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thesleepy1 · 2 years

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I Love You More: A Love Letter

A/N: I just woke up and was in the mood to write a witcher fic. I’ve had my nap. I’ve had my break. I’m currently eating breakfast. I’ll be making scones later. What better time than the present to write angst? Unbeta’d as always. Mistakes are my own. Who else would they belong to? The scones?

Update: The scones were great.

Pairings: Lambert x Eskel

Summary: What do you get the person that means more to you than prolonged life itself? This is the dilemma in Lambert’s head as he struggles to find Eskel a proper birthday gift.

Or, the excessive usage of the word fuck by Lambert and the writer.

Word count: 5,266

Warnings: language, lambert being lambert, emotional angst, insecure Lambert, reference/implied child abuse,

As a rule of thumb, witchers did not have birthdays. They were far too old for that. And when they were young enough to care about those sorts of things, there was no one to throw them any parties or give them any gifts. So it was a general consensus that witchers did not have nor celebrate birthdays.

A rule that was broken by none other than a brassy bard in a cornflower blue doublet. Ever since Jaskier came around, he brought the tedious tradition of birthdays with him. All the witchers had to choose a day and stick to it. And he would know if you didn’t. Because of course Jaskier had some sort of sixth sense on the matter. The man could not tell when he was in danger but could tell if you forgot to eat an overly sweet pastry by the first week of June.

It was nerve wracking to say the least. Lambert had never had to worry about such trivial things before Geralt decided to get a boyfriend. Now he had spent a total of four hours alone scouring through the marketplace for a present for Eskel. It couldn’t be just any present. This wasn’t Geralt or Coen he was talking about here. The sort of people that could take a joke and laugh at his gag gifts. This was Eskel.

Eskel who had probably spent a fortune on blast resistant glass bottles for his first birthday since Jaskier’s insistence. Eskel who returned to him from long contracts bearing gunpowder, reed pipes, and good ale because he knew that Lambert would appreciate it. Eskel who awoke by his side and sang him back to sleep from a nightmare despite the fact that he could not sing. Eskel had done that simply because Lambert had been crying and needed to be soothed like some young lad locked in a cellar. He had held Lambert all night, even when his arms ached from staying in one position for so long.

This could not be just any gift. This had to be the perfect gift. Just what exactly he was clueless to. Just what did you give the person that meant more to you than life itself? What was he supposed to give to the person that cared for him when no one else even wanted him alive? Something that could not be found in a marketplace, clearly.

Dejected and a touch disappointed in himself, Lambert returned to his inn. He stood outside the door to his room, hearing Eskel’s heartbeat inside and knowing he had nothing to show for the hours he was away. Eskel was too kind to say or do anything to make him feel bad if he showed up the next day without a gift. Knowing Eskel, he’ll likely try to save Lambert from Jaskier’s wrath.

Eskel was simply too good for a lowlife like him.

“Why aren’t you coming in?” Eskel asked from beyond the door. If Lambert could hear Eskel’s heartbeat, Eskel could hear his.

“In a moment,” Lambert said under his breath, burying his face into his rough hands until his eyes began to sting from the pressure. “Some asshole in the marketplace was running around like a lunatic. I couldn’t get anything done and to top it off, he just made me pissed off. I fucking hate that bastard.” None of his words were lies. Eskel would be none the wiser.

Naturally, Eskel had to choose that moment to open the door. Right when he was almost done, willing back the tears that were most definitely not forming in the corner of his eyes. Eskel being shirtless did not help him feel better about himself.

“Do you want me to get rid of him for you?” Eskel asked genuinely and Lambert had to forcibly tear his eyes away from Eskel’s chest. Eskel’s noticeably wet chest from his still steaming bath.

“W-what?! No! No. I dealt with him already. Told him to pull himself together and fuck right off.” Again, no lies Eskel could possibly detect in his heartbeat. Well, besides the spike in heart rate at the sight of Eskel post-bath.

Eskel was calm, measured, and everything he was not. He raised an eyebrow in question but did not push further and for that Lambert was thankful. Lambert actually loved him for that, among other things. His chest vainly included. Lambert loved him and yet could not decide on a gift for him.

Lambert was useless.

“I’m glad you were able to handle it on your own.” Eskel’s scars twitched in a smile. “Come in out of the cold and warm up. Relax before the bard comes barreling over tomorrow.”

Lambert did as he was told. He entered the little inn room with a bed and tub in the corner. His bags laid in a neat pile next to Eskel’s. While he was out, Eskel had taken it to himself to tidy up the room. The bed was made, the curtains were tied back, and the empty potion bottles put away. Lambert had forgotten to do his share and Eskel had to make up for it. He pulled his shoulders into his chest at that, hunched over and regretting ever being born.

“Are you certain you’re alright, Lambchop? Did the lunatic say something to you?” Lambert had stood in the center of the room and Eskel approached him after closing their door. Worry lines made their way across Eskel’s soulful eyes. Lambert was too busy staring at them to notice how close Eskel had gotten to him. All of a sudden a large, warm hand was at his chin and guiding him forward.

Eskel turned Lambert’s head one way and then the other. Lambert would have brushed him off if he had not wanted to lean into Eskel’s feather light touch. “You’ve gone quiet.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Lambert laughed despite himself. Finally, he knocked Eskel’s hand away. Turning and tossing his tunic over his shoulder, he did not want to look Eskel in the eye any more. “I think most people would appreciate it if I shut the hell up every once in a while. There’s no telling what kind of shit comes spilling out of my mouth.” He reached the divider between the bed and the tub. Toeing off his shoes, he made sure to angle himself away from Eskel. “Useless, fucking lowlife,” Lambert mouthed to himself so Eskel could not hear. “Just talk to him like normal for once.”

“Did he tell you that?”

Eskel’s voice had gone firm. Eskel’s voice was not capable of becoming firm. At least not in time Lambert had in his presence and all things considering, that was quite a while. Lambert froze half behind the divider. His hands were untying his drawstrings and his fingers paused in their task. “Lambert, talk to me please,” and just like that Eskel’s voice was back to normal. It was almost pleading with Lambert, “What exactly did he say to you to have you acting so unusual?”

Lambert wished he could knock himself up over the head. First he couldn’t get a fucking present for the man he loved, something that should have been the easiest thing in the world. Now he was making said man worried enough to change his entire demeanor. He couldn’t seem to do anything right. Forcing a laugh, Lambert removed the rest of his clothes. “Forget about it.” He hoped his mock smile transferred over into his words.

Completely behind the divider, he could hear Eskel step forward. Thinking better of it, Eskel did not continue in his path. Eskel left their little inn room and heaved out a sigh that was enough to make Lambert wish he were human. At least then he would have been dead by now. Or know how to speak like a bloody normal person. Jaskier would know what the hell to do. It was his idea for them to get together in the first place.

The bard would know how to fix the mess Lambert got himself in.

*****

Lambert left their inn early the next day. Eskel had returned later that night and took the floor because Lambert had been on the bed. He would have offered the bed to Eskel but he did not want to spend the entire night in an awkward fetal position. Eskel would want to talk about what happened and he would rather do anything but. So yes, Lambert was a coward, he would not be the first to say. Lambert left their inn before Eskel was supposed to be awake. The other witcher could sense the very flutter of his eyelashes but Lambert was going to keep telling himself that he was being stealthy.

He took his horse and raced towards the outskirts of the town. Jaskier and Geralt were not scheduled to reach them until noon. The two would most likely take their time on the route and enjoy each other’s presence like a proper functioning couple. They were probably still nestled in each other’s arms while Lambert rode through the early morning without his coat. It had smelt too much like Eskel.

Fuck them and their relationship. Fuck Jaskier for wanting Geralt to feel more human. Fuck Geralt for letting the annoying bard into their lives. Fuck Jaskier for insisting on these stupid traditions year after year. He was fine not seeing the other witchers except at the keep. He was fine being alone decade after decade. Fuck them for being happy and trying to push that onto him. He was not made to be like them. He was not made to be like how Jaskier was to Geralt, all love and care and reassurances. Lambert did not have it in him to be good to Eskel.

He could not find a good enough present for Eskel. He could not speak properly to Eskel. He expected other people to fix his problems. And now he was digging his horse into the dirt with how fast he forced the poor creature to go.

“I’m so sorry,” he said to his horse, slowing them down to a trot. “I almost got you killed there.” The sky was cloudless and the crescent moon was still out. But it must have been raining because he had to wipe these hot raindrops from his face. It was raining so hard he could not see straight no matter how much he wiped at his face. “I’m sorry I want him to be happy because of me. I’m sorry I want what they have so badly,” Lambert admitted and it burned his chest to do so. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be enough for him to love.” I’m sorry there isn’t a single good thing about me for him to love.

He could not provide for Eskel, could not communicate with Eskel, could not stand to look at Eskel when he looked at him like that. Like there was something in him that was worth giving a shit about. The worry and concern Eskel had for him made him want to throw up. Eskel saw something in him that was not there. He was disappointing Eskel day in and day out for not having anything to show for it.

Lambert allowed the rain to build up in the cover of his hands. He let himself heave and sniffle at the cold of the storm. No one would see him but the horse. There would be no one to give him pity or beat him at hiding himself from the rainfall. In a moment he’ll take his reins in his hands once more and make way for Jaskier and Geralt. He’ll ask for advice on a gift and ride with them to the town. Eskel would get his asinine present and Lambert would have fulfilled his obligation.

He could leave after that. For good.

*****

Lambert rid himself of any evidence of the storm. He wiped at his face and ran through the forest at times to get the smell off of him. By the time he reached Jaskier and Geralt’s camp the sun was up. He led his horse to Geralt’s and made his presence known to the lovebirds.

“Rise and shine, ladies!” he plastered a smile that did not reach his eyes and threw open the flaps of their tent. “It’s Eskel’s birthday and I need to get him a gift.” Jaskier groaned into Geralt’s chest and Geralt threw a pillow at him that wonderfully missed. “Get up, get up, I need something to show him I give two shits about him.”

“Go choke on his cock.” Pleasant.

“I already wrapped my dick in a ribbon last year. I can’t give him the same present two years in a row. Jaskier already said I couldn’t.” If Lambert had it his way, he would blame Jaskier for everything wrong in his life. He was sure if he did enough digging he could find all his augments led back to the bard.

“Damn right.” Jaskier sat up and crawled over Geralt to get out of their tent. “Although fun, it's just crass to give him sex every year on his birthday.” Jaskier rubbed the sleep from his eyes as Lambert rolled his.

“So what do you suggest, huh?”

“Well you did say you wanted to give him something that showed you cared about him. Your word choice was a little rough around the edges but we can fix that easily enough. You already showed you cared by riding all the way out here to ask yours truly for advice.”

“I’m beginning to rethink this whole caring business.” Great rethinking everything that had transpired the past couple of years.

Jaskier blatantly ignored his words and continued, “I suggest something from the heart. You should write him something that tells him how he makes you feel.”

Oh no. Oh fucking no. “I’m not fucking singing him a song. I am not a bard.”

“With how much you blabber on, you’d fit right in,” came Geralt’s ever wonderful input.

Jaskier shook his head at the two witchers. He massaged his temple with both hands before standing eye level to Lambert. “I meant for you to write him a letter. Write to him times he’s been a good lover, carve praises of him out of words. The times that have made you love him and the things he’s done to make you happy. It could be as complex as the first time you fell in love with him or as simple as saying thank you for being there for you.”

“Gift giving isn’t supposed to be complicated. Especially if it's for someone you love.”

“Sucking dick and writing letters? That’s your advice?”

“The first one was Geralt’s idea, not mine, but essentially yes,” Jaskier patted Lambert on the shoulder like they were the best of friends. Lambert didn’t know whether to bite off his hand or lean into it. “Just be yourself.”

*****

But being himself was going to make Eskel leave him. Or worse, hate him.

Lambert had raced back into town to find the first scribe who could sell him paper and parchment. The sun was properly in the sky and with it it brought out the merchants. It was easy buying the items. What wasn’t easy was writing the damn thing. What was he supposed to do?

He didn’t exactly have all the time in the world either. Eskel’s party was supposed to be at noon, only a few hours away and all he had on the letter was, Dear Eskel, which had taken him ten minutes to settle on. He was not a songwriter like Jaskier or a poet like Eskel. Lambert didn’t do writing. He didn’t do all this lovey dovey nonsense. Just because he craved it didn’t mean he knew how to do it.

Lambert skipped Eskel’s party and holed himself up in the corner of a tavern. He had commandeered a corner to himself to write. When he began, children were already up to do their chores. When he was finished, or the closest he was going to be to finished, they were returning home for the night. No one had gone out to find what the fuck happened to him and that was fine. He didn’t need anyone reading over his shoulder or breathing down his neck or nagging him about ditching Eskel for the day.

He was done with the letter. That was enough. Or it would have to be enough.

Every bone in his body seemed to pop and snag when he moved for the first time in hours. The letter was folded up neatly and promptly shoved in his pocket. His stomach ached for any proper food and his heart pang in a way he did not understand. It would just be great if his body decided to have a heart attack and kill him there and then. Rid him of his misery and give Eskel the gift of taking him off his hands.

He would have to deal with Jaskier’s scolding and anything, even dying, was better than that. Nothing was worse than having to listen to the bard’s never ending insults. And when Jaskier was mad, he got personal.

“Lambert.”

Correction. There was something worse than Jaskier’s nagging.

It was Eskel looking at him like that. In that state. Eskel looked worse than Lambert felt. His shoulders looked permanently tense like he was constantly waiting for bad news. His eyes looked bone weary, as if he had not rested for days. They appeared puffy as well, which only happened when Eskel had been crying. Why had he been crying? Who made him cry? Lambert would kill the fucker with his bare hands.

“I thought you had left.”

“No.” Not yet. He had a gift to give after all. “I just had to finish your present. Jaskier’s rules.” For some odd reason, Eskel looked sadder at Lambert’s words. Didn’t he want the gift? That would just be great if he spent all that time on the damn letter and Eskel didn’t even want it. “You don’t have to read it of course. I could just save everyone the time and throw it in the fire.”

“No, please,” Eskel gasped, voice an octave lower as if it had been snagged against brambles. “I would love anything you gave me. You know I would.” Lambert clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth against each other until it ached worse than his bones. He knew alright. He knew damn right all the ways Eskel was the greatest man to ever live. This was just one of them.

Lambert shoved the letter into Eskel’s hands. “Happy birthday, Eskel.” He made to turn for the door when the distinctive sound of a seal being torn open was heard. “What—don’t read it right here.” But Eskel’s eyes were already moving across the words. He was too enrapt with Lambert’s penmanship to hear his concerns.

*****

Dear Eskel,

I tried looking all through the marketplace for a gift but I couldn’t find anything that would be perfect. Nothing was right. What was I supposed to give to the person that cared for me when no one else even wanted me alive? So believe it or not, I asked Jaskier for advice. First and last time I would ever be doing that. He told me to sing you a song. I’m saving us by going with the other route. He told me to write from the heart. Which, personally, I think is bullshit but I also know you like that kind of romantic nonsense so here I am.

There’s not much in my heart. Small as it is. I think there used to be a little more space in it when I was younger. I remember when I first came to keep and hated everything. I hated the old ass witcher who dragged me away from my ma. I hated him for saving the old bastard’s life. I hated Vesemir and Geralt and Coen and even you in the beginning. I just wanted to go home and kill my da so my ma and I could be free.

Obviously I couldn’t do that. I was just a kid with too much anger in him to understand who was trying to help and who was trying to kill him. You knew. I don’t know how but you knew what went through my little head when I tried to escape. I wouldn’t have survived a day outside of the keep on my own. Neither of us would have. But you went with me anyways.

We got the hiding of our lives and knew that we would. Yet you went with me and made sure I stayed alive. I think that was the first time I really saw you as Eskel instead of another one of those sad kids. That wasn’t the first time I fell in love with you like Jaskier said to write about, but it was the first time I realized how good you were. And because of that, you filled up the little room I had in my even smaller heart.

You have always been so good to me. You making the bed and tidying up our room being only one of the thousands of ways you’ve been the greatest. Even before we were going on contracts or sleeping together. I remember each and every time you saved me. Each and every time you went along with whatever stupid thing I had in mind. All just to make me happy? I don’t really know why you did it. I just know you’re good, loverboy.

You’re good at everything. Not just being nice nice to an idiot. Not just pitying me and making me feel like it was the most genuine thing in the whole world. You’re just naturally a good person. An even better witcher. There has never been a better witcher at signs or a greater poet who has actually lived the lives to back up his words. There has never been anyone as kind to animals or annoying little babies than you.

Eskel, you’re more human than any of those lot could even dream of. You’re insanely polite in the face of monsters, human and not. You're so innately calm and measured and understanding and everything people spend their lives trying to be. You’re so handsome you have mages, witchers, elves, and humans drooling after you. And before you give me that absolute crap about your scars, I wish you would realize just how they, you make me feel. If there were more hours in the day, Eskel, I would spend them finding all the ways I could prove to you how I’m in love with you I am.

I’m in love with your feather light touch on my skin. I love how you could be so gentle with me, as if I’m something like glass or something precious like coin. I’m in love with how rough you could be with me when I beg. I love how you hold me down and give it to me exactly how I like it. Exactly how I need it. I’m in love with the fact that you sung me back to sleep after my nightmares even when you dislike singing. I love how you held me all night and never once complained. I’m in love with your scent. I love how it stains everything you touch as if the world can’t get enough of you either so it holds in your smell. I can’t get enough of it either.

I hate being sappy and I hate being such a softy but you make this way. You know me inside and out. It terrifies me, scares me, but I unfortunately love you even more for it. I use the blast resistant bottles every day, the gunpowder and the reed pipes. I made sure the good ale went to good use because I knew you would have been dying to have a taste of it as well. If not in a tankard then on my lips. I’m not even sure if you remember that night. We were both too drunk out of our heads and didn’t even do anything. You kissed me again and again. Just kept on holding me and saying nonsense like, “My pretty Lambchop loves me.”

You can’t begin to understand all the time that you have made me love you. Just by being you. There is nothing not to love about you, Eskel. Your looks, your personality, your perseverance, your willingness to keep going and live despite the fucking times we live in. We’re being hunted like monsters and yet you still believe in the so-called good of the world. Complete shit in my opinion but you truly think that there are great people out there. Besides you, I don’t think there is anyone else.

I love you. I’m sorry I expect and demand so much of you. It's always been me who starts the fights, always been me who expects you to have my back. I’m sorry I want you to be happy because of me. As if I had anything that could make you happy. I’m sorry I crave that from you even though I know it's out of your control. I’m sorry I want what Jaskier and Geralt have with you. It’s so dumb and unrealistic because we aren’t them and I know this. I really do. I’m sorry I want to be the one who loves you so much I’m willing to make a fool of myself everyday so the whole continent knows it too. I’m sorry I want to be needy and hold you and touch you and have your attention every moment of the day. I’m sorry I want to be loved unconditionally. I’m so, so sorry I couldn’t be enough for you to love me. I’m sorry there isn’t a single good thing about me for you to love. I’m sorry that I love you and don’t fucking know how to show you.

I wanted you to have the happiest birthday. I wanted to give you the best gift. I’m sorry I couldn’t do either of those things. I know this letter won’t be enough to show for the mess I’ve been but I can only hope that it is enough to make you not mad at me. That’s the last thing I want. You leaving me would never hurt as much as if you hated me.

Please don’t hate me,

Lambert

*****

Lambert’s head was screaming for him to leave before Eskel finished but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Eskel. He had to stay. He had to stay and see Eskel’s reaction, whether it be good or bad. He owed Eskel that at the very least. If by the end of the letter Eskel wanted to leave him, then that was his choice. If by the end of the letter Eskel was mad at him, then Lambert had a very sharp sword he needed to fall on.

Eventually, after what felt like a lifetime but what was really only five minutes passed Eskel looked up from the letter. There were tears falling down his face, so much that he could not wipe at them fast enough. Lambert was too afraid to get close to him. He did not know what they meant or how his letter was received.

The sudden urge to leave overcame him. If he sprinted for the door, he could get on his horse and have a good head start if Eskel decided he wanted to kill him. At the first sign of emotion, Lambert always wanted to make a break for it. To his surprise, this time he didn’t run.

Eskel hugged the letter to his chest, sucking in as much air as his lungs could hold. Even then he couldn’t seem to breathe. His slow beating heart couldn’t keep up. His body was so tense his bones showed through his skin. When he tried to open his mouth to speak all that came out was a gasp and a sob. “Lambert,” he tried once more, voice like metal grinding against rocks. “I don’t hate you. I could never.” Eskel was not certain if Lambert could make out his words, they sounded like cries to his own ears. “How could you even conceive of that? I love you because you’re you, Lambert.”

“Not enough? Not good enough? How dare you think that.”

“But it's true! How could I possibly begin to be good enough when you’re perfect in every way? I couldn’t begin to compare to you, Eskel. I can’t measure up to you,” Lambert surged forward before he knew what he was doing. He raised his voice before he knew what point he was trying to make. “Here I am, loving you so much but I can’t even show it to you. Then you love me because I’m what? Me? Myself? Could you really look me in the eye and honestly say you love every part of me? It’ll be so unrealistic, it would be something out of the bard’s songs.”

“How long has this been going on?” Eskel pleaded for an answer. “Since when have these thoughts been in your head? Was it that lunatic in the marketplace?”

“Fuck the lunatic! He was me alright? I was referring to myself. You drive me fucking insane. I tried so hard to be what Jaskier wanted so you could be happy that it's driving me insane.” Lambert hugged his shoulders, a sort of cold overcoming him. “But I don’t know the first thing about how to be like him. How to love like he does.”

“I never asked for that,” Eskel stepped forward and when Lambert didn’t move out of his reach he kept going. He stood in front of Lambert but not touching him. Unable to until he knew Lambert could be alright with his hold. “I never wanted you to be Jaskier. All I ever wanted, all I ever will want is for you to be Lambert.”

“What if I want to do the sappy shit that he does, huh? What if I wanted to find you presents or sing for you or write you letters or braid your hair? Would you want that needy, clingy, dependent piece of shit I would become? That I want to be?” Lambert had never been more scared in his life than these two days. “Would you still want me when I’m learning how to do all those things and mess it up time after time?

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes.”

Lambert pressed his head to Eskel’s chest. His tone went quiet. Only a witcher’s senses could pick up on Lambert’s words. “You can’t be serious.”

“Believe me, I am.”

“You would be making the stupidest mistake doing so.”

“Well, I love the stupidest man who doesn’t think I love him simply because he loves a little differently.” Lambert groaned into Eskel’s chest and finally, he had the signal that he could hold Lambert. He held Lambert tightly, hand at the back of his head to press him into the crook of his neck. Eskel knew his scent was the strongest there and Lambert visually sagged in his arms. “All things considered, I think I would love every moment of seeing this new side to him. Seeing him grow more and more the longer I love him. It's like I get to fall in love all over again with every new person he becomes.”

“I love you more.”

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wordsablaze · 3 years

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13/13 - goat string of fate

A Dozen Denials Soulmate-identifiers exist to make things easier unless you’re Jaskier, who’s equally as deep in love as he is in denial. But there’s only so many excuses you can make to avoid the truth… (aka jaskier’s soulmate is definitely a witcher, just not the one he first assumes)

A/N: what we've all been waiting for... undeniable red string of fate, but with goats for eskel's sake ;) @alllthequeenshorses @eskel-loves-lilbleater

previous chapter

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

Jaskier’s heart breaks.

He knows that Geralt isn’t lying because the words don’t show up on his skin and he knows that Geralt isn’t just saying that for the sake of it because his pulse is as steady as ever under his wrist and he knows that Geralt isn’t thinking with a clouded mind because he can’t feel any intense emotions at the back of his mind.

The only logical conclusion to make is that Geralt really means it.

“See you round,” he says, even though he’s not sure he will.

It’s nowhere near the first time he’s had his heart broken but somehow this time hurts so much more than every other time, probably something to do with the fact that he’s leaving his very soulmate behind as he walks away with blurred vision and wobbly steps.

He doesn’t walk very far, though; he just can’t bring himself to.

There is a building on fire.

And there is a witcher trying to help.

Nobody asked him to help and yet he runs into the building because he can hear the panicked heartbeats of four humans inside.

He hands over a frightened child to their mother and runs back in.

He hands over a man to his grateful sister and runs back in.

He hands over a crying girl to her father and runs back in.

There’s one more racing heartbeat inside the building but he can’t find it, it doesn’t belong to anyone he can see, and even though he tries his best because he can’t let anyone die - he just can’t - he has no choice but to leave when the roof caves in and smoke fills the air.

It’s only once he can breathe again that he realises the heartbeat has followed him out.

The last person wasn’t in the fire after all; they’re under his skin.

Jaskier doesn’t get the rest of the story from the others in the end.

He wants to - he’s a bard so of course he wants to - but he knows that his own story having just found such a bitter end means that he won’t do the dragon hunt any justice so he leaves its tale to the dwarves.

He’s tired and he kind of wants to cry and he doesn’t know which way he’s meant to go so he doesn’t even try to subtly follow the others back down the mountain. Instead, he walks and walks and walks and hopes he doesn’t fall to his death.

And he doesn’t. But he does stumble over nothing in particular and end up rolling over himself until he hits a tree, gasping for breath and curling around his lute because he doesn’t have any other source of comfort.

The last thought he manages before he drifts off - read: passes out - is that he’s incredibly glad his lute hasn't broken the same way his heart has.

There is a funeral.

And there is a witcher trying to mourn.

But there is something giddy in the back of his throat and something bright behind his eyes and something exciting at his fingertips and he cannot focus his emotions.

There is a fight.

And there is a witcher trying to concentrate.

But there is a puzzle in his lungs and a question on the tip of his tongue and a mystery in his every bone and he cannot tell if he knows what move to make next.

There is a festival.

And there is a witcher watching quietly.

But there is a heavy grief in his stomach and a heavy doubt inside his mind and a heavy pain within his blood and he has no idea why his body is telling him to be upset.

Jaskier wakes to the taste of oranges.

For some reason, it just makes him want to cry.

“We are not dying on some godsforsaken mountain,” Jaskier mutters to his lute but also to himself because if he is to die, it will not be at the hands of heartbreak.

A lot easier said than done, though, because he ends up lost. Horribly lost. So lost that he wonders if someone had moved him while he was sleeping because there’s no way he could end up so clueless when he’d been pretty close to their original path the day before.

And he’s not unfit but he must have bruised himself more than he can tell while tumbling because he doesn’t get further than the duration of half a dozen ballads before both his muscles and his lungs force him to stop and rest in danger of retiring altogether.

Still, he keeps going. He can’t find anything edible but he hangs onto the taste of oranges from his stolen dream as he pushes forwards, begrudgingly thanking Destiny for giving him at least that from his soulmate.

There is a town with a contract.

And there is a witcher who almost regrets accepting it.

The monster is easy enough to defeat, nothing that takes more than a day. No, the monster isn’t the reason he chooses to disappear for almost a month afterwards - that would be the mirror.

Or more specifically, what he sees in the mirror: one of his eyes is the wrong colour.

He thinks he’s delirious at first but one potion and two hours’ worth of meditating later, his eyes are still inexplicably mismatched.

His left eye is the colour of the sky. The colour of the ocean. The colour of a privilege that he was never allowed to have. And he’s read just about enough poetry to know how that means he has a soulmate out there somewhere.

All that does is drown him in a blue hue of guilt.

Jaskier has just started playing his third song on the lute when something crashes into his legs.

He yelps, springing to his feet and almost tripping over whatever it is that’d crashed into him, which turns out to be a goat. A goat, of all things.

“Right, well, if you could not do that whole attacking thing again, that’d be great. You have rather pointy horns,” Jaskier huffs, settling on the rock once again.

To its credit, the goat seems to listen, munching on grass instead of stepping on his toes as Jaskier starts playing again. Confused but not entirely against the company, he continues singing about whatever comes to mind until the sky begins to darken and the air turns cold.

He sighs, putting the lute away and gently reaching out to stroke the goat, smiling when it doesn’t just headbutt him and bleats happily before settling in his lap. “At least you seem to want to stick around,” he mumbles.

Too tired to find anywhere more sheltered, Jaskier pulls his doublet tighter around himself and hugs his new best friend as tightly as he dares. For a moment, the goat lifts its head and stares at him and he fears he’s about to have his eye poked out, but then it just burps and settles again.

This time, he falls asleep laughing.

There is a hearth.

And there is a witcher sat beside three other witchers.

And despite the warmth of the fire and the warmth of his family, he is cold.

He is colder than he ever is, colder than when he is submerged underwater during a fight or when he is caught unawares in a storm or when he is kicked out of a tavern because he brings down the mood.

There is no explanation for why he is cold because he is home and he is safe and he should be warm but for some reason, he is not.

He is rarely warm.

And if he is warm, he doesn’t understand why.

There is no explanation for why he is warm when passing ruins he’s never seen before or when camping in the middle of nowhere just to be away from people or when being told the last copy of the book he’d been looking for was just sold to someone else.

Eventually, he gets used to the confusion, pulls on a cloak, and moves on.

Jaskier is probably losing a few of his marbles.

With nothing better to do, he follows the goat as it travels along a seemingly random path to find nothing in particular, stopping every so often to munch on something or the other.

“I can’t believe I’m following a goat,” he mutters to himself as he brushes grass off his arms, “and it’s not even a cute little baby- what’s a baby goat called? Hmm, I should really know that… Or should I? It’s not like I’ve met any farmers lately. Or anyone, for who am I meant to meet atop a mountain? Well, a goat, apparently.”

Said goat bleats at him as if asking him to hurry up.

“Yes yes, I’m hurrying. Some of us don’t eat grass, you know? Oh, but how would you know when all you can think about is the next patch of moss you’re going to eat? Is that what life is to be, travelling from patch to patch and-? Hey, that could be a wonderful name. I dub thee Patchy, my dearest goat friend,” Jaskier declares, grinning.

Patchy bleats again and headbutts his shin but it’s okay because it doesn’t hurt in the slightest and he only wobbles a little bit.

“I’m taking that as your approval!”

There is a woman.

And there is a witcher lying in bed next to her.

They are both tired and not quite awake and she is gently running her nails along his arms because she has never seen anyone with so many scars.

He is waiting for her to fall asleep but she sits up and frowns, pointing out the words that have appeared on his skin: but I didn’t take any honey.

She must be able to tell he’s just as confused as she is because she gives him a funny look but doesn’t pry, though he leaves in the dead of night while she’s still asleep to avoid any chances of her asking questions.

But the words keep appearing and he ends up with plenty of his own questions anyway.

When he’s mending his armour: it doesn’t even hurt anymore; when he’s hunting: I love you more than I love getting drunk; when he’s brushing his horse: I assure you I have a perfectly good explanation; when he’s buying new gloves: I’m afraid I don’t know you; when he’s stitching up a wound: of course I was given permission to be here.

And on and on and on.

He wonders if this person is even human at times because they seem to lie more in a week than he even talks in a month.

Jaskier is exhausted.

“Hey, Patchy, it’s been lovely to know you but I think the time has come to part ways because I simply cannot take another step,” he mutters, leaning against the closest tree and sliding to the floor.

Patchy leaps into his lap with an oddly angry bleat.

Jaskier shrugs, ripping up a bit of grass and letting her eat it off his hand before sighing. “I fear it is indeed my fate to perish here. Perhaps life does grant blessings after all, hmm?”

His stomach rumbles and Patchy seems to take offence, startling and jerking sideways, the goat’s horns catching on his sleeve and causing a panic that leads to a large tear in his doublet and a mercifully smaller tear in his skin.

Still, he winces, pressing a hand onto the cut and half-heartedly glaring at Patchy. “Really? You’re lucky the material is red anyway, you menace.”

He regrets his words when the goat stands, spins on the spot, and makes a strange noise before sprinting away. Somehow, that abrupt departure stings far more than his actual injury.

There is an ocean.

And there is a witcher who has never been to the coast for a good reason, and still hasn’t.

He doesn’t belong in this scene, he’s borrowing it from someone else without even knowing how, but he can’t look away from the waves as they brush over the sand and over his toes before retreating once more.

There is a cane.

And there is a witcher who has never suffered this kind of punishment, and still hasn’t.

Although the injuries are not his and the crime - if it even exists - has nothing to do with him, he can’t escape the burning pain and the sharp throbbing as someone makes sure the wood meets its mark, again and again.

There is a cat.

And there is a witcher who has never been able to see one up close, and still hasn’t.

He’s not the one touching the tiny ball of fluff that curls up in his palms, he seems to be experiencing someone else’s amazement, but the feeling of soft fur and quiet purring stays with him for no less than a week.

Jaskier is ready to give up.

He truly has no idea where he is or how he’s meant to get back to flat land. The berries he’d found in the morning have done very little to provide him with energy and he’s about to declare himself as food for the wolves or something when he hears bleating.

“Patchy!”

And it is.

The goat barrels into him hard enough to knock him over but he’s too busy trying to hug his horned friend to care. He’s also too busy hugging his horned friend to notice that he’s being watched. That is, until someone clears their throat.

He freezes, looking up.

There’s a very long moment in which his heart drops about a mile into his stomach as he catches sight of a wolf medallion but then he sees the amber eyes and the spiked armour and the hesitant smile and his lungs remember how to work once again.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” Jaskier says, grinning.

The witcher frowns at that, glancing over him in clear concern. Before he can reply, Jaskier looks away to tug his sleeve out of Patchy’s mouth and winces as he pulls on the not quite scab that had developed over the goat-inflicted wound.

“Oh, is he yours?” the witcher asks after a minute, and gods is his voice deep enough to sink into forever.

Jaskier blinks, pulling himself back to the matter at hand before he spirals into a daydream and shaking his head. “I didn’t even know he was a he, to be honest. Thank you for that, by the way, at least I can sing him a more accurate song of gratitude now.”

The witcher chuckles and steps to the side, revealing another, smaller goat that immediately bounds over and settles on his leg; Jaskier has never been so innocently afraid to accidentally move in his life.

“She’s called Lil Bleater,” the witcher says, promptly cursing when said goat starts nibbling on the sleeve Jaskier had just saved from being eaten by Patchy.

“It’s not like I was planning on wearing this doublet again anyway,” Jaskier says, but he still feels incredibly guilty for letting such fine tailoring end up as food for a pair of goats.

Eskel has never been so confused.

He feels like he recognises this stranger from somewhere but he can’t place it, the knowledge is almost like smoke slipping between his fingers before he can grasp it properly.

“It looks like it’s seen better days anyway,” he says, immediately regretting it when the other man blinks at him.

But then he laughs - perhaps the nicest laugh Eskel has ever had the pleasure of hearing - and holds out a hand, amusement sparkling in his eyes. Eskel leans forwards to shake his hand but Lil Bleater chooses that moment to get up and charge at him so he steps back and picks her up instead, offering the man an apologetic look.

“Not to worry, my hand will live a little longer without the honour of yours in it. I’m Jaskier, and you have my eternal gratitude for appearing out of nowhere when I was about a day away from forgetting what other people’s voices sound like,” the man says sincerely.

“Jaskier?” Eskel echoes.

He knows Geralt has mentioned this bard in the past and he’d have to be living under a rock not to know of him at all, what with the songs that are sung his way whenever he ventures into more populated towns, but he can’t fathom why someone so famous would be spending his time with a mountain goat.

Jaskier grins up at him. “Ah, so you’ve heard of me! I wish I could say the same but I don’t believe we’ve met before?”

Eskel shakes his head. “I, uh, I don’t do… crowds.”

“You and every other witcher, it seems,” Jaskier says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s trying to insult anyone. If anything, he seems almost sad.

“The crowds seem more like your style, bardling. What are you doing up here?”

The bard opens his mouth to say something before closing it again, then sighs. “I got lost and ended up following a goat until I got even more lost?”

Eskel chuckles, then puts Lil Bleater back on the ground before leaning down and offering Jaskier his hand because it feels odd to continue the conversation while he’s still sitting down. This time, the goats don’t get in the way and he manages to pull them both upright.

Jaskier gets about five seconds of being upright before he keels over.

Everything hurts.

The world blurs around him.

His knees hit the floor with a dull thud.

Everything really hurts.

There’s something under his skin.

His body is on fire.

Everything hurts so very much and he has no idea what’s happening and the sky has disappeared altogether and there’s water rushing past his ears and he’s in so much pain and he’s going to die without even having learnt this gorgeous witcher’s name and he can’t feel his hands at all and it’s way too dark and-

“Breathe, Jaskier!”

He already is.

Or maybe he’s not.

He unclenches his jaw and gasps desperately.

“That’s it, just breathe, you’re okay.”

But he’s not.

Or maybe he will be.

He groans and reluctantly peels open his eyes.

“I’ve got you,” the witcher murmurs, and he has; his arms are practically cradled around Jaskier and the two of them are kneeling in a tangle of limbs on the ground.

Jaskier exhales.

“You’re not going to die, I promise. And my name’s Eskel,” the witcher whispers, at which point Jaskier mortifyingly realises he must have been panicking out loud.

Slowly, Jaskier uncurls his limbs.

He stretches his fingers out from where they’d been squeezed into fists and waits for a moment before accepting that whatever the blinding pain had been is over before looking up, intending to thank Eskel.

But Eskel gasps before he can say anything.

And Jaskier immediately panics again, wondering what could possibly be wrong. He doesn’t need to ask though, because Eskel lifts a hand to ever so lightly tracing his finger down the right side of Jaskier’s face and it doesn’t take a genius to work out what he can see.

“No no no no no,” Jaskier breathes frantically, “this cannot be happening.”

He pulls himself out of Eskel’s arms and shakes his head but his gaze lands on his hands as he uses them to balance and his breath hitches. Without wasting a second, he shrugs off his doublet and rolls his sleeves up, eyes widening at the sight of silvery scars he’s never earned, silvery scars he’d once had and once lost.

“No, I- I already know my- Geralt was- is- no, no, no no no no, wait. Wait. This can’t be right, it can’t- it- you can’t- I mean, we can’t be- nope, no no...” Jaskier’s words can’t seem to form themselves properly as he struggles to breathe.

Eskel has no idea what’s happening.

Except he does.

There’s only really one explanation for why the marks that had suddenly revealed themselves on Jaskier’s skin are an exact copy of his own scars, there’s only really one explanation for why the colour of Jaskier’s eyes had seemed so familiar, and there’s only really explanation for why he feels like someone has cast igni inside his heart.

Unfortunately, Jaskier doesn’t seem to like that one explanation.

He waits, though. He waits until Jaskier remembers how to inhale and exhale properly before offering the bard a small smile. “I’m sorry.”

Surprisingly, Jaskier looks confused at that. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I don’t blame you for preferring, uh, Geralt. Or anyone else, for that matter. I wouldn’t want to be stuck with me either.”

Even more surprisingly, Jaskier shuffles closer and punches his arm with a surprising amount of strength, his confusion having been entirely replaced by anger. “I don’t know what in Melitele’s name you think you mean by that but I demand that you stop… thinking it. I’m not- I- I just thought- I’ve spent years, so many years, thinking that I knew and I- I don’t know… I can’t-”

He cuts himself off, his chin wobbling, and Eskel has the inexplicable urge to hug him.

So he does.

Jaskier stiffens for half a second before he seems to forget that he has bones and all but melts into the embrace, burying his head into the crook of Eskel’s neck and throwing his arms around him as if his life depends on it.

Eskel has never felt so pleasantly warm in his life.

He wraps his arms around Jaskier in return and pulls him close, pretending that he can’t hear the sobs the bard is trying so hard to stifle and marvelling at the fact that he gets to hold his soulmate in his arms at all.

His soulmate.

He’d never thought he’d actually get to meet them.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier mumbles eventually.

Eskel pulls back only enough to frown, brushing the tears away from under Jaskier’s eyes before tilting his head to the left. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

Jaskier feels like a fool.

He leans into Eskel’s soft touch for a moment before cupping the witcher’s face in his hands. “I’m sorry I never looked for you. I’m sorry I didn’t realise I was wrong. I’m sorry I almost just insulted you. I’m sorry for wasting so much time. I’m just so, so sorry.”

Eskel shrugs. “You didn’t know and I don’t blame you. It’s not your fault. I… I knew and I didn’t try so perhaps I ought to be the one apologising to you.”

But Jaskier did know.

To some extent, at least.

He’s known for long enough that not everything was adding up and he’d ignored it, he’d done nothing about it because he’d been terrified of losing Geralt, of losing his soulmate, of losing a life he’s loved, and it turns out he’s been losing everything he didn’t even know he could have had instead.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier mumbles again, letting his forehead fall against Eskel’s as he closes his eyes.

“How does getting to the nearest inn sound?” Eskel offers.

Jaskier laughs and meets Eskel’s eyes, nodding. “Sounds like a plan I can’t argue with.”

“We’ll start with getting you to a proper bed and then go from there.”

He tries to resist that, he really does, but Jaskier simply cannot stop himself from smirking and raising an eyebrow. “Straight to bed, darling? Aren’t you even going to buy me a drink first?”

The endearingly sheepish look on Eskel’s face is almost worth all the pain.

“Though you really should buy me a drink first, for one reason or the other; I am a little dizzy still,” Jaskier mutters, having forgotten all about that because of the unprecedented pain.

Eskel curses.

Before Jaskier can even process the emotional whiplash, Eskel has lifted him to his feet and turned around, dropping to one knee. “Let’s go.”

Jaskier blinks. “Are you asking me to… climb on your back?”

Eskel turns to look at him with half a smile. “I really don’t think you’re capable of walking more than a mile more without collapsing, Jaskier.”

Well, that’s probably true. He grabs his lute and swings that onto his own back before looping his arms around Eskel’s neck, his legs locking around the witcher’s waist as he stands up effortlessly.

Eskel smiles as Jaskier settles on his back as if he were born to do so.

Which, quite possibly, he sort of was.

He smells like the comfort Eskel gets from when the dreams he borrows are good ones and it feels impossible that he gets to experience it in person. But it’s very much not impossible because Jaskier is a steady weight around his waist and on his shoulder and against his neck.

It’s a little overwhelming.

“So you’re the one who was dreaming of a succubus then?” Jaskier asks out of the blue.

Eskel stops walking for a second, narrowly avoids accidentally kicking Lil Bleater, and clears his throat. “Dreaming? No. No, that’s not quite how we spent the night.”

There’s a moment of silence before Jaskier laughs brightly. Eskel can feel the way his shoulders shake with the force of his amusement and it’s almost a miracle that neither of them overbalance.

“You’ll have to elaborate on that at some point, it’s going to make a great song!”

“You want to write songs about the succubi I’ve met?” Eskel asks, confused. Surely the bard could have asked Geralt about them over the years, it’s not like witchers can afford to designate who takes care of which creatures or anything.

But Jaskier snorts, pokes Eskel’s cheek, and shakes his head. “No, I- I want to write songs about… about my soulmate.”

That feels like a confession and Eskel is honoured to have received it. He hums in acknowledgement and gently squeezes one of Jaskier’s legs. “Not to worry, we have all the time in the world.”

“We do?” Jaskier asks.

Shuffling the bard’s weight a little bit, Eskel lifts his right hand so Jaskier can see his wrist and more specifically, the ouroboros etched into it. He hears Jaskier gasp before there are gentle fingers around his arm that almost make him shiver, a warm finger tracing the symbol over and over until Eskel hears quiet sniffling.

It takes a while for Jaskier to exhale softly and give Eskel’s hand back to him, after which he goes back to supporting his weight more evenly. He has plenty of his own questions but he figures it’s best to leave them for later, when they’ve both recovered from the shock.

The town comes into view sooner than expected, or perhaps Eskel had just been unknowingly pushing himself to walk faster because he can feel the way Jaskier’s grip has slowly relaxed to the point where he’s practically just draped over him like a very strange sort of cloak.

As much as he doesn’t want to let go of Jaskier, he has to when they get to the stables. Both goats are more than happy to be secured near Scorpion, who huffs at Jaskier just hard enough to send him stumbling into Eskel’s side with a small yelp.

“I’ve got you,” Eskel chuckles.

Jaskier grins.

“That you have,” he agrees, “but have you got a room?”

Nodding, Eskel leads them both back to the inn. But instead of going up the stairs, he guides Jaskier to the table in the corner. “Stay here, I’m going to get some food.”

Jaskier blinks, used to this scenario playing out the other way around. Eskel is gone before he can even think of replying so he just yawns and waits, shuffling over when the witcher returns because if he doesn’t lean against someone, he’s probably going to fall into his meal.

Eskel pauses for a second before sliding into the seat beside him, placing two bowls of stew in front of them. “I know you’re tired but you really should eat.”

“How ever will I repay such kindness?” Jaskier mumbles before following Eskel’s instructions.

Jaskier is immensely grateful that Eskel doesn’t mind being leaned on because almost counterintuitively, eating only makes him want to fall asleep even more. By the time they’re both finished, he can barely keep his eyes open.

“Almost there,” Eskel says, at which point he realises they’re now halfway up the stairs.

Yawning again, Jaskier keeps a tight hold of Eskel’s arm as they get to his room, thrown off when they stop by the door instead of somewhere more suitable for sleeping. “What’s wrong?” he asks, frowning.

Eskel places the lute Jaskier apparently hadn’t been strong enough to carry himself down before gesturing around vaguely. “I didn’t know anyone would be staying with me so…”

Jaskier laughs, throwing his head back. He has no idea what compels him to do so but he cups Eskel’s confused face in his hands and places a soft kiss on his nose. “Eskel, darling, you are literally my soulmate. I think we’ll be alright sharing a bed.”

He can actually feel the way Eskel smiles under his hands and can’t help grinning back, but then his knees decide to buckle for no apparent reason - aside from the general exhaustion and probably clumsy bruises, of course - and Eskel is once again the only thing keeping him upright.

He’s not entirely sure what the sequence of events is after that but he doesn’t care to puzzle over it because he ends up with his head on an actual pillow and Eskel’s arms around him and he’s never felt so comfortable and safe and content in his life.

“Don’t leave without me,” Jaskier mumbles even as he can feel himself drifting off, only slightly embarrassed at being so obvious about it.

Eskel hums quietly and brushes the pad of his thumb over Jaskier’s cheek before moving his hair away from his forehead, smiling softly as their eyes meet. “I would never even think of it,” he promises.

And somehow, despite everything else in his life that’s somehow gone wrong and fallen apart and proven that perhaps he shouldn’t be so blindly trusting of what he thinks may be the truth even if he has plenty of reasons to believe otherwise, Jaskier can't bring himself to doubt the witcher’s words even in the slightest.

If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that Eskel has always been his destiny.

i apologise if this finale was a little messy because i was indecisive and couldn't choose just one pov but i am so hyped to have finished !!! i hope this ending was worth all the chaos <3

thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher blog: @itsjaskier

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origami-breath · 3 years

Text

Little mermaid Geraskier au, okay? And for the sake of being contrary, Jaskier will not be Ariel. Oh no. He is the handsome prince (-although IMAGINE a prince Geralt omg ~maybe later) having a little coming of age ceremony on his father's ship with his dog Roach, who absolutely loves the sound of Jaskier's lute.

Now Geralt, having been raised by Vesemir (along with his brothers) has never left his underwater kingdom, Kaer Morhen, where he and his family stay and protect their fellow merpeople. He's also so far off his coming of age that lets him leave home and even that only includes the sea. Geralt is not like his brothers however and yearns to travel on the MAINLAND because he knows there's more out there and all he's doing is fucking around at home with his brothers.

Geralt is fine with his life, sure, but the more he hears of tales told by Yennefer (as Scuttle - she enjoys fucking around and telling Geralt bullshit land stories and making up uses for everyday trinkets. Dinglehopper, honestly, Geralt is so very gullible) the more Geralt wants to experience land life himself.

It all comes to head when Geralt hears music from above ground and he digs it, right, but what really CALLS to him is the barking. Very peculiar. So when Geralt just takes a peek he, of course, sees a prince and it's enough for him that he forgets to check his surroundings and Roach sneaks up on him and plants a sloppy dog kiss on him.

AND WELL, this just does it for Geralt. He knows he's missing so much on land. A handsome prince, a shaggy companion that has no qualms with Geralt being different (and are all land animals cursed with such naivety? Geralt hopes so).

So mayhaps an Ursula stregobor? (Calanthe??) Point is, they make a deal with Geralt that's extremely short-sighted. They will take Geralt's voice from him, and he'll get land legs. HOWEVER, in order for him to keep his legs, he has to get the prince to marry him after 30 moons (alt: 1 month, I'm trying to make this less Disney more Witcher 🤷).

And if he DOESN'T then Geralt has signed over his soul and body to stregobor/calanthe (the majority of those desires are of the weapon-kind.)

Now, what's so short-sighted is that stregobor/calanthe know of land royalty and they've heard a thing or two about this particular prince (*cough*JulianAlfredPankratz*cough*) One who beds anybody but is absolutely against the monogamous practice of marriage. And while they have no doubt the prince WILL take to Geralt they know he would never marry him. It'll be especially hard too, considering that Geralt has traded his voice for his new legs (magic does require a balanced sacrifice , boy (I'm really feeling Ursula! Stregobor) .

So this is where I'm wondering if Geralt should have a flounder companion and if it should be Ciri?? Or if Ciri should be part of the land (Jaskier's sister? Royal neighbor??) and is yet another reason for Geralt to stray from home.

Now, for the sake of time, I'll jump straight to the ending where it takes Jaskier LESS than 30 moons to propose (I'm stuck between 10-20 moons). Yes, he was once very firmly against marriage, but he just had his coming of age and he might as well grow up in this aspect of his life. And Geralt, for all that he doesn't talk, does do an awful lot for Jaskier and, consequently, for his kingdom. It's a smart marriage okay!

Jaskier knows Geralt PROBABLY likes his dog more than he likes Jaskier, AND he'll make scrunchy, annoyed faces whenever Jaskier plays his lute or sings or talks really-

BUT

Geralt is always the first to clap when Jaskier finishes an impromptu concert,

or he'll fall asleep when Jaskier plays one of his slower songs, head pillowed by his fist that leaves the illusion of listening intently but his tell us how small sleepy smile.

Not to mention that Geralt had somehow become Jaskier's bodyguard after only two nights of being his guest.

(a run-in with a vengeful royal who insisted Jaskier had tainted his virginal daughter who is now no longer marriageable and JASKIER better do something about it or it'll be his head) so here comes Geralt who absolutely CAN'T let anything happen to Jaskier (he's mildly disturbed to find out that his reasonings have nothing to do with his deal with Stegobor)

Now Jaskier gets an absolute head to toe shiver when Geralt comes to his rescue. He’s this tall, long silver-haired beast of a man who’s as silent as he is intimidating and he PROTECTS Jaskier who he has known for all of two days. It’s mind-boggling to Jaskier.

So once Geralt properly scared off the angry father Jaskier tries to make light of the situation, simply because his emotions are all out of sorts (he thinks he might be in love? He feels kind of scared but excited, a little dazed and stomach sick and fluttery but stuck in his head, and most importantly INSPIRED CONSTANTLY, it's brand new and he LOVES).

Right right, so he's making light of having to be saved and trying to pretend he's not over the moon, so he elbows Geralt and scoffs a little, "as lovely as a virgin is, they are certainly more trouble than they're worth."

AND THEN, Geralt makes this face, almost shameful and embarrassed while trying not to be and JASKIER just ... Can't. He just can't, y'all. Because GERALT, a blushing virgin??? Jaskier needs to lock this down stat.

And yada yada, we get some sweet courting happening and some intense sabotage on Stregobor's part because this is NOT going his way.

And then we've got a clueless Geralt who convinces himself that he's no good for Jaskier anyway. He cares about Jaskier too much to put any kind of obligation on him so Geralt has resigned himself to being indebted to Stregobor all while his crusty witch ass is freaking out, unaware that Geralt is unaware of Jaskier's courting and basically it's a lot of Stregobor trying his best and even sends Jaskier a hot piece as a distraction but it backfires because is that VALDO MARX FEELING GERALT UP IN THE CORNER THERE???

TBH it's a whole lot of true love conquers evil magic and trickery (and a little bit of Yennefer magic) while these two men are none the wiser.

****

Aaaand, I'm done.i needed this out of my drafts lol

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier/geralt #the little mermaid au #ariel! geralt #kind of #Prince Eric! Jaskier #also kind of #dog roach #i had to get this out of my drafts #it has been months #probs a year #the witcher netflix #the witcher #origami-breath

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aenwoedbeannaa · 4 years

Text

Scrubbrush | Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Summary: You have been traveling with Geralt for some time now and convince him to stop for a while to bathe in the stream you’ve just come across. Or, basically smut with no plot.

Warnings: Smut, fingering.

Word Count: this drabble turned into 3,412 words. It’s fine.

A/N: I simply could not stop myself. Hope you all enjoy! Just throwing this out there, I also created a ko-fi page. I will obviously continue to post fanfiction here just as I’ve always done, and do not expect anything from anyone, but it exists, if you’d like to show your support for my creative work in that way.

But obviously, the best way you all show your support to me is just by reading my work. So, thank you all endlessly for sticking around and reading!

If you enjoy my work, you can find all my work on my masterlist. You can also check out my personal blog where I post all kinds of things, including original writing. If you’d like to be added to any of my taglists, let me know and I will add you!

***

The air is warm, the sun bearing down from directly above signaling high noon. You’ve been traveling for several days now, and all you want is a bath. Between the sun bearing down on you all day and the constant movement with little rest, you feel – to be quite frank – disgusting. The dirt and dust from the road somehow looks good on you Witcher companion; but you doubt it looks so nice on you.

You are at least a day and a half’s ride from the nearest town, meaning a bath is at least two and a half days away.

You sigh silently, not wishing to voice these particular concerns to Geralt. He doesn’t seem concerned about it, and you are certain he is not stealing glances at you the way you’ve been stealing glances at him. You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter – with a rather low degree of success.

But as the two of you continue riding side-by-side, your mood lifts. In the distance, you can see a stream between the trees.

“Geralt!” you exclaim, shocking him out of his thought, “Let’s stop by the stream for a while.” You turn and look at him, batting your eyelashes without realizing you’re doing it. You aren’t quite sure about the Witcher’s feelings—he isn’t really one to express emotion—but you do know that pouting tends to work with him quite well.

“Hm,” Geralt mutters, thinking. “Guess we could stop and water the horses, and we’re going to need to refill the water skins anyway.”

Blushing slightly, you chew on your bottom lip as you look over at him, “It’s hot, Geralt.”

He lifts an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side in apparent confusion. “Yes?”

“I need to bathe, Geralt,” you explain, turning redder.

His eyes widen for a moment, but by the time he speaks a second later, he has collected himself again. “I’ll… prepare lunch.” The man, clearly used to travelling nearly nonstop, is pretty clueless when it comes to typical human behavior. You’ve pointed it out to him several times, and he’s not denied it.

You nod awkwardly, not exactly sure how you feel about the answer or what to make of his momentary loss of composure. Most likely, it is just awkwardness. You doubt that he is thinking any thoughts about joining you in the water. No, those are entirely of your own creation.

It doesn’t take long to reach the stream, where he helps you dismount as he’s been doing since the two of you began travelling together. You always find yourself slightly giddy as you take his hand and dismount, despite the fact that you have been riding horses for years and are quite capable of dismounting without help. But his large hand is deliciously rough, so you don’t complain.

You lead your horses over to a shallower part of the stream, allowing them to drink. You take the opportunity to dig through your saddlebags for a clean pair of trousers and white cotton shirt. You don’t have a towel, but you don’t mind. You bend over to let your fingers skim the surface of the water, smiling to yourself when you find it as deliciously cool as you imagined.

You scan the edge of the tree line until you find the stalks of green your mother had taught you about seemingly an entire lifetime ago. You bend over to pull a few stalks, the pieces easily detaching from the plant.

Geralt, in typical Witcher fashion, seems to sneak up behind you without the slightest warning. You gasp, feeling silly, considering the same thing had been happening for days. He smirks, shaking his head as you stand up, turning to face him. His amber eyes are fixed on the bunch of stalks in your hands. “What is that?” he asks.

You can’t help but let out a small laugh. “Scrub brush,” you respond matter-of-factly. “I thought Witchers knew everything about plants and herbs.”

“Not that one,” Geralt says, reaching out and taking one of the cylindrical stalks, his hand brushing yours as he does so. You would almost swear it was intentional.

“Figures,” you say with a sigh. “You break it and put it in the water, like soap. Works in a pinch, but ‘course Witchers don’t bother with soap.” you say with a shrug.

Honestly, you are so eager to scrub every inch of your skin that the thought of using the rough plant sounds entirely pleasant.

Geralt looks at you, head cocked to the side in a smirk. “Are we really that bad?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at himself. Your eyes roam over his body for a moment, perhaps a little bit too obviously.

You surprise yourself when you speak next, “A wash wouldn’t hurt.” You look up at him through the curtain of your lashes, challenging him. “The stream is certainly big enough for the both of us.” Your expression, however, indicates that space is not exactly something you’re concerned about.

“Hm,” the Witcher says, a low rumble in his chest. His eyes seem to be burning into yours, making heat rise in your cheeks.

Taking advantage of the courage that smoldering gaze are giving you, you smirk, “Don’t worry, I’ll turn around to protect your modesty.”

He laughs, that warm, rumbling sound that makes it feel as if your stomach has been replaced with butterflies, “Shall I walk away and let you change in the bushes?”

Your heart hammers in your chest, excited by his gaze. “And risk poison ivy?” you ask, “I’ll change on the bank. Close your eyes if you must.”

With that, you turn around, feeling quite bold as you walk to the bank, peeling off your sweat-stained shirt and tossing it to the side along with the fresh clothes. You pause for just a moment before unlacing your breeches and letting them pool around your ankles. You are too nervous to glance back at Geralt as you kick off your riding boots, leaving you in nothing but your small clothes.

You take a deep breath, finally gathering the courage to pull off your top, letting the breeze caress your bare skin. You pull your bottoms off next, swearing that you feel his eyes on your back. You stand there for another moment, wondering where exactly the courage you’d felt when you began your walk to the bank of the river went. Now, you are just nervously standing there feeling quite exposed wearing only a scrap of white silk clothing.

You freeze, considering your options. You can remove them and step into the water as you had originally planned, saving your ego. Or, you can let your pride take the hit and leave them on.

Thanks to a certain Witcher, you don’t get the chance to decide.

You gasp, once again not having heard him creep up behind you. You are only alerted to his presence when you feel his breath on your neck as he speaks from somewhere deep in his chest; a tone you’ve never heard from him before.

“Be careful, Miss. You never know when there might be drowners nearby…” Your skin prickles with goosebumps under the unexpected touch of his hand as it brushes down your back impossibly gently. “Or men with wandering eyes.”

You chew on your lower lip, heart hammering in your chest. It takes nearly all of your resolve to keep your head facing forward. “No sign of drowners,” you say smoothly before finally turning your head to look at the Witcher over your shoulder, “But wandering eyes?”

He looks down at you, his golden eyes alight with both desire and conflict. He opens his mouth as if he is about to speak, but no words come.

“What’s the matter, Witcher?” you ask, turning around to face him head-on. “Certainly, you’ve seen plenty of women nearly naked. Or is the sight of me that appalling?” The question you finish on rings slightly of truth and nerves. The Witcher has probably been with loads of women who are far more beautiful than you. Perhaps seeing you like this only disappoints him; makes him wish that it was someone else standing almost naked before him.

He bites his lower lip, shaking his head as if to clear it before finally speaking, “No… You look…” he stammers, searching for words that seem to be caught in his throat, “You have no idea how badly I’ve… wanted to see you – wanted to touch you.”

You smile despite yourself – looking far too eager and far too happy about this latest revelation. You blink up at him, bringing your free hand up to touch the cotton shirt he has stripped down to since dismounting, “Then why haven’t you?”

He sucks in a breath, eyes looking down at his chest where your hand rests for a moment, breathing out in a his, “Fuck.”

You look from your hand to his face before speaking, confused, “What?”

“It’s not appropriate… I shouldn’t…” he continues speaking painfully slowly, “You’re so innocent and—”

You cut him off with a burst of laughter, “Innocent and what… pure?”

You reach with your hand to pull at the already loose laces of his shirt. He sucks in a breath, his lower lip once again caught between his teeth. If you’re being honest, you have next to no experience in this sort of thing, but you are far from innocent. And, even if you were, you are pretty positive you wouldn’t care.

No man has ever made you feel quite like this. It wasn’t like you had no suitors back home – you had plenty. But none of them have quite captured your attention; perhaps it was just that you were more than ready to leave your boring little nowhere hometown, but they had all seemed so uninteresting. Geralt was anything but uninteresting.

“Yes,” he finally admits, “That.”

“I’m an adult, Geralt,” you counter, “I can’t stay like this forever, can I?” You bat your eyes at him.

Hesitantly, he reaches for you, letting his hand brush the hair back from your face and making you shiver in the process. You lean into his touch, savoring the feeling for his calloused fingers against your cheek. He hums appreciatively, enjoying the feeling of your soft skin under his fingertips.

“Geralt,” you sigh, wishing that he would do more than caress your face – as nice as it feels.

“Y/N,” he breathes, free hand wrapping around you and clutching you closer to him. The two of you stop, eyes fixed intensely at one another. Apparently unable to restrain himself any longer, he leans forward, pressing his lips to yours gently.

You respond in kind, savoring everything – the way his shirt and firm muscles feel against the bare skin of his chest, the feeling of his hand pressed against the small of your back, the smell of him, and the taste of his lips moving so gently against yours.

His tongue eases your lips open with the utmost care. You gladly part or lips for him, moaning softly as his tongue explores your mouth, sending shivers down your spine. This kiss is so very different from every other kiss you’ve had. Most often, the mean you’d kissed had hungrily pressed their lips to yours, crushing you against them. Now – you’d have absolutely no complaints if Geralt were to do the same thing, but this was something different. You could feel the wanting in his kiss, somehow more intense than anything you’d experienced.

He wants me, you can’t stop repeating to yourself over and over again.

The two of you stand there, clutching at one another, lips pressed together and eyes closed, warmed by the high noon sun and lost to the world around you for what feels like an eternity but somehow not long enough.

When Geralt pulls away, you lean up on your toes, a disappointed sigh escaping your lips. He laughs lightly, cocking his head to the side as he smirks down at you. “Weren’t you planning on bathing?” he asks playfully.

“I was, until you interrupted,” you tease with a grin.

“Mhmm,” he growls softly, the sound alone making you weak at the knees. “Now don’t stop on my account.”

You look up at him, once again with wide innocent eyes that gleamed with something quite different. “You should join me. You really do have no sense of smell, Witcher.”

“If the Lady insists,” Geralt responds, this time without hesitation as he strips off his linen shirt and begins undoing his belt, “I’m interested to see how this scrub brush works, exactly.” You can’t help but stare, chewing on your lower lip as you watch him. It hits you in that moment that you’ve never actually seen a man naked before – you hadn’t wanted to. You’d always been certain that those village boys were just as uninteresting underneath their clothes as they were outside. Geralt, though… Is quite a different story.

Hesitantly, you step out of your underwear, resisting the urge to cover yourself up. Even with all that has transpired in the last few moments, you are worried that he won’t like what he sees. Those fears are quite immediately quelled, however, when he kicks off his boxers. You try not to let your eyes pop out of your head at the sight of him.

Without much warning, he scoops you up into his arms, carrying you over to the water’s edge and stepping in. You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck as he carries the two of you farther out until the water reaches his waist.

“Geralt!” you squeal as he tosses you into the cold water. Well, at least you’d adjust to the temperature quickly. When your head pops back out of the water, you turn to him with a pout, shaking your head and letting water cascade down your back. And then you splash him.

“So, this is the game you’d like to play?” Geralt asks with one eyebrow raised before diving easily beneath the water, moving with inhuman speed toward you, arms encircling your waist, giving you just enough time to hold your breath before he pushes forward, plunging you under.

You both come to the surface laughing, the water no longer feeling cold against your skin but pleasant. The Witcher catches your chin with his hand, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. He stares for a moment, enveloping you in amber light.

“Ench’eass,” he breathes, almost as if he is speaking to himself.

“What?” You know he is speaking in the Elder Speech, but the meaning is completely lost on you.

“Enchanting,” he responds. “You are enchanting.”

You grin, feeling the familiar heat of a blush on your cheeks. Geralt, however, has an intense look on his face – full of need and wanting. He crashes his lips to yours, much less gentle this time – but you are not complaining. His tongue parts your lips again and you moan into the kiss, eliciting a growl from deep in his chest.

His hands caress your skin underneath the water, and you arch your back, pressing your body against his, wanting to feel your skin touching every inch of him as possible. You let out another disappointed sigh when he pulls his lips back from yours, but that sigh soon turns into a soft moan as he brings his lips first to your jaw and then to your neck, making you throw your head back, giving him complete access to the sensitive skin of your throat.

You feel his lips twitch up into a smile as he continues to explore you with his lips and tongue, making you draw in little sharp breaths as unfamiliar pleasure washes over you. The soft sounds seem to please Geralt, because you can actually feel the almost primal growl where your chest is pressed against him.

“Geralt,” you breathe, dragging your fingers down his chest, memorizing the feeling of each scar they graze over.

“Yes?” he asks softly, pulling away just enough to look into your eyes, drinking in the sight of you breathing heavily.

“Nothing…” you admit, not quite knowing the words you want to use or are supposed to use in this situation. “That just… feels good.”

He laughs, letting his hands drift lower, over your ass and down the backs of your thighs. You shiver again, sucking in another breath as his fingers caress circles on your skin.

“You’re shivering and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

Those words, naturally, make you shiver again as warmth pools in your core. You with that he would touch you like he’s talking about. “Please,” you mutter against his chest where you’ve pressed your lips.

“Please what?” he asks haughtily, looking quite amused with himself.

“Please… touch me….” You are stammering, unable to come up with words. “Like… that.”

Geralt smirks down at you, hooking his hands under you knees, urging you to wrap your legs around his waist.

“As you wish,” he says. Thanks to the water, he is able to support you with almost no effort; your arms wrapped around hi neck and your legs wrapped around his waist are enough. He takes advantage of this, letting one hand move to your breasts, grazing over your nipple and making you moan once more. His other hand slips under your ass, and you moan as his fingers gently move over your folds, coming to rest gently on your clit.

Your breath catches in your throat as he freezes there for a moment, amber eyes fixed intently on yours. You seem held there by some unseen force as he begins to move his finger in small, gentle circles, making you moan and throw your head back. No one has ever touched you there before, and you are already drunk on the feeling.

“I’ve wondered what you would look like when I did this to you, Baby.” His words seem to amp up the feeling of electricity building in your core, your mouth opening in a permanent ‘o’. He speeds up slightly, increasing the pressure. It feels so different than when you touch yourself; it feels so much better.

He continues his ministrations, working you with his fingers as his other hand slips from your breasts and down your back. His finger explores your opening for a moment, not pressing in but circling gently before letting his finger enter just inside. Your walls spasm around the tip of his finger, urging him deeper. He obliges, beginning to pump first one finger, than two, in and out of you slowly.

At this point, you are mewling against him, hips moving of their own accord to draw him deeper and deeper. You let out a long, drawn out moan as he adds a third large finger, stretching you deliciously. The pleasure he is making you feel only growing as he curls his fingers gently against that spot inside of you.

“Geralt!” you yell, “Gods, don’t stop!”

“Oh, Baby,” he smirks, “I won’t stop until you’ve come all over my fingers and go limp in my arms,” he says in that deep, primal way that he’s never spoken to you before.

He continues curling his fingers against the most sensitive place inside you while he continues to relentlessly rub your sensitive little nub. You babble incoherently, telling him you are about to cum, and he brings his lips to your neck, biting the sensitive flesh there and making you squeal.

It doesn’t take long before you’re arching your back and clawing at his back, moaning long and loud as the delicious tension that has been building up to the moment that you convulse under the word of his fingers, walls clenching around him and body seeming to move of its own accord as he helps you ride out your orgasm, only stopping once you’ve indeed gone limp in his arms, body spent from such a rush of pleasure.

“Geralt,” you mutter, feeling his hardness against you and desperately wanting to feel him inside you.

However, he simply smirks at your efforts to move your hips in line with his member, cocking his head to the side and smiling at you teasingly. “Uh uh,” he says with a shake of his head. Didn’t we come in here to bathe.”

That is about the last thing on your mind as you look up at him, eyes fixed on his as you crash your lips to his once more.

Taglist: @fairytale07 @geeksareunique @jesseswartzwelder @haru-ririchiyo @unnamedmaincharacter @lazilyscentedwerewolf @valkyriepuff @comicbeginning @alwayshave-faith @hp-hogwartsexpress @curlyhairedandconfused @superconfusedandreadytorumble @keithseabrook27 @missemmalie

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geralt fanfiction #geralt smut #witcher smut #witcher fic #fanfiction #geralt x fem!reader

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whumpernickel · 4 years

Text

witcher fic number two! also on ao3

still not super confident in my writing, but im a lot happier with this one than with the first.

so here, have some jaskier with the flu and geralt trying not to confront his own emotions.

It had been four hours since Jaskier had last spoken - or at least since he’d said anything more than “shit” for tripping over his own feet - and Geralt was beginning to worry.

Not worry. Geralt didn’t worry, and especially not about Jaskier who was a grown man and whose prolonged, uninterrupted silences were no one’s business but his own. But this was the first nice day after a miserable stretch of cold, dreary, drizzly ones, and Jaskier, hopeless romantic though he was, hadn’t said or sung a word about the frolicking birds or the dancing sunlight or whatever his personification of the hour was.

And Geralt was on edge – that's what he was. Anything out of the ordinary had him like this, because, more often than not, out-of-the-ordinary meant imminent peril. Silence was horribly out of the ordinary for his usually animated, usually singing, usually noisy shadow. The last full sentence he’d heard Jaskier say was, “She’s still mad at you for making us travel in the rain all day yesterday, and, frankly, I don’t blame her,” which Geralt had all but guffawed at him for, for presuming he knew Geralt’s mare better than he did.

So, when Roach headbutted Geralt once again, catching him off-guard and nearly tumbling him headlong into the rain-sodden road, Geralt eyed Jaskier expectantly, bracing for insufferable levels of I-told-you-so smugness and deepening his frown when none was forthcoming. He was surprised to find the tiniest itch of disappointment at this lack of banter, but more prevalent than that was his mounting concern. Something was obviously wrong, and there was a reason that Jaskier wasn’t telling him.

Jaskier flinched as if startled when he caught the sour look directed at him. He scowled to match it, clearly clueless as to why they were scowling at each other, but lending admirable commitment to the act, nonetheless.

"What?" he croaked.

"...You're quiet."

Somehow worse than a smug Jaskier was this halfheartedly-smug one that emerged as he responded:

"You sound disappointed-"

"I'm not."

Geralt cringed inwardly at how quickly the denial came out, but Jaskier barely glanced up at his response. He seemed more than content to take Geralt at his word, for once.

"Wonderful," he said, too cheerful, "then neither of us will mind if it remains that way."

It was an enthusiastic invitation to leave it the fuck alone, but Geralt was nothing if not contrary. He found his attention drawn to Jaskier and his unsettling Jaskier-less-ness even more, now that he knew Jaskier was avoiding it. Every little thing stole his focus: a stumble, there, when Jaskier normally would have been sure-footed on even ground; a shiver, here, when the midday sun ought to have been enough to banish any lingering morning chill.

For the thirtieth time in half-as-many minutes, Geralt's eyes darted back to his quiet travel-companion, and apparently this was just one glance too many.

Jaskier heaved a dramatic sigh and stopped in his tracks. He didn't say anything, but there was a clear and demanding What? in the hands-on-hips posture and dead-eyed annoyance he aimed at Geralt.

Geralt stopped, too. He frowned at Jaskier critically – appraisingly – and watched as Jaskier's attitude from moments before shrunk back within him, the bard’s arms folding over his chest in an attempt to maintain his image of stubborn petulance while also making himself a lesser target. It wasn't working.

Geralt hadn't been entirely oblivious to Jaskier's condition - he could never completely drown out his constant presence, however hard he tried - and so he'd been noticing (and disregarding) little things all throughout the day: the tired bowing of Jaskier's back and shoulders when he thought Geralt wasn’t looking, the uncharacteristic irritability in his normally-playful jabs, the purposeful shallow breathing in an attempt to avoid coughs that occasionally slipped past anyway, the way the pallor to his skin had worsened whenever the trail steepened or whenever their unusually-minimalist conversation had shifted to food, the stagnant scent of cold-sweat and stress underlying Jaskier's usual familiar one whenever he stepped into Geralt's personal space and the slightly elevated heat radiating off of him along with it, the shudders intermittently jolting his shoulders in spite of the warmth of the day, the bruised-looking shadows under his eyes that Geralt was sure hadn’t been so stark just a day ago.

He'd dismissed all of this in favor of basking in rare, blissful silence. But the details had continued compiling in some recess of his mind, building up into a great, nagging, restless-leg kind of feeling that he could no longer ignore.

"Are you ill?" Geralt finally asked.

"Pardon?"

Geralt waited sternly for his answer.

Jaskier rolled his eyes, then hiked his lute higher onto his shoulder and resumed their trek.

"I'm not ill," he said, the harsh crack in his voice on the word "ill" belying his stalwart conviction. "And since when would it matter?"

"It matters when we run into the beast, and I have to waste precious time and concentration saving your useless arse because you're delirious from fever."

It came out a little harsher than Geralt intended – well, no, it came out exactly as harsh as Geralt had intended, but much harsher than he wanted, and he found himself frustrated not for the first time at how often his intentions and desires so poorly aligned. Jaskier kept his attention forward, but Geralt still saw a strange look overtake his companion’s face for a brief moment, equal parts stung and calculating, before falling comfortably back on annoyance.

"Good thing I'm not feverish, then.”

"You're warm," Geralt prodded.

"It's a warm day."

"You're shivering."

"You're scary."

"You're not afraid of me."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

And he did. From the moment the bard’s eyes had lit up with a giddy, “Oh, fun,” after first realizing Geralt was the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, it had been clear that Geralt didn’t scare him in the slightest. It was one of the many things about Jaskier that frustrated and confused him.

Also among these things were his seemingly boundless social energy, his unflappable confidence (no matter what gaudy outfit he wore or what godsawful thing he said), and his insistence on denying that he was sick when he very clearly wasn't well.

"Jaskier."

"Geralt," Jaskier grunted in a mockery of the witcher’s tone – a surprisingly decent one, to be true, but that was mostly owing to his illness-roughened throat.

"We're stopping here."

"Hm, then I guess we're not saving and-or slaying our beast tonight, yeah? You said we couldn't make any extra stops if we wanted to make it there before nightfall."

Geralt stifled a huff of frustration.

It was true. This particular curse reversal required that they find the animal at dusk, so they were pressed for time. Geralt had said so, earlier, when Jaskier was complaining he wanted to rest because he was tired. Geralt hadn't realized, however, that "tired" was apparently the new slang for "ill and grievously stupid,” and he'd been actively trying to ignore Jaskier for... well, for as long as he'd known the bard, really, so it had taken him longer than it should have to start taking the warning signs seriously.

He felt guilty for that, now.

"We can spare ten minutes," Geralt grumbled, leaving little room for objection as he followed Roach to a decent patch of shade off the path.

Jaskier shrugged and trailed behind them. "Well, I usually require a full eight hours’ beauty sleep, but... okay."

He sat himself and his lute down gingerly against a tree, while Geralt browsed Roach's packs for whatever he could scavenge in the way of a human-grade fever-reducer and similar herbs, and Roach snuffled at the ground and ignored the both of them. When Geralt turned back around, Jaskier had shut his eyes and let his head fall back against the tree trunk, brow furrowed and lips pressed together in a taut line. It was a worrisome thing to see the usually-so-expressive human with such an actively restrained look on his face.

Geralt considered this and added another small phial to his handful before walking over. He knelt in front of Jaskier.

"Jask."

Jaskier cracked an eye open. "Yesk?" he responded, then snorted tiredly at his own half-assed attempt at humor.

Geralt didn't laugh. He reached out and pressed the back of his hand to Jaskier's forehead, briefly noting the way Jaskier recoiled, first with surprise and then with a shiver, before becoming wholly preoccupied by the intense heat beneath Jaskier’s skin.

"Your hands are freezing, Geralt!” Jaskier complained. He shuddered and hugged himself, looking three shades more miserable than before. “Gods, I’m starting to wonder if that sylvan had a damned point about your dad being a snowman..."

"You have a fever."

"Hm," was all Jaskier had to say to that. The irony of this was not lost on either of them, nor was the annoyance it elicited from one witcher, who maybe understood a little bit, now, why others found his noncommittal grunts so damned frustrating.

"And a cough."

Jaskier at least had the decency to look guilty for hiding it. The slight edge of accusation to Geralt's voice may have helped, too.

"Pain?" Geralt continued his verbal checklist of Jaskier's symptoms.

"Just a bit of a headache," he half-admitted.

Geralt hummed. He placed a waterskin and a small pouch into Jaskier’s hands.

Jaskier wrinkled his nose when he uncinched the pouch and realized it was food: dried berries and a little leftover bread from their last inn-stay. He started to push it away.

“I’m good, thanks-”

“Eat,” Geralt commanded, “You haven’t eaten. You need to eat something.”

Nausea colored Jaskier’s face a papery grey just at the idea, and the silent plea in his eyes was just pathetic enough that Geralt almost caved and took the bag away from him. But thirst and hunger were an added stress that the bard’s body didn’t need right now.

"Try," Geralt urged more gently.

Jaskier grimaced, but he tore off a piece of bread and placed it in his mouth, chewing slowly and reluctantly.

“Happy?” he spoke around the meager bite.

Geralt smiled encouragingly. This must have been the right response, as Jaskier seemed to yield to the approval, and his next bite was much less hesitant. Geralt made sure he’d drunk some water, as well, before standing to set about gathering what usable wood he could find in the immediate vicinity – not much, but he only needed enough to boil a cup of water.

It was quiet once again as Geralt worked, heating water and steeping herbs, but it was a little more comfortable and a little less foreboding this time around. Perhaps because Jaskier’s silence had a clear explanation, now, no longer the faceless monster lurking in the shadows that it had been before. He didn’t speak up again until Geralt walked back over, cup in hand.

“Oh, did you make me tea?” he quipped. “How domestic.”

“It’s an infusion.”

Jaskier traded Geralt the pouch and waterskin for the cup and stared into its steaming contents. “It looks like tea.”

Geralt gave a snort of impatience to put Roach to shame. “Drink it,” he said, before turning back around to clean up.

Behind him, Jaskier made an exaggerated gagging noise at the bitter herbs. "That is just... vile– Geralt what the devil have you given me? Are you trying to put me out of my misery? I mean, I appreciate the gesture..."

Geralt huffed out a sound that may have been amusement or may have been exasperation – even he wasn't sure.

"It's mostly catnip. Some ribleaf and melissa and a small amount of beggartick,” he answered truthfully, though he knew the plant names meant fuckall to the man.

"It's disgusting, is what it is..."

"Just drink it."

Jaskier all but pouted as he did what he was told, pulling an inordinate look of disgust for just how small of a sip he took.

Geralt sighed and mentally cursed himself for having become so soft as he went rummaging through his bags once again.

“You owe Roach,” he said, dropping a small cube of sugar into Jaskier’s cup.

Jaskier stared dumbly at the ripples in his cup while the words caught up to him. He blinked.

“Hey, I gifted those to her so she’d stop trying to chew my sleeves- I owe nothing,” he argued, but there was a warmth that had crept into his expression at the gesture, and it softened any bite his words might (but most likely wouldn’t) have had. Geralt had to pretend like he didn’t notice it for both of their sakes. Or so he told himself.

There really couldn’t have been much the small amount of sugar did for the bitter drink, but Jaskier seemed to have decided it fixed the problem just fine, and he drank the rest quickly without further complaint. By the time he was finished, Geralt had everything stowed away in Roach's saddlebags. Ten minutes had already turned into twenty, and Geralt was itching to get back on schedule.

He looked between his mare and his bard. Both seemed to have sensed Geralt’s antsiness, Roach scuffing at the dirt impatiently and Jaskier already halfway to his feet.

Part of Geralt told himself that he was only about to let Jaskier ride Roach so the ill man wouldn’t have the chance to slow them down any more than he already had, but another part of him was panicked when he saw Jaskier’s eyes widen and lose focus, and he rushed forward to grab the man as he tilted dangerously forward.

“Jaskier.”

“‘M alright,” Jaskier said, though he was clinging to Geralt’s forearms like he wasn’t so sure. “Jus’… Just stood up too fast. Just need a second...”

It was a strange contrast, the harsh heat that poured off of Jaskier and overwhelmed the space between them compared to the weak, clammy chill of his fingers on Geralt’s arms. Geralt silently willed the herbs to take effect and watched Jaskier’s eyes shift as they began registering his surroundings once again. He waited until his companion was able to support his own weight before moving, but he continued to hold onto Jaskier, anyway, as he steered him over to Roach’s flank.

“Up.”

Jaskier frowned at him, and Geralt sighed.

“Do you doubt my horse, bard?”

“Never! Not Roach. I doubt you, no offense.”

The witcher huffed.

...Maybe just a little taken.

“Get on the horse, Jaskier.”

“Look, you were already wrong about her once today, need I remind,” Jaskier protested, even as he complied and climbed up into the saddle with Geralt’s help. “I just don’t want her mad at me next because of you.”

There it finally was, the I-told-you-so Geralt had expected from earlier. As much of a relief that it was to have that little bit of normalcy back, he still felt no small amount of irritation at being reminded that he’d managed to piss off his mare and also be wrong about it. He opened his mouth, a retort stinging at the tip of his tongue, but then he caught the softly murmured, “Thanks, old gal,” as Jaskier patted Roach’s neck, and Geralt wasn’t quite sure where that irritation fucked off to all of the sudden.

The remainder of their journey was a quiet affair. Neither of them spoke much, and Jaskier was still stifling his coughs, not for Geralt’s sake but for Roach’s, this time, as he spent most of the ride resting against her neck, drifting in and out of sleep.

It gave Geralt little room to ignore the question that had begun to itch at his temples. They were finally nearing civilization again, muddy-ash buildings cropping up gradually over the hill, and Jaskier was stirring awake from another fitful few minutes of rest, so Geralt decided to ask it.

"Why did you deny it?"

Jaskier turned his head to blink at Geralt, hair plastered against one side of his face.

"What?"

"You knew you were sick – Why lie?"

Jaskier sighed. He sat up in a wilted imitation of alertness.

"I dunno Geralt," he deadpanned, clearly knowing. "Supposing I had told you that I might be sick – Would you have let me come along, or would I still be in Dregsdon right now, while you get to have all the fun breaking curses and saving the fine folk of the kingdom and disappearing for weeks-stroke-months-stroke-years at a time?"

Jaskier’s voice sounded worse, now, despite the medicines, and there was a trembling weakness to his posture at the effort of just keeping himself upright. No, Geralt most definitely would not have let him come along.

"Hm."

“Right, that's what I thought."

The bard faced forward with an air of self-satisfaction. Under any other circumstances, it was an expression that would have grated on Geralt’s nerves like metal on stone, but the present context made it one of the most effective guilt-trips he’d ever been dragged along, and Geralt found himself floundering for something - an excuse, an explanation, a deflection.

What he came up with was:

"I would have come back.”

There was about a collective half-ounce of confidence behind these words, and they both knew it.

Jaskier rolled his eyes mightily.

“Oh, would you have?”

Geralt glanced at Jaskier, glanced away, shifted stiffly in his armor, readjusted his grip on Roach’s reins.

"...Most likely," he appended.

Jaskier’s laugh was a short and less-than-amused thing, and it caught on a coughing fit halfway out that made him see spots. He waved Geralt’s hand away when Geralt reached out to steady him, and continued to talk through the tail-end of the fit.

"Look,” he rasped, “not to go and play long-suffering wife to your sea-beguiled sailor, but there really is never knowing when you're going to leave or come back. It’s aggravating."

Geralt could read enough subtext to guess that “aggravating” really meant “disappointing and lonely,” and he couldn’t help but agree. He must have been looking as guilty as he felt, because Jaskier seemed to take pity on him, his expression lightening to something a little more reminiscent of his usual playfulness. Geralt found himself scowling preemptively at the bard’s smirk.

"The children are beginning to ask questions, Geralt."

Geralt glared.

"Think of the childr-"

"Shut up, Jaskier."

Jaskier did, but not without a snicker.

They were lucky enough that there was a hamlet not far from where the possessed waterfowl was alleged to be stalking. Daylight was near-gone by the time they made it there; Geralt would have to move fast, but he reckoned he should be able to get everything settled here and still make it in time to apprehend the beast. The inn he’d found was hardly an inn - really just some person’s home with a sign tacked onto the door declaring it to be one, but Jaskier’s eyes brightened with a glimmer of hope, anyway, when Geralt woke him outside of a building instead of halfway back into the wilderness as he’d been expecting.

“So, do we get Roach put up and head out now, or are we waiting ‘til tomorrow evening?” he asked as he climbed down from the mare in question. His body-language screamed, Dear gods, please say ‘tomorrow.’

Geralt shook his head.

“You’re not coming with me. You’re staying behind to sleep this off.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to protest, but Geralt cut him off before he could get started.

“Keep an eye on Roach while I’m gone.”

It was as close as Geralt was about to get to saying, “I promise I won’t disappear this time,” and it was by no means a guarantee that the same could be said for any future excursions, but Jaskier seemed to get the message.

“Okay,” he agreed, “but she and I are gonna talk about you while you’re gone.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll have lost your voice by the time I get back.”

#the witcher #the witcher fic #jaskier #geralt #whump #hurt/comfort #flu #or something; i mean hellifino i just needed a sick bard #fever #wrudy writes #im committing to the tag ok

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