#but if Jaskier was there he would also sooth his fears I think

[spielzeugkaiser]

Is milek an alpha, beta, or omega in this universe? also sorry if this has already been asked but does he get anything special from being half witcher or is it just cats hate him now

Ohhh, good question! That might be a topic later, because Milek has not presented yet (I go with typical omegaverse there, but kind of. Slower? Basically like another puberty added on). His secondary gender is still at question, and...

He's very conflicted. He feels guilty. He worries about Jaskier feeling rejected, or like he is somehow lesser, but... Milek doesn't want to be an omega, if he's completely honest. He has seen how is father is treated, what was expected of him at times - and he knows it's all bullshit, his father is kind and strong, intelligent and independent! But still, he's a little bit scared, and Jaskier should be here for this, and he feels really bad for feeling like this.

The witcher genes haven't helped Milek that much so far! He mostly got a fucked up immune system, his body doesn't react well to the mutations.

#geraskier lovechild #listen - Jaskier? He'd be like 'of course you feel that way honey that is fine' I think he wouldn't.. wish for Milek to be an omega either? #like - if someone understands it's him - and he wouldn't take it personally AT ALL #for the longest time Jaskier didn't have a problem with his secondary gender - even if he did get some shit for it at times #and his parents were shit about it and had expectations #but once he is alone with Milek.. #we had all the various jobs Jaskier had to do #but if Jaskier was there he would also sooth his fears I think #because he did so much! and it had its good sides too - being an omega #because Jaskier got to have Milek 🥺 #it's all a bit messy #and Geralt is not that well equipped to handle that

[flowercrown-bard]

It takes Geralt a while to get used to Jaskier's constant lute playing and singing. Maybe at first he's annoyed by it until he comes to find comfort in Jaskier's music.

I've read that trope hundreds of times and I love it every time. But you know what I haven't read yet?

Jaskier going through the same thing when it comes to Geralt sharpening his swords.

Running his whetstone over his blades is a necessity for Geralt but it's also a soothing motion. It's something Geralt can do without having to think about anything or fear for his life. It's a comfort for Geralt.

For Jaskier though... Let's just say the first time the poor bard had to spent hours listening to the sound of Geralt sharpening his swords, shivers were running down his body and not in the fun way. It sounds like nails being dragged down a black board. It sounds like the metal cap getting unscrewed from a glass bottle. It sounds like when you grind your teeth too hard and think you might have broken off a piece of tooth.

Jaskier hates it. So so much. So, of course he does the only thing he can to drown out that horrible noise: he plays his lute louder.

But, well, Geralt is still in that stage where he finds Jaskier's playing annoying, so he sharpens his swords with more vigour.

They passive-aggressively try to out do each other like that for months, until one day, Jaskier fumbles with his chords and stops playing for just a second. He mentally prepares himself to cringe away from that horrible scratching noise that must come from Geralt's whetstone, but...huh. It actually sounds almost nice, the constant repetition of the same sound, the white noise.

Maybe it's the fact that after months, Jaskier simply got used to the sound. Or maybe it's the fact that Geralt always appears to be calmer and more content when sharpening his swords, but Jaskier finds himself relaxing as he listens to Geralt work.

He doesn't pick his lute back up again, doesn't even hum anymore, so he can better hear that sound that he used to hate.

Geralt, of course, notices that Jaskier stopped playing and he looks up to find Jaskier gazing at him softly.

Geralt, too, falters, before quickly turning back to his work, hiding his face behind his hair, even though he knows that no blush would be visible on his cheeks.

And, for the first time since he can remember, sharpening his swords isn't enough of a distraction. With Jaskier's too tender gaze on him, he can't relax, no matter how often he runs his whetstone over his swords.

He think that perhaps he would be able to relax, if Jaskier picked up his lute again.

#Listen my roommate sharpened our knives yesterday #Which is lovely of them #And they kept talking about how the grinding of the stone is a really satisfying nois3 #Meanwhile I was clenching my first really tightly to try and keep myself from cringing #I hate that noise so much #But it's amazing how much my roommate loves sharpening the knives #He even tried to teach me how to do that #Anyway #Geraskier #Geralt #Jaskier #Geralrxjaskier #The Witcher #Witcher #Does this count as a #Ficlet #Or is it just me throwing random thoughts on here? #Fic ideas I will never write #I don't even know #My writing #I guess

[jaskefer]

Geralt’s thumb glides across Jaskier’s hand like a map. 

Tracing over veined rivers and bruised knuckle mountains, he moves slowly, committing the route to memory. It’s only been a year, yet there’s a litany of unfamiliar journeys etched into his palm. “I could have stopped it,” he says, lowly. 

Jaskier shakes his head. “None of that, now,” he soothes. His words are soft, but they crack against his teeth like aging mortar. “You didn’t know.”

He says it so simply. Like ignorance is all there is to it. Like it absolves Geralt of responsibility. 

He says it so simply, he could almost convince Geralt that he believes it.

Almost.

Jaskier’s skin seems to scream up at him, marred red from past fire and present ice alike. Geralt smothers his crackling fears long enough to press his lips against that anger. "I could have come back for you," he murmurs. A poor excuse for a salve.

The words are but a hum against his fingertips, but Jaskier feels them rattle down to his bones. His hand is trembling in Geralt’s own, and it takes a considerable amount of effort for him to get his own mouth working. “Would you?” he croaks. 

It’s hardly more than a whisper, but it strikes against Geralt’s ears like a stone to his back, and he forces himself to look up. “Would I what?”

Jaskier gazes down at him with shimmering eyes. “Come back,” he says. “For me. On that mountain. You know, if you had known that something like this could happen. Would happen.”

Did happen, he doesn’t add.

Geralt’s answer is immediate and sharp. “Of course I would.” 

The words that linger on Jaskier’s tongue trip over a sudden laugh on their way out. The sound splinters as it spills from his throat, landing shattered and broken at Geralt’s feet. “You know,” Jaskier says after a moment, almost breathless, “if you had promised me anything else, I just might have believed you.”

Geralt frowns at him. Confused, not angry. Before his hollow courage can slip, Jaskier presses on. “I’ve spent… half my life trailing after you,” his voice wobbles. “Despite what the world might try to say, I know who you are. And I’ve no doubt you’d have tried to save me, if you could.” He spares a second to chuckle. “Ever the hero, you were. Are,” he adds, softer.

And gods, even now, fondness chokes Jaskier’s words like a vice. It burns a fresh wound in his mouth, falls like ashes from his lips. He bites his tongue, relishes in the sharp tang of anger that swells against his teeth, and swallows it all down to the pit of his stomach. Dead, gone, and buried before it can bloom.

It’s far from the first time he’s made a grave of himself.

Geralt is still holding his hand. There’s an ache around the knuckles where his lips had been pressed. “But?”

Jaskier’s lips twist into a grimace of a smile. “But I’ve also seen you change,” he says. “For the better, I’d like to think. You… care about people. And you don’t want to see them get hurt.”

The fingers over Jaskier’s hand tighten, gently. “You’re one of those people, Jaskier,” Geralt says, and it’s too kind, too intimately unfamiliar. “You know that, right?”

Jaskier sniffs. “Maybe I do,” he admits. “But at the end of the day, Geralt... you’ve come back for everyone but me.”

#the witcher #geraskier #fic #angel.doc #hhhh im back once again with a bittersweet lil drabble inspired by hands and a single line of dialogue #this is not even remotely good i just needed to get it Out of my notes app #sorry for the pov swap lmao i had fun with both of them #just. thoughts abt geralt going back into that manor for yen and back to cintra for ciri but leaving jaskier alone on a mountain #bc s2 really said oh yeah no jaskier didn't just walk away. geralt *left him.* #this is less abt the coming back and more about That #you brought me to this mountain but you left me here behind #hmmm. many thoughts abt jaskier in the latter half of this season. this barely scratches the surface of a single one lmao #god i need to just. write either a 5k meta essay abt this or the most self-indulgent character study fic #so many jaskier fic ideas hhhhh. wish i had a consistent braincell

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Trick or Treat

The next A Very Bouncey Halloween installment and a belated birthday gift to my darling @veritasrose. Thank you so much for the last year of friendship, I look forward to celebrating with you again. <3 you are much loved.

tw: curses, Geralt is an idiot, competent Jaskier

---

Light flashes through the room and momentarily blinds Jaskier, who stumbles back against Geralt. He mumbles an apology to the ever-sturdy Witcher as he waits for his vision to return and when he blinks clearly for the first time after a few long moments, the bard feels utterly and totally confused by the scene unfolding before him.

The Duke’s grandest ballroom, which had been bustling with excitable party guests only moments ago, is now flooded with ghouls, ghosts, vampires, and monsters of all sorts. A woman with swan’s wings is huddled in one corner, squawking angrily at anyone who tries to draw near. A minotaur stumbles through the center of the dance floor, lowing in frustration as he tries to control his bulky limbs. Two werewolves wrestle for dominance atop the furthest banquet table to their left. As Jaskier takes it all in, he feels Geralt’s hands wrap suddenly around his bicep; the Witcher is clinging to Jaskier fiercely, leaning his not insignificant weight against the bard’s side as his eyes grow round and watery.

“What’s happening?” Geralt finally asks. His tone of voice seems breathy and high, filled with a terror - almost totally foreign to Jaskier’s ears. Geralt fears nothing and yet… “Let’s get away from this dreadful place, please!”

“Aren’t you going to try and solve this problem?” Jaskier asks, glancing at his companion. He gestures at the various monsters roaming freely past the buffet table. “You’re likely the nearest Witcher, after all.”

“I’m no Witcher,” Geralt declares. He splays a hand over the very center of his blue velvet doublet (a nearly perfect imitation of the way Jaskier reacts to a perceived offense). “I am a Count. Witchers are dirty things, not meant for such a public life as my own.”

“For fuck’s sake, Geralt, now is not the time for a prank of this nature,” Jaskier huffs. “Something is clearly going on here. We need to help these people!”

“I know something is wrong,” Geralt sniffles - fucking sniffles - and squeezes the bard’s upper arm even more tightly. The sound of Geralt crying shakes Jaskier into understanding, even as Geralt begs: “But I don’t know how to help! Please get me out of here, Milord, I’m scared.”

Milord? Jaskier mouths to himself, even as he wraps one comforting arm around Geralt’s waist and ushers him away from the growing chaos at the center of the ballroom. Jaskier hurries them down one suspiciously empty hallway after another until he reaches the small suite that he had accepted as payment for his performance at the party. Jaskier ushers Geralt inside and locks the heavy oak door behind them.

“My Lord Geralt,” he gets the not-quite-Witcher’s attention. “Do you mind taking a seat by the fire for now? I’ll be right with you as soon as the room is secure, and then we can figure out what’s going on and what to do from here.”

“Yes, Milord,” Geralt nods. He hurries to comply with Jaskier’s request, to the bard’s continuing shock and awe, and stays still and quiet as Jaskier removes his doublet and rolls up his sleeves. Using the strength he’s spent twelve years at Geralt’s side developing, Jaskier shoves a bookcase, a dresser, and an unfortunately designed roll-top desk in front of the locked doors for added protection.

Moving behind Geralt with practiced efficiency, Jaskier also closes, shutters, and locks every window in the room, pulling the curtains closed to keep any light from spilling out and alerting stray creatures of their presence.

When he’s finished locking down all of their room’s possible entrances and breathing hard from exertion, Jaskier tugs the Witcher’s xenovox from his bag and flips it open, waiting with bated breath until Yennefer’s irritated voice snaps: “What do you want, Geralt?”

“Who is that?!” Geralt cries from his place near the fire. He has a white-knuckle grip on the overstuffed armchair he’s perched in and his clothing is mussed; Jaskier motions for him to be quiet and Geralt bites his lip, worrying the soft pink skin between his unusually dull canines.

“Was that Geralt?” Yennefer asks. "Did Jaskier summon me?"

“Yes and yes,” Jaskier replies. “I think he’s been cursed or enchanted or something. I was hired to play at the Duke of Rinde’s All Hallow’s Eve celebration and Geralt accompanied me - even dressed up for the occasion - but something happened at the party and now he’s acting strangely. I don’t know what to do.”

"What's happening?" Yennefer prods.

"Geralt is acting rather out of sorts. He’s speaking strangely, he wanted to flee the party rather than investigate the source of the changes-”

“What changes?”

“Everyone sort of… Well, a good portion of the party guests suddenly transformed into their costumes,” Jaskier explains, his speech stunted by his disbelief. “I know it sounds incredible, and it was! One moment we were all enjoying the music and the next… there was a minotaur and a mermaid and a faun… Geralt went nearly mute and started clinging to my arm like some sort of aristocratic maiden!”

“Oh shit,” Yen groans.

“Who is that?” Geralt repeats. Jaskier continues to ignore his companion. He knows that the moment he turns his attention to caring for Geralt, he won’t be able to tear it away again, and he needs to finish this conversation with Yennefer first.

“Why are you swearing?” he asks the sorceress. “What is it?”

“Geralt asked me for advice about this stupid ball a few days ago, while you were busy making arrangements with the Duke. He wanted to impress you with his All Hallow’s Eve costume and prove that he could be just as fancy and well-mannered as all the other men of your status.”

“Why in the world would Geralt want to dress up and act like a nobleman? It makes no sense! He detests small talk, he hates vanity, and he finds most men of my station to be cowardly and overly delicate - myself included! I just- I don’t quite understand why he’d go through all of this just to impress me. Or why he thinks this kind of thing would be impressive in the first place.”

“Jaskier, please tell me that you aren’t as stupid as our mutually beloved Witcher…”

Jaskier considers for a moment, pondering the things that he does to impress Geralt: gathering wood, learning to cook with game meat, preparing the Witcher’s potion ingredients while he's out on hunts, organizing their packs when they're spiking camp, brushing Roach’s mane… Realization dawns suddenly and all at once. He has a moment of pure understanding, a moment much beloved by every poet, bard, and playwright across the Continent: “Oh.”

Yennefer gives a tired laugh. “Yeah.”

“So he’s stuck as… a noble?”

“I suppose,” she sighs. “I’ll portal you to my location and we can figure things out in peace. Get your things together, I’ll open it up in precisely five minutes.”

“What’s happening!?” Geralt demands. Jaskier pulls the Witcher/Count to his feet and bows shallowly.

“I am Jaskier Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I will be your protector and chaperone for the foreseeable future, Your Lordship,” Jaskier bows shallowly. “I’m going to gather our things together and then we are going to meet up with a very lovely sorceress, Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

“Is she a friend of yours?”

Jaskier barely manages to hide his surprise at Geralt’s utter lack of recognition. His memories of Yennefer have also been taken, then.

“She’s a mutual friend.”

“Are you my friend?”

“I would like to think so,” Jaskier smiles. Geralt remains oblivious to the bard’s heartache, even as he curls himself against Jaskier. He tucks his face against Jaskier’s shoulder and sobs quietly. The bard runs his hands comfortingly up and down Geralt’s spine for a long, soothing moment. The smooth, royal-blue velvet tickles his fingertips. “Shh, dear heart. I’ve got you. Everything will be alright, I swear.”

“I trust you,” Geralt whispers.

Just as Jaskier is about to reply, Yennefer’s portal snaps open in the center of the room. Jaskier hands Geralt a set of bags and hauls his own over his shoulder. “Time to go, Your Lordship. Just take one little step…”

---

“Do you know who I am?” Yennefer asks. Geralt shakes his head before burying his face in the back of Jaskier’s shoulder-blade.

“I’m so frightened, Milord.”

Frightened? Milord? Yennefer mouths. Jaskier shrugs nearly imperceptibly and makes a panicked gesture in the Witcher’s general direction.

“I don’t know what to do either!”

“Well, start from the beginning. Tell me what happened at the party before all of… this.”

Jaskier recounts every detail he can remember in the most straightforward way possible, momentarily renouncing his poetic skills in favor of efficiency - for Geralt’s sake, of course, not Yennefer’s. When he's finished he asks: “And you said he did all of this to impress me?”

“Yes.”

“But why?” Jaskier repeats his earlier question. Yennefer understands that his meaning is different; Jaskier understands that Geralt is interested in him romantically, but the bard can't seem to get it through his head that Geralt has deemed him worthy. Although, knowing the Witcher, he isn't even sure how to go about doing such a thing in the first place.

"I just... I don’t quite believe you," he adds.

“He loves you,” Yennefer reiterates. "And now he’s stuck like this until the effects of the spell wear off, so I suggest you take his precious Lordship to one of my spare rooms and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll see you both for breakfast, providing the magic is null and void by then.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“I hope you enjoy small talk, you bardic bastard.”

Yennefer smirks and disappears from the room in a whirl of black and white silk, the scents of lilac and gooseberry curling through the air in her wake.

Geralt clings to Jaskier’s bicep again as the exhausted bard stands, keeping his larger body pressed against the human’s side as if Jaskier is the one who wields the Witcher’s swords. “So I’m under a spell?”

“Yes, darling.”

“At least I have you here to protect me, Jaskier. You’re so brave and strong; my hero!”

“It’s usually the other way around, dear heart, but I appreciate the sentiment. Now, how about we find a comfortable place to bed down for the night, Milord?”

"Alright."

Jaskier moves Geralt's hand so that it's curled around the inside of his elbow, the proper etiquette for a platonic escort, and leads him quickly down the long hallways of Yennefer's sprawling manor house. He chooses the blue-themed bedroom at the back of the East Wing, far from the sorceress' own suite of rooms.

He has to help Geralt change out of his lordly costume, the Witcher-turned-Count fumbling uselessly at the laces and buttons as if he'd never seen a fastening before in his life. Geralt whispers shyly as Jaskier pulls a nightshirt over his head: "Thank you again, Milord Jaskier. I feel as if I can't help but continue indebting myself to you."

"Think nothing of it, dear heart," Jaskier smiles, ignoring the pang in his chest. "I am happy to help you."

Jaskier tucks Geralt into bed before changing into his own nightclothes, tossing his things back into their travel bags as he swaps outfits. He feels Geralt tense up when he sits on the edge of the bed and his eyebrows narrow in concern.

"Are you alright, Geralt?"

"Are you going to share a bed with me?"

"Would you rather I didn't?" Jaskier answers with a question of his own.

"I... I wouldn't mind it if we shared."

Jaskier wishes he had Witcher sight, so he could catch a glimpse of the blush no doubt attempting to stain the Witcher's face. Despite the mutagens, Geralt's face still went pale pink when he encountered a strong emotion. It was adorable. And incredibly rare.

As soon as he pulls the covers over his chest, Geralt glues himself to Jaskier's side, snuggling close. "Feels safer," he says in lieu of explanation.

"Goodnight, dear heart."

"Goodnight."

---

"Fuck," Geralt groans, sitting up in bed. Jaskier sits up beside him, wiping the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Good morning, Milord," he teases.

"Shut up," Geralt groans. Jaskier does get to see him blush this time, and the bard revels in it; he would trade all the gold in the world to see Geralt flush like this. "I can't believe I cried on you!"

"It was rather adorable, actually."

"Hmm."

"Still..." Jaskier reaches out, tentative, and cups Geralt's cheek with his palm. He turns the Witcher's face and locks their gazes together, blue meeting gold. "Still, I think I prefer you as you are. My big, strong Witcher who cares so much about defending the little guy. Willing to step in and help wherever and whenever he can."

Geralt's eyes get a little glassy and he leans forward, pausing and letting Jaskier make the final decision. The bard meets him halfway, pressing his lips against Geralt's without any sense of urgency at all. It's warm and sweet, time fading away as they let their feelings pour through this one simple gesture. When they pull apart again, Geralt gives a surprised, lopsided smile. "Oh."

#geraskier #geraskier fluff #a very bouncey halloween #geraskier first kiss #geraskier and buffy #btvs au #geraskier fluff and silliness #curses #cursed geralt #nobleman geralt #yennefer was there #bamf jaskier #competent jaskier

[officerjennie]

For the hug prompts: #36 for Jaskel? (or pairing of your choice)

of buttercups and daisies

CW: Soft tummies (mentioned anyway)

Summary: Jaskier has a rather silly dream and Eskel thinks he's adorable.

Tag list: very bottom (shoot me an ask if you want on it!)

Thanks for the prompt! I was in a light hearted mood when I wrote this so it ended up rather silly despite the prompt xD

The bed dipped under Eskel’s weight as he climbed in several hours after his bard. His armor had been placed down with care as to not wake him, weapons following suit, and the night began to melt away as he scooted closer. The moon was high and bright, far too bright to usually catch much sleep, but Eskel had every intention of burying his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck to shield himself from the rest of the world. He had a way of that, making it all quiet despite his chattery nature, and it was one of the many things that drew Eskel to him like towards a flame in the dead of winter.

Despite his best efforts to not wake him, Jaskier jolted when Eskel’s arm snaked around him and tugged him closer. Eskel started in turn, lips already parting on a soft apology, but before he could get so much as a word out Jaskier had turned and wrapped all four of his long limbs around him. He’d done it with enough force to push Eskel over onto his back, the witcher left blinking up at the ceiling while Jaskier whined pitifully in his arms, squeezing him as tight as his delicate looking form could manage.

Which was, in all honesty, quite tight. Jaskier might look small next to Eskel’s bulk but he was no weakling. Eskel’s face scrunched up but he simply held Jaskier back, wrapping him up and squeezing him with not nearly all of his might. As he ran his hand up Jaskier’s back he drew another soft noise out of him, one that sleep still clung to, and Eskel chuckled as he pressed his lips to the top of Jaskier’s fussed up hair.

“Alright there, love?” Eskel didn’t expect much of an answer but he also didn’t expect Jaskier to squid him even tighter. Jaskier pressed himself as far into Eskel’s soft chest as he could, and when he did answer it was almost lost in-between Eskel’s tits.

Thankfully, Eskel had better hearing than most, and he just managed to make out the absolute incoherent babble that Jaskier had slurred out around a yawn. It took a few seconds to process enough to even laugh about, though when he did it jostled Jaskier enough to make him whine even further, drawn a little more out of his sleep and pressing as far into Eskel as he could manage.

“You thought what had gotten me?” Eskel teased him softly, brushing some of that sleep mussed hair out of his beloved bard’s face, managing to catch a glimpse of that scrunched up, adorable face before it was turning back to press so firmly into his chest he left an indention in the soft layer of fat there.

“Daisies.”

Eskel actually snorted that time as Jaskier hooked his leg around Eskel’s, entangling them so firmly that Eskel knew it would be a struggle to get out of bed in the morning. Not that he really minded. The night was for his hunts; mornings and days were for his love.

“Not sure I see the danger in a bunch of flowers, Jaskier,” he drawled, not ready yet to take pity on him and let him sleep. But he soothed his hands over his back as Jaskier made another soft noise, pressing more kisses to the top of his head.

“Got you,” Jaskier slurred out, his words slowing even further as he sank into the warmth of his witcher. “Took you away. What if they took you for good?”

Eskel hummed, laying his head back and closing his eyes, shutting out the rest of the world and only listening to the steady beating of Jaskier’s heart and the slowing rhythm of his breaths.

“I’ve no need to fear any daisies, love.” Eskel sighed, taking a moment to tug the blanket up over them to keep his bard warm. And though he could tell Jaskier had slipped back off to his dreams he still added, with a caress to his love’s cheek, “My buttercup will keep me safe.”

And he had no doubts that his buttercup would keep him.

-

@fontegagrilledcheese

#eskier #jaskel #jaskier x eskel #eskel x jaskier #jaskier/eskel #eskel/jaskier #the witcher #fanfiction #mywriting #eskel #jaskier #the witcher fic #the witcher fanfiction #witcher fic #witcher fanfiction #soft tummies #soft tummy tuesday #asks #ghostinthelibrarywrites

[wherethewordsare]

Because you said it so wonderfully and i crave more, please my love give me more of this 🥺

”Jaskier saying that people weren't made to be alone and Geralt shooting back something about barely being human anymore”

Pretty please

As always, thanks @kuripon for the beta reading and edits TT~TT

You Gently Gift it to Me: Geralt hated Jaskier. That was to say he hated how easily Jaskier reached for him, how he did not flinch away when Geralt grew close to him or how casually he would touch Geralt’s shoulder, his arm, even his hand. It made Geralt recoil into himself, his skin growing tight and hot where Jaskier’s hands landed, felt even through the layers of armor. 

But most of all, Geralt hated how much he craved every single one of those things and how desperately he wanted to push into every touch like it was a lifeline to a drowning man. 

He was grateful that Jaskier seemed to understand when the touch was simply too much, never rolling over in the dark to press against Geralt and retreating if Geralt scowled. Though he always scowled, he just assumed there was something particular Jaskier had picked up on. And he never pushed, he never took or invaded beyond that. 

Part of Geralt wished he would, wished that Jaskier could hear the way his blood screamed under his skin while they sat around the fire and the world seemed too small and too large until Jaskier would press his shoulder easily into Geralt’s and the tension in his body would melt ever so slowly. 

The worst of it though was the too tender look in Jaskier’s eyes when Geralt returned from a hunt, battered and bleeding, as if Jaskier himself had been inflicted with the wounds. Geralt wouldn’t let him tend to the wounds, no matter how he hovered or how he fussed or how much he needed those same gentle hands on the parts of him that felt like were breaking into pieces. 

This time had been a particularly spectacular fuck up on his part. The cockatrice had a mate apparently and they were smart enough to flank him. He had taken down one while the other sank it’s razor sharp claws into his shoulder and arm. He could barely move it after that but he, by some miracle, still managed to slay the other beast. 

Looking down he knew that it was too much blood dripping out of his armor. He had survived worse, but this wasn’t good. Stitching it up was going to be another matter altogether. 

When he finally stumbled back into camp, it had taken Jaskier exactly three seconds before realizing what was happening and jumping up to rush the witcher. 

“Sit down, darling, come on, right there…” He was nearly frantic, his eyes never settling on one particular part of Geralt as he took in the damage. Geralt could only sit and let the bard ramble at him. 

Then he couldn’t. Jaskier was on his knees between Geralt’s thighs, leaning in, deft fingers undoing the buckles of his armor with a kind of familiarity Geralt couldn’t begin to understand. The aching tiredness in his bones warred with his need to escape those bright blue eyes that seemed to pin him in place. 

Instead of pulling away, mostly because he could barely move, Geralt schooled his face into the look that usually made Jaskier retreat. The air smelled of fear and blood and salt. When those same eyes met his, they were shining wet and Jaskier was blinking rapidly. 

“No, Geralt. Not this time. If I don’t help, you’ll bleed out,” Jaskier said firmly. Geralt’s armor fell away, catching only for a moment against the bulk of his good shoulder and then those hands were on him, tugging away the remains of his ruined shirt. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled in warning. Only when fingers, steady and warm, grazed against his sides did he pull away, remembering himself. Remembering the things he was allowed. Gentleness had never been on that list. He simply couldn’t afford it. 

“No, you’ll never reach this one where it is. Just let me help you,” his voice broke and that smell of salt seemed to flood against Geralt’s tongue, hot and bitter and bright. 

Still he flinched away, his hand coming up to protect his wound from Jaskier’s prying eyes and prying fingers. He looked away from where Jaskier hovered too close, too warm, and too kind. He felt the tension of it behind his eyes, in his fingertips; the need to reach out and hold screaming in his sore muscles and torn skin. 

“I’ve done this alone plenty of times, Jaskier. This time isn’t any different,” he said flatly, tugging the small medical kit of theirs from the bard’s hands. “I don’t need you to do it.” It felt like a lie, one that hollowed him out and rang in his chest. He needed. 

Jaskier didn’t move from where he sat, his head tilting to catch Geralt’s eyes. “People weren’t made to be alone, Geralt,” he whispered. Slowly, hesitantly, his hands covered Geralt’s on the kit, not pulling it back but waiting. “You don’t have to be alone. When was the last time you let someone care for you?” 

He felt sick and his head swam. He knew his hands would never be steady enough to hold the needle and thread, but still he could not relent so easily. 

“I’m not a person,” he snarled, pulling so far back he nearly tipped off of the log completely. “I’m a mutant, Jaskier. I haven’t been a human longer than you’ve been alive.” He tried to roll his shoulders but winced as more blood seeped from the gashes left there. 

“That’s a load of shit, Geralt of Rivia, and I don’t care what your ridiculous pride says.” Jaskier’s voice shook but his hands were still steady, not pulling away for once. It was too easy to give in and hand over the pack.

Geralt turned his face away as he relented, unable to watch as those same hands slowly cleaned his wounds, dosed him with potion and poultice and sewed his tattered body back together. He bit down on his inner cheek to stop the stifle the small noises that seemed to bubble up in his throat every time Jaskier brushed away the gore or carefully pressed into his skin. 

While he sewed, his free hand rested on Geralt’s shoulder blade, more as a way to soothe than to move the process along. Geralt could hear him humming softly, a tune that was all at once familiar and unknown to him, as though he had heard it dozens of times in a dream.

He wanted to ask about it. He wanted to lean into the warmth of Jaskier’s body and rest while his body healed. 

He wanted to pull away and retreat into the dense woods around them and not come out again until he had had a chance to figure a way to discourage the bard from following him. It only took a moment to consider turning around on the path and not seeing Jaskier there for that thought to be banished nearly instantly. 

For his part, Jaskier did not flinch away when growled at, did not stammer or falter when Geralt winced and tensed. All he did was continue his litany of soft words and half remembered melodies while his hands never once left Geralt for a moment. 

When he was finished, he wiped Geralt’s skin again with what could pass as a reasonably clean cloth before helping him, albeit unnecessarily, to his bedroll. He let himself be maneuvered carefully into the furs, a waterskin pressed into his hand with a gentle nudge to drink. It dawned on him with frightening clarity that Jaskier wanted to do this for him. His chest ached with the want of it. 

“When was the last time you let someone care for you?” He had asked with that look in his eyes that made Geralt feel too seen, too exposed. He tried to think of an answer that didn’t make him sound pathetic and alone in this world but that answer simply didn’t exist. No one cared for witchers, no one had to. They were built to exist without the need of compassion. 

No one except Jaskier, who now pulled his own bedroll close to his but did not lay down. Instead sat up, his hand hovering unsure. Geralt swallowed, his throat tight. Slowly, he lifted his good hand and wrapped his fingers around Jaskier’s wrist, pulling it towards his head. For a moment he let it hover there, unsure, until Jaskier leaned down slightly.

“Geralt, I won’t…” He licked his lips and took a shaky breath. “Only if you want, but know I’m not going to tell you no and I would never-”

“I know.” It sounded harsh even in his own ears so he tried again. “I know and I want you to.” Geralt closed his eyes as he brought Jaskier’s hand down the rest of the way. 

Slender fingers slid into his hair and blunt nails dragged gently across his scalp making his whole body tingle. It felt like heaven and he groaned as everything else faded away. 

Above him Jaskier began to hum softly again, that tune he still couldn’t place. He cracked an eye open and turned slightly, making Jaskier’s fingers drag over his forehead and down to his cheek where he let them rest lightly. 

“That’s not one of your usual songs,” Geralt murmured. He felt nearly boneless under the attention of those fingers. For a moment he wanted to drag the bard down into the bedroll to feel the weight of him against his chest but that would be asking for too much. 

“I didn’t realize I was humming it. It’s not mine, you’re right,” Jaskier smiled, humming through a few more bars. “My gran used to sing it to me and my sisters. I sometimes hum it when you’re tossing and turning.” In the dying firelight, his cheeks flushed. “I won’t anymore if you don’t-”

“No, please,” Geralt turned again, pressing his cheek into Jaskier’s palm. “Please. I-” he huffed. “It’s nice.” He felt his insides quake as Jaskier shifted ever so closer, his hand sliding easily back into Geralt’s hair. 

He made no move to press in after that and Geralt was immensely grateful and also deeply disappointed. 

He could see himself easily trusting those hands that had pulled him back together, even when they couldn’t see the wounds they darned back together. As he drifted into sleep, Geralt thought that maybe in the morning, he’d like to still feel what it was like to be cared for.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #touch starved geralt #jaskier #geralt whump #emotional whump #hurt/comfort #angst #hopeful ending #jay writes #jay answers #prompt fill for the loveliest of beans #cw: blood #cw: injury

[clown-of-rivia]

Geralt needs a very particular set of hands on his naked body. Professional hands that can make him groan and purr in all the right ways.

Get your mind out of the gutter - he needs a masseuse not a talented whore.

A Witcher's back is more scars and knots than back, but his most recent run-in with a werewolf had cut right through muscle that had healed wrong and now he could barely walk upright. Eskel couldn't bare to see his brother like this, but they both knew no masseuse from Kaer Morhen to the Skelligs will touch a witcher like that.

But there is one... A man in Oxenfurt with hands like magic who helps any and all. Doppler pulled his back? No problem. Elf twisted his ankle? Sure. Dwarf with a torn hamstring? Come on in.

Geralt keeps his hood up and head down as he let's the receptionist know he's here. She smells of caution, but not fear. She tells him to go ahead Master Julian is waiting for him.

Julian is turned away from the door as Geralt enters the room, the air thick with soothing incense and calming oils. He tells him to strip down and get on the table belly first.

Geralt silently complies, his senses heightened as he follows he man's presence in the room even as he closes his eyes.

Warm hands that smell of camomile smooth onto his back and pause. Geralt braces for the smell of fear but there's none. Instead...

"Oh there's enough scars here to feel like a roadmap of Novigrad! What you do big boy, dive into a pit of daggers?" He just clicks his tongue and Geralt feels oddly scolded. "You just tell me if any of them still hurts, ok? Meanwhile I'm going to war on these muscles because good Melitele's tassled tits more knots in here than a tapestry!"

Geralt is silent for a moment as the man does just that while singing softly to himself. Soon enough he feels parts of his back warm and loosen he hasn't felt in decades and the groans slip out without his consent.

Alternating between camomile oil, hot stones, and elderflower oil, the man truly seems to work magic. Magic that pulls more sounds from Geralt he never knew he could make.

He was so knocked out when the scent of nervousness and arousal hit him, and the heightened heartbeat of his saviour, it took him by surprise. Followed quickly by a clearing through and announcement that they are done for the day see you next week bye now, then the man left the room before Geralt could lift his head.

So it went for weeks. Each time Geralt felt more and more like a man of flesh and blood than steel and bone, feeling his body move in ways it had forgotten how.

Julian, or Jaskier as he prefers, was also growing on him. Took some time and patience but Geralt slowly started to respond to his questions and conversations and soon enough he looked forward to Jaskier's company almost as much as his hands.

It was just odd how the man seemed to avoid him. He would be busy with the candles and heating up oil when Geralt enters and leave immediately at the end. Always ending just as the scent of arousal started to mingle with the incense in the room.

Maybe he had been fooling himself and Jaskier was as scared and disgusted by him as anyone else.

"All right then!" Julian announced. "All done. Should have some aches for a day or so, just apply some ice and you'll be fine."

"Ice?" Geralt scoffed a little as he sat up, keeping the towel over his crotch watching the man's back as he purposefully busied himself at his work station. "One perk of looking like a freak is at least we heal fast. But thanks anyway."

"Freak?" He asked sounding genuinely so confused. "Freakish amount of scars but nothing else about you is off-putting. Believe me." The last bit was said soft enough human ears would've missed it.

"No need to play nice, Jaskier. I pay as everyone else does. I know what I am."

"And what you are is hot as hell, a voice like black velvet and whiskey, a body carved by the gods, a mind sharp as a blade, and a heart secretly soft as a comely barmaid's bosoms."

Before Geralt felt his chest clench in warmth he shook it off. Now Jaskier was just being cruel. "Don't. I dont need your empty words Jaskier. And you should know better than to try take a Witcher for a fool."

Jaskier paused. "Witcher?"

Geralt snarled and stood, uncaring of the falling cloth. "Stop playing dumb, Jaskier it doesn't suit you. And here I thought you were the one decent thing in this shithole city."

They stood in silence for a moment, Geralt's head down as Jaskier turned around.

"Look at me Geralt."

And he did. His voice catching when he saw eyes blue as sea but pupils drowned in mist.

"I didn't know you were a witcher. And it makes no difference to what I think of you." Jaskier gave him a soft smile. "For you see Geralt.. I cannot."

Jaskier was blind.

#the witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #netflix the witcher #geraskier #julian alfred pankratz #my writing

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Pomegranate Seeds 3

well we got some BIG projecting going on here. if yall didn’t know i had mommy issues before, you sure as fuck do now 😂😂😂

Warnings: insecure Jask, allusions to verbally abusive/manipulative parents, lmao rebellious jask, good ole miscommunication between jask and geralt - but solved quickly, lol swearing

___________

Letter after letter reached Jaskier in the underworld, and time after time, he destroyed them. He didn’t tell Geralt, telling himself it was because the ruler of the underworld had more important things to deal with. He didn’t want to admit he was scared Geralt would send him packing. 

Eventually, Demeter resorted to threats. Threats of famine that she followed through on. She underestimated just how like her Jaskier was, though. He didn’t dignify her tantrum with a response. 

When she sent messengers, he started to worry.

He told Charon to alert him, not Geralt, if another god or goddess came to visit, even one of the more senior demigods. He didn’t want to take any chances. Geralt didn’t need to know anyway. 

But Geralt noticed something was off.

Jaskier would say he was tired, or he couldn’t perfect a specific verse of the song he was writing. Usually it worked, but it was only ever a salve, never a cure, for Geralt’s suspicions. 

“What’s wrong, love?” Geralt cradled him in his lap, lounging in the now lavish courtyard under the pomegranate tree Jaskier had brought back from the brink of death. 

Jaskier nuzzled closer, “I’m just ti-”

“No, I asked you what’s wrong,” Geralt insisted, giving him a gentle squeeze and placing a kiss to the top of his head. 

“It’s nothing,” Jaskier lied, hoping the sigh he accidentally let slip didn’t register, “You don’t need to worry about it.” 

Geralt hummed and went quiet for a moment before he curled a bit tighter around Jaskier and whispered, “Do you want to go home?” 

Jaskier scrambled up, sputtering and terrified, “Did she get to you?!” When Geralt just looked at him with an unreadable expression he started to panic, feeling hot tears welling up in his eyes as he did his best to keep his voice steady, “Don’t send me back. Please, Geralt. Anything but that.”

“I’d never,” Geralt soothed, standing and hesitantly reaching for Jaskier’s hand. 

He eyed the offer warily, sniffing and trying to calm himself, “Then why would you say that?”

“I thought you were unhappy. You’ve been… acting strange.” 

Jaskier ignored Geralt’s outstretched hand, choosing to wrap himself around Geralt’s torso and bury his face in the crook of his neck, “I’m sorry. I’ll be better tomorrow. It’s just, uhm. I’m just a bit off.” 

Geralt instinctively held him tighter, “Jaskier I want you to be happy, not ‘better’.”

Jaskier just hummed, swallowing back his unshed tears. 

“Who were you talking about?”

For a moment, Jaskier had to remind himself to breathe before he could respond, “Hm?”

“You asked if someone had ‘gotten’ to me?”

Tears spilled regardless of Jaskier’s best efforts, “My mother. She wants me to come back. She’s been sending letters and messengers.”

“And you don’t want to?” 

“Never,” Jaskier insisted, “This is the most freedom I've ever had. I don’t have to hide in the treetops to feel any sense of calm, I get to make decisions, I make things grow when I want, for whom I want.”

Geralt ran a hand over his hair, resting it at the base of his skull and brushing his thumb through the little hairs behind his ear, “You don’t ever have to leave. I love you. I want you here.” 

“I love you too,” Jaskier whispered, “I’m just scared.” 

Geralt gently pushed him back just enough to look into his eyes, “There’s a way you could stay forever…”

The hopeful glint in his eyes told Geralt everything he needed to know, so he continued, “If you eat even one pomegranate seed you will be tethered to the underworld. You can stay and do whatever pleases you. But it is irreversible. One bite and your fate is forever tied to this place.” 

Jaskier thought about it for a moment, searching Geralt’s eyes for something, anything, that could make the decision for him, “I could never leave?” 

“Only if the both of us willed it and only for a short time,” Geralt explained, tenderly wiping his tears away, “I could never keep you here if you were miserable. Try as I might to think about anything else, your happiness consumes much of my thoughts.” 

“Hmm,” Jaskier leaned into Geralt’s touch, turning his head to kiss his palm, “Do I need to decide right now?”

Geralt kissed his forehead, “Of course not. It’s just an option.”

“Okay,” Jaskier sighed, curling his fingers around the robes cascading down Geralt’s back, “I like it - the idea. I just… I want to take my time?” 

“Absolutely.”

-

Time wasn’t something Jaskier was allowed apparently. 

The two of them were just climbing out of a lovely bath when a chattering skeleton announced the arrival of a visitor. 

Demeter stood in the throne room with her back turned to them, examining one of the glowing diamonds when they entered. She looked so small, almost insignificant. Her hair was in an intricate braid, she wore a cream toga, adorned with gold that made her look more like a savior than the horror she really was. 

Jaskier gripped Geralt’s hand tightly and pulled them to a halt, knowing very well Demeter wanted him to speak first. It was a stand off he was familiar with. If he spoke first she had the upper hand, hearing his tone and picking apart his words. She always knew how particular her son was with words. 

“Julek. It’s time to go.”

Her voice echoed off the stone walls as she calmly stated her order, not even bothering to turn and look at him. 

Jaskier took a deep breath and squeezed Geralt’s hand, not looking at him for fear of crying, “No.” 

“Playtime is over. You have duties. The humans did not prepare for you to leave. They’re calling it winter,” she snorted as if the idea was as ridiculous as standing on your head in a temple. 

Jaskier grit his teeth, feeling the rage bubble up in his chest, “I don’t care.”

“Clearly,” She rounded on him with a condescending look of disappointment, “It doesn’t matter if you care. They’re still your responsibility.” 

Jaskier took a step forward, “A responsibility you assigned me. You fixed it before, fix it now.”

“I cant.” 

“Tough shit.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure how any of his words were coming out without sounding absolutely hysterical, but he was glad for it. He glared at her, daring her to try again while internally he was scrambling for a plan.

“For this particular magic, I need you. Seasons will take more work than a year round harvest, but you have set them off nonetheless.” Demeter’s voice was softer than usual, though Jaskier didn’t miss the incincerity of her words. She’d raised him. He knew her, probably better than she knew herself for all the introspection she refused to take part in, and he knew she was playing games. 

"Oh? Are you no longer capable?" Jaskier laughed bitterly as he turned to walk toward the courtyard, "The great goddess of plenty and harvest can't sustain what she's built? Unfortunate. I am good at what I do here. I am so good at caring about the souls that end up in our audience-"

"Our!?"

"DONT interrupt me," Jaskier shouted, turned and stomped his heel into the ground making vines burst forth from the marble beneath them, wrapping around Demeter's waist and mouth, "I have also found I'm rather adept at torture when necessary. I love it down here! I love being able to right wrongs and show the righteous to Elysium. I love having a purpose to my actions, not just being someone's unappreciated trophy! And I love Geralt. He treats me so well and loves me so sweetly and wants only to make me happy. Nothing about your 'seasons' and 'bringing life' interests me in the slightest, Demeter. Because that's not who I am. I am rage and justice and I am to be feared, not manipulated. Take your failing crops and go." Jaskier waved a hand dismissively and the vines disappeared back into the ground. 

Without looking back, he strode toward the pomegranate tree in the center of the garden, plucking a fruit from the nearest branch and turning to glare at his mother. Geralt was hot on his heels, glancing between the two but keeping quiet. Jaskier had told him he wanted to confront her himself, without her thinking he’d been told what to say. So Geralt stood by and seethed. 

Jaskier pulled a knife from the holster in Geralt’s belt and sliced a nice section out of the pomegranate. 

“Don’t you dare.” Demeter snarled, standing at the edge of the courtyard. 

Jaskier smirked and peeled the white fiber from the blood red seeds with a casual sigh, “I don’t think your opinion matters much here.” 

Jaskier flipped the knife in the air and caught it by the blade, maintaining eye contact with Demeter as he handed it back to Geralt.

“Are you sure?” Geralt’s voice was just a whisper as he took the blade.

Jaskier picked a particularly dark red seed from it’s home and turned to look at him, “There’s absolutely nowhere else I’d rather be, my love.” 

With that he popped the seed in his mouth. 

#geraskier #geraskier greek mythology au #geraskier greek mythology #geralt as hades #jaskier as persephone #hades and persephone #geraskier fic #geraskier au #the witcher fic #the witcher au #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt #jask #jullian alfred pankratz #god i wish i had a greek god sugar daddy to live with like jask so i could throw down like this #but alas #i live in reality

[nonbinary-renfri]

After they’re done and Yennefer’s eyes have raked over the expanse of his sweat-dappled skin, her fingers find the raised teeth marks gouged into his thigh. She sits up, tracing along scarred edges. “Ooo, nasty. This one’s new.” Leaning over, she lightly bites on top of the healed wound and drags her teeth over his skin, drawing a twitch and a warning growl from Geralt. With a satisfied smile on her lips, Yennefer slinks back up the length of his body, tweaking the nipple closer to her along her way before settling into the mattress next to him. Geralt rolls into her, playfully catching her earlobe between his teeth in retaliation. He bites gently at her collarbone and presses a kiss to her bare chest just above her sternum. She lets him nuzzle in close to her, tucking his face into her neck, the tip of his nose brushing her jugular. Geralt breathes her in, burrowing past that familiar perfume of lilac and gooseberries to the rich yet earthy scent of cloves and another similar scent with just a hint more salt that takes his mind to both loam and luxury.

He’d looked at her and thought she should smell of sweet plums and rich wine, and instead she smells like the wildest depths of the forest.

“I think I saw my mother recently,” he says into her skin and her hand pauses where she’s playing with a strand of his hair.

She winds the white lock around her finger. “I don’t know what that means, Geralt.”

“She’s a sorceress.” Yennefer pulls sharply on his hair, but he ignores her request for a name, continuing, “I came close to dying, while I was still searching for Ciri, and I think it was her, my mother, who healed me. It seemed like dream, but I’d be dead if it truly was one.” Geralt is quiet for a moment, unsure if the ache in his chest will steal the words from him. “She looked nearly the same as the day she abandoned me on the road outside the witcher’s keep.”

He can hear the rage in the lungs beneath his ear as Yennefer breathes deep, once, twice, before she speaks. “Some people don’t deserve to be mothers,” she says loftily and she means it to sound callous, like there isn’t pain running through every word of that statement, but the fingers stroking through his hair are a little rougher than maybe she means them to be. Geralt does not mind. He is not delicate; the tugging soothes an itch he wouldn’t have known to scratch.

There are moments, where you can tell someone something with a few words and in that instant hand them a huge chunk of who you are. Because not only does it tell them something about how you came to be, it reveals every lie, every excuse, every silence that you have ever used to hide that truth away from them.

Geralt breathes in Yennefer’s skin. Breathes out, “I was… most witchers are children claimed by the Law of Surprise.”

Again, she stills beneath him as she takes in the information, lets it run its course through her mind. He wonders what moments she’s thinking of, what conversations (arguments) might be revealing themselves to her under a new light. Yennefer goes back to picking apart a tangle she’d either found or created in his hair. “That makes a surprising amount of sense.” Her voice is softer than he expected. “No wonder you were terrified of your Child Surprise.”            Her fingernails scratch against his scalp as she cradles him close to her. He has exposed a vulnerability, given her something that can be used against him, and she would not be her if she does not exploit it. Yennefer doesn’t hesitate to put this new tool to the test, a single question all she needs to carve him open and expose his deepest fears with her usual uncanny precision. “Would you kill to stop what happened to you,” to us, “from happening to her?”

“Yes,” he snarls into her throat, bared teeth against her jugular that know the taste of lifeblood, know that biting into a neck just right releases a flood like ripping the cork out of a wine barrel, and all she smells of is satisfaction. The answer comes to him as easy as breathing and he wonders if this feeling in his stomach could be fear. Geralt thinks he may be holding on to her too tight and part of him wants to let go of the body in his arms, to crush the bedsheets in his fists instead as something he does not know how to name shudders through him. But this is Yennefer in their bed and she abhors it when he tries to protect her, even if it’s from himself. So instead he moves to spread rough hands wide over the smooth skin of her back and clutches her closer than he should dare. This is Yennefer, and she will forgive him bruises before any implication that he thinks her weak.

She pulls him from where his nose is buried in her pulse, thumbs nestling in that tender place behind his ears, and her eyes are shards of amethyst. She asks of him, “Would you kill Vesemir?”

He’s staring at her because he doesn’t think he’s ever given her that name, but also because it’s a question he has asked himself in the time since Ciri’s arms wrapped around him in that forest, one he has pondered only on the deepest, darkest nights. Geralt hopes it will never become more than a what-if, because he believes the old man has changed, believes the apologies always buried in his eyes; he does, he believes him, he does… but there’s a shattered little piece of him that used to be an innocent young boy and it can’t trust anything, anymore. And that’s why he knows his answer.

Geralt meets Yennefer’s frigid gaze and begs with golden irises for her to understand, to know what his reply is. He doesn’t want to-

“Say it. Out loud.”

Gods, he’s missed her. Missed this. She’s ruthless, makes him honest where it counts, and her ambition burns into him. She expects him to make hard decisions, to be perfect and unfailing and better than he would be for just himself. It’s ice, and familiar, and Geralt can finally breathe.

“Yes,” he gasps into the air that hangs between their lips.

She nods, satisfied. “Good.” She’s studying him now, a molten softness warming her crystal gaze, one hand sliding forward from the back of his neck to caress his cheek. Geralt feels flayed open and he wants to close his eyes, so he does. Fingertips gently trace along his jawline, the swirled etchings unique to her skin rasping over his stubble. Yennefer’s thumb drags across his bottom lip and Geralt tries to snag it between his teeth, breath catching in a quiet whine as it slips away from him. She guides his face back down to her throat and he takes it for the offering that it is, biting along the line of her collarbone towards her shoulder. As he soothes reddening marks with his tongue, Yennefer hums contentedly under him, her hands twined into his hair.

“Aretuza bought me,” she tells him, because Yennefer of Vengerberg pays her debts and she thinks she owes him something, now. And. It’s a piece of a cypher that makes her up, but it doesn’t reveal her as Geralt’s confession did him. He’s still missing too much to see her clearly, to know how to decipher what he’s looking at; she’s offered him merely a taste of what lays deeper, the tiniest secret sip of her given like she’s daring him to try and steal a mouthful more. She tells him nothing else and Geralt does not have the breath to drown in the past tonight; he is content to drift towards sleep beneath the quiet and her gentle touch.

If Yennefer were someone corny like Jaskier, Geralt might have fallen asleep to a whisper of, you’re important to me. He doesn’t need her to say it, though; her fingertips tracing his features are enough of a full circle for him.

#hello welcome to one of my favorite things i've written #i just. love geralt and yennefer's dynamic sm #explore! their! relationship more!! cowards! #that scene in bed in rare species.... #i am a firm believer that yenralt have most of their emotional conversations as pillow talk #it's simply. their style #also i know it's contested that geralt was a child of surprise #but if u think abt it it explains SO much abt netflix geralt and all his fun unexplored trauma #what is witcher canon anyways i do what i want #yeah but this is part of a whole bunch of wips i have in the show universe w a twist of the books #but it's the most standalone-ish and i reread it while procrastinating last of us au and thot oh i can't keep this one to myself anymore #the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer #yenralt #yennefer x geralt #the witcher fic #writing #my writing #mine #btw if ur wondering what else yennefer smells like #it's truffles

[flowercrown-bard]

If you take prompts. Jaskier dis reincarnation every time he dies. He borns in his own body, but he doesn't remember about his other lives. He only remembers a horse, a daughter, amber eyes and some parts of a song he wrote about his love.

After Jaskier died in his arms Geralt became a wither again. Who doesn't belive he deserve to be happy.

After a long time Geralt and Jaskier's paths cross again. Jaskier remembers the every bit of the song.

Dear nonny, can I just say how much I love this prompt? <3 I know I've taken far too long to write anything for it, but I got so excited that I had to write a multi-chapter fic for this (I hope that's ok. I know it's not really normal to write more than a one shot for prompts. If you're comfortable telling me your URL I could tag you on the next update or you could subscribe to the fic on AO3? Sorry for making this complicated.) Also, I changed it a bit, to make it so Jaskier will get his memories back, when their eyes meet again.

And I just need to tell you about my favourite fic of all time: if I'm good will you come back by @pansexualbuchanan. Based on your prompt I think you'd really like that story.

--

A new us will begin (1/ 11)

word count: 1k

tw: major character death (old age)

AO3 part 2 / part 3   / part 4 /  part 5  / part 6

Dol Blathanna was beautiful in spring. Jaskier had written countless of poems about the blossoms and the beginning of a new life as an adventurer that this place had given him.

Geralt had all of them memorised. Every verse, every line, every word. He hadn’t wanted to, it was just something that had happened as the years had turned into decades and Jaskier’s hands had gotten too shaky to write his verses on his own anymore. He had started dictating them to Geralt who had done his best to do Jaskier’s words justice with his spidery handwriting.

He had always known that this was where Jaskier would want to go when the time came. In the very same place where his new life as the travel companion, friend and lover of the White Wolf had begun, he would draw his last breath.

Geralt had known – and yet nothing could have prepared him for the terror that clawed at his chest as he now sat amidst the flowers with his husband.

He hoped Jaskier could at least still see the colours of the flowers. He hoped he could still notice the dandelions around them and make a wish, despite not having enough breath left to make the seeds fly off like birds. He hoped he could still see Geralt and recognise his touch as comforting. But it was impossible to discern whether the crinkles around Jaskier’s eyes were laugh lines or wrinkles painted onto his skin by time.

Gently, Geralt caressed those wrinkles. He had come to love them and even though he wanted to hate them with his entire being, he couldn’t. Even this sign that Jaskier’s time was up, was still a part of Jaskier and there would never be any part of him that Geralt would be unable to love.

Geralt had wanted to protect him. From the very beginning, from the moment Jaskier had followed him to the elves, Geralt had known that he wouldn’t always be able to, but he had never stopped trying. For a lifetime, he had protected Jaskier from people whose ire Jaskier had provoked. From monsters and enemy soldiers. He had sat by his side in sickness and caressed his brow while a healer he had called made sure Jaskier would not embrace death just yet.

But this, time, was the one enemy Geralt couldn’t protect him from. Death had come to claim Jaskier at last and there was nothing for Geralt to plunge his sword into to keep it away from Jaskier.

There was nothing. No saving Jaskier. There was only one thing he could do for him.

The very same thing that Jaskier had done so many times to protect Geralt. When people had hurled stones and insults at Geralt, Jaskier had composed a song to sway their opinion. When coin had been sparse and Geralt could afford neither food nor shelter, Jaskier had sung for their coin. And when Geralt had lain awake at night, haunted by images of pain, fear and hatred, Jaskier had softly sung a lullaby to him.

It had been Jaskier’s gift to him and now it was time that Geralt gave it back.

Years ago, when Jaskier’s mind had still been clear enough to form such thoughts, he had described his life as an old man as being half-asleep, not knowing how much of his being was awake, what parts were walking through a dream and what parts were imprisoned in a nightmare.

Back then, Geralt hadn’t understood. It hadn’t taken long for him to learn exactly what Jaskier had meant. The life they had led had always seemed like a dream to Geralt, something too good to be true, something he would surely wake up from one day to find it gone.

Seeing it disappear right in front of him wasn’t like waking up. It was like a dream slowly turning into a nightmare until there was nothing left but the ache in his chest when Jaskier saw right through him and the fear of losing him to a different kind of sleep, one he wouldn’t wake up from.

Geralt hoped it would be a peaceful sleep once Jaskier drifted off, but now his face still twisted into a grimace at each movement that made him ache and his mind still wasn’t kind to him.

So Geralt did all he could to soothe Jaskier during this nightmare.

His lullaby sounded wrong on Geralt’s lips. Even if he had known how to sing, his voice cracked and his throat was tight with tears Geralt didn’t know how to shed.

His fingers caressed Jaskier’s paper-thin skin and wove through his grey hair. All the while, Jaskier’s eyes didn’t leave Geralt and his heart beat in rhythm with the song.

The hint of a smile danced across Jaskier’s lips, even as his eyes fell shut.

The beat of the song stopped and Geralt’s voice broke off mid-song.

“Jaskier?”

There was no answer. There never would be an answer again. No more banter, no more laughter, no more songs would ever leave Jaskier’s lips.

“Jaskier, look at me!”

He didn’t. His eyes didn’t open, never would again. No more would they look upon flowers, on sunrises, on Geralt.

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s cry was broken. As was he. As was the life Jaskier had made him believe he could have.

“No, no, no, don’t go! I can’t lose you. Don’t make me lose you!” Geralt cradled Jaskier’s body close, pressing his face into the crook of his neck, pressing his chest against Jaskier’s. Jaskier’s breath should have ghosted over Geralt’s skin, but there was nothing. It was too late. He was gone. “No, Jaskier, look at me. Please, let me see your eyes, just one last time. Come back to me, please.”

The last word was whispered, carried off with the dandelion seeds dancing off in the wind.

It was only a figment of Geralt’s cruel mind, but for a brief, beautiful moment, he almost thought he heard a voice in the wind. Birds singing and bees humming in tune to the unfinished lullaby.

Geralt’s grip on Jaskier tightened and his shoulders shook. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

Geralt was a witcher. He should have been able to save Jaskier. He should have done something to stop this.

Jaskier had told him that he could have happiness, that his story didn’t have to end in blood and agony.

But Geralt was a witcher and Jaskier had always been a dreamer. Witchers didn’t get to keep their happiness and dreamers had to wake up at some point.

Jaskier would never wake up again.

Geralt moved without feeling a thing as he dug the grave. Witchers didn’t feel. They hurt and they killed and they shouldn’t let themselves dream for what they couldn’t have.

As he buried Jaskier, so did he put the dreams Jaskier had brought to life in the ground.

He left Dol Blathanna without a song accompanying him. He left it alone, with a new scar that he knew would never heal and not feeling a single thing.

Jaskier had left Geralt smiling, as a dreamer.

Geralt left Jaskier as a witcher.

#the chapters will get longer #as they always do XD #mcd #geraskier #fic #witcher fic #geralt #old jaskier #reincarnation au #angst #i swear i haven't abandoned my other wips #i just want to get to this prompt first and then write my exams and then i can focus on my wips again #so sorry #my writing #fanfic

[witchersjaskier]

Don't know if you're still doing prompts, but Phoenix!Jaskier (I know they're not Canon, but I love them!!) maybe burned at the stake by Nilfgaard/Witcher haters/father of a lover... And it was either Jaskier or Geralt, but Jaskier didn't have time to tell him he'd be fine, just to trust him

i went with something else, i am so sorry??? but it’s phoenix!jaskier!

||

Lambert enters the library and immediately pauses in his steps. His brother and the bard are there, cuddled up in front of the hearth and something in Lambert’s chest squeezes at the sight of them.

They’re everything a Witcher shouldn’t have but when Lambert told the bard that, Jaskier just laughed at his face and told him there’s much more to the world than what old angry men told you. He refuses to consider how it made him think of Aiden’s green eyes and roughish smile, hos the memory made his heartbeat pick up.

Witchers have the Path and their weapons and their potions. Nothing else.

They don’t get companions or friends or partners, gods forbid. They can have lovers for one night, but a partner like Jaskier? It’s not for them. He shouldn’t fit in their life, but he does and it infuriates Lambert.

He saw how Jaskier stares down a growling Geralt without a hint of fear in his scent, how he quoted the bestiary at Vesemir and made quips about potions to Eskel. Jaskier isn’t a Witcher but somehow he fits between them, rough warriors not better than the monsters they hunt. He fits in Kaer Morhen like he was born to be here like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Lambert,” the same bard calls quietly, making Lambert come back to reality. They’re still cuddled in front of the fire, Geralt’s head resting on the bard’s shoulder, a gentle hand in his hair, petting. “Want to join us, my Wild Wolf?”

Lambert stares for a second before shrugging. “Got nothin’ else to do,” he finally growls and settles in the chair next to them, arms crossing in front of his chest. He doesn’t want to be here, but he’s not that much of an asshole to refuse.

Okay, that may be a lie. He may have just run away without a word when Jaskier proposed to sit with them before but hey, he’s a Witcher and he can’t keep running away.

“I’m reading poetry to Geralt, would you like to listen?” Jaskier asks kindly.

Lambert swallows. “Whatever.”

Jaskier sends him another kind smile that makes him want to cry for some reason and starts reading. His voice is soothing and surprisingly deep for how he sings sometimes, but Lambert can’t deny how relaxed it makes him feel. Geralt is already dozing, his scent all content-sweet and love-spicy, almost purring. The purring makes him think about Aiden again and he forcefully removes those thoughts from his mind. Now is the time to relax.

He keeps watching them through the winter.

How Jaskier keeps stealing Geralt’s shirts, how Geralt wears his hickeys proudly, how they reach for each other in any room they are, how they argue and call each other names and playfully wrestle in the snow.

The first time it happened, Lambert was sure they’ll have a sick human on their hands soon, but Jaskier just pinned Geralt to the ground and shook the snow from his hair with a laugh. Now, Eskel sometimes joins and it makes Jaskier light up like a damn Sun.

That’s how Jaskier feels in the keep. He’s all bright, warm fire that brings life back into those cold walls, but burning and painful when someone angers him. He learned that lesson well.

When the winter truly takes hold and the air is almost too painfully cold to inhale, Lambert can see how Vesemir seeks Jaskier out to talk about alchemy, how Eskel spends long hours discussing literature with the bard, how Geralt is so sure that Jaskier will never ever leave him… He’s not alone in this.

One night he’s woken up by the vague idea that something is wrong.

Lambert grabs his sword and creeps down the stairs, meeting Vesemir and Eskel there. Geralt is surprisingly absent but maybe Jaskier is keeping him occupied. Together. They walk towards the yard and there, they can see a faint glow of red and blue. Heat is also coming from that direction so they run into the yard and stop dead when they see the giant burning bird nesting against a wall.

Mostly red, but with feathers tinted blue, the bird is as big as a house, magnificent tail feathers spread on the yard, wings tucked close as it slowly gathers rubble and sticks into one place. Its legs are covered in golden scales, talons long and red. Deadly and beautiful, covered in burning fire.

“What the fuck,” he whispers, his sword hitting the ground with a clunk.

It makes the bird, the phoenix, turn to them with stunningly beautiful blue eyes. It makes a small sound like a thrill and shakes its tail feathers. Vesemir is straightening his shoulders to see something, but then Geralt stumbles on the yard.

He’s shirtless, hair a mess, eyes still glassy.

“Jask? You were restless, hmm?” he asks the bird as if nothing’s wrong and stumbles right at it.

Eskel makes a small sound but the moment Geralt touches the feathers, the fire goes out and the bird thrills softly again, nuzzling against Geralt’s head.

“Geralt,” Vesemir snaps. “Explain.”

It seems like it’s only then that the White Wolf notices them, but still stays leaning against the bird. Phoenix. Jaskier?

“That’s Jaskier,” Geralt says simply, confirming Lamber’s suspicions. It’s still a bit too much to handle. “I thought we told you…?”

Vesemir sighs deeply, lowering his sword as well. “Stupid pup,” he mutters and slowly walks closer.

The heat is actually kind of nice so Lambert and Eskel follow and Jaskier brings his tail closer, long, magnificent feathers radiating warmth as they gather the Witcher’s closer. Geralt sends Jaskier a small smile so the bird lays on one side and gathers Geralt close with his wing. His head settles on Geralt’s lap and they all look at the pair.

“I found out when we were sentenced for burning in some bumfuck-nowhere village and Jaskier decided to go first. Now we can’t go there anymore, he burned the lord,” Geralt shrugs, succinct and simple as always.

Lamber can see Jaskier rolling his eyes but the phoenix doesn’t change into another form to explain more. He shrugs, shakes his head and leans back against the tail feathers.

At that, Jaskier makes a thrill and stands up, to kind of herd them together. Only then does he lay down, tail wrapped around them, wing covering their heads. It’s surprisingly cosy and warm there and it’s been such a long time since he was in a puppy pile…

Lambert closes his eyes and nuzzles against the feathers, feeling Eskel lean against him. Maybe next year he’ll bring Aiden with him for the winter. What’s one more misfit between them?

#witcher #the witcher #jaskier #geralt #lambert #eskel #vesemir #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #phoenix jaskier #my writing #ask #kaer morhen #pups of kaer morhen #lambert's pov #he's kinda ooc sorry #but i wanted to write him

[wordsablaze]

To Be Loved

Love is a fickle thing, it can burst into life within minutes or it can take months to fully bloom. The one thing Jaskier and Eskel can always agree on is that it's more than worth the time it takes...

A/N: continues on from to be found but also works as a standalone, written for aro week <3

-

Their first date had gone well, all things considered.

Eskel had been a little sleep deprived on account of working until late and worrying until even later but Jaskier hadn’t seemed to mind at all, bursting with enough enthusiasm for the both of them.

He’d been waiting outside the bakery at six, scrolling through his phone and looking up just as Eskel was debating whether he should just sneak back inside. Jaskier had grinned widely and Eskel had immediately known it was going to be a good evening.

“You look like you have a lemon stuck in your mouth,” Lambert tells him as he walks into work a week later.

“And how would you know what that looks like?” Eskel grumbles.

To be honest, he’s felt like he has a lemon stuck in his mouth since last weekend because Jaskier had promptly disappeared off the face of the earth. He wants to think it’s just a coincidence but he can’t help feeling as though it’s another case of the whole Eskel isn't good at first dates so of course it wouldn’t work out thing again.

Lambert raises his hands in surrender and gestures to the kitchens, where everyone is allowed to work in peace when they’re not in the right mindset for actual interaction. He zones out immediately, only looking up when Coen pokes his head in the doorframe.

“We might need your help with this guy,” he says, and Eskel sighs, already expecting a problematic customer or something.

What he’s not expecting is Jaskier tapping his foot on the floor and biting his lip. He freezes when he sees Eskel, opening his mouth to say something, but Eskel holds up a hand. “Can you come through to the back? I don’t want to have this conversation here.”

In the few minutes it takes for them to reach the office, he’s decided he’s more than ready for Jaskier to admit his spontaneous flirting was just a whim and he's not interested in anything else. Only, Jaskier does nothing of the sort.

“Eskel, I am so sorry about disappearing! I didn’t mean to, I swear! It’s just that Shani’s place flooded so she broke her ankle and I had to drive her to the hospital but we were arguing on the way and this guy at a red light decided I’d hurt her as if I wouldn’t rather die but we ended up fighting and I ended up with a concussion again and we both had to stay for observation or something and I- I’m really sorry for leaving you hanging,” Jaskier blurts.

Eskel blinks.

“Is she okay?” he asks, not really sure what he’s meant to be focusing on.

Jaskier nods, his shoulders dropping as he lets out a slow exhale. “She went to medical school, she knew exactly what they were going to do before we even got in the car.”

“That’s useful,” Eskel replies, but then shakes his head. “Wait, are you okay? Someone gave you a concussion?”

He’d been amused last time Jaskier had downplayed concussions but now he’s seriously wondering if he should be concerned about how the other man can be so unfazed by so much - it’s not like you can develop an immunity to head trauma.

Jaskier just nods again. “Of course, I’m fine. I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression?”

“Not at all,” Eskel lies.

There are arms around him before he can try and figure out whether Jaskier had seen through his lie. He stumbles slightly but allows the embrace to happen, oddly comforted by the fact that Jaskier is just as relieved to have explained the truth as Eskel is; maybe this time things truly can work out, he thinks.

.

“You really don’t have to go tonight,” Jaskier says for the fourth time that day.

Eskel sighs, throwing a cushion at him. “It’s been three months since we met, I think it’s about time I see you perform.”

Jaskier hums before flopping onto the small sofa, resting his head on Eskel’s lap with the rest of his body draped lengthwise, his feet dangling off the armrest at the end. “But I know you don’t like loud or crowded spaces and we aim to have exactly that,” he pouts.

There’s a long moment in which Eskel just appreciates that he’s not being forced to go despite how bizarre it is to experience the exact opposite situation. He smiles down at Jaskier and very truthfully says, “It won’t matter because I like you.”

He places a finger on Jaskier’s lips when he tries to argue again, chuckling. “And before you ask me again if I’m sure, don’t.”

Jaskier’s eyes practically sparkle for a moment before he twists his head and bites Eskel’s finger, nowhere near hard enough to hurt but firmly enough for it to be a shock.

Rolling his eyes, Eskel laughs. “What, my baking isn’t enough for you anymore?”

Starting to reply only to realise that he can’t form actual words whilst biting down on an index finger, Jaskier pulls Eskel’s hand away and grins. “Dessert is fine, darling, but you’re a five-course meal and I wouldn’t trade all the oven goodies in the world for you.”

Eskel has no idea how to reply to that.

It’s far more romantic than anything he’s used to and he’s never been good at flirting so the last thing he wants to do is say something that ruins whatever they have going on. After a long moment of panic, he settles on shrugging. “We have a pretty good oven.”

Jaskier hums in reply and thankfully doesn’t press on his hesitation, sitting upright with a small sigh. “I suppose I should go get dressed. Are you driving?”

“I don’t trust you with my car,” Eskel says, only half joking.

“I’ll be wearing those heeled boots then,” Jaskier grins, taking absolutely no offence as he springs to his feet and blows a kiss before heading to Eskel’s bathroom, where he’d dumped his change of clothes when arriving earlier and declared it was his domain for the rest of the day.

If anyone had told the Eskel of a few years ago that he’d willingly allow someone so chaotic to saunter around his home and genuinely flirt with him in every other conversation, he’d probably have rolled his eyes and assumed they’d somehow mistaken him for someone else; maybe changing his mindset has been for the better, he thinks.

.

The ocean has no right to be so elegant.

Eskel had never been a huge fan of beaches because the stubbornness of sand is quite frankly sinful but Jaskier absolutely adores everything about them and there’s only so many of his puppy dog eyes that can be refused.

“We’ll barely even touch the sand, I promise!” Jaskier had declared, and he’d made sure of it too.

Soon enough, they’re settled on the rocky side of the beach, propped up against a larger stone with their legs stretched out in front of them and their shoulders pressed together. Jaskier slips his fingers into Eskel’s and gently squeezes, which has quickly become one of Eskel’s favourite things ever.

“Aren’t the waves gorgeous?” Jaskier asks wistfully.

Eskel hums. “They can still kill you.”

Jaskier laughs, nudging him. “Ever the optimist, aren’t you? Nothing can kill me, darling, not today.”

Well, he can’t really argue with that because he feels the exact same way. It’s hard to think of anything morbid when celebrating six months together and he doesn’t particularly want to try so he just nods in agreement.

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispers after a while.

Eskel turns to him, tilting his head to one side. “No, you were right, it is soothing to watch the waves.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Jaskier lifts their connected hands and places a soft kiss on Eskel’s thumb before looking directly at him with an even softer smile. “Thank you for letting me stay for so long.”

He says that as if Eskel isn’t in disbelief about someone being willing to stay with him for so long, especially someone like Jaskier who could probably charm his way into the lives of anyone he pleases.

“I should be saying that to you,” Eskel admits, “I know I’m not exactly the best partner out there.”

Jaskier genuinely looks offended. He uses his free hand to poke Eskel’s stomach and glares at him. “Don’t say things like that, you are possibly the kindest and most patient person I know, not to mention the most handsome.”

Eskel’s face heats up at that and even though he knows he tries to be kind and patient, he can’t help wishing he could be more, that he could be charming and fun and worthy of the poetry Jaskier keeps texting to him whenever he’s drunk.

“Hey, look at me?” Jaskier asks.

Eskel’s head moves before he gives it permission but he has no regrets because Jaskier is smiling and he’s grown overly fond of that stupid smile and the way it manages to make him feel a little better every time it’s directed towards him.

“I love you,” Jaskier whispers.

Oh.

His expression must give his alarm away because Jaskier squeezes his hand again and shuffles so he’s leaning his head on Eskel’s shoulder, looking out at the ocean. “You don’t have to say it back but I couldn’t possibly have gone another day without telling you. And it doesn’t matter, you’re still the best.”

Jaskier falls in love with someone or something new every other day but they’ve both been hesitant to acknowledge his unwavering commitment to loving Eskel until now. Eskel exhales slowly, letting his head rest stop Jaskier’s and closing his eyes.

His first instinct is to apologise but he’s almost certain Jaskier would throw him into the ocean if he did so he settles for squeezing Jaskier’s hand and shuffling even closer, focusing on the way they fit together so well, on the way everything they do together is comfortable, on the way he doesn’t feel pressured to pretend.

He’s always been a little scared of actually finding the love he usually only hears about through everyone else in fear of somehow failing at it but Jaskier has never demanded anything he wasn’t happy to give; maybe love isn’t so frightening with the right people, he thinks.

.

“Jaskier, where’s my hoodie?” Eskel asks, frowning at his wardrobe.

He knows Jaskier sometimes borrows his clothes but he’s not sure how to take that since he seems to do that with literally everyone he knows, whether that’s his bandmates, random people he meets at bars, or even Ciri on a few memorable, drunk occasions.

“Which one?” Jaskier calls back from the kitchen where he’d gone to find popcorn because he refuses to watch a film without some.

Eskel sighs. “The red one with the flowers.”

“Roses!” Jaskier corrects, and Eskel just knows he’s shaking his head in exasperation. “And I don’t know!”

After a moment of frustration, Eskel shrugs on the other red hoodie and makes his way to the kitchen, groaning when he sees Jaskier wearing the not so missing hoodie. Jaskier’s eyes widen at the sound and he spins on his heel to check the microwave as if having expected it to be exploding.

“I thought you said you didn’t know?” Eskel asks, raising an eyebrow.

Jaskier only frowns. “I don’t?”

It takes him a minute to catch on and finally glance down at himself, at which point he bites his lip and looks up again sheepishly. “I just grabbed a random one,” he mumbles eventually.

Eskel rolls his eyes because it’s not the first time they’ve had this type of conversation and makes his way over, using his thumb to gently pull Jaskier’s lip out from under his teeth before very softly kissing him. “Blue suits you better,” he whispers.

Jaskier nods, still wide-eyed and a little breathless as he lifts his arms and loops them around Eskel’s neck. “But red reminds me of you,” he whispers back, his gaze flickering between Eskel’s eyes and lips.

Well, there goes Eskel’s heart melting again.

The microwave beeps at them before he figures out how to reply, both of them jumping enough for their foreheads to crash together. Jaskier curses immediately, stepping back as he rubs his head and glares at the microwave as if it’d just stabbed him.

“Hope the popcorn is worth the pain,” Eskel says, laughing.

Jaskier sticks his tongue out before pulling the popcorn out, pouring it into a bowl and handing said bowl to Eskel as he has the steadier hand and is far less likely to spill it all before they even sit down, which they’d unfortunately had to learn from experience.

“Don’t doubt me, darling, you are going to love this film!” Jaskier declares just as he always does - he’s only right about half the time but Eskel has to credit him for the everlasting confidence at least.

It doesn’t take them long to settle, Jaskier leaning heavily on Eskel and their arms wrapped around each other, and although Eskel is about ninety percent certain he won’t like the film judging by the cover, he wouldn’t dare interrupt Jaskier’s mission to broaden his cinematic horizons or whatever.

“You are unfairly comfortable,” Jaskier mumbles, practically burrowing into his chest.

Eskel laughs, snuggling closer himself. “You have very strange standards.”

Jaskier hums quietly, choosing popcorn over replying to the accusation just as the film finally starts with a rather cliché shot of the view from a window. He was right in thinking he wouldn’t particularly like it but Jaskier’s constant commentary has both of them laughing and it’s worth the watch anyway; maybe being with someone else makes the boring things less boring, he thinks.

.

Weird how a year can feel like forever as well as no time at all.

Eskel wakes up on the morning after their first anniversary with a slow smile, taking in the way Jaskier is sprawled over him like some sort of misguided blanket.

Perhaps it’s just Jaskier’s poetic influence over the past year but he thinks it’s utterly fitting that sunlight just so happens to be falling over the two of them in a way that makes it seem as though they’re glowing even though it’s still winter.

It’s a good thing Jaskier sleeps like the dead when he actually manages to fall asleep for a normal human amount of time because it gives Eskel the chance to do things like bring them breakfast in bed. This one he’s been planning for a while so he doesn’t waste any time gazing and quickly slips out of bed, getting himself sorted and making his way to the kitchen.

He more or less makes the pancakes with muscle memory alone because there’s a part of him that can’t help worrying. He knows Jaskier loves him, he knows that better than he knows most things, but he’s never had a relationship this long and he doesn’t know the right etiquette to all of this.

“Eskel?”

Cursing inwardly, he grabs the tray - complete with a plate of four pancakes, two mugs of coffee, and one small envelope - and heads back to his bedroom, pausing in the doorway. “Right here,” he smiles.

Jaskier returns the smile, then yawns before raising his eyebrows at the sight of the tray. “We already had anniversary breakfast yesterday?”

“Are you saying you don’t want the pancakes?” Eskel asks, smirking when Jaskier sits up with a grin that makes his answer perfectly clear. “Thought so.”

“Mhm, you’re the best boyfriend in the galaxy,” Jaskier says as Eskel places the tray at the foot of the bed and settles beside him.

Eskel is more than aware his face has probably gone embarrassingly red but for once, Jaskier doesn’t point it out, instead getting distracted by and picking up the little envelope with a frown. “What’s this?”

Deep breath.

“Can I open it now?” Jaskier asks, thankfully able to guess that Eskel’s throat has gone a little too dry for him to explain.

When he nods, Jaskier offers him a smile and rips one side open, gasping when he sees what’s inside: a key. Or more specifically, a replica of Eskel’s house key.

“I love you,” Eskel says honestly.

It’d taken him a while to get things sorted in his head - not to mention several awkward conversations with his family and friends - but at this point, he’s absolutely certain he loves Jaskier and nothing can make him question his heart in the slightest.

Jaskier sniffles and throws his arms around Eskel before he can apologise for making him cry. And Eskel laughs, holding his boyfriend whom he truly genuinely loves because he is capable of that after all close until they’re both satisfied they’re not going to actually burst into tears or anything.

“I love you back, of course,” Jaskier says as he pulls back, rubbing his eyes.

Eskel grins, ignoring the way it almost physically hurts his face, and only grins further when Jaskier kisses him despite both of them being a little too smiley for it to really work.

“I can’t believe you made me cry before pancakes,” Jaskier grumbles eventually, elbowing him, but he’s still half-grinning and there’s a lot of mixed signals.

Laughing, Eskel brushes his thumbs under Jaskier’s eyes. “The pancakes aren’t going anywhere.”

Jaskier hums in acknowledgement and twirls the key between his fingers for a long moment, apparently thinking something over. “You are aware this means you’re never going to get a moment of peace again, right?” he asks.

“I’m willing to take that risk,” Eskel replies even though he’s never felt more at peace than when he’s with Jaskier.

“On your head be it, darling,” Jaskier laughs, shuffling so he can curl into Eskel’s arms again, “I love you so much.”

Eskel’s reply is swallowed by the lump in his throat but it’s okay because Jaskier knows and he knows Jaskier knows and that’s more than enough. Their breakfast will probably go cold before they get round to it but neither of them will mind because everything else is just so perfect; maybe love is just being patient with the differences, Eskel thinks.

-

ik this is fairly niche so it's unlikely many ppl will be reading but just in case: this fic was not meant to reflect aromanticism as a whole - sometimes you just don't aim for love and that's totally valid !! this was just a lil ventfic,,

ongoing masterlist for this au if you’re interested :)

-

thanks for reading !! masterlist | witcher blog: @itsjaskier​

#jaskel #jaskier x eskel #the witcher #fanfic #jaskier #eskel #aromantic eskel #demiromantic eskel #modern au #bakery au #love confessions #insecure eskel #soft jaskier #soft eskel #morhen cares au #aro week #pls pretend i crossposted this on time thanks #the self indulgence is strong in this one #my writing #tbl

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Fear Not, Fair Maiden

(Thank you @spielzeugkaiser for letting me write a story about your amazing art! This was so much fun and it’s so fluffy. I may have thrown in a little nonhuman-Jaskier as a treat but Jaskier doesn’t know so...)

Etheid is the baby green dragon that Borch rescues in “The Sword of Destiny” book. I thought I’d make that scene more interesting and less sad for everyone by sticking to the book canon version for this story.

---

Jaskier woke up somewhere warm and soft and definitely not wrapped in the raggedy blanket he’d fallen asleep with atop his worn bedroll. He groaned in confusion and rose into a sitting position on the soft feather mattress to better wipe the sleep from his bleary eyes. He was sitting on a beautifully carved mahogany bed with four posts and lovely hanging curtains made of pale pink gossamer.

“Where am I?” he yawned to no one in particular. 

In my tower, a voice echoed through his head. The bard leapt from the bed, suddenly alert and terrified of whatever had brought him here. The voice returned, slightly frightened in its own right and clearly looking to soothe. Don’t panic! I’m sorry! I probably should have introduced myself better. Come to the window, my sweet visitor, and let me say hello!

“You’re not going to eat me, right?” Jaskier squeaked. 

Of course not, Jaskier. You’re my guest. That would be highly indecorous of me.

“Monsters with manners. Finally some decent company.” Jaskier made his way confidently out onto the balcony surrounding the tower’s main room and glanced around. “Hello? How do you know my name?”

A large, scaly green head rose over the side of the balcony wall and Jaskier took an involuntary step back. A thin-slit reptilian eye blinked at him. Once. Twice. Then the rest of the dragon’s face and snout appeared. Do not fret, my dear. You are in no danger at all. I merely wish to see a performance.

“You want me to sing for you?”

That was not my purpose in stealing you, but I would not be adverse to some music later this evening. I’m sure your Witcher is already on his way here to rescue you. Jaskier swore he heard the dragon release a deep, dreamy sigh from its steaming nostrils. Ah, I wonder if he’ll climb the spiral stairs and try to avoid the traps or if he’ll fight me first and scale the outer walls. 

“Wait a second,” Jaskier held a finger up. The dragon paused its daydreaming and looked down at its tiny human captive. Well, mostly human from what the dragon’s senses could pick up. Perhaps a bit of dryad in there somewhere. The semi-mortal’s connection to nature was stronger than most; ancient in a way that drew the dragon to him in the first place. Well, that and the handsome, white-haired Witcher who kept the bard close to his side like a favorite puppy. “You kidnapped me so that you could watch Geralt rescue me?”

The dragon’s enormous snout bobbed up and down as it nodded. The bard leaned heavily against the balcony’s edge and released a series of hysterical giggles. Are you alright, Jaskier?

“How do you know my name?”

You met my godfather, once. Borch.

“Oh, you’re the baby green dragon!” Jaskier perked up. This was an old friend, then. “My, how you’ve grown.”

And my, how you haven’t, the dragon observed. If the bard didn't’ know any better it appeared as if the creature was raising its eyebrow at him. You don’t seem to have aged a day.

“Haven’t I?” Jaskier glanced down. “Perhaps I’m just remarkably well preserved.”

Magic, the dragon shrugged. Anyway that is not my purpose here. I’ve grown bored with my usual antics and wish for something better. 

“So you thought you’d make up some entertainment by bard-napping me?”

Correct.

“This is like a play, then? I’ve been given the part of Fair Maiden and Geralt has been cast as our White Knight? My Prince Charming, as it were?”

Yes, although you find Geralt’s animalistic tendencies and Witchery nature more alluring than any fairy-tale prince or wayward knight.

“Hey! Hands off my private, personal thoughts,” Jaskier cried, waving his arms at the dragon as if the gesture might sever their mental link. The dragon huffed out what may have been a laugh.

I cannot help myself, I apologize. My name is Etheid, by the way. So you can stop referring to me in your mind as Baby Dragon I Held Once.

“Sorry,” Jaskier shrugged. He laughed again, this time genuinely. “Do you think Geralt really loves me enough to come rescue me from an entire dragon? He knows you can’t be beaten with one or two flimsy swords.”

He is determined to find you, Etheid replied. He will be here in two days time. 

“So until he shows up do I just...sing for you, then? Is there any food? Oh, is there a bath!?”

You’re the most eager and friendly guest I’ve ever had, Etheid rejoiced. There’s food aplenty in the cupboard in your room. Wine, too. I also have bathwater ready at your request and I can heat it to whatever temperature you like. I even have costumes!

“Costumes!?” The bard beamed widely and clapped his hands together beneath his chin. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet and even spun in a quick circle. “What kinds of costumes!? Is this going to be a tragic rescue? Is this going to be dramatic and romantic? You mentioned traps, what kinds of traps will Geralt be facing if he comes up the stairs?”

Eager to see your handsome Witcher again?

“Eager to make sure that he isn’t injured trying to save me from your lovely tower, here.”

He will be absolutely fine. These traps were made for squires to outsmart; he’s a Witcher.

“If he loved me as I love him,” Jaskier sighed wistfully, “Then this would be even more fun.”

Etheid considered telling Jaskier the truth about his Witcher’s romantic feelings for a moment but figured that it was Geralt’s job to do so, instead. The dragon could wait. The dragon could write such a fantastical scene that Geralt would have no other option but to admit his feelings to the jovial and kindhearted bard. 

There are dresses, of course, but there are some lovely robes as well. You can take whatever you like from the chest at the end of the bed.

“You’re going to regret saying that!”

Go ahead. Do what human things you must. I’ll heat the water and be on my way; dragons need to eat, too.

“No pesky villagers, please. Stick to wild animals so long as I’m your guest?”

I am not a heathen, Etheid scoffed. Deer only for now. The forest is fat with them.

“Excellent. See you after dinner and a bath, then. I’ll sing you some lovely ballads.”

About your White Wolf?

“I wouldn’t exactly say that he’s my White Wolf,” the bard blushed. “But yes, songs about Geralt.”

---

Geralt reached the base of the stone tower and squinted up. It seemed endlessly tall against the rocky mountainside and the blue of the sky. Jaskier was up there, though, and the dragon was probably nearby. The Witcher had chosen not to wear his armor for this particular rescue mission; it would only make him noisier and this was a battle of the wits. Dragons wanted to be outsmarted, not slain.

Geralt remembered Borch Three Jackdaws fondly, the golden dragon that had shown him such kindness and taught him that not all monsters were to be feared. Well, Borch hadn’t so much taught Geralt about the nature of monstrosity so much as he had reinforced a previously held belief. 

But that didn’t matter now. As he slid into the passage that led to the tower stairs his only focus was his stupid bard’s physical safety. 

No, Geralt, the Witcher corrected himself firmly. He is not your bard, he is merely a traveler who chooses to spend some of his free time dallying about with you. He likes writing songs about your adventures and that is all. 

He could hear the sound of a lute growing slightly stronger as he ascended, and kept his eyes peeled for any sort of traps or pitfalls. He sidestepped two swinging axes with ease and ducked beneath a flying crossbow bolt as simply as he breathed. This tower was for amateurs, not highly trained Witchers with unparalleled senses. Not the most graceful Witcher the Wolf school had ever turned out onto the path. Not Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier’s Witcher. 

---

Jaskier stopped singing suddenly and set his lute to the side, as planned. He laid himself out as Etheid had suggested, the white cotton robe pooling around his bare legs and spilling rather nicely off his left shoulder. He’d cinched a soft blue ribbon just so around the curves of his waist. His hair was ruffled just the way Geralt liked it; the way it was when he saw the Witcher’s gloved fingers twitch at his sides, clearly aching to touch him but too afraid to make a move.

He’ll have to make a move this time, Etheid said. Jaskier could hear the smile in the dragon’s words. Get in position! He’s nearly to your room, Jask!

“Jaskier!” the Witcher cried, bursting through the door only a moment later. The bard could sense Etheid just outside the window, hidden by a thin curtain that hung from the back of an ENORMOUS four-poster bed. Geralt was too excited to find his precious bard safe to care about the looming threat.

“Geralt! You came for me!”

“Of course I did,” Geralt rolled his eyes. “You’re always getting yourself into trouble.”

Ugh, you’re so right. He’s horrible with romance.

Jaskier stifled a smile but Geralt caught it anyway. 

“What’s so funny, bard?”

“My captor doesn’t find your rescue speech very romantic or amusing,” he said, pulling the curtain aside. Etheid’s large blue eyes were focused on the scene, waiting for something good to happen. The dragon had been bored for so long and he’d heard so much from Borch about this White Wolf and his loyal, loving bard. Jaskier whispered the next line as if Etheid wasn't’ supposed to be hearing it, “Perhaps you should make our little reunion more flowery?”

“Jaskier, I - uh,” Geralt swallowed hard and took a step forward. Might as well go for it, the Witcher thought. “I’m so glad that I made it back to your side in time. I’m so glad that you’re unharmed.”

“I knew you’d come for me,” Jaskier sighed, holding out his hand. Geralt stepped even closer, leaning down to press his lips against the petal-soft skin of Jaskier’s knuckles. The bard blushed softly and Geralt felt his own face heating up to match. “You always save me, even from the worst situations.”

“I always will.”

The Witcher had admitted his greatest secret aloud before he could stop himself and he watched the bard’s eyes widen even further. Geralt’s brand of gruff sincerity was unmistakable. 

“Geralt,” the younger man grinned, tears gathering in the corners of his perfect, cornflower blue eyes, “I knew you loved me back.”

“You mean...?”

“Of course, silly,” the bard laughed, throwing himself up off the mattress and into Geralt’s arms. “I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you brooding at that tavern in Posada!”

“Oh Jaskier,” the Witcher gasped. His lips found the side of his bard’s pale neck and out on the balcony Etheid released a happy, contented huff. “I would give anything and everything to know that you were safe.”

“My sweet Witcher,” Jaskier leaned back, cupping Geralt’s face between his hands. His weight was now being entirely supported by the thick arm wrapped around his waist and he reveled in the strength of his beloved before leaning up to kiss him. “Then you must know how I feel every time you leave me on a hunt. Or go to fight with Yennefer about something silly.”

The Witcher could only press their foreheads together and breathe in the happy, rain-shower scent of his Jaskier. “Hmm.”

Excellent, yes! I can’t wait to tell Borch and my friends about this! Etheid cheered. Congratulations, Jaskier! I’m so happy for you!

“Thank you,” the bard murmured. 

“Hmm?” Geralt hummed again, raising an eyebrow. Jaskier pulled his head away and shook it. 

“Don’t worry about it. Are you getting me out of here or not?”

“Can you walk in this getup? Will the dragon just let us go?”

Jaskier shot a curious glance towards Etheid, who nodded.

Tell him you can’t walk, though. I want to see him carry you off to his horse and ride away with the white robe flapping in the wind. Maybe he’ll even wrap his arms around you from behind to keep you safe. Like a real princess. 

“No, I can’t walk in this silly thing at all. Keeps getting tangled around my ankles; I’d probably fall down the stairs and kill myself.

Geralt swept the younger man up into his arms and grabbed his lute from its place on the floor. “Well, we can’t have that.”

“No, my Witcher,” the bard replied with a contented smile. “We can’t have that at all.”

---

And if one of Etheid’s curious friends kidnapped Jaskier a month or so later and three countries over then...oh well. More weird dragon friends for the both of them.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #oops there's dragons #in league with dragons #geraskier fanfic #geraskier art #thank you for letting me do this #i really love your art #and all your aus #this would be so much fun to collab about fam #geraskier fluff #geraskier rescue #bardnapped #jaskier has been kidnapped #yet again #inhuman jaskier #protective geralt #first kiss #this was super fun and cute #geralt x jaskier

[goldandlights]

Comfort-heavy continuation of this (it completely ran away from me oml) Now also on Ao3

Jaskiers’ other hand is on Geralts back now, aimlessly tracing the knotted scar of a selkimore bite. Something hot and tight and painful twists in the Witchers belly, pushing up his throat.

He does not understand.

A quiet keening sound breaks the silence and only after a moment does Geralt realise that the noise came from him. He blinks, startled, tries to roll away but is stopped by Jaskier who yelps in surprise, clinging to his front like an octopus.

"Woah, hey, what's wrong?"

Hands are on his face, trying to soothe, even as Geralt shakes his head and attempts to twist away once more.

"Shh, Geralt- hey, please look at me. Did I hurt you?"

Blue eyes, wide with worry, meet molten gold. Jaskier must feel the shivers wracking Geralts body where they're still pressed together. The Witchers’ chest hurts. Badly. But he's not injured and it's not the bards' fault.

Mutely, Geralt shakes his head.

"Okay, that’s a relief but -you sure you're alright?"

Jaskier looks very much doubtful. He starts to untangle their limbs and a draft of cold night air reaches under their blankets. Skin that, just a moment ago, prickled with unfamiliar touch now burns with its absence and even though Geralt is aware that this is his fault, that if he didn't behave like a spooked animal Jaskier might have let him stay a little longer, that if Jaskier wants space Geralt must go, he can't stop his body from reaching out.

He reaches forward to tug the bard back in, envelops the other man in his brutish arms and pushes his face into Jaskiers throat to muffle yet another pitiful sound. Seconds until the bard will begin to struggle, until his lovely sweet scent will sour with fear and anger. Geralt feels monstrous as he clutches the other body close, helpless and needy and aching for just another second of contact.

Please. He wants to say. Please and I'm sorry and don't go.

Jaskier freezes for just a moment, a wash of sadness in his scent the Witcher cannot interpret, but then his arms come up again and, miraculously, drag him even closer, skin touching all along the full length of their bodies.

"Jask- ?"

"Shh, I'm not letting you go, you idiot, not after the months it took me to get you here. It's okay, Geralt. I'm not letting you go,"

A leg pushes between his own and invites him to roll them over, covering Jaskiers' lithe frame with Geralts' heavy weight. With a bit of persuasion, the Witcher lifts his head from where he'd been hiding in the crook of the bards' neck and is immediately rewarded with more soft kisses. Tender, praising words spill from Jaskiers mouth.

He cannot fathom what the bard is going on about but at least it's fairly clear that he is not put off by Geralts embarrassing display of clinginess. Quite on the contrary; Jaskiers’ sweet scent, sure touch and calm heartbeat tell Geralt that the bard is still happy to be there, happy to hold this mangled beast of a man in his arms, bewildering as that is.

"If we're gonna do this right, we really gotta work on your ability to express your needs and feelings," Jaskier huffs and gives Geralts bottom lip a playful nip "Unlike a certain sorceress, I cannot read minds... and guessing what's going on in that pretty head of yours is not an exact science, I'm afraid."

Geralts avoids an inquiring gaze. If we're gonna do this right- this? What do you mean?

"You- Geralt. You didn't think I invited you to my bedroll on a whim, did you? Just because it's convenient and there's no whorehouse nearby?"

But why else would you want me?

Another huff, frustrated now. Geralt is being pushed up by a hand on his chest. He goes reluctantly, instantly misses the proximity.

"Geralt look at me."

Blue on gold. Jaskier is frowning, searching Geralts' face for something and seemingly coming up empty.

"You can't be serious. Months and months I've spent trying to court you; the gifts and the dinner invitations and the ballads -the ballads, Geralt. Do you have any idea how many pitying looks I've had to endure these past weeks?"

Well. Geralt had indeed wondered at the recent tone and topic of Jaskiers songs but... it was spring, after all. A time for new love. And, as the bard had explained time and time again, it was important for a musician to "be aware of tends" and "go with the times". Therefore Geralt had simply assumed Jaskier was basing his lyrical choices on the demands of his audience. (And their pouches had come away heavy with coin.)

The general direction of his thoughts must be showing on his face because Jaskier now looks close to despair.

"Really, Geralt! Good Gods, save me from idiot Witchers," he runs a hand through his hair in agitation, making it stand up in funny tufts. Geralt would have liked to smooth it down but is certain the touch isn't welcome.

"So what- what does this mean then?" A new scent, sad like wilting flowers. Jaskier is inching backwards, widening the distance between them. "If you didn't pick up on my- my feelings for you- but still came to my bed... is that all it was for you, a convenient tumble between friends?"

Was it? When Geralt had accepted Jaskiers' proposal he'd not dared entertain any thoughts hopes, wishes of a deeper meaning. Even now he is certain he must be misunderstanding or dreaming. Or maybe Jaskier took a sip from the wrong flask and a Witchers potion is currently eating through his brain.

"You can't want me."

Just like Yennefer and any of the others didn't want him. His body perhaps, but nothing more. They never wanted him to stay.

"Can't? My dear Witcher, if nothing else, I assure you I know very well what I want and what I do not. I've had ten years to ponder this very issue. If you do not return my feelings that is fine. We can forget this ever happened and shall not mention it again. But do not question my sincerity or my agency in this relationship."

His tone is unusually strict and allows for no arguments. Not that Geralt necessarily wants to argue. The idea of Jaskier desiring him as more than a warm body and travel companion still feels... unrealistic. It goes against everything Geralt knows about his place in the world.

But it also fills him with a sudden, fierce longing. Like the ache in his chest from a few minutes ago but worse, a painful tingling from his belly to his fingertips that screams at him not to let Jaskier put any more distance between them.

If he has this chance, and if Jaskier will not allow himself to be talked out of it, Geralt would be a right fool to let it slip through his fingers.

I want you. He thinks, pinned by Jaskiers gaze.

I need you, I don't know what I'd do without you.

Stay.

But the words, though clear in his head, will not come to his tongue. Anxiety twists in his belly. They've not even begun going down this road and already Geralt is fucking it up.

He reaches out a bit desperately, smoothes down Jaskiers messy hair and pulls the bard into a kiss. Hoping to convey everything he thinks and feels through touch, Geralt mirrors Jaskiers earlier actions that had felt so good; presses tender little kisses to the bards' cheeks and eyelids, rubs their noses together in a soft caress.

Jaskier gasps, then giggles, then shuffles closer eagerly.

"Shall I take that as a yes? On the 'returning my feelings' front?"

"Mh-hm."

"Alright, I'll get some proper words out of you eventually," with surprising strength, Jaskier pulls his Witcher back down onto their bedroll, a soft moan leaving his lips as their still naked bodies entwine once more. "But no worries, we’ve got all the time in the world, don't we?"

"Yes, we do."

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #i couldn't leave it there #HAVE SOME FLUFF #or at least like #a bit less angst?! #geralt still has a long way to go #touch starved!geralt #poor baby #jaskier loves you :(

[fea-warriorheart]

Another Life

His heart pounds as he edges around the side of the barn, peeking out into the field beyond. There's no sign of his hunter, yet he's not stupid enough to think he's safe.

He's given odd looks as he sneaks across the gap between the buildings, from people and animals alike. One of the horses gives him an indignant huff as he brushes past, and he's probably lucky there's a fence between them.

He's in a bad spot. His hunter knows it better than him. He has to get to familiar ground before-

"Found you!"

Jaskier shrieks as strong arms wrap around his waist, lifting his feet off the ground. He can hear the smug grin as the boy behind him adds, "Too exposed, lark."

The hands dart down his sides, tickling him while also letting his feet touch the ground once more. Jaskier shrieks again, but there's no fear this time; laughter and mirth sound in every sound as he squirms in the stableboy's hold.

"Geralt! Stop it! I yield!"

A soft laugh comes from behind him, and the arms around him loosen, releasing him. Jaskier turns, face flushed and split with a grin as he takes in the redhead before him. Geralt's a good head taller than him, despite only being two years older. While Jaskier spends his days studying and being proper, Geralt spends his split between helping at the estate stables and learning medicinal practices under the watchful eye of his mother. He's lean from winter, as most of the village is, but there's already muscle starting to build back up on his frame with the scraps of food he's given by a sympathetic cook.

Laughter sparkles in Geralt's fern-colored eyes, a feature many might call dull compared to some of the other shades sported by humanoid races, but Jaskier was of the firm belief it fit him perfectly. Geralt was a child of nature, just like his mother, and it was fitting for such a prominent feature to reflect that.

"Julian! Get back here!"

The brunette grimaced at the sharp tone. Geralt's expression instantly smoothed into the neutral stance most of the servants took when a member of the house approached, let alone one of Jaskier's parents.

His father stalked over, scowling at him. "You're late for your lessons. I shouldn't have to come out here and drag you around. It's disgraceful."

Julian bowed his head slightly. "Yes, father. My apologies."

An iron grip latched on to his upper arm. His father sneered at Geralt as he started dragging him back towards the manor. "Get back to work, brat."

Julian didn't risk glancing back. Geralt would only get in further trouble; he knew his father already disliked the boy for being friendly with him, but kept him around because of his old friendship with Visenna. The woman had been there for Jaskier's birth, as well as his two sister's. Plus, Geralt had a way with the animals that no one could quite explain - or replicate - and it was too much trouble in his father's eyes to find and train a new boy for the job.

Geralt is one of the few good things Julian has in his life. He won't risk him by being stupid.

-

A fierce storm is raging against the windows of the kitchen. Many of the servants are fast asleep, but Jaskier paces the room, worry lines etched into his brow. Geralt is making them both a pot of tea; a messenger had arrived in the early evening, stating that Jaskier's father had been ambushed by bandits and that his location was currently unknown. Despite being reassured by his mother, sleep had not come easy to the young viscount.

Geralt rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts, and offered him a steaming cup. "Sit down," he murmured. "You'll do nothing for no one wearing holes into the floorboards."

He sits with a flop, tracing a finger along the edge of the cup as he waits for it to cool a bit. Geralt sits beside him, something they're only allowed to do in moments like this; moments of solitude in a life full of company. "You know I worry."

"Yes. It's why I knew you would seek me out."

Jaskier glances at him. Geralt's coat is drying by the fire; he'd accompanied the messenger to the manor through the storm, soaking both of them through, and his mother had insisted the poor boy stay the night. He'd taken a place by the kitchen fire to stay out of the way, and had been waiting when Jaskier slipped inside.

With Geralt, Jaskier is able to be... well, Jaskier. He's able to laugh and tell stupid jokes and not care about being proper, but only with Geralt. With all others, he must be Julian Alfred Pankratz.

It's no wonder why he feels drawn to the boy.

He sighs softly, leaning against Geralt. "What if they hurt him?"

"He's a hardy man, you know. This isn't the first time he's had to fight."

"That doesn't mean I have to be happy about it."

"I know, lark." Geralt gives him a one-armed hug-squeeze around his shoulders. "He'll be alright. Probably just lost his way in the storm, is all."

Jaskier shrugs miserably, sipping at his tea. They sit in silence for a while; Geralt eventually stands to clean their cups and dry them off. He's placing them back in the cupboard when the door slams open, startling both boys and causing the fire to give a threatening flicker.

Two figures stumble inside; one is unmistakably his father, while the other has broad shoulders and wears a thick cloak, obscuring all but the chestnut beard with gray flecks peppering it. The stranger slams the door shut, bolting it against the wind, and Jaskier's father stands there for a moment, breathing heavily as he takes in the two boys.

The stranger turns, then, and Julian's heart clenches when he sees the Witcher's medallion hanging around his neck. He pulls down the hood of his cloak, golden eyes reflecting the light of the fire. His gaze is on Julian, studying him curiously.

He turns back to Julian's father. "I assume you didn't expect either of them to be here. Which would fulfill your payment."

The man tenses, then shakes his head. "No, I expected my son to be here. He always waits up when I'm late. The stable boy, though- bah. You can take him."

Julian feels his world slow to a halt. When he looks at Geralt, he feels like he's moving through pine resin. The redhead's eyes are wide with shock and fear, and his mouth opens and closes a few times, though no sound leaves him.

"Fine. I doubt I have enough rations to bring both of them with me, anyways." The Witcher turns back to them, crossing his arms. "Your name, boy."

"No!" Julian's voice starts working again, and he stands between them. "You can't take him!"

"Julian," his father hisses, storming over to him and yanking him away. "He claimed the Law of Surprise for saving my life. It must be fulfilled."

"No! He can't take Geralt! Please, father, you can't let him!" Tears burn his eyes. Geralt still isn't moving, still hasn't looked away from the Witcher.

Golden and green gazes snap to them as Julian is backhanded. The Witcher is there in an instant, gripping his father's wrist enough to make the man cry out.

"I don't take kindly to those who would abuse a child for caring for a friend," the Witcher says softly. "Touch him again and lose your hand. Your oath has been fulfilled. Leave us, now."

"Wait." A small voice sounds from the corner where Geralt stands. He's trembling, eyes darting between the Witcher and Julian. "Can I- Can I at least say goodbye?"

Something in the Witcher's face softens, and he steps back, nodding. "Do you have any family?"

"My mother, she lives in the village..."

"You can say farewell to her as well and grab some spare clothes. Make it quick."

The Witcher leans against the fireplace, and Geralt rushes over, wiping at Jaskier's tears with soothing motions. "It's alright, lark. Don't cry... It'll be okay..."

"Geralt... Please, you can't leave me..." Jaskier gripped his shirt, twisting the fabric in his grip. A gentle hand brushes through his hair.

"You know I can't just ignore this, lark... I have to go, but we'll see each other again eventually, yeah...?"

Jaskier sniffles. Geralt lifts his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. He smiles gently, and for the life of him, Jaskier can't help but feel the truth in his words. He nods, even as his bottom lip wobbles. "Yeah."

The Witcher steps in again, a hand on Geralt's shoulder. He hands the boy his coat, and with one last look back, Jaskier's best friend vanishes into the stormy night.

-

He learns in Oxenfurt how few boys survive the Witcher mutations. He does not want to believe it, but part of him mourns his friend. Geralt was strong, but verging on too old for the Trials; his body would be more likely to reject them than to adapt to them. And besides, Geralt was a farmer, a healer, not a monster hunter.

So Jaskier does his best to move on. But there are nights, often dark with storms, where he curls in on himself and wishes things had happened differently.

He graduates Oxenfurt a master of the arts and top of his class, and then he just... wanders. He plays as a bard in taverns and inns, earning enough coin to stay the night and occasionally buy some new clothes. He takes lovers, but never partners; he loves too much and yet too little, flitting from person to person as his very being rejects each and every one.

He's nineteen, playing in some backwater village. The road there had been harrowing; he had been lucky to join a group of merchants at the last town. A nest of monsters - he wasn't sure what, he hadn't paid attention - had been terrorizing most travelers in small groups for weeks. They'd even been so desperate as to put up a notice for a Witcher.

Despite all of the stories, Jaskier hasn't seen another since that night. He's beginning to wonder if they're just a figment of everyone's collective imagination; perhaps the monsters just kill themselves off or migrate elsewhere when the pickings are slim.

He's just finished a song, collecting some meager coin as the door opens. Jaskier is retreating to his table when a hand rests on his shoulder; his mind runs through anyone he might have pissed off. He hasn't been in town long enough to anger any husbands, fathers or brothers, and no one would have followed him through such a dangerous area. So truly, for the life of him, he doesn't know why-

"Lark."

His world goes still in a way that has happened only once before.

He turns slowly. He's no longer a head shorter; his eyes are about level with his nose. His skin is paler than Jaskier remembers, contrasted with dark armor. A wolf's head gleams above it, snarling at his foes, and two swords are visible on his back.

Snow white hair brushes his shoulders, tied back clumsily. Jaskier can't find the strength to breathe as he finally looks him in the eye.

Gone is the green of ferns and grass in the spring; molten gold takes their place, slitted pupils darting in minuscule movements as he searches Jaskier's face. For all the differences, he's still the same boy - still the stable boy Jaskier knew.

He's still...

Jaskier is breathless as he whispers, "Geralt."

A small smile spreads across the boy's - man's, he's twenty, twenty-one now - face. He takes Jaskier's hand in his, squeezing it gently. "I told you I'd see you again."

//An indulgent thing that I came up with out of the blue. Lost steam at the end which is why it sort of trails off, but hey, if anyone's interested in a part two.... (bold presumption, I know.)

#witcher #jaskier #geralt #geraskier #geralt of rivia #fic #what-if

[brasskier]

@badthingshappenbingo​ trope #4!

Trope: Concussion

Summary: Jaskier feels like a detective, albeit a clumsy, scrambled-eggs-for-brains kinda detective. He has two mysteries on his plate at the moment - why is Geralt in a bad mood, and why won't his brain cooperate? (Hint: perhaps it has something to do with hitting his head that morning.)

Read on my ao3 or below the cut:

Jaskier probably should've told Geralt when he slipped and smashed his head into a rock on the riverbank coming back up from his morning bath, or should've at least known it was bad when bright worms of light started squiggling in his peripheral and words suddenly got a lot harder to string together. And maybe he would've, if he wasn't so intent on figuring out why Geralt was in such a piss-poor mood that morning. He felt like a detective - albeit a clumsy, scrambled-eggs-for-brains kinda detective - stringing together clues and occasionally nudging the witcher along with leading questions, at least when he could get his brain, lips, and tongue to all cooperate. 

Unfortunately, Jaskier was doing about as well at solving the mystery of Geralt the extra-grumpy witcher as he was figuring out what was going on in his own skull. It'd happened once when he was a boy, falling out of a twisty, too-tall tree. His father, may he rest in peace, didn't notice until Jaskier, uncharacteristically silent, stared vacantly past him— until that point he'd been more preoccupied scolding him for ruining yet another fine pair of trousers. (His parents paid good money for those things, but he was pretty sure maybe they should've learned by that point and stopped dressing him up in finery before releasing him into the world.) 

Speaking of, he could use a new pair of pants. Maybe once they made it to the next town he could find a seamstress, maybe even invest in a nice new doublet as well. Geralt always pretended he found such purchases frivolous and vain, all huffy and monosyllabic, but Jaskier knew full well it put him in a good mood to have something to tease Jaskier for.

Good mood. Right. He was supposed to be figuring out why he was in a decidedly not good mood. He was supposed to… well, he really didn't know past that. His thoughts flitted about his head like a chicken desperate to escape its coop, and this thought made him giggle to himself, picturing his squishy brain with a beak and feathers squawking about.

"Jaskier?" He glanced up at the witcher that had reclaimed his attention, finding it distinctly difficult to track his movements as he bobbed along on his horse. "Did you listen to a thing I said?" Well, that was a silly question, Jaskier thought, because in order for him to listen, Geralt would've had to have said something. His mind trapped like a stuck cog on how to put this minor incongruence into words, and the witcher glared at him in the space of his tenuous silence. 

"How could I?" He asked finally, head tilted to parallel the uncertainty etched in his tone.

"With your ears," Geralt deadpanned, and Jaskier grimaced under the frustration of his misunderstanding.

"No, that's not— I meant— you didn't—" he attempted to elaborate, but once again found his brain, flighty as a hummingbird, refused to put thoughts to language. Geralt slowed Roach to a halt, and only then did Jaskier realize he'd at some point stopped walking. He wasn't too sure when that happened, but he was sure he had to start again, because Geralt was already in a bad mood and the uneasy threat of abandonment always loomed thick. 

This, in hindsight, might've been a mistake. The trees spun, ground tilting ominously like a ship caught in a storm, and Jaskier staggered with the rhythm of it. This, finally, mercifully, seemed to tip off Geralt and his fancy-schmancy witcher senses that something wasn't right. 

"Jaskier?" He called, and he still sounded decidedly disgruntled. This wasn't good; Jaskier was supposed to be getting him in a better mood, not making things worse. He'd even been quiet for a change (moreso due to his tongue's uncooperativeness than any conscious choice on his part, not that Geralt needed to know this detail). 

The witcher swung a leg off the saddle, dismounted with the grace of a cat. (Which was funny; wasn't Geralt supposed to be a wolf? Didn't Geralt's brother know a cat witcher? Maybe cat witchers were even more graceful, like ballerinas; Geralt would never do ballet.) This thought would've also made Jaskier giggle, but he was hesitant to unclamp his jaw at the moment, fearful that more than words might spill past it.

"Jaskier?" It was more urgent this time, which Jaskier vaguely recognized was not good, but couldn't quite recall why. When he managed to force his eyes to focus for a split second, Geralt was in front of him, before the forest swelled again and swallowed him with it. He pressed a hand over his eyes, in the vain hope blindness might put an end to the spinning; he had no such luck, and found himself drifting even in the darkness. 

"Mmm?" He hummed, which was usually Geralt's line, but he was determined to keep up the tight-lipped defiance of his own body. He felt a hand scrape his forehead, shifting his carefully mussed hair, and then move down to cup his chin between two fingers. It was a gruff, economic movement; Jaskier, in his self-imposed darkness, pretended it was tender.

"What's wrong with you?" Even Geralt's voice seemed to be swimming, tilting forward and back with each strangely distorted syllable. What isn't, Jaskier wanted to joke in return, snicker a little at Geralt's frustration. But he couldn't, at least not without giving into opening his mouth, and besides, Geralt was already in a bad mood. Instead, he shrugged, a turn of phrase about tables that turned flitting through his thoughts, and he surely felt like he was on a turning table, not that any tables Jaskier had ever seen were exactly known for turning. 

"Is it your throat?" It was a reasonable line of thought for Geralt to stroll down, to be fair, considering the whole thing with the djinn. Gods, how he wished he had a djinn right now, less-than-stellar experience aside. If he had one, there'd be none of that bloody Valdo Marx bullshit; no, instead the forest wouldn't spin anymore, his brain and tongue would cooperate, and Geralt would be in a good mood. 

Jaskier really was doing a shit job of uplifting Geralt's spirits, wasn't he? At the very least, he'd managed to tease out the source of his foul temper; at present, it was Jaskier himself. He risked a peek out into the world again, found concerned amber eyes tucked under a tight scowl tilting like a leaf in the wind, and promptly squeezed them shut again. Oh, yeah. Geralt had asked him a question— what was it? Ah, it was gone now, too late. He shook his head, hoping he was actually answering. This was a mistake, because it sent stars erupting in the darkness and an unbidden groan worming its way past his lips. 

"What, Jaskier?" Geralt sounded even more exasperated, if such a thing were possible, and Jaskier flung a hand up to press over his mouth, as if that might help whatsoever; it didn't. 

"No— fuck, I'm—" In one clumsy motion he managed to tear himself back and away from Geralt, jerk to the side, and stumble over his own two feet and onto his knees just in time to escape vomiting on Geralt's boots. That was good; vomit on his boots would've really pissed him off. The weathered hand that had earlier cupped his chin (Jaskier could still feel the ghost of it on his skin) came to sit heavy between his shoulder blades. This touch not even Jaskier could make feel gentle.

"Okay," Geralt hummed, somewhere to his side. "Alright, okay." Was this Geralt's attempt at being soothing? How Jaskier wished he could tell him he appreciated it; maybe later, when his stomach wasn't still bucking uncooperatively like a spooked horse. This was funny, too; Roach in his stomach, kicking and snorting, but Jaskier was beginning to get tired of silly tangents.

Come to think of it, Jaskier was just tired, his limbs suddenly heavy, pounding in his skull coming into sharp focus. The hand migrated up to his collar, no doubt to tug him back upright, but he wrenched free and let himself drop to the dirt before Geralt had the chance. A nap sounded absolutely divine at the moment, and he was beginning to think he couldn't care less whether the witcher stuck around to wait it out or not. (This last detail was, patently, an absolute lie, and Jaskier knew it full well even as the thought first pattered into his consciousnesses.)

Geralt rolled him over, flipped him on his side, and this was both a small mercy (he hadn't been abandoned) and a horrendous blight (the sun glaring directly into his eyes, even as he pressed a clumsy hand to cover them again.) Another callused hand swiped across his forehead, his cheek, made its way down his neck and pried back his doublet. Jaskier wasn't sure what Geralt was looking for, and he also didn't particularly think he'd find it, whatever it was. 

"There's no fever," Geralt announced, as if this were some grand discovery, a breakthrough in medical sciences. "Something you ate?" Ah, so now Geralt was playing detective, and Jaskier had all but given up on his case; another reversal of roles. Well, maybe at the very least Jaskier could give him better clues, or at least try.

"Head," he groaned, rolling back onto his side, cool dirt not unpleasant against his skin. This time, no hands tugged at him, but instead Geralt gave a soft hum, barely distinguishable from the ringing in his ears. "Hurts," he tacked on because, while it might've been implied, with Geralt it never hurt to be explicit. 

"Now we're getting somewhere." That thrice-damned hand returned again, worked its way through his hair, dragging along every bump and curve until he scuffed against a half-healed scab and a sharp pain ricocheted through Jaskier's skull. He recoiled, writhing for a moment before curling even tighter into himself. "When did you hit your head?" That was a good question, because Jaskier wasn't all too sure anymore if he even had.

"Dunno," he mumbled. Now if only Geralt could put a pause to the interrogation so he might be afforded the small mercy of dying in peace. “River?”

"Helpful." Footsteps, echoing through the dirt and drilling through his head with each heavy footfall, further and further and further away until he could only feel, not hear, them. This was fine. Not the end he felt truly befit a heroic bard of his renown, but humble enough to satisfy him nonetheless. Just him and the trees as he returned to the earth from whence he was borne. 

Then those blasted footsteps returned, those hands hoisted him, and he was face-first on the scratchy wool of his bedroll. He nuzzled against it, like a cat (he really needed to ask Geralt for the name of that cat witcher his brother knew). 

"You have a concussion." A light flickered to life somewhere in his brain at this revelation. One of his grand mysteries, finally come to its disappointingly anticlimactic conclusion. He still didn't know why Geralt had been in such a piss-poor mood, but he decided that was a puzzle for another time, letting his breath even out with impending sleep.

"Jaskier, I need to know you understand me, okay?" As soft as his words were, Jaskier couldn't help but find it incredibly rude of him to interrupt his much-needed and well-deserved rest. If he kept pushing it, Jaskier thought, perhaps Geralt would be having to solve the mystery of why he was grumpy.

"Mmm, okay." This earned him another pat on the shoulder, as gentle a touch as anything Jaskier could ever hope for. 

"I'll need to wake you periodically to make sure you don't lose what little wit you have," Geralt informed him, "but you can rest now." He felt like a sinking ship, overcome with warmth. Loose-limbed and giddy, he jutted out a clumsy hand and flailed blindly until it flopped against Geralt's arm, and he latched on. "Just tell me next time you hit your head."

"Thank you," he managed to get out on the tail end of a breath, slurred with exhaustion, disappointed when the witcher carefully extracted his wrist from his grip. A blanket settled on top of him, and he fumbled to tug it closer. 

"Just sleep." Needing no convincing, Jaskier did as he was told. And in his dreams, Geralt was in a good mood, and he could still feel the ghost of his hand on that patch of skin on his chin. 

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #bad things happen bingo #jaskier whump #concussion #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #brasskier does bthb