#& things are tense and awkward & geralt beats himself up for not being able to just compartmentalize since that was his only chance w/ jask | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vulturhythm · 4 years

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day two - ride his thigh

look we are simply going to pretend this was posted on the second

- - - - -

to be fair, attempting to fuck the wife of one of novigrad’s most respected officials maybe wasn’t among jaskier’s most brilliant ideas.

to be fair, he hadn’t planned on being caught, nor on needing to flee dramatically through the entire damn city with an irate man and two servants chasing after him.

this was, he decided, stumbling into the crowd of a marketplace, an excellent time to locate his bodyguard - one geralt of rivia.

fortunately, white hair and black armor were uncommon, especially when combined, so it took him only a few seconds to locate his part-time lover. he approached at damn near a gallop, slamming into geralt’s side and grabbing frantically for his arm.

“nice to see you again, geralt, lovely day for a getaway, don’t you think? lovely weather to run, if i do say so myself - “

to geralt’s credit, he merely gave a startled grunt on impact before looping an arm through jaskier’s own, letting the frantic bard pull him off in the opposite direction. “what is it now?”

“nothing,” said jasker, bright and forced, “nothing at all apart from an angry man, geralt, which direction is the road out of town? i’m not at all picky.”

seemingly doing an excellent job of ignoring the yelling drawing nearer behind them, geralt merely replied, “it would be easier to hide.”

jaskier made a rather undignified sound, flailing one hand and almost striking a passerby in the face as he replied, “well, lead the bloody way, witcher!”

as per usual, he ignored geralt’s sigh. the witcher had finally fucking listened and was using his considerably more intimidating presence to get them through the crowd, something for which jaskier was grateful, until -

“fuck - ow!”

geralt had yanked him abruptly to the side as they broke free of the market crowd, pulling him into what was hardly an alley - more of a tiny gap between buildings, accessible maybe by a dog or a single man, not two. “could have picked a better alley,” he muttered.

“quiet,” geralt replied, turning them so his back was angled to the street, though all this really did was squeeze jaskier more firmly between himself and the wall. “they won’t see us.”

jaskier was about to retort, only to break off when he heard the yelling drawing nearer - stopping near the mouth of the alley. he heaved a sigh, dropping his head to rest on geralt’s chest and trying to find a stance that was at least moderately comfortable.

it wasn’t his fault that that happened to be with their legs nearly interlocked to take the pressure off his ass against the wall, nor was it necessarily his fault that he was still at half-mast, pressed uncomfortably into geralt’s hip.

he didn’t have to glance up to see his witcher’s exasperated look.

“quiet,” he repeated, closing his eyes and focusing on the beat of his pulse in his ears.

geralt’s low, rough burr of a laugh rumbled right against him, and jaskier drew in a breath when his witcher’s hands settled more firmly at his sides. nothing came of it, of course. merely adjusting, settling in for the long haul -

the long haul, it seemed, as the men had stopped just out of sight, talking amongst themselves as to where the blasted scoundrel might have run.

jaskier drew in a slow breath, one that really was meant to steady himself, but all it did was press them closer together in the tight quarters of the alley. the air caught in his lungs, and he shifted in place, only to freeze when geralt did the same - when geralt’s fingers went tighter on his ribs, when geralt’s thigh worked its way more firmly between his own.

“geralt - “ he began beneath his breath, lifting his head. golden eyes glittered with private amusement when they met deep blue. “what - ?”

“pathetic,” geralt said, softly musing. “how are you still worked up? thought you were afraid.”

jaskier managed a laugh that was mostly air, his hips stirring against his own will when geralt crowded him all the closer to the wall at his back. “adrenaline,” he murmured, trying to keep himself quiet. already, the voices just outside seemed less urgent. “a hell of a drug, after all.”

geralt merely sighed, his fingers shifting lower on jaskier’s waist; the bard breathed in sharp when geralt pulled him to straddle his thigh properly, the witcher’s knee pressed to the wall behind him. “go ahead, if you’re this whorish.”

and, well, these circumstances were far from ideal, but they had fucked many a time before in situations just as awkward as these, and, well, geralt’s thighs were thick and firm, and jaskier’s cock had taken renewed interest with concerning haste...

so, as the men in the alley came to a rather loud conclusion, jaskier decided, why not?

for all that he boasted it to be a privilege to bed him, he considered it even better to bed geralt, and now was no exception. he was also no stranger to doing so - no stranger, either, to fitting his hips more firmly around geralt’s thigh, to rolling them down onto the muscle wedged between his own.

immediately, the feeling drew a quiet, tremulous gasp from him, and he freed a hand to cover his own mouth, head tipped back onto the wall behind him. already, his cheeks were burning. he could feel geralt’s eyes on him, piercing through his skin.

“you really are worked up,” geralt said musingly, squeezing his hips again to coax him into a more fluid motion, into a steady grind that had perfect pressure right up against his cock through his trousers. “pitiful.”

“your - your dirty talk still leaves much to be desired,” jaskier murmured, though he couldn��t quite muster the energy required to be upset, not when the roll of his hips onto geralt’s thigh felt so immensely good after being left wanting. “gods, geralt, can you - “

but he didn’t have to finish, which worked out well, as he doubted he would have been able to force out the words; geralt was already moving, crowding him all the closer to the wall so he could push his thigh up at more of an angle, trapping jaskier against the crook of his hip and making him whine when the next buck of his quivering hips led to the press of his cock against geralt’s own.

even soft, geralt was nothing to sneeze at, of such size that the bulk of him provided plenty of friction - and fantasies - to drive jaskier half-mad. whimpering out against his palm, jaskier shut his eyes tight so he wouldn’t have to face his friend’s amused gaze, letting himself focus entirely on this carnal grind.

so dazed was he that he didn’t even register geralt’s hands straying until one had moved to cup his ass, wedged between him and the wall. jaskier bucked and whined, tried to speak, gave up quickly when geralt’s other hand came to cup the back of his neck, when geralt guided his head forward to rest against his chest.

jaskier whined again, gasped aloud as geralt forced his rhythm to speed, to deepen, the next rock of his hips enough to make him moan at the delicious pressure. “geralt,” he breathed out, dropping his hands to clench at the witcher’s armor, “wolf, please - “

he knew, distantly, that he’d become all but mindless with this, humping his friend’s thigh like a bitch in heat, like he needed to be bred, and - and oh, that idea, fuck - and then geralt’s fingers drifted lower to press against his hole through the fabric of his trousers, and jaskier’s sense of shame fled to the hills.

really, all things considered, it was no wonder he lasted mere minutes beyond; he was wired, tense, needy, so damn strung out that he didn’t have a chance. geralt’s fingers gripped his nape all the tighter when jaskier fell apart, stifling his moan into his witcher’s chest as he spilled into his trousers like a bloody youth all over again.

“pathetic,” geralt whispered again as jaskier came back down, low and fond, amused.

jaskier simply groaned.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier kinktober #geraskier kinktober 2020 #day two #ride his thigh #my fics #this isn’t late at all nope #shut up and enjoy

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years

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I Scream a Truth, You Hear a Lie - part 5/ 5

for @ban-aard <3

read on AO3

previous / Bonus chapter

The first notes of the song filled the air and still Jaskier didn’t move. Geralt’s stomach dropped. He should have never agreed to partake in that ridiculous game. He should never have let Jaskier drag him up there.

Even as he thought this, he knew he was being unfair. He hadn’t let Jaskier drag him anywhere. Geralt had been more than willing – eager really – to do whatever Jaskier wanted if it meant seeing his eyes light up the way they had.

And more yet: Though it was so obvious that Jaskier wasn’t comfortable with the idea of dancing with him, Geralt couldn’t find it in him to regret what they had had on the stage just moments before, when Jaskier’s touch had come so surely and with so little hesitation as if it belonged on Geralt’s skin.

Even as Jaskier’s heart had sped up when Geralt had come to stand before him and a small smile of relief spread across his face, Geralt had known it was only a fleeting moment, forever to be treasured in his memory only, but at the very least Jaskier hadn’t been able to see the way Geralt’s mask had slipped into something not even a poet could rationalise away as only an act when Jaskier had reached out. The way Jaskier’s fingers had mapped his face and the way his lips that been so soft against Geralt’s hand would be forever etched into Geralt’s mind. He almost wished it had taken Jaskier even longer to recognise him if it meant he would have gotten to feel those touches on him for a few moments more.

Jaskier’s grip on his hand became the tiniest bit tighter.

“I assume I’m going to lead?” Jaskier said, sounding strained. “I’ll try to go slow. I know you don’t really like to – I don’t even know if you know how to dance.”

“I do,” Geralt said too quickly. “But I only know how to lead.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up and he cracked a smirk though he gladly let Geralt guide him into position, Jaskier’s hand resting warmly on Geralt’s shoulder and the other fitting so perfectly into Geralt’s hand.

“What, are you telling me you spend your winters dancing in Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt took the first step back and Jaskier followed, just like he had always followed him across the continent, always happy to go where Geralt led him to.

The way Jaskier looked at him tightened an iron band around his chest until it became hard to breathe. He looked awed, as if Geralt had given Jaskier an unexpected gift. It was too much. If Geralt looked at that expression for much longer he would drown and in his need to gasp for air, words would tumble out of his mouth and drag him under even deeper with no hope for rescue.

“Yen taught me.” Geralt said it to keep himself from giving shape to anything he would. He hadn’t been prepared for the way his heart would clench when Jaskier’s expression fell and his eyes darted away. “She said it might come in handy if I ever –“

The hurried words broke off. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t confess how Yennefer had insisted that Jaskier should be wooed with dance, no matter how often Geralt had resisted and told her that he would never ask Jaskier to dance – that Jaskier would never accept such an offer, not if it came from Geralt. And yet, Geralt’s protest had died away and he had found himself dreaming, wishing, hoping.

“If you ever what?” Jaskier’s posture was far too rigid to match the forcibly light-hearted tone.

“Nothing. Forget it.” Geralt sent Jaskier out in a twirl, hoping it would buy him time to come up with a better reply. “Either way, now I’m glad she taught me.”

He brought Jaskier close to him again, closer perhaps than before. Jaskier didn’t reply, but he melted into Geralt’s arms, followed the slightest hint at what Geralt was prompting him to do, even though Geralt’s movements were awkward and clumsy and clashing so horribly with Jaskier’s elegance and easy grace. Still, as Jaskier twirled around Geralt and came back time and time again, his smile became brighter and a laugh bubbled up in him that was matched by a low rumble in Geralt’s chest.

The longer the song carried on, the more couples joined them on the dance floor and started moving to the music, but they could have just as well disappeared into thin air, for Geralt could see none but the man in his arms.

The twinkle in Jaskier’s eyes was enough to startle Geralt out of the strange trance he had fallen into while feeling Jaskier respond in that way to being in his arms. Lost in Jaskier’s gaze, Geralt tripped over his own feet, tugged a bit harsher than intended on Jaskier’s hand and without warning, Jaskier came crashing into him.

Geralt caught him without missing a beat. His hands rested low on Jaskier’s back and one of Jaskier’s hands laid on Geralt’s chest right above his heart. Their faces were so unbearably close, too far apart still.

It was wishful thinking that Jaskier’s eyes flickered down to his lips. His hand didn’t truly tighten in the fabric of his doublet. He didn’t truly pull him closer. Did he?

Geralt’s mouth went dry and his eyes darted between Jaskier’s, searching for something he was foolish enough to hope for, now that they were standing like this, like lovers, barely swaying anymore and believing they were the only people in the world.

How could he not hope? How could he not dream when some of that perfectly combed hair had come loose and fallen into Jaskier’s eyes? When his stiff posture had fallen away as he let himself enjoy the dance. When his smile held barely a hint of tension and his face was flushed. He looked like he belonged, not in this town that doubted his words and talent, not amongst those people who would scorn and scoff at what Jaskier so vehemently believed in, but right here in Geralt’s arms.

“You are beautiful.”

Even while the words left Geralt’s lips, a dagger plunged into his heart. He had said it too quietly, just loud enough for Jaskier to hear.

Not nearly loud enough to believably pretend he only said it for their act.

Geralt prayed that his slip up would somehow escape Jaskier’s notice, that maybe he could pretend to never have said it. If Jaskier ignored what he had said, he would not pull back and that would be enough.

But Jaskier’s eyes widened and his mouth opened just the tiniest bit, just enough for the smallest gasp to leave him.

Geralt’s heart gave a jolt and he wanted, he wanted … he was leaning forward, the last remnants of their dance slowing to a halt and Geralt’s hand pulled Jaskier closer ever so slightly. Not thinking but feeling more than he ever thought possible, he tilted his head and leaned in.

Just before his lips could touch Jaskier’s he stopped, giving Jaskier the change to close the gap between them. For the briefest, most wonderful moment he was certain Jaskier was leaning in too.

But the kiss never came, instead Jaskier went still in Geralt’s arms and the truth Geralt had so cruelly forgotten crashed back into him.

Jaskier didn’t want this. Going to a festival together, holding his hand and dancing was one thing. But Jaskier could not have made it clearer that he didn’t want what Geralt had wanted so desperately to do. A kiss was taking it too far.

Geralt had known this. Of course he had. There was a reason as to why they had not gone beyond holding hands for their pretence. There was no hope that Jaskier would want anything like that with him. Geralt had been stupid enough to forget that none of it was real, no matter how much he wished the soft looks and gentle touches weren’t all just a lie on Jaskier’s part.

Abruptly, Geralt pulled back and turned his face to the side. He couldn’t bear to look Jaskier in the eyes right now, he couldn’t see the discomfort because of what Geralt had almost done or the relief of him not going through with it.

Maybe if he had seen Jaskier’s face, it would have been easier when Jaskier spoke up again.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly and it tore Geralt’s heart apart.

Sharply his head snapped back. “No, Jaskier.” His voice broke. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

If anything, Geralt should be the one to apologise. Jaskier was in this situation because his songs were defending witchers and how was Geralt repaying him? By almost forcing a kiss onto him in a situation where Jaskier wouldn’t be able to speak up or shove him away if he didn’t want to risk other people’s ire at unravelling the nature of their false relationship.

But Jaskier’s eyes widened and the hand still holding Geralt’s twitched.

“But I am. Sorry, that is.” Jaskier interrupted himself by swallowing thickly. “For what I said before.” When Geralt only furrowed his brow, Jaskier let out a trembling sigh. “When I said that I loved you.”

His words were quiet enough that no one would hear him over the sound of the music still playing, still it was loud like roaring thunder in Geralt’s head.

When Geralt tensed, Jaskier gave him a joyless half-smile. “Yeah. Exactly. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean… you don’t have to do things you’re uncomfortable with just because I took this thing too far. It was stupid of me, just – just forget it ever happened.”

Unable to form words Geralt only nodded, though he knew he would never be able to forget the precious words spoken with such conviction that for a moment Geralt had almost let himself believe they had been true.

If it had just been those words, the knowledge that they hadn’t meant anything, it would have been fine. But now, hearing Jaskier denounce them so openly, calling them stupid, saying they had taken it too far made it so much worse. As if the words had just slipped out, not because they came naturally to him, but because they weren’t important. Meaningless enough that they should be forgotten by the one who had them burned into his memory.

But if this is what Jaskier wanted, if he regretted saying it so much, then Geralt would not speak of those words again, would try not to think of them while he was with Jaskier.

Geralt gave Jaskier a smile that he hoped didn’t look as brittle as it felt. “Don’t worry, Jaskier. We both know this doesn’t mean anything. After today we will go back to the way we have always been.”

The promise spoken as a comfort cut into Geralt, even as he smiled to reassure Jaskier; even as he knew that those were hollow words. Geralt wouldn’t be able to go back. Not after having gotten a taste of what it felt like to have Jaskier touch him so gently, look at him so softly and speak his name as if it was the only word worth saying.

“You’re right. It doesn’t mean anything.” Jaskier’s shoulders sagged and he returned Geralt’s smile all the more brightly. “I’m glad we’ll be able to go back to normal. That this won’t stand between us.”

It was said with so much relief that he wouldn’t need to repeat the words that it gave a sharp twist to Geralt’s heart. Still he knew it was better this way. As much as he wanted Jaskier to say it again, he wouldn’t be able to bear it if Jaskier didn’t mean it and that he knew was a dream that would never come true.

Once they left the dancing couples behind and went to the edge of the town square where it was quieter and less bustling, it was easier to look at Jaskier again. Here no eyes were on them, no nosy ears straining to listen in. They didn’t need to prove anything anymore. They had done what they had set out to do, certainly. If they wanted to they could leave the festivities and retire to their room. There was no need to continue with their act for any longer.

They stayed. Even as the last couples decided to dance no longer since their feet began to hurt. Even as evening fell and the town square was illuminated by lanterns and fairy lights instead of the sun.

Jaskier’s eyes reflected the lights, making them look like stars on the night sky and Geralt found himself unable to looking away. He could finally understand what poets meant when they said their beloveds were pained with starlight.

Though he must notice Geralt’s blatant adoration, Jaskier’s hand didn’t leave Geralt’s and Geralt let himself smile at Jaskier and look at him as openly and with as much admiration as he wanted to. He only had a few more hours left – minutes, if Jaskier decided he has had enough – and the ticking clock made Geralt desperate to take as much as he could get. Maybe the memory would be enough to warm him when Jaskier left him once more for Oxenfurt or some court where his songs would be celebrated and he would find a new lover who would be allowed to look at him the way Geralt did now.

“They won’t doubt your songs now.” Geralt didn’t know why he said it, why he felt the sudden need to fill the silence that had never bothered him before. He just knew that he wanted Jaskier to be happy. If it wasn’t with Geralt on his arm, then maybe knowing that his music would be celebrated would make this evening pleasant for him.

Jaskier let out a soft sigh. “There’s always at least one person who doesn’t understand what I’m singing about.”

It was a familiar enough jab that Geralt knew it was him that Jaskier was talking about. Too often had Jaskier complained playfully and with over the top theatrics about Geralt’s inability to see what his songs meant. There was something in the way he had said it now, resigned and maybe even with a hint of bitterness, that made Geralt squirm.

“Not everyone is a scholar. I might not understand the metaphors and all that but even I can recognise a good song.”

“Oh? My songs are good now?” Jaskier nudged Geralt playfully with his shoulder, but his tone hadn’t changed.

“Always were.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s smile wavered and he quietly said, “Now you are taking the act a bit too far. That is something you can’t possibly mean.”

Silence settled over them again and Geralt wrecked his brain, desperate to find something to make right what he had somehow broken without realising or meaning to.

“I would like to hear you play.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up. “What, right now?” He squinted. “Geralt, I really appreciate how dedicated you are to do all this,” he gestured widely over to the people who were still enjoying the festival, “but you’ve already done so much you wouldn’t have done otherwise. I won’t make you listen to me sing too.”

“I want to.” Geralt swallowed thickly. “I never get to see you perform in full.”

“You’ve heard me compose my songs.”

“But it’s different. You’re different when you play for someone else.” Geralt felt his throat grow tight, but he forced himself to continue. It was likely he had already broken too much with how he behaved today. What more harm could this cause? “Happier. You smile more openly. And I never get to see it. There’s always someone approaching me for a contract midway, or I just come back from one when you’re about to finish the set or I can’t stay because of the potions. I just – just this once?”

Jaskier gave him a long unreadable look, before nodding slowly.

They went back to the crowd, back to the prying eyes. When Jaskier’s hand pulled away from his, Geralt tightened his hold unwilling to let go just yet, before releasing his hand.

He watched Jaskier’s every step as he went up to speak to one of the musicians and borrow her lute before going up the stage once more.

“My husband asked me for a song and who am I to deny him?” he announced with a broad smile and winked in Geralt’s direction. Softer, he added, “This song is for you, Geralt my love.”

Geralt’s breath got stuck in his throat. There was that word again, right after his name, as if his name was worth mentioning first. That word that meant more to him than it was allowed to. He couldn’t keep that word, never had it in the first place and yet that knowledge didn’t stop his heart from yearning to hear Jaskier say it again.

Geralt stared transfixed as Jaskier took a deep breath and began to sing a song softer than any other, more precious and fragile than he remembered it sounding when Jaskier had composed it.

“Each night and day I dream,

I try

To tell you - can’t you hear?

With song and smile I scream

my truth

And yet you hear a lie.”

Geralt had heard snippets of it before when Jaskier had performed, but then it had been less tentative and more certain. This time Jaskier didn’t wink, didn’t make a big show off prancing around. He just stood up there on the stage, eyes never leaving Geralt and with nothing to show but himself and his song, as if saying ‘This is me. This is all I am and all I have to give. My song. My heart. My love.’

It seemed almost simple. Geralt might not know the meaning of metaphors and scalar transpositions, but he knew Jaskier. He knew what he was showing now was anything but simple.

He was looking so vulnerable, so pleading and it was – it almost felt as if he could…

“Oh Dear heart, can’t you see?

For me it’s you, it’s none but you

I wish for you it could be me.

Oh tell me, love, it could be true.”

Jaskier’s voice broke and for a moment Geralt was sure he understood. Truly and not just because his own hopeful heart begged it to be so.

There were whispers once more. Geralt didn’t want to listen to them, didn’t want to hear anything but Jaskier and the impossible promises he made.

But this was what Geralt had always missed. Not only the way Jaskier looked, but also the way others looked at him. The way lovers sighed and leaned into each other as they too came so close to understanding, or maybe they understood better than Geralt ever could.

An overwhelming sense of pride for Jaskier washed over Geralt. Not one person dared doubt his words now. Not one person would raise their voice and claim that his songs were lies, not when he was begging for the truth to be heard.

“How strange,” one woman whispered. “How strange and wonderful that the bard won’t leave his witcher.”

It was. It was more than Geralt ever could have hoped for.

“I always thought a witcher’s life was lonely. Cold and dangerous.”

“Yes,” another hushed whisper agreed. “A horrible life, really. Well. It’s good to know this one witcher has someone to make it a little better.”

With each whisper the soaring thing in Geralt’s chest became heavier until it plummeted. The words weren’t spoken with malice. They were almost exactly what Geralt had thought to himself time and time again.

He was incredibly grateful for Jaskier. He truly was making the Path not only more bearable, but also brighter, filled with laughter, something to look forward to instead of dread when the end of winter neared.

But Geralt? What was he doing? What was he giving Jaskier in return? The best pieces of meat when he should have so much more. The blanket with the least holes in it when he should be sleeping in the softest bed. Words that never left Geralt’s throat when Jaskier deserved to be surrounded by praise and admiring crowds that he needed to thrive.

Keeping Jaskier was selfish. Even believing for a second that Jaskier could love him the way he craved was nothing but self-absorbed when Geralt had done nothing to deserve Jaskier’s heart. Hundreds of people had felt Jaskier’s burning eyes on them while he sang a love song and fallen for it – for Jaskier - only to watch him leave come the morning. Even if Geralt had him, even if only for a night or the duration of a song, he would be left wanting and he would try to keep Jaskier.

A songbird could never love a cage.

Geralt had been selfish for years trying to stay with Jaskier and so he continued to be now as he tore his eyes away from Jaskier and fled the festival, fled the illusion that he had mistaken for reality, fled Jaskier’s smile and his yearning song and his eyes that would never look at him again in the way he wanted them to.

He was selfish turning his back on Jaskier without goodbye in the middle of a performance that Geralt knew Jaskier wouldn’t interrupt to come after him and ask why he left, why he couldn’t continue to travel with him.

How could Geralt have explained it anyway? What excuse could he give other than that his heart was not as hardened as it was meant to be and that one day he would shatter Jaskier if he didn’t shatter himself now.

He had tried getting Jaskier to make the sensible decision to leave Geralt before when Geralt hadn’t been strong enough to make it himself. He had told him time and time again how dangerous the Path was and still Jaskier had stayed by his side. Jaskier had disregarded the threat for his own safety in order to tend to Geralt’s wounds, unknowing that each gentle touch was turning his heart from stone into oh so breakable glass.

Geralt knew that later if he had one regret, it would be leaving Jaskier without telling him, telling him he was not coming back, telling him that he wanted nothing more than to stay, telling him that Jaskier was the most important part of his life but that he was willing to leave so Jaskier could be happy and safe.

Still, Geralt kept going until the sounds of the festival died away and he couldn’t hear Jaskier’s song anymore and further still.

If he heard even a hint of that song, his mind would drift again into forbidden territory and if he stopped running in order to think about confessing the sin of loving Jaskier to him, he knew he wouldn’t be strong enough to resist turning back and doing so.

Perhaps it would have been easier if he did. Once Jaskier knew the truth of why Geralt couldn’t stay with him, of how Geralt yearned to have him in a way he never could have, he would reel back in disgust and say he never wanted to speak to Geralt again. Geralt’s heart would finally break fully and become what a witcher’s heart was always meant to be.

It would have been easier to go on with a hardened heart and fairer for Jaskier to know why he was being left.

But Geralt was selfish and so he didn’t look back.

Jaskier’s fingers danced over the strings, coaxing the music from the instrument in a way that seemed harder than ever, though it set something in his chest loose and made him feel light as a feather. It felt exhilarating to pour his heart out into song and have Geralt actually listen for once.

Jaskier could have soared if it weren’t for Geralt’s eyes grounding him in the here and now. He could have stayed like this forever, could have told Geralt all he wanted him to know. He almost believed his wish had finally come true and Geralt understood.

But even the most resilient dandelions wither eventually and people have to face the facts that no more wishes will be granted.

Geralt turned away harshly and instead of soaring, Jaskier plummeted back onto the earth as this dreamlike illusion was shattered.

His fingers didn’t falter as he watched Geralt push his way through the crowd and away from Jaskier. A hollow wound gaped in his chest. He had been too open, had allowed himself to show the truth and had been stupid enough to think Geralt wouldn’t run when he saw it.

Geralt faded from view and Jaskier was still playing. Why was he still playing? There was a painful irony in singing about his devotion and hope for something he could never have, for his love to see the truth, while the person he sang for had finally seen past the lie and was leaving. Was it truly devotion if he just let him go without at least attempting to make things right between them? Was it love when he continued to sing about what his beloved despised so much? Jaskier’s fingers faltered on a chord.

What the hell was he still doing here?

The song cut off abruptly when Jaskier’s fingers stilled altogether and his voice dried up mid-sentence.

There were murmurs and confused shouts around him he was sure, but he ignored them all. He put the lute down carelessly and chased after Geralt as he always had, praying that this wouldn’t be the time Geralt finally decided he had had enough and forbid Jaskier from following him any longer.

As soon as he left the town square and the decorative lanterns that had lit up the festival he was plunged in darkness. His lungs were burning as he ran through streets and alleyways, always searching for a hint of where Geralt could be.

Witchers were quiet when they hunted and it seemed they were so too when they were the ones being chased. There was no hint of where Geralt was, no visible sign of him, no sound.

But Jaskier knew Geralt blind and deaf. He would always find him.

“Geralt!” Calling for him with a broken and trembling voice was unfair, he knew, but in his defence, the distress in his voice was as real as could be and no matter how frustrated or angry Geralt was, not once has he not come to Jaskier’s aid when he called out for him in fear.

Only mere moments after Jaskier’s shout broke off, Geralt appeared at the far end of the alley. Jaskier couldn’t see his face in the dark, but his silhouette spoke of tension as if Geralt was bracing himself for a fight. His golden eyes reflected the sparse light and raked over Jaskier.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asked, though he stopped his approach when he must have realised that Jaskier wasn’t in imminent danger.

“You left.” Jaskier too halted his steps, though his body screamed at him to breach the distance between them, to grab Geralt’s hand and never let him go.

“Go back, Jaskier.” If possible Geralt’s posture stiffened even more. “Enjoy the festival. When you get back to the room I will be out of your hair.”

“What?” No, he couldn’t mean what Jaskier thought he meant. He couldn’t!

“I’m leaving. For good. I never should have allowed myself to – to take you as a travel companion.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier blurted out and couldn’t stop himself from taking one step towards Geralt. “Is it because of what I said before? I already told you I wouldn’t say it again.” His voice became frantic. “Or was it because of the song? Was it too much? I will stop. I promise I will stop. I will sing about your hunts and nothing more.” It was all he could promise. He knew it wasn’t enough; he knew he should take all his confessions back and tell Geralt the declaration of his feelings had held no meaning, but he couldn’t bring himself to deny them, now that he had spoken them. “I won’t speak about those kinds of feelings ever again. Just please don’t leave me!”

Jaskier wished he could read Geralt’s face, but at the same time he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear the look of rejection that surely was there.

Geralt stared at him for a long time in silence before he turned away. Jaskier’s stomach sank. This was as much of an answer as he would get. At least he didn’t have to hear Geralt use his precious sparse words to break his heart.

“I’m not leaving because of the song,” Geralt finally said with a tight voice. It was impossible to tell if he forced the words out or if they tumbled out while he was unable to stop himself.

“Then why?” Jaskier’s desperation was impossible to miss and Geralt would be able to sense the tears that pricked at Jaskier’s eyes, but Jaskier didn’t care. “I will be better. I promise. Just tell me, please. What did I do wrong?” Don’t tell me that loving you is my mistake. Not that. That is the one thing I can’t regret, can’t amend.

“Nothing.” Geralt’s shoulders sagged and he still refused to look at Jaskier. “It’s nothing you could change.”

“What can’t I change?” Whatever it was, Jaskier would try.

The silence between them was raw and heavy until Geralt finally turned back to Jaskier.

“That witchers are unlovable.”

Jaskier couldn’t help the startled laugh that escaped him. He took another step forward and almost expected Geralt to flinch away. He didn’t. He just stood there unmoving with his eyes following Jaskier’s every move as if he was waiting and ready to accept whatever penalty Jaskier inflicted on him.

“That’s not true.”

“It has to be.” Geralt’s voice cracked as if Jaskier’s words were throwing him off a cliff he had desperately clung to. “Because if it isn’t – if witchers can be loved – that means it is just me. Just me who you won’t fall in love with.”

Jaskier flinched back, stunned. Geralt couldn’t have possibly just said what he thought. If that was what had Geralt running away that meant that Jaskier’s hope wasn’t foolish, that he could have what he had thought out of reach.

“Geralt…” There was so much he wanted to say, so many feelings he wanted to put into words, but that name was the only word that could come close to holding all of them. “Geralt, I –“

“Don’t.” Geralt’s voice was harsh and cut through the lightness and warmth bubbling up in Jaskier’s chest like a knife. Geralt’s tone was hard and ungiving, like the walls that Jaskier had spent decades carefully tearing down were up again. “Don’t apologise for not being able to feel for me what I have always known I couldn’t have and don’t tell me I’ll get over it. I won’t. I tried for years and it’s impossible. It’s too late for me.”

“As it is for me,” Jaskier said softly.

Geralt’s head dropped as if invisible strings holding him up had been cut as all fight left him.

“I know.” The defeat in his tone sent a sharp pang through Jaskier’s chest. “I know it’s too late to make it better now. I just wanted to leave before you’d have to find out. I never wanted to burden you with knowing.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Jaskier came closer still, carefully and slowly as if approaching a frightened animal. Each step made his heart beat faster until finally he could reach out and brush his fingers across Geralt’s cheek. Geralt’s eyes closed and he leaned into the touch as if it would be the last time. “It is too late for me to get over it. Over being in love with you.” A breathless laugh escaped him. “Though I never exactly tried to fight it in the first place.”

Geralt’s eyes snapped open. They were wide and disbelieving, searching Jaskier’s face for something he was all too willing to let him find this time.

“Jask.” His voice was full of wonder. “You mean all this time… I always thought you didn’t… I thought you couldn’t feel as I do.”

Jaskier let his hand trail down Geralt’s neck over his arm until he found his hand. He lifted it to press it gently against his own chest, hoping the rapid rhythm of his heart could do what his words couldn’t and convince Geralt of the truth.

“I am not like you. I can’t repress my feeling and I don’t want to. I love differently. Hard and fast and over too quickly.” He swallowed thickly. “Except for when it’s you. It didn’t end. There was not a single beautiful moment that made me fall in love with you and there wasn’t one ugly instance that made me fall out of love. Every second I spent with you I fell deeper until it became impossible for me to ever not love you anymore.”

There was so much more Jaskier wanted to say, but all words got lost in his throat when Geralt surged forward, stopping just before their lips could touch.

He was close enough that their breaths were mingling.

There was hesitation in his eyes, an apprehensive uncertainty, but stronger yet was that fondness that set Jaskier’s chest ablaze.

“May I?” Geralt said it so quietly, nearly as if he was still scared of what the answer may be, but he was brave enough to say it nonetheless.

Instead of replying, Jaskier closed the gap. It took nothing more than a tilt of his head and the slightest push forward but it felt like an unbearable distance.

Jaskier sighed when their lips finally met. It wasn’t a grand kiss, barely worth mentioning. It was little more than a brushing of lips, sweet and fragile and more than Jaskier had ever allowed himself to dream of.

It was over too quickly when Geralt carefully drew back again, only enough to be able to form words.

“Jask.”

Jaskier didn’t let him finish. He leaned forward again, chasing another kiss that Geralt seemed all too happy giving him, before pulling away once more.

“I need to tell you –“

Another kiss, this time broken by the smile that played around Jaskier’s lips and the soft laugh that escaped Geralt’s.

When Geralt leaned back this time, he rested their foreheads together, bringing his hands up to caress Jaskier’s face.

“Damn it,” he said with a hoarse chuckle, sounding strangely breathless. “Can you stop kissing me for one moment so I can say it back?”

“Hmm, tempting,” Jaskier said with a grin. “But I spent far too much time not kissing you to resist now that I know I’m allowed to.”

Geralt’s breath shuddered and his thumb brushed across Jaskier’s lips with aching gentleness.

“And I wasted too much time not telling you how I felt.”

“Then stop wasting time.”

As much as Jaskier wanted to claim Geralt’s lips again and again, he wanted more than anything to hear Geralt say the words he had dreamed of for longer than he could remember.

“I love you, Jaskier.”

He had known what Geralt would say and still he couldn’t help but let out a small gasp.

When Jaskier didn’t move, Geralt let out a nervous chuckle. “What, are you not going to kiss me again?”

Jaskier shook his head the tiniest bit, just enough that Geralt could feel the movement without breaking the contact of their foreheads.

“Not yet,” Jaskier said and closed his eyes. “I don’t want to get distracted.”

“Distracted from what?”

“From this. This moment, you saying it. I want to remember it forever, how your voice sounded so beautifully breathless, how you are holding me, how it’s just the two of us and how this moment belongs to none but us. I want to keep it. I never want to forget even the smallest detail about this.”

“Then you’ll need to remember a lot of moments from now on,” Geralt repeated again. “I will never stop saying it. I love you.”

“And I love you.”

Later, when the sounds of the festival would die down and the streets would be filled with the townsfolk going back to their homes, Jaskier would take Geralt’s hand, unwilling to break contact for even a moment and lead him back to the inn. Maybe he would play the song for him again, a private performance just for his love, the first one Geralt would ever hear in full, the first one where Jaskier would be happy as never before. Maybe Geralt would tell him the truth about what had made him fall in love with Jaskier, he would share the secret that would be only theirs to know. Maybe they would kiss and fall asleep in each other’s arms or maybe Jaskier would do his best to coax Geralt into dancing with him again in the privacy of their own small room, just because they could and Geralt would grumble but he’d oblige and do so with a smile. Maybe later they would laugh as the full extent of their stupidity sank in. Maybe Jaskier would write a song about it. Or maybe it would be just their story and they would be the only ones knowing all of it.

There was so much they could and would do later on, not only this night but for the rest of their lives. They had time.

For now, they just stood where no one could see them, where there wasn’t an ounce of pretend between them and held each other, knowing for the first time that they loved and were loved in return.

#thanks ban-aard for the insight on the dancing thing #fake dating #I scream a truth you hear a lie #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #geraltxjaskier #witcher #witcher fanfic #fic #my writing #multichapter

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geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek · 4 years

Text

the fate of all things

geraskier | teen | canon divergence, fate/role swap au, druid geralt, witcher jaskier, bard yennefer, canon-typical magic shenanigans, mystery-ish, fluff, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, happy ending

this is meant to be a part of @geraltfluffweek for day 5: magic but the concept i went with is something better suited to a multi-part fic instead of a one shot so that’s what i’m doing!

starts out a little less fluffy than a fluff week warrants, i think, but it’s not going to be a heavily angsty fic and will have a happy end!

—

He wakes slowly, blinking the pull of sleep from his eyes as he lifts his head. The pale rays of morning sunlight pour through the small window in the room, telling him the early hour. His neck aches and he rubs at it, and with a sigh he pushes himself up from his chair and goes to collect more salve.

His hands are practiced and move with almost no thought from him, and he goes through a mental list of tasks to be completed before his mother returns. She'll be bringing back a few of the ingredients they can't grow themselves, but those aren't needed now—witchers heal well enough on their own.

He turns back to the sleeping form on the bed and brings the salve over. The witcher''s bare chest rises and falls in rhythmic beats. With gentle hands, Geralt unwraps the cloth from his wounded shoulder, pleased to see it hadn't bled through in the night.

He dips his fingers in the salve and begins applying it to the slice he'd taken from the wyvern he'd been hunting. Murmuring softly, he feels the rush of his own magic heat the salve, activating its more subtle healing properties, encouraging the wound to close.

He looks up as those blue cat's eyes open, finding his own, and Geralt begins to say, "Relax, you're safe," but the words are stolen from him as the witcher's brow furrows.

"Geralt?" he says, full of confusion, and a strange pulse goes through his head, a flash of blue eyes—without slit pupils; he isn't a witcher, he's a bard—in his mind.

"Jaskier." Geralt tastes the name like a familiar treat on his tongue. "What the fuck."

Just then, the door bursts open, and Geralt turns to watch Yennefer—Yennefer?—storm into the room, purple eyes ablaze. Her dark hair is in a simple braid over her shoulder and she's dressed in a dark jacket and pants, the least refined he's ever seen her. Unobtrusive, even. Completely unlike her, but it's not even the strangest thing.

No, the strangest thing is the lute slung over her shoulder.

What the fuck.

"Who did you fuck?" she demands, eyes on Jaskier, arms crossed. She seems about ready to turn him into an eel, but—wildly enough—Geralt can't feel her chaos stirring the air. She doesn't have any.

Jaskier, for his part, holds up his own arms in a placating gesture, eyes wide. "Why are you assuming it's me who's done this? I sleep with married nobles whose spouses at best want me castrated!" He points a finger at Geralt, who is still standing stupefied at what's happening. "He's the one with the track record of sleeping with mages known for cursing people!"

Yen takes that in, and then Geralt finds himself the subject of that bright, burning gaze as she turns on him. "Who did you fuck?"

It's so weird, so unexpected, so wildly improbable, that Geralt has come right back around to a strange sort of peaceful acceptance. He makes a face at her and snarks, "You're the last person I slept with. Are you admitting this is your doing?"

He can see the way she tenses, the urge to lash out with magic to throw him out the window, but nothing happens other than her fingers tightening their grip on her arms. She tosses her head and looks away.

Jaskier, sitting up, looks between them, then keeps his gaze on Geralt—on his face, on his hair. "That is so weird," he murmurs, and Geralt lifts an eyebrow at him.

"What is?"

"Your—" He makes a vague gesture. "Your hair isn't white. It's strange."

Geralt looks down at himself, catching sight of dark hair from the corner of his eye. He picks some of it up, pulling it around to look at it. Hm.

"I didn't always have white hair," he says with a shrug. "That was the second round of mutations."

"Do I have white hair?" Jaskier asks, eyes bright as he reaches up to his own hair—still the same chocolate brown, if a bit longer, curling around his chin. "No. Only one round of mutations for me. I—"

A strangle look passes over his face, and he shares the look with Geralt. "I remember that much."

He remembers the Trials. He's lived the Trials. Geralt forcefully pushes those thoughts aside—nothing to be done about that now. "Hm."

A strained, awkward silence falls around them, broken only by the sound of birdsong outside. The sunlight creeps further into the room, lightening it bit by bit. Geralt realizes he still has the salve in his hand, then looks back at the wound on Jaskier's shoulder. It's healing even still, slowly closing up. He'll need an ointment to help prevent scarring and make sure he can use the arm properly in the future.

Memories tangle in his mind, ones of helping his mother tend to herbs and make poultices for the town butting up against ones of being mid-battle with all manner of beasts, potions coursing through his blood; days at market buying cloth and fruits warped around gentle hands soothing over wounds on his own skin and a warm, rich voice singing to him in gentle candlelight.

Well. That warm voice is still here at least, he thinks. Jaskier has swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up. He looks up at Geralt, and it's so strange to see witcher's eyes in his sweet, soft face, marred only by a single scar through his brow.

His Cat school medallion hangs around his neck, and Geralt instinctively reaches up to his own throat, feeling a sudden sense of loss to realize he no longer has his own medallion. He swallows thickly and blinks away the sting behind his eyes.

"Let me finish patching you up," he finally says, breaking the quiet around them all. Yen seems to snap out of whatever thoughts she'd been in, sucking in a breath and turning to stalk out of the room without another word.

Jaskier watches her go before turning back to Geralt. "Well," he says with forced cheer. "We're really up shit creek with this, aren't we?"

Geralt hums in agreement and moves to finish tending to his wound. The salve is working its miracles, the rough edges of the claw slice not as red as they had been. Satisfied, he applies an ointment to encourage the muscle to relax and then brings over clean cloth, wrapping Jaskier's shoulder with light touches.

"Quite the turning of tables, hm?" Jaskier jokes weakly, and he offers Geralt a small smile. It slips away a moment later. "What happened, Geralt? What's going on?"

It's the question that's been rattling in his brain since Jaskier woke up and called his name when he shouldn't have known it. It shook loose memories of another life—his real life?—and now they need to be shifted through, examined carefully to determine what might be the cause of this.

Magic, no doubt. Chaos is the root of most problems, he thinks. He ties off the cloth and steps back from Jaskier, cleaning up his supplies almost automatically. It's easy, methodical, and he doesn't even think about it. It's his life, what he's always done.

Do witchers ever retire?

Yeah. When they slow and get killed.

"I don't know," he says eventually. "We need to—my memories are...jumbled. Overlapping between this life and—the other."

"Well, I certainly understand that," Jaskier says. Geralt turns and watches him stand and search for his shirt, pulling it on over his head. It still has the remnants of bloodstains in it, though Geralt remembers cleaning it himself during the night. He keeps his eyes on the scars covering Jaskier's skin until the shirt covers them.

Geralt inhales, a deep-seated reflex, and is once again filled with a sense of loss when the familiar scent of meadow grass and wildflowers isn't present, his senses too dull to pick them out from the faintly pungent aroma of the salve. Part of him says of course you can't smell him and another, deeper part of him says you should be able to smell him.

It's confusing, and he rubs his temples at the on-coming headache.

Jaskier's voice is gentle when he says, "Let's...get something to eat, yeah? We can sift through this mess after we've filled our bellies. I've got to get that wyvern head back to town, as well."

"Your reward," Geralt agrees, and that—that feels normal. Perhaps a bit backwards, since he's usually the one doing the hunting—No, you're not. You're a druid, you don't see battle like that—but normal.

Nothing about this is normal.

Jaskier offers him another smile—he smiles quite a bit for a witcher—and Geralt watches as he pointedly leaves his swords and armor against the wall where Yen had tossed them the night before, when he'd told her to undress her wounded companion so he could help.

What the actual fuck is going on here.

One thing at a time, he thinks to himself, and follows Jaskier.

#geraltfluffweek #the witcher #geraskier

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frospino · 4 years

Text

A Sigh in the Woods

Jaskier x reader

Summary: I received a request with the prompt "We can't be friends anymore. I will always see you as something else.” This starts out a little angsty - reader is very caught up in their own thoughts - but then turns to fluffy love confessions.

Word Count: 1.101

A/N: Rosasteri, I apologise - I struggled with this one because my mind went to a very angsty place with this prompt. I might upload the other version I wrote of this, which is pure angst, sometime. But for now, have some fluffy-Geralt-annoying-love confessions.

Camping in the woods with Geralt and Jaskier usually was one of your favourite ways to spend the time. You loved the unspoken love between the two of them; how Geralt would only answer with short grunts or an occasional “Hmm” when Jaskier told one of his at-least-partly-fabricated-stories, and still, their friendship was so palpable, as if their feelings for one another were solid enough to hang in the air, to grasp them and hug them close to your chest. Being with the two of them, you felt a strong sense of belonging. As if you had a place in this world, and that place was next to a crackling fire with a Witcher and his unlikely bard companion.

As a merchant of wool and pelts, you travelled the roads of the Northern Kingdoms most of the year. You were never alone—you paid guards to keep you safe during your travel. However, every once in a while, you met the pair in a tavern, or you heard tales of the White Wolf being near and changed your route so that your paths would cross. You considered them your friends by now, and you were certain the feeling was mutual. They had even stopped to ask for payment; surely, that must mean something?

You looked over to Jaskier, his face illuminated by the warm light of the fire. Shadows danced across his body much in the same way his fingers moved over his lute—you thought to yourself, surely, there could be nothing more beautiful than this. When Jaskier was not performing for an audience, he could lose himself in his music completely. You had heard of magic that allowed the strongest sorceresses to travel between worlds, and you wondered if Jaskier was able to do the same. He certainly seemed to be somewhere else in this moment, and the song he played tugged on your soul, as if trying to lure it out of your body and towards another dimension.

A sharp pain settled inside of your heart right in that moment. The quiet night in the woods, the silence only broken by the occasional hooting of an owl, Jaskier’s song that wove itself into the very fabric of the world and brought out its true beauty, the warm fire, the feeling of safety and belonging. It was so romantic, and you longed to kiss the bard.

You had tried to ignore the feelings for Jaskier that blossomed in your chest about a week after you first met him. Whenever you travelled together, you were bound to separate again; every beginning would inevitably lead to another end of your journey together. You knew that. You had also witnessed first-hand how quick Jaskier fell in love; how he would run after people, trying to gain their attention with witty humour and beautiful songs. Yet he had never tried to impress you that way. The bard saw you as a friend, nothing more—that much was clear. Burying your feelings seemed to be the only way to save you from heartbreak. But this time, when fate brought you together again in a small town in Temeria, your love burst forward like an erupting volcano. You could not look at Jaskier without longing, and the sheer amount of admiration you felt left you breathless and confused and unable to act.

“You are much more distant this time then you usually are. Did I—did I do something?” His words snapped you out of your trance-like self-pity. Jaskier had stopped playing, and looked at you with concern lining his face. “Please, if it’s something I did, tell me.”

You shook your head. “It’s not—it’s not something you did.” “But I can tell from the way you just tensed up—something is wrong.” “It’s complicated, Jaskier.” “We have all night. I promise to listen and make it better. I promise.”

Jaskier could be such a puppy sometimes, with his pleading tone and big eyes and youthful charm. How could you keep your feelings to yourself any longer, if it made Jaskier so miserable?

“Jaskier, I’m afraid—I don’t think—” You took a deep breath, and tried to brace yourself for the reaction that was sure to follow. “This is the last time I will travel with you and Geralt. We can’t be friends anymore. I will always see you as something else.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Geralt had vanished sometime between your exchange—he was most likely not far from the camp, but still giving the two of you space. He could be remarkably considerate, sometimes. Jaskier’s expression seemed to change with every breath he took—from sorrow, to surprise, to something that looked strangely like… excitement?

“Wait. What do you mean when you say ‘something else’?”

You scoffed. “You’re a bard. Surely you must now what that means in a setting such as this?” “I think I do—but I want to hear you say it. I want to know I’m not… imagining things.”

The situation was so hard to read. Was he making fun of you? But then why would he be excited?

“I’m in love with you, Jaskier,” you stated. You had expected an awkward silence, or an “I’m sorry,” but not this. Surely, he could not be so dense?

The bard’s lips curled upward into a large smile, and even in the dark of the night, his eyes shone bright like sunlight. In this moment, Jaskier appeared so happy—you felt your expression mirroring his, and hope settled inside of you like liquid warmth spreading throughout your body.

Jaskier laughed, a sound so pure and wonderful it made your heart beat even faster. “We can still travel together. I mean. Geralt will surely be pissed at us—you know how he despises couples, or happiness in general, really. But that doesn’t mean—I made him like my songs. Well, he never says so, but I know he likes them. I’m sure he’ll be happy for us. He’s our friend.” Jaskier was rambling now, but you had learned to read between the lines of his monologues, and the words couple and happiness really jumped out at you, and he was still smiling so brightly that surely his cheeks must hurt by now, and could that mean anything other than—?

“…and anyway, now that I think about it, I haven’t really said it back yet, have I? I, ah. I’m in love with you too.”

You were sure you had not just imagined Geralt’s sigh echoing from the trees, even over the sound of your and Jaskier’s laughter.

#jaskier x reader #jaskier/reader #jaskier imagine #the witcher imagine #my writing

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fancifulwhump · 4 years

Note

Jaskier food poisoning while traveling with Geralt???

“Geralt.”

Jaskier’s voice is smaller than usual. It’s harder to hear him. That’s the only reason Geralt stops walking.

When he turns back to face his companion, Jaskier’s face has taken on a striking pallour. Geralt may not recall much about human physiology, but even he can tell that isn’t natural. A thin veil of sweat glistens on Jaskier’s brow; everything below that has faded to grey, a hue whose queasiness is only emphasized by the expression on Jaskier’s face. He looks like he just stepped in zeugl vomit.

Come to think of it…

“Are you going to be sick?” Geralt asks bluntly, crossing his arms.

Whatever Jaskier had been planning to say, that wasn’t it. Somehow Geralt feels like he just cut off the beginning of a long-winded monologue. “I — what? No. Why would you even think — honestly, Geralt. Really.”

Jaskier clears his throat, huffing off to the side as though Roach has personally offended him. If glaring at the horse is easier than meeting Geralt’s eyes, something really is wrong.

For a long moment, Geralt simply stares at him, inviting him to say whatever he was intending to… but, stubborn as he is, Jaskier remains quiet. Geralt knows from experience how long the bard’s silent treatment lasts — five minutes, tops. With a grunt, he concedes to Jaskier’s sulk, turning and continuing on their way down the path. Until Jaskier decides to pull his head out of his own ass or vomit off the side of the road, it’s not his problem.

That’s what he commits himself to, at least. Remembering it becomes harder as time drags on — minutes into hours, continuing through the humid woods with nothing but Roach’s hoofbeats to fill the silence. On any average day, this would be fine. Geralt would prefer it, really, to an hour filled with Jaskier’s inane chatter. But silence isn’t something Jaskier understands, and he definitely doesn’t practice it. Being alone with his own thoughts is one thing; having Jaskier hang over his shoulder, following for hours without saying a single word, is another.

It’s unnatural. Unnerving. Like attending the wedding of a bride wraith — everything appears fine, but one crucial element is very, very wrong, and it poisons the entire afternoon.

Sure, Jaskier keeping his mouth shut can’t compare to the bride trying to eat her groom, but… Geralt’s not the best at analogies.

A part of him wants to round on Jaskier and demand to know what’s wrong — but that might cause more problems than it’s worth. However awkward silence is, an argument would be worse. Eager to avoid it, Geralt does his best to glance back at Jaskier as infrequently as possible — just enough to ensure he’s still there — determinedly trudging ahead. Eager for a distraction, he keeps busy scanning the woods around them. Level terrain will suit, the more secluded the better. There’s no chance they’ll make it to the wights’ lair before nightfall, but they can at least find a safe spot to bed down for the night.

Finally, Geralt comes to a halt in a small clear area, carpeted with pine needles and fir. Under the cover of trees, they will not be visible from higher up on the mountain; and with rocks at their backs, there’s no chance of being snuck up on. It’s clearly the best choice — but traveling with Jaskier long enough has taught him that at least consulting his companion is the best thing to do, unless he wants to listen to Jaskier complain all evening.

“How’s here for tonight?” he asks, finally turning back to face Jaskier. Immediately, Geralt wishes he hadn’t.

Somehow, Jaskier pallor has only grown. He looks even worse now, a hellish grey, washed out and drained of all energy; beyond the slumped shoulders and lowered head, his jaw is tense, lips bleeding in places where they’ve been chewed nearly raw. Jaskier’s eyes scan the clearing, duller than they’ve got any right to be, before he looks back up at Geralt and offers a short nod. “Uhh. Yeah, this works.”

Geralt stares at him. “You’ve got nothing to add?” Jaskier always has a complaint about wherever they end up camping. If the silence was unnerving, this is simply wrong.

Jaskier considers for a moment, scuffing his toe against the stone floor, before shaking his head. “Nope. It’s fine.”

Geralt doesn’t buy that for a moment. He continues staring for a beat too long, drawing his skepticism out until it’s practically strangling them both… until at last giving up, looking away with a grunt of acquiescence. No arguments here. If Jaskier doesn’t feel like whining (but that’s wrong, Jaskier always whines) he won’t look the gift horse in its mouth… no matter how uneasy it leaves him.

Setting up camp is quick work, made longer by Jaskier’s overall reluctance to help. He’s useless at starting a fire on a good day — but tonight, charged with arranging stones for a fire pit, he can hardly bring himself to focus on the task at hand. He meanders around, picking up rocks and discarding them after a few thoughtful seconds; if he moved any slower, Geralt might mistake him for a zombie. Occasionally he braces himself against a tree and simply stands there, eyes shut and face drawn. He draws shallow breaths into his lungs and seems to hold them, as if frightened to let them out; Geralt watches, half-fascinated, until he manages to recover.

It was the tuna, he’s decided by the time their packs are set up and a miserable fire pit has been assembled. Something about it smelled off last night, and Geralt had wanted to say as much… but Jaskier was already halfway done with dinner. To bring it up would have been to worry him needlessly for nothing.

Of course, now it clearly isn’t nothing. While Geralt’s stronger stomach could handle the tainted food just fine, Jaskier hasn’t been so lucky.

Geralt snorts as the bard slumps down on a log, hunching in on himself with both arms around his stomach. For all his reluctance to voice his discomfort, Jaskier makes no attempt to hide it. He glowers after the ground, throat bobbing with each heavy swallow. A few times, his eyebrows draw together, and he exhales hard through his nose; where he might have been keeping quiet before to salvage his dignity, now Geralt seriously doubts Jaskier is able to open his mouth.

“If —“ Geralt begins, before stopping cold. Ask Jaskier about it again, and he’s just going to deny it. While acting as if Geralt’s insulted him. What’s the point inviting that? Instead, Geralt closes his mouth and leans back, regarding his companion unwaveringly. Jaskier’s shoulders are tense, his limbs drawn like taut bowstrings. He doesn’t even look up at the dropped question. Over the heavy silence, a low gurgle emanates from Jaskier’s stomach; he inhales sharply, pressing both arms in on himself, and doesn’t move a muscle.

By now, it’s impossible to look away. Geralt crosses his arms and leans forward, frowning. Jaskier has to break sometime. It’s inevitable. But the moments drag by, long and agonized, and he remains still as a statue. Either Jaskier is that stubborn or that optimistic, but Geralt can see things clearly: if Jaskier doesn’t get it up now, they’re both going to spend the rest of the night miserable.

Casually, he reaches towards his back and draws out a parcel wrapped in cloth. He hadn’t wanted to save last night’s leftovers, but Jaskier insisted. “Squirrel?” he asks, extending a piece of dried flesh Jaskier’s way.

Jaskier reels, scrambles backwards over the log, and gags into the bushes.

Geralt tucks the squirrel away, victorious.

He tries to give Jaskier his privacy from there — some things he just doesn’t need to see. It’s more difficult when Jaskier finds his voice again. Apparently, nausea was the only thing holding it back, and the moment he’s unleashed the first torrent of partically-digested squirrel into the bushes, he remembers how to speak again.

“Geralt — oh gods — I feel awful, Geralt.”

Something Geralt surmised on his own.

“My stomach — hah-hah-uhhhh.” Jaskier belches, loud and queasy. Geralt can’t help making a face. “It’s turning inside out. Destroying itself. Help, Geralt.”

“Leave me out of this.”

“For the love of —“ Jaskier cuts himself off with a gurgle; his shoulders convulse, and he whips around just in time to avoid vomiting directly at Geralt. It’s all the unfortunate eavesdropper can do to remain where he is. Comforting Jaskier would be the nice thing to do… but he’s never been called nice in his life. Still, it seems a bit too rude to move to the other side of the fire, just to put some distance between the two of them.

“Do you, uhh —“ Geralt frowns into the flames once the latest round of gagging has died off. “Do you need anything?”

“A merciful death,” replies Jaskier, strangled.

“Right.” After a long moment, Geralt rises from his own log and treds carefully across the campsite. He’s not at all quiet, but Jaskier doesn’t look up until Geralt is standing right next to him, looming at his shoulder. Jaskier’s mouth opens, but instead of a question he only manages a sick hiccup.

“There. There, there.” Geralt’s hand lands on Jaskier’s back, which promptly shudders with another gag. Unsure of what else to do — of all the uncomfortable places life has taken him, this is somehow still a first — Geralt pats Jaskier’s back, lightly at first, then with more confidence as the sick man brings up another wave of sick.

The last thing he expects when Jaskier is done is for the bard’s full weight to slump against him. Jaskier moans aloud, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. His other arm still cradles his roiling stomach, but at least he no longer looks a pin’s drop away from projectile vomiting. “That was hell,” he mutters, jolting with a silent hiccup. “Been feeling queasy all day, but I hoped… oh, gods. It was the squirrel, wasn’t it? It was the squirrel.”

Geralt, in a merciful mood, does not confirm the suspicion.

Jaskier moans, leaning back against Geralt’s legs. There’s sick on his shirt, and his bangs are glued to his sweat-soaked brow. For a moment, Geralt simply allows himself relief that it’s over. Then, another gurgle emanates from Jaskier’s raging stomach, and he realizes that no, it’s really not.

Humans are much more delicate than he realized… and more often than not, its an pain in the ass.

#emeto #vomiting #sickfic #jaskier #emetophilia #Anonymous #*jazzhands*

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lover-of-midnight · 4 years

Text

The last dragon - Chapter 12

Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/M

M/M

Fandoms:

Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types

Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)

Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski

Merlin (TV)

Relationships:

Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion

Leon/Morgana (Merlin)

Morgana & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Gwen & Morgana (Merlin)

Characters:

Merlin (Merlin)

Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Kilgharrah (Merlin)

Uther Pendragon (Merlin)

Morgana (Merlin)

Gwen (Merlin)

Jaskier | Dandelion

Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia

Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg

Additional Tags:

Fae Jaskier | Dandelion

alternative universe

Pre-Relationship

Established Relationship

Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Mild Language

Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin)

tired Merlin

Tired Jaskier

injured geralt

Language: English

Arthur’s note: I just want to say a big thank you to my amazing beta @aalizazareth for betaing this story, you are bloody amazing.

Merlin wiped his eyes as he moved down the hallway. He wished he could have told Arthur the truth a lot sooner. A deep breath in and out.

He knew he would need to tell Arthur everything, but at the same time, how would Arthur be able to trust him at all?

Before he realised, he had made his way down to Kilgharrah. There was a slight feeling of hatred in his heart for the dragon. He knew the dragon could see the future in some ways and had a lot of power. But some days it just felt like he didn't care about the future.

Merlin slowly made his way down the cave steps. He did not call out to the dragon. Just for a moment, there was a chance to breathe and think everything over.

Everything was quiet for a few minutes as Merlin tried to organise his thoughts. Maybe it would be better if he was killed? Merlin’s hand went to his heart. He could still feel the guilt from all the people he had killed to keep Arthur safe.

Merlin fell backwards into the cave wall. He felt he was no better than Uther. People who could have been saved were killed. Merlin forced himself to take a deep breath. It did not matter anymore. He could not help but feel that he did his best to keep Arthur as safe as he could.

Perhaps it was now time for Arthur to take this forward on his own.

“Merlin!” Kilgharrah's rough voice broke him out of his own thoughts. Merlin could not help but wince slightly at how angry Kilgharrah sounded. “Why are you wallowing in self-pity?” the dragon asked, sounding half amused.

Merlin only gave him a glare. “I am going to tell Arthur everything,” he said softly.

Merlin knew it was the only choice he had, for there would be no chance in the future that Arthur would forgive him. Now was the time. He wished he could convince himself of that, really. It still felt like he’d go through with it, only for everything he ever did to be only thrown back in his face.

Kilgharrah gave a puff of smoke too close to Merlin’s face for comfort. “Why would you do that?”

Merlin was silent for a long while, as he tried to gather his thoughts. His jaw clenched slightly, nerves bubbling within him.

“He knows of my magic,” Merlin said. “The only way he can truly forgive me is if he knows the complete truth.”

Kilgharrah flapped his wings in irritation. “Bring him down, when you are done.” With those parting words, he flew back up deeper into the cave. The only sound was his chain rattling.

Merlin sat back with a sigh and tried to gather the courage he would need to do this.

With a deep breath, Merlin stood up and went to search for Arthur. He knew the most likely place to find Arthur would be the training ground. The Prince always went there when he felt the need to clear his head.

Merlin stopped at a window overlooking the training yard and saw Arthur practising with Leon. He could not help but wince a bit when he noticed Arthur being more aggressive than he would normally allow while training.

Merlin sat down on the bench next to the training field, knowing better than to interrupt the Prince while he trained.

Arthur looked over when he felt someone’s eyes on him. With a glance to the side, he saw Merlin on the bench. Arthur forced himself back to his training.

He wanted to go to Merlin and talk this through properly, but at the same time, he just needed more time to get his head on straight.

Arthur bent down to get his breath back after he had run ten laps. He was slightly surprised that Merlin was still sitting there and waiting. With a groan, he turned to face Merlin.

“I thought we said we will talk tonight?” Arthur’s voice was slightly strained.

Merlin was silent for a moment, before he said quietly, “There is so much I have to tell you. And only after we have the talk will I leave you alone.”

Arthur noticed the way Merlin’s hand was twisted slightly into his tunic.

“Alright.” Arthur turned around and headed to his chambers.

The walk was tense and awkward. Once they got to the chamber, Merlin easily pushed the door open, letting Arthur walk into the room.

Arthur pulled chairs out for both of them. He knew, deep down in his heart, that this was the type of situation in which he might want to be a friend, rather than a master to a servant.

“Sit.” Arthur noticed that his attitude was cold, and he tried to pull his emotions into control.

Merlin took a deep breath before he sat down. The room was silent for a few moments, and the only thing that could be heard was their breathing, though Merlin was sure that his beating heart was audible for miles. For a moment he stood back up and started to pace. He had no idea where to start.

“Merlin, what is it that you want to tell me?” Arthur’s voice had softened slightly.

“I am sorry for not telling you earlier. I should have from the start.” Merlin’s gaze was downcast, his voice a mere whisper.

The ensuing silence spoke volumes to Merlin.

“Arthur, everything I did since I got to Camelot was for you. My magic lives for you and only you. And I truly hope you can believe me with that.” Merlin trailed off slightly. He hoped that Arthur would speak up but, seeing as silence was the only thing that would reign, he continued.

“I came to Camelot originally because my magic was starting to get out of control. My mother had hoped that Gaius would be able to help me, to some extent, learn more about my magic. She always complained that I did magic before I was even able to walk.

“Once I got here, I saved Gaius’s life when he fell down the railing from the second landing. He tested my magic slightly, but truth be told, he gave me more advice on when to use it than anything else.

“The night when I saved your life from Lady Helen the witch, the dragon called me down to his cave. His name is Kilgharrah. He was trapped by your father since the first great purge.

“He told me that night, that it was my destiny to protect you. We are two sides of the same coin. It is my destiny to make sure you become king, no matter the cost it may bring.

“Arthur, I did that and more. I killed to protect you and I will do it every time, anything to make sure you get that crown.

“After we destroyed the Afanc, I went back to the dragon. He advised me that it would be better to kill Nimhueh.

“I did search for her and I did kill her.” Merlin fell silent. He watched with wary eyes as Arthur paced.

Arthur stopped in front of his chair. The following words were a mere whisper. “Get out.”

Without saying anything else, Merlin left the room. He wished he could say more or better yet, never have done this. But it was time that Arthur knew everything.

#fae jaskier #alternate universe #pre-relationship #established geraskier #merthur #merlin (bbc)#tired merlin #tired jaskier #merlin's magic revealed

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