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samstree · 2 years

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Keeper of Hearts

Destiny has one more surprise for Geralt after all these years, involving Jaskier of all people. It comes in the form of a soulbond and well-hidden heartache from the past.

Written for Geraskier Secret Santa 2021. A gift for @demisexualgeralt. 🎄

(5.3k, rated t, prompts: soulmates, cozying up by the fire)

Beta'd by @curls-cat. Also on AO3.

It starts as a throbbing pain in Geralt’s ankle.

He frowns, looking down to see his feet planted to the solid ground of Oxenfurt’s street, the cobblestone covered in snow. There’s nothing wrong with his foot, no injury flaring up, no spraining on the slippery stairs. There shouldn’t be pain. At least, not on him.

It explodes all of a sudden.

“F—” the curse is cut off by what feels like fire licking up every inch of his skin—no, not fire. It burns, but it’s different.

It feels like…ice.

It washes over him from head to toe before gathering in his lungs. A thousand needles prickle his skin, sending him to his knees. Air is trapped in his chest, his vision darkening from the lack of oxygen. It’s almost like—

Like he’s drowning in freezing water.

Geralt clutches at his throat with fingers that he can no longer feel, his face somehow landing in the snow. He can’t breathe. All his limbs grow numb. Everything is what he’s supposed to feel if he’s actually drowning in some wild lake in the middle of winter.

But it leaves just as quickly.

Within one heartbeat and the next, the pressure eases, and Geralt lets out a choked breath and coughs into his fist. The numbness remains all over his body, sending another shiver down his spine, but he’s not drowning anymore. He stays on the ground for another moment.

“Are you okay, Sir Witcher?” a sweet voice asks from above, and Geralt looks up to see one of Jaskier’s students—Dalia, the girl whose hair cannot be tamed. She’s the one always smiling and calling Geralt ‘sir,’ a diligent pupil and Jaskier’s favorite, not that he should ever admit having those.

“Dalia, ah, yes. I’m fine,” Geralt lies, still huffing and puffing. To be fair, he doesn’t understand what happened yet. He’s never had phantom pain like—

“It’s soul pain, isn’t it?” she asks, before the concern in her eyes turns into horror. “Oh! Professor Pankratz! He must be hurt! But where is he? We must find him now!”

Geralt stares at her round eyes for a second before his brain catches up. “What are you—” he scrambles up from the ground despite his feet still feeling like someone else’s. “It’s not soul pain. I don’t have—Jaskier is not my soulmate.”

Her frown doesn’t ease. “Okay, sorry. I thought…”

Geralt knows what she thought, what most people they meet in Oxenfurt think these days. It’s already unusual for a bard to travel with a witcher for nearly three decades, let alone inviting him to winter together in the faculty quarters for so many years. This time, Jaskier didn’t even bother booking him another room because they always end up in the same place after a week or two. Save me the money, dear witcher, he said at the end of the fall. Wasting a bed in this economy should be a crime.

But no, despite what Dalia assumed, they are not together. He and Jaskier are most definitely not soulmates.

Witchers don’t get them. The trials have made sure they are not among those lucky ones—or, as Vesemir once put it, unfortunate sods—who have to burden an innocent person with all the shared pains and hurts and sorrows. It’s just the way it is, they simply don’t get soulmates.

They don’t.

…Right?

Geralt looks down at his hands, where the tingling remains deep in his bones. Soul pain? Could it be?

Just like too many of Geralt’s problems, the answer comes when Jaskier rounds the corner, letting out every curse under the sky. He is half-carried by Essi and Valdo on each side. Their little group is loud, as one that is purely made of bards is expected to be, with indistinguishable yells and orders exploding among the three of them. Dalia turns to the noise at the same time as Geralt, but there’s no way a human’s eyes can catch the state Jaskier is in as quickly as a witcher.

Jaskier is dripping wet.

Two large overcoats are wrapped around his shoulders, and the curls on his forehead are stuck to his skin. There’s snow in his hair—no, ice. The water is crystallizing in the wind. He’s also limping, one of his feet hovering awkwardly off the ground.

They are coming towards Geralt, or rather, the faculty building behind him. The three bards are still arguing. Even Jaskier’s chattering teeth can’t stop him.

“No, Essi, it w—wasn’t your fault! I will not accept your apology anymore! It was Valdo’s—don’t you hey me! You shoved me into the lake!”

“The ice should have settled!”

“You conspired to kill me! First, you tripped me and broke my ankle. My livelihood! And then you tried to drown me! In this horrid weather, no less—” Jaskier breaks into a coughing fit, trapping a gurgling noise in his lungs, the fit making him tip forward, just in time to land on his injured foot. “Shit,” he heaves out a labored breath, his voice now hoarser and deeper, “that hurt.”

Pain shoots up Geralt’s leg, exactly where Jaskier jostled it.

“Our livelihood is the voice, Julian. If your feet are somehow included, you are singing the wrong way.”

“How dare you! You know you’ll never beat me on the dance floor—oh.” Jaskier’s shouting cuts off when he notices Geralt standing right in front of him, his eyes widening like a cat seeing his favorite person, the steaming rage in his voice immediately gone, leaving only softness. “Geralt, hey.”

Jaskier drags Essi and Valdo to a halt, his foot setting down gently. For a moment, surprise knits his brows together. His hands drop to the sides of the other two bards, his fingers red in the cold air. It looks like it hurts. Geralt knows it hurts. The wind shifts, ruffling the wet hair at Jaskier’s eyes, cutting into his still-damp skin like a sharp blade. Geralt feels every bit of the tingling.

He doesn’t know what face he’s making, only that whatever Jaskier is seeing can’t be good, because that familiar worried look is creeping up on the bard’s frown. He stares at Jaskier still, his Jaskier for the past thirty years, and tries to find the answer in those beautiful blue eyes.

Instead, Jaskier finds it first. Like a lightning strike, splitting open the cloudless sky.

Despite the paleness already overtaking his features, Jaskier blanches.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, Geralt, no. I—I can explain…”

Jaskier shudders, losing his balance, almost taking Essi down with him. Geralt snaps out of a trance and suddenly he’s seeing signs of shock all over Jaskier. He’s shivering under those thick cloaks, his lips turning blue and his heart fluttering dangerously. The babbling is the worst; Geralt should have realized. The bard has a habit of distracting himself from all sorts of hurt by rambling on and on, until he stops.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks but there’s no answer. Jaskier is shaking all over, looking like he’s only seconds away from passing out. “Shit.” With two long strides, Geralt is at Jaskier’s side and taking all his weight from Essi. “Here. Let me.”

“Geralt, I—it’s not like that…” Jaskier struggles.

“Later.” He lifts Jaskier off the ground in one swift motion, and the ache in Geralt’s ankle eases immediately. “Get you warmed up first.”

Jaskier trembles again, clinging to Geralt’s neck. Gods, his hands are like ice blocks. He nods to Dalia, who is looking even more confused, but Geralt doesn’t have the time for it. He sets out for the well-lit building where their bedroom is. Essi keeps a hand on Jaskier’s arm the entire way and squeezes from time to time, only breaking contact when they reach the stairs. Valdo and Jaskier have also ceased their jabs, a rare bliss.

“Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier sighs with relief when Geralt nudges open the door. The fire is still burning, so Geralt prioritizes setting Jaskier down on a chair and stripping him of those wet clothes. His ankle has only swelled a little, not broken. It can wait a bit.

“Could you get us a bath? Cold water is fine,” Geralt acknowledges the other bards. Valdo is already on his way out, but Essi looks like she’s on the verge of tears.

“Hey, poppet. Come here.” Jaskier stills Geralt’s fingers on the ties of his doublet and reaches out for Essi, and she takes his hand. “It wasn’t your fault. We were all just fooling around.”

“I shouldn’t have started it.”

“Nonsense. You can always start snowball fights with me.” Jaskier winks, but his eyes are drooping with exhaustion. “It was all Valdo.” He lowers his voice. “And, perhaps, a little bit of me.”

“I heard that,” Valdo says off-handedly, bringing in the second bucket of water.

Geralt would shake his head in bemusement if worry wasn’t still a bitter lump in his throat. Jaskier loves his two friends too differently. He’ll never understand the three of them.

Essi kisses Jaskier on the forehead and leaves him be. The bath is filled fairly quickly as Geralt continues to remove Jaskier’s clothes down to his undershirt. The bard almost dozes off at one point, but Geralt nudges him with a gentle hand.

“Jask? Stay awake for me?” he asks softly, before turning to heat the bath with Igni. Steam fills the room, and Jaskier smiles at his friends tiredly. At least his heart is slowing to normal.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, voice small. “Yes, even you, Marx.”

“I’d be more worried about myself, Pankratz.” Valdo throws Geralt a meaningful look. “Quite the mess you’ve made.”

Jaskier doesn’t reply. His eyes stare distantly as the door shuts, and Geralt gets to work. With how much Jaskier is flagging, it takes more time to get him out of the last shirt and his small things.

“This might sting,” Geralt warns as he carefully helps Jaskier into the tub, the bard holding onto his forearms with a death grip. It does sting, Geralt notices, resisting to soothe the discomfort on his own skin while Jaskier flexes his fingers in the hot water.

Steam fills the room, and Jaskier melts into the warmth. Geralt has to rouse him again and then settle himself decidedly on the stool next to the tub, just in case.

“But I want to sleep,” Jaskier croaks, a few coughs bubbling up in his throat.

“Not yet. It’s dangerous,” Geralt says, a pang of fear rising at the memory of his chest burning. “There was water in your lungs. It could still get worse. We need to keep an eye on that.”

Jaskier’s eyes flicker to Geralt’s for a split second at the mention of his almost drowning. He doesn’t ask how Geralt knows.

“Alright,” Jaskier says softly, putting an arm on the edge of the bathtub and resting his cheek on it. “Keep an eye it is.”

They fall into a companionable silence. The water sloshes as Jaskier moves around, loosening his tense muscles and painting his skin pink. By the time he relaxes and has regained some energy, Geralt is leaning on the tub as well, observing Jaskier intently.

Soulmate.

Geralt turns the word over in his mind a few times, and yet he stays silent.

“Really?” Jaskier finally says. “You’re not going to ask?”

Geralt sighs. Anyone who’s spent a day with Jaskier will see how the bard wears his heart on his sleeves and simply assume he can never keep a secret. Geralt isn’t anyone. The bard has mastered the art of talking non-stop about everything while not revealing a grain of truth once he’s determined to hide it. Patience works on him though, just a bit of patience. “Do you want me to?” Geralt asks instead.

“No? I don’t know? Wait, yes.” Jaskier worries his lips. “I owe it to you, at least.”

“Okay.” Geralt nods. “Are we?”

Jaskier pauses. The ripples on the surface of the bathwater are suddenly the most interesting things in the world. He chases them with his fingers.

“We are.”

The admission seems to lift a weight off of Jaskier’s chest. He sags, the flush deepening on his face and chest.

“How?”

“How are we soulmates?” Jaskier blinks quizzically.

“No.” Geralt shakes his head gently. “How did I not know?”

“Oh. I—” Jaskier chuckles without humor. “Funny story. Okay, maybe not funny. In my defense, I sort of didn’t know…either? For a few years, at least. You see, this soulbond thing, it starts manifesting when you’re what, five? Six? My sister scraped her knee and our butler’s boy cried out on the other side of the estate. Mother and father were not pleased. A noble lady and a servant’s boy bonded together? How improper. So imagine when I started having soul pains almost every other day.”

Geralt’s blood runs cold. His stomach turns with nausea. “You were only five?”

“Five and a half, mind you,” Jaskier corrects him, as if that makes it any better. “The symptoms varied, nonsensical at first. There were signs of poisoning, blood loss, sometimes burns. No child can be injured this often. It was my mother who pieced it together. A witcher, of course.”

Geralt rests his hand on the edge of the tub, hoping Jaskier might close the scant inches between them and take it. He doesn’t.

“They had to fix it. She did some digging and found a mage in Oxenfurt. He brewed a potion, one that was rumored to block one’s soulbond. It worked, temporarily, at least. For a day or two, I wouldn’t feel it.”

A potion to fix one’s soulbond. It sounds like something out of a storybook, a perfect setup for a tragedy. But again, a soulbond itself has never seemed less of a fairytale to Geralt.

“I thought it was a myth.”

“Not a myth if you know the right people.” Jaskier winces. “Or are a noble. Or have enough money.”

Geralt frowns. “And you’ve been taking it ever since?”

“I had to, so they could pretend my bond never appeared. Also, I need it just to…um, to…”

Jaskier trails off, but Geralt finishes it for him.

“To grow up.” The idea doesn’t become less horrible, Jaskier as a child and writhing with pain that is near unbearable even for a witcher. “To live. You couldn’t have otherwise.”

Geralt tries to do the math, find out what year it was, which contracts he took when Jaskier was five. It all blurs together, all the blood and sweat and scars that fade into one another. He cannot identify when he hurt Jaskier inadvertently just by existing, or by how long and how deeply, only that he did.

“And you don’t feel anything with the potion, right?” Geralt asks tentatively. “It helps?”

“More or less. It reduces all the pains to a dull ache, so I won’t notice most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

Jaskier smiles sadly. “That’s how I learned. For so long I took the potion religiously to the point of forgetting about the matter altogether. It wasn’t until the striga. It was just an ordinary morning, and I’d taken the potion the night before. But…when dawn broke that day, I woke up with the worst pain I’d ever felt in my neck. I could sense it, deep in my bones, that my soulmate was close to dying. The potion failed, all the other painkillers too. The fever burned for days and I was past delirious when Valdo and Essi found me.”

“They know,” Geralt muses, “of course.”

“They guessed. Especially after news arrived about the protests in Vizima, the witcher who died and the other gravely injured—the White Wolf. Who else, Valdo said, trouble with you is always trouble with that witcher. I think he hated you for a while after. I…I denied it still, until I couldn’t”

“You came to Ellander.” Geralt thinks back on that day, the joy between the two of them upon their reunion. “You were so happy to see me.”

“My dear, you were okay. Of course I was happy to see you.” Jaskier smiles, moving towards Geralt and reaching for the bite mark above his collarbone. The warmth seeps into the faint scar at Geralt’s neck, and drops of water run down his chest. “There you were, hurting right where I was hurting.”

Their gazes meet through the steam. Geralt touches the scar too, catching Jaskier’s hand and feeling how soft and warm the bard is. The old fear is a familiar thing, hiding in the lines around Jaskier’s eyes. He’s endured more fearful nights than one should in a lifetime.

Geralt, more than anything, wishes to erase those fears.

He opens Jaskier’s palm and places a tiny kiss in it, taking the bard by surprise, and then gently puts both of their hands down. “I’m right here, Jask.”

“You are,” Jaskier repeats like he can’t quite believe it. Like a prayer. “You are still here.”

The surprise in Jaskier’s tone is a confusing thing, but Geralt lets it slide.

He clears his throat and breaks the moment, getting up to retrieve a bar of soap. Washing Jaskier’s hair is easy when Geralt already knows the motion by heart. He even scratches behind Jaskier’s ears the way he likes and gets a contented sigh in return. The bard dunks his head underwater and emerges to shake off the droplets like a wet dog.

“Come on,” Geralt says, splashing at Jaskier’s face. “Get yourself dry so we can rest a bit.”

“Together?”

“How else would you stay down?”

Jaskier beams, ready to stand up but forgetting about the sprained foot. The careless motion makes them both wince, but at least Jaskier looks contrite. “Sorry about that.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt takes Jaskier’s damp hands and guides him out of the tub before fishing out fresh tunics and a large towel from the closet. Jaskier takes them and begins drying himself, his ankle no longer hurting as much, thankfully.

“Bed?” Geralt asks.

“By the fire?” Jaskier gestures to the thick fur rug and the crackling fire. “It’s warmer.”

Geralt just shrugs and retrieves the blankets and bandages and the one hundred pillows the bard has collected over the years. Jaskier soon puts on his clean clothes, before limping to the spot in front of the fire and plopping down amongst the pillows, his hair a damp mess.

Kneeling in the sea of pillows, Geralt places Jaskier’s injured foot on his lap and starts wrapping it. They only need the bandage for a bit of support in the next few days as it heals.

“Any pain?” The process is careful, but Geralt still soothes the delicate skin at Jaskier’s ankle a little, making sure he’s relaxed.

“You know there isn’t.”

Jaskier arranges the pillows for them to lie down side to side, patting the one next to him. Geralt joins gladly. He’s had Jaskier close every day for the whole season, and the past few winters, but somehow, there’s a newness in the way their bodies press against each other. With a pensive hum, he turns and props himself up on an elbow.

“Ellander was twenty-seven years ago,” Geralt states and watches as Jaskier’s eyes become round like bells.

“Holy—has it really been that long?” Jaskier stares up at Geralt, huffing unbelievingly. “It feels like yesterday that I met you in that horrible, horrible tavern.”

“That was exactly thirty years ago. That’s how time works, Jask.” A strand of hair is getting close to the bard’s eyes, so Geralt brushes it away, revealing silver streaks that are growing more obvious each day. “So you’ve known for a while.”

“I guess you can say that.”

“You see what my next question is?”

Jaskier shifts, pulling more pillows under him and propping himself up as well, his posture mirroring Geralt so they’re face to face. There’s a weariness in the way he looks at Geralt. He’s been shouldering this weight for too long.

“I never told you because.” He shrugs. “You’d leave.”

It comes out like Jaskier is simply stating the weather, like he believes it just as the sun rising in the morning. It makes Geralt’s blood boil, a wave of nameless anger gathering in the pit of his stomach. Not at Jaskier, never at Jaskier. He’s angry with himself for putting that kind of doubt there.

As if he’d abandon their friendship for something that already hurts Jaskier.

Geralt is ready to argue, to defend his heart. “I wouldn’t—"

“It’s not that I never tried,” but Jaskier cuts him off, heedless of the silent battle between Geralt and his past self. “I wanted to bring it up a few times, but it just seemed the longer we knew each other, the more awkward it’d be. Next thing I knew, Cintra happened, and then the djinn. You—” Jaskier lowers his gaze to the laces at Geralt’s shirt. “You don’t have a good track record when it comes to destiny or fate or having people shoved into your life. You’d have reacted poorly, darling.”

“I don’t… react poorly.” Geralt protests, but one word catches his attention. “Wait, no. You’re not shoved into my life, Jaskier. It’s not because of what I said?”

“What, no—of course not!” Jaskier frowns, swatting at Geralt’s chest. “It wasn’t. I realized you didn’t mean any of it on the very same mountain. Stop brooding over this again or I will be cross with you!”

Geralt’s shoulders sag a little. His lips purse into a line, and then, a slight upturn. “Wouldn’t dare.”

“Good.” Jaskier continues. “And there’s the other lie. Don’t react poorly, he said. Geralt, you are the bravest man I know, but we both know you’d have run screaming.”

“I don’t scream, either.” He sends the bard a look.

“Okay, not that part, perhaps. But admit you’d have every urge to bolt, and maybe I’d be the one screaming your name around the continent, looking hopelessly for my soulmate who abandoned me with the coldest heart.”

Despite everything, the image makes Geralt rumble a laugh, and Jaskier giggles to himself too.

“So you just kept it to yourself, all this time.” Geralt huffs, bopping Jaskier on the forehead. “Can’t decide if I should be impressed.”

“I can keep a secret,” Jaskier feigns offense, and then more quietly, “you’d be surprised.”

Silence hangs in the air, broken only by the crackling of the dying embers. The temperature is dropping already, so Geralt pulls up one of the blankets to cover Jaskier’s legs and midriff, tucking it in absently.

“Tell me one?”

Blue eyes light up. “If you promise to tell me one in return.”

“Deal.”

The gentle upturn of Geralt’s lips is encouragement enough, and Jaskier shifts down to rest his head on the pillow, his hair mussed against the velveteen surface. He looks as if he’s going to melt under Geralt’s gaze, the way he keeps nuzzling closer. Geralt can’t help leaning in as well until the curtain of his silver hair touches Jaskier’s chin.

He watches Jaskier from above, waiting.

“I sometimes went off the potion,” Jaskier admits, “when we were apart.”

Geralt stills, his smile frozen.

“What? That is so stupi—”

“Don’t, Geralt. I know you want to get all grumpy on me. Just…don’t. It hurt, yes, but you were okay in the end. Always.” Jaskier’s soft look remains, his hand now resting on Geralt’s hip, keeping him in place. “And I could know, when a wound stopped hurting, when the pain eased. No—don’t argue with me. I don’t regret it, if it meant I was allowed to know. I have not regretted a single moment by your side, least of all this.”

Jaskier’s chest heaves, his eyes gleaming in the gentle firelight. In return, Geralt’s chest constricts with a million things he doesn’t dare to voice. He settles on the touch of Jaskier’s hand against his waist, a grounding point, an anchor.

“And you give me all those lectures about unnecessary suffering,” Geralt finally says, shaking his head, not knowing what to do with Jaskier. He’s never known anyway.

“It wasn’t suffering if it meant you had a choice.” Jaskier is ready to sit up, but his body is kept in place with how close they are. He sighs, resigned to his cocoon of blankets and pillows. “Geralt, you already get too few of them. I wouldn’t know how to stay if I was just another person destiny forced on you—yes, the other two worked out okay in the end and Ciri and Yennefer are the best things to ever happen to you—but I want to be a choice you make. I need to be, because you deserve to choose for yourself. Gods, it should be easy. Everyone has it easy, and yet…”

Jaskier closes his eyes and lets out an exhale, disquiet clear in the way his breath shudders. He’s angry too, the same way Geralt has been for almost his entire life.

Almost.

He hasn’t been angry with destiny for years.

Everyone has it easy, the choice of who to love, who to keep, who to become.

And yet, here they are.

“Hey.” Geralt tilts Jaskier’s chin up so blue eyes meet him, a human’s pulse thrumming under his fingertips. He deserves to choose, yes, and he has. Jaskier shouldn’t doubt it. “My turn.”

“Hmm?”

“A secret,” he reminds Jaskier.

“Oh.”

Geralt runs his palm down Jaskier’s bicep, reaching his elbow. He never gave much thought as to how Jaskier knows when his injuries flare up when the seasons change. He just accepted that Jaskier would be there to press a hot towel to his aching joints and murmur soft words in the quiet darkness until it passed. How has he been so blind?

There’s always been more, soulbond or not.

He’s chosen to love Jaskier so many times.

And loving Jaskier makes him brave.

“I love you,” Geralt says, and the words barely carry any weight. Strange. They’re such big words, after all. “That’s my secret.”

Something inexplicable flashes across Jaskier’s eyes, something akin to hope, equally fragile and powerful.

“If you’re saying this because I’m your soulmate—”

“Soulmate or not,” Geralt interrupts. “You. It’s just you. It has nothing to do with a soulbond, or destiny, or whatever magic has made my life into. I choose you, Jaskier, and I love you.”

The fire dies with a whimper, and they are left with nothing but the plain truth. Geralt has never expected to trust a person with his heart like this, but he’s proved wrong again. Here Jaskier is, hurting quietly for three decades just so destiny has one less tie on him.

His trust must shine through, because Jaskier seems lighter now, and the hope in his eyes grows and grows. “Not because of today? Not destiny?”

“I chose long ago. Jaskier, don’t you see?”

The life they’ve made, the quiet companionship by the fire, the silly conversations at night, it’s all a choice.

“And you love me.”

“I do.”

Geralt would say it as many times as Jaskier needs, but three seems enough for the moment. He rests his head on another pillow so their foreheads nearly touch. Jaskier closes the distance, his soft hair brushing Geralt’s brows.

“And you are staying,” Jaskier whispers. “You found out and you’re staying. Forgive me for not quite believing this day actually happened.”

“Hmm. Blame yourself for falling into a lake.”

“It was Valdo—you know what, it doesn’t matter. You are here. That’s more important than a hundred Valdo Marx combined.”

Jaskier’s voice turns drowsy, and he presses into Geralt’s warmth like a cat subtly scooching towards a sunbeam in the afternoon.

“Jask?” Geralt pulls away a little so their gazes meet. With Jaskier soft and affectionate and falling asleep beside him, it’s hard to be serious. He tries anyway. “Jask, I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything.” Jaskier answers, bleary-eyed and sincere. Love swells in Geralt’s chest anew.

“Promise me that you’ll keep taking that potion. No skipping it from now on.”

“Oh.” Blue eyes flutter open, more alert now. “Of course. As long as I take it, it’s like the bond doesn’t even exist. You don’t need to worry about it. There’s no magic to keep you. I won’t try to keep you.”

Geralt huffs a breath. It still amazes me how someone as smart as Jaskier can be so daft.

“That’s nice to hear, but I couldn’t care less about the soulbond. I’m right where I belong.” With Jaskier, their limbs tangling under the covers. “I need you to take the potion so I won’t hurt you again.”

“You don’t hurt me.” Jaskier pouts, offended somehow.

Geralt winces. “I’ve done it enough, being a witcher, being me. I can’t change the path or the monsters, and if our soulbond causes you more harm, I don’t know how I’ll—Just promise me. Just this one thing, please.”

Jaskier stares at him for a moment, probably surprised at the rarity that is Geralt begging, and he relents. “Fine, I promise. But I don’t appreciate the self-blaming party going on in your head. You should have learned better, darling. Or do I need to repeat the lesson for you?”

Geralt chuckles, not wanting to be on the receiving end of that disappointed look Jaskier has mastered with his students. Professor Pankratz is known to be firm but fair, but a dressing-down from him is no joke. “Yes, sir,” Geralt answers seriously, “and thank you.”

“It’s not a hardship. It smells nice too. Like celandine.”

Oh. Like Jaskier.

Like herbs and spring and everything good in life.

“Okay,” Geralt says. “There could be monsters in Oxenfurt for all we know.”

“No, there isn’t. You are safe here.” Jaskier hums an amused sound before yawning. “This is where you rest, you know? Nothing hurts in the winter.”

“Well, you made sure of it.”

Geralt thinks back on the many winters they spent together. Whether it’s Kaer Morhen or here, Jaskier has always insisted on getting Geralt rested and well-fed. There’s a small patch of burnt wall in Vesemir’s kitchen as proof. The academy is no different—the smiling faces that greet Geralt everywhere, the nosy students who call him “Professor Pankratz’s witcher husband” behind their backs. That’s all Jaskier.

He’s safe here, and Jaskier trusts him to be safe. There’s no soul pain to be shared if it wasn’t for an untimely snowball fight.

Geralt huffs a snort and arranges his arm so Jaskier can rest his head more comfortably on his shoulder. The bard’s breathing is evening out, slowed down by the weight of tiredness.

“Sleep.” Geralt murmurs, his nose buried in Jaskier’s damp curls, the clean scent of his bard a soothing balm for his nerves.

“Am I allowed now?”

“Mm-hmm.”

It’s not like Geralt is going anywhere.

“One more secret for you,” Jaskier whispers, the words almost lost in the quietness of the room. “Just for you.”

“Tell me?”

Even though he’s already heard.

“I love you too.” Soft lips press against the corner of Geralt’s mouth. A smile dances between them. “And I choose you too.”

With that, Jaskier drifts off to peaceful sleep, his chest rising and falling steadily. Geralt stays there, arms wrapped around him, not quite wanting to move. He probably never wants to move anywhere again when Jaskier is right here.

So Geralt dreams in broad daylight. He dreams of what they will become, what Jaskier can still become. The idea keeps him awake, giddy even.

Because Jaskier is already so many things to him: bard, poet, friend, travel companion, defender of his name, and, more often than not, source of his headache.

Also, the reason for his laughter.

The light in his sorrows.

The keeper of his heart.

And now—his soulmate, linked by destiny.

Although, of all the roles Jaskier has taken up, Geralt decides, the last one is the least important of them all.

~~~

In my head, they are both ace/demisexual in this story ;)

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod @kuripon @holymotherwolf @theamazingdevilgivesmehope

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

#geraskier #geraskier fic #geraskierss #geraskiersource #soulmate #shared pain #fluff and angst #hurt/comfort #jaskier whump #hurt jaskier #hypothermia #softness #cuddling #love confession #the most time is spent on picking the header #and now i feel fancy ✨

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hirikka · 2 years

Text

spin tales like dandelion seeds

Written for @lexa-gui for the @geraskiersource Secret Santa exchange! I hope you enjoy!

Rating: T

Summary: Jaskier has managed to hold out under Nilfgaard’s questioning for weeks without revealing anything that might put Geralt in danger. Their new tactic—a truth potion—may have some unintended consequences when Geralt arrives to save the day.

Also on AO3

It has been… well, Jaskier’s not actually sure how long it’s been since he was last given food and water. Long enough that he drains half the mug before he registers the odd taste, and by then it is too late. He curses his own stupidity; he should have expected that they would try some sort of magic to get him to talk. All his efforts not to talk or, when silence failed, to tell nothing but lies, and it is all going to waste because he was careless. He wants to scream, to rage or cry, anything to let the hopeless frustration out, but he keeps quiet. He’s not sure exactly what the potion is meant to do, but if he pretends to be ignorant, they won’t know he’s trying to fight the effects.

Footsteps distract him from his thoughts, and the sound of the heavy bolt sliding in its lock is the only warning before the room floods with light. Jaskier winces at the brightness, hunching back into the corner of the room, and waits—

“Good evening, Julian.”

Jaskier glares up at the man—the mage—and doesn’t speak. The mage is followed by a guard, who leans against the wall, hand on his sword hilt.

“We’ll start simply,” the mage says, “to see how effective the potion was. What is your name?”

Jaskier almost scoffs. They know his name; they’ve taunted him with the fact that they know exactly who he is. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Also known as Jaskier the bard.”

“Good. Why were you in Sodden?”

Well, that’s easy enough—they already know this as well; it’s how they found him, why they captured him even before the mage realized exactly who he was. “I was spying on you, obviously.”

“Who are you working for?”

“At the moment? The Redanian Secret Service.” The potion wants him to speak, so Jaskier takes advantage of that, hoping that he can stall them for long enough for the potion to wear off or for him to come up with a better plan. “I’m also under contract with Oxenfurt—although they may have rescinded that, since I haven’t gone back there in months and I certainly haven’t written—”

“Enough,” the mage snaps.

“You asked,” Jaskier mutters, peeved at being interrupted. He receives a fist to the gut for his troubles and oh, perhaps that was why he hadn’t been antagonizing them before. But if they become frustrated enough to beat him senseless, he won’t be able to tell them anything. Won’t have to risk saying something that might harm—

“Where is Geralt of Rivia?” The mage’s tone is deceptively casual; Jaskier knows exactly how desperate they are for this information. Has spent countless painful hours telling them again and again—“I don’t know,” Jaskier spits. “As I’ve told you, I haven’t seen Geralt in over a year. He sent me away.”

“Sent you away?” the mage prods.

“Yes. Blamed me for all the wrongs in his life. Said it would be a blessing for life to take me off his hands.”

“What wrongs would those be?”

Jaskier doesn’t want to think about what Geralt said on that mountain; the pain of those words hasn’t faded in the intervening months, but he can’t stop the words from spilling out. “Oh, all the times he was caught up in human affairs: the djinn—and his subsequent relationship and falling out with his sorceress—the child surprise…” Jaskier just barely suppresses a wince. He hadn’t meant to mention Ciri, hoping to keep the topic away from her for at least a little longer.

“The child surprise… He didn’t want her?”

“No,” Jaskier says. “He didn’t want to be bound to anyone or anything—which is, quite frankly, a load of horse shit considering his wish with Yennefer, and I honestly think he’d be a great deal happier—”

“Stop talking.” The mage takes a deep breath. “I can see why the witcher sent you away.”

“That’s not fair,” Jaskier objects. “You’re the one who asked.”

“Stop talking before I start removing fingers.”

Jaskier grits his teeth, trying not to flinch too obviously. They’d broken his fingers several weeks ago, and he’s fairly sure they’ve started to heal wrong. He may never be able to play again even if he survives this, but there’s still hope. He doesn’t know if he can survive without that.

“Our sources say that the witcher has claimed his child surprise. Where would he take her?”

“I don’t know!” Jaskier says, for what feels like the millionth time. “I didn’t think there was a force on the Continent strong enough to make Geralt claim that child, so how should I know where he would have taken her?”

“Let’s rephrase then, what places does he consider safe?”

“Geralt doesn’t consider anywhere safe,” Jaskier says. “He’s a witcher. Most people hate him, and he’s convinced even the people who don’t hate him should… There were times where I thought he felt safe when we were together, but perhaps I was just imagining that. Wishful thinking, I suppose.”

“What places did he visit most often?”

“Well, larger towns tend to attract more monsters, and there were always contracts to be found along the Yaruga—drowners and such. He didn’t have particular places he sought out, exactly. He went wherever there were contracts to be found.”

“There’s no place he went to every year?”

Jaskier shrugs—as much as he can with the way his arms are bound. “If there was, he never told me about it—not so much as a name. Probably didn’t want to risk having me show up uninvited to ruin more of his life.” He’d never allowed himself to examine that particular thought before, and it hurts more than he’d expected. Geralt had always kept him at arm's length. Jaskier had thought for years it was just caution—a natural response to years of abuse and hatred—but maybe it had really been Jaskier that was the problem.

The mage and guard leave while Jaskier is still lost in his thoughts. Perhaps they’ve finally realized that they won’t be able to pry any information from Jaskier. He hopes so; he’s lost track of how long he’s been here, but he’s so tired. He knows the chance of getting out of this alive is vanishingly slim and, while death has never before seemed a comfort, at least it would be a release from the pain.

Geralt waits until the mage portals away before stealing into the keep. The mage is only there for a few hours a day, from the information Geralt has gathered—too many places to be and not enough magic users with the power left to have one stationed in all of the army’s outposts. The battalion of guards falls easily beneath his sword. He keeps his mind on the present and doesn’t let himself think about why he is here—who he is here for.

There is a moment when he stumbles, the lute smashed on the ground in a corner sending a pang of regret and sorrow through him. It is enough time for one of the soldiers to slash across his arm, but he hardly notices the pain as he tears through the few remaining soldiers with more raw fury than skill.

Once the last body falls, Geralt turns and heads down into the dungeons. The smell of blood and rot reach him first as he pulls open the door into the dank room at the bottom of the keep. He keeps his breathing shallow as he paces down the corridor. The first few cells are empty, doors standing open and waiting. The fifth and final door is closed, with a figure slumped in the corner. He doesn’t move at the sound of footsteps, but Geralt can hear his heartbeat, racing with fear in anticipation of his captors’ arrival. The wave of relief is stronger than Geralt expected, and he has to force his hands not to shake as he pulls out the key he’d taken from a guard and unlocks the door.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says.

The slumped figure jolts to his feet, blue eyes wide and wild. “Geralt? What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you,” Geralt says. “Can you walk?”

“Can I walk?” Jaskier repeats. He looks slightly dazed, something off about his expression that Geralt can’t quite identify. “I don’t know.” He takes several wobbling steps forward, wincing in pain. Broken ribs, Geralt guesses. Jaskier sways on his feet, and Geralt steps into the cell to steady him.

“Come on,” Geralt says.

“Is this a trick?” Jaskier asks, squinting at him. “Because honestly, I don’t know what you are hoping to achieve if it is.”

“Not a trick. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?” Jaskier frowns. “I’m hardly worth the risk—I know you’re too noble for your own good, sometimes, but what if this had been a trap?”

“I… was worried. Wanted to make sure you were safe. When I found out you had been captured, I came as quickly as I could.”

Jaskier blinks at him for a long moment. “Hm, well. I suppose if they were able to create a glamor or hire a doppler or whatever, they would have probably tried that sooner.” He makes a face as they pass the first of the fallen soldiers. “Also they probably wouldn’t have killed all these people.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees. He focuses on making sure Jaskier keeps his balance while trying to catalog the bard’s injuries.

“You shouldn’t have taken this kind of risk,” Jaskier says conversationally. “You must have known that I wouldn’t have been able to tell them anything that would actually help them find you… Although I suppose if you are going around attacking their keeps, they won’t have to look very hard.” He waves a hand as he talks and then lets out a whimper as the movement jostles what looks like several broken fingers.

“Careful,” Geralt growls.

“Really though,” Jaskier continues, undeterred. “You never actually told me much about your life; I’m not sure what you thought I would be able to tell them.”

Geralt frowns at him. He can’t see Jaskier’s expression and he wants to get them farther from the keep before calling for Yen so he can’t stop, but: “I wasn’t worried you would tell them something. I was worried about you, that you’d be hurt, or worse.”

Jaskier’s steps falter for a moment. “Oh, well. That’s… What now?”

“Hm?”

“I can’t exactly—” Jaskier waves a hand. “Go. If Nilfgaard thinks they can use me to get to you. They just wanted information this time. They believed that you wouldn’t risk coming for me, but now… they’ll be even more determined to capture me. And next time it will be a trap.”

“I thought— I’d planned to bring you back with me. Somewhere safe.” Geralt watches Jaskier for a moment, trying to gauge his reaction. “I know you probably want nothing to do with me, especially now…”

“I always want to be with you,” Jaskier says. “A few broken bones isn’t enough to change that. I just thought you’d want to be rid of me.”

Geralt can hardly believe what he’s hearing. Jaskier was tortured because of him—could have died because of Geralt—and all that on top of the pain Geralt knows he caused. “Then you’ll come? Let me keep you safe.”

“Of course,” Jaskier agrees. “I love you, Geralt. I’d go anywhere with you.”

Before Geralt has even a moment to process that, a portal swirls open in front of them, and Yen’s voice from the xenovox tells them to hurry.

Yennefer rests her chin on her hand, looking far less concerned than Geralt feels the situation deserves. “One more time,” she drawls. “Why do you think Nilfgaard would have enchanted Jaskier to think he loved you?”

“I already said—I’m not sure it was meant to be me that he fell in love with.”

“Right. They wanted him to fall in love with one of his captors so he could, what? Reveal your secrets? Surely you have more faith in your bard than that.”

She’s not wrong, Geralt knows; even in love, he can’t imagine Jaskier giving up secrets that would put Geralt in danger. “Maybe it was meant to make him fall in love with me. Jaskier thought I could have been a doppler; maybe they were planning to bring in someone to impersonate me. And if he thought he was in love with me…”

“What? He would tell you where you would hide? Honestly, Geralt, having someone impersonate you wouldn’t actually have been useful to them. And even if they did think they could get something out of that ruse, why would he need to be in love with you?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt grits out. “Who knows—they could have been plotting anything.”

“Hm.” Yennefer raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

“Does it matter why?” Geralt asks. “We just need to find a way to fix it.”

“Alright,” Yennefer sighs. She closes her book and places it on the table. “Let’s go see if there is actually something wrong with your bard.”

“Wait here,” Yennefer orders. “The hovering is distracting.”

Geralt pouts but doesn’t argue. Yennefer magnanimously does not tease him for the expression; there will be plenty of time to tease once she can assure him that Jaskier isn’t under the influence of any lingering magic.

“Ah, hello, Yennefer. Thank you for healing me.”

Yennefer isn’t quite sure what to do with this sincere version of Jaskier. “How are you feeling?”

“Still a little sore, but much better,” Jaskier says. “Also quite afraid that I’ve ruined things with Geralt, possibly irrevocably—which is somewhat ironic considering what he said the last time we parted, but he saved me so he can’t hate me completely—unless he does now. Oh, wouldn’t that be just my luck?”

“Jaskier,” Yennefer interrupts. “Calm down.”

Jaskier blinks at her, looking a little dazed, but doesn’t say anything else. She still thinks Geralt was wrong about the curse, but that wasn’t normal, even for the normally chatty bard. “Take deep breaths,” Yennefer instructs as she crosses the room, perching on the corner of the bed. She reaches out, scanning first his injuries—all healing well, thank Melitele; she had been worried that her magic, depleted as it was, wouldn’t be enough to mend him. Once she’s satisfied with that, she probes with her magic, looking for any signs of something amiss. There is an enchantment, faint and fading, but still strong enough to have influence. She tugs at the spell, unraveling it to see exactly what it was meant to do, and lets out a startled laugh when she realizes what it is. She draws the spell out, releasing Jaskier from its hold as Geralt slams the door open.

“Why, uh, why are you laughing?” Jaskier asks. “Am I dying?”

Geralt makes a wounded noise, and honestly, Yennefer is so tired of the dramatics.

“You aren’t dying,” Yennefer says to Jaskier. She stands up from the bed. “You’re healing well. You’ll be tired, so I expect you to take it easy.” She gives him a wicked grin. “No strenuous activity for the next few days.”

“Strenuous?” Jaskier repeats, sounding somewhat strangled.

“The spell is gone as well,” Yennefer adds, keeping her tone casual.

“He was enchanted,” Geralt says, voice flat.

“Yes,” Yennefer agrees. “They gave him a truth spell.”

“A truth spell?” Geralt asks, sounding stunned. His attention is fixed on Jaskier.

“I swear I didn’t tell them anything of import,” Jaskier says, clearly misinterpreting Geralt’s reaction. “I promise, Geralt, I didn’t.”

The pain in Jaskier’s voice snaps Geralt out of his shock, and he sinks onto the bed, sitting at Jaskier’s side and staring at the bard in wonder. “You love me.”

Jaskier flushes, ducking his head. “Ah, right. I did say that, didn’t I?”

“You meant it,” Geralt says.

“Well, yes.” Jaskier’s voice is steady but his hands shake. “It doesn’t have to change anything—”

He’s cut off when Geralt takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. “What if I want it to change things?”

Jaskier’s blush deepens. “Well, that, um, that can be arranged.”

Yennefer suppresses a snort of amusement, deciding that she’s seen more than enough of this. “Remember, Jaskier, nothing strenuous.” She winks at him before leaving the room, the door cutting off his outraged spluttering.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #witcher fic #geraskierss #geralt #jaskier #gift fic #my writing

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demisexualgeralt · 2 years

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Hello! Here is my @geraskiersource secret santa gift for @elder-flower. I hope you enjoy! I tried to fit as much coziness and fluff in as I could. Happy holidays!

Follow the read more, or cross posted on A03 under my main, wesawbears

Geralt looked up, finally seeing the glow of a small lantern ahead of him on the road. He was eager to get out of his snow-wet clothes and, if the alderman paid him what he was due, to have a bath. He knew it was foolish to take a contract, much less a water-based one, this late in the season, but he didn’t want to turn down easy coin.

By the time he reached the little tavern where the alderman would be waiting, the snow was starting to come down hard and unforgiving. He watched as the townspeople hurried to get their horses and wares away before the storm hit in earnest. He took Roach to the stable, calming her and giving the stablehand a firm look and warning to treat her well. WIth a last pat and assurance that she was warm enough, he headed into the tavern.

As he entered, he saw the alderman waiting in the spot they had agreed upon, but another sight caught his eye first.

Jaskier.

He hadn’t seen the bard since late summer, when they’d parted for some festival Jaskier was to perform in. He’d offered Geralt a place to stay if he wanted to stay for the festival, but Geralt had refused, citing a need to keep moving. If he’d seen a flicker of disappointment in Jaskier’s eyes, a slight downturn in the cadence of his speech, he pretended not to notice. He certainly hadn’t expected to see him before the next year. Absently, he wondered why he wasn’t at Oxenfurt yet, but he supposed he was moving in that direction.

They locked eyes and Geralt watched as Jaskier caught himself before fumbling. Geralt smirked and walked toward the alderman, eager to get his pay. Once that was all settled, he found a table to eat and wait for Jaskier’s set to end.

Sure enough, the bard made his apologies for ending his entertainment before scurrying over to Geralt’s table.

“Geralt! Couldn’t make your way home without saying goodbye to me? I knew it.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “I had no idea you were here. I would have kept walking if I did.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to scoff. “In this snow? Unlikely. I’d find a chiseled witcher shaped icicle come spring.”

“Worried about me?

“Hardly. Poor Roach wouldn’t deserve such a fate though.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, reaching for his mug of ale.

“So…” Jaskier demurred, drumming his fingers on the table, “Do you have a room? Since the snow seems to be sticking around?”

“I-”

“Say no more, I would be more than happy to share! You’re so welcome, Geralt, what would you do without me?”

Geralt nodded, knowing by now that arguing with Jaskier would just be more trouble than it was worth. Besides, the coin he would save on the room would surely buy him a bath.

The rest of the evening passed unremarkably. Jaskier knew that Geralt wasn’t prone to talking much after a contract, and he filled the silence with tales of his own year, all through supper, his bath and until he finally nodded off with his face in the pillow. Geralt, by contrast, was too keyed up to sleep and merely settled on the floor to meditate for the night.

By the time he pulled himself out of his trance, Jaskier was still asleep, snoring soundly against the sheets. He went downstairs to check on Roach and get them some breakfast, only to find what seemed like the whole town crowded around the front door.

“It’s completely blocked!”

“Too much snow!”

The innkeep chuckled from where she was cleaning a table. “I don’t suppose your bard would be willing to keep people occupied from a day locked in, witcher?”

“He’s not my-” At her look, Geralt stopped. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He headed back upstairs, only to find Jaskier’s face plastered to the window. “Geralt! It’s still snowing!”

Geralt smirked, closing the door with his shoulder. “You look like a child who just got told there were no lessons.”

That seemed to pique his interest and the bard’s head turned swiftly, a slow smile creeping up his face. “Have you ever had a snow day, Geralt?”

“What?”

“A snow day! Surely once, when you were young…”

Geralt shook his head. “It snowed nearly every day in the Blue Mountains. Besides, it was useful to learn to fight in all terrain.”

“Well, then, witcher, I am going to teach you to have a proper snow day. Sit. I”ll get us some cocoa.”

Geralt walked to the bed, unsure of himself but knowing there was no argument. What else was he meant to do when going outside wasn’t an option?

After a short wait, Jaskier returned with two steaming mugs that smelled of chocolate, and a hint of cinnamon from Jaskier’s. He wrinkled his nose. “Don’t know why you ruin your drink with that.

“Some of us have a more refined palate, witcher.”

Geralt snorted. “Very refined. You have whipped cream on your refined nose.”

Jaskier squawked and immediately began trying to lick the whipped cream off of his nose, rather than simply wiping it off. Geralt watched him struggle for another moment before reaching over and swiping it off of his nose for him. He thought he saw Jaskier’s face redden, but figured it must have been a chill from the drafty windows.

“Are you cold?”

“...a bit.”

Geralt grabbed the blanket off of the bed and, in a fit of fondness, draped it over Jaskier’s shoulders. The look Jaskier sent him was confused, but grateful.

“It’s cold in the mountains. I do know a thing or two about keeping warm, if not snow days.”

Jaskier chuckled at that. “I’m more familiar with warm climates I suppose. Never did like the cold.”

“Guess I’m teaching you then.”

“I guess you are.”

A fit of madness found Geralt wanting to lean forward, to touch Jaskier’s face if only so he wouldn’t look so cold, but Jaskier moves away before he can do something stupid.

“At least join me by the fire, Geralt.”

Geralt sits next to him, letting his legs stretch out in front of him. It reminds him of nights avoiding sleep by talking with Eskel and Lambert. “It’s nice,” he tried by way of conversation.

For once, Jaskier doesn’t take the bait. “Mmhmm.”

“Does the cold make you quiet?”

A small smiled graced the bard’s face. “Nostalgic, I guess. Reminds me of the time before winter holidays. With my friends at Oxenfurt.”

“It’s hard to imagine a quiet night with you around.”

Jaskier laughed. “Yes, well, you should know by now that I am full of surprises, dear witcher.”

Geralt hummed and looked over. He looked young with his face lit by the firelight, and yet Geralt could see the lines etched there. Ten years they had been in each other’s lives, longer than any other human Geralt had known. He wants to trace his fingers over the lines, feel them mark Jaskier as real and here.

“Do I have something on my face?” Jaskier asked, face scrunching slightly and highlighting the lines.

“Yes,” he murmured before drawing forward to kiss the spot by his eye.

Jaskier jolted as if brushed by a fire poker. “Geralt?”

Geralt blinked, pulled out of his fireside trance. “Jaskier…I’m…”

“Don’t apologize,” Jaskier said quietly. “Just- I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t mean it.”

“Mean what?”

Jaskier made a frustrated motion with his hands. “The…touching and the meaningful glances. Don’t toy with me. Not when I’ve…for the last ten years I’ve-”

“I’m not. Toying with you.” He curled a finger around a lock of Jaskier’s hair, longer than usual. “I just- humans are so…fragile and I don’t know how to-”

Jaskier leaned over, cutting off his faltering words with a firm kiss. Geralt let himself lean into it, mouth opening under Jaskier’s softer ones.

At last, they pulled apart and Geralt let his hand linger on the back of Jaskier’s neck. “I think you’re right.”

“I am?” Jaskier asked, head tilting.

“You do know something about snow days.”

They still had the rest of the winter to contend with, Geralt in the Blue Mountains and Jaskier at Oxenfurt, but for now, the snow came down outside and they stayed in the firelight’s magical glow.

#geraskierss #geraskier #the witcher

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geraskiersource · 3 years

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Happy Holidays Geraskier shippers!

We’re very excited to kick off our first Secret Santa exchange for this wonderful fandom and hope that you’ll all take part in the fun!

What is this?

Geraskier Secret Santa is an opportunity for you to create a gift for a fellow shipper and receive one in return! It’s a wonderful way for the fandom to come together, show each other lots of love and appreciation, and make new friends!

We’ll be using the tag #geraskierss for all new posts related to this exchange: info posts, updates, etc. This is the tag for posting your gifts as well!

The Dates | Info:

Sign ups are open from now until midnight (PST) of October 29 (this gives you two weeks to sign up!)

Assignments will be sent out by midnight (PST) of November 5

We will ask you to posts your gifts during the week of December 8-15. We do this in order to make sure that people’s works don’t get buried in the tag. Sign-ups for a posting date will come in a new post in late November.

We chose to close the exchange early so that everyone’s works would be completed BEFORE Season 2 begins, so nobody’s work gets thrown off by the new season.

On your day, please post your gift and tag #geraskierss and #geraskiersource so that we can reblog and promote it! We will describe the full posting procedure closer to the posting dates!

Please see below the cut on information on how to enter and participate!

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Send in your entry email.

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Good luck, have fun, and Happy Holidays!

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wren-of-the-woods · 2 years

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Pick Your Chords Well, Loves

Geralt, Jaskier, Ciri, and Dara are quickly becoming a family. Geralt doesn't know how to feel about that. Jaskier helps.

Written as a part of @geraskiersource’s Geraskier Secret Santa exchange for @xviruserrorx!! I hope you like it <3

Enjoy 1.6k of found family fluff and emotional hurt/comfort!

Also on AO3!

There’s nothing particularly special about the evening when it happens. It’s just like countless other nights over the last few months.

Geralt, Jaskier, Ciri, and Dara sit around a campfire, deep in the woods somewhere. Geralt has managed to bring down a rabbit and several fowl. Jaskier is roasting them over the fire and singing a sea shanty he learned once to Dara. Ciri is sitting silently on a log they found, writing something in a notebook that Jaskier convinced Geralt to buy her. Geralt watches over all of them with bright eyes that reflect the firelight, guarding them just as he does every night.

Ciri drops her pen with a quiet curse that Jaskier pretends not to hear. Geralt, who is within arm’s reach, picks it up and hands it to her.

“Thanks, Dad,” she says carelessly.

Immediately, Geralt freezes. Jaskier’s breath catches. Dara tenses, watching Geralt intently. Ciri continues to write, happily oblivious.

“You’re welcome,” chokes Geralt, almost inaudible. He stands abruptly. “I’m just going to… set some traps. For food. For tomorrow.”

“‘Kay,” says Ciri, not looking up. Without further ado, Geralt flees the clearing.

Jaskier sighs shakily.

“I’d better go check on him, in case he decides to turn into an emotionally stunted grizzly bear again,” he says to Dara. “Watch the meat, would you?”

A small smile crosses Dara’s face. “Yes. We can’t have him turning into a bear.”

Jaskier pats his shoulder, takes a deep breath, and goes to hunt his wayward witcher.

He finds Geralt several minutes’ brisk walk away from the camp, far enough that the light of their campfire is completely lost in the tangle of branches and trunks. He is staring out into the woods with tension written in every line of his body, looking almost like a statue in the moonlight.

“Hi,” says Jaskier.

Geralt doesn’t respond.

“You okay?”

Still nothing.

Jaskier sighs. He goes to stand beside Geralt, leaning against a tree and gazing out into the forest. He doesn’t look at the witcher. He knows Geralt needs time and space to answer.

The forest darkens slowly around them as the last remnants of twilight fade into moonlit night. Jaskier hopes he’ll be able to see his way back to the camp when this is over.

“I can’t do this,” whispers Geralt.

Jaskier glances at him. It’s too dark to see his expression.

“I can’t raise a child,” says Geralt. “I don’t know how.”

Jaskier lets out a long breath.

“You’re all they have, Geralt,” he says softly.

“They deserve better.”

“Why?”

Geralt huffs. “I’m a witcher. I don’t know how to have a family. All I know is violence.”

Jaskier shoves him gently. “Stop it. You know that’s not true.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls threateningly.

“No, Geralt. I know you. I’ve seen your face when a child offers you kindness. I’ve seen you risk your life for the chance of saving people you’ve never met. I’ve seen you sneaking treats to Roach when you think I’m not looking. I’ve seen you be soft and loving and caring and kind. You are more than bloodshed and heroics. You are more than a witcher. You’re Geralt, and Geralt is a good person.”

Geralt does not respond. His face is unreadable in the dark.

“Do you love them?” asks Jaskier.

Geralt is silent for a long moment. “What does it matter?” he growls.

“It matters,” says Jaskier. He takes a deep breath. “Lettenhove was a cold place to live. I can’t imagine Kaer Morhen was any better. You have a chance to give them warmth, the warmth we never had. That’s precious.” He sighs. “If you love them, and you try your best, you’ll be a better parent than many.”

Geralt turns to look at him. His eyes shine, cat-like, in the faint moonlight.

“Yes,” he whispers. “I love them.”

Jaskier nods. “Then you’ll work it out.”

Then he smiles, bumping his shoulder into Geralt’s. “Besides, you’re not alone in this. I’m here.” He laughs a little. “Hell, even Yennefer would probably help if we asked. And we’ll have your family once we get to Kaer Morhen. We’ll figure something out.” His smile softens a little, into something sincere and solemn. “I’ll help you for as long as you’ll have me. Always.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m afraid,” Geralt admits, so softly that Jaskier almost misses it.

“Me too,” says Jaskier honestly. “Frankly, I’m fucking terrified. I have no idea what I’m doing half the time. But we can’t let that stop us, can we?”

Geralt sighs shakily. “I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to hurt them.”

“I think you’d hurt them more by leaving than you would by staying. They love you too, you know.”

Geralt hums in acknowledgement.

“We’ll be just fine, I think. We can just take a look at how other people parent, steal the good parts, and go in the complete opposite direction of the rest. Can’t be that hard, right?”

Geralt huffs. “Sure. Very easy.”

“Hey,” says Jaskier, leaning against Geralt’s shoulder. “You’re already doing so well. Look at us! We’re actually talking through our emotions like intelligent adults. I never thought I’d see the day.”

That draws a chuckle from Geralt. “You haven’t even compared anything to a goose in this whole conversation. I expected more bad similes from you, bard. You’re slacking.”

Jaskier grins. “The fact that you even know what a simile is means I’m doing my job as a bard.”

“Fuck.”

Jaskier laughs.

They stand there in companionable silence for a while longer, alone with their thoughts. After a moment, Jaskier stands.

“We should probably get back to camp,” he says. “We have to make sure Ciri doesn’t burn the forest down in our absence.”

Geralt nods. Jaskier moves as if to leave, but Geralt stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says. There are worlds of emotion contained within the simple words.

Jaskier smiles softly. “You’re very welcome, my dear witcher.”

They make their way back to the camp slowly. Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand and guides him through the dark, managing to help him avoid most of the roots and bushes in their way. They return to see Ciri and Dara sitting side by side, cooking the meat and talking quietly to each other. They both look up at the sound of Geralt and Jaskier approaching.

“Everything all right?” asks Dara, voice laced with half-hidden nervousness.

“We’re good,” says Jaskier. He nudges Geralt, who grunts in a vaguely affirmative manner. Jaskier rolls his eyes. Dara giggles.

From then on, things return almost to normal. Geralt declares the meat to be properly cooked, and Jaskier seasons it with Ciri’s help. They eat in companionable silence. Jaskier tells the story of a werewolf hunt he once went on with Geralt as they prepare for bed, and Geralt ruins all the interesting parts by correcting him.

The air gets colder and colder as the night draws on. They’ll need to get better winter gear if they hope to make it to Kaer Morhen. When Ciri gets into her bedroll, the first of them to do so, Jaskier can see her shivering.

Geralt, apparently, notices too.

“Ciri,” he says, “Do you want to sleep with me? You look… cold.”

Ciri huffs, disgruntled. “I’m thirteen. I don’t need to share someone’s bed.”

“I… hmm,” says Geralt. For a moment, no one says anything. Jaskier thinks that is the end of it, but then—

“I wouldn’t be a very good father,” says Geralt hesitantly, “If I let my daughter freeze.”

Complete silence descends over the clearing. It seems as though the whole forest is holding its breath.

“All right,” says Ciri.

She crawls out of her bedroll and drags it over to Geralt’s before lying back down. Geralt climbs in next to her, settling the blankets over both of them, and hesitantly puts an arm over her. She snuggles closer and sighs in content.

Geralt gives Jaskier a significant look. Jaskier doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, so he shrugs.

Geralt huffs a little laugh. “You too, Jaskier. Bring Dara over here.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen for a moment before he grins in delight. Dara’s breath catches in his throat, but he doesn’t argue. Jaskier helps him maneuver his various blankets over to where Geralt and Ciri lie before dragging his own things over.

With a nudge from Jaskier, Dara lies down next to Ciri. Jaskier makes sure he is snug and covered by blankets before going to lie on Dara’s other side. He gently manhandles them until all four are snuggled close together, the chill air kept out by a pile of blankets. Geralt is curled protectively around Ciri, who has her arms about Dara and her face buried in his hair. Dara clings to Jaskier with the arm that isn’t holding Ciri’s hand. Jaskier holds Dara against his chest with one arm. With the other, he reaches across their little group to take Geralt’s hand.

Wind rustles softly through the trees above. The night air around them is cold, but, wrapped comfortingly in blankets and each other’s arms, it feels as though no cold wind or forest creature could possibly touch them. Ciri is snoring within moments, completely relaxed and content. Dara slips into sleep not long after, a soft smile on his face.

Jaskier looks up from the two beautiful children to watch Geralt. The witcher’s face is the softest Jaskier has ever seen it, his eyes full of awe and wonder and fear as he looks at the children in his arms. Jaskier can’t help his smile at the sight. Against all odds, they are here. They have a perfectly flawed little family, and Jaskier couldn’t be more grateful.

He catches Geralt’s gaze, squeezes his hand, and smiles. Geralt, hesitantly, squeezes back.

Good night, mouths Jaskier. Geralt nods.

That night, Jaskier sleeps better than he has in months.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskierss #geraskiersource #geralt #jaskier #ciri #dara #the witcher fanfiction #my writing #found family #cirilla #the witcher netflix #i have a bunch more snippets that didn't make it into this fic so there might be more of this little family coming!#i hope you like it!!#<3

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mollymauktealeef · 2 years

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inkpot gods

❄️ for @hirikka happy holidays! i hope you enjoy! ❄️

⪼ part of the @geraskiersource secret santa exchange!

warning/s: insecurity but mostly fluff

(ao3)

“You stink,” Lambert declared, throwing a book into Jaskier’s chest with enough force to expel the air from his lungs sharply.

For a few comical seconds Jaskier juggled two books as he tried to catch his breath again. Once his equilibrium was restored he stared at the witcher a bit confused as his words sunk in.

With exaggerated care Jaskier put aside his own reading in favour of his newly acquired projectile. He surreptitiously attempted to sniff at his armpit as he flipped the worn leather wrapped journal between his hands. It was soft to the touch and the paper was dried and yellowed with age, clearly one of the older entries in the library.

“And a book will help me...not stink?” Jaskier asked with a quirked eyebrow. Lambert snorted and rolled his eyes.

“No dumbass, you stink of feelings,” Lambert explained forcefully.

Jaskier sighed, no wonder he had to practically start from scratch with Geralt’s communicating skills come spring. Spending an entire season with one brother who spent most of his time with his beloved goat and the other who’s vocabulary seemed to consist almost entirely of curses that would make a Islander blush, frankly it was a miracle his witcher hadn’t reverted back to grunts every spring. He loved them all dearly but given half a chance not a single one of them would interact with the local populace socially.

“A word of advice, your everyday folk can’t smell emotions and don’t appreciate being told they stink,” Jaskier offered, slipping easily into his lecturer voice, usually reserved for his students.

“Unlike the white wolf I don’t give a fuck about who I piss off,” Lambert muttered as he crossed his arms defensively over his chest.

Jaskier recognised the youngest witcher’s growing discomfort and switched away from his teacher mode in favour of something that wouldn’t remind Lambert of darker childhood days within the keep, “So what have my emotions done to offend you?”

“You’re sad.”

“Am not,” Jaskier retorted childishly and Lambert chuckled.

“You are, it’s annoying.”

Jaskier fumed over the futility of arguing with Lambert who could rival himself in the stubbornness department. Besides he wasn’t wrong per se, Jaskier wasn’t at his best. He loved Kaer Morhen and the witchers but he found his days a little… empty. There wasn’t much in the way he could offer as the inhumanly strong witchers had the annual repairs well in hand and Jaskier was more of a hindrance than a help. He was starting to wonder if Geralt regretted bringing him to the keep instead of leaving him at Oxenfurt as was their norm as there didn’t seem to be much he could contribute to Kaer Morhen’s general upkeep.

“Listen, you can’t keep up. You’re human…we think,” he mumbled the last part quietly to himself but before Jaskier could question that particular little tid-bit, Lambert continued on, “and there’s enough dick measuring going on without adding your twig self into the midst. Geralt would get all upset if you got broken trying to ‘prove yourself’.”

“Is there a point here or are you attempting to rival Yen when it comes to cutting remarks?” Jaskier asked, his jaw stiff as he gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the sharp pain in his gut.

“One; I’m more awesome than the witch any day of the week,” Lambert smirked cockily as he held up a finger. Jaskier snorted, he’d have liked to see Lambert say that in front of Yen, “and two; my point is I remembered this damn journal. Proof you aren’t the first fragile human to winter at our glorious castle.”

Jaskier faltered, “Wait, what?”

“The book dumbass, some witcher back in the day brought along his bardic friend,” Lambert waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Jaskier rolled his eyes at the unsubtle implication.

“And this is important because?”

“It’s proof you’ve got your uses.”

“As a bed warmer?” Jaskier questioned, his voice rising towards a dangerous pitch.

Lambert switched from teasing to freaking out in the blink of an eye as he looked around a little as though he expected Geralt to appear out of nowhere to defend Jaskier’s honour. Considering how often the witchers tackled one another from the shadows, it was a fair concern.

“No asshole! That’s not what I meant,” Lambert shouted and Jaskier let the tension slip away, he had enough experience with witchers who struggled to get their thoughts across to hold a grudge against Lambert for some badly worded suggestions…yet.

“Okay? Then what did you mean?”

“You’re…useful,” Lambert said bluntly and rather anticlimactically, looking a little dead in the eyes as though he wished to be anywhere but here. Jaskier could relate.

“Thank…you?”

“Just read the damn thing and stop being mopey,” Lambert sighed and stormed off into the dark and drafty keep, leaving Jaskier confused but oddly touched by the exchange. He was starting to recognise it as the usual when it came to the most abrasive member of the wolf witchers.

Jaskier shrugged and settled back into the overstuffed wingback chair that Geralt had dropped in front of the large roaring fire just for him. He opened the well worn journal and flipped through a couple of the dried pages a little blase before the words started to sink in. It took him a moment to realise just why they caught his attention.

Lyrics.

Actual lyrics. Albeit written out like a story instead of the traditional poetry format familiar to all in his field but still, a song. He hunched over the book, skimming with more focus. One, two, eight, ten. Each page had at least one distinct song dutifully scratched into the paper with a careful hand. Not a bard’s hand but a witcher, one who found the words worthy of remembering.

It was clear from the blocky child-like scrawl that letters were not the unnamed witcher’s strong suit but there they were, pages upon pages of work to carefully document the fleeting life of his bardic companion. A truly epic love letter if Jaskier ever saw.

Jaskier felt the tell-tale prickle of tears as he caught sight of the most recent entries, half way through the book. In fresh ink, each letter softly etched into the rough parchment, where his own words. His own lyrics. Saved for future readers perhaps centuries down the line.

There was no mistaking the handwriting. Jaskier would know that hand anywhere, even without it’s usual almost illegible tilt. Geralt, doing his best to be neat and tidy and lovingly commit Jaskier’s life’s work into a journal that would more than likely outlive them all.

The time and effort it took was worth more than all the standing ovations of his career and Jaskier felt warm to his very core.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier’s head snapped up. Speak of the devil, he thought to himself trying not to laugh out loud at the absurdity of the situation. Geralt watched him with a frown, clearly noting the tears that had slipped Jaskier’s notice. Not that he was surprised by them, he’d just been handed the very physical proof of Geralt’s often hidden feelings for him.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked and Jaskier gently shut the journal and set it aside, he stroked the soft leather before he stood.

“Better than alright,” Jaskier said, smiling as he sniffled a little. He slipped a hand around the back of Geralt’s neck, drawing him into a soft warm kiss trying to show how much he loved Geralt in return in the act.

#geraskierss #the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geraskier fic #jask writes #the witcher fic #hirikka #geraskiersource

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jemmasimmons · 2 years

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Merry “The Witcher Season 2″ @lamberts! I hope you enjoy your gift! It’s been a huge joy being your Secret Santa.

Summary: Take one-sided Geraskier in canon and make it two-sided in fanon. Friends to Lovers + Unrequited Love Becoming Requited + Angst with a Happy Ending, just like god intended.

A/N: Current chapters start post-mountain (01x06) and run through the end of s2. Jaskier POV for now, but Geralt POV will be introduced. Mostly canon-compliant through the end of s2. Note the warnings and tags in the fic.

——

And when he is looking for Geralt after all the awful carnage left in the wake of Voleth Meir to see how he is doing, Jaskier spies him on the wall with Ciri and Yennefer. He doesn’t want to interrupt a tender moment, but he cannot help but overhear before he slinks away: “Us three. We’ll help each other.”

Us three. Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri.

Jaskier would never be wanted, needed, or included in that family. He lets out a hollow laugh.

And once again, Jaskier begins a treacherous trek down a mountain, in the wrong footwear, with a shattered heart, and alone.

——

Read on AO3.

#useravia #geraskierss #geraskieredit #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #the witcher spoilers #I really loved all the confirmation we got of Jaskier's feelings in s2 #but since I am a ridic shipper #I wanted him to be happy with Geralt #so here are a few chapters of pain #and then we will get happiness

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mysticcoyoteart · 2 years

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This is my work for Geraskier Secret Santa for the wonderful @yukinodara . I’m sorry I didn't reach out sooner to let you know I was working on this but I hope It’s even more of a happy surprise lol! I absolutely loved your prompt it was the exact thing that I love to work on. I wasn't quite sure how to visually portray Geralt being touch starved but rest assured that he most certainly is. I also couldn't resist doing two versions of this as I love the candle lit atmosphere of the first one but I also spent so much time on the details that I wanted one that really showed them off. Anyway thank you again to @yukinodara for the amazing prompt and to @geraskiersource for hosting such a fun and inspiring event!

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senashenta · 2 years

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On Bad Days And Blanket Forts

Title: On Bad Days And Blanket Forts

Pairing: Geraskier

Rating: G

Warnings: None

Summary: Geralt has a bad day at work, but when he gets home late Jaskier has everything figured out to make him feel better.

Notes: This is my stand-in short fic for the Geraskier Secret Santa Event (2021) @geraskiersource , written for @jaskie. I've been working on a much better, much longer fic that I intended to gift them instead but it got out of control and my bi-polar started acting up and BLAH. It didn't get done in time. I'm still writing it for them, it's just going to be late, so I scribbled this out in time for the deadline instead. ^^; On AO3 here.

MERRY CHRISTMAS @jaskie, TIS I, YOUR GSS!! I HAVE LOVED CHATTING WITH YOU THESE LAST FEW WEEKS, I'M SO GLAD I GOT PAIRED UP WITH YOU, IT'S BEEN SO MUCH FUN!! <33

ON BAD DAYS AND BLANKET FORTS By Senashenta

Even though it had been decades, Geralt was still getting used to it. The daily grind of going to work slinging drinks across a bar to already-wasted patrons instead of waking and strapping swords to his back, armor to his scarred body and walking the Path as he had for centuries before the modern age.

But for the most part there was no need for Witchers anymore. His previous occupation had been taken over by pest control companies with high-tech weapons and the monsters he’d fought against hunted to the brink of extinction. Geralt sometimes even felt the briefest flashes of sympathy for the ones left behind, relics of an age long past—much like himself.

Oh, there were positives to the time he lived in now. Cell phones. It was much easier to get a hold of Lambert now than it had been before. The other man would drop a text in the blink of an eye but trying to get him to respond to a letter back in the day had been like pulling teeth. The group chat they kept running between himself, Lambert, Eskel, Ciri, Vesemir and Yen was a constant source of amusement.

There was also coffee. And pizza. How Geralt lived for so many centuries without coffee in his life was beyond him. The same went for pizza. He could and had been known to live on just those two things for days on end, much to his brothers’ annoyance. Geralt just figured it wasn’t instant ramen so he must be doing something right.

And of course, the modern age had Jaskier.

The previous age had had a Jaskier as well—or, rather, it had had a Dandelion. But he was merely mortal and so had passed with time. Geralt had mourned him for eons, though the pain had faded gently over time until Dandelion was nothing more than a fond memory to look back on on particularly lonely nights.

Then one evening Jaskier had wandered into his bar, and Geralt had been thunderstruck because this kid looked so much like Dandelion it was uncanny. And then they started talking, and his personality was like sunshine after a storm or fresh air after nearly drowning and Geralt fell. Hard and fast. (For a nineteen-year-old music theory major from New Oxenfurt, Melitele help him.)

But as much as Jaskier reminded him of Dandelion in a lot of ways, there were differences, too. Jaskier played the guitar where Dandelion had favored the lute. Jaskier was a brunet while Dandelion had been blond. Jaskier could cook, but Dandelion had been a disaster in the kitchen. They did both have the same astonishing blue eyes, though, the same sense of humor and zest for life, the same love for animals. If Geralt had been one to believe in reincarnation, he might have thought…

But no. That was ridiculous.

The only reason they started going out was because Jaskier pushed the issue and Geralt’s brothers gave him a shove in the right direction, because otherwise Geralt would have procrastinated over things until the end of time and missed his opportunity for good. Jaskier was also the one who, after nearly two years of dating, suggested that they move in together—and Geralt had nearly panicked, because even after two years together he still didn’t feel like he really deserved Jaskier. Yen had had to talk him down before laying out all the pros and cons of co-habitation (including shared custody of his slightly-illegal pet, Roach, that would make Jaskier culpable, too, in case she were ever found out; no matter how much Jaskier loved Roach that still had to be considered) and finally telling him he was being a moron and he should just man up and take the next step with the man he was clearly head-over-heels for.

She had a point. He did love Jaskier, possibly more than he’d ever loved anyone before. Maybe even more than he’d loved Dandelion—and just that fact alone was frightening. Geralt wasn’t used to feeling things on quite such an intense level—he hadn’t in lifetimes. He was out of practice.

When he awkwardly explained as much to Jaskier, it earned him a fond smile and a warm hug, followed by a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek as Jaskier chuckled that he hadn’t expected any less and was just glad Yen had been around to keep him from thinking himself in circles for the rest of eternity over it.

In the end it was decided that Jaskier would move into Geralt’s apartment and not the other way around, since Geralt’s place was bigger (and had a nicer kitchen, which was a huge plus as far as Jaskier was concerned.) Also, this way they didn’t have to worry about transporting Roach anywhere, which could have been problematic. True, Jaskier would have a longer trek to work every morning since Geralt lived farther from the library than he did, but he rather enjoyed his morning walks so it was no real hardship on him either way.

And once Jaskier moved in, after a couple of days of learning to work around each other, it was easy. It was like they had lived together forever, waking up together in the morning, eating meals together, watching Netflix together, playing with Roach together, and of course making love before they went to sleep at night.

Jaskier wasn’t even phased when Geralt had to work late and asked him to feed Roach her rabbits for him: Roach was a leshy, a creature about the size of a wildcat that looked like the cross between that and a bear. In the wild leshy were ferocious man-eaters but Geralt had found Roach abandoned as a cub and had hand raised her. She was gentle as a housecat (and stubborn as one, too.) Wild leshy were all but hunted to extinction, and it was illegal to own monsters as pets, so Roach was a closely-guarded secret amongst only a select few. Jaskier thought she was adorable, even if she swiped at him occasionally when he tried to boop her nose.

Tonight was one of those nights. The bar was understaffed and full to capacity, and Geralt had had to call on Jaskier to feed Roach, which he hated to do even though he knew Jaskier didn’t mind. Customers were rude, he was exhausted, his temper frayed and his feet hurt, dammit. He was too old for this.

When Geralt finally got home at nearly two a.m., he expected to be met by darkness and silence, Jaskier in bed and Roach asleep on the couch. Instead Roach greeted him at the door, jumping up for pets, and the smell of carbonara assaulted his senses. Jaskier poked his head out of the kitchen and smiled widely when he saw him. “You’re home!”

“And you’re cooking. In the middle of the night.”

“I am!” Jaskier confirmed cheerfully, “figured you’d be hungry. Roach was keeping me company.”

“And begging for bacon, I imagine.” Geralt couldn’t help smiling as the tension began to bleed out of his shoulders a little.

“I only shared a bit.”

“You spoil her.” It wasn’t really an accusation. It was said fondly.

“I do not!” Jaskier still protested, waving a wooden spoon in his direction, “I just think rabbit every day must get boring that’s all!”

“Okay, okay.”

Roach come over to rub against Jaskier’s leg, probably looking for more bacon, before disappearing into the living room. Jaskier returned to the stove to finish dinner and get it plated up, calling out, “I have a movie cued up on Netflix, can you get it started? I’ll bring the food out in a minute.”

“Sure,” Geralt agreed easily, because a dinner-and-a-movie night sounded kind of perfect right about then, especially if he could cuddle up with Jaskier after they were finished eating and—wait a minute. What in Melitele’s name was that?

The entire living room had been rearranged to make room for a… tent. Of sorts. Made out of blankets and dining room chairs and decorated with fairy lights (did they even own fairy lights?) When Geralt bent down to peer inside he discovered that all of their bedding and pillows had been crammed inside the makeshift tent. It looked rather cozy, actually, if he was being honest with himself. It was still perplexing though. Why had Jaskier…?

“Oh my Gods you’ve never built a blanket fort, have you?”

Geralt straightened up and looked over his shoulder to where Jaskier was standing, a dish of pasta in each hand. “Is that what this is?”

“Yes!” Jaskier nodded emphatically.

“And the lights are…?”

“Essential! Very essential! So essential!” The brunet was emphatic once again. He nodded toward the fort, “go on, climb in. I’ll pass you the food.”

Dubious but amused, Geralt got down on his hands and knees and crawled into the fort, turning around to take the bowls that were passed to him a moment later. Then Jaskier was climbing in after him, grabbing the TV remote on the way past, and that was when Geralt noticed that the television arm was swung down as far as it would go so they could watch TV while still in the tent. He chuckled to himself, even as the two of them went to settling down, leaning back against the bottom of the sofa and sideways into each other a little.

When Jaskier took his bowl of carbonara back from Geralt and then hit play on Netflix Geralt swore out loud.

“You fucking bastard.”

Jaskier just smirked smugly because he knew—he fucking knew—that nothing could make Geralt melt and cry easier than The Fault In Our Stars. And he used it to his advantage at every chance he could. Geralt glared at him for a moment before slouching in his seat a little and grudgingly starting to eat his pasta while the movie started rolling.

And Godsdammit, on top of having a fabulous boyfriend who set up an amazing impromptu date night with his (secret) favorite movie, the food was amazing too.

“I hate you.”

“And I love you, too, darling. Always.”

“Hmm.” Geralt didn’t say it in words, but the implications were obvious.

#shut up sena #sena writes #geraskierss #geraskier #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geralt of rivia #jaskier #roach

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xviruserrorx · 2 years

Text

For @geraskiersource secret santa event for the lovely @jaskofalltrades! I hope you enjoy! I panicked last minute and rewrote it completely because I didn't like the product... So hopefully it's good enough now 😅 (I'm so sorry this is late!)

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: Gen

Word count: 1,871

Title: Promises and More Promises

Continue reading below or over here on AO3

Jaskier wanted—no needed attention. It was a necessity he believed deprived from his job and hobby of choice. Fingertips scared and calloused over from years of playing and the constant care he took with his voice all to be front and center at every tavern and forefront memory of a catchy tune.

His songs hummed and every balad recited only shared publicity from each court hall to the next. All of which for some brief time he was center and all ears and eyes were on him.

But this transferred over to other unexpected places too. His personality most of all being a victim to his musical trace toxin. His rambling sometimes went on and on even he couldn't keep up with what he had said mere seconds before. He quickly learned not everyone enjoyed having their ears talked off nor did they enjoy not getting a single word into a conversation.

Until Geralt…

A gruff man of few words who liked to stay in the shadows and brood in corners of taverns. Though his reputation preceded him, his name the word or every mouth as a witcher but not as Geralt of Rivia.

The man who pushed him away in their earlier encounters, and couldn't admit to caring because that would make him weak. But that was all wrong, as Jaskier saw him as everything that was the fascinations of the world around them.

He found every song he composed going back to him. Every chord, a perfect sequence of chords that was accompanied by a soaring melody and a heart-stopping baseline. And soon every song that wasn't about him had a part of him in it that took months even for Jaskier to notice himself.

A single note, melody, line, phrase that was him—Geralt. Someone he called a friend and desired to call so much more. He couldn't trust his heart though because it fell into everyone's grasp wholeheartedly only for them to drop it on the floor after it served them a quick purpose or pleasure.

But his heart was the malady and his mind nor body had no means to fight or resist against it. Yet he continued to pick up on and give it away until one day he simply held onto it.

The reason why? He didn't know. He wanted to go and find someone charming down an alleyway to fall for and yet get told to leave in the morning, but every part of him didn't let him. Not much of a why but a who…

He would run into and see Geralt every so often, be it every couple of months, or years too, but those were the most dreadful. Their first interactions always a surprise of glee—well his reaction anyways. But after it turned into an easy normal back and forth banter, even though back and forth typically meant Jaskier talking and talking then a phrase every so often was returned back from the other man.

Even his music wasn't so easy as that, instead requiring periods of practice and warming up to the strings sounded alive and not doll, and so his voice sounded heavenly and not like an old toad. But this, the warm comfortable scenario to slip right back into like a mothers embrace, was so involuntary it felt addictive.

But Geralt was his chosen poison. And this wasn't a quick trip he could take of momentary pleasure but one that seemed to stay on his mind all the time. Even when not around the other man, that's all who clouded his mind. Often having to pose other people for his nightly facade of giving his heart away. As for some, he couldn't help it and actually did the deed. While others, he pulled his emotions back into their box in the mornings as he gathered his clothes and left.

But soon there was less and less time away from Geralt. Their meetings were more frequent—longer even if Jaskier could say. Instead of the few off days or week, he'd normally spend in Geralt's company, it turned into many weeks, even as long as a month sometime.

The domestic air they both picked up during those periods was a certain bliss that he couldn't describe. But with that domestic bliss came the white lie of his hidden truth of how he felt for Geralt. He couldn't deny feeling something if it was anything for the other man that was beyond what he could describe.

But he figured if Geralt wasn't enjoying his company, he would have tried to more forcefully get rid of him a long time ago. Instead, quite the opposite happened. They grew closer, and not just in bond and soul as one would say, but emotionally and physically.

There wasn't a discourse of who got the bed at the inn they were staying at anymore for rather they both ended up sharing it in the end. A playful banter filled most of their conversations along with teasing notions and a small light nudge from Jaskier. His hands had coursed through the stark white hair of the witchers after shared baths which had led him to find out how unbelievably soft it was.

What they were exactly he couldn't say, but they were something and that's all that mattered. To put a label would be like trying to tell him to never play another song again—simply unfathomable.

But he was still half of the relationship as well, not just Geralt. He craved those touches that lingered a bit too long or a calming touch when something began to upset him. Any touch for that matter, he wanted affection and more importantly attention…

The full attention of the witcher he knew he could never get but sneaked away in small increments. But even on days that proved difficult with monster hunting and Geralt being overburdened with his duties, Jaskier always found a way to sneak in.

Jaskier let out a small groan as he felt the shift of the cot underneath him. Heavy footsteps moved around the room with the accompanied rustling sound of clothing and buckles. He rolled over to his other side, his hand reaching out only to find the fading warmth of the sheets under his hand.

He forced his eyes open, blinking a few times as his eyes adjusted to the light. Finally, after a moment he made out the other man moving about before finally putting the scabbard on for his sword.

"Geralt?" His throat was dry and full of the after-effects of sleep. The witcher looked at him when his name was rasped out. "You're leaving?"

"I'll be back later." The sharp scratch of his laces together was heard before he moved to push himself up from the corner of the bed.

Jaskier moved his foot, snagging it in the strap crossing Geralt's back, preventing him from getting up.

"Jask…"

"Stay," He said, tugging backwards with his foot to tempt Geralt back into bed.

A hand came around and gently removed his foot from under the strap, "I can't."

"Geralt." He whined his name. The moment constant deja vu for the both of them. A both and forth game that always resulted in one outcome.

He wanted Geralt to look back at him but the other man didn't. Instead, he continued on getting ready. "I have to leave Jaskier."

"Five more minutes," he said, "in this warm bed." He raked his hand over Geralt's abandoned spot in bed. "And with me!" He included as the best for last announcement to lure Geralt back.

"Jas—"

"Please Geralt?" He let his head roll to the side on the pillow. His hair was a deep contrast against light sheets that changed with his bare chest covered so.

"I'm leaving."

"The witcher abandon's his bard, all alone to wallow in his lonesome misery—"

"Jaskier—"

"How rude, Geralt. Terribly and awfully rude." He yanked the blanket with a flourish over his head.

Geralt sighed as he made his way back over to Jaskier's side of the bed where the bard had made himself into a little ball under the blankets.

"I won't be gone long."

"That's not it…"

He stood in confusion looking at the blanket shaped object on the bed that was Jaskier.

"You promised we have the day today."

The day before when the same situation played out and in the quiet of the gentle morning he had laid down a promise. One that quickly faded from his mind but stayed with desired hope in Jaskier's.

"I did, didn't I…"

"Yes you did," Jaskier stressed the first word as he threw the blankets off and sat up on the bed. "You promised me."

He had forgotten and it was now known and out in the open. If it was something ordinary and unimportant he would have continued but this was something important, to Jaskier most of all.

Jaskier sighed, "Go Geralt, you need the coin." He waved his ring clad fingers of his plucking hand before he collapsed back to the bed.

You, not a we. They had become a we so inchingly and carefully that Geralt hardly had noticed it. Never once aware of something until someone else had pointed it out to him.

"I have plenty." Once again the possessive placement of something that was both of theirs.

"You wouldn't be going if you had enough, besides you just said you had to go."

He shrugged, "Maybe I don't have to."

"Oh really?"

"Possibly." He cocked his head with a smile tempting at his lips.

Jaskier tried to fight his own smile but quickly failed and succumbed, to his own demise. "I'm trying to be mad at you."

"Is it working?"

"You—" he reached and grabbed the strap across Geralt's back and yanked him backwards on the bed. "Come here."

"I'm here now." Geralt let his hands fall to his chest and Jaskier's laugh rang high in the air.

He shook his head, "No, you big oaf." He was pulled close as Jaskier managed to thread his fingers around and around the intricacies of the buckle before the belt and Geralt's sword were tossed across the room.

Once that was out of the way Jaskier maneuvered the Witcher back across from him in his rightful spot.

"Here, my dear." He mumbled as Geralt shifted into place, brushing away white hair that had fallen onto his face with the movement. "Here, until you leave once again." Jaskier moved closer wrapping his arms under and around Geralt.

"I never want you to leave again…" his voice was muffled but Geralt heard him.

"Jaskier—"

"I know, impossible. You can let a guy dream." Jaskier's hand lifted before falling back down over him. "But here, just for now, don't leave."

Geralt lightly chuckled, "I won't."

"Promise."

"What?" They both shifted to look at each other.

Jaskier huffed, "promise you won't leave."

"Just right now?" He questioned back.

Jaskier grimaced, it wasn't a promise for him of a one time thing but rather something he desired long term. A absent ever was said by Jaskier's silence. Geralt's hand combed through long hair he'd still not gotten used to on the bard.

"I promise."

#geraskierss #geraskier #the witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #gift fic #i have another version/twist that was written but got thrown in the scraps pile so...#I might upload that sometime at a later date as well...#i'm so sorry this is late #idk why yesterday me thought it was a smart idea to scrap the whole fic and start over #the first fill was too off topic and had non-binary jaskier and a lot of hurt/comfort #then the second one was less off topic and had a Ton of hurt/comfort and pretty much touch starved jaskier...#so this was the best I could provide you XDXD #virusfanfic #viruswrites

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