#have some geraskier fluff on this fine morning

[roughentumble]

I wrote a fic for disability pride month! Featuring Geralt's knee brace, and some Geraskier fluff.

(Note that I don't personally use a knee brace, but I hope I did an alright job representing it in my fic! Geralt's knee brace deserves more visibility in fandom :3 )

tagging @hale-of-stiles-heart cuz I figured she'd want me to.

here on ao3

——

Geralt can tell it's going to be one of those days. The twinge in his muscles as he stretches his leg, the dull ache seeping into his bones... It isn't so bad yet, but it'll get worse fast if he doesn't nip it in the bud.

His knee brace is as easy to apply as breathing, nowadays. He can do the straps with his eyes closed, the familiar leather sturdy and reassuring under his fingers as he tightens them around his thigh and his calf. He bends his knee once, twice, to make sure everything's in working order, then sets about packing up their meager camp.

It takes three tries to wake Jaskier, but Geralt's used to this by now. He wakes the bard in stages, listening to Jaskier's grumbles as he folds their tarp and saddles roach. By the time Jaskier is sitting up, bleary-eyed and groaning, his bedroll is the only thing left on the forest floor. "I'm up, I'm up." He slurs, tripping over his own feet as he tugs on his shoes and sloppily folds up his bedding.

"You never leave me time to fix my hair in the mornings, you brute," he grouses as he affixes his roll to roach's saddle. "You could try waking me earlier."

Geralt lets out an amused hum and throws a stale roll of bread at Jaskier's head.

He squawks and nearly drops it, fumbling it between his hands. "And now you're throwing things at me, you horrible–! Oh, it's breakfast. Thank you, darling, I didn't even realize how famished I was... presentation could do with a bit of work, though." He nibbles on his breakfast and slings his lute over his shoulder as he falls into step beside Geralt and Roach, a spring in his step on this fine summer morning. "So. Where are we off to today, witcher-mine?"

——

The answer, as always, is a small town with a monster problem, which Geralt had told him the night before, but information that didn't interest him had a tendancy of falling right out of his head. This particular small town is right outside the walls of Vizima, but they probably wouldn't end up inside the city itself for a day or two while Geralt dealt with the inevitable small town drowner contracts, and the town was rather small and dingy in comparison, hence Jaskier's lack of interest.

They arrived just as the sun began to peak overhead, and Jaskier's lack of interest was quickly turned on its head when he saw the town's bustling sunday market. It seemed as though everyone was out, whether selling or buying, tables laden with everything from fresh, steaming food, to new journals, to glittering jewelry. Jaskier let out an awed little 'ooh', and turned to scamper off into the crowd immediately, only to have his elbow caught by Geralt. "Notice board first, then the market."

Jaskier whines, but stays put as Geralt dismounts roach, careful not to jostle his leg too badly. "I could go on my own. Meet back up with you after all your negotiating."

"I'd never find you again. You'd get lost between the stalls, or pickpocketed. Why, are you that tired of me already?" Geralt inquires, face kept blank and serious but eyes alight with amusement.

"As if I could ever tire of your illustrious company. Alas, I've tried many things over the years, but nothing seems to do it."

"I suppose, then, you're stuck with me."

"I suppose, then, you're right." Jaskier smiles fondly, hooking his elbow around Geralt's. "Even if I am being dragged to a boring old negotiation."

——

The townsfolk, as it turns out, are staunch followers of the eternal fire. Despite the contract on the notice board, the town priest– acting as aelderman– insists that they don't even need any help, because all that's needed is prayer and the lighting of holy flames at dedicated spots.

Even though a woman was recently torn to shreds on the very riverbank they overlook to negotiate.

Maybe the fires weren't holy enough, Geralt thinks blithely. It tacks on an extra half an hour to negotiations, because he needs convincing that something needs to be done at all, and is that much stingier with funds as a result. Jaskier goes from enraged, to bored, to distracted, and finally slips out of the room during a particularly delicate portion of the exchange, where Geralt can't take a moment to corral him back into the room. Little weasel.

He gets half his payment up front, but the drowners in their river only come out at night, so he has an afternoon– however much is left of it, now– to wrangle Jaskier before he has to go fulfill the contract.

He flexes his leg, stiff from standing so long, leaning into the support of his brace, as he swivels his head in search of Jaskier.

Thankfully, there aren't many alleys for him to be hidden down. The market stretches straight down the main road, then veers straight off to the side, wrapping around the town in an L-shape. Unfortunately, someone else spots Jaskier just as Geralt does.

It must've been his bright garb that caught the man's eye, his showy gestures, the loose way he held their purse, because one moment he's gesticulating at a vendor, and the next a man from the crowd is snatching the purse from his hand. The wrenching motion looks painful, and Jaskier yelps as he snatches back his hand, the sound loud enough to carry across the street to where Geralt stands.

He doesnt stand still for long. Geralt is between the thief and his most obvious exit, the stalls packed in too tightly to slip between acting as a corridor right to the city gates– and the guards standing right outside them. He presses his advantage, darting forward to grab the man before he can escape.

He's fast, even faster than Geralt expected, and he dodges to the left when Geralt swipes right, nearly ducking out of his reach entirely but for the hood he uses to hide his face. A fistful of the loose fabric ends up in Geralt's hand, and he yanks backwards, clotheslining him and making him stumble back, choking and panicking. His arms whirl, grabbing at Geralt's own for stability, twisting in his grip to try and squirm away from his iron hold, and in a last desperate attempt swings his knee wildly at Geralt's.

The brace absorbs the impact and holds strong, keeping Geralt upright despite the distant throb.

The thief's knee crumples in pain on impact, collapsing beneath him in shock.

He hadn't expected the metal core inside the leather, reinforcing it.

Geralt grabs his arm and twists it, following him down to the ground and then pushing him lower, until he's flat on his stomach. The twinge in his knee tells him he shouldn't have done that, but he ignores it for now as he calls jaskier over.

It had only been a few moments in real time, but Jaskier looks frazzled, eyes wide as dinner plates. "Get our coin back while I hold him." Geralt says, and Jaskier nods, rifling through the man's pockets as he squirms under Geralt's weight, then taking Geralt's hand to help pull him back up.

The guards by the gate finally take interest, strolling down the bridge at a leisurely pace. "Go on, then. Before you get thrown in a cell for the night." Geralt says as he steps out of the theif's way. The man looks around for just a moment, as if judging Geralt's sincerity, then scrambles to his feet and runs.

"Well! That was rather bracing, wasn't it?" Jaskier says. When Geralt turns to respond, he sees not one but three bags of coin in his hands.

"Jaskier." He just shoots Geralt an innocent look, and Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose in irritation. "We should give those back to the people they belong to."

Jaskier's face screws up with incredulity. "How? No one's going to be honest, so there's no way to trace the original owners. And it's better than the guards taking it and adding it to the city's coffers. Might as well turn a bad situation into good fortune, and enjoy it!"

Geralt doesnt like the idea much, but he can't argue Jaskier's logic, and the enthusiasm is a bit infectious, though he'd never admit it. "Fine... but I'm holding the purse."

——

When they finally get a room for the night, the sun is just starting to dip below the horizon, and their arms are laden with food and trinkets and books that Jaskier had insisted they spend their new assets on. Geralt will have to don his armor soon enough, but for now he has a free moment, and he sinks gratefully onto the bed.

"Pants off." Jaskier commands, and Geralt raises an eyebrow, though he undoes the strings dutifully.

"Not the sexiest way I've been propositioned, I've got to say." He reaches down to undo the straps of his brace as well, shedding both with ease. "Don't tell me the great bard is losing his touch."

Jaskier throws his head back and laughs, twisting the lid off a jar of lotion as he does. "Trust me, if I was propositioning you, you'd know." He scoops a dollop into his palm, then sets the jar on the side table as Geralt shimmies up the bed, back against the heaboard and legs out in front of him. The lotion is hand-warmed as it's smoothed over Geralt's skin, and Jaskier's touch is gentle but firm as it rubs soothing circles into the tired muscle.

He strokes up and down, long, slow strokes from calf to thigh and back again, until Geralt feels like a puddle on the bed, eyes closed and a little pleased rumble emanating from his chest. "You'll just have to do that again when I get back," he says quietly.

"I don't mind." Jaskier replies, voice equally hushed. He places a reverent kiss on Geralt's thigh, then gently pats it and slides a pillow beneath it for extra comfort. His knee really isn't that bad today– the brace works wonders for him when he uses it– but the gentle love and care makes Geralt's chest ache with affection, and it works to keep his knee from getting worse more often.

Jaskier moves to leave the bed, but Geralt stops him, tugs him towards his lap. "Would that be alright?" Jaskier asks, glancing over at his knee anxiously.

"It's fine, as long as you don't give me too much of your weight." Geralt says, which has Jaskier eagerly scrambling into his lap, grin absolutely blinding.

He reaches out, slowly twining his arms around Geralt's neck. "So. Now that you've got me here, what do you want from me?" Jaskier asks, voice deep and sultry.

Geralt takes a moment to trail his hand up and down Jaskier's back, looping his arms around Jaskier's waist. "Wanted to tell you... how much you mean to me. How much I love you. How much better you make my life."

Jaskier's face takes on a shocked little oh shape, then tranforms into a watery smile. "Oh, you great big sap, you." Jaskier says, pulling Geralt in closer to hide his face in Geralt's shoulder, sniffling. "I love you too, my darling."

They stay like that for a long time. In a little room in a tiny inn, they find peace together as twilight descends.

#witcher tag #ogc tag #disability pride month #is there like a tag ppl are using for disability pride month fanworks?? #anyway. i hope y'all like it!!! #feel free to send me a message if you see any typos

[deeplywornletters]

and at night, i shall watch over you

@calamarisnapfish wanted “ I’ve read so many bed sharing fics where geralt wakes up in the middle of the night/the next morning with jaskier all cuddled up to him…. I just wanna see the role reversal with jaskier waking up first to find that geralt cuddled into him during the night u kno “ on Discord, so I blanked out and typed this up in 30 minutes.

CW: small death joke

Jaskier woke up from the first rays of sunshine hitting him in the face, the hazy light coating everything in an orange glow.

His body felt heavy from sleep, all snuggled up under the blanket.

But, as he was slowly starting to realize, that wasn’t the only reason his body felt heavy.

There was something warm draped over his legs, pinning him to the mattress and making it almost impossible for him to move.

Slowly, Jaskier turned his head and took in a sharp breath at the sight before him.

Laying there, deeply sunken into slumber, lay Geralt, white hair spread out over the pillow, mouth slightly open and a faint snore coming out of it. 

It was a rare sight, the Witcher almost always up before Jaskier, or awoken by even the slightest movement, never letting his guard down fully.

The last hunt had been especially draining though, Geralt barely making it out unscathed, and he had all but fallen into bed last night after he had gulped down a bowl of stew at Jaskier’s insistence.

His body had needed the rest, and judging from the depth of his sleep, it still needed a few more hours to recover.

Jaskier had been studying Geralt for a few moments when suddenly, the other man shifted.

That was when the bard finally noticed where that warm feeling was coming from: there was a very big and muscular thigh draped over him - even in the morning light you could see the scars on Geralt’s leg as it was peeking out from underneath the covers.

‘This certainly is new,’ Jaskier thought.

Usually, it was him who cuddled up to Geralt during the night, sometimes consciously, but mostly because his body craved the warmth and Geralt radiated so much of it, it felt like he was being pulled towards it.

And so every so often, he woke up pressed to the Witcher’s back, icy fingers clinging to his chest, legs tangled up in each other. It had taken him a few times to notice that Geralt was always awake when it happened, but he still let him proceed, probably out of pity because his weak human body would otherwise freeze to death.

To see Geralt do the same thing deep asleep made Jaskier’s stomach flutter; he barely managed to resist the urge to brush a loose strand of hair out of the Witcher’s face.

He looked so vulnerable and soft and human, nothing like the monster he was constantly made out to be.

Geralt’s mouth twitched and he moved, his entire body now pressed up to Jaskier’s, face hidden in the nook between the bard’s ear and shoulder.

Silver hair ticked his nose, but he didn’t care.

All he cared about was this very moment, this subconscious proof of trust for no one else to see but him.

The warmth Geralt’s body emitted spread over to Jaskier, wrapping him up like another blanket, so soft as though it was made from the finest cloth.

He knew that as soon as Geralt woke up, he would jump up and apologize, mumbling something about “If you tell anyone about this I will kill you” and “Next time this happens, just wake me up.”

But for now, he was still sleeping, his chest rising and sinking in a steady rhythm.

For now, he felt safe. And Jaskier would keep watch for as long as need be.

#have some geraskier fluff on this fine morning #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #no beta #my writing

[cherryjuicegf]

Chrysa darling, could I humbly request some angst or good ol’ hurt/comfort with this prompt?

"Where is that scar from?" "This one? I think you gave me that."

Possibly Geraskier with Jaskier having the scar? Though whatever floats your boat is fine, I’m just a greedy me and love all your words 🥺💛

aaaaa nat!!!! thank you so much for this prompt my dear!! it sent me into a spiral of ideas but i made something clear out of them so there you go, some hurt/comfort and eventual fluff for you!! 💜

wc: 917

"Where is that scar from?" "This one? I think you gave me that."

Jaskier says it's a curse.

Always, when they ask him, and he says no more, because that's truly all he knows. That's all he cares about. And if there was a time he knew more, if there was a time that he tried to break it, it was too long ago, and it had failed.

Sometimes he remembers tears in his mother's eyes as she looked at him, bittersweet, and the scar on the inside of his palm stings ever so slightly. He remembers taking her hand.

He doesn't have many scars, fortunately. Fortunately, life hasn't hurt him, not like it has hurt others. And if it tried, he fought it back, always, fought back another mark on his skin for his naive trampled feelings that didn't matter at the end of the day.

He doesn't have many scars. One across his side where his little sister used to hug him, carved there forever after she died. One down his spine, short, just under the fingers of failed lovers. A few faint ones on his shoulders, his hurt pride during the first years of performing.

A deep one, just over his heart.

Geralt hasn't seen that one. The others, he had asked for when he first saw them, and Jaskier had told him. He could never have imagined.

Geralt hadn't seen that one. Yet now, as they lie side by side in bed, basking in the melodic silence of the love unspoken, and as he runs his fingers over Jaskier's chest, he lingers. And sees it.

And Jaskier swallows.

There's a frown forming between Geralt's brows, one Jaskier longs to kiss away, and he knows he can lie, of course he knows. The way the witcher's touch makes him shiver as it strokes wounded skin, the way he looks at him, amber eyes flooding with worry and questions, almost let him.

"You didn't have that one before," Geralt says and there's a hint of fear in his tone, a hint of guilt for not being there. He couldn't have been. He was the one to walk away. "Where is it from?"

Jaskier looks at him, and smiles because, oh, how can he not, with Geralt right there in his arms. "It's... nothing," and his voice quivers ever so slightly, but sounds normal in his ears. Not to Geralt though. Geralt knows him. He watches as his eyes pierce him, stare as though they will pull the answer out of his lips. And it really isn't necessary, they've had their time to heal, they've had their time to fit their pieces back together.

It should belong to the past. It shouldn't matter.

Geralt's touch almost stings.

A deep sigh and Jaskier averts his gaze, looks around the room as though to find a creek into the walls to slip into and disappear. He swallows. "I think..." It's okay, he tells himsef. It has been okay for a long time. For him. He huffs, humourless, and lowers his look. "I think you gave me that one."

A pause, and Geralt almost flinches. The sheets ruffle loudly and he draws back, mere inches, and suddenly he's so far away. Funny. Jaskier never thought silence would be so deafening.

There's a veil slowly falling over the witcher's eyes, and Jaskier thinks it's similar to the grey clouds that had been over him when he was going down the mountain alone. Geralt looks at him, and he's still like a hunched statue of guilt drenched in the morning sun. "Oh," he whispers and suddenly the kisses he left on Jaskier's lips taste bitter.

And Jaskier wakes.

He doesn't want them to be bitter. He doesn't want Geralt to walk away, not this time, he won't allow it. Because this time, it really doesn't matter. It doesn't matter more than his love.

And if love itself scars like that, he's happy to bear its marks.

"Jaskier, I—"

"No." A momentary dread fills Geralt's gaze and Jaskier smiles, and reaches out his hand to cup his face. He reaches out, and he's close again. "I don't need an apology. I didn't need it before, and I don't need it now." Gods, Geralt is so beautiful. His eyes are burning. He shakes his head. "You don't have to be sorry for me to love you, dear, especially for something none of us control. I won't ever accuse you. And well," he chuckles now and it's so easy, loving him, it was easy all along, "you're scarred all over, Geralt. Can't a poet bear his scars too for the sake of love?"

Geralt squints at him and finally, finally the veil is gone. In its place, a faint smile, fond. H turns slightly and places a kiss on Jaskier's palm, on the light mark there. Then, he leans and trails his lips over his heart, over the scar, like a path to somewhere he wants to find out. Jaskier's breath hitches in his thoat. He shivers, closes his eyes. Gently, he tangles his fingers through Geralt's hair.

He can feel Geralt smiling against his skin. "As you wish," he whispers and his voice is so soft as though to melt the kisses and seal them on his heart. "But I will still try to heal them."

Jaskier laughs and slightly tugs at Geralt's hair to make him raise his head. "Stubborn witcher." He looks into his eyes, his curved lips, almost daring. Loving. And, grinning, he presses their lips together. "You already have."

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #chrysa writes #fic recs #prompt fill #natthemess #hurt/comfort #fluff #i liked this idea tbh idk how i could turn it into a series but i'll think about it

[samstree]

splash of the waves, and the sand castle crumbles (1/?)

Geraskier, Prince!Jaskier, fairy tale elements but with a twist, fluff and angst, 6.9k, rated T

Read on AO3

Geralt finds himself drawn to the prince despite himself. As he and Jaskier grow closer, war also looms on the horizon. It's the stuff of fairy tales, but can a witcher find his happily ever after in the time of heartbreaks and deaths?

“Ma?”

“Hmm?”

“What happened next?”

“The farm girl became a princess and married the prince. They lived happily ever after,” she smiled, her eyes so warm in the candlelight.

“But what next?”

“Happily ever after, sweetie. It means there will only be happiness for the rest of their lives.”

She places a kiss on the top of his head and blows out the candle. Her hands are soft and gentle when she tucks him in.

“Ma?”

“Yes?”

“Will we live happily ever after?”

She pauses in the darkness.

“Of course, my darling. Now you need to close your eyes—”

“Like the prince and the girl?”

“Even better.”

“But she married the prince. How can it be better?”

She sighs. The warmth of her palm brushes across his forehead, making his eyelids droop heavily.

“Your future holds much more, my sweet boy. You will find out tomorrow when you wake up.”

Sleep overcomes him. Indeed, he dreams of fairy tales and royal balls, magic spells and grand weddings.

The next morning, he wakes up believing in those happy ever afters.

*

Sometimes, when stones are thrown and pitchforks raised, Geralt regrets ever doing so.

*

The crown prince of Aedirn is a beautiful thing.

His pale blue doublet shines under the bright morning sun, the silvery embroidery sparkling in the light. A big smile —that ever-so-friendly smile that Prince Julian is known for— spreads across his face as a man with blond hair riding next to him speaks. Windswept brown hair brushes over his eyes, obscuring his youthful features.

Everything about him screams royalty. Privilege.

Even his horse is the most nicely-groomed white stallion Geralt has ever laid eyes on.

Prince Charming needs the whole get-up. The witcher snorts behind the bush, observing the royal convoy. It’s too small and moving way too slowly. They must have let down their guard because of the proximity to the castle. If Geralt were to assassinate a royal, he would choose to do it here as well.

It doesn’t take long for the first one to approach from the side of the road, hiding behind the shrub just like Geralt. The man in black works silently and quickly, but not as quickly as a witcher.

Geralt strangles him from behind, gripping tightly until the man passes out. A crossbow falls to the ground. The convoy travels ahead, unaware of the witcher disposing of a deadly threat to their prince’s life.

The swoosh of an arrow pierces the air.

“Protect the prince!”

Two dozen assassins in the same black suit appear out of thin air, charging into the royal guards’ formation. In an instant, the heap of pale-blue is tackled to the ground. Swords clash as more men start yelling.

“Fuck.”

Dodging a stray arrow, the witcher rushes into the chaos. The small convoy being overwhelmed by the incoming force, they hardly notice one of the assassins circling around the battle and moving directly to the prince. With a few long strides, Geralt stops the man with a clean strike.

“What—” the prince scrambles back at the sight of blood, looking at the witcher’s towering form with disbelief.

“You need to come with me,” Geralt says, before hauling him up by the collar of his doublet.

*

He half drags the prince to the hide-out. It’s only a cave where he left Roach earlier, but it should be enough. The young man slumps down against the wall, breathing heavily.

“Why are you—”

“Shh.” The witcher quickly crouches on the ground and presses his palm over the prince’s mouth. Distant footsteps disappear in another direction, before he slowly lets go. “We should be safe for now.”

In the quiet of the cave, he can hear the prince’s pounding heart, his eyes blown wide like a startled deer. Specks of blood smear across his cheeks, making him appear even younger.

“My men?”

“These are hired assassins. They will disperse once you are gone.” Geralt is surprised at how gentle his voice comes out. “Are you all right?”

“I—” the prince swallows, and looks down to his bicep where the flesh is grazed by an arrow. The wound is shallow and slowly seeping blood into the torn fabric. Geralt reckons that it should be fine left alone. “I’m fine. I—I’m…fine, yes. I’m alive.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, both in shock and relief. The prince tries to appear unaffected but the overwhelming panic in his scent betrays his seemingly neutral expression.

“You are lucky it didn’t go through your heart.” The witcher leaves him to check on Roach. Sensing the danger in the air, the mare has stayed quiet this whole time. He pats her mane in thanks. “Didn’t think the prince of Aedirn was this careless.”

“I didn’t think witchers got themselves involved in political squabbles either.” Cornflower blues meet Geralt piercingly, despite his shakiness. “I know who you are,” he chuckles tightly. “The witcher, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt grunts.

“I didn’t get involved.”

The prince only gestures to himself, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve saved your ass. Now you can return to your castle and pretend we’ve never met, your highness.”

“Please, call me Jaskier.” The prince stands, patting the blue silk to get off the dirt and wincing when the movement tugs at his arm. “Aren’t you curious as to how I learned about you? Your fame precedes you, witcher.”

The young man meets his gaze assuredly. There’s no trace of fear in his scent.

People usually learn about Geralt one way—his moniker is not something to be escaped. But the prince doesn’t act like everyone else who meets the Butcher. Or at least, he hides it well.

“Are you not scared for your life, prince?”

“It’s Jaskier. And no, I’m not scared by the Butcher, if that’s what you mean.” There’s a knowing glint in his eyes. “I know you from a… mutual acquaintance, let’s say.”

“Oh?”

“Filavandrel mentioned you.”

“The elf king who hides in the mountains?” Geralt frowns. “I never really knew him. Not for more than a day.”

“No? He spoke of a white-haired witcher who was paid to hunt his people. Only that witcher left his own coin purse to them upon finding out about their circumstances. It showed compassion that no human had ever shown them, witcher. From his description, I thought the elven king and you shared a moment that day, or rather, an understanding.”

“Only of men.” He pauses. “Haven’t you come to the same understanding? Or why else would the prince of Aedirn make a target of himself by providing shelter to elven refugees?”

Geralt remembers his encounter with the elf king vividly, his anger and despair. The path took him back to Lower Posada years after that day. His curiosity drove him back to Dol Blathanna, only to find a much larger settlement and an exploding population of elves and other non-humans. Not only that, everyone there spoke of the kindness of the prince, who gave equal status to all sentient creatures on Aedirn soil.

“I see someone did homework on me.”

“People here sing your praises on the street day and night. It seems half the country has fallen in love with you,” Great admits begrudgingly.

“And the other half dislikes that I’m giving land away. Land that could have been providing for humans. The other half of my country believes I’m crazy just like all the other kings and queens in the north.”

The prince steps into Geralt’s space.

“You see, Geralt of Rivia, I cannot change the war that others deem just. I cannot stop the Lioness of Cintra from slaughtering elves and non-humans alike on the other side of the Yaruga. All I have is a piece of land in the Blue Mountains and, perhaps, I can provide them the means to rebuild. Those settlements are only a start.”

“It sounds like a noble cause, prince, but I’m not sure how much you can achieve.”

“Sometimes,” the prince’s attention shifts to Roach. “I wonder the same thing. The continent won’t change overnight just because one kingdom decides to show them a little bit of decency. The same decency that we humans are treated with all along.”

The young prince falls silent, his hand reaching out to touch Roach’s mane but retreats when she snorts anxiously. Geralt shushes the mare with a carrot from the pack.

“And I think, my friend,” the young prince continues. “Despite your claim of neutrality, you are on my side.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“No? But I wish to become yours. After all, you just saved my life so selflessly and gallantly,” he proclaims dramatically. “You should have seen yourself, Geralt. So brave with a sword, like a knight from the stories! If we were in a fairy tale, this is where I offer myself to you in eternal gratitude.”

“Are all princes this cheeky?”

“I don’t know. Are all witchers this heroic and beautiful?” Blue eyes roam up and down the witcher’s body, before meeting his gaze with clear interest.

Geralt grunts, ducking away from direct eye contact with the prince. Suddenly the air in the cave feels too warm. He clears his throat uncomfortably.

“Are you being shy, Geralt the witcher?”

The teasing comes so naturally for the prince. Gods, is that why all the maidens out there are so enamored with him? With those easy smiles and dreamy blue eyes, as soon as he throws in some flirtatious words, any inexperienced country girl would swoon upon meeting with him.

What fools they all are.

“We are not in a fairy tale,” Geralt says, palming his face. “Don’t expect a happy ending from this, my prince.”

“Jaskier,” the prince repeats insistently. “Although I do like the way you call me ‘my prince’. I’d certainly like it more if we were in a… different situation.”

He raises an eyebrow suggestively, and Geralt wonders if he can un-save this ridiculous man’s life.

“Fine then. Jaskier.”

The prince, who insists his name is a flower, smiles smugly for having gotten his way.

“But why?” he then faces Geralt head-on, his voice steady. “Why help me? If you don’t seek the favor of a prince, and the conflict never concerns you?”

Geralt blinks.

He’s not sure what drove him to the decision. The only emotion he had upon hearing about a price on the head of the crown prince was unease. The witcher has seen the war and how all the non-humans were killed with little reason, their corpses a feast for ghouls. The prince of Aedirn made himself an enemy to many realms by taking in all the refugees.

It wouldn’t sit right to let him die.

“I was in Cintra a month ago,” Geralt answers.

Jaskier tilts his head.

“So was I. I went to negotiate the relocation of the defeated elves with Queen Calanthe.” Something dawns on him. “You heard something, didn’t you? Was this assassination ordered by her? The negotiation ended up a complete waste of time, but never have I thought she could resort to such a dishonorable way of killing. No matter how much she must want to get rid of me permanently… Oh, I—I never thought…”

The prince—Jaskier trails off, his face drained of blood.

“I only learned about the bounty on your head,” Geralt explains, confused by the prince’s sudden show of weakness. “Hired swords get quite loose-lipped after a few drinks. As to where the order came from—"

“Wait, I…"

A pained grunt escapes the prince’s throat. He sways on his feet ever so slightly, but steadies himself with a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. They both look down to where the wound is still trickling slowly, soaking his sleeve with a patch of dark crimson.

“Wait, I thought…” Geralt reaches out to hold Jaskier’s arm. His palm comes away covered in blood. “Shit, it shouldn’t be bleeding this much.”

“You followed all the way from Cintra, just to stop them from killing m—" Jaskier breaks off for air as Geralt rummages through his pack for bandages. The prince clenches the fabric over his chest, as if something is hurting him from within. “So much for… n—not getting involved.”

“Shut up, prince.” Geralt’s fingers reach the bandage. “Or Jaskier, or whatever flower you prefer.”

A strained smile contorts into a grimace on the prince’s face, his knees buckling.

“Shit.” The witcher barely manages to catch his limp body before his head hits the ground. Blue eyes become unfocused as his head sags against Geralt’s shoulder. “Jaskier? Prince? Can you hear me?”

Geralt inspects the wound on his arm closely for the first time, and that’s when his witcher senses pick up on the faint trail of bitterness.

“It’s poison,” he mutters and curses under his breath.

Jaskier whimpers weakly upon hearing the words, his eyes filled with full-blown panic. For the first time that day, the witcher senses potent fear in the prince’s scent.

Or is it his own?

Geralt can’t tell.

*

Roach is almost at her limits. The weight of two grown men puts a lot of tires her way too quickly, but Geralt doesn’t dare to slow down, not until he can see the castle walls.

“Don’t die now,” the witcher murmurs into the prince’s ear, who is slumped against his chest, half-delirious and slurring nonsense. The make-shift tourniquet on his arm is soaked through with specks of blood.

The poison is attacking his heart, Geralt notices. It’s also speeding it up, disrupting its rhythm. It’s the vicious kind, one that is designed to make the victim suffer before they die.

Jaskier’s face is white as a sheet, and his lips are turning a sickening purple. The trembling comes and goes, making it harder to keep him in place. His blue eyes roll back, and for a moment, Geralt thinks he’s lost him.

“We are here, prince. Do you hear me?” The gate opens when the guards realize that their prince is brought back injured. A lot of people are shouting but it’s all a blur when Geralt carries the prince down from the mare’s back. “Just hang on, Jaskier.”

Jaskier clings, his heartbeat fluttering dangerously.

They take Jaskier away with force, his limp hand slipping from Geralt’s grip. Someone kicks the witcher behind the knees, sending him to the ground. Weapons suddenly appear at his throat, stopping him from going any further.

“G’ralt…” Jaskier protests, his hands grabbing blindly.

“He needs a healer!” he shouts at those guards who only seem to be interested in restraining him.

Cornflower blues are fixed on golden yellow. The prince’s skin is covered in sweat, his lips quivering, struggling to form words. It takes a second for the witcher to realize that he’s talking to the guards.

“He saved my life. Don’t… He saved…me,” Jaskier chokes out a breath, and Geralt feels those guards release him.

The witcher is left kneeling as more men surround the prince and rush him inside. They’re either fussing over Jaskier or calling for help. His faint heartbeat gets lost in the commotion.

“Wait, is he going to—"

The gate shuts in his face. The last thing he sees is Jaskier collapsing in someone’s arms.

*

No word about the prince comes out for months. Not about the assassination. Not about his poisoning.

Rumor says that he was gravely injured during the attack, and that he has been bed-ridden since returning from Cintra. Some even suspect that he’s already dead.

*

“…I opened the envelope and it was an invitation from the prince!”

“It was magical, wasn’t it? He doesn’t show up for ages and suddenly we are all invited to a ball! In his castle! A royal ball where anyone can attend, no less! I heard he will choose one to marry tonight.”

“Although I heard he’s sick for quite some time…”

Geralt ducks his head while listening in on the two women’s conversation. They are each dressed in a luxurious ball gown, their faces powered and lips painted. Like everyone else in the room, they are trying to impress the prince at his first outing in months.

But that is not why he is here.

Geralt has been lingering in Aedirn since that day, when he sent Jaskier back to the castle with poison coursing through his veins, not knowing what would become of him. Months of dead silence only make his stomach sink further.

A chance presented itself when news came out that the prince will hold a ball to the public.

It only makes sense that he should go and check, just to make sure Jaskier is all right. After all, he doesn’t want to put in all the effort to save someone only to never know if he will end up fine.

He will see for himself that Jaskier is well, and then he will leave.

He will not get involved.

Of course not.

Geralt takes another sip of the wine, surprised at the buzz it gives to his temporarily human body. When the mage sold him the potion that could hide all visible witcher traits, she did not mention it would also slow his metabolism to an ordinary human’s.

“The disguise will expire at midnight, when the bell strikes twelve.” Luckily she didn’t forget about this.

What a cliché.

It seems that no mage can resist a touch of dramatics.

For now, he looks like another random lord with dark hair and brown eyes. She also threw in a spell to turn his clothes into a silky ensemble in a muted black color.

“His royal highness, Prince Julian!” someone announces.

The crowd turns their eyes to the top of the stairs, where the heavy wooden doors open in everyone’s anticipation. One of the two women lets out an audible gasp as the prince steps out.

And there he is, Jaskier.

Those blue eyes are bright as the sky, those cheeks rosy-pink. He’s a picture of health compared to the last time Geralt held him in his arms. The witcher lets out a relieved sigh he never knew he was holding.

A smile spreads across the prince’s face. Suddenly the wine isn’t the only thing making Geralt all warm and fuzzy inside.

The prince descends the stairs with such elegance, his doublet a pristine ivory color under the chandelier’s sparkling light. The clothes sit perfectly on his frame, but with a heavy heart, Geralt realizes that he’s also lost weight.

It’s minuscule, and the puffy sleeves hide it well, but it’s there. Bed-ridden for a long time, they say. The witcher swallows the lump in his throat.

The crowd parts for the prince, retreating to the edge of the dance floor. No one dares to breathe as they await his invitation to the first dance.  Once the dancing starts, the music will be too loud and the people too busy, giving the witcher a window to easily disappear into the night. But Jaskier continues to search through the crowd as if he has a specific someone to look for.

Before Geralt can even react, blue eyes have locked with his. The piercing blue makes him instinctively want to hide, but the witcher is frozen to the spot. The prince walks directly towards him, the grin spreading even wider if that is possible.

“May I have the first dance?” Jaskier reaches out, his palm facing up.

Countless eyes fall on Geralt, making his skin prickle, but he pays no mind. All he can focus on is the prince’s expectant look. Even now, without his witcher hearing to know Jaskier’s heartbeat, he can see the tentative hope in the way Jaskier seems to hold his breath.

Geralt takes his hand.

*

The royal garden is quiet under the night sky. The cool breeze is nice on Geralt’s skin, the faint hum of cicadas a soothing balm to his ear after hours of music and dance.

“Apologies. I was getting a little… uncomfortable in there.” The prince leads the witcher to a bench. His hand rubs at his heart like it’s bothering him.

“Are you well, my prince?” Geralt helps him sit down.

“Please, call me Jaskier.”

Geralt pauses. Does Jaskier tell his preferred name to anyone? Even a stranger he just met at a ball?

“Why Jaskier?”

“It’s the person I dream to be,” he answers wistfully but adds nothing to explain. Geralt wonders why a prince could possibly dream to be another person.

“I see.” He nods. “Are you feeling alright, Jaskier?”

The prince’s eyes soften as he reaches out to tuck a lock of curly brown hair out of Geralt’s face. The movement is so gentle that the witcher can’t help but catch his hand, holding those slender fingers in his palm.

They are way too slender, he thinks. Repressed worry bubbles up in his throat again.

“I’m fine now.” Jaskier squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Although I haven’t been for a few months, as you already know.”

“Uh…yes.” Geralt splutters. This closeness, combined with the touch of skin, seems to be slowing his brain. “There are rumors, from outside the castle. It was an attack, wasn’t it? At least that’s what I heard.”

“It was. They used poison, no less. The healers told me that it weakened my heart, even stopped it for a few seconds.” He chuckles sadly, threading their fingers together and pressing both their hands over his chest. “The pain still comes and goes these days, but I cope.”

The thumping underneath Geralt’s hand is rhythmic. Calming. It feels so fragile, especially now that he knows how little it takes to stop it. To snuff out the light in those cornflower-blue eyes along with it. And yet, this heart keeps beating.

“I’m glad you survived, Jaskier.”

The name comes out reverent, like a prayer.

“So am I, my friend.”

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

Moonlight frames Jaskier’s fond expression, giving it a soft glow. Long lashes cast a shadow on his faint blush. A grin spreads across the prince’s face when he answers.

“I hope? Or maybe I can hope for more. After all, this ball is held so I can find my future intended in the crowd.”

The implication makes Geralt’s breath hitch. He blinks.

“You don’t even know my name.” 

Jaskier’s eyes darken as he leans in. His hand comes up to cradle Geralt’s chin. “Somehow, I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

The crisp night air is mixed with the fresh smell of grass, but on top of it is a floral scent that reminds him of spring and hope. Geralt lets his senses be overwhelmed by the prince, by his soft breaths ghosting over his skin and those enchanting lips well within reach.

Not getting involved, the back of his mind screams.

Despite himself, Geralt meets Jaskier halfway, their lips a hair’s breadth away when—

The bell strikes. Once, twice…

The noise is the loudest wake-up call, turning Geralt’s blood to ice. What is he doing? Is it midnight already? Fuck… he needs to get out of here before the magic expires.

“I need to go,” Geralt blurts out. “I have to leave right now. Ah… I’m so sorry.”

Jaskier’s brows knit together in confusion. “What is wrong? I thought you—”

“I came here to make sure you are all right, Prince Julian. Nothing more. It was never my intention to let you believe there could be anything else.”

The prince’s face dims at his apology. The dejection on his face tugs at something in Geralt’s chest. It leaves him wanting, but there’s no time. The bell counts down his sentence.

He takes Jaskier’s hand and places a simple kiss there, and turns to leave, only to be halted by the prince’s tightening hold.

“Wait, you don’t have to go."

“You don’t understand,” Geralt’s voice quivers with urgency. “It’s important that I leave.”

Those gentle fingers wrap around Geralt’s steadily, Jaskier’s skin cool against his. The prince continues to ignore his plea. If anything, he steps closer.

“Stay. Please.” Jaskier whispers, and it’s all it takes.

The witcher can break free easily, but for some reason he is unable. For some reason, he feels the weakest he has ever been under the intensity of Jaskier’s pleading gaze.

To his horror, the magic fades. Geralt can feel his hair change and grow longer, his teeth sharpening. The flow of chaos stings his eyes that are certainly turning back to yellow. His face crumbles.

And yet, Jaskier never wavers.

If anything, the adoration in those stormy blues only grows, ever so beautifully, as the swirl of magic circles around Geralt, revealing plain clothes instead of silk. 

The bell strikes twelve.

The sound still echoes in the air. Slowly, with the utmost determination, Jaskier’s fingers thread through what is now silver-white hair. Tears glisten in his eyes.

“You told me we were not in a fairy tale, and yet, you try to leave me at midnight. You tried to leave me here under the stars. Alone and heartbroken.” The prince lets out a wet chuckle. “Because you think I wouldn’t recognize the man who saved my life. You think I wouldn’t know the witcher who’s risking everything right now just to see that I am well. I’d know you anywhere, Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier’s feather-light touch continues to trace the shell of Geralt’s ear, the tiny scar under his eye, and then finally, the corner of his mouth. It’s not often, in his long life, that Geralt gets his breath taken away, least of all by a prince.

“How?”

“I suspected,” Jaskier whispers. “Or rather I hoped when I saw you in the ballroom. I prayed. That it’s you.”

“You danced with me because—”

“Because I wanted to thank you properly. We were kind of in a hurry last time.” The prince teases, his palm tilting Geralt’s chin. “May I?”

He nods.

As if in a dream, soft lips press against his, tasting of salt and moonlight. Geralt lets out a tiny gasp as Jaskier opens him up patiently and draws it out like they have all the time in the world. Like he’s something to be treated with gentleness. Something to be treasured.

He pulls away panting, only to realize that tears are rolling down Jaskier’s cheeks freely, so he catches them with the pad of his thumb.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” Geralt shushes him, but Jaskier sniffles with a smile.

“I’m not upset. Trust me when I say these are tears of joy.” Red-rimmed eyes sparkle like the stars. “But Geralt…”

“Yes?”

“Will I see you again?”

Geralt blinks. He only sneaked into a royal court with one goal. Now that he has achieved it and more, there’s nothing that should bring him back to Jaskier again. His heart twists painfully at the idea, and words tumble out of his mouth. The last of his sanity screams against it, and yet his heart has made the decision.

“I hope, Jaskier. I can only hope to see you again.”

Jaskier beams as he presses another kiss to Geralt’s wrist.

“That is enough for me.”

*

“Your longing eyes grieve what is lost

But naught can change this parting harsh…”

Jaskier’s voice echoes hauntingly. In front of him, the elven family sits huddled together, listening intently. The two children are concentrating so hard that they are almost falling off their parents’ laps. Finally, as the soft strumming of the lute comes to an end, they start clapping with passion.

From a distance, Geralt can only see the prince from behind, but somehow he can sense the big smile Jaskier returns to those excited children. The wind in the Blue Mountains ruffles his brown hair. Jaskier continues to take off the strap and carefully hands the lute to the elven woman.

The witcher approaches quietly.

“…thank you so much! It is such a beautiful instrument.” Jaskier’s voice is warm and welcoming. She’s certainly charmed when they keep talking about music and folk songs.

Geralt stands there and lets Jaskier’s presence wash over him. In the end, it’s the other woman who notices him and gestures in his direction.

Jaskier turns his head and beams.

“Geralt! What brings you here?”

With a few long strides, the prince rushes over and slams their bodies into a bear hug. Anyone who’s not a witcher might have been knocked over by the force, but Geralt catches Jaskier steadily.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you!” Jaskier exclaims as he presses a chaste pack to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “I haven’t seen you since the manticore hunt.”

“It was still weird that you would want to come with me on hunts.”

“What is life if not to see your favorite witcher in action?” Jaskier waves it off as if a prince getting monster gut all over himself is a common occurrence. He checks Geralt all over. “Anyway, how’s the path treating you, my dear? Any injuries? Exciting stories?”

“The path is fine.” His excitement is too contagious that Geralt feels his lips tug upwards. “And it hasn’t been long. Two months at most.”

“Nonsense. Any amount of time not seeing you feels like ages.”

The parents lead their children away, the girl still humming the song from Jaskier’s private performance.

“I didn’t know the prince could play the lute. Or sing,” he teases.

“Ha! I’m full of surprises, you shall see! Besides, I always thought—” Jaskier cuts himself off, ducks his head before continuing. “I always thought that in another life, I would have been a bard.”

“Would you?”

“Mm-hmm. I would travel the continent, write songs about heroes and adventures. With a lute on my back, I could go to the edge of the world and beyond. Maybe even meet some interesting people, find my muse, or… fall in love.”

He winks at Geralt cheekily when the witcher realizes something.

“So is Jaskier the stage name you picked? For this bard life?”

“Why yes.” Jaskier sounds so surprised. “How do you know? Oh, my dear witcher, you do understand me like no one else! Not even Valdo is a match to you, no matter how well he claims to know me.”

The mention of Valdo Marx’s name sends a pang of bitterness through Geralt, though he has learned long ago that it’s irrational. The prince’s life-long friend, now an important right-hand man, is the most devoted advisor in Jaskier’s council. He’s supported Jaskier in everything throughout his life, having done nothing wrong by the prince, and yet, Geralt can’t bring himself to like the man.

Maybe it’s because of his too-shiny blonde hair. It gives him a headache if he stares at it for too long. Maybe it’s his all-knowing eyes that tend to judge the witcher silently every time they meet. The distrust is too typical for politicians such as him.

Or maybe, it’s because anyone with eyes can see how Valdo is desperately in love with Jaskier, but apparently, it’s not that obvious to the prince himself.

“I know because only you will have a tacky name like Buttercup for your professional career.” The words come out more sour than Geralt expected.

Jaskier squawks with rightful indignation, and Geralt can’t help but snort out a laugh. It’s truly too easy to rile him up.

“It’s just hard to picture.” The witcher continues, while taking Jaskier’s hand. “Someone like you, with soft hands like these. It would take a lot of hard work if you want to make it as a musician. I’m not sure if my prince is up for that job.”

Jaskier slaps him on the arm offendedly. “I’ll have you know, Geralt of Rivia! I am perfectly capable of enduring hardship for the right cause! Now that was truly rude of you to assume that I am spoiled just because I’m a prince! Really, it’s very unbecoming of you!”

“Hmm.” Geralt tilts his head, amused. “And what is a right cause in your book?”

All jokes dissipate after that question.

The prince looks around to the new camps and make-shift houses, everything illuminated by the setting sun. Bonfires are lit where families are gathered after dinner, laughing and dancing together, despite the hardship that brought them here.

“I want everyone on my land to live happily, no matter how they came to Aedirn. I wish they could all see it as a home,” Jaskier says sadly. “That is the most important cause in my life, Geralt. Although I’m not sure if that’s just a fantasy.”

Geralt squeezes the prince’s hands gently. They are exceedingly soft, and cold to the touch. The witcher used to assume that Jaskier just runs a little colder than the average person. But later, to his dismay, he found out that it’s yet another result of the poisoning.

He never wants to see Jaskier’s chest pain flare up again. He never wants to see Jaskier bend over in agony, his hands turning into blocks of ice from the lack of blood flow, his face skin covered in sweat in an instant. Just witnessing it happen almost gives Geralt phantom pain. What’s worse is that there’s nothing he can do but wait it out, holding Jaskier close and rocking him back and forth slowly.

At least he’s now feeling contrite. Teasing Jaskier about not being strong enough was a low blow, when in fact, the young prince is the furthest from deserving such an accusation.

He doesn’t need swords or muscles to be strong.

Jaskier is strong for his stubbornness and his unwavering faith. The elven settlement around them is the best testament. He carried on despite being hated by all other kingdoms, despite the attempt on his life, one that was nearly fatal. One that still hurts him in the quiet of the night.

“Fantasy or not,” Geralt’s insides melt at the way Jaskier looks at him expectantly. “I’d like to see it through with you, if you allow me to.”

Blue eyes suddenly sparkle with renewed excitement.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Geralt?” Jaskier asks carefully as if he could spook the witcher. “Are you finally saying yes to my proposal?”

“I’m considering it.”

“You’ve been considering it since the first time I asked!”

“You asked on our third ever meeting, Jaskier.” Geralt chuckles in exasperation. “And you’ve been asking every time we see each other.”

“And you’ve been giving me the same response every time.” His pout is too adorable Geralt wants to kiss it away. “One might suggest it’s rude to string a prince along like this.”

Geralt hums while cupping Jaskier’s jaw in his palm, tilting it so their gazes meet.

“One might also suggest that our beloved Prince Julian is too good for a witcher like me.”

Ho only means to joke but the smile on Jaskier’s face falls, hurt immediately replacing the earlier chirpiness.

“Shit, Jask… Forget I said that.” Geralt closes his eyes, regretting having ruined the moment.

“Darling, we talked about this.”

“No, you’re right. Of course…”

Jaskier takes the witcher’s hand and places a kiss in his palm. “I won’t allow terrible things to be said about the man I love, and that includes you, my dear. I’d hate it if you joined those senseless folk who can’t see you for the good man you are.” He bites into his lower lip. “Now, I understand if you have reservations about us. I mean, what I am… or what I do, is a lot. I won’t rush you into a decision anymore. I never meant to pressure you.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Jaskier.” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. “We are from completely different worlds. Anyone who has eyes will tell you we’re not compatible.”

“Did Valdo say something to you again? Or is that truly what you believe?” Jaskier takes a step back. “Do you wish to end things with me? I—I’ll understand if you want to—"

“No, Jask.”

“—I know how much I’m keeping you in Aedirn, and maybe you wish to be free of court rules and politics and—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt interjects, and cornflower blues meet him in earnest. He knows too well how the prince could spiral out of control, dredging up all the terrible scenarios hidden in the dark corner of his mind. Jaskier looks so lost right now and all Geralt wants to do is make it better, so he does it with action, as always.

He kisses Jaskier with a bruising force. It’s too rushed, too clumsy compared to the gentle caress they normally share, but it conveys everything Geralt cannot promise yet. Not out loud. Not right now.

Geralt threads his fingers into the hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, playing with the soft locks. He lets Jaskier lean against his shoulder when they break off the kiss.

“I’m yours, my prince,” he whispers.

“Have I told you how much I love it when you call me that.”

Geralt hides his amusement in soft brown hair.

“Many times, my prince,” he indulges Jaskier. “And yet I cannot help but worry. I fear that things will not work because of our differences. I am a witcher. I am the Butcher of Blaviken, no matter how noble you believe me to be. I will never become someone else. Not like in fairy tales, where a farm girl can transform into a princess and suddenly become worthy of her prince. I fear you’ll make too many compromises because of who I am, bear too many scrutinies, and you will end up resenting me.”

Jaskier shakes his head at those words, his hair ticking Geralt’s ear.

“You speak of my sacrifices, but what about you?” His hand rests between Geralt’s shoulder blades. “You’ve walked the continent for so long. Will you resent me for caging you in a castle because of who I am?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes the name solemnly. “You promised to never trap me in the drudgery of court life. You promised that no matter what we become, I can always return to my path when my heart desires. I trust you on that.”

“And I trust you in return, that you won’t dishonor me. Not in ways that matter.”

They pull away. The sun is hanging just on the horizon, drawing a golden line around Jaskier’s hair.

“I will ask one thing of you, my prince,” Geralt says. “Allow me more time to be sure. Of myself and of our future.”

Jaskier’s eyes crinkle at the corners, taking the witcher’s hand and presses it over his heart, where the doublet is left wide open. The warmth of his skin seeps through the thin chemise and into Geralt’s calloused palm.

“Don’t you see, my darling? I’d give you the stars if you asked. What is a little more time?” His chest rises and falls. “Although I need you to promise something as well.”

“What is it?”

The last of the sunlight fades, darkening Jaskier’s eyes like a stormy night.

“Don’t break my heart in the meantime.”

The plea comes out desperate, vulnerable. Under his palm, Geralt feels the soft thumping that he knows to be fragile.

“I won’t,” he breathes the words reverently. “I promise.”

Jaskier’s heart is so full of the world and its sufferings, so full that there’s hardly room left for himself. So full that the witcher should build a shrine for whatever gods out there that it gives him any attention. To think that he has any power over it, that he can hurt it easily, makes his stomach turn.

He’d live out his life fulfilling that promise if allowed.

*

The witcher walks the path just like he’s done for the past decades. Temeria’s wind is as freezing as ever, and its secrets even more so.

Another dangerous contract is nothing new, and yet, something in him shifts. Somehow, the days ahead are no longer painted with monotonous black and white, but an unpredictable mixture of colors—orange like the setting sun on Jaskier’s long lashes, or rosy-pink like the too-easy blush that dusts over his cheeks when he’s pretending to be unaffected by Geralt’s attention.

More often than not, he sees in his future the blue of Jaskier’s eyes, deep and vast like the sea.

The same blue is what flashes across Geralt’s eyes as the striga’s teeth bury into his neck. With the crypt cold and hard against his back, the witcher would laugh at the irony of it if not for the blood choking in his throat.

Funny how the moment of revelation does not come in a whirlwind of poetry, one that is befitting to Jaskier. The moment Geralt realizes that he is finally ready to take Jaskier’s hand might just be his last moment.

He drifts into bottomless darkness and wakes to cool fingers on his forehead.

And here Jaskier is, sitting by his bedside, his frame so lonely in the Temple of Melitele. A relieved sigh by his lips and tired bruises under his eyes. Gone is his composed regality. Jaskier looks like he hasn’t slept in days, like he just rode all the way here with wind still in the tousled mess of his hair.

“Yes,” Geralt croaks.

The prince rushes forward to fuss over his bandages and splints, cooing with the most distressed frown. “What do you need, my dear?”

“Yes.” Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand, caressing those cool fingers. The stitches in his neck tug uncomfortably.

“Yes, I’ll marry you, my prince.”

---

Tagging: @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard​ @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @theultimatenerdd

Are the tags working? Anyway feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #prince!jaskier #fairy tale elements #hurt/comfort #i can't believe this became a full story #hurt jaskier #jaskier whump #geralt doesn't see himself as a heroic knight #and jaskier is hardly a traditional prince charming #knight and prince dynamic with a twist

[jaskierswolf]

Prompt for you, boo 😘

Eskel brings lil bleater into his room during a very cold night, and he gets loose in the night and terrorizes the others (geraskier & lambden). Probably interrupting sex or naked sleeping. Shenanigans ensue.

Silly fluff of goat trying to like steal their furs or something and goat-chasing hijinx

🐐

TY ILY 💖

Thanks Twinkerbell! 💖 I hope this is what you wanted! I went with geraskier.

Words: 729

Warnings: Geralt and Jaskier have sex, but it is not described in any detail and isn’t particular horny.

___________

Eskel wasn’t sure how this had become his life. He was sneaking through the stony cold corridors of Kaer Morhen with Lil’ Bleater stuffed into the front of his armour. Luckily she was only a little goat, but that also meant she struggled in the extreme cold of the mountain winters. He kept a low Igni in the palm of his hand to light the corridors in the dead of night, the tiny flame prickling heat against his face. He’d used Axii on his goat whilst carrying her to keep her from bleating the keep down and waking the others but still the bastard kept kicking him in the chest, not particularly grateful for Eskel’s rescue attempt.

“Little shit, that’s what I should have called you,” Eskel groused, pressing his nose against her forehead.

Lil’ Bleater didn’t respond thanks to Axii, but she butted her horns into Eskel’s cheek. He chuckled under his breath. “Lil’ Bastard.”

When he got to his room he settled Lil’ Bleater with some blankets, bribing her with some bread he’d snuck up to his room. She bleated loudly as his sign finally weakened.

“Shh!” He hissed “You’ll wake everyone up.”

She just bleated even louder in response. Eskel rolled his eyes, scooping her up so she could sleep on the bed. She trampled his chest as they both settled down to sleep. He grunted, a little winded from her hooves, but didn’t otherwise complain… she had him wrapped around her little hoof and she knew it.

“Night, little one,” he hummed as he fell asleep; not noticing his bedroom door was still open.

_______________

Jaskier woke up to the rather lovely feeling of Geralt’s dick pressed against his arse. He giggled, wriggling closer to his sleeping boyfriend. Geralt’s arms were wrapped tight around his chest, his nose buried in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier hummed happily in his lover’s embrace.

“Geralt?”

“Hmm…”

“Darling, are you awake?” He asked again.

“No,” came the grumbling reply.

Jaskier rolled his eyes, shifting Geralt’s arms until he was facing the witcher. Geralt’s golden eyes blinked open, weary but content, a faint smile on his lips. Jaskier bumped noses together, before kissing his boyfriend.

“Hmm… morning,” Geralt mumbled against Jaskier’s lips.

“Good morning, my dearest.”

It didn’t take long for sleep hazed, lazy kisses to turn passionate and soon enough Jaskier was straddling Geralt’s hips, moaning and panting as Geralt thrust up into him, which was, of course, when a loud bleat startled them.

“Holy mother of fuck!” Jaskier gasped, falling against Geralt as a… goat jumped up onto the bed?

“What the fuck?” Geralt groaned, head hitting the pillow with a sigh and just like that their fun morning was over.

“Geralt… there’s a goat in our bed?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolled off his witcher with a whine, glaring at the intruder. “Stop looking so smug, you arsehole,” he grumbled as the goat wagged her fluffy little tail, bleating again.

“I’m gonna kill Eskel,” Geralt growled.

Jaskier chuckled, the image of the two witchers wrestling out in the courtyard came to mind. It wasn’t as satisfying as morning sex but it would be a good consolation prize. “Can I watch?” He asked, reaching out to stroke the goat behind her ears and she started to chewed at the sheets.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed “fine.”

“Oi, no… stop eating that!” Jaskier snapped, tugging the sheets away from the goat. She bleated loudly, and jumped off the bed to eat the furs by the fireplace instead. Jaskier cursed, pulling a blankets around his shoulders as he tried to shoo her from their room. She slipped by him and grab his favourite teal doublet in her teeth before running from the room. “Oh bollocks! Geralt! Help!”

Geralt, the bastard, just laughed, watching as Jaskier hopped around the room looking from some trousers so he could go racing after the goat. “It’s just a goat, Jask. You hardly need a witcher.”

Jaskier spun round with one had on his hips. “You are no help!”

Geralt just shrugged.

“Fuck you,” Jaskier grumbled as he finally found a pair of Geralt’s under clothes to pull on. “Actually, no, on seconds thoughts, no. No more sexy fun times for you.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, unperturbed by Jaskier’s very serious threats. “She’s getting away.”

Jaskier cursed again and ran off after the thief, Geralt laughter echoing behind him.

_____________

Tag list (Geraskier): @alwenarin @slythnerd @davidtennan-t @flippinfricks @innocentcinnamonpun @marvagon @elliestormfound @geraskier-trashh @panerato @moonysourenza @artistsfuneral @hailhailsatan @wherethewordsare @havenoffandoms @bitchy-witchy-post-mortem @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @geralt-of-riviass @frances-the-red @kittynannygaming @stinastar @scribblesonmapleleaves @thecomfortofoldstorries @fontegagrilledcheese @anythinggoesfandoms @veritasrose @trickstermoose67 @nonegenderleftpain @ohheytheremiss @kueble @love-more-today-than-yesterday @kozkaboi @llamasdumpsterfire @skai6 @actionnerdgamerlove

#the witcher #geraskier #eskel #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #lil bleater #wolfie's witcher writing #stinastar

[dat-carovieh]

I'm so sorry

Ship: Geraskier

Rating: G

Tags: Fix-It, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Fluff

It had been a big fucking mistake. Everything. Saying all that horrible stuff to Jaskier, sending him away and then not even running after him. He had just let him leave on his own. He hadn’t even been angry at Jaskier, it was Yennefer who made him so angry. Even after Jaskier had gone it had taken him way too long to realize how bad he had fucked up. He had been too emotional to realize it earlier. When he had finally come to his senses, Jaskier had been long gone and Geralt had no idea how to find him again.

Because of that was now travelling through the land, fuelled from his anger, this time anger about himself. Anger about sending away the one person who had really cared about him and never really asked for anything in return. Jaskier would probably be fine without him. He had been before they met. The question was, could Geralt be fine without Jaskier? Right now, it didn’t feel like it at all. He had to find him, he had to apologize and maybe if he would be very lucky, Jaskier would decide, Geralt would be worth it, to travel together again.Jaskier had stumbled down this mountain on his own. He’d told Geralt he would get the rest of the story from the others and he wanted to, but he couldn’t. As soon as he turned away, there were tears forcing their way out of his eyes, no way he would let the others see him like that. So he just left, completely alone, with just his lute, a bedroll and a couple of Orens. Not like money would have done him any good out there but he would get to a town eventually. He managed to get to a town and pull himself together enough to earn at least a little money. On his way through the wilderness he had written a new song. A song full of heartbreak and pain. He had called it ‘Her sweet kiss’. To someone who didn’t knew him it would sound like he was just singing about a woman who had left him. But actually, it was about Geralt and him and Yennefer. And what she had done to them.

People seemed to like this kind of drama, which made it easy to earn a nice sum in an evening and he immediately spent most of this money to get wasted in hopes he would forget what had happened. Of course, it didn’t help, he just woke up with a bad headache the next morning. That didn’t stop him from trying again. Through his time with Geralt he had become quite famous and people actually wanted to hear his song. Even requested some in particular. And even though it hurt to sing about Geralt he couldn’t really afford to turn down the money. Hence, he just continued, wandering from town to town, singing, drinking, sleeping around with married women, with unmarried women, with prostitutes, he didn’t care, everything that would take his mind of things just for a little while. He had even gotten into some fights while he had been drunk, luckily nothing to serious, it was mostly broken up by an innkeeper or someone else before anything could happen. But he probably wouldn’t care of he’d get hurt. It didn’t really matter.

He couldn’t say how much time had passed since the Dragon hunt. Weeks? Month? Even a year? Did it matter? He just stumbled into another inn. At this time, they were all the same to him. He got himself something to eat and to drink. He played a couple of songs, got some money and some alcohol for his singing. He sat down and ordered more. He often sat alone these days. Company had started to be exhausting for the usually so outgoing bard. But often enough someone would join him if he wanted or not. This evening was no exception. A woman sat down next to him and started talking. He looked at her. She was beautiful maybe he would take her up to his room later if he felt like it. While he was thinking about it, a shadow had appeared next to him. He looked up and saw three angry looking guys standing next to the table.

“What are you doing with my wife?“ the one in the middle demanded to know. Jaskier looked at her and then at him. “SHE is YOUR wife?” he asked raising an eyebrow. “Sure is, got a problem with that?” “Not really, she’s allowed to marry whoever she wants, I just think she could do a lot better than you,” Jaskier answered, leaning back lazily. “What did you say!” the man yelled. “You heard me, she could do a lot better.” That seemed to be enough for that guy and before Jaskier realized what was going on he was pulled out of the tavern and thrown down on the dirty street. Before he could get up, he felt a boot kicking him into his stomach.

When it all was over the man who had talked to him bent down and looked him in the eyes. “You better leave now and never come back, because if I see you again, I will kill you.”

Jaskier got back to his feet and stumbled back inside. The world was turning way to fast and he had no idea if it was because of the alcohol or the beating. But he would do what the guy had told him and leave. As quickly as possible. Everyone was looking at him, but he ignored them, grabbing his things and getting out.

He found an old shed just outside the town walls where he could spend the night. But before he needed to examine his injuries. Bruises everywhere and some small cuts. He suspected his face would look similar, he found a little blood trickling down his cheek and his eye felt as it was swollen. If he had bad luck it would be swollen shut the next morning. Cursing he treated the cuts before he laid down to sleep for the night.

Like he thought, he couldn’t open he right eye when he woke up the next morning. Jaskier wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what his face looked like right now. He just gathered his things and got on the road again.It had been several months now since Geralt so cruelly sent Jaskier away and still he had no lead where the bard could be. He was thinking of just giving up. He couldn’t bear that feeling every time he entered a tavern, when the hope was building up just to be destroyed as soon as he realized Jaskier wasn’t there. He could just live on the road, avoid taverns, destroying his chance of finding Jaskier but also avoiding that crushing feeling of destroyed hopes. But he wasn’t ready to give up yet. Therefore, on this evening he entered the town tavern again. His stomach feeling like it would turn over from hope and fear as he pushed open the door. And he heard singing, nothing that didn’t happened before of course, there were a lot of bards, but he recognized this voice. He couldn’t believe it as he pushed open the door completely. One step in he stopped dead in his track. That was not what he expected to see. Yes, it was Jaskier. He was playing and singing and dancing around, smiling. But all that could not cover the fact that his face looked horrible. His right eye was swollen shut, there was a cut on his left cheek and several bruises on his face. And that was only what Geralt could see. He didn’t dare imagine what it looked like under the clothes. Jaskier hadn’t seen him yet, he was turned sideways, not paying attention to whoever would walk through the door.

Geralt walked up to him, not being able to hide his shock. He had imagined he would be happy to see Jaskier again but right now he only felt sick and angry at whoever had done this. “Jaskier,” he said. The lute made a dissonant sound before going silent and Jaskier turned around, staring at him in disbelief. Up close the bard looked even worse. “Who did this to you?” Geralt whispered and lifted his hand, intending to stroke Jaskier’s cheek. But the bard pulled back. “I don’t think that’s any of your concern,” Jaskier said and turned back, lifting his lute again, to start the song from the beginning. Quickly Geralt reached out, grabbed Jaskier’s wrist and yanked him back. “I want the name of the man who did this to you so I can destroy him for touching you,” Geralt growled. “Don’t bother,” Jaskier answered, his eyes cold, “because I’m not your friend.”

That hurt so much more then every single time he entered an inn and Jaskier wasn’t there. He felt like his legs would betray him any second. His grip loosened and Jaskier freed his arm, before turning around and walking away. Geralt took all his strength together to run after Jaskier. He could not make the same mistake again, he had to follow him this time. Outside he saw him standing on the street, looking in no particular direction.

“Jaskier!” Jaskier didn’t turn around. “Go away,” he answered, his voice sounded like he was choking. “Please Jaskier, let my apologize to you.” “I said go away,” Jaskier answered still without turning around. “I’m sorry,” Geralt whispered, barely loud enough for Jaskier to hear, before the bard started to walk away. Geralt felt defeated, he just managed it to get inside again and sit down at an empty table where he would spend the next hours. Ordering food but only managing to eat a little of it and finally going to bed. He had hoped Jaskier would come back but if he did, he didn’t see him.Tears were streaming down Jaskier’s face as he walked out of the door. Just a couple of steps away he stopped, not knowing where to go now. “Jaskier!” Geralt had followed him. “Go away,” he answered, not turning around so Geralt wouldn’t see his tears. “Please Jaskier, let my apologize to you.” “I said go away.” As he started walking, he heard a quiet “I’m sorry.” And then a door. Geralt must have gone back inside.

The moment he saw Geralt he wanted nothing more then hug him and never letting him go but he was so angry and so hurt, he wanted Geralt to feel the same pain, hoping it would lighten his own. But it didn’t. The desperate voice made it even worse. He had no idea what to do now. He didn’t want to lose Geralt for good, but he also couldn’t go back in there and talk to him. Not now.

He had been here before and knew the back entrance that would lead directly to the rooms, he decided to take that one and avoid Geralt, even though it hurt.Geralt spent the next day in town, talking to people, finding jobs, visiting vendors stocking up on things he needed on his travels, looking after Roach and the whole time looking around for any sign of Jaskier in hopes he’d get another chance to apologize. But he couldn’t find him and no one seemed to have seen him that day.Jaskier had stayed in his room the whole day, unable to get out of bed. He had barely slept, tossed around, not knowing what to do, not knowing if he would see Geralt again, but not able to find the strength to go down. Until it became evening. He had not eaten the whole day and was so hungry. But he wasn’t able to eat a lot. Some guests began demanding music and since it had always helped with his thoughts, when he was singing, he locked away his feelings and picked up the lute.

It had been a long and exhausting day for Geralt, battling with his feelings the whole time, when he finally returned to the inn. When he pushed the door open, he could hear singing again, no doubt it was Jaskier. He closed the eyes and took a deep breath before entering. This time, he went straight to a table an sat down, so that he could see Jaskier. He wanted at least hear him sing again, even if he wasn’t allowed to talk to him.

As Jaskier turned around he stopped for a brief moment and stared at Geralt who stared back. Neither showed any emotion on his face. But not even a second later Jaskier resumed playing, singing and had gotten his smile back. Geralt felt extremely guilty for making Jaskier feel bad, he had hoped he could just sit in the back unseen.Jaskier had nearly dropped his lute when he saw Geralt sitting back there, staring at him. His whole body immediately felt limp. He swallowed and gripped his lute tighter. Concentrating hard on staying in character, ignoring everything around him.Eventually the music stopped. Geralt was sure, Jaskier would leave and he would never see him again. But instead Jaskier came in his direction and sat down at the other side of the table with a cold look in his eyes.

“OK, talk,” he demanded, looking at him angry.

“I’m so sorry for everything I said, I meant none of it. I was so angry, but not about you and I still let it all out on you. I should have immediately gone after you but I didn’t, because I wasn’t thinking clear. When I finally went after you, I couldn’t find you anymore. I’ve been looking for you since, hoping you’d allow me to apologize. I never wanted to hurt you and I hurt myself so much as well. You deserve so much more, and you deserve someone who appreciates you. I wish I would be allowed to be this person. And I don’t think I have ever said so much at once.“ Geralt blurted out everything that was sitting in his mind, feeling it would never be enough. But there was a little smile on Jaskier’s face, just a tiny bit.

“You hurt me so much, but I also missed you way more. After I went away yesterday, I feared I’ve lost you for good. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you sitting here. But please don’t do that to me ever again.”

“I won’t, I promise.” Geralt reached out across the table, offering his open hand. Jaskier hesitated for a second, before he took Geralt’s hand and held it tight in his own. He had to choke back his tears. “Do you think... maybe, we could go outside for a moment?” Jaskier suggested. Geralt nodded and got up, without letting go of Jaskier’s hand. As if he would deny him anything he asked right now. They were clinging to each other desperately. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Jaskier leaped at Geralt and threw his arms around his neck. Geralt who had the same idea caught him and lifted him a little bit of the floor. They were just standing there, clinging to each other afraid, the other one would disappear if they let go.

“It’s getting cold, we should get back inside,” Geralt suggested after a while, Jaskier let go of him, but immediately took Geralt hand into his own, he didn’t plan to let him get away from him soon. Geralt didn’t seem to mind, he gripped Jaskier’s hand and pulled him inside and up the stairs. A little uncertain Jaskier stood in the hall, looking at the door of his room.

“You can sleep in my room, the bed is big enough for two,” Geralt suggested. He didn’t like the idea of not having Jaskier by his side so soon after they found each other again. Jaskier seemed happy about this suggestion and allowed Geralt to pull him into the room. Only when the door was properly locked, they felt ready to let go of each other. But only a couple of minutes later they were laying in the bed, which was maybe not as big as Geralt said but still had enough room for both of them. They were laying on their sides, looking at each other, Geralt was fondly stroking Jaskier’s hair.

“Will you now tell me, what happened to you?” Geralt asked. Jaskier sighed. “Not today, I don’t want to think about it right now,” he answered. Not what Geralt wanted, but as Jaskier kissed him seconds later, he couldn’t think about it anymore, he just closed his eyes and pulled the bard closer. When they fell asleep, they were still laying facing each other, Jaskier’s face pressed to Geralt’s chest and Geralt’s arm wrapped around Jaskier.

#The Witcher #Geraskier #Geraskier fic #Geralt x Jaskier #my writing #my Witcher fic

[ahh-fxck]

Happy birthday, you wonderful person! I hope you're having a great day and receive a lot of prompts and other presents you enjoy. Along the same vein, might I ask for some geraskier banter? Just two idiots being sassy. Maybe they're discussing a song of Jaskier? Judging other people? Just lovingly insult each other for the fun of it? Have fun writing!

Fabi, thank you for the wonderful prompt! I had a lovely birthday and got several very nice gifts. Inspiration finally struck and I am proud to present to you a very silly piece of fluff, I hope you enjoy it :)

Title: Squeak Squeak

Rating: T

Warnings: mild kissing, mild swearing, mild bantering, mild nudity... nothing wild going on here today folks

“Do you have to do that every time?” A dry voice breaks across Jaskier’s musings, causing him to startle and drop the thin tool he’d been holding. He lets out a curse and bends over to look for it, scrabbling around on the dim floor. The scrape of a boot on the floor is followed by a warm rush of familiar scent; wood smoke and juniper, horse, sweat. Leather. A hand closes over his own and guides it impatiently to the tool. Before he can say anything the hand is gone and its owner has vanished out of his line of sight again. 

“Must you insist on being an absolutely insufferable bastard?” Jaskier sputters, flourishing his awl in his companion’s general direction. “How have I offended your delicate sensibilities today? No, please tell me, I’m fascinated to know.” Even as he speaks he folds his long body back into the chair and hunches over the sheaves of pages on his desk, which is lit by a pair of merrily dancing little lamps. He leans back into his work, already well on his way to tuning out the world.

Geralt smirks, picking his whetstone back up and settling onto the bench by the door, near their cloaks and boots. “You squeak air between your teeth every time you twist your awl. You sound like a horny rat.”

“Oh!” Jaskier straightens abruptly, puffing with indignation. “And I suppose you- you’d know, would you?” He turns to glare at Geralt, his concentration well and truly broken. 

With a nonchalant shrug, Geralt lifts his sword and carefully eyes the edge of the blade. “Sleep in enough damp barns…” His eyes twinkle with humor, clearly enjoying his friend’s indignation. 

“Well that’s just- That’s very nice coming from you, my friend! Did you know that you sniff every time you pause with your whetstone? I swear you sound like a fisstech aficionado, but do I say anything?” Jaskier grins as Geralt stops mid-sniff, jerking his head up. “I do not, because I am not a boor.” Satisfied, he turns back to his book.

“You break wind like one when we’re sleeping,” a sardonic voice breaks his concentration the second he gathers it, adding insult to injury. “Did you think I couldn’t hear you?

When Jaskier turns to glare at Geralt, there is an unrepentant gleam of amusement in the Witcher’s eye. Jaskier scoffs, not about to be outdone.

“Well, I suppose if we’re bringing up shocking sleeping habits we can’t leave out you, dear Witcher! You scratch your balls like it’s going out of style when you think I’m still asleep in the morning. No need for the rooster, I’ve got you to shake the bed for me!”

With that Geralt breaks out into a helpless laugh, setting his sword and whetstone aside and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. His chest and shoulders shake with mirth, chagrined to be so thoroughly caught out. 

“Well… yes, well that’s what I thought,” Jaskier huffs, blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ridiculous, I swear… horny rats, I’ll show you horny rat…” He subsides into a dark muttering, turning back to his work, tuning out any further sounds of movement from behind him as he returns to his work. 

Geralt watches him for a moment, his golden eyes warm as they catch in the flicker of the lamps. With a few efficient movements, he stows sword and whetstone before rising as quiet as a shadow to stand behind Jaskier’s chair. He leans over, getting closer and closer to his ear. Jaskier, absorbed in his task, begins to squeak again.

Geralt squeaks back, right in his ear.

Jaskier gasps and throws his awl down, turning around in a flurry of righteous indignation, only to find his imprecations muffled by a grinning kiss. Geralt tips his chin up with callused fingers and steals any further complaints with a lazy sweep of his tongue, humming in smug satisfaction when Jaskier bubbles quietly to a halt. 

“It’s late,” he rumbles when they break apart, nosing Jaskier’s cheek. “Let’s put out the lanterns and go to bed.” He straightens and walks away, unlacing his shirt as he goes. When he nears the bed he snuffs the lamp on the bedside table with a flick of his fingers, sinking that part of the room in a pool of soupy dimness. The bed creaks as he sits on the edge of it.

Around them, the attic room sighs and creaks as a renewed breath of the gale rattles the roof over their heads. Water slaps against the windows, sliding diagonally across the panes. Jaskier wrinkles his nose, observing the dreary sight with an absentminded little pout. Though it’s hard to tell given the state of the weather, it had to be well past midnight. The night has taken on the thick, dark quality that starts rolling in around two hours past midnight. Loathe though he is to admit it, this is the time of night when even foolish people are in bed.

Jaskier shuffles his papers and tools halfheartedly on the desk but leaves it at that. They’ll be there in the morning for him, for better or worse. He blows out first one lantern, then the other, before crossing the room by the light of the well-banked fire in the hearth. On his way to the bed, he places one more log for the night, which blazes up merrily as he turns his back.

Geralt moves aside for him as he crawls between the sheets, lifting the blankets to make room for him. His body curves easily to fit Jaskier’s, and they furl together comfortably in the dark. Jaskier listens to the rain hammer on the roof for a while before turning to nuzzle at Geralt’s shoulder, enjoying the warmth of his skin on the cold tip of his nose. 

“How much longer do you think this storm’s going to last? I feel like we’ve been here ages,” he sighs. 

Geralt turns, tucking Jaskier in close and rubbing his chin along the top of his head. “A few more days,” he guesses. He kisses the soft, unruly thatch of brown hair, enjoying the scent of thyme soap mingling with the soft musk of Jaskier’s scalp. 

“Ugh, long enough to go stir crazy. Geralt, I swear I’m going to-” 

Geralt isn’t interested in finding out more. He mooshes Jaskier’s face against his chest, muffling his complaints with an idle smile on his face. Jaskier gasps and flails, but Geralt just holds on tighter and closes his eyes. With a rumble of amused contentment, he settles in, blissfully ignoring his indignant bard to listen to the storm rage overhead. It is going to be a long few days, but somehow, he is sure they are going to do just fine.    

#geralt #jaskier #geraskier #the witcher fic #the witcher fanfiction #they are very silly your honor #it is not their fault #they have been cooped up and are now driving each other bonkers #like you do

[crushcandles]

Glad you're in a good place with your secret Santa fic. For a prompt, how about some geraskier fluff. Maybe...warm drinks and a cold night?

While Geralt fights a battered pot full of melting snow for his share of their meagre fire's heat, Jaskier watches the snow fall outside. He's still got his fur-lined cloak on, but given how he's hunched into it, he must be cold. Geralt can't hear him complaining though. He's silent as he stares out of the cavern at the grey-purple sky and the sheets of snow falling.

It's not a storm, but Geralt can sense how full the sky is, smell the hours of snow to come. They'll be lucky if they can dig themselves out in the morning.

Geralt taps a knuckle on the pot to resettle the snow so it'll melt faster and resists the urge to wrap his hands right around the pot. How good the heat would feel for a moment wouldn't be worth the risk of burns. He looks at his hands, red from the cold, and regrets not replacing his gloves when he had the chance. Saving a few coins after the last pair melted from giant snake venom doesn't seem like such a good idea now. He puts another stick on the fire as an excuse to bring his hands closer to the flames.

The wind dips into the mouth of the cavern, flirting with the hem of Jaskier's cloak, pulling at it, beckoning him out into the cold. Jaskier steps back into the cavern, shaking his head so hard his hood falls down, scattering a little snow down his back. He finally turns away from the snow, coming deeper into the cavern, where there's light and a little warmth.

He's got his own gloves on, but they're fine things, the leather soft and thin, no wool or fur to protect his fingers better. Still, he pulls one off to hold his hand above the pot, testing the heat, the first wisp of steam rising from the water.

"Almost ready," he says, more to himself than Geralt.

"For what?" Geralt makes his hands into fists and then opens them. His fingers are starting to tingle, a good if uncomfortable sign. Perhaps he should have collected more wood, colds hands or not. Even with both of their cloaks and their bodies, it'll be frigid sleeping on the stone tonight.

Jaskier holds up one bare finger in a just wait gesture and goes to the pile of their packs against the cave’s wall. His cloak pools behind him as he crouches to dig into his own pack like he’s a king. He has to all the way to the bottom to get what he's after. He even closes his eyes to feel better. His eyelashes are wet from snow on his cheeks and very dark.

He comes back with a jar. It's mostly empty but for a few spoonfuls of a dark orange syrup in the bottom. He removes the lid and brings the jar to his face, inhaling deeply, a satisfied smile spreading at the scent.

"What's that?" Geralt is asking, even as Jaskier tips the jar for him to smell. It's honey and orange and warm spices.

Jaskier sits on the rock next to Geralt, instead of in his usual place across the fire. He fans his cloak out behind himself so it's covering some of Geralt's back too.

Lifting the jar so it catches in the fire's light, he says, "I don't remember. I traded it for a song in the summer just because it smelled so good when the woman was cooking it. I think you're supposed to mix it with milk, but I'm sure water will do."

Holding the jar in his bare hand, he reaches out to grab the handle on the pot with his gloved hand. The snow's all melted, the water simmering. Jaskier pours it into the jar. The heat and the moisture melt the syrup, making the smell of it bloom into something rich and comforting.

Carefully swirling the jar with his own hand, Jaskier brings the other up to his mouth. He bites the fingertips of his fine glove, denting the leather, pulling the glove off with his teeth, white against the dark leather.

Geralt watches him do that, flexing his own fingers. They don't feel cold anymore, but he wouldn't trust them with much. Not even pulling the glove out of Jaskier’s mouth so Geralt could kiss him.

Jaskier drops the glove onto the stone carelessly so he can stir the liquid in the jar with his finger, trying to get the last of the syrup to dissolve. Equally carelessly, he puts that finger in his mouth after, adding his pleasure at the taste to the smells filling the cavern.

"Here," he says, putting the jar into Geralt's hands, "we'll share it."

If he could stick his finger into the liquid and not get burnt, then the jar mustn't actually be that hot, but the sudden heat of it on Geralt’s still-cold hands makes the tingling almost unbearable, his fingers going weak.

"Oh," Jaskier says in surprise, his tone as sweet as his breath, "Geralt, your hands." He cups his own bare hands around Geralt's aching ones, the soft warmth of them soothing the burn.

#crushcandles writes #geralt/jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #my fic #me? resist the urge to write tavern fic (a sibling to party hook-up fic)? #it must be a solstice miracle #thank you for the prompt! #kueble

[acemoppet]

and kiss you, and kiss you, and kiss you ('til monday)

Written for @drowningbydegrees ‘s artwork for @geraskierreversebang! I had a lot of fun with this one- thank you guys for everything!

Pairings: Geraskier

Tags: Fluff, Kissing, Enby!Jaskier, Fake Dating

Summary: Geralt looks at them dead-on. “I’ll tell you the details later,” he says, “but basically, we’d have to go as lovers.”

Or: Monster of the Week requires Geralt and Jaskier to pose as lovers at a banquet. Only, will they *really* be posing?

They’re just eating breakfast- eggs and ham! A far cry from the bread and jerky they usually scarf down while on the road- when the messenger arrives.

“You the witcher?”

Geralt looks up. “A witcher, yes,” he says, and Jaskier hides a snort into their eggs. “Why?”

The man grins. “Viscountess Alana is looking for you,” he says, dropping a parchment onto the table.

Geralt quickly looks it over- from across the table, Jaskier can just barely make out the outline of an official stamp- before turning back to the messenger. “Now.”

The man just keeps grinning, and gods but isn’t that unnerving. “Now would be nice.”

Geralt and Jaskier exchange a look before Geralt gets up. “Seems we don’t have much of a choice,” he rumbles. “Show us to the Viscountess then.”

Ah, my eggs, Jaskier thinks sadly as Geralt and the messenger step out. Still, they restrict themself to one (1) forlorn sigh before packing up their belongings and joining Geralt and the messenger outside.

It seems the viscountess lives nearby- the town they were just dining in is under her jurisdiction, which is how she must have heard of their presence after they’d entered last night.

“I thought you said there were no jobs in this town,” Jaskier murmurs, just low enough for Geralt to hear them.

“There weren’t,” Geralt replies, eyes still on the messenger merrily leading them.

“Ah,” Jaskier says. “A nobility-specific problem then. Wonderful.”

“Hm.”

The two of them have shared many things over the years they’ve traveled together- food, drink, and on one memorable occasion, even clothes- and a healthy dislike of nobility is just another of those things. Nobles tend to give shit jobs with a smile and threaten to ruin Geralt’s reputation if he so much as talks back- even Jaskier’s hands are tied around them.

All in all, neither of them are looking forward to this job.

In the midst of their rumination (and Jaskier’s mental funeral to the hot breakfast they’ve left behind), they arrive at the Viscountess’ manor. Jaskier would go on to describe it, but honestly when you’ve seen them once, you’ve seen them all. It’s grand, it’s bland, and neither of them would like to be anywhere near where it stands.

Still, it’s not like they can turn this down- if not because of Geralt’s morals not letting him not take a job (and he does have them, the principled persnickety bastard), then because of the risk of being arrested by the lawmen this Viscountess Alana can no doubt influence.

“Onwards,” Jaskier whisper-shouts cheerily, trying to cover up the lack of enthusiasm on both of their parts. Geralt just rolls his eyes- rude!

They enter the manor and are quickly directed to a sitting room. “The Viscountess will be in shortly,” the messenger says, and gods but Jaskier is still hung up on his incessant smile.

“Don’t his cheeks hurt?” they say to Geralt after the man leaves the room. “I mean, really, the man’s got to stop at one point!”

Geralt side-eyes them. “Yeah,” he says, “You’d think.”

“Yeah and- wait.” Jaskier narrows their eyes. “What are you implying, Geralt?”

Geralt looks away, but not before Jaskier sees the curl of an amused smile on his lips- which, rude! Very rude! Before Jaskier can call out his unspeakable rudeness, however, the Viscountess enters the room.

“Witcher,” she says, nodding at Geralt. Then she notices Jaskier. “And bard. I hope I’ve not kept you waiting.”

Surprisingly she hasn’t. “Not at all, my Lady!” Jaskier says, laying on the charm. The Viscountess smiles, amused. Gods, what is it with people finding them amusing when they’re not trying to be?

In the midst of their irritation, Geralt takes over. “You said you had a problem,” he states- Jaskier knows it’s a question though.

“Yes,” the lady says, gesturing for them to sit as she takes a seat as well. “As I said in my note, there’s been an alarming amount of disappearances from my parties recently…”

Jaskier tunes out the rest of the conversation- Geralt is more than adequate in social situations when he wants to be, and he tends to want to be on jobs. “Takes less time to deal with, and it’s less troublesome,” he says. Which, Jaskier can get behind that.

They take the opportunity to appreciate the room- it’s a very airy space, with tall windows that the morning sun spills through. The furniture is… decadent, for lack of a better word. While Jaskier appreciates the aesthetics, they’re less inclined to do so when they’ve gotten interrupted in the middle of their breakfast. The eggs and ham of nary an hour ago seem so far away, and Jaskier’s stomach cries out in longing- metaphorically of course. Ooh, but there’s an idea for a song…

Jaskier is pulled out of their splendid composition (it’s called “Ode to Warmth”, which is both pretentious enough for Oxenfurt and simple enough for tavern fare, so win-win all around) when Geralt says, “I’ll need to attend the banquet then.”

Geralt? Wanting to attend a banquet?? Ohohoho, this they’ve got to know more about.

The Viscountess nods. “I understand, but how will you lure the- what was it you called?”

“Bruxa.” Oh shit. No wonder the Viscountess is worried- bruxas are bad news.

“Right,” the Viscountess says. “How will you lure the bruxa? If they’re attending my parties as you say, they must be intelligent enough to understand that you’re a witcher.”

Ooooh, clever Viscountess! Jaskier takes a closer look at her- she’s beautiful, actually, with skin a smooth, red-brown ochre and eyes dark and twinkling with intelligence and- ok, so maybe Jaskier has a bit of a competency kink: they chalk that up as a product of imprinting on Geralt- who is, for all of their teasing, the most competent person in all the land- at the tender age of eighteen.

Geralt, as if sensing their attraction, kicks their ankle surreptitiously. They kick back and nearly miss Geralt’s reply. “I can disguise myself,” he says. “Especially if Jaskier attends with me.”

Jaskier takes back every insult they’ve ever bestowed on this man. “Really?” they say, excited at the prospect of fine clothes, fine wine, and fine… company.

The Viscountess looks uncertain. “I’m not sure how that would disguise you,” she says. “Everyone knows that Jaskier the Bard is followed by Geralt of Rivia, and vice versa.”

Truly?! Oh, this day just keeps getting better and better- it’s almost enough to make Jaskier forget the tragedy of this morning’s uninterrupted breakfast!

On a more serious note… “Yes, how do you plan to disguise yourself, Geralt?” Jaskier asks their friend. “We can… maybe do something about your hair? I have some Zerrikanian henna in my bag, but that’s not going to help you lure the bruxa in, is it?”

Geralt looks at them dead-on. “I’ll tell you the details later,” he says, “but basically, we’d have to go as lovers.”

L-lovers?!

“Oh!” The Viscountess says, looking flustered. “I- I did not realize you two were-”

“We’re not,” Geralt says, even as Jaskier starts to finally process his words. “But from what you’ve told me, the bruxa is tending to pick off your guests when they go out with their partners for… fresh air. If we make them think Jaskier and I are going to do that, then they’ll follow us, and I can dispatch them safely.”

It’s… a sound plan, if a bit elaborate. “How will you excuse my presence there then?” Jaskier asks. It’s not like they can use their ex-title as a Kerackian Viscount here.

Geralt turns to them then with a mean smile. “You still have that one doublet from Cintra, don’t you?” he says. “The one that made me look like-”

“‘A sad silk trader,’” Jaskier repeats. Then they freeze. “Geralt, but that’s not my color at all!”

“Tough,” Geralt says, still smiling at them. “You’ll go undercover as a merchant, and I’ll go in as your lover.”

On one hand, having to wear something bland. On the other hand, playing at a relationship with their best friend and secret love of at least a decade now. Truly, it’s a no brainer.

“It’s a good plan,” the Viscountess says. “The banquet is later tonight- I trust you’ll be ready by then?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll show you to your rooms- best of luck.”

---

By rooms, the Viscountess clearly meant one room. “Sorry,” the increasingly-smiley messenger says. “We’re short on rooms because of the banquet tonight- it’s a wonder we even have an empty one!”

And what a room it is! The walls are made of the finest timber, carved with elaborate curlicues that make Jaskier’s head spin. The fire is already on- which is nice, if unnecessary, given that it’s just hitting mid-morning now. But the main attraction is the bed.

Oh, now this is a bed worthy of praise. It’s soft and fluffy, like the clouds outside their balcony (yes, they have a balcony too). The bed is made from what looks like a richer wood- Geralt would know more, as Jaskier cares little for the knowledge of timber used in this area. To top it all off, there are curtains. For the bed.

First they’re going to a banquet, then they’re going as Geralt’s pretend lover, and now they get to stay in a room such as this? Can this day get any better?

“I’ll call some breakfast for you,” the smiley man says as he heads out of the room. ”The meal’s already done for the other guests, but the cooks should be able to serve some eggs and ham, at least.”

Jaskier gasps in delight. Best. Contract. Ever.

Behind them, they hear Geralt huff. They turn around to see him looking at them in familiar amusement and… fondness?

That’s odd, they think, before pushing that thought away. “Gods, what a day, Geralt!” they exclaim, falling back on the bed. “And it’s not even noon yet!”

Geralt hums. “Don’t fall asleep,” he says, shrugging off his armor and swords. “We still need to work out our plan.”

“Ah, right,” Jaskier says, sitting up. “Our plan to… I’m sorry, are we luring the bruxa in or seducing them into a ménage à trois?”

Geralt chuckles- success!- and shakes his head. “Only you, Jaskier,” he says, eyes glinting with mirth as he sits down beside them on the bed. “No, we’re luring them in. Which means we have to convincingly act like lovers.”

Once again, the word “lovers” makes Jaskier’s face go red. “A-ah,” they say. “R-right then.”

Geralt looks at them, amused. “Shying away, bard?” he teases. “What, are your acting skills no good?”

“My acting skills are terrific, thank you very much,” they reply automatically. “Still, it’s not everyday we get to pretend we’re… together.” That’s as close as they can get to the word “lovers” without blushing like a tomato again. “Which is why we should practice!”

...Shit.

Geralt furrows his brows. “Practice?”

“Y-yeah,” they say. They can still salvage this, maybe by saying that they could practice dancing- “You know, like kissing and stuff!” Fuck, ok, never mind.

“‘And stuff?’” Geralt repeats, amused. “I see your reputation is over-inflated.”

“It is not!” Jaskier protests, indignant. “Take that back, you donkey’s arse!”

Geralt scoffs. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll make you!”

Geralt raises a cocky eyebrow, leaning in. “Yeah?” he says. “How?”

There’s a moment where the world stops, narrowing down to the spaces where they breathe and the way Geralt’s eyes seem glued to Jaskier’s mouth. Then Geralt’s lips are on theirs, and Jaskier's head spins.

They clutch at Geralt’s arms, trying hard not to fall over as he kisses them, slow and gentle. It’s soft and wet and so fucking good that Jaskier feels their brain melting out of their ears.

Control yourself, Jaskier thinks wildly, scrabbling for sense as they try to keep their reactions bottled. Then Geralt pushes his tongue into their mouth and Jaskier groans.

“Fuck,” they pant when Geralt finally pulls back. There’s a line of spit connecting their lips, and Jaskier goes cross-eyed trying to follow it before Geralt brings up a finger to break it.

“Speechless, bard?” he teases, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, and oh that’s not fucking fair.

“Y-you wish,” Jaskier says, trying to catch their breath. They try to come up with a witty line, but upon finding nothing, they say fuck it and yank Geralt back in for another kiss.

This time, they’re the one pushing their tongue into Geralt’s mouth, swallowing Geralt’s surprised groan with glee. They bring their hands up, originally to pull on Geralt’s hair just for being a bastard, but then Geralt’s hand is on the back of their neck, thumb rubbing soft circles over the first bone on their spine, and they change course to cradle Geralt’s face instead.

The kiss turns soft, softer than Jaskier ever thought possible. Time melts away as Geralt pulls them into his lap, hands tucking into the spaces at their waist. At one point, Jaskier breaks away for just a breath but dives immediately back in nip at Geralt’s jaw. The sound he makes is addictive, and Jaskier does it again, and again, and again until there are faint lovebites across his entire jawline.

“You know, Geralt,” they murmur, whining when Geralt’s lips find their throat. “If we keep doing this, we’re not going to be pretending to be lovers at the banquet tonight.”

Geralt hums, and fuck if that doesn’t feel good against their throat. “I don’t mind,” he rumbles, nipping at Jaskier’s pulse and making them shiver. “Do you?”

Jaskier pulls his face back up. His eyes are half-lidded and dark, but the fondness in them is clear as day. “Not at all,” they say, smiling as they lean in to kiss him. “Not at all.”

The End.

Okay, fine, not the end. The banquet goes smoothly, even though Jaskier is giddy enough to hurl- they can’t help it! They’re lovers now! Still, Geralt manages to reel them in- it helps that he’s always touching them, soothing their frantic need for touch.

They find an opening at one point to duck out of the party. “You have your dagger?” Geralt whispers, feeling them up behind a stone arch in the garden, and ohoho there’s so many jokes they can make there. Then Geralt’s hand cups the back of their neck, and they’re suddenly overwhelmed with the need to kiss him.

“Yes,” they say before mashing their mouths together. Geralt huffs but kisses them back- he smiles though, laughing at them.

“Stop laughing, you arse,” they mutter into Geralt’s lips, and Geralt’s shoulders shake. “No, seriously, it’s hard to kiss you like this.”

“Can’t help it,” Geralt says, though he stops laughing. “You’re so eager.”

“Oh, like you’re not.”

Geralt hums but finally, finally starts kissing them properly.

Which is of course when the bruxa jumps out.

There’s a screech, and suddenly Jaskier is shoved away. They fall to the ground and immediately turn around, eyes straining to see in the dark night.

There’s the sound of a sword being pulled out of its scabbard- must be Geralt, please be Geralt- a flash of metal, and then one last ear-piercing screech that gets cut off as Geralt most likely cuts their head off. Something lands with a wet thunk some feet ahead of them- must be the head- but Jaskier stops focusing on that as Geralt walks back into view.

“Are you alright?” they say, jumping to their feet. “Fuck, there’s blood on your face-”

“Not mine,” Geralt rumbles, though he allows Jaskier to wipe it away. “I’m not injured- you?”

“Fit as a fiddle, my dear witcher,” they declare. “Though, perhaps my lips ache a bit- would you kiss them better?”

Geralt snorts, and then laughs. “Seriously?” he says, chuckling. “Is that the famous charm I keep hearing about?”

Jaskier scowls. “Well,” they say, pretending to be huffy- yes, they know the line is bad, they’ve found that Geralt’s a sucker for shitty pick-up lines- “if you don’t want to-”

“I didn’t say that.” Geralt steps into their space and tilts their chin up. This close, they can see how Geralt’s eyes flood with adoration- it’s too much and not enough, and Jaskier knows without fail they’ll always feel this way when it comes to this man. “You’re right, should probably kiss you better. Just in case.”

“Just in case,” Jaskier agrees. Then Geralt’s lips find theirs, and the world washes away once more.

#geraskier reverse bang #geralt #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #fluff #kissing #friends to lovers #fake dating #enby jaskier #ace writes

[razmahdaz-art]

I Did It! I Wrote The Geraskier Birthday Fic! Let the Fluff and Angst REIGN! Happy Holidays and I hope this makes up for a lot of void on my end. Enjoy these Idiots! 4k words so snuggle up and have fun!

Geralt was in trouble.

Every winter had been hard, no matter how routine he presumed going home would be. Terrible monsters that forced him off the Path and delayed him to the point of being blocked from Kaer Morhen, the castle itself crumbling far worse than previous winters because of far nastier storms, or those rare and often heartbreaking winters spent without one or both of his brothers because they simply couldn’t make it through the pass in time. There were most certainly harder winters that Geralt had survived through, but now, in this moment, he couldn’t describe a worse or more threatening feeling than what the bard had just told him.

It was partially Geralt’s fault, and standing in the moment, he’s never felt more stupid. Every spring when he finds his companion and asks how his winter was, Jaskier always said “I’m a year older but still ready to out walk Roach.” Geralt would give a smile or laugh. It just made sense to him, the phrase, Jaskier saying he was older. A year had ended and started, so Geralt never felt the need to question it.

He suddenly began to question how he could be such an Idiot.

This year, finally, to even his own surprise, Geralt invited Jaskier to Kaer with him, finally letting himself have the luxuries that Jaskier has always said he deserved. Thankfully, Jaskier agreed, and the hike and travel had been remarkably kind to them. As well as everyone who stayed with them, Lambert and Eskel throwing arms open for the bard to finally walk into after so many decades of mere stories and mentions and passed “He says hello”s. The keep was being improved upon, Jaskier bringing a new motivation to their work through the inspiring songs and funny tales he would share while they did mundane chores, and the storms came and went without much complaint, which impressed Geralt by how well Jaskier seemed to be adapting to such a harsh climate.

This past week, however, Jaskier seemed to have slumped in posture and attitude. Everyone became used to the morning lute practice and half worked songs that their new companion filled the cold halls with, but those ditties have pittered out with the passing days. And now even the afternoons and evenings were growing a familiar and unwelcome quiet.

Tonight, though, when Jaskier went to bed hours earlier than he normally did, Geralt finally decided it was time to check on him.

The Witcher opened the heavy door to his bard’s room, the fireplace glowing low while Jaskier sat in a chair facing the warmth, his body hunched over himself a bit, his hands rubbing together to keep warm. Jaskier had only had the space for a little over three weeks and it was a stark reflection of his personality. Borrowed books from the library scattered about and the bed barely made, but no matter how intense the mess, it felt homely and comfortable. It felt like He belonged in the stone cold keep just fine.

Geralt walked over and leaned against the chair, his hand pressing against Jaskier’s back to let him know he wasn’t alone anymore. The bard’s head picked itself up and turned to look at him, a gentle smile tugging at the once downtrodden face he had been wearing. Jaskier leaned back into the chair and Geralt moved his hand to his shoulder, as they both just watched the flame flicker.

“You’re upset,” Geralt stated low. He knew Jaskier was upset, that wasn’t even a question, but he didn’t know how to ask what was actually wrong. The Witcher found that as long as he started the conversation, Jaskier would lead him through it.

“Is it showing?” Jaskier asks half heartedly with a hollow laugh. “I’m sorry if i’ve been bringing everyone down with me.” Geralt winces at the words, even if he knows that they’re a joke. He brings himself forward, sitting just on the edge of the arm rest. Jaskier had never needed an invitation, so he let his head roll to the side and rest on Geralt’s arm. They sit in a long stretching, but warm silence, it still sitting harsh in Geralt’s stomach.

“Talk to me. What’s wrong?” Geralt finally asks with no sense of shame. 

The bard sighs long and horse before placing his arm and hand on Geralt’s leg, patting it absentmindedly like the large man sharing a chair with him was nothing more than a simple house cat. “Nothings wrong just...Different,” Jaskier admits, blowing a stray piece of hair from his face. That, Geralt expected. Kaer Morhen was far different from Oxenfurt, and he had feared the bard would be lost in such a place, either physically lost while wandering the halls, or emotionally at the cold and dark keep being the only scenery for months. His hand came up and tucked away any stray hairs.

“It’s my first winter here and away from my friends and family. Not that you aren't my Family, that’s not what I’m saying,” Jaksier’s hand squeezed Geralt’s thigh, reassuring him. “I just usually spend my Birthday with family and childhood friends back in Lettenhove, or with my peers in Oxenfurt. And I know how you Witcher’s don’t age, so I’d say the concept is kinda Mute here.”

And there it was. The thing that slammed hard into the Witcher’s skull like a sword was splitting him. Jaskier’s Birthday was the thing that made him doubt every ounce of intelligence he held in his body. Geralt had gone on close to a decade of not ever once questioning it’s date or passing, but now, in this chair with a melancholic bard on his arm, he was whipping himself over and over for such inconsiderate behavior. He could feel his heart pick up a few beats as terror raced through his very nerves, worse than any monster could ever make him feel.

“Ahh,” He said simply, all words throwing themselves into the void that is apparently his head. That’s when Jaskier turned to look at him in the eyes with the gentlest of smiles, and Geralt nearly fell from his perch.

“You’ve never been with me for my birthday, have you?” Jaskier asked his eyebrow raising. He looked tired like Geralt had never seen, a disappointment scorning him but Jaskier dulled it down, and that made it sting something in his core. “Ahh well, nothing to do about it. Maybe some drinks and some Gwent at this week’s end and we can call it another year, hmm?”

Jaskier stood, pushing on Geralt’s leg so he could stand up and stretch his already-aging bones. The Witcher stood up and was tongue tied, barely working out the syllables for a ‘Goodnight’ before he found himself in the hallway outside of Jaskier’s door, his heart aching and the back of his eyelids stained with that horrible hopeless expression Jaskier gave him. Geralt needed to make this right, and he needed to make it good. All these years as friends, all these years of him wanting something more, and he didn’t even have the fucking decency to as much as Ask when Jaskier’s birthday was. The bard was right, Witcher’s never really celebrated their own birthdays, but he should have assumed that someone like Jas would make a large deal out of the personal day.

Fuck.

Geralt wasn’t sure the last time he sprinted so hard his chest hurt, but it was probably deserved. His legs carried him down the stairs and back to the dining hall where, thankfully, Lambert and Eskel were still sitting and drinking the early evening away. They looked at him like the man was running from a pact of starving wolves and stood from their table and rushed to the man’s side in an instant. Eskel’s hand landed on his shoulder to guide him back to their table because Geralt looked like his lungs were about to give out on him. Lambert looked passed the door and down the hall to see if he could spot exactly what had him so startled.

“Bloody hell, what happened to you?” Lambert blurted to him, still keeping watch. “Where’s Jas, is he safe?” 

“He’s fine,” Geralt growled out as he sat down, leftover whatever the hell he was drinking earlier pushed into his hand. Eskel knelt beside him just to make sure he didn’t choke. “Somewhat fine, rather. He’s...His…” Geralt tried hard to find the words without it incriminating him too much.

“He’s What? What’s Wrong with Jaskier?” Eskel tried to ring out of him.

His lungs finally settled and Geralt gathered everything in him to speak.

“His Birthday,” Geralt said in a hush, but no whisper could go unnoticed around here.

The heavy door closed on it’s own, the hand keeping it open letting gravity do the work as Lambert turned his head in a swift motion, pure dumbfounded-ness on his face. He walked over and Geralt could see that he was filled to the brim with ‘Are You Stupid?’ waiting to spill out and slap across the back of his head. He even looked to Eskel and found that, even as gentle and understanding the scarred Witcher could be, even he was confused out of his mind.

“His Birthday is...Wrong?” Eskel tried to figure out.

Geralt’s head fell in his hands and he felt the dark flush of shame fill his face. God, this was gonna be hard to explain. But if he wanted the other’s Witcher’s help in this, then he’d have to choose his words and actually speak them.

“It...Feels wrong to him, this year. He’s sad that…'' Geralt paused and looked at both his brothers behind his fingers. This was going to sting. “He’s sad I didn’t know his birthday, and that he wouldn’t get to celebrate with his family.”

SMACK

That did sting, a hard slap to the back of his skull almost knocked him to the table. Eskel yelled Lambert’s name in shock and there was bickering, but Geralt was somewhat lost as to what specifics were said because, fuck, Lambert had an arm on him. Soon enough he’s met with Eskel’s scarred face who just looked equally confused as before.

“So you...forgot?” He asked.

“I just...Never asked.” Geralt explained.

Lambert was about to smack him again but Eskel stopped him before he could make proper contact. They shared a moment of silent speech, a ‘I know but Don’t’ argument had in complete silence.

“But,” Geralt cut into this voiceless fight. “But I want to give him...Give him something. Something he’ll like. I feel Awful for not asking all these years and I just...I just want to make him happy,” his voice petered out at the end, like it was a confession.

Lambert let out a long sigh. “So, what, a Party? Brew up something strong that he’d like, maybe a book from the library?” He asks, trying to give somewhat useful suggestions.

Geralt just shakes his head. “That’s what he’s expecting. I want it to be good, I want it to be personal.”

“I can make dinner with Vesimir, something close to what he likes,” Eskel offers. But no, no, these were great but they weren’t perfect. They didn’t make up for a decade of seeming disinterest. If Geralt was going to make this right, he needed to make it perfect. He needed to Make It.

It hit him, and not like Lambert had. This was Harder and more precise.

“The Forge,” Geralt says. “I’ll make him a blade, maybe two.. Something Silver, something he’d like…” Geralt thinks deeply for a moment, contemplating ideas of make and what would suit him just right for his weight and balance. 

“A Sword?” Lambert inquired, giving it some hard thought.

“Like ours,” Geralt informed. “He’s not a Witcher, But he’s…” Geralt paused a long second. “I want him to be something close.”

Silence overtook the room again, but this time, it wasn’t judgemental or harsh. It was warm and full of space for ideas and improvement and excitement. This was beyond thoughtful, in all Witchers eyes, a handmade set of weapons being the one thing that ties them all together, every wolve back to the same pact. Each sword different, but concept the same: a set to defend themselves like all of them were there, to have to remind them that they're not alone on the Path.

They talked that night, endlessly about what would fit right and what would work well for the bard. ‘This has to be great’, Geralt thought. ‘He deserves perfection.’

__________________________________________________________________________

Jaskier swears, with everything in his bones, that there used to be other people in this castle besides just him.

Ever since the other night with Geralt, Jaskier hadn’t seen much of him besides his morning hellos and his evening farewells, the two not having a solid conversation other than what they talk about at Dinner, which even then wasn’t much of anything. Geralt was never a good liar, Jaskier became aware of that fact very early on in their companionship. So when      he asked ‘What were you doing’ and Geralt says ‘Working’, Jasker can’t help but know that he was hiding something. It didn’t help that every morning when the bard actually got his eyes on the other, he looked ragged, and every night he seemed worn worse. And it wasn’t like he could ask Lambert and Eskel anything, because of course he couldn’t.

He saw the pair more during the day than he had Geralt, but whenever he did, they seemed in a rush, wanting to be somewhere completely opposite of where Jaskier seemed to be in that moment. Prying never worked. Lambert waved him off, told him it’s Witcher’s work and not to be disturbing them, and Eskel, the one person Jaskier counted on giving him at least a clue, just excused himself and said some random task needed tending to before fumbling his way out of the conversation.

The bard was going mad, feeling like he’s completely lost control of whatever sanity he’s had. No matter how much he picks at his lute, scribbles down verses, or even bite at his nails until it hurts, Jaskier couldn’t seem to understand what’s been going on around the keep. He thinks back to what he said, to what he did the last time things were normal. ‘Did I say something wrong? What if I did make everyone sad along with my moping? Gods, was it the leg touching???’ He racked his brain over and over again, searching for whatever insult he posed to his hosts so he could maybe make up for it. 

Though, from the way they seemed to be running away from him like the plague, he doubted he could return next winter.

“You look like you’ve been bit by a chimera,” Vesimir says as he walked into the Library Jaskier had cooped himself in for the afternoon, trying desperately to feel normal again. He can’t say he’s actually been reading anything, just staring at the page in front of him for over an hour. “What’s wrong boy, lost your song?”

Jaskier smiled at that, he did. Vesimir he at least did see, but being the man in charge, he didn’t see him any less than he had already. “Just...I don’t know, I can’t think right, I’m finding. Have you noticed that things are...Off?” He held out hope that the Oldest of this pack might be able to give him some insight.

“More than usual? Maybe, but I think it’s you’re doing,” Vesimir states as he organizes the collection of tomes. And that’s exactly not what Jaskier needed to hear. So it was his fault, of course it was, he had done something and fuck if he knows what it was and it just hurts. He can’t take it, couldn’t let this sit in his stomach one more second.

“What Have I Done!?” His yell echoes in the chamber, the chair he was sitting in screeching back against the stone and almost falling back as Jaskier shoved himself upright. “I’ve been trying, I have, and I know this isn’t my place and I know it’s not my home, but Gods, I thought I was being a good Guest. Then Low and Behold, suddenly i can’t find anyone and no one will tell me things and Fuck…” Jaskier’s voice breaks. He can handle people not liking him, he’s known plenty of people who do. But they at least had the decency to tell him why, even if it was a knife shaped bunch of words.

Vesimir strides up to the bards side  and clasps his arms, soothing the strong quaking Jaskier was ringing from his body. "Easy boy, Easy!" He said, ducking his head to make eye contact with the now weeping bard. "I've never seen the boys happier than when you're here. Jaskier, I'm sure they're just being Idiots." Vesimir reassures as he rubs circles into the bard’s arms.

“Come On,” Vesimir says in a tender and gentle voice. “I’ll make you some tea, and we can have dinner and talk. I’m sure we can get down to whatever funny business those boys are cooking up.” Jaskier only nods, weakly. Gods it was time for dinner. He’d been so lost in his own head that he hadn’t realized that Night had settled over the mountains.

Vesimir’s hand came up to his back to guide him down the halls, small shakes still slithering through Jaskier every so often, and it didn’t help that the whole castle was in a constant state of cold. He stumbled through the long halls, his head still running through every possible mistake he made, every wrong reply or ill timed Joke. He wanted to believe Vesimir, that this was just something not of ill intent, but Jaskier dreaded the worst of outcomes. Vesimir’s hand left him to open the large doors to the dining hall, a dim light shining under where it barely hit the floor. It was pushed open, and at the mere crack of it, Jaskier was sent reeling.

There was warm orange light, and an intense warmth enveloping him as the entire hall seemed to be warmed to well above what was needed, and the cold in his fingers and toes started to burn away. And the Smells, oh Gods, Jaskier couldn’t dare compare it to what he is served at banquets or weddings. This was better and strong and it found its way deep into his lungs and stomach and it growled worse than any beast Geralt had ever fallen. They walk in and the table, the one that they always sat at for meals, was heavily set with perfectly cooked and spiced game birds and roasted veggies and bread that smelled fresher than anything he had ever been met with here. Tankards were filled with something dark and strong, he’s sure, and by all the Gods above, Jaskier was about to cry just then and there.

He didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until he heard a solid ‘Ahem’ from behind him. Turning quick, some smiles struck him something heavy. Eskel, covered in flour and wiping his hands with a rag gave the gentlest smile his face was allowed. Lambert stood next to him, smelling of something Jaskier could trace back to the tankards, and that devilish grin staining his face. Lastly, Vesimir with his arms crossed and a beam of pride spread across his lips as he clapped a hand on Lambert’s shoulder. Jaskier could feel his eyes suddenly burn, and every negging word of doubt scattered.

“You...What’s all This?” Calloused hands motioned back to the table behind him and then back towards the line of Witchers. 

“Geralt said it was your birthday,” Eskel hummed, the rag he was working getting flung onto his shoulder. “He wanted your first one at the Keep to be Special, so we…” His voice trailed off as his hand gestured to the feast in question.

There was movement, all the Witcher’s knew there had to be, but in a single instant, the bard was pulling all of them into the biggest hug he could muster. His arms barely wrapped around everyones bulky shoulders, but they weren’t going to let him do all the work anyways. A menagerie of arms held each other, solidly, as somewhere deep in the mess, a bard sobbed tears of exasperated relief and joy. There was something missing, though, something that tainted the whole night from being perfect. Jaskier was let go as he tugged back a bit to look at the group, noticing one white haired Witcher missing from the lot.

“Wher-” his question was nipped at the bud.

“Geralt will be here, he’s just cleaning up,” Lambert reassured as he ruffled through that mop of brown on Jaskier’s head. “Come on, I’m starving. We’ve been waiting for you too long, let’s dig in!”

And Dig in they did, not unlike an actual pack of wolves. Everything was divine, the birds roasted and perfectly moist and flavorful, and Gods, Jaskier hasn’t stuffed himself this much since that one time he and Geralt got lost on the backroads for a little bit too long. The drinks were pleasantly sweet, a vast difference from anything Lambert had previously made for him, but it still made his head fuzzy at the edges and warmed his gut. Thoroughly enjoying the display in front of him, the night was carrying onward, and Jaskier was almost worried Geralt wouldn’t be showing his face.

Almost, was the key word.

While Lambert was topping off whatever number of drink they were on, the heavy doors swung open again and let in a wave of cool air that was, honestly, refreshing and just a hint sobering. In the doorway stood the last and late-est Witcher, and Jaskier could instantly see why. He looked clean, neater than he usually does, dressed up in a very familiar silk-trader shirt that Jaskier had dressed him in before more than once. His hair was brushed and half up in a neat bun. There was something tucked under his arm but Jaskier was thoroughly distracted that he had barely enough time to notice before the Witcher was standing next to him

“Hello,” The bard cooed as he turned in his seat to give Geralt his full attention. And he smiled, Metelile, The Witcher smiled at him unabashed and shameless.

“Hey,” Geralt hummed, his one free hand coming to mess with the already tussled brown locks. “Happy Birthday.” They laughed, everyone, cozy and throaty and roaring in Jaskier’s chest.

“Is this why you’ve disappeared all week? Almost sending me into a spiral so you could throw all of this together?” Jaskier waved his arms around at the occupied table in front of him. Geralt just smiled at the floor and quirked his head that Jaskier only saw when he was flustered.

“Partially,” He responded. “This was put together mostly with their help, like you said you wanted,” Geralt’s head motioned towards his two brothers who just raised their cups towards the two of them. “I was busy…”Geralt shifted, kneeling fucking Kneeling, infront of Jaskier and taking the parcel under his arm and placing it on his leg like it was a table. “Making these for you.”

Jaskier’s heart skipped as the leather bound present was offered to him. His hands touched the rough material for a moment before he brought the heavier-than-expected gift into his lap. He locked eyes with Geralt, squinting and suspicious, but that only made the Witcher smile sweeter than before, a hint of Eagerness in his eyes. Leather ties were worked under calloused fingers, strands tugged this way and that to extract whatever this was from it’s wrapping. The scraps of hide were pushed away and left in Jaskier’s lap, intricate and detailed, were two dark leather sheaths, scenes of wildflowers and stars decorating the smooth holsters. Jaskier could already feel tears start to well, almost not wanting to believe what he was just given, but as he looked back up to those molten gold eyes that seemed to be brighter than the very sun, it grounded the bard in reality.

“Geralt you really did-” Jaskier’s words were cut short again.

“Just open them,” Geralt instructed. Jaskier was never one to leave Geralt waiting, so he tugged at the brown leather wrapped hilt of one of the blades.

A Dagger, it was. Steel, cold, and a terrible kind of sharp that made him shiver. It was beautifully designed, the blade itself engraved with calligraphed words down right down the center that read “Yet Here We Are”. It was balanced and shining and so incredibly perfect that his breath caught in his throat as he looked it over. Only a thread was holding Jaskier together that he almost didn’t dare open the second, but he was once again faced with that beautiful face of pleading sweetness that Geralt bore for him that he had no other choice.

He pulled the other one free and this one was Silver, he knew, having to discern the difference to properly care for Geralt’s blades. It was nearly identical, the shape and make just as beautiful and radiant as the steel one but instead of words, engraved down the center was a single dandelion puff, it’s seeds scattering into a wind that drew it up the middle and away into oblivion. They were beautiful, Jaskier thought un-eloquently, every adjective he had deserting him in a second. His eyes were stuck for a long moment that he didn’t realize he was crying until one of his tears smudged his reflection in the weapon.

“You...This...Gods, Geralt, Why?” His voice croaked out, soaked with happiness that it hurt. He caught the Witcher sniffle at the beginning of a chuckle, just as his large hand landed on his knee.

“I’ve missed many winters with you, many celebrations, many words I could have said,” Geralt admitted, his other hand coming to rid the bard of his tears. “I wanted to make it up to you. I wanted to remind you that you matter to us. To Me,” his hand fell to hold his bard’s hand and Jaskier gripped it tight enough to pinch, just wanting to make sure this was real and not some sick dream. “And I’m sorry for being such a fucking fool.”

They laughed, the two of them, just in that little space that they shared. Jaskier’s chest ached in the best kind of way, slow and full of that rumbling thing called affection that clawed at him everytime he was with Geralt; That rumbling churned into a full on storm fueled by tenderness and alcohol and the feeling of being wanted. That feeling of being finally, after a long harsh winter, home. His head bumped against Geralt’s in an unelegant way but he couldn't find the smallest part of him that cared.

“Gods Above Geralt, If you don’t kiss me I might break,” Jaskier whispers, rasped and breathy. Before he could take it back, before he had fucking time to worry about what he said, there were lips against his, inviting and soft and overwhelming and not nearly enough all at the same time. Hollars were there, laughs and roars of excitement, but the bard would be damned if he focused on anything other than here and now and Geralt. 

They pulled apart, their lips just ghosting over each other for seconds and all the while Jaskier couldn’t find it in him to open his eyes. It was just right, that solidness he leaned against, sturdy and warm and smiling at him if Jaskier had to guess. Vision returned and it was flooded with gold and a warm blush painted across Geralt’s cheeks, a proper smile carving into his face like it was meant to be there, and be there for him to see only. Jaskier was spoiled rotten, but he couldn’t find it in him to want to stop.

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed again, jolly and soothing. “So...Have a happy birthday?” He asks, chuckling. 

“Gods, Geralt,” Jaskier scoffed as he went back into to trap the man with another kiss like this could all be gone tomorrow. “The best,” he responds as they break.

Geralt’s arms envelope the shorter man in front of him and hold him like his life depended on it. Because it really did, he found, his very soul being soothed by the warm contact they shared. ‘Perfect’ he thought to himself, ‘This is perfect.’ His nose buried into his neck and it felt like it was carved out specifically for himself.

This truly was a present fit for his Bard.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #the witcher netflix #Winter fluff fic #Idiots to lovers #Geralt has no brain cells #Just the way we like em here out in Witcher country

[buttercup-of-kaer-morhen]

Magic and Exams: A magical College AU

I wrote a little a little drabble for my Geraskier magical college AU that has been stuck in my head.

Main tags: college AU, it's modern but with magic slapped in, Non human Jaskier, And they were room mates~, pure fluff, pre relationship, pining... Kinda, unbetaed, we die like Renfri

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    Jaskier huffed as he rifled through the pile of clothes he had on his bed, stuffing only a few articles into the large pack he was trying to fit everything in. He had finally wheedled his dorm mate into letting him go on one of the infamous weekend camping trips that his roomie was always secreting away to. For as long as he had been bunking with the man, Geralt would hike up a mountain or hill in the vast forest preserve that was conveniently by the campus-- which is probably why they had so many Environment and Monster Studies Majors now that he thought about it-- whenever he had a weekend that had a holiday or a day of cancelled classes attached to the weekend. The musician had literally come into the dorm to find Geralt suddenly packing on a friday morning because he got emails that his classes cancelled for the day. Now usually, one of his frat brothers-- Jaskier still didn’t get confirmation if they were his real brothers or not, which was weird cause his group usually could find out anything-- Eskel or Lambert would go with the witcher but both were busy this time around and Jaskier did not let the opportunity slip through his fingers!

 

    The thing is, as much as he pestered the Monster Studies major into bringing him along… Jaskier had maybe, kinda, never actually gone camping or hiking before in his life. Well, unless you counted the nights holed up in a pillow fort in the living room with Yenn under copious amounts of blankets and pillows or sleeping in the backyard in a hammock under the stars with his sister Renfri. He was going to guess Geralt was not one who would though. So he was quickly trying to figure out what to bring before shoving it in the bag specifically made for this-- he was unaware those existed-- which he borrowed from Renfri. She had always been the better scout when they were younger and actually stuck with it unlike Jaskier who opted out for more fun, indoor activities much to the displeasure of his father. She also did him the kindness of also filling the bag with the actual “essentials” as she called them, he was just adding anything he may want personally and his clothing. Thankfully, he knew exactly what to wear from the many magazines, movies, and such that he had seen. He had already put one such outfit on before he started his attempt at packing, that way he’d just be able to get up and run out the door as soon as Geralt arrived. He was almost done too and feeling rather satisfied! He had clothes, a battery pack for his phone, his notebook, and a few textbooks he may or maynot get around to reading for class while they were out there. 

    Just as he was closing up the pack, the very man he was about ready to go look for, stepped into the room. “Ah, Geralt! I’m just about ready!” He said brightly, beaming at the stoic individual who was currently looking him up and down critically, as if he were appraising the slightly smaller man. It sent a small spark of excitement through Jaskier, knowing he’d impress the other with his knowledge and fashion. He knew he looked damned good for this fall excursion, well as good as lumberjack apparel could, and he was giddy to get the other’s approval.

    “Stop messing around. Put on real pants Jaskier.” Was the gruff reply he received as Geralt stooped by the bed on his side of the room and pulled his pre-packed bag out from underneath. No compliment. No other words of any kind! Nothing!

    Jaskier practically sputtered in offense as he exaggeratedly rolled his eyes and threw his hands out wide. “W-what!? These are real pants! Have you never looked in a magazine much less gone into a clothing store before? Well obviously not, what with the broody biker/mountain man aesthetic you have going on, but really?” He argued, trying to hide how deflated he felt just from the one comment. The man had a real talent for stealing the wind from his wings with one clipped sentence, the filling-less pie comment still haunted his dreams. Worry was slowly filling him about everything else now too, from what he packed to whether he’d only be a bother on the trip. 

    Geralt stood back up, slinging his own absurdly large bag onto his back and rolled his eyes. “No, those are a second skin. They make your ass look great but are worthless for anything else. For Melitele’s sake, they don’t even have real front pockets Jaskier.” Geralt explained with a put upon sigh as if the article of clothing were the bane of his existence. He at least didn’t sound frustrated or exhausted yet, so Jaskier was counting that as a win!

    “These ones do!” He exclaimed excitedly, not really in defense of the garment but in actual genuine thrill, as he shoved as much of his hands as he could into the front pockets. It was just his fingers but it was something and it was one of the reasons he had got that pair. Then his distracted thoughts took a left turn and crashed as he remembered the other thing the man had said. “You think my ass looks good?” He asked, genuinely stunned. 

    Geralt gave him a look and, ah, there was the irritation. “Sweating. Chafing. Itching. No protection against anything like thorns or brambles or anything at all really.” Geralt listed each one, counting on his fingers visibly to punctuate his words. “I’m not going an entire weekend with you complaining because you chose fashion over practicality.” He growled lowly, which had no right making Jaskier nearly swoon from how hot it made Geralt’s voice, as he tried to get the musician to understand what he was saying. Now Jaskier knew that Geralt was right after laying out all of the faults in his choice of trousers but, you see, if he were to admit that he only owned skinny jeans, booty shorts-- those were a gift--, and a pair of fluffy unicorn PJ shorts-- again, a gift from Yenn-- then Geralt would definitely know he had never done anything like this before. “You’ve never gone camping or hiking before have you?” Geralt asked in his weird way that wasn’t actually asking but rather was a statement, as he eyed Jaskier’s bag. Before Jaskier could stop him, Geralt was already pawing through the contents.

    “Whaaaaaaaaaat?! Noooooooooo- How could you- Don’t be abs- Ok, alright fine. Yes…” The half-human sputtered, trying to deny the accurate accusation but the jig was up. Jaskier had wanted to keep up the charade but knew when to give up  the goat-- the metaphorical kind, not the one Eskel owned and was currently hiding in the frat house-- even if it meant he’d be barred from going on the trip now. He had really been looking forward to the trip and getting to know Geralt better. He couldn’t bring himself to meet the witcher’s eye now that his lie was caught… That and he didn’t want to cry in front of the man because he had to look into his crushes eyes which would only hold ire or disappointment from Jaskier not telling him the truth from the start. There was an awkward silence for a few minutes before Geralt was suddenly speaking.

    “This was terribly packed and you made a good call on the flannel and knit cap. It’s going to be colder than normal because we’re in fall…” Geralt offered as he began repacking for Jaskier. The musician’s head snapped up at the comment and he watched the other work curiously, as a flicker of hope filled him. “Do you own anything besides those sorry excuse of jeans?” Jaskier opened his mouth to reply but stopped as the other shook his head without actually looking up. “Actually, don’t answer that. We’ll stop by somewhere and grab you some real pants on the way. I’m also going to hazard a guess and say you don’t have hiking boots so wear your old converse and we’ll pick up a new pair along with the jeans.” This was the most Gralt had ever spoken to the Multi-Minor student at one single go and he decided to see how far this role would continue on. “You won’t be able to wear them this time but you  can at least start breaking them in as soon as we get back. Just wear them to class for a while and you’ll be good for next time.” Geralt grumbled, mostly to himself as he planned out what they had to do before making it to their destination, as Jaskier’s brain tried to catch up. He was practically beaming at the witcher by the time he had lapsed back into his usual silence. The musician practically tackled the larger man, who easily caught him in confusion. Not only did he get to go on this trip, but there were future trips from the way Geralt was talking. 

    “So, I can still come with?!” He asked excitedly, wanting to confirm it anyway as the anxiety still lingered slightly. It just seemed too good to be true!

    “Yes? Why not? Just cause it’s your first time, doesn’t mean I’m just going to ditch you…” The witcher said genuinely, a small frown on his face at the implication that he would just suddenly leave the other behind. “Besides, someone has to teach you the ropes and keep you from killing yourself accidentally.” The man half teased as his frown turned into a slight smirk. Jaskier would have been offended if he wasn’t so happy right then. He wanted to squeal in joy but refrained for the sake of his roomie/crush’s sensitive ears. He also really wanted to kiss the man if it wouldn’t have crossed a line and ruined the whole thing but oh well, he’d have to just try to squash the urge. “Also, are you going to bring your wolf?” The man’s sudden question snapped Jaskier back to reality again.

    “You mean Wolf? My dog?” Jaskier asked, incredulously with a roll of his eyes. They had had this particular back and forth frequently since the day he had snuck his dog onto campus and into their dorm to stay. Geralt didn’t ask questions, only worked with him and helped hide the large pooch so that the DAs wouldn’t find either of their pets that they were living with together. It was an unspoken agreement to look out for one another between the four living in the small room. Hiding a pet from campus officials was like  practically a sport for their friend group now anyway. It wasn’t just them watching each other's backs either really. It was a pact amongst them all to pitch in and help if needed. 

    Geralt snorted a laugh of disbelief as he shook his head. “It’s a wolf.” He stated matter of factly and Jaskier just could not understand why everyone insisted that his lovely beautiful Wolf that he found abandoned on the side of the road was a wolf.

    “He’s a dog! Also, is Roach coming? I know she’s a horse originally but with the spell you got from Triss to make her appear as a cat, does she like, I dunno, need to deal with horse things or stretch her legs. Metaphorically speaking or… I guess literally too? Can she even change back into a horse at will?” Jaskier tried to divert the argument, nipping it in the butt before it could really start, but ended up rambling. Jaskier was never really given details on the whole weird adventure of sneaking the man’s horse in and disguising it as a cat.

    Geralt gave him an amused look as he cocked his head to the side. “...Yes, no, and yes?” He offered, sounding unsure of what he was confirming and denying. “She comes with for the fresh air but she doesn’t need to. She’s perfectly fine in either shape. Also she can turn back into a horse but doesn’t want to most of the time.” He clarified and Jaskier nodded.

    “Alrighty then… Sure, we should probably bring Wolf along. He’d most likely enjoy the exercise and we won’t have to rely on anyone keeping an eye on him or the DAs.” Jaskier relented. Besides, it would be more fun with all four of them.

    Geralt hummed before handing Jaskier his own pack to carry, newly repacked and everything. “Let’s go then. We’re losing light.”  Geralt hurried Jaskier along out the door and they both snuck out Wolf and Roach through the, thankfully, empty building into the parking lot where Geralt’s old beat up pickup truck awaited their arrival. Once everyone was in the vehicle-- pets and bags in the back seat, people in the front-- they set off for their weekend getaway. Jaskier smiled softly at Geralt as the man focused on the road before looking out his window at the hint of sun rising to greet the day. Jaskier had a feeling that it would be a good trip and he was already looking forward to the future ones as well. 

#witcher #witcher netflix #geraskier #fanfic #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #gerlion #non human jaskier #college au #Buttercup's writings

[consultingskeletondetective]

Geraskier college roommates au, or ‘Buttercups’

Geraskier prompt fill for @merthurlocked @witchofmorena

Warnings: bad language and fluff. I don’t know anything about american college so if anything’s wrong I’m really sorry

According to the painfully bright light of Jaskier’s phone screen, it was 2am when his roommate stumbled loudly into their dorm room – crashing into everything on the way – and falling so heavily to the floor that it shook Jaskier’s bedframe.

He wasn’t especially surprised. Geralt Rivia, the six-foot slab of muscle that had stomped into his room on the first day of term, wasn’t exactly known for being light-footed. Jaskier had quickly learned that his heavy-handedness and towering presence made up for a distinct lack of words. He didn’t think they’d exchanged more than a few verbal conversations since they’d met. Geralt communicated in expressions more than anything else. Except when he was yelling at Jaskier to shut the fuck up when he got inspired at 6am with an idea for a new melody and started strumming it out on his guitar.

Jaskier groaned as he shoved his tired head back into his threadbare pillow. It was too thin and worn to really be comfortable, but he didn’t have the money to buy a new one. Never would, according to his parents. He could practically hear them scoffing that his study of musical theory would lead him to be nothing more than a poor street artist. The idea was romantic in the comfort of his family home but in the middle of sleepless nights on bad linen it wasn’t so endearing. Jaskier knew he’d never ask them for money, it felt like too much a precursor for their assumption of his future as a failing musician. That, coupled with the fact his roommate seemed to have an aneurism every time he picked up his guitar, hadn’t done heaps for his confidence.

He envied Geralt’s more ordinary interests, really. The brooding loner was majoring in chemistry and training in mixed martial arts, kick-boxing, advanced fencing and probably a million other fighting styles Jaskier couldn’t remember. But he had gone along to a few of his tournaments. Geralt didn’t have too many friends and Jaskier had been bored, and watching Geralt’s rippling muscles as he’d slammed some poor guy into the mat had the twin effects of ensuring Jaskier never crossed him and had awakened a primal desire within him that stirred in his gut for his roommate ever since.

Jaskier would never tell Geralt, but he liked him, he was one of the few who did. Maybe it was something about sharing the intimate parts of their lives in this dorm room, or perhaps it was because Jaskier was a bit of an outsider himself, he didn’t know. But something about knowing, after a hard day, that he was coming back to the familiar presence of Geralt working out or studying, with his long hair haphazardly tied back and worrying a pen between his lips, was comforting.

Except for right now, of course, when he wished the bloody maniac had stayed out all night.

“Geralt.” He groaned, voice muffled by the pillow. “It’s 2 in the fucking morning.”

“M’sorry.” Came the tell-tale drunken slur of any college kid breaking the door down in the middle of the night and lying face first on the floor. “Sorry, Jask…trying to find my bed…”

Jaskier heard him get unsteadily to his feet – wincing when he heard something crash as he did so – and then his bed was creaking and dipping as Geralt’s hulking weight collapsed down next to him.

“You’ve got the wrong one.” He mumbled.

“Mmm.” Geralt hummed comfortably.

Jaskier could feel the heat and weight of another body beside him on his narrow bed. He did his best to ignore it for as long as possible until it became apparent Geralt wasn’t planning on moving.

He turned over and was surprised to find them practically face to face. Geralt was still fully dressed in his customary black jeans, simple tee shirt and leather biker books. His arms were crossed under his head, his cheek resting in the crease of his elbow and his eyes were closed. His long hair was out of its ever-present tie and lying across his face. The urge to brush it out of his eyes was really quite hard to ignore, Jaskier found.

Jaskier swallowed as he stared at Geralt in the gloom of the dark room. It made it easy to convince himself this wasn’t really happening and Geralt wasn’t really there, being all quiet and soft and vulnerable like Jaskier had never seen him before.

“I thought you were staying out at Yennefer’s?” He asked, eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

“Hmm.” Geralt huffed without opening his eyes, or his mouth, too much. Still, the space between them was so small in the narrow bed that Jaskier still felt his warm breath ghosting over his face. “Dumped me.”

Jaskier tried to quell the pleased jump in his stomach. He didn’t like Yennefer all that much. She was older and snarky and had an annoying habit of insulting him in everyday conversation before kicking him out of his own dorm room to shag Geralt. She acted like everyone on campus existed to do things for her, including Geralt, and Jaskier knew the silent chem student was fit enough and smart enough to do better.

Still, getting dumped sucked and it explained why Geralt was drunk and alone. Jaskier didn’t like the idea of him stumbling back from her dorm in the middle of the night, no matter how big and scary he was. He wondered if she’d had the decency to walk him back. Probably not.

“You okay?” He asked with pursed lips.

“Hmm.” But Geralt’s breathing was already evening out, and it occurred to Jaskier that maybe he hadn’t gotten in the wrong bed by accident. Maybe he was upset. Maybe he needed a friend. He looked at his stoic roommate, watching as the ever-present frown on his forehead evened out as sleep took him. You big softie, he thought.

Feeling bold from a mixture of the intimacy of the dark room and Geralt being drunk and probably forgetful in the morning, he lent forward and pressed a chaste, dry kiss to his forehead. Stole it, really, because it was more for him. Warmth and adrenaline surged through him as soon as he’d done it, and it was hard to keep his voice steady when he quietly said: “you’re gonna be okay.”

Geralt mumbled again and shifted, turning more onto his side and releasing his arms from under his head. He inched a hand over the bed and let his fingers crawl over Jaskier’s clavicle until his arm came to a warm rest over Jaskier’s chest. He didn’t move again.

It took Jaskier a long while to sleep after that, afraid of moving and disturbing his depressed bedmate, but when he finally drifted off, his cheek rested against the warm back of Geralt’s hand and – he knew he shouldn’t have – but he felt content.

Geralt wasn’t there when Jaskier woke up and a wave of nervous worry washed over him. Obviously Geralt had woken up hungover and realised that he was cuddled up to his roommate and absconded from the room as quickly as possible. He was probably mad at Jaskier for not stopping him.

Shit, shit, shit, Jaskier began to panic before he forced himself to rationalise that it was probably fine. Geralt wouldn’t remember the kiss. He was probably just embarrassed he’d climbed in Jaskier’s bed or out making up with Yennefer. He hoped it wasn’t the latter.

Jaskier intentionally busied himself that morning. He called his mother, went to the library, checked out some books for his paper on twentieth century music and its influence on post-war youth rebellion, hauled everything onto his bed with papers spread out around him and was halfway through highlighting important sections from the editors introduction when the door opened.

His heart jumped in his throat when he heard the door handle twisting but he forced himself not to look up. He heard the door close quietly but Geralt just stood in the room and didn’t move to his bed or desk.

“Hey.” He finally said.

“What’s up?” Jaskier asked casually, looking up. “How’s your head?”

Geralt was dressed in loose-fitting tracksuit bottoms with a grey vest almost obscenely stretched over his pectoral muscles. His biceps bulged where he held his arms awkwardly by his side. His hair was pulled off his face in a messy bun and he had a weary, tired look in his eyes. So he’d been to the gym, then.

“Fine, thanks.” He replied stiffly. “Sorry about last night.”

Jaskier affected a half-smile. “It’s fine.” He said. “Just don’t give me shit next time I’m playing in the middle of the night.”

Geralt’s face pulled into a tight smile and Jaskier returned his gaze to his papers. Things were going to be alright, then. It was a relief.

“Listen, I saw a flyer for an open mic night at Posada in central tonight, I thought you might like to go?”

Jaskier’s highlighter paused on the paper. The glaring yellow bled through the paper until it softened and scored a hole through criticism of punk music being linked to heightened anti-social behaviour. Jaskier disagreed with such discourse, but not enough to ignore what Geralt had just said. Had he ever invited him to do anything since they’d met?

He looked up at the man still stood awkwardly on the other side of the room. That was another odd thing. Geralt was incredibly sure of himself. It kind of came with the territory of being a beast of a man. He was threatening, but in a calm and collected way, like a bodyguard. He rarely looked as unsure or nervous as he did now.

“What, like a date?” Jaskier joked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Yes, a date.” Geralt said seriously, his face evening out as part of his customary confidence returned. That sent shivers up Jaskier’s spine as much as the actual proposition did.

He was so dumbstruck that he agreed, feeling like Lizzie Bennett being asked to dance by Fitzwilliam Darcy. And just like Darcy, Geralt was out of the room with a swift nod not a moment later.

Jaskier just stared down at his textbook in surprise. “What was that?” He asked, as if expecting it to reply.

…

Geralt was dressed normally when they left the campus that night, in his usual black jeans and boots, but he’d changed his usual tee for a black button up shirt and he was wearing a fitted leather jacket. His hair was combed and neatly tied back. He looked kind of – smart, for Geralt at least.

Jaskier hadn’t really made too much effort with his appearance beyond jeans and a tee shirt. He was too surprised that he was apparently going on a date – or some equivalent – with Geralt goddamn Rivia the day after he’d broken up with his girlfriend. He didn’t know what was going on, but he was curious enough to be swept along with it.

Posada bar was a short enough distance away that they walked there, which Jaskier was glad for. He didn’t think he could cope with riding on the back of Geralt’s bike and having to snake his arms around his torso and press into his back.

They didn’t walk hand in hand or anything like that, but they stood close enough to each other that their knuckles occasionally grazed as their hands swung in time with their steps.

Jaskier moaned about his paper and Geralt listened dutifully, smiling occasionally when the conversation demanded it. Jaskier asked him about his training and Geralt replied but it wasn’t what Jaskier wanted to ask him. He wanted to ask why Yennefer had dumped him, but he didn’t dare.

Posada was pretty empty by the time they got there, from a mixture of being a Thursday night and being an open mic night. no one wanted to come and have a drink while a bunch of hipsters crooned out self-penned slam poetry and badly-tuned metal covers. But Geralt knew Jaskier was musical, he probably thought it was romantic.

Geralt ordered himself a bud and Jaskier opted for his preference of spiced rum and coke. Geralt made a joke about asking for a cocktail umbrella. Jaskier bit back good-naturedly with something about being classy. Geralt laughed. It was good banter, as dates went.

They stayed for a while, sat at a small table near the back, chatting easily and half-listening to the musicians playing on stage. Some of them weren’t that bad and Jaskier found himself listening intently and resting his hand on his arm as he relaxed into it. Geralt didn’t watch the band, he watched him.

After a while, a bartender got on stage and asked if anyone wanted to go up and have a go.

“You should go up.” Geralt said, no hint of irony in his voice.

Jaskier snorted. “I thought I was a terrible singer.”

“You’re only terrible at 6am.” Geralt said with a raised eyebrow. Jaskier laughed.

“Go on, go up.” Geralt repeated. “I’d like to hear it. You’ve seen me perform.”

Jaskier felt himself blushing. “I don’t have my guitar.”

“I’m sure they have one.”

Geralt was looking at him with a raised eyebrow and his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek in a way that suggested he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

Jaskier rolled his eyes and heaved himself to his feet. A few people applauded disinterestedly as he snaked a guitar from the side of the stage. The instrument felt unfamiliar in his hands and he couldn’t help quickly checking it was tuned as he sat on the stool in front of the microphone.

“I, err, was bullied to come up here.” He said into the mic. The crowd laughed. Geralt smiled. It seemed worth it for that.

He played a soft melody he’d been working on and sang a few lines of lyrics he’d scribbled down in his notepads. It was a song about love and longing, as were most of his songs, and when his voice caught breathlessly around a feminine rhyme, the small crowd applauded and cheered and Jaskier finally looked up.

Geralt’s eyes were on him, slack and warm, and Jaskier suddenly felt like he was playing to Geralt alone, and like the song was about him, even though he hadn’t written it that way.

He finished with a blush to applause and awkwardly made his way back to his table as another act went up and started playing. He sat next to Geralt again and fiddled with a beermat on the table.

“You’re wonderful.” He rumbled.

“Yeah, but how’s my singing?” He asked cheekily, charm and bravado disguising shy embarrassment.

“Maybe one day you’ll learn how to take a compliment.” Geralt said into his bottle.

“I’m not used to compliments from you.” Jaskier pointed out, immediately regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

Geralt’s mouth merely stretched into a grin and that same self-assured confidence settled over his features. “I compliment you all the time, you just don’t hear me.”

On the face of it, it was a dumb thing to say, but it made butterflies flutter in Jaskier’s stomach.

Jaskier had a lecture first thing the next morning so they left soon after. It was nearing midnight and it was dark outside, but it was a student city, alive with life and takeaways and lights, welcoming and safe. They took a detour through a park, streetlights illuminating the grass, and Jaskier didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the dark, but he snaked a hand out silently and took Geralt’s. Geralt didn’t say anything, but he didn’t let go, either.

“I had fun tonight.” Jaskier said to the darkness.

“Hmm.” Geralt replied, but it sounded warm.

They walked slowly, both knowing they’d be in trouble for being back late to the dorm at this time but not quite caring.

Geralt ducked down and plucked a buttercup from the side of the grassy pathway and hauled Jaskier closer to him with their still connected hands before holding the small yellow flower under his chin.

“Do you like butter?” He asked.

“I think that only works when the sun’s out.”

Geralt shrugged and continued holding the buttercup out until Jaskier realised what he meant. He disentangled their hands and plucked the small flower from Geralt’s fingers.

“You’re picking me flowers?” He asked with a laugh.

“That’s what you do on dates, right?” Geralt quipped.

Jaskier’s free hand curled around the lapel of Geralt’s leather jacket and pulled the larger man towards him. A sound escaped him before their lips found each other. It was a soft, lingering kiss – a first kiss – and after a moment, Geralt’s hands came to rest gently on Jaskier’s hips as if he’d had to psyche himself up to do it. When Jaskier pulled away, he was bright red but his dizzy, embarrassed smile was dazzling.

He held the buttercup up to his nose and fake-sniffed it before slipping the stem behind his ear. Bizarrely, it suited him.

“Why did she ever dump you?” He asked sarcastically, smile still firmly in place, not chasing an answer, before his gaze dipped embarrassedly and he walked forward a few paces. He was humming to himself.

Geralt watched him with a sad little smile and an erratic heartbeat and replied, so quietly Jaskier wouldn’t be able to hear: “because I told her I’d fallen in love with my roommate.”

 The end

#geraskier #fanfiction #prompt fill #college roommates au #oh my god they were roommates

[goldandlights]

title: ebb and flow (“Listen up monsterfuckers, Geralt has a knot.”) pairing: geraskier rating: explicit tags: fluff, tender sex, knotting, handjobs, copious amounts of come

>>> Geralt is insecure about a particular part of his biology but Jaskier shows him that one man’s trash is a bard’s treasure

Like many of Geralt’s other unusual or more animalistic features (the white hair, the fangs, the purring), the knot on his dick is a byproduct of the additional experimentation done on him during Witcher training.

None of the other boys put through the full Trials of Dreams have survived and thus it stands to reason that Geralt is the only one with this particular mutation.

Of course, he's long learned to warn the people he sleeps with (aka prostitutes) about his, hm, enhanced physique, even before the clothes come off. He also knows to not ever, ever try to tie.

Though it’s a hot fantasy, Geralt is not stupid or careless enough to risk having his partner panic when the reality of the situation sets in. A couple of the braver girls he’s met have certainly offered to indulge him, one even looked (and smelled) honestly interested, but if it goes tits up, the risk of severe injury is too great.

Thus far, holding up his fist to show them what kind of swelling he’s talking about has always been enough to dissuade them.

So the hardest part about brothel negotiations is usually the opposite; convincing the understandably weary women that no, he’s not gonna try to pop “it” into them without warning. Letting them keep a guarding hand on his cock just above the bulging tissue while he fucks them mostly helps to ease their minds. Geralt neither thinks about, nor considers mentioning, that if he wanted to take them by force, their fragile human wrists would simply be collateral damage.

What comes after the first glorious moment of cresting pleasure is similarly as awkward and bothersome though.

Geralt comes like a fucking horse -okay, not quite, but sometimes it sure feels that way when he pumps load after load of thick seed into his partner until he can see her belly swelling just so. It’s hot. Until the matron charges additional cleaning costs. (It’s costly. He already has to pay double the normal rate to make fucking a beast worth anyone’s while.)

Geralt has learned to live with it, really. Even tense, rushed and impersonal, sex is sex; he can’t be picky. Needs to keep a clear head to do his job.

When he says that last bit to Jaskier however, the bard’s jaw drops in disbelief.

“ Excuse me. Can you repeat that? You can’t be picky so you, what, resign yourself to a life of bad sex?” his voice is loud and utterly incredulous. Geralt shoots him a glare.

This morning they left Ban Glean and are now on their way south towards Hagge for a potential vampire infestation. There are no roads around these parts, so they set up camp on the first not-so-soggy little rise they found once the sun started setting. The weather is good and the forest quiet. Small mercies. The Livel river and its swamps and marshlands are normally teeming with drowners and bandits.

How they went from eating quietly to arguing about Geralt's preference for whorehouses over random hookups is a mystery -though the Witcher suspects it has something to do with a certain new habit the bard has picked up. That is, he’ll chat up ladies (and on the rare occasion men, too) and then ask Geralt if he wants to share. Which the Witcher does not.

“But why, Geralt.” the bard continues, hushed, “Look at you! You’re gorgeous. I understand the prejudices levelled at Witchers make it hard to find someone willing outside of a professional establishment… but I offered you that maid on a platter, darling! No additional work required!”

“She didn’t know what she was agreeing to.” Geralt says, stroking the fire.

“Well, then I apparently didn’t either. Care to enlighten me?”

“No.”

“Come on. Is this the usual Witcher self-flagellation or do you actually have something to hide? And embarrassing fetish perhaps? A small dick? -hm, no, no I take that back immediately.” Jaskier hums and licks his lips. Geralt feels the bards gaze slide down to the bulge between his thighs. He suppresses the urge to close his legs self-consciously. “There is definitely nothing small about your dick.”

The Witcher doesn’t reward that with a reply but stares resolutely into the flames. Silence stretches.

“Okay, alright. I’m sorry.” Jaskier breaks, at last, sounding honestly contrite. With a sigh, he gets up, takes a few steps around the fire until he can plop down next to Geralt onto the thick fur of his bedroll. “If you’re not comfortable I won’t push anymore, yeah? Just… you deserve positive experiences. To enjoy yourself, you know? Sex shouldn’t be a chore.”

“Hm.”

A log shifts and sends sparks up into the air. The trees whisper in a soft breeze.

“It’s a mutation.”

“Hm. What kind of mutation?”

He’s explained it at least three-hundred times without batting an eyelash. Now, suddenly, it’s hard again, like the first time. Geralt knows Jaskier is pretty indiscriminate in his tastes, tumbling with men and women and those somewhere in-between alike. Geralt had never managed to give up the tiny speck of hope that maybe Witchers, even those with freakish dicks, were on the bard’s list of acceptable bedfellows as well. Still, it had always seemed safer not to try his luck, lest he found out the answer was a horrified no. Well, the grace period is over.

He swallows a few times, searching for the well-practised words.

“There’s some additional tissue at the base of it. It swells when I come. Like a-”

“Like a wolf??”

“Jaskier…”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m not laughing! That’s -uh, it doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“No.”

“Oh, good... And does it really do the, you know, the locking thing? When you fuck someone?”

“It should. Never tried it.”

“Eh? What a shame!” Then, before the Witcher can process how to react to that, “How big is it?”

Geralt snaps his head around to glare at the bard.

“I’m just curious!” he whines. Waits for an answer. When none is forthcoming, he tries again, “Come on, how big?”

The Witcher holds up his fist. Jaskier chokes on his spit.

“Sweet Melitele…”

If he hadn’t heard something suspiciously like awe in the bard’s voice, Geralt would not have dared to look in the human’s direction again. But he does. Jaskier’s face is slack with shock, eyes still fixed on Geralt's large hand. Then his gaze drops, almost comically slow, to Geralt’s crotch. This time the Witcher does press his legs together, caught off guard by the sudden hunger overtaking the handsome features of his companion.

Baby blue eyes snap up to amber.

“Can I see?”

Geralt sucks in a breath, mind going blank for a second. Over the woodsmoke of the fire, Jaskiers scent has spiked. Spicy and masculine, Geralt doesn’t have to look down to know that the human is in the process of getting hard, obviously turned on by the thought of Geralt’s knot. What the hell.

Unsettled by Geralt’s silence, Jaskier backpedals, “You don’t have to! I’m uh, making this weird. But I would. Really like to see. For research and-”

“If you put this into a song I will kill you.”

“I know. Oh, believe me, I know. And I very much value my life so these lips are sealed! Promise! Now, can I?”

The bardling seems about a second away from making actual grabbing motions towards the bulge in question and Geralt, kind of dazed by the sudden turn of events, yields to the insistent pleading. With a grunted “Fine.” and an eye-roll to prevent a more vulnerable expression from stealing onto his face, he gets up on his knees and starts loosening the laces of his trousers.

This is madness.

>>>> read the rest on ao3

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #i'm back on my bullshit #jaskier loves geralt lots #freaky penis or no #they don't really get together here? #but then ig if you're Life Long Best Bros Forever and start having soft loving sex how more together can you even be #I just love writing about Jas showing Geralt a good time :( #he just wants his witcher to Feel Good :((((( #Jaskier is totally the kind of guy that gets off on his partners pleasure #and I am so here for it #my writing

[cherryjuicegf]

witcher fic masterlist

i probably haven't written enough fics to make a real masterlist so consider this as a medium list. a trying list. more to come. (updated 13/5/21)

one-shots

forget-me-not | geraskier, 3k, T, angst, major character death

How could I ever forget you?

Remember me, love. Jaskier’s voice was so clear in his mind it might as well be real. One last desire, one would say. But Geralt had tried to forget. Even though he said he wouldn’t.

Oh, but he didn’t ever say that, did he?

when you think that you're bereft | geraskier, 1.8k, T, emotional hurt/comfort, tw none

And so the sea asked; may I take you?

And I replied; there’s not much of me left.

Yet the sea whispered; I will love you,

Even if you think that you’re bereft.

Sometimes forgiveness is all one has left to give. Sometimes it's not.

with you all along | geraskier, 4.6k, T, hurt/comfort, tw none

"You are an idiot, Geralt of Rivia. You think that, eventually, you are all alone and will be until the end of your days. You say you don’t need anyone and yet, here I am, bandaging your wounds and singing your triumphs. You need people and you care about them more than you say you do, but refuse to admit any of it, and you harm yourself in the end. Tell me I’m wrong."

or

Jaskier has some unfortunate encounters and Geralt's potions lack any sense of timing at all.

slipping through my hands | geraskier, 7.6k, T, angst with a happy ending, warnings in the tags

One does not crave one's touch until they're deprived of it; unless it burns.

what you run for | geraskier, 6.8k, T, angst with a happy ending, warnings in the tags

Jaskier saw the mirror again. Funny, one would’ve said he’d been there just five minutes ago. A lot must have happened in those five minutes. He shivered, furrowed his brows in thought. “Did you find the mage?” The helpless look Geralt gave him made him conclude that no, probably he hadn’t. But then, how did he end up like that?

or

Jaskier gets possessed. Geralt doesn't like what follows.

breathless | geraskier, 2.1k, T, fluff, mild hurt/comfort, tw drowning, read on tumblr

It’s nothing. A brush of lips. A taste of tongues. Cheap ale that Geralt now finds he’d willingly tone out the rest of his senses to taste once more. A soft moan, but it can’t be him, he’s not breathing. And then Jaskier’s head bumps limp on his shoulder, and he hears silent snoring.

He closes his eyes. And breathes shakily.

Five breaths and a sigh.

the hands that tend to me | geraskier, 1.3k, T, hurt/comfort, tw none, read on tumblr

Was it a bad day? Jaskier couldn’t answer for sure with yes or no. It was not bad. He’d had bad days and that one definitely wasn’t one of them. Still. He felt a weight resting on his shoulders, as if all the previous hours had settled on them. He sighed, returned Geralt’s gold gaze. “A long one,” he decided to answer. He turned around before Geralt’s eyes burned him more in their insistence. “I’m having a shower and then we eat. Give me ten minutes.”

Some days you just don't know what's wrong. It will pass.

one last time love | yennskier, 1.9k, T, fluff, mild hurt/comfort, tw none, read on tumblr

"You know that if you want my clothes off, all you have to do is ask.”

Yennefer hummed. “A'ight, then. Strip.”

Jaskier’s smile faded. “What?”

She stared at him for some seconds, appreciating his shocked expression, and burst into laughter. Jaskier let out a breath and laughed with her. She wasn’t drunk enough, not yet. The way he looked at her though said that he wasn’t drunk enough either.

Not yet.

Five times Jaskier told Yennefer he would take his clothes off if she asked and one time she did.

the spaces where our garden grew wild | geraskefer, 11.3k, M, angst with a happy ending, warnings in the tags

He cuts through the branches, desperate, but they grow back, thicker and thicker and almost hiding that raven hair, that red doublet behind their leaves. He grunts and shouts and pants and his sword rips the air like paper. He sees them again. Or is he?

Black, isn’t her hair? A chain.

Red, isn’t his doublet? Blood.

Oh, he’s too busy, too focused on the thorns. Of course he would, they have hurt him too much by now not to notice them. Yet he doesn’t hear the voices anymore. He doesn’t hear the screams. He doesn’t hear his name. 

And when he does, it’s too late.

or

A study in gardening.

beside the salty water | geraskier, 836 words, T, fluff, read on tumblr

The beach is silent, except for the singing of a voice that resembles a siren’s, yet gentler, loving, warm. Like home.

Feel me falling, feel me sinking

Feel my breath foam on the waves,

For the sea’s my love, my mistress,

and my heart’s a heart that craves.

under the covers | geraskier, 584 words, G, emotional hurt/comfort, read on tumblr

Jaskier shudders. He realises, to his great surprise, that what he needs isn’t to talk or seek words of comfort. Thankfully, since he knows Geralt isn’t a master when it comes to that. What he needs, is to rest. What he needs is a break.

Comfort doesn't always come in words. But who can say no to hugs anyway?

a little favour | geraskier, 3.2k, T, fluff/light angst, tw blood and injury, read on tumblr

He hears Jaskier’s breath hitch. Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, he realizes what he’s done, and immediately looks at the bard. Blue eyes wide, lips parted. Jaskier whimpers.

“Geralt.”

Stay. For me.

No.

Geralt lets go of his hand and storms outside the room, his heart beating faster than a human’s. Before he closes the door, he smells the salty scent of tears behind him. He doesn’t look back.

Five things Jaskier asks from Geralt and one thing Geralt asks from Jaskier.

the stars bear your name | yenralt, 1.1k, G, fluff, read on tumblr

When she was still at Aretuza, she remembered how the girls looked up at the stars, amazed by a world that had yet to be cruel to them. She thought how it would feel if someone ever looked at her that way.

Looking at Yennefer, Geralt turns out to have an entirely different concept of stars than she does.

a lovestruck's letter | geraskier, 3.7k, T, fluff, epistolary, read on tumblr

The last letter wasn’t old. There, on the top of the page, Geralt could discern an erased Geralt, beloved, and the first letters of what seemed the starts of darling. Finally, Jaskier had settled. Just like he’d done then, Geralt found himself craving to actually be called what the bard first intended to call him. Instead.

Dearest Geralt,

Over the years, Jaskier filled his absence with his letters. Then there was one time that Geralt had to fill that absence himself.

series

songs for goodnight | geraskier, 7 works, T, fluff, incomplete

a reason to laugh | 1.4k, G

Jaskier knew Geralt of Rivia was capable of a lot of things but laughing was hardly one of them.

Well, until now.

for warmth | 1k, T

No, Jaskier wasn’t ordinary at all, not for Geralt, yet the warmth that burned in Geralt’s chest completely changed its source when, after a minute or two, Jaskier rolled on his left side, and having his back turned to Geralt too would be completely fine for Geralt to sleep guiltlessly, thank you very much, if only Jaskier didn’t also pull the blankets so that Geralt was, in every sense, uncovered whole.

sing me awake | 1.2k, T

"I didn't know your voice is actually magical," the witcher smiled sleepily and let out a long sigh, feeling soft fingertips trailing his face.

Jaskier chuckled. "Oh, it's not. I just love you too much."

in remembrance | 957 words, G, read on tumblr

Jaskier is the one to tell stories. As so many people do. A human need, one would say. Tell a story, even if it's the same but with a different twist, a different hint or air, still the same, and people will delight and sing and get enchanted and they will remember, they will remember.

He will make them sing. He will make them remember.

these hands of mine | 1.9k, T

"Have I told you I love your hands?"

"Yes, you have."

"Have I told you why I love them?"

"Yes. Many times."

Jaskier then hesitates, just for a second before slightly raising his head from Geralt's shoulder and gazing at him. A glint wild with tenderness sparkles in his eyes. "Mind if I tell you again?"

A sigh. Then a smile. "No. Not at all."

parent-shaped | 1.4k, G

Jaskier took both of Geralt’s hands in his, forcing him to turn around whole and face him properly. "Being a witcher is not what is going to make you a different parent. What is going to make you a different parent is the amount of love and care and protection you’re going to give to this girl, and I know pretty well you’re more than capable of those things."

these lines aren't wrinkles, dearheart | 1k, T

The one where Jaskier has self-knowledge and Geralt is too blinded with love to accept it.

tumblr ficlets/prompts

allergies | geraskier, 533 words, inspired by art

Jaskier is delighted to find out that witchers do, in fact, have allergies.

early morning kisses, geraskier, 482 words

Jaskier is not a morning person and Geralt just indulges him.

prison buds | yennskier, 376 words, inspired by art

In which Jaskier gets sick and Yennefer realizes she's scared.

Guilty/self loathing Geralt after he can’t save a child during a contract, with Jaskier comforting him and being horrified about how much emotion and hurt he hides (geraskier)

Jaskier gets cursed by a mage that puts him on a killing spree but before he can do anything Geralt shows up and grabs him except he doesn’t have any rope or anything to hold Jaskier down but himself.  (ao3) geraskier, T, 1.4k, hurt/comfort

(5+1) 5 times Geralt showed Jaskier he loves him +1 time he actually said it out loud. (ao3) geraskier, T, 2.1k, fluff

physical affection prompts (under 1k)

pats on the head (geralt & ciri)

a hug after not seeing someone for a long time (yenralt)

giggly cuddles (geraskefer)

an incredibly loud and painful high five (geralt, jaskier & ciri)

kissing someone’s forehead (geraskier)

the biggest warmest hugs (geraskier)

play wrestling (yenralt)

kissing knuckles (geraskier)

tugging on the bottom of someone’s shirt (geraskier)

kissing someone’s cuts/bruises/scratches (geraskier)

a hug that some might consider as ~too long~ (geraskier)

playfully biting someone (yenralt)

400 followers celebration prompts

There's people chasing us and I pulled you into the alley with me and wow you're close (geraskier)

I'm going to save you from the terrible date you're having (yenralt)

"Do you trust me?" (geraskefer)

"Please don't say that about yourself. Please don't believe that. You're so much more than that. You're so..." (geraskier)

I called you at 2am because I need you (geraskier)

touch prompts (under 1k)

in a moment of worry (yenralt)

on a scar (geraskier)

for luck (geraskier)

to say hello (geraskefer)

for comfort (geraskier)

for comfort (yenralt)

sensory prompts (under 1k)

orange sunsets (trissefer)

red wine stained lips (geraskier)

blood at the corner of your mouth (geraskier)

being so close that you can feel your lips brush together (geraskier)

raindrops on eyelashes (yennskier)

red wine stained lips (trissefer)

touch/kiss/hug/hand-holding prompts (under 1k)

tiny hands in big hands (geralt & ciri)

unconsciously searching out each other's hand while sleeping (yennskier)

hugging while lying down together (geraskier)

listening to the other's heartbeat (yenralt)

tummy kisses (yennskier)

holding the other's chin up (geraskier)

bandaging the other's hand and not quite letting go (yennskier)

group hugs (geraskefer)

kissing their bruises and scars (yennskier)

cold hands in warm hands (yenralt)

soothing kisses (geraskier)

made-up fic title asks

(why does it have to) feel so good

the spaces where our garden grew wild

we deserve a soft epilogue

once more

destiny called (but i forgot to pick up the line)

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #yenralt #geraskefer #yennskier #ciri #cirilla fiona elen riannon #chrysa writes

[consultingskeletondetective]

@disasterboysandtheirgruffloves did someone order some birthday Geraskier fluff??

Jaskier had been working at The Horse’s Head for nearly two months now.

It had all come about when he’d told his parents that he wanted to be a musician.

They had disagreed whole-heartedly with the idea. They wanted him to become a doctor, or a lawyer, or anything equally ‘reputable’. He wasn’t surprised, not really, a member of the esteemed Lettenhove family pursuing their dreams or doing anything for the sake of love and not money was unheard of.

When Jaskier had dug his heels in and proclaimed he wanted to share his music with the world, that it was what he was born to do, they had mutually decided to cut him off. Which had left the student with rent to pay and nothing but a guitar to pay it with.

That was how he’d ended up busing tables in the high-end gastro-pub, and that was how he’d met Geralt.

Geralt Rivia was the head chef. He was tall and broad with long, blond, almost white, hair that was almost always pulled off of his face. He wore chef’s whites over black jeans and dark converse and buttoned them up to his neck. He gave the food his fullest attention and he always bent down to inspect what he was doing, or knelt so he was eye-level with his dish, so he could see each individual leaf of parsley he sprinkled on top of the smoked haddock with a look of intense, monomaniacal concentration in his light eyes.

Jaskier had fallen in love with him on his first day.

Jaskier always did this, his love life was very predictable. He always fell for people that were either no good for him, or not remotely interested.

He’d tried to avoid Geralt and subdue his attraction before it had risen, but then he’d had to go into the kitchen to request an order change and he’d seen Geralt halfway into the dinner shift and all notion of that went out of the window.

The sleeves of his whites were rolled up to his elbows, showing his muscular forearms, his face was coated in a light sheen of sweat, his hair was mussed and his eyes on fire as he barked food orders at his sous-chef. Jaskier shrunk back against the wall and left before he even had time to talk to him.

He’d had to run into the bathroom and err, relieve his inconvenience, before he was able to return to his tables.

He was on the close that night and by the time the front of house was suitably clean it was close to 2.30am and Jaskier was exhausted.

He decided to sneak out through the kitchen back door. He knew that was for kitchen staff and deliveries only but it led right out into the car park and he was too tired to walk all the way there from the front entrance. Besides, who was going to know?

His hand was a on the door handle when he heard the unmistakable metallic crack of a can opening. He frowned. He ducked back and peaked in through the gantry into the kitchen. Geralt was sat on the floor with his back against one of the ovens with his sous-chef, Yennefer, collapsed next to him.

She was sitting cross-legged and rubbing her eyes while he was balancing his elbows on his knees as he chugged a can of lager with his head tipped back. Jaskier could see the liquid pouring down his throat and he swallowed. But he also felt a twinge of sadness. He’d had a feeling Geralt and Yennefer were together, they just gave off that vibe, and he felt like this confirmed it somehow. He didn’t know why it bothered him, it wasn’t like he stood a chance with Geralt, anyway.

He turned away from the gantry opening, back to the door, and then –

“Did you see the new kid today?” Geralt’s rough voice carried across the kitchen.

“No?” Yennefer prompted.

There was the sound of more gulping, presumably as Geralt finished the remainder of his drink, before he sighed and said: “Came in, took one look me and ran off like I terrified him.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. Geralt had seen that? Oh god. Mortification rocked through him. Now Geralt definitely knew who he was, and he thought he was a total freak. Great. Perfect. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“You were in the middle of service.” Came Yennefer’s voice again. “You get a little…scary. He should be lucky it’s not him you’re shouting at.”

Geralt snorted and then sighed again. He sounded tired and a little…disappointed?

“Geralt.”  Jaskier could hear Yennefer rolling her eyes even if he couldn’t see her. “You’ve had a crush on him since he started. Why don’t you just tell him?”

Jaskier stopped breathing.

“How can I?” Geralt replied exasperatedly. “ ‘Hey Jaskier, you look really hot in that bowtie. Wanna grab a drink?’ “

“Well, yeah.” Yennefer said. “What’s he going to do? Bite you?”

“Hmm.”

The kitchen door opened before Jaskier’s eyes and he squeaked and jumped back about ten feet. The night manager stood there and stared at him.

“Jaskier!” He announced loudly in surprise. “I thought you’d gone home. I was about to lock up.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened and his heart sped up. He heard movement behind him and turned to see both Geralt and Yennefer peering out at him from the gantry opening. Well, Yennefer was looking at him. Geralt was looking at the floor.

“I-“ Jaskier tried, feeling his face heating up. “-was just leaving. I, ah, cut through the kitchen, sorry.”

“It’s fine.” The night manager smiled. “Come on, the lot of you, out. I want to go home.”

The night manager disappeared into the building, leaving the three of them to amble awkwardly outside together. The sky was dark and the air was cool. It was peaceful, but then it often was at 3am in the morning.

Jaskier was exhausted, but his heart still thumped in his chest.

Geralt and Yennefer hovered a few paces away in the car park and Jaskier wanted to just stride off and end this nightmare, but he didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye either in case they thought the worst of him.

Before he could struggle any longer with his moral dilemma, Yennefer loudly announced: “Well, I’m off. See you next week. Bye Jaskier!” She called out, waving at him.

“Bye.” He replied weakly as she jogged off to her car, and then suddenly he and Geralt were alone.

“Um.” Jaskier tried. He laughed nervously as he looked at the floor.

“I don’t know how much of that you heard.” Geralt scratched his neck.

“It’s fine.” Jaskier said. “I mean, I shouldn’t have been, well, I wasn’t. I was just walking past and –“

Geralt loosened his hair as Jaskier babbled and it fell in front of his eyes in scruffy waves and suddenly Jaskier lost his train of thought.

Then Geralt looked at him and Jaskier almost lost the use of his legs.

“Look, I like you.” Geralt said, somewhat meekly for someone of his stature. “Do you want to, maybe, grab a drink sometime?”

Jaskier’s nerve endings danced under his skin and he honestly didn’t know if he was happy or nauseous.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” He agreed, a huge, embarrassingly huge smile breaking out across his face.

Geralt chuckled and smiled back, in relief, and it was the first smile Jaskier had seen from him and it made him even more beautiful, if such a thing were possible.

“Okay, great. Um, not here, obviously, why don’t I-“

“I’ll give you my number.” Jaskier said, before he could talk himself out of it.

“Okay.” Geralt fished his phone out of his pocket and handed it to Jaskier. As he did so, their fingers brushed accidentally, and it set off an electric shock under Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier punched his number in and passed the phone back, allowing his fingertips to linger on the back of Geralt’s hand for longer than necessary as he did so. The way Geralt smiled at his phone suggested he knew that was no accident.

“I’ll call you.” Geralt said, pocketing his phone. “Do you, um, want a lift anywhere?”

Jaskier grinned despite himself. “No, it’s fine. I’ve got my car. Thanks, though.”

Geralt nodded and turned to go. “I’ll see you next week then?”

“Yeah. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

They grinned stupidly at each other for a moment before turning and walking in the opposite directions.

Jaskier’s heart was beating at twice the normal speed and he almost skipped back to his car.

When he got to the door, his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from an unsaved number.

Jaskier grinned as he read it.

Wear the bowtie, G x

#geraskier #fanfiction #modern au #chef au #happy birthday Dany! #love you