#but jaskier remembers those first weeks of loneliness

[dhwty-writes]

whatever a sun will always sing

hello witcher fandom :)

Summary: After Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia had given up on counting first times. Instead, he had taken up counting last times. A few years after Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia is lonely and downtrodden with not many bright spots in his life and starved for human contact. And in contrast to his brothers, he finds he can't even sate that hunger with sex. Enter Jaskier, travelling bard extraordinaire, who wears his heart on his sleeve and is continuously irked by lovers who want him in their life rather than just their bed. Over the years, they learn to love each other in a way not even they seem to be able to describe. Written for the @witcher-bows-and-arrows event.

for @flowercrown-bard

Read on AO3

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First times were almost never easy.

Not because new things were scary or something along those veins. Cowardice was beaten out of witchers at a young age, after all. No, first times were almost never easy because a vast majority of Geralt of Rivia’s first times meant pain.

He dimly remembered the first time he had braved the killer with Vesemir bringing him to Kaer Morhen, how he had wailed and sobbed and begged for his mother to rescue him. And while he did not remember it, he knew the sobbing had not stopped for the first week in the fortress. The older witchers had used to tease him for crying himself to sleep every night.

The first Trials had been a nightmare, poisons and potions rushing through his veins while his body fought tooth and nail to keep him alive. Although the second Trials had arguably been worse. 

The first time he slew a monster out on the Path was a bitter memory, too. Not the slaying per se, even decades later he had no qualms about killing the bald man who had attempted to violate a young girl. Her fearful reaction to him, however, had never lost its sting. She had looked at him as if he was the monster and Geralt soon learnt that he was in the eyes of the world.

Neither did he like the taste of the first time he was turned away at a tavern upon the innkeep catching a glance at his golden eyes. Nor the first time an alderman withheld his pay on the grounds of some ridiculous, flimsy excuse. And certainly not when Mivrit, the only witcher in his year besides him and Eskel who had survived the trials, had failed to return to Kaer Morhen one winter. They had drunk to their fallen brother that year, speaking of his life and attempting to bury the thought of him in an unmarked grave beneath the taste of White Gull. ‘An unmarked grave if he’s lucky,’ Geralt thought bitterly even though half a century had passed since then.

Perhaps, he mused glumly, it was just a witcher’s life that was filled with so much shit that there just weren’t any good first times. In a normal life there had to be some good ones, else why would anyone ever try something new?

After Blaviken there weren’t a whole lot of firsts – most of the terrible things that made up his life had already happened before. They just got worse.

After Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia had given up on counting first times. Instead, he had taken up counting last times. The last time he had received his full pay had been nearly two months ago. The last time he had slept in an inn the year before. The last time a human had touched him had been a week ago, although he wasn’t sure if a fist to his face should count.

The path had always been lonely, but Blaviken had definitely made it worse. There had been a couple of years where Vesemir had to threaten to throw Geralt out of Kaer Morhen, with Aard if need be, to get him to leave at all. He knew his brothers frequented brothels to ease the loneliness, but even if he were interested, where on earth would he find a whore willing to bed the Butcher of Blaviken?

Also, he wasn’t. Interested, that was.

The only really friendly human being he had met since Blaviken was the bard that had annoyed his way into Geralt’s contract in Posada. The last time he had seen the him had been in the waning summer of the year before, right after Geralt had managed to get rid of him in Hagge. That had been five months and two and a half weeks ago, to be precise. Not that he was keeping count.

The bard was a strange thing to stumble into his life. He wasn’t used to joy and laughter and songs. At first, they annoyed him endlessly. A witcher thrived in silence and solace and the bard was their polar opposite. 

In addition, it somehow felt like a trap. Geralt just didn’t know what to do with any of it. So, he grit his teeth and prepared for the pain.

That didn’t come.

If anything, it made him even more suspicious.

Geralt was still ruminating on that last time they had seen each other, how the bard had smiled and waved him goodbye, wondering when —if— he would see him again, when he was hit with a first.

He was walking down the road in a no-name town in Kovir, ignoring suspicious glances and hissed insults when suddenly two arms snaked around him and Geralt nearly punched his assailant in the face. 

Only the whiff of a familiar scent gave him pause. And when he looked down, he recognised the bright blue doublet – always open, always displaying the finely embroidered shirt beneath – the brown mop of hair, the never-ending stream of words that engulfed him.

“Geralt! It is so good to see you again. When you abandoned me in Aedirn after out little adventure in Dol Blathanna I thought that would surely be it, but no, the gods are good and here you are!” the bard blabbed and held him tight. Geralt froze up beneath him. For some stupid reason he wanted to melt into it, but he was a witcher, so he could surely not. “Look at you! Still a-witchering I take? Do my eyes deceive me or do I spy a new scar on the cheek of my muse promising me a story that is ever so enticing?”

At this point, the bard had thankfully taken a step back, but he was still holding onto his shoulders, gripping them tight. Geralt glared at him. “What are you doing?” he growled.

“What- what am I doing?” the bard spluttered, not quite the intimidated reaction he had been aiming for. “Why, I am greeting my very good friend who has saved my life in more ways than one by now. Look, Geralt, thanks to the success of the song I wrote about your heroic deeds, I could afford a new doublet. What do you think?” Finally, he let go of Geralt and did a little twirl, showing off his new clothing. It looked very soft.

“Hmm,” Geralt answered. The bard could surely not still be singing that wretched Toss a Coin song, could he? “Why?”

Jaskier scoffed. “Why what? Am I asking for your opinion? Well, truth be told, I am not so sure about that either given that you’re being entirely unhelpful, good sir.”

Geralt grunted and tried to escape the bard, tugging on Roach’s reins and continuing his way to the alderman’s house. As always, such subtleties evaded him and Jaskier started to follow. “Anyways, what brings you to this thorp at the arse-end of the world. I mean, technically we met at the end of the world, but phew, this place could really give Posada a run for its money.”

“Hm,” Geralt said and ducked his head to hid his smile. As an answer he just threw open one of the bags he was carrying.

Jaskier shrieked. “What is that?” he demanded to know. “No, don’t tell me, that’s just disgusting. Dear gods please let that satchel not have touched me-”

“Foglet heads,” Geralt replied before he knew why he even dignified that with an answer. “Alderman promised fifty bezants for them.”

“So, you come fresh from a contract? Why didn’t you say so? Allow me, I’ll have dear Roach fed and stabled in no time while you go collect your bounty and then we can both sit down for an ale and a chat, how does that sound, hm?” Jaskier blabbered on and made to grab for Roach’s reins.

“Didn’t give me a bloody chance to open my mouth,” Geralt growled and jerked the reins out of his reach.

“So, that’s still a no on touching your horse? No matter, I’ll just go ahead, I trust you’ll find your way to me, yes? There is only one tavern in town, after all, and I believe it is just as nameless as this godsforsaken settlement. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said and then the bard was gone in the same flurry of blue silk and enthusiasm he had arrived in. Roach snorted and nudged his shoulder with her head. “What?” he groused.

She looked at him with big, reproachful eyes.

“Hmm.” He continued to walk towards the alderman’s house. “We’ll see about that.”

If he were thinking straight, Geralt would leave the town right after he had collected his bounty. Fifty bezants was a nice sum of money for a couple of foglets but not enough to be wasting it on a featherbed or a warm meal he did not need. He could camp in the woods, set up snares to catch a rabbit. He should camp in the woods.

He did not know why he turned to the inn instead, throwing a couple of coppers to the stableboy to take care of Roach. Certainly not because of the blaring that rang from the lunchroom. Definitely not because of the scant promise of company and a friendly face. He didn’t need the kinds of Jaskier around and neither did he want him.

Still, he pushed open the door to the tavern. A cacophony of unpleasantness bombarded him – the smell of sweat, cheap ale and piss, barely concealed by the rushes on the crude compressed earthen floor, the taste of overcooked mutton in under seasoned stew served with wine tart enough to pass as vinegar. Barely a score of patrons populated the roughly hewn tables on rickety stools, all of them talking too loudly and washing too little.

Geralt could feel their eyes upon him as soon as he pushed through the narrow doorframe. What had been a buzzing backdrop of noise to the tavern was reduced to a lone voice accompanied by a lute.

Geralt almost left again immediately. Humans. Always the same with them.

Before he could turn craven and run, a voice called out. “Oi!” He turned his head to see the barkeep motioning at him, a bald, beer-bellied ox of a man. “You the witcher? The White Wolf or what’s he’s called you?”

Geralt nodded and strode over to the counter where the barkeep was already tapping a beer. “I have coin,” he offered. “For bed and board.”

“It’s on the house,” the barkeep shrugged and pushed the tankard towards him.

“Hmm.” Geralt furrowed his brow. He didn’t like this. It felt like another trap. Suspiciously, he sniffed the beer. It appeared to be completely ordinary. He took a cautious sip. Well, ordinary besides the truly atrocious quality at least.

“You can keep drinkin’,” the innkeeper said and pointed behind Geralt’s shoulder, “so long as he keeps singin’.”

Well. That was a first. He nodded and took another deep gulp before he finally turned around. Jaskier was standing in the middle of the room on a makeshift stage fashioned of the largest table in the room where the patrons were laughing as they hastily rescued their drinks from the bard’s dancing feet. One of them was too engrossed in the conversation with his neighbour and not fast enough, so he ended up drenched in his own drink, but instead of upsetting them, it made the people laugh even more. Jaskier was strumming his lute and singing at the top of his lungs.

And so, to gain my lady’s fairest love

I’ll gift her honey laced with lies to taste,

An amber -hilted dagger for her waist,

A crown of silver spun from clouds above!

“Above, above, above!” the crowd shouted a dissonant answer when Jaskier pointed at them.

But with the morning light will come the dawn,

The sun reveals the silver clouds are grey

That have drawn me a hundred miles away

For with the morning light, I will be gone.

“Begone, begone, begone!” the crowd cried.

Geralt allowed himself a small smile, which he was quickly forced to hide behind his tankard as Jaskier spun around unexpectedly and spotted him. 

When the bard smiled in turn, it was like the sun rising in the black of night.

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed.

That was a first as well.

#geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfiction #witcher bows and arrows #whatever a sun will always sing #my writing

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

It doesn't matter what he's doing, who he's talking to; whether he's performing or just walking along the road, if he lets his mind lose focus, those words are the first things he hears. In his head, they're as clear as if Geralt is standing next to him, uttering them, shattering his heart all over again. 

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

And to think Jaskier had poured his heart out to him. Had wanted to take him away. Had thought everything was fine. Sure, Geralt had been a little quieter than usual, a little gruffer, but he was like that sometimes. Jaskier didn't expect him to be so angry with him. 

How long had Geralt been thinking these things about him? How long had he been a burden to a man he longed only to be with? Too long, apparently. 

As he hitches his lute case up on his shoulder, the sickly empty feeling seeps back in. He feels like he wants to vomit, but he hasn't been able to eat anything all day, so he couldn't anyway. His eyes sting and his heart aches and he sees Geralt in the clearings in the trees where they would have camped, the cool blue river where they would have bathed, the dirt path they spent so long travelling together. 

He's too miserable even to write and he walks silently, just a bard and his lute and nothing more. He carries a dagger from Geralt, a gift so he could protect himself when they were separated. It's a heavy weight against his thigh and more than once Jaskier has been tempted to hurl it into the river. It's a reminder of all the times they had together, times he thought were good, but maybe not so much after all. But it's also a reminder of his best friend, the man who was more to him than anyone else. He shouldn't want to keep it, but he does. Every time he tries to rid himself of it, his heart clenches and he remembers the kind things Geralt used to say to him. So it stays, strapped to his thigh, just in case.

Not that it would even do much use as protection; Jaskier is in no state to fight and if he was come upon now, he'd never make it through an attack. Which, he thinks bleakly, might be for the best. It's what Geralt wants, after all, to have him taken off his hands and then Jaskier wouldn't have to suffer through this pain any longer. As it is, he doesn't know how he'll carry on. 

But he does - one moment at a time. 

Nights are the worst, when there's no chance of running into someone on the road, when the light fades and the shadows creep closer. When Jaskier lies down alone and feels the ghost of Geralt's chest against his back. When he remembers the warmth of him, the feeling of his breath against the back of his neck, the soft conversations they had in the dark. Conversations that meant nothing then but mean more than he can comprehend now.

And in the morning, when he's feeling a little better, he thinks that he's being ridiculous. Geralt is just one man. He still has friends in Oxenfurt and spread around the continent. Maybe going back to Cintra will be a little uncomfortable, but he is welcome there still and many places between. There are people who love him and will welcome him into their home and let him rest, but despite knowing that, he can't shake the loneliness that inevitably creeps up on him again. He shouldn't let the loss of one man ruin his life, but that's how it feels. 

Geralt was his everything and even if none of his feelings were reciprocated, he was at home with him. Geralt was the home he never knew and now he feels lost, like a leaf on the wind; pulled from the safety of its tree and hurled out into the unknown. 

He was just so blindly happy that he never realized something was wrong. He never realized that underneath the jokes about not being friends Geralt genuinely didn't want him around and his stomach turns at the thought. How could he have been so stupid? So blind? All he'd ever wanted to do was love him, to stick by him and prove to the world that Witchers aren't so bad as they're made out to be. At times, Geralt was even lovely. Not that any of that matters anymore. 

But it feels unfair. That all he wanted to do was love and protect and he's the one who was punished for it. And it's worse now that the numbness has worn off because he feels every ache, every stab of guilt for being too much. 

He wants to run to someone, but there's no one to run to. Geralt is behind him now and he still has a life to live - a lot of it, if he's lucky. But it all seems too much, to go on now without him. 

Jaskier makes camp early that night. He hasn't eaten since he first got up and his body is worse off for it. He can barely keep his eyes open and he just wants peace, so he finds the first bit of shelter he can find and lays out his bedroll to sit down on. He should light a fire. He'll be cold if he doesn't, but he can't muster up the energy to do it. 

This is his life now, he realizes, staring up at the trees in the dark. Just him alone on the road. He could go back to the city, he supposes, but what would he do there? At least this way he can play when he wants and has no obligation to when he's not feeling up to it. Not, at least, anything other than the emptying of his coin purse. But he doesn't eat much lately and he can always find berries along the road if he's really desperate. Geralt taught him how to tell which are good to eat and which ones aren't.

His heart aches at the memory and instantly, tears well in his eyes. It isn't fair, he decides, that he has so much love for Geralt, even after everything, and can't ever hope to get any in return. He shuts his eyes against the dark of the night and he feels very lost and small and very alone. 

He doesn't make a definite decision to head to the coast, but that's where he ends up. It's a small coastal town, small enough that they can't afford to pay him to perform, but offer room and board instead. And Jaskier hasn't had a decent sleep in weeks so he graciously accepts. He asks after a bath and the innkeeper has one arranged for him. 

It's supposed to provide a little comfort, but instead, it reminds him of Geralt like everything else. 

#i wrote this when i was sad #and then i reread it and i love it #but idk what it belongs to #so have a thing #maybe it will be long later #jaskier #rex writes

[king-finnigan]

Geraskier prompt- geralt is in deep denial, and goes to a brothel and finds a mage who offers to give him a vivid vision his mind conjures up with his deepest desires for a few more coin. Geralt, intrigued, accepts and is blessed with none other that Jaskier and romance ensues. When geralt wakes up there’s major angst, then eventual fluff and smut :)

Despite what he always tells Jaskier, he really does enjoy the bard’s company. Sure, he never entirely shuts up, and if he does, he’s either humming or singing or tapping his fingers. It’s loud, and it’s annoying, and it took a long while for Geralt to get used to it, even longer for him to appreciate it. At some point, a few years ago, though, he realized he’d come to miss the bard whenever they’re apart.

Of course, that doesn’t stop him from parting ways with Jaskier every winter, Geralt going to Kaer Morhen to spend the coldest season with his brothers, Jaskier most often going to Oxenfurt. And while, yes, he does miss Jaskier during those long, dark months, he has his brothers to keep his mind off the bard - repairing the run-down parts of the keep, training in the courtyard, bickering and nearly beating each other up from time to time - so the winters aren’t too bad.

It’s those weeks in between that are the worst. Those weeks when he leaves Kaer Morhen and heads to the south-west, in search of Jaskier. It’s those weeks when it’s almost too quiet for his mind to bear, the silence sneaking up on him, making him feel lonely and slightly jumpy, making him wish he just had Jaskier back already, someone to keep his thoughts from spiralling downwards into self-hatred. 

Jaskier’s always been good at that: keeping Geralt sane.

A few weeks after setting out from Kaer Morhen, he passes through a large town in Redania called Inerith. He decides to check the notice board for any contracts - after all, he’ll probably need the money, at some point; he can’t live off his supplies from Kaer Morhen forever. It’s empty, which is a bit strange for such a large town, but he figures it’s just a quiet neighbourhood. 

Well, the notice board is empty, save for one sheet of paper. It’s an advertisement for the brothel, at the corner of the main street. It offers the reader their ‘deepest, darkest desires’. ‘For only sixty crowns more!’ it announces cheerily. Geralt scoffs at the notion, though there is a certain curiosity stirring in his stomach. He thinks for a second, about how it’ll take another few weeks until he reaches Oxenfurt, until he’s no longer alone.

He sighs, and heads to the corner of the main street. Sure, it won’t chase away his loneliness completely, but a warm body next to him might keep him from getting stuck in his own head for at least one night. And, admittedly, he is a bit curious to find out what his ‘deepest, darkest desire’ is. Probably a good talk with someone he trusts, or a nice ale. Jaskier crosses his mind for a fleeting second, but he pushes it away, nearly laughing at his own ridiculousness. Sure, the bard is a good friend of his, but nothing more than that - just a friend.

He stops in front of the brothel. It’s a very nice building, with white walls and a purple door, large windows tempting passerbys to look inside, yet there are purple curtains blocking everything from view. He sighs, heading inside, and is greeted immediately by the madame. She looks him up and down, head tilted slightly in curiosity. 

“I will not allow permanent harm to be done to any of my girls or boys, Witcher. And hurting them costs extra.”

He frowns. “I’m not seeking to do harm to anyone. I’m merely seeking someone to keep me warm.”

She nods, face relaxing slightly. “I believe you. Forgive me for being so direct, but the rumours, you see...” Geralt nods. He knows about the reputation Witchers have, has had this talk with plenty of madames before. “So, a boy or a girl, tonight, Witcher? I might have to see who’s willing to bed you, but I think either can be arranged,” she continues, as she leads him to a spacious living room, filled with couches the same colours as the curtains, prostitutes lounging on them, casting curious glances in his direction.

It’s a good question, and he’s not really sure - he doesn’t really prefer one over the other. He looks at the covered windows, sees a hint of blue sky peeking out between two curtains, and without thinking twice, he says: “Boy.”

The madame nods. “Have you read about our special service, on the notice board?”

Geralt nods. “I have. What does it entail?”

She smiles at him. "A Mage will look into your mind, and conjure up a vision of your deepest desire, one you might not even know about yourself. It could look like an older person, or a younger person, or the hatefuck you’ve always wanted, or the person you’ve been too afraid to confess to. Of course, it’s just a vision, the whore stays the same underneath the glamour, but it’ll look and sound and feel like the real thing. Costs only sixty crowns extra, on top of the amount you already have to pay, of course.”

He stares at the wall behind her for a few seconds, biting the inside of his cheek, as he thinks. He’s not really sure what to expect, but he’s got the money and the curiosity, and he figures that if he doesn’t like it, he can always leave, so he turns his eyes back to the madame, nodding once.

She smiles. “That is arranged, then.” She snaps her fingers at a man with blonde hair and warm, brown eyes, laying on one of the couches. “Adrian, are you up for a Witcher, tonight?” 

The man- Adrian, stretches out, looking Geralt up and down for a few seconds, and the Witcher can smell a hint of lust trickling through the heavy perfume of the room. “Certainly am,” Adrian says, before standing up, sauntering over to Geralt, laying a hand on his chest. “He’s a fine one, this Witcher,” he mutters to the madame, and she nods in agreement. “So,” the whore whispers, leaning up a bit to meet Geralt’s eye, “did you take the special service?”

He swallows thickly, then nods, earning him a soft chuckle from Adrian.

“Curious to see what the big, bad Witcher desires most,” he purrs into Geralt’s ear, before stepping back, extending his hand, which Geralt takes. “Come on, big boy, let’s get you upstairs, shall we?”

Geralt follows Adrian up the stairs, towards one of the rooms. It’s spacious and quite luxurious, painted white, with a bed the same purple as the curtains downstairs, but Geralt doesn’t really pay attention to it too much. Adrian lets him in, but keeps the door open, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes hungrily taking Geralt in. “Just a minute, Witcher. Have to wait for the Mage, first.”

Well enough, a few seconds later, Geralt hears footsteps approaching them, a middle-aged man appearing in the doorway. The Mage rubs his hands together, pulling his eyebrows up at Adrian, who nods in confirmation. 

“Alright,” the Mage mutters, extending his hand towards Geralt, palm flat, fingers slightly spread. “Ready whenever you are, master Witcher.” Geralt frowns, but steps closer, letting the Mage touch the side of his head with his fingers, before the man reaches out and holds on to Adrian’s shoulder. 

Suddenly, Geralt feels dizzy, and he squeezes his eyes shut, resisting the urge to empty the contents of his stomach onto the floor. He gasps for air, his vision going white for a couple of seconds. The hand on the side of his head disappears, and he hears footsteps, before a door is closed softly.

He feels a gentle hand against his cheek, callouses on the fingertips, and it grounds him back into reality, calms him down. 

“Geralt, are you alright?” a familiar voice asks, and his eyes snap open. The Mage is gone, and so is Adrian. Instead, he sees Jaskier, blue eyes staring at Geralt with concern, his familiar scent of roses and lemon tingling in the Witcher’s nose. 

“Jaskier?”

“If that’s who you want me to be, then yes.”

He frowns, thoroughly confused, until he remembers what the madame had said. Sure, he may look, feel, and smell like Jaskier, but it’s not him - it’s still Adrian. But fuck, if it doesn’t seem so incredibly real - if it doesn’t seem like Jaskier is right there, in the room with him, like they never parted ways for the winter at all. He hadn’t expected the bard to be his deepest desire, but now that he’s here - now that it looks like he’s here - smelling of himself and arousal, Geralt can’t deny that he wants this, more than anything.

He contemplates running for the door, getting the hell out of here before he complicates the friendship he has with Jaskier, when Jaskier- Adrian, steps towards him, plastering himself against Geralt’s chest, lithe arms wrapping themselves around his neck. “How long, Witcher?” He even fucking sounds like Jaskier.

“Months,” Geralt replies, hands settling on Jaskier’s- Adrian’s hips off their own accord, and he feels warmth seeping into his skin. “It’s been months since we last saw each other.”

Jaskier- Adrian, godsdammit, tuts, nose brushing against Geralt’s. “Not what I meant, darling. How long have you wanted me?”

His breath catches in his throat when Jaskier’s lips brush over his. “Years,” he manages to choke out, before he pulls the bard closer, kissing him like he’ll die if he doesn’t - because it certainly feels like he will. Years of tension, of longing looks he wasn’t even aware he was casting, of secret dreams of the bard’s body against his, shattering as Jaskier softly moans into his mouth, opening his lips and inviting Geralt to deepen the kiss. 

It’s everything he’s ever wanted and more, as Jaskier moves one hand down, palming Geralt’s already hard cock through his trousers, making the Witcher gasp slightly. 

“Gods, you’re so big, Geralt,” Jaskier- Adrian- Jaskier mutters, nipping at Geralt’s lower lip. “Wonder if that’s all going to fit, darling.”

“I- you... you don’t have to,” he whispers, shivering slightly as Jaskier runs a soft finger along his cock, rubbing the head gently through the fabric, barely more than a tingle.

“I want to, darling. Want to split myself open on your cock, see if I can come on it untouched.” He bites his lower lip, lashes fluttering slightly in excitement. “Have been waiting for this for years,” he whispers. 

The illusion breaks for just a second, then, as Geralt remembers that this is not really Jaskier, this is not his dearest friend who he’s known for decades. This is Adrian, a whore who he paid to fuck. He’s about to pull back when Jaskier- Adrian- Jaskier drops to his knees, tongue hot and wet against the fabric of Geralt’s trousers, and he groans at the sensation, threading his fingers through brown curls - Gods, they feel as soft as they look.

“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, looking up at him through thick lashes, “want to suck you so bad, feel you come in my mouth.”

He has to choke back a needy sound, and nods, lets Jaskier unlace his trousers, lets lithe fingers pull out his painfully hard cock. Jaskier gives him two long, languid strokes with just the right amount of pressure that it leaves Geralt’s head spinning, nimble fingers catching beads of precum, smearing it out across his skin.

“Fuck,” he utters, fingers tightening in those brown curls. “Please, I need you-” He groans, deep and guttural when Jaskier wraps his lips around the head of his cock, sucking harshly - bordering just on the right side of painful - before letting go again.

“Gods, Geralt, I love hearing you beg.”

He chuckles, wiping some stray hair away from Jaskier’s forehead, as those familiar, blue eyes look up at him, pupils blown wide. “Of course you do.” He sighs softly as Jaskier kisses the tip of his cock, lips catching a bead of precum. “Fuck, please, Jaskier, need you so bad, please-” His sentence is choked off again, as Jaskier takes him in his mouth, sinking halfway down, before moving back, taking Geralt’s cock deeper with every slow bob of his head.

He doesn’t know what’s worse: the soft pressure of Jaskier’s mouth, combined with his slow movements, not enough to bring him closer to the edge, but enough to drive him insane; those searing, blue eyes, continuously staring at him, even as tears glaze them over whenever Geralt’s cock hits the back of his throat; or the knowledge that this is all just a beautiful illusion.

It’s the last realization that makes something in him snap, and he grabs the back of Jaskier’s- Adrian’s- Jaskier’s head, stilling him. “Tap my thigh if you want me to stop,” he says, and Jaskier nods obediently, clearly aware as to what’s coming. Jaskier lets himself go slack, hands holding on to Geralt’s thighs but doing nothing more - just holding on - spit starting to drip down his chin, as Geralt starts moving his head, up and down his cock.

The hands around his thighs clench a bit, the first time Jaskier chokes, but he soon relaxes again, lets Geralt fuck into his mouth, blue eyes falling shut, his own cock straining against his trousers.

“Fuck- feels so good, Jask,” Geralt mutters, cock twitching at the soft moans Jaskier lets out, at the wet sounds that come out of his throat every time the Witcher thrusts deeper. Way too soon for his own liking, he finds himself near his climax, and he pulls Jaskier’s head back, off his cock, ignoring the needy little sound the bard lets out.

“Jaskier, I’m going to-”

“Please, Geralt, come in my mouth, please. I want to taste you.”

“I- alright.” He lets go of Jaskier’s hair, and the younger man moves forward again, taking Geralt’s cock in his mouth with renewed fervor, sucking eagerly, and before soon, he feels himself hurtling over that edge, coming with a strangled “fuck!” 

Jaskier gently sucks him through his orgasm, before eventually pulling back when the pleasure starts to border on pain, making a show of swallowing, blue eyes staring up at Geralt intensely.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, softly petting Jaskier’s hair, who grins at him. “That was amazing. You’re amazing.” He moves his hand under Jaskier’s chin, and the bard stands up, letting Geralt pull him into a searing kiss. 

It isn’t long before Jaskier (not Jaskier) starts palming at Geralt’s cock again, though. “Need you, Geralt,” he whines against the Witcher’s lips. “Want you inside me.”

Geralt can’t help but grin at that, reaching down to put his hands around the back of Jaskier’s thighs. Jaskier seems to get the message and jumps up, wrapping his legs around the Witcher’s waist, pulling him in for another kiss while Geralt carries him to the bed. 

He lowers Jaskier onto the soft sheets, the bard quickly undressing himself as Geralt does the same, settling between Jaskier’s legs afterwards. “How- how do you want...”

Jaskier sits up, pressing a soft hand against Geralt’s chest. “However you want.”

He swallows thickly. “Well, I don’t- I don’t know...” In all reality, he’s dreamt about this moment a billion times and now that he’s here with Jaskier (not Jaskier), he doesn’t really know what to do. All he knows is that he just wants to please the bard, in whatever way he can.

Jaskier sighs softly and rolls his eyes, though smiles anyways. “Alright, fine, I’ll decide, then.” He chews on his bottom lip for a second, contemplating his choices, arousal spiking in his roses and lemon-scent, before he turns around, his knees on the soft, purple sheets, head on his forearms. “Like this,” Jaskier whispers, looking over his shoulder. “I want you to fuck me like this.”

Geralt can’t help but smile, though softly, as he runs his palm along Jaskier’s spine, earning him a shiver. After a few more gentle strokes, he moves his hand towards Jaskier’s ass, resting just on top of it, the other pulling his cheeks apart. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, as he sees the round end of a wooden plug. “Oh, prepared, aren’t we?”

Jaskier grins over his shoulder, wiggling his ass softly, invitingly. “Couldn’t wait.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, taking the end of the plug between his fingers, tugging softly, earning him a sharp hiss and a spike in the scent of arousal, hanging heavily around them. “You’ve always been impatient.”

“Yeah, well, still am,” Jaskier huffs, attempting to move his hips, only stopped by Geralt’s hand, keeping him still. “Please, Geralt, I need you to fuck me, and I swear to all the gods, if you don’t do it right now, I won’t talk to you for a week.”

He chuckles softly, though a distant part of him wonders if the Mage planted Geralt’s memories of Jaskier into Adrian’s head, because good gods, does he sound exactly like the bard - from his accent, to his impatience, to the way he words his sentences. It’s uncanny, and he strains to fight the blurring of the lines between the whore in front of him and the real Jaskier.

“Geralt?” He looks up at Jaskier’s- Adrian’s- Jaskier’s voice, soft and concerned, meeting searing blue eyes. “Everything alright?”

He nods. “Fine,” he grunts, tugging at the plug, pulling the thickest part past Jaskier’s rim, to distract both himself and the bard- whore- bard. It works, and Jaskier lets out a breathy moan, Geralt’s cock twitching against his stomach in interest. “Fuck,” he mutters, pushing the plug slightly back in again, before completely pulling it out, just to hear Jaskier moan.

“Sweet Melitele’s tits, Geralt. Please, please, just-” He keens, high and sweet and more beautiful than any music Geralt’s ever heard, when he pushes the head of his cock past Jaskier’s rim. “Oh, fuck, feels so good, please, pleasepleaseplease-” 

His begging dissolves into breathy moans and soft pants as Geralt pushes in further, until he’s completely seated, sparks of pleasure shooting through him as Jaskier twitches around him. He stills for a second, lets Jaskier get used to the size of him, forces himself to move back from that edge a bit, before he pulls his hips back, slamming back in. It earns him a loud moan, so he does it again, and again, and again, angling his hips differently every time, until he finally finds the spot that makes Jaskier scream.

“Oh, gods, oh gods, ohgodsohgodsohgods-” Jaskier (not Jaskier, dammit) mutters, body shaking with pleasure, cock steadily drooling precum on the purple sheets. Slowly, Geralt increases his speed, thrusts growing more and more shallow, until he’s barely pulling out anymore - though he finds he doesn’t need to, when Jaskier comes with a strangled shout underneath him, painting the sheets and his own chest white with cum. He clenches around Geralt, and the pressure is enough for the Witcher to come as well, groaning softly, stilling completely.

After a while, he pulls out, collapsing next to Jaskier, who has rolled onto his side, facing Geralt. He closes his eyes for a second, lets himself revel in that post-orgasmic haze, in the feeling of someone next to him, in the soft patterns long fingers without callouses trace into his chest. He frowns, the sleepy, content haze suddenly gone, and he looks to his side, finding Adrian looking back at him.

His heart shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, it really shouldn’t.

He gets out of there as fast as he can.

---

He told himself it didn’t mean anything. He told himself it wouldn’t change the way he looked at Jaskier. He told himself everything would be fine and he could go back to the way things were, as if nothing had happened at all. He told himself he could forget all about it.

He now knows he’s wrong, as Jaskier pulls him into a tight hug, grinning into Geralt’s shoulder. “Geralt! It’s so good to see you!” The bard pulls back, holding the Witcher at an arm’s length, blue eyes sparkling. “Something the matter, Witcher?”

Geralt blinks, tears his gaze away from Jaskier’s lips, forcing the memory of how they had looked wrapped around his cock to the back of his mind. He shakes his head. “Been a long journey, is all.”

Jaskier grins at him, looping an arm thought Geralt’s, dragging him to an inn at the corner of the main square of Oxenfurt, near the university. “I understand. Kaer Morhen is a long way away, my dear Witcher, so how about we get you some rest and a nice bath? I bet that’ll make you feel better.”

He knows it won’t, as he looks at Jaskier, and can’t stop his mind from wandering to that one night, a few weeks ago, but he lets himself be led to the inn, anyway.

---

He sits in the bath obediently as Jaskier dumps bucket after bucket of clean water over his head, chattering excitedly about all the taverns he played in during the winter, all the people he’d had drinks with, all the classes he gave at the university. Geralt lets himself be near-manhandled as Jaskier scrubs at his back, pointedly ignoring the proximity and the warmth radiating off the bard.

He closes his eyes for a second, breathing in roses and lemon, trying to push away the memory of how it had smelled with arousal mixed into that scent. He breathes in again - roses, lemon, and... pine trees. His eyes snap open, and his hand snatches Jaskier’s wrist, bringing it to his nose, ignoring the bard’s confused protests.

There it is, again, as Geralt pushes his nose against Jaskier’s pulse, breathing in deeply. There’s a lingering hint of pine trees and musk beneath those familiar roses and lemons, but it’s barely there, almost as if Jaskier desperately tried to scrub the scent away.

He lets go of the bard’s wrist, as Jaskier keeps staring at Geralt, confused. “You were with someone else. Not long ago. A man.”

Jaskier blinks, then blushes furiously, looking away. “Alright, yeah, maybe I was.” He looks at Geralt again, shrugs. “But what I get up to during the winter isn’t exactly your business, Witcher.” He sounds defensive, and quite honestly, Geralt doesn’t blame him. He knows full well he has no right to comment on the company Jaskier keeps, has no right to demand an explanation.

Has no right to feel so jealous.

So, he turns back around, letting Jaskier scrub shampoo into his hair, a little bit more harshly than usual - but still softer and kinder than Geralt deserves. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? He doesn’t deserve Jaskier, doesn’t deserve his friendship, his company, his kindness, his sparkling blue eyes. He doesn’t deserve Jaskier, and Jaskier deserves better than him - deserves someone to keep him company during the cold, long months, when Geralt’s fucked off to Kaer Morhen, someone who smells like pine trees.

“Was he good to you?” The question is out of his mouth before he knows it, and Jaskier’s hands still in his hair for a split second.

“Who?”

“The man you were with. Was he good to you?”

Jaskier hums softly, arousal spiking in his scent, which is answer enough to Geralt. “Yes, he was. He was very good to me, but...” His voice trails off, and he gets up to grab another bucket of water, dumping it over Geralt’s head, who wipes it out of his eyes.

“But what?”

“Well, he was...” He hears Jaskier sitting on the stool behind him again, feels a comb through his hair, teeth lightly scraping against his scalp. “He was nice, and comfortable, and safe.”

“Those are all good things.”

Jaskier sighs softly. “Well, yes, they are, but it’s not... what I want. For some people, comfort and safety is what they want in life, but not for me. I want- need something... more. So, being with him was nice. But only for a while.”

“And what do you need, then?”

It’s quiet between them for a while, Jaskier still combing Geralt’s hair, though there are no longer any knots left. “Adventure,” Jaskier says, eventually. “The thrill of danger, the feeling of adrenaline in my veins, travelling around the Continent, never truly settling down.”

It explains why Jaskier’s still around him, he supposes, explains why Jaskier always joins him on the Path, even after spending an entire winter apart. But it doesn’t explain why Jaskier sticks by Geralt’s side, specifically. Hell, the bard could walk the roads alone, and he would get exactly what he wants. Maybe he keeps close to Geralt for safety, maybe for songs, maybe for the Witcher’s hunting skills. He doesn’t know. And he’s too afraid to ask - scared that if he does, Jaskier will realize he doesn’t really need Geralt and leave him on his own.

Jaskier chuckles softly behind him. “What? No scathing remark? No telling me that I’m romanticizing danger? Not even a hmm?”

Geralt smiles softly. “Hmm.”

Jaskier laughs, patting Geralt on his shoulder, before standing up, drying off his hands. “Alright, then, I guess that’ll have to do.”

And with that, he’s gone, presumably to go get some food downstairs, and Geralt gets out of the bath, drying himself off, pointedly ignoring the lingering feeling of Jaskier’s hands against his skin.

---

They continue travelling after that, heading east on Jaskier’s request. Everything is back to normal - or at least, it should be, but Geralt can’t stop the memories of that one night resurfacing every time he looks at Jaskier. Hell, sometimes he forgets it was all an illusion, a vision created by a Mage. Sometimes he forgets that it wasn’t Jaskier at all, and it makes him slip up a few times, the boundaries they’ve created between them over the years suddenly unclear and slightly blurry. It gets worse the longer they travel together, Geralt slowly letting his guard down too much.

One time, Jaskier sat down next to him after a performance, gulping down two cups of ale before basically inhaling the plate of food Geralt had gotten for him. The Witcher had put his hand on the bard’s thigh under the table, had told him to take it easy or he would choke on it. Jaskier had simply nodded, and Geralt’s attention had strayed to the rest of the tavern, making sure there were no potential threats coming their way. It was only when he had noticed Jaskier staring at him, that he’d realized his hand wasn’t just still on the bard’s thigh, but that it had strayed up a bit. He had snatched his hand away, cleared his throat, and excused himself for the night, getting the hell out of there as quickly as he could manage. Jaskier hadn’t mentioned it.

There was also that one time that Jaskier was reading something, and Geralt had looked over his shoulder to see what it was. Without thinking twice about it, he had turned his head, brushing his nose against that sensitive spot under Jaskier’s ear, inhaling roses and lemon. Jaskier’s stuttering breath and skipping heartbeat had shaken him out of it, and he’d gone to brush Roach, scolding himself for what he’d done.

And then there was the staring. He couldn’t stop his eyes from straying to the bard every time they were in the same room, couldn’t stop the memories from resurfacing, along with a suffocating wave of longing. It had come to a point where even Jaskier was a bit freaked out about it, it seemed, furrowing his brow in confusion every time he caught the Witcher staring. Hell, he even asked about it a couple of times, asked if there was something wrong. Geralt didn’t have the heart to tell him, so he merely grunted something noncommittal and turned away.

---

He doesn’t realize they’ve travelled so far to the east, until Jaskier one day closes the door to their room at the inn after a performance and says: “Can we go to Inerith, next?”

There’s something familiar about the name of the town, something nagging at the back of Geralt’s mind, but he ignores it. “Why?”

Jaskier clears his throat, looking both excited and a bit embarrassed. “Well, there’s a brothel there-” Geralt snorts. Of course it’s about sex, it almost always is with Jaskier. The bard ignores it. “-where they offer a special service, I’ve heard. They can show you your deepest, darkest desire and project it as a vision. Heard it really works, as well.”

Oh. Oh no. So that’s why the name had sounded so familiar to Geralt, it’s the town with... where he... He squeezes his eyes shut for just a second. “No, not going back,” he says. After all, he can’t face what he’s done, can’t risk anyone recognizing him, can’t stop himself from going to the brothel again, if they were to pass through the town.

He doesn’t realize what he’s said, until Jaskier asks: “What do you mean, going back?” 

Geralt freezes in the middle of cleaning his swords, the only sounds in the room the crackling of the fire in the hearth, Jaskier’s rapid heartbeat, and his own faltering one. “Nothing,” he says eventually.

“Oh, nonono, you don’t get to say something like that and not acknowledge it,” Jaskier quips, standing in front of Geralt, hands on his hips. “You’ve been to Inerith, haven’t you? You went to the brothel.”

Geralt sighs, putting his sword to the side, wiping a hand over his face. “Hmm.”

“Did you- did you see your deepest desire? What was it?”

He swallows thickly. “No, I didn’t see it.” he lies. “I didn’t have the money. It was just a normal fuck.”

Jaskier purses his lips, something mischievous and gleeful shining in those blue eyes. “I know you’re lying, Geralt. Come on, what did you see?” His eyes widen slightly. “Or who did you see? Was it the sorceress, the-” he waves his hand a bit “the scary one with the purple eyes?” 

He looks at Geralt for a second, gaze intent, and the Witcher looks away - he can’t bear the heaviness of those eyes on him.

Jaskier gasps slightly. “It wasn’t the witch? Oh, now you have to tell me.”

“I don’t have to tell you shit,” Geralt snaps, and moves to get up, pushed back into the chair by Jaskier’s surprisingly strong and firm hand against his chest. “Really?”

Jaskier grins at him, a wicked edge to his smile. “Really. You’re going to tell me what you saw, Witcher.”

“I will do no such thing.” He stares at Jaskier, who stares right back, unyielding, unrelenting, curiosity and glee in those impossibly blue eyes. Eventually, he can’t take it anymore, the memories resurfacing again, Jaskier’s gaze too intense to bear, and he looks away, guilt creeping up on his mind.

“Oh,” Jaskier whispers, and Geralt looks back at the bard, sees his eyes widening in realization, face going slack. “Oh. It was me, wasn’t it? You saw me.”

He can’t hide it anymore. The truth has already been threatening to spill over, these past few weeks, the realization in Jaskier’s eyes the last drop. “Yes.” Jaskier’s hand is still on his chest, his entire mind narrowing down to the heat and the weight of that one point of contact, only distracted when Jaskier leans forward, crowding his vision, forcing Geralt to look at him.

“Oh, you bastard,” Jaskier whispers. Geralt resists the urge to close his eyes, resists the urge to get the hell out of here. This is what he’s been fearing, these past few weeks - that Jaskier would find out and hate him for it.

He startles when the bard climbs into his lap, knees around Geralt’s hip, heels under his own ass. Surprisingly strong hands tighten around his shoulders, as Jaskier bites his bottom lip. “You bastard. You got what you wanted, you got to fuck me, but I didn’t get to fuck you? I can’t believe this.”

Geralt frowns, tries to blink away his confusion. “I didn’t think you wanted to.”

“Haven’t I flirted with you for years? Haven’t I offered several times?”

Jaskier has offered to keep him warm, to help ease his tension and stress, but- “I thought you were joking. I didn’t think you meant it.”

Jaskier laughs, a bit bitterly. “Gods, you’re so stupid.” He smiles at Geralt, something hot and heavy mixing with his scent of roses and lemon, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Tell me,” he whispers. “What did he do for you? What did he do while looking exactly like me?”

Geralt’s mind shortcircuits, and he finds himself unable to put the memories to words, to tell Jaskier, though the sight of the bard’s pupils dilating, of his cock straining against his breeches desperately makes him want to. He swallows thickly. “I- he...” 

“Can’t find the words?” Geralt shakes his head, and Jaskier’s grin only widens. “Alright. Show me, then.”

That’s all the encouragement he needs, and he hooks his hands under Jaskier’s legs, holding him up as he gets out of the chair, walking to the bed. He tries to gently lay the bard down, he really does, but his own excitement and nerves make his hands falter, dropping Jaskier down unceremoniously. The bard yelps as his back hits the sheets, but giggles soon afterwards, fighting to kick off his boots.

Geralt kneels at the foot of the bed and helps him, before moving up, untying the laces of Jaskier’s breeches, as the bard watches him, pupils dilated, teeth worrying his bottom lip. Finally, the laces are undone enough for Geralt to pull the breeches down Jaskier’s legs, discarding them somewhere behind him, leaving the bard in his underclothes.

Jaskier yelps again when Geralt pulls him towards the edge of the bed, positioning the bard’s legs over his shoulders. He looks up at Jaskier. “Tell me to stop and I will,” he whispers, and Jaskier pushes himself up onto his elbows, carding a hand through Geralt’s hair, tugging slightly, eliciting a soft groan from the Witcher.

“I’m not worried about you not stopping, I’m worried about you not goddamn starting, Geralt,” he mutters, pulling one eyebrow up in challenge.

Geralt doesn’t respond. Instead, he dives down, closing his mouth around the head of Jaskier’s still clothed cock, earning him a soft moan and another tug at his scalp. He looks up as he licks a few stripes up the shaft, slowly wetting the fabric, and meets Jaskier’s intense gaze, the bard’s lips parted as he pants slightly. 

“Gods, you’re gorgeous like that,” Jaskier mutters, loosening his grip on Geralt’s hair in favour of running his fingers through the strands. If the Witcher could’ve blushed, he would’ve, but he decides that he’s teased Jaskier enough, and pulls away slightly, earning him a soft whine that turns needier when he tugs Jaskier’s underclothes down far enough to release his cock.

He wastes no time wrapping his mouth around Jaskier’s cock, licking away beads of precum before he swallows him down completely, basking in the bard’s moans, in the soft tugging at his scalp as nimble fingers tighten in his hair again.

Jaskier’s cock hits the back of his throat, and he closes his eyes for a few seconds, fighting the urge to gag, as he holds still. He only starts moving again when Jaskier pulls him up, letting the bard guide him as he sucks.

“Fuck,” Jaskier mutters when Geralt hollows his cheeks around the head before moving down again. “You’re perfect- so fucking gorgeous...” His whispered praises turn into soft babbles, and Geralt knows he’s getting closer to that edge. He looks up at Jaskier again, stroking one hand up and down the bard’s hip, trying to convey his message with his eyes.

“You-” Jaskier gasps softly, panting for air. “You want me to come in your mouth? Is that it?”

Geralt’s hum of agreement is enough to send Jaskier over the edge, back arching off the bed as he comes, legs spasming slightly. Geralt diligently sucks him through his orgasm, swallowing every drop Jaskier has to give, only letting go when the bard twitches away from him, overstimulated.

He sits back, letting Jaskier’s legs fall off his shoulders in favour of tugging the bard’s breeches off, before undoing the buttons of Jaskier’s shirt. The bard sits up, lets Geralt tug the rest of his clothes off, before he starts pulling at the Witcher’s shirt, as well. “Not fair that I’m the only one naked,” he mutters, and Geralt can’t help but smile. “I want see you.”

Geralt lifts his shirt over his head, tossing it away, before standing up, fumbling hands working on the laces of his trousers, eventually managing to push them down and kick them off. He stands there sheepishly for a couple of seconds, as Jaskier gapes at him, lips parted slightly, hungry eyes raking up and down Geralt’s body. He can’t stand the intensity of those blue eyes for long, and steps forward, leaning down to kiss Jaskier, the taste of the bard’s spend still on his tongue, relishing in the soft, content sighs Jaskier lets out.

“Did you fuck him?” Jaskier eventually whispers against Geralt’s lips, and the Witcher frowns, slightly confused. “The whore that looked like me. Did you fuck him?” Jaskier clarifies.

Geralt had forgotten about that one night at the brothel in Inerith, in all honesty, too occupied with the real Jaskier, right in front of him, to remember. “Yes,” he manages to choke out. 

“How?”

“On his knees.”

Jaskier sighs softly, biting his lip, eyes suddenly uncharacteristically insecure. “I... I don’t want that. I understand if you do, but not... not the first time.” 

Geralt ignores the slight whooping feeling in his stomach at the insinuation that there will be more times to come, and nods. “I understand. I don’t want that, either. I want to see you.”

Jaskier smiles at him, pressing a soft kiss to the Witcher’s lips. “May I?” he asks, hands softly pushing against Geralt’s shoulders, and he nods, letting himself be gently pushed and pulled until he’s the one sitting on the bed, Jaskier in his lap. His hands fall on the bard’s waist like it’s second nature, and he can’t help but press soft kisses against the side of Jaskier’s neck, breathing in roses and lemons and the salty tang of sweat. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers against Jaskier’s skin, the words too heavy to say them to his face. “You’re beautiful and you’re perfect and I- I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Jaskier whispers, hands softly petting Geralt’s hair, the gesture so tender it’s almost overwhelming. 

“Oil?” he asks, and he feels Jaskier nod above him, pulling back a bit to reach down for his bag, at the foot of the bed. 

“Good thing I left this here,” he mutters, and Geralt smiles softly. He closes his eyes and takes a moment to let it all sink in. The fact that Jaskier loves him back, that he’s right here with him, his warm body pressed against Geralt, that he’s showering the Witcher with soft touches and softer kisses and even softer words. It’s almost too much, his chest not able to contain the happiness and love that he feels, but he resists the urge to take off, to run away from all this. For Jaskier. He’ll do anything in his power to make sure Jaskier never gets hurt again - especially not by Geralt himself.

“Hey.” Jaskier’s voice is impossibly soft and tender, his finger gently tilting Geralt’s chin up, and he opens his eyes. “Everything alright?”

He nods, ignoring the stinging in his eyes. “Yes, it’s just... a lot.”

Jaskier frowns softly, cradling Geralt’s face in his hands. “We can stop, if it’s too much. It’s alright, I understand.”

He shakes his head a bit. “No, I want to keep going. I want you, Jask. Now and always.”

Jaskier smiles, kissing the tip of Geralt’s nose softly. “You’re so cheesy,” he whispers, earning him a chuckle from the Witcher. “Alright, we’ll keep going then. I just need to open myself up, first.”

Geralt smiles up at Jaskier. “May I?” And by all the gods, he’ll never forget the sight of Jaskier blushing softly at his request. 

“Well, if you really want to. Most people just prefer that I do it myself, get it over with-”

“I want to.” He holds up his hand, and Jaskier puts the vial of oil he got from his bag in his palm, looping his slender arms around Geralt’s neck. Geralt, in turn, pops open the vial, pouring some chamomile oil into his hand, spreading it around and between his fingers, before reaching behind Jaskier, pressing two fingers against his rim.

Jaskier hisses softly, pushing his hips back. “Gods, yes, just like that.” Geralt smiles, pressing soft kisses against Jaskier’s jaw, as he pushes one finger in, slowly but steadily, basking in the soft whimpers the bard lets out. “More,” Jaskier demands, almost immediately, and Geralt can’t help but chuckle at that.

“You’re so needy,” he whispers, but obliges anyways, pulling the finger out, before pushing two back in. Jaskier moans softly, arching his back, pushing his hips back against Geralt’s hand. He slowly works Jaskier open, only adding a third finger when the bard is practically begging for it.

“Do you need a fourth finger?” he whispers and Jaskier frantically shakes his head. 

“No, just need you. Please, Geralt-”

He chuckles softly, taking the vial of oil again, slicking his cock up, Jaskier’s hungry eyes following his movements. “Alright, alright, no need to get impatient.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes at him, but bats his hand away, giving Geralt’s cock a few firm strokes that leave the Witcher’s head spinning, before positioning himself just above the tip. Gently, slowly, he lowers himself on Geralt’s cock, eyelashes fluttering softly as he pants, the Witcher’s hands settling on his hips just to have something to hold on to.

Once Jaskier’s fully seated, he stills for a few seconds, hands on Geralt’s shoulders, breath coming out in shallow bursts, red-kissed lips parted slightly. 

“Alright?” Geralt asks, wiping Jaskier’s sweaty hair from his forehead, fingers trailing down to the bard’s lips. Jaskier smiles at him, kissing his fingers softly.

“Better than alright.” Geralt can’t help but smile back. 

Slowly, Jaskier pushes himself up, before dropping down again, impaling himself on Geralt’s cock, moaning softly.��“Fuck, Geralt, feels so good...” He does it again and again and again, and Geralt lets him take the lead, his hands only tightening around the bard’s hips and helping him fuck himself on Geralt’s cock when he senses that Jaskier’s getting tired.

He forgets about his own pleasure, as he watches Jaskier’s unfold across his face, watches the bard bite his lip, watches his eyelashes flutter, watches his mouth fall open, losing himself in the scent of roses and lemons and sweat and lust - committing every little detail to memory, just in case. He’s sure that if there’s a paradise, then he has found it right here, in Jaskier’s arms.

“Geralt, I’m close,” Jaskier whispers, and he realizes with a small start that, he himself, is as well, so lost in the man he loves that he’d forgotten about his own body. 

He reaches between them, taking Jaskier’s leaking cock in his hand, giving him a few firm strokes. “Come for me, love,” he whispers, and Jaskier cries out, his head tipping back, spilling all over himself and Geralt. A few more thrusts later, Geralt comes as well, choking out Jaskier’s name.

They sit there for a while, softly panting, until Jaskier pulls himself off Geralt, collapsing onto the bed next to him. The Witcher, in turn, gathers all the strength he’s got, and pushes himself off the bed, walking to the wash basin with wobbly knees, wetting a cloth. He walks back to the bed, cleans the spend off the bard’s stomach and from between his legs, before cleaning himself.

He lies down on the bed, Jaskier scooting up until he’s got his head on Geralt’s shoulder, his arms around the Witcher. “So,” he eventually mutters. “Was I better than what you had in Inerith?”

Geralt smiles, pulling Jaskier closer. “Yes. You were perfect. You will always be perfect.”

“Hmm.” He hears Jaskier’s smile more than he sees it, feels lute-calloused fingertips tracing patterns into his skin.

“I meant what I said, earlier.” It’s important to him that Jaskier knows this, knows that he means it more than he’s meant anything in his life, that he didn’t just say it in the heat of the moment. “I love you.”

Jaskier smiles up at him. “I love you, too.” Geralt nods, feeling slightly relieved, looking up at the wooden ceiling.

He slowly lets himself get comfortable with the feeling of being happy. It’s strange and unfamiliar, and he still has to fight the thing in his gut that tells him this can be snatched away any moment - this might be snatched away any moment, but he slowly sinks into it, like a comfortable, soft bed after a long day.

He notices after a few minutes that Jaskier’s fallen asleep, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the bard. He really is beautiful like this - hair tousled, skin sticky with dried sweat, lips and cheeks rosy - and he’s more than Geralt can ever deserve. He leans back in the pillows, closing his eyes, eventually, and lets sleep overtake him. 

Lets himself get used to the feeling of being happy, everything he’s ever wanted right here in his arms.

#m-hm #squish answers #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #smut #this isn't even a drabble anymore #the witcher fanfiction #it's 7.5k whoops #geralt is overwhelmingly in love with jaskier #don't convince me otherwise

[jaskiersvalley]

Someone For The Road

@lil-bleater-promptweek had a prompt up for Day 2 which I just couldn’t resist. Lil Bleater, Goat Witcher was just too good an idea to leave.

Title: Someone For The Road Rating: T Relationships: minor Lambert/Aiden, minor Geralt/Jaskier, Eskel/Cahir Prompt: Day 2, Lil Bleater, Goat Witcher Content Warnings: None Summary: Wolves weren’t meant to slink down the Path alone. While the others had found their own companions, Eskel needs a little assistance from Vesemir.

Like most idiot decisions, some strong moonshine was involved in the one the forms the basis of this tale. It doesn’t start, as one would think, with Lambert. No, this decision begins on an early spring evening. The ground was still wet with rain but the snow had long since gone and so had the heart of Kaer Morhen, sent out on the Path for another year. Vesemir was left alone in the old keep, tending to the chicken, goats and the grouchy donkey he sometimes took on a supplies run. The first couple of weeks without his pups was always the hardest and Vesemir was always grateful that Lambert left behind a fair amount of his homebrew. As unhealthy as it was, it helped Vesemir get through the worst of the initial loneliness.

That particular year it was unusually rough to be left on alone again. For the winter months Kaer Morhen had been alive with happiness. Geralt had brought his bard who sang as often as he could, filling the halls with his songs. Plus, Lambert had finally dragged his Cat home and those two were trouble in every sense of the word. Plus Yennefer had arrived with Ciri and it felt so very much like a family. The only odd one out was Eskel. That wasn’t to say he was an outsider looking in, he most definitely had a hand in a good portion of Lambert and Aiden’s shenanigans, also helped Ciri prank Geralt and joined in with everything, even Jaskier’s singing. Despite this, Vesemir couldn’t knock the image of them all leaving out of his head. Geralt had Jaskier bouncing along next to him, singing, Lambert had an arm slung around Aiden’s shoulder, Yennefer portalled off with Ciri. The only solitary figure was Eskel, leading Scorpion down the trail. In terms of horse years, Scorpion was getting on, especially for a Witcher’s horse. There was a worry in Vesemir that Eskel would return home for winter completely alone.

After a few hours of fretting and drinking, one of the goats amble in and butted Vesemir’s leg. The little sod was always getting into trouble and breaking in, all because Eskel had spoilt her rotten over the last few months. As she stubbornly nudged Vesemir again, an idea blossomed. While Vesemir couldn’t find him a human companion, he could damn well help make him an animal one that could weather the Path. Lil Bleater was only a yearling, born the previous spring so in the prime of her life. She would be perfect. Scooping her up under one arm, Vesemir staggered down to the rooms he had avoided for decades. There were still bottles there and he could just about remember the process. He would make Eskel a worthy companion!

Waking up with a headache was never good. Vesemir groaned and then groaned again at the realisation that he was in the room he swore he’d never set foot in again. Even worse, there was a goat staring at him patiently, chewing on the remains of a strap from one of the beds.

“Fuck.”

Never was Vesemir drinking again. He stared at Lil Bleater who seemed radiant in her health, well toned muscles, eyes bright, fur shiny. She also turned out to be an absolute menace. When Vesemir ushered her out into the courtyard with the stables, she charged at the closed door and skidded to a satisfied halt in the kitchen, wood from the door in a halo around her.

“Fuck.”

The rest of the year was spent trying to train Lil Bleater. Her mission was a simple one.

“You keep Eskel company. Keep him safe. And find him someone crazy enough to want to travel with him.”

Come winter, Vesemir didn’t want to admit what he had done. However, Lil Bleater hadn’t aged a day in the year and looked far too healthy. And there was no denying that she could and would charge through wood and stone if she wanted something. Vesemir had resorted to installing flaps in the lower half of the doors to give her access without having to constantly fix doors and walls.

“She’s yours,” he said to Eskel with great simplicity. It was true too, while Vesemir had been the one to transform Lil Bleater and train her, Eskel was the one who had loved her and she loved him in turn. The next spring Eskel set out with Scorpion on one side and Lil Bleater living up to her name and giving gentle screams of happiness at being allowed to follow him.

As Vesemir always knew, she excelled at her role. The following year Lil Bleater burst out from the trail with a happy bleat at being home. Behind her, Eskel was leading Scorpion and another, black mare was behind him. Hidden between the horses was a new arrival who Lil Bleater circled and nudged towards Vesemir for inspection.

“Vesemir,” Eskel said softly, “this is Cahir. Lil Bleater adopted him and hasn’t let him leave.”

“Like you’d want me to go,” Cahir said, giving Eskel an amused look. “You’re as bad as her and I have the handfasting ribbon to prove it.”

Eskel went a little red at that but Vesemir knew it was a happy embarrassment. He nodded at Cahir in welcome.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I have to reward Lil Bleater for completing her first contract.”

#eskhir #eskel/cahir #minor lambert/aiden #minor geralt/jaskier #eskel #vesemir #lil bleater #Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach #lilbleaterprompts #tldr: vesemir makes lil bleater a witcher

[flowercrown-bard]

Poems for the Poet (3/ 5)

Pairing: Jaskier/Eskel

word count: ~3k

read on AO3

previous

Content warning: loneliness, self-doubt, self-loathing

Once Eskel began to write, he couldn’t stop.

He wasn’t even sure if what he did was helping him or not. Sometimes he looked at the verses he had crafted out of the ever present ache in his chest and smiled, feeling like he had taken a small semblance of control back. As long as he already knew what he was, the truth coming from others couldn’t hurt him. There was even a strange sort of beauty in them, in knowing himself and baring his soul in a way he had never dared to before. It was freeing. It was what a real poet must feel.

Other times, he stared at the words, the paper almost tearing from how tightly he gripped it with his trembling hands and it took every ounce of strength in him not to burn the poem, to erase the immortalisation of his failure. Because that was what it was. He could pretend all he wanted that he was creating something beautiful out of something ugly. It didn’t change what he was. What he never would be. It didn’t erase the lonely nights, the days gone without eating, the injuries turning to scars, the people he couldn’t save.

Eskel could only write about what he knew. And what he knew was aching. It was ugly and brought nothing but misery. So that was what he wrote. Yet even so, he sometimes felt that putting the things he saw and felt onto the paper made it more real. It made it possible for others to see it too. It exposed him, his mistakes, his missed chances to the world. It felt as if his words sealed his fate. Once immortalised, it won’t ever change.

Not that there had ever been any hope for that.

Still he kept writing, always hoping that it wouldn’t be one of those days of his mind being unkind to him.

He posted his poems on the boards and left, wishing that he could leave the memory of what happened along with the words describing it.

--

It took Eskel a while to notice that something was changing. Or rather, he couldn’t figure out what was changing.

It started out small. Eyes that didn’t turn away immediately at his sight. Aldermen who didn’t argue or try to swindle him out of his pay.

Eskel had come across such towns before. More so in recent years, ever since Geralt had somehow won a bard’s heart and loyalty.

Eskel’s lips twisted into a smile at the thought of Jaskier. He was probably with Geralt right now, laughing with him by a camp fire and composing another epic ballad about Geralt’s latest hunt.

A strange ache settled into Eskel’s chest. He wished he didn’t know what it was, but there was no mistaking the twinge of jealousy that spiked up in him. He loved his brother and he was happy for him, truly. There was no one Eskel could think of that was more deserving of Jaskier’s praise and presence in their life.

And yet, he found himself wishing that he were the one making Jaskier laugh and showing him the continent. Despite his mind telling him that nothing but heartache and misery would come of it, Eskel imagined himself sitting next to Jaskier, shoulders brushing and faces lighting up when their eyes met.

But Jaskier was probably far away. Even if Eskel was foolish and self-punishing enough to track him and Geralt down just to watch them be happy together, he had no way of doing that. Jaskier’s songs were widely sung. Following them would lead him nowhere. Besides, there was still the problem of bards not being too keen on Eskel. They might repeat Jaskier’s songs, but singing them in front of an actual witcher? That was something practically none of them were willing to do.

So Eskel kept trudging on, kept writing his poems and hoping that maybe someone would spare them a glance, would treat them as they would any other poet’s works.

His heart was heavy as he left the friendly village behind, already dreading what the next one might bring.

Strangely, the next town was even more open-minded than the last one. One might have even called it welcoming. It was almost suspicious. It didn’t make sense for Eskel to get greeted with nods and even occasional smiles. There was no explanation for the barmaid bringing him a serving of stew with an unusually generous amount of meat in it.

Except, Eskel had gone through such a change before. Toss a coin had made life so much easier. All of Jaskier’s songs did. He must have written a new one. Of course he had, that was what he did.

A small flame ignited in Eskel's chest. It had been too long since he had been allowed to listen to any bards. None of them compared to the one bard whose smiling eyes and soft touches danced through Eskel's mind at any waking hour. He knew in his heart that after hearing Jaskier sing he would be too critical of any other musician. And yet he missed music. Missed tapping his fingers on his thigh to the rhythm and silently repeating the words to himself the days after.

Perhaps, if Jaskier had written another song, Eskel might even get to hear it one day? Surely if Jaskier had produced another masterpiece, bards all over the continent would trip over themselves to sing it. It wouldn't be as good as if Jaskier sang it, of course, but if Eskel could get even a cheap imitation of Jaskier's singing he would gladly take it.

Yet no matter how hard he tried, Eskel could not find a single bard. Not much of a surprise there. Bards didn't mingle with people like him. Most bards.

It took weeks - weeks that were filled with more smiles, more coin and more longing to hear the song that had done all this - until Eskel finally heard it. Not by a bard, no. He first heard the new melody sung by voices that were utterly untrained, voices that didn’t care about nuance or refinement: He heard it being sung by children.

It made Eskel pause right where he stood in the middle of the street. The voices of the three playing children overlapped, making it impossible to make out the words or melody and yet the little snippets he heard were unmistakably Jaskier’s. He had a style Eskel would recognise anywhere, however warped the melody got when sung like this.

His fingers twitched helplessly at his sides. He wanted – needed – to hear the song. It was the only piece of the comfort that came with familiarity close enough to grasp. Sure, people were friendlier than they had been before, but for how long would that last? How long until he got to meet someone who was nice to him because they actually liked him? How long until he would see Jaskier again and hear a melody fall from his lips as if he was singing it just for Eskel?

His throat grew tight. He shouldn’t think such thoughts. They were poison and made his nights all the more lonely. There wasn’t even reason to believe he would get to see Jaskier again.

His promise flickered to the front of his mind. He had said he’d show Jaskier his poetry books. And, oh, how he wanted to. His chest got warm and ached at the thought of sitting in front of a fire together, Jaskier leaning against him so they both could read from the same book.

It was a nice thought. Beautiful in an impossible way, like a dream just before waking that one would still cling to in the hopes of keeping it a little longer; only to forget all about it once the morning light stole the dream away and exposed it as the fleeting shadow it had been.  

It was enough to give Eskel the last push he needed. He couldn’t read poetry with Jaskier again – not until Geralt invited him to Kaer Morhen and who knew when that would happen – but he could have his words with him now.

His heart was beating painfully fast in his chest as he approached the children; slowly and with hunched shoulders, trying to make as much sound as he could so they wouldn’t be frightened if they didn’t hear him come closer.

Or maybe that was making it worse? Maybe by putting more weight into his steps to make them louder he emphasised how much bigger and stronger than the children he was? How menacing?

Weeks ago, there had been a different child. One who had been friendly until it had seen his face. The memory flashed through his mind unbidden. It made him halt. He couldn’t scare these children too as he had the other one. He couldn’t watch their faces turn into horrified grimaces as they ran away, their toys forgotten and lost, ruined by Eskel’s appearance that would forever taint them.

It had been a stupid idea. No snippet of a song was worth taking away a child’s carefreeness. Not even when the song came from Jaskier. Not even when it meant giving him the barest feeling of home back.

Without wanting to, his feet dragged him forwards until he all but loomed over the children. Like a threat. Like something you should run away from and pray it didn’t catch you. Like a witcher.

The children stopped singing and looked up at him, their eyes wide.

Eskel fiddled with the hem of his shirt. He should crouch down, get on eye-level with the children to make himself look smaller. But no one wanted a witcher closer to their face. Being on eye-level with a witcher meant that whoever looked at him wouldn’t be able to escape his yellow gaze. There was no right way to do this. No way that would not scare away the children and his chance to hear Jaskier’s words.

“That was a nice song,” he said as softly as he could. His voice was still too rough, too close to barking. Any second now the children would shake off their shock at seeing him and flee.

Instead, the tallest girl beamed up at him.

“Thank you! It’s an old one. My sister heard it weeks ago when she visited her friend in Ashwood Valley and she taught it to me.”

Ashwood Valley. Eskel remembered that town. He had been there himself not too long ago. For a split-second something like hope ignited in his chest. If the song had been sung there, then perhaps Jaskier had been there too. Maybe if Eskel turned around he could meet him again.

But the flicker of hope dimmed almost as soon as it had burst to life. Jaskier was a well-known bard and his songs travelled far and fast. Just because his songs had made it to this place didn’t mean he had too. There was no reason for him to travel through small towns like these when he could have Novigrad, Oxenfurt or various courts. And if Jaskier had been anywhere near that would mean that Geralt was there too and as long as the White Wolf could be had, no one would accept Eskel’s work. So it couldn’t have been Jaskier that had sung the song in Ashwood Valley. It must have been some other bard.  

Eskel swallowed against the irrational disappointment that choked him like an executioner’s noose. He forced the corners of his lips to twitch up, just enough to be recognisable as a smile. His heart hammered as if it wanted to burst his chest.

“Can you teach me the song?”

The girl narrowed her eyes at him, a grin spreading across her face. “What’s in it for me?”

One of the other children nudged her in the ribs, but Eskel felt something soft form in his chest at the child’s tone. She wasn’t scared of him. Hell, she even demanded something of him, as if she wasn’t worried about his reaction at all.

Eskel searched through his coin pouch and pulled out a silver coin. He held it up into the sun, making it gleam, before he tossed it to the girl. She caught it mid-air and beamed at him. Her eyes twinkled with mischief.

“For another coin I can teach you all the songs I know.”

Eskel let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “Just the one you were singing before.”

The girl shrugged and started singing.

Hearing what was unmistakably Jaskier’s art soothed something inside Eskel’s chest that he hadn’t known had been tearing at him. There was comfort in the poet’s words. They felt like a warm hug or an evening spend by the fire in the company of loved ones.

Strangely enough, it also felt familiar. Not in the way that all of Jaskier’s songs were familiar to Eskel; their pattern, rhythm and rhyme scheme. It was more than that. Those lines…they tugged at a memory in Eskel’s mind. A line that hadn’t been written by Jaskier. A word that hadn’t left the bard’s quill but someone else’s. It almost reminded him of – no. That was impossible. The similarities to the poem Eskel himself had written weeks ago were purely coincidentally. Or rather, they were completely natural. After all, Eskel had borrowed imagery from Jaskier’s work, so of course those very same metaphors and phrases would appear again. They weren’t – couldn’t be a reference to his own poetry. If they were…

A cold chill ran down Eskel’s spine. If those were references to Eskel’s poor attempts at poetry, that would mean that Jaskier had read what Eskel had written. His lines that couldn’t settle on a rhythm to carry through the whole poem. His clumsy tries to find an adequate way to describe feelings most people didn’t even think he possessed.

Eskel knew in his heart that Jaskier wouldn’t mock him for failing at writing poetry. Not openly. But if he saw just how bad Eskel’s poetry – if it could even be called such – was, then things would change. He wouldn’t ask Eskel for his opinion again. He wouldn’t show him another first draft again and ask him which version of a line he liked better. Not when he realised just how little Eskel actually knew about the craft he claimed to hold so dear.

Eskel dug his nails deep into the flesh of his palms, trying to tear himself away from those thoughts. His fears were unreasonable. Jaskier wasn’t anywhere close. He wasn’t the bard that had sung in Ashwood Valley. He hadn’t read Eskel’s poems.

His own reassurances did nothing to stomp down the panic that had welled up inside him and threatened to drown him. His own words never helped. Not in the way that focussing on another’s words did. And who better to listen to than to Jaskier who fought so fiercely to make people believe that witchers were better than anyone thought? Perhaps if Eskel listened to his songs often enough he too might start believing it one day.

He took a deep breath that shouldn’t have been so shaky and focussed back on the song and what the painfully familiar words that had nothing to do with his own talked about.

The subject matter was no surprise and it made Eskel’s smile widen a little. Witchers and heroics. Precious laughter that was only gifted to a trusted few and that was more true and beautiful than any laugh heard at court. The loyalty and warmth that came with a witcher’s friendship. Above anything, the song spoke of a fierce and unapologetic protectiveness. It practically screamed Hurt my witcher and I will hurt you!

His witcher.

Eskel tried to imagine what it would be like to be Jaskier’s witcher. He had felt like he could be, for just a handful of days. He had been there when Jaskier had composed songs about him, asking him for advice and opinions, as if they mattered to him. Eskel had been the one who had been allowed to protect and shelter Jaskier and to bask in the joy and brightness that filled everything that Jaskier touched. He had been trusted to hear Jaskier’s thoughts about the songs be composed. He wished he could hear his thoughts about this song now.

Eskel closed his eyes as he let the words wash over him. He imagined a different voice, blue eyes and fingers tracing patterns on his palm.

But more than that, the song made him think about his family too. He thought of Geralt who must have listened to Jaskier compose this song, grumbling but secretly pleased to have such a devoted friend. And he thought of Lambert and how he probably experienced another witcher’s friendship right now with his Cat.

It was good that Eskel’s brothers weren’t alone. They shouldn’t be. They deserved lovely songs and comforting touch. If anyone deserved to be protected by their friend’s words or swords it was them.

“Can you sing it again?” Eskel asked when the song came to an end. He didn’t need to hear it again to memorise it. One time was enough to brand the words into his mind, but as long as he heard them sung to him, he could imagine what it might feel like to be protected by Jaskier’s loyalty and fondness as Geralt was.

Because the song must be about Geralt. As much as Eskel tried to see himself in the song – a helpless hope of a man who had been lonely for too long – it was impossible. Jaskier might be able to spin lies into beautiful stories that an audience wanted to believe, but not even the most drunken or romantic fool could be made to think that Eskel’s laugh was something beautiful. Eskel only let himself laugh with people he knew wouldn’t mind its ugliness. People who didn’t care what he looked like. For that was all he would ever get. Not caring. It would be too much to ask from even his family to look at him and see someone handsome. He knew they loved his laugh, but not because it was beautiful. It was because if he laughed he did it despite being hideous. No song or rhyme would be able to cover that ugly truth.

It didn’t need to. This song didn’t need to be about him to lift a weight off his chest. It was enough to know that Geralt found reason to laugh and that Jaskier delighted in the sound.

All too soon the girl stopped singing again and yet the song remained in Eskel’s mind. He gave her a small nod and tossed her another copper piece, just to see her smile at him again. It was all he had wanted for so long. Easy smiles, the absence of fear, someone willing to talk to him. But now that he had it, it felt strangely hollow.

This was all he had. Some people he didn’t know and never would get to know who tolerated him for as long as there was a favouring song in their minds. But songs faded and Eskel had to move on, find new strangers and hope they wouldn’t scorn him. None of these smiles would stay with him. He didn’t have anyone to return to, to talk to as the streets got empty and people went home to their loved ones.

He didn’t have a friend or lover with him. Not like his brothers did.

It was a selfish thought and the bitter taste of guilt that came with it rose up in Eskel almost immediately.

He should be happy for his brothers. And he was, he really was. But he was also lonely. When he left this town, he would get to keep nothing but a song reminding him of how differnt the Path could be if only he were someone else. If only he had someone with him and a laugh that could be called beautiful.

But no one ever would call him that. Because he wasn’t and could never be.

All he was was himself. And that wasn’t enough. Not enough to make anyone stay.

People here would forget about him as soon as he left. Maybe, if he was lucky, they would remember that he had saved some farmers from a griffin. Even if they did, they would only describe him as “the witcher with the scarred face”. That was all he was, all anyone could ever see in him, all he would ever be remembered for.

He put all of that into words. Words that wouldn’t be remembered either. Words he wrote more out of spite and as a reminder that Jaskier wouldn’t read them. Maybe no one would. Maybe no one would remember the nameless poet who wrote about nights spend by himself and eyes that never lingered long enough to see anything other than ugliness in him.

It didn’t matter anyways. It weren’t his own words that got him through that night. It were Jaskier’s. Eskel tried to be happy thinking about them. Perhaps he was. Or perhaps he would be some other day. He hoped he would. He knew it was useless to hope.

#what do we do when we don't know what to do? #keep on adding words and hope that the problem solves itself along the way #i probably should just put a questionmark at the chapter count again #this is getting ridiculous #jaskel #jaskierxeskel #eskelxjaskier #angst #fic #witcher #witcher fic #my writing #eskel #jaskier

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

"You look like shit." "I'm doing my best."

Songs used for this prompt: 

“She’s Got You” and “Sure as Hell Not Jesus”, both by Cosmo Jarvis

---

The guy playing some tiny stringed instrument and singing into the bar’s beer-scented microphone is surprisingly cute. Geralt feels a pang of guilt when he takes a moment to listen to the lyrics that fill the room up to the rafters with heavenly sound:

“I don’t care what you do, She says she’s in love with you But I know the devil wears a thousand faces.”

Geralt orders himself a straight whiskey on the rocks and moves closer to the makeshift stage to better hear the words. It feels as if they’ve been crafted especially for him; especially for the situation he’s come to find himself in. 

“So what you telling me, That you found love truly, But let go or you’ll forget the basics... “Like who’s your friends, you know, The ones you always told you trusted; But you’re a double agent.”

The singer has soft, feathery brown hair that sits against his forehead like something out of a 2007 emo calendar shoot and eyes the color of... well fuck me, Geralt thinks, those are the prettiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. 

Whoever this guy is, he’s at least five years or so younger than Geralt, still with a babyish roundness to his face, but his hands move across the strings with the confidence of a seasoned performer. He’s been doing this awhile and he loves it. Geralt can tell by the way his voice wavers and pitches through the lyrics like he’s living every word for the very first time. 

“Yes everybody tries, To run two perfect lives, But you’ve changed and boy I cannot take it.

“Minute by minute, A love sweet love, I don’t get why you haven’t had enough. Second by second, It wears you away and you’re gone.”

After this particular section the musician glances up into the crowd to make solid eye contact with Geralt. He plays a series of descending notes with perfect clarity and winks. The white-haired biker ducks his head and takes a sip of his drink, flinching at the strength but appreciative of the smoky notes nonetheless.

“When will you just learn she’s got you Wrapped round her little finger? When will you just learn she’s got you Wrapped round her little finger?”

He glances up again. Was this guy stalking him or what? The only reason he’d stopped in for a drink at all was because of Yen’s constant arguing over the past few days. He loved her, sure, but things weren’t really working out. Every tiny issue seemed to explode into a fight. Every possible way to talk things through went ignored because she wanted a chance to prove her independence and strength; what was the point of having a significant other if you constantly made them feel so horrifically insignificant?

Geralt often wondered why he’d gotten together with the gorgeous but impersonal spitfire in the first place. She wasn’t even really his type, all things considered; but he loves her, he knows. 

The rest of the song finishes out and Geralt sits in his comfortable chair still staring into his half-finished glass of mostly melted ice and some whisky. He downs the rest of it in two gulps and heads back to the bar to order a glass of beer. He doesn’t want to remember what’s waiting for him at home. Doesn’t want to think about Yennefer for the rest of the evening; not with those blue eyes boring twin holes into the back of his leather jacket. 

A new song starts up, soft but insistent. It demands his attention. The musician demands his attention without saying a single word to him directly. Geralt feels drawn to him and cannot fathom a reason why. 

“Here I sit; If I didn't need nobody, I'd thank God for it, There'd be nothing that'd stop me getting on with it... “It'd be me and my brain And my pain And my shame...”

No but really, has this kid been following Geralt around with a notepad, jotting down every failure and misstep to write these songs? Geralt sits even closer to the stage this time, at a table so near to the performer that he could reach out and touch the handsome musician if he wanted to. He does want to, but he also knows that it would be incredibly strange and rude to do so without consent (or even introducing himself).

The man on stage just looks so soft. Soft and tender in a way that Yennefer refuses to be. Can’t be, maybe. 

“Guess I am No big and strong Goliath, I'm a wandering man; And sometimes I get tired and I'm glad a hand Comes and slaps me and then It goes again. I guess you're my friend...”

Geralt listens to the rest of the song with a thoughtful look on his face; every word that spills from the singer’s gorgeously pink lips hits him in a new and different way. This is exactly what he’d needed. He gets out his phone and shoots the violet-eyed demon in his living room a quick text.

To: Yen

We need to talk tonight, but you should pack your shit just in case. 

When the little ‘read’ notification popped up he nearly cried with relief. It felt amazing. It felt freeing. He felt like he might sleep for the first time in fucking weeks without her icy presence beside him in the bed, her back turned to his in a show of obstinate, personally enforced loneliness. 

Geralt is a cuddler by nature and Yen always makes him feel so weak for needing to be touched. To be loved. She doesn’t need it so why should he? But he does. He really does. 

“You're sure as hell not Jesus, but you're saving me! Thank you very much for putting faith in me, Reminding me a light was once so great to be. I'm glad I made a friend that doesn't pray for me!”

After the song is finished, the musician sets his instrument aside and wanders over to Geralt’s table, plopping himself across from the scowling man with incredible ease. He gestures vaguely at the bartender, who sets a strange purple drink in a martini glass before him almost immediately. He stirs it absentmindedly before smiling guilelessly up at Geralt, “You look like shit.”

His voice is somehow stronger when he’s not singing and Geralt loves it. He wants to listen to this man speak and sing and laugh all night; he doesn’t want to go home. He doesn’t want to face the future yet. He wants this moment to last forever. Instead of saying any of that, Geralt shoots the stranger a half-cocked smirk and says: “I’m doing my best.”

“That’s really all we can do. My name’s Jaskier, by the way.”

“Geralt.”

“Cool. Very old-fashioned. Like something out of a storybook,” the brunette, Jaskier, grins. “You like my music?”

“Yeah. I needed to hear it tonight, I think.”

“Always glad to be of service, Geralt.”

#oops #future geraskier #yenralt breakup #geralt #yen #i love them so much but they shouldn't date #implied future geraskier #modern au #cosmo jarvis fucks #geraskier meet cute #jaskier #geraskier ficlet #yenralt sorta #angst #angst with an implied happy ending #angst with a happy ending #indie singer jaskier #biker geralt #bar

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Dandelion zine! I wanted to explore my favourite trio (though, Yennefer would not like being included like that XD) post series.

Summary: Jaskier’s prized possession was a crate of wine Geralt bought him as an apology. Twelve bottles that he only brought out for the most important of occasions: dates with Geralt, rants with Yennefer, picnics at Ciri’s castle, and more. A look at Jaskier over the years.

…

…

…

…

i. First bottle

There were very few things that Jaskier wouldn’t forgive. Oh, he could and would hold a grudge; he had mastered the art of pettiness by the time he’d turned ten. But that was something entirely different than carrying hate, to nurse it and feed it until it became an entity on its own. Jaskier preferred forgiveness; it was better to drink with old foes than avoid them. Besides, it never hurt to keep things friendly when he could.

He had enough enemies from past dalliances as it was.

However, forgiveness required an actual apology, which was why he wasn’t exactly excited when he found Geralt for the first time in months. It didn’t hurt that he was also sitting on his bed in the inn, expression carefully blank, as though they’d gone on another adventure together and hadn’t fought at all. It figured the Witcher would just wander in and expect everything to be fine.

“How’d you get in here?” Jaskier asked, quietly closing the door behind him. Innkeepers and maids liked to talk and this was complicated enough without bringing in half the neighbourhood to hear.

“Your door was unlocked,” Geralt answered simply, his voice low and rough as though he hadn’t spoken for days. Knowing him, that had to be the case. Despite his relaxed posture, his golden eyes remained fixed on Jaskier as though waiting for something. At his foot was a small, wooden crate and Jaskier didn’t remember seeing that before.

“You know that’s not an answer, right?” Knowing it’d take an army to pull Geralt off his bed, Jaskier settled for grumpily leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. He had forgotten how tiring it was to pry information from him.

Geralt studied him for a minute before admitting, “The cook let me in.”

Which was the answer, but that wasn’t the question Jaskier really wanted to ask. Why? After that day on the mountain, after months of utter silence, why now? With anyone else, he would have guessed loneliness or regret, but Geralt was ‘above’ that. Or rather, Geralt squashed his emotions into a pit of denial so deep it would take years to dig it out. Jaskier ran a hand through his hair. “Bribery. Of course. Next time, I’ll bribe them to keep you out.” Breathing in through his nose, he counted to ten before asking, “What are you doing here?”

This time, Geralt took even longer to respond. As a self-proclaimed ‘man with no feelings’, he didn’t really have any nervous ticks that gave away his thoughts, nothing that Jaskier could focus on and say, He’s anxious because he’s scratching his nose. “I came to meet you.”

“Again, that’s not an answer!” Jaskier growled, resisting the urge to toss his lute at him. All of this was sobering him up. “And here I was, happily inebriated,” he complained.

“I can fix that,” Geralt offered, nudging the box forward. A heavy thing, it slowly slid across the wooden floor. If it scratched the planks, he’d force Geralt to pay for damages.

“No thanks.” Jaskier wrinkled his nose, already imagining its contents. Though, with Geralt, it was probably ten times worse than what he was thinking. “What’d you put in there? A monster’s head?”

Geralt gave him a blank look, as though he were an idiot. Jaskier didn’t know why he felt a swell of fondness at seeing it again, he hated that look. “Why would I do that?”

It was a fair point. Not that he’d admit it. Jaskier looked away scornfully and scoffed, “I don’t know. Why do you do anything you do?”

There was something extremely annoyed in Geralt’s expression and privately, Jaskier was thrilled. A little frightened, but thrilled. It was getting to him. “It’s a case of wine,” he stated flatly.

“Wine?” That caught his attention. Jaskier eyed the box before resisting the urge to take one out. Knowing Geralt, the flavour would be terrible, but still. It was free wine. One should never look a gift horse in the mouth, especially one that would still get you drunk.

“Yes, for you.” He motioned for Jaskier to take the box. “Just take it.”

These were more words than Geralt used in a week. Jaskier withdrew his hand, resting it at his side. Even though he knew the answer, he asked, “And why are you giving this to me? Didn’t think you were one for presents.”

“It’s…” Geralt shifted uncomfortably, the bed creaking in response. With his hulking frame, he looked out of place in the small room, his shoulders hunching slightly so he’d take up less room. “It’s…for that time.”

“For that time?” Jaskier prodded, knowing immediately what he meant. At his core, Geralt was an awkward man. For all of his roughness and combative prowess, he was clumsy in the ways of the heart. Luckily, that’s what Jaskier excelled at. And he wasn’t going to let his friend stumble through life, unable to actually say what he meant. More importantly, he wasn’t going to let this go without a proper apology.

“On the mountain. When we…when I…” Geralt rubbed his neck, looking more and more embarrassed with each passing second.

“Ah, yes, the mountain where you declared we weren’t friends.” Faking a frown, Jaskier tapped his chin. “What was it you said, again? Something about—”

“Don’t be annoying,” Geralt grumbled. If Witchers’ could flush, he would be redder than a tomato by now.

That stopped Jaskier in his tracks. Glaring, he snapped, “Annoying? You came here to beg for my forgiveness—”

“I’m not begging.”

“—and you think you can talk like that?” Jaskier rested a hand on his hip, ignoring Geralt’s quick aside.

“You have a point.” Geralt paused, clenching his fist. He looked away. Taking a deep breath, he slowly unfurled his hand. “I was wrong then.”

“For?” Jaskier pressed, unable to stop himself.

Geralt glared at him and spit out, “Everything.”

Well, that wasn’t quite what he was looking for, but he’d take it all the same. Jaskier hummed happily as he reached for the casket. To be perfectly honest, he had forgiven Geralt the moment he’d laid eyes on him, but no one needed to know that. He had his self respect and dignity to protect, after all. Flipping open the lid, he pulled out a dark green bottle and held up to the light. “A red wine, huh? Perfect for a catching-up drinking session. I need some new songs.”

Geralt groaned.

-x-

ii. second bottle

There were many places Jaskier expected to bump into Yennefer—in a ballroom, at a court, in front of Geralt’s corpse. Ironically, she would probably be the reason his stupid friend got killed and not any of the monsters he hunted. The one place that had never crossed his mind was the broom closet of a minor noble, while he was on the run from said noble’s guards.

“Fancy seeing you here.” He smiled charmingly, or at least as charmingly as he could while still panting from exertion. Behind him, there were shouts and angry footsteps as the guards looked for him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked flatly, as though she wasn’t the one hiding in the closet. Somehow, she always appeared composed and he hated her for it. Yennefer glanced over his shoulder and smirked. “No, let me guess, another one of your affairs?”

“What gave it away?” As the sounds grew louder, he pushed her to the side and squeezed his way in. “Ugh, this is so tight.”

“What are you doing?” she hissed, stubbornly pushing back against him. “Find your own hiding spot.”

So she was hiding too. He tucked that info away for later, for when he wasn’t in life-threatening danger. Shoving, he wormed into the gap next to her. “There’s no time!”

“Oh for god’s sake,” she snapped, letting off a string of curses before grabbing his hand.

“Awfully forward of—” Before Jaskier could finish his sentence, the world turned topsy-turvy and suddenly they weren’t in the closet anymore. No, they were in his room in the inn and the world was spinning around him. Falling on all fours, he heaved as he tried to regain his bearings. “What…was…that…?”

“Teleportation.” He couldn’t see her face, but he knew she was rolling her eyes. Her heels clicked on the wooden floor as she slowly examined the room.

“Magic,” Jaskier groaned. He had always thought teleportation was useful before this—if he could just escape all of his trysts so easily. He had been utterly wrong. It was better to face the wrath of every guard than it was to go through that again. “Oh god, does it always feel like this?”

“Only if you’re not used to it,” she replied tartly, peeking out his window. Clearly she didn’t like what she saw, as she sniffed and added, “Quaint place.”

Jaskier wondered just how many times she had vomited before she’d gotten used to this feeling. It was a strange, humanizing thought, and he pushed it to the back of his head. “I’m not as rich as you.”

“No, clearly not.” The bed creaked as she sat on it. He could just see her hand pressing against the bedsheet. She clicked her tongue. “Definitely not.”

There was nothing like spite to force a man to compose himself. Jaskier forced down the bile in his throat and unsteadily rose to his feet. “Then go back to that noble, huh? Oh wait, you can’t.”

Yennefer looked at him sharply. Honestly, what did Geralt see in her? She looked like one of those governesses, never smiling, never laughing. Then again, neither did Geralt most of the time and he was still with him. “Don’t talk about matters you know nothing about.”

Jaskier waited a minute for her to elaborate. When she didn’t add anything else, he rubbed his forehead, frustrated. Of course she wouldn’t explain. Another thing she shared with Geralt. He wasn’t sure why he found one endearingly annoying and the other just plain irritating. “If you don’t say anything, obviously I’m going to know nothing about it.”

Her glare grew deeper. “I could turn you into a frog.”

“You wouldn’t,” he sneered, challenging her. At least, that was the plan, but his voice cracked half-way and he wobbled slightly as he tried to find a stable position. There was no bite to his words, he could tell it by the way she smirked. Stumbling onto the lone chair in the room, he sat on it backwards, leaning his chest against the chair back for support. At least he didn’t have to look as wobbly as he felt. Just how long was this motion sickness supposed to last, anyways?

“Hmm, don’t think I have to.” Every word from her felt like a taunt. “So what was it this time? Another fling?”

Averting his eyes, Jaskier didn’t bother to reply. Sure, he was predictable. Geralt just had to look at him to guess what he was up to, but he wasn’t sure how to feel about Yennefer of all people figuring him out. They’d barely even talked. They weren’t even allies, just people who sometimes worked together because Geralt forced them too. Maybe he really should reconsider his affairs business if even strangers knew about it.

Jaskier frowned. Or maybe Geralt had blabbed during pillow-talk. Sure, he wasn’t much of a talker, but she was a witch, after all. Maybe she’d gotten it out of him. “Did Geralt tell you?”

Immediately, Yennefer scowled. “No,” she hissed between clenched teeth, looking like a lioness ready to pounce. It reminded Jaskier of the Queen of Calanthe, and he swallowed. “Of course not.”

“Oh.” Jaskier wasn’t sure what to make of that. If Geralt had apologized to him, he must have gone to Yennefer too. He rubbed his neck. “So, uh, he didn’t try to give you an I’m sorry gift?’

Yennefer snorted, a completely un-ladylike and inelegant move. “I wouldn’t let him.”

“Oh.” Well, that explained it. Honestly, he would never understand their relationship, and he really didn’t want to. “He gave me wine.” Jaskier gestured at a box near the foot of the bed. “It’s surprisingly good, considering he picked it.”

“He must have had help.” Yennefer rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t understand himself, let alone others.”

Look who’s talking, he almost said, but he’d tested his luck once today. There was no point in trying it a second time. Jaskier had experienced enough curses to last a lifetime. “Probably. Wish I could have seen that conversation. ‘I need an apology gift for abandoning my friend on a mountain’.”

Yennefer replied scornfully, “At least he left you. He tied me to him, the bastard.”

This was the first he’d heard of it. Jaskier bit his lip. Geralt was his friend. Yennefer was a horrid woman. Geralt was his friend. This sounded really interesting. Geralt was his friend. “I don’t—”

At the same time, Yennefer looked out his window and if looks could kill, Geralt would be dead right now. “And that pig of a nobleman might have had a cure for it.”

“How’d you end up in the closet?” Jaskier asked, before he could stop himself. Internally, he sighed. Well, if he was going to do this anyways, he might as well go all the way. “This seems like a long story, want some wine?”

-x-

iii. third bottle

There were many idyllic ways Jaskier liked to while the hours away. Wooing a noble lady, practicing his songs, lazing about in the afternoon sun. Sometimes, as a treat, he liked to do all three at once. If he were entirely honest, almost anything he did was an utter waste of time and that was precisely why he liked doing them. There was no pressure, no demand, just time spent spoiling himself.

Therefore it was entirely unexpected when Geralt joined him on a grassy hill for cloud watching of all things. Sure, he had returned from yet another monster-hunting/city-saving adventure, so he was due for a little rest and relaxation. Yet he had never accepted that as a reason before. Flat on the ground, Jaskier glanced to his right, at the profile of his stoic lover. Quiet, unsmiling, it looked like Geralt.

“What is it?” Geralt asked, still staring up at the clouds. He hadn’t so much as moved and Jaskier wondered if he just had a second sense for observing things.

Well, it sounded like Geralt too. So it had to be him, as odd as it was. “You’re lying here.” Jaskier blurted, not sure what to say, how to say it aside from stating the obvious.

At this, Geralt turned his head and looked at him. “Yeah?”

“You.” Jaskier gestured at Geralt for emphasis. “Are. Relaxing.” This was the exact opposite of what Geralt did. Maybe he was sick. Or maybe he’d gotten cursed again. In Geralt’s line of work, this wasn’t exactly uncommon. A monster, a witch—Jaskier’s eyes widened as he found the perfect suspect. “Was it Yennefer?” He wouldn’t put it past her to pull some petty revenge for an inane argument

“Yenn—” Geralt cut himself off, rolling his eyes before looking up at the sky again. “She didn’t do anything,” he answered gruffly.

“But you know she would,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, a little put out. That answered his other question—Geralt had apologized and Yennefer had forgiven. Great. At least none of Jaskier’s flings had the tendency to put them into life-threatening situations. Maybe he should amend their open relationship to not include dangerous witches.

“I’m just spending time with you,” Geralt added and Jaskier felt the sigh more than heard it. Their arms bumped slightly, sending a tingle up his spine. “I can stop.”

Before Geralt could get up, Jaskier latched onto his hand. “No, it’s fine.” There was no point in ruining a day out over his suspicions; they had few enough of them as it was. Besides, with another day or two of lazing about, he’d be proven right. Curses always took forever to disappear. When Geralt gave him a dry look, he smiled. “Come on, just a little longer.”

“Fine.” Geralt lay back down, though he didn’t pull away. “A little longer.”

His eyes were soft, Jaskier noted silently. So very soft. He wondered sometimes, how long it took for Yennefer to forgive him, how long it took for them to finally talk. If they still looked at each other overwhelmed and as though they didn’t know what to do with their emotions.

If that look had ever changed to the one Geralt had now, domestic and gentle. There was such an easy thing between them now, where Geralt would scoff at Jaskier’s latest messy affair and Jaskier would bemoan his partner’s inability to be romantic. An easy thing that didn’t really need explanation or words, really. Even now, they just lay there, soaking in the sun, enjoying the breeze. Pure boredom at its best. “I wish we could just always do this.”

“Don’t you always do this?” Geralt asked, not a hint of mockery in his voice.

“I’ll have you know I do actual work.” Jaskier paused, before averting his eyes. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Geralt agreed, and this time Jaskier knew he was teasing him.

“A lot of the times,” Jaskier corrected. “As fun as it is getting chased out of every kingdom, I’m getting too old for that.”

Geralt rolled over to his side, his brow furrowed. “You’re getting old?”

That was either a compliment, or Geralt was the densest man alive. Probably the latter. Pointing at a strand of grey hair, he nodded. “Not all of us are immortal.”

“I’m not immortal.” Geralt reached and gently touched the hair. “And that’s only one.”

Jaskier snorted. Why was he stuck with immortal beauties for companions? At least Ciri would understand his plight. “One can lead to more, and I want to have something nicer than a room at an inn when that happens.” Having had enough of the topic, he gestured at the picnic at their feet, utterly forgotten. “Let’s finish that bottle. There’s no point in lazing about if we can’t get drunk while at it.”

-x-

iv. fourth bottle

“You’re going into academia?” Mystified, Yennefer glanced at her goblet, at the ruby red wine inside, and then up at Jaskier. “I’m not that drunk.”

Regrettably, they were sitting in one of Ciri’s rose gardens, and not in Jaskier’s room, so he couldn’t just toss her out. Not that it had stopped him from trying before, but the guards refused to believe that Yennefer’s tongue was a lethal weapon and should be treated as such. It didn’t hurt that Ciri was taken with the older woman and he could only blame her terrible taste on Geralt. Like godfather, like goddaughter, and he worried about Ciri’s future partner.

“What’s so funny about that?” Jaskier asked, and immediately he wanted to take his words back. They gave her too many openings.

“Seriously?” Yennefer asked. When he glared at her, she scornfully laughed. “And I thought it was a prestigious academy.”

“Yeah, well, you’re also a teacher somehow, so I guess anything’s possible,” Jaskier snarked back. Luckily for her, she was seated opposite of him on the round table, or he’d have kicked her shins. Actually, maybe he could still—

“Don’t be like that,” Geralt sighed, dropping a hand on his thigh to stop him. He and Ciri sat opposite one another, and not for the first time, Jaskier suspected this seating was on purpose, to prevent some accidental fight.

“Hey, I wasn’t the one who invited her.” Jaskier pulled his wine bottle closer. Honestly, if he’d known she’d come, he wouldn’t have used one from his secret stash. “Why is she even here?”

“Oh? I thought we were friends,” Yennefer drawled, thatching her fingers and resting her chin on them. There was something utterly evil in her smile. Magic was the only reason no one else had noticed.

“Friends don’t make fun of each other,” Jaskier retorted before gulping down his wine. He was too sober to deal with her.

“Congratulations!” Ciri piped up, smiling at him over her goblet. “I think you will be a great professor.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier beamed back at her, though he couldn’t resist throwing one more barb. “See? This is how friends treat each other.”

Ciri giggled, amused. “You two are friends, though.”

“Loosely,” Yennefer muttered. “Very loosely.”

“Ciri, are you drunk?” Jaskier asked, worried. Actually, now that he thought about it, should she even be here, drinking with them? It wasn’t like he could tell the queen to stop, but still. Someone had to keep an eye out for her, and her other two babysitters were utterly incompetent with children.

“Not in the least.” Ciri smiled sweetly, before swirling her wine. At his disbelieving look, she added, “I have had a glass a night since I was eight.”

“Eight?” Jaskier’s first taste of wine had been at 18. Noble children really were nothing at all like the commonfolk.

“I know my limits.” Ciri took another delicate sip, her expression too dignified to remind him of any of his hometown’s children. “Now, what are you teaching?”

-x-

iv. fifth bottle

Jaskier woke up to a dry mouth and the lingering taste of vomit. There was an uncomfortable turmoil in his belly, one that promised he wouldn’t leave the toilet for hours, and his head pounded like a drum. Lying on his back, he stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling, his right hand curled around a cool, glass bottle. From the corner of his eye, he could just make out that it was one of Geralt’s apology bottles, and that it was utterly empty. Actually around him were several other vintages of alcohol, and he didn’t have to guess to know where they’d gone.

He was never going to drink that much again. And this time, he meant it.

There was something heavy and warm on his waist. Jaskier looked down to find a hairy, muscular arm, and followed it up to find a sound asleep Geralt. Memories of last night, in bits and flashes, returned, and he resisted the urge to groan. No wonder he was so drunk, it was the only way he would have agreed to this. Only way Yennefer would agree to it too. He didn’t have to crane his neck to know that she was already gone. If it weren’t for Geralt’s arm, he’d be gone too.

It had been a mistake. An utter mistake. No matter what had changed in their relationship over the years, he and Yennefer were never going to be more than friendly enemies. Drunken, sloppy kisses weren’t going to change that. Jaskier breathed out his nose, glancing up at Geralt. His expression was entirely unguarded and content. Well, at least one person had enjoyed it.

When Jaskier received a raven a week later, a letter informing him that this would never be repeated, his only regret was that he hadn’t sent it first.

-x-

vi. sixth bottle

It was hard, being a teacher. Harder than any job Jaskier had done before, and he’d fought monsters with the best of them. Well, to be precise, he had watched people fight monsters, but he had been on the front lines for each encounter and that had to count for something.

Still, none of that had prepared him for standing in front of a classroom, day in and day out, and having dozens of students watch him with bored eyes. There were a few eager beavers in his class, but the vast majority came in expecting a bird course. Or were from his fan club, and Jaskier took no small amount of pride that even as his hair greyed, he still had it.

And all of that was easy compared to grading all of his students at the end of their term. His table was swamped with papers, with tests and projects and things he probably shouldn’t be marking but got foisted on him because another teacher had seniority. There was a reason that Jaskier had made his final exam a pure performance one, he hadn’t wanted to deal with any paperwork nonsense after.

Leaning forward, he delicately plucked a paper off the table, grimacing at the tiny cramped writing that filled both sides. It was even worse than he thought. Immediately, he dropped the sheet and headed to his closet, pulling out a small box of wine he stored safely beneath his many clothes.

If he was going to do this, he might as well be comfortable.

-x-

vii. seventh bottle

“Why do you look so good?” Jaskier bemoaned, kicking his legs as he sat on the edge of the rooftop. A small part of him worried that this was dangerous, to be drunk and on a rooftop with no rails. The rest of him realized that while he hated it, Yennefer did have teleportation magic and the worst he’d suffer was nausea. However begrudgingly it was, she’d save him.

Probably.

“Hard work,” Yennefer replied bluntly, sipping her wine as she stared up at the night sky. Even now, there was something elegant about her profile, about the way her hair flowed in the cool breeze.

It only made Jaskier hate her more. “You and Geralt are stupidly good looking. And immortal.” He gulped his wine, ignoring the taste as he chased a blissful buzz. “You know how old that makes me feel?”

“As old as you are?” Yennefer hazard a guess, her tone completely dry and disinterested.

“Exactly!” Jaskier picked up the bottle, refilling his glass once more. He couldn’t remember just when they’d started sitting here on the rooftop, having monthly bitching sessions as they complained about coworkers or students. It seemed being teachers had done what Ciri, Geralt, life-changing experiences, or even time couldn’t: made them actual friends.

He would also never tell her that. Biting his lip, he shoulder bumped her. “You shouldn’t get both. Either be good looking or immortal, but not both.”

“It’d be useless to be immortal if we couldn’t move,” Yennefer pointed out, rolling her eyes. “I’m not living to a thousand and using crutches.”

They had this argument every year and, as far as Jaskier was concerned, they would continue to have it till he died. “You have magic, what do you care if you can’t walk? Another stupidly unfair thing.”

“Fine, it’s unfair. Life’s unfair,” Yennefer sneered, looking down at him. “What’re you going to do about it?”

“I’ll tell Ciri to ban you,” he immediately shot back, not bothering to think about his decision for a moment.

“Oh?” Yennefer grinned and if he were just a little more sober, he’d recognize it for the trap that it was. “Go ahead.” She held out a scroll of paper and a pen. He should have wondered where she’d gotten it.

He was too drunk to care. “Fine, I will.”

Jaskier spent the next three months too embarrassed to visit Ciri.

-x-

viii. eighth to tenth bottles

If there was one thing Jaskier had learned over the years, it was that there was no point in hoarding things. Time passed, people came and went, and it was better to enjoy the moment than to regretfully look back at it.

So he drank when he wanted to, kissed who he wanted to, and loved like there was no tomorrow.

-x-

ix. eleventh bottle

There was nothing Jaskier loved more than to lie by the riverbank, tucked comfortably into Geralt’s side. His head rested on his love’s chest, his breathing soft and slow as they watched the clouds pass. Lying like this, it was easy to forget how his bones creaked and complained when he walked, how his back ached when he stood, and how Geralt’s touch had turned even gentler with the passage of time.

It was easy to forget that Jaskier was old. Not getting old, not turning old, but old. His hair was entirely silver now, his skin wrinkly and paper thin. Geralt’s muscles were just as firm as ever, his body unchanging.

No, not entirely unchanging. Jaskier sighed contentedly, listening to his lover’s heartbeat. All those years ago, it would have been impossible to imagine Geralt like this. It was harder now, to remember those early days, to remember that gruff Geralt. Harder, but not impossible, and perhaps the good thing about having immortal friends was that they never learned to let go of things. If he forgot, Yennefer was certain to remind him.

“Should we go back?” Geralt asked, his voice low and soft.

“Not yet.” Jaskier closed his eyes, content to just laze the day away here. “The bottle’s still full.”

It had been empty hours ago, but Geralt merely tightened his grip and nodded.

-x-

x. twelfth bottle

Geralt wiped the tombstone, his touch reverent as he cleaned Jaskier’s marker. Somehow, it was never as dirty or overgrown as he’d expected it to be. Maybe Ciri still had a guard come out to clean it every now and then. Crouched before it, Geralt ran his fingers along Jaskier’s name, along the numbers and words he had memorized over the year.

He had known before this, just how deep grief could be. How regrets could linger and fester until they haunted every step. What he hadn’t known was that a life lived happily, filled with memories and joy, could leave him feeling full even after loss. That death didn’t have to hurt, though it ached every now and then.

There was a soft pop behind him and he didn’t have to turn to know just who’d arrived. Leaning forward, he kissed Jaskier’s name before standing up. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“We were friends,” Yennefer replied, her expression soft. She’d been wearing it more often these days. “Somehow.”

“Somehow,” Geralt echoed, chuckling. Jaskier had that effect on everyone, worming his way into their hearts until it was hard to imagine lives otherwise.

“And I have the fitting marker for his anniversary.” Yennefer pulled out a bottle.

Geralt’s eyes widened and he snatched the bottle. The label had faded, worn with time, but even still, he recognized the bottle. They’d had too many of them over the years for him to forget. “There was one left?”

“Exactly one.” Yennefer gracefully knelt by Jaskier’s grave and set out three glasses. “I don’t know what he was saving it for, but maybe it was this.”

“I doubt it, he never looked that far ahead.” Still, he sat down beside her.

Taking back the bottle, she hummed her agreement. “You’re right, he was never one for thinking.” She uncorked the bottle, and carefully filled the three goblets.

“He thought sometimes,” Geralt half-heartedly defended Jaskier, unable to refute it entirely.

“Sometimes,” Yennefer agreed once more, picking up her glass. For once, she wasn’t in the mood to argue. She sniffed the wine and smiled. “Hmm, smells good. I suppose some things do get better with time.”

Geralt chuckled. “You should have told him that.”

“And let his head get any bigger?” Yennefer snorted inelegantly, before holding up her glass. “To Jaskier.”

“To Jaskier,” Geralt repeated, clinking their glasses together.

#geraskier #geralt of rivera #jaskier #yennefer #yenralt #the witcher #fanfic #art

[ruffboijuliaburnsides]

viper jaskier AU teaser

Did you want to read a bit of the setup for my Viper!Jaskier AU? well how about a lovely chunk of the first chapter to tide you over! That sounds like fun, right?

It is not out of edits yet technically, and it is not the entire chapter and I have cut out significant chunks of content so it remains new when I put it on AO3, but I am very proud of it. Please let me know what you think?

------------

Jaskier had, perhaps, been a bit too rash in storming down the mountain after the dragon hunt, effectively removing himself from Geralt’s life. Geralt from his life. Whichever way you cut it, they aren’t going to be travelling together anymore and… and good riddance, frankly.

Jaskier spent two decades as a stand-in for someone else, and he had borne it for the love of that fucking man, despite what little good sense he had. And in return he gets told off for having the audacity to try to cheer Geralt up after whatever happened with Yen that left him in such a foul and hateful temper? Oh yes, how dare he care about his friend – certainly that deserves sharp words about knowing when to shut up.

It was better than being alone, with the gaping ache in his chest as he tried to find his way to something that would fill the empty loneliness, that he'd felt every time he was without Geralt. But he’s done. He’s washed his hands of Geralt of fucking Rivia, and he’s glad of it.

Except that he’s not. Not really. Jaskier is in the next town down a random road, out of the town Roach had been stabled in at the bottom of the mountain, and his chest aches and aches and aches, the way it did before he met Geralt, the way it did every time they were apart. When he met Geralt it was a revelation how well he could fill that emptiness, and he stayed with the man for twenty years. Twenty. Years. Despite the harsh words. Despite the way he sometimes heard Jaskier and looked as if he’d just eaten a lemon. Despite the fact that Jaskier knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the witcher tolerated Jaskier because of someone he'd already fucking lost.. And then after Jaskier finally lost his patience with it and told Geralt as much, he had the audacity to try to claim that he’d let Jaskier stay for his own sake.

Which, frankly, was bullshit, and Jaskier knows it.

Which is why he is here, two weeks later, in this shit town, spending the last of his coin on another bottle of some sort of local liquor. It tastes like shit, but it gets you completely drunk, which is a good state to be in for the shit songs he’s writing and will never perform.

He says

It’s you and always you

I say

You never really saw me

Jaskier hums a bit, tucked into a table in the far corner of the tavern after having been booed into ending his attempted performance, trying to fit the scrawled (nearly illegible) lyrics to some kind of melody, and takes another swig of the bottle next to his journal. “Nah, that’s shit,” he mutters to himself, and scribbles it out loosely.

Maybe it should be a song that blames himself. He’s the one that turned it into a goddamn argument, after all. Geralt had snapped at him how many times, and he’d never taken it personally, but this time somehow was too much? Especially when Geralt was… already upset. He’s not sure what happened between Geralt and Yennefer, but he knows something happened, something not good, and yet he still pushed, and took it personally when Geralt didn’t respond well. Of course Geralt didn’t respond well.

Honestly, Jaskier only had himself to blame for being alone, after all that.

It’s been two weeks. Two weeks he’s been drunk off his ass and written a complete load of maudlin and frankly idiotic shite. He passes out at the table eventually, face planted into his journal and liquor bottle emptied down to the dregs.

The tavern owner apparently thought it best to let him sleep it off, because it's not until morning that Jaskier's roughly shaken awake and told in no uncertain terms to get out, and that his bardic services won't be needed again. Jaskier doesn't blame him; can’t keep a bard on hand if he largely sings depressing songs, he supposes. 

He starts walking out of town, hoping he actually has all his things, and decides to take stock, even if he's still a bit wobbly. He has his lute, his bedroll, a silver dagger Geralt gave him once "for emergencies", and his bag that mostly just has a change of clothes that probably needs washing pretty badly. A quick subtle smell test (which frankly, Jaskier realizes didn't need to be subtle, as there's no one on the road with him, but old habits and all) verifies that he does absolutely need a bath before he does anything else.

Right.

Geralt is gone. Jaskier has left Geralt. Geralt and Jaskier are no longer... whatever they were. Friends? It seems shallow to call them friends, but they weren't anything else. And maybe the leaving was his fault - Geralt was angry, and upset, and Jaskier knows probably better than anyone how much Geralt doesn't know how to handle strong emotions. Maybe Jaskier shouldn't have left. But he did leave.

They're done.

Geralt is gone.

Jaskier is alone.

It's an awful feeling, being alone, but Jaskier spent twenty years imperfectly filling a role someone else had filled before Geralt ever met him. Trying to fill a hole in Geralt's heart the way Geralt filled a hole in his. The problem is the shape of it: Jaskier's loneliness is broad and overwhelming and he's dealt with it as long as he can remember. Geralt's is shaped like a specific person.

And Jaskier is forty-two. He's too old to trail after a man with no interest in him like a lost puppy. He's too old to keep trying to wedge himself into a place he doesn't fit into, just so he won't feel lonely. He's too old to sit around for weeks crying over a broken heart he saw coming almost two decades ago; too old to be drinking himself to oblivion, and playing nothing but heartbreaking songs. He has the rest of his life to live.

So, metaphorically at any rate, he picks himself out of the dirt, dusts himself off, and keeps moving. He's still living, even if the life he'd built is in ruins, so now he rebuilds it.

[...]

It's been almost two years since leaving Geralt when he runs into the mage in Temeria.

He's played quiet inns and taverns before, and the key to those is generally to work at various familiar and relatively low-key songs until the audience responds, and work from there. But in this town, they seem to not want to engage, and he only plays for about an hour before he gives up, and asks for a meal and some ale.

"I wish you'd played longer," a man says, sitting down across from Jaskier. "You have a beautiful voice."

Jaskier glanced up at him, and considered what might be happening. The man was a bit older than him by all accounts, greying black hair and moderately attractive; his clothes weren't fancy silks or anything, but they looked finely-woven and well-fitted. And there was something about his eyes that set Jaskier on edge.

"Mmm," he said, something clenching nervously in his stomach. "No offence," he says lightly, with effort, "but I have a policy not to fuck mages. Professional courtesy and personal preference. You understand."

"I'm a bit disappointed on principle," the man says, with a hesitant smile. "But no, that's not why I wished to speak to you, Jaskier." 

Jaskier is almost more terrified by that than by the compliment. "I don't know where Geralt of Rivia is, either," he says, trying not to let any panic into his voice and failing miserably. "Haven't seen him in years, actually."

"My name is Doran," the man says gently. "I am a mage, though I'm mostly removed from the politics of the Brotherhood. And I'm not here to hurt you or ply you for information."

"Really?" Jaskier asks, dubious and still rather terrified, if he's being honest. "Not to be rude, but given my experience with magical personages, that seems highly unlikely."

Doran doesn't seem phased, though, and just leans forward. "You've a curse on you, bard. It seems rather nasty, and I... wanted to make sure you knew, I suppose."

Well. That certainly got Jaskier's attention quickly, and he freezes for a moment, his heart clenched. "A curse?"

"A curse," Doran verifies, nodding. "A strong one, too, as far as I can tell. Did you anger a wizard recently?"

Jaskier's pretty sure he hasn't, but he wracks his brain anyway, thinking back and trying to think of any magic users other than Yennefer that he might've pissed off enough to have a strong curse on him that he somehow doesn't know about.

"I... mildly irritated a sorceress nearly two years ago," he offers. "But I'm relatively certain she was much angrier at someone else. We have history, the irritation was mutual. Actually, I was off my game; I was probably more irritated than she was." He's starting to get jittery, turning moments over in his mind, turning himself over in his mind. 

"I doubt that would've been the source then, even for a touchy mage," Doran says thoughtfully. "Casting this curse would've taken a fair amount of effort." Jaskier's food and drink arrive, and he stares blankly down at his stew, his stomach souring. No, definitely not in the mood to eat anymore, and he pushes the bowl to the side.

[...]

"I should put this up in my room, if that's all right?" Doran nods his agreement, and Jaskier heads upstairs to stash his lute safely in his locked room. He pauses before going back downstairs, rests his forehead against the door, and takes a moment to breathe.

He's cursed, with a powerful and unknown curse, that could take effect at any moment, that he'd received at some unknown point in time, and if anything happens to him, Geralt will almost certainly never find out. Jaskier can't even be melodramatic and leave a letter for Geralt, because there isn't anywhere to send it. And it doesn't escape his notice that even now, with the spectre of something awful hanging over him, two years after he'd walked away, the only person he can think of is Geralt.

"Fuck," he whispers into the empty room. "Geralt, I swear to Melitele if this kills me, you'd better find out and grieve me like you were grieving your damn ghost for twenty years."

Then he takes a deep breath, straightens his back, and exits the room.

[...]

Jaskier sits on the cot and folds his hands in his lap to keep himself from fidgeting absently with any of the bottles or dried herbs within reach, like he would when he was six and fifteen and twenty-seven and now forty-four, and he waits.

"I'm making a tea that helps keep my magic focused," Doran says as he uses a small bit of magic to heat the water and herbal mixture he'd made. "Not something I need assistance with, generally speaking, but it will lessen the effort it takes to do, so I can focus my efforts on finding the shape of your curse and how to unwind it."

"That's fair," Jaskier says, jiggling his leg. Now that they were here and talking about magic and curses again, the calm he'd felt from the familiar movements and attitude has melted away entirely, like a chunk of snow on a burning log. "I can't imagine it's particularly easy. Seeing as how it's made of chaos and everything. Does that mean it's against its nature to be focused? I rather imagine it's a bit like my mind most days," he's trailed off into talking to himself, but Doran's standing in front of him holding an empty cup and smiling faintly. 

"I don't doubt it's similar, you seem to be rather chaotic yourself," Doran says, and puts the cup down, pulling a stool over so they're sitting facing each other. "Now, this shouldn't hurt, or feel like much of anything. I'm just looking for the magic of the curse, to try to see when it will activate and what it will do. All right?"

Jaskier lets out an anxious breath and squeezes his hands together tighter, then nods jerkily. It will be fine. And if it isn't, then he'll consider trying to find Yennefer. Doran reaches out and puts his fingers on either side of Jaskier's head. 

And nothing happens. Or, at least, nothing happens from Jaskier's point of view. He can feel this... flutter, almost, at the edge of his thoughts, that he's pretty sure must be Doran's magic, but other than that it's rather uneventful and anticlimactic. So he keeps still for a few excruciatingly long minutes before Doran opens his eyes and lowers his hands, looking solemn.

"Well, that can't be good," Jaskier says, trying weakly for levity and not managing it.

"It's some sort of transformation curse," Doran explains, sitting back on the stool for a moment. Jaskier's fingers flutter against the backs of his hands as he keeps them folded in his lap. "A very strong one. And it was set in place long enough ago that I can't see any part of you that isn't touched by it."

Jaskier's fidgeting stills, and his eyes narrow. "Wait. You mean it's a curse that's been waiting to take effect since I was a child?" 

"It's a curse that's already taken effect since you were a child, by all appearances," Doran corrects. "Whatever the transformation is, you've been living it since before you can remember."

Well. That was more upsetting and complicated than he'd expected.

[...]

He stumbles a few steps away from the door and bends over, hands on his knees, breathing deeply. Faintly he can hear the door close, and a small part of him is grateful that Doran is, if nothing else, polite enough to give him a moment of privacy to try to deal with this.

"Fuck!" he doesn't quite shout, and pushes himself upright, still trying to breathe evenly, so he can pace. "Fuck. Shitting tits, I..." Okay. He needs to not just curse. He needs to think this out, the best way he's ever known how.

"Right, Geralt," he says to no one, to the memory of his best friend for two decades who could barely stand him most of the time. "It seems that I've run into a bigger spot of bother than I thought, and I've been cursed since infancy. A transformation curse, no less, and no idea how it's changed me!"

Hmm, says the voice in the back of his mind, that he's so glad isn't here and wishes were here so badly he aches. It's thoughtful and concerned and definitely paying actual attention, rather than grunting assent while not hearing a word he says. Jaskier can— could tell the difference. Can imagine it.

"I suppose it could be something lovely," he says. "Secret heir to a throne somewhere. Or it could be worse, it's probably worse. Probably had some sort of horrible deformity and my parents were so mortified they cursed me to make me look normal enough for their perfectionistic standards." Maybe it's childish to let that much bitterness seep out in his tone, even if he's not talking to anyone but himself.

Could be, his imaginary Geralt says in this imaginary conversation he's having, and Melitele's tits, he can't even have an imaginary Geralt that is more conversational? But no, he can't, because he knows Geralt too damn well for a chattier Geralt to feel at all realistic. Damn the man.

"Whatever it is, it will change the way I exist," Jaskier continues, to the night air and a memory. "If it's from before I can remember, then it's..." his frantic pacing slows to a stop and his heart stutters. "What if I can't play anymore, Geralt?" he whispers. "What if I can't sing?"

His imaginary Geralt is silent.

But his own mind is not, it never ever is. If he can't play and he can't sing and he has more of his heart torn out of him... he will find a way to dust himself off and keep moving. He always has. He always will. If he stops, he'll drown himself, or find a dangerous lover, or try to help someone he has no business helping. And then he'll burn out the way part of him has been trying to do since he left Oxenfurt that first time at eighteen.

He's Julian Pankratz. He's Jaskier, the greatest bard the continent's ever known. He will survive and thrive after whatever this curse can throw at him.

"Right," he says, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "Okay."

[...]

:3 (I believe @brothebro, @wingedquill, and @storyinmypocket​ at the least will be interested in this!)

#the witcher #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #viper jaskier au #my fic #sort of

[mypoisonedvine]

Hello! If it’s okay, can please you write a fic with Jaskier x female reader with these prompts please? "I can’t believe you’re carrying my child” + “I’m in love with you.” + “Can I kiss you?” + "Are you scared?” + “I'll keep you safe.” + “It's okay to cry.” + “Please hold me. It’s been a day.”. I know that’s a lot of prompts, but I’m quite interested to see what you’ll come up with them! If you would prefer a plot, please let me know and I’ll try and think of one. Thank you! 🥰

Thank you so much for this!  I love these sorts of prompts, I oughta reblog more of those number prompt things but I don’t see that many on my dash and also I’m so bad at short drabbles lol… I did my best!  

Word Count: ~1.5k (tagging @100percentamess and @ultracolorfulnerdcollection)Rating: T (implied shenanigans, swearing)

“Please hold me,” you requested weakly, “it’s been a day.”

“Of course,” Jaskier obliged, wrapping you in a warm hug.  You let your head fall against his chest, inhaling the woodsy yet fresh smell of his clothes.  How could he smell so good at the end of the day?  It was infuriating, how everything about him made you love him more… especially when you were just friends.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked you quietly, one hand stroking your hair gently.  

“Not particularly, I’d just rather forget it ever happened,” you sighed.

“Alright,” he smiled, “but if there’s anyone I need to beat up for you, let me know.”

You chuckled. “You’d do that for me?”

“Well, I wouldn’t do it myself.  I’d sic Geralt on them,” he clarified.

“That would be more effective,” you smirked.

The hug ended, but you wished it could go on forever.  He moved his hands from your back to your shoulders, looking down at you with that smile that made you melt inside.  How cruel it was to have him so close and still so far away, getting love from him but never getting the kind of love you really needed.  And yet, better to know him and be near him as a friend than to not know him at all, even if it was torturous at times.  Right now, though, looking at him like this made you feel worse, the comfort coming at the price of yet another reminder that he wasn’t yours.

You felt tears welling in your eyes, and you dodged his gaze, turning away.

“Are you going to be alright?  I mean, I know you had a rough day, but is everything okay?” he asked, pulling you closer again.  You broke away from his grasp, facing the opposite direction so he wouldn’t see you cry.

“It’s fine, I’m just being foolish,” you dismissed.

“It’s okay to cry,” he soothed, stepping closer. “I just want to help you, if I can.”

“Jaskier, you’re kind, and you’re my best friend and all,” you sighed, “but you’re the last person who can help me right now.”

You felt his hand on your shoulder, and instead of shrugging it away again you accepted it, putting your hand on top of his.  He stepped forward and hugged you again, this time from behind.  And maybe it was the way that this hug felt so much more intimate than before, or maybe it was the stress from the day that you’d had, or maybe it was late-onset, brief insanity, but something compelled you to turn around and face him and ask:

“Can I kiss you?”

You looked at him and waited for a response, or at least for his facial expression to change, but all he did was look back at you in an entirely unreadable way.  Instead of responding, he kissed you first, delicate and patient.  You closed your eyes, melting into his arms, and he held you even tighter in response.

Just as you allowed yourself to let go, all the thoughts and anxieties of the day washing away, he pulled back.

“Is this alright?” he asked quietly, moving a lock of hair behind your ear.

“Yes, of course: more than alright,” you rushed.

He smiled and kissed you again, and you hoped it wasn’t just a favor or something- if so, it was the most passionate favor anyone’d ever given you, certainly.

~

“Jaskier…” you began but trailed off.

“Is everything alright?” he asked with concern in his voice, sitting down next to you.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something: something I should’ve told you sooner,” you explained.

“What’s it about?” 

“It’s about what happened two months ago,” you answered hesitantly.

His face changed, but the expression was unreadable.

“Oh, right,” he replied.

The two of you hadn’t really spoken of it at all since it happened, and you partially feared that he wouldn’t know what you were referring to, since he wouldn’t remember how long it had been.  Of course, you had been counting the days.  However, the awkwardness of his tone made it clear that you were definitely on the same page.  

“I actually wanted to talk to you about that too,” he mumbled as he shifted nervously.

“Oh,” you gasped, “well, that’s…good.”

“Maybe we want to say the same thing,” he wondered aloud.

“I’m almost one hundred percent sure that we don’t,” you chuckled.

“We should say it at the same time, just in case,” he suggested.

“Why would we do that?” you asked with a quirked eyebrow. 

“I don’t know, for dramatic effect?” he shrugged.

You laughed, but you realized it might make it easier to say what you had to say.  There was so much you wanted to say- how it was the best night of your life, how you didn’t think it was a mistake even if it was sort of unorthodox to have sex with your best friend and then not talk about it at all, how you hadn’t stopped thinking about it- you know, that sort of thing.  But there was only one thing that you needed to say, and unlike everything that you wanted to say, this was something unaffected by his opinion.  Even if he had a horrible time, even if he did think it was a mistake , even if he didn’t want to think about this ever again, you had to tell him the truth.  And you’d only spent weeks dreading it!

“Fine, on three, we’ll say what we wanted to say about what happened,” you announced with a deep breath.

“One,” he began to count.

“Two,” you added.

The world’s longest second passed.

“I’m in love with you,” he said confidently.

“I think I’m pregnant,” you said less confidently.

Jaskier was sort of right about you saying the same thing at the same time, because after a moment, you both said “What?!”

~

“I can’t believe you’re carrying my child,” he hummed sweetly as wrapped you in a hug from behind.  You were already halfway along and just getting big enough now that he couldn’t really hug you from the front anymore- at least not very hard.

“You say that a few times a week,” you scoffed.

“It’s still true!” he defended.

“I guess it’s fair that you never thought this would happen, I know I didn’t,” you remembered.

“No, it’s not that,” he explained, turning you around to look at your face, “it’s that I always wanted it to happen.  Maybe, er, not quite so fast-” you laughed at that- “but it makes  a lot of sense, at least to me.”

You smiled, nodding in agreement.  “Yeah, it makes sense.”

You felt your smile fade, though, as you started to think about everything that made you feel anxious again.

“What’s wrong?” he pressed, pulling you closer.

“Are… are you scared?” you asked him softly in response.  He smiled.

“Gods, of course!  I’m terrified!” 

Maybe it shouldn’t be comforting, and yet it was; it was good to know that you weren’t the only one freaking out about all this.

“Yes, but you’re terrified of being a parent,” you clarified. “I’m tired of becoming a parent.  You know.  Vaginally.”

He chuckled, stroking your arm in an attempt to soothe you.

“Yes, well, I can’t help you much there.  But I’ll help you any way I can- I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

“Are you under the impression that women who die during childbirth are attacked by beasts or something?” you mocked.

“Alright, so maybe I can’t protect you from the vast majority of pregnancy complications-” he admitted.

“The majority?” you interjected. “I’m sorry, which pregnancy complications can be defeated by asking Geralt for a favor?” 

“None, but I can defeat a few of them all on my own: loneliness, boredom… cravings for music?” he offered.  You laughed.

“Alright, that’s fair.  How about a craving for mince pies?” 

“I can help with that, too,” he smiled, pulling you into one more hug. “I know I can’t make this easy for you- I wish more than anything that I could.  I can’t promise that you’ll never be in pain, or that you’ll never be sad… but I can promise that you’ll never have to be alone.”

You held him closer, having to angle yourself a bit oddly to not squish your delicate stomach, but it was worth it to press your face into his chest.

“Thank you, Jaskier.”

“I love you,” he said softly.

“I love you too,” you replied, looking up at him.  You smiled at each other and it was a tender moment, but you didn’t feel even kind of bad interrupting it to add “I was serious about that mince pie, by the way.”

#jaskier x oc #jaskier x reader #dandelion x reader #the witcher #my writing

[wingedquill]

against the dying of the light, chapter one

@geraltwhumpweek

Title: against the dying of the light

Ships: Geralt/Jaskier (though not in this chapter)

Prompt Day: Day 5, Loneliness

Medium: Netflix

Warnings: Torture, Geralt is blinded very suddenly and violently. There is a lot of subsequent panic and internalized ableism about said blindness, and he's going to be very negative about it for quite a while (this chapter especially). This chapter in particular has a lot of panicked, disjointed writing/thinking so please proceed with caution.

Word Count: 2,830

Summary: When Geralt is captured by Nilfgaard and tortured for the whereabouts of his daughter, he tries to escape. Of course he does. It's in his nature. Nilfgaard comes up with a clever solution to stop him from running again. A caustic potion poured over his eyes. Time goes a bit funny after that.

Author’s Note: Chapter one of this was written for Geralt Whump Week, but this is set in the Juniper Verse. In case you haven't read that and don't feel like investing time in a long multichapter, all you need to know for this fic is that Geralt was kidnapped by Nilfgaard to protect Ciri, and that Jaskier is actually a witcher named Juniper. Chapters two and three (detailing Geralt's recovery and his and Juniper's budding relationship) will go up at some point soon-ish, but it's not really a priority for me right now, fic-wise, so don't be surprised if it takes a while.

Geralt tries to escape. Of course he does. He wasn’t made to sit quietly in a cage and let them hurt him. So as soon as he has the slightest sliver of an opportunity, he picks the locks on his chains, kills his guard with his bare hands, and sprints for the exit.

He should have waited, he thinks, when he throws open the door to the sounds of shouting and stampeding footsteps. He should have waited, he thinks, when Fringilla waves her hand and his legs lose all their strength. He should have waited, he thinks, when they drag him back to his cell and throw him on the bloodstained table. They don’t even bother to chain him down—Fringilla’s magic has left him completely motionless. Completely helpless.

He should have fucking waited.

Fringilla stalks into the room, spitting fury as her subordinates. Her magic presses down around him, heavy and oppressive. If she gets any angrier, he fears she’ll crack a rib. She stands over Geralt, grabbing his chin in her hand. Her magic is the only thing that stops him from flinching back, and shame curls in his gut, shame that he’s been reduced to beaten-animal reflex in so short a time.

“I have half a mind to keep you like this,” she snarls. “Paralyzed. On this table. Capable of nothing but hurting.”

One of her lackeys steps forward and hands her a clear jug filled with bright red liquid. Geralt expects her to force it down his throat. Expects it to be like the green potion that he’d been made to drink so many times, setting his nerves on fire without leaving a single mark on his body. Pain without the need for a healer. Convenient for his captors.

“But that would take a toll on me,” she continues, swirling the liquid around the glass. “And Nilfgaard needs me at my strongest. So this is my solution to stop you from running again, witcher. Do let me know what you think.”

She tilts her wrist and pours the red potion directly into Geralt’s eyes.

It burns.

He wants to scream, wants to thrash, wants to claw at his face and get it off,but he just lies limply on the table and stares up at the ceiling, at the face of his tormentor. And the room is cold, and gray, and dark, and getting darker.

The world is burning away from the edges of his vision and no, no, nothis can’t be happening to him, this can’t—

This can’t be the last thing he sees.

But it is.

Blackness overtakes everything and he hopes, stupidly, childishly, that he’s just fallen unconscious, except his eyes are stillon fire, shit, fuck, this isn’t real, he has to be dreaming. He hears Fringilla bark an order, feels rough hands grab at his limbs and lift. He’s dumped unceremoniously back on the ground and cold metal clicks shut around his wrists, ankles, neck.

He has motion again. A scream explodes out of his throat, animalistic, wounded, grieving a loss that he never thought he’d have to endure. He curls over himself, bringing his shackled hands up to rub frantically at his eyes. But it’s far too late. The damage is done. He’s—

He’s—

“We should have done this earlier,” he hears Fringilla say. Is she out of the room? How many people are here with him, how many people could hurt him? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know because he can’t fucking see. “I think this might be the thing that breaks him.”

Footsteps. Leaving him alone? Is he alone, or are they watching him sob, watching him wail like a child? He knows that his cell is small, but it feels very big, all of a sudden. The world is vast in its emptiness, and he thinks he might be the only person left in it. Stumbling through the void alone.

He wraps his arms around his knees and squeezes his eyes shut. As long as they’re closed, he can pretend that the blackness around him is there by his own choice.

***

For the first night, he tricks himself into thinking it might be temporary. He keeps his eyes closed for long stretches of time and tells himself that, when he opens them, he’ll be able to see again. Perhaps it will be blurry, perhaps it will be faded or colorless, but it’ll be more than endless nothing.

But he opens his eyes again. And again. And again. And every time, it’s nothing but darkness.

His own breaths are loud, loud, loud as thunder in his ears, and his heart is beating faster than it’s ever gone. Sweat covers him from head to toe and he’s shaking like an earthquake, like a small animal terrified of a thunderstorm. Is he dying? It feels like he might be dying.

He’s dying and falling and whirling away into the nothingness of the world.

No. It’s not nothingness. There is cold stone beneath his legs. A collar around his neck, chains on his limbs. Pain licking through his nerves, the aftershocks of the potion they’ve been forcing down his throat every day.

He’s here. He’s in this cell. He’s a prisoner of Nilfgaard and they’ve—

He’s not alone. That’s the point. The world hasn’t fallen away. There are still other people, lurking beyond the small cell filled with his desperate gaps. And he needs to remember that because those other people could hurt him even worse than he’s already been hurt. Want to hurt him worse, want to make him suffer.

He wonders if they’ll come back to give him the potion again, or if they’ll be content with watching him drift through the darkness, watching him cry (because he’s still crying, he can’t stop crying, it’s been hours now, and the tears still rush from him like a river) and whimper and claw at his eyes like that might lift the darkness away.

Maybe they’ll take your hearing.

He curls up even tighter.

Maybe they’ll take your tongue. Or your hands.

Tighter.

Maybe they’ll break your spine and leave you motionless and nerveless.

A sob bursts from his chest and the breaths rush from him, in and out like a runaway horse.

Maybe—

Maybe—

Maybe they weren’t content with—

His mind can dwell on a thousand different scenarios of what his torturers might do next, but it refuses to acknowledge what they’ve already done. It skates around the word, dances away from it.

They weren’t—

They want to do more than—

The breaths rush and rush, snatching control of his lungs away from him. He slumps down, shifting from a seated position to a lying one, his arms curled around his torso like that will do anything to protect him, his side pressing against the ground, his back against the wall. Anchor, anchor, anchor.

You’re on the world, you’re on the world, you’re here, you’re here, you’re just—

He uncurls his hand from his chest and presses his trembling fingers against the floor. Traces the cracks and dirt and tacky splotches he thinks are blood.

You’re here.

***

He sleeps, eventually. He doesn’t have much energy to begin with, these days, and his lungs running away from him sapped whatever was left.

When he opens his eyes, he thinks he might be dreaming at first. There is no other reason to wake to total darkness, not when his tormentors have been leaving torches burning constantly in his cell to fuck with his sleep. He’s used to opening his eyes to flames and gray stone, used to opening his eyes and seeing the fucking table that they like to strap him down on.

So. There’s no reason for this break in routine, unless he’s dreaming.

For a split second, he’s confused.

And then he remembers.

***

He cries the entire day. He thinks. Time is hard to mark when you’re—

***

Eventually he hears his cell door slamming open. He jumps at the suddenness of it, slamming his head against the wall. There’s laughter, cold and cruel, slipping into his void and crushing him from all sides. He doesn’t know who it belongs to, which guard has decided to visit him.

He almost asks.

He clenches his jaw shut. He won’t speak to them, not a single word. He promised himself that a long time ago, promised Ciri that a long time ago, and it’s not a promise he intends to break.

“Breakfast, puppy,” the man says. “Though I can see you didn’t want your dinner last night. Are we feeding you too much?”

Geralt doesn’t answer. Breakfast? But it was the evening wasn’t it? He’s been awake all day, he’s been crying for hours.

Time passes funny when you’re—

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the man laughs. Geralt hears a clatter as he sets the plate down. “I’ll pass along your message to Fringilla.”

Less food. When he can already feel his clothes hanging looser, when his hair has started to fall out, when his stomach is constantly screaming in pain.

He doesn’t answer.

“Eat up,” the man says, and the door slams shut again.

***

He needs to leave the corner.

***

He needs to leave the corner if he wants to eat now.

***

He needs to leave the corner if he doesn’t want them to cut his rations again.

***

He moves on his hands and knees, shivering the whole time. As soon as he gets a few feet—is it a few feet, is it more, is it less, is it?—away from the wall, his lungs run away from him again. He collapses in the middle of the floor, focusing all his energy on forcing his breathing steady.

In and out and in and out and in.

They must be laughing at him, the famous White Wolf reduced to hysterics at the mere act of crawling across a floor.

Is this going to be the rest of his life?

No. It can’t be. It’ll wear off, or Fringilla will get bored and remove it, or he’ll get out of here and find a mage who can fix him.

He’s not—

He’s just not.

***

He finds the food eventually. He thinks it takes him an hour. Maybe two.

Maybe more.

He eats, the raw meat already growing rancid, and steadies himself to return to his corner.

***

Time passes.

***

Time passes.

***

Time is funny when—

When—

He still can’t think the word.

***

His mind keeps circling around Ciri. Wondering where she is. Who she’s with. If she’s okay—gods please, please let her be okay. You can leave me in the darkness, but please let her be okay.

He remembers her as she was in the clearing, terrified, tears pooling in her eyes, refusing to leave him. Leaving him anyway.

It isn’t her fault. It isn’t. It isn’t. This was his choice. His and his alone. He can’t blame his child for this, he just—he can’t. If he does, he’s the kind of monster that deserves to be struck down by silver.

But he thinks of the flash of her hair as she ran, her cloak furling out behind her. And he wonders, drifting in the darkness, if that was his last sight of her.

It wasn’the tells himself, as the days go on and on and on, and the darkness refuses to lighten. It can’t have been.

***

Other potential lasts.

Roach, eyes rolling madly in her head as she was dragged away by soldiers.

Yennefer, back to him, chest heaving as she realized what he had taken from her.

Jaskier, face twisted up in pain, trying desperately not to cry as Geralt dashed his heart on the ground.

They’re all shit.

They can’t be true lasts.

***

Time passes.

And passes.

***

Eventually, Fringilla does start giving him that potion again, the one that sets every nerve alight and makes him scream until his throat gives out.

He’s almost grateful for it, at first. It’s a distraction from the nothing, nothing, nothing.

***

He stops being grateful after—

After a while. Not sure how long.

***

Time passes.

And then.

***

Jaskier’s voice. Jaskier’s hands, pressing against his face, smoothing back his hair, tracing the skin around his eyes. Geralt leans into the touch, breathes in his scent, chases the melody of his voice. It might be a dream. A hallucination brought on by too much pain and too much nothingness. But he’ll drink it in while it’s here, savor it like a fine wine, a gracious lover, a peaceful day.

“We’re getting you out,” Jaskier whispers and—

Ciri is here, sobbing in his arms, a frantic litany of apologies that tug at his heart until he thinks it might snap clean in two. He holds her close, as tightly as he can with his sapped strength, and whispers reassurances in her hair. That it’s not her fault. That he’s proud of her.

(Though he’s terrified, that she’s here, because what the fuck was Jaskier thinking, bringing his child into this hell?)

And Yen is here too, tugging him to his feet, snarking at Jaskier like this is just another monster hunt. His family, here, around him, and they’re pulling him out of the cell, pressing him on step by step by agonizing step.

He wonders, briefly, if he might have died.

And then Fringilla appears, and Ciri steps forward, and he dismisses that thought entirely as his daughter turns his torturer into a tree.

Not even death would be that strange.

***

They drag him out of the shaking, screaming castle.

He struggles, weakly, pointlessly, because there’s one member of his family missing, and he can’t leave her, he can’t lose her, not after everything.

“It’s just a stupid horse,” Yennefer mutters, but Jaskier knows better.

***

He falls against her and breathes her in.

Life. Warmth.

His first and best anchor.

You’re on the world. You’re here. You’re not flying away.

“Sorry Roach,” he says against her neck. “Sorry. Bet you want to get back on the road again, huh?”

She nickers softly, he breath whooshing slowly and steadily beneath his ear.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Me too.”

You’ll never be able to ride her again, and you know it. Not properly.

He closes his eyes. It doesn’t make a difference.

This is the first of a thousand griefs.

***

But maybe not. Maybe—

Maybe Yennefer can fix this.

Maybe you don’t have to be—

***

He doesn’t feel like he’s here with them, as they pile into Yennefer’s safe house, moving too quickly for him to track. They flutter around him like anxious birds, pressing hands against his skin, and he knows he should feel like he’s part of the world. He knows that they are trying to ground him. But he doesn’t—

He can’t—

He wants to see Jaskier’s smile, he wants to see Ciri’s excitable bounce as she reaches up to grab his hand, he wants to see Yennefer’s steady violet eyes. He wants the reminder that they’re here, and he’s here, and he wants the world to be concrete and steady and solid around him.

Yennefer puts her hands on his face.

“This won’t hurt,” she promises.

He flinches anyway, from a knowledge that might hurt more than any blow.

Please, he says to all the gods in the sky. Please please please please don’t let me be—

“I’m sorry,” Yennefer says.

***

Time shatters.

***

Nononononononononono

***

“Yennefer. Can you take Ciri out of here?”

***

NonononononononononononoNONONONO—

***

Jaskier’s arms are around him, Jaskier’s voice is around him, echoing and soothing and Geralt can’t even hear what he’s saying.

***

His lungs are running away and he’s crying and crying and he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop, it’s all his eyes are fucking good for anymore AND HE CAN’T—

***

“Breathe,” Jaskier says, and he doesn’t know how to do that. “Please breathe, sweetheart, please—”

***

Time is shattered, time is shattered, time doesn’t mean anything anymore, it could be noon or midnight, and he wouldn’t know because he’s—

***

“No,” he wails. “No, no, no, no, no. I can’t do this, Jaskier, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”

Jaskier is shaking beneath him and he thinks Jaskier might be crying too, but he can’t tell, he can’t, because he’s—

***

“I’m blind,” he sobs. His mind can’t slip around the word anymore. It can’t escape it. It’s made a home in his brain, and he doesn’t think it’ll ever leave. Doesn’t think it’ll ever stop echoing, around and around and around.

“I’m blind, I’m blind, I’m blind, Jaskier, I—”

“I know,” Jaskier says. His breath stutters against Geralt’s cheek. He rocks back and forth like Geralt is a newborn babe, like simple motion is the answer to his tears. But it isn’t. Because nothing will ever fix this.

Nothing will ever bring him back to the world.

#geraltwhumpweek #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #juniper verse #My writing

[fangirlshrewt97]

Geralt Whump Week Submission Day 5

TITLE: I Walk a Lonely Road

SHIPS: Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier|Dandelion (Platonic or Pre-Slash)

PROMPT: Loneliness

MEDIUM (Netflix, Books, Games, Hexer): Netflix

WARNINGS: NA

SUMMARY:  Excerpt:

And yet, Jaskier had followed him. Jaskier followed him despite his grouchy demeanor, his taciturn nature, his ostracism at the hands of the general pubic. And not only did Jaskier follow him, he befriended him. In his long life, Geralt had come across the whole swath of humanity, from the saints to the scum of the earth, but very few had had the courage to be able to look him in the eye for more than a few minutes at a time. And even less had thought him to be someone worth knowing. Jaskier was the first, and only, human brave enough to ask to be - no not ask, declare himself to be Geralt’s friend.

Alternate title: Geralt misses Jaskier and ponders on having a friend.

WORD COUNT: 1483 words

AUTHOR’S NOTES:  Additional Tags include Geralt Whump Week, Loneliness, Introspection, Friendship, Angst with a happy ending, Geralt deserves better, Geralt has abandonment issues, Geralt has trust issues

AUTHOR: Fangirlshrewt97

CHARACTERS: Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier

LINK TO AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25089355

                                                         ///

It was odd, how unsettling the silence was the first time Geralt and Jaskier parted for the season after they started to travel with each other for the majority of the year. Geralt heading towards Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier back towards Oxenfurt.

The world seemed to be amplifying the specific absence of nonstop chatter and mindless strumming, so that even the existing chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves against the wind, the rush of the stream down the hill, all of it seemed to be background noise to the silence.

Geralt urged Roach into a light trot instead of the sedate pace she was currently on. Maybe distance would lower the volume of the silence.

Jaskier was closer to Oxenfurt than Geralt had been to Kaer Morhen, so Geralt had led them towards Redania after they finished their business in Temeria. It was simply because Geralt did not want to cause the bard further difficulties as he made his way back to his winter roost. It was challenging to travel during winter even for a Witcher, it would be even worse for Jaskier.

Roach started to slow down after nearly two hours of trotting, so Geralt decided to make camp, dismounting from Roach and leading her by the reins as he scanned the area for a good campsite. Finding a small clearing a little ways from the road, Geralt tied Roach to a tree and settled down saddle bags. He removed a small dagger and went in search of food.

After a quick hunt and a large rabbit that had had the unfortunate luck of crossing his path, Geralt gathered firewood and created his fire for the evening with Igni. He went through the motions of cleaning the rabbit and cooking it, eating mechanically.

It was difficult to believe so now, having travelled alone on the Path for nearly seven decades now, but three years with Jaskier were all that Geralt had needed to become used to him. There were some days when the bard was too much, too loud, too colourful, too much frenetic energy. But other days, he was the one bright spot of sunshine that reminded Geralt that while most humanity hated him for his existence, his duty was done for people like Jaskier, people who made life worth living.

Who brought some joy into a world of cruelty and death, a breath of fresh air through the stink of decay and destitution. Who was brave, and smart, and courageous. But who also was not afraid to fight for what he believed in, or who. Geralt had lost count of the number of fights he had stopped Jaskier from getting into over himself, but the surprise of someone fighting for him was there every time.

If Jaskier had been here, he would have been complaining over the blandness of the rabbit, and prattling about buying spices at their next stop at a town so it did not feel so much like they were eating barely-cooked meat.

Geralt felt his lips twitch upward at the thought. Even without being beside him, the bard had wound his way into Geralt’s head and life. It had not actually been too difficult, Geralt had never had to properly set up walls to protect himself beyond the insults hurled at Witchers. Why bother, what human would ever want to be around a monster like him? And sorcerers? Please, they were so stuck up with their inflated senses of selves, Geralt found it incredible some of them did not simply fly away with egos. Other Witchers were so few that he crossed paths with. And his brothers? Well they had always had a place there.

So. Geralt had skin thicker than the hide of his armor, but his walls crumbled at the slightest show of affection, or understanding, or kindness. Or even just being treated as a person and a not a killing machine.

And yet.

And yet.

And yet, Jaskier had followed him.

Jaskier followed him despite his grouchy demeanor, his taciturn nature, his ostracism at the hands of the general pubic. And not only did Jaskier follow him, he befriended him.

In his long life, Geralt had come across the whole swath of humanity, from the saints to the scum of the earth, but very few had had the courage to be able to look him in the eye for more than a few minutes at a time. And even less had thought him to be someone worth knowing. Jaskier was the first, and only, human brave enough to ask to be - no not ask, declare himself to be Geralt’s friend.

Geralt did not know how to react to this, he had been brought up being told that Witchers travelled alone, their duty was one observed alone, their lives a sacrifice for the greater good, not their own.

His earliest memory, well, second earliest was of his mother abandoning him on the trail that lead to Kaer Morhen. It was calling out for her and stumbling down the path until nightfall, disoriented, hungry, and scared. It was being terrified of being eaten by the hulking figure with golden-yellow cat eyes that glowed in the dark until that figure revealed itself to be a Witcher.

Among his fellow trainees, his brothers to be, Geralt felt the first sense of family. He felt like he was part of a cause, like the hero of the stories people were going to write. And then they went through the trials. He watched, as one by one, most of the boys he considered to be his brothers died painfully, screams echoing through stone halls. He remembers very little of his own trial, knows it was just as scream-filled, but it is their voices that haunt him on the nights when he is most isolated. He also recalls the first time he left to venture on the Path, the beginning of the rest of his life, saying goodbye to the few constants in his life. Returning the next winter, weathered and worn by a world that had shown itself not to be kind. Returning to a hall where, of the handful of brothers he had stepped into the Path with, only Eskel returned. He learned then more than ever the true meaning of the words of his teachers. Friends were a liability, connections were distractions, and distractions got you killed. Help those in need, help your comrades, but above all, make sure you go into a situation with a clear head.

Geralt shook his head from his musings and cleaned up the remains of his dinner. After putting everything away, he took out his sword cleaning kit and settled by a rock next to his fire pit, using the whetstone to sharpen his blades before running over the swords with oil. He polished the blade to perfection as he had been taught, and placed the two swords back in their scabbards in Roach’s saddle.

He stretched for a bit, still feeling a little restless, but feeling too filled with energy to meditate. The cracks from days of laying on hard floors and riding make themselves known, and the stretching leaves him feeling pleasantly sore and limp. He makes his way to his bedroll, dropping gracelessly onto the mat and rolling onto his back. The clearing he had chose was well hidden from the road, and the circle of trees were tall enough to provide further cover. But straight upward? There was a large opening unobstructed by plants that allowed for a view of the starry sky.

The moon’s beams were at the edge of the circle of trees, lighting up the sky to give him a view that reminded him just how small he was in the larger scale of their world.

One of the lessons that was drilled into Witchers during training was to learn the night sky, and use it as a compass to orient themselves anywhere on the Continent. Geralt had not been the quickest at identifying them, but had enjoyed the lessons nonetheless. They were one of the few that taught the trainees the beauty of their world, rather than the violence and horror of it.

Geralt stayed staring up at the night sky until his eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep to the sound of the woods, the rustling of the trees, the distant calls of owls, the scampering of small wildlife out on a hunt.

He had lived for the majority of his life believing himself destined for a life of loneliness. But he had found himself a bard - no, a friend. Someone who was voluntarily spending time with him because he enjoyed to do so.

The thought brought a smile to Geralt’s face, and he fell asleep underneath the canvas of the night sky like that.

Full of happiness and pride, humming a familiar song that had been written about him.

#the witcher #my fic #my writing #Geralt Whump Week #geralt whump week 2020 #geralt whump week day 5 #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #geraskier fic #whump #angst #let me know what you think!

[mordoriscalling]

48 Weeks (2/4)

(Part 1)

Throughout the 48 weeks that Geralt and Jaskier spend apart, their relationship develops.

Aka, part 3 of the Singer and the Sailor AU no one asked for but I wrote anyway. The events of this story happen after Stay or Sail Away but before Homecoming. Warnigns: some sexual content ahead!

Weeks 13-24

Week 13

He waits for Jaskier’s call impatiently, praying in his mind that this is not the time they’ve got the timezones wrong. He doesn’t even have five minutes to spare right now.

Finally, after the eternity of two more minutes, there’s an incoming call from Jaskier. He picks up and immediately says, “A storm’s going to hit us soon.”

He hears Jaskier’s shaky sigh.

“Okay,” Jaskier’s replies, his voice tight, “please stay safe.”

Geralt nods. Nothing wrong happens to the crew on his watch. He made that mistake only once.

Week 14

“Another storm’s coming.”

“What? What the hell, are we some kind of star-crossed lovers –”

“Jaskier. I have to go.”

“Right.” The glint of fear turn’s Jaskier’s eyes into a colour almost as pale as ice. “Send me a text when it’s over.”

It’s one of the worst storms Geralt’s even been through but there’s no way in hell he’ll let the sea take him or anyone he’s responsible for. They all have people to return to. The thought of his family gets him through it. Jaskier’s among them too.

Week 15

“You write those songs fast.”

“What can I say?” Jaskier answers with a disarming grin, “You’re my muse.”

Geralt snorts at the ridiculous notion but he can’t fight a small smile tugging at his lips.

He listens to the recording the moment Jaskier hangs up. The song is about longing, Jaskier’s longing. His voice is high-pitched, raw and vulnerable, and Geralt finds he can’t breathe.

Week 16

When he tries to thank for the song, the “thank you” refuses to go through his throat. “Siren,” he says instead, “I miss you too.”

Jaskier smiles, a tiny, soft thing. His blue, blue eyes sparkle and somehow, Geralt feels seen.

Week 17

“Have I told you about that time me and Rozalia tried to teach chickens how to fly?”

“You what.”

Jaskier laughs. “Yeah. When we were little, we often spent the summer holidays with our grandma back in Poland. She kept chickens and well... I remember when I was maybe eight years old, me and Rozalia noticed that Amelia, who was little then, loved to watch how the chickens try to fly up in the air.”

“So, Roza suggested that we try to teach them how to fly, and I came up with the idea of creating a... chicken launcher.”

“A chicken launcher?” Geralt repeats.

“Yes,” Jaskier answers with a chuckle, “it was a really crude thing that me and Roza built out of some random planks and bricks we found in the shed. But it worked! It launched the chickens some six feet in the air. Amelia was delighted.”

“What the fuck, Jaskier.”

“I know, okay? We didn’t hurt the chickens, I swear! Though none of them wanted to be placed on the launcher for the second time, wonder why.”

Geralt laughs and laughs, and laughs, the sound coming deep from his chest and loosening the tension in his body. He keeps cackling hysterically – because fucking chicken launcher – and comes to realise that he doesn’t mind Jaskier’s ridiculousness at all.

Week 18

Geralt quickly picks up on the fact that something’s off about Jaskier, no matter how much Jaskier tries to hide it.

“Why are you sad?” he asks.

For a moment, Jaskier says nothing, but then replies, “Valdo called me yesterday.”

Geralt frowns, surprised. “Valdo Marx?”

Jaskier didn’t fail to mention how much of a “backstabbing motherfucker and talentless swine” Valdo Marx is.

“Yeah,” Jaskier confirms with a wry smile. “I know he’d call, we’re in the same city coincidentally.” He sighs heavily. “I knew he’d be drunk. He usually calls when he’s drunk.”

Geralt stays quiet and Jaskier goes on.

“When he calls me, he just... reopens this fucking wound, saying all those things. How he loves me still, how he’s never stopped loving me, how we should meet and try again... but then he’ll start petty drama on social media to gain publicity and call my music shit because that news sells, and I–” A sharp exhale. “I wish it was simple. I wish I could only hate him but... Well. The problem is, we were something else together.” Jaskier laughs bitterly. “And yet, fame tore us apart.”

There’s a pause. Geralt doesn’t speak again, trying to process all of he’s heard. Eventually, Jaskier breaks the silence again.

“And now I’m touring, and he’s touring too, and everyone thinks we’re rivals, and it’s just getting so old. I have better things to do.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that, so he only says what he knows from experience. “In the long run, it’s harder to hold on than to let go.”

“That’s –” Jaskier starts, then cuts himself off. He stares at Geralt through the screen with wide eyes. “That’s... true.”

Week 19

“Two songs?”

“I have no idea how I do that either. At this point, I’m convinced that I just can’t die. Sleep deprivation should’ve killed me long ago but here I am, alive and kicking.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. His worry comes off as anger but most of his emotions do. Jaskier doesn’t seem deterred. Geralt has a suspicion that he literally has no self-preservation instinct. Still, he tries to stare Jaskier into compliance. “Go to sleep.”

Jaskier obliges after some theatrical complaining.

When Geralt plays the recordings after going to bed, he’s surprised how different the songs are. The first one is an enticing call for sharing an adventure, luring him towards thoughts of what’s beyond the empty vastness of blue, towards what’s unknown to him. It’s all Jaskier, whereas the other song is not like Jaskier at all. It has none of Jaskier’s usual energy; it’s just a call for help, a cry of deep sadness that Geralt knows very well. He hates that Jaskier knows it too.

Week 20

Geralt listens to Jaskier strumming his guitar idly and no words come to him even though he knows he should say something. He sees that Jaskier needs it but his throat refuses to work. The wolf signet is a heavy weight in his pocket and he almost curses the day he let himself have this.

He was aware from the start that he shouldn’t have. After so many years at sea, he’s almost grown an allergic reaction to getting attached like this; he knows it hurts like bloody hell. He had no idea that he’d be called for this deployment back then though, and Jaskier was there, irrationally familiar and safe. His eyes sparkled in the light of the room during that birthday party, his elegant hand was warm underneath his own, and Geralt gave in. He regretted it mere minutes later and he almost regrets it now.

This would’ve been so much easier without Jaskier. Loneliness is what he knows and waiting for Jaskier isn’t easy like that, especially not when he isn’t doing enough to have Jaskier stay.

He tries to think of Ciri’s laugh to cheer himself up but in the end, it makes his chest ache even more.  

Week 21

When Jaskier’s face shows up on the screen, his eyes and grin almost scream mischief.

“Hello, dear,” he purrs, “What a sight for sore eyes you are.”

Geralt knows that tone very well. His body responds to it with a thrill of anticipation before he can form a single thought. Then, Jaskier stretches his arms, “accidentally” lowering the camera of his phone to show his naked, hairy chest, and any thoughts fly out of Geralt’s mind.

“No shirt on?” he asks, his mouth dry.

“I don’t have anything on,” Jaskier answers in that raspy voice which drives Geralt mad.

“Show me.”

“With pleasure, darling.”

Week 22

“The audience was wonderful today,” Jaskier says dreamily.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “You always say that.”

He’s been saying that very often ever since he’s started touring in North America two months ago.

“That’s because you got to say that,” Jaskier replies, “I have to make my audience feel special. I mean it this time, though. There was magic in the air.”

Suddenly, a heavy feeling settles in Geralt’s gut and he can’t help wondering if Jaskier truly means the words he says.  

Week 23

In the past week, the sea has been moody, there have been several small but bothersome damages to the ship, and Ciri’s caught a nasty cold. Generally, nothing’s going like it’s supposed to, and Geralt is tired. He sees that Jaskier’s noticed.  

They’re quiet, only looking at each other through the screen. The silence between them seems impassable but then it’s broken by Jaskier’s quiet question.

“Why is your hair white?”

“I won’t tell you,” Geralt snaps, because the very idea of talking about it sets his teeth on edge. Jaskier flinches at his harsh reaction. Geralt tries to amend it by adding, “Not yet.”

It’s a promise which he isn’t sure he can keep but Jaskier accepts it with a slow nod.

“Will you tell me how come you joined the Navy, then?” Jaskier asks quietly. “In detail, please. When I asked before, you only said that you didn’t have anything better to do.”

“That’s how it happened.”

“Geralt.”

“Fine.”

And so, Geralt tells him. He was twenty-three and still hadn’t dealt with having been abandoned by his mother and dumped by Yennefer, who he thought to be the love of his life at the time. He hated it so much that he decided it was his turn to abandon, and he quit everything.

Their adoptive father never suggested for them to follow in his footsteps but at the time, the Navy seemed a career good as any. Geralt and his brothers, not related to him by blood but still his brothers even before Vesemir took them in, truly didn’t have any plans too. Nothing kept them on land.

Now as he looks at Jaskier listening to him carefully, he thinks it’s funny how things have changed.

Week 24

“We’re halfway through.”

Jaskier sounds tired and Geralt heaves a sigh. The room is light but it suddenly appears very dark. He’s almost forgotten home and missing his family has got less painful but there’re still days when it chokes him, like today.

“You don’t have to do this,” he tells Jaskier.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s fine if you’ve changed your mind.”

Geralt hears Jaskier release a shaky breath.

“Have you changed your mind?”

“No,” Geralt replies, looking at Jaskier finally, hoping to be seen, “I want this.”

Jaskier smiles softly. “Good,” he says, his voice warm, “because I want this too.”

Geralt wants to call him an idiot but it would sound far too fond.

The day ends with another storm.

Part 3

***

A/N:  The story about the "chicken launcher" is what me and my younger brother did one day when we were kids. I think it's definitely something the horror sister Rozalia and the wild brother Julian would do to amuse their nasty angel baby sister Amelia.

#myfic #gerasker #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #modern au #the Sailor and the Singer AU

[itsclydebitches]

Title: Mightier Than the Sword (Chapter Three)

Fandom: Witcher

Summary: A month after the events of “Rare Species,” Geralt slinks his way into an inn and is faced with the question of how an emotionless man apologies. (TV!canon with some details drawn from the books and Wild Hunt.)

Pairing: Pre-slash/slow burn Geralt and Jaskier

Word Count (This Chapter): 2,701

Where to read it: Below or on AO3

Traveling with Jaskier was as exhausting as Geralt remembered.

Only a fool would assume that was a bad thing.

Indeed, exhaustion had many forms and not all were made equal. Witchers understood that better than most. The ache from training was not the same as pain from a battle. The morning after drink could not compare to the morning after a cry—or so he’d been told. Geralt was indeed exhausted with Jaskier at his side... but he’d also been exhausted with him gone. The latter was an itchy feeling that never went away, felled not by sleep, drink, or even the occasional woman. It loosened its hold on him only when Geralt spent long afternoons talking to Roach, which was how he had been able to label it as something akin to loneliness. Not the true thing though, surely. Witchers didn’t feel the same as humans did, most felt nothing at all, so it only served to reckon they wouldn’t get lonely quite like they did either. Vesemir had given long lessons on the enhancements Geralt’s additional mutations had granted him, though little on the consequences. None of it had been hard to figure out on his own though. Not once he set out on the Path. Unlike his brethren, Geralt had... needs. Or desires rather, for he’d had little difficulty in suppressing them over the years. He found himself craving the gentle ministrations of the priestesses over the brusque treatments of rural healers, when they designed to treat a mutant at all. The conversations held with streetwalkers were at times more enjoyable than the sexual release they built to and when it was through, watching them all but sprint to the baths to be rid of him, Geralt could admit to a foreign ache in his stomach. Something he couldn’t fill with food. Admit, but not speak of. He’d once shared meat with a witcher from the School of the Viper. In turn the man had shared his crudely made alcohol. Potent stuff and within an hour Geralt’s tongue had loosened far more than he was used to, speaking of those strange moments and hoping that his companion would open his mouth across the fire, admitting to the same. Or at least to something similar.

Instead he’d accepted Geralt’s ramblings in silence, then packed his things in that same quiet, deepening it. He’d left without a word, choosing the forest over his company. He learned his lesson well and over the years Geralt had grown more adept at shoving such desires deep down where they could cause him no more strife. After all, he might also desire hot food and a feather bed to sleep in. That didn’t mean he had any hope of receiving them. It was an exhaustion he’d grown used to.

Nowadays though... Geralt’s head grew heavy because it was being stuffed with information he’d never need: the exact circumference of Lady Kathryn’s waist, what strings worked best for an Elven lute, why you must never soak a dark colored shirt with its lighter siblings, the best spots in Novigrad to buy cinnamon pastries (though Geralt admitted he might well use that last bit). Jaskier talked incessantly, until Geralt’s ears ached and his throat grew scratchy from the uncommon number of responses he was expected to give. Being forced to interact with someone from dawn to dusk ate at him in unexpected ways, so that Geralt tumbled onto his mat each night weary from something other than travel. Though it did occur to him that he might be helping create that monster. Surely Jaskier’s conversation was tied at least somewhat to the encouragement he received, yet Geralt couldn’t bring himself to dissuade him. He’d spoken harshly once and had regretted it for weeks after.

More proof of his abnormality. Witchers weren’t meant to feel regret either. Too emotional for his brothers; too unfeeling for the rest of the world. It left him somewhere in between, freakish to all who bothered to spare him a glance.

Yet here Jaskier sat. Talking.

“I really must buy a proper case for all this,” he said, carefully weighing down his papers with nearby stones. Jaskier had a tendency to rip them from his notebook while working, chucking them into the fire before realizing there was still merit and attempting to retrieve them with a squawk. Geralt had kept the fool from burning himself on more than one occasion. “Something enchanted, I think. Although...” Jaskier’s mouth twisted, the same lemon-puckered look he adopted whenever Yennefer came up. Today, Geralt found the look more amusing than offensive. “I hate to sully my work with that stuff, but it’s probably worth it in the end. Something waterproof, of course. Resistant to fire too. Oh! Maybe one of those retrieval options. You know, the fancy spells that draw the object back to your hand. And—”

“Expensive,” Geralt finished. “Even for you, Bard.”

“That’s poet,” Jaskier sniffed. “I’m hardly just a bard, Geralt. Sure, I might be forced to put my art to catchy tunes in order to keep our bellies filled—”

“Ours?”

“—but poetry is my true calling and one day you shall hear it recited from Oxenfurt Academy to the poorest villages of Velen! Provided that my writing survives our journey, of course. I just need to...” Jaskier tore a few more pages apart so that each held but a single stanza, secured them with more stones, then re-arranged the whole design, quick as a Gwent master. “What do you think? Should the description of the swamps come before the battle, or as a way of breaking it up?”

Before Jaskier conversation had been rare, but easy. Geralt knew precisely what was wanted of him and could map out the talk down to the last words he’d receive: “Fine.” “Freak.” “Quickly.” “You’d better.” The common folk wanted him to be a sword against the rest of the world. The rare woman wanted him as an easy fuck with no chance of pregnancy. Conversation led only to these two outcomes and when he’d completed either he was sent on his way. Jaskier though...

That first morning together he’d donned the clothes Geralt had stolen and done a little twirl, asking how he looked. “What’s it matter?” he’d replied, thinking of the stains and tears that would inevitably develop; whether the wool would be warm enough for a human out in this cold. Jaskier had pouted though and given him five words that had reverberated in his head for the last few days.

“I just want your opinion.”

No one had wanted Geralt’s opinion before. Not unless it was in the service of their survival. Now there was clothing and poetry and the occasional pretty thing. Geralt opened his mouth, unsure if he could force anything to come out of it. Beside him on the log Jaskier was quiet. That, more than anything else, shocked a response out of him.

“Before,” he said. Jaskier blinked.

“Why?” Genuine tone. Honest expression. Jaskier got nervous when he lied and Geralt would have heard the kick in his heartbeat.

“You don’t break up a fight. It happens. It ends.”

“Huh. I believe you’re right. Best not to interrupt the action,” and just like that the moment was broken. Jaskier surged forward, spreading his legs to scribble on the papers between them, then leaning to reach those positioned near Geralt’s boot. His writing was nigh illegible and Geralt suddenly felt compelled to mention as much.

“My handwriting? You’re one to talk given your spelling.”

“My spelling?”

Jaskier dipped into the bag where his lute lay, retrieving a few pages with unnerving accuracy. Geralt immediately recognized them as his own notes. Jaskier flapped them in his face causing him to draw back with a growl. “No one spells ‘pathetic’ as ‘pathetick’ anymore. Or ‘connection’ with an ‘x.’ Your spelling is at least a century out of date, my friend. Who taught you? A vampire?” and Jaskier laughed at his own, highly suspect joke.

“No. But I learned to spell a century past.”

“You—?”

Jaskeir’s head whipped around. He stared at Geralt. Geralt stared at him. Jaskier’s eyes were as wide as a newborn foal’s.

“Right,” he finally said. “That’s... yeah. That’s a thing. Okay then, grandfather.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He only got a noncommittal noise in response, the same one he heard whenever Geralt demanded that Jaskier not compose another song about him. He was already lost in his own words again and Geralt let him go, distracted himself. Because that had been different too. Most recoiled from his age as quickly as they did his eyes or his scars. Yet here Jaskier sat, shrugging off his age as easily as he would... well. Geralt didn’t know what to compare it to. He’d never had a need. The fool currently smearing ink on his chin was a mess of contradictions that Geralt feared he’d never untangle. As brilliant as he was dense. Brave as he was cowardly. He ran from monsters only to then willingly walk beside another and unlike those who judged him on looks and rumor alone, Jaskier had true reason to fear him. Geralt had treated him monstrously and gotten only kindness in return.

It all made his head ache. Vesemir had warned Geralt that the Path would be confusing. Humans, elves, dwarves, and halflings—they all led such complicated lives; governed by meandering social rules that witchers could never hope to master. It often made him long for the simplicity of Kaer Morhen. Even so, Geralt didn’t think that anything would have prepared Vesemir for Jaskier.

The sudden image of the two meeting burned bright in his mind, causing a suspicious twitch in Geralt’s lips.

Jaskier, meanwhile, impatiently tapped quill against paper.

“Fog sweeping

Hearts still

When rose the drowned

For troubadour bound

and came to claim his—”

Geralt, what part of a human do drowners eat?”

He nudged one of the stones further onto its paper, keeping it from flying with the breeze. “Everything.”

“Well that’s not useful.”

“And there was no fog. Or is your memory that fickle?”

“Excuse me, but I’m not the one forgetting lessons here. What have I taught you about truth and fame? They rarely go hand-in-hand.” Jaskier suddenly grinned. “A bit like coin and monsters that way.”

For some reason that smile and those words sparked a memory, an actual flitting thing that danced at the edge of his mind. Ah, of course. Triss. She had demanded to know whether there was more in Geralt’s life than beasts and payment for their slaughter. Now, looking at Jaskier, he wasn’t sure what answer he would give her.

“Far too many words that rhyme with ‘still,’” Jaskier said, oblivious to Geralt’s thoughts. Whether it was arrogance or brilliance that drove his focus, who could say. “That’s the real problem here. Too many options. You wouldn’t think it, but it’s the truth. You’re like that too with your, ah...” Oddly, color rose high into Jaskier’s cheeks as he looked back at his companion, hand making a sweeping gesture from Geralt’s head to his toes. “... everything. Your everything, Geralt. I mean, what am I supposed to describe first? Soft hair? Golden eyes? Armor bearing the marks of your survival? Though perhaps not as that’s in need of a wash.” Jaskier wrinkled his nose. “You stand out. Everything practically begs to be put to paper, but there’s only so much flattery an audience will sit through. One must pick their details wisely. Hmm. Actually, I may well opt for your hands, dear witcher. They are after all the real tools that saved me that day.”

Six hours from now Geralt would be ankle deep in a stream, trailing behind Jaskier in an effort to keep anything from sneaking up behind them, but in truth he’d once again be distracted. Uneasy about his own abilities and cursing that state. Because if a mere human could spring on him so, what would stop a creature of more cunning and skill?

Geralt should have caught the movement. Jaskier sat right beside him and yet somehow he managed to snag Geralt’s hand without him realizing, fingers cupping palm. He registered how cool the human’s skin was compared to a witcher’s blood, the calluses so similar to his own, yet residing in all the wrong places. Geralt felt a thumb tracing his lifeline, heard Jaskier’s voice as if from deep under water...

...and then instinct had him pulling away with a snarl. Geralt stumbled off the log and resisted the urge to drag his hand up against his chest. Impossibly, it felt bruised. Raw and burning in equal measure.

Jaskier froze.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice pitched low and soothing. Like he was attempting to coax a temperamental mare. Indeed, Roach flicked her ears at the noise and turned, bumping her head briefly against Geralt’s shoulder. It was only then that he realized he was still snarling, lips pulled back to reveal teeth too large and sharp for a human mouth. Jaskier had gone a shade paler than was his norm.

“No touching,” he said. “Message received. Except,” Jaskier hesitated. Geralt watched his throat bob once, then twice. “Didn’t seem that way a few days ago. You—” he briefly raised a hand, that same hand, up into his hair where he tugged at the strands. “Gods, Geralt. You can thread your hands through my hair but I can’t so much as brush you without getting... this?”

Finally, his lips receded. Geralt’s shoulders relaxed and his pupils went back to their normal size, no longer dilated for defense. “That was different.”

“How?”

“Because...”

Because it just was. It was like exhaustion. Nothing was made equal. Geralt checking Jaskier for a head wound was not the same as Jaskier touching his hand. Dragging him to Yennefer’s doorstep was not the same as the press of shoulders Jaskier had attempted over the fire last night, or the squeeze of an arm during breakfast, both of which Geralt had managed to dodge. He didn’t know why he’d failed this time and that vulnerability strangled anything else he might have said. It all died in his throat and eventually, when the silence grew, Jaskier looked away.

“Knew I shouldn’t have made that joke about chamomile and bottoms,” he muttered, rubbing at his face. “Right! Well, you needn’t worry in the future. I value my neck too much to risk it wrung over a closer look at your hands. Besides, terrible cuticles. Chipped nails and dirt beneath them. I doubt my audience wants to hear any of that.”

It hurt. Somehow it hurt to move from Jaskier’s praise to these insults, however unconvincing they may be. For Jaskier’s heart was beating like a rabbit’s and he was still avoiding Geralt’s eye. The worst was that, with a few minutes and deep breaths behind him, Geralt found that his hand no longer burned. Rather, there was a satisfying warmth that crawled up his wrist and his fingers twitched, eager to reach back. To take what he’d just rejected.

“Jaskier...”

“No, no. No need to explain. I get it, really. I’m the impulsive one. Rude too, though it’s unintentional I assure you. ‘Little fool’ my mother used to call me.”

“Jaskier.”

“I apologize, Geralt. Seriously. I shouldn’t have—”

“Jaskier would you shut up for once?”

He did, but only because by now the sounds were near enough for a human to hear. Jaskier stilled, eyes widening as two voices approached from the west. Men, with the roughened tongues of hunters. Harmless perhaps. But Geralt had never put his trust in odds, even good ones.

“Should we...?” Jaskier whispered, motioning to run. He already had a tight grip on Roach’s reins.

Geralt considered, then looked to the spread of papers still on the ground. It would take longer than the few seconds they had to gather it all up.

“No,” he said. Warmed fingers grasped the hilt of his sword. “Just keep behind me.”

Jaskier did. Close, but not so close as to touch. Geralt shoved aside the meaning of that as two shadows moved out from behind the trees.

#witcher #the witcher #twn #gerlion #jaskier #geralt #geralt x jaskier #witcherfic