#because it means he's lost. it means jaskier will go. jaskier has seen him as a villain this whole time and there was no fixing it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ultralightpoe · 5 months

Text

Spellbound Part 3- Geralt of Rivia

Authors Note: Y'ALL I AM SO SORRY! I thought I scheduled it and I do monthly breaks from all social media! Omg I really screwed y'all over! I AM SO SO SO SO SO SORRY. How can I make it up birdies?

Word Count: 3093

Description: Part One and Part Two

Warnings: Heavy smuttt y'all

Enjoy!

Before Geralt had lost his entire life he was told as a child that there was always a beginning, middle and end. And though most people always thought that this merely pertained to stories his parents always told him that they belonged to humans too.

Every human had a beginning, middle and end.

Every monster had a beginning.

Every Saint had a beginning.

But none of them mattered right now, because all Geralt could think of right now was you. Your beginning, middle and end. He wanted to know more of your story more than he ever had before.

You had both settled down at a rundown inn, him covering his hair and you covering the bruises someone had left on your neck. The innkeeper, a straggly old lady that could barely turn to grab the key to the rooms, barely cast either of you a glance.

You kept close to him as you both made your way up the stairs, and Geralt was embarrassed to admit that a surge of pride crossed through him at this. You seek his warmth and protection, and he would give it. He would give you anything you wanted.

Yennifer had left as soon as she could, saying that she would be going to find Jaskier and letting him know they found you.

Geralt would keep you with him in the inn, per Jaskiers request. The bard pretends to worry about you with all the traveling, claiming that it would be best if he came to the two of you. Geralt saw the lie, he just could not give a shit.

Instead he started a fire, setting you in front of it and mumbling that he would be right back. You snatch to grab his upper arm when he moves to leave, but he merely nods, letting you know it is okay to let go. So you do, swiping your fingers under your eyes quickly, but it was too late and he had already seen the tears.

He makes the trip quick, buying you warmer clothes and heading back and ordering some hot stew from the innkeeper, heading back to the room when she tells him she will bring it.

You are right where he left you when he comes back in, this time a little closer to the fire and curled up a little tighter. Geralt, who had always struggled to sneak around, tried to lighten his footsteps as he neared you.

“I brought some fresh clothes. How about a bath and a change?” He asks, his voice scratchy from lack of use, but he does his best to keep it gentle.

You shake your head, the slightest of movement that somehow managed to clench his heart in his chest. “I’m too tired.”

“Allow me.” He whispers, holding out his hand for you.

“Allow you?”

“To bathe you.”

“You would do that?” You smile, the beginning of a laugh climbing up your throat at the thought.

“It would be my honor.” His tone makes it sound like he is teasing, but there is nothing but seriousness behind that comment.

“You won’t jest?”

“Never.”

And at the simple touch of your fingers reaching up to his own has his skin on fire, shaking slightly as he helps your stand, shuffling to the bathroom and leading you to the center of the room and turning to heat the bottom of the tub with fire as he waits for you to get undressed

But when he turns back to you he finds you waiting patiently, still in the gaudy thin dress, watching slowly.

You seem fazed out now, eyes shuttering as you reach to him and begin untying his own shirt. A moment of startlement crosses him before he reaches a hand up and stops you by grasping your own in his larger palms. He rubs softly as he tries to relax you, shaking his head.

“Not me. You.”

“You, with me.”

“I do not want to-”

“I don’t wanna be exposed alone.” It’s then that Geralt knows what you mean. You don’t want to be the only one naked and vulnerable. So he would join you. Anything for you.

He turns to undress as you undress yourself, and once he hears you get into the tub he turns himself, his heart stopping in his chest at the sight of you.

Your breasts are just barely covered by the water, and within that moment you managed to tie your hair up with a leather scrap, exposing the bruised neck and collarbone . In this moment you looked broken, and still astonishingly beautiful. It wasn’t fair.

He takes a moment to climb in, and suddenly he feels the stress from the last few months beginning to fade from his body as he nears you, sitting across from you knee to knee.

Silence fills the room, and Geralt stresses to find something to say as you lean forward to rest your forehead on his knee.

“Turn around so I can wash your hair.” He whispers, allowing you room to do so and beginning to work on your hair with the soap. “My parents used to tell me stories.”

“About kings and dragonslayers?”

“No, about monsters.”

“How so?”

“They used to tell me that the saints and the monsters of the world all had stories of their own, that everyone you come across has a beginning, middle and end.”

You turn slightly to watch him, and he does his best to seem relaxed.

“I spent most of my time stressed in impressing and protecting you.” He whispers. “I was gruff, which I do with most people. Keeping you and everyone else at arm's length.”

“I’m trying to see how this relates, witcher.”

“I want to know your story, I want to know your beginning and middle and I am desperate to be with you until the end.”

“Why would you want to know all of that?”

“I have found that, even with you mad at me, that I am nothing in this world without you.”

“I will tell you everything if you tell me everything.”

—------------

You fall asleep listening to him whisper the same stories his parents once told you, rubbing your hair softly as you keep your nose shoved into his chest.

You awake around midnight screaming, it takes Gerat a couple minutes to calm you down before he moves to start another fire, bringing you closer to it for warmth and letting you lay in front of it.

The days follow as this, staying by the fire in the cold winter air, whispering back and forth. Eating the stew and roasts the innkeeper made.

You tell him about your life, and he tells you about yours.

Finally you ask.

“Shouldn’t you be out there? Working for the people?” Your head is laid out on his thigh as he watches the snow fall from the window. “I have never known you to sit still, Geralt.”

His heart lurches at the sound of his name falling from your lips. “I have spent the past few weeks working…..for you.”

“What do you mean?” You ask quickly, lifting your head from his thigh, eyes traveling his scarred abdomen before landing to his eyes.

“I was trying to buy out the contract. For you?”

“Why would you do that? How much money did that end up being?”

“Not enough. It seems that the monster of a brothel keeper and I can agree on one thing, you are priceless.”

“Then how-”

“Yennifer smuggled you out-”

“Then what of the coin?”

“It’s yours. It’s all yours if you want it. Enough to buy a cottage in the hillside for years and-”

“And what if I wanted to stay with you? And Jaskier? Or do you not want me?”

“There is nothing more that I want than you. But I treated you horribly-”

You snap to stand then, hair flipping as you stomp across the room to fling a pillow at him. “How so?”

“That night, you were under a spell and I was so close to absolutely defiling you-”

“I wanted it! If you weren’t so pigheaded you would know that those charms only work if the one wearing it is-”

“Stop.” There was a heavy force in the room, pressing through his chest to his lungs as he tried to catch his breath.

“Stop what?”

“This will ruin everything-”

“How. So.”

“BECAUSE I CAN’T LOSE YOU!” He yells, rubbing at his forehead. “I would rather not have you than lose you. Do you understand?”

“Do you love me?”

“Y-”

“Do you love me as I love you?”

“Yes.” And just like that the tight feeling in his gut that formed the moment he had laid eyes on you. His body was lighter and his heart felt like it was righted once more. “I love you.”

“Then what does it matter?”

“You’ve….. You have had a long couple m-”

“I want you.” You whisper, slowly tiptoeing around the room. “I trust no one but you. No one has given me the truth more, and protected me more.”

“I was cruel and-”

“I understand now.” You smile, tears filling your eyes. “I’ve seen terrible terrible men-”

His fists clench at his sides, the urge to find every man that harmed you and smash their heads with a hammer, as he watches you move closer until your own hands find purchase on his chest.

The warmth fills him the second you touch him.

“But you, in all your gruff warnings and rude awakenings, have never been a bad man.”

“You deserve better.”

“I am a brothel worker. I deserve nothing. But this is not what I deserve, this is what I want. Desperately so.”

“You want me?”

“I need you, Geralt.”

His hands unclench, moving up until they rest at your cheeks as he gazes down at you. “I need you too.”

“Then show me.” It’s a simple whisper, but one he hears through his being all the same, moving you backwards slowly until the back of your knees are pressed to the bed. He waits for you to show him a sign of fear or that you changed your mind. But you merely smile up at him, fingers moving to slide over the scars on his abdomen.

“I trust you.” You whisper, the tips of your fingers sliding against his skin until they get to the breaches he wears and begin untying them.

“After what you have been through…”

“I want you to remind me of what it could be.” And he can’t help himself after that, moving to grab the bottoms of the night dress, keeping eye contact with you as his fingers graze your thighs while he lifts it up slowly, his heart hammering in his chest as you smile softly, allowing him to stand once more and remove the dress from you.

You allow him to watch you, the wild look in his eyes as he traces your skin slowly.

“You’ll tell me the second you change your mind?”

“The very instant.” It was like a cord snapping, a leash let go and suddenly Geralt could not help himself. In one quick swoop he reaches to toss you onto the bed, watching you with dark eyes while you scooch backwards to get comfortable.

He prowls above you, enjoying the excited gleam in your eye as he crawls between your legs to kiss at your lips softly, then the softness turns to hunger as his hand grabs your jaw and he devours you. Kissing you like a man completely starved of it.

A soft moan falls from your lips and he is nearly a goner, his breath lost as he pulls back to admire his work, a string of saliva keeping you both connected as you take a moment to open your eyes, lips swollen and red. He holds out his hand, waiting patiently for you to catch your breath before he orders you to “Spit.”

You comply easily, and he stops himself from growling in pleasure before he takes his hand and slaps your cunt harshly, a smile tearing across his face when you moan out before he is crawling back down the bed to shove his face between your legs roughly and lick a stripe between your folds.

The moment your thighs tighten around his head he vows that he will spend the rest of his life doing this, no matter where and no matter when. He would suffocate in this spot if you would let him. A low growl releases from his chest as you moan, fingers lacing themselves in his hair tightly and tugging as he laps at your clit.

Over and over, feeling you spasm with pleasure twice before you use your hands and tug him up by his hair, whining.

He drags his eyes up to you then, seeing the tears from pleasure streaming down your cheeks as he kneels in front of you on the bed.

“Are you hurt?” Even if he had the carnal urge to take you right here and now your safety and well being came first and foremost. You seem to realize this as you move up and reach to wrap your arms around his neck, his hands flying to your sides to help stabilize you. Rubbing softly as he peers down at you, him being twice your size.

Just the thought of it makes his stomach clench in anticipation as you lean up to kiss him, allowing him to lean you both back down onto the bed and lay over you, picking up the kiss just as hungrily.

He only pulls away from your kiss to kiss along your neck and collarbone as you reach down to line him up. He has to close his eyes and take in a shuddering breath the second you touch him and it takes everything not to finish there.

But it is all worth it as he pushes in, a growl once again ripping out of his chest as you moan out, foreheads pressed together as he pushes until he is bottomed out.

“So….. fuck.”

“Neverstop.” You whine, pressing your chest up into his with your eyes still closed. But that just wouldn’t do. How could he admire your fucked out look if he didn’t have your undivided attention. So he pulls your hair and orders you to open your eyes.

You don’t listen, instead moving your hips to gain some friction so he shoves his own hips down to keep you pinned into place as he orders one more. “Let. Me. See. Your. Fucking. Eyes.”

When you finally open them he begins moving, a slow pace at first, allowing you to gain pleasure slowly but the second he feels the tightness loosen up and you get wetter he is unleashed, pounding into you at a heavy pace.

The headboard hits the wall with each hit, and your face is thrown into one of pure pleasure as he keeps going. And Geralt cannot think of anything he has ever done to deserve this.

He would never actually deserve this, but he was so grateful that you had given him a chance, because this is what pure heaven was.

“You’re mine.” He grunts out, one fist tightening in your hair as he kisses down your throat, thrusting into you at a rapid pace as your hands fly to scratch down his back in a way that has him holding his breath to stop from finishing.

“I’m yours.” You moan out, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“I’m never letting y- FUCK- you leave again.”

“I’ll never leave again.”

“I’ll kill any man that touches you.”

“No one else.” You cry out, and he feels you tighten around him once more and knows you’re close so he reaches a hand and pinches at your nipple harshly. “Only you Geralt. My Geralt!” You come undone around him, eyes rolling back as he keeps you pressed to his chest and finishes inside you, keeping you as close as he can while letting you both ride out your highs.

By the time you both finish he lays you both down, his head laying on your chest with him laying between your legs as you play with your hair.

“I love you…..” You whisper, twirling some of his hair softly.

“I love you.” He replies, moving until his chin is laying on your stomach and he can look up at you. “And I will never let you forget that.”

—-------------

You are awakened by a boot pressing into your cheek as you grumble out and move to push it away.

“Geralt I swear-” But when you open your eyes you see none other than Jaskier with a cheeky little grin over his face as he stares down at you, a mug of what smells like cider in his hand.

“Not your lover, but your closest friend.”

“Roach wears boots now?” You laugh, moving to stretch as he rolls his eyes. It had been months since you escaped the brothel, and since everything has changed. Jaskier seems more clingy than ever which was something you only pretended to hate, and Geralt has gone from the stoic asshole to the stoic love of your life…… well in public.

Behind closed doors he spent most of his time worshiping you.

“Where is he?” You ask after surveying to find him.

“He took little one to get some water.”

Another thing that had changed, the young girl that you had smuggled out of a brothel months ago, who has slowly become like a daughter to you, well youngest daughter since you considered Ciri your daughter as well.

“We’re here!” Y/d calls, her pudgy hand held in Geralts as he leads the girls back, Ciri with a small smile on her face while Y/d rushes to you. “We got water!”

“And Geralt says we have to be off.” Ciri sighs, leaning forward to accept your loving touch as you fuss over her hair.

“Let’s get on the horses.” Your lover grunts, lifting y/d from under her shoulders and setting her on roach, moving to help Ciri before getting to you. A hand finds purchase on your thigh as you lift yourself onto your horse, smiling down at him.

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“While you look like that? How will I ever break the love spell?”

“Guess your spellbound then.”

“Always have been.” He kisses your thigh while Jaskier is turned before turning to his own horse and jumping on, making sure y/d is comfortable before moving on.

(I AM SO SORRY, I REALLY THOUGHT I SCHEDULED IT BABES. How can I make it up? I'll do anything.....)

@sagelovesreading

@lashipperrubia @freyafriggafrey @cookielovesbook-akie @whatishappeninghere81 @livesinfantasyland @multiifandomhoe @amara-75 @unfxrgetwble @vlynccx @redlovett @yorkeylover @mxtokko @readinggirl29 @mollymal @fullmoonshadowwrites @rileytwenty @glasschampagne @caffieneaddictt18 @kittiowolf210 @purple-blommie @abrunettefangirlnerd @babezawa @mushy-mushroom04 @miss-goldenweek @pookiesnatcher @thslvr @cardi-bre91

515 notes · View notes

ghostinthelibrarywrites · 9 months

Text

The Cost of Goodbye

Rating: T

Words: 2K

Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer

Warnings: season 3 vol. 2 spoilers; mentioned canonical character death; open/ambiguous ending; more hurt than comfort

Summary: Geralt, Yennefer, and Jaskier spend one last night together in Brokilon before saying goodbye.

I wrote this after watching the second part of season 3 to help deal with my feelings about the fact that my OT3 will probably be separated for an indefinite amount of time. It's a missing scene, set right after Yennefer comes to Brokilon to say goodbye to Geralt. You can read it here on AO3 or below!

***

Over the past few days, Jaskier has become accustomed to listening for the sounds of Geralt in pain. It’s not like the stubborn bastard will admit he needs help crossing the room to piss in the chamberpot, so Jaskier has been woken practically every night by the sounds of grunts and muttered curses from the little hut where Geralt is sleeping, only fifteen feet from Jaskier’s bedroll. But tonight, he wakes to the sounds of Geralt groaning and what sounds an awful lot like bones snapping.

Fuck. Jaskier scrambles to his feet and towards the hut. If the stubborn witcher has hurt himself, Jaskier is going to throw him into the waters of Brokilon himself, so help him.

“Geralt, what are you—” Jaskier bursts into the hut and pauses when he sees that Geralt isn’t alone on his bed of moss. Yennefer sits at the edge of the bed, one hand hovering over Geralt while the other grips his hand in hers. The scents of lilac and gooseberry fill the hut, so strong that Jaskier can’t believe he couldn’t smell it from his bedroll.

He starts to back away, to leave them to grieve and heal in peace, but Geralt’s eyes open and focus on Jaskier hazily. “Jask.”

Yennefer looks over her shoulder and gods, she looks so much older than she did only a few short days ago when Jaskier said goodbye to her at Thanedd. There’s nothing but pain in her eyes and he desperately wants to close the distance between them and pull her close.

“Are you killing him, witch?” Jaskier tries to keep his voice light, but he hears the wobble in it. “Because I know several dryads that would thank you for it. They’ve never seen such a poor patient here.”

Her lips quirk into a tiny, tired smile. “I’m only speeding up his natural healing processes. He’ll still need to rest and take care of himself.”

“Yes, Yenn.” Geralt grimaces as there’s the sound of another bone popping.

Jaskier exhales shakily. “So when she tells you to take care of yourself, it’s all, ‘Yes, Yenn,’ but when I tell you not to try to walk a thousand miles while your leg is still broken, I just get grunts and glares. I see how it is. This is why Milva keeps threatening to toss you out of Brokilon on your pretty ass, Geralt.”

Yennefer ducks her head so her hair is covering her face and Jaskier feels a fresh jolt of horror and grief. They all know why Geralt would try to walk a thousand miles with a broken leg, even if none of them have said her name.

“Does this mean you’re joining us?” Jaskier asks.

She doesn’t look up, her focus on Geralt. “I wish I could, but I can’t. Aretuza needs me. Tissaia is dead and most of the Brotherhood too.”

“We need you,” Jaskier wants to say. “Ciri needs you.” Because he doesn’t know what comes next, but all the possibilities are terrifying. With Geralt so badly weakened, he would feel better to know that they had Yennefer at their back. They’ve already lost so much; the thought of Yennefer being on the other side of the Continent is agony.

But he doesn’t need to say the words for Yennefer to hear them. She looks back at him, eyes glinting with unshed tears. “I need to make sure that when you find Ciri, that there’s somewhere safe for her to return to. That won’t happen if the Brotherhood doesn’t pull itself together. Foltest, Demavend, Radovid, Meve—someone needs to bring them to heel.”

“Radovid?” His voice cracks.

“King Vizimir was assassinated two nights ago. Radovid will be crowned king tomorrow.”

Jaskier lets his eyes fall closed for a brief moment, allowing himself a swell of sorrow for bright eyes and lopsided smiles. Radovid will suffocate with the weight of a crown on his head. If Dijkstra, Phillipa, or Nilfgaard don’t get to him, the burden of a life he never wanted will. Jaskier may have managed to get him safely back to Redania, but at what cost? But he can mourn for Radovid and what could have been later. There are other things to mourn tonight.

“So this is goodbye then,” he says. If Yennefer heads back to Aretuza and he and Geralt set out for Nilfgaard, there’s no telling when they’ll see each other again, or even if they’ll see each other again. Jaskier and Geralt will be traveling a thousand miles through war-torn lands to try and save Ciri from the heart of the most powerful empire the Continent has ever seen. Their chances of making it out alive—and making it back to Yennefer with Ciri—seem so slim as to be impossible.

It’s hard to tell in the darkness of the hut, but Jaskier thinks he sees Yennefer’s mouth tremble. “Yes.”

“Stay the night?” Geralt’s voice is so quiet that Jaskier can barely hear him.

Yennefer hesitates, then nods, the hand that was hovering over Geralt falling to her side. “Just for the night. Then I’ll need to return.”

And that’s Jaskier’s cue. He’s never quite known where he fits in this destined thing between them, no matter how much he wants to. When it’s just him and Geralt or him and Yennefer, he can almost forget his doubts, but when both of them are together, he’s at a loss. He loves them both so much, and he thinks they love him too, but he’s not meant for them, not like they’re meant for each other.

“Well, goodnight,” he says brightly. “Please do try and keep the noise down and, Geralt, I know you enjoy being generous in bed, but it may be best if you try and take it easy, just this once. I’m sure Yennefer will forgive you.”

“You too, Jaskier.”

It takes Jaskier a moment to understand what Geralt is trying to say. “You want me to stay?”

Geralt opens one eye a crack. “I’ve been telling you to sleep in here since you arrived. Ir’s safer.”

“And I keep telling you, that bed is hardly big enough for one, never mind two. Never mind three.”

“We’ll make it work.” With visible effort, Geralt lifts his arm. “We’ve made smaller beds work.”

“Not a week after you got every bone in your body broken.”

“Not every bone. Maybe half of them.” Geralt’s lips twitch into a tiny smile, clearly thinking this the height of wit.

It’s that tiny smile that convinces Jaskier. After he told Geralt that Ciri was en route to Nilfgaard, he never thought he’d see his witcher smile again. With a put-upon sigh, Jaskier settles down on the moss bed on Geralt’s other side. Very carefully, he and Yennefer curl up on either side of Geralt. It’s a tight fit, especially since they’re both being careful not to jostle him, but they manage to arrange themselves in a way that’s almost comfortable, with Jaskier’s head pillowed on Geralt’s bicep and one of his arms wrapped carefully around Geralt’s waist.

He thinks of all the dingy inns where Geralt insisted on putting himself between Jaskier and the door while they slept, even in the early days where it didn’t really seem like he’d give a damn if brigands slit Jaskier’s throat in his sleep. He knows Geralt does the same thing with Yennefer, despite her objectively being the more dangerous of the two of them. It’s strange to have Geralt sheltered between Yennefer and Jaskier, kept safe by them instead of the other way around. There’s a song there, Jaskier thinks, but he’s too tired and heartsick to compose it right now.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” Yennefer whispers into the silence that follows. “When I came to you, I wanted to have Ciri with me.”

There’s nothing to say to that, so Jaskier runs a hand down her arm in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.

She captures his hand with hers, lacing their fingers together and resting them on Geralt’s stomach. “I keep thinking of what we could have done differently. I keep trying to figure out how we could have stopped it all. How we could have saved Ciri, saved Tissaia, killed Vilgefortz.”

“I don’t know.” Geralt places one of his hands over theirs, covering their hands completely. “Think we may have been doomed the minute we took Vilgefortz’s bait and decided that Stregobor was Rience's master.”

Yennefer lets out a shaky breath. “Gods, I still wish it had been him. The fucker got to go out in a blaze of glory.”

“Don’t worry,” Jaskier says. “When I write the song, he’ll have died shitting himself while hiding in the corner.”

Yennefer huffs quietly. It’s not quite the laugh that Jaskier loves so much, but it’s close enough.

Jaskier brushes a kiss against Geralt’s bicep, then leans over to kiss Yennefer’s cheek. “We’ll find her. The three of you are bound by destiny. This isn’t how your story ends.”

“This isn’t a song, bardling,” Yennefer says tiredly. “Sometimes, there isn’t a happy ending.”

“No.” Jaskier shakes his head. “Destiny brought you together for a reason and it wasn’t so Ciri could spend the rest of her life as Emhyr’s pawn. You’ll find your way back to each other. You always do.”

“We always do.” Geralt’s lips brush against the top of Jaskier’s head.

Jaskier smiles sadly against Geralt’s skin. “You say that like you didn’t spend the first five years we knew each other trying to lose me at every turn.”

“And yet you kept coming back.”

“That wasn’t destiny. That was just me being a stubborn pain in your ass.”

“And you’re still a stubborn pain in my ass all these years later.”

“Our asses,” Yennefer says, sounding so fond that Jaskier gets a little choked up.

Jaskier swallows back the lump that rises to his throat. “You’ll be safe at Aretuza, won’t you?” he asks Yennefer. He can’t bring himself to say what he’s really asking. “Will we see you again? Will we return from Nilfgaard with Ciri to find Aretuza cold and empty and realize we lost you too?”

“As safe as I can be.” She squeezes his fingers. “I’ll have Triss and Sabrina and Tiss—” Her voice cracks and Jaskier’s heart breaks for her all over again. “What’s left of the Brotherhood is united. We’ll take care of each other. I’m more worried about the two of you.”

“Oh, don’t worry about us,” Jaskier says breezily. “I’ve gotten Geralt through the last twenty-five years alive, haven’t I?”

Geralt grunts, imbuing an insulting amount of skepticism into the sound. “We’ll be fine, Yenn.”

“The Continent is a dangerous place right now,” she says.

“The Continent has always been a dangerous place. But Ciri’s out there and we have to find her. We’ll bring her back to you. I promise.”

They lapse into another silence, the three of them clinging to each other as hard as they can without crushing Geralt. Somewhere, an animal shrieks.

“We’ll see each other again.” Jaskier doesn’t know if it’s a promise or a prayer, but he needs it to be true. He needs to know that this isn’t the last night he’ll spend in Geralt and Yennefer’s arms. He needs to know that there will be time for the three of them to fully figure out what they are to each other. He needs to know that they’ll be a family again, them and Ciri.

“We will,” Yennefer says. She may just be trying to reassure Jaskier, but it still eases the anxious knot in Jaskier’s belly. “I haven’t saved your ass all those times, Pankratz, just to let you slip away now.”

“And your true agenda emerges. Terrible witch.”

“Incorrigible nuisance.”

Geralt huffs with laughter and pulls them both closer.

They don’t fall asleep for a long time, just lying together and soaking in each other’s presence for the last time. Jaskier wishes there had been more nights like this over the last few years. He hopes there will be more nights like this to come. Next time the three of them share a bed, Ciri will be tucked safely in the next room, safe, healthy, and back where she belongs. With her family. With their family.

Jaskier tries to stay awake as long as possible, because he knows that Yennefer will be gone in the morning when she wakes. None of them are good at goodbyes, despite having had far too much practice. But tiredness finally wins out and he drifts off to the warmth of Geralt’s body, the scent of lilac and gooseberries, and the feel of their hands in his.

***

He doesn’t fully wake when Yennefer leaves. He’s vaguely aware of movement, of the rustle of clothes and the soft sound of footsteps. Instead of opening his eyes, he cuddles closer to the warm body next to him. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he can feel in his bones that it’s far too early for any reasonable person to be awake.

His nose twitches at the tickle of hair against his neck as lips brush his cheek. “Goodbye, bardling,” a voice whispers in his ear.

It takes a moment for Jaskier’s half-asleep mind to register that someone was just speaking to him. He sits up to find the hut still mostly dark, the soft glow of approaching dawn just visible through the trees outside. It’s empty save for Geralt, who sleeps soundly next to him, his breathing sounding easier than it has in days, and the lingering scent of lilacs and gooseberries.

“Goodbye, witch,” Jaskier whispers to empty air.

***

If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving a kudos or comment on AO3!

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

#the witcher #twn season 3 #the witcher spoilers #twn spoilers #geraskefer #geralt x jaskier x yennefer #ghost's fic #ghost's writing

56 notes · View notes

aramblingjay · 2 years

Text

The paint that was left in the pot Geraskier, Geralt & Ciri, Modern AU (3K)

“Dad, do you think you could paint my nails?” Ciri asks him one afternoon, and Geralt is not too proud to say that he panics. Or: Ciri gets her nails painted, but she’s not the only one.

ao3

“Dad, do you think you could paint my nails?” Ciri asks him one afternoon, and Geralt is not too proud to say that he panics.

“What do you mean?” he asks in lieu of having to answer that. He hasn’t the faintest clue how to do nail polish; it most certainly was not covered in the Vesemir school of parenting. The only person he’s seen wear any is Yennefer, and he’s mostly convinced she just stares at her nails hard enough until they morph into the exact shape and color she wants.

“Well, the spring formal is next week, and all my friends are going to the spa today to get their nails done, but I know we can’t,” Ciri explains, and something heavy sinks in Geralt’s stomach. “And normally I’d ask mom, but since she’s away, I thought maybe you could do it.” She frowns, then, and her voice turns small. “It’s okay if not, you don’t have to or anything. Actually, it’s not even a big deal, nude nails are pretty in right now—”

That look on Ciri’s face, lost and wounded, is the surest way to spring him into action, and Geralt finds himself saying, “Of course I’ll do it,” before he can think twice about what he’s committing to.

Ciri should be able to go to the spa with her friends. She shouldn’t have to worry that it’ll cost money they don’t have to spare right now, or that there’s no one to drive her there because the car is still in the shop—but that isn’t the life they live, and Ciri has always been more perceptive than anyone her age should be.

The least Geralt can do is try to give her this one thing.

“Don’t you worry, my little lion. I have it covered,” he promises, feeling pretty good about it when she gives him a wide, brilliant smile and chatters for the next ten minutes about the exact shade of purple-blue that’ll match her dress.

With Ciri sufficiently occupied waxing lyrical about colors, Geralt pulls out his phone to sneakily search up how to paint nails for beginners. Of course, that’s when Ciri decides that she’s done enough talking and wants to put her words into action, taking him by hand and all but dragging him up the stairs to, presumably, where the nail polish awaits.

It turns out the exact shade of purple-blue she wants is not among the five-pack of basic nail polish Eskel bought Ciri for her birthday last year. Geralt eyes the colorful little jars with trepidation, surer than ever that he has no idea what he’s getting into. How does one transfer the paint from there to—he glances at Ciri’s hands, nearly squinting to see her tiny little fingernails, and cannot fathom how this can possibly work without some sort of magic.

Then Ciri picks out the bright lavender bottle and holds it out to him with a look of such hope in her eyes that the wait I don’t know about this on the tip of his tongue dies right there. He has survived boot camps the likes of which would make the military blanch, has seen any number of horrors in this world, has managed to keep all his limbs despite regularly spending time with the most terrifying person the world has ever produced (Yennefer)—he will not be defeated by one little jar of paint and ten (tiny, unbelievably tiny, were they always that tiny?) bits of keratin.

He takes the bottle from her hand, holding it up to the light. It’s actually a beautiful color, bright and lively like his little lion. If he can just figure out how to get it on her hand, he knows without a doubt that she’ll look incredible. As she deserves, for her spring formal dance.

(At least, he thinks it’s a dance. Jaskier told him it was a dance, and Jaskier tends to know about this type of thing)

“C’mon then, little lion.” He assumes this is the type of thing one does in the bathroom to avoid making a mess. “Let’s go paint your nails.”

Ciri follows behind him with a clear skip in her step, and he wonders whether she thinks he’s done this before, assumes he’ll just know how once he starts, or truly hasn’t thought that far ahead. In any case, she’s far too cheerful for someone about to have bright purple splotches all over her skin.

(Is that how nail polish is applied? You just…pour it over the skin and wipe off whatever isn’t on the nail bed? It’s the only technique that comes to his mind, although something about that doesn’t seem right. And he doesn’t want this purple substance and the chemicals it might contain to be all over Ciri’s skin, in any case)

Ciri sits on the edge of the bathtub and holds out a hand, peering at him with absolute trust in her eyes. He feels more unworthy of it in this moment than perhaps any before, but gives her the best smile he can conjure and studies the little bottle of purple like it holds the key to life itself. Right now, it all but does.

Well, first step first. Geralt twists the cap off the bottle, nose wrinkling immediately at the sharp, pungent smell. He hopes it doesn’t smell like that on the nail, too, or he might have to subtly avoid Ciri for the next several days.

Some of the mystery is revealed when he realizes the cap isn’t just a cap, but in fact contains a tiny brush on the end of it. Tiny—he sneaks another glance at Ciri’s nails, held out ready and waiting for him. Tiny enough to be fingernail-sized, in fact.

Oh, dear. He’s supposed to paint this, with that, on those?

“What’s wrong? Do you not want to anymore?” Ciri asks. She’s always been able to read him a little too well.

Geralt looks into her big, guileless eyes and sighs. You can always be honest with me, he tells her about once a week, and what kind of father would he be if he didn’t follow his own rules?

“There’s nothing I’d love more, I promise,” he says, because doing things for Ciri is what he does, and it’s the most important job he will ever have. “But to tell you the truth, I have no idea what to do.”

And that is how he stands in the bathroom doorway fifteen minutes later, watching Jaskier paint his daughter’s nails like he’s been doing this his whole life.

(Maybe he has? Geralt files that question away for later)

“Do you want any patterns on this, Ciri?” Jaskier asks her, sounding for all the world like he can make anything she wants happen. Looking at how neat and even he’s painted the purple, Geralt doesn’t even doubt it.

“Well—” Ciri hesitates, shooting him a guilty look, and Geralt understands.

“I’ll be outside,” he rumbles, wondering what kind of design she’d want to keep secret from him, but unable to deny her the privacy all the same.

He can’t deny her much of anything, really. She’s going to be a lot more dangerous once she realizes just how true that is, he’s sure of it.

They’re done in just a couple of minutes. He hears the squeak of the bathroom door open, then Jaskier telling Ciri to sit in bed and not move her hands for at least the next thirty minutes (“Yes, alright, I’ll put some music on so you don’t get bored. But don’t you even think about touching your phone, you hear me?”), the light patter of feet as Ciri heads to her bedroom, and then the steady beat that Geralt recognizes as the first song of Ciri’s current favorite album.

The volume is set low enough that all he can has to hear through the door is the low pulse of the beat, not the grating high-pitched whine of the melody, and Geralt is reminded once again of just how lucky he is to have Jaskier.

Jaskier, who can paint nails like a beautician and talks to Ciri like she’s his own and knows Geralt better than anyone ever has.

(Geralt knows, has known for quite some time now, that he will marry this man. The question is only when, and how)

Jaskier comes into the bedroom with his lips curled in a self-satisfied smile. “Nails are done. You’re going to love the design she picked out, just you wait.”

Geralt is sure that he will, if and when she decides to show him.

“She’s going to show you, don’t worry,” Jaskier says, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. One of these days, Geralt is going to figure out how Jaskier seems to read his mind about these things. “Just wants to wait until it’s all dry and done.”

“Thank you,” Geralt says, taking Jaskier’s hand and staring at the bitten-down nail beds. Jaskier has beautiful, musician’s hands, strong but nimble, clearly as adept with a brush as with a lute. He’s never seen Jaskier’s nails painted before.

“Oh yeah, coming over to my boyfriend’s house and spending time with his daughter was a real hardship.” But Jaskier squeezes his hand in acknowledgment, and Geralt knows he understands. Ciri is the most important thing in his life, and what’s important to her is important to him. Even something as seemingly insignificant as nail polish.

“I didn’t know you could paint nails,” Geralt says, because otherwise he might ask Jaskier to marry him right here and now, and he deserves a better proposal than that.

“Oh, yeah, I used to do it all the time. Stopped in uni once I really got serious about the lute—kept chipping my polish and getting upset about it. Eventually I realized I’d be saving myself a lot of unnecessary stress if I just didn’t paint them in the first place.” There’s something wistful in his voice, though, that tells Geralt maybe Jaskier misses it more than he lets on. Sure enough, he continues, “I’m glad you asked me. It was nice, to paint somebody’s nails again.”

He sounds so happy about it, this one tiny little thing, and Geralt thinks, if one small bottle of paint can bring both his daughter and his boyfriend so much joy, maybe—

“You want to do mine, too?” he asks before he’s really even thought the words through in his head.

Jaskier’s grin is blinding. “Oh my god, yes! Do you even know how incredible you would look with nail polish? I would be honored to do your nails, darling. Come, come, I’m sure one of Ciri’s colors would look amazing on you. Come on.”

Not dissimilar to Ciri, Jaskier pulls him by the hand back to the bathroom with a skip in his step, chatting the whole way. Geralt doesn’t pay attention to the actual words, knows it’s mostly filler anyway, but lets the tone and cadence and familiar melody of Jaskier’s voice wash over him. He should ask Jaskier to move in with him, he thinks suddenly—there’s no other sound in the world he wants to hear after a long day at work, except maybe Ciri’s laugh.

“What do you want, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, pushing him to sit on the tub’s edge just as Ciri did. “Bright pink, perhaps?” Jaskier holds up what is indeed a bright pink nail polish bottle, and Geralt immediately shakes his head. Jaskier huffs, though he obviously expected that answer by the way his grin only grows wider.

“Lime green?” Jaskier’s whole face is alight with teasing mirth.

Geralt rolls his eyes. If he remembers correctly, there was some sort of blue among the colors, and they’re both aware that’s what he’s going for.

Jaskier picks up the bottle of white polish and puts it to the side immediately, not even having to ask. There’s a clear one that he sets aside as well. Then he taps his finger twice on the only remaining bottle, a bright cobalt blue.

“Blue, then?” Jaskier’s tone says it’s more a rhetorical question than a genuine one, so Geralt stays quiet and watches Jaskier prepare.

He shakes the bottle up and down several times before twisting it open, just as he did with Ciri’s purple, then dabs a drop onto his left thumb, right beside the large purple splotch from testing Ciri’s color earlier.

Something about it warms Geralt’s heart in a way he can’t explain.

“Color okay?” Jaskier asks, holding out his thumb for inspection.

Geralt runs a finger down the side of Jaskier’s proffered thumb, careful not to get too close to the polish, and nods. It looks good on him. Really, really good.

Jaskier takes one of his hands. “Ready?”

Geralt hums, unable to speak.

With practiced ease, Jaskier dips the brush in the bottle, dabs away the excess paint on the rim, and brings it toward his hand.

Geralt’s throat tightens, and the ghost of a once-familiar panic wells up in his chest. The idea was a good one in theory, a great one, even, on Jaskier, but on him it’s—

He draws his hand back before he can stop himself.

It’s—there’s—he can’t—

He hopes desperately this is one of those times when Jaskier can just read his mind.

“Do you want me to start with your toes instead?” Jaskier asks softly.

Geralt lets out a shaky breath, unable to meet Jaskier’s eyes. He should be better than this. What must Jaskier think, Jaskier who has never shied away from anything he wants, never thought for one moment to be anything other than himself, who lives and loves with his whole heart and paints his thumb without a second thought just to make sure the color is—

“Darling, come back to me,” Jaskier says, still in that soft voice. Geralt blinks, tells his brain to shut up, and looks at Jaskier. “There you are.” Every bit of teasing amusement is gone from Jaskier’s face, leaving behind nothing but kind, achingly kind sincerity. “I can start with your toes, if you want. Or we don’t have to do this at all. It was just a silly idea, there’s no pressure here. Nail polish isn’t for everyone, and that’s okay.”

There’s no judgment in Jaskier’s tone, in his expression, and Geralt knows that if he shakes his head now then they can be cuddling on the bed with this whole moment behind them in under a minute. Jaskier won’t bring it up again unless he does first, and it’ll be something they can laugh about together some day in be future.

But. He looks at Jaskier’s thumb again, the two purple and blue spots, and wants.

“Toes,” he says firmly.

Jaskier smiles, tiny and proud. “Alright then. Here, put your foot in my lap, that’ll be easier.”

There’s something strangely intimate about the whole thing, as Jaskier dips the brush back in the bottle, again dabs away the excess on the rim, and paints a stripe right down the center of Geralt’s left big toe. And then again, and again. He watches Jaskier’s hands instead of the color blooming on his toes—it’s easier to keep himself calm that way, to remember that this is something he’s allowed to want and allowed to have, that no matter whether it looks good or hideously out of place amidst his pale skin and monochromatic style, no one will mock him for it.

Besides, looking at Jaskier isn’t exactly a hardship. He’s clearly good at this, his fingers deft and sure, never spilling even a drop onto Geralt’s skin. His tongue pokes out adorably between his teeth as he works, too, the way it usually only does when he’s several stanzas deep into a new composition, and Geralt finds it incredibly endearing that Jaskier is taking this as seriously as he does his songwriting.

“All done,” Jaskier says sooner than he expects, moving Geralt’s feet from his lap to rest on the tiled floor.

Geralt looks down, finally, and his heart skips a beat. He can’t put a name to what he feels, looking at the little pops of color and realizing it’s him, those are his toes, delicately painted like he’s something precious. Something beautiful.

“You like?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt can only nod, overwhelmed.

He likes. He really, really likes.

“I’m glad,” Jaskier says, and it’s gentle. He understands, Geralt is sure. Probably understands better than Geralt does, but as always, he’ll wait patiently for when Geralt catches up. “Alright, let me put on the top coat then.”

Geralt hasn’t the slightest idea what a top coat is or does, but watches Jaskier paint over the color with the bottle of clear polish and assumes it’s important.

“Fingers too?” Jaskier asks him when that’s done. It’s patient and level, noncommittal in a way that says as clearly as if he’d used the words, only if you want.

There’s a part of Geralt, one that’s only grown larger in the last twenty minutes, that wants to say yes, but he shakes his head. He isn’t ready for that yet, not quite.

“Thank you,” he says as Jaskier accepts that with a murmured okay and starts to put everything away. He can’t stop staring at his toes, flexing them a little to see the way the color catches the light. It’s—yeah. There’s a wetness building behind his eyes that he doesn’t understand, and something swirling in his stomach that he isn’t ready to name, but he knows that as always it’s Jaskier who brought him to this moment, led him to water like a horse and very gently suggested he take a drink.

“Of course, darling.”

It settles over him differently, today, the darling that’s been Jaskier’s favorite endearment for him ever since the beginning.

Geralt stands from the tub, walks the three steps over to the full-length mirror hanging on the wall by the sink, and lets himself look.

He’s the same and he’s different.

“Jask—” he stops. Even though he knows what Jaskier will say, asking takes a different kind of strength.

Jaskier lets the silence hang for a few seconds, but when it becomes clear that Geralt won’t find the words himself, he drapes himself over Geralt’s back, arms settling over his chest, and meets Geralt’s eyes in the mirror.

“Beautiful,” he says with a kiss to the shell of Geralt’s ear. “My handsome, beautiful man.”

Geralt looks at his blue-painted toes, and smiles.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt & ciri #*fic #*writing

230 notes · View notes

twordytings · 2 years

Note

Hi! Maybe I am little late to the party, but I saw your wish for the witcher prompts:)

"Why are you interrogating me?" For Witcher × reader:)

For the Love of Geralt

(Geralt x Reader)

Summary: You should’ve known better than to lie to Geralt of Rivia. When it comes to the Witcher and his tactics, though, he always finds a way to get the job done.

Word Count: 2,575

A/N: this has been sitting in my inbox for forever and i wanted to see what i could do with it. Life has been a rollercoaster lately and I needed to focus on myself but that doesn’t mean I lost my love for writing. Hope you guys like this and ty for 500 followers<3

“Why are you interrogating me?” you said to Geralt, arms crossed in front of you as you looked at him expectantly with a raised eyebrow. He had barged into your room without any warning after you had left to go… somewhere, earlier that day.

“Because this isn’t the first time you’ve lied to me about where you were going.” He was starting to think he should’ve advised Vesemir to bolt every door and window at Kaer Morhen.

“Lied to you? Why would I ever even need to fib about where I’m going?”

“If it involved chaos.” You had to readjust your posture after his response. There was no way in hell he could’ve known.

“Not sure I know what you’re talking about…” you’d sputtered all too fast, fidgeting with your fingers as he hadn’t moved a muscle. The wolf was analyzing your every move - as he always did - and could tell you were lying through your teeth.

The only reason he could read you so easily was because of the fact that he had known you for so long. On that horrible day full of bloodshed and carnage ten years ago, he’d seen you amid all the rubble and wreckage around you. Your yellow eyes pierced his… and he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The Witcher himself was astonished by the mere likes of you. You were small, frail, fragile - but only to him. To everyone else, you were a genetic weapon made by your own father (which was a story that took a good while to get out of you). But you wouldn’t have told anyone else other than him; you’d noticed over time that many were afraid of him, which was odd, since the second your eyes met, you almost cried at the sheer relief which took over you. You felt a sense of comfort in his presence, which was something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Jaskier had actually thought you were mute when the two of you had first met. When he’d realized you wouldn’t even let out a peep he’d said “Great. You’re just like him!” and walked away with a huff. Not long after, though, the two of you became quite close. What used to be an even more annoyed bard and a Geralt Jr. was now a pair that couldn’t be outmatched.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Now, spill… before I play your ribs the same way Jaskier plays his lute.”

Your eyes widened at his threat, which he noticed, but you weren’t going to embarrass yourself by standing in front of the man any longer.

“I’m leaving,” you said with a sigh as you began to turn your back towards the Witcher.

It took all but a second for him to take hold of your arm; not pulling you towards him, but not letting go of his grip. You turned around to face him with an irritated look, assuming he’d give it a rest and let go. It could be marked as a talent: the number of ridiculous assumptions you made.

“You think I won’t do it?” Geralt said to you with a glint in his eyes and a smile that no one other than you and Jaskier would’ve been able to detect.

“Do what? Tickle me? I’m terrified,” you said with an ounce of sarcasm. It was a rarity for Geralt to ever tickle you, as everyone and their mother knew he wasn’t the most playful person around. It was usually Jaskier that would poke your stomach or trap his fingers in the crook of your neck when you were being a nuisance. He was that of an annoying older brother, and with a relationship such as that, you were practically never on the same page. You and Geralt, on the other hand, were a unit. You work together, think together, and solve issues as one. Therefore he’s never really had a reason to tickle the snot out of you as Jaskier so often does. Conflict was uncommon in yours and Geralt’s relationship - besides times like these, of course.

The barely noticeable smile of Geralt’s turned into a plain smirk, which told you he wasn’t going to let you go anytime soon. You began to panic a bit, attempting to tug away from him as discreetly as you could, but he wasn’t budging, and his smirk hadn’t faded. He hadn’t even needed to move an inch from where his feet were planted on the ground to hold you back.

“You going to tell me?” He was smiling now, and your sarcasm from earlier was beginning to be a load of bull. You were terrified. With Jaskier, it was always banter that was the catalyst for all your incessant tickle fights. But now, with Geralt, he wanted information - the truth, specifically - and you had no chance against him for it to be considered a ‘fight.’

“Geralt let go!” you seethed with a grunt as you were now yanking yourself from his grip. It was futile. But you couldn’t tell him what you were really doing when you left earlier that day.

“Fine. Be that way.” In one swift movement, he had your back against his chest as he fell backward onto your bed.

“Wait! No! Geralt plehehease don’t do this!” You could handle it when Jaskier did it, but Jaskier was a bard. A human bard. And Geralt was a Witcher… only the Lord above could’ve saved you at this point.

He had grabbed a hold of your upper arms with one of his, so your hands were technically free. Even then, all you could do was hold onto his arm and brace yourself for the inevitable.

“Ready?” he hummed into your ear. You shivered at the mischief you’d detected in his voice.

“Ihi am going to guhut you like a fish when I- WAHAIT HEHEHEHEY!” And just like that, you were a puddle of mush. He had done exactly what he said he was going to, strumming his fingers rapidly against your ribs as if he were Jaskier and you were his lute. The shrieks you let out could have very well attracted a monster or two, but Geralt didn’t seem to care.

As much as you’d wanted to escape his arms at that moment, you couldn’t say you felt safer in anyone else’s.

He paused the attack, stilling his fingers yet resting them on your ribs.

“Go on, then.”

“Ihihi won’t,” you said looking up at him, not being able to help the giggles that every so often spilled out of you.

“Hmm. Okay.” He remained in eye contact as he dug back into your ribs, smiling evilly as he did so. High-pitched giggles soon rang in his ears, but he remained persistent. “I’ve seen how Jaskier does this. If this one isn’t working… I’ll just try a different spot. You seem to have a lot,” he said with a soft chuckle. He was loving this; who knew how long he would go if you kept your ruse going?

“NOHO! OKAY IHILL TEHEHELL YOU!” You heard him chuckle from above you, which wasn’t something you’d heard from him often. You couldn’t help but feel happy that you were making him happy; even with the torture you were currently enduring.

“Alright. I’ll wait…” He was grinning, but you obviously couldn’t see it. The thing with you and Geralt - the main reason you and him had a bond like no other… was that you were both terribly alike. You were both made into weapons, both having to become something you’d never asked to. A relationship of shared trauma would be the correct name for it. The same way you had loved to see even the smallest smile grace Geralt’s, he adored whenever the same happened with you. You’re both the type to avoid seeming even the slightest bit happy; it was almost a competition between the two of you to make each other crack a smile every now and then. You would never force a laugh out of each other, but when it did happen, it was as if a spark would ignite. Everyone else felt the same way, because everyone, although they were not there for it, knew what the two of you had gone through. Everyone else took you two so seriously when you never even asked for it. You were forced to act and behave the way you did because acting any other way just wouldn’t make sense. No one would ever see you as a girl, and no one would ever see him as a man. You were hunters; it’s in your blood.

“Get off of me first,” you said with a quick push to his arm.

“Absolutely not.” He knew you would try something if he released his grip even the slightest bit.

“Fine. I was practicing.” He looked down at you with a raised eyebrow, but quickly caught on and switched to a face of dissatisfaction. “With-” you sighed heavily. “With Yennifer.” You looked up at the man from the tight grasp he’d never stopped holding you in. His expression didn’t change much. You’d always hated how you could never visibly tell what Geralt was thinking. His expressions typically remained quite stoic, and those bright yellow eyes you’d found so familiar were now piercing through your own.

“Practicing…”

“Chaos.”

“Practicing chaos. You were practicing chaos with Yennifer after telling me you were just taking a walk.” You didn’t respond, because he wasn’t asking a question. Simply hearing the words come out of his mouth was enough to make you feel as guilty as anyone could. He wasn’t one to ask questions. Besides, it was either answer or be tickled senseless. “You didn’t tell me. You could’ve been-”

“I’m sorry I lied! I knew you and-”

“Stop.” He’d cut you off the same way you had earlier, letting go of you but switching you in a position to where you were sitting up and facing him. He’d taken a look at your face for the first time in the last five minutes, and he wanted to slap himself across the face when he saw a tear ready to fall in the corner of your eye. Never once had he seen you cry since that first day he had seen you; well, saved you would be a better way to put it. You weren’t crying just because you felt guilty, but because you had betrayed his trust in you. You didn’t even think he himself knew just how much he meant to you. Who knew where you would be right now if he hadn’t been there for you? “Practicing chaos is the last thing you need to be doing right now. You could’ve killed yourse-” He’d figured he shouldn’t finish his sentence. He wasn’t trying to scare you, but he also wasn’t going to let you become exactly what your father had planned to make out of you. “Y/n, your powers… you don’t need to prove anything. To anyone.”

“B-but I want to help you, Geralt.” The tear from earlier had finally dropped down your cheek. You quickly swiped it away, but your tears were rolling steadily now. His expression softened at the way your voice had changed. He could hear the youth spill out of your voice like lava erupting through the cracks of a volcano. Like a child that was afraid of losing the only thing that ever truly meant anything to them. Because that was what you were: a child. A child that had to force herself to mature all because of a man that wanted power; a man that wanted the upper hand at the cost of his own daughter’s life and dignity. “All my life, I’ve been outcasted. Everyone- including my father, was terrified of my mere existence. You didn’t have to do what you did that day, but you did. I don’t know how I could ever repay yo-”

“Never,” he cut you off aggressively. “You will never need to. Look at me.” You had stopped to wipe your tears more often now in an attempt to uphold any composure at all but quickly looked up at Geralt after the order. “The way you needed me that day… I had needed you just the same.” Your eyebrows scrunched the slightest bit in a bout of confusion. “You owe me nothing. D’you understand?” You nodded your head softly, but firmly. “I don’t how else to explain it but-” he sputtered. “You are… me. You are mine. You have been since the moment I first saw you. Nothing you will ever- or could ever do will give you a reason to owe me,” he said with a shake of his head and a slight feeling of disgust at the mere idea of you repaying him for anything at all. “You never asked for this. You never asked to be poked and prodded at like some… lab rat. But everything you are is perfect. It is enough. You are enough. Alright?”

You didn’t know what else to do other than to tackle him into a hug. He was taken by surprise but didn’t hesitate to hold you even tighter with a soft smile of contentment as he did so.

You’d never loved someone as much as you’d loved him. It was a surprise that no one could truly see him the way you did. But you didn’t mind. No one deserved to experience the love of Geralt; not even you. The same way he saw you as enough was the same way that you saw him. But to you he was everything. He gave you everything you’d always longed for: the feeling of being wanted.

It had been a good minute or so, but the two of you were still in a tight hug. It was also the first time you had so affectionately hugged Geralt; it was mainly because neither of you was used to the affection. “Affection” between the two of you was usually a quick side hug here and there, so this was an entirely new occurrence. It being so new also happened to make it a little bit overbearing.

“Alright Y/n, you can let go now,” he said, holding you by your shoulder to pull you away from him.

“No. I’m comfy now,” you mumbled into his chest. He knew you were pulling his leg.

“Hmm,” he grunted in annoyance. “Off. Now.” You didn’t respond, so he sent you a quick poke to the rib.

“Ow!”

“You know better than to say that hurt.” You sent him a quick glare, looking through your eyebrows.

“Then I won’t say anything at all,” you quipped with a one-sided smile.

“That’s what I thought. You alright?” He had noticed your sudden change in demeanor. You were getting in your head again; he was always able to tell what going on in your mind.

“I’m afraid. A-Afraid the people who worked for my dad will come for me.” Geralt’s expression softened. You looked up at him to make eye contact as you felt your throat begin to choke up yet again. “I don’t want to be an experiment again, Geralt.” All of the memories you had were flooding back, but you held your composure the best you could. Crying once in a day was enough.

“And you won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you have me now.”

210 notes · View notes

thenightling · 11 months

Text

A rant against some not-so-great Witcher fans...

The behavior I've seen from some Witcher (book) fans lately does NOT make me proud to usually be a book purist. And no, I'm not talking about the ones who are upset that Jaskier is being shipped with an aged-up Radovid. ( I understand the concern there but you know it's just for plot angst.)

I'm seeing blatant homophobia and sometimes out-right biphobia, including videos of "book fans" who won't even use the term bisexual. They claim Jaskier was "made gay for woke points" by Netflix. Some of the nicer comments I've seen include: "But he's slept with lots of women!" And "But I wanted to see him with Prescilla" (even though she was a creation of the video games and Netflix has no rights to her...) "This means he can't be with Precscilla." ...I can't help but feel these people don't know what bisexual means... They didn't seem to think he couldn't be with Priscilla when they mentioned other woman lovers. I'm still in awe that there are people who claim there's nothing bi about Jaskier (AKA Buttercup AKA Dandelion) in the Netflix show. And again this is not about who he hooks up with. I've seen comments on Facebook of "This is why Henry Cavill left. He's tired of the f-- sh-t." and similar statements. Last year I came across some Witcher book fans who insisted Ciri can never be a "True" Witcher (even in the games where that is an ending) because "only a man can be a true Witcher!" and "The method for making REAL Witchers was lost. It's important to the canon that no woman ever be a Witcher!" And now it's "They're ruining Dandelion!" and "There's no hint that Jaskier was ever gay!" Excuse me... Please read these lyrics to the song he wrote when Geralt left him on the side on the mountain. And as if those lyrics aren't obvious enough Yennefer actually confronts him on the song being about Geralt.

youtube

For people who just "love the original books" I'm seeing blatant sexism and homophobia / biphobia in your midst and it's starting to make me ashamed and distrusting of other book fans. You can't convince me statements of "They've ruined Jaskier by making him queer!" are purely because of who his love interest is going to be next season.

And so many "No wonder Henry Cavill left!" Actually, there has been NO official statement about why Henry Cavill is leaving the show, just a lot of fan speculation (Though yes, some of it is reasonable as he was a fan of the books). He is extremely busy though with the Warhammer franchise, and there's a rumor he might have a Sherlock spin-off and some other things in the works. Just know that when people try to insist how "Straight" Jaskier was portrayed these last two seasons (and spin-off prequel series) and go on long tangents about why Ciri can never be a Witcher... Try to consider they might not be "trying to protect the integrity" of the series after all. I've seen behavior like this before and it's never really about protecting the stories. Here's a hint. I'll use my own dislike of the Interview With the Vampire TV series for comparison. If the person complains that "(this character) would never harm (this other character here)" you may want to listen. The story might matter to them. (This goes for Yennefer and Ciri and Lestat and Louis of Interview with The vampire). However if the complaint has to do with race (i.e. whining about Louis being played by a black man in Interview with the vampire), or sexuality... chances are it's not really about the story at all.

I've seen rants about how straight Jaskier "used to be" and I can't help but wonder if those people were able to keep a straight face (ha!) while writing it. It would be funny if they weren't serious. Honestly these ARE the same sort of people who used to insist Xena and Gabrielle were straight, or that Louis in interview With the Vampire was straight, or that John Constantine in the Hellblazer comics was straight (and those still existed until relatively recently.)

#The Witcher #Witcher #Youtube

21 notes · View notes

thornfield13713 · 6 months

Text

...I truly hate Mizora. Yes, I know, least controversial opinion in the fandom.

Just- I can't help but wonder if this was, in part, set up to separate Wyll from the group, the same way Gortash dropping the bomb about Durge's past in a Dark Urge run can come off as him trying to separate them from their companions. Yes, okay, completely different contexts/preexisting relationships/goals, given that Wyll being alone might actually make him less effective now he's been tadpoled and lost a lot of power, but the techniques are similar. Probably because getting the resident warlock out of hock to their awful boss is a very, very common activity in DnD parties which include a warlock, and even if Mizora does not know the convention, she probably knows how often warlocks have wriggled free of apparently-airtight contracts after falling in with a scrappy band of misfits.

...I am once again somewhat disappointed that killing Mizora has to wait for the post-game, and then only if Wyll and Karlach head off to the Hells. I'd quite like to kill her, but- alas, Wyll's powers last only so long as his contract does, and killing her, thus turning Wyll into a lemure, in a fit of outrage at how she treats Wyll seems a tad bit counterproductive.

Because, seriously, that description of just how much pain this puts Wyll through is just- fucking hellfire, that's awful. And all in one go. I guess it was relatively brief this once, but- still. Mizora's got to go.

Ah. And there's the goal.

I saw a post once discussing how, unlike Auntie Ethel, Mizora couldn't not give Wyll what he wanted and then take her price anyway, so she's doing all she can to take everything that would be personally rewarding for Wyll about what he achieved with his powers, and how much of his ability to keep going as a hero and not be reduced to miserable regret is just him resisting that as hard as he possibly can, because regretting would mean Mizora gets what she wants.

So, here she is to wreck the life Wyll has used those powers to build for himself, even if, actually, it's...probably going to make him less useful to her, at least on the Sword Coast. Given he's hunted in the Hells themselves, not so much there, but that isn't the point. The point, as always with these deals, is getting all the enjoyment out of it that she possibly can.

This is where the Jaskier comparisons are coming in, because I think one of the first things Thoradin is going to do after all this is sit down with Wyll and ask how he feels about having it put into song that the horns were a result of a devil punishing him for refusing to kill a mostly-innocent person. They don't have to put in the contract, he is quick to add. Mizora could just be a random devil who turned up to stir shit and present Wyll with the choice between his own glory and an innocent life in the sung version. But it's a way to spite Mizora a bit more, and a way for Wyll to keep the life he's fought for.

(I do hope there are bard answers later on that let you do songwriting - even if not explicitly songs to bolster companions' reputations. There aren't many class-specific romance options I've seen, but being able to write songs about your partner feels perfect for a bard.)

#baldur's gate 3 #thoradin deepdelver

3 notes · View notes

echo-bleu · 1 year

Text

10 random lines

I was tagged by @clottedcreamfudge , thank you love 💙

Rules: pick any ten of your fics, scroll to the midpoint, pick a line (or three) and share it. Then tag ten people.

I’m going to do the last 10 posted fics, since they’re more or less what I’ve posted in the last six months.

1) Didn't the trees tell us their stories? (The Witcher)

“I… I got lost. Not,” he holds out his hand to stop Aiden from interrupting. “Not spacially. I just, when Geralt… We were up in the mountains. I came down, and I.” He clears his throat. “I’m afraid I lost grip on my… body. This human form, it takes some effort to maintain, especially here in the woods.”

2) i'll sing silence (the Witcher)

So Jaskier sobs. He melts into Geralt’s embrace, so strong that he knows it will bruise, and he cries his heart out, silently, breathlessly. The singing downstairs has stopped. So has the music always playing in his head, snippets of songs and wordless melodies and improvised tunes. It’s gone.

It’s all gone.

3) Holding Angels (Shadowhunters, WIP)

“I won’t trade my dignity for a bit of leniency,” Alec says without hesitation. He’s not sure that he really thinks it, not anymore. Not when he has a good idea what’s coming. The dread in his chest has had time to settle, and it’s growing with every hour.

But he will bear it. For Jace. For Clary. For Magnus. Renouncing his decision, pleading for mercy, would put them all at risk.

4) Dandelion Season (The Witcher)

She falls to her knees beside him. “Jaskier!”

Still nothing. She slaps his face gently, unsure if she should move him – he might be injured, humans don’t lie on the floor like this for no reason, right? She runs a light hand over his chest, pulling at the doublet to open it. It falls apart under her fingers. That’s when she sees the blood.

It pools underneath him, already staining her dress where she kneels. There’s so much of it. She’s not sure how he’s still conscious – if you can call his weird lethargy conscious.

5) every promise and lie (The Witcher)

Jaskier takes a deep breath and limps to the door. He clumsily unlocks the bolt and pushes down the handle with his elbow.

He takes a step back, hides his hands behind his back because, yes, okay, he’s more than a little self-conscious, and he takes in Geralt’s form in front of him.

He looks exhausted and jittery and yet really fucking hot, god-dammit. It’s entirely unfair just how much Jaskier yearns for him even now. He hasn’t seen this face in a year and a half and he just wants to—

“Fuck it.”

6) your smile in mine (The Witcher, they/them Jaskier)

Jaskier's heart clenches. Is that it, then? Is that what she means? Is Geralt shutting them out because he's about to break up with them? Jaskier knows that their personality and their issues are a lot of handle, and the fear that Geralt will one day wake up and realize that Jaskier is just too much (or maybe not enough) is always present at the back of their mind, but this time they can't even pinpoint what they did wrong.

"Hey, Jaskier, breathe," Yennefer calls out, and Jaskier realizes that they're hyperventilating. Yennefer has moved from the armchair across from them to the couch, and her hand is hovering over their arm, as if asking for permission to touch them.

Jaskier slips their arm away -- the thought of being touched makes their skin crawl right now -- but they take a few deep breaths to calm down. "Sorry."

7) the wallpaper inside my heart (the Witcher)

“Does he matter to you?” is her question once Geralt is done relating the story, cheeks heated up in shame at his fuckup.

Geralt takes his time to think. “Yeah,” he sighs.

“Then go and apologize. If he really doesn’t care about you, he’ll tell you. But if he does and he’s just going through a rough time, then not only you’re losing a friend, but you’re hurting him unnecessarily on top of that.”

8) a flower by any other name (The Witcher, they/them Jaskier)

It takes Geralt about an hour to figure out how he wants to do it, which is far too long when he knows that Jaskier is anxiously waiting and trying to keep it all in. Finally, with a muttered "fuck it", he does something that he would never normally do: he lifts his phone and takes a selfie of both of them, hugging in front of his sloppy omelette.

Bon appétit from Jaskier and me, he captions the photo, adding the only buttercup sticker he can find in the app, and he sends it to the group chat.

9) remember me I sing (The Witcher)

He’ll find a way to slip away, maybe, meet Rience just to see him do it. Or maybe he should just treasure every moment he has with his family…

His family.

He hasn’t let himself use that word, even in his head. He’s known since the start that he’s a liability, that his days are numbered. He didn’t mean to get attached to Ciri. He didn’t mean for Ciri to get attached to him.

10) Collapse (Shadowhunters)

It builds up. Or maybe it built up before, all the way up to now, all the things that went unsaid and the trauma they didn’t acknowledge and the fights they never had, and now it’s boiling over. It’s boiling all over Alec and he can feel the burn on his skin and he doesn’t remember anymore if the pain is from that goddamn demon venom or from the hurt in Magnus’s eyes and it freezes him all inside.

He can’t stand up and he can’t walk and Magnus sits there looking at him like that and Alec wants to cry.

That was fun! No pressure tag for @eveningspirit (feel free to give us your wonderful original writing as well) @moonlight-breeze-44 @xianvar @pherryt @flightsfancy22 @entropic-saudade

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #geraskier #shadowhunters #alec lightwood #holding angels #what you hear is not silence #injury cw #echo's writing thoughts

12 notes · View notes

cherryjuicegf · 3 years

Text

death of a poet

for @whataboutthebard september 16 whump prompt: major character death || geraskier, T, 1.8k, angst, implied/referenced suicide (kind of)

ao3

The greatest act of love, they say, is to die for it.

Jaskier laughed, always laughed at this concept. There’s no doubt, of course, one’s whole life lost as a declaration of love, the highest sacrifice. But not the only one. And it amazed him, how people never seemed to acknowledge anything else, how fairytales of noble knights ended with them throwing their lives away, and for what? For love. Always for love. There was no doubt, and if there was, who was he to utter it?

Still. He wondered, the roots of the poet he was meant to be growing inside him, blooming since childhood. And he wondered, why, why die for love, why not live for it? Why waste this blooming of hearts in the eternal darkness, in grief and the wailing complaint of what could have been? Why, when there is so much beauty in the love of living things? He wondered, always wondered. And his mother smiled, with this faint bitterness of unexpected knowledge, and whispered, you can live for love if you want, sweet child, but one day you’ll understand.

Yet he didn’t understand. And he hated it, hated that he didn’t. Hated that he couldn’t find anything to try and understand in the first place. One day he would understand, yet people smiled at him, flowers bloomed in spring, birds sang on the branches, the wine tasted so sweet and the strings of the lute sounded so magical in the evening hush. And he wondered, always wondered, when would the day come, and what greater love there is, that you’re willing to die for it, even if you don’t lay eyes upon it ever again?

The fire in the hearth suddenly goes out.

A tragic fate, the mage had laughed. True love’s kiss. No one could ever love a monster.

I love him. He’s not a monster.

He’s not?

Geralt’s eyes are glowing in a light Jaskier hasn’t seen before, in a light he never wishes to see again. They’re glowing, and something unworldly glows with them, laughs with the evil memory of fairy tales, and evil sorceresses and true love’s kisses. As the blade glistens dangerously close to his eyes, as he walks backward in trembling steps, he thinks they’re so far away from what would make a beautiful fairytale to tell children before sleep. There will be no happy ending here. Somehow he knows.

There’s a tickle on his fingertips, burning.

The sword whips beside his ear and he stumbles back once more, panting, breath coming out strained. He raises his head, looks at Geralt. Or what he remembers was Geralt. Because now what he sees seems foreign, cold, and the amber in his eyes doesn’t warm him like the sun anymore, instead burns, like a fire which he willingly, inevitably steps into. There’s a lump caught in his throat, a sob screaming to get out. And, as though on instinct, with the strongest pang of guilt numbing his bones, he has to remind himself. He’s not a monster, he’s not a monster. He’s not Geralt. Geralt is not a monster.

For a moment, for the barest of seconds, he meets Geralt’s, no, the man’s eyes and, like the fool, like the poet he is, he hopes. “Geralt,” he says and his voice shakes weakly with the terrifying hint of denial, “Geralt, it’s me, please.” The air is ripped by the blade once again, he steps back, eyes still locked with amber. A whimper. “Come back to me, love, please. I love you, come back.”

For a moment, for the barest of seconds, the sun entering from the narrow, stained window reflects on Geralt’s eyes and something familiar glints behind them, a distant scream of a heart wailing to get out. But it’s only for a moment. Because Geralt growls and lowers his sword again with maniacal force and Jaskier screams, ducks and falls on his knees in an ironic parody of a plea for mercy. There’s a feeling of wetness on his bicep and he hisses as crimson blood stains the white sleeve. Not his fault, Jaskier reminds himself, not his fault.

It’s not his fault, yet he wants to cry as he stares into his eyes, cold like the blade that threatens to tear him to pieces, cold like the countless winter nights he’s spent without him, cold like his hand as he grasps it desperately, pushes him back in a failed attempt to trap him, in a foolish, hopeless hope of making him throw the sword away.

A true love’s kiss, he thinks, and almost laughs, because it sounds more like a death wish. And he’s starting to think it will be.

And then he sees Geralt raising his hand and before he has time to think about it, he’s being swept back with the most violent wind, and falls head first on the wall behind him. And slumps to fall on his knees. But there’s a sudden sting on his abdomen and he opens his eyes just in time to see the silver blade pointed on tender skin and jolts back with a gasp, stuck on the wall. “Fuck, Geralt,” he pants and looks at him and, for some reason, he expects his stare to be requited. It is. But it’s empty. It’s empty, and the sword on his stomach tickles painfully and the room is whirling. He blinks hard, gasps again. He can’t hold on, he knows.

And as he gazes at Geralt, he remembers. Warmth. Faint smiles, fingers down his back. Lips tasting of sweet wine, and flowers on his hair, and sleepy eyes staring at him before dropping, and love, and safety, and home . And finally, finally he understands.

He hates that he understands. But then again, the blade is cold like a hug full of regrets and Geralt’s eyes are empty and, oh, what he wouldn’t give to see those eyes, familiar and warm and looking at him again, even if it’s for the last time. He hasn’t much left to give, truth be told. Only his hope, and his life, and he feels them both competing for which is going to reach the end of the line.

“Geralt,” he whispers, again, and that spare root of hope he had starts to rot. “Geralt, please, don’t...” Are those tears? His eyes are burning. “Wake up, love, it’s me.”

What hope? He knows there is not. He knows, because it’s empty, forever empty, and the blade stings deeper and he pleads, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, as if it means anything anymore, as if it’s Geralt.

He understands. And knows, if he’s to die, he has to die the way he lived, by love, as a poet. For love, then. As a poet, and for love.

So he straightens himself, eyes steady on Geralt. And takes a step forward against the blade.

It’s numbing, the pain. Another step. He gasps, chokes on his own blood. Another step, and Geralt stares, empty, blade steady in place as though on purpose, but there’s a familiar glint somewhere in there now, a familiar fear. Jaskier is close. His feet are giving in, his breath is shortening, and it’s a pity really, such a torturous death.. He’s close. So close that he can rest on Geralt’s shoulder, and he feels the blade ripping his flesh, his insides, his everything. He coughs up blood, chokes, eyes rolling to the back of his head. And he feels the blade dripping behind him. And he feels Geralt’s breath on his skin. So he cups his face in a shaking hand, and leans in.

It’s nothing. A brush of lips, tender in all its agony. It’s nothing. The world is blurring. It’s love.

It’s nothing.

The sword slips away as he falls, leaving behind nothing but a puddle of unending blood and slowly consuming darkness and he thinks, it’s supposed to be bright, it’s supposed to hurt less now.

He thinks, he’s supposed to spare himself from Geralt’s anguished look when he comes to, and realizes.

Instead.

“Jaskier!”

He doesn’t feel the pain. Only his body, lifted from the floor, and the scorching blood and the arms, those arms that hold him so tight he wants to scream all the apologies, all the regrets of the world. He doesn’t need to. They all echo in Geralt’s eyes.

It’s sweet, the pain. It’s melodic, the plea. Jaskier, please, stay with me, you fool, you’re alright, stay with me.

He wants to laugh. He’s long gone.

The greatest act, to die for love. A fitting ending, for a poet. He wishes someone will write it, this story, their story, and maybe give it a happier ending. Maybe they will go to the coast. Maybe they’ll end up closing their eyes together, holding each other tight, and maybe there’s no blood, only bitter tears of happiness.

It’s a fairytale. It can’t be tragic.

I love you, you’ll be alright, please, please don’t leave me alone.

A forehead pressed against his and he stares at Geralt and, oh, how he misses him already, and how bright he looks in his sorrow, how beautiful behind the veil that slowly falls between them. Jaskier parts his lips, chokes. “Geralt,” he croaks and it sounds like a sob uttered by every single wilting flower in the world. “Geralt, look at me.” He raises a trembling hand on his face, his fingertips leaving smudges of blood over the falling tears.

Geralt doesn’t look. Only stares at the wound, and back at Jaskier, unfocused, horrified, numb, as though it won’t happen if he doesn’t acknowledge.

It’s darker now, and there’s a last grip holding him back, and Jaskier knows it’s the warmth of Geralt’s hug, always is. “If I die for you, will you live for me, love?” he whispers and finally, finally Geralt turns at him, eyes wide, and Jaskier smiles, something close to a wince, as though it’ll hurt less like that, letting go.

Geralt shakes his head. “If I refuse will you stay alive?”

A huff. Painful. “No. No, I don’t think so.” It’s silent like the breeze now, his voice. Jaskier wipes the rivers of tears on Geralt’s cheek and smiles again, and this time it’s genuine, probably because it’s the last one. “It’s alright, hush. You’re not alone.” Shaking, he removes silver strands away from Geralt’s eyes, and slumps, leans on his shoulder as though finally resting. “Hush now, my love. Let me look into your eyes one last time.”

He does. He looks. It’s the same eyes, same as always, warm and loving, like a tender caress.

To die for love. How tragic. But what is a poet’s love, if not the most heart-wrenching tragedy?

The bloodied hand gently falls on the floor.

There’s a streak of red light coming through the stained window, and rests on blue eyes, mistaking them for the peaceful sea after a storm in their stillness.

They stare, forever open, and somehow forever warm.

They stare, and Geralt finally stares back. And slowly, agonizingly, like a sob echoing in eternity between the pages of every promised fairytale, he screams.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #major character death #cursed geralt #chrysa writes #what about the bard #watb #fic recs #angst #you know i had to do it to em #i don't really like this but ehhh

228 notes · View notes

witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 3 years

Text

now on ao3

They've been talking online for close to six months now and Jaskier has, predictably, fallen head over heels for him. It's not his fault that Geralt is fascinating and beautiful. Not his fault that he's interested in all the hobbies Jaskier let fall dormant because he had no one to talk to about them. Not his fault that Geralt is soft and kind and hilarious without intending to be. The only problem is that Geralt will never love him the same way.

Because Jaskier is annoying. Because he doesn't know enough to carry on a full conversation, where Geralt can talk his ear off about the new species discovered at the bottom of the ocean. Because he is not funny and he is not beautiful.

But it's okay because Jaskier has had years and years to come to terms with the fact that no one will want to be with him long term. It's fine, it is. He's adjusted. So when the conversations with Geralt slowly taper off to nearly nothing, he's expecting it. It still hurts and it's still disappointing that he couldn't hold his interest, but at least he knew it was coming.

So when out of the blue, Geralt messages to say he'll be in town for the weekend Jaskier is shocked, to say the least. And when he asks if he would want to meet up for coffee, Jaskier waits a day to respond in case Geralt accidentally messaged the wrong person. And then, when he confirmed he was indeed the intended recipient and carelessly told Geralt he would love to see him, promptly launched himself into a panic attack.

Because Geralt has only ever seen his face. And, all things considered, it's a pretty good face. But Geralt has never seen his arms, splotchy red and bumpy. Geralt has never seen his legs and forearms, scarred from stress-picking. Even as he stands in front of the closet he finds himself rubbing a spot on his arm. He crosses his arms firmly, staring into the closet and he hates himself because it's his own fault he's like this.

Maybe he should cancel. It wouldn't be such a big loss anyway; Geralt would never be interested in him and maybe it's better to cut ties before he gets too attached. But a bigger part of him wants desperately to see Geralt, to meet him for real, maybe even to hug him if he's very lucky.

He picks out a long-sleeved blouse and skinny jeans with the knees ripped. It's the only part of his leg he's willing to let Geralt see and it's hot in the middle of July so he'll need some ventilation.

He still toys with the idea of cancelling, right up until he's walking out the door.

Geralt meets him outside the coffee shop and the initial meeting is… fine. Geralt is even more stunning in person and it makes Jaskier's heart ache. He tries not to think about how far away Geralt is and how incompatible they are, realistically, but it doesn't work. He lets himself get lost in Geralt's eyes, in the low timbre of his voice and the utter joy in it when he laughs. Fuck, he's really in too deep this time.

When they've finished their drinks, Geralt suggests they take a walk and Jaskier, a fool, agrees. It's only ten minutes before the hot summer sun is too much for him and he feels like he's sweating through his shirt. (As if he wasn't enough of a mess already.) He wonders if he ducked away if Geralt would miss him too badly, or if he could make an excuse to go home and cut out early.

Geralt evidently notices his discomfort and stops. They're in the middle of a busy park and Jaskier doesn't know what to do with himself. He wants to run, but he doesn't want to leave and Geralt is looking at him like he's worried and it's all too much.

"Are you okay?" Geralt asks and Jaskier nods weakly.

"A little hot," he shrugs.

"Of course you are," Geralt chuckles, "you're wearing sleeves and black jeans in the middle of July." Geralt, of course, is wearing a much more sensible t-shirt and shorts. "Why don't you just take it off, no one will mind."

He's referring, of course, to the shirt. To the only thing keeping Geralt from realizing he's not beautiful like he pretends to be. Because his arms? His legs? They're ugly. He's ugly.

So he just shakes his head and keeps walking. But when Geralt catches up again, he doesn't seem convinced. In fact, he seems concerned.

"Jaskier," he asks, just barely brushing his arm, "is something wrong. I didn't mean- I just thought you'd be more comfortable." And what the hell, Geralt is never going to love him anyway.

"I'm not-" he falters when he looks at Geralt so he drops his gaze instead, staring at the path between their feet. "I'm not beautiful. I- my arms are… I hate them."

There's a soft hand on his shoulder and Geralt guides him toward a bench, sitting him down and crouching in front of him.

"How come?"

"They're awful. I have this thing," he mutters but that's as far as he gets.

Reluctantly, he rolls up the sleeve of his blouse to reveal scarred skin. He doesn't even like to look at it. For years he has watched people in movies, desperately wishing he could have beautiful, unmarked skin, that he hadn't ruined his own body. Tears prickle at the back of his eyes and it's all he can do not to yank his arm away when Geralt touches him.

Without a word, Geralt rises to his feet and pulls his shirt over his head. Jaskier's eyes catch on his toned stomach and defined abs, completely bypassing the red rash that runs diagonally across his chest until Geralt points it out.

"Incident with some fire coral," he explains, "I was fresh out of school and thought I knew everything. I didn't." Jaskier huffs. He's trying, but Geralt's scar is interesting, it has a story. He says as much and Geralt just smiles at him.

"Then what about this one?" He pulls up the leg of his shorts to reveal a thick white scar on his thigh and Jaskier winces. "Was fucking around with my brother. He pushed me into a pond and I fell on a broken bottle. Or-" he adds, twisting to reveal a much fresher looking wound, still pink and healing, just above his hip. "I backed into a table last week at work and stabbed myself on a scalpel."

He reaches out, gently rolling Jaskier's sleeve back down and buttoning the cuff. He ducks his chin and when Jaskier looks down, he realizes Geralt is blushing.

"What?" Jaskier asks, expecting a teasing reply. Geralt just runs his hands along his forearms and looks up at him sheepishly.

"You are so beautiful," he whispers, rubbing his thumb along the inside of Jaskier's arm. "I don't want you to feel like you have to hide from me. When I messaged you, I meant to ask if you'd… if you'd want to get dinner with me, but I thought that might be too forward, so I settled for coffee. And I was going to suggest heading down to the beach, but I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

Jaskier shrugs, unsure of what else to do because he's likely living in some fantasy land because people like Geralt don't like people like him. And they certainly don't want to take them out to dinner.

"Dinner would be nice."

"Dinner," Geralt agrees and Jaskier is shocked to find Geralt looks a little surprised, too.

"But maybe not the beach. Not this time."

"We could take a walk on the beach?" Geralt offers, "after dinner? Maybe after we find you something more comfortable to wear?"

Jaskier laughs nervously, twisting the cuff of his sleeve in his hand. "I'd like that."

#geraskier #modern au #if you want bg: geralt is a marine biologist #Jaskier is a mess but he's trying #rex writes

588 notes · View notes

dapandapod · 3 years

Note

Psst can I request sitting in lap hug with Geraskier? 🥺

23. sitting in lap hug

YES you may! I meant it to be super soft and cuddly and buffskier rights and you know, all that. But then I decided I am very funny so I had to put that in there as well.

Send me a hug prompt?

On Ao3 Hug collection here

Baths are a gift from all the deities to witchers. Geralt is not a religious man, but that is how it is. Someone, somewhere decided to give witchers one blessing, and it is hot fucking water in a tub.

This is what runs through Geralt’s mind when he enters the room he and Jaskier are renting for the week.

There is something similar running through Jaskier’s mind, it would seem, because when he looks up at Geralt, a soft smile spreads on his lips.

“Nice bath?” he asks, putting his quill down and corking the ink. Curious, he usually writes for at least another hour or two.

Geralt nods and hums agreeably. This innkeeper wasn’t stingy with firewood and let Geralt heat the water up to almost boiling, just as he likes it. He feels warm and soft, and quite frankly, spoiled. A rare treat from those someones somewhere.

Geralt means to go past Jaskier and then tuck himself down under the blankets, but as he passes Jaskier’s chair, hands grip his hips and he is pulled down into Jaskier’s lap.

For those who have seen a witcher before, they can attest to their size and in relation to that, the likelihood of them being rather hefty.

This rather sizable and hefty witcher plops down in the bard's lap, completely unprepared for such an attack, and finds himself ensnared by two sneaky bard arms.

Jaskier leans against Geralt’s back, rubbing his cheek against the witcher’s shoulder.

“Your shirt is wet,” Jaskier complains, absolutely not stopping his snuggling.

“My hair is wet,” Geralt replies matter of factly, trying not to be too tense in Jaskier’s arms. He has no idea what brought this about, this is not something they just do, but he is too content to protest. If he felt soft and warm before, it has nothing on what he feels when Jaskier’s hands splay over his chest and stomach.

“I’m heavy,” Geralt mutters, half-heartedly trying to squirm out of Jaskier’s lap. He’d rather not, but he’s got an image to keep.

“And I’m strong. Walking all day gives a few perks. Power thighs.”

“I’m pretty sure you say thunder thighs.”

“Not my thighs. They are pure power,” Jaskier says without missing a beat, hugging Geralt tighter to his chest. Witchers don’t melt. But Geralt always was a bit different from the others. He relaxes, trusting Jaskier to hold his weight, leaning back just a little and putting his hands on top of Jaskier’s hands.

“Power thighs. Sounds like something a charlatan would try to sell with mediocre success,” Geralt mumbles, and Jaskier huffs a laugh.

“I would buy it.”

“Like I said. With mediocre success.”

“Buttwipe.”

They sit in silence for a while, and Geralt can’t help but think that the bed has lost some of its appeal. Jaskier’s legs are warm under him, his arms around his chest more comforting than any blanket, and every puff of air against his neck is a reminder that someone actually wants him close.

If he was allowed, he would probably be able to fall asleep like this.

He is not ever telling Jaskier that. Ever.

“Should we turn in early?” Jaskier mumbles, and then muffles a yawn against Geralt’s shoulder blade.

“Don’t you have a set to play?”

“Meh, there is always tomorrow. I’m comfortable.”

Geralt doesn’t object, because he too is comfortable. He stands up, Jaskier’s hand slipping to his waist, and then he too stands up. They have two beds in here. They are made up and everything. There is not one single good reason that they should share.

But Geralt takes off his shoes and Jaskier changes to his soft sleeping tunic, and then they slip under the covers of the bed by the window. Geralt likes to face the door, so Jaskier has to climb over him to settle in, and as soon as they both are covered, Jaskier’s arms are around him again.

Only this time, Jaskier rests his forehead against the back of Geralt’s neck, and their legs tangle together.

Deities have given this witcher two gifts. One of them is baths. The other is a bard, snuffling as he falls asleep, holding Geralt close.

#lap hugs #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #post bath geralt #because he is being warm and soft #the witcher #jaskierswolf #dapanda writes #hug prompts 2021 #panda thinks she is funny #also cuddly #i am cuddly tonight #someone cuddle me please

171 notes · View notes

katecake · 3 years

Text

Scars

I needed me a Jaskel Soulmate AU where Jaskier knows his soulmate’s a witcher, but he also knows it’s not Geralt. After wondering how that would happen, I finally came up w/ this!!

Imagine a world where soulmarks exist. While not exactly rare, they’re still fairly uncommon.

Little Jaskier’s soulmark is on the inside crook of his elbow. The face of a fierce silver wolf. For as unrealistic and stylized as it is, it’s still undeniably a wolf. His parents sneer at it. The servants and teachers are all uncomfortable when they see it. Little Jaskier, though? Oh how he loves it. He doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know its significance. But he loves it nonetheless.

Jaskier’s only five years old when he learns what a Witcher is. He’s only five years old when he’s taught to fear Witchers.

Jaskier’s twelve and he’s being held down as he begs and pleads and screams. He screams as the other boys bring a knife to his soulmark, laughing all the while. Because, what soulmate could a monster have than another monster?

Jaskier’s twelve when he makes the connection between his soulmark and Witchers.

He runs away less than a week later, wound still fresh, and ends up somewhere outside Oxenfurt. He decides to stay there, study there. The injury scars. He keeps it covered at all times with black cloth. Sometimes, it’s so tight it hurts. He never shows anyone his mark ever again.

–

Jaskier’s twenty-three when he meets Geralt, and he immediately recognizes the medallion. It’s the spitting image of what his soulmark looked like. He feels some residual anxiety from meeting a Witcher, but has learned humans can be just as monstrous as they claim Witchers to be. The black strip of cloth on his arm is proof enough.

So he takes a gamble and follows Geralt. And he continues to follow Geralt for years to come. He learns everything he was taught was a lie (something he’s suspected since the moment that knife touched his mark). He makes it his goal to change the world’s mind about Witchers. And if he hopes, deep down, that if he continues to follow Geralt he’ll meet his soulmate? Well, that’s his secret fantasy.

–

Years pass and eventually Geralt invites him up to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Jaskier says yes in a heartbeat. He’s as giddy as he is nervous and babbles the whole trip up.

When they get there, Eskel’s the one to greet them at the gate, not that Jaskier notices. He’s too busy still babbling nervously about nothing at all and removing his packs from his horse. He struggles to hold everything as he goes over to the two, intent on introducing himself to this new witcher. Except when he finally looks at Eskel, his breath catches and he drops everything he’s holding. He can do nothing but stare, pale and shaky, at the scarred face in front of him.

He doesn’t register how the man shifts so he stands with his scars less on display. He doesn’t register Geralt’s defensive and angry tone. He doesn’t register the third, angry, man who threatens him for making his brother uncomfortable in his own home. All Jaskier can think about is the shape of those scars.

Lambert’s outright hostile to him, not that Jaskier blames him. Geralt’s also cagey and defensive. Even Vesemir, despite keeping the peace between the wolves and the bard, makes his disappointment of Jaskier clear.

It takes another two weeks before Jaskier manages to catch Eskel alone and apologizes. He wants to explain himself, but every time he tries, his throat tightens and the words die on his lips. So instead, he works to befriend Eskel in earnest.

The first time Eskel smiles at him, really smiles at him (an entire month later), Jaskier feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. The way Eskel’s eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his lips curl awkwardly, the way his whole demeanor seems to light up. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. He can’t keep the dopey smile off his own face the whole day.

Eskel smiles more after that, and it seems to be enough for the others. Lambert’s no longer actively hostile and Geralt’s back to himself. Vesemir no longer looks at Jaskier with disappointment either. And if Jaskier scratches at the crook of his arm, that’s no ones business but his own.

Until, one night when Jaskier has long since stumbled off to bed, Lambert asks. It's just the three of them, Lambert, Geralt, and Eskel, still drinking in the kitchen.

“So what’s,” Lambert pauses to hiccup, “what’s with the bard’s arm?” He asks.

“Hmm?” Geralt grunts squinting at the cards in his hand.

“That damn bandage of his,” he continues motioning at the crook of his own elbow. “Wears it when he– when he fucken bathes too.”

“Maybe it’s covering a scar,” Eskel offers, “or a weird birthmark.”

Lambert scowls. “He’s got plenty other scars.”

Geralt snorts. “And weird birthmarks too,” he adds thinking about the vaguely cock shaped birthmark Jaskier has on his shoulder.

Lambert grumbles as Geralt and Eskel continue playing their game of gwent.

“What if it’s a soulmark?” He eventually asks.

“Humans don’t present them as easily as we do,” Eskel says at the same moment Geralt says:

“Not a chance.”

The two stare at him, clearly wanting an explanation.

Geralt grumbles and downs what’s left in his mug. “Jaskier’s a hopeless romantic,” he explains. “Wouldn’t shut up for weeks when he saw mine. And then he wouldn’t shut up for the better part of a godsdamned year after we finally met Yen,” he pours himself another drink and downs that too with a shudder. “Believe me, if he had one, we’d know.”

A few hours later, when Geralt’s fighting to stay awake, Lambert slams his mug on the table. It startles Eskel and Geralt enough that they’re more awake than they were an hour ago.

“I wanna know,” Lambert growls.

“Then ask him,” Eskel says.

Geralt yawns. “He always changes the subject.”

Lambert nods vigorously as Eskel frowns. “Then leave it.”

“But I wanna know!” Lambert complains.

Eskel gets up. “I’m not doing this,” he groans. “I’m going to bed.”

Lambert calls him a bitch as he leaves and grumbles into his drink. He and Geralt continue drinking for a few minutes before Lambert asks, “You grab him and I pull that damn cloth off?”

Geralt, too drunk and too tired to think about all the times Jaskier’s flinched when grabbed by the elbow, nods.

It surprisingly takes them a few days to catch Jaskier alone. He’s confused when Geralt grabs him but otherwise doesn’t struggle. It’s not until Lambert pulls at his sleeve that he panics.

Jaskier thrashes in their grip the moment he realizes what they’re doing. Decades old panic grips him as he screams and begs for them not to hurt him.

Lambert and Geralt stay frozen as Jaskier fleas down the hall. Vesemir is there demanding to know what happened while Eskel runs past them to catch up with Jaskier. Lambert and Geralt can only stare in the direction Jaskier fled, the stench of his fear hangs heavy in the air around them.

Geralt knows what Jaskier’s fear smells like. It’s hard not to when Jaskier often gets too close to a monster, but he has never smelled of fear because of a Witcher before. Not when he’d first seen Eskel. Not when Lambert threatened to gut him right after. And not even when the snow had finally blocked off the path down the mountain and he was subsequently trapped in the keep with four unwelcoming witchers.

They don’t see Jaskier for a solid week after that. They know he’s still in the keep, they can smell him in the kitchen, in the baths, through the halls, but they don’t actually see him. Lambert’s on edge, quicker to anger, and Geralt’s quieter, more prone to get lost in thought.

They both try to apologize, in their own way, standing outside Jaskier’s door. Jaskier doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even make a sound. The only reason they know he’s in there is because his heart’s racing and he smells of anxiety and residual panic.

Eventually Eskel’s able to coax him out and he tentatively resettles into the routine he’s established for himself. Jaskier now has a constant underlying scent of anxiety to him. He smells of panic whenever someone focuses on his arm too long.

It all comes to a head one evening. Vesemir reaches to touch Jaskier’s elbow to get his attention. Jaskier flinches so hard he nearly throws himself into the hearth they’re sitting around. He doesn’t smell of fear, but his panic is palpable. Vesemir apologizes but Jaskier assures him it’s fine, even as Lambert storms away shouting abuse and Geralt slinks away miserably.

Eskel cracks that night. It’s late, the others have all gone to their rooms in their attempts to avoid Jaskier, and it’s just Eskel and Jaskier in the library. Jaskier’s leaning against him, fighting to stay awake as Eskel simply enjoys his company.

“What…” Eskel asks tentatively. “Happened to your arm?”

Jaskier tenses against him, heart rate picking up as his hand goes to cover the spot. He sits up slowly, stiffly, and Eskel immediately kicks himself. “Sorry,” he says quickly, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

But Jaskier shakes his head. “No it’s okay,” he says weakly. “It’s stupid really. It happened so long ago, almost thirty years,” he laughs shakily, voice impossibly quiet. “But I guess I still get scared someone’s gonna finish carving off my soulmark at times.”

Eskel feels like he’s been punched in the throat. Soulmarks are special. They’re Destiny’s will. All Witchers have soulmarks. Something about the trials make them emerge, almost like Destiny herself is desperately trying to preserve their humanity. Eskel knows his own soulmark all too well. Four little yellow flowers floating down a stream painted on his ribs. At times, if he just focuses on the general shape, they look like music notes. He knows the mark ties him to Jaskier. It’s why Jaskier’s initial reaction to him hurt so much.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel says lamely, because what else can he say? He could demand the name of the people that hurt Jaskier, but that won’t repair the damage. He could go after Geralt and Lambert again for their stupid stunt, but they’re suffering enough as it is and Jaskier doesn’t really hold it against them.

Jaskier barely shakes his head. “Don’t be. I’ve… actually wanted to show it to you for some time,” he admits quietly. His hands shake as he rolls up his tunic sleeve.

Eskel catches his wrist, stills the movement. “Stop,” he breathes. “You don’t have to.”

Jaskier leans towards him, his forehead coming to rest against Eskel’s. “Please,” he whispers.

Eskel reluctantly lets go. He watches as Jaskier halting works the black cloth off. There’s red marks across Jaskier’s skin where the edge of the cloth dug in too tightly. But Eskel’s breath and attention is immediately stolen by the mark. He feels fury and an unimaginable sadness wash over him in equal measures.

It looks exactly like the wolf school medallion. Or it would were it not for the angry scars distorting the right side of its face.

Eskel runs a thumb over it before he even realizes what he’s doing. Jaskier shivers at the touch and Eskel can smell the tears the bard is desperately trying to hold back. “I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean to upset you when I saw you. It’s just…”

“The scars,” Eskel murmurs. “They’re identical.” He has a sick feeling that Jaskier’s mark was defiled the same day his face was slashed.

Jaskier explains himself fully that night, as he cries in Eskel’s arms. It feels strange to finally show his mark again after almost thirty years. He’s not sure if he’s scared or relieved or if its even good or bad. It just is.

The following morning, he’s understandably exhausted and spends breakfast tucked against Eskel’s side. Lambert and Geralt get to the kitchen and try to leave before the even enter it. Jaskier reeks of tears and misery and Eskel. Eskel asks them to at least stay for breakfast. Lambert still wants to run but seeing as how Geralt pitifully sits down, he refuses to be the only one that runs and sits down too. Breakfast is awkward with how exhausted Jaskier looks and smells, they’re both happy to go off and do their chores for once.

Jaskier spends most of the morning sleeping in Eskel’s room. When he emerges for dinner, it’s almost like nothing’s happened. He’s back to his loud and carefree self. The smell of anxiety is almost unnoticeable now. Vesemir claps him on the shoulder and Geralt’s less quiet.

Lambert’s still unsettled, though, still easy to anger and prone to snapping. He doesn’t believe the bard’s act for a second. That level of fear can’t just be forgiven that easily. It has nothing to do with the fact that it was his plan that caused that reaction and made his brothers upset.

His brothers and Vesemir tell him the bard’s fine. Even Jaskier himself assures him that it’s okay. He doesn’t believe it for a second. No amount of chattering with Geralt, or helping Vesemir in the library, or spending nights with Eskel will convince him.

But maybe seeing how Jaskier lets Eskel settle a hand over his arm helps. Seeing how Jaskier smiles all shy and happy when it happens helps. Seeing how Eskel returns the looks helps. Seeing how Eskel doesn’t shy away when Jaskier touches his scars helps.

Maybe seeing and smelling how happy the two are helps ease the guilt. Because what else could be under that black cloth than a scarred over soulmark?

#the witcher #jaskier #eskel #jaskel #jaskier x eskel #eskel x jaskier #so i'm in jaskel hell atm and I couldn't just NOT contribute smth

671 notes · View notes

ghostinthelibrarywrites · 2 years

Note

Can we see spies who are soulmates and a drunk confession at a library?? Your choice of ship (I love your writing)

Here's a Yennskier soulmate AU where your soulmark appears on your wrist the first time you touch your soulmate skin-to-skin. Approximately 2K, rated M, no warnings.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Yennefer growls as she yanks Jaskier into the Duke’s library, slamming the door behind them. With a flick of her finger and a muttered spell, she locks and seals the door so no one else will be able to get in.

Jaskier giggles and leans against her, eyes bright and glassy with drink. “Darling Yennefer, how can I think of anything in the face of your beauty?”

Yennefer growls at him. Had she known, when Phillipa Eilhart offered her a position with the Redanian Secret Service after the debacle with the Lyrian queen, how often she would end up babysitting this blithering idiot, she would have told Phillipa to fuck off. She still might. She told Phillipa that she didn’t want to work with the bard anymore, and all Phillipa said was that they balanced each other out nicely and both their skill sets were needed if they were going to infiltrate Duke Alistair’s home and find evidence that he’s spying for Nilfgaard.

“Anyway, you’re soulmates,” Phillipa said when Yennefer protested further. “Shouldn’t you work well together?”

“A dandelion on my wrist means nothing,” Yennefer snapped back. “All the soul marks in the world can’t make up for the fact that he’s a buffoon.”

Phillipa shrugged. “Well, you and the buffoon should be on the road for the Duke’s holdings by nightfall.”

One of these days, Yennefer is going to quit and retire somewhere sunny, like Toussaint.

“I got the papers.” Jaskier waves them in Yennefer’s face. “Look at all these letters!”

“Let me see.” Yennefer snatches them from him and scans them over quickly. They’re in a rudimentary code, one that she imagines she could break easily enough in a day or two, but they don’t have time to spend a day or two codebreaking right now. They’ll have to hope that these are the papers they came here for.

“See?” Jaskier crows. “While you were canoodling with the Duchess, I was being useful!”

“I wasn’t canoodling with the Duchess. I was listening to her complain about all the time her husband spends at the hunting lodge. She was sure he had a mistress he was keeping there, so she sent one of her maids to follow him and the girl came back with the report that he wasn’t meeting a mistress, but a mysterious man with a Nilfgaardian accent.”

“The mysterious man with a Nilfgaardian accent could be a mistress.” Jaskier hiccups. "Though given the Duke's tastes, I do doubt it. It seems more likely that he's the Duke's handler."

"Really?" Sarcasm drips from Yennefer's words. "Thank you, Jaskier. I hadn't thought of that."

"Always happy to help a colleague." He tries to salute her and nearly pokes himself in the eye. "Especially a beautiful one."

Before she can think of a properly scathing reply, Yennefer is distracted by people shouting outside. She crosses to the window to see guards mounting horses in the courtyard below while the Duke shouts orders. Stepping back, she says, “They’ve noticed we’re gone, but it looks like they assume we’ve run off. Hopefully, that means they won’t think to search the castle for us.”

“Then I suppose we should hole up here for a bit.” Jaskier attempts to waggle his eyebrows, but he’s so drunk he seems to have lost control of his facial muscles, so it loses some of its effectiveness.

“How much did you have to drink?” Yennefer demands.

Jaskier waves a dismissive hand. “Two or three glasses of wine.”

“Along with half a bottle of vodka?” Because Yennefer has seen Jaskier put away half a bottle of wine without getting more than a little flushed and giggly many times. He shouldn’t be falling down drunk right now.

“Gods, no. Have you tasted the vodka the Duke serves? I’ve tasted better stuff in the dingiest backwoods tavern.”

Yennefer closes the space between them, taking Jaskier’s face in her hands. She ignores another attempt at eyebrow waggling as she looks into his eyes. His pupils are enormous. “Bardling, this is important. Did you have anything to drink except for the wine?”

“Nope.” Jaskier looks offended. “I would never get drunk while on assignment, Yennefer. What kind of amateur do you take me for?”

“Fuck.” Yennefer lets go of his face, reaching up her sleeve.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“You’ve either been drugged or poisoned. Either way, you need an antidote.”

“But why would they drug or poison me?” His mouth drops open in outrage. “I’m much more pleasant to be around than you.”

Yennefer doesn’t dignify that with an answer as she fumbles for the little leather pouch she keeps holstered to her forearm. The only good thing about these obnoxiously voluminous sleeves that have become fashionable in the past few years is that they make excellent hiding spots. She slips a small glass vial out, sniffs it to make sure it’s the right one, and holds it out to Jaskier.

“Drink,” she says. “It’s a purifying potion. Whatever toxin is running through you right now, this will neutralize it.”

But Jaskier doesn’t respond. He’s looking at her with a misty expression.

“What?” Yennefer demands before glancing down. When she pushed aside her sleeve, she exposed the dandelion on her wrist, with its bright yellow petals and curling green leaves. It’s a shock of color next to her black velvet dress.

“I forget sometimes.” Jaskier touches his own wrist, where she knows there’s a violet flame soulmark hidden under his doublet.

“Lucky you.” Yennefer twitches her sleeve back into place, covering the soulmark, but Jaskier pulls it back again.

“I know we agreed not to talk about it,” he says. “Or rather, you said you’d turn me into an eel if I tried to talk about it.”

“A threat that still stands.”

“But don’t you ever wonder?” Jaskier looks up at her with big, sad eyes. “Don’t you ever wonder what would happen if we just… let ourselves be together?”

“No,” Yennefer says flatly. “Now take the fucking potion. You’re under the influence of something, which is why you’re not already an eel wriggling on the ground.”

“Don’t you feel it too? The pull?”

She breathes out hard through her nose. “It’s not real, bardling. It’s just soulmate magic.”

“But what if it’s not? What if we’re meant to be together and we’re just consigning ourselves to lives of misery by denying it?”

“I’m already consigned to a life of misery by having to deal with you constantly.” It’s far from Yennefer’s best snipe and she knows it, which just annoys her. She’s usually more quick on her feet with her comebacks. “Just take the damn potion. We can talk about this later.”

“But we won’t talk about this later.” Jaskier sighs gustily. “We’ll go back to Tretogor, you’ll hand Dijkstra the papers and portal away, and I won’t see you again until the next time I bribe Phillipa into sending us on assignment together.”

“You bribed Phillipa?” It’s not that Yennefer expects honesty from spies, but she thought that Phillipa would at least be above Jaskier’s bullshit.

Jaskier looks even smugger than usual. “Phillipa is very fond of a particular vintage of Est Est that’s nearly impossible to find these days. I procured her one of the last bottles in existence.”

“Why?” Yennefer demands.

“Because you’re my soulmate and I love you! And I think you might learn to love me too, if you would just give us a chance.”

“You don’t love me.” She’s not sure why she’s still standing here. She has the papers; she could portal away and leave Jaskier to his own devices. “It’s just the soulmate magic ruining the little bit of good sense you have.”

“I’ve loved you since before the soulmarks activated.” Jaskier’s eyes are wide, wet, and far too earnest.

That renders Yennefer speechless for a moment. When she finally manages to speak, all she can say is, “What the fuck are you talking about, bardling?”

“I’ve loved you since Rinde.”

“Rinde was a clusterfuck.” Rinde had been one of the first missions Yennefer and Jaskier had gone on together, a wild goose chase after a rumored djinn that Prince Radovid wanted for its wishes. It was only weeks later, safely back in Tretogor, that they touched skin to skin for the first time, Jaskier casually brushing his fingers against the back of Yennefer’s hand, activating their soulmarks.

“It was.” He gazes off into the distance, looking a little dreamy. “But you were magnificent. You saved both our lives ten times over. You’re the only reason we didn’t get our heads chopped off when we returned to Tretogor empty-handed.”

“I’m the reason we returned to Tretogor empty-handed.” Yennefer was the one who got it in her head to use the djinn for her own devices.

“You were right in that Radovid couldn’t be trusted with that kind of power.” Jaskier shrugs. “I’d known you were beautiful and terrifying since the first time I met you, but I didn’t realize just how magnificent you were until after Rinde. It has nothing to do with the soulmark, Yenn. I just love you and can’t imagine my life without you.”

“Jaskier,” she says a little desperately.

“And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way.” He smiles shakily. “I just want to be with you, however you’ll let me.”

Yennefer stares at him, torn between the urges to portal away and never look back and grab the idiot’s face and kiss him even more senseless. Jaskier is ridiculous, vain, and self-centered. He causes more trouble for the Redanian government than he fixes. He has angry lovers scattered across the Continent and probably at least one love child. She’s never met a more exasperating person.

And yet, she’s saved his life and he’s saved hers. They’ve dragged each other out of more scrapes than she can count. There have been a half a dozen times where Yennefer’s job would have been so much easier if she had turned away and left the bard to his fate, but she never did. He’s an objectively beautiful man, so she’s blamed that and the soulmate magic for all the times she’s caught her gaze lingering on his fingers while he plucked at his lute strings or found her own lips curling in an answering smile when he laughs.

If she’s honest with herself, she can admit that there were several times she caught herself staring before the soulmarks manifested.

Yennefer doesn’t have time to be honest with herself, not with a poisoned soulmate, a handful of letters that could be the key to rousting out the network of Nilfgaardian spies they’ve been hunting for years, and a castle full of guards with swords.

“Jaskier,” she whispers, letting her hand settle on the front of his doublet. The fabric is silky beneath her hand.

His throat bobs as he swallows thickly. “Yennefer?”

“You could have just told me how you felt.”

“We’ve known each other for over a decade, Yenn, and I know I wasn’t subtle.”

She leans in close, feeling Jaskier’s breath ghost over her lips. His eyes go wide in surprise before they flutter shut. He leans towards her, lips parting…

And Yennefer pops the cork off the bottle of potion with her thumb before shoving it in his mouth. Jaskier makes a strangled noise of protest, his eyes flying open.

“Don’t spit it out,” she warns. “That’s the only dose I have.”

For once in his miserable life, Jaskier obeys, swallowing the purifying potion. Once it’s gone, Yennefer withdraws the bottle from his lips.

“You… absolute…” Jaskier doubles over with a groan, bracing his elbows on his thighs. “Fuck.”

“It would have been more pleasant if you had just taken it when I told you to,” Yennefer lies. She’s had to take a purifying potion several times, and it’s always like living a daylong hangover in a matter of minutes. It’s never anything approaching pleasant.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I would, but I’m a little busy carrying this mission on my back and keeping the both of us alive.”

Jaskier’s only answer is a loud, long groan. Taking pity on him, Yennefer summons a chair from the other side of the library for him to sink into, rocking back and forth miserably. After several long minutes, Jaskier sits up, looking slightly green. His eyes are bloodshot.

“Fuck,” he says. “Next time someone poisons me, just let me die.”

“That was already the plan,” Yennefer deadpans.

He glares at her. “That was a dirty trick.”

“Had you just acted like a fucking adult and taken the potion, it wouldn’t have been necessary.”

“I was poisoned.”

“And whose fault is that?”

He huffs. “My memory is perfectly fine. Never fear, you and I will be talking about this after we get back to Tretogor alive and I’ve drunk my weight’s worth of water and maybe slept for a day or—”

His words are cut off in a shriek as Yennefer grabs him by the front of the doublet and yanks him through the portal.

They are never talking about this, she decides.

***

“I knew you liked me,” Jaskier says smugly a month later. They’re crammed together in a lice-infested bed in a lice-infested inn, on the hunt for another one of the Nilfgaardian spies exposed in the papers they liberated from the Duke’s estate. “Deep, deep down.”

Yennefer watches the way the violet flame on his wrist seems to flicker in the candlelight. “You knew shit all, bardling.”

“Nope, I remember clapping eyes on you for the first time and thinking to myself, ‘that woman is going to be madly, passionately in love with me within a decade, just wait and see.’”

“Funny, I remember seeing you for the first time and thinking, ‘I wonder when Phillipa started turning peacocks into men and letting them loose on the citizens of Redania.’”

“She did turn me into a peacock once. It was only for a few minutes, but it was fucking traumatizing.”

Yennefer snorts. “What kind of Est Est can she be bribed with? I’ll get her a thousand bottles if she does that again.”

“There aren’t a thousand bottles left, you witch.” Jaskier presses a kiss to her shoulder, then lifts her wrist to his mouth to kiss her dandelion soulmark. “Anyway, you seem to like me just fine as a man.”

“You have your uses.”

He huffs a laugh against her soulmark. “You can’t pretend you don’t adore me.”

She rolls her eyes at the ceiling. “Well, you did just go nearly twenty minutes without speaking, so I like you far more than I usually do.”

“I suppose that’s the key then.” Jaskier waggles his eyebrows. “You keep my mouth occupied.”

“No, the key is you shutting the fuck up once in a while.”

He frowns, considering. “Nah, I’ve tried that. Not for me.”

Yennefer sighs. “Bardling, you’re incorrigible.”

“You like it,” Jaskier says with entirely unearned confidence, pressing another kiss against her soulmark. If the sensation of his lips against her soulmark does something funny to her insides, that’s no one’s business but her own. Maybe this is just soulmate magic or destiny meddling where it has no business doing so, but it’s hard to care about that wrapped up in her soulmate’s arms, his lips against her pulse point and his heart beating against hers. She can’t think of anywhere else she’d rather be.

At least, until he falls on top of her and starts to snore.

***

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @mosaicscale @tsukiwolf42 @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard

#the witcher #yennskier #jaskier x yennefer #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #prompt fills #ghost's writing #i just imagine that jaskier is still traveling with geralt in between his missions for the RSS #and geralt is getting increasingly wtf about all jaskier's stories about his soulmate who is definitely in love with him #she just keeps threatening to turn him into things #but really it's fine geralt she'll come around

116 notes · View notes

westmoor · 3 years

Note

Concept: Yennefer living with Jaskier because he is the last person Nilfguard expects her to be staying with

I apologise for not having seen this in my inbox until now, and if it was prompted by a post I’ve probably forgotten it. I’m also sorry for what I’m about to subject you to, but I’ve been snorting at the thought of it all morning.

The last thing she means to do is to stick around.

Doesn’t really mean to be there, either, doesn’t mean to be anywhere in particular.

But as destiny would have it, she is. For now. She’s been knocked back on her heels since Sodden, Nilfgaard on her heels like so many bloodhounds and she still feels the ache of the battle in her bones. She needs a fucking break.

She finds herself in Kerack the same way she imagines most people find themselves in Kerack: by shit luck and circumstance.

Lettenhove does ring a bell, but she can’t for the life of her fathom why.

The local inn is filled to the brim. She came here just in time, apparently, for the raspberry festival.

Maybe Nilfgaard wouldn’t be so bad.

It takes her on to the manor on the hill. While she doesn’t care for company, at least it would beat sleeping on the ground. She doesn’t know who rules here and it’s certainly a risk, but so is staying on the open road.

She doesn’t know what to say when she sees him there, primped up in finery too lavish to have been earned in market squares and taverns. She settles for simplicity:

“Jaskier.”

And he, who has the decency to both try to maintain composure and to fail spectacularly at it, responds:

“Yennefer?”

And maybe she’s tired, or maybe recent events have softened her. Maybe he has lost his bite, whatever bile he held against her drained with Geralt’s absence. Or maybe they’ve both just grown older.

And, well, it’s the closest thing to a friendly face she’s seen in weeks, which is really saying something.

And besides, it’s not like he himself is a threat.

At least until a stuffy older gentleman starts probing about her plans and business. Not too keen on outsiders, she takes it. He is the first person she has met so far in this godforsaken hole that seems to even have heard whispers of a rumour of a hint that there’s a war on.

“May I ask the name of our guest, Lord Julian?” He asks.“And will she be staying with us long?”

Lord Julian flounders, but reins himself in.

“This my former travel companion’s witc-”

She pins him with a glare, daring him to continue.

“Widow. His lovely widow.” Jaskier leans closer to the butler and lowers his voice, doing absolutely nothing to conceal his words. “Best not speak of it. ‘Twas a terrible shock, you see. Just devastating. Something to do with his…”

And here he makes a vague gesture that can’t possibly mean anything at all, but the other man’s mind fills the blank. He shuffles uneasily and goes a little green.

“...Absolutely gruelling. Two healers quit on the spot. Never seen anything like it, in fact, I might need a drink…”

And the servant is off in a hurry, glad for the excuse.

She takes a seat at his parlor table. The drinks appear as summoned - and at least he has good taste in wine.

“Does Geralt know you go about spreading tales of his undignified demise?” She asks, replicating his gesture from earlier.

Jaskier feigns confusion, but grins behind his glass.

“Geralt, who?”

#¯\_(ツ)_/¯#cyber-boredom #jaskier #yennefer #no geralts in sight

358 notes · View notes

samstree · 3 years

Note

Fake title time!!!!

In another life

Or:

The method of song and dance

In Another Life

“So.” Jaskier walks into the stable. “Geralt?”

The man turns to look at Jaskier with a horse brush still in hand. Surprise flashes across his brown eyes. His dark curls are tied at the nape of his neck again, only a few strands left to frame his handsome jawline. How can some people be this effortlessly beautiful, Jaskier will never know.

“What do you want, bard?” Geralt asks curtly.

Jaskier smiles his most friendly smile, but doesn’t see the gesture returned. His new friend is such a serious man.

“Well, I’m just here to tell you that the devil has been deal with,” the bard says. “They hired a witcher. He went deep into the valley of flowers, found the bastard and struck him down. I saw it with my own eyes. Your horses will be safe from now on.”

“Hmm.”

“It all happened so fast. I mean...it was my first real adventure, so I have nothing to compare it to. But he was so heroic! Oh, Aiden I meant, not the devil. He wielded the sword with such ease that it was like watching the most elegant dance. And the speech he gave right before charging into battle, let me tell you...” Jaskier stops his rambling when he realizes that Geralt isn’t responding. Instead, the other man is clutching at the brush so tightly that his knuckles are white. Jaskier frowns. “Wait, aren’t you glad?”

“Sure.” Geralt goes back the brushing down the chestnut-colored mare, his movement rigid. “And where is your heroic witcher now?”

“On his way out of town, of course.” Jaskier’s frown deepens.

“But you are still here.”

“Where else would I be?”

“Chasing adventures? Going away with him? I don’t know,” Geralt scoffs. “Like you said the other night.”

“I did say a lot of things that night, didn’t I? What can I say? I met a friend who made me feel like we’ve known each other our entire lives. We drank for so long, probably had one too many. I told him all about my dreams and ambitions, as he returned the favor. It turns out we want very similar things in life … But now, suddenly, he’s being quite rude for some reason. What is it, Geralt? You don’t like a witcher being the hero of the day?”

“Anyone can be heroic, given these extra strengths and giant swords,” Geralt muses to himself, not looking at Jaskier anymore. “I suppose, any bard should be drawn to them because of it.”

The mare snorts, and Geralt soothes her with a gentle hand. Jaskier bites his lips, the urge to defend himself rising in his stomach. Or is it an urge to defend something else?

“Allow me to disagree here,” Jaskier says, approaching the stall. “Brute strength isn’t what makes someone a hero. Being a witcher isn’t what makes someone a protector either.”

Brown eyes meet Jaskier’s, so warm and so open. Jaskier continues.

“When I first came here, they told me everything about you, Geralt. How you’ve been protecting this town, long before any witchers came around. How you fought with your bare hands to save those girls from that griffin two years ago, how you provided shelter for those lost and starving, how you never did these things for reward, only asking for a peaceful life at this ranch with your horses.” The corners of Jaskier’s lips quirk upwards. “I knew I had to meet you. A mysterious man, a hero without any superpowers.”

The blush painted across Geralt’s cheeks is too adorable. Jaskier wonders if he can tuck away the loose strands of curls and feel Geralt’s skin under his palm.

“I’m…not a hero,” Geralt splutters.

“No? You are in my eyes. I think, in another life, you could make the most legendary witcher. Not because of your strengths, but your heart.”

The silence hangs in the stable, only interrupted by the horses’ occasional snorts and nickers. Finally, Geralt’s features soften, his shoulders relaxed.

“What do you want, Jaskier?” he asks again.

“What I always wanted, and perhaps, what you’ve wanted as well. You see, I can’t help but remember our conversation that night. How neither of us ever really got to see the world.” Jaskier takes a deep breath. “So, here’s my offer.”

“Your offer?”

Jaskier knows it’s now or never.

“Come away with me. Let’s see the world together.”

Geralt stares, his soft hazel eyes inexplicable. Jaskier’s heart picks up but he feels like all breaths have left his lungs.

“I mean,” he adds quickly. “If you want, that is. We can be the best duo on the continent. We can travel and sing—well I can sing, and you can show your darling horse all the different kingdoms. What is her name again?”

“Roach,” Geralt offers, his face still impossibly hard to read.

“Yes, Roach. You can show Roach everything there is outside of Posada. It won’t be much, but…I’ll be there. I’ll be your most loyal travel companion and friend, Geralt. I will be there, see everything with you. What you say?”

The anticipation is excruciating. For a moment, Jaskier believes he’s already been rejected by the lack of an answer. They’ve only known each other for days after all. What reason does Geralt have to abandon his life here and run away with a young, hot-headed bard? His heart starts to sink, but then—

Geralt smiles, and nods ever so slightly.

It’s the sweetest sight Jaskier has ever seen. One that, he realizes, will lead to countless more in their coming journeys.

He lets out an excited cry and throws himself at Geralt, only to be caught by sturdy arms. Roach might be judging him with those looks but it’s the last thing in the world that matters. Even Geralt can’t hide the smile in his voice.

“You are one hell of a surprise, bard.” A laugh rumbles deep in Geralt’s chest. “In another life, you’d still be the most ridiculous person I ever meet.”

#ah thank you so much for the fake title prompt #sorry i filled it so late but i come up with plot so slowly #geraskier fic #geraskier #headcanon #human geralt #still bard jaskier #stablehand geralt #different first meeting #geralt x jaskier #prompt fill #fluff #roach #horses #oh to be young and yean for adventure #soft geralt

81 notes · View notes

jaskiersbrokenlute · 2 years

Text

I’m listening to music and having thoughts, so here’s a dump of ideas about the mountain breakup ™ and how Jaskier’s entire life was spent with Geralt. (Obviously they weren’t together for the whole twenty years they were friends and they had lives outside each other, but they always came back) He had places to go and opportunities he could take up, but he still spent his entire adult life up until this point doing the same thing, never staying in one place long enough to truly establish himself, not many other meaningful relationships, at least not people he saw as often as Geralt.

And now, in one day he’s back at square one. He’s a famous bard on the continent at this point, but even that was part of his and Geralt’s life, there’s very little that he has that is purely his own immediately after the mountain, and he has to start building a new normal.

Now the thought that I keep coming back to is, what if Geralt met him immediately after his temper tantrum, on the mountain or in town, doesn’t matter, it’s right after and Geralt has cooled down a bit and expects Jaskier to come with him, but doesn’t apologize because, ‘well Jaskier is here and he doesn’t seem upset at me anymore so he must have known I didn’t mean it, everything’s back to normal’

But Jaskier is very much still hurt and re-thinking twenty years of friendship that apparently wasn’t friendship to one of them. But it’s just so easy to slip back into this role he’s been playing for years.

It hurts, he wants to leave so often, but then he’s faced with that terrifying

“What now?” so he stays.

I just think it’s such good angst, Jaskier still freshly hurt after Geralt’s outburst, stepping on eggshells around him while Geralt acts like nothing changed, to him it barely has anyway.

It would be so frustrating, between feeling trapped and feeling lost, he chooses stifling himself around Geralt and pretending it doesn’t hurt to know that he doesn’t care for him nearly as much as Jaskier cares for Geralt, but putting up with it anyway because it’s just so easy to be here.

Different routes of angst could come from this because eventually either

A. Geralt will notice that Jaskier is acting differently or

B. Jaskier’s constant battle between whether or not it’s worth it to stay will come to a boiling point and the routine he’s tried so hard to preserve will crumble and he’ll have to face the fact that he doesn’t want to be here head on.

Anyway, if you want to know exactly the dynamic I’m imagining, listen to this song here, because it’s the blueprint of this idea. I’ve been meaning to write a fic with this song/this idea but It’s not coming out right so just have this food for thought and the song itself. (though if someone did write a songfic I would read it with wide heart eyes like when an old cartoon character sees someone hot)

Here's the song: (I could make about 72 posts exactly like this one with different marianas trench songs & ideas about them and there is very little stopping me at this point lol. Their songs are just perfect for the raccoon in my brain that steals songs for fanfic rather than being original or creative lol.)

Here are the lyrics:

This place is a hole

But I don't wanna go

I wish we could stay here forever alone

This time that we waste

But I still love your taste

Don't let him take my place

Don't just sit there

Sometimes I wish you would leave me

Whoa I'm not sick of you yet

Is that as good as it gets?

I'll just hide it

I could slip into you

It's so easy to come back into you

I stayed for a while

And waited for words

Seen but not heard

And struggled to try

My tongues turnin' black

But I'll take you back

You're still the best more or less

I guess

Don't you leave me

Whoa I'm not sick of you yet

Is that as good as it gets?

I'll just hide it oh

I could slip into you

It's so easy to come back into you

And it hurts me to say that it hurts me to stay

And it might be alright if you go

It hurts me to say that I want you to stay

But it might be alright if you go

So leave me

Whoa I'm not sick of you yet

Is that as good as it gets?

I'll just hide it whoa

I could slip into you

It's so easy to come...

Back into you

Sometimes i think that the bitter in you

And the quitter in me

Is the bitter in you

And the quitter in me

The bitter in you

And the quitter in me

Is the bitter in you

And the quitter in me

The bitter in you

And the quitter in me is (yeah)

Is better than the both of us

#this song is so perfect for post mountain breakup feelings #the frustration and hurt is making my angsty fic writer brain spin #and jaskier asking geralt to leave him because he can't do it himself but he cant be here anymore #it hurts so good #and the silent acceptance of a shitty situation because your tired and just want something familiar to cling onto even if it isn't real #so many thought #someonen think with me #its that frustration and hurt of putting yourself back into a shitty situation because you need something familiar to cling to #and the idea of jaskier asking geralt to leave him because he cant do it himself but he cant be here anymore #my angst ff writer brain is spinning with material #also apparently people outside of canada straight up never heard of marianas trench #how embarrassing for you #/j #jaskier #the witcher #geraskier #geralt #geralt of rivia #the witcher netflix #fanfiction inspiration #fanfiction ideas #fanfic ideas #welcome to my songfic idea garage sale where I shove this idea into your hands and run #if i didnt control myself I would have an entire post of songs and my lil brain movies that I have for each one #...#hmm #theres a thought that will never see the light of day but will certainly see my drafts and collect a whole lotta dust #Spotify

36 notes · View notes