#his whole entire hand can cover jaskier's face for a bit. just picks him up fully by the head. top tier comedy

[roughentumble]

someone: buffskier is bestskier

me: cant relate. i think hes at his best when hes a muppet

#top tier jaskier is just kermit #YES im just now realizing that with geraskier being my main squeeze this casts geralt as miss piggy but im standing firm anyway #witcher tag #actually the dynamic is at its best when geralt still acts like his normal self. geralt standing next to kermit #a very grumpy floppy kermit #his whole entire hand can cover jaskier's face for a bit. just picks him up fully by the head. top tier comedy

[asweetprologue]

hematoma of the heart

Octoberfest 9: Wound reveal (whumptober #30)

Hitting the tree is more surprising than painful. A strange shock goes through Jaskier’s entire body when it happens, a litany of unspoken no no no through him as his side slams into the wood and he topples to the ground. For a moment he can’t see, can barely even think, just feeling a dizzying sense of wrongness that makes his skin buzz with anxiety. 

Then, finally, the pain does come to him, bursting from his ribs. If his breath hadn’t already been crushed from his lungs, he would have wheezed at the intensity of it. He lies there for a long moment, curled into a protective ball and trying to get his chest to expand beyond the jagged feeling in his ribs. Through bleary eyes, he can see that Geralt is still fighting the fiend, twisting and rolling deftly around it. That’s good, Jaskier thinks. Gives him some time to sort this out. 

The fiend hadn’t even really been paying him any mind, which was almost more embarrassing. Jaskier had gotten in the way, a bit, though it wasn’t really anyone’s fault that the fight stumbled its way so close to his hiding spot. Normally Geralt would never allow Jaskier to tag along to a fight this dangerous, but as usual trouble found them. Geralt had picked up the smell of the fiend on the breeze, and the noble bastard hadn’t been able to leave well enough alone. His stubborn bravery and selflessness is one of the many reasons Jaskier loves the man, but at this exact moment he finds himself wishing that, for once, they’d just kept out of it. 

After a long moment of lying still and trying to gather his wits, Jaskier slowly sits up. He leans his back against the offending tree and tries to stay as still as possible, not wanting to draw the fiend’s attention or break Geralt’s stride. Mentally he takes inventory. Toes and fingers wriggle when he tests them, so that’s good. No pain in his neck, though it radiates out from his left side and across his back like a sunburst. When he sticks a hand against his shirt he doesn’t feel the wet, tacky sensation of blood, so aside from a few abrasions it looks like he’s escaped with his skin intact. 

Jaskier knows his ribs are bruised, maybe even slightly broken, but overall it’s not as bad as it could be. Jaskier watches as Geralt’s sword descends into the neck of the fiend, a hot spray of blood splashing across the ground and Geralt’s face. The second the beast falls to the ground, Geralt looks up and finds Jaskier’s gaze, his own eyes wild.

Jaskier realizes two things at once. One: Geralt is going to be livid if Jaskier was hurt during a fight, and there’s a very great chance that it will make him not want to take Jaskier on hunts in the future. He’ll say that Jaskier is at risk and is a risk himself, likely to cause Geralt to get distracted and wind up with one of them dead. Never mind that Geralt often needs help after a hard fight, might not be able to make it back on his own or just needs a hand patching up the worst of his wounds. Never mind that Jaskier hates being left behind, hates sitting in a cold, empty camp or inn waiting to see if Geralt will come back this time. Never mind that Jaskier’s entire supposed reason for being here is to get first hand experience of what monster hunting is really like, even if that maybe isn’t so much the reason he’s so dedicated to the Path anymore. 

And two: Geralt will blame himself. 

Jaskier decides, in the span of a second, that he’s not going to say anything. It’s not so bad, after all. How hard could it be to keep a few bruised ribs to himself? 

In the time it takes for him to determine this course of action, Geralt is upon him. He doesn’t touch - Jaskier touches Geralt. Geralt does not touch back, unless it’s to manhandle Jaskier out of danger. Jaskier tries not to think too hard about why this is. Geralt looks at him, his eyes intense but unreadable as always, and Jaskier takes a steadying breath that makes his ribs ache. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, almost more of a grunt than a name. He’s only breathing a bit more heavily than normal, as if he’d just been on a light morning jog. “You alright?”

Jaskier nods, forcing himself to climb unsteadily to his feet. The movement is agony, his back screaming as his muscles shift and stretch. He bites his cheek, forcing himself not to gasp or wince. The pain isn’t sharp, just pulsing, which is a good sign. He thinks. “All accounted for,” he says to Geralt, hoping that his voice doesn’t sound too strained. 

With another human, Jaskier doesn’t think he’d have been able to get away with it. No one would be able to get thrown against a tree with such force and pop back up perfectly alright. But Geralt isn’t human, and over the years of traveling together, Jaskier has realized that Geralt knows fuck all about how much humans can withstand. He is both terrified of their fragility and entirely unaware of their limits. He grew up around witchers and has never stuck around any human beings long enough to figure out what really could hurt them. Jaskier thinks, sometimes, that maybe Geralt doesn’t touch him because he’s afraid Jaskier will break. But then Jaskier falls from a horse or gets punched in the jaw or stumbles over the side of a small ravine and Geralt will act surprised when Jaskier’s ankle is twisted or his face is bruised. The witcher just has no idea what will actually cause damage and what Jaskier can walk away from.

So Jaskier plasters on his most convincing court mask and gives Geralt a winning smile, and he knows he’s won when Geralt gives an almost imperceptible shrug. Jaskier watches his shoulders drop ever so slightly, his expression loosening just a fraction. Jaskier drinks up Geralt’s worry like a man drowning of thirst, but he’s still relieved when Geralt turns back towards the fiend. If Geralt knew he was really hurt, his tender concern over Jaskier’s well being would morph into guilt and anger, and that’s the last thing Jaskier wants. So he forces himself to follow after Geralt, and he doesn’t even limp. 

Jaskier does not limp as they set up camp that night, or as he follows Geralt to town the next day, or over the course of the next week on the road. It’s probably making the healing process longer than it needs to be, he knows, but he’s in too deep now to back down. And if he winces occasionally when he’s getting up in the morning, stiff and sore and aching, or if he sucks in a breath to hide a yelp when someone brushes past his wounded shoulder in an inn, Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. Jaskier changes when Geralt leaves for breakfast or to take a piss or to bathe and he thinks he does an okay job, overall, of hiding it. It hurts in another way, deep in his gut, that Geralt doesn’t say anything. Jaskier doesn’t want him to say anything, doesn’t want him to know, but in another way he does. He really does. He wants Geralt to find out and be upset because he cares about Jaskier, cares about his well being and whether he’s in pain. He wants the full force of those golden eyes on him with total attention, those broad hands running across his flank to search for damage. Jaskier wants. 

Maybe that’s why he lets his guard down. Or maybe he’s just healing nicely, and so for a few hours Jaskier just… forgets. They’re in a tavern, stopped in a small town a week and a half away from the fiend encounter, and Jaskier is a bit drunk. He’s been playing, for the first time since he was thrown into that tree, and it felt so good he got a bit lost in it. The crowd was small but invested, lively and eager for entertainment, and Jaskier had been passed more than a couple of tankards. Geralt had watched it all unfold with mild amusement, matching Jaskier cup for cup but barely tipsy by the end of the night. Jaskier had stumbled up the stairs with Geralt close on his heels, likely making sure he didn’t tumble back down the steps. He isn’t that drunk, truly. Barely wobbling as he’d made his way into the room. But as he tugs off his boots now and tosses aside his doublet, he’s drunk enough that he forgets, for the first time in a week, that he’s got something to hide. He turns away from Geralt and unbuttons his shirt, yawning around some garbled sentence about how many ales he’s had. The fabric has barely left his shoulders when he hears Geralt make a strangled sound, and turns to find himself nose to nose with the witcher. 

“Uh,” he says, articulately, and hisses as Geralt’s fingers come up to prod his side. Oh, right. Fuck. He’d been doing so well. 

“What the fuck is this?” Geralt asks, and his voice comes out as a low, warning growl that Jaskier feels in his toes. It’s threatening, he reprimands himself. Geralt is scary when he’s mad. Not hot. Scary. “Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier snaps back to the moment. 

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says, too quickly. He’s trying to pull his shirt back up to cover up the canvas of blue-purple-yellow that’s scattered across his ribs and shoulder, but Geralt’s hands are in the way. He must be truly surprised, to break his own rules about personal space like this. “I fell, it looks worse than it is. Nothing to be concerned about, truly, I don’t even think my ribs took too much damage -”

“When?” Geralt says. His tone and his hands are demanding, pulling Jaskier’s arm up away from his body so Geralt can get a closer look. Jaskier feels himself flush under his touch, and he’s annoyed at himself for it. 

“Uh, a - a week ago? Around then? It’s been a few days.”

Geralt looks away from the bruises, his eyebrows pinched together. His golden eyes are intense, searching Jaskier’s face for a lie. There’s a moment of quiet between them, Geralt thinking with his hand spread across Jaskier’s ribs, and then his face softens with surprise. “The fiend hunt,” he says, and then his face shutters into that expression, furious and guilty, that Jaskier was trying to avoid this whole damn time. 

“I was fine,” he tries to say, but Geralt is already growling at him. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me, Jaskier?” he snaps. Gentle-rough hands push Jaskier down onto the one bed in the room. They’d decided to share, to save money. Always to save money. Geralt starts pacing, not an aimless trek but a journey around the room, pulling various supplies out of their scattered bags. “You could have died. What if your lung had been punctured? Or your kidney ruptured?” A jar and a roll of bandages are thrown down by Jaskier’s side, and the bard winces at the sharp movement. Geralt stops in front of him, fists clenched at his side, glaring down at Jaskier’s face. Accusation in every line of his body. 

Jaskier sighs. Runs a hand through his hair, not bothering to hide the wince as it pulls at his side. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he says, and his voice is smaller than he’d like it to be. He didn’t do anything wrong, really. Geralt isn’t entitled to know of Jaskier’s every scrape and bruise. Yet Jaskier feels guilty regardless. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The fiend was there, so was I, I ended up fine! I’ll be better in another week or less.”

Geralt looks away, jaw clenching as he studies the far side of the room with intense scrutiny. Without looking back, he says, “You should have told me.” 

Before Jaskier can respond, Geralt turns and gathers up the supplies on the bed and sits down beside him. The lid of the jar pops off, releasing a cool, minty smell into the air. “Lift your arm up,” Geralt says gruffly, and Jaskier does. He can only go up so far without pain, so he rests his forearm on Geralt’s shoulder, suddenly aware that he’s bare from the waist up and Geralt is still fully dressed. It makes him feel off balance and short of breath, for some reason. A moment later Geralt’s fingers are smoothing lightly over his ribs, rubbing whatever salve was in the jar across Jaskier’s bruises. The gentle touch steals the rest of the air from Jaskier’s lungs.

Jaskier lets Geralt work on him in silence, the minutes stretching out silently between them. He’s not sure what to say - how to tell Geralt that he didn’t want him to be mad without sounding like a child, how to make Geralt feel less guilty without being patronizing. Jaskier never quite knows how to manage Geralt’s emotions, not like he does everyone else’s. A crowd, a pretty barmaid, a professor at Oxenfurt, all of these are easy to push and pull where he pleases. Easy to predict. Geralt… isn’t. He digs in his heels when Jaskier tries to lead him, closes himself off when Jaskier tries to get a peak under the mask. Geralt is, Jaskier thinks, perhaps one of the most complicated people Jaskier’s ever met. He knows that’s part of the draw. But it’s frustrating in moments like these, when Jaskier wants so badly to say just the right thing to make Geralt’s shoulders relax, to make the deep frown marring his lovely mouth loosen into a smile. He thinks he could figure it out, given enough time. If Geralt will let him. 

When Geralt finally moves to face away from him, to attend to his back, Jaskier speaks. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he forces his voice to be steady and firm. “I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want you to feel bad for not - That is, I don’t blame you. And I didn’t want to slow you down.”

Geralt's hands still on his back, his warm palm burning where it rests on Jaskier’s shoulder blade. It’s so hot in the room, sweat prickling against Jaskier’s brow, and Geralt’s hand doesn’t move. “I don’t care if you slow me down,” Geralt grunts. Jaskier can feel his breath on the nape of his neck, and he can’t suppress a shiver. Geralt must notice, but he doesn’t comment. 

“You very much do,” Jaskier argues, irritated. “You remind me on a near nightly basis that if I’m not up when the sun is you’ll leave me behind. I don’t even bother to ask for a break anymore because you never fail to remind me that it’s my choice to be here. And it is, I know that. I’ll keep up, and if I can’t I’ll take my leave. You’ve made it quite clear that the onus of responsibility rests with me, and I accept that.”

From this close Jaskier can nearly hear Geralt grinding his teeth together. “Not at the expense of your health,” he says, and he sounds properly angry now. “Fuck, Jaskier, you can’t think I’d - That I wouldn’t wait, that I’d leave you behind when you were hurt. You could have fucking died, if it’d been more serious. You couldn’t have known that it wasn’t, right away. What if I’d woken up the next day and you’d choked to death on your own blood in your sleep? What if you’d -” He cuts himself off.

Now Jaskier turns to face him, shocked by the display of emotion, feeling Geralt’s hand shift across his back. Geralt looks away from him, hiding, but the expression that Jaskier catches on his face is… pained. As if it would truly hurt him, to see Jaskier damaged beyond repair. Hesitantly, Jaskier reaches out and touches Geralt’s knee. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t think of it that way. I just didn’t want you to take it personally.”

Geralt’s eyes meet his again, smouldering in the low light. Jaskier suddenly remembers that he’s a bit drunk, and they’re so, so close together. The space between them is warm, and Geralt’s hand slowly slides down his back to rest at Jaskier’s hip. “I always take it personally when it comes to you,” Geralt says. Jaskier breathes out shakily. Geralt reaches out with his other hand and gently grasps Jaskier’s elbow, making Jaskier’s fingers press more firmly into his knee. “Tell me next time,” Geralt says. And then, “Please.”

Jaskier is powerless to refuse him anything in this moment, so he says, “Alright. I will. Just don’t leave me behind.”

“I won’t,” Geralt says softly. “I won’t. I promise.” Something tense releases in Jaskier, because Geralt is not frivolous with his words and a promise means something coming from him. He won’t leave Jaskier behind. 

“Well good,” Jaskier says, and smiles easily at him. His side feels better now with the salve and the fuzzy layer of alcohol in his system, and every part of him touching Geralt is tingling pleasantly. It’s a lot of parts, he realizes giddily. He’s nearly in Geralt’s lap, held close by Geralt’s hands in something that’s nearly an embrace, and Geralt’s lips are right there. All Jaskier would have to do is lean forward just a smidge, press them together gently, soft as a feather -

Geralt’s eyes flicker to his mouth, and Jaskier flushes hot all over. Gods. Just a look and he feels undone. 

But before he can do anything, Geralt is up and halfway across the room, tucking the jar away like nothing had happened. Jaskier lets out a breath that’s equal parts disappointment and relief. A moment later Geralt is back at his side, holding the roll of bandages. 

“This will keep you from pulling them while they heal,” Geralt says gruffly, and Jaskier obediently raises his arms up as much as he can. Geralt wraps up his ribs efficiently, and it does feel a little more stable. It will help him sleep, at the very least. Just before he wraps the light gauze around Jaskier’s shoulder, Geralt leans in and drags in a deep breath. 

Jaskier splutters. “Are you sniffing me, Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt huffs out an amused breath against his skin. “Checking for infection. You don’t smell sweet, so you’re probably alright.”

“I smell plenty sweet,” Jaskier gripes. Geralt finishes the bandages, tying them off neatly. Jaskier feels compressed, a bit, but it’s for the best. 

“You smell like ale,” Geralt says with a raised eyebrow. “And the salve. And that lavender soap I hate.”

“You only hate it the first day I use it,” Jaskier points out. The smell is too strong for Geralt to abide by. Jaskier tries not to use it unless they’ll be apart for a day or so. He’d bathed with it the day after the hunt, hoping that the intensity of it would mask anything else Geralt might scent on him. Pain, or distress. Geralt had supported a pinched look of annoyance for a full half a day.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt says, and it sounds annoyed and fond at the same time in equal measure, which Jaskier wouldn’t have said was possible before he met Geralt. The most complicated man he’d ever met. “You need to rest.”

“Up at dawn?” Jaskier guesses, shucking off his pants and settling under the covers. Geralt removes his own boots and pants and crawls in on the other side, settled between Jaskier and the door. Jaskier’s not sure if it’s to protect him or to keep him from running off. As if he ever would. 

“We’ll leave when you're ready,” Geralt says, snuffing out the candle flickering on the bedside dresser. In the darkness, Jaskier hears, “I’ll wait for you.”

For once Jaskier has nothing else to say to that, so he settled down into the covers and plans to sleep past noon.

#whumptober2020 #whumptober #whump #no. 30 #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #october2020 #my work #fic #writing

[all-hail-the-witcher]

leaves

this started as a hc but turned into a long thing about geralt being a huge softie.  enjoy.

___

jaskier collects leaves that he thinks are pretty during the fall and presses them in his song writing notebook so he can look at them during the winter when all the leaves are gone. and, he'd never admit this to anyone, but he knows exactly where each leaf came from, and what he and geralt were doing when he found them, so they help him stay close to geralt in the cold months when he's away at kaer morhen.

geralt doesnt understand the fascination cause “they're just leaves jaskier” and gets kinda grumpy when jaskier walks extra slow during the fall to admire and inspect the leaves. but he secretly enjoys the way that jaskiers face lights up in front of their camp fire at night as he shows geralt each leaf he collected that day and tucks them safely into the pages of his notebook. 

jaskier used to show them to roach to inspect but after she ate a particularly beautiful one on accident he does not allow her anywhere near his precious leaves.

one year jaskier and geralt part ways a little earlier than normal, geralt deciding to begin the trek to kaer morhen sooner than he normally would due to a lack of contracts so jaskier goes to oxenfurt earlier as well. the leaves are just beginning to change color as they part ways. 

a few nights into the journey geralt is making camp for himself and roach when he sees a bright red leaf sitting on the forest floor, exactly the kind of leaf that jaskier would pick up and admire and wax poetry about before tucking it into his notebook. but jaskier isn't there, and geralt feels a little pang. he glares at the leaf the entire time he's setting up camp. 

the camp fire has burned down to the embers by the time geralt is ready to lay out his bed roll, but he can still see the leaf at the corner of his vision. he sighs and gets up, knowing that it will continue to bother him unless he does something about it. he picks up the leaf, brushes off the dirt far more lightly than he would ever care to admit, and goes to tuck it in to his saddle bag in the roll of parchment he keeps on the off chance he has to write a letter. 

roach snorts at him. “shut up,” he mutters back. “its just a leaf.” roach nuzzles his arm. “no, i don't miss him. im just...bringing him a souvenir. we had to part early this year.” another snort. “yes, i know you know. but he didn't get to see the leaves this year. i don't want him to be disappointed.” roach headbuts him as if to say, you dumb witcher. geralt ignores this, but gives her some nice pats before retiring to his bedroll. 

in the next town geralt buys a random book. he doesnt know what it is, he bought the cheapest one he could find. but he's not going to read it, he just needs something to keep jaskiers leaf in so it doesnt crumble to bits before the spring. he swears roach laughs at him for that. 

throughout his trip up to kaer morhen, geralt finds himself progressively walking slower, taking time to admire the leaves as the bard had once done. 

he picks up the second leaf a week later after a battle with some drowners. he’s heading back into the town, having come across his first contract in weeks, holding the head and covered in river muck and guts when he sees a perfectly yellow leaf on the ground in front of him. he picks it up gingerly, trying his very best not to get guts on it (and he nearly succeeds). if the alderman thinks its weird, a witcher coming back with a drowner head in one hand and a yellow maple leaf in the other, he doesnt say anything. roach does tho, whinnying the second she sees it in geralts hand. he ignores her, and presses the maple leaf into the book a few pages after the brilliant red one. 

after that he adds to the collection more frequently. an reddish oak leaf he finds on the ground outside of a tavern, a brilliant orange leaf he finds at his campsite, a yellowish orange leaf the size of his face that he finds along the road and so on. roach makes fun of him every time he reaches for the book, but geralt ignores her. they're merely souvenirs for jaskier, nothing more. 

collecting leaves slows him down considerably, but he cant bring himself to care. he's even disappointed when the last of the leaves disappear and the first snow sets in. 

but that doesnt stop him from collecting things to add to his book. he gathers different small pine branches, holly leaves and other things that he knows jasper has never seen before because they grow too far north. he becomes so caught up in his hunt for interesting plants that the snow is already falling thickly by the time he reaches kaer morhe, despite him leaving for the keep so early. eskel and lambert chide him for being late, but he ignores them, happy that he managed to fill most of the book with leaves for jaskier.

that whole winter the book remains in the bottom of geralts pack, wrapped carefully in his spare shirt. he thinks about it often, but doesnt dare bring it out for fear that one of his brothers will catch him and make fun of him for being a sap. he's not a sap, he just found some leaves for his friend. 

winter drags on far too long in geralts opinion and leaves as soon as the passes are clear, antsy to get back to his friend and give him the book. but on his way down he discovers yet another beautiful thing that jaskier would love: wildflowers. roach is slightly more appreciative of this because wildflowers are things that she is allowed to eat. geralt often feeds her them to see if she approves. if she spits it out or refuses to eat it, then it doesnt make it into the book.

in the space he has left in the book he fills it with wildflowers, sometimes going out of his way to collect them. there are buttercups, dandelions, little blue ones the color of jaskiers eyes, poppies, apple blossoms, daffodils, and even a few rose petals that he buys from a stall in a market. the book is brimming with nature now. he has to be careful not to lose any of his treasures. 

finally, he arrives at his and jaskiers meeting spot. he stables roach who gives him a headbut of encouragement and he grabs the book carefully wrapped in his shirt before he makes his way to the tavern, suddenly very nervous. 

jaskiers voice is already wafting out of the tavern as he draws closer, having beat geralt to the meeting spot for once, and geralt hesitantly steps inside, knowing jaskiers eyes will be on him the second he goes in. he’s overcome with thoughts, what if jaskier hates it? what if he thinks it's dumb? what if he laughs at him? 

he enters anyway, because he's a witcher for fucks sake and he can handle his friends scrutiny. immediately he sees jaskier, sitting in the corner, working a crowd. as always, jaskiers eyes snap to him the second he steps foot in the tavern and he winks. geralt gives him the smallest nod and heads to his table in the corner after ordering an ale. he tucks the book out of sight on the bench next to him. 

minutes later jaskier barrels over, eyes bright with the life of the crowd he had been entertaining. 

“geralt!” he exclaims. “finally. i thought you stood me up, you big oaf. i never make it here before you do, i thought you may have been eaten! although im not sure by what exactly, i don't know what species has a taste for witches, dragons maybe? well never mind, youre here now and you better have a good excuse for being so late, even im starting to get bored of this town and you know how i love towns...”

geralt smiles into his ale, he missed this, but he'd never admit it. his eyes flick over to the book sitting on the seat beside him, unsure whether or not he should give it to him. 

jaskier, being the observant fucker he is, notices. “geralt what do you have on the seat there? is it a monster head? you know what happened last time you tried to hide a monster head in a tavern, i thought the town would chase us out with pitchforks they were so angry! surely you wouldn't-”

“here.” geralt mutters, cutting him off, unwilling to listen to that horrible story. 

jaskier stares at the lump of black fabric on the table. “geralt, why are you giving me your shirt? its not really my style, i’m not one for black really, makes my skin look too pale.”

“open it.” he says into his ale. 

jaskier does, and stares at the book dumbfounded. “a history book? geralt you know that i am a master of the seven liberal arts, im a professor at oxenfurt! i have all these boring books in the library, i didn't need you to get me one, although it is very thoughtful of you to- oh”

geralt, tired of hearing jaskiers babbling, flips open the book, revealing the bits of nature he had spent their time apart collecting. jasper is silent, which geralt takes as a bad sign. maybe roach was right, maybe he didn't like it, maybe he'd wasted his time for nothing. 

“cause you....you didn't get to see...the leaves this year,” he mutters, looking into the tavern, unable to see the inevitable disappointment on jaskiers face. 

“oh, geralt,” jaskier whispers. “you collected all of these for me?”

geralt doesnt say anything, but his silence is enough. 

“this is why you were late. you were collecting these, for me.”

“its okay if you don't..like them” geralt bites out. 

“oh no no no no, geralt, they're wonderful.” 

geralt looks at jaskier and sees him touching the pine branch he took form the trees outside kaer morhen, tears brimming in his eyes. “you don't hate it?”

“no, love.” jaskier smiles softly. “i adore it. and i adore you. and id love it if you tell me about all of them, please.”

for the first time in years geralt feels something like a smile tugging at his lips and he picks up the pine branch from jaskiers hand, telling him how it came from the tree outside his window, the one that he looked at everyday as a kid growing up. the same tree that lambert once dared him to climb and he nearly did before being spotted by vesemir and scolded at. jasper laughs and sniffs the pine carefully before placing the branch back in the book. 

they pour over the book for hours at their table in the tavern. geralt cant remember the last time he's talked this much, much less about himself of all things, but jaskier is more than happy to listen. 

__

if you want to be tagged in future works of mine shoot me an ask !!

#witcher #julian alfred pankratz #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt #geraskier #greaskier fic #witcher fic #idk where this cam from but i vibe #if anyone wants to be tagged in my future rambings #please let me know #i hope you enjoyed this hc fic type thing #geralt is a huge softie and i love him #saph scribbles

[jaskierswolf]

The Love We Have

Part 2/5 - AO3 - Previous - next

Summary: Kaer Morhen has an old tradition in order to keep the witchers safe after the siege. Only witchers and their partners are allowed in the keep but Geralt is tired of parting with Jaskier over the winter so decides to invite him to Kaer Morhen… only he forgets to mention one tiny little detail.

Ship: Geraskier

Rating: T

Warnings: None?? Maybe… I’ll add them later if I remember any.

_______

They’d reached Kaer Morhen by dinner. The keep was… not as impressive as Jaskier had imagined. Deep down he’d known that the home of the wolf witchers had been severely damaged long before Jaskier had taken his first breath, but in his head he’d always imagined a beautiful awe inspiring castle that rose from the mountains and dominated the horizon.

It was barely more than a ruin.

A very pretty ruin, one that Jaskier would normally find absolutely fascinating from an academic perspective, but… he was supposed to be living here during the harsh cold winter.

Perhaps this really had been a bad idea.

He swallowed, debating hiding behind Geralt as they entered the keep, but there was a reason that he’d become a bard instead of inheriting his noble title. If there was one thing Jaskier could do, it was perform. He took a deep breath and plastered a blinding smile onto his face. It was time to act. He laced his fingers with Geralt’s and flashed his witcher a wink before pulling him through the big heavy wooden gates. Another silver-haired witcher grunted as Jaskier flew past him.

“We made it!” he cried with false cheer, spinning both him and Geralt round in a circle. The witcher thankfully loosened his grip on Roach’s reins and she trotted off towards the stable. “I can’t believe we finally made it, oh darling it’s beautiful.”

Geralt’s flushed, a pretty pink that was stark against his pale skin. “Jask,” he groaned but let himself be pulled around, much to Jaskier’s delight.

The other witcher cleared his throat and Jaskier ground to halt, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist and pressing his face into his chest with a giggle. “My deepest apologies!” he exclaimed, pulling away from Geralt but keeping an iron tight grip on Geralt’s hand as he bowed deeply. “I am Jaskier, Geralt’s partner.”

He gave the witcher a charming smile and winked as he extended his hand. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, as the other witcher stoically ignored his greeting. “Stop flirting.”

Jaskier pouted, but sighed and curled back up into Geralt’s side, taking advantage of the heat. If he didn’t know better, he would have said that Geralt had been blessed by fire nymphs. It would explain the smokey musk that followed Geralt everywhere, even when they hadn’t been near a campfire in days.

“Geralt, what is this?” the other witcher grumbled, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his face clear in its stony disapproval.

“Jaskier, my bard, partner,” Geralt muttered. “He’s staying with us this winter. Jaskier, this is Vesemir.”

“Hi,” Jaskier said with an awkward wave.

“Take him to your room and then come down to the library.”

Vesemir walked away before either of them could argue. Jaskier let out a low whistle. “Well, shit. That didn’t go so well.”

“He’s just protective,” Geralt insisted, squeezing Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier looked down at their linked fingers, surprised that they were still together. As far as Jaskier could tell, Vesemir was the only witcher at the keep, and thus the only one they had to convince for now. There was no need for Geralt to keep hold of his hand… and yet, here they were.

“I just want them to like me,” Jaskier sighed.

“They will.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Darling,” the pet name rolling off his tongue without thought, “It took you years to warm up to me.”

“That’s not true,” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Yes, it is!” he said as he poked Geralt in the chest.

Geralt hummed and stalked away, pulling Jaskier with him as if he’d completely forgotten they were even holding hands. Jaskier yelped and tripped over his own feet, gripping onto Geralt’s arm to steady himself. It was going to be an interesting winter indeed.

_____________

Geralt’s room was very lovely. He had a large double bed pressed up to the one wall. It was covered in furs of varying types, mostly wolf fur by the feel of it. There was also a large heavy rug in front of the fireplace that was blazing. As a result, the room was actually warm, almost too warm after the numbing cold of the mountain. There was a warm scent of lavender in the room that Jaskier hadn’t expected. It was a scent he enjoyed himself and he frequently chose perfumes and oils that were lavender based if the coin allowed. He found a small incense on the windowsill, the source of the smell. He inhaled deeply and smiled. Whilst Geralt was away he could imagine that the witcher had chosen this particular scent to keep Jaskier with him over their months, sometimes even years, apart.

It was nonsense, nothing but a dream, but it warmed Jaskier’s heart nonetheless. He flopped down onto the bed, exhausted in both mind and body. It was larger than the ones they’d had to share at the inns on the road. He was strangely grateful for that. It meant he’d be able to put at least some distance between him and Geralt. He would need that if he were to survive the winter. He rolled onto his front and pulled his lute case from off the floor. Once his precious instrument was safely unpacked and in his hands, he rolled back, staring up at the ceiling as he plucked tunelessly at the strings.

The cold had ruined the tuning just like he’d suspected it would. It was hard enough to keep the damned instrument in tune without the sudden changes in temperature, but at least it gave him something to focus on. He closed his eyes and fiddled with the pegs one by one, plucking at the strings with possibly more force than necessary, until his darling instrument was once again the envy of all the Continent.

He sighed dramatically and began to pull a heart wrenching melody from his baby. It had no words yet, but the message was clear to even an untrained ear. It was melancholic, full of longing, heartache… and lust.

He hadn’t even noticed he was crying until a sob tore from his throat. He cradled his lute to his chest and let the tears flood down his cheeks. He wasn’t even entirely sure why he was crying. Perhaps the whole journey up the mountain had just been a bit much for him. Physically he was completely exhausted. He wasn’t sure his toes would ever recover from the cold and even though they’d taken it slowly, the mountain path was called The Killer for a reason. It would have been hard enough even without the emotional toil that had accompanied it.

The hand on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts. He gasped and shuffled until his back hit the headboard. It took him a moment to notice the soft yellow eyes looking down at him.

“Ah, Geralt,” he greeted with as much cheer in his voice as he could muster.

“You’re crying,” Geralt whispered, behaving uncharacteristically soft for the witcher. Jaskier bit back a groan of confusion at the concern lying in those familiar amber eyes. His heart was too fragile right now for this emotional whiplash and Geralt’s odd behaviour was opposite of what he needed at the moment.

“Just tired,” he muttered, wiping the tears from his face.

Geralt carefully took the lute from his hands and returned it to its case. Jaskier felt an urge to hug Geralt and never let go. No one had even treated Jaskier or his belongings with such tenderness. Gods, he was a mess. He was almost crying again because Geralt had touched his lute and didn’t break it.

“You’ll feel better after some food and then we can come back upstairs. Vesemir won’t be expecting our company this evening. We won’t have to pretend.”

Jaskier chewed his bottom lip to stop himself from blurting out that it wouldn’t be a pretence. That would be far too dramatic even for his tastes. Instead he nodded and let Geralt pull him from the bed. Of course, being the disaster that he was, he tripped and practically fell into the witcher’s arms. Geralt caught him but Jaskier hadn’t expected to be so close to the witcher. It felt like all the air had been sucked from the room as he glanced up at Geralt. Well… more across. Geralt really wasn’t that much taller than him despite his fearsome appearance.

They were close.

Too close.

Jaskier could feel the tickle of Geralt’s breath on his lips, that smokey musk mixed with leather and oil washing over him. He licked his lips, speechless for possibly only the fifth time in his entire life. For a moment he thought he saw Geralt’s eyes flicker down to his lips, but that couldn’t be right. That would just be an illusion, wishful thinking. He cleared his throat and patted Geralt on the shoulder.

“Alrighty! Thank you, Geralt,” he stammered and pushed away.

Gods, when had things become so difficult. They’d been friends for years and Jaskier had never been afraid of physical contact with Geralt before. Why couldn’t he just relax, be himself? He was going to ruin everything. Vesemir would never believe their performance if he kept acting like a scared rat, and Geralt would likely start becoming suspicious if he didn’t get a grip soon.

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s eyes flashed up in surprise. Of all the reactions he’d expected from Geralt, an apology hadn’t been on the list. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re scared of me.”

Jaskier gaped, opening his mouth and closing it several times before letting out a long sigh. “No, I’m not.”

Geralt snorted. “I can smell it, Jaskier. There’s no point in lying to me.”

Jaskier swallowed. “And what else can your witcher senses pick up?” he asked. Okay, so maybe he was a little afraid, but not for the reasons that Geralt would think. If Geralt could smell fear, then it was only natural that he could smell other emotions, love for one, lust for another. Oh gods, how many times had Jaskier come back to camp after a moment alone to himself? He’d never even considered that Geralt could smell it on him.

“On you?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier would praise all the gods if he never had to hear that again. For once, he would just like Geralt to use his damn words! He was tired of trying to translate all the bloody grunts. Whilst he was unusually proficient in it, he was also a troubadour, a poet, a wordsmith. He took a deep breath, ready to give Geralt a piece of his mind when Geralt cut him off, pressing his palm to Jaskier’s lips. He huffed and glared at the witcher.

“Let me think, Jaskier,” Geralt said softly. Jaskier rolled his eyes and did the only rational thing he could think of. He licked Geralt. The witcher snarled and pulled his hand away. “Urgh!”

Jaskier cackled and put his hands on his hips. “Serves you right, darling.”

Geralt growled and shoved Jaskier lightly in the chest so he fell back onto the bed. “You stink of many things, bard.”

“Oh?”

“Lust mostly, bloody hell I’ve never known anyone to reek of arousal every fucking hour of the day,” Geralt grumbled but there was a fondness in his voice. Jaskier felt himself blush at the witcher’s words. He didn’t mention that his arousal around Geralt didn’t necessarily equate to feeling it all the time. That was a fun little fact for another time, possibly never. One to write into his songs perhaps. “and then something… sweeter.”

“Sweeter?” Jaskier asked, his heart beating faster than any percussion at Oxenfurt. There was still time to run right… maybe the trek down the mountain wouldn’t be as hard as the journey up.

“Not sure what it is,” Geralt admitted and Jaskier let out a sigh of relief.

Oh.

Jaskier’s relief didn’t last long at all. Geralt didn’t know what it was… because he’d never experienced it. Didn’t have the knowledge to put a name to it. He knew fear, and lust… probably anger too.

But he didn’t know love.

Jaskier wanted to kiss him. He wanted to worship him. He wanted Geralt to know how much he was loved, adored, but he was a coward; a fucking coward.

“Ah, right, well… I have no idea what that could be. New perfume perhaps?”

“Hmm,” Geralt answered, not sounding very convinced and Jaskier didn’t blame him.

“Shall we go?” Jaskier asked quickly, changing the subject before Geralt could press. “I am starving!”

Geralt led him through the stone corridors of Kaer Morhen, occasionally pointing out rooms that Jaskier might need to be able to find. He learnt that they were expecting two more witchers for the winter; Geralt’s family, Eskel and Lambert. He’d heard rumours that Lambert had made a friend on the road but, like Jaskier, he wouldn’t be allowed to winter with them unless they were in a relationship.

Jaskier scoffed haughtily. “You do realise that that is a stupid rule, right?”

“It protects us.”

“And you need protection from your friends? Is romance really that much stronger than friendship?” Jaskier muttered. It was bullshit, but he was a little smug that Geralt was prepared to break the rules for him.

Their friendship meant more to the witcher than he’d realised.

“Geralt, bard,” Vesemir greeted with a grunt, gesturing to the bowls of stew that didn’t look too dissimilar to the bowls of food that Geralt pulled together on the road. Jaskier was grateful for his years of acting training at Oxenfurt, because otherwise he would have pulled a terrible face that would have only offended Geralt’s father figure.

Instead, he swiped up his spoon with a cheerful smile and slid into the bench. Geralt silently moved to sit next to him and Jaskier, taking advantage of their situation, pressed a little closer than he would normally dare. Their thighs touched under the table and Jaskier felt a blush creep up on his face. He hooked his foot around Geralt’s, ignoring the startled look he received.

“Good evening,” Jaskier greeted with faux cheer “Oh this. This smells delicious, I can certainly see where Geralt’s gets his culinary skills from.”

Geralt almost choked on his food. Whilst Jaskier’s words sounded like a compliment, they both knew how much Jaskier had complained about Geralt’s cooking over the years. In fact, Jaskier had taken to bringing his own seasoning and herbs on their travels. Anything to save him from the bland never-ending stews of the road.

Vesemir smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Geralt has the culinary skills of a queen, bard.”

Jaskier flushed; rumbled. “Ah well, it does look rather similar.”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

Jaskier dropped his head, feeling sufficiently shamed. Only he would accidentally insult their hosts on the first days whilst trying to make a quick-witted joke at Geralt’s expense.

“Sorry,” he mumbled and ate a spoonful of his soup. The flavours exploded in his mouth and he moaned around his spoon. “Oh, dearest Melitele, this is good! My sincerest apologies, Vesemir. Lesson learnt.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together to stop himself from laughing. Whilst their cooking skills were vastly different, Geralt and Vesemir’s conversational skills were apparently not so far apart.

“Oh, you have got to tell me how you made this, it’s bloody delicious! Not even the finest banquets in all the Continent can hold a candle to—”

“That’s enough now, bard,” Vesemir growled but there was mirth in his eyes.

Jaskier nodded and went back to his soup. Dinner was a quiet affair. Vesemir asked Geralt a few questions about life on the path, mostly professional curiosity from one witcher to another. Geralt’s answers were monosyllabic and boring, hardly a story to tell. Jaskier vowed to retell their adventures to the Kaer Morhen witchers over the winter. He would do them justice, and contrary to what Geralt thinks of his ballads, he would even tell the truth. They only needed a minor embellishment here and there. The winter would hopefully give him plenty of time to work on a new set. The time he’d normally spend teaching could be spent creating masterpieces, the likes of which the Continent had never seen before.

“Well, this has been very lovely, I thank you once again, my dear Vesemir, for the exquisite dining, but it’s been a long day and we really should be getting to sleep,” Jaskier announced with a flourish, giving Geralt a wink.

“Just remember, bard, that witchers have better hearing than you can even imagine,” Vesemir said with possibly the best poker face that Jaskier had ever seen. It was only the slight twinkle in his ancient eyes that gave away the joke.

Jaskier laughed and pressed his lips to Geralt’s cheek. “We’ll be sure to remember that, thank you.”

_________________

By the time they got back up to Geralt’s—no, their room—Jaskier was panicking. It had been an innocent joke on Vesemir’s part, a warning that privacy was not something they could expect. It was possibly even a plea to keep any sexual activities as quiet as possible and at reasonable hours of the day.

But…

Jaskier was panicking.

“Geralt?” he asked as he paced around the room.

Geralt was busy stripping off and getting ready for bed. Normally Jaskier would try to peek little glances, but he was too anxious. He didn’t have the luxury of ogling Geralt at that moment. They had a problem.

“Hmm?”

“Geralt, we have a problem.”

Geralt snorted. “We always have a problem, Jaskier, and normally you’re the one causing it.”

Jaskier gaped, his hands flying to his hips in a display of outrage. “Geralt! That is just rude! Mister-Let’s-Call-The-Law-of-Surprise-Even-After-We’ve-Just-Seen-How-Bad-It-Can-Be. You are rude and grumpy, and I don’t know why I’m friends with you.”

Geralt turned, giving Jaskier a rather lovely view of his bare torso, and raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t have been there at all if you could keep your dick in your pants.”

“Oh ho ho! No, no, no. You are not blaming that one on me.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Focus, Jask.”

Focus…

“Oh bollocks, yes, yes. Focus! Where was I?”

“You have a problem?” Geralt reminded him gently.

“We have a problem, darling. Witcher hearing,” he announced, his arms wide.

Geralt just stared at him blankly.

“They’ll know if we don’t… you know?” Jaskier hissed, but Vesemir’s words still rang in his head.

“So?”

“Oh come on, Geralt. That’s just not realistic! I assume you have at least mentioned me in passing over the years and the umm… well the trouble my umm… my habits can cause.”

“Fuck.”

“Precisely!”

#the witcher #geraskier #witcher #kaer morhen #kaer morons #eskel #lambert #vesemir #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #wolfie’s witcher writing

[contemplativepancakes]

five times geralt saw jaskier naked on accident + one time it was entirely on purpose. ~6k. Read on AO3 here!

i.

“Get back here, you mangy knob!” echoes down the hallway, and Geralt pauses on the way to his room. 

It’s been a long night, and Geralt would like nothing better than to collapse into bed, but trouble has a habit of following Jaskier like flies to shit. He’s the whole reason Geralt even has a bed for the night, so Geralt sighs and follows the shouting. 

He wishes he could say he’s surprised when he rounds a corner and Jaskier runs head first into him, but honestly, it’s nothing short of expected. What does throw Geralt for a loop, though, is the fact that Jaskier is completely naked, expanses of smooth skin exposed as he sprawls back on the ground in a very undignified manner, clutching his nose. 

“Fuck, Geralt!” he cries, but it comes out garbled. “You broke my nose!”

The man who was chasing after Jaskier comes to a sudden halt, panting in front of them. “He slept with my wife!”

Geralt frowns. “Are you sure it was him?”

The man gapes and gestures at Jaskier’s nakedness. Geralt curses Jaskier for being so obvious; it makes his job much more complicated. 

“Maybe he can give you some tips on how to satisfy her so she doesn’t feel the need to look elsewhere next time,” Geralt suggests, one hand coming up to casually rest on the hilt of his dagger strapped to his belt. 

“It’s all about the tongue,” Jaskier pipes up in a nasally tone, and Geralt rolls his eyes. 

The man’s eyes dart from Geralt to Jaskier, and back to Geralt before a look of realization crosses his face and it drains of color. “You’re… the butcher of Blaviken?”

“That’s him! So you’d best get back to your chambers if you want to keep all your limbs!” Jaskier crows, but only half of it is intelligible through the hand he’s holding to his nose. 

The man looks like there’s something else he wants to say, but he bites his lip and retreats, after one last withering glance at Jaskier. 

Geralt turns to Jaskier, suddenly very aware of his lack of clothing. “Will you ever learn?” he asks in exasperation. “I’m not always going to be around to clean up your messes, you know.”

“I’m fairly certain you have a much longer life expectancy than me,” Jaskier lisps, looking up at Geralt with doe eyes. 

Geralt sighs and sticks out a hand to help Jaskier up. 

Jaskier takes it, his fingertips lingering on the soft flesh of Geralt’s forearm, and heaves himself up. His hand stays on Geralt’s arm, and Geralt drags him back to their room. 

“Sit,” he says gruffly, rustling around in his pack for a clean rag. 

He steps over to the wash basin and dips it in before walking back to over Jaskier. He wipes the blood away from Jaskier’s nose gently, but an observer wouldn’t think so from the way Jaskier winces and groans.  

Geralt sighs. “Serves you right.”

“That’s just cruel, Geralt.” Jaskier squirms on the bed, pulling a corner of the blanket over his lap. 

Geralt resolutely focuses on his face. He squints at Jaskier’s nose, which is just the slightest bit crooked. “This is going to hurt,” Geralt warns. “One, two.”

Jaskier yelps as Geralt sets his nose back into its proper place, finishing up dabbing the blood away before he packs Jaskier’s nose full of gauze. “There,” he says. “Good as new.”

There are tears welling in Jaskier’s eyes from the pain. “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” he says weakly. 

“Maybe you’ll be able to go more than a week without cuckolding another husband this time.”

Jaskier lets out an indignant snort. “Hey, sometimes I just sleep with the husbands themselves. Then I have to watch what I eat, though,” he blathers on, and Geralt is honestly impressed with the lengths of his chatter even when Geralt imagines it must be painful to speak. “Have sex with one wrong person, and all of a sudden everyone and their mother is trying to poison you.”

Geralt’s not sure how to respond. 

Jaskier sighs and turns over in the bed. “Good night, Geralt.”

“Try not to drown in your own blood.”

“Always nice to know you care.”

And then, almost too softly for Jaskier to hear, “Good night, Jask.”

ii.

Geralt jerks awake and sits up in his bed roll. The fire is crackling happily, a far cry from the smoldering logs Geralt would have expected. He looks around, and Jaskier is gone. Normally, this would worry him, but if Jaskier took the time to stoke their fire, that probably means he hasn’t been eaten. Most likely. 

The slight chance that something untoward has happened propels Geralt out of the warmth of his blankets. He tugs on his boots and follows the faint scent of Jaskier, a warm mix of wood smoke and contentedness, these days. 

His nose leads him to the river bank, and he hovers right on the edge of the tree line, scouting for any possible dangers. He doesn’t see any, but as he does his sweep, his gaze catches on Jaskier’s bare back and lingers there. There’s a smattering of freckles that Geralt can just barely make out, until they disappear when Jaskier dunks his hair under the water. 

Geralt knows that he should stop just standing here, should either reveal himself or just slink back to their camp and start packing things up, but he finds himself rooted in place as Jaskier rubs a rag over his shoulder blades. 

Geralt is half tempted to offer his help in reaching Jaskier’s back, but he knows how that would probably be received. 

Geralt is transfixed as Jaskier begins to sing, and he sinks down to sit with his back to a tree to listen. Jaskier is always wanting his opinion on his songs, so surely he’d be fine with this, right?

It's not fair, oh, it's not fair how much I love you

It's not fair, 'cause you make me ache, you bastard

And he'll say

Oh, how, oh, how unreasonable

How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do

I'll spend my days so close to you

'Cause if I'm stood here, then I'm stood here

And I'll stand—

Geralt’s jerked out of his trance of listening to Jaskier sing in his honeyed tones by a disturbance in the water, and Geralt focuses in on the ripples that are starting to froth before a drowner emerges, its scaly skin glistening in the morning light. Jaskier screams, and Geralt leaps from his hiding spot, unsheathing his sword. 

Jaskier turns to look at the new disturbance with wide eyes, minutely relaxing when he sees it’s Geralt. Geralt jumps into the water, landing on the drowner’s back. It jerks and bucks, deceptively strong as it tries to toss Geralt off. Geralt hooks his hands around its neck, his sword gripped precariously. 

The drowner gives one last shake, and Geralt goes flying, his sword falling with a splash. There’s a clawed, webbed hand on Geralt’s head, forcing him under the water. He thrashes, trying to get free, but to no avail. Geralt keeps his mouth tightly shut, and his lungs start to burn as he continues to fight. 

Bright spots start to dance at the edge of his vision, getting darker and fuzzier now, and Geralt knows he’s right on the verge of losing consciousness. He’s unable to stop his gasp for air, but only water finds his lungs. He’s resigned himself to this being the way it ends when suddenly the grip goes lax and he’s able to propel himself to the water’s surface, gasping for breath. 

“Geralt? Geralt?” comes a worried voice, floaty and distant sounding. “Geralt, are you okay?”

There’s a pounding on his back, and water dribbles from his lips. A litany of curses follow and sharp tugs on his arm that lead him back to the bank. 

Geralt coughs and splutters, more water escaping him as he finally registers Jaskier pacing around anxiously... completely naked. Geralt chokes, and Jaskier is there in an instant, a warm hand on his back, rubbing in soothing circles. 

“You’re okay,” he croons with a gentle pat. 

Geralt doesn’t feel okay. He feels like he about died and is seconds away from doing it again via spontaneous combustion at the sight of all Jaskier’s skin on display. Geralt picks a spot on the distance and fixes his gaze on it. 

“Good thing you were around,” Jaskier says finally, and Geralt burns in shame at the thought of why exactly he was there. 

He’s lucky Jaskier isn’t running away in repulsion, like he would be if he knew the truth. 

Jaskier asks him if he’s okay yet again, and Geralt grunts. 

“Oh, goody, you’re well enough for monosyllabic conversation. Back to normal, then.”

Geralt grunts again, and Jaskier laughs, a delightful trilling thing. 

“Oh, here you go,” Jaskier says, handing Geralt back his sword that’s covered in monster guts and ichor. 

Geralt’s eyes do not bug out as the realization hits him. “You… you?”

“Well, it was drowning you! I couldn’t just stand around, now could I?”

“I...suppose not,” Geralt mutters, but in actuality, he can count on one hand the number of times someone’s actually come to his aid while he was fighting a monster. The most he can wish for is someone who won’t recoil as they patch up his wounds later. 

“Are you sure you’re alright? You’re acting a bit,” Jaskier pauses, “distracted.”

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly. 

“Well, I guess it’s not every day you have a near death experience,” Jaskier muses, “Oh, wait.”

“Maybe if I didn’t have to save your sorry ass so often.” Geralt shoves at him and instantly flushes red as his hand touches Jaskier’s bare skin and he registers again that he’s naked. 

“Put on some clothes,” Geralt mumbles, averting his eyes. 

There’s a heavy silence as Geralt waits for Jaskier to say something in response, some sort of rib, but nothing comes, just the soft swish of fabric as he gets dressed. 

Geralt grits his teeth. 

iii.

Geralt trudges down the rocky path, Roach just behind him. The trail from Kaer Morhen is downright treacherous at the best of times and fatal at worst, so Geralt would rather walk than risk Roach making a wrong step and sending them both pitching off a cliff. 

Not that that would be entirely unwelcome, after the winter Geralt has just endured. Eskel and Lambert took great pride in elbowing Geralt and making him the butt of their every joke, saying in glee that they could smell the longing drifting off of him. 

“Is Geralt in loooove?” Lambert had sang, until Geralt shoved him off his chair to shut him up. 

Lambert tumbled to the floor with a clatter of his armor, but he still wore his unbearably smug expression. Eskel had looked at him with soft eyes. “You could have brought them here, you know. I want to know whoever can make you happy.”

“Yeah, we all know how impossible that is for Mr. Melancholy,” Lambert said. 

Geralt shakes his head and puts his focus back on putting one foot in front of the other. The other witchers had endlessly pestered him about his plans for the spring, but Geralt hadn’t wanted to tell them. He likes Jaskier being just for him, and he had waited impatiently for the snow to melt in the pass. He was the first to set out, and he valiantly tried to ignore Lambert’s snickers as he left. 

Geralt is headed to Oxenfurt. He and Jaskier hadn’t made set plans to meet up, because it normally doesn’t take too long for them to accidentally on purpose run into each other, but this year, Geralt doesn’t want to wait. The winter had stretched out into much longer than normal, with biting cold and piles of snow, so Geralt is more than ready to be warm again. 

When the path finally stops twisting and turning, Geralt mounts Roach and picks up their pace a bit. It’s certainly only because he’s eager to sleep in a bed, never mind that he’s been sleeping in one all winter. 

Geralt pulls his hood up against the early spring chill and soldiers on. 

-

When Geralt finally arrives, several days and sleepless nights later, it’s just before dawn. Jaskier has always had a proclivity towards nocturnal behavior, with only Geralt’s need to be up and moving at first light tempering it, so Geralt doesn’t think Jaskier will mind the intrusion. 

Geralt ties Roach to a hitching post, promising to come back and find her a stable once the sun breaks over the horizon, and then he wanders until streets start to look familiar, and Jaskier’s cozy house comes into view. 

Geralt steps up to the door and knocks, and he definitely does not try to tame his hair into some semblance of kempt or get an anxious churning in his stomach at the prospect of seeing Jaskier again. There’s no answer to his knock, so he tries again, but Jaskier still doesn’t materialize. Geralt tries the knob, and to his alarm, it’s unlocked. 

His first thought is one of panic—what if something’s wrong? Jaskier wouldn’t just leave his door unlocked; someone could walk right in and steal his lute. Geralt opens the door quietly and creeps through the dark house. There are no immediate signs that there’s anything amiss. There are only three rooms, and Geralt eases the bedroom door open to peek inside. He’s immediately arrested by Jaskier sprawled out naked on his bed. 

Geralt takes a hurried step back, but not before his eyes dart all over Jaskier’s body. He’s just taking stock of any new injuries Jaskier might have incurred while Geralt wasn’t around to protect him from the wrath of cuckolded husbands, that’s all. Jaskier looks paler and more gaunt than he was when Geralt left him, but Geralt supposes that’s just a side effect of winter. 

Geralt retreats slowly, locking the door behind him and resolving to come back when the sun is high in the sky. 

Geralt stumbles onto the street, the early morning light making everything washed out as he scuffs his boots along the ground. He meanders back the way he came, deciding he’ll stable Roach and then see about something for breakfast. He hadn’t felt hungry in his haste to get to Jaskier, but now that his enthusiasm has been tempered, he’s starving. He tries to remember the last time he stopped to eat something more substantial than whatever he could pull out of his pack. Two, three, days ago, maybe? 

Roach comes into view, pawing her hoof against the dirt impatiently. Geratlt huffs a laugh as he walks closer, untying her reins from the hitch and clicking his tongue as he leads her in a direction that he’s getting a big whiff of horse from. 

Geralt leaves Roach at the stables, with his usual stern frown at the stable boy and a chastisement to Roach to be good as she nips at his shirt. 

Roach taken care of, he sets off to look for something to eat, wondering if it’s too soon for Jaskier to be up yet. His eyes flicker shut for a moment as he thinks of the Jaskier’s robe, and how if he goes right now and knocks on his door, he might answer wearing that and nothing else. 

Although, if he does that, even Jaskier might be able to smell the lust rolling off of him. 

Geralt sighs and continues his trudge, until he stops in his tracks and redirects his path. He looks up at the sun’s position in the sky. It’s been long enough. Surely Jaskier is wearing actual clothes by now?

Geralt walks back to Jaskier’s home, the path turning from dirt to cobblestone as he gets closer. There’s a patch of grass peeking between the stones with three orange wildflowers growing in it. Geralt stoops down and picks them without thinking too much about it. 

Geralt carries the flowers loosely in one hand down at his side. When he reaches the steps leading up to Jaskier’s door, he pauses to steel himself, to try to prepare himself for if Jaskier’s whole chest is on display in his robe, but he’s interrupted by an obnoxious throat clearing. 

Geralt whirls around to glare at the person, but he’s arrested by the sight of a man scowling right back at him. “Hope you’re not planning to bother some nice girl, Witcher. Like anyone would ever want you.”

Geralt glances down at the flowers in his hand, and then back to the man, mouth flapping uselessly. He has a point. 

“She’s probably just too scared to tell you to fuck off,” the man sneers, and Geralt’s fingers itch to pull his dagger from his belt, but he restrains himself. 

He surreptitiously looks around for a place to drop the flowers. The man is right; this is a terrible idea. What is he hoping to accomplish with this? Just to make Jaskier smile? He’s an idiot. 

A door slams open, and then, “Well, I have no such qualms. Fuck off.”

Geralt turns around to see Jaskier—and thank fuck he’s wearing clothes this time, but he’s wearing that ridiculous lavender robe, with his leg jutting out right below where it’s knotted together. Geralt desperately averts his eyes, turning back around to frown at the man, but he’s disappeared. 

He looks at Jaskier, then, drinking him in after a winter apart. Jaskier makes a pleased hum in the back of his throat. “For me?” he asks, holding out his hands for the flowers. 

Geralt hands them over without comment, but he can’t hide the smallest of smiles as he follows Jaskier into the house, Jaskier chattering away about everything Geralt missed. 

And, gods, did he miss a lot. 

iv.

When Geralt bolts awake this time, Jaskier is gone again. Geralt would be concerned that just anyone could sneak up on him while he’s sleeping, but he knows his body has started to become in tune with the sound of Jaskier and it no longer deems it necessary to rip him from his sleep for just Jaskier padding around. 

Still, Geralt wipes the sleep from his eyes and slowly gets up to start disassembling their camp. Jaskier will be back soon, and then they can be on their way. Geralt casts his eyes to the horizon, noting the first rays of morning peeking over it. 

 Geralt ambles over to where he had tethered Roach to a tree and scratches his fingertips over her neck. She headbutts his other hand, impatiently waiting for her breakfast. Geralt huffs a laugh. 

Geralt has everything packed up and he’s been leaning against a tree impatiently for three minutes when he starts to get worried. Who knows what could be in these woods? There could be any number of things looking to make a meal out of Jaskier. 

Geralt paces in a circle around their doused fire. On one hand, Jaskier could be doing something like taking a shit somewhere, but on the other hand, he might be hurt. 

Geralt freezes when he hears a faint strangled cry, and his feet are moving even though his mind has barely registered the sound. Geralt crashes through the underbrush, uncaring about how much noise he makes or the thorns that tear against his skin, until he skids to a stop in front of Jaskier. In front of Jaskier, who locks eyes with him while his cock is in his hand and comes with an aborted gasp. 

Heat burns up Geralt’s face. “Sorry, I—” he cuts himself off and flees back the way he came. 

He berates himself as he walks back to their camp. They haven’t been in a town in over three weeks, why was that not what he expected? In all honesty, that’s why he hadn’t gone after Jaskier immediately, but after he heard him shout all of the thoughts of restraint flew out of his brain. The only thing he could focus on was Jaskier needing help. 

Geralt tries not to dwell on the thought of how Jaskier’s cock had looked, flushed and jutting out proudly. Geralt pulls Roach’s brush out of the saddle bag and works her over carefully, making sure every hair is going the same way and helping her shed her thick winter coat. 

By the time Jaskier stumbles back, Geralt had thought he had managed to put the incident out of his mind, but the sight of Jaskier proves him wrong. “Ready to go?” Geralt grunts. 

Jaskier opens his mouth and shuts it with a click of his teeth. “What are we waiting for?”

Geralt swings himself up onto Roach, and doesn’t let himself look back to make sure Jaskier follows. 

v.

Geralt’s eyes crack open as the door to the inn room squeaks. He grunts in displeasure at being disturbed, and then remembers Jaskier is supposed to be with the barmaid and bolts upright. The door is just out of view from the bed, so Geralt eases himself out of bed and picks up the dagger. He creeps to where the wall juts out and then jumps out on the other side, revealing himself. 

“Is that a knife or are you just happy to see me?” Jaskier laughs nervously, and Geralt sheepishly drops the dagger onto the chair as his eyes widen. 

“What is with you and always being naked?” Geralt growls in frustration, trying not to look at the creamy expanse of Jaskier’s skin, marred with freckles instead of scars like Geralt’s. 

Jaskier’s brows pull together in confusion. “What?”

“Nevermind. Just—what is going on?”

“Ah. Right. That. I got…kicked out.”

“Did she have a husband?”

“Um, yes, yes, that’s exactly right. He did not appreciate the soiling of their marital bed.”

Geralt rolls his eyes fondly even as a pang of longing lodges itself right between his ribs. He doesn’t stop to examine it for too long. 

Geralt turns his back and slips back over to the bed. The one bed, because he had thought he would be alone tonight. Geralt sighs. 

There’s a quiet swish of fabric as Jaskier pulls on some clothes. “That was one of my favorite shirts, and now it’ll probably end up burnt or some other ridiculous thing.”

The doublet in question was a gaudy scarlet thing with obnoxious gold threading and beading sewn into it. The light always caught on it just wrong to shine into Geralt’s eyes and give him a headache. “What a pity.”

Jaskier shoves at his shoulder as he clambers into the bed without a second thought. Geralt swallows hard at the dip of the lumpy mattress, at the body what so close to his all of a sudden. Jaskier’s heartbeat thuds, and a peculiar smell drifts off of him that Geralt can’t quite place. 

Geralt turns over so that he’s facing Jaskier. “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier buries his face into the pillow. The one pillow, that he tugs away from Geralt. “Nothing,” he says, heaving a dramatic sigh. 

“Hmm. Well.” Geralt pauses and tries to think of a way to respond that won’t have Jaskier calling him an emotionless boulder later. “If you want to talk about it, I can listen.”

Jaskier lifts his head up from the pillow to meet Geralt’s eyes. “Wow, I didn’t know that I was speaking to anything other than the wall when I talk to you.”

Geralt yanks the pillow out from under Jaskier and hits him with it. “Shut up.”

+ i.

Jaskier sighs as he unfurls his bedroll. He’s been unleashing heavy sighs about once an hour for the past week, and it’s driving Geralt up the wall. He’s asked Jaskier if everything was all right four separate times now, and Jaskier has brushed him off each time. 

“Jaskier, just tell me what’s the matter,” he begs after Jaskier sighs as he returns with water from the stream. 

Jaskier plops the bucket down right next to the fire, and some splashes out and douses the small smolder Geralt had got started. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls before Jaskier can even react. 

“Fine! You want to know what’s so wrong? It’s you!”

Geralt rears back, blinking rapidly. He wants to make a beeline for Roach and try to get the feeling of Jaskier’s eyes boring into his out of his mind as soon as possible, but he can’t just leave Jaskier high and dry out here all alone. Geralt shakes his head and turns away. 

“Wait,” Jaskier’s hand comes around to clamp onto Geralt’s wrist. Geralt nearly shakes him off, but then Jaskier is saying again, “Wait. That’s not what I meant.”

Geralt meets Jaskier’s eyes cautiously and arches an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. 

Jaskier rubs the back of his neck. “You know I got kicked out of that room the other night.”

Geralt grunts. “For cuckolding the husband?”

“Well, yes, but not exactly. I lied. There was no husband. Turns out some people aren’t all that impressed when you say the wrong name in the heat of things.”

“Jaskier, what does that have to do with—” 

“It’s you, Geralt,” he whispers. 

“Oh.”

Geralt is taken aback. He’s never had this happen with a human before. It’s… hard to imagine that a human could see him as anything other than repulsive, something to be tolerated just to part him from his coin. 

“And now I see that I’ve made a complete and total mess of things. I’m sorry, I’ll just—”

As Jaskier’s grip on his wrist loosens, Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand instead. “You haven’t made a mess of anything.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen before he reaches the hand Geralt isn’t holding up to cup Geralt’s face. Geralt turns his head to nuzzle into Jaskier’s hand, and Jaskier leans forward to press his lips to Geralt. Their fingers become untangled as they move on, Jaskier’s coming up to twist in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt’s stroking across Jaskier’s cheek bone. 

When they pull away, Jaskier lets out a disbelieving chuckle. “Wow. It seems like I could have saved my hand some work while we were on the road.”

Geralt rolls his eyes at Jaskier’s crudeness. 

“Come on, you know that was funny,” Jaskier wheedles into his ear. 

Geralt pushes him aside and crouches down to rebuild their fire. “You’re rarely funny.”

Jaskier claps a hand over his chest and splutters. “Okay, still incredibly rude. Nice to know some things never change, I suppose.”

Jaskier huffs and walks away, going over to feed Roach while Geralt attempts to find some kindling that isn’t damp. 

A smile tugs at Geralt’s lips. 

When the fire is roaring once again, Geralt wanders over to where Jaskier is now sitting against a tree. 

Geralt sits down beside him. “I do think you’re funny sometimes,” he admits. 

“You’ve already wounded my pride, Geralt; it’s too late.”

“And so if I offered you a… hand, you’d turn me down?”

Jaskier jerks his head up and turns to Geralt. “That is not what I said in any way, shape, or form.”

“Hmm.”

In the end, it doesn’t happen that night, or the day after that. It’s when they’re finally at an inn that Jaskier pounces on him. Geralt has barely shut the door to their room when Jaskier is on him. “I’ve been so patient,” he whines. 

Geralt raises his eyebrows, unconvinced. “All you had to do was ask.”

“Geralt, you’re impossible,” Jaskier huffs in exasperation. “Well, I’m asking now.”

Geralt kisses him, slow and sweet, and Jaskier groans his eagerness into his mouth. 

Jaskier’s fingers fumble with the clasps of his armor, until Geralt laughs and takes it off himself. When he turns back around after carefully setting all the pieces on a chair, Jaskier is already naked, and finally, Geralt allows himself to look. He drinks it in, notices the tiny scar Jaskier has on his thigh, rakes his eyes over Jaskier’s chest. He moves closer so he can comb his fingers down the hair between Jaskier’s pecs, and he preens at the attention. 

Jaskier reaches down to undo his trousers, and Geralt steps out of them. He takes off his shirt, and sheds his smallclothes, looking back up to see Jaskier staring at him. His soft expression turns into a self satisfied grin as he hums to himself. 

“What?” Geralt asks, already sure he doesn’t want to know the answer. 

“Nothing. Okay, fine, just—the carpet matches the drapes, is all.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’s a mutation. Do you think I would choose for it to be white? What were you expecting?”

“You’re no fun,” Jaskier pauses. “What color did your hair used to be?”

Geralt stops and thinks. “Brown, probably? I don’t remember.”

Jaskier whistles. “That’s terribly sad. Do you think your childhood would make a good ballad? I bet it would.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grits out. 

“Okay, okay. Insensitive, I apologize.”

Geralt pulls back, but Jaskier winds his arms around his shoulders and keeps him in place. “I’m sorry,” he says again, rubbing his nose against the delicate skin of Geralt’s neck. 

Geralt shudders and lets Jaskier distract him. It’s not like his childhood is something he particularly likes to dwell on, especially when there’s something much better for him to focus on in the form of Jaskier’s swelling cock judging against his hip. 

Jaskier presses up close against him, bracketing Geralt against the door and putting his palm flat over Geralt’s heart before he kisses him again. 

Geralt lets the sensation wash over him, the pleasant feelings and the vibration that sends a thrumming through his bones. He walks Jaskier back to the bed and lays him out, crawling on top and straddling him. 

Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Gods, Geralt. You’re beautiful.”

A hot blush rises to Geralt’s face and he turns away, but Jaskier takes his wrist. 

“Don’t mock me,” Geralt mumbles. 

“Darling,” Jaskier says, sitting up and taking both of Geralt’s hands in his. “I’m not.”

Geralt doesn’t know how to respond. He looks down at his body, littered with scars, some pink and small and some, long healed, white and wicked looking. “Hmm.”

Jaskier sighs and tugs Geralt in for another kiss, before he maneuvers Geralt so he’s the one laying down. Jaskier works his way down Geralt’s body, lingering on each scar until Geralt squirms uncomfortably beneath him. 

Jaskier huffs a soft laugh as he makes it to the soft inside of Geralt’s thighs, and Geralt starts squirming for a different reason. A whine comes from the back of Geralt’s throat as Jaskier continues to ignore his cock, throbbing and painful at this point. 

Jaskier finally has pity on him and takes him in hand, making Geralt sigh and his eyes flutter shut. Jaskier jacks him quickly, bringing Geralt to the edge faster than he would like to admit before he backs off and moves his hand. He goes back to tracing Geralt’s scars, his fingertips finding the one that cut through the muscle of his leg and healed jagged and rough. 

He hovers over a different one, looking up at Geralt with a question in his eyes. Jaskier’s wheedled most of the stories of his scars out of him, but this one—Geralt huffs. “I tripped over a rock and fell right onto a very pointy root,” he admits. 

Jaskier’s lips quirk up into a grin, and Geralt is about to chastise him for laughing when Jaskier directs his attention back to Geralt’s cock. 

Geralt gasps as warm heat envelops him, and his hand comes down to tangle in Jaskier’s soft hair. Jaskier’s other hand comes up to stroke the part of Geralt’s shaft not in his mouth and scoots further back to trail his fingertips over Geralt’s balls and ghost over his perineum to his hole. 

Geralt shudders at the feeling, and Jaskier pops off of him with a wet sound. “Can I—?”

“Yes, yes, please,” Geralt babbles. 

Jaskier disappears for a moment to rummage through his pack, and Geralt tries to slow his pulse. His heart is practically trying to thud out of his chest compared to its normal steady pace, so he sucks in a deep breath through his nose. 

Jaskier returns and settles himself between Geralt’s legs. Geralt lets Jaskier position him until his knees are bent and his feet are planted on the bed on either side of Jaskier. Geralt swallows past the lump forming in his throat as a wave of vulnerability crashes down on him. 

Jaskier must be able to sense his skittishness, because he takes Geralt’s hand in his and rubs soothing circles into it with his thumb. With his other hand, he rests the pad of his pointer finger against Geralt’s hole until he slips it in, a second finger quickly joining it. 

Geralt can feel himself tensing up, but he tries to relax, tries to let himself give in and just be boneless. 

Jaskier stretches him out until Geralt whines in anticipation. Jaskier chuckles and pats his clean hand on Geralt’s thigh. “I seem to recall you saying I was the impatient one?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. 

Jaskier laughs again. “Fine, fine. I truly don’t understand why people think you’re so frightening.”

Geralt could list a few reasons, but he doesn’t want to kill the mood. He just grunts at Jaskier until he finally shuffles closer to Geralt and presses inside of him. 

Geralt’s head thumps back against the mattress as he squeezes his eyes shut, adjusting to the overwhelming fullness and the way the feeling radiates through his stomach. 

Are you good?” Jaskier whispers. 

Geralt nods, one of his hands finding Jaskier’s and tangling their fingers together, while the other grips the sheets as Jaskier begins to thrust.

He starts out slow, almost too slow for Geralt to bear, each slide dragging inside of him and creating delicious friction while the head of Jaskier’s cock nudges his prostate.

Geralt hums. 

“Let me hear you,” Jaskier says into his ear. 

Geralt looks off to the side, but Jaskier puts a finger on his chin and tilts his head back. “You’ve never been shy; don’t start now.”

Geralt stays sullenly even quieter than before, deliberately slowing his breathing. 

Jaskier laughs at his obstinance. “No performance review for me?”

“Just shut up and fuck me,” Geralt says breathlessly. 

“Who am I to say no to that?” Jaskier asks, and then there’s no more talking for a while, just gasps and moans as Jaskier slams into Geralt at a pace that leaves them both panting. 

Finally, Jaskier shudders to his climax and wraps a hand around Geralt’s weeping cock to bring him over the edge with him. 

Jaskier slips out of him and collapses onto the bed beside him, draping his leg over Geralt’s thigh, his fingers meandering their way again to the forest of scars that live on Geralt’s skin. 

“You’re lovely. Do you believe me yet?”

Geralt gives an unimpressed hum. 

“Well, lucky for you, I have the whole rest of my life to make you see reason.”

Geralt likes the sound of that.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #ficlet #fanfiction #contemplative writing #5+1 fic

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Lines in Your Skin

read it on ao3

It's a sick sort of irony that Geralt never worried about certain vanities before Jaskier came into his life.

It starts with little things; the state he comes back in after a hunt, the transformation he goes through when he takes his potions, the colour of his hair - all things that once were just an insignificant part of who he is. But Jaskier is youthful and soft and beautiful and Geralt feels old and broken next to him. Before him, it didn’t matter who saw him or in what state or what they thought about him. His body was just another tool, there to eat and sleep and fight and fuck and what it looked like didn't concern him in the slightest.

The only time he ever cared was when people cowered in the streets, but even then he was adjusting to that now it’s become just another thing he tries not to think too much about. It only matters now if it means he’s denied housing or entrance somewhere and Jaskier usually sees to making sure that doesn’t happen.

Before Jaskier, even the lovers he took saw him fully nude and never gave it a second thought. If they did, it was to ask about the scars, to wonder where they came from and there was a time when Geralt was happy to tell those stories. These days, the only time he’s naked is if he’s alone to bathe.

The first time Jaskier tries to get him into a bath, Geralt nearly kicks him out of their room.

Geralt is disgusting, covered in kikimore blood after having to take the thing out from underneath it. He wants nothing more than a peaceful bath alone, but he wrenches his shoulder in an ill-timed strike and Jaskier is worrying over him. He will hardly let Geralt out of his sight, which is going to make bathing impossible, but what worries him most is when Jaskier insists on washing his hair because you can't wash yourself properly with one arm.

Geralt’s blood runs cold and his mind races to come up with any excuse not to get in that bath. His breath comes in short, shallow bursts and he eyes the door as Jaskier busies himself with preparing soaps and oils and all sorts of things Geralt deems unnecessary. He just wants to be clean without all the fuss and muss of whatever this all is.

Geralt only relents when he moves to unclasp his armour and pain shoots through his shoulder. Jaskier, to his credit, doesn’t gloat or even say much of anything as he gets Geralt out of his armour, and, mortifyingly, his clothes.

When he gets into the tub, he sinks as low as he can in the water, thankful when it grows murky, obscuring the lower half of his body. Jaskier pays it little attention, more focused on the bucket of clean water at his feet. He soaps up Geralt’s hair, picking through the tangles like he’s always done it and rinsing the soap out once he’s finished. The first chance he gets, Geralt shoos him from the room so he can get out of the cooling water and dress himself before he crawls out of his skin.

What makes things difficult is that Jaskier always seems intent on seeing as much of him as possible at any given time. Geralt knows there’s an inherent curiosity about Witchers and he can hardly blame Jaskier for wanting to know more about his companion, but there are things he doesn’t want him to know. In the short time they’ve been together, Geralt has grown begrudgingly attached to the bard and he doesn’t want Jaskier running in the other direction when he learns who he really is.

What’s worse is that for possibly the first time in his life, he wants Jaskier to know these things about him. He wants, more than anything, to be able to be comfortable around him because Jaskier is always so carefree with him. The way Jaskier looks at him sometimes sparks a fire deep within him and the way he touches him with such easy affection shatters him from the inside out.

But how can he let him, knowing it would scare him off? Even the thought of getting naked in front of him quells the strongest rush of lust.

Then one night, he’s hurt badly after being blindsided by an alp. He staggers back to the inn, breathless and aching. Thankfully, Jaskier isn’t in the room when he returns, so Geralt collapses onto the bed without having Jaskier worrying over him. The relief is short-lived when Jaskier bursts into the room and even with his eyes shut, Geralt can tell he isn’t happy.

"Geralt!" There’s the quick thud of footsteps and then Jaskier is at his side, one hand sliding under his back to ease him into a somewhat upright position.

Geralt groans as his body shifts but he cooperates well enough to have cushions piled behind them and he’s happier once he’s allowed to lean against them. Jaskier touches his face and runs his hands frantically all over him, checking to make sure he’s alright. He isn’t, but there isn’t much damage to his armour, so Jaskier shouldn't be able to tell that. And anyway, he will be fine, but explaining that to a panicked Jaskier takes more energy than he has right now. So he sits quietly and lets Jaskier fawn over him. Until he starts playing with the clasps on his armour.

He doesn’t stop him, but his entire body stiffens with each piece that’s stripped away and while Jaskier seems much calmer with a task to occupy him, Geralt is not. His heart beats a little too quickly and his fingers itch to grab at Jaskier’s wrists and pull him away, unsure of how far he’ll take this. But he’s too tired to stop him and he doesn’t want to hurt him. But he doesn’t want Jaskier to see him, either - especially like this.

There are deep gashes on the underside of his arms and he knows his back is bruised even if he can’t see it. Jaskier would be horrified. Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and Jaskier pauses, his fingers faltering on a pauldron.

“Geralt? Your heart is racing, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Potions,” he chokes out. It’s a lie, but only partway. Black Blood is still coursing through his veins - yet another reason for Jaskier not to look at him. The little sigh he gets in response is a clear indication Jaskier doesn’t believe him, but he continues in his work anyway.

Jaskier pales when he feels the sleeve of Geralt’s shirt, no doubt drenched in blood, and when he pulls his hand away and finds it black, he looks horrified. Geralt clenches his jaw and waits for the inevitable exclamation of horror, but it doesn’t come. And despite the look on Jaskier’s face, he doesn’t smell disgusted. He doesn’t even smell scared. The scent is off slightly, mixed with something Geralt can’t quite place, but if he had to name it, he’d say Jaskier was worried.

He doesn’t pull away or scream, but lifts the hem of Geralt’s shirt, pressing one palm against his back to help him ease forward. And Geralt doesn’t understand. His brothers and Vesemir have patched him up more times than he can count, but that’s different. Even healers shy away from him when he’s in this state. So why is Jaskier, a bard so at ease with him?

Even with his shirt added to the mess on the floor, Geralt can’t relax. Jaskier can see his whole chest now and if he leans too far forward, he’ll be able to see his back where he’d been thrown against the tree. Bruising like that looks bad at the best of times, but combined with Black Blood, it’s bound to look downright terrifying.

He wants so badly to let Jaskier draw him in and soothe him, but he can’t. Losing him to something like this would be too much.

But of course, Jaskier mistakenly thinks it’s the elixirs that keep him so stiff and alert and he guides him back against the cushions, adjusting to sit at his side. He runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair and rubs his shoulders to try and ease some of the tension. It’s a kindness Geralt doesn’t deserve and he shudders as Jaskier’s hand slides around his back.

He lets himself be tipped forward only because Jaskier is determined and right now Geralt doesn’t have the strength to resist him.

He keeps his breathing as steady as he can, waiting for the moment when Jaskier sees the bruising, but nothing happens. Jaskier is much more gentle as his hands slip down, soothing over the darkening skin, but he doesn't pull away and his scent remains untouched by disgust.

Geralt lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. It's not until Jaskier's fingers slip over one of the thick, tough scars on his shoulder that Geralt flinches away. Jaskier withdraws quickly, apologetically.

"Sorry," he breathes, "did that hurt?" Geralt wants to tell him that it hasn't hurt in years, but he just shakes his head in silence. He thinks Jaskier will be upset with him, but when the bard pushes himself up off the bed and disappears, he returns shortly with a mug of ale and a warm washcloth.

The next time, things are different. Jaskier has seen him and he didn't run away and he's still here now, so that must mean something. Geralt agrees to let him bathe him without a fuss and this time, he doesn't dread taking his clothes off in front of him. He even lets Jaskier watch, though to say he lets him is a bit of a stretch. The room is small, especially with the bath, and Jaskier's eyes have been tracking him since he returned.

He doesn't mind this time. He likes the feeling of having Jaskier's eyes on him and even as he pulls his shirt up over his head, the anxiety isn't as bad as before.

He climbs into the bath and sinks into the warm water, shutting his eyes and leaning back against the frame. Jaskier's hands find him quickly, working clean water through his hair and adding scented oils that smell like him. Geralt isn't sure he understands the gesture, nor the point of it, but he likes the idea of walking around smelling like Jaskier.

"It'll make you more appealing to the locals," Jaskier explains. Geralt doubts that, but he appreciates it all the same.

Jaskier is freer with his affections than anyone else Geralt knows and it took him time to adjust to that. He's still adjusting to that. Like the way Jaskier curls up to him when they make camp even when the night air is arguably too warm for cuddling. Or when he drapes himself over him when he's drunk. Or sings to him when they're alone - or when they’re not. But tonight, Jaskier sings of new things. Things that make Geralt's stomach twist in the most confusing ways.

He sings just for him of the lines in his skin and Geralt settles under his hands despite the new energy buzzing under his skin.

And then the songs are not just for him. Jaskier writes ballads praising his bravery and worshipping the scars Geralt hates so much. And when they're alone, Jaskier seeks them out, running his fingers over the discoloured skin like Geralt is something precious, something to be handled with care.

And slowly, as Jaskier's songs draw attention and praise, Geralt adjusts to the idea of people seeing him again. To the idea of Jaskier seeing him. After a time, he finds himself looking forward to coming back to whatever place they find themselves in and to getting Jaskier's hands on him.

Things change when Jaskier realizes how much he enjoys it. It happens slowly and then all at once; they've had this routine now for what feels like forever, but it's not until one fateful night that Jaskier realizes how much Geralt likes it. He doesn't mean to groan as Jaskier's fingers press in against the base of his skull, but it comes out anyway. He's a little drunk, so he doesn't even try to deny it and he knows Jaskier heard him anyway.

After that, Jaskier pushes the boundaries between them. He’ll let his touch linger, fingertips soft and light against his skin. And when Geralt is in the bath, Jaskier will slide his palms lower than necessary, sometimes dipping just below the edge of the water and Geralt will hold his breath. When they sit together, Jaskier will set his hand on Geralt’s thigh, rubbing softly, almost absently as he works on whatever it is he’s doing. Despite being fully clothed when it happens, this affects Geralt more than anything and he has to focus hard on anything else to keep himself from reacting to the touch.

Then one night, he's preoccupied. They'd been drunk at the inn last night and after a round of sappy love songs, Jaskier had sprawled in his lap, smiling dopily up at him. He'd slipped an arm around his neck and pulled himself up so he was close, so close and Geralt could feel his breath on his skin, smell the vodka on his lips. And he'd wanted so badly to kiss him. And Jaskier, free and loving and wonderful, had been so close, pulling himself within inches of Geralt's mouth before being so rudely interrupted by one of his admirers.

If Geralt hadn't been so stunned, he might have been angry. And now he's just mournful that they were interrupted. He can't stop thinking about it, even as he plunges his sword between the eyes of a wyvern, his thoughts are of Jaskier.

So when he gets back to the inn, he considers staying downstairs for the evening, but he finds himself climbing the stairs to their room anyway. He's already doing a terrible job of not thinking about it when he gets up to the room to find a bath drawn for him already. The scent of Jaskier's salts and oils hits his nose immediately and he shuts his eyes, inhaling deeply.

Soft hands find his shoulders and Geralt hears the door click shut behind him as Jaskier directs him toward the bath. Jaskier lifts his shirt up over his head, brushing his fingers down his sides again as he drops Geralt's shirt to the ground. He slips away to let Geralt finish undressing and a part of him wishes he would stay and finish what he started. But he shouldn't want that so instead, he strips purposefully, aware, with every motion, that Jaskier is watching him.

But now it doesn't feel wrong. It's exciting to know that Jaskier wants to see him; that he's seen the scars and the bruises and the wounds when they're fresh and he still wants to see him like this. So he's not doing a very good job of pushing down his feelings as Jaskier rubs the back of his neck. He's focused more on Jaskier's fingers and the way they press into his muscle; it feels good, it feels too good, but Geralt doesn't want him to stop. Not yet.

Jaskier tips his head back, cradling it with one hand as the other slips around the side of his neck. His thumb brushes Geralt's throat and a soft breathy sigh escapes him. Jaskier hums in response and both his hands push lower down his chest. Geralt presses into the touch, arching off the side of the tub and when the feeling goes straight to his cock, he freezes and he knows Jaskier can feel it.

Geralt silently curses himself as Jaskier's hands pull away from his body. He wasn't supposed to let this happen. He's been doing so well at distancing himself, right up until now. He’s so occupied thinking about what he did wrong that he doesn't realize when Jaskier returns with a sheet for him to dry off.

Geralt gets out obediently, letting Jaskeir wrap him in the sheet and tug him close. Jaskier rubs the linen over his skin and Geralt wants to pull away, the same feelings of shame and inadequacy creeping up on him, but Jaskier won't let him. He holds him close, drops the sheet and takes a step back, reaching out for Geralt's hands to tug him after him.

He's still damp and his hair drips down his back, but Geralt follows and allows himself to be maneuvered onto the bed between Jaskier's legs, his back against Jaskier’s chest.

"Just relax," Jaskier hums, pressing his nose against his ear. "It's just me."

That's the problem, Geralt thinks but he lays against him anyway. Jaskier doesn't have the heightened senses he does, but he's alert and he picks up on things quickly, he'll be able to tell that Geralt is struggling with this like he did before.

He shuts his eyes and tries not to think about it as Jaskier's hands find the familiar dips and planes of his chest, brushing lightly over his skin.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" Jaskier asks. Geralt grumbles at him, but Jaskier is unfazed, brushing his hands lower, past his hips and along his thighs to push them apart. Geralt's cock gives a twitch of interest, but if Jaskier notices, he doesn't acknowledge it.

"Geralt," he prompts again, but Geralt says nothing. "Fine. You're lucky I like the strong, silent type." He huffs a little laugh into Geralt's hair and brushes his fingertips along the insides on his thighs and Geralt is only so strong.

His hips twitch as Jaskier's fingers slide over them, pressing into the sensitive skin. Heat rolls through his body and he knows he shouldn't want this, he knows Jaskier is just helping in his own way. Except maybe he's not because he did almost kiss him. Though he was drunk, but he was so soft and pliant in Geralt's lap and the way he looked at him-

"Jaskier?"

"Shh, darling, let me take care of you." He presses his nose into Geralt's hair and he breathes slowly, humming at first. But he seems to distract himself from the song, mumbling against the back of Geralt's head.

"I know you don't like them," he breathes, running his fingers along the length of a thin, bright scar on Geralt’s thigh, "but I do. They make you who you are." He goes on about how brave he is and how strong and Geralt squirms uncomfortably under the praise. At first, he sounds like he's talking out his ass, but his hands are soft and smooth and when he presses his lips to Geralt's shoulder, he switches tracks.

His fingers seek out the rough lines of his scars again, running along them almost lovingly as he whispers against his skin.

"You're beautiful," he breathes. It's a far cry from the truth, Geralt knows, but something about the way Jaskier says it makes him want to believe it. He's still recovering from the surprise when Jaskier leans in against his ear, pushing his hair out of the way with his nose. "I want to kiss you," he says and Geralt squirms. The heat that settled low in his gut spreads up, burning into his chest.

He squirms as Jaskier's hands move up, sliding over his cheek and Jaskier turns his head toward him. Geralt stiffens as Jaskier's lips touch his, afraid he'll pull away and then when he doesn't, Geralt softens again and presses back against his chest.

Jaskier kisses like he expected him to, soft and passionate without trying too hard. And genuine. Jaskier is a performer at heart, but he knows when to quit the act and right now he's nothing if not sincere. When he pulls away, Geralt lets out a soft whine at the loss, but Jaskier's lips seek out the sensitive spot behind his jaw, slipping lower down his neck and out across his shoulders.

His hands move in time, brushing lower toward his hips. He's intentionally light about it, letting his fingers drift almost above his skin and Geralt's hips rise of their own volition, pressing up to feel the warmth of Jaskier's hands against him.

"Can I touch you?" Jaskier asks and Geralt breathes out a shaky yes almost instantly.

He shudders as Jaskier’s hands press more firmly against his hips, twitching with impatience. He wants this, he wants Jaskier, and it seems stupid to deny himself what he's wanted for so long when Jaskier is right here offering, despite the scars and the bad attitude.

Jaskier is quiet for once as he slips one hand lower, curling around the base of Geralt's cock. Geralt is already hard, has been for some time under Jaskier's attention and it feels good to finally have some semblance of relief. He tries not to push, not to force the touch, but Jaskier's hand feels too good on him and he can't help but jerk up against him.

"That's it darling, just like that."

Geralt drops his head back, rolling against Jaskier's shoulder and he can feel the way Jaskier smiles against him. Jaskier grips him more firmly, stroking as well as he can from the base of him right up to the tip. He runs the pad of his thumb over his head and Geralt very nearly whimpers.

He wants so badly and despite all his common sense telling him that fucking Jaskier is a bad idea, he can't help himself. He leans into Jaskier's kisses, rolls his hips with the rise and fall of his hand and when Jaskier starts talking again, it nearly undoes him.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, "and gods you're huge. Fuck, Geralt look at you. You're stunning-" Jaskier squeezes around the head of his cock and Geralt's thighs twitch, jerking hard against Jaskier's.

Jaskier tells him he's good, tells him he's beautiful and Geralt soaks it all up, wants so desperately to believe it. When he shifts, pressing himself back against Jaskier’s chest, he can feel the jut of Jaskier’s cock, pressing into his lower back and his cock throbs. Heat rolls through him and he rolls his head back on Jaskier’s shoulder. The realization that Jaskier is turned on affects him in ways he didn’t exact and now that he notices it, the scent of his arousal is overwhelming.

His own cock gives a twitch and when Jaskier's hand slips down again, his fingers are slick with precome. He slides down again and Geralt thrusts up, the coil of heat tightening in his gut. He presses his hands to Jaskier's thighs as he creeps closer to the edge, digging his fingers into the soft silk of his trousers.

He wants him naked, wants to feel his skin against him but he settles for tipping his head up, nipping against the line of his jaw. Jaskier lets out a breathy moan and strokes him more quickly. He's not trying to, but his hips roll against Geralt's back and that’s all it takes to push him over the edge. Jaskier gets him off with a couple of quick tugs and Geralt's legs shake against him as he rides through it.

Jaskier strokes him through, kissing his neck and running his fingers through his hair. He's clearly aroused and he slips his fingers over the head of Geralt's cock, sliding through his spend until it's too sensitive and Geralt gives a groan of impatience.

Jaskier's hand settles against his, tracing little wet circles into the skin and Geralt slumps against him, boneless and exhausted. He savours the soft words, the delicate fingers brushing through his hair, and he shuts his eyes as his breathing slows to normal.

"You didn't come," he breathes and Jaskier hums thoughtfully.

"That’s alright love, not tonight."

"Hmm."

Jaskier laughs as he shifts behind him, sliding out to climb up off the bed. The sight of him, hard in his trousers, sends a rush through Geralt and he slips a little lower down the bed. He would argue, pull Jaskier down against him and bring him off himself, but he's too tired now. He watches as Jaskier crosses to the bath, dipping a scrap of linen into the water.

Tomorrow, he thinks, his eyes growing heavy. He'll repay the favour in the morning.

#geraskier #smut #rex writes #body image #insecurities #the witcher

[annmarcus63]

The kindest thing

“Yes yes, I remember the I don't need anyone needing me situation, but well, here we are, don't you know? you are my very best friend on the whole wide world"

Geralt's heart is broken but Jaskier intends of heal him with kindness.

-I wanted to post this here again, because I can and I want to. Sorry for my bad english. Love you.-

Here's the link to ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/24114205

The war has shaken all the realms, everyone everywhere talks about the tragic death of queen Calanthe and the wiped out of her army, people fearfully whisper about the mountains of corpses the Nilfgaardian army leaves at its wake. Jaskier awakes sweating and trembling on a cold night, his chest contracting despite his controlling breathing. He fears the war, of course, but not for him, he’s safely away after all, whta is war for a bard but geat songs. He fears for certain witcher and his child surprise. News about princess Ciri's death haven't reached him, he really really hopes she's ok, again not for him but for Geralt. Because although the witcher has never showed any interest in the child, the bard knows the loss could be too great for the witchers' heart. Yes, he believes Geralt holds a heart, big and hard to reach, but a heart no less.

It's been over a year since that dreadful day on the mountaintop. Over a year since that scornful words and the look that spoke volumes. Jaskier healed himself with music and dancing, also with the normal tears rivering down his cheeks every now and then. Jaskier wasn't a stranger at traveling alone, after all he and Geralt used to part ways more often than not, even though that used to happen after months and months of traveling together. He forced himself to picked his broken heart, rebuilded even if he still could see the cracks.

After the sadness came the anger. Anger for the unfairness thrown so casually against him. How dares he? How. Dares. He? all those years of friendship and loyalty repaid with words aimed to pierce, and pierce they did. Words that were the outcome of the witchers' broken heart, because Yennefer had walked away from Geralt despite the love he feel for her. True love or not, it was still love. Jaskier was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And then came the sorrow for his sweet witcher, and his perpetual broken heart. He wasn't justifying the harshful words and his own broken heart, of course not, but at least he now understands why Geralt said what he said. He needed to broke something, even if that something was their friendship. Oh that idiotic emotionally abused witcher, if only Jaskier could mend him back together, if only Geralt let him. And one day the opportunity presented itself. After a very glorious performance at the local inn, he heard a couple of farmers gossiping about a witcher fighting an Alp no far from there. In all his traveling years he has never encountered with a witcher other than Geralt, he hopes that same fortune still follows him around. He packs his lute and the rest of his possessions to get back to the road. Asking is always the best resource if you want to find someone or something, and is oddly easy to locate Geralt.

Maybe destiny is part of their relationship, not that he'd ever mention it to the witcher.

An old woman point him to a road towards Kaedwen. Uh, So he's going to Kaer Morhen. He considers himself lucky to find him before disappearing like he used to every winter.

He walks and walks until the smell of smoke reaches his nose, he has learned a thing or two from Geralt about tracking, thank you very much, he's not that useless. Again maybe destiny is helping him, he's not that good, you see.

He goes through the trees until reaching a small clear and the unmistakable arrange of a camp. He sees a small figure, a girl with a black cloak covering her face, tending a very familiar horse. He clutches at his lute strap, by Melitele he's so fucking nervous, his heart beating frantically against his ribcage, his ears stuffed with white noise.

What if Geralt sends him away without a word? what if he spat more hurtful words? what if he's not welcome? Well, at least he'd have tried.

"Hi" he says softly

The child tense visibly, slowly she takes a step away from Roach and turns around.

"You better go before he sees you" so young age and so much steel in her voice, no wait-

"Princess?"

"Bard?" of course he returned to Cintra after the child surprise incident, Queen's Calanthe court liked so much his first performance that he was invited to play three more times, one on Ciri's birthday. He is the best bard of all the continent after all.

Of course Geralt would find her, of course. He felt a wave of pride surging from his chest. He did it, he found her. He was not alone.

“Jaskier?” Oh that voice, that damn voice reverberating on every fiber of his skin. And suddenly the witcher is there, in all his splendour, sword on one hand but he's not wearing his armor.

"Hello Geralt" and he gifts him with a sweet smile, despite the sweat on his palms and the creeping terror of being rejected. But Geralt doesn't said anything, doesn't move, some may think he's a statue. "Don't worry I won't stay long, I only want to talk if you allow me" he didn't came with the intention of staying, no, he'll respect the witchers blessing no matter what.

More than a year full of a banquet of emotions for the witcher, oh and how he love him still.

The silence stretch for long seconds, it may be hours for all he knows. And just when he's about to turn back to were he come from..

"I'll stay with Roach to give you privacy" dear Ciri says and Geralt nods rather insecure and Jaskier's heart aches at the picture. Jaskier follows Geralt to the camp, not that far from Roach and Ciri but that'll suffice. He's sure Geralt would want to keep an eye on her. The witcher sits against a tree leaving the bedroll for him. Jaskier place gently the lute on the ground not far from him. They sit facing each other.

breathe in breathe out, come on Jaskier you can do this. Bollocks, Geralt probably can sense how nervous he is.

He sees a small twitch on Geralt's lips like he wants to say something and Jaskier freaks out. "No!" he yelps, and then more softly he adds "No, let me talk. You know how much I love the sound of my own voice" he says with a small smile, but Geralt doesn't sees it, he's golden eyes are planted on the grass.

Here goes nothing.

“I've known you for a long time now, Geralt. It may be not that long for you with all your long long years, but it is to me as the fleeting human that I am. You knew me as the annoying bard, and now you know me as the annoying old bard. I've spent most part of my life by your side, if not the best part of it. And I did it gladly, and I would do it again gladly, because I choose to. Even in the first years when you were trying rather desperately to get rid of me. I choose to. Not because of the magnificent songs I wrote but because I liked -like- your company.” Jaskier force himself to stop, a nasty bump forming in his throat, is harder than he though. You are already here, you may as well give it all. "You...you’re all that I have" And this earns him a reaction, Geralt twitch against the tree and sends him a indecipherable look to return it at the same spot on the grass. “Yes yes, I remember the I don't need anyone needing me situation, but well, here we are, don't you know? you are my very best friend on the whole wide world" There, yes, a smile on his lips."You are, my friend. I mean, no matter how many times you denied it. It took me more than two decades to get to know you. It took me five years to know that you would rather spend a night under the stars than in a inn without proper stables for Roach. Ten years to know how much you hate fish but love the rabbit broth I cook. More than ten years to know when to shut up otherwise you'll snap at me, though I admit I've not always follow this knowledge. I could go on and on but not today. And so I know you really didn't mean what you said on the mountain, at least I hope, not completely. You were unfair and cruel. Nothing of what you accused me is my fault, not entirely, but if it’s my fault then you must know I'm truly sorry, If I had known I assure you I would have left your side a long time ago.”

"Not your fault" Geralt says with a weak whisper. And Jaskier feels something loosening up on his chest, carefully he closes the distance between them, knees almost touching. "Good, good. I came to apologize even though I didn't do anything wrong, but you should know that I won't do it again. I'll not tolerate more words with intent to hurt. I'll no longer be taken for granted or tossed aside like a old pair of shoes. Have I made myself clear? Because if you do something like that again, oh by Melitele I promise I'll make you pay.”

"Yes I understand" Answers. The white wolf stripped of all his barriers. He sounds so tired, so broken.

"Oh my sweet sweet witcher" he says lovingly, daring to reach out for a lock of white hair falling above Geralt's cheekbone to tuck it behind his ear. And Geralt for once doesn't pull away. "Life has not been kind to you. But I am, I have and will be kind to you till my last breath. You have me, even thru distance, you can count on me, even if I'm not that resourceful. Look at me Geralt. Yes, there you are. Hi. You have my undying loyalty and consideration, and you know why? because I'm your friend and I love you. By the way I'm amazingly happy for you have finally found your child surprise, although I wish it had been on better circumstances” Geralt smile at him, that small curve on his lips accompanied by the delicate flutter of his eyelids. And Jaskier falls for the man a little bit more. "Oh well, that was intense. I should get going, I'm planning on staying on the road for few more months maybe years who knows? I still have a couple of great songs on my sleeve about our adventures. Oh! and I received a letter from Oxenfurt. They recognize me as one of the best poets of the age. They have a classroom reserved for me, can you imagine? Me? teaching! a terrible idea If you ask me. But i'm not prepared for being the grumpy scholar, not yet if ever, I'll make them wait a few years, if old age doesn't take me first. You must come and visit me there, yes you must! or on the road when all this is over. Don't make me wait that long, ok?” He reach one last time to grab Geralt's wrist and squeeze, fully smiling before standing up, he dusts his fine clothes and hang his lute over his shoulder. "Be safe my witcher and take care of each other" he says loud enough to be heard by Ciri. He approaches the princess in question and Roach who neigh in delight, she's got a soft spot for him and the sugar cubes he always stuff in his pockets, just like the ones currently on his fist. Roach gently took a couple from his open hand.

“You're safe with him, princess”

"I know...and uhmm it's Ciri"

"Ciri” he replies

"Is good to know he have someone" say Ciri in a small voice.

"He’s always had but he needs to be reminded of most of the time.” She nods solemnly, in that moment Jaskier knew she'll grow up to be an excellent warrior even better than Geralt. He hopes he'll be there to witness it. And with that he leaves, throwing a last glance at the witcher, who's still sitting against the tree, lost in thought.

He looks at the sky, nightfall is about to come in more or less two hours, enough time to reach the nearest town to rent a room. He'll not perform, not tonight. Tonight is for him alone. His stomach grumbles embarrassingly loud, he's only eaten bread and a green apple on the entire day. He can't wait to get to the inn to order a plate of the delicious pork he could smell as he passed by. Perhaps he can afford to buy honey pastry, oh yes.

With every step taken away from the camp, he feels like he's finally free, the acid sensation in his chest and throat is no longer there. The sorrow finally gone. Suddenly, subtly, unexpectedly tears began to pour, he's sobbing, but smiling at the same time. He’s undoubtedly content.

Footsteps. Heavy footsteps behind him. He stops.

It can't be.

He turns unhurriedly, and he sees him, sees Geralt running towards him . A desperate expression on his handsome features. And Jaskier knows what's about to happen. With a swiftly movement takes the strap of his lute to let it fall at the ground. Sorry girl.

"...Jaskier" he grunts just before engulfin the bard in those strong arms. Barely recovered from the shock, Jaskier sobs some more on the witcher's shoulder. This is truly happening. Geralt is hugging him like he's an anchor, like he's worth it.

And then Geralt takes his face between his hands, cleaning the still flowing tears with his thumbs. Faces inches apart. "What have I done to deserve you" he whispers with devotion. "You should be angry, you should hate me. I don't deserve..."

"You deserve this and more. Much more." Geralt's eyes are wet and Jaskier feels blessed to be granted the trust to seeing him so open, so vulnerable.

"And you, do you deserve this despicable treatment? Forgive me" Jaskier smiles against the tears, bumping his forehead with Geralt's. "Forgive me"

"There's nothing to forgive, my witcher" Sweetly Geralt guides his lips to his forehead, his eyes, his nose, the corner of his lips. Jaskier may as well die with the happiness surging from every part of his being.

“I wanted to search for you, I was planning on to, after leaving Ciri at Kaer Morhen. You're too far important for me and therefore you're important to Nilfgaard. Come with me, come to Kaer Morhen with us."

"Yes" Because he'll always say yes, no matter what. Yes to this life, to the danger, to the songs. Yes to Geralt. They stayed like that for a long time, holding each other, breathing each other scents, loving each other.

There were still things left unsaid, but it was enough for now. They needed to rest. To hold each other some more, maybe.

#geraskier #jaskier #hurt jaskier #hurt Geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier x geralt #the witcher

[valdomarx]

*Ahem* don't know if you write prompts or not, but think of this: Jaskier is coming with Geralt to Kaer Morhen, both of them still not in anything romantic/sexual. But it's not Jaskier who's adored and loved by everyone. It's Geralt, their favourite winter bitch. Jaskier stumbles across him being fucked by Lambert, and Geralt comes, looking into his eyes; sees him sucking Eskel off in his bedroom. He had no idea Geralt can be so relaxed and slutty. In the end, they all have some hot group sex.

Anon, you’re a genius. I present to you the Geralt is the slut of Kaer Morhen fic we all secretly wanted.

Jaskier has been waiting months for this, to see the famous Kaer Morhen for himself, to talk with the other witchers Geralt trained with and to hear their stories. He couldn’t believe his luck when Geralt actually agreed to bring him here for the winter, despite the fact Geralt barely seems to tolerate his presence even after all these years.

Walking through the great gate to the crumbling castle takes his breath away, the sad state of the deteriorating walls somehow an apt metaphor for the strong but underappreciated men who live here. And meeting the other witchers is a revelation, each of them throwing Geralt’s character into sharp relief in the way that seeing someone among their very old friends inevitably does.

–

The castle is as homey as one could hope for from a tumbledown ruin, and the witchers have taken care to provide Jaskier with what he might need. Despite their reputation for brutality, they are clearly considerate hosts. The room he is shown to on his first night has a spacious bed, a bowl and a pitcher of water for washing, and even a little tray with some dried fruit on it.

What it is lacking, however, is more than one thin blanket. Witchers don’t feel the cold the way humans do, it seems, and Jaskier lasts bare minutes in bed before he decides that if he doesn’t find something warm to sleep in, he might actually freeze to death before morning.

He does his best to navigate through the twisty corridors and crumbling staircases to Geralt’s room, hoping to beg a spare blanket. But as he approaches the room, he stops short when he hears something unexpected.

The door is cracked enough for him to hear wet slaps and a throaty groan, and Jaskier is not restrained enough to avoid taking a peek. Glancing through the narrow opening, he sees Geralt on his knees, face pressed into Eskel’s crotch, who has his hands twined into white hair and is thrusting down Geralt’s throat.

“Oh, you feel so good, I’ve missed your mouth,” Eskel is panting, and Geralt lets out a high pitched whine which Jaskier has never heard from him before. “Sucking me off so well.”

Jaskier’s pulse races. This is not a side of Geralt he’s ever seen before. Before now, it’s been rushed and infrequent stops at brothels, Geralt disappearing with the occasional adventurous girl in the larger towns. Not this, Geralt pliant and tactile, taking cock down his throat like he’s done it a thousand times.

There’s a thrill of temptation to stay and watch some more, as fucked up as that is. But Jaskier knows how Geralt values his privacy, so he forces himself to turn around and go back to his room.

Once he’s back in bed, the thought of Geralt on his knees keeps him plenty warm.

–

In the morning, Jaskier carefully and deliberately slots the “Geralt and Eskel are fucking” knowledge away and out of his conscious mind, and makes an effort to get to know his hosts. They’re prickly and a little distant, all of them, but if Jaskier can handle that from Geralt he can handle it from these Wolves as well.

He uses his most charming smile to tease a story about fighting a striga out of Eskel, then helps Vesemir prepare and pickle the last of the fresh vegetables to see them through the cold months.

When he heads to bed that night, he swears he doesn’t walk past Geralt’s room on purpose. It happens to be on the route between the kitchen and his room, so it can hardly be avoided. He does, admittedly, slow just a little as he walks past Geralt’s door, left ajar once again.

But this time, he doesn’t hear the deep, scratchy voice of Eskel. This time, it’s Coen’s sinuous tones carrying down the corridor.

And, look, Jaskier never claimed to be a morally upstanding person, okay? And, well, he’s curious. He’s getting a whole new view of his friend. So he takes a peek through the gap in the door.

Geralt is stripped mostly naked and pressed face-first against the wall, with Coen behind him. Jaskier can see by the flick of Coen’s wrist and the way Geralt is practically humping the wall that he has at least two fingers inside him.

“That’s it, good boy,” Coen is saying, voice low. “Gonna open you up nice and loose before I fuck you. Is that what you want?”

“Fuck, yes, I want it, want your cock,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier nearly fucking passes out. He had no idea Geralt could be so… vocal.

He retreats to his room at a clip, and if when he’s in bed he shoves a hand beneath the covers while thinking about the sounds Geralt makes when he’s needy to get fucked, then no one needs to know about that, do they?

–

Jaskier spends the next day very much not thinking about Geralt’s sexual proclivities, thank you very much, and remains focused on ingratiating himself with the Wolves by helping patch up some of the damaged exterior walls. It’s hard, physical work, and by the end of the day his hands are cracked and bleeding, but he’s determined to prove that he can be useful.

Geralt catches his eye at one point and gives him a strange look.

“Do I have cement on my face?” Jaskier asks.

“No,” Geralt says, “you were just looking at me like…” He blows out a breath. “Never mind.”

Shit. Jaskier resolves to be more circumspect in future. He’s going to have to be if he’s going to last the winter here.

Of course, he’s circumspect to a point, but he still has to walk down the corridor past Geralt’s room that evening, his pulse picking up before he even gets close.

This time, the door is wide open, without even a hint of propriety. When Jaskier walks past, there’s absolutely no way he can avoid seeing Geralt naked on all fours on the bed, Lambert behind him using a handful of long hair to yank his head back.

“That’s it, moan for me like the slut you are,” Lambert hisses, slamming into Geralt with deep, hard thrusts. “You know you fucking want it.”

Geralt’s massive shoulders flex and sweat drips down his brow, and he moans in the most filthy way. His eyes are scrunched shut, but when Jaskier’s breath hitches Geralt’s eyes fly open, looking straight at him through the doorway.

Jaskier panics, because even if Geralt having noisy sex with the door open is a bit rich, that still doesn’t excuse his gawping.

But Geralt doesn’t look angry. In fact, he stares at Jaskier in a manner that can only be described as hungry. Jaskier’s heart pounds.

Behind Geralt, Lambert doesn’t let up. He does throw a smirk Jaskier’s way though. “Enjoying the show?” he drawls.

“I…” For perhaps the first time in his entire life, Jaskier is at a loss for words. “Erm.”

He can’t tear his eyes away from Geralt, the way his face is slack with pleasure and his cock hangs huge and heavy between his legs. He’s dribbling seed onto the bed and it might be the most obscene and compelling thing Jaskier has ever seen.

“Best ride this side of the Pontar,” Lambert says, letting go of Geralt’s hair to smack him on the arse. He catches Jaskier’s eye with a devilish grin. “Maybe you ought to have a go at him when I’m done.”

Geralt makes a reedy, whiny noise and comes, messily, spending himself over the bed and staring at Jaskier all the while.

Jaskier gasps. He blushes. Then he turns and runs back to his room as fast as his legs will carry him.

–

The day after that, Jaskier hides out in the library, fussing over the books without reading any of them. He can’t get the image of Geralt being fucked out of his head, and he can’t imagine what the hell Geralt had been thinking leaving the door open like that. Almost like he wanted to be seen. The idea makes Jaskier’s skin prickle.

Vesemir finds him in the library at midday, nodding politely and settling himself in an alcove to read a massive dusty tome on beast classification. Jaskier can’t sit still, worrying his lip between his teeth, wanting to ask for advice but unsure how to proceed.

“Out with it,” Vesemir says after a while, snapping his book shut. “Whatever you want to ask me.”

Oh. He is perceptive. “It’s, ahh, it’s about Geralt.”

Vesemir sighs. “What’s he done now?”

“Nothing! Well, nothing important. I just never realised he was so, umm, popular with the other Wolves.”

“You mean the fact he’s fucking all of them?”

Jaskier swallows wrong and coughs.

“Geralt has a lot of affection to give,” Vesemir says with a shrug. “Though gods know it’s hard to tell from that sour expression that’s always on his face.”

Jaskier fidgets. “And are you and he, you know… ?”

“No, little bard. He’s like a son to me.”

Jaskier lets out a breath. Thank the gods. He want sure he’d have been able to cope with that.

“Guess it’s just you and me being left out then,” he jokes.

Vesemir snorts. “Mmm. I’m sure.”

Jaskier has no idea what to make of that.

–

Jaskier dithers about returning to his room that night. It’s not that he’s been avoiding Geralt, not exactly. It’s just that he’s not quite sure what to say to him so he’s arranged for himself to be elsewhere.

What do you say to your best friend when you’ve watched him being fucked and you both clearly enjoyed it?

Maybe it won’t be a problem. Maybe now Geralt has had three witchers on three consecutive nights he’ll be sated.

That doesn’t seem very likely. Jaskier catches himself hoping it’s not.

Eventually he caves, heading to his room through the drafty corridors and down the crumbling steps, his hands sweating as he approaches Geralt’s room.

This time, it’s quiet. No panting or whispered words or sounds of carnal activity. That’s the tiniest bit disappointing, if he’s honest.

The door is open though, candlelight spilling out onto the floor. He looks in as he passes and Geralt is lounging on his bed, wearing a loose shirt which for some godsforsaken reason is unbuttoned all the way down, and a pair of trousers tight enough to leave little to the imagination. Jaskier inhales sharply.

“Jaskier,” Geralt looks up, smiling coyly, and that’s an unnerving expression to see on his face. “I was hoping you’d pass by.”

“Oh? Right. Yes, well, here I am. And here you are. Though I see you’re, ahh, alone tonight.”

“Not any more. Not now you’re here.” Geralt’s eyes looks almost black in the flickering light.

“I suppose that’s technically true…”

“Did you like watching?” Geralt asks it so casually, like he’s discussing Jaskier’s wine preferences. “Last night, and the nights before?”

Jaskier swallows. He can’t very well deny it. “Yeah. I liked it.”

Geralt smirks. “I thought so. You want to watch again? Or, better yet, join in this time?”

It hadn’t even occurred to Jaskier that joining in could be an option. An image flashes through his mind: Geralt bend over, spreading himself for him, making those delicious noises as Jaskier warms him up. He feels light headed as all the blood in his body rushes southward. “You’d… like that?”

Geralt cups himself through his trousers, stroking the outline of his hardening cock through the fabric and making sure Jaskier sees what he’s doing. “I’d like that a lot.”

Jaskier is still standing in the doorway like an idiot when he hears footsteps and raucous laughter echoing down the corridor.

Eskel, Lambert and Coen come barreling toward Geralt’s room and Lambert gives him a wink. “Back again?” he asks Jaskier. “We were hoping you’d return.”

Coen claps him on the back. “Welcome to the team.”

They’re a team? Jaskier looks back to Geralt, who is leering at the four of them and playing with himself. Apparently, yup, they’re the let’s all fuck Geralt team now.

“Come on, Jask, don’t be shy,” Eskel smiles at him warmly. “I’ll show you how Geralt likes it. We’ll even let you go first.” Lambert scoffs at that but Eskel cuffs him round the back of the head. “Be polite to our guest for once in your life,” Eskel chides.

The three of them push past Jaskier and into the room, laughing and chatting, though Jaskier still stands frozen on the threshold. He looks back to Geralt, who has taken his dick out of his trousers and is ignoring the other wolves to stare at Jaskier.

“Are you sure?” Jaskier asks, quiet.

Geralt grins wickedly. “So very sure.”

Jaskier feels like he has been handed his life’s desires on a silver platter. His heart races, imagining everything he wants to do to Geralt, everything he can do now.

He takes a deep breath and steps into the room.

#ur local filth lord delivers #geraskier #geralt x lambert #and uhhh others #the witcher #anonymous #my writing #kaer morhen #nsfk #george replies

[queenxxxsupreme]

So I was thinking, how do you think the dad!witchers would deal with their wives cravings during pregnancy? I think it would be so cute because they would totally dote on them but also so funny 😂

A/N: Okay absolutely love this!!! So I have absolutely no idea what foods were and weren’t a thing in this time period but I don’t necessarily have the time (or attention capacity) to research correct foods of the time period because I’ll start doing that and then somehow end up on a sight buying cute booties for my dogs. So I apologize ahead of time for anything that is wrong. Also in case some of you don’t know, hot peppers (at least in my family) are banana peppers that have been, like, canned in a pressure cooker. My grandma makes them and it’s the best thing ever. I don’t know if that’s just a hillbilly West Virginia thing but I wanted to make sure you guys know what I’m talking about. 

Lambert 

You absentmindedly rubbed the side of your stomach, chewing on your bottom lip. You turned your head to look over at your sleeping husband. 

He was on his stomach, one arm folded beneath the pillow while the other was on top of the pillow. His eyes were closed and lips slightly parted. 

You knew waking him up just so he could go to the kitchen for you was selfish, but you didn’t want to get up yourself. The kitchen was terribly cold at night, especially since you didn’t keep a fire going in there. You didn’t want to chance something happening to the unattended fire. 

The room was dark, save for the light emitting from the hearth at the end of the bed. The curtains in the window were pulled shut, keeping the bright moonlight from entering and disturbing you or Lambert. 

You shifted around on the bed, pulling the blankets up over you a little more. You turned over on to your side to gaze at the witcher in your bed. 

“Lambert?” You whispered his name. There was no reply.

You bit your bottom lip once more, your thoughts focused solely on getting what you needed from the kitchen. 

You moved your foot underneath the blankets, inching closer and closer to him until you found his calf. You nudged him gently. 

“Lambert?”

He grunted and turned his head away from you. 

You frowned. 

“Lambert, I’m talking to you.”

“I’m sleeping.” His voice was muffled by the pillow. 

“I need help, love. Please?” You hooked your leg between his, then pulled his leg closer to you. 

“Damn it, woman.” He grumbled. “M’trying to sleep. Quit playing footsy with me.”

“Lambert!” You whined, reaching over to rub his arm. “I’m going to die if you don’t help me.”

His eyes opened and he turned his head over. He narrowed his eyes, not amused with your over dramatic statement. 

“Why won’t you sleep, bug?”

“Because I’m hungry.” You frowned, stroking his muscular arm with your fingertips. “I want something from the kitchen but it’s too cold for me to go into there.”

Lambert groaned and rubbed his face. 

“Can’t you just wait until morning?”

“No, I can’t, Lambert. And since you’re the one who put this baby in me, you are obligated to help me whenever I need it.”

He said nothing, still trying to drift back to sleep. You shook his shoulder, whining his name. 

“Laaaamberrrt!”

“Fine! You’re lucky I love you, bug.” He muttered before climbing out of bed.

“Thank you, love.” You smiled excitedly, sitting up in the bed. 

“What do you want?” He tugged on a pair of night trousers that hung low on his hips. 

“That bag of chocolate candies you got for me earlier today.”

“I thought you ate all of that.” He moved towards the door to the room. 

“No, there’s still some left.” You bit your bottom lip for a moment, fingers nervously fisting the blankets. “Love?”

He stopped just in the doorway, turning back to look at you.

“And could you maybe get me a few of those pickles my mother made? The ones she brought last week?”

He furrowed his brows together.

“You want chocolate and pickles? At midnight?”

“Please.” You nodded. Your mouth watered at the thought. 

He stared at you for a few moments and shook his head.

“You’re so weird.”

You smiled as he left, pulling the door shut behind him to keep the warmth in your bedroom. 

You waited anxiously for him to return, eager to eat your fill in pickles and chocolate. 

When he returned, he carried the bag of candies and a bowl with four pickles in it. He passed you both and then lit the candles on your side of the bed with Igni. 

You took a bite of one of the pickles and then put the rest of it down, working quickly to unwrap one of the chocolate candies. 

“Thank you, love.” You spoke through a mouthful of pickle. You added a bite of the chocolate and closed your eyes, almost moaning at the taste. 

Lambert had settled in on his side of the bed facing you, concerned but almost too afraid to really ask. He didn’t know much about pregnancies but it had made you weird. Well, weirder than usual.

“Does it really taste that good?”

“Do you want some?” You offered the bowl to him but he shook his head. 

“No. Nope. No thank you.” He pulled the blankets up over his shoulders. “I swear, the things you eat keep getting weirder and weirder.”

“I can’t help it. It’s your baby that’s doing it.”

He scooted closer to you so that he could tuck his nose into your hip and wrap one arm over your thighs. 

“Love you, bug.”

“Love you too, Lambert.”

Geralt 

Geralt glanced up from his sword to watch you move around the kitchen. 

He was sharpening one of his swords with a whetstone while you tidied up the kitchen. But you stopped cleaning and were now searching through the cupboards. 

“What are you looking for, dove?”

“M’hungry.” You muttered, frowning when you couldn’t find anything you wanted. 

You closed the cupboard and crossed your arms, eyes flickering around the room. Your gaze stopped on a bundle of bananas on the counter.

Without hesitation, you moved down to retrieve the bananas and took the whole bundle to the table. The bowl of fruit on the table caught your eye too, more specifically, the bright yellow lemon resting on top of a couple apples. 

You stared at the lemon for a few moments before going to get a plate and knife. 

“You’re awfully quiet, dove.” Geralt commented.

“I’m sorry. I’m concentrating.” You placed the knife and the plate down on the table then sat down.

“On what?” Geralt paused for a moment, watching you cut the lemon into wedges as if it were an orange. His brows drew together. What the hell were you doing?

“On finding whatever it is this baby wants to eat.”

Once the lemon was peeled, you picked one of the pieces up and ate it like one would eat an orange slice. 

Geralt’s eyes widened at the sight. 

“Love, isn’t that…. Sour?”

“Not really.” You shook your head. Once you were finished with the piece of lemon, you placed the peel down on the plate and picked up a banana. You peeled it and took a bite. 

Your eyes were focused on the banana as you chewed it. Your brows drew together.

“Is something wrong?” The White Wolf glanced back down to his sword and began to sharpen it again. 

“I’m not…. I’m not sure if this is what the baby wants.” You sighed. “But it tastes good so I guess I’ll keep eating.”

Geralt chuckled softly at your reasoning. 

You ate all seven of the bananas and two whole lemons. 

When you were finished, you rubbed your pregnant belly and looked around. You still wanted something else. 

“We should go to the market.” You said, looking at your husband. 

“Now?”

“Yes. I-I need something, Geralt, but I just don’t know what it is.” You frowned. “The baby is still hungry.”

“Jaskier went to the market. I’m sure he’ll bring something back.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” You stood up and moved towards Geralt. He put his sword aside, not wanting you to get hurt, and patted his thigh. 

You settled on one of his legs, wrapping your arm around his neck. 

“Please, love?” You pressed a few kisses to his cheek.

He sighed, rubbing your lower back and leaning forward to kiss your nose. 

“Fine. I’ll go get Roach ready.”

You smiled happily and stood up. 

“Thank you, love.”

As you waited for him to saddle up Roach, you wandered around the kitchen in search of a quick snack. You found a jar of pickles and got to work on eating the entire thing. 

When Geralt walked into the house, he saw your sitting at the table eating the last pickle.

“Did you find what you wanted?”

You nodded, smiling happily. 

“Do you still want to go to the market?” He asked, hoping you’d say no.

“Well, we are now out of pickles.” You looked down at the jar. “What if I want more later?”

Geralt nodded, sighing gently. 

“I’ll go grab your cloak.”

As you finished off the last pickle, you stood up and wiped your hands off on your skirt.

Geralt returned with your cloak and put it on your shoulders. 

“Perhaps we can get a few more bananas while we are out?” You suggested, tying your cloak.

“Whatever you want, my dove, you can get.” He put his arm around you and kissed your temple.

Eskel 

You padded out of your bedroom and down the hallway to the kitchen. You did your best to avoid any floorboards that you knew were squeaky. You didn’t want to wake Eskel so early in the morning.

The sun was peeking through the window in the kitchen, lighting up the room enough for you to navigate it without having to light a candle. 

You pulled a bowl from the cabinet and started for the front door. 

Even though you were just in a white chemise that fell a few inches past your backside, you didn't mind walking around the house to the garden. There were no neighbors close enough to see you, and even if there were, you weren’t too sure you’d care. 

The chemise was hiked up a little more than usual in the front, your softly rounded belly pulled the material up. You weren’t terribly big, but it was evident you were pregnant. 

You walked around the house, feet growing wet from the morning dew that covered the grass. The sun was warm against your skin. A gentle breeze blew your hair. 

You opened the gate to the strawberry patch, which you had to keep securely protected by the fence. Lil Bleater and her friends liked to eat your strawberries.

You knelt down and began to pick ripe strawberries. Once you had filled the bowl up, you went to the well to retrieve some water to rinse them off. 

Satisfied with your work and very determined to see that your cravings were taken care of, you ventured back into the house. 

The strawberries were placed at the kitchen table and you went to the cabinet to retrieve the jar of peanut butter and the jar of hot peppers that you had bought at the market a few days earlier. 

You placed the jars down on the table and then went to get the last three items needed: a fork, a spoon, and a plate. 

With a smile on your lips, you sat down at the table and began to spoon out a hefty amount of peanut butter and hot peppers. You picked up a strawberry and dipped it into the peanut butter. The saltiness of the peanut butter and the sweetness of the strawberry was the combination you had been craving all night. 

You sunk back into your chair, content and happy as you continued to munch on the little treat you’d put together for yourself. The heat that the peppers offered burned your mouth but in a delicious way.

“It’s a little early to be having breakfast.”

You lifted your head to see a shirtless Eskel coming down the hallway. 

“Hi, love.” You smiled at him, waving a little before you put a few hot peppers into your mouth. “This isn’t breakfast. It’s just a snack.”

“Looks like a whole meal.” He commented, moving around the table to sit beside you. He kissed your forehead, his hand coming up to the back of your head. 

“Do you want some?” You offered, scooting the plate of hot peppers and peanut butter closer to him.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. The thought of eating what you were enjoying so much made him almost want to vomit. But he wouldn’t express his dislike for what you were eating. He didn’t want to make you upset or feel bad for what the baby was making you want. 

“I’ll pass, but thank you for the offer.”

You pulled the plate back to your side and picked up another strawberry.

“I couldn’t sleep.” You explained, looking over at your husband. 

“I know. Felt you toss and turn all night.” Eskel put his hand on your thigh, coarse fingertips moving up and down your thigh. “Thought maybe it was your back hurting again.”

“Just me being hungry.” You shook your head a little. “The baby wanted some weird things.”

He smiled, eyes flickering down to your stomach.

“You should’ve woken me up. I would’ve got you whatever you wanted.”

“You looked so peaceful sleeping.” You leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I didn’t want to wake you. Besides, I wanted to get up and walk around.”

“Restless.” Eskel placed his hand on your stomach and leaned over to kiss your cheek. “Maybe after you eat this, you can get some rest.”

You nodded, feeling drowsiness come forward as the attention your cravings had been demanding faded. 

“You should really try this.” You told him, dipping a piece of hot pepper into the peanut butter.

“Not sure that I’d like it.” He answered with a little chuckle. “Sure that won’t mess with your stomach? The peppers?”

“I can eat anything.” You grinned. “The baby loves hot food.”

Eskel nodded, rubbing your stomach softly. 

You ate until you were full and felt almost too sleepy to walk back to bed. 

Eskel kept one arm around you, kissing the side of your head as he guided you to the bedroom. You laid down and he pulled the blankets over you.

“Is there anything you need before I lay down?”

You shook your head, scooting over to the middle of the bed so you could be closer to him. He settled into the bed and wrapped his arms around you.

Taglist: @pressedinthepages @MishaFaye  @whitewolfandthefox @ayamenimthiriel @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @wolfyland07  @belalugosisdead @persephonehemingway @romancebibliophilia @keira-hulmaster @dinonuggs69 @greatestauthorofmygeneration @shadow-hunters-lover @dancingwith-thesunflowers @tedi-fach-las @thecomfortofoldstorries @raspberrydreamclouds @natkowaa @disasteren @weathervanes-my-oneandlonely @onlyhenrys @crazybutconfidentaf @wackylurker @criminaly-supernatural  @magpie343 @permanently-exhausted-witcher @hina-chans-stuff @the-space-between-heartbeats @havenoffandoms @carriebee1 @ger-bearofrivia @naominami @thefirelordm @writingawaymylife @reaganjenelle @badassspaceprincess @theawkwardpedestrian @scarlettwitcher @runawayolives @badassspaceprincess @just-a-sad-donut @summersong69 @an--actual--human--disaster

#dad!witchers #eskel witcher #eskel #lambert witcher #lambert #geralt witcher #geralt #the witcher

[justablobfish]

Finding a present for that person that is impossible to find a present for

Day 13 of my Advent Calender. A new drabble or oneshot everyday until Christmas, following the Continent’s favourite found family and what they’re up to in the winter season. Based on this prompt list

Read on AO3

Day 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

______

It's going to be Jaskier’s second time visiting Kaer Morhen. 

Two years ago, Geralt had asked him only a few days before they were scheduled to separate for the winter. It had all been rather sudden and the whole season had passed in a blur of anxiety and excitement.

He hadn't even met the whole family then, Geralt's little brother Lambert hadn't made it to the keep that year. Then, the year after, Jaskier got delayed by his family until he couldn't make it to the keep anymore; the path had already snowed over. 

This year though - this year Jaskier is determined to make the most of his time at Kaer Morhen and charm his way into the hearts of Geralt's family until they can't imagine winter without him anymore. 

Step one is to make a good first impression after the Wolves haven't seen him in so long. And the easiest way to do that is to get the perfect welcome gift for everyone scheduled to be there. 

He comes across the first gift mere weeks after the snow of the previous winter has melted. After the tedious experience with his parents he decides to spend some time in Oxenfurt to recuperate. 

In his favorite dingy little bookstore he finds the perfect present for Eskel. 

Yes, yes, a steamy romance novel might not necessarily be the best way to prove himself to his lover's family, but the cover of the book shows your usual handsome warrior with very revealing clothing clutching a swooning damsel in distress in his overly muscular arms. Except this protagonist is drawn with an enormous scar covering the left side of his face. 

He's extremely handsome. So is Eskel, of course, but whenever Jaskier tells him as much he just dismisses the compliment. With this book though, Eskel will have to believe him that scars are seen as attractive by quite a number of people. Why else would they draw the cover like this? 

His second gift he also finds in a bookstore, though this place couldn't possibly be more different than where he found the book for Eskel. 

The "Ye Olde Books" in Toussaint sells only the most esteemed antiquities to rich noblemen who never intend to read them and only display them to prove their supposedly good taste and to exaggerate their riches. 

Jaskier quickly determines the oldest book the store has on offer. It's still younger than the recipient of the gift, of course, but the fairy tale stories it holds should still be similar enough to the stories that must have been popular when Vesemir was a child. 

After the events of the last winter Jaskier at least managed to guilt trip his parents enough that he has no trouble paying for the delicate tome. 

As for Lambert, Jaskier didn't meet him the one year he spent at Kaer Morhen, but he and Geralt ran into the younger Witcher on the Path once. It was a brief encounter and Lambert didn't seem to particularly like Jaskier. 

Geralt reassured him afterwards that it's nothing personal and that Lambert doesn't like anyone. 

Even though they couldn't possibly be more different, Lambert somewhat reminded Jaskier of himself. Jaskier is happy with his place in the world now, but he had to carve it out for himself, which hadn't always been easy. He remembers a time when he, too, felt trapped in the life he was born into, never good enough to satisfy his parents or to become a person in his own right, not just the heir to a legacy he wanted nothing to do with. 

So the bitterness Lambert carries around with him feels very familiar. 

His third gift, therefore, is just as expensive as Vesemir's and on top of that requires a large amount of convincing to work out. Luckily, Jaskier has practice annoying someone enough until they agree to anything. He spent most of his life perfecting the skill with the involuntary help of his lover.

By the time winter comes around again, the specially commissioned Gwent card will have started distribution. Though of course Jaskier will carry a copy of the new Lambert hero card with him as well and present it to Geralt's younger brother. He's made sure it would be stronger than the White Wolf card that became popular in recent years. 

Ciri's gift is easy enough. Jaskier simply buys the biggest, fluffiest teddy bear he can find. Ciri is going to roll her eyes at him and claim that she isn't a kid anymore, but that's exactly what makes it the perfect present. With all that destiny business, the kid forgets far too often to allow herself to be a child sometimes. 

How to get this monstrous thing, which is nearly as tall as Jaskier, back to Kaer Morhen is an entirely different story, though… 

The gift for Yennefer isn't hard to find either once he meets up with Geralt and travels with him again. In a run-down little general store in a village in the middle of nowhere, in the furthest corner of the shop, hidden under a fishing net and a set of gardening tools, lies the most atrocious knitted sweater Jaskier has ever seen. There's no reason to abandon old traditions, even if he and Yennefer don’t meet up at Oxenfurt anymore. And in case Yennefer doesn't attend Kaer Morhen this winter, he'll simply keep it around until the next time they meet. The knitwear is so incredibly ugly, it would be a shame to waste it. 

Geralt informs him one day that Lambert will bring a plus one. Not a boyfriend or close friend or anything, just a superficial acquaintance. The fact that Lambert risked his own hide to save the man's life is - apparently - entirely coincidental and without meaning. It's just that this other Witcher of the Cat school has no other place to spend the winter. Nothing more. 

Geralt calls his little brother an emotionally constipated idiot and Jaskier can't help but burst out laughing at the hypocrisy. 

Jaskier isn't sure whether to get this Aiden a gift as well since he never met the man, but as so often in his life, fate takes matters into its own hands. 

He's perusing his favorite clothes store in Vizima when he finds the most beautiful scarf. It's big and woolen and perfectly flashy. Every handspan or so the pattern and colours change completely. All in all it shows every colour of the rainbow. 

That is not the gift for Aiden, of course. But it's going to look great on Jaskier, especially since Geralt still insists he wears that old grey winter cloak. Granted, the cloak is warm, but oh so boring looking. The scarf will be just the right accessory to add a bit of color to his winter wardrobe. 

The gift for Aiden he comes across as he leaves the store. A little boy, who must be the owner's son, sits at the side of the road and busies himself with thread and needle. 

Curious, Jaskier steps closer and finds that the boy is attaching pieces of felt to a simple hairband. 

Once the kid is done he puts the headband on and the felt pieces stand up in such a way that it appears like the boy has kitten ears growing out of his head. 

Jaskier considers for a moment but then decides that if this Aiden is voluntarily hanging out with Lambert, he must have a good sense of humor. He buys the headband off the boy and heads back to his and Geralt's inn room. 

Maybe it's because he's traveling with Geralt and can't really go looking for a gift for the White Wolf, but by the time their departure for Kaer Morhen rolls around, Jaskier has a little something for everyone, except Geralt. He doesn't even have an idea what he could gift to the man. Anything practical like a new whetstone, better armor or a fancy dagger is something that Geralt is far better equipped to pick out himself. Jaskier has little knowledge about such things. 

And while Jaskier has spent the last twenty years of his life convincing the big oaf that he deserves pretty things every once in a while, too, Jaskier can't think of anything that wouldn't just be in the way when they eventually set out on the Path again. 

The end of autumn creeps closer and closer and Jaskier’s head stubbornly remains empty. It shouldn't be this hard to think of something that Geralt would enjoy. After all, Jaskier has known him for over two decades now. But it seems like everything he could get his favorite Witcher he has already gotten him at some point during their travels. 

He still has no idea when they pass the last village on the way to the Witchers’ keep. 

Or when they start making their way up the mountain path. 

Maybe there's a pretty rock he can pick up? 

What? No, that's a dumb idea. He's not just gonna pick up a random rock just because he's desperate. At this point he'll just have to accept the fact that he has no gift for Geralt.

They reach the keep after two days of tedious climbing - not something Jaskier missed from his last visit - and are greeted at the gates by the other Witchers. Geralt's family members each welcome Geralt with a short hug and a pat on the back, while another man, who must be Lambert's tagalong, awkwardly stands to the side. Vesemir and Eskel nod at Jaskier courtly, Lambert only grunts at him. 

Jaskier makes eye contact with Aiden who rolls his eyes at him apologetically over Lambert's behaviour. 

Then Geralt brings Roach to the stables and they all quickly make their way inside. 

In the large dining hall they meet Yennefer and Ciri. Apparently they only came here a day earlier via portal, making Jaskier and Geralt the last to arrive. 

"I have welcoming gifts!" Jaskier addresses everyone. 

Eskel reacts to his present with eyes narrowed in confusion. Then they grow wide with realisation and wonder. 

Lambert scoffs when Jaskier hands him his parcel. He doesn't scoff again after he unpacks it. 

Aiden grins at him widely and immediately puts his gift on. 

Vesemir simply hums appreciatively. It reminds Jaskier far too much of Geralt. He supposes the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. 

Ciri, as expected, reacts with a pout and the declaration that she's not a child anymore. Still, she clutches the plushy to her chest and refuses to let it go when Aiden says he'll take it if she doesn't like it. 

Yennefer snarls at her sweater and quickly turns away from the group to hide it, but just like Ciri does with the teddy bear, she clutches it to her chest protectively. 

Which only leaves Geralt. 

"I, uh…, " Jaskier stutters and stares at his empty hands. 

"Hmm," Geralt hums. "Saving the best for last?" 

He grabs Jaskier by the shoulder, turns him around so that he's facing the room. He hugs Jaskier from behind and places his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

"Seems like you got me the best gift of all," Geralt hums. "Look!" 

Confused, Jaskier glances about the room. Vesemir and Eskel are sitting in a corner, flipping through their respective books. Lambert is chasing Aiden through the room, who has stolen his Gwent card and is waving it around tauntingly. Ciri holds the teddy out to Yennefer, who's holding her sweater to the bear's chest to see if it would fit him. There's nothing out of the ordinary that Jaskier can spot. 

"I don't under-" he begins. 

"Everyone's here," Geralt explains. "My whole family in one place for the very first time. I couldn't possibly ask for more." 

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #Jaskier #geralt of rivia #eskel #lambert #aiden #vesemir #ciri #Yennefer of Vengerberg #theblobfishwrites

[agoodgoddamnshot]

Lovely Bitter Water [E] - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif isn’t mine]

Originally posted on my AO3 account - Rated E

Based on THIS post from @g-e-r-a-s-k-i-e-r​

Word of it doesn’t even reach his ears. A crowd of farmhands gathered around a neighbouring booth in the tavern talk about it, just loud enough to be heard over the crackle of the fire pit and the dozens of other conversations swirling around him.

Geralt tends not to listen to tavern talk. Most of the time, the gossip is mundane and bring and not of much use to anyone – especially to him. He doesn’t care for whose husband was cuckolded by who, or what the nearest royal family’s scandal is.

But his ears do prick at the mention of a bard; a quite famous bard, one that had ridden with the White Wolf. One of the farmers sniggers into his tankard. “Ridden in more ways than one, apparently.” It earns a raucous laugh out of the others.

Geralt tries not to crush his own cup with how pale his knuckles turn.

“Bard wandered right through the next town over,” a farmer says, scratching a patchy beard. "You know what folk are like over there. They don’t particularly like Witchers. Hate them, in fact.”

Geralt turns his head. The group hasn’t seen him. He made sure to pick a booth in the darkest and furthest corner in the tavern, content to just drink until the sun went down; and then he could get some sleep.

But now, ale and sleep are the last things on his mind.

“They’ve been trying to get their hands on a Witcher for years,” another farmer joins in, picking at some leftover food on his plate.

The first man shrugs, lifting his tankard to his mouth. “If you can’t go about killing an actual Witcher, do the next best thing: kill it’s bed-warmer.”

It’s like he wasn’t there at all. Geralt makes quick work of leaving, making sure not to storm out of the place, leaving as much destruction as he can in his wake. But with a town like that so close, he can’t bring any attention to himself. And tearing up an inn that was more than willing to feed and shelter him for the night isn’t worth doing. But something heavy churns around in his stomach; as if he needs to be sick but can’t.

He half-expects Roach to huff at being pulled away from her freshly bedded stall and full oat bucket. But Roach, the old girl, always seemed to have this connection with her rider. Whatever crossed Geralt’s mind often did the same with her. As soon as he gathers and slips on her tack, and lifts himself up on to her, the mare takes off at a gallop. The main road cuts through fallowed fields. This is crop country: and most of the crop has been taken in for the winter. That, and there are whisperings of Nilfgaard soldiers starting to march further into the continent. People who depend on the land are keen to reap their crops now.

Roach keeps galloping. She lets out an occasional sharp huff and a chesty cough, but even when Geralt tries to slow her down into a more manageable canter, she keeps galloping. She isn’t a filly anymore. Truthfully, Geralt can’t even remember how old the mare is. But despite all of that, she keeps going.

The town is nearer than he thought. It’s a market town, straddling a junction of a crossroads. Getting inside is easy enough, even when one of his hands drifts to the pommel of his sword. He expected someone to be standing guard at the gates. But as Roach slows into a trot as they enter the town, it chills Geralt’s skin to see how empty the streets and houses are. The layout of the town is easy enough to navigate; four main roads running through it, with smaller alleys branching off of them. The roads meet in a large open space: the town’s square. It’s nothing elaborate, mainly lined with market stalls and the fronts of shops.

Roach knickers as she slides into a walk. She shakes her head, distressed by something. Geralt sets his hand against her neck. But he’s just as riled up as her. The blood running through him is hot. The thoughts that flickered through his head on the ride over weren’t kind. It has to be Jaskier – he doesn’t know of any other bards who would journey with Witchers. He doesn’t know of any Witchers who would allow their company to be with a bard.

What in the names of the gods is he doing this far away from the main cities? Was he by himself?

And memories of the mountain all those years ago nip at his nape.

Everyone in the town, and possibly others from somewhere else, gather in the square. A sea, swarming around a single wooden pole in the centre of the square, Geralt can barely make out what people are gathered around. He cranes his neck. Even on his horse, he can’t see much.  

Then he hears it. A sharp crack rips through the air. Quickly followed by a hoarse cry.

The people standing just in front of him jeer. Roach tosses her head, taking a few tentative steps back. The onslaught of noise even makes Geralt wince. He leans forward and swings his leg over Roach’s back, sliding down off of the mare. He lifts a finger. “Stay nearby,” he says stiffly.

Wandering through the crowd is almost like wading into the sea. The back rows have a scattering of people, and they easily part as he stalks through. Mothers grab their children and yank them back to their chests, sheltering them from looking at the Witcher. Geralt swallows a growl. But they have no problem with them cheering on a whipping.

Husbands try and shove at him, moving him back from the square. Geralt anchors his feet to the ground, unmoving. When hands slap against his chest, trying to push him back, he doesn’t’ flinch. Wives or lovers or even sisters pull them away, but curse Geralt as he continues past.

The whip cracks through the air. More pained and agonised cries follow.

Geralt’s fists ball by his side. He’ll boil over – he can feel it. It isn’t often that Geralt gets angry. He learned to douse that fire a long time ago, before it ever has a chance to swallow him whole.

But he isn’t angry now: he’s fucking furious.

It isn’t until a guttural yell of Witcher! thunders over the crowd does a hush fall over the entire town.

The rest of the crowd parts, letting him stalk through. A few people spit and hiss as he passes: noise that is blocked out. They aren’t the first to hate his kind. They certainly won’t be the last. But something is boiling his blood, and it isn’t these monsters cursing him.

When the last of the people step to the side, and he sets his sights on what they’ve gathered to watch, Geralt’s hands fist at his sides. It would be easy to draw his sword. It’s what some primal part of him wants to do. It’s been whispering into his ear ever since he and Roach set out from the tavern. But he ran a sword through a town once before, and he promised that he wouldn’t do it again.

But this particular town is really starting to test that promise.

In the centre of the square, there’s a small platform. Rooted in the middle is a pole. A man stands nearby, dressed in black leather garb, a cowl covering some of his face. A whip is coiled in one hand. Droplets of blood splatter on to the ground. Geralt looks at the pole. It is wood, but you could only tell so by the top of it – birchwood that hasn’t been stained red. Crumpled on the ground, hunched over, is a half-naked form. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat.

He clenches his jaw. “I heard that you have something that belongs to me,” he says lowly, lifting his eyes back to the man with the whip.

The man glowers back at him. He spares a quick glance down at the body by his feet. “We were hoping that you would come,” he says a bit too airily.

The body coils in on itself. Shuffling around on the ground, blue eyes suddenly glance up at him. Geralt’s breath is punched out of him. “Jaskier?”

The bard winces as he moves. Geralt tries not to look, but with so much of the ground already wet with blood, how could he not. Long open lashes mar his back. When Jaskier uncoils further, Geralt spots more lines on his chest and stomach. Geralt schools his expression. He could give into the fire. Every fibre of him wants to. But he won’t. He can’t. Rage won’t help him.

The man holding the whip steps forward, and Jaskier flinches. Something flickers through his eyes; and it only feeds the fire brewing inside Geralt. “You’ve been running ragged through our country for too long, Witcher. Surrender to us to stand trial, and we’ll release your harlot back into the wilds.”

The shriek of his unsheathing sword sets the crowd back. One of them, a more well-dressed man, calls out. “The Butcher of Blaviken,” he snarls. “What now, Witcher? Are you going to cut through another town? Put a blade to women and children?”

A rumble of chatter laps over the crowd.

A small voice grabs his attention, though. “Geralt?”

He looks down. Blue bleary eyes blink up at him. One side of Jaskier’s haw is purple and swollen. He swallows thickly. “Don’t,” he rasps.

Geralt sets his jaw. A moment passes before he growls, sliding his sword back into its sheath. He stalks forward. The crowd still moves back; but the man, who Geralt has a sneaking suspicion is the mayor, holds firm. Leaning into the man’s space, Geralt growls. “Listen to me, you spineless rat. This shithole of a town is not even on the maps. The Continent won’t care if it loses some of its people: especially if it’s people like you.”

The man lifts his chin. “Word will spread, Witcher,” he says as firmly as he can. But Geralt can hear the slightest of tremor in his voice. “They’ll know you went on another rampage.”

“Word will spread,” Geralt agrees. “They’ll know that you falsely imprisoned and tortured a bard on your own prejudices. And when that word spreads, I imagine it’ll reach the bigger cities: where that very bard once sang in their royals’ courts.”

His hands twitch by his sides, a finger brushing the pommel of his sword.

“I imagine that those particular cities won’t be very happy,” Geralt says lowly, leaning down to speak directly into the man’s ear. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch away. But the creature does tremble slightly. There’s a sharp stench of fear coming off of him.  “Your town relies on trading, doesn’t it? Think of what will happen when cities who appreciated my bard’s services will do once they find out what you did to him.”

He keeps his voice low. The mayor keeps his gaze forward, over Geralt’s shoulder.

“Trading lines will avoid your town altogether. Everyone in this rat’s nest of a town will starve,” Geralt snarls. “Most of them will try and move somewhere else; but everywhere in this province seems to appreciate what I have done for them too. So I think your people will have quite a hard time trying to find somewhere else to live.”

People towards the back of the crowd start to slip away. Mostly, it’s mothers and their children. Geralt reaches out, putting a hand on the mayor’s shoulder. He can feel a slight jolt underneath his hand. “You will let me and the bard leave this shithole of a town,” Geralt says, squeezing his hand around the man’s shoulder. “You won’t follow us. You won’t try and find us. You’ll leave us alone. Understood?”

The man’s jaw bulges. But he nods stiffly. The people behind him lower their eyes, soft snarls still pulling at their lips. Hatred won’t leave a place like this: but he can shut it up. They’ll curse his name as soon as he’s gone. It doesn’t bother him. Fuck it, they can try can cast as many stones as they like.

When he turns his back to the man, he waits for the blade. He stalks over to the pole, slipping a knife out of his belt and cutting Jaskier’s arms free. The skin on his wrists is bruised and rubbed raw, but it’s the least of his worries at the minute. Geralt takes a quick glance at the bard’s back.

He unclasps his cloak. Jaskier flinches at the first touch of the cloth against his skin. “It’s alright,” Geralt grunts, holding up his hands. Jaskier’s eyes run all over him. Some soft sight of recognition flickers over his eyes. Geralt wraps as much of his cloak as he can around Jaskier. He tries his best to avoid the wounds, but there’s so many, that it’s hard not to graze one. Jaskier tries to wriggle away, the wool scratching against gaping wounds, but Geralt wraps his arms around him. “Hold on to me, if you can,” he says lowly, helping Jaskier get an arm over the Witcher’s shoulders. Geralt picks him up and whistles sharply. Roach whinnies. People part for the mare. Even those that are too slow to move out of the way, she merely trots straight through, bumping them away with her ears flat against her head.

Roach stands stock-still as Geralt puts Jaskier on her back. The crowd seeps out of the main square, but spit and hiss at him as they pass. Roach snaps her tail. Geralt sets a hand against her neck. “Take us back,” he says quietly, before hoisting himself up on to her. Jaskier slumps back against his chest, his head lolling on to his shoulder. Faint breath huffs against his bared neck. “Stay with me,” Geralt grunts, tightening his hold on Roach’s reins.

The mare wants to run. He can feel it in the way she tugs at her own reins, wanting to gallop back to the tavern. But Geralt knows that the movement will only other Jaskier’s injuries even more. That being said, Geralt sets on putting them as much distance as he can between them and that rat’s nest of a town. For their entire walk back along the main road, he glances over his shoulder. No one follows them. No mounted townsfolk with pickaxes and torches come galloping up the road.

Geralt keeps his arms firm, making sure Jaskier doesn’t slip off of Roach. He’s careful to avoid the bard’s abdomen and chest, but he can feel wetness against his chest. Red still stains his mind. The ground of the town’s square was more blood than gravel. How Jaskier is still alive is a wonder in itself. But peering down at the bard, feeling faint breath struggle out of him, he’ll need to be seen too.

He made sure not to cancel his room with the tavern by the roadside. Though, when he returns, half-handing Roach off to a stableboy, he’s still surprised to see that the room was actually kept for him. Or, more specifically, for Jaskier.

Geralt barely sets foot in the tavern before a woman with greying hair waves them over to a flight of stairs. Geralt vaguely recognises her as the innkeep. “If he’s injured, he’ll need a bed,” she says gravely, watching him carry the bard inside. Jaskier lies in his arms as if he weighed nothing. Curled slightly into Geralt’s chest, his breathing is faint and quick. One of his arms splays out to the side, bobbing with every quick but cautious step that Geralt takes. Streams of blood trickle down along his arm. When one drop drips off of Jaskier’s finger, splattering on to a step of the stairs, Geralt barely swallows a growl.

He wants to turn around and go back to the town.

He wants to light their small, insignificant town on fire.

But what’s coursing through him is hatred, and he’s learned in his many years of wandering the Continent to not act on hatred alone.

The woman’s face tightens. “Do you need a healer, lad?” she rushes up the stairs before Geralt, showing him to the saved room. “A farmer who lives nearby has this daughter – Marta. She went to some fancy school in the capital. She’s the best healer around.”

Geralt sets Jaskier down on to one side of the bed. The bard’s face screws up, a groan wrenching out of his throat. Geralt glances down. His cloak, even though black, is starting to soak red. He looks over to the woman, still standing at the door. “How soon could she be here?” he asks stiffly.

“The house is across the road. She’ll be quick,” the woman says before rushing off down the hall. Distantly, Geralt can hear her barking some orders at another maid to keep an eye on the tavern until she’s back.

Jaskier’s eyes are open and looking around; but they’re clouded and not entirely focusing on anything specific. Geralt tries to unwrap his cloak from the bard. The heavy scent of blood hits him, coating the roof of his mouth. It’s a familiar smell. He’s earned his own fair share of injuries out in the wilds. Too much of his own blood has soaked the ground of the Continent. But this is different. This is Jaskier’s blood staining his cloak and hands. Geralt sets the cloak to the side. His own pack has salves and potions – all too powerful for a human. All he can do is wait: and he fucking hates it.

The room is warm. A hearth is lit nearby, amply fed with coal and wood. Geralt has half a mind to stoke it, keep the fire going, but he finds himself still at Jaskier’s bedside. Mumbled ramblings leave the bard’s lips. Words barely strung together, not meaning anything at all. Geralt takes a chair from the other side of the room and sets it by the bedside.

Jaskier whimpers, turning his head to the side. His eyes narrow slightly, taking in the somewhat hunched form of the Witcher. “Geralt?” he mumbles.

“It’s me,” Geralt nods, reaching up to push some hair back from Jaskier’s face. For a terrible moment when he first laid eyes on the bard, he didn’t recognise him. His hair has grown long. Some of it is matted from drying blood mixing with dirt. A smattering of a beard covers his jaw. Geralt’s fingers linger in Jaskier’s hair, trying to undo a small knot. Jaskier’s eyelids flicker shut. Underneath his fingers, Geralt can feel how warm Jaskier’s skin is. The whipping didn’t seem to stretch on for long – but Geralt has to wonder if Jaskier was even placed into a cell, with a roof over his head, or left tied in the middle of the square.

He remembers the rainstorm that almost flooded the roads yesterday. Fire returns to his veins.

“Is this a dream?” the words are so faint, Geralt almost doesn’t hear them. Jaskier’s lips barely move as he mumbles them.

Geralt shakes his head. “No, Jaskier. This isn’t a dream.” The room is quiet. There’s a slight wheeze to the bard’s breathing – probably from being out in the cold for so long. Without Geralt’s cloak covering him, Jaskier shakes. Gooseflesh bubbles along his skin. But with every slight movement he does, Jaskier winces and cries out. Geralt glances down to his middle. Lines mar his skin. None too deep, cutting muscle. But the lines aren’t even, and they bleed. Some of them run over each other. Geralt tries rubbing at Jaskier’s arm, trying to heat up his skin. “A healer is on her way. You’ll be fine.”

The innkeep returns with the healer within a few minutes. Both of the women gasp for breath as they scramble into the room. The healer – Marta, Geralt remembers – sets a worn-leather bag down at the foot of the bed. Geralt takes himself and his chair out of the way, letting the woman in to see the extent of the injuries.

But he still stays within an arm’s reach. He’s out of it, teetering on the edge of consciousness: but Geralt won’t have him be alone.

“What happened to him?” Marta frowns.

Geralt folds his arms. “Townspeople in the next town over whipped him.”

Marta rolls her eyes. “Those fuckers,” she grunts. The innkeep still stands by the door, either watching Marta examine the bard or the bard himself. She grimaces at every cut-off groan Jaskier lets out at being touched. She worries her hands together.

Geralt grunts. “There are more cuts on his back.”

Marta gestures. “Turn him on his side.”

Geralt moves to the other side of the bed, kneeling on to the free space. He tries his best to get his arms underneath and around the bard, hoping to whatever gods sit among the clouds that Jaskier won’t be in pain for much longer. But he cries out at being moved. Geralt winces, letting Jaskier bury his face into the hollow of his neck. He can feel wetness against his skin. One of the bard’s arms lands heavily over his shoulder, holding on. It’s been a long time since Geralt was bothered by blood staining his clothes.

Marta clicks her tongue at what she finds. Even with the sun starting to fade outside, she can still make out the wounds. “They aren’t deep,” she says, placing gentled fingers over the ridges of the cuts. “But I’m worried about infection and blood loss.”

Jaskier mumbles something into Geralt’s neck. He turns his head slightly. “What?”

There’s another mumble, but nothing he can make out.

“He’s been talking like this since we left,” Geralt tells Marta.

The woman nods stiffly. “He’s in shock.” She rolls her sleeves up to her elbows. Marta turns to the innkeep. “Could you get me warm water and clean strips of cloth?” The innkeep rushes away. Marta turns back to the bed. Ruffling through her bag, she pulls out clear glass vials and sets them on to the mattress. Even without opening them, Geralt can scent the echinacea in the salves.

She gathers handfuls of a clear gel and bastes most of it over the open wounds along Jaskier’s back. Jaskier’s light hold on him turns tighter. A hoarse groan is buried into Geralt’s neck. Marta clicks her tongue. “It stings, I know.” She says to Jaskier. “But it’ll help kill any infection that might be there.”

Geralt finds some unmarked strip of skin along Jaskier’s back, just underneath his shoulder blade. He sets a hand against it, hoping that some warmth in him will just transfer over. “You’ll be okay,” he says quietly. Whether it’s to him or Jaskier, he isn’t sure.

The innkeep returns with everything Marta asked for. “I have to tend to things downstairs,” she says, wringing her hands together. “Will you be alright up here?”

Marta nods. “We can manage. Thank you, Lora.”

Geralt glances up at the woman. “Thank you,” he says softly.

The innkeep nods firmly.

Marta works silently, coating most of the open wounds with the salve. She tells him about what needs to happen: it’ll have to sit over the cuts for a moment before she can start washing out the cuts. The infection needs to be killed first. As they wait for the salve to dry up slightly, Geralt’s fingers draw patterns along Jaskier’s unmarred skin. After the salve is washed off and the wounds are flushed, Marta picks up a needle and a long string of wire. Glancing up at Geralt, her eyes harden. “This might hurt him,” she says simply, threading the needle.

Jaskier’s arms tighten around him again. He smells of blood and echinacea and sweat. If Jaskier’s usual self was present, Geralt imagines that he wouldn’t be too pleased with the state of his body now. He can almost hear his voice over his shoulder. The Jaskier in his arms, trying to muffle cries and groans into his neck, is so far from the Jaskier he knows.

Knew.

The correction makes him pause. He remembers the mountain. Of course he does. He isn’t going to sit here and say that he doesn’t remember it. It’s not like the words of what he said whisper to him almost every day, reminding him why it is that people believe so firmly that Witchers don’t have emotions.

Marta looks up from her work. “Could you hand me that cloth?”

And they work like that for almost an hour. Most of the cloth is red by the time Marta stands. She wipes her forehead with her arm. Her hands are stained too, but she doesn’t seem bothered by that at all. “I can give him something to help him sleep,” she says, wandering over to a nearby washbasin. “If the bandages seep, change them. The wounds have to be kept dry.”

She glances over her shoulder. “I trust that you can look after all of that?”

Geralt looks down at the bed. He lies on his side, one leg brought up and propped slightly, easing the pressure on his back and stomach. “I can watch him,” Geralt says almost as an afterthought.

Marta hums, wiping the last of the blood and salve from her hands.

The tavern downstairs still breathes. There’s a faint hum of conversation that floats up through the floorboards. Every couple of minutes there’s a chorus of raucous laughter or a shout. A minstrel strikes up a lyre, and people sing along. Geralt’s chest tightens. He takes his chair back to Jaskier’s bedside.

The healer watches out of the corner of her eye. “Is it true, then?” she asks quietly, scrubbing at her hands. “What they say about you and him?”

Geralt sits back in the chair. He’s quiet for a moment. Not answering her is answering her all the same. “What do they say about me and him?”

Marta sighs. “It’s alright. You won’t find much hatred for that sort of thing here,” she says, “despite those fuckers in Falkmor.”

Well, at least he knows what the shithole is called now.

Marta dries her hands, wandering back over to the bed. “I heard a few of his songs, you know.” He never even took in her face. Looking at her now, in the soft light of the hearth and candles dotted throughout the room, she looks far too young to have spent several years at a healer’s school. But he’s heard of incredibly bright people graduating early. It leaves him with the question of why is she back at a roadside village like this. She folds her arms over her chest. “I always wanted to see who the bard’s muse was. I’ve heard of those kinds of ballads before from other bards. They all started to sound the same after a while. But writing songs like those, it takes a special talent.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Geralt grunts, “his head is big enough as it is.”

Marta snorts. She packs away her things, leaving Geralt with vials of nightshades and poppy’s milk: one is for sleep, the other is for pain. Give him a drop of each, and no more. When she leaves, he’s struck with how quiet the room turns. It seemed quiet as soon as Jaskier fell asleep. But now, he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

His watch last throughout the night. He changes bandages that either speckle or soak with blood, and feeds Jaskier drops of medicine when he starts to surface, wincing slightly at the pull of stitches.

Jaskier, thankfully, does sleep throughout the night. Geralt nods off every so often, slumped slightly in his chair. But he always catches himself, not wading too far into sleep. The other side of the bed is available, largely untouched by blood or anything else. But he doesn’t want to risk it: rolling over in the night, seeking Jaskier out, and causing him even more pain.

He doesn’t even know if Jaskier will let him lie next to him.

The thought makes him sit up a bit straighter. It chills the fire still licking at his veins.

Geralt will talk to him. When the last of the poppy milk and nightshade has left him, when Jaskier has his mind back again, Geralt will talk to him. About the mountain, about what he’s been doing in the years since their leaving of each other.

He thinks idly about asking Lora to bring up some ale. It won’t do anything, of course. Witchers can’t get drunk: well, drunk enough to forget things. All it’ll bring him is a hazed mind and a loosened tongue.

The innkeep, Lora, leaves them with two plates of food when the morning comes around. “For when he wakes up,” she explained, casting a quick glance over to the bed where Jaskier still slept. Geralt nods a firm thanks and sets the plates on a nearby table.

Sleep pulls at him. He’s gone longer without it. If his body starts to slow, he’ll just meditate for an hour. But even though sleep reaches out for him, he can’t find it in himself to follow it down. Jaskier’s wounds need to be treated. And he won’t have the bard’s life slip away just because Geralt was sleeping.

He wanders over to the window every so often. The room is one of the few ones that look out on to the main road. Vendors pass with wagons laden with wares. Passing soldiers from the capital march through, checking everything is in order.

Geralt’s hands curl into fists. He has half a mind to call out: tell them to go to the next town and look at the square, ask why in the gods’ names townspeople would take out their hatred of a Witcher onto a bard. It’s one of his oldest promises – not to meddle in the affairs of men. It’s a promise he made to Vesemir. It’s a Witcher’s promise.

His ears prick at the sound of a soft groan. Looking over his shoulder, Geralt blinks when familiar blue eyes blearily stare back at him. “Geralt?” Jaskier mumbles.

Geralt turns. He crosses the room in a matter of strides, sliding back on to his chair. “Are you in pain?” he asks. “There’s some poppy milk here if you need it.”

Jaskier sighs into the pillow. “I’m alright,” he rasps. His voice sounds so strained and cracked. It’s enough to make him wince. Jaskier always drank teas that smelt too sweet and spiced in the name of protecting his voice. Hearing it now only makes Geralt wince.

“Do you want anything to eat? Lora, the innkeep, left a plate of food for you. It’s just bread and stock, but I can ask her for something else if you want-”

Words stop rushing out at him when a soft huff of a laugh leaves Jaskier. “I’m alright,” he repeats. “I’m just tired.”

It’s midday. Or, he thinks it’s midday. He watched the night drag on for what seemed like years, and then suddenly, watery winter morning light finally found its way through the window. How long the sun has been up, he doesn’t know. But with winter now settling over the Continent, days don’t last long – nights come quickly yet drag on for hours. Some part of him wants to keep Jaskier awake. The room is so quiet, he can’t fucking bear it. The tavern breathes underneath him. He kept a fire on, and it’s occasional snapping and hiss breaks the silence every couple of minutes. Lora has been up a handful of times, informing him that his horse is being looked after – even though she did try to kick a stablehand in the shin for walking up to her a bit too quickly.

Jaskier’s eyelids have slipped closed. His breathing has improved. It’s deep now, even. What Geralt remembers from having him sleep an arm’s reach away all those years ago. Jaskier’s eyelids flicker open again. He spends almost a minute just looking at Geralt – at the change of clothes Lora’s husband gladly gave to him while his were being washed, at how he’s almost slumped in the chair. At how dark circles are starting to settle underneath his eyes.

“I thought I was dreaming,” Jaskier says softly. “When I looked up and saw you. I thought you were part of a dream.”

Is this a dream? he remembers the bard asking, desperately trying to hang on to wakefulness by the tips of his fingers.

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Get some sleep,” Geralt relents, leaning forward to set his elbows on his knees. “I’ll be right here.”

Jaskier’s blink is slow – like a cat warming itself on a cobblestone road during the summer. He tries to stay awake. Geralt recognises the struggle all too well. He tilts his head. “Do you want something to help you sleep? Some nightshade?”

A long, slow sigh leaves Jaskier. Within seconds, sleep has washed over him again. Propped on his side, he’s been in the same position for a long time. It’s to take the strain off of his abdomen and back, but it can’t be comfortable. He’s spent the night mostly uncovered, too. A thin sheet is slung over his waist, mostly there to keep him covered. Whatever clothes had survived being torn off and whipped were soaked in blood and crusting with dirt. What could be saved, Lora took to a nearby woman who can sew. But small beads of sweat dampen his forehead.

Geralt dips a piece of cloth into a basin of clean water. He wrings it out, dabbing it lightly over Jaskier’s forehead. It’ll wrangle the slight fever out of him. It’ll make him stop trembling like a leaf. Ever since the last of shock left Jaskier, he’s just been so tired and cold. Geralt’s fingers brush against his forehead, feeling briefly how warm his skin is. It’s not as bad as the hours before, but still not great. Marta said she’d come back with more salves at some point during the day. Until then, he’s content to just sit here, watching over the bard.

The combination of poppy milk and nightshade in him keeps him under. A soft snore leaves Jaskier every couple of breaths; and it isn’t until then does Geralt realises how much he’s missed Jaskier’s sounds. He missed the incessant chattering on the road, the rhythm of a heartbeat underneath his cheek. Ever since Jaskier left – ever since Geralt sent him away, he corrects himself – it’s been so fucking quiet. Taverns and inns, full of speech and laughter and music doesn’t settle with him. The voices talking don’t belong to Jaskier. A bard making a shoddy rendition of Jaskier’s ballads isn’t him.

Geralt shuffles his chair closer. One of Jaskier’s arms is splayed out over the edge of the bed. As gently as he can, though he doubts anything could wake the bard from the concoction of drugs in his system, he moves Jaskier’s arm to rest over one of his thighs.

“I am so sorry,” Geralt says to Jaskier’s sleeping form. “I’m sorry for what I said on that mountain. I was angry and took that anger out on you. And you didn’t deserve that.”

The body doesn’t move much. Jaskier’s back barely lifts with each breath he takes. Half of his face is mashed into his pillow, some strands of hair skewing over his face. One of his hands twitches. As gently as he can, he reaches out: brushing the strands away. Looking at Jaskier now, with long hair and a beard, the bard doesn’t look like himself. He’s pretty sure that he has a tie somewhere for when Jaskier wakes up: if he doesn’t want to cut his hair straight away.

Geralt sighs. “I’m sorry that this has been done to you.” He lets his eyes drift lower. The wounds will heal, and Jaskier will return to being his usual self. But faint white lines will forever mar his skin: all because of Geralt.

The thought of it makes him wince. His own skin is damaged: despite the efforts of potions and oils he’s taking trying to make them fade. But he’s a Witcher. He’s supposed to be scarred. He has a vague image of Eskel in his mind, a terrible scar running over half of the man’s face.

But his bard is different. Someone who regarded their looks so highly will have to wake up to the fact that his skin will be damaged. All because of Geralt.

Geralt sniffs. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

The hand resting on his thigh twitches.

As Marta cuts and re-sews Jaskier’s stitches, Geralt slips out and walks down to the stables just behind the tavern. Roach knickers, bumping her head into Geralt’s shoulder as soon as he’s close. Geralt gathers her head in his arms, scratching along her cheek. “I’m sorry I haven’t been out to see you,” he says lowly, mindful of stablehands nearby. He glances to her feed bucket: filled for the afternoon, as is her water trough. A hay net hangs from the edge of the stall. He’ll make sure to pay off their extra stay with Lora – and extra for taking care of his horse.

Content that Roach has been fed, watered, and groomed, Geralt wanders back into the tavern. None of the people inside pay him much mind – but he does know that they watch him out of the corner of his mind. Word spreads like wildfire over a dry field.

The maids clearing tables offer him soft greetings. One young girl, Lora’s daughter, asks him how his friend is. The girl barely stands up to his shoulder. Geralt’s usual stony expression softens slightly. “He’s sleeping,” he says simply.

Lora appears from a backroom, shooing the girl away. She gives him an apologetic look before being called to the other side of the tavern.

When he gets back to the room, he finds Jaskier a bit more awake – he’s able to string together sentences that last longer than four words. Marta smiles at his ramblings about something or other. She presses against the dressing, hushing his abrupt yelp. “Oh stop,” she rolls her eyes. “You have enough poppy milk in your blood to knock out a bull.”

Geralt steps into the room. One of the floorboards creaks ever so slightly, giving him away. Marta sets the last of the clean bandages against Jaskier’s wounds. “They still need a couple of more days for the skin to join together again, but I think you’ll be alright to travel after that.”

Geralt stiffens. Glancing down at Jaskier, the bard’s face is unreadable. Marta gathers her stuff and leaves. A silence falls over the room. It’s the first time where Jaskier can look at him, and nightshade doesn’t cloud his eyes. Pain is still being tempered by poppy milk, but he’s sure that the bard will be able to stay awake.

“I can take you wherever you want,” Geralt fits in quickly and firmly. “If you need to get somewhere safe, I can get you there. The capital is a couple of days of a ride away from here, but it has main roads that lead back to the centre of the Continent.” Geralt rubs the back of his neck.

A quiet moment settles over the both of them. It’s one that he’s desperate to fill with words. The silence isn’t entirely comfortable.

“I was on my own when they captured me,” Jaskier says slowly. He looks off to a corner of the room, looking at nothing in particular. Geralt can see how his jaw tightens slightly.

Geralt winces. He doesn’t want to think about it. Terrible things have whispered to him throughout the night – thoughts about the bard being attacked and dragged away from the road. Did they know who he was straight away?

But he flinches at his hand being caught. “I heard you last night,” Jaskier mumbles. “When you apologised for the mountain: I heard you.”

Geralt stares down at their joined hands. Jaskier’s hold is slightly limp, muscles loose from opiates and nightshade potions. But he makes a go of squeezing Geralt’s hand. “I want us to talk about it,” he says after a time. “But I don’t think now is a good time.”

Geralt nods. A lump claws up his throat, trying to lodge and block words coming out.

Jaskier frowns. “Did you sleep on that chair?” he nods blearily to the item of furniture.

Geralt blinks. “Yes? Well, no. I sat in the chair. All night. I didn’t sleep.”

Jaskier sighs and waves his hand tiredly. “That won’t do.” He gestures vaguely to the other side of the bed. “Get some sleep. I won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”

The comment sits with him for a moment. But watching Jaskier drift back down into sleep with a long and drawn-out sigh, his body twitches. He sits down in his chair, taking up his post again for the next few hours while Jaskier sleeps off the last few drops of the potions.

He doesn’t deserve Jaskier’s forgiveness. All the bard ever had for him was goodness. He was a companion when others didn’t so much as glance in his direction – and when they did, it was with so much disdain and revulsion that he just ended up thickening his skin. He made his life a lot easier in the grand scheme of things. Jobs fell into his lap, threw at him by those very people who once hated him, and now revered him for what he would be able to do to help.

He owes Jaskier a lot: more than he can ever repay.

And he had the nerve to take the bard’s heart and throw it off of that mountain.

It’s another two days before Marta assures them both that Jaskier can sit up without doing a great deal of damage to himself.

“Thank the fucking gods,” Jaskier sighs under his breath. “I can draw the left side of the room from memory.”

The movements pull at the stitches, and Geralt catches every time the bard winces, but eventually, he’s able to help Jaskier back on to a soft mound of pillows pushed up against the headboard of the bed. With the bard propped up, he takes a second to take a quick surveying glance around the room. His clothes – re-sewn and washed – hang on the back of a nearby chair. A couple of empty glass vials sit on the desk.

Marta takes one last look at Jaskier’s wounds. “The stitches can come out tomorrow if the healed skin is strong enough,” she says, binding the bandages to Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier offers a small smile. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything.”

Marta shrugs a shoulder. “You aren’t the first victim of Falkmor I’ve treated,” she says with a slight tightness to her voice.

Geralt watches from the other side of the room, arms folded tightly over his chest. He lifts his chin. “Has the capital ever done anything about them?”

Marta washes and dries her hands. She bites her lip. “It’s an important town for trade, sitting on an important junction. The capital has given all of the warnings it can give, but ultimately it can’t do anything. What can they do? Send in their soldiers and upend the place?”

Jaskier glances over to Geralt. A small frown shadows his face. Words that Geralt hissed into a man’s face still come to him like afterimages. They’re in Geralt’s mind too. Rage like it doesn’t just fade away. Even almost three days later, he has to catch himself from marching back to the town and lighting the place on fire.

Marta packs up the last of her things, offering both of them a small smile before leaving. Geralt locks the door behind her. A plate of food sits on the nearby table. Lora has brought up something for Jaskier at every meal of the day – regardless of whether or not the bard is actually awake for it or not.

Geralt brings it over, handing it to Jaskier. He fights the urge to snatch his hand back when their fingers briefly brush.

It’s nothing substantial: a bone broth and a slice of bread. But it’s enough to keep his energy up. Jaskier picks at the bread, tearing it into manageable pieces. “You said that you would bring me somewhere,” he says suddenly, looking up from his food. “What did you mean by that?”

Geralt’s hands fidget by his side. “I meant that if you need to go somewhere, I can bring you there.” He tilts his head slightly. “There aren’t many other ways I can say it.”

A heavy silence falls over them for a moment. “And if I did,” Jaskier fiddles with the bread, dipping some of it into the broth, “and you...escorted me...there, what would you do once I was settled?”

“That’s up to you.”

Jaskier stares at him for a minute. “That’s up to me,” he repeats, mulling the words over.

“If you wanted me to go, I would go.”

“Why would I want you to go?”

“I imagined that,” Geralt takes in a steady breath, “that you wouldn’t want to be in my presence after...”

Jaskier nods to the edge of the bed. “Sit.”

Geralt’s feet act before his brain can catch up. He crosses back through the room in a matter of strides, perching down on the edge of the bed. Jaskier takes a couple more bites of food before setting it on to the bedside table. A small grimace flashes over his face, but Jaskier quickly schools it away. “I’m adequately sober from Marta’s potions,” he says, sitting back into the mound of pillows with a small sigh. “So I think we should talk now.”

And Geralt has faced all sorts of creatures that would have frightened him at one point. He was afraid of Kaer Morhen as it towered over him when he barely stood as high as Vesemir’s chest. He was afraid of the first time he was led into a room by people with leather aprons and metal tools. He was afraid every single time he faced off against a new monster in the flesh: it was so much different than reading about them. But he eventually learned to temper that fear. Or get rid of it entirely.

But now, his hands shake: and he can’t make them stop.

Jaskier bites his lip. “I heard you before,” he says after a time. “When you said that you were sorry for what happened on the mountain. I told myself, when I reached the foot of it, that if you came down after me, I would let it go. I knew you could get angry and fed up with things: and that entire dragon hunt was one shit show after another. I knew what you could be like when you were annoyed. You say things that you don’t mean. But the way you looked at me...” A wince flashes over Jaskier’s face. “I wanted to believe that you would come down after me. But I kept walking, and by the time I hit the next village, and saw no sign of you, I knew that you weren’t just being angry. You must have meant what you said.”

Geralt lowers his gaze. He can’t hold Jaskier’s eyes while he speaks. His words hit harder than any whip.

Jaskier sniffs. “But I heard you apologise. And I don’t know whether it was the nightshade or the poppy milk, or whether it was something else entirely, but I heard how sad you sounded.” Their hands barely brush against the top of the sheets. The bard has this otherworldly ability to make him gravitate towards him, wherever they are. Geralt looks down at their hands. Both of the tips of their little fingers hover close to each other. “I tried to stay awake, but whatever Marta gave me was too much. But when I slept, I had dreams about you. I’ve always had dreams about you, one way or another. Whether they were memories of what we used to be, or fantasies I had about tracking you down and beating you with your own sword.”

Geralt huffs a breath. It’s not an entire laugh, but not a sigh either. When he looks up, he swallows. Jaskier’s eyes are red, with tears brimming, threatening to fall. “I heard you and you sounded so sad. And I knew that I heard that before, because that was me. I knew then that maybe you really were sorry.”

His voice trembles. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” Geralt breathes. He gestures to the wraps holding Jaskier’s skin together. “I’ve caused you so much pain and torment. How could you ever forgive me?”

The bard tilts his head back, blinking. A tear escapes, streaming down his face. He loosens a harsh sigh. “Because some part of me is just as stubborn as you are: and it keeps reminding me that I still love you.”

And it does nothing to stop his heart from hammering in his chest. It might just break through his ribcage and fall on to the mattress with them. He does loosen a breath though, one he didn’t even know that he was holding.

He flinches at warmth spreading on one side of his face. Jaskier’s hand cups his cheek, his thumb gently brushing over the arch of his cheekbone. Geralt’s eyelids flicker shut. Memories come to him like afterimages – their old life together just an arm’s reach away, blurred from the years of separation. Jaskier sighs. “I thought that you hated me,” he mutters, “I thought that you had always hated me. But when I looked up and saw you standing there, facing down a village for me...”

“I never hated you,” Geralt breathes.

Jaskier’s lips flatten into a thin line. “I know that now,” he amends.

It’s only then does Geralt realise how close he’s sitting to the other man. He could have perched at the end of the bed, or a bit further down. But he’s close – Jaskier was able to reach for him so easily. His eyes flicker down to the bard’s mouth. Seeing him with a beard is still so odd. He imagines that he’ll want it gone, as well as his hair tidied, before they set off.

Together? The question floats aimlessly around Geralt’s mind. He doesn’t want to hope. Hope is so fleeting in the world nowadays that he doesn’t want to put stock in it.

His brain and the rest of his body aren’t connected. Before he knows truly what he’s doing, he leans forward, setting his forehead against Jaskier’s. He doesn’t put much into it. If Jaskier wants to lean back, separating them, he can. But he doesn’t. A sigh leaves the bard. Moving slightly, their noses brush. A shared breath swirls between them.

It’s him who leans forward. The first touch of their lips sends him back to those years before the mountain: the days spent wandering through villages and towns, following contracts; the nights curled around each other in the beds of taverns.

A groan crawls up his throat when Jaskier kisses back, tilting his head slightly. The hand against Geralt’s cheek holds there. His thumb moving in a gentle caress.

He wants to do more: he wants to reach for Jaskier’s legs, pull him closer, and mould him around himself. He wants to lean over and shield Jaskier entirely from the outside world. He wants to pepper nicks and bruises into the length of the bard’s neck. He wants to rediscover all of the freckles speckled throughout his skin, scattered over his entire body.

But a sharp hiss from Jaskier reminds him that the bard is injured. Geralt pulls away, but keeps their foreheads touching, noses brushing against each other. He puts some space between their chests. The harsh, sharp medicinal scent of echinacea and herbs that coat Jaskier’s cuts floats up towards him.

Geralt reaches out, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s long hair. He tucks some of it behind his ear. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he repeats, his voice nothing more than a rumble.

Jaskier brushes their noses together. “My forgiveness is mine to give. And I give it to you.”

Jaskier catches his lips again. Gods, it’s so familiar. Like the years that separated him didn’t even happen. The scratch of a beard against his own is different, but Jaskier sometimes had stubble in the mornings he rose a little too late.

When another muffled gasp leaves the bard, when one of them leans a bit too close to the other, Geralt pulls away again. “We’ll leave when Marta says that you’re able for the road,” Geralt promises. “We can go wherever you like. Together.”

#geralt #jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #henry cavill #joey batey #geralt of rivia #dandelion #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt x dandelion #geralt/dandelion #geralt of rivia x jaskier #geralt of rivia/jaskier #geralt of rivia x dandelion #geralt of rivia/dandelion #yourqueenforayear #agoodgoddamnshot

[onthepageoftears]

Hold Them Closer ~ Ch.15 [Jaskier x assassin!reader] || Witcher

A/N: THIS IS IT EVERYONE. The end of the second series!! I can't believe it's already here :O 

I've been writing this series for so long that it feels like a part of me is being taken away, but I know this isn't the end end. I can already see myself thinking of more adventures, whether it be through another complete series or small one-shots.

That being said, thank you to anyone and everyone who interacted with this series! I love you all so much and I really appreciate the support you've given to me in the past months (oh my god, MONTHS!!!).

Anyway, that's enough from me. I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did :,) feel free to send me an ask/message to talk to me about what I'm working on, or to cry over this series with me ❤️Much love!

Summary: Epilogue.

Warnings: sparring, mentions of death/blood/killing, fluff!!, happy ending :)

Words: 2,886

Please Don’t Plagiarize My Work!

The leaves had just started falling once more. It seemed like the world was covered with an auburn tint; wind picked up every now and again, lifting some fallen leaves with it. You breathed in, imagining the smell of a fresh pumpkin pie. One with the perfect amount of crust, topped with roasted pumpkin seeds. It made you smile, thinking of your mother’s bakery, and you made a mental note to ask her to make you one next time you visited.

But now was not really the time to be thinking about such delicacies.

“Are you even watching?” Theo grunted, her brow covered with sweat. Despite her using a majority of her energy to glare at you, she still managed to block Jaskier’s attack. He slid his sword from her own, letting it fall to the ground.

“Of course I am,” you lied, holding back a laugh at Jaskier’s groan.

“How much longer?” He gasped for breath, dragging his sword on the ground beside him.

You pursed your lips, a mischievous look in your eye. “You know I hate that question.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes before glaring pointedly at you. “And you know I hate being beaten by a little girl.”

Theo scoffed, “I’m not—“

“Yeah, yeah.” Jaskier waved a hand in the air, leaning on this sword. “And I’m not a devilishly handsome bard.”

You snorted at Theo’s expression: she scrunched her nose — more like her entire face — before kicking at the sword Jaskier leaned on. As he nearly toppled over, you scoffed a laugh. “Alright, Mr. Bard. I’ll take over.”

Theo’s eyes widened as you picked up your own sword. “Really?”

“Yeah.” You winked at Jaskier as he passed, not missing the sigh of relief that left his lips. As you stood in front of Theo, you cracked your neck dramatically, “Why? Are you afraid?”

She smirked, readying her stance. “Not at all.”

You raised a brow, gripping your sword with both hands. “We’ll see about that.”

Theo had gotten much better in the last couple of weeks — not that she was bad to start; she had the basics, along with the little things she picked up from her real experiences. She was easy to teach, you soon learned — much easier than Jaskier. More recently, she was becoming close to an actual challenge to spar with, though you wouldn’t tell her that for quite some time. She had an even bigger ego than Jaskier, and feeding it would only make her sloppier with her swings.

It hadn’t taken much convincing for your mother to allow Theo to train with you. That didn’t mean it didn’t take any at all — at first, your mother was hesitant. She knew you were trained by Rauf, after all. But Jaskier told her how good you were at teaching, that even with him you held back a lot. It was then that she explained she was more worried about Theo putting herself in danger after the training. When you told her Theo was a fighter at heart, that training or no training she would find herself in countless dangerous scenarios…well, your mother agreed that it was better for her to thrust herself into danger with actual training rather than just the basics.

Getting Jaskier to spar with the girl so you could watch her form and techniques…that was a feat that took a lot of convincing, over several weeks. But of course, you won him over.

“I see why you like staying on this side of the yard,” Jaskier remarked, falling dramatically on his back with a grunt.

The property that your mother helped you and Jaskier find was much larger than you’d expected, especially for the cost. Your mother said she got a deal on it because she ‘had a way with words’ (whatever that meant), but still — there was a long dirt path leading up to the cottage, along with a yard surrounded by forest. The yard was perfect for sparring, as the three of you would come to realize; besides that, there weren’t any other properties nearby, not for a couple of miles. It was a short ride to your mother’s village, but other than that, it was pretty secluded.

And perfect.

Despite Jaskier’s loud sighs of relief, you and Theo barely acknowledged him, eyes trained on each other, daring the other to make the first move.

As you suspected, Theo swung her sword first. She was still a bit impatient when sparring, and though having the drive to fight was good, it could also get her in trouble.

You blocked her attack with your sword, pushing back on it so she was forced to move back. You began circling each other again, challenging each other to make the next move.

Once again, Theo swung. This time, she spun herself around for more impact, probably hoping to push you off your feet. But just as you taught her, you kept your stance strong, easily blocking her attack with your sword.

She huffed, sending you a look that could only make you smirk. She was getting impatient already. By the glare she sent you, it would only be a matter of time before she messed up her attacks.

Of course, you were right. After she swung at you a couple more times, taking a step further for each swing, she missed the trap you were setting. As her brow furrowed in frustrated concentration, setting up swing after swing just for it to be blocked, you decided enough was enough.

With one swift movement, you stepped out of the way of her sword, hearing a loud thunk as it landed in the tree behind you. You stood back with a smirk, watching as she tried to pull the sword from the tree — as she grunted in frustration, you thought back to one of your earlier training sessions with Jaskier, only then, he got his sword stuck in the tree on purpose.

Theo let out a final grunt as she finally got her sword unstuck from the tree, only to fall on the ground from pulling so hard.

Theo landed on her back with an ‘oof’, her eyes wide with disbelief as you walked over to her. “Patience is a virtue, Theo. Sooner or later you’ve gotta learn that.” You plunged your sword in the ground beside yourself before leaning over with an outstretched hand. Despite Theo’s initial reaction — of course, rolling her eyes — she took your hand, not bothering to dust off her pants as she stood up.

The sound of Jaskier’s claps made both of you roll your eyes and turn in unison, crossing your arms at the bard who was still sitting in the grass.

“Bravo, bravo! I’m so honored to have witnessed the fight of the century.”

“I’ll show you the fight of the century,” Theo growled, throwing up an aggressive middle finger. Before she could do anything else, though, the sound of hooves on the dirt path not far from the three of you drew everyone’s attention.

As soon as she knew it was the witcher, Theo turned to you with a hopeful look. “Lunch break?”

You pursed your lips with a nod, and that was seemingly enough for her to go running off to greet Geralt as he dismounted Roach.

Your lips lifted into a smirk as you made your way over to Jaskier. He was still slumped in the grass, now leaning on his hands behind him and looking at the sky. As soon as he noticed you, he smiled, grabbing the hand you reached out towards him and using it to pull himself up. Instead of letting you go, he lifted your hand so it hung around the back of his neck, and used his other hand to pull you closer by your waist.

“Hello there, love.”

You rolled your eyes as he leaned in to kiss your neck, soft and sweet. You felt a slight shiver as he buried his head in the crook of your neck, feeling the smile on his lips against your skin.

You snorted despite the fluttery feeling echoing in your chest, “You smell awful.”

“So romantic,” he mumbled into your shoulder, taking a moment before pulling away. He wiggled his eyebrows and placed another soft kiss on your lips — you sighed into the kiss, using one of your hands to pull him closer by the back of his neck. You felt your whole body relax, as it usually did around him, before pulling away.

Jaskier kept his hands wrapped around your waist as you looked over to where Geralt and Theo were talking; well, it was mostly just Theo talking. Ever since she had spent more time around the three of you, she seemed to get more comfortable. She was still sarcastic, a little rude, and sometimes, in Jaskier’s words, unbearable — but now, every time Geralt visited, she couldn’t help but talk his ear off.

You still weren’t sure if Geralt minded or not. If he did, he wasn’t showing as much — yet.

As you watched Theo pet Roach’s muzzle, using her other hand to gesture as she spoke, your mind flipped back to your mother. It felt like so long ago that you were reunited with her, and at the same time, it felt like yesterday. Really, things had changed so quickly for you — and still, it was like you had been waiting for this life for an eternity.

You blinked, finally turning back to Jaskier. He was swaying slightly in his spot; you hadn’t even noticed he started humming under his breath as he looked at the sky above, his hands still on your waist.

“I don’t think I ever said thank you.” Your voice made him raise his eyebrows, his attention being put back on you. You licked your lips when he tilted his head in confusion. “For…for coming with me to find my mother. And for bearing with me on the journey. I…don’t think I would be sane without you.”

Jaskier snorted, quirking a brow. “I would argue that you would be completely sane without me.” You rolled your eyes, but the sincerity in his gaze made your smirk fall. “And…I would come with you to the edge of the continent and back. No hesitation.”

You couldn’t help your brows from forming into a frown. His words always seemed to surprise you, especially when they were so sincere. If you would have told your past self that someone like him would be with someone like you…you probably would have slit your own throat, to be blunt. But looking at him now, with his pink-lipped smile and loving eyes — you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You didn’t wait any longer before grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him again, only separating when you physically couldn’t breathe any longer. Jaskier blinked at you in surprise, his lips quickly lifting into a smirk.

“Would you be up to sparring together later? Perhaps…in the bedroom?”

You let yourself smile at the man in front of you, shoving him playfully as your skin heat up. “Shut up, bard.”

Jaskier tilted his head, lifting his arms out beside him. “That’s not a no!”

You paused, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. “No, it isn’t.”

Leaving Jaskier with a goofy grin on his face, you jogged to catch up with Theo and Geralt before the witcher’s ears started bleeding.

By the time you caught up with them, it looked as though the light was slowly draining from Geralt’s eyes. Once he saw you, though, he straightened in his spot. He bowed his head in greeting, eyes flitting from Theo and back to you. You shook your head, almost not believing that he thought he could get away with greeting you with a nod. Walking right up to him, you wrapped your arms around his large armor in a hug.

You stepped back, noticing that Theo had finally stopped talking. It only took you a second to notice the griffin’s head attached to Roach’s back.

“I see you’ve been busy.”

Geralt nodded without having to see what you were talking about. “I was on my way to get the reward. Thought I’d stop by.”

You quirked a brow. “Just to say hello?”

“Not exactly.”

“You have a job?” Theo interrupted, her eyes eager with curiosity.

Geralt kept his eyes on you. “Actually, yes.” You tilted your head, urging for him to continue. “I got a job in the last town over. I thought you might be interested.”

“I am.” Theo stepped away from Roach, jutting her chin up. You rolled your eyes, knowing she only did that when she wanted to seem older than she actually was.

Without responding, Geralt tilted his head at you, ever so slightly. It was a question, and you didn’t miss it. You raised your brows at him, as if in a silent discussion.

You almost wished he hadn’t brought it up, especially in front of Theo. But as you thought about it, about Theo’s training and her eagerness to join you on different jobs — well, you thought that maybe it wasn’t such a horrible idea. Maybe having Theo come with you on a job — to see what it was really like in this lifestyle — it could be like…an apprenticeship.

Theo noticed the silent discussion you and Geralt seemed to be having. She swiveled her head back and forth between the two of you, trying to decipher whatever it was that was going through your minds. After another moment of contemplation, you took a sharp breath in through your nose.

Letting out a final sigh, you nodded. “Why not.”

Theo blinked at you, processing the meaning of your words. “You mean…?” You fought back a smirk and nodded, watching as her mouth gaped at you. “Are you serious?”

As you were about to respond, Jaskier placed an arm around your waist, nodding to Geralt as Theo stared you down. You leaned into him slightly, smiling at the girl in front of you.

“Sure. If your mom says it’s okay.”

Theo’s gape turned into a frown — if she could have physically deflated her whole body, she would have. Shoulders sagged and pout in place, she crossed her arms over her chest. “She’s your mom too.”

You laughed, not expecting that response. “I’ll put in a good word."

Theo mumbled to herself, turning back to Roach with a glare. While she was busy cursing you under her breath, Jaskier nodded at Geralt once more.

“Geralt. How have you been?”

Geralt’s eyes looked between the two of you, a small smile on his lips. “Not nearly as good as you, it seems.” He turned to Roach, reaching for something in the satchel. You and Jaskier shared a look as he searched, only turning back when he cleared his throat.

In his hands was a large bottle of fine ale.

Jaskier lifted his arms with a big laugh, his smile wide with delight. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, you absolute beast of a man.”

You thought Jaskier might run up to Geralt and give him as big of a hug as you did, but instead, he turned to you and placed a sloppy kiss on your cheek.

You could practically hear Theo roll her eyes. “Get a room, you two.”

Jaskier smirked, winking at you before putting his arm across your shoulders. “Oh, we have one alright.”

You laughed again as Theo let out a fake gag. She kept her nose scrunched as Geralt and Jaskier began walking up to the house, only lowering it once they were out of earshot.

Your eyes watched her in amusement as the two of you followed them to the cottage. Before you could stop yourself, you turned to her with a smirk. “You want to know how we met?”

Theo rolled her eyes, not bothering to look at you. “I don’t know. Do I?”

You nodded, your eyes now trained on the back of Jaskier’s head. As the memories flooded you, you felt a mixture of guilt, amusement, and disbelief. Part of you couldn’t believe that the story was true, especially knowing where you were now. It felt like that was a whole other person who walked into the Novigrad inn with only blood on their mind.

Theo was looking at you now, curiosity getting the best of her. You smiled, a laugh escaping your lips as you spoke. “I tried to kill him.”

Theo’s scoff was powerful. “Very funny.” She watched you, waiting for you to tell her the truth. When you didn’t confirm that you were kidding, she nearly stopped in her tracks. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Dead.” You smiled wide, reveling in the look of disbelief on her face. With a shrug, you pursed your lips. “But that’s a story for another time.”

“Now. I think that's a story for now.”

“What is?” Jaskier was turned around now, holding the front door to the cottage open for the two of you.

You smirked as you passed him, leaning in with a wink. “The story of how we met.”

Jaskier’s eyes sparkled, “Oh, have I got a song for that—“

“No!” Theo yelled, and despite Jaskier's sour expression, you couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh.

———————————————————————————————————

the end :,)

#the witcher #the witcher imagine #jaskier imagine #jaskier #jaskier x reader #dandelion imagine #geralt of rivia #jaskier self insert #self insert #reader imagine #imagine #kyd #htc #hold them closer series #my writing #fic #the witcher fic #jaskier fic #dandelion fic #henry cavill #joey batey #writing

[shrinkynatural]

Finally, a bathing scene between the totally not tiny bard and his massive oak tree of a witcher.

And because I’m not great at giving individual thank yous, I’d like to give a big, all-encompassing thank you to everyone who’s read these and liked them and reblogged them.

The rest of this unnamed self-indulgent mess can be found here: (1) (2) (3) (4)

--

It has been nearly a whole damn month of nothing but shallow streams barely good enough for washing up in, and the river is the greatest blessing Jaskier could ask for in these circumstances. Clear water, a slight current but nothing that will carry him away, and Geralt-approved to not contain any drowners or other dangerous creatures that might want to eat an unsuspecting bard.

One finger hooks into the collar of his doublet, stopping Jaskier’s run to the river as effectively as a whole hand. Everyone knows he’s always a slut for dramatics so he lets it act as a yank and falls right back into Geralt’s bulk with a very startled yelp. “But Geralt, you said--!”

"Camp first, then we bathe." And because he thinks that he's in charge Geralt doesn't even wait for confirmation, he just slides his finger from Jaskier’s neck to his back (the bard doesn’t shiver, he doesn’t) and nudges him to stand on his own two feet. Then he moves away and takes Roach's reins to lead the mare back into the trees to find a decent area to set up camp.

Jaskier does follow after, but he makes sure that he states clearly just how cruel it is to offer him such a treat only to rip it away. "I feel I have an inch layer of road dust and sweat baked over me like a crust, Geralt!" He doesn't get any response which makes him think Geralt's rolling his eyes at him.

It is the fastest he’s ever helped set up the campsite, gathering wood and separating their bags after Geralt unloads Roach. Some of those bags are heavier than they look so after Jaskier nearly fell under one containing an assortment of witcher potions it was a task permanently assigned to said witcher who spent hours mixing them.

As soon as he drops off the last of the firewood Geralt waves a dismissive hand toward the river and Jaskier doesn't have to be told--gestured to?--twice. Lute and bag down, cloth and soap in hand, and he's practically running to the water's edge. He strips out of his clothes and sets them aside to wash them up later and then he wades in, shivering just a little. Jaskier dunks himself completely and then retreats a bit so that he can lather up his soap and finally be clean. Just the first swipe feels absolutely glorious and he starts humming a tune that turns into a jaunty song he washes himself in time to.

"You shouldn't sing in the river," Geralt says suddenly from behind him and Jaskier lets out a sincere yelp as he turns around. The Witcher is at the edge of the water and taking off his own clothes while regarding him with a raised eyebrow. "A siren will hear you and come take you away."

That shuts Jaskier up and he looks wide-eyed at the water around him. “But you said--!” When he turns back to Geralt he catches the smile before it's schooled away and his jaw drops. "You!" He waves his wash cloth at him with pure indignation. "Is that a joke? Are you trying to scare me off so you can have this whole river to yourself? Joke's on you, I'll gladly be carried off by a siren if it means I get to have regular baths. We'll sing lovely duets together." He sing-songs the last part, amused at the play at humor now that he isn't worried about river monsters coming after him.

Geralt snorts and sets his clothes besides Jaskier's before walking into the water. He goes downstream a few yards, which Jaskier appreciates because he just knows that some of that monster blood and guts don't come off completely from a quick scrub in a little stream. He's in up to his chest almost and Jaskier attempts to be a polite bathmate and not stare, but he can't help taking little peeks at what he can see. He's a young, healthy man with an active appreciation for the human form and Geralt is just...absolute perfection.

He finishes washing himself up and scrubs his hair one more time just because he can. With one of those illicit peeks he spies the bland-looking, non-perfumed brick of a thing that witchers apparently call soap clenched in Geralt’s hand. It’s offensive, really, what’s the point of finally being clean if you don’t smell nice after? The awful thing barely even lathers and the foam is half the fun!

Jaskier hums to himself and makes up his mind then and there. He’s clean and feeling so much better for it, the only thing that would make it better would be if the water were hot and he’d get to retire naked to a soft mattress with silken sheets. Since that’s not going to happen he decides he should at least get Geralt smelling sweet and fresh, too. As much as he enjoys curling up to the witcher on cold nights, he far too often ends up with his face closer to his sweaty armpit than he likes.

“Oh, Geralt!” he calls over to him and starts to wade through the water toward him. “That stuff isn’t doing you any favors at all, why don’t you try this? It’s something I picked up back in--oh shi--!”

Between one step and the next, the soil of the riverbed drops out from beneath his feet. It’s so unexpected that Jaskier goes right under and loses his grip on his soap and wash cloth as he flails around trying to figure out what the hell happened. His feet do touch bottom and he kicks himself up, breaking the surface of the water with a sputtering curse before he goes back under.

He does this twice more before there’s a log of an arm right in front of him and he wraps his arms around it and clings on for dear life. He spits and coughs and wastes entirely too much breath on cursing the unpredictable wilds. Jaskier shakes his head roughly and blinks water out of his sore eyes to squint up at Geralt, who is just standing there…in chest-deep water and of course, he’s a fucking idiot. Of course he’d be standing in a deeper part, the massive bastard.

“Don’t know how to swim?” Geralt asks, seemingly content to keep his arm out to keep the bard afloat. He does look concerned, at least Jaskier thinks he sees blurry wrinkles on blurry-Geralt’s forehead. “Are you all right, Jaskier?”

“Why would I know how to swim!” He shrieks it a little louder than he intended, but his pride is wounded and he lost his expensive soap and it’ll be months before they’re in a city here he can get another one. He just wanted to do something nice! “Now my soap is gone and I’m going to have to use that awful stuff you use and I’m going to smell like some..some..”

Geralt brings around his free hand and nestled up against the plain brick of soap in the middle of his broad palm is not only his little bar but also the cloth, which he offers to Jaskier. He isn’t even hiding his big, dumb smile now which means the look on Jaskier’s face must truly be priceless.

“You saved it,” Jaskier states, his brain doing backwards somersaults as it recovers from all this emotional whiplash. He makes no move to take it or let go of the arm that is his lifeline. “Oh. Thank you. Would you like to borrow it?” Now Geralt looks surprised, which makes him hasten to add, “It’s only that your soap is so boring, really, and I thought you might like to try it. I don’t mind, that’s why I was coming over to you but now of course it could be my thanks for you once again saving my life. That’s convenient, don’t you think?”

“It’s too strong,” is all Geralt says in reply as he slowly starts wading back to shore, Jaskier being carried along like a stick.

“Too strong?” Jaskier gasps, offended, and tries to twist himself so that Geralt can see and truly appreciate the look and see his wounded look.

The witcher doesn’t even look down. “Most monsters and creatures have a good sense of smell, why do you think I always try to leave you back at camp?”

His automatic response is to flail and he drops under the water for a brief moment before throwing his hands out to grasp Geralt’s arm again. “I do not stink!”

“It’s a nice stink, which is why it’s a poor choice for hunting. Are you going to stand up now or am I to drag you all the way back to shore?” Geralt has stopped walking, which Jaskier finally notices. And from his position floating on his back in the water he also notices that he is now about hip height with the witcher.

If the water were just a little lower…Jaskier shakes the thought from his mind before it can settle and he embarrasses himself even further. Still holding onto Geralt’s arm he pushes his legs down, feet pointed and toes searching until they finally settle in the dirt. He’s in up to his chest here and resists the urge to climb to safety up Geralt’s back; Jaskier knows he can’t get away with that too often and he doesn’t want to run out of chances so soon.

“Can I at least wash your hair?” he blurts out before he can change his mind. He can see Geralt tilting his head back to roll his eyes but he continues on anyway. “It’s just been so long since either of us have had a good bath and if my hair was awful then your gorgeous locks must be in a very sorry state. Your habit of ending up covered in blood and guts does you no favors. And it’s easier for someone else to get the back. Please? I’ll even use your awful soap.”

“How are you going to wash my hair?” Geralt asks in an exasperated tone, looking down at him. “I’m not putting you on my shoulders.”

Jaskier gives a relieved smile because that isn’t a no. He takes the lead now, keeping his grip on Geralt’s arm and leading them farther into the shallows. “You sit your precious bottom down and I wash, that’s how.”

It always surprises him when Geralt lets him drag him around, how for all his huffing and humming he lets Jaskier take him to where the water is shallow enough for him to sit and let him get a good look at that long white hair of his. This is the only time when he’s actually taller than the witcher and even now it’s just barely. The hair actually looks quite clean, if tangled, but Jaskier’s not going to say so and lose this opportunity.

Geralt holds out his hand with the soaps and cloth in it and Jaskier takes the plain brick and the cloth despite his temptation. He did promise and he can be patient and take his time when he really wants to. The cloth helps lather the soap and he works it all through Geralt’s hair, using his fingers to get through the thick locks down to the scalp. He doesn’t chatter on but he does hum to himself as he focuses on his task.

In this part of the river Jaskier is only submerged up to his thighs so every now and then he catches a chill as a breeze blows through. It’s not the most pleasant but that doesn’t stop him from carefully working out each and every tangle until his fingers run through Geralt’s hair from scalp to end perfectly every time. There’s just so much of it and he longs to brush it and braid it; it’s not fair that it’s always so far out of his reach.

“All right! I think I’ve got it all, go on and dunk your head.” Jaskier pulls his hands away and Geralt leans forward to put his head under the water and runs his hands through his hair to get all the soap out. Then he sits up quickly, whipping his hair back and splashing Jaskier with enough water to have him sputtering again. “Is that the thanks I get for doing something nice! I can’t believe you, Geralt, the sheer nerve.”

Geralt glances at him over his shoulder and the next thing Jaskier knows a hand is grabbing his ankle and all too easily yanking his foot out from under him so he falls under the water. When he surfaces he gives him such a glare that immediately softens at the witcher’s quiet “Thank you, Jaskier.”

“Fine, I forgive you.” He knows he’s also terribly easy when it comes to Geralt. Something about that eternally grumpy face makes it impossible to stay mad at him. “If you ever want to return the favor you’re more than welcome.”

That gets a huff of laughter as Geralt stands, handing over the little scented soap bar he’s still holding in one hand while he rests the other on top of Jaskier’s head. The massive palm curves easily over his crown and his fingers curl against his scalp in a way that makes Jaskier’s knees weak. “I would crush your skull if I attempted that.”

He takes his hand away and takes his own soap back before walking past Jaskier to the bank. The bard doesn’t know if he’s joking or not, but either way he’s damned if he isn’t going to do his best to get those thick fingers in his hair before the year’s out.

#jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #jaskalt #g/t #minigiant #the witcher #rating: green

[pressedinthepages]

Chapter 20: Epilogue

Summary: So many unanswered questions, with a few answers.

Series Masterlist

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: language, smut, fluff

A/N: Oh my god y’all, it’s here! This is the final chapter! I literally started this back in May, and it’s now basically October? Holy shitballs. A huge thank you to those who were with me from day one and to those who joined me throughout the journey. While this is the last part, I do still have little ideas running around my head. I hope that you all have enjoyed this as much as I have, and I am looking forward to exploring new works too!

    A shiver runs down your spine as you watch the fog slowly creep up the mountain path. Your fingers itch to grab for your silver sword, bracing yourself for an attack of foglets. It’s only a split second thought though, a reflex from more than half a century of hunting monsters. Then you remember that foglets don’t come this far north, and you don’t have your swords. They have been left just inside of the doorway twenty paces behind you, and have been collecting dust for the better part of a year. 

    You watch as the sun rises past the craggled summits of the mountains around you, bathing the lower valley in light. The fog rises and dissipates, revealing the lush green pasture dotted with sprigs of lavender and thyme. After almost an entire decade more of following the Path, you had given in to the occasional yearning that grew more and more constant to finally make a life of your own, by your own choosing. Your ears pick up movement to your left and you turn, smiling when you see a veritable herd of animals approaching in your direction, led by the man who claims to be the source of your sanity. 

    Eskel leads the pack with Lil’ Bleater bounding at his side, albeit a bit slower in her advancing age. He fulfilled his promise, finding a friend for her named Bellegarde. She had kids earlier in the spring, the three little bundles of energy just as taken by Eskel as their mother. Scorpion and Lady follow just behind, the latter butting her head into Scorpion’s flank as he walks. The two of them have grown closer as well, having had a foal between them. She has the same stoic air as her father, with the gentle regality of her mother. 

    You had balked when Eskel had walked through the door with a wolf pup in his arms, but he quickly provided a (still somewhat insane) reason for having brought him into the home.

    “I found him laying among a bunch of dead wolves, probably had been his pack. I couldn’t just leave him there, he’d die…” Eskel looked up at you with the biggest, saddest eyes he could muster, knowing that you’ve grown quite soft when it comes to him. 

    You sighed, turning back to the pot over the fire to give it a stir. “He’ll be your responsibility…”

    But that had not stopped the little thing from taking to you immediately. You often couldn’t walk more than two steps without him being under your feet, following your every move. You had named him Argos, after a story you had heard of a great warrior with a faithful dog that followed in his shadow. 

    Now, Argos bounds to your side, letting you run your fingers through his ever-thickening coat. Summer has passed into a chilly autumn, the trees once again turning the colors of fire before shedding their leaves. Eskel comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck and kissing lightly. You close your eyes and lean into his touch. Your mind settles with peace, but it is soon broken by the distant sound of approaching steps from the treeline, and the plucking of a lute. Your eyes shoot open, freezing on the spot as you stare at the place that the sound is coming from. 

    Silver hair shines in the sunlight as Geralt steps out of the cover of the trees. He looks strong, healthy, well-fed. Roach looks the same, though she always looks at least a little more well-cared for than Geralt himself. His face, twisted in his perpetual scowl, softens a bit when he spots the two of you. Eskel’s arm slips from around your waist as he walks to meet Geralt halfway, the two men wordlessly falling in a tight embrace. You move to greet him as well, but your feet still as the source of the music steps from the woods at Geralt’s back.

    He looks just as he did a decade ago, wavy chestnut hair framing a handsome face, blue eyes just on this side of too-bright. He is dressed in bright colors, a stark contrast at Geralt’s side. The lute slides into place across his back as he gestures widely in a greeting to Eskel, full of flowery words and vague insinuations. Jaskier places his hand lightly on Geralt’s shoulder as he speaks, and you can see the way that Geralt softens even further with the touch. As Jaskier turns to face him however, Geralt’s face switches back into his stern expression.

    Time freezes for everyone except you, Lil’ Bleater having been suspended in mid-air as she lept to greet her new guests. You huff, turning to see Jaskier at your side. You glance between the two identical men, wishing for the life of you that you had your swords on your back. 

    “He doesn’t know.” The Jaskier at your side speaks with a timeless tone, one that speaks of wisdom of countless years. He sighs with a smile, “Back then, I thought I was just as human as anyone else.”

    You blink, settling a bit in your boots. “So, I shouldn’t say anything to him?”

    “Unless you want to uproot this whole beautiful life that you have created with Eskel, no.”

    You nod, taking in your surroundings. A home, with a fire and a table and a bed that Eskel warms at your side every night. Countless animals, providing love and companionship. A garden in the back, spilling over with any and every plant that the two of you could think of. Your armor, tucked away under the bed. 

    “Thank you, Jaskier, for what you did all those years ago.” You don’t know what to do with your hands, flexing uncomfortably at your side. 

    Jaskier hums, stepping right up next to the frozen version of himself. You can see, even from where you stand behind Eskel, the way that Jaskier is gazing at Geralt, a twinkle in his eyes that could rival that of a star shooting across the sky.

    “You love him.” Your words are not accusatory, more so just stating a fact. Jaskier flushes a bit, biting his lip as he turns back to you. 

    “Could you…” Jaskier steps to stand at your side once more, “Could you not say anything about that either?”

    You smirk, nodding a bit before responding, “That’s not in your destiny, then?”

    Jaskier puts his hand on your shoulder, squeezing lightly. “No, my dear. Unfortunately, it is not.”

    The breeze picks back up as the Jaskier at your side disappears, leaving you to join the group in front of you. This Jaskier shines like a new coin, young and naive. Introductions are made as you escort everyone into the house, Argos weaving through the vines of new legs, nipping playfully at Jaskier’s fingers.

    ***

    A few days pass before Geralt and Jaskier take their leave, headed even further north towards Kaer Morhen. You had invited them to stay at your home, but Geralt had gently refused. 

    “I uh...I need to see Vesemir. I need his help.”

    Your eyebrows crinkled as Geralt explained the mess that he had created around himself, having claimed a Child of Surprise, a princess no less. As he spoke Eskel had gotten up from the table and walked out of the door, silently reliving his own tragedy around the subject. 

    Later, Geralt and Eskel had spoken. Eskel’s own past with his Child Surprise was still a rather tender subject, but Geralt was experiencing all of that anew. The two of you vowed to be of support to Geralt as he may need, and agreed that if there were any reason to break out the armor and strap the swords back on, it would be for him. Jaskier had agreed, though Geralt seemed unsure of what exactly he could do in this situation.

    “You may be surprised Geralt,” you said, probably one too many ales in, “I bet Jaskier’s got a whole lot of power.”

    You realized what you said as soon as the words fell from your lips. “I uh- I mean, his songs! He could wield a whole lot of power over the people with the stories he tells, right?”

    Jaskier brightened, launching into a whole new tangent about the songs that he will write about his journey this winter, the two witchers sequestered away in their cabin, and the ones who spend the season in a castle high in the wilderness. You tuned him out, quickly finishing your ale before retiring to bed. 

    Now, Eskel rolls over to face you on the bed, having seen the two of them off earlier in the day. “It was nice to see Geralt again...Jaskier’s an odd bird though.” His voice is teasing, light in the sanctuary of your home.

    You chuckle, thinking the same. Though, you choose to keep your mouth shut, hesitant to spill any more information about the mysterious bard. 

    “I am glad they’ve left though…” Eskel’s voice turns husky as he tucks his nose into your neck. “Couldn’t very well fool around with them in the next room.”

    Eskel’s hand finds your core atop your underthings, just barely teasing you through the fabric. You sigh into him, pressing into his touch. You lift your hips as he hooks his fingers into the waist of your shorts, pulling them down and tossing them elsewhere in the room. Eskel has already divested himself of his own smallclothes, so when you reach, you find him hard and wanting in your hand. 

    “How would you like me tonight, love?” you whisper as you turn to better face him. He kisses you sweetly, taking your lip between his teeth as he pulls back. Eskel grabs you around the waist and shifts his hips, pulling you over him so you straddle him. 

    “Like this,” he growls, leaning up to take the peak of one of your breasts between his lips. You thread your fingers through his hair, reveling in just how soft it is now that you have all of the time in the world for trivial things like special soaps to keep hair silky.

    You sink yourself down onto the length of his cock, your eyes fluttering closed with the fullness. This feeling never grows old, something familiar but oh so exhilarating with every moment that passes. As your hips meet a bolt of ecstasy shoots through your skin, your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders. You moan as Eskel holds your waist, his own hips beginning to thrust a languid pace. 

    Eskel’s eyes bore deep into your own as he rubs his fingertips in little circles over the bundle of nerves at the peak of your center, fresh waves of arousal soaring through you with every beat of your heart. Eskel can (and has) keep you for hours like this, perched on the precipice of a glorious climax, never letting you fall. Tonight though, he is impatient, his hips soon snapping in a fast rhythm. 

    Your muscles tense as you keen with your fast approaching pleasure, every nerve feeling like it is on fire. Eskel wraps himself completely around your form as he fucks even harder into you, notching his teeth against the soft skin on your neck. You shatter under his hands, your entire body singing with the all-encompassing euphoria that comes with your climax. You feel Eskel follow soon after, his grip tightening ever so slightly before spilling deep in your core. 

    Eskel kisses you deeply as he turns, pressing you into the cushion of the bed as he pulls out of your heat. You hum contentedly as he grabs a damp cloth, cleaning you off before doing the same to himself. You know that the both of you could go for several more rounds, but the appeal of rest is so much greater at the moment. You feel Eskel settle behind you, wrapping himself around you and pressing his mouth against the back of your neck.

    “I love you so much, my dove.”

    Your eyes well a little bit, smiling into the pillow with just how tender your life has become. This is the easiest thing you have ever done, and you can only hope that it lasts until the end of your days. The easiest words come next, just as they do every moment that they appear in your mind.

    “I love you, Eskel.”

#hollow things #eskel x reader #smut #fluff #final chapter #bittersweet yall

[diamondcamefromhell]

Finding home ~

Jaskier x Reader

[a reupload, as the first time it didnt show up in any tags, for some reason - trying to see if this fixes that x]

This was an amazing request my anon:

“ Can I request a Jaskier x reader where the reader has a massive crush on him and is jealous of all the girls he’s always with and just feels super insecure and like she’ll never be enough and on one day when she is feeling particularly down in the dumps she just breaks down and Jaskier finds her like that? Like start with angst end with fluff type thing? “

Thank you for this. i didnt even know that I needed this a lot. to write it and feel it and what not. i loved writing it. sorry it took so long for me to get to it. i hope you like it nonetheless.

Warnings: drinking (not sure if this should be a warning, but i guess better safe than sorry)

Word count: 2,497 (my longest one yet!)

Requests are open, and all feedback is appreciated!

There are things you never get used to, your crush being surrounded by a herd of women is one of them. When I began having a crush on Jaskier, at first I was sure I could keep it under the wraps, get it out of my head and heart easily. I never wanted to like such a flirt anyways. But life works in funny ways.

The more I liked the bard, the more women seemed to gather around him. His singing was like flowers, and they were bees, looking for them. His honey must’ve been sweet.

I grunt, making my way across the tavern to Jaskier, who’s chatting with some woman. She’s pretty, I cant deny that, but I ignore her, inserting myself in front of the lady. Being this close to the bard does make my heart beat faster than I like, but I ignore it.

“Jaskier.” I say, smiling at him, praying to whoever listens that my blush on the cheeks just seems like alcohol redness.

“Y/N?” He raises his eyebrows, and I notice him glance over my shoulder at the woman behind me. My stomach twists, wondering if he’s comparing her to me.

“Maybe we should head out?” I say, lifting my arm, getting ready to push the bard ever so little. But it stays frozen in mid-air, as Jaskier moves out of the way. I try to hide my annoyance, taking a moment to gather myself, before I look at him again.

“The night is still young, Y/N.” He picks up his lute, smiling at me, and then giving a wink at the woman behind me. My chest tightens.

“Geralt is…” Jaskier scoffs, cutting me off.

“Geralt can wait!” He shouts, picking up a tune.

I stand there, helplessly watching him. I know he’s doing what he does best – entertaining people. Flirting. I wish he didn’t have to do it all the time. The woman he was previously talking to pushes me to the side, giving me a nasty look, before facing Jaskier and going to dance to his ballad.

My blood boils as I feel anger wash over me, but I manage to collect myself. I don’t like losing my cool, especially not for random women. All of us are the same, falling under bard’s beautiful curse. He can’t help but be so lovable. I know there is not an ounce of bad intentions in Jaskier’s heart, and he does not wish to hurt me or anyone else, for that matter.

But this still did make my chest feel uncomfortable and my stomach tie in knots.

I take another cup of ale, staring as two more women become enticed by his music. They twist their bodies in a way that almost seems inappropriate, but it’s a fine line and they thread it well. I cant complain, they are just having fun. Unlike me, brooding here at the bar.

I analyse them, so confident in their bodies, knowing how to handle it, mapping every move perfectly. They find their footing easily, dancing to the rhythm, offering beautiful smiles to the bard. Even their hair, clipped back perfectly, only a few strands curtaining their faces. They were beautiful. You could write so many songs about them.

Unlike me. I could never dance with such ease and whenever I tried to clip my hair, it would all fall on my face, making me look crazy. Having a nice dress was not an option, as we were always on a move. I wish I could at least pretend to be half those women. I chug the last bit of ale, my liquid courage, making my way to the bard yet again.

Jaskier sees me attempt at dancing, giving me a smirk, approaching me. He twists around me, as we seem to dance together, but he soon trails off, to other dancers, leaving a cold spot in my heart. When he finishes his song, before he can get his hands on other, I jump in front of him.

“I don’t want Geralt to be angry.” I whisper, gently tapping his arm. Jaskier sighs.

“It’s not like we are going anywhere tonight, Y/N. And believe it or not,” he winks at me, making my heart flutter. “Witcher is not such a baby, he can fall asleep on his own.”

“I know that.” I try to look for an excuse, something that would drag him out of this tavern, away from these women, who were looking at me, angrily. I feel like I am surrounded by wolves. “I just don’t want him to come here and ruin our night.”

“Then maybe you should go be with him,” one of the women barks at me, as I helplessly grip onto Jaskier’s top tighter. “Instead of ruining everyone’s night.”

“Easy there, ladies.” Jaskier’s tone is still playful, but his eyes grow a little bit cold. “There is enough Jaskier for everyone.”

“We just want to have fun.” She basically droops herself on him, pushing me away. “She has you all the time, we want to dance just for one night.”

I pray Jaskier doesn’t fall for her sweet words, and for a moment, I get hopeful, as he gently nudges her off himself. But then he picks up his lute yet again, playing a tune. Slowly, I am pushed further and further away from the bard, as my heart aches.

Anger boils over me again, as I rush to grab someones cup from the nearest table, heading straight for the girl who pushed me and did the talking. I ‘accidently’ walk into her, spilling the drink all on her dress. She gawks and other women gather around her, squealing like rats. I see Jaskier rush to get something to clean her dress, realizing that he won’t be leaving anytime soon – so I make my leave.

The night is cool - I feel cold bite me. I am not dressed appropriately, as I realize that I left my coat in the tavern. Returning for it would mean having to face those women again. Seeing them twirl around bard, my bard, was too much for my heart too handle. So I just wrap my hands around me, as I realize I am not shaking only because of the cold.

I’m upset. Angry. Sad. I didn’t even know anymore. I was tired of seeing Jaskier be with all those women all the time. He doesn’t even need to try, they sniff him out like prey. He loves attention, he’s sweet and caring, and any person with a brain loves that. I wish I didn’t have to share him with the whole entire world.

Of course, I have to remind myself that he is in fact, not even mine. And by the looks of it, he never will be.

He always seemed to fall for everyone, but me.

Tears burn my eyes, as I pick up my step, fearful some townsfolks may see me. When I am finally in the woods, my heart calms down. I am so glad we didn’t have enough coin to afford a tavern tonight, being in the woods offered an escape and shelter I so desperately needed.

I see campfire and Geralt, still awake, sitting by it. His lips move, and I know he’s talking to Roach again. I make a b line, realizing I don’t want to have to talk to him. Nor do I want him to see the tears, who have so brutally made their escape, streaming down my face.

I head for a river nearby, dropping on my knees, resting my head on a tree. I cover my mouth, making sure that the Witcher can’t hear my silent sobs, I shake uncontrollably. I never knew a simple crush could cause so much heartache, so much pain. I see my reflection in the river.

I take a rock, sending it at it. It splashes all over me, but I don’t care. I don’t even care if I alerted Geralt. I cant begin to care at all. I hate being surrounded by beautiful women, who know all the right things to say. They smell of cinnamon and apples, not of horses like I do. They were everything I could never be, and that was why Jaskier always gazed at them.

And they gazed at him, in return, he would gift them songs. They would gift him with dances and kisses. It was a flawless, perfect exchange that I have seen so many times, yet have never gotten a hang off. I could never perform it, no matter how much I wanted to.

I fully lean on a tree, covering my face, completely silencing my sobs. I trap them inside me, where they should stay. The wind picks up and the breeze is cold, making me shiver even more. I uncover my face, staring at the river, wondering if things could ever change. I don’t like my odds.

I hear a branch break to the right of me, turning around, startled. My fear doesn’t go away, as I see Jaskier, standing there, his hands up in the air, as if he’s surrendering. What is he doing here? I want to wipe my face and pretend I am fine, but instead, I feel my lips shake as more tears come. I look away, shielding my face from him with one hand.

“Y/N.” He says, softly, as I shake my head. I want to tell him to go away, but I am scared of how my voice would sound. “Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?” I manage to say, as my voice shakes.

“You don’t.” Jaskier answers, making his way towards me. Slowly, however, as if he’s cornering an animal. I wonder, just how bad do I look.

“Then don’t ask stupid questions.” I sniffle, wiping my nose with my sleeve. Not very ladylike. “And leave me alone.”

“I think you could use a friend.” He says, keeling to my level. Friend. Always a friend.

“I could use alone time.” I try to argue, but Jaskier is already sitting down. Our shoulders touch and the warmth he provides makes my tense body relax just a little. His hand lands on my knee, and I want to pull away, but I don’t. At the end of the day, it’s his touch that I crave.

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes, but I don’t look at him. My gaze is fixed on a river. It flows so effortlessly, without struggle, I wish life was this way. “Listen, Y/N, I never wanted to make you upset.”

“You didn’t.” I say, not taking my eyes off the river. I notice big rocks in it, obstructing it’s flow.

“I didn’t want those ladies to upset you, then.” He changes his words, squeezing my knee. My eyes water yet again, but I blink it away.

“They didn’t Jaskier.” My voice breaks halfway through, sounding deeper and rougher after it. “Nobody upset me. I did it to myself.”

“I hate seeing you like this.” I continue staring at the river.

“Then leave.” I say, breaking my own heart. The river doesn’t flow simply, it has things obstructing it’s way too. Nothing in life is simple. I take my eyes off it, glancing at Jaskier. “You don’t have to see me like this.”

“I do.” He doesn’t seem to be fazed by my words, as he gently smiles. “I care about you, Y/N. Truly, I do. And I don’t care how angry or upset you are, I want to see it all. Because I don’t only care about the happy you, I care about all of you.”

“You don’t have to.” I repeat myself, like a parrot. My mind is blank, as I soak his words in.

“Right. I don’t have to, I guess.” He sighs, leaning on my tree too. Our faces are almost touching. I close my eyes. “But I want too, then. I get tired off all those perfect women, with their perfect lives and perfect hair. Believe it or not, perfect is boring.”

“But perfect is perfect.” I argue. I understand what he means, however I still want to be perfect. Perfectly boring. “Nothing can beat that.”

“Spilling a drink on a girl sure beats that.” He giggles, as I feel his body shake. I blush, not opening my eyes. “Being unapologetically and imperfectly yourself beats that too. Once you get the taste of perfect, you realize that fine wine is highly overrated.”

“So you prefer cheap ale?” I tease, as my body relaxes even more. With my eyes closed, I don’t see him, but feeling him, I know he’s here. I know he’s listening. It makes it so much easier to talk, truly open up.

“Yes. I guess I do.” His hand finds mine, squeezing it in a tight embrace. “It’s like coming home, where I don’t have to pretend. I don’t even like wine, yet I drink it. Blending in with the crowd you’re entertaining is what I do it for.”

“Isn’t it in bards blood to stand out?” I open my eyes, not looking at him. I listen to us breathing, as he thinks of an answer.

“You are correct yet again, my darling.” He sighs. “But stand out too much, you become a royal clown. Stand out too little, you fade away. You need a perfect amount of attention and praise.”

“You love attention anyways.” I see him nod, as he smiles.

“Empty attention is empty attention.” He leans forward from the tree, as I see him face me. I don’t turn to do the same. “It only matters when it’s coming from someone who truly cares about you. All of you.”

“How can you tell if it’s genuine or empty?” I turn to him now. His eyes shine, seemingly reflecting the stars in them. I try to look away, but his cosmos has sucked me in.

“You just know.” He leans in, placing his forehead on mine. I close my eyes, as my breath cuts short. “While we all enjoy finer things in life, there is nothing like people who make you feel at home.”

“Like Geralt.” I say, breathlessly. I try to divert the conversation, scared to get my hopes up, just for them to be shattered again.

“Like you, Y/N.” The way my names slides off his lips sends my heart to a race. I feel my face heat up, as tears prick my eyes yet again.

As he realizes I am crying, he pulls me to his chest, gently rubbing my back. Jaskier allows me to feel it out, to cry it out. Not worrying if I ruin his fine outfit or if I smell of Roach.

He doesn’t care about that. He didn’t need someone with a fancy dress or perfect hair. This little bard was more than just someone who was aiming for fine thrills. He was looking for a home, something exciting. Something not perfect.

And I guess somewhere in there, I fit in. Perfectly.

#jaskier #jaskier x reader #witcher #witcher imagine #jaskier imagine #jaskier fluff #jaskier angsts #fluff and angst #witcher netflix #geralt #geralt of rivia #roach #good girl energy #roach the best horse #tags pls work #thank u

[fruithoods]

broken bards

He thought back to his time with Valdo Marx, the sweet whispers, the soft way he had told Jaskier he would mean nothing. Jaskier had believed him, for a time.

Then he met Geralt, who- however unintentionally- helped him find himself. He lost himself in the stories of the Witcher, for years, knowing that no true harm could come to him while he was with him.

And then the day on the mountain had happened, and Jaskier had been shattered once more.

This time, there was no one to pick up the broken pieces.

He had tried- singing songs from the good old days, steadily ignoring the way his heart ached. How it yearned for the Witcher. He traveled, and traveled, going as far away from that mountain as possible. The further away he was, he figured, the further away the memories would be.

Until he wandered so far away that he lost the protection of the Witcher. It was common knowledge that the bard Jaskier was under Geralt of Rivia’s protection, and any harm that befell him would be dealt by Geralt twice over to whoever was stupid enough to inflict it.

Until the months passed, and the bard was no longer the Witcher’s constant companion. Which made him an easy target.

He honestly wasn’t sure how exactly it happened- the events shrouded by the fog of drink. It wasn’t uncommon for him to drink himself halfway to death, a habit from his time at Oxenfurt that he had never managed to quite shake.

All he knew for certain was that he had been grabbed, firm and harsh hands digging into his arms, making his skin crawl-

He had been dragged somewhere, for how long he didn’t know, to somewhere cold, and damp. He wasn thrown onto the floor, in complete darkness, his head hitting the ground so hard he saw stars.

Someone had come in behind him, their footsteps echoing in the silence, but drowned out by the ringing in his ears.

He felt himself being pulled up, and forced into a chair, chains binding his arms and legs, until he was sitting there, completely helpless.

Hands cupped his face, so like Geralt’s, and yet not.

And then,

pain.

The needle pierced him, and Jaskier screamed.

The first thing Jaskier registered when he woke was the pain. It seared through him, every nerve on fire. His mouth, his mouth. He-he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t-

“Jaskier.” Geralt. When did Geralt get here? How did he-

He was hyperventilating now, the air not coming in, not enough. If he could have opened his mouth, he would have.

“Jaskier, Jaskier look at me.” A gentle but firm grip was nudging his chin up (just like Them), and he looked up through blurred eyes, up at the Witcher. Geralt took his shaking, bloodstained hand in his own, and lay it gently on his chest. His heartbeat was slow, slower than Jask’s own, and certainly slower than what a normal human’s would have been. But it was calming. Grounding. “It’s going to be okay. Listen to me, okay?” Geralt’s other hand came up to cup Jaskier’s jaw, his touch soft, softer than Jaskier could remember it being. As if he was worried he would hurt him, Jaskier thought. It was a bit late for that. He tried to relax, years by Geralt’s side and playing doctor had taught him that the best thing to do when injured is to calm down. He listened to Geralt’s breaths, and tried to imagine that everything was fine. They were together, it was before the mountain, they were lying in an inn somewhere. Jaskier had just performed, they were safe, and they were happy.

Everything was fine.

No it wasn’t.

He was probably hallucinating, he had gone insane and he was seeing things. Geralt-Geralt wouldn’t have come for him, this was his mind playing tricks on him.

He was alone, alone, alone, and no one was coming, Geralt wasn’t coming, Geralt hated him, he would die alone in this filthy dungeon, drowning in his own blood-

Choking in his own blood, more like it.

His mouth-

Oh Melitele above, his mouth-

He would never speak again- he would never sing again

It was that thought which broke him more than the pain ever could.

The way the needle had pierced him, the pain of the thread being pulled through his flesh

He was dying, he was sure of it.

Jaskier the bard, unwanted and alone, was going to die

Even if Julian Pankratz managed to escape, to get out, to survive-

He could never be a bard again. He could never do what he loved, he could never be the person he was born to be, the person he abandoned his family for

Who was he without his voice? It was bad enough without Geralt, without the muse he had loved, the muse who had thrown him away that day on the mountain-

But without his voice- his music?

He was no one.

Better off dead.

Better off dead.

Better. Off. Dead.

He squeezed his eyes further shut, so hard that spots danced in his vision. This was a dream- or a hallucination.

This was not real.

Geralt wasn’t there, Geralt had abandoned him.

His eyes remained closed when he was gently lifted from the chair, when the hair that had fallen into his face was brushed away by hands, familiar hands, hands he had held and kissed and knew like his own.

Not real not real not real

His eyes remained closed when he was picked up, strong arms carrying him easily, his head resting carefully on a shoulder

Not real

His eyes remained closed when warm air tickled his face, a light breeze that felt so real-

They stayed closed when he felt himself being put on a horse, the strong arms that had carried him letting him lean back on a firm chest, a familiar medallion pressed against the nape of his neck, surrounded by a presence he knew so well.

Not real. Not real.

They didn’t stir when he was lowered onto a bed, so soft, so different from the harsh, cold floor of the dungeon-

Not. Real.

All he had to do was open his eyes, and he would see that he was in the dungeon.

He opened his eyes.

And Geralt was standing beside him, covered in blood, his long hair messy and tangled. He looked horrible.

He was staring at Jaskier though, with that vulnerable expression that had made Jaskier melt.

His hallucinations were realistic, then, which made them so much worse.

Any moment, any second and he would wake up, to find himself chained to that fucking chair, alone in the dark, wishing he was dead-

Geralt saw his open eyes, and knelt down by the bed (not real not real-) slowly, as if Jaskier was one of his monsters, easily provoked and dangerous.

“Jaskier I-” He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. It was so like him, Jaskier could have cried. “I’m sorry. I truly am. What I said on the mountain- I can never forgive myself. And I can’t expect you to forgive me either.” He looked so honest, so vulnerable. This was, frankly, the most emotional intelligence Jaskier had ever seen Geralt display. It was obviously part of his hallucination. But hallucination or not, Jaskier still yearned to comfort him. To tell him that yes, it had hurt. Yes, he was an asshole.

But Jaskier still loved him, and he had forgiven him long ago.

He couldn’t, though. Not- not like this.

Jaskier pulled his arm from out of the cocoon of blankets he was in, and weakly reached for Geralt, his hand grasping for him. Geralt seemed to understand, and grasped it in his own. Jaskier squeezed, and he felt his lips unwillingly turn upwards.

He immediately regretted his mistake, as a searing pain shot through him. He flinched, hard, and his hand flew towards his mouth. It came away bloody.

Geralt immediately grabbed a towel and some water, which had apparently been next to him the entire time. Jaskier also saw a knife.

“Forgive me,” Geralt said, as he gently took Jaskier’s hand and pulled it away from his face. “this is going to hurt.”

It did.

(And it was real)

Recovery was, well, hard.

His lips healed fairly well, according to Triss. Yes, he had scars, and he hated them. They felt like a constant reminder, a constant reminder that he would never be the same- he would never be whole, again.

It was made worse because it was his fault.

There was something wrong with him, something broken. Because even weeks, even months after the stitches were gone, he couldn’t speak. Triss said it was because of the trauma.

Jaskier thought he was just weak.

Compared to Geralt, who had more scars than Jaskier could count, he was nothing. Geralt recovered from injuries in days, and he couldn’t get over this, this weakness in almost a year? Pathetic.

He tried, he tried so hard. He tried at night, when Geralt lay in their bed in their house by the sea (Geralt had insisted, and Jaskier had cried) and everything was silent. He stood in front of the mirror in their room for hours, trying to force the words to come out-

Geralt would always catch him staring at his own reflection, hating himself. He would climb out of bed, come behind Jaskier and hug him, resting his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder. He would tangle their fingers together, and press a kiss to the side of Jaskier’s head.

“You’ll get there, love.”

Jaskier would turn, drawing Geralt as close as he could, and wait until he felt those strong, familiar arms envelop him.

He didn’t deserve Geralt, honestly. He truly, truly didn’t. He was so patient with him. Somehow, Geralt always seemed to understand him. It was like when they were younger, and Jaskier had been able to decipher every “Hmm” or hum that Geralt made.

He always knew what Jaskier needed, and Jaskier loved him for it.

The day Jaskier spoke again was the day he got married.

It had been a dream, something he had vaguely thought about but never quite thought possible. Geralt proposed to him by the sea, his hair whipping in the wind, and Jaskier thought at that moment that he may be an angel. He said yes, of course.

The ceremony was to be small, with only their closest friends present. Yennefer had taken over the preparations, her only reaction to the news of their engagement a smile and “finally”

It was a dream.

Until it turned into a nightmare.

Because the first time Jaskier spoke, the first time he said Geralt’s name in years.

Was his scream as his fiancé (his almost husband they had been so close-) was run through.

The blood covering his hands as he held his Witcher, holding him close, as his tears threatened to blur his vision. “Geralt, Geralt- I-” he stuttered, hating that he couldn’t even say goodbye properly.

Geralt smiled, his mouth full of blood. Jaskier felt sick.

“Oh dear heart,” Geralt said, his voice so full of love. “It’s okay. I love you, my bard. It’s not- not your fault.”

The howl of anguish Jaskier let out as his fiancé died in his arms was indescribable.

At Geralt’s funeral, Jaskier finally spoke. It wasn’t much (not what Geralt deserved, he deserved so much better-)

As the casket fell down into the earth, Jaskier dropped his bundle of dandelions (Geralt said he loved them because they reminded him of Jaskier, once) on the ground, his eyes filling yet again.

He knelt, his chest feeling so heavy he couldn’t breathe, and he was thrown back to the dungeons from so long ago, helpless and alone.

Except this time, Geralt truly wasn’t coming.

“I’m sorry.” His whisper was soft.

He clutched Geralt’s medallion, given to him the night before his death-

Geralt smiled, his hands cupping Jaskier’s face. “This, this used to be the most important thing in my life. It meant that I belonged somewhere, that I had a home.” He pulled off the medallion, pressing it into Jaskier’s hands, and folding them gently over it.

“But now you’re my home. You always have been, it just took me so long to see it. It’s yours.”

Jaskier buried his face in his hands and sobbed, letting the grief take over. It was yet another one of those nights, when he felt so alone he thought he might die. He was clutching Geralt’s medallion like a lifeline, trying to stay afloat-

He didn’t deserve to be there. Not when Geralt was dead. It should have been him, it was always going to be him.

He burned his lute that night.

The lute- his first gift from his travels with Geralt, a constant reminder of all that he had lost. His music, his voice, and his Witcher.

He threw it into the fireplace, watching it slowly be engulfed by the flames.

He was broken.

His soul burned with his lute.

The bard followed his Witcher, forever, and always.

#the witcher #jaskier #the witcher netflix #geraskier #fic #angst #character death #geralt d*es in this because he had too much emotional intelligience #hehe #siwrites #geralt of rivia #jaskier x geralt #posted on ao3 #geralt and jaskier #dandelion