#Jaskier honey sorry for all the whump

[spielzeugkaiser]

When Jaskier said he was prepared for this, he didn’t lie. Geralt just... isn’t. And won’t ever be. Never was his exceptional hearing this much of a blessing and a curse. (Okay, we actually went in this direction, I can’t believe I really drew this. Also some love for @abluescarfonwaston who provided parts of the dialouge about Geralt being nothing more than a guard dog.)

#undercover at lettenhove au #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #non con tw #rape tw #violence tw #abuse tw #Jaskier honey sorry for all the whump #(this was a pre-existing tag I'M CRYING. my brand?) #I think as long as he keeps being julian he will keep it together #but for jaskier it's an entirely different case #and geralt #I realized later that hearing everything must be a horror in itself #knowing but not k n o w i n g what happens and his fantasy running wild? #uff #but it also meant jaskier had one last safety net #and wasn't alone #not completely

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

🥺 babe 🥺 bAbE

What if Jask gets sick at Kaer Morhen but tries to hide it from Geralt bc he doesn't want him to think he's gross/weak/etc? And Geralt has the Feelings Braincell for once?

oh babe... thank you

tw: sickness, falling unconscious, fever, whump/angst with a happy ending

---

Jaskier knew he had a fever the moment he woke up. He could feel it burning beneath this skin like a forge, flushing his face a more vibrant shade of pink than usual. He glared at his reflection in the small, round mirror above his dressing table and willed himself to feel better. It was his first winter at Kaer Morhen, and he didn’t want Geralt to think he’d made a mistake by inviting Jaskier along to stay. The bard knew that his stoic, self-loathing Witcher would blame himself immediately for any misfortune or illness that befell Jaskier. Geralt might even reconsider inviting him back again someday. So he had to keep his little bug a secret until he was well. Surely it was nothing major. Surely it would pass after a few days, unnoticed and unremarkable.

He should have known better.

Jaskier dabbed a bit more perfume than usual (which was generally none at all) beneath his ears and along his wrists. He hoped the peony-lavender mixture would mask whatever kind of scent his illness might carry and slowly, carefully made his way down the long stone staircase that led from the guest bedroom to the enormous kitchen. His limbs felt achy and tired, even though he’d slept heavily the night previous. His head sat heavy and unbalanced atop his shoulders; the world wavered and spun around him as he desperately tried to keep from pitching sideways into the wall. 

“You alright there, boy?” Vesemir asked, catching his eye from the bottom of the stairs. “You seem a bit… nervous.”

Maybe his anxiety was doing a better job of hiding his secret than the perfume. 

“Just a little wool between my ears this morning,” the bard laughed brightly, ignoring the searing pain that throbbed through his chest with the movement, “I think I might go chop some wood and see if the brisk mountain air helps clear it out faster.”

“Hmm,” the eldest Wolf nodded sagely. There was no doubt which teacher Geralt had admired most as a pup. “Alright. Be safe, take care. I’ll send someone to fetch you when breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you, Vesemir,” Jaskier bowed shallowly and headed for the kitchen’s back door. He took the axe into his hands and tried not to sway on his feet from the added weight. The bard covered his tracks by throwing a smile back over his shoulder and pushing the door open. “See you for breakfast!”

He stepped out of the keep and let the heavy slab of wood slam shut behind him. The early morning sky above Kaer Morhen was cloudless and the sun was bright, blinding him entirely. His situation only worsened when the sudden change in temperature, from the warm kitchen to the freezing mountainside, punched the air from his lungs in one thick cloud. He struggled to regain it as he wove his way through the snow drifts to the woodpile. Slowly, and with great effort, Jaskier lined up a thick log to be split.

The world felt watery and far away. His hand, which he knew to be attached to the end of his arm by some miracle, would not obey his command to pick up the axe again. His lungs felt heavy in his chest cavity and his legs suddenly ached with a fierce intensity. 

With a quiet cry of protest against his own body failing him, Jaskier collapsed into the snow.

---

Jaskier’s heartbeat was so slow and quiet, his limbs unmoving and his lips nearly blue from the cold; Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever been so scared before in his life. He turned to Vesemir and asked, barely keeping the frantic terror from clawing its way out of his throat: “How long was he out there?” 

“Half an hour at most,” the grey Wolf shrugged. “I don’t really remember, Geralt. I was busy taking care of the breakfast arrangements.”

“Fuck!”

“Calm down,” Eskel ordered. He frowned at Geralt from his place at Jaskier’s opposite side. He’d helped carry the bard from the courtyard to Geralt’s room and was just as worried about the human’s wellbeing. “Panicking won’t help him. Now, what’s the problem?”

“It’s hard to tell over all that stupid perfume,” Lambert snarled. “Stupid fucking bard fucking knew we would be able to smell it on him. He covered his gods-damned tracks.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, having grown suddenly calm. He let the back of his knuckles drag softly across the bard’s too-hot cheek until he could stick a stray lock of sweaty brown hair back behind his ear. “You idiot.”

The bard shifted against the blanket they’d laid him on, his brow wrinkling. His arms twitched slightly, as if he was trying to move them, and he whined plaintively: “G’ralt.”

“I’m here, Jask,” the Witcher replied quickly, forgetting they weren’t alone in the room. He took one of the bard’s freezing hands into his own and began rubbing the warmth back into his fingers. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you better. You’ll be alright.”

“Who are you trying to reassure?” Lambert huffed a short laugh. “You or the bard?”

“Leave off,” Eskel shot his younger brother a glare. The redhead rolled his eyes and moved to lean against the wall near the door. Eskel continued speaking to Lambert, but his eyes were back on Jaskier, who kept trying to get closer to Geralt even in his sleep. “Why don’t you go grab some clean clothes from his room while we get him warmed up and conscious again.”

“Fine,” Lambert spat. But he took off at a quick trot, regardless.

“Geralt, get his wet clothes off and get him wrapped up. Eskel, you come with me to the kitchen. I’ll need help carrying things and I’m sure the bard would prefer some privacy in this particular matter.”

Eskel nodded his agreement and followed Vesemir from the room, leaving Geralt alone with Jaskier. The White Wolf hurried to undress and swaddle the bard with a warm, heavy wool blanket and several furs, talking all the while in a low, worried voice. “Fuck, Jaskier. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this happened and that you- Why did you hide it? Why wouldn’t you- Are you afraid of me? Is that why you didn’t come to me for help?”

Jaskier’s lids fluttered open and Geralt watched with nervous anticipation as two of the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, blue as cornflowers and brighter than the spring sky, tried their best to focus on his face. “Geralt?”

“I’m here, Jaskier. What’s ailing you? Please, tell me how I can help you.”

“Hurts,” the bard managed to groan. “To breathe.”

“Fuck,” Geralt growled. “We need to get you warm. Lambert should be back with your clothes by now.”

Jaskier’s head lolled back against the pillow and he struggled to reach for his Witcher, “Hold me.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll warm up-” he gasped between words, as if every syllable pained him to expel “-faster if… you hold me.”

“Hmm,” Geralt’s brows furrowed in frustration. He knew Jaskier was right, that he’d feel better faster with skin-on-skin contact, but he also wanted to hold Jaskier for other, less emergency-based reasons. That was unacceptable. Losing Jaskier to death or sickness or other human reasons was intolerable but losing him, in all senses of the word, because of Geralt’s impossible feelings? That would be truly horrendous.

The warring factions of his heart were still clamoring over a decision when Eskel and Vesemir re-entered carrying two large trays. One was covered with foodstuffs and the other held an enormous clay teapot and mugs. A small pot of honey, gathered from Vesemir’s very own beehives, was the most obvious sign of affection Geralt had ever seen the older man display for a near-stranger. 

“I’m gonna… get… spoiled,” Jaskier gasped. The eldest Wolf shot Geralt a glare. 

“Why aren’t you in there with him? You know the best way to warm up a hypothermic person is skin contact, Geralt! I certainly taught you better than this.”

“I didn’t-” he stuttered. “I wasn’t-”

“He’s afraid,” Jaskier smiled sadly, cuddling himself deeper into the furs as he turned his gaze towards the fire. All three of the Witchers could smell his sadness, even more potent than the illness ravaging his delicate human body. Geralt winced when his brother and father glared at him in tandem, expressions nearly matching in fury. The bard was still looking away, watching the flames send dancing patterns of light against the stone walls. “Don’t worry… won’t ask… for any more.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. “May I hold you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s our cue to leave,” Vesemir smiled beneath his mustache. Jaskier was too tired to blush, and opted to bury his head in Geralt’s shoulder instead. “Come along, Eskel. Let’s see what Lambert has gotten up to.”

“What about Jaskier’s clothes?”

“He can borrow Geralt’s for now. I’m sure our White Wolf won’t mind sharing; he’s the possessive type, after all.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and grumbled out of habit more than disagreement. 

When Vesemir and Eskel had gone for good and the door was closed, Geralt pulled Jaskier out of the furs and removed his own shirt. He settled the bard against his chest and buried his nose in Jaskier’s dark hair, breathing in the scents of sweat and sickness and now, thank the gods, tangy-bright happiness. “Gods, Jaskier. Don’t scare me like that ever again. I can’t lose you.”

“I didn’t… want… to disappoint.”

“You never do and never will,” Geralt intoned. He pulled the furs over them both and splayed his large hands across Jaskier’s back. The bard’s skin was overly hot in some places and freezing in others; Geralt buried his panic in order to care for... for the man he loved. He took a deep breath and rubbed slow circles between the bard’s shoulder blades. “I… I love you, Jaskier.”

“Hmm,” the bard hummed tunelessly. “Love you… too.”

Geralt helped him sit up and drink a mug of tea. He listened, slowly allowing himself to relax, as Jaskier’s breathing eased and his heartbeat balanced. When the tea was gone and the fire was re-built to Geralt’s satisfaction, the Witcher tucked Jaskier’s head beneath his chin and wrapped his arms around the bard’s shoulders. “Oh, my little lark. I’ve been so foolish for too long.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier grinned into the Witcher’s warm pectoral. “Me... too.”

“Well, we’ll have plenty of time when you feel better,” Geralt murmured, lips pressing over and over to the top of the bard’s head. Jaskier couldn’t keep himself from smiling, even as he drifted back to sleep. The Witcher felt something settle in his chest when he whispered: “Rest up, dear heart. There are many more adventures to be had.”

#geraskier #sickfic #geraskier sickfic #geraskier fluff #getting together #bouncey's endless getting together fics #jaskier whump #winter at kaer morhen #wifey's prompts #comfy's prompts #anything for you boo #geraskier fluffiness #geraskier ficlet

[samstree]

For the reverse trope ask: the soft character comforting the tough character after a trauma

Piece Him Back Together

Part of the reverse trope series.

When Geralt gets kidnapped, it's up to Jaskier to rescue him. Some truths about a witcher's worst weakness come to light.

(geraskier, 2.1k, hurt/comfort, geralt whump, mutual pining, competent jaskier, love confession, mild blood)

read on AO3

"Shit, shit, shit..."

Jaskier lets out a string of curses all the while balancing the weight of two fully grown men with stumbling footwork. He desperately tries to keep Geralt up with a hand on the small of his back but fails to stop the injured witcher from drooping with each step, until, at last, both of them wind up in a heap of limbs by the road.

Geralt lets out a pained grunt and Jaskier scrambles with apologies.

“Fuck, sorry.” The bard shifts Geralt’s bulk with all he can muster and finally settles him on a patch of soft moss under the tree. The witcher hisses as his back hits the bark rather heavily. “Shit, I’m so sorr—”

“You already said,” Geralt interrupts him but there’s no anger in his tone.

“Still. I am.”

Jaskier retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket and begins to dab at the mess of blood at Geralt’s temple, wincing when he finally sees how bad the blow is. Blood oozes from the gash, slower than a moment before. The fabric is soaked through and the skin there is still tender.

It’s all witchers’ weakness.

The temple. A blow to the head.

It messes up all their senses and coordination, leaving them in the most vulnerable state. If Jaskier had reached him any later, this might have done Geralt in.

Jaskier lets out a distressed sound at the thought.

“Stop fussing. We need to go.” The witcher, against all odds, remains level-headed.

“No, it’s all right. I knocked out all the guards and servants, along with the duke and his mage.” Jaskier tilts Geralt’s head for a better angle to press the handkerchief down on the wound. “I may have given the two of them a little more than the recommended dose. The lady at the apothecary warned me about the risk of choking with much sleeping potion, urgh, like I give an ounce of fuck if they die a gruesome death or not. It’d be a favor to the town.”

The venom surprises even Jaskier himself, and Geralt lets out a meaningful hum.

“Rest assured, my dear. No one will be looking for us today.”

Up close, Jaskier can feel Geralt scrutinize him intently as if to burn a hole into his face. He meets the amber gaze, the dark pupils still a little blown wide from the shock, but there’s also something akin to relief flowing in those beautiful eyes.

He revels in the silence, observing Geralt in return for further signs of hurt, but finds none.

The witcher relents first, the tiniest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So you drugged an entire castle?”

“Didn’t think I had it in me, huh?” Jaskier teases. “The White Wolf, saved by a humble bard and forever impressed by his wit.”

“Hmm.”

“Well, don’t beat yourself up, oh mighty witcher. I’m sure you only needed the rescue because those villains took advantage of your only weakness.” The bard adds his usual dramatic flair into the last two words.

Geralt blinks. Something shifts in his expression, his breathing picking up and his eyes darting everywhere. If the bard didn’t know better, he’d say the witcher is flustered, which makes it all the more confusing.

“Mocking me, are you?” Geralt drops his gaze and tries to shy away, but the bard holds him in place with the other hand. Under Jaskier’s palm, the frame of the witcher’s ear is heating up.

“How am I mocking you? Geralt, even you must admit witchers aren’t all-powerful beings.” Jaskier frowns. “They messed up your head. I know all your senses get muddled when you’re like this. Seriously, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“What are you talking about?” the witcher snaps his gaze back to Jaskier, a puzzled crease deep between his brows, which only makes the bard scoff with amusement.

“The head wound, of course. How did they get you? An ambush and a blow to the head, I’m assuming.” Jaskier explains. “How else did you get yourself into a dungeon and dimeritium cuffs? What, are you telling me you walk into their trap voluntarily?”

He rolls his eyes at the offhanded joke but the silence from the witcher leaves the mood heavier. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a denial of what he just said. Geralt is staring at him with an inexplicable look on his face, and these looks are hard to come by these days. Jaskier prides himself in being the best on the continent at reading his witcher, and he has no inclination to break the streak.

“What happened then? Talk to me, Geralt.”

Jaskier removes the handkerchief a little. The gash has stopped bleeding, so he ties it around Geralt’s head carefully to keep the wound shielded, at least until they can wash it properly. His hands stay with Geralt afterwards, waiting for him to open up.

“I—” Geralt purses his lips before continuing, golden eyes meeting the bard in earnest. “They didn’t ambush me, Jask. I walked into that castle unarmed by choice.”

“What?” Jaskier’s jaw drops.

“It’s because—” the witcher scowls. “Because I thought…that they had you.”

It’s like a lightning strike, where their skin connects tingling all the way from the tips of Jaskier’s fingers to a warm pool of fuzziness in his stomach. The air is suddenly too hot so Jaskier decides to put more space between them.

“Oh.”

Geralt chases him ever so slightly before settling back with resignation, his eyes still bare and vulnerable, as if he just revealed the darkest secret when it is only the sweetest thing in a horrible, horrible way.

“A whisper of you being held hostage and suddenly I couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember to check the truth. Couldn’t waste another second.” Geralt hovers a hand near the bard’s face before retreating to his side. “You were right that they got me because of my one weakness, Jaskier. Just not the one you assumed.”

The pounding in Jaskier’s chest is jumping out of his throat. He’s sure he will die within the next minute if he doesn’t speak to ease this ache in his heart.

“Oh.”

He ends up saying dumbly.

“It was too late when I noticed the absence of you. Your voice, your heartbeat, your scent. Nothing. You weren’t in that castle or the cells. All I could hear was silence and all I could smell was blood.” Geralt draws a shuddering breath. “I hoped, when they kept me in the dark, that they were lying about ever having you. That you were nowhere near that damn place instead of—”

The witcher swallows, unable to finish the sentence.

“Instead of,” Jaskier adds for him, “they’d already killed me.”

The tension hangs between them. The bard sits back on the heels of his feet and finds himself at a loss for words for the very first time in his life.

Geralt might be the only person who can force Jaskier through so many firsts in his life. His first time writing a hit song, first time smashing into someone’s face with a lute, first time saving a witcher’s life, and perhaps, first time murdering two evil overlords obsessed with collecting witchers for experiments.

Hmm, it’s not like Jaskier regrets any of these.

Geralt reaches out again, tentative and patient like he’s approaching a spooked horse. This time, Jaskier takes pity and meets him halfway, his thumb rubbing small circles at the sword callouses that he adores so much.

“Say something,” Geralt pleads.

Jaskier swallows a lump in his throat and sniffles to ease the congestion in his nose, his vision blurring in desperation.

“It’s the most words you’ve said in one sitting, Geralt. You’ll have to allow me a moment to figure out what you are saying and, most importantly, not saying.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “It’s you, you know? There’s always something you are holding back and that is often the crux of it. I thought I got good at reading between the lines, but this is…overwhelming.”

With the enhanced healing kicking in, Geralt is looking much better by the minute. The blood dries and crusts over and his eyes almost shining in the daylight, or is it just the emotions within them? Jaskier can’t tell.

“Maybe I can help you. With the hidden words.” Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s fingers reassuringly. He tilts his head in the most endearing way. It happens to be that particular head tilt that Jaskier treasures with his life, the one that manages to always take his breath away.

“I love you, Jask.”

The warm pool of fuzziness in Jaskier’s stomach turns into a bottomless pit, and he’s falling.

And soaring.

“I love you.” Geralt smiles sadly. “In the dark of that cell, it became…ever so clear and so loud that I couldn’t deny it anymore. I love you, in spite of myself. Gods, I’ve loved you for so long.”

Geralt picks up Jaskier’s hand and places the barest touch of a kiss there, his lips chapped but oh so gentle. Jaskier lets out a soft gasp and the tears roll down uncontrollably. The next thing he knows, he’s buried deep in Geralt’s embrace. The sobs choke in his lungs like a dam has been broken.

“I—” Jaskier is amazed to find that their roles have reversed. The witcher has expressed everything but the bard becomes mute. So he takes up Geralt’s role gladly and replies with actions.

Jaskier’s lips are pressed everywhere he can reach: the soft, warm skin of Geralt’s neck, the sharp of his jaw, his cheek, the tip of his nose. He disregards the grime and dirt and kisses Geralt’s uninjured temple, the single most fragile part of a witcher’s body—barring their heart, so it seems. He tucks away a strand of white hair and kisses Geralt’s temple one more time, tasting the salty tang of tears.

When he pulls back, Geralt’s smile is blinding.

He hears Jaskier, even though—

“I still don’t know what to say,” Jaskier croaks, sniffling hard.

The bard rests his hands at the nape of Geralt’s neck and loses himself in the sunlit golden honey, his favorite color in the world and the most beautiful dream that’s ever come true.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Geralt wipes away the wetness on Jaskier’s face with the pad of his thumb. “Master Jaskier, poet, minstrel, professor… Stumped for words and forever impressed by a witcher’s love confession.”

He mimics Jaskier’s phrasing and the bard can’t help but chuckle despite the tears and snout, his hand swatting at Geralt’s shoulder. Jaskier knows he must look so absurd, laughing and crying all at once, but it’s the last thing in the world that matters.

Geralt loves him, and—

“You got hurt because of me.”

The remorse licks up, along with the urge to protect and to care. The sight of Geralt limp and bloody, bound by the wrists in a dark cell is something Jaskier never wants to relive again.

“I don’t care, Jask.”

“I care.”

“Then make it better.”

So he does. Geralt never wavers as Jaskier captures his lips and pours everything he cannot voice into the kiss, drawing a contented moan out of the witcher.

“Does it still hurt?” the bard whispers between one breath and the next.

“A little.”

Jaskier resumes his work and cards deft fingers through silver hair, careful not to nudge the handkerchief. His nails ghost over Geralt’s scalp and scratches gently until a purring sound rumbles deep in the witcher’s chest. The bard giggles proudly.

“Now?”

“Keep going.”

Geralt traps Jaskier between his strong arms devours him with passion, the heat of his body solid and calming.

Jaskier has never thought of himself as a protector, except at this moment with his witcher arching into his every touch and producing those heavenly sounds. The world is too bent on hurting Geralt, too eager to take and take and take from him.

A bard is not a fighter. Jaskier cannot stop monsters from tearing through armors or crossbows fired with ill intent.

But a bard is a lover. What Jaskier can do is heal, is piece Geralt back together with gentle words in the dark and soft lips on the thin skin at his temple.

“How about now?”

They are panting in tandem, the gold of Geralt’s eyes dreamy and out of this world.

“Still dizzy.”

“That’s from all the kissing, you oaf.”

But Geralt begs wordlessly with those wide, puppy-like eyes so openly, and Jaskier’s already non-existent resolve breaks into a million pieces. He kisses Geralt until the witcher melts into a puddle of purring mess, sun-warmed and pliant.

And he kisses Geralt more.

Again and again.

---

Thanks for the prompt. I kind of just rolled with the concept. The twist looks a bit obvious from the beginning, but feel free to tell me what you think. <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @dapandapod @artisanbaguette @birdsflyhome

Please tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #reverse trope #trope subversion #soft geraskier #geralt x jaskier #cw: blood #soft jaskier #hurt geralt #geralt whump #mutual pining #love confession #first kiss #italicized oh #hurt/comfort

[strawberry-skies-xx]

you wingless thing

C H A P T E R   T H R E E

tags: rape/non-con, dead dove: do not eat, geralt / jaskier, original female character, original male character, angst with a happy ending, angst, angst and feels, rape, past rape/non-con, implied/referenced rape/non-con, implied/referenced abuse, emotional hurt/comfort, psychological abuse, emotional abuse, emotionally repressed, fae jaskier, fae magic, hurt jaskier, torture, revenge, past torture, hurt/comfort, past abuse, jaskier whump, feral jaskier, creature jaskier, inhuman jaskier, eventual happy ending, love confessions, idiots in love, wing kink, homoerotic wing grooming

author’s note: all fluff and them getting to know each other

scheduled mondays, wednesdays, and fridays.

main masterlist | story on ao3 | next chapter >>

Halfway to the next town, Geralt feels magic drift around him - trapped, dormant, smelling like the air before a thunderstorm.

And followed by the magic, the fae falls in step beside Roach, still dressed in his sapphire doublet that’s smudged with dirt and torn in several places, and dark hair tousled and messy. His wings are folded behind him, the sunlight reflecting off of both the white feathers, no longer streaked with dirt, and the dimeritium collar still around his neck.

Geralt tries not to show his surprise, and denies his relief, but he raises an eyebrow at the fae’s sudden appearance and finds himself speaking anyway.

“Didn’t expect to see you again,” he says. The fae turns around, walking backwards and shrugging before spinning back to face forwards.

“It’s not like I have anywhere else to go,” he says, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “Can’t get this damned collar off, can’t put a glamour on to appear human - even though I may as well be human without my magic.”

Geralt frowns. “Fae don’t need their magic to be dangerous.”

The fae’s irritation turns his scent slightly sour, and Geralt makes sure to watch himself in the future so he doesn’t get on this fae’s bad side. Even without magic, he’d rather not have to face off against him when it can be avoided.

“Like fuck I don’t. My magic is everything that I am, Witcher, and without it I’m practically human, which isn’t a particularly amazing thing to be. They certainly don’t have a good reputation among… any species, really.”

The fae glances back at Geralt. “Especially you, Witcher. Humans aren’t necessarily kind to you.”

Geralt inclines his head - the fae was right on that count. “Or you, little lark,” he replies.

Roach sidesteps abruptly, head held high, and Geralt is forced to pull her to a stop quickly, as the fae whips around faster than even Geralt’s eyes can track. His scent floods with anger, dormant magic sensing and reacting by crackling around Geralt, lashing against his skin and charging the air with a smell like before a thunderstorm.

“Don’t call me that,” the fae hisses, blue eyes blazing and magic whipping around them like a storm.

Geralt leans back, making himself as non-threatening as possible, and stays silent. The fae holds his eyes for a long, silent moment - Geralt’s hands start to twitch to his swords, thinking that he’s gone too far this time.

Finally, his magic calms down, resting trapped and mostly dormant around them again, and the fae turns around and starts walking. Geralt kicks Roach back into a walk and follows him, still tense and wary.

“It’s Jaskier,” the fae says, irritation still present in his scent. Geralt hums, the tension gradually bleeding from his posture as they continue walking and the fae - Jaskier - makes no other move against him.

Jaskier’s hand drifts up to his neck, pale fingers pulling at the dimeritium collar and the irritation never leaving his scent.

Erynd hadn’t had the keys to the collar when they were at the tower, and neither did the guards. Geralt knows Jaskier didn’t have time to find the keys, but he wishes he did. Dimeritium is difficult to create keys for, especially for thin locks like the one on the collar Jaskier is wearing, and Geralt is not going back to the lord’s mansion to find the keys for him. The fae couldn’t persuade him even with coin to do that.

But, Geralt has already been drawn enough to the fae that he starts speaking without knowing exactly what he wants to say, or if it’s even true. The words tumble out in a way they haven’t since he was a boy at Kaer Morhen and didn’t think before he spoke.

He finds he tends not to think in general around Jaskier.

“We can find a way to get the collar off in the next town,” he says. Jaskier turns around in surprise, tilting his head, hand slowly dropping from where he was pulling at the collar.

“You’re going to help me?” he asks.

Fuck. Geralt sighs. He would say no, but even he’s not that rude, and he’d rather not offend the fae by being impolite - one of the things fae value most is manners.

“Yes,” he grits out instead.

And, maybe, though Geralt will deny this to his last breath, he doesn’t regret it so much when he sees the bright, genuinely happy smile lighting Jaskier’s face, and the scent of dandelions threading through the sweetness of the lemongrass.

Jaskier follows Geralt for the rest of the day, until night starts to fall and Geralt makes camp in the forest. Jaskier doesn’t do much while he makes camp - it’s a routine Geralt is accustomed to doing more efficiently by himself, like everything he does, and he frowns when Geralt offers him his bedroll.

“Don’t you need a place to sleep?”

Geralt shrugs. “I can do without,” he says, and then finds himself continuing yet again, offering his services to the fae without expecting anything in return, “I can go into town and get you supplies tomorrow.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face again - and there it is, the smell of dandelions among Jaskier’s natural lemongrass scent. Geralt silently curses himself again - what is it about the fae that makes him so willing to help him?

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, then glances at Geralt’s bedroll. He tilts his head, eyes lighting with a new idea as he considers. “Maybe… we could share? It’s sure to be cold for you, and if you’re closer then…” He shifts his wings, unfolding them slightly from behind his back. “These are practically giant feathered blankets.”

Geralt frowns. He really doesn’t want to share a bedroll; they would be far too close to each other for comfort, and he doesn’t trust a fae to sleep so close to him - trapped magic or not.

“Fine,” he growls instead - and mentally curses himself for the third time that day as Jaskier grins and joins Geralt in laying down on the bedroll by the dying fire.

In the morning, Geralt wakes up first. Jaskier is curled against his side, laying mostly on his stomach, dark hair tousled and eyes closed. His white wings are hot, feathered weights spread over the both of them, and Geralt tries hard not to think about Jaskier’s lithe body pressed up against his and how peaceful the fae looks in sleep, the golden light of the rising sun pooling in the dips and curves of his pale skin.

Geralt lets out a breath and studies the fae’s wings. He brings his hand up slowly and traces his fingers lightly along the feathers, feeling their softness and the way they fold against each other, making a flat, smooth surface. Jaskier shivers slightly when he skims his finger along the top edge of the wing, and Geralt pulls away just as the fae shifts and groans softly before settling.

Jaskier frowns, eyes still closed. “Erynd…” he mumbles sleepily. “Don’t like that… stop…”

Geralt’s eyes widen at the implication of those words. He didn’t think Erynd was the kind to do… that sort of thing, to his creatures, but there’s only one reason Jaskier would say the lord’s name as if it was commonplace to wake up next to him in the morning, and it’s not because the lord let Jaskier take naps in his bed.

Jaskier opens his eyes slowly, wings shifting and fluttering up. Geralt watches the exact moment a small furrow appears between his brows when he’s met with Geralt’s black shirt rather than… whatever Erynd wears - or doesn’t wear - to bed.

Jaskier pushes himself up, wings lifting off of Geralt and folding behind him, blue eyes meeting Geralt’s as he leans on his elbow. He sighs.

“You heard me.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and Geralt hums, meeting the fae’s gaze with no judgment whatsoever. Jaskier closes his eyes, head bowing. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

Geralt frowns. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Jaskier shakes his head and starts to stand. “You don’t want me burdening you, especially with my issues. You already rescued me once.”

Actually, Geralt doesn’t mind Jaskier burdening him. Usually, he wouldn’t care any more than making sure they were okay and he himself wasn’t causing the panic, but with Jaskier it’s different. He doesn’t just want to make sure he’s okay, he wants to talk him through his trauma and issues and be there, and he doesn’t only want to make sure he wasn’t causing it, but he wants to protect Jaskier from anything that would harm him - and fiercely, too. Even the thought of someone hurting Jaskier makes his fingers twitch for his sword and an almost dangerously calm wave of anger wash over him.

“I don’t mind,” Geralt says, earning a surprised eyebrow raise from Jaskier.

“You don’t?”

Geralt glances down. “No,” he says, much quieter this time. It’s not his strong suit to admit his emotions, especially to a fae who can use them against him in the most damaging of ways.

Jaskier smiles again, but this time it’s softer and his happiness is subtle and sweet in his scent. He doesn’t say anything, though, just turns around and sits cross-legged on the ground, extending one wing and starting to brush his fingers through the feathers while Geralt breaks camp.

Several minutes later, Geralt is standing by Roach, tying his pack to her saddle, when he looks over and his eyes land on the fae, enhanced golden eyes taking in every detail.

Gold light highlights his dark hair, pools like honey on his light skin, shimmers across his wings and turns them pale gold. The fae’s long, skilled fingers work methodically through the feathers in rhythmic motions, and Geralt doesn’t miss the soft, contented hum that leaves Jaskier’s mouth when he strokes in a particular way. The soft pink of his tongue sticks slightly out from between his teeth in concentration, and Geralt finds himself just as concentrated as he is on the movement of his fingers and the way the sunlight dances across his body.

Jaskier looks up suddenly, blue eyes wide and trusting - Geralt’s gaze snaps suddenly away from his hands, and he feels like he doesn’t deserve the trust this fae has so easily put in him, but he will do his best not to break this fragile thing he’s been given.

“Need something?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt blinks and looks away, focusing on Roach’s mane. “No,” he says roughly, shoving down the image seared in his mind of Jaskier sitting in the forest, haloed by the golden sunlight and wings glowing in the morning light.

He isn’t successful.

Geralt finishes tying the pack to Roach and turns to Jaskier, who hasn’t moved, but has continued to the other wing. He forces himself not to stare again - he can’t get attached to the fae, no matter how easy it would be or how much he wants to. It’ll only end in both of them being hurt, and Geralt doesn’t want to hurt Jaskier. “Stay here.”

Jaskier smiles and nods. “Sure.” He glances at his extended wing, one hand still buried in his feathers, and gives a small, wry laugh. “Can’t exactly walk through town with these.”

Geralt allows himself one last scan of the fae’s body, telling himself that he will be fine here and nothing will come after him, before he nods and mounts Roach to head towards the town.

Once in town, Geralt visits the apothecary to refill his potions, before he goes to the market and visits the various stalls there. He ends up buying a dagger for Jaskier, as well as his own saddlebag and some clothes before his coin runs out. He doesn’t know what Jaskier likes to wear, but based on the sapphire doublet he’s been wearing, Geralt takes an educated guess and hopes that the fae likes it.

He travels back to camp around noon, with everything he bought stored in the new saddlebag and a strawberry pastry wrapped in paper in his other hand. He didn’t have a lot of money, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he bought the pastry for Jaskier, but he saw it and something in him wanted to give the fae something frivolous. Something that isn’t necessary for them to survive.

He’s almost to their camp when he hears singing, high and lilting, coming from in front of him. He pulls Roach to a stop, listening to the familiar accent, and sensing the way Jaskier’s magic, even dormant, weaves around Geralt and the plants around him, making everything brighter and the sun feel warmer on his skin.

The song is about love - about the small, intimate parts of a relationship and the idea of being with someone forever - and Geralt feels the emotions in the song rise up in him as the magic affects him. It shouldn’t affect him - no magic does, but he finds himself being affected anyway, and he’s really not complaining. Jaskier is fae, after all; it makes sense his magic is more powerful than even Geralt’s mutations. The sensations of being loved ghost over his skin, and the images flash through his mind as Jaskier sings and Geralt’s eyes slip closed.

What feels like seconds later, Jaskier’s voice trails off of the last note and Geralt is abruptly broken out of his reverie, all sensations and emotions and images vanishing as quickly as they’d come and leaving him strangely empty. He opens his eyes to see the fae leaning against a tree ahead of him, watching him with curiosity in his blue gaze.

“Geralt?” he asks, voice soft and questioning.

Geralt grunts and kicks Roach forward, not replying, but letting Jaskier follow him back into camp and wait as he ties Roach and dismounts. He turns to the fae, whose eyes flick over what Geralt has in his hands, and suddenly feels his confidence leave him. He isn’t even sure whether Jaskier will like them - his coin, though more plentiful than usual, only went so far. It definitely wasn’t a lord’s budget, that was for certain.

He offers the saddlebag first before he can talk himself out of it, raising his hand abruptly up to Jaskier. “I got you a bag, clothes and a weapon,” he says shortly. He never was good at affection, and he never presented gifts to anyone before either - except for Eskel and Lambert, and that was usually an occasion where they took the gifts from each other rather than presented them.

Jaskier smiles and takes the saddlebag, opening it and pulling out the bundle of clothes. He gives a small gasp when he sees the bright, emerald green doublet and trousers, unfolding them and holding them up to himself, a bright grin lighting up his face.

“Geralt,” he breathes, and the Witcher feels he would much rather be somewhere else right now instead of listening to how much Jaskier dislikes what he picked.

Except, the fae turns his blue eyes up to Geralt’s and he looks happy, both in his scent and his wide smile. “It’s beautiful,” he says quietly, before draping the emerald outfit over the back of Roach and unfolding the second one, finding the small dagger and sheath within it.

He picks up the dagger almost reverently, mouth open slightly in awe, and slides it out of its sheath, letting out another soft gasp as he examines the leather wrapping the hilt, the silver glinting in the light, and the yellow gemstone embedded at the bottom. Jaskier twirls the blade in his hands, watching how the sunlight catches the sharp edges, and Geralt’s breath catches slightly at the expertise with which he handles it, pale fingers dancing nimbly around the hilt as it’s twirled and curling easily over the leather once he finishes. He didn’t know Jaskier knew how to use a dagger, but he supposes that a fae would have to learn how to use weapons - it still surprises him, though.

Jaskier slides the dagger back into its sheath carefully and sets it gently on the ground near Roach, then looks at the last item - the black outfit.

It was expensive, taking up most of what Geralt spent that day, but when Jaskier holds it up to himself, it all proves worth it. The fabric shimmers in the light, blending from deep red to emerald green to a dark violet along with other shades, and the silver accents sparkle as they reflect the light. Geralt almost has too vivid of an image of how the outfit will hug Jaskier’s lithe body when he actually wears it, and how the fabric will contrast his pale skin, dark hair and blue eyes, and he has to glance away before it goes any further. He knows it will never happen - there is no possibility that a beautiful, powerful creature like the fae would be interested in a Witcher like him.

Despite Geralt’s internal scolding that Jaskier would never like him, the fae glances up at Geralt with a wide, bright smile lighting up his face. “Thank you,” he says softly. Geralt allows his lips to quirk slightly up in an answering smile, and waits as Jaskier carefully folds up the outfits and puts them back into the saddlebag, tying the bag to Roach, before sliding the dagger into his boot.

Geralt shifts, glancing down, all too aware of the thin band of dimeritium still encircling Jaskier’s neck. “I didn’t figure out how to get the collar off,” he says, almost ashamed.

Jaskier shakes his head, smiling still, and walks forward. “You did enough for today. We can get the collar off later,” he says, hand landing on Geralt’s shoulder in a reassuring pat.

Geralt nods and holds his hand up palm first, offering the last of his gifts - the strawberry pastry. “I… also got this,” he says slowly, simply. He doesn’t know what else to say, not when the slight brush of Jaskier’s fingers against his as he picks up the pastry feels like electricity shocking through Geralt. It makes something deep inside him ache, and all he wants is for Jaskier to keep touching him and showing him that affection that comes so easily to him.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says with a smile. He bites into the dough of the pastry and light pink strawberry cream comes bursting out. Geralt’s focus narrows on the pink of the fae’s tongue as it darts out to clean up the cream, and then, a couple bites later, the cream where it sticks to the corner of his lip. He desperately wants to wipe the cream away with his thumb, but he forces his gaze to flick away instead, and turns to Roach, pretending that his skilled, perfect knots need to be tied again, and definitely not focusing on the small moan Jaskier lets out behind him as he finishes the pastry.

He waits for Jaskier to finish before they start traveling again, and he studiously doesn’t look at the fae the entire time they’re walking.

next chapter >>

#the witcher netflix #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier

[spielzeugkaiser]

my mind kept nudging me in the direction to introduce a version of Ramsay to this au, so... we are doing this. Let’s see how long Geralt can keep his mouth shut and his hands still.

#undercover at lettenhove au #Jaskier honey sorry for all the whump #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #violence tw #murder tw #non con tw #(possibility implied) #please don't hestitate to tell me to include trigger warnings if there's something missing #also despite all the soft stuff we see him do I am pretty sure jaskier is canonically down for murder #undercover-at-Lettenhove-au #exhibit A: wanting to use the djinn to kill valdo marx #exhibit B: the vibes I got in wild hunt when he asked Ciri what whoreson jr had done with her LIKE HE WAS READY

[spielzeugkaiser]

top 5(ish) of 2020✨

rules: it’s time to love yourselves! choose your 5 (ish) favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

I got tagged be @julek to do this! (and someone else I think, but it’s lost in the notes :( This looked like a lot of fun, thanks for the tag! *sends some love in your direction*

I’m not gonna link them here (I’m too lazy) but a short overview?

I did this, but you know what? I realized that is a list of things I’m content with (like how they turned out.) But not my favorites, to be honest!! My favorite pieces, the ones I most enjoyed, are these:

I’m gonna tag  @abluescarfonwaston​, @damatris​ and @dhwty-writes​ (if you want to, and feel like doing this! Also some love for you too!)

#I like pretty things but I LOVE SILLY TIME #also this is baby!ciri erasure #necromancer!jaskier is something that's gonna return someday too #I feel it in my bones #I should maybe include that I'm also here to emotionally scar you but I think most of you also realized that #SILLY + FLUFF + H/C + ANGST LIKE WOAH #that's it now we have it #also #I'm gonna say it again #jaskier honey sorry for all the whump

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

shelter me from winter’s bite

Everyone’s doing a hypothermia fic so I figured I may as well contribute. It’s one of my favorite tropes.

title taken from Brian Czyzyk’s poem “Hoarfrost” (he’s my favorite young queer poet and you should check him out).

tw: hypothermia, angst with a happy ending, whump with a happy ending

---

“Do you always have to be so damnably loud?” Geralt growls, glaring at Jaskier from across the small room. 

“My apologies for existing,” the bard snaps back. He’d only been rearranging his pack, looking for something reasonably clean to sleep in while his clothes were laundered by the innkeeper’s lovely wife. “I’ll try to do so more quietly from now on, good sir.”

Geralt huffs out a breath in passive-aggressive annoyance and Jaskier bristles. 

“Oh well, then. C’mon witcher, I know you want to say it!”

“Say what?” Geralt asks. His voice is low and threatening. He’s ready to play the game and by god he’s going to win this time.  

“It’s practically your motto at this point,” the bard hisses through his teeth, angry and bitter and tired. Geralt sees victory. Sees some peace and quiet on the horizon. “Say it!”

Geralt does as he’s told, like any good witcher would: “Fuck off, bard.”

“There it is!” Jaskier laughs joylessly, throwing up his hands. He pulls on his doublet and boots and heads for the door. “If you want me gone so badly, Geralt, then I will go. I’ll get out of your lovely white hair and leave you to mope in peace.”

“Fucking finally,” the witcher snarls, turning away. He doesn’t see the genuine hurt in Jaskier’s blue eyes as the bard quietly closes the door rather than slamming it. He doesn’t hear the quiet sob that rips its way out of Jaskier’s throat as he stands very still, shocked and suddenly exhausted all the way to his bones. He doesn’t smell the salt of his bard’s tears as he slips silently down the hallway and out into the late autumn night. He doesn’t notice the snow starting to pile up on the windowsill ahead of season.

He’s too busy being a self-flagellating moron to notice any of that.

---

Geralt is woken in the middle of the night by a commotion downstairs. He can hear several loud, panicked heartbeats and one very quiet, very slow heartbeat beneath all of those; it’s achingly familiar but the half-asleep witcher can’t quite call its source to mind. Geralt listens as the innkeeper barks out a series of sharp orders: “Meredith, you get to the kitchen and make some strong black tea! Florence, fetch a pail of warm water and two or three towels from the laundry. Josiah you lazy lout, get into the attic and fetch some blankets! The poor lad has gone blue all over!”

The witcher peers into the hallway and catches the skinny stable hand, Josiah, racing for the attic staircase. “What’s going on?”

“A farmer from the next town over was on his way over to help a friend’s sow give calf and he found-” the lad pauses to suck in a great gulp of air and launches off again “-and he found that friend of yours lying in a snowbank, muttering nonsense and shivering like a leaf. The poor fool didn’t have a cloak on him or anything, just a doublet and walking boots! He’s near-dead!”

Geralt curses and makes for the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reaches the main floor. There are voices coming from the kitchen and he follows them as if in a dream, his feet moving without aid of his conscious mind. “Jaskier? Is it the bard, Jaskier?”

“Are you the great brute what kicked him out?” the innkeeper’s wife asks, crossing her arms over her ample chest and narrowing her eyes. Geralt falters. 

“No, he- he left on his own, in a huff.”

“Wonder who could have started the huff,” the woman rolls her eyes. This isn’t about his status as a witcher, Geralt knows; this eye roll was made by a woman who knows a lovers’ quarrel when she sees one. Except that this stupid little spat might have cost Jaskier his life.

“Where is he? May I see him, goodwife?”

The woman points to a table in the corner, which has been cleared of cooking implements and cushioned with a heavy bearskin. Jaskier lies atop the brown fur, his skin frighteningly pale, his lips and fingers tinted a slight blue. Geralt rushes to his side and takes one of the bard’s stiff hands in his own. He brushes a stray lock of brown hair from Jaskier’s forehead and nearly recoils in shock from the temperature of his skin. Even colder than his hands, which are already dangerously frigid. If Jaskier cannot play his lute-

Geralt doesn’t even allow himself to finish the thought. Instead he works on rubbing small, careful circles onto the back of the bard’s hands with his thumbs, warming the skin in tiny increments: “Shh, you’re safe. I won’t let you go.”

The bard remains unmoving, heartbeat fluttering weakly, lungs barely drawing breath; Geralt fights back an overwhelming sense of panic, trying to recall whatever training he’d received at Kaer Morhen concerning freezing humans. 

“Do you mind if I take him upstairs and tend to him myself?” the witcher asks.

“Can you take care of him?” the innkeeper’s wife replies. 

Geralt bows his head, shame licking like flames up and down his bent spine, and nods. “Yes, Ma’am. I have dry clothes for him in our room and I was trained extensively for emergency situations such as this, all witchers are.”

“Alright,” she narrows her eyes. “But he’d best be alive come morning.”

“I’ll happily turn myself over to the village elders to be dealt with accordingly should the bard come to any harm,” he vows. Her eyes widen minutely and he can read the surprise in her body language, but she remains relatively calm. 

“Any further harm, rather. Alright, then. I’ll have my husband and the girls bring those supplies up to your room for him. We’ll be glad to go back to sleep.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Geralt bows formally. She blushes despite her irritation with him and waves him away. 

“Take your bard and go, witcher, before I change my mind and spend all night caring for him myself out of motherly pity. Go.”

Geralt hefts Jaskier into his arms, heavy bearskin blanket and all, and hurries up the stairs to his room. He will not let Jaskier come to any further harm. Not by his hand. Not by his word. Never again. 

---

Back in their room, Geralt quickly undresses the shivering human, peeling away what few damp layers there are with growing disappointment. Jaskier hadn’t been prepared for a walk in the snow at all! Although, to be fair, it hadn’t seemed that cold earlier in the evening and the snow had been sudden and heavy. 

He wipes Jaskier down with a warm cloth and slips one of his own clean shirts over the bard’s head. He tries not to let his gaze linger on the way Jaskier’s shoulders don’t quite fill out the dark material. Or on the way his dark, wiry chest hair peeks out through the open laces at his throat. The witcher quickly shuffles him into clean smallclothes and wraps him in a thick wool blanket. 

They sit curled before the fire and Geralt holds Jaskier against his chest. He hums with his voice like gravel, grating out one note after the other in some attempt to soothe the bard’s aching body. Jaskier shivers and shakes violently in the witcher’s strong embrace, his eyes clenched shut with the cramps that wrack his frame as his muscles return to their normal temperature. Geralt feels like he’s holding a porcelain doll and keeps his grip deliberately loose, tight enough to comfort but not restrain.

“G-Geralt,” he groans. “Hold me, please.”

The witcher squeezes his arms more confidently around the bard’s middle, burying his face in Jaskier’s soft hair and breathing deeply. The warmth that usually emanates from his busy human body is gone and his chamomile-honey scent is buried beneath a layer of damp cold; it feels wrong. Terribly wrong. Geralt murmurs against his temple, begging the younger man’s forgiveness: “I’m so sorry, Jaskier. Gods, I’m so sorry. Will you ever be able to forgive me? I’m a fool, you know. I’m a fool witcher who never says anything important until it’s too late. I’m so incredibly sorry, my love.”

“This is a very good dream,” the bard sighs, smiling despite the pain. His eyes open, bleary and addled. “Like I was having in the woods, but better.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow and Jaskier seems to understand the unspoken question, even in his current sorry state.

“The real Geralt would never be so gentle with me, dear heart. You must be a dream, sent to me on my deathbed to ease my passage into the afterlife. There’s no other explanation for your sudden displays of tenderness.”

“It’s... It’s really me,” Geralt affirms. He runs his hand up and down the length of Jaskier’s spine, “I’m here, Jaskier. Can you ever forgive me for being so stupid?”

“I forgive you for being stupid ever other day, dear witcher. It is of no consequence to me.”

“It almost was,” Geralt frowns. “I nearly- I almost-” 

Jaskier’s arm raises weakly and his too-chilly hand presses to Geralt’s cheek. “I shouldn’t have stormed off like an idiot. I shouldn’t have kept picking the fight. We both fucked up, alright? What matters is our second chance. We got to have one, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

“Am I wearing your shirt?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?”

“Yours were all being laundered and this one was clean and it had been in my pack near the fire so it was already warm and-”

“Did you take care of me all night?”

“Hmm.” Geralt sighs after his hum and glances away for a moment. “What did you mean about... about the dream in the woods?”

“Oh. Well, when I was very cold and things were hazy and slow, I dreamed that you were there with me. Everything got very fuzzy and warm for a little bit, and when it was warm you were holding me like this and giving me little kisses. It was... nice. Even though I knew I was dying because you were being so soft, so considerate; saying things to me you’d never say out loud in real life.”

“I love you, Jaskier. I will try my best not to lose my temper needlessly,” the witcher swears. “You don’t deserve it.”

“Can we still cuddle like this?” Jaskier asks, leaning his weigth against Geralt’s firm chest. “It’s so nice to be held.”

“Of course. Anything you want. I’m not going to waste my second chance by treating you poorly. Not for another second, my beloved bard.”

“B-beloved?”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, well then I’m definitely still dreaming.”

Geralt lifts Jaskier into his arms and carries him over to the bed, which is piled high with their extra blankets. He tucks Jaskier into the nest against the wall and lays along the outside of the mattress. He presses his lips to the bard’s, reveling in Jaskier’s returning warmth, and smiles. “I’ll prove it’s not a dream. Every day.”

“Sounds nice,” Jaskier yawns, snuggling into the witcher’s arms and settling down to sleep. 

“It will be.”

#geraskier #hypothermia #getting together #bouncey's endless getting together fics #geraskier fic #geraskier fluff #whump with a happy ending #fluff with a happy ending #geralt #jaskier #jaskier whump #jaskier gets hypothermia #caring geralt #soft geralt #winter fics #geraskier winter fics

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

For whump prompt: maybe Geralt gets his arm broken and also panics because no sword or sign casting? Feels weak and vulnerable in addition to the pain? Bonus: jaskier being both protective and caretaking.

oh you always spoil me with your prompts

tw: mild injury, Geralt is a self-loathing fool

---

Geralt grimaces and swears as he snaps his arm back into place. He holds it completely still while Jaskier puts it in a makeshift splint and wraps it tightly. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” the bard bites his lip. He looks to be on the verge of tears himself and he smells of nothing but worry and fright. “I’m trying to be gentle, I swear.”

“You’re doing fine,” the witcher grunts. It’s not like this is Jaskier’s fault; he’d been the one to dodge at the wrong time. He’d been the one to get his arm broken. And now he can’t protect Jaskier. He can’t form the signs and he can’t wield his sword for at least a few days until the break fully heals. He swears again. “Fuck.”

“Verbose today,” the bard teases gently, fitting Geralt’s arm into a sling. “Alright, there you go. All fixed up for now.”

“We need to find an inn.”

“Geralt, dear heart, we both know the nearest town is a day’s walk from here and it’s nearly twilight.” Jaskier looks up from where he’s busy packing away their medical supplies and frowns, “Why are you so anxious to find a town? You hate people.”

The witcher’s expression only grows more brooding and thunderous, however, so Jaskier drops it. 

---

They make camp a few hours later, when the sun is nearly all the way below the horizon. Jaskier gathers wood and quickly gets a fire going, used to starting his own when Geralt isn’t around with a helpful Igni. The witcher hates that he’s essentially useless for the time being, and watches with a slight pout as Jaskier gets them dinner and sets up camp with startling efficiency. He kneels on his bedroll and pretends to meditate, wishing desperately that his busy mind would actually let him slip into peaceful thoughtlessness.

“I can hear you being mean to yourself from all the way over here,” Jaskier says. He’s brushing down Roach, one of Geralt’s usual evening tasks, and the witcher scowls. The brush is set down and soon, before Geralt can stop him, Jaskier is taking a seat at the witcher’s side, settling one of those lovely hands on his unbroken arm. “What’s wrong? Please talk to me. I know it’s not your favorite thing but... I’m worried about you.”

And Geralt can smell it. The air is thick with worry. The witcher could choke on the scent of Jaskier’s concern for him; but beneath it, almost hidden, is the gentle, warm chamomile and honey of care. Jaskier cares. Jaskier might even-

“I can’t protect you, like this,” Geralt explains, voice quiet even to his own ears. “I’m... I’m of no use to you.”

“Oh darling,” the bard laughs. It’s a sad laugh, and it makes Geralt meet his gaze at last. “You don’t need to be of use to me. You could never lift a finger again on our travels and while I may be slightly confused and put out, I still wouldn’t leave your side. Is... is that what has you so worried?”

Geralt can only nod. 

“Well, that’s settled, then. I’m sticking around to bother you indefinitely and you,” the bard pokes the witcher in the chest and Geralt blinks owlishly, still processing this little revelation. “Are going to stop being so self loathing. It’s a terrible look on you, really. Gorgeous hair, strangely fantastical golden eyes, glorious ass, and all that delicious muscle and you still-”

Jaskier’s little rant is interrupted by Geralt’s lips against his, the witcher’s good arm coming up to wrap around Jaskier’s shoulders and pull him close. The bard just laughs and kisses back, hands cradling Geralt’s jaw on either side. Jaskier’s eyes are sparkling and his laugher fills the evening air with the bright sound of joy. Geralt notes, through the haze of his own pleasant emotions, that the worry smell is gone.

Now it’s just happiness. Happiness and chamomile and honey.

#veritasrose #prompt fill #geralt whump #hurt/comfort #geraskier ficlet #geraskier #geraskier fluff #getting together #bouncey's endless getting together fics #injured geralt #protective jaskier #caring jaskier #geralt uses his words #broken arm #injury tw #first kiss

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

Also, we talked a mill years ago about an Inuyasha AU? You wanted to make G wear the necklace etc. Which OBVIOUSLY is a fantastic idea and I really which you would, please 🤣😘💗

Okay, so this isn’t exactly the necklace bit, but it’s the most Inuyasha crossover thing I could think of at the moment! Also I’m sorry that this has been sitting in my inbox for so long! <3 Oops!

Geralt turns into a human one night a month, during the new moon.

wordcount: 1.7k

TW: emotional Geralt whump, angst with a happy ending, pining

---

“Stay in the room,” Geralt instructed, glaring Jaskier down from his place near the door. The bard nodded obediently and made a show of pulling his recently acquired book from his travel bag. 

“I might go down and perform for a bit, but I promise not to bring anyone back and I promise not to start any fights.”

“I’d rather you didn’t leave the room at all,” Geralt grumbled, “But I suppose the coin wouldn’t hurt.”

“Where are you going, anyway?”

“Next town over. Nightwraith.”

“Why can’t I come with you?” the bard pouted. His lower lip stuck out slightly and his eyes crinkled so cutely that it always made the Witcher question his ‘human’ parentage; there was a siren’s power in the way he turned up his nose and fluttered his pretty lashes. “Surely I could sit incredibly high up in a very sturdy tree and watch my glorious companion in all his… glory?”

“Excellent word choice,” Geralt rolled his eyes. He hefted his swords over his shoulder and shot the bard another meaningful look.  “I’ll see you in the morning. Stay. Safe.”

“Yes, Milord,” Jaskier sighed dramatically, flopping back against the pillows and opening his book. “Return to me in as few pieces as possible, dear heart.”

“Hmm.”

And with that, Geralt disappeared into the late afternoon light. 

---

There had been several distinctive changes to Geralt’s physical body after the second round of experimental Trials; his hair, of course, and his ghostly-pale skin were the most obvious. His greatest secret, however, and the strangest of all the Trials’ side effects, were the temporary changes he underwent on the nights of the new moon. His Witcher strength and senses abandoned him and his body returned to its pre-Trial state. He became, for all intents and purposes, a normal human man. 

He hated it. He hated himself. There was no power behind his punches on his human nights and while he remained graceful and competent with his swords, he lost his speed and dexterity. It left him feeling helpless and alone, and an onslaught of emotions (which he was usually able to suppress or ignore) flooded his mind, pulling tears from his eyes and putting a ruddy redness on his cheeks and ears that he found ugly. No doubt Jaskier would find him just as hideous. And useless…

If he couldn’t protect the bard, the handsome young human who smiled at him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be friends with a Witcher, then what good was he? Keeping Jaskier safe, keeping him alive and smiling like that, was what motivated Geralt to slump his way back to their room even when he wanted nothing more than to drop to the ground and pass out from exhaustion. Making sure Jaskier was okay (and, alright, getting his wounds fawned over and his hair washed wasn’t too bad either) was what kept him alive.

I can’t believe I forgot to keep track, Geralt berated himself as he set up his small campfire just inside the mouth of a cave. I almost revealed my secret to Jaskier. 

Geralt wasn’t sure which outcome he feared more: Jaskier seeing him in his less horrible state and rejecting him completely for keeping secrets/being a true monster, or Jaskier finding his human body attractive and being even more disgusted by his Witchery appearance. Geralt wouldn’t be able to stand either outcome, so he disappeared into the woods or back to the Path (if Jaskier was stuck in a town, teaching or performing) whenever the night of the new moon arrived.

He sighed and crossed his legs, resting his elbows on his bent knees and setting his chin on one upright palm. He glanced up at Roach and grumbled out an excuse: “I just don’t want to lose him.”

Roach whinnied quietly, reproachfully, and Geralt nodded. 

“You’re absolutely right, I should tell Jaskier about all of this, but if I tell him now, after travelling together for so long, he’ll think I don’t trust him. And I do trust him! I trust him as much as I trust my brothers, maybe more considering their pranks… But I don’t want to scare him off, either. I’m such a fucking coward.”

As the last light of day slipped away beneath the horizon and darkness fell, Geralt felt his hair grow coarser and heavier atop his head. His eyesight dimmed and his knowledge of the landscape - every scent and sound - disappeared from his consciousness. The scars on his skin faded away into nothing as his pupils dilated into circles, the irises shifting from honey-gold to a deep, forest green. 

From a nearby bush, Geralt heard a familiar voice mutter, “Holy shit.”

He leapt to his feet and backed against the cave wall, throwing his arm across his face to hide it. “Dammit, Jaskier, I told you to stay at the inn!”

The bard took a nervous step forward, away from his hiding place, and waved bashfully. “Sorry, dear heart. Are you really- is it really you in there, Geralt?”

“Yes?” the Witcher-turned-human raised an eyebrow, lowering his arm back down to his side with no small amount of shame. “Who else would it be?”

“Well,” the bard said, taking a measured step forward. “I wasn’t sure if this was, like, a reverse-werewolf type deal. I didn’t know if you’d have the same memories as before or- or if-”

“It’s still me,” Geralt blushed, actually blushed, and dipped his head down to avoid Jaskier’s curious gaze. “I’m sorry for not telling you before, but-”

“Don’t.”

Geralt glanced back up, even more confused, his emotions playing havoc with his pulse. “I- Don’t I owe you an apology?”

“No,” Jaskier said, settling down on the rocky ground across the fire and gesturing for Geralt to join him. The flames lit up his face, highlighting the roundness of his cheeks and the softness in his eyes. So youthful, yet so determined. “If you’re still Geralt in here” - he tapped the side of his head and grinned playfully - “then you’re still my best friend.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh yeah, my Witcher is definitely in there somewhere,” Jaskier laughed brightly. The sound wound down and he wiped a tear of glee from the corner of his eye. After a long, sobering pause he asked: “So is this what you looked like before… they did all that stuff to you?”

“Before the Trials? Yes. This is what I looked like fifty years or so ago, when I was young and mortal. My shoulders are wider, of course, but that’s just old age.”

Jaskier made his way slowly around the fire, inching closer to Geralt, who had finally taken a seat on his bedroll. When the bard was right next to him, close enough for Geralt to feel their combined body heat through his shirt, he took a lock of Geralt’s hair in his hand. “It’s… it’s not as soft, like this. But it has curls! And it’s almost red!”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier looked overjoyed at the change, and every one of Geralt’s fears flashed before his eyes. He was tempted to wrench away, to fling himself up into Roach’s saddle and ride hard until they both needed a rest. 

But Jaskier had begun talking again, and Geralt did his best to pay attention. “It’s different, but not bad. I think you’re only slightly more handsome when you’re a Witcher, but  your eyes are a lovely shade of green and I’d love to do up your hair someday… if you’d like that. If you’d let me.”

Geralt made a startled noise and turned his head sharply, his eyes boring into Jaskier’s very soul. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course!”

“You don’t- you aren’t mad? Or scared? You don’t think I’m more approachable like this? You wouldn’t prefer me to be like this - like a human - all the time?”

Jaskier shook his head, a sadness Geralt often noticed but didn’t understand falling over his face. “Oh Geralt, you silly, silly, wonderful man. I don’t lo-” - he paused, took a deep breath, and continued - “I love you, okay? As a Witcher. Like this. I have always loved you and I will always love you, regardless of what you look like, but I fell in love with the White Wolf. The man whose reputation needed mending and whose heart… whose heart is so incredibly large despite how often the world tries to harden it.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasped. He clutched at his chest, the ache he felt there intensifying a hundredfold under Jaskier’s steady gaze. “I love you, too. I never thought-”

“You often don’t,” the bard teased, closing the space between them with careful, intentional slowness. “Now, keep up the good work and stop thinking entirely. Just kiss me, Geralt. Please?”

“Would you like it if I kissed you?” the Witcher asked, incredulous. Jaskier lifted one delicate hand and slid a lock of Geralt’s curly hair back behind his ear. He pressed a soft kiss to Geralt’s cheek and smiled. 

“Very much, darling.”

“Alright,” Geralt breathed, closing the space between them. It felt so much more intense like this, with his heart beating as quickly as Jaskier’s, threatening to burst from his chest because it was overflowing with happiness. His hand, smooth and unblemished in its current state, cupped the peach-soft skin of the bard’s cheek. He ran his thumb over the hinge of Jaskier’s jaw, feeling the bone and joint working as their mouths moved together. When they finally pulled apart they were both beaming broadly, “Was it okay?”

“You’re very soft like this,” Jaskier noted. “But I miss your eyes and your hair… when will my Geralt return?”

“I’m still yours, Jaskier. Even when I look like this,” Geralt frowned. Jaskier took one of the Witcher’s hands in both of his and held it flat over his heart.

“I know, my dear. And I’m always yours, of course. It’s just… odd. I’ll get used to it the more often I see it, I’m sure. How long does it usually last?”

“I’ll be back to normal when the sun rises.”

“Until then?”

“Come here,” Geralt held up the corner of his blanket. Jaskier shifted so that they were cuddled together, side-by-side. “Better?”

“Now that I’m with you? Of course.”

#geraskier #geraskier ficlet #geraskier inuyasha au #idk what i'm doing anymore #stina what have we created #vaguely inuyasha based content #human geralt #getting together #first kiss #bouncey's endless au collection #bouncey's endless getting together fics