Yes.”

A yawn catches Jaskier by surprise and he realizes, suddenly, how exhausted he is.

“Right,” he says, rubbing his face. “I think that’s enough talking for now, don’t you? Of course you do, you think anything more than monosyllables is too much.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, then leans back against the log. There’s a silent question in the way he doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand.

“I would very much like it,” Jaskier says, “if I could sleep with my head in your lap and you would touch my hair like you were doing before. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes,” Geralt says.

“And perhaps,” Jaskier adds lightly as he settles down, “tomorrow you might let me kiss you.”

Geralt doesn’t answer at first, just settles down and starts to run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. The touch is so careful that Jaskier barely feels it – like Geralt thinks Jaskier might break if he pushes too hard. Jaskier sighs at the sensation, tipping his head back and staring at the stars that are spilled across the night sky.

Just before he falls asleep, he hears Geralt’s voice, barely louder than the crackling of the fire.

“Tomorrow,” he says softly, “I just might.”

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier week #2020 geraskier week #geralt/jaskier #geralt #jaskier #fanfic #my fic

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