#In which life is hard and Geralt would very much benefit from a hug

[drowningbydegrees]

This started as a pwp praise kink idea. The praise stayed, but the pwp did not. Perhaps I will give it another go, but in the meantime, have 4,000 words of emotional hurt/comfort instead I guess. 😅

Read on AO3

Geralt is what Jaskier cheerfully describes as "forever years old" when he discovers that okay, maybe he is just the littlest bit affected by… actually he’s not sure what one would call this. He’s not even sure if it’s specifically what was said or just the act of being spoken to like a person in a vulnerable moment. Either way, it’s more than a little unexpected, but that’s not actually the problem. After all, everyone finds themselves unraveled by something a little unorthodox now and again, and in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t really all that weird.

No. The problem is that he learns it at exactly the same time Jaskier does, and it would be embarrassing enough if the bard were just some accidental bystander. But no, Geralt couldn’t get that lucky either. It’s very definitely in response to Jaskier and that is nothing short of mortifying. Whatever longing Geralt might privately harbor, Jaskier has never given any indication that it might be a mutual feeling, and so their companionship is very definitely not Like That.

It's a perfect storm that leads to this discovery.

The contract is a disaster in every sense of the word. Somehow, after all these years, there’s still some tiny part of him that allows for optimism, that remembers a time when he thought he could be a hero. There’s no room to be an idealist in his line of work, but the opportunity was right there. The monster was just an unfortunate curse to break. There were people who might be still alive to save. Stupidly, he let himself believe that this is the kind of contract he always hopes for, where just this once no one has to die.

But of course, that isn’t how it goes. The creature is worse for his meddling, leaving the man underneath tortured by a few seconds of horrified lucidity before the curse consumes him again. The creature dies by Geralt’s sword and as its blood drips from the blade, the witcher takes in his surroundings. It’s dark, but Geralt does not need to see to recognize a graveyard made up of all the people he failed.

Even Jaskier is subdued, largely silent on the walk back to the village. He’d had the good sense to stay out of the cave, or else maybe it was just too dark. Whatever the reason, if Geralt is granted any small mercy in this whole debacle, it’s that Jaskier is not in there among the dead, that he did not become another life the witcher couldn’t preserve.

The villagers are understandably as dismayed as Geralt is, and he makes for an easy target. He tolerates the shouting and cruel accusations. He stays Jaskier’s hand when the bard tries to come to his defense. They’re grieving people, desperate to shed the weight of their loss, and he can bear it.

The innkeeper does not turn him away at least, though Geralt suspects it has something to do with the very pointed look Jaskier is giving the man. It matters little if it means he can bathe in peace and fall into a miserable sleep and just… start over again tomorrow.

Death clings to Geralt like a film he can never quite wash from his skin, but oh how he tries. There’s an echo of blood and ichor that he just can’t shake, and by the time Jaskier comes to bring him clean clothes, he’s rubbed his forearms red.

Whatever scene he’s expecting, whatever reproach he anticipates, it never comes. He’s too strung out to put up much of a fight when Jaskier eases the washrag from his clenched fist. Jaskier gives him an uncomfortable smile that would be hilarious in some other context, waving awkwardly at Geralt’s head. “I’m just going to, ehm, your hair is sort of-”

“Covered in blood. I know,” Geralt fills in the gap in that sentence tersely. It’s not pity, not from Jaskier, but it drifts too close for comfort and the witcher doesn’t know what else to do but lash out. That’s not fair either though, and once Geralt has taken a breath he relents. “Get on with it.”

Jaskier does. Quietly even, which would seem suspicious or worrisome under normal circumstances. Geralt just happens to be too worn down to do anything but count his blessings and appreciate the silence as Jaskier works the tangles (and who knows what else) from his hair. He tries to close his eyes, but every time he does, it plays out behind his eyelids, forcing him to wrench them back open again.

“It’s not your fault. You do know that, right?” Jaskier’s voice is soft, and really, Geralt must look truly miserable for him to forgo their usual playfully scathing banter. “You did everything they asked of you and then some. There was nothing else left.”

Geralt doesn’t reply because what can he say? What could possibly wipe the memory of this colossal failure from his mind? It’s a gift of some sort that Jaskier doesn’t press Geralt to respond. He just hums a quiet tune while he painstakingly washes the mess out of the witcher’s hair.

“It wasn’t enough,” Geralt says very softly when he dredges up the will to speak. Jaskier’s thumbs rub down the nape of his neck, and he bows his head to it in silent surrender. The comfort is unearned, but he’s blank enough to crave it anyway.

“That’s not on you, Geralt. It’s like you genuinely don’t have a clue how... good you are. I mean, you’re a grumpy pain in the ass for sure, but still. You were good to the villagers even if they didn’t do a damned thing to earn it. You’re sweet to children and pets and...to me.” Jaskier suddenly seems very close, so near that when he speaks, his warm breath flits along the shell of Geralt’s ear. “I know I get on your every last nerve, and you haven’t turned me away. You might do it with a lot of scowling and insults, but you… are still very good to me.”

Geralt’s breath catches on what is definitely not a whimper, but what he’d probably classify as one if literally anyone else had made that sound. He’s been brought so low and Jaskier sounds so honest. He could have maybe gotten by without notice, but in the bath with Jaskier's hands in his hair and on his skin, there’s really no passing off the sound he makes as anything other than the desperate, needy thing it is.

“I punched you the first time we met,” Geralt points out, because he’s right on the precipice of something and urgently needs to back away from the edge. He tries glowering at Jaskier over his shoulder, but it turns out to be a grave mistake. Geralt is used to weariness and disappointment in the muted way he feels them. But this is a fragility he doesn’t know how to contend with, the brittle surface cracking when Jaskier gazes back at him like he’s anything other than a monster.

“I… probably had that coming,” Jaskier mumbles. Though Geralt has stopped looking, he can feel the shift in Jaskier’s posture suggesting that he’s sheepishly ducking his head. It’s an out of the ordinary thing, Jaskier owning his foibles, but Geralt doesn’t even get the opportunity to wrap his head around that before the bard swings a hammer at whatever defenses the witcher has left. “You’re good to me when it counts.”

Geralt doesn’t believe a word of it, but here and now he wishes quite desperately that he could. He longs to trust the warmth that slides like honey down his spine and settles at the base of it. He wants so badly to be what Jaskier names him as.

In retrospect, it’d probably be less humiliating if it were a sex thing. Jaskier has a penchant for oversharing and probably wouldn’t bat an eye. But it’s not as straightforward as that, even if the praise Jaskier wraps Geralt up in leaves him wanting. This is more, a bone deep sort of yearning that sits like a brick behind his breastbone, heavy and terribly misplaced.

The notion sneaks in that Jaskier just might see through him. He might recognize that despite the veneer of indifference Geralt puts out into the world, tonight the witcher is one stray thought away from a breakdown. He protects himself the only way he knows how, shrugging out from under where Jaskier’s hands have come to rest on his shoulders. “I don’t need help. Get out.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s brows furrow with concern. Frustratingly, the bard’s hand smooths over Geralt’s hair. Even more frustratingly, it’s a fight not to lean into the touch despite everything.

He snarls because it’s safer than the shaky thing in his chest, the thing that clings to the idea that there’s a version of the world where he is worthwhile. “Get. Out.”

Jaskier holds his hands up in surrender, but he doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised and that’s all the more maddening.

Jaskier gives him space, to bathe in peace and then to irritably crawl into bed. It’s only when Jaskier must think he’s fallen asleep that the bard curls up around his back, nose pressed to the nape of his neck. He hasn’t earned the comfort he’s being offered, but cannot help himself taking it anyway.

They do not speak of that night again.

*****

They do not speak of it, but Jaskier thinks about it an amount that is probably just a bit inappropriate. He recounts the punched out sound Geralt made at something so simple as a little well deserved absolution. He commits the little shudder of Geralt’s shoulders under his hands to memory. But most of all, Jaskier aches at the way Geralt had snarled about it, so convinced of his own unworthiness. This bridge isn’t Jaskier’s to cross though, so he secrets away the desire to do so and satisfies himself with whatever small kindnesses Geralt will tolerate.

But tragedy is rarely a one time occurence, even in an easy life. And Geralt’s life is anything but easy. It’s only a matter of time before everything comes down around his ears again.

It’s not even a hunt this time, not a monster but a mage. It’s just a spell gone wrong, and there was nothing Geralt could’ve done to contain it. They were too close, and Jaskier is pretty sure the only reason he even made it out in one piece was that Geralt shielded him with some sign that protected him from the worst of the blast.

Now, spotting Geralt’s still form among the rubble, it’s clear to Jaskier what his safety cost the witcher. He picks his way across the rubble as quickly as he dares, fighting to keep the fear from his voice. “Geralt?”

“Ngh.” It’s a reply, if not much of one, but it’s only Geralt when blinks blearily at him a couple of times and scowls that the terror Jaskier feels begins to settle.

He doesn’t know what to say. Jaskier is tempted to crack a joke and make light of the situation. It’s how he copes. It’s just that, they weren’t alone in this building, and judging from the quietly defeated look on Geralt’s face, the witcher is already thinking about that.

“Look, I know this isn’t ideal.” Jaskier holds out a hand to Geralt, but he ignores it as he staggers to his feet. “But it’s not all hopeless. Because of you, they can’t ever harm anyone else again.”

“Shut up, Jaskier.” Geralt’s expression shutters, but Jaskier doesn’t need to be able to read the witcher’s emotions to know he’s thinking about all the people that outcome isn’t good enough for. As hyper sensitive as Geralt’s senses are, Jaskier can’t help but suspect that the rocks aren’t enough to hide what’s buried within the ruins, so he tries to steer Geralt back towards their camp. There’s nothing else they can do in this place but mourn.

“Are you okay to walk?” Jaskier doesn’t like the idea of leaving Geralt here to get help, but he also doesn’t want to inadvertently make things worse.

“I’m fine.” Geralt takes a step and then another. They’re wobbly, but he does manage to stay upright.

“You sure? A building exploded with you, you know, in it.” Jaskier is sort of sorry for pressing even before Geralt glowers at him.

“I said I’m fine.” Geralt repeats himself, and there’s no progress to be made pressing any further about it.

Jaskier knows better than to offer his support despite the fact that Geralt is limping at his side. If the witcher is not actively falling over, his attempts to help are likely to be ill received. He tries very hard to ignore it, even if it makes his heart twist up in his chest, but that all flies out the window when they finally come to a stop at camp, where the ground beneath them is dry dirt rather than grass and leaves, and there’s no missing the blood sluggishly pooling at Geralt’s feet.

“Geralt. For the love of- You’re bleeding. Sit down.” Jaskier grouses, more irritated at himself for not noticing than anything else.

To his shock, Geralt sits without complaint, though Jaskier suspects that is more out of exhaustion than any sudden desire to be cooperative. With a pained hiss, Geralt works to rid himself of his armor while Jaskier gathers supplies, so maybe he means to cooperate after all. That’s either very good or very bad.

Very bad, Jaskier decides, grimacing at the deep gash in Geralt’s side beneath where his rib cage ends. It’s not a clean cut the way a claw or a blade might be, probably a product of part of a building dropping on him.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes out, kneeling to try and staunch the bleeding enough to properly stitch it back up.

“I’m okay Jaskier,” Geralt insists. That he’s gritting his teeth on a low moan when Jaskier presses on his wounded flank is… not really helping his case.

“Great. You can continue to be okay while you sit there and let me stitch this up.” It comes out a little more tartly than Jaskier had meant, but Geralt doesn’t even seem to notice.

He does, however, sit still. That Geralt is quiet while Jaskier threads a needle isn’t out of the ordinary. But Jaskier looks at the witcher’s face and finds a great deal more than weariness there.

Jaskier lets it go at first, the task at hand more pressing. It’s only when he’s on his third stitch and Geralt is still staring miserably out towards the trees that he gently chastises the witcher. The expression isn’t an unfamiliar one, and Jaskier hates it every time. “Stop it.”

Geralt’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t look at Jaskier. “Stop what?”

“Insisting on taking on burdens that aren’t yours to carry.” There’s a needle in one hand and blood on both of them, so the tactile methods he’d usually use to soothe are no good. Jaskier tries words instead, already knowing they’ll be rejected. “It wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was a great deal less awful than it might have been because of you.”

On the bright side, Geralt doesn’t immediately snap at him. It might have something to do with the fact that he’s actively stitching the witcher up. Geralt doesn’t even look at Jaskier, but his expression is stormy and tense. Jaskier bites his tongue for another couple of stitches before he decides this is a sort of misery he can’t leave alone. So, he tries again. “When we first met, you really didn’t like me. And I know you’re making a face. Stop it. Just because I ignored the fact that you found me aggravating doesn’t mean I didn’t recognize it.”

“I’m making a face because you said that all past tense.” There’s a note of what might be humor there, and Jaskier doesn’t even care if the joke is at his expense under the circumstances.

Jaskier huffs out a fondly exasperated breath. “That’s very rude, but I’m going to let it go this time because you’re bleeding all over my hands. My point is that you gave me - someone you actively disliked - coin you didn’t have to spare.”

Geralt is quiet for so long that Jaskier thinks he might actually be listening. He probably is even, but his reply is too close to their usual banter, like he can’t stomach the idea of having a conversation that matters. “With songs like that, it seemed like you could use all the help you could get.”

“Oh, haha. Very funny. I realize it wasn’t my best work.” He’s trying, really, and it’s hard not to deflate in the face of Geralt’s resistance. Jaskier stares down at his current task and that could be the end of it. But the last time they went down this road still haunts him, and Jaskier is determined to try again, hopefully without being run off this time around. “Okay, if you’re going to be like that. In the last village, you let a little girl hire you to check her closet for monsters.”

There’s a clear sense of suspicion in the way Geralt narrows his eyes at Jaskier, but all the witcher says is, “Why would I turn down a paying contract?”

“Geralt.” Despite everything, Jaskier is pretty certain he’s never loved anyone in his life as much as he does Geralt right now. “She paid you in rocks.”

“They had value to her.” It’s endearingly defensive, but Geralt is justifying himself rather than running Jaskier off, so the bard counts it as an improvement.

Regardless, it’s not the message Jaskier is trying to get across. “I know. But you can’t exactly get provisions or a room at an inn with a pocketful of pebbles. And then there was Goose Hollow. You snuck that woman’s payment back into her kitchen.”

The witcher’s nose crinkles in distaste. Jaskier knows why he did it, but Geralt seems to feel the need to remind him anyway. “She’d just lost her husband to that kikimore and she had a baby on the way. I could make do without. Not sure she could’ve.”

“Right. You’re absolutely right, and that’s what I’m getting at,” Jaskier says, giving up on the idea that Geralt might have at least enough sense of self worth to reach this conclusion on his own. That’s clearly not the case, so Jaskier opts to connect the dots. “These are things you acknowledge, things you act on, because you are kind.”

Annnnnnnd there it is, the point at which Geralt can’t pretend he doesn’t understand what Jaskier is trying to communicate. He growls, shifting like he means to get up. “Fuck off.”

Jaskier pinches Geralt’s hip, well below where the bruising from the wound stops. “Do. Not. I have a needle literally stuck through you. You’re a good person whether you acknowledge it or not, so stop being dramatic and trying to flounce off just because someone said something that clashes with your self loathing.”

The scowl doesn’t leave Geralt’s face, but by some miracle, he does settle. “Oh, I’m dramatic?”

Bowing his head to hide a smile, Jaskier goes back to work. He wishes he could stay made for even a moment, but there’s just nothing for it. “What with the growling and glaring and stalking needlessly off into the trees or whatever nonsense you were planning? As someone who is personally very well versed in dramatics, yes.”

There’s no scathing or witty retort so it would be easy to assume Geralt is ignoring him when Jaskier is met with silence, but the bard knows better. It’s subtle things, an evening out of Geralt’s breathing, a shift in his posture, and though the seconds drag out, stretched like taffy, he’s not surprised when the witcher says very softly. “I didn’t know you’d noticed.”

And oh, that hurts. Not for the sake of Jaskier’s own feelings, but for the fact that Geralt could share shitty tavern food and too small inn beds and miles of open road for so long and still not recognize that he matters. “Of course I noticed. I always notice you.”

“I don’t think the rocks are going to make for a very interesting song,” Geralt says, and while his tone is clearly meant to convey sarcasm, his gaze is soft and searching, and oh to hell with it all.

“For fuck’s sake. It’s not for a song. I notice because I love you, you absolute twit.” There’s that strange, wounded sound again. The one that makes Jaskier want to wind his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and draw him close. Last time, that had been the preface to Geralt shutting him out entirely, but it doesn’t happen this time. Geralt hardly seems to notice when Jaskier rises after tying off the thread. His whole body goes stiff when Jaskier succumbs to the urge to embrace him, but somehow this time Geralt doesn’t immediately pull away.

With bated breath, Jaskier waits for the awkward stiffness to become a full blown retreat, because surely Geralt does not want his feelings, but the demand to be let go of never comes. Surrender is a quieter, subtler thing than any resistance Geralt put up. It’s a gradual release of the tension holding him bow string taut in Jaskier’s arms, a furtive embrace as Geralt’s hands find their way to curl loosely in the back of Jaskier’s chemise. With a sigh Geralt’s head drops to rest against Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier is prepared, he thinks, for that to be the end of it. There are no strings attached, no conditions riding the tails of his affection. That Geralt didn’t immediately turn him away, that the witcher relents enough to let Jaskier be a source of comfort is enough. Geralt sags a little bit against him and Jaskier commits the feeling to memory, idly smoothing his hand over Geralt’s hair.

It’s still there when Geralt pulls back to look at him, eyes wide with something Jaskier might describe as wonderment.

“What?” Jaskier doesn’t give himself permission to hope because that’s not what this is about, but his heart takes off anyway, hammering away in his chest.

“You weren’t afraid of me, even though the only point of reference you had was the stories.” There’s a question in the quiet words Geralt speaks. And Jaskier does know what he means. Rumors of the Butcher of Blaviken were far reaching, and Jaskier had no way of knowing the accuracy of them. So why?

“Well, you’re not nearly as scary as you think you are,” Jaskier says lightly, and then, because the question is there, but Geralt looks afraid of the answer, he adds with a sheepish smile. “Also, you were the one person not throwing food at me, so that was a point in your favor automatically.”

Geralt says nothing at first, but his mouth turns unhappily downward. Jaskier expects annoyance or anger, is used to those things, but this is more akin to grief and he doesn’t know what to do with it. In the wake of it, Jaskier is almost relieved when Geralt speaks again.

“You learned how to do this because we travel together.” Geralt gingerly pries one of Jaskier’s hands from his back, laying it delicately over his wounded side, and no. No, that last point was definitely easier to address. They should go back to things he can make jokes about.

“So what?” Jaskier says, though it comes out more like a croak. And his chest might as well be split open on the faint smile that coaxes from Geralt.

Curious. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s thumb sweep back and forth across his chemise, almost like the witcher is nervous. “You hate blood.”

He’s already said the most terrifying part, and he doesn’t know what Geralt thinks, but the witcher hasn’t left. So really, Jaskier wonders, what is there to be frightened of? “It would be very unfortunate for the both of us if something happened to you.”

“That’s not… I don’t think you’re hearing me,” Geralt mutters, mouth slanted off to the side.

It won’t do. Jaskier has no wish to be a source of frustration when he’s trying to be a comfort, so he lets himself smile and brushes Geralt’s cheek with his knuckles. “I’m sorry. Would you tell me again?”

Jaskier barely gets the words out before Geralt’s lips are brushing, feather light, against his. It’s over as abruptly as it started though Geralt lingers with his forehead pressed to Jaskier’s and his hand cradling the bard’s cheek. “I notice you, too.”

He could live in this moment, Jaskier thinks, just sat here knowing he’s not alone in the things he wants. The circle of Geralt’s arms is a lovely place to linger, so Jaskier lets himself have it even as he says, “In case you missed it, I’m done if you’re still feeling the need to go stomping off in the woods to fume.”

Geralt rarely laughs at anything, but the amused snort Jaskier gets for his trouble is close enough. Even better is the kiss that follows, slow and sweet and full of promise. “Well, someone very obnoxious and very... dear told me it was dramatic, so I thought I’d maybe stay here with you instead.”

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #geralt whump #emotional hurt/comfort #Guest starring Geralt's egregious lack of self-worth #mentions of blood and injury #In which life is hard and Geralt would very much benefit from a hug #conveniently Jaskier would also like to give him one #my fic

[valdomarx]

“Geralt. My dearest friend. My closest companion. Light of my life, fire of my-”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “What do you want, Jaskier?”

“Seeing as how I’ve made you famous, and I flatter myself that this has eased you path somewhat, why, this very inn not only took us in but even offered us a discounted rate-”

“What do you want, Jaskier?” Testier this time.

“Ahh. Well. Let me put it plainly: I’m in need of a favour.”

Geralt raises one eyebrow, in an expression he knows speaks volumes.

“I need you to come with me to Lettenhove this winter and pose as my fiancé.”

Geralt nearly drops the sword he’s sharpening. A million thoughts whip through his mind, but one is most pressing: “Why, for Melitele’s sake?”

Jaskier waves a hand in a vague and non-descriptive gesture. “It’s a court thing, you know how families are, and my mother has made it abundantly clear that it’s time for me to settle down and this year I’m to return affianced or else she’ll select someone for me. And I can’t get hitched to some local lady, Geralt, I simply can’t, it’ll ruin my bardic appeal, not to mention my employment prospects, and of course I won’t be able to travel with you, and it’s-”

Geralt holds up a hand to ward off the wall of words. The idea of no longer travelling with Jaskier is unconscionable, not that he’d ever admit that out loud. And they spend so much time together they’re practically married anyway. How hard could it be to pretend for a few days?

“Fine,” he says gruffly.

“Oh, Geralt, you are wonderful.” Jaskier beams and throws his arms around Geralt’s neck. Geralt growls, but secretly, it’s actually rather nice.

-

“Mother, this is Geralt, my fiancé.”

Cold, clear eyes look him up and down, assessing him, and pinch into an expression suggesting he has been found wanting. Geralt decides against opening his mouth and further cementing that opinion.

“A witcher.” Her voice has the familiar twang of Jaskier’s, but with the flat, expressionless cadence he associates with the higher echelons of the aristocracy.

“A witcher!” Jaskier confirms in a cheery tone. “Isn’t that exciting?”

She sniffs in a manner which makes it clear that exciting would not be her first choice of word. “I see. He will be joining us for this year’s Yuletide?”

“He will.”

Her face draws back into the impassive mask of the well-bred. “Very well. You will stay in the east wing.”

“Thank you, mother.” Jaskier executes a stiff bow which Geralt copies and they beat a hasty retreat.

-

“That went rather well!”

Geralt blinks. “Jaskier, I’m fairly sure your mother means to have me killed in my sleep.”

“Oh, don’t mind her. She’s always like that. She’s actually softened up a lot since dear old dad died, gods rest the grumpy bastard.”

Geralt struggles to imagine how such staid, cold people could possibly have produced a son as bright and warm as Jaskier. They might as well be a different species.

Jaskier pushes open a door to a grand suite, all plush velvets and gold ornamentation, a thick woven rug underfoot. It’s the most opulent room Geralt has ever seen, but Jaskier pays it no mind and throws his bag casually on the bed.

“We’ll have to stay here together,” he says apologetically, not looking Geralt in the eye. “But the bed is plenty big, or I can sleep on the sofa if you’d rather -”

Geralt is still taking it all in: The space, the furnishings, the frankly enormous bed which looks divinely comfortable. And there, through the next room, that looks like-

“Is that a copper bathtub?” he asks, eyes wide. Such luxuries were a rarity indeed.

Jaskier grinned. “It is. Let me get some food sent up and I’ll wash your hair?”

Geralt grumbles, just for the effect, and decides that putting up with tedious aristocracy might have its benefits after all.

-

Yule festivities in Lettenhove are, mercifully, a mere matter of days. First there is the fitting for formal attire, which Geralt scowls through but Jaskier promises will be made up for with plenty of good food and wine. Then there are several deeply tedious aristocratic parties, which Jaskier sails through and Geralt spends mostly hiding in dark corners, as is his wont.

Occasionally, Jaskier will grab him by the hand and introduce him as, “Geralt, my husband-to-be,” and something funny will flip over in his stomach which will require several drinks to settle. When he returns to his dark corner he’ll find his heart pumping a little faster as his eyes track Jaskier flitting around the room. It’s probably just indigestion from all the rich food.

Then there is the formal family Yuletide dinner, a spectacularly awkward and singly unpleasant evening spent around a long, cold table with Jaskier’s mother and various cousins, who regard Geralt with expressions ranging from bland disinterest to active hostility. The food is heavy beyond measure and the conversation cruel and bland by turns.

They cover the need for raising taxes, the many failings of the servant class, and the petty squabbles over jewels and titles that seems to be the bread and butter of these people. With each hateful line, Geralt feels his blood rising. If it weren’t for Jaskier making pleading eyes at him, he’d take great pleasure in explaining some hard truths to them.

When a cousin begins expounding on useless lazy peasants in the estate, complaining that they can’t work because of plague, but we all know they’re simply idle, Geralt grits his teeth so hard that he swears the sound must be audible.

Beneath the table, Jaskier takes his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Staring down at their joined hands, Geralt detaches from these awful people and their awful conversation and focuses on the simple warmth of Jaskier’s fingers intertwined with his own.

-

They make their escape from dinner as soon as can be considered polite, and Geralt takes a second to lean against the door to their room, breathing deeply.

“You did well not to throttle anyone,” Jaskier says with a reassuring smile. “If we’d had to listen to cousin Edrick for a minute longer, I might have launched over the table with a carving knife myself.”

Geralt reaches for him without thinking, and once again Jaskier’s hand slips into his own. It’s grounding, to feel something genuine in this place surrounded by artifice.

“Come on,” Jaskier says. “Let’s get out of here.”

Geralt doesn’t even ask where they’re going before nodding.

-

They sneak away from the estate out of the servants’ door and follow a winding path toward a cluster of lights in the valley below. The path into Lettenhove town is quiet and calm, and as they walk the snow begins to fall in soft flurries, covering the ground in a peaceful white blanket.

The town looks picture perfect when they arrive, a charming jumble of thatched cottages and a small, cosy inn from which bright light spills out into the snowy night. When they enter the barmaid runs over to hug Jaskier and the proprietor slaps him on the back, and Jaskier has a kind word and a waved greeting for every person in there.

Geralt feels something unwind in his chest, something he hadn’t realised was tight and twisted until now. Seeing Jaskier in his element, among people who love him for who he is, instead of among that cold, hateful family, he feels right in a way he hasn’t for days.

Jaskier is already buying drinks and passing them around, and he excitedly waves Geralt over. “Bree, Geoffrey,” he addresses the couple behind the bar, “This is Geralt.” A shy smile sneaks over his face. “My fiancé.” The couple gasp in delight and congratulate Jaskier, then they’re embracing Geralt like old friends and pushing a drink into his hands.

“Come on, Geralt, join us!” Bree smiles warmly. “It’ll be the ten o’clock bells soon, and we must have Jaskier lead us in a song.”

The evening is a whirl of music and dance and loud, terrible singing, which the entire town seems to join in. For once there is no corner for Geralt to hide in, so he stays by Jaskier’s side, basking in the reflected glow of these people’s clear adoration of his bard.

-

When the midnight bell chimes and Geoffrey turns them all out for the night, the revelers wend their way home still singing and drinking. As the place empties out, Jaskier slides over to Bree to press a kiss to her cheek and a bulging purse into her hand. She tries to wave him off but Jaskier tucks the money behind the counter all the same, and Geralt watches, a deep wave of fondness sweeping through him.

The snow is still falling when they step out into the now-quiet street, soft, fat flakes drifting lazily from the sky and sticking in Jaskier’s hair. His cheeks are flushed pink and his hair falls in an messy sweep over his eyes; without thinking Geralt reaches out to brush it away behind his ear. Jaskier’s blush deepens as he does so, but he shivers in the cold.

“Here.” Geralt unclasps the thick cloak from around his neck and sweeps it over Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier’s mouth forms a little o of surprise and he looks up at Geralt, something tender in his eyes.

Geralt’s gaze is caught by the snow flakes settling on Jaskier’s lashes; he’s so focused that he almost jumps when Jaskier reaches out to take his hand. The sky seems to glow with a soft orange light as the clouds reflect the last few fires in the town below; everything is warm with Jaskier’s hand in his despite the chill in the air.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says softly. “For being here with me.” And leaning in, his breath caressing over Geralt’s face, he touches his lips to Geralt’s cheek in a ghost of a kiss.

Suddenly it occurs to Geralt that this will be it, tomorrow they’ll head back on the path like none of this ever happened, no more holding hands or being close, no more being introduced as Jaskier’s betrothed. And despite the hellish parts of this experience he really doesn’t want it to end. He likes being Jaskier’s person, and he likes Jaskier being his.

They are still standing close together, mere inches between them, and it’s no effort at all to lean in, slowly, cautiously, to find Jaskier’s lips with his own, to place a tentative kiss there. And then Jaskier’s hands are fisting in his shirt and tugging him closer still, and his arms go around his waist and Jaskier is kissing him back like he’s been waiting for it, their mouths slotting together like they were made to fit each other, and everything is blazingly bright like the white of the snow.

When they pull apart they stay with foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air, and Geralt can see a smile cracking wide over Jaskier’s face.

“I like being engaged to you,” Geralt says quietly, unable to keep it in.

Jaskier’s smile widens even further. “I like being engaged to you too,” he says. He kisses him again. “Fiancé.” Another kiss. “Husband to be.” And another. “Partner.” One more. “Beloved.”

“I like the sound of those.” He suspects he may be wearing the same dopey grin as Jaskier is.

“Then let’s make it official.” Jaskier bites his lip. “Marry me?”

Jaskier is a picture of perfection, eyes gleaming and cheeks ruddy, snowflakes in his hair. Geralt’s heart has always been right here.

“I’d be honoured.” He considers for a second. “But not in Lettenhove.”

Jaskier’s laugh sparkles with joy. “Anywhere but here.”

#PLEASE ENJOY THIS HOLIDAY ROMCOM NONSENSE #i am feeling festive and also sappy #geraskier #the witcher #my writing

[crowleyellestair]

I know this is a tad random but I was watching gbbo and it dawned on me...has geralt ever had a birthday cake, like one made for him? I assume he’s celebrated his birthday before but it is suddenly of the upmost importance to me that our good boy gets to have a birthday party filled with love and thanks, just for him

AN/// I love this, and got carried away. Didn’t know how long you wanted it, but this is a longer thing because you are right. The man deserves a cake.

  “How did you know?”

“Well, I have a knack for remembering important dates, and your birthday is one of the most important of all. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she leaned down, giving a wink. Ciri threw her arms around the woman in front of her, a smile clear on the girl’s face. Ashen hair was sticking in every direction from the training she had been going through with the witcher, and her breath was still catching up with her. Sweat rubbed off from her forehead onto the woman’s blouse as she tightened the hug, but Y/n couldn’t be bothered as the hug meant more to her than a simple shirt. She returned the hug, her hand trying to smooth the wild mane.

“Excuse me, but I think I am in need of a hug too. After all, I was the one to make the cake.” The bards voice was dripping with sarcasm, but he had been the one to make the pastry. Luckily for the two of them, it was something he learned by spending his childhood with the cooks of his family’s estate. It wasn’t a big thing, as he had to convince the town’s tavern to let him borrow their kitchen. It was big enough to let Ciri have her fill of lemon cake with a simple vanilla frosting the two had made while her lover and his child were training.

Ciri let her go, jogging into the bard’s open arms, but she had to wait as he paused her to take off his doublet. She rolled her eyes, looking to Y/n who smiled and shrugged. Once the doublet was neatly folded and placed on the rock he had been perched on, he dramatically opened his arms again. She pushed into him, the hug being too heartwarming, even for the bard’s standards. Ciri pulled away for a moment, looking between him and the cake.

“Do I have to eat the flowers too?” That made the bard blush and huff as Y/n laughed. She had questioned the garnish when he placed it there in the first place, but he said it needed to look perfect. Gentians covered the top, the color being as close as possible Jaskier could get to Cintran blue. A dandelion had also made its way onto the cake, but his explanation for it was that it tied in with the lemon flavor, but the woman hadn’t believed that that was his whole motive.

Geralt had simply been an onlooker of the scene, not having been in on the plan. Guilt had formed in his chest as he hadn’t realized it was her birthday, but he refused to show it. Though, it grew worse once the girl pranced up to him, fork in hand.

“What to try it?” Her emerald eyes shined in the light that pierced through the canopy of leaves above them. He kneeled down, a ghost of a smile appearing to her.  His hand fell onto her shoulder, thumb making minute movements.

“It’s your cake, you should have all of it.” His eyes darted to the bard who was still chewing the piece he had accepted. His golden gaze shown over her again, and his tone softened. “Happy birthday.” Ciri smiled, popping the small bite of cake into her mouth before her arms draped over his broad shoulders.

The group moved in tandem as every other night, setting up for bed after the girl had finished her cake. Geralt had been fishing through his travel back when Y/n popped up next to him, shoving a small leaf wrapped item into his hand.

“I remember when you got this for her, but noticed you never gave it. I thought this would be a better time than ever.” He nodded, grabbing the small charm he had seen weeks ago. It practically called to him, whispering the  joy she would have from the tiny lion charm. He had put a chain on it, but it was meant to wrap around her dagger that she had, so she could always have a reminder of her blood family despite what had happened.

He felt Y/n’s hands on his shoulders as she leaned in to press her temple to his. He leaned into it, apart of his guilt subsiding.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you, but I know you don’t like keeping things hidden in general, let alone keeping things from Ciri. Even if it is a birthday surprise.” Geralt nodded again, humming while turning his head. His nose brushed her cheek in a small show of affection. The witcher was still coming around the bend when it came to normal sprouts of affection as he had never really received or gave it. But it was true that he didn’t like keeping things from his cub, despite it being for her benefit.

The witcher had taken his cub to a secluded part of the wood, likely the same place they were practicing in earlier. Y/n plopped herself by the bard, pushing his shoulder with hers.

“So, you’ve been with him for decades. When’s Geralt’s birthday?” The bard raised his brow to the woman next to him, feigning offence.

“You aren’t going to ask when my birthday is?” She rolled her eyes, looking up to the darkened sky.

“It was eighty….nine? Eighty-nine days ago, but I know you had a large celebration at the Rosemary.” He laughed, looking to the sky as well. It seemed for a moment that he got lost in a memory that flooded his mind at the mention of the night before Y/n shoved him again. His expression fell as he realized,

“I don’t think he has one. You know he doesn’t like to think of life before the trials, and I doubt he would find his change an exciting ‘re-birth’.” Y/n nodded, standing to go back to her bag. She fished out a journal, and sat back down, holding a gentian before pressing it into a blank page. As she put pressure onto it, she flipped through the pages, looking over all of the items and dates on each. She kept track of important memories by putting items into the book, and writing the dates over them to be able to revisit them anytime she needed to. One specific page jumped out. There wasn’t much except for a stain from Geralt’s swallow that had spilled there. That was the day that they had officially started their journey together. They hadn’t started their weird form of courting till months later, but they wouldn’t have been where they were unless they had met that day.

“Jaskier, how far away is this from today?”

---

 “Just keep him away! It’s not as hard as you’re making it seem.” The bard rolled his eyes, only his head popping into the room.

“He hates banquets, doesn’t want to leave Ciri and wants to spend his free time with you. It is hard!” Their whispered argument came to a halt when Jaskier heard the creaky steps of the inn grow louder. He was right in being cautious because Ciri hurdled through the door before Geralt followed silently. Jaskier fully opened the door for the witcher, who looked at the girl bounce on the bed after throwing herself onto it. His hands rested on Y/n’s waist, his forehead resting against hers.

“You are sure you’ll be alright?” She smiled, tilting up to brush her nose against his in a soft eskimo kiss.

“I wouldn’t let you leave if I wasn’t. And besides, it’s only a handful of hours.” He nodded against her, but pushed away to check on his cub before he and Jaskier left for a banquet the bard was performing in that night. It was a very lucky happenstance, but Y/n was still worried about her plan. If the two came back too early, or something went wrong on their end, the night could be ruined. Her biggest fear was his reaction.

Ciri had explained how the men of Kaer Morhen did celebrate birthdays, but it wasn’t big. It was a bigger dinner than most nights, along with more ale, and was more focused on living another year. She said Vesemir changed the day every year, as he explained to her, because the date didn’t matter. It was more of a celebration, despite them not really even acknowledging the reason behind the celebration. Y/n didn’t want to go against their makeshift birthday, but it wasn’t a day just for Geralt- it was for everyone there. And from what the cub had said, it wasn’t anything really special anyways. Despite how big or small it was though, it was with his family, and she didn’t want to undermine it. The wolf might not want to change celebrating the day, though Y/n didn’t want him to not celebrate in winter either.

Beside the anxiety, she was excited. The two were only supposed to be gone for two hours, which left the girls with a lot to do. Y/n had saved up enough to get the biggest room in the inn for her and the witcher. Ciri had agreed to room with the bard for the night, and was excited to help. She had free reign over Jaskier’s bath bag, and asking for extra candles from the innkeeper using her large doe eyes. The large room had a smaller one off of it that held a tub, and tried to make it as relaxing as possible.

While the cub went on a rampage of candles and decorations in the bathroom, Y/n was fusing in the kitchen. She had been trying to get Geralt to eat different types of cake over the previous three weeks to try and figure out what his favorite was. Unfamiliar textures and strong flavors had been rejected, and pushed in front of her to eat. It didn’t help too much, but she had an idea by asking around for dumbed down fruit jams. She was lucky again to take care of an older woman towns away who had given her a raspberry jam that hadn’t had much of the favor or scent. Her age apparently changed her taste buds, and tastes too strong became sour to her. And out of all the different types of cake, it seemed the only one she might be able to pull of was a simple sponge cake.

The baking process took longer than she thought, especially since she had to start over after over whipping the eggs. Ciri’s commentary certainly didn’t help her nerves, when she popped down to see if she could decorate the desert. The cake seemed darker on the bottom than it should be, and it isn’t level by any means. She cut through the middle to put the jam in, but afterwards she noticed the slight slant to it. Jaskier had given her the frosting recipe, but she tried to use less sugar. In doing so, it made it runny, but it covered up the filling line and that’s what mattered. Ciri tried her best to create a wolf out of berries they had picked up in town, but it seemed more like a cat. Atleast it had resembled something and that, again, is what mattered.

Y/n brought the cake up, as well as ordered water and a smaller plate of the honey ham that the tavern was selling that night. It was likely the man had eaten when he was at the party, but she couldn’t be sure. Ciri sat by the window, keeping watch for the boys as Y/n lit all of the candles. It was only minutes after she had finished when Ciri practically bounced over to hide behind the door. Y/n stood on the other side, waiting for the door to open. Jaskier made a grand entrance, with Geralt grumbling behind him.

“This isn’t your room bard.” The witcher fully stepped through the door, looking around in confusion before Ciri pounced, using the chair next to the door to get leverage and jupm onto his back.

“Happy birthday, Geralt!” The man turned to look at Y/n questioningly as she leaned next to the door. Jaskier mirrored the child’s statement and started strumming a birthday tune. Ciri let go to run to her bag, grabbing the gift she had made. It wasn’t much, but she had made a small saddle patch as embroidery was something she had to master by ten.

The witcher kneeled down as he always did with Ciri, as she gave him the gift. He pulled her in for a long hug, and she was surprised that Ciri hadn’t pulled away. Jaskier was busy tilting his head at the leaning cake. Eventually the white haired man let her go, and joined Jaskier looking at the cake. Y/n felt her heart pound in her chest. It was well known by everyone that she was not the chef of the group, let alone baker. Jaskier gave her a look, trying to put a smile up.

“It looks…like cake.” Y/n felt a flush spread, looking to Geralt. He simply stared at the cake, but she could see the cogs turning.

“Well…well, it’s not for you. Geralt, darling, happy birthday. It’s supposed to be a raspberry sponge cake, but I guess it could also be poison. If you don’t like it, I won’t take offense. The raspberry is toned down, and the amount of cake should balance it even more.” Her eyes danced everywhere but the man she spoke to. “Oh! And a special bath is ready for you, whenever you want it.” Geralt turned to walk into the bathroom, and Jaskier moved to take Ciri back to their room.

Geralt stood and stared once more for a long moment before turning to look to Y/n, who still didn’t look at him. Her hands were fiddling with each other, and her eyes planted themselves with looking to her feet.

“I, uh, know you already celebrate kind of, but I thought… You deserve more. Way more than this, even, but I thought this was good too for being on the road. The cake is definitely questionable, so I do warn you.” Geralt had closed the few paces between them before his arms wrapped around her. Y/n quickly melted into the tight hold, her own arms wrapping back. He pulled back before leaning down, kissing her. It was soft for the force he put behind it while landing his lips against hers. When she pulled away, she looked at him, searching. A disbelieving smile appeared, and she grinned back.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to.” She rolled her eyes, giving her arms a squeeze.

“Actually, I think I did.” Y/n let go, walking to the cake, but just stared before trying to cut in. She turned, handing him the fork with a nice bite, and he happily accepted. Her heart stopped, and waited with belated breath to wait for his verdict. Geralt smiled and nodded, handing the fork back.

“It’s great.”

“You can say it’s bad-.”

“My cake, my verdict.” Y/n gave a warry look, but nodded regardless.

“Just don’t eat the bottom. It seemed like it could be burned.” Geralt leaned over her, reaching and jabbing the fork into the sponge. He raised the bite to her lips, and she looked to him. “It’s yours.”

“Exactly. I want you to have some.” She sighed, letting the fork pass her lips, and was happily surprised by the pleasant flavor. It wasn’t the best cake, but it was passable. The woman turned in his arms, unlatching the armor buckles as he continued to take bites of the cake. There was a pause, as she had finished and waited to take his pauldrons off when he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“It’s just a cake, Geralt. You deserve more than this.”

“No one has given me a cake before. It’s special.” Y/n didn’t even think of that. She was sure he had, but it was probably before the trials. They continued to undress and eat cake before they made their way into the bath. Y/n was straddling him, washing every inch of skin in front of her before he asked, “Why today?”

“Oh, well, today is the anniversary of us meeting.” Geralt smirked, his hand coming up to brush a thumb over her cheek where rouge soap bubbles had landed.

“You logged that?” Y/n gave a scoff, trying to play off her flush.

“Well, you spilled swallow all over the page. I couldn’t possibly use it for anything else, so I wrote the date down. Maybe it was fate.” Geralt rolled his eyes at that, but let his head fall back against the rim of the tub. He felt Y/n place a small kiss on his nose, hearing a soft, “Happy birthday my darling Geralt.”

#witcher imagine #witcher x reader #geralt imagine #geralt x reader

[lesdemonium]

I’d Be the Choiceless Hope Chapter 3

Ship: Geraskier Word count: 9,430 Chapter: 3/16

Summary:  

“Such a nice, beautiful sound,” the fae crooned. “If only he were this way always.”

Julian’s mother stood up. She claimed she was prepared to stop the fae, to protect her baby, but in Julian’s darkest moments he doubted this part of the story. His mother loved him, of that he had no doubt, but she had been young and weary, and even years later, she couldn’t quite get the twinge of exhaustion out of her eyes when she recalled Julian’s infancy. Even if she had been keen on protecting him, the fae was too close, too fast, too set on his plan.

“A gift, for the new mother,” the fae continued. He leaned a hand in to stroke Julian’s cheek. “I give you the gift of obedience.”

As a baby, Jaskier was visited by a fae, who gifted Jaskier’s mother with Jaskier’s obedience. As Jaskier grew older, the “gift” became more of a curse.

Additional tags: AngstAngst with a Happy EndingHeavy AngstUnrequited LoveNot Actually Unrequited LoveAlternate Universe - Canon DivergenceCanon EraNot Canon CompliantCursed Jaskier | DandelionAlternate Universe - Ella Enchanted FusionCurse of ObedienceRape/Non-con ElementsImplied/Referenced Rape/Non-conJaskier | Dandelion Whump

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Being away from Geralt was harder than Jaskier ever anticipated. The safety, of course, was hard to replicate. Jaskier found his life was far easier when people stayed far away from him, though he did try his hardest to change the people’s tune on Geralt so that would happen less often . Let it be known that Jaskier was not a selfish friend--he truly tried to remedy Geralt’s reputation, even though there were many times that the witcher and any company he kept being completely unapproachable would have been exceedingly helpful to Jaskier. While Jaskier craved it, Geralt didn’t deserve it.

Truly, though, being away from Geralt was excruciating because Jaskier missed him .

It hit him as he was passing through Posada. He didn’t often make the return to Posada--it was kind of a shithole and even as he had started writing his amazing ballads, the crowds simply were not up to Jaskier’s standards. He figured it had been a while since he graced the lovely town with his skill, though, and so he had tried again to see if the crowds were more amiable. They were not. But, as he had already made it there and didn’t much feel like camping or traveling alone at night, Jaskier had gotten a room.

He and Geralt had parted ways months earlier, as Geralt went to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Even if Jaskier was not in much of an admitting mood, he had to confess that he was absently looking for Geralt. It was spring, surely Geralt would have left the keep, or was preparing to disembark. Jaskier wasn’t exactly sure where Kaer Morhen was or the route Geralt took to leave, but he reasoned that Posada had to be at least a decent guess.

Jaskier wanted to claim that he was absently searching for the witcher due to the protection he offered. Though he lied to everyone else, Jaskier did not much enjoy lying to himself. He was actively searching for the witcher because the past few months without him had been long and terrible and though Geralt had never been much for conversation, he was amazing for company. Also, Geralt’s particular brand of humor had been washing off on Jaskier and apparently it only seemed to work for persons who were large and brooding and vaguely terrifying.

Geralt was not in Posada, nor was he in Vengerberg, Aldersberg, or Rivia, but he was in Carreras. How Geralt beat him was anyone’s guess, but Jaskier found he was quite delighted to have found his witcher again.

“Geralt! Long time. I trust your winter was delightful. Full of witchery-like grunts and grimaces. I wonder, is there a witcher-to-common book in that reportedly extensive library of yours?” Jaskier greeted, arms wide in excitement (though Geralt eyed them warily like Jaskier was trying for a hug, and Jaskier would never mortify himself with that sort of expectation).

“Lambert and Eskel are more talkative. Not as talkative as you ,” Geralt answered with a huff as he continued walking, hauling the head of whatever beast he had just slain. Jaskier wanted to ask after the creature, but found himself far more interested in this snippet of his personal life Geralt was sharing with him.

“Ah, so it’s just you, then? Figures I should attempt to become the barker of a witcher who refuses to share gory details with me to his own benefit!” Jaskier knocked his shoulder into Geralt’s as he fell into step beside Geralt. To Jaskier’s great delight, he saw the corner of Geralt’s mouth tip up, just a smidge. Maybe Geralt had missed him, too.

“No. Vesemir talks less than me, now.”

Jaskier hummed. “So, Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir, they are…?” Jaskier trailed off, hoping Geralt would continue his information binge--and wasn’t that truly distressing, that this was what Jaskier would refer to as a binge --enough to fill in the blanks.

“Vesemir trained us. Lambert and Eskel are my brothers,” Geralt answered.

Jaskier was dying to ask more. He didn’t know where to begin. Before the words had finished leaving Geralt’s mouth, he had formed hundreds of questions on the training of witchers alone . Geralt had to speak to the alderman, though, and to interrupt him on his quest to get his coin would leave Jaskier with a cranky witcher on his hands, and less information than he would like. Besides, a barrage of questions had never helped him get anywhere with Geralt. Sometimes he could confuse Geralt into answering one or two just to get Jaskier to stop, but Jaskier had a suspicion Geralt was becoming immune to his charms.

“Geralt, what is next on our docket?” Jaskier asked as they walked away from the alderman, Geralt’s pockets significantly heavier, due in no small part to Jaskier’s wheedling and dramatizing about the creature--which he still did not know the name of. “Perhaps a vampire? A harpy? One of those disgusting eight-legged creatures with a face that looks like every nightmare ever had pressed together?”

“A brothel,” Geralt answered.

“Right. A… a brothel.” Jaskier frowned, his eyebrows furrowed. “And then what, my good sir? The nightmare creatures?”

Geralt shrugged. “I imagine then a good fuck. I don’t usually find nightmare creatures inside brothels.”

Jaskier groaned. Had the witcher not been practically speed-walking his way away from Jaskier, he would have shoved the witcher. Not that it would have done much good anyway, but Jaskier would have felt better. Like he had made his frustration known.

“Geralt, I hope you aren’t being evasive on purpose. I know you’ve missed me--or at the very least, missed the way I can talk you into some extra coin--and I won’t have you trying to avoid me and leave when I’m caught unawares.” Jaskier huffed, crossing his arms in frustration. “I am going to get myself a room at an inn. If you try to leave without me after you have relieved your carnal urges, I will write you a scathing song. You’ve seen how much good I can do when I’m singing your praises. Do not underestimate my ability to destroy your reputation through song.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but Jaskier liked to imagine he saw a flicker of fear in them. Jaskier would never do such a thing, but he’d certainly be heartbroken. It wouldn’t be the first time, but, like a sane person, he tried to avoid obvious heartbreak darkening his door.

The crowd, as he performed at the tavern that night, was much better than the one in Posada. They shouted out requests, laughed at his jokes, and stomped their feet more-or-less in time. Jaskier’s case was full of coins by the time the tavern door swung open and Jaskier was fully distracted by the witcher striding inside.

Jaskier had traveled with Geralt long enough to recognize displeasure on his face. It was hard to tell from his otherwise gruff and unhappy expressions, but Jaskier could read it in the tilt of his lips and the tension of his forehead. The witcher took a seat in the far back of the tavern, at one of the few open tables left, and though Geralt’s back remained to Jaskier, his head was tilted as if he was actually listening.

A moment later, Jaskier came back to himself. It would not do well for him to lose his audience, not when they were so enamored with him, and he had to put food in his belly somehow. Though every part of him longed to join Geralt, to inquire after what went wrong--because clearly something had, or Geralt would have remained in the brothel--Jaskier continued his performance. It wasn’t long, he had certainly done longer performances elsewhere, but it was long enough to keep the audience’s favor. Often, it was best to leave early, lest they lose interest.

Geralt was still at the table when Jaskier slid onto the bench across from him, but now he had an ale before him. And two empty ones besides.

“I expected you to be buried beneath a beautiful working girl for the better part of the night, and possibly into the early morning. No one there to your liking? Have you decided listening to my dulcet tones is a better way to satisfy your hunger?” Jaskier asked, winking.

“They stank. Every one of them.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Do they not have baths there? Perhaps that could have been your foreplay. You do so love a warm bath.”

Geralt’s head began to shake before Jaskier finished speaking. He took a drink of his ale, spending enough time on it that Jaskier wasn’t certain Geralt was going to offer the information Jaskier was so clearly missing. “Not like that,” Geralt finally answered. “Fear. Every one of them smelled like fear. Strongly.”

He shrugged, as if this was nothing, and Jaskier’s heart ached for him. He hadn’t realized the witcher could perceive that, though, at this point, Jaskier had been certain there were few surprises left. Evidently, he did not know as much about witcher physiology as he thought he did. He would have to do more to press Geralt about this, but perhaps not at a point when Geralt looked so… sick of himself.

“Perhaps if you gave it another go? Maybe they were caught off guard?” Jaskier asked, and again, Geralt was shaking his head before Jaskier finished speaking.

“I will not lie with someone terrified I’m going to rip their throat out,” he answered. Hard to argue with logic like that. “It’s fine. I’ll try again in another town.”

There was very little Jaskier could do to fix this. As much as people were beginning to welcome the witcher, Jaskier couldn't fix everyone’s perceptions of him. And if Geralt really could smell fear on them, well, there wasn’t much Jaskier could do about that, even if he did change the public perception of witchers. It would take a long time before the automatic fear response went away. It was baffling, though. Jaskier couldn’t imagine how anyone could look at Geralt and not want to bed him.

“Well. Save your coin tonight, friend. I already have a room, and you are welcome to join me!” Jaskier announced cheerily.

Geralt snorted into his drink. “I’ll get my own room, bard.”

“Ah, yes, well, that is the thing. There is a rather large chance I have purchased the last remaining room.” Jaskier grimaced at Geralt. “I’m afraid it was less an offer of loneliness, but rather an offer of necessity.”

Geralt grimaced right back. “You needn’t sacrifice your room. I’ll find other lodgings.”

“No,” Jaskier insisted, shaking his head. “Geralt, really. Share my room. I will endeavor to give you space when we sleep, but you know I cannot help what I do while I am unconscious. Hence why I will fund this particular stay in a real bed that I know you will hold over my head for the length of our travels tomorrow. But I must insist that you stay here, and not only because I am still afraid you will leave despite my warnings of a scathing song.”

Geralt snorted again, and finished the last of his ale. “Fine, Jaskier. Only if you stop talking , though.” He pushed back from the table and stood up, looking expectantly at Jaskier.

“You know I can make no such promise,” Jaskier answered, though he grinned as he stood up.

Though this night undoubtedly was terrible for Geralt, it was shaping up to be exactly what Jaskier wanted. Even if sharing a bed rarely went well for them, as Jaskier had a tendency of wrapping himself around Geralt in his sleep, much like a snake would to squeeze the life out of their meal. Still, Geralt followed after Jaskier, and they oscillated between idle chit-chat and companionable silence as they both staged their belongings in the room and undressed for bed.

“Geralt,” Jaskier started, sitting on the bed as Geralt continued the long, arduous process of removing his armor.

“Jaskier?” Geralt answered.

“You can smell fear on people?”

Geralt paused for a moment, his hand stilling over his armor as he placed it carefully away. He nodded, and said, “Yes. It smells… sickly sweet. Like rotting fruit.”

Jaskier nodded back, mulling this over for a moment. “Have you ever smelled it on me?”

Geralt shrugged, returning to removing his armor, though he was now more methodical than he had been. Like he was trying to keep his hands busy. Curious.

“At times,” he answered. “When a beast gets too close to you, or when that drunk swiped a knife at you.” Jaskier shuddered at the memory, and just barely caught Geralt’s smile before it disappeared.

“Never with you, though, right?” Jaskier said this urgently, and Geralt turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised. Whatever he found on Jaskier’s face made him hum, and he turned to abandon the last piece of armor.

“Once. When you asked about the fae. But it was… faint. I don’t think it had anything to do with me.”

“It didn’t,” Jaskier answered immediately, then winced. It was important to Jaskier that Geralt knew Jaskier didn’t fear him, but he didn’t want Geralt to press on why Jaskier had been a touch afraid during that conversation. It wasn’t time, Jaskier didn’t have the words, and he just prayed to every god out there with a silent Please. Please let him not ask.

Geralt turned to Jaskier, an eyebrow raised, but he didn’t ask. Only looked at Jaskier. They both stayed there for a moment, watching each other, and as Jaskier stood from his seat on the bed, Geralt’s gaze turned guarded.

“So you’ve never smelled fear of you on me?” Jaskier clarified.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, and his head shake was slow. He didn’t understand where Jaskier was going with this. Jaskier wasn’t surprised.

“So it’s possible for humans to look at you, and never feel fear because of you. It’s possible for someone to look at you and only see how amazing you are.” He paused, and looked at Geralt. His features took on a wounded quality, but he didn’t turn away from Jaskier, nor say anything. Instead, amber eyes stayed locked on Jaskier’s, and though he looked skeptical, this felt like permission to continue. Jaskier took a few steps forward, until he was just before Geralt. Jaskier could lean forward and kiss him, if he wanted. He so desperately did, but he wasn’t sure yet if Geralt would.

“You are not a monster, Geralt of Rivia. And even if it takes a hundred songs, I will make sure that one day you will have forgotten about the time when you had to sniff out fear before taking someone to bed.”

Geralt glanced down at his lips. It was just the briefest of glances, but Jaskier saw it. He shuffled closer, and tentatively put his hands on Geralt’s chest. Geralt hesitated only a moment, before taking Jaskier’s hips, and the corner of his mouth quirked.

“Bold words,” Geralt said. He wanted to say so much more, Jaskier could tell, but the words evaded him. Jaskier smiled.

“I am not afraid of you. And I won’t be the last.” Jaskier said the words softly, seriously, like a promise.

It was a promise. Jaskier had already seen a shift in the witcher’s treatment. Surely if he kept going, wrote more songs, he’d be able to keep Geralt as safe as Geralt had unwittingly kept Jaskier. Geralt deserved better, deserved more, deserved anything and everything the world could offer him. If Jaskier could do anything to change Geralt’s life, Jaskier would do it without question.

“Can I kiss you?” Jaskier asked, breathless. He didn’t mean to ask it, but with Geralt so close, touching Jaskier, and allowing himself to be touched by Jaskier, how could the bard resist?

Geralt answered by closing the distance between them. The kiss started off slow, exploratory, as if Geralt was waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the stench of fear to overtake him. Jaskier could say, with certainty, that this didn’t happen. Jaskier allowed himself to be kissed at Geralt’s pace, as he slid his hands up to cup Geralt’s neck.

Soon, the kiss turned hungry.

Jaskier’s heart hammered in his chest as Geralt backed him up against the bed. Jaskier pulled away only to clamber onto the mattress, tugging Geralt with him until Geralt hovered over Jaskier. Geralt pushed Jaskier’s doublet and shirt out of the way, but made no move to remove them, and Jaskier untucked Geralt’s shirt as bruises were sucked and bit into his neck.

“Should’ve known you’d be bitey,” Jaskier teased, and he couldn’t remember the last time sex had made him this breathless this early. He thumbed at the fasteners on Geralt’s pants until they were undone, then pushed his trousers down. It wasn’t an elegant move, nor an elegant angle as Jaskier pressed his hand inside and against Geralt’s hardening cock, but Geralt replied with a groan that spoke of want .

“Does it bother you?” Geralt asked, trailing down to leave similar bite marks along Jaskier’s collarbone.

“Not in the slightest.”

Geralt’s laugh was breathy against Jaskier’s skin, and quickly descended into a bitten off moan as Jaskier finally, awkwardly, got a hand around Geralt’s cock. His touch was light, his only goal presently was to get the witcher hard for him, and to Jaskier’s delight, that didn’t take long. Geralt pressed his face against Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier could have sworn Geralt smelled him, and something about it had Geralt’s cock twitching in Jaskier’s hand.

“Take your pants off,” Geralt ordered.

Jaskier’s body complied, but his blood went ice cold. Geralt must have noticed this, because he pulled back and met Jaskier’s eyes. Tried to, anyway. Jaskier couldn’t look at him, just kept his eyes trained on his trousers and smallclothes, which he now kicked to the side, off the bed.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked, a hand on Jaskier’s jaw, forcing Jaskier to look at him. Amber, even now, with his pupils blown wide with desire.

Of course Geralt, with his enhanced senses, would notice. Jaskier flushed and offered him a half-hearted shrug and a shaky laugh. “I don’t like being bossed. That’s all. It’s fine. Are we going to do this, or not?” he answered, with all the bravado he could.

Geralt watched him for a moment, his eyes narrowed, but if he thought Jaskier would reveal more to him, he was incredibly wrong. Finally, he pressed forward to kiss Jaskier again, licking into his mouth. As he distracted Jaskier with the kiss, which quickly turned filthy , Geralt kicked his own clothes off and ground down against Jaskier’s hips in a move that had them both panting, open mouthed against each other.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier breathed.

He held Geralt’s hip, his fingers pressing into the flesh of his ass. Geralt pressed their bodies close, rutting up against Jaskier’s hip and pressing his own abdomen against Jaskier’s cock. It wasn’t quite enough pressure, but his brain didn’t seem to care, as the motion drew a chorus of moans and many renditions of Yes, please, Geralt from his mouth. As Geralt moved, Jaskier captured both of their cocks in his hand, pressing them together and the new pressure, the new friction, had them both biting off swears into each other’s mouths. They weren’t kissing so much anymore as panting, heavily, against the other’s lips.

“Jaskier,” Geralt moaned, turning and pressing his face into Jaskier’s neck again.

Jaskier lost himself as he came, though Geralt kept moving, and in a distant way Jaskier felt the oversensitive twinge of his cock as the witcher rutted against him. He came back to his body just as Geralt’s found his release, and Geralt caught his lips in a bruising kiss that had Jaskier tugging at Geralt’s hair brutally.

The fervor left slowly, and Geralt rolled off him and to the side as Jaskier followed, unwilling to sever this connection just yet. Geralt made a sound that Jaskier chose to interpret as a happy grunt, or at the very least a satisfied grunt, and Jaskier could understand. He was feeling pretty satisfied himself.

“You don’t like to be bossed?” Geralt asked, pulling away. He held his head up by his hand, his elbow pressed into the bed, and looked down at Jaskier curiously.

Jaskier had approximately zero interest in having this conversation as Geralt stared into his soul , so he pushed himself up to sitting. He shrugged off his doublet, tossing it to the side with far more nonchalance than he normally would have. The bed was warm and he had every interest in staying where it was warm, thank you. He left his shirt on, though. It was a ridiculous look, he was well aware, but there was something comforting in it. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be fully bared while he carefully talked around Geralt’s question.

“No, I don’t,” he answered, shrugging. “I don’t like people telling me what to do or ordering me about. Obviously I wanted to remove my pants, or I wouldn’t have done it--” Geralt’s breath in was audible, and Jaskier feared he heard the lie, so Jaskier barrelled on “--but I don’t like being told to.”

Geralt was quiet for long enough that Jaskier finally turned to look at him. He looked at Jaskier as if Jaskier was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. Jaskier couldn’t blame him. After a moment, though, he held a hand out to Jaskier, which Jaskier gladly took, and slotted himself against the witcher’s body.

“I will remember that,” Geralt promised, and Jaskier’s heart fluttered in his chest. “For… next time?”

Jaskier grinned and nodded. “For next time.”

read chapter 4

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