#geraskier ficlet

[inanoldhousewrites]

Geralt limps.

Of all the changes between this journey and all their others, this is the thing that stands out to Jaskier. Not the new Roach, not Milva striding beside them, not the fact that instead of wandering wherever the next contract calls them they have an urgent mission, not the fact that everything is different about their relationships to Yennefer. No, it is only this fact.

Geralt limps.

When they first started traveling together, Jaskier was the one who was prone to limping: his boots were truly not made for traversing long distances. Blistered abounded, accompanied by the occasional misstep leading to a tender ankle. But Geralt, would tred on, surefooted as anything.

This time, Geralt limps.

Geralt has been one of the constants in Jaskier's life, one of the unchangeable facets. Find Geralt, follow him, sing about him, never doubt him for a second. Jaskier used to be able to keep time by Geralt's sure and consistent footfalls.

But now, Geralt limps.

As a witcher, Geralt's healing is both accelerated and magnified, bolstered by his potions, which would kill a normal man. Jaskier once saw Geralt stuff his own entrails back into his body and sew the wound shut. His ability to heal from almost anything was as unquestionable in Jaskier's mind as the sun rising.

And yet, Geralt limps.

Jaskier was a young man when he first met Geralt, and in the ensuing decades has not been untouched by time. He wakes with aches now, stiffness that would have been unthinkable in those early days. The road of aging stretched before him, the inescapable path of slowing, weakening, and eventually having to stay behind, while Geralt, seemingly unaging, walked on.

But instead, Jaskier walks easily and Geralt limps.

Geralt has always had one unswerving objective: walk the Path. Kill monsters, collect coin. Nothing could move him from the Path, not adoring bards, not alluring sorceresses. And then a young princess compelled him to walk a different path. She became the sole objective. It is to her that Geralt is going, and nothing will keep him from her, not time, not injury, not as long as he has breath. And where Geralt goes, Jaskier is determined to be by his side.

So Geralt limps on and Jaskier keeps pace behind him.

#the witcher #twn s3 #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #geraskier ficlet #i haven't been writing much but I'm still not over these two

[julek]

Jaskier turns in his bedroll again.

“—fucking winter and its wintery fucking— cold as balls, ice frozen—”

“Jask?”

“—good for nothing— oh.” His tossing stops. The ground is so fucking cold. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

One golden eye peers at him. He would say Geralt looked annoyed, but he can’t see most of his face, tucked as it is under his cloak, so he chooses to interpret it as friendly concern. “Your muttering did.”

Jaskier smiles sheepishly at him, even though Geralt probably can’t see him either, with his scarf tied around his neck and covering most of his face. “Sorry. Just...”

“Can’t sleep?”

Jaskier shakes his head. It’s their fifth year on the Path together, the first one Geralt’s invited him along to spend the winter at Kaer Morhen with him — and Jaskier’s excited, really, but sleeping on the forest floor with a thin bedroll and definitely not enough blankets kind of dampens his spirits a little.

They’ve laid their bedrolls side by side, the fire keeping their feet warm, but still Jaskier can’t fend off the chill that’s seeped into his bones. He would blame it on his frilly, beautifully impractical clothing, with its soft but thin fabrics, with its stunning trim but no insulation, but if he did, he’d basically be agreeing with Geralt, and he can’t have that. Not even in the privacy of his own mind.

(He still hasn’t ruled out the possibility that Witchers are mind-readers). (Geralt is awfully quiet whenever Jaskier brings it up, and, well, one can never be too careful).

So he’s been tossing and turning and singing lullabies to himself in a feeble attempt of finally succumbing to a warm, deep sleep. Not that it’s worked, anyway.

The single golden eye looks considering, now.

“Wha—?” Jaskier manages before Geralt stands up, the bare skin under his sleep shirt immediately reacting to the cold air of the forest and erupting in gooseflesh.

Then, a blanket is being tossed to his face.

(It smells like horse).

“There,” says Geralt, not unkindly, his voice a bit rough. “That’ll help.”

“Well,” Jaskier replies, trying to adjust the blanket without taking his hands out of his bedroll, which proves impossible. “Thanks.”

Before he can sit up straight and, like a sane person, rearrange the blanket on top of himself, Geralt’s doing it for him. His hair is a mess from where he’s been laying on it and he’s squinting, but his hands are warm as they reach for the ends of the blanket and he tucks them into Jaskier’s bedroll, making sure his body is covered.

“You’re tucking me in,” Jaskier whispers, something that suspiciously feels like love standing on his heart a little.

Geralt smiles. He smiles his soft smile, the one where his lips stretch over his face and they’re pink and pretty and there’s a shine in his eyes.

“I guess I am,” he replies, checking no corners have been missed. “We’ll reach the mountain soon. No more cold nights after that.”

Jaskier smiles. He doesn’t know what it might look like on his face, lips chapped and slightly cracked. He hopes it shows his gratitude for him.

Geralt sits back on his haunches. The smile is still there. Fonder, somehow.

“What, no kiss goodnight?” Jaskier murmurs, because he’s an idiot, because he can’t help himself.

“Mm,” Geralt says, and for a second, Jaskier thinks he’s getting up to leave, but then Geralt leans forward and there’s a gentle, sweet kiss being pressed to his forehead. His smile is bigger when he turns away. “There. Goodnight.”

Jaskier can feel the warmth on his skin, the skin Geralt pressed a kiss to. He can feel it seeping into his bones.

When he turns around, blanket firmly secured, Geralt is watching him from his own bedroll.

“Goodnight,” he mouths at him, and Geralt closes his eyes.

His cloak is covering half his face again, but Jaskier can see the smile he’s hiding anyway.

#mywriting #HELLO im alive #was yearning for some soft winter softness in that weird timeline fics were set in between s1 and s2 we all so dearly love #also im cold. #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier ficlet #geraskier fluff

[all-or-nothing-baby]

LAVENDER MILK AND BLACKBERRY WINE

.

The first time they share a room together at an inn, Jaskier is, unsurprisingly, completely at ease with—well. With everything.

The bard is so comfortable in these surroundings, obviously much more at home with soft bed linens and oil lamps than a patch of damp grass and only the light of a yellow-y moon. Jask is seemingly still so at ease with Geralt, too, even in such close quarters. He's apparently also completely unbothered by his own stark nakedness as he now shamelessly strips down entirely, readying himself for a warm and replenishing lavender milk bath and a cup or ten of blackberry wine.

The witcher watches the bard, whilst trying not to.

Geralt's cat-eyes very much struggle to stop following pale and slender limbs as they swirl around like dragonflies in the fragrant steam that now sits heavy and hot in the midst of their small room. Jaskier prances and preens and eventually melts like jam in porridge into the bath's soothing waters. The eternal bard then, of course, proceeds to prattle on and away about something and nothing and everything, occasionally breaking out into broken verses of half‐baked songs.

Geralt—sat sharpening his blades— sometimes grunting in occasional outward acknowledgement, sometimes not, keeps trying his damned best not to look.

He fails.

Jaskier sips long and often from his cup, the wine leaving his full mouth lacquered. Plum‐stained. Inviting.

Geralt watches still, swallowing whole cupfuls at a time of the sweetened fruit wine, thickly and far too fast.

The bard is then nonchalantly asking Geralt if Geralt would like to maybe join him in the tub? 

Geralt pulls a face with fake disdain, huffing and puffing his cowedly decline. 

Very obviously trying not to smile, Jaskier purses those berry‐smacked lips of his and merely blinks at Geralt for a few moments, just. Looking. Or looking back, seeing as Geralt—even red-faced and fuming as he is—simply cannot look away.

Jask allows himself a small, secretive smile, like he knows something Geralt wants to, then shrugs it off and says, not unkindly, "Suit yourself."

Geralt immediately hurls himself out of the room with the force of an enraged Archgriffin, the excuse of purchasing more wine a most welcome gods-send.

"Hurry back, dear witcher!" Jaskier's torment floats after him. 

On his way down the staircase to the main part of the inn, Geralt bites into his bottom lip so fucking hard he's tasting iron for the rest of the hellish evening.

#s l o w l y moving stuff over from my old blog #here's another ficlet #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #witcher fic #geraskier fic #geraskier ficlet #white wolves and blushing bards #the witcher #aonb writes #all-or-nothing-baby

[toapoet]

the sunflower is mine (in a way)

Jaskier leans against Geralt’s shoulder, doodling hearts in the margin of Geralt’s notes. He feels his eyelids droop, but he fights it, concentrating on scrawling “iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou” down the length of the page, perpendicular to his boyfriend’s clear, blocky script. Roach is dozing in the sunspot in front of him, black tail curled around her face; she is a picture of pure content.

Geralt stretches out a leg in front of him (carefully avoiding the cat) and settles the absurdly large golden fleece blanket better around Jaskier’s shoulders. He shifts his laptop onto the carpet next to him and encourages Jaskier to put his head in his lap. Jaskier sighs, sleepy and fuzzy-warm and content, and falls asleep with a kiss to his temple and Geralt stroking his hair away from his ear.

-

When he wakes a few hours later, it is not quite dark, but Geralt has not moved. The television is on, at a volume so low he almost can’t hear it. He rubs a hand across his eyes, and finds Geralt immersed in a copy of “Maurice” that had fortunately been laying nearby. Geralt’s large hand is rubbing slow circles on his back under the blanket, and his hair is in a frizzy bun. His baby hairs curl by his forehead, shining silver-white and almost opalescent in the early evening, golden hour glow coming in through their sitting room window.

A smile spreads like honey across Jaskier’s face as he stretches and immediately nestles against Geralt’s arm again. “All right, darling?” A feeling like finally standing in front of his favourite painting after waiting lifetimes to see it comes over him. Geralt is a Vermeer, caught unawares, his features soft in dappled, late afternoon sunlight. A Van Gogh swirl, just there, in his smile.

“All right.” Geralt says, fixing him with a gaze that makes him melt. Jaskier’s hand, still clutching the corner of the blanket, knuckles at Geralt’s collarbone. The books lay forgotten as they kiss, sugar-sweet and sleep-soft.

-

As the kettle boils for a mid break tea, they stand huddled in the kitchen in their socks. Geralt has the blanket around both of them, has wiggled his arms around his love and is keeping him close, as if Jaskier would ever leave. Jaskier himself is settled so his head is under Geralt’s chin, ear over his steady heartbeat, arms curled together in between the two of them. Everything has never been more perfect, so Geralt kisses him, just there, on the corner of his mouth. They are Klimt’s “The Kiss”; they are another love story one hundred years later (and yet, always, the same one).

#geraskier #geraskier ficlet #geralt of rivia #jaskier the bard #modern au #toapoet #somebody hit the lights and pull down the screen #because I am PROJECTING #toapoetwriting

[saw3amanda]

Jaskier makes it fifteen minutes down the mountain when he realizes he has something to say. This wouldn't end on Geralt's terms.

read an excerpt below

The gravel crunched as Jaskier began his descent down the mountain. The sound was nowhere near loud enough to drown out every cursed word Geralt had screamed, and Jaskier could feel them rolling in his head on repeat. 

Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it!

Jaskier felt a pull in his muscles, lactic acid gathered from days' trek across rough terrain. He looked around quickly, and seeing no one, promptly fell to the ground. He propped his lute in his lap.

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

His hands shook as he reached into his pack for his water skin. 

"Stupid fucking witchers," he mumbled then he took a swig. "Cowardly, emotionally useless fucking witchers.”

Jaskier shoved his water skin in his bag, and stood abruptly. He was in a small wooded area intersecting the path, surrounded by almost barren bushes and colorless trees. Whatever pale sunlight that made it past the clouds had to jump the next hurdle of filtering through the foliage, a weak imitation of a chiaroscuro patterned across the ground. The whole dim scene added a dramatic element that, for once, Jaskier did not want.

“How many times has he done this?” he said incredulously, hands running through his hair. “How many times has that perfidious bastard sent me away? And yet I came back! Every godsdamned time!”

A thought crossed through his mind. He’s come back too, I can’t forget that. 

And it was true, Geralt had returned more than once. Not nearly as much as Jaskier, but it can be said that soft apologies were whispered as he wrapped his arms around Jaskier in his bedroll. There were forehead kisses in the shape of I’m sorry , and small gifts left quietly in his pack, like a crow. Their first kiss had even been after an awkward apology dinner Geralt had made in their camp, until an impromptu rain shower interrupted it. 

“But it’s not enough,” he spoke quietly, remembering each harsh departure, each time Geralt had left in the middle of the night to not return for weeks, every angry word said between the two. Small gestures do not salve the end of a two-decade relationship, lovers or not. 

He looked down. His hands still shook, and he could feel the heat in his face, but he knew why now. This was anger .

Jaskier walked slowly back to his pack and pulled out a sheet of paper, his quill, and a small pot of ink. Broken prose and lyrics dotted one side of the paper, but the back was blank.

Jaskier smiled slightly as he set the quill to paper. Geralt wouldn’t get to dictate their end.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #dandelion #jaskier #the witcher #geraskier fic #geraskier ficlet #short fic #ny writing

[stangalina]

Jaskier has found a very effective method of diffusing tense situations involving Geralt and the various dimwitted and judgemental humans they're forced to interact with.

Unfortunately, enacting this method has about a fifteen percent chance of earning him a knee to the sternum afterwards.

Though it is usually worth the risk, since this method works one hundred percent of the time.

The method is thus:

Sit on him.

It works like a charm.

Allow me to elaborate.

It's very difficult to be scared of someone, no matter how intimidating their features or bone-chilling their stare, when they just sit still and do not question a fully grown man flopping down onto their lap. It does wonders for a tense prejudiced atmosphere inside a tavern. Given, the mood only changes from tense to confused. But confused isn't planning to stone them both out of town so he'd consider it a win.

Getting to sit on Geralt's leather clad and very impressive thighs is also a win in of itself, obviously. The knee to the gut only comes if he pushes his luck or gets too handsy.

Different variants of this method also work. Such as wrapping himself around Geralt's abdomen like a stray piece of seaweed so the merchant will stop looking like he's about to piss himself and actually catch his breath long enough to sell them something.

Murmurs of Witchers being infested with infectious diseases can be silenced by Jaskier grasping Geralt's chin while talking to him in a show of feigned annoyance. Perhaps a gentle touch to the cheek if he's feeling tender, or a light tap on the nose to be playful.

Depending on how Geralt is feeling, he will either ignore Jaskier, or play along. It doesn't matter which one he chooses, as the method still works either way.

It's the people equivalent of putting a collar on a wolfhound and having its lead be held in the mouth of a perfectly groomed poodle wearing boots and a waistcoat. No less dangerous. But a hell of a lot less intimidating.

And if Jaskier is secretly using this method as an excuse to get Geralt more comfortable with physical contact for totally innocent reasons, then that's nobody's business but his own.

#geraskier #the witcher #headcanon #ficlet #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier

[fangirleaconmigo]

Geralt pointed at Dandelion and back to himself. “This snuck up on me you know.”

Dandelion tossed back a gulp of wine and set the glass down so he could stretch and look out over the countryside. “Did it now? Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“It’s true! Sometimes I’ll still look over at you buck naked or something and think, holy fuck. Me and Dandelion huh?” He chuckled and caressed Dandelion’s hand on the bench between them.

Dandelion snorted derisively. “Twenty years is a slow sneak, my love.”

“Oh, like you knew,” Geralt said.

Dandelion sniffed. “I did. I was just waiting for you to remove your head from your asshole.”

“Please,” Geralt gestured dismissively. “It’s like you always say. Love is an incomprehensible fucker.”

“I most certainly do not say that. If I did, I wouldn’t be very good at my job would I? Love is like a pear.”

“Yeah yeah. Come closer then and let me take a bite.” He grinned with a soft predatory glint.

Dandelion scooted over. “Well alright you sweet talker.” He planted a kiss on Geralt’s forehead.

“Not there,” groused Geralt, hand comfortably stroking Dandelion’s back.

“Oh,” said Dandelion. “Fine.” And he kissed Geralt on the nose.

Geralt made a noise of complaint.

“Alright,” said Dandelion. “You win.” He rewarded Geralt with a tender, scorching kiss on the lips.

Geralt withdrew from the kiss with a lopsided smile. “That’s it.”

Dandelion laughed. “Happy anniversary my love.”

“Happy anniversary sweetness.”

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #dandelion #gerlion #geraskier #jaskier #just a lil ficlet

[ladyannemarie5]

Jaskier graduated summa cumme laude from the most prestigious university on the continent. He acts like a superficial and disinterested bard all the time, but from time to time he acts like what he is, a master of the 7 liberal arts: Grammar, Rhetoric, Logic, Geometry, Arithmetic, Music and Astronomy.

Geralt doesn't notice this until Radovid shows up.

Every now and then Jaskier would blurt out a nonsensical comment that usually isn't meant for anyone, other than Geralt with his great ear, to hear.

The prince, hears everything that comes out of the bard's mouth and it is surprising when he laughs at whatever Jaskier said to the bard's amazement. Most amazingly, Radovid responds with another nonsensical comment that makes Jaskier laugh.

Geralt looks at them with a frown. Jaskier stops his laughter and eagerly asks the prince if he has read the philosopher he was apparently quoting. Radovid launches into a story of how his private tutor forced him to read the philosopher and he subsequently became enchanted with the man's writings and read his work for his own pleasure.

The more they travel, the more that happens. It turns out that the apparent nonsense Jaskier occasionally spouted is actually quotes, references and facts from philosophers, poets, astronomers, mathematicians, etc., that he was taught in college or read himself. Radovid responds to each of them with charm and delight, because apparently, Radovid has read them all as part of his royal education.

Geralt is not jealous. He isn't. No matter what Ciri and Yennefer say. He just doesn't like being out of the joke, doesn't like both of them acting like others aren't there and having to listen to their academic conversations when no one but them seems to care.

He just doesn't like that Jaskier smiles like never every time Radovid quotes an old poet of yesteryear that no one but them has read, as if it's an inside joke, because there should be no secrets in their group. He also doesn't like it when Jaskier laughs so loud because that can attract monsters. He hates that Jaskier sits next to Radovid every night talking about boring books because they are mere humans and if something attacks them, then both will be in danger and Geralt will only be able to save one (cof cof Jaskier), it's simple strategy. And absolutely not jealous because the bard now asks the prince for his advice when he writes songs, it's just that was something that used to de-stress Geralt and now he can't sleep well anymore. It's simple comfort.

But it all finally goes to shit when Jaskier turns down Geralt's invitation to spend the winter in Kaer Morhen because stupid Radovid invited him to his castle on the coast where he apparently has the best collection of maritime astronomy on the continent.

Geralt spends all that winter stuck in the library of Kaer Morhen reading anything that might interest Jaskier other than bestiaries. He tries very hard not to think about his bard and the prince huddled in front of the fire looking up at the stars until late at night drinking wine, getting closer and closer and closer until…

No. He won't allow it. When he sees Jaskier in the spring, he'll be sure to casually mention everything he read in winter, he'll make a fool of the prince when Geralt shows his bard the ancient books he brought him from the Wolf school library (not that Vesemir needs to know what came out of his precious library).

He'll graduate summa cumme laude from freaking Oxenfurt if it means getting his bard's attention again.

#i love them sooo much #Jasker is a genius #i really believe Radovid is also a nerd #Geralt is jealous #Vesemir does not need to know that Geralt stole important books from the library for his bard. #the witcher #the witcher netflix #jaskier #radovid #geralt of rivia #radskier #geraskier #ficlet #bunny plot #ao3 fanfic

[thedemonofcat]

When Jaskier was just a week old, he encountered Death. From his crib, Death gazed upon him and softly uttered, "Not yet, little one."

At the age of seven, when the family dog fell ill, Death visited Jaskier once more. His parents couldn't provide solace for the pet's passing, but Death did.

In a bar, where Jaskier crossed paths with Geralt, Death observed from afar, wondering what would transpire next.

True to his name, Jaskier brimmed with vitality, like a beautiful yet toxic buttercup. This was why Death found itself fond of Jaskier, preventing his premature fading away.

A sword to the stomach, a sacrifice to protect Ciri, should have been Jaskier's end. When Death finally came to claim him, Jaskier had led a fulfilling life filled with joy and music, albeit tinged with loneliness.

Just as Death had done when Jaskier was a babe, it gently whispered, "Come now, little one, it's time to go." Death hoped to bring peace to the Dandelion they had grown to love.

But the growl of the white wolf, Geralt, begged Jaskier to stay, as Geralt asked Jaskier to remain.

Death and life had cherished each other but could never be together. Yet, life sent Death gifts, and Death treasured them all. Now, it was Death's turn to offer a gift to life. So, Death entrusted Jaskier to the safety of his vibrant existence.

From a distance, Death watched as Jaskier recovered, surrounded by his family: Geralt, Ciri, and Yennefer—all very much alive.

#the witcher netflix #geralt of rivia #joey batey #the witcher #jaskier the witcher #henry cavill #the witcher jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #fic ideas #short ficlet #jaskier #gerskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #freya allan #headcanon #yennefer of vengerberg #anya cholatra #the witcher season 3 #anya chalotra #the witcher season three #witcher yennefer

[flowercrown-bard]

A willingness to trample him

“How about this one?” Jaskier asked, pointing at the brown mare with the white stripe down her face. “She looks just like the last.” Geralt frowned at the horse, crossing his arms.

“No.” 

Jaskier reached over the fence, attempting to pet the horse. She regarded his hand suspiciously. 

“Seriously Geralt, what’s wrong with her? She’s strong, she’s fast, she even is -” The horse snapped at his hand and he pulled it back with a yelp. “See? She’s even as grumpy as the old Roach. Just the perfect fit for you.”

Geralt grunted in disagreement, scowling at the horse, as if she had personally offended him. 

“Not her.” He grabbed Jaskier’s sleeve, pulling him away from the horse and towards another one. Jaskier threw the farmer, who was watching them with in annoyance, an apologetic look. They had been at this for what felt like hours. He couldn’t fault the farmer for getting impatient with them. 

“Listen,” Jaskier said, touching Geralt’s arm lightly. “I know this is hard for you. Roach was…Don’t tell her I said something nice about her, but she was a good horse. A good friend to you.” 

Something twitched in Geralt’s expression. 

“But giving her away was the right choice. She’ll be happy in her old age, munching on all the flowers her heart desires and getting all the pets from Henryk’s children.” 

“I know it was right,” Geralt said. “Better than if she stayed with me and got hurt.”

Strangely, Jaskier got the feeling that Geralt was avoiding his eyes. Jaskier narrowed his eyes at him, scrutinising his carefully blank expression. His heart stuttered, when he realised what Geralt wasn’t saying. 

“Oh.” He swallowed and skipped ahead, so he was standing in front of Geralt, forcing him to look at him. “I want you to know,” he said in a mock-haughty tone, “That I’m neither old nor do I lack the sense to run away when there’s danger. I’m not going to get hurt by being with you. If anything, I’d be a danger to myself and society, when I’m on my own.” He dropped the falsely arrogant tone, becoming more sincere. “I’m not going to leave you, alright?”

Geralt’s lips twitched. “You’ve got crow’s feet.”

“Those - “Jaskier squawked, his voice moving up in pitch, “- are laughter lines! Because I just so happen to smile a lot when I’m around you and there’s nothing you can do to make me want to stop being with you. So.” He put his hands on his hips. “Don’t you worry about where to retire me to. I’m not leaving. In fact,” He turned around again, hopping onto the fence, “I would really appreciate it if you could finally find a new horse that you’re happy with so we can continue travelling together.”

During his tirade, Geralt’s face softened. He rolled his eyes fondly. 

“You’re being an idiot,” Geralt said. He opened the door of the enclosure and walked past Jaskier. “Naturally.” With a grin, Jaskier hopped down, following Geralt dutifully, as he looked over the horses. He tilted his head. “You weren’t that picky last time. It took you less than an hour to choose your new Roach.”

Jaskier still remembered that day well. He hadn’t known Geralt for long then and he was sure Geralt wouldn’t have taken him with him to pick a new Roach, if Jaskier hadn’t insisted.

“It was easier then,” Geralt said, mirth in his eyes, “I just picked the one that looked like she wanted to bite you.”

“You!” Jaskier gasped dramatically. “I knew it! You wanted to use your horse to get rid of me! So what? A biting horse didn’t work, so now you’re looking for one that wants to trample me?”

Geralt snorted and shook his head in fond exasperation. “Something like that.”

“Something like that,” Jaskier echoed. “Go on then. Tell me what it is you’re looking for in your most precious companion. I can take it.”

Geralt shot him a look out of the corner of his eyes. “I like a companion who’s quiet.”

“Liar,” Jaskier sing-songed easily. 

“Fine.” Geralt let his eyes wander to  a light grey horse, with a mane that might have been white once, if it hadn’t rolled around in the dirt before. “I like… loyalty. A horse that doesn’t just stay with me because she has to but because she learns to like me.”

“Well, that’s not hard to find,” Jaskier said. “You’re very likeable. Animals love you. Unless they’re cats, of course. But I’ve never met a horse who wasn’t wrapped around your little finger. What else?” “I like a  horse that…doesn’t mind if I lean against her? Or touch her even when it’s not necessary. She should be affectionate.” Jaskier nodded along sagely. 

“Pretty,” Geralt said so quietly and quickly that Jaskier wasn’t sure he had heard it right. 

“What?” “I like a…a pretty companion.” A bright red tinted the tips of Geralt’s ears and he turned his head away from Jaskier. 

“Oh.” Jaskier fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. “Well, of course. Your companion must be pretty to fit you.” He coughed awkwardly. “So. We’re looking for loyalty, open affection and beauty.” 

They had reached the muddy horse by now. At the sound of Jaskier’s voice, she lifted her head, ears curiously turned towards him. As soon as Jaskier lifted his hands, her ears turned back and she snapped at him. 

Immediately, Geralt guided him away, scowling at the horse in disappointment. 

“Why not her?” Jaskier asked, nudging Geralt playfully, “She certainly has that willingness to trample me.”

“Not her,” Geralt said simply. He nudged Jaskier right back, with far more strength than Jaskier had used. It almost sent Jaskier tumbling into a pile of horse droppings. If it wasn’t for Geralt’s hand shooting out and catching him, Jaskier surely would have ruined his new doublet. It would have been a shame. He had bought it specifically to make a good impression on the new Roach. 

That is, Jaskier was saved by Geralt’s hand and by something nudging his back until he was standing upright again. He turned around to see a light brown horse look at him curiously. 

“Oh.” Jaskier lifted his hand to let her snuffle it. “Hello there.” He could feel Geralt’s eyes on him, as he scratched the mare between her ears. She snorted a gust of warm breath into his face happily.

“You’re a pretty one,” Jaskier said, laughing in delight, as the horse’s soft nose snuffled at his hair. “And affectionate! Helpful too. Helpfulness is almost the same as loyalty, wouldn’t you say, Geralt?”

He turned his head to find Geralt looking at him with softness in his eyes.

“Too bad she’s keen on helping me instead of trampling me. She wouldn’t be of much use in helping you get rid of me. She likes me too much.”

As if to prove him right, the horse shoved him again, making him stumble straight into Geralt’s arms. Geralt caught him instantly. When Jaskier looked up, Geralt’s face was but a hand’s breadth away from his. Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat, when he noticed a light red dusting Geralt’s cheeks. 

“She’s perfect,” Geralt said, one hand rubbing a small circle into Jaskier’s arm, while he reached out his other hand to pet the horse. “This is our new Roach.”

#geraskier #geralt #jaskier #roach #ficlet #fic #witcher #the witcher #my writing #fanfic

[spielzeugkaiser]

"I have no idea what I am doing," his knight commander admits with a frown. "Oh I'm sure you're doing just fine," Jaskier waves him off with a laugh as goosebumps spread across his back from where Geralt's gloved hands meet the delicate lacing of his dress. "Truth be told, milord, I don't even know why I am doing this and not one of the maids." Jaskier wouldn't be able to hide his smile even if he tried. "Well, how else would you know how to take it off?"

Very much a fan of AUs were everyone is just living their best life. 🤭❤️

It's honestly what they deserve!! 🥺💖 but I'm way too mean...

#once again: look at the doggo!! #the witcher #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #artistsfuneral #honestly I love that #jaskier living his best life instead #like that they simply look dashing together! #also little ficlet :3 #art collab

[inanoldhousewrites]

A Conversation Under the Stars

The keep's door closed behind him, taking the light and sound with it, leaving Jaskier in the dark, silent night. Inside, the witchers continued their night of remembering their fallen brothers, grieving their loss and celebrating their lives in turn, but boisterous either way. Jaskier found himself craving solitude, out of place at the memorials of those he didn't know. 

He settled on the steps, wrapping his borrowed cloak more securely, and cupped both his hands around his mug of mulled wine in a losing attempt to stay warm. Looking up, he found he was unable to distinguish the stars from the snow driven off of the ramparts of the keep. 

In a short burst of light and sound, the door opened just enough to let a figure slip out into the night. A few seconds later, Geralt settled beside him. 

After a moment’s silence, Jaskier spoke. “I’m sorry about your brothers. I didn’t know them well, but they seemed like good men.”

“Thank you. They were,” Geralt rumbled from beside him. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to help or to save them. Or to, well, anything.”

“You’re just a bard.” Jaskier can’t tell if Geralt’s tone is supposed to be accusatory or absolving. “Not really one to fight monsters.” 

An affinity for music doesn’t seem like an excuse to cower under a table while men die. Not from someone who has spent the last year in danger’s shadow as the Sandpiper. He had learned to take a stand, but it seemed he had fallen into old habits when surrounded by witchers. 

But he didn’t have it in him to speak these thoughts aloud, so he let the wind drive them away like the flurries. 

“You’re quiet,” Geralt broke the peace. “What are you thinking so hard?”

“Selfish thoughts, mostly. I wonder if any died because I left Oxenfurt to help you and wasn't there to help them get to safety. But I can’t bring myself to regret it. Selfishly, I would burn the world down for you.” As soon as he said it, he realized it was much less of a metaphor than he would have liked, looking down at his damaged hands. 

“I would never ask you to.”

“No, you never would. But that only makes it more true.” 

A particular sharp wind blew, slipping between Jaskier and his cloak. He wrapped it tighter, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Geralt was as unmoved by the gust as he claimed to be about everything. Feelings welled within Jaskier and he spoke again. 

“It’s funny. I’ve loved you, I’ve been angry at you, and now, I just grieve for you. A man so controlled by destiny, against his own wishes.” Jaskier craned his neck, looking deep into the night sky. “You know, some say destiny is written in the stars. It’s a bit beyond my powers to read the heavens, though. I wonder what else they say about you, what future lies ahead for one so touched by fate.” 

“This is unusually morose for you, Jaskier.” 

“Sometimes a smile is too heavy a thing for me to carry. I have to put it down occasionally.” 

Geralt hummed but didn’t respond otherwise. Jaskier expected no different. 

“I have to go back. I can’t burn armies or rescue princesses or portal to other worlds. But one small, unimportant life at a time, I can get people to safety. It won’t turn the tides of the war, it won’t march destiny along to her intended destination. But it needs doing, and I can.”

“And yet you left it when I asked.” Geralt’s rumbled response made a puff of mist in front of his mouth, and Jaskier absently noticed the cup in his hands was no longer giving off steam. He closed his eyes before responding. 

“Yes, I already mentioned my weakness. You said you needed me, and I would do anything for you. But you don’t need me now. Your destiny lies bound up with Ciri and even with Yennefer, and you’ve never been one to shirk your path. And now, neither am I. But you know I will help you and you know where to find me, if ever you need me again.”

“What if I want you?”

Jaskier laughed, neither merry nor bitter. “I’ve lived twenty years of my life based on that question. What if you want me?” He stared into the darkness, feeling Geralt’s eyes on him for the first time that night. “When you decide if you do, I’ll decide if that changes anything.”

Geralt didn’t reply. Instead, he stood and walked back into the keep. There was a flash of warmth, light and sound, and then Jaskier was alone, wrapped in a borrowed cloak, holding a now-cold drink, and staring up at the stars. 

#mine #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier ficlet #geraskier #post season 2 #open ending #basically a Jaskier monologue

[julek]

“Jas,” Geralt calls, not taking his eyes off his journal.

Jaskier stops strumming his lute with a palm on the strings. “Yes?”

“Would you pass me an orange from our pack?”

He hears Jaskier murmur an assent, and goes back to the ardent task of drawing a cockatrice that resembles the one he’d fought the week prior. There’s a rustling sound as Jaskier rifles through their things, a triumphant little ah-ha! as Jaskier, presumably, finds the orange, but then, there’s silence.

Geralt sketches the final lines of the cockatrice to his satisfaction, and takes a look behind him to see what could be taking Jaskier so long in the simple delivery of the fruit.

He finds Jaskier poking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, brow furrowed in concentration as he picks at the orange between prying fingers.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asks, coming to crouch beside him.

“Oh!” Jaskier says, his eyes snapping up, as if he’d forgotten Geralt was there at all. “I was just getting all the white stuff out for you,” he says, and presents his palms to Geralt.

It’s a small orange, halved, bright and plump in Jaskier’s hands, and all the white tendrils have been carefully removed.

For him.

The orange almost flies into the other direction when Geralt surges to kiss him.

“Oh,” Jaskier says when they break apart, flustered and a little dazed. “What brought that on?”

Geralt smiles, taking one half of the orange into his hands.

“You.”

#mywriting #geraskier ficlet #this could be seen as a companion piece to that one toast one i wrote the other day #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fluff #food mention

[all-or-nothing-baby]

THE PEACOCK

.

Incessant babbling, day and night. Constant fucking humming and grating outbursts of half-baked songs with bastardized lyrics. The bard is—superfluous would be an understatement. More like pretentiously poncey and purposely pig-headed just to piss me off. And a liability, to say the least. He's a goading, impudent Puck, yet shite with a sword and can't even fight with his fists to save his own featherweight arse. I mean, the moron can't weigh more than a sack of grain, for fucks sake. In fact, I'm surprised a strong gust of easterly wind hasn't blown the idiot all the way back to Oxenfurt. Oh, and to rub salt into that wound, despite his puny stature the gannet puts food away like a damn ogre, therefore munching through coin as if there's no tomorrow, no warm bath to pay for after having to wash in murky lakes for weeks, no dry room at an inn needed for a well-earned ale and a plate of pie and at least a night's decent rest.

He's incorrigible. Flashy. Unnecessary.

The bard is a Nobleman's trophy bird—a fucking Peacock of a man.

Yet.

And yet.

When we part ways and he is gone, the absence of his noise is a troublesome thorn in my side. It's like a river run dry when all you needs is a skinful of water. All the wild sounds slightly out of tune; the night owls lamenting the sound of that surely enchanted lute, the mourning Mocking Jays mimicking his voice having stolen and butchered his song. I feel unchallenged. Unmoored, even. Having only myself once again to worry over and to protect, seems somehow more of an effort—a chore, almost. All food tastes bland. My appetite in general, it wanes. Everything is wrong. Even drinking away the day at its end is so much less appealing. Bathing without soft hands smoothing warmed lavender oil through the strands of my dirty hair? A pointless waste of funds. And a soft bed for the night, all alone? These days, I strangely find it a sort of soft torture.

Yes, a Peacock preens and parades and is as vociferous as it is vexing.

But.

And but.

It's intelligent. Cunning. Majestic. It is exquisitely beautiful. And in the dead of night, when I hear its call carried on the breeze, it is somehow a tonic. The dazzling bird of such brilliant colour laments its mate: another Peafowl, this one with a plumage of pure white. And, once together again, they are the most perfect of contrasts. They are whole.

Roach brays and nods her head, shakes out her mane a little.

Ah.

It seems this witcher may have been thinking out loud again.

"Hmm," Geralt agrees sheepishly, and rides on.

.

#originally posted to my deleted witcher blog #behonesthowsmysinging #geraskier #geraskier ficlet #the witcher #witcher fic #POV geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the peacock #ficlet #fanfic #aonb writes #all-or-nothing-baby

[valdomarx]

There’s this scent that Geralt can’t stop noticing. It’s something like cardamon and cloves, and it hangs in the air around Jaskier no matter the season.

Sometimes, when they’re bedded down by the fire and there’s a crisp chill in the air, Geralt will get a whiff of it and he’ll feel this almost overwhelming urge to pull Jaskier close to him and breathe it in.

He doesn’t, obviously.

But he does shuffle himself a little closer, quiet and subtle, and waits to see if Jaskier will roll back a fraction until they’re almost touching. When that happens, Geralt allows himself to put an arm around Jaskier and inch closer and bury his face in the nape of Jaskier’s neck where the clove scent is strongest, and he’ll inhale deeply and feel a distinct kind of calm descend.

–

Jaskier gestures wildly as he talks, throwing his arms around expressively, and Geralt doesn’t follow his words but he does follow his movements, the way Jaskier flicks his wrist dismissively when he describes someone’s stupidity and brings a hand to his chest when describing something heartfelt.

When he moves, the scent shimmers like heat in the air around him, vibrant and almost tangible.

–

Emotions have their own scents, like the hot sparking scent of fear or the cosy sweetgrass smell of comfort. When Jaskier is in a bad mood his scent is overlaid with an acrid odor like burnt bread and when he’s preening in front of an audience it gets spicy and spiked with high notes of pepper.

But always, in the background, that cardamon and cloves, the backdrop of their life together.

It’s hard then for Geralt to know whether the emotions are coming from him or from Jaskier. Smelling an emotion is the same as feeling it, isn’t it? It’s often not clear to him who a feeling belongs to and where it originates. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

Perhaps it’s enough to be among that scent and to experience it. Perhaps that’s what it is to be with someone else – to make their experiences a part of your own.

#geraskier #the witcher #my writing #be free little ficlet... #fic amnesty

[yeraskier]

There's something almost calming about watching Jaskier when he orgasms. It's always so loud, and intense, and powerful; it leaves no room for anything else.

It's as if his body is absorbing every bit of chaos that surrounds him until he can't take it anymore, and then he simply... releases.

Geralt's had the pleasure of experiencing it many, many times now, and it always has the same impact on him, if not stronger each time. It's addictive, makes him wish that he could spend all of his days, every day, his only purpose in life being to bring Jaskier to orgasm.

And it's possibly making the person in the room next to them homicidal because this would be the seventh time tonight that they’ve banged on the wall, and shouted insults at Geralt and Jaskier for being too loud.

Jaskier’s chuckle turns into a gasp when Geralt slips out of him— the slide slippery, the sound lewd.

Geralt grunts as his body hits the mattress, finding that he's aching in the way he always does after several rounds with the bard. Very few people can tire him out, but it is no surprise that Jaskier manages to be on that short list.

"Outstanding as always, dear witcher."

"Hm."

"And verbal as ever," Jaskier teases as he sits up. "Your ability to be so nonchalant and quiet after sex with me is becoming quite offensive, I must say."

"This is how I normally am."

"You had a lot to say an hour ago when I had my lips wrapped around your cock."

Geralt shrugs, "I was inspired."

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but there’s a playful glint in his eyes as he sits up and begins searching for his pants.

Geralt admires his back (and his backside) as he moves, eyes trailing over the—

Wait…

Wait.

Geralt doesn't panic, okay? Living the life he lives, he doesn't have that privilege, but right now, laying in this bed as he watches Jaskier get ready to leave— fuck, he might be panicking.

Because Jaskier never leaves after sex, not since after the first few times, at least. And yes, he isn't necessarily obligated to stay, but he always does, and so does Geralt, and now he isn't.

Why?

Why is Jaskier not talking him into cuddling right now?

Why is Jaskier not attempting to get him into the now-cold bath in the corner of the room?

Why is Jaskier not going on one of his very detailed post-sex rants that Geralt pretends to despise, even though they both know he gets invested each time?

Why is Jaskier not falling asleep right now? Hogging up all the bed space and stealing the blanket while using Geralt's chest as a pillow?

Geralt remains as still as possible, barely twitching out of place as Jaskier pulls on his doublet. He may not feel normal about this, but he can sure as shit act normal, even if it isn't normal.

"Alright, darling, I'm going to go fetch us some water. Be back before you can miss my presence too much," the bard announces, throwing a wink over his shoulder before practically skipping out the door.

The words settle him, but only for a few moments before he's ready to panic over something completely different because why did he care so much about Jaskier possibly leaving?

Sure, Geralt has become almost as fond of the after-sex things as he is of the sex-sex things, but he doesn't need them. He won't break down into tears without them.

Except...

That's sort of exactly what he was ready to do just now.

Okay, maybe Geralt wouldn’t have cried, but he definitely would’ve bothered… upset, even.

And he knows this because even with the knowledge that Jaskier is coming back, even knowing that Jaskier only left so he could make sure they both stay hydrated, Geralt is, in this very moment, bothered.

Which isn’t good. At all.

Because the last time he got bothered by someone leaving, it was Yennefer. And he was only bothered because.

Well.

But that wouldn’t make sense, would it? Because Jaskier leaves all the time. He leaves Jaskier all the time. They part for months on end, and Geralt lives.

So what if Geralt has begun to notice that it gets a little harder to willingly go every time they part ways?

So what if his mood during the months where Jaskier isn’t around is shittier than usual?

So what if his mood when Jaskier is around is better than usual?

That doesn’t mean anything. Sex puts most men in better moods, that doesn’t mean he’s in love with the bard.

Not that feelings would mean love. Because a little crush doesn’t equate to love.

Not that Geralt has a little crush, or any crush of any sort. Because he doesn’t. Because he can’t.

Because what they have now, friendship and lust and comfort, is the best thing that has happened to him in a while, and he will not ruin that over catching feelings, of all things.

He doesn’t have feelings for Jaskier, so he can’t ruin anything.

“I don’t have feelings for Jaskier,” he says aloud, into the empty room, but the words feel heavy on his tongue.

I can’t have feelings for Jaskier.

“I don’t have feelings for Jaskier,” Geralt says again, but this time, it comes out as a growl.

Please, don’t let me have feelings for Jaskier.

“I do not have feelings for Jask—”

The door opens, and Jaskier walks in with a wide smile, and that spark of electricity that follows the bard wherever he goes bursts in behind him.

Jaskier takes easy steps towards the bed, and it’s like he’s moving in slow motion.

Geralt desperately wants to run. He doesn’t.

He remains still as Jaskier sets down the pitcher of water, and the cup in hand, and fills it up to the brim before turning to Geralt with a disarming gaze.

The rim of the glass in Jaskier’s hand is pressed to Geralt’s lips, and the witcher takes in the sight before him.

Those wide blue eyes, and that disheveled hair, and those pouty lips— he realizes that he could probably draw every single feature of this man’s face perfectly without even looking, and he’s never drawn a day in his life.

I can’t.

“Well?” Jaskier says, “drink up.”

Geralt parts his lips, and Jaskier’s eyes drop, and Geralt’s heart thuds so loud, it seems to echo throughout his entire body, and Jaskier smiles wide, as if he heard it.

I do.

Fuck.

#i hate this so fucking much #like the idea was there and thats the only reason its being posted but the execution is making me gag #writing really is like a muscle or whatever the saying is #clearly ive lost some of my pizazz but i will work to get it back #sorry :( #but i might make a part 2 #idk like i already had more planned out but it got too long and this was supposed to be a ficlet soooooooo haha.... haha #i just ended it right there with geralt realizing bc i love to torture you guys clearly .... #jk the part 2 really will come this time since i already know what i wanted to do (if you guys want it) #this was mostly to just write something just to Write because ive missed writing sm #the witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #my writing #geraskier